[mrs-march-ahs]

Kai Marking His Territory

I know James was meant to come first, but I want to work on that one a little more. In the meantime…

Summary- You ask Kai to go to a party without him, when Winter’s Vassar friends come to visit. He agrees, under one condition.

Warning- controlling relationship, blowjob, Kai Anderson.

Words- 1.1k (shorty)

Can’t decide whether I want to say sorry or you’re welcome. 

ᵗʰᶦˢ ᵒⁿᵉ ᵏᶦⁿᵈ ᵒᶠ ˢᵘᶜᵏˢ

—-

Keep reading

[plainlo-inthemorning]

The Night Jeb Magruder Said No to Dick

Warnings: M/F SMUT and shameless babygirlification of the very fictional representation of a real-life evildoer. Historical accuracy be gone.

Pairing: Jeb ‘Haimgruder’ Magruder (Hamish Linklater in Gaslit) x You

Words: 14.200

Summary: Someone's working late.

(Prefer to read it on AO3? Here we go)

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A tired sigh.

Ice cubes swirling in a cocktail glass. 

Then: 

“My husband is not an intelligent man.”

Jeb, on his way to the bathroom, freezes in the hallway right outside the Mitchell’s bedroom. 

She hadn’t meant for him to hear her. 

He knows that. 

Gail, his wife of more than fifteen years is in there, chatting with what can only be the spouse of one of the other party guests (God, please don’t let it be Martha Mitchell herself). 

The door is only halfway closed. 

No great secrets being spilled. Merely inconvenient truths. 

The other woman snorts.

“Well.”

Pause. 

“Thank god he’s pretty, then!”

Laughter. 

(Not Martha’s. A small comfort.)

Jeb’s face has gone hot. The plush, pink carpet under his dress shoes feels like it’s becoming liquid, sucking him in.

How much has he had to drink? 

Gail has started saying something else, about him, and he doesn’t want to hear it because whatever it is, she’s probably right.

He cannot just stand there. 

Striding quickly past the door without looking into the room (the conversation is uninterrupted), he reaches the bathroom at the end of the hallway, blessedly unoccupied, and locks himself in there. 

He has to pee quite badly, but instead of unzipping he finds himself by the sickly yellow sink, gripping the edges and staring at his own reflection in the ornate mirror. 

“My husband is not an intelligent man.”

The tears come, as they have always done with him, ever since he was child (why must he be the one to not outgrow them?), but this time he doesn’t bother to wipe at them, instead letting them run down his sunburned cheeks while he glares into his own naïve, stupidly oh so blue, blue eyes. 

Such a pretty man. 

Such a pretty dumb man.

No, Gail definitely hadn’t meant for him to hear that. 

But meant it, she did. 

Jeb knows. 

Gail is tired. 

Gail is exasperated with his constant fumbling, be it with the clumsy secrecy surrounding his work, or the buttons of her nightgown on the rare occasions they have sex.

Used to have sex.

Gail, the studious Political Science major who graduated with honors, is growing steadily bitter that she gave up work to be a full-time housewife every time he, Jeb, gets up from the couch for the fourth time during a two hour movie to go pee because of, well, the circumstances at the office.

Gail would probably have been better at his job than he is. Much more sensible. Unimpressed by petty power plays.

But Gail is not cruel. 

Not ever. 

It’s not her fault if she doesn’t love you anymore.

Jeb squeezes his eyes shut and hangs his head. The sink creaks a little dangerously as he leans his tall frame on it. 

…But do you still love her? That way? A whisper from someplace he doesn’t want to go right now.

What the hell is he even doing here?

Every day for years on end, he has gotten up in the morning and put on the right suit, the right watch, tamed his thick, curly hair and parted it the right way. 

He has gone to work, and he has delivered his lines with as much confidence as he can muster, making sure to be in the room when the guys make fun of the younger staff and discuss foreign events, god damn hippies and new cars, even if he hasn’t always paid the best attention.

Or caught the punchlines. 

When he was younger, he considered becoming a high school teacher in geology or history, and he still thinks he would have been good at it. 

But he’s good at looking the part in Washington, too.

Was.

Jeb Magruder used to be an important man to the President, and in extension to the nation itself. Something to be proud of.

Bile rises in his throat.

With every anniversary at the office, his purpose has become less clear to him, and he tries to laugh it off whenever his old, busy-body neighbor of a retired judge with the prize roses throws casually snarky comments over the trimmed hedge about homemade fertilizer and politics nowadays being all about looking smart on television.

Jeb knows. It’s the only power that has ever come natural to him.

Although not entirely cost-free.

He has known full well since his teens when the mothers of his friends begun fawning over him whenever he came over. 

When they started hanging around the periphery as he was lounging next to the pool (his parents didn’t have a house with a pool back then), offering him lemonade and home-baked goods, and cooing over his politeness. 

Such a perfect gentleman. 

How proud his parents must be to have raised such a polite, charming young man. And captain of the swim team, no less!

How marvelous. 

What stamina he must possess… 

When, at 33, Jeb sat in a packed, too-stuffy cinema and watched the hit movie of 1967, The Graduate, it had made him feel increasingly uncomfortable as memories of those summer afternoons came creeping back. 

Of a manicured hand casually but consistently brushing against a sculpted, tanned thigh on the sun-lounger, not yet dry from swimming. 

Spontaneous shoulder rubs he didn’t know how to turn down, administered by all too probing fingers while his friends looked the other way, or left him alone entirely, embarrassed and angry at the effect he had on their mothers.

He had given Gail a line about an upset stomach and gone out to wait for her in the car while she watched the rest of the movie without him.

Jeb had felt intimidated by women when he was young, and he has rarely since felt true confidence as a lover, letting down more than one college crush who found no hidden superpowers behind his Clark Kent façade.

Before meeting Gail. 

Gail who was smart, and full of life and plans, and who found Jeb to be not only the most handsome man of his campus but inexplicably funny, too.

And sweet. 

When other girls had called Jeb “sweet” in the past, it had meant only one thing:

Goodbye. 

But Gail meant what she said. She thought Jeb was very, very sweet. 

And life had been good for a while. 

For a few years, before sweet inevitably did become boring and then frustrating, and their sex life - good, fine, never fantastic - dwindled in between baby number one and two.

If he had told Gail how much he missed it, how much he missed her touch, she probably would have been taken aback - Jeb was never adventurous in the bedroom. 

He does have stamina going for him, yes, and keeps himself in good shape. 

But he and Gail never found a language for talking about sex, much less expressing specific desires to each other.

Jeb turns the knob of the faucet in the bathroom, letting the water run cool before splashing some on his face. 

Once, he went to one of those basement “movie houses” downtown and took a seat at the very back of the room, near the exit, trying to do his best invisibility act to avoid acknowledging the presence of a handful of other men in suits, all doing exactly the same thing.

Obscenities had played out on the screen, women being taken, being punished and liking it, moaning for more between hard thrusts and flesh slapping on flesh, and his cock had throbbed painfully while his cheeks burned with shame, and he tried not to touch himself. 

Finally, it had been too much, and he had buttoned his winter coat to hide his erection as he hurried up the stairs and back into the harsh daylight, mortification overtaking him.  

To think if anyone had recognized him. So stupid. 

Then he had driven home, gone to take a shower, and pumped his shaft under the hot water and thought of another life with willing women in miniskirts inviting him in to help with the television set, and letting him do unspeakably perverted things to them on their plastic covered pink couches.

He hadn’t felt any cleaner when he stepped out of the cubicle again.

Now, Jeb stares down at the sink.

Drops of water run off his brows and the bridge of his nose, and once more he has to ask himself:

What the hell is he doing here, tonight?

He can hear the music and the laughter, the clinking of service and glasses from beyond the closed door. His chest feels tight just at the thought of going back out onto Mitchell’s grand terrace overlooking the capitol.

Out where his colleagues are currently lighting cigars and basking in the heat of their own smugness, convincing themselves and each other that they’ve come out on top after all. 

Phew, fellas! Close call! Now, try this whiskey … 

Convincing themselves that the situation has been handled, despite the colossal shitshow of Liddy’s botched operation.

The psychopath has even volunteered to take all the blame as his great “service” to the motherland.

Why wouldn’t this be cause for celebration?

Because they don’t know. 

They don’t know yet that you let your paranoia win.

That you took the deal just before Liddy offered them all a way out.

… Sweetheart. 

Even with the deal, Jeb very much suspects there are no guarantees he won’t go to jail himself.

Scratch that, he knows he’ll go to jail.

It’s just a matter of how many months.

Or, God forbid, years.

The investigators could have thrown empty promises of a more lenient punishment at him and, gullible as he is, he believed them.

As long as they don’t send him to one of those prisons in Bolivia he once read about in The Post. Where influential men who have fallen out of favor disappear. 

He knows it makes zero sense, not least because he’s not terribly influential.

Nevertheless, ever since the thought entered his mind, he hasn’t been able to let it go.

His broad shoulders heap once as a solitary sob escapes him. 

How long now? 

For the past week, he has barely slept at all, instead lying awake in the dark, staring up at the ceiling fan and listening for the sound of a car pulling up in front of the house. 

Waiting for the law enforcement to knock on the door and end his career and along with it his chances of ever working anywhere in Washington again.

Will Gail stay when she finds out? 

Despite the children, Jeb isn’t so sure, just as he isn’t sure he wants her to either.

He takes a deep breath and forces himself to look in the mirror again. 

Get it together, Magruder, god dammit.

His father would have a few choice words for how low his promising son is about to sink.

He really does have to relieve himself. 

If it’s not the crying, it’s the peeing. Embarrassment leaking out of him, out of his control.

He turns to the toilet. Everything in the bathroom is either that awful yellow or too-bright orange. Martha’s “modern” touch.

It’s making him nauseous. 

Or maybe it’s just the whiskey.  

His cock is as sad and limp as the old garden hose in his hands.

As he washes up after flushing, Jeb decides he won’t stay another minute in this apartment where the air feels thick with impending doom. 

And now he knows for certain that he must be drunk, because surely, he cannot leave without Gail?

Yes. 

Yes, he can, and he will, and he will simply tell her that he must go to the office to pick up something important. 

That’s it. She’ll take a cab. 

It’s the second to last place he wants to be, the office. 

But he has nowhere else to go but there or home, and if he opts for the latter, there’s a strong possibility he may start crying on the drive there, and then Gail will sigh and not ask him about it, and they will sit in the car with the Grand Canyon of scorching feminine regret and pathetic masculine inadequacy between them.

He cannot bear it tonight. 

Clearing his throat and straightening his back, he dabs his face with a paper napkin from the neat pile next to the sink, unlocks the door, and heads back to the center of the festivities. 

Gail is now talking to Dean’s very pretty, new wife, Mo (Jeb had tried and failed not to gawk at her shape the first time they met, and fuck it if Dean hadn’t clocked it, the arrogant freeloader). 

Now, Jeb gently touches Gail’s elbow and informs her of the change of plans, but she barely bats an eyelid. 

“It’s fine, Jeb.”

There is no real emotion in her voice, and Jeb cannot help but notice the overbearing curve of Mo’s smile as she bears witness to this non-exchange. 

Another dull, sexless married couple from the suburbs who only just about tolerate each other’s existence so long as no one starts breathing in an offensive manner while the other is trying to sleep. 

Only Gail’s not dull. 

Anyone who spends two minutes with her will know. She’s whip-smart with a contagious laugh. Mo knows.

So, it must be just Jeb, then. 

Thank god he’s pretty. 

He finds John to quickly thank him for a grand evening, and narrowly avoids being pulled into a slurry discussion between two of the guys who want his “professional opinion” on one of the cocktail waitresses, and who scoff at him for being an old bore when he says he’s off to the office. 

“For fucks sake, Jeb, you’re never any fun. Relax, will you?” 

But they have already turned their backs on him to continue with their conversation before he can say anything in return.

Does anybody give a shit if he’s here or not?

Probably not.

These days he’s little more than a glorified dog walker who has never even been invited to fly on Air Force One. A fact Dean will never tire of recalling whenever he and Jeb disagree.

Which has been a lot, lately.

Sometime in the near future, that may serve him well, according to the investigators.

After making his way through the throng of smartly dressed people in the high-ceilinged living room and finally letting the front door slam shut behind him, Jeb waits for the elevator to come up, well aware that he’s not in a great state for driving.

Gail was the designated one tonight.

But he just wants to slump into the front seat of his beloved Oldsmobile and wrap his fingers around the leather-clad steering wheel and take control over just one thing in his life.

Just one damn thing.

His getaway car, just like they say in the ads.

And like McQueen’s in that movie, he really liked but only got to watch two thirds of because of the imminent threat of BOLIVIA terrorizing his bladder.

He has McQueen’s eyes, too, Jeb tells his distorted reflection in the polished steel doors, as the elevator takes him down to the garage.

This suddenly very important Hollywood connection makes the color a lot less stupid than just before, in the scornful bathroom mirror.

Maybe he should have tried to become an actor, instead of campaign manager for a corrupt president, destined to go down in flames because he did little good but look presentable when spewing manipulated facts to the media.

Jeb sways as the elevator reaches its destination, and the doors slide open with the expensive kind of ping of expensive apartment buildings.

Somewhere at the back of his mind, his colleagues up on the terrasse are witnesses to his thoughts and laughing riotously at his foolishness.

Jeb shakes his head, and a lock of dark brown hair escapes its styled confinements to fall over his forehead. He leaves it.

No, siree - he should absolutely not be driving. 

Somehow, he still makes it to the office in one piece.  .

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.

.

.

“... But the Republican office? The Republican! MY daughter working for the creeps – literally?!”

Your mother had looked close to tears when you told her about your new temp job, while your father had abruptly gotten up from the couch in your childhood home to mow the lawn.

An activity of approximately 30 minutes that on this afternoon required two hours and a secret smoke in the garage. 

A temp job, dear parents.

Temp! 

As in, not suddenly brainwashed into campaigning for Nixon and the war and abandoning all ethics on the steps of the castle of political depravity. 

Of course, you would rather have worked elsewhere. 

But after being fired from your almost brand-new job at the library because of staff cuts, it was either take a temp position fast, or risk losing your equally brand-new teeny tiny studio apartment (“the closet”, as your parents call it, dismay written all over their features the first time they came to see it). 

You’re not moving back to suburbia. 

Thus, filing work for the evildoers it is. Your friends have already given you shit about it, and had it been one of them, you would have to.

But it’s only for a couple of weeks, tops.

Or a month, until you find something else.

Hell, maybe you’ll learn some valuable insight behind enemy lines. 

So far though, it has been mind-numbingly boring work of filing paperwork and typing up internal communication memos that has left you devoid of all joy and creative thought every afternoon at five. 

“And that’s how they get you, Y/N!” Your best friend Katie had said, wagging a mock-serious finger in your face over a cocktail one evening after your first week. 

“Suddenly, one morning you won’t remember your past life or why Vietnam isn’t a great adventure, and that’s when they’ll slyly hand you a ballot.”

“Yeah, well, in my ‘past life’ I wouldn’t have been able to afford us cocktails at downtown bars, remember?” you had shot back.

What bothers you more than the mundane tasks, are the men. 

The self-satisfied, middle-aged-and-way-over suits who have been none too subtly eye-fucking your shape from day one, calling you “cookie” and “honey”, and generally addressing you as if the frighteningly complicated world of coffee making and photocopying is so overwhelming, you had better hold someone’s…hand

Balding, leering, handsy C.R.E.E.P.S.

Except one or two perhaps.

Well, maybe just one. 

His height and striking looks alone set him so very far apart from his graying, decaying colleagues, and every morning you look for him as the first thing when you walk through the lobby. 

When you walk down the halls. 

When you linger in the small kitchen in the hope that he may drop in. 

Mr. Magruder. 

Mr. Jeb Magruder.

Such a preposterous name for such a dashing man. 

You’ve only had but one real interaction with him. On your first day, in the beforementioned kitchen.

He had been fiddling with the coffee filters by the machine (a C.R.E.E.P. who makes his own coffee!) when you walked in after having already been shown around the floor by the head of the secretarial pool, Mrs. Lautner.

When you had asked him if he needed a hand, he had looked a little startled, then blushed as your eyes met. 

And, oh, had you been glad for his befuddlement. Without it, you may not have been able to disguise the immediate jolt of electricity that had shot right through you when you looked into those astonishing pools of icy blue.

McQueen eyes. 

Beyond dreamy. 

Not knowing what had come over you, within a second and a half you had made a mental note to tell him one day, should he turn out not to be yet another sniveling lackey of Sauron.

Although with him managing the reelection campaign, he had to be. 

Even if at first glance those eyes appeared much too wide and too weirdly earnest to conceal government secrets without details spilling out all over the place.

Of course, you’re mistaken. 

Of course, they’d put an attractive man in front of the cameras.

It’s all in the game, and he’s a piece on the board, just like all the rest. 

Jeb had laughed a little nervously, said you gave him a fright, and then introduced himself, immediately knocking over a tin of freshly ground coffee on the kitchen counter as he extended his hand. 

It had gone flying everywhere, some of it had gotten on your miniskirt, and Jeb had apologized so profusely while handing you numerous napkins and attempting to somehow casually clean up the mess on the counter and floor while only making it worse and getting it all over his crisp white shirt sleeves (“Oh, dear, look at that”), that you had been utterly charmed.

He found you attractive, clearly, but unlike his colleagues, Mr. Magruder didn’t give off sleaze.

Or maybe (probably) it was just that you didn’t mind him ogling you one bit. 

You ogled right back, watching his blush deepen, and within five minutes of fantastically awkward small-talk and you brushing coffee grounds off your skirt while Jeb tried not to stare at your legs or down your blouse as you bent forward, you knew you desired him and those eyes and his floppy dark-brown hair carnally. 

A Republican and a married man – yes, you spotted the ring.

The horror.

“So, um, you’ll be helping us with the filing systems, huh? Very important work. In fact, um…did you know that-”

“Y/N! There you are. Never mind with the coffee, we’re going for lunch with the girls now.”

Mrs. Lautner’s chirpy voice had interrupted whatever gobbledygook Jeb was about to lay on you in lieu of accomplished flirting, and he had quickly cleared his throat and made his excuses. 

For that you liked poor unsuspecting Mrs. Lautner a little bit less.

“Now,” the woman had said, as you started down the hall again, your kitten heels clacking in harmony like miniature hooves on the tiled floor. “Since we got most of the practical stuff out of the way this morning, why don’t I fill you in on some of the more…precarious details of the job, hmm?” 

Her voice had taken on a conspiratorial note as she gave you an elevator look that made you a tad uneasy. 

“The gentlemen of the office …” she began, once safely in the elevator.

…And she didn’t stop for the entire lunch break in the packed downstairs diner, except for when some of the other typists and secretaries who crowded your booth interjected with important commentary on “the gentlemen” and “their ways”.

There were the touchy-feely ones, the ones with bad breath, the one who liked to corner the new girls in the elevators at every chance he got, the one who almost caused a salacious ruckus at the Christmas party of 1969. 

Names were rattled off with surprising indifference to the potentially sensitive nature of the topic, and you had secretly marveled at how easy it would have been for someone ‘undercover’ to unearth enough dirt for a handful of upsetting gossip pieces in some of the more colorful leftwing weeklies.

Then again, doesn’t this stuff happen everywhere?

Unless it was Martha Mitchell herself being felt up behind one of the half-dead monstera plants in the lobby, left-leading journos probably wouldn’t care much.

Speaking of the Mitchell’s: John Mitchell, especially, seemed to be one to avoid, if the women were to be believed.

“Don’t fall for the power,” Mrs. Lautner intoned, more seriously. “He’ll use it.”

Yet one name did not come up. 

“And, um, what about the guy I met in the kitchen just now…?” you had asked, offhandedly, taking a large forkful of your salad. 

“Mr. Magruder?”

“Yes…”

You pretended to poke around for another piece of tomato on your plate but didn’t miss how the women around the table shot each other knowing glances.

“Another one falls for The Eyes on her first day,” one of the typists snickered, and the others joined in until Mrs. Lautner hushed them with a wave of her hand.

The whiff of her heavy, middle-aged-lady perfume made your nose itch.

“Don’t worry about Mr. Magruder. He’s very…”

Mrs. Lautner pretended to search for the appropriate word, lips pursed, when the typist from before finished her sentence in what felt like a well-practiced bit:

“Soooo dull. Bo-ring. Unfortunately.” 

The other women nodded.

One even sighed with what sounded like genuine regret.

“Leave it to one of the very few good-looking men on the floor to be deeply uninteresting,” the secretary for Mr. Dean supplied, shaking her head.

“Once, when he was waiting by my desk for a meeting to start, he actually tried to talk to me about rocks. Rocks! It was most bizarre.” 

“No wonder he got demoted,” the typist said, and you had fought the urge to ask for more details. “Although, having to give up your office like that … I wonder how Mrs. Magruder took the news”.

You had spent the rest of the lunch break just listening to your new colleagues talk animatedly, silently vowing to never bring up Jeb in their company again.

Still, no matter how “dull” they seemed to find him, your curiosity hadn’t been satiated.

You wouldn’t mind him chatting you up about rocks, or anything, really, if that would allow you unlimited access to gawk at him some more.

Alas, he had not. Why would he?

You had not even seen him in the kitchen again, and lord knows you had tried to time your visits there.

The only glimpse you had gotten of him was in the carpark on that very strange Monday afternoon last week when Katie had graciously come by to pick you up in her banged-up deathtrap of an ancient car.

“Some weird shit just went down”, your friend said the second you slid into the passenger seat.

“Yeah?”

It had been a warm day, and your blouse had been clinging to your back for hours. You just wanted to leave the stale building far behind and go jump in a fountain.

“Yeah. This tall suit came out, and two men were waiting for him by his car. Cops, I think. And the suit guy started yelling at them, and I thought he was about to get into real trouble, but then he got in his car, and the cops left. But…”

Katie craned her neck out of the open window on her side to look for something.

“Yes, he’s still there! In his car. Right over there. In the smart one”.

She twisted in her seat and pointed to an Oldsmobile on the other side of the carpark.

You could only see half of it for other cars, but what you could make out was the man in front.

Just sitting there, hands on the steering wheel, head low.

Tiny goosebumps on your neck.

“Do you know who it is?”

“Yeah, it’s the campaign manager. Jeb Magruder. I mean, I don’t know him…”

Katie giggled.

“Jeb Magruder? I read about him somewhere recently. That name’s too dumb to forget”.

“Mmhm”, was your reply as you were trying to make out what the hell Jeb was doing.

“You couldn’t hear what they were saying?”

“I didn’t get the window down fast enough, but swear I heard him say ‘ass’. Twice.”

More giggles.

“Ass?”

“Yes!”

“Leave it to your ears to only pick up on ‘ass’”.

“Pfff”.

Your friend had started the engine, and you threw one last look at Jeb’s Oldsmobile before driving out of the carpark.

“You sure they were cops, the other guys?”

“Well, I can’t be sure, of course. But they had a cop vibe. And your friend Mr. Magruder…”

“He’s not ‘my friend’”.

“Whatever. The hot scumbag, then. He looked scared”.

“I thought you said he was angry?”

“That too.”

Then you had gone to the nearest park to lie under a tree, and Katie had chatted happily about everything and nothing while smoking a joint, and you had wondered.

After that there had been no more sightings.

And so here you are now, a week and a half later, working overtime on a Friday evening, and considering for the umpteenth time if it wouldn’t after all be less soul-crushing to take the pay-cut and become a shopgirl somewhere instead of photocopying piles of memos for a hastily scheduled meeting Monday morning.

The new girls always get the shit tasks at the last minute.

“Cheer up, dear. You can be thankful you don’t have to hurry home to get supper ready for three ungrateful children and a husband who would all rather eat tv dinners from the fridge,” Mrs. Lautner had said as she wrapped her tiny silk scarf around her neck and left for the weekend.

“Then why don’t you let them do just that and spend your time on something better?” you had wanted to ask her but thought better of it. Mrs. Lautner was a proud woman.

It’s well past 10 pm now, and the floor has gone quiet.

Eerily quiet.

You know there’s a guard in the lobby, and probably more people working behind closed doors in the big building, burning the midnight oil, but you don’t like the echo of your footsteps.

Even so, you need stretch your legs after being hunched over the copy machine, and so you’ve decided to snoop a bit.

More accurately, you’ve decided to help yourself to a drink.

Seeing as it is Friday after all, and the oppressing powers that be have ruined your plans to go out.

All the gents have well-stashed liquor cabinets in their offices, you know by now, and you doubt any of them would notice if you had a tiny glass of whatever bottle is already open.

Hey, should the old, good-natured guard come by and catch you in the act, perhaps he’d even like one too.

You assume John Mitchell is the one with the finest collection of spirits, but something makes you hesitate in front of his office.

Call it bad karma.

Or the lingering words of Mrs. Lautner on your first day.

So, you continue down the hall, envisioning yourself as a sexy cat burglar until you just happen, completely by coincidence of course, to find yourself in front of another, more enticing nameplate.

Yes.

If Mr. Jeb Magruder and his precious rocks won’t come to you, you’ll simply have a look around his quarters on your own.

How is it that so few of the offices are locked?

Do these men think themselves invincible?

It’s highly likely.

Jeb’s office is very much like the rest of them – dark mahogany, heavy dark green curtains and leather armchairs being the universal décor signifiers of rooms in which important white men plot world domination.

Although according to the other girls, this one isn’t doing much plotting.

Still …

Just thinking of his rolled-up shirt sleeves and toned forearms when he was cleaning up the coffee grounds, and the way his hair kept falling in front of his eyes makes you pine.

In the wise words of Mick Jagger, You can’t always get what you want.

But you sure can sample a bit of the hot man’s hot spirits.

You step inside the office and do your burglar tip toeing to the desk, solely for your own amusement, turning on the lamp there, and looking around.

Ah.

Against one of the wood-paneled walls is a small glass and metal table with what appears to be a scotch on it, and a couple of those very thick, deliberately too-heavy cocktail glasses molded to suit a firm masculine grip.

Such a waste of glass, really, you think as you pour the golden liquid, just because powerful men cannot be trusted to hold a delicate thing without accidentally crushing it with anger or excitement.

Drink in hand, you turn again to survey the room, knowing you should just take the glass with you back to the copy room but feeling yourself drawn to the desk.

And the papers atop of it.

Not that you expect Jeb to have top secret documents just lying around, obviously, but now that you’re here you could just …

You step closer while taking a sip of the scotch, savoring the way it burns your throat going down.

Good stuff.

“What are you doing?”

You very nearly throw your drink into the air as a man’s voice calls out behind you.

And though you shouldn’t be totally surprised that it’s him, it’s his office after all, your breath still catches in your throat when you spin around and lock eyes with one Jeb Magruder, standing in the doorway.

First thought: God, he looks as good as you remembered. And dressed to the nines.

Second thought: Is he swaying a little?

Third thought: Bye, job. It was not a lot of fun while it lasted.

Jeb doesn’t appear angry though, nor does he reprimand you. He just looks at you with a blank expression.

His hair seems more ruffled than it’s likely supposed to be, his formal outfit considered, although it absolutely suits him.

“I was just…I’m putting together the briefs for the, um, for your meeting Monday,” you splutter, willing your feet to stand their ground and not step on each other’s toes out of nervousness.

You’ve been caught red-handed.

There are not a lot of ways around simply being honest and hoping for the best.

Jeb’s not saying anything.

“I know I shouldn’t have, and I’m so sorry,” you continue, “But I just went looking for a quick drink. I swear I’m not a spy or anything.”

You laugh a little nervously.

Fuck, don’t let him think that this is an actual break-in. That would spell more trouble than just a firing.

“Really, it was very stupid, and I’ll get out of here now, of course.”

You put down the glass on the small table and make to leave, but then Jeb steps into the room, walks right past you and around his desk and practically dumps his body into the chair there, long legs sprawling out in front of him as he wheels the chair back.

Ah, yes. He’s drunk.

Interesting.

Then he looks to the ceiling and sighs deeply with eyes closed, his unbuttoned smoking jacket falling wide open on either side of him, white shirt stretching over his chest, and you try not to imagine what sculpted muscles hide under the expensive tailoring.

“It’s fine,” he says, looking back at you.

“I could do with a drink myself…” His eyes are a bit unfocused.

A good girl ought to make her excuses and leave Jeb to whatever mini crisis he’s going through.

A good girl ought to ignore the feeling of bubbling excitement mixing with the strong liquor already heating up her loins.

Thank Christ, you’re not her.

Not tonight.

“Okay…”

You take a seat in one of the chairs in front of the desk.

What do you know, just you and the famous Mr. Jeb Magruder, having a late meeting about world affairs.

If your proud parents could see you now. You smirk into your drink.

Meanwhile, Jeb is looking around, ostensibly confused to find no bottle within arm’s reach.

He’s about to get up, when you gingerly beat him to it, putting your glass down on the polished surface of desk (your mother would berate you for not using a coaster).

“Let me get that for you … Sir.”

Jeb’s eyes briefly widen just enough for you to feel a tingle run down your spine.

He’s about to protest, but you’re already by the table, pouring him a generous helping.

“You look like your evening has been significantly worse than mine,” you say, smiling, as you sashay back to the desk.

His mouth opens and closes, but no reply comes out.

“I’m Y/N,” you offer, filling in for his silence.

“We met on my first day a few weeks ago in the …”

“Kitchen. Yes. Yes, I remember you.”

Finally, Jeb smiles back at you, displaying pearly white teeth, and your stomach does a little flip.

You step around the desk, and he slowly spins his chair to look up at you when you hand him the drink.

Your bare knee brushes against his pants’ leg just as your fingers meet on the glass.

Jeb clears his throat and sits up straighter.

“Thank you. Miss.”

He quickly takes a sip, his eyes flitting over your legs before he lowers his gaze to the drink.

“So, um, have you settled in alright? In the job, I mean?”

All manly politeness and feigning indifference to your closeness as you remain standing in front of him.

He doesn’t quite succeed, even swallowing his second sip of the scotch with an audible gulp as you perch yourself on the desk instead of returning to your chair.

Perhaps it’s the foreign vantage point of looking down at the tall man that’s making you audacious.

Or perhaps it’s that he looks uncommonly lost.

How old is he? Mid-forties?

While classically handsome from a distance, up close his good looks are more fascinatingly multifaceted.

You have a sudden, surreal impulse to draw him.

There’s a boyish, melancholic quality to his features while at the same time his strong, black eyebrows, the crinkles around his eyes, and the flecks of grey by his temples give off an air of someone who secretly knows how to chop wood, make a fire, and enjoys long breaststrokes in cool lakes.

Or maybe he has simply seen too many late nights and cigarettes at the office?

Yet his skin remains the rich, honeyed tan of wealth and weekends spent outdoors, and even if his smile is anything but carefree this minute, you have a feeling he could be a man who laughed easily and often, given the chance.

But hold on, why wouldn’t he be that man?

He must be making a fortune working closely to the President.

Demotion or not, he’s still a C.R.E.E.P., isn’t he?

Jeb clears his throat again, a little more awkwardly, and you realize you’ve been staring down at him for quite a few, long seconds.

Your blush mirrors the one has already crept into his cheeks.  

And he’s still waiting for you to answer his question.

“Oh, well, it’s fine, you know,” you say cheerfully, brushing over your fluster.

“I’ll just be here for a few more weeks, I think. Not long.”

Jeb raises his eyebrows and cocks his head in a most darling, owl’ish manner.

“Oh? You don’t plan on making a, uh, career here?”

You almost burst out laughing. A career?

Jeb looks puzzled and you realize that he – much like the rest of them – may be under the assumption that working here is a great honor.

“Well, Mr. Magruder, let’s just say that my personal ambitions don’t quite…align with the work that I do here.”

That you do here, is what you wanted to say, but that would be pushing it too far.

“Well. Okay.”

To your surprise, Jeb doesn’t press you on the subject.

He exhales and slumps down in the chair again, gesturing at nothing with his drink and spilling half its contents on the carpet.

“Oh”, is all he says, looking down at the darkening stain as if somewhat bewildered that the laws of physics still apply.

Then his eyes find yours and he smiles a sad little smile.

“It’s probably for the best, anyway.”

Say what? Now you’re intrigued.

You reach for the bottle and top up his drink (he thanks you), then your own.

“Something weighing on you, sir?”

Again, there’s that look in his eyes. A quick glint of something kept well under wraps.

This time accompanied by rapid blinking before he looks away.

Another sip. A large one.

“You could say that”.

He sniffs, defeat written all over him, and the frankness inspired by his inebriety makes you want to prod him.

But then he gathers himself, as if he’d forgotten who he’s talking to.

He puts down his glass and runs a hand through his hair.

“I’m so sorry, Miss. I’m, uh, I’m afraid I’m being awfully rude. I certainly don’t mean to keep you here…”

He looks to the door, worry blooming, apparently becoming aware of how the ‘situation’ might appear.

“I don’t mind”, you say and smile, determined not to have the evening end here.

“I didn’t have plans anyway, and…”

You search for something to say to soothe him, so he won’t make you leave, yet end up going for a more ballsy approach.

No time like the present.

“…I’ve been hoping to run into you again”.

Jeb looks completely taken aback and not in the least less worried.

“You have? W-why?”

Softly kicking off one of your heels, you place your foot on the edge of his chair between his spread legs.

He stares down at it, then back up at your face, baffled.

Oh god, why is that so endearing? He’s so lost.

You lean in a little, ever so subtly squeezing your breasts together.

“Because, Mr. Magruder, you made quite the impression on me when we met”.

Jeb is dumbfounded. Then he remembers how to blink and lets out a short, nervous yelp of a laugh.

“Who…who put you up to this?”

Huh?

He grips the armrests of the chair and tries to sit up straight.

“Dean? If so, I really…I don’t think this is…”

No. You won’t let him get up.

He freezes when you lift your bare foot to place it lightly on his chest, gently pushing him against the backrest.

Money well spent on that perfect pedicure you got only just yesterday.

“Nobody put me up to this. Sir”.

Front teeth worrying over a lower lip. Oh boy, does he like being called that, even as he’s trying his best not to show it.

“I find you…interesting”.

You lean back, kicking off the other heel and moving that foot to where the other one was before – between his legs.

Your thighs now spread in front of him, your mini skirt is reduced to a wide belt, and you can tell it takes Jeb a very conscious effort to keep focusing on your eyes and not up … there.

“But...why? We’ve never…I mean, you don’t know me. I can’t imagine…”

He’s drawing all blanks.

Honestly, your foot is on his chest. Is the man just drunk or dim as well?

Or…oh, no.

Could it be that Jeb Magruder is an actual happily married man?

Stupidly, the thought hadn’t even occurred to you, with all the gossip of his colleagues’ wandering hands filling your head.

You had just decided for yourself that he was shy, as if per definition every man in the building is just a drink away from extramarital shenanigans.

Jesus have you drunk the Kool-Aid of this workplace.

Now you’re the one who considers exiting the scene, but your curiosity - and the feel of his beating heart your bare foot - spurs you on.

“There’s something about you, I suppose. Something…mysterious”.

You tilt your head as you explore his face. That’s it, keep your voice pleasantly sultry.

Don’t mention the incident in the carpark.

“That’s…I’m not… I don’t think you’ll find a lot of people who’ll attest to that”.

Another failed attempt at a laugh on his part, this one ending in a resigned grunt.

“Especially not around here”, he adds quietly and looks to his half-empty glass on the desk.

He knows what people say about him then.

When he reaches for the drink you grab it first, and you hold on to it just for a second as your fingers meet again.

The side of his mouth twitches in what may be a nervous tick.

“Well, I don’t care about what other people say...”

“With all due respect, Miss, you don’t know me.”

“…but I think you may be hiding.”

“What?”

It was mostly a guess on your part, based on his morose demeanor and the fact that he left somewhere fancy to come to his office late in the evening, drunk and sad, but now he looks downright scared.

Almost sober.

“Why…who would I be hiding from?”

So much is happening behind those eyes, confirming that Mr. Jeb Magruder is indeed in some kind of bind.

“Yourself, maybe?” is all you’ve got though.

He stares at you for a long time.

“You don’t know me,” he says again, trying for defiance, but his voice is a lot smaller, and his lips have started to wobble dangerously.

You remove your foot from his chest and place it next to the other on the chair between his legs. You put your drink down. You lean forward and hope for the best and place a hand on either side of his face.

He shudders in a way that tells you he’s not just anxious, he’s most likely starved for physical contact, too. His eyelids even flutter shut for a few seconds.

Not so happily married.

“Then tell me…Jeb. Talk to me. I’ve got time.”

At that something breaks.

His face just crumbles between your hands, tears spilling over his rich, black lower lashes. Too much blue in those eyes to hold it all in.

“I don’t”, is all you make out before his sobs drown out the rest, and you move your feet off the chair so that you, a staunch anti-almost everything Jeb stands for, can pull the very same Jeb, this handsome agent of Republican evil, in for a hug between your legs that he doesn’t resist.

You have no idea if he even deserves it.

But as you weave your fingers through his gorgeous, soft hair, cherishing his scent while his shoulders rise and fall, wild horses couldn’t drag you away.

.

.

.

.

There’s a woman in his office.

Not just any woman.

You.

First thought: Finally.

Second thought: Stop swaying, you idiot.

Third thought: Wait, why are you here?

The one he embarrassed himself in front of in the kitchen.

The one who hadn’t seemed to mind.

Temping, you had said. Very pretty.

No, beautiful.

Not quite the same type as the other girls – sorry, women – in the office.

More…vibrant.

And the way you had looked up at him even after he had made a mess.

Such unabashed curiosity, holding his gaze and flashing a bright, infectious smile.

It had made him feel taller.

Straightaway, he had wanted to impress you, coffee grounds on his shirt and tie be damned.

…And, of course, he had got nothing to say.

It’s not as if he doesn’t know how bad he is at small talk.

Yet often he can’t seem to stop, even when his audience starts to look for a way out.

When their eyes wander past him as they realize he’s not that interesting or someone like Mitchell who dazzles without doing much other than being a lot more important than Jeb.

But your eyes hadn’t left him for a second, and he had drunk in every detail of your face, the way your shapely lips formed a cheeky grin, the way you threw your hair back after bending down to brush coffee off your (very short) skirt and (very nice) legs.

The way he had been able to look down your blouse and felt something most inconvenient stir.

There’s no shortage of affairs being conducted in the building. Few of his colleagues, almost all married, think much of it, whether they indulge in it themselves or not.

Every arrival of a new secretary is met with the obligatory lewd jokes, although Jeb’s not so sure the guys’ brand of ‘charm’ always sits well with the girls at the receiving end of the punchlines (wom- oh, nevermind. He’s old school).

He has never had an affair.

If he’s bad at small talk, he’s even worse at flirting.

And what’s more, he has never wanted to cheat on Gail, knowing he’d be wrecked if she did it to him.

That was, until the last couple of years.

Now he looks.

Yearns, sometimes.

But never as strongly and as instantaneously as he had with you.

Going back to his office, he had shut the door, sat at his desk, and tried not to imagine a scenario much like in those movies in which you hadn’t been interrupted by Mrs. Lautner, in which he was anything but clumsy and where he would have unceremoniously lifted you up to sit on the narrow kitchen counter, spread your thighs wide (in this scenario he wasn’t imagining, you weren’t wearing any underwear), swiftly unbuckled his belt, not even caring that they might get caught.

He had watched you throw back her head and moan lustfully as he gripped your hips with firm, sure hands, and …

Palms moist and fingers shaking, Jeb had had to practically rip open the nearest and what looked to be the dullest memo from accountancy and start reading the numbers with fervent concentration to stop himself from reaching into his pants right then and there.

It had taken several pages, graphs and budget cuts and all, to for his treacherous member to calm down.

He had looked for you every day since, but no luck.

Only a sinking feeling in his stomach whenever he turned into the kitchen and didn’t find you there.

And now you’re here?!

In his office of all places.

Are his eyes still red from crying?

He tries to play it cool.

Tries to be debonaire and laid-back, and yet he can’t shake off the hurt.

Or the drunkenness.

So, he just drinks more when you fill up his glass from the expensive bottle he got for Christmas four years ago, when he was still a professional worth rewarding, sent over from The White House, no less.

His voice sounds small and impolite but, incredibly, you don’t leave.  

Instead, you sit your beautiful, beaming self on his desk, kick off your heeled shoes and tell him you find him “mysterious”.

He wants to laugh, it’s so absurd, and this doesn’t happen to him.

The guys must have called you the minute he left the Mitchell’s.

Asked you to…to…whatever it is you’re doing that will end with him being humiliated beyond belief.

Then again, isn’t he about to fuck them over in a much worse fashion?

Perhaps it’s karma, as the hippies say.

When you call him “sir” and position yourself so he can look straight up your skirt (the real-life version of you is wearing underwear), Jeb decides not to care why or how you’re here.

Breathing in your closeness, he can feel himself growing hard, and he’s even working up the courage to reach for you, trying to figure out where one might put his hands so as not to get it wrong on the first try, when you say something that sets the alarms blaring.

You seem to be hinting at a secret, and this he doesn’t like at all, seeing as no one’s supposed to know of his ‘betrayal’ yet.

If word got out before the feds start knocking on doors, who knows what types may come for him.

He’s suddenly afraid he’ll start crying if you come any closer…

And then you do.

Of course.

Total humiliation, then.

His colleagues, the media, whoever you speak to of this will have a ball when you reveal how you only had to remove your shoes to make Jeb Magruder weep behind his own desk.

Even so, unable to quell his sobs, he lets you hold him, and finds that your arms around him, your fingers in his hair, are preferable to sinking into the floor out of shame.

“It’s okay…it’s okay. You’re okay”, this apparition who has manifested out of nowhere, whispers as stammers apologies, and he desperately wants to believe you if only for tonight.

When, finally, he begins to regain some control, he lifts his eyes to yours and finds no mockery there.

Gentle hands cradle his face, and he swallows hard to keep from blurting out more inane excuses for why he is what is.

Your face is so near as you look down at him, still perched on the desk, your bare legs now smoothly wrapping themselves around his waist as he sits more upright in the chair to allow you room to do anything you want with him.

Thighs squeeze his ribs, and on their own accord, his hands find their way to either side your waist, and then you lean in and kiss him on the mouth.

Jeb Magruder stops breathing.

Your lips are soft and inviting, and he hasn’t been kissed, really kissed in so long he’d forgotten what a real kiss can do.

How it can stop time.

You stay there, tasting his mouth, the tip of your warm tongue playfully trying to pry his own lips apart.

He gives in.

Hungrily kissing you back, he pulls you off the desk and into his lap.

The way you shamelessly grind yourself over his erection makes him groan with need, and his hands clumsily roam your back, your ass under the skirt, pulling you so roughly against him you’re the one to gasp into his mouth.

Oh god, this is really happening.

Not breaking the kiss, you loosen his butterfly and dispense of it over his shoulder, quickly moving on to pry open the top buttons of his shirt.

He lets go of you only to hastily shrug off his jacket, but when he makes to unbutton your blouse, you lean back, leaving his own shirt only halfway open, a wicked, satisfied look on your face.

“You just stay there, sir.”

Untangling your limbs from behind his back, you somehow elegantly slide yourself down to the floor, where you get on your knees between his legs.

“I think I know what’ll make you feel better,” you purr, and Jeb grips the armrests so hard he thinks he may break the wood when you proceed to run your palms up the inside of his thighs, kneading your exploring fingers into him as you go, before reaching his length and massaging your hands over him.

“Oh god, oh god”, seems to be the only thing he can get out, and your smile is so mischievous it makes him dizzy when you unbuckle his belt and zip down his fly.

“Now, Mr. Magruder, can you sit still for me?”

One eyebrow raised, hands hovering over the waistband of his boxers.

“Yes, yes…good god.”

Maybe he’s still crying.

His vision is blurry.

“Or…” You hesitate.

No, no, no, don’t stop!

Biting your lip, you adopt a semi-serious frown.

“Perhaps we shouldn’t? I mean, you’re a married man after all...”

You’re bringing this up now??

“I’m…I…” Jeb splutters, completely lost for words.

You wait.

Are you actually serious?

What do you want him to say??

Is it a test?

Then you rub your palm over his cock, applying more pressure this time, and he closes his eyes and begs.

“Please, please… I’ll do anything! My…my marriage is…”

He squirms helplessly in the chair, trying to say it out loud for the first time, labeling it a fact:

“My marriage is over.”

But you take pity before he gets there.

Without another word, you free his length, both hands closing around the shaft as you look up with a most pleased sigh.

“Oh, yes, sir. Just as I thought.”

You wink, and Jeb doesn’t think he can blush any deeper, but the way you now return your attention to his cock like you want to devour him momentarily abolishes his insecurities, and then your mouth is on him and fuck, fuck, fuck it’s been years.

He resists the urge to grab hold of your hair, and instead digs his nails into the armrests and whines when you start to move your mouth up and down, lightly sucking whenever you reach the top of his cock, tongue tapping against the underside of the leaking head.

“Oh, oh, oh…!”

Your hands are working him in unison with your mouth, and when you reach further down to cup his balls, it’s almost too much. He’s so close, and you’re taking him in so deep he may pass out.

Still, he tries to hold back and oh, no, they forgot about the door!

“I’m gonna…if you continue…the door…”, he pants, not wanting you to stop, but also not wanting to be rude.

Of the few times in his life Jeb has received a proper blowjob (not Gail’s thing), he has certainly never come in anyone’s mouth, and he’s not sure if it’s something that’s even done outside of adult entertainment.  

You remove your lips from him (too soon, too soon!), and lick them while wearing what he finds to be an adorable smirk.

You’re adorable. Amazing. He needs to shut up before he ruins this.

“Afraid we might get caught, sir?”

His cock twitches between your hands.

Ugh, he’s so obvious.

Sure enough, your smile widens.

“You like that, don’t you…sir?”

You squeeze his length.

“God, yes. Yes.”

He’s not exactly in a good position to lie.

“I’ll get the door. You stay.”

He nods obligingly, dazed, and supports your elbow as you get up, as gentlemanly as he can with his reddened cock still out and sweat now running down the sides of his face, and you skip across the office, and close the door.

“Now…”

Walking slowly back to him, you unbutton your blouse and let it fall to the floor.

Your bra follows suit, releasing pert breasts, and Jeb cannot help but gape at you slack jawed.

You shimmy out of your skirt, walk around the desk, and then you’re standing in front him again, wearing nothing but panties and the faint ghost of a perfume that is now Jeb’s favorite scent in the whole world.

Maybe it’s your skin. To him, it glows.

“What should we do with you, Mr. Magruder?” you muse while just out of reach from his touch.

He can’t bear the distance. You may slip away if he doesn’t hold on to you.

This parallel reality you occupy together feels much too fragile.  

“Anything. Anything you want…?”

His voice is a pleading whisper.

You mull this over.

“I could think of a few things, but…”

He holds his breath, afraid to disturb you.

The wicked smile returns.

“I think I’d like to know what you want, Mr. Magruder”.

“Me? I…I don’t...”

“You don’t know what you want?”

You’re teasing him, taking a step back.

He wants to follow, but you told him to stay so he stays, like a good boy.

“I just want…”

I just want you.

You cross your arms over your breasts, concealing the nipples he’s dying to touch, maybe even put his mouth over.

But he can’t find the words to say it.

Doubt seeps in while he struggles, so once again you save him.

“Jeb?”

“Yes?”

“Have you ever done anything like this before?”

His eyebrows disappear into his hairline, the side of his mouth twitching.

No. No, she mustn’t think he’s…

“Never.”

“I didn’t get that impression either.”

He doesn’t quite know if he should feel shame for being so inexperienced, or if you’re pleased that he is.

But he dearly hopes it’s the latter.

“Tell me a fantasy.”

“A…a fantasy?”

“Yes. Everybody has fantasies. Even C...R…E…E…P…S.”

You spell it out slowly, putting extra emphasis on each letter.

Another wink.

“I want to know one of yours.”

As if he wasn’t hot already, he feels his cheeks burning scarlet.

Ah. The pièce de résistance of the set-up.

“W-why would you…”

You sigh dramatically and throw your hands up.

Nipples!

“Okay, Mr. Magruder. Here’s the deal.”

You come closer, bend down, and put your palms on his knees so you’re nose to nose.

Your breasts are right there.

“Not only do I think you’re mysterious, I also think you’re very attractive, in case that wasn’t abundantly clear by now.”

Thank god he’s pretty.

You don’t say it outright, but he assumes that’s what’s implied.

For his failure to articulate a single fucking thing of coherent value or catch up to what’s happening around him.

To him.

“You’re going to fuck me on this great big desk of yours, okay? That’s going to happen. In fact, you’re going to ravage me on this desk.”

His jaw hits the floor.

“But!”

Salvaging said jaw, you tilt his face upwards with a finger under his chin.

“First, you’re going to admit to one little fantasy for me. And if you’re lucky, I’ll let you act it out. Right now.”

His mouth opens and closes like a goldfish on land.

“And Mr. Magruder?”

“Yes?” His voice is all croaky.

“You better start talking, or there will be no desk action at all.”

Oh.

They have wired his office.

Again, his cock doesn’t care one bit about his paranoia.

You should just count yourself lucky you haven’t had to pee yet which in itself is a small miracle.

He has fantasies.

One of them is playing out right now.

What he doesn’t usually have is the ability to readily put those fantasies into words in front of a young, sexy stranger stripping down in his office.

…Except when the sexy stranger blackmails him with the word “ravage”.

Oh, how Jeb wants to ravage you with every bit of that impressive medal swimmer stamina he’s got.

But first:

“I, uh…I…”

“Yes…?”

Christ, you fool, just say it.

He closes his eyes. Perhaps that’ll make it easier.

“I want to…I mean, I’d like to…If you don’t mind…”

Another deep sigh, this one close enough for him to feel your warm breath on his trembling lips.

“Okay, okay…I would like to…sp-…spank you?”

You stifle a giggle, and instantly he’s ashamed.

There’s no taking it back now though.

“Are you asking me, or are you telling me?”

He opens his eyes.

“I’m…both?”

“And why do you want to spank me?”

“…uh…”

“…Because I’ve…been bad? Because I have tempted you here at your place of business? Because…I’m a Democrat who thinks you work for the devil?”

Jeb nods vigorously. Yes. Yes, that works.

Wait, what?

“Are you…?”

You straighten up and put your hands on your hips.  

“Really, Jeb?”

He quickly shakes his head. No. It doesn’t matter.

And so, you turn, bend over the desk, and shoot him A LOOK over your shoulder.

“Well then…punish me. Sir.”

.

.

.

.

.

Of course.

Of course, this is what he wants.

This gorgeous, strangely broken, self-doubting President’s man, who should be able to get whoever he wants, but nevertheless acts as if he has spent his adulthood slamming face first into sexual rejection.

Is this what a bad marriage will do?

You’re sure there’s more to it.

Also, he has absolutely gotten himself in way over his head in something that probably, ultimately, makes him an even bigger douchebag to the world than he already is in his position.

However, right now, it only makes your sordid act even spicier.

You’ll repent tomorrow.

And never tell a soul.

Behind you, there’s a rustling of clothes and the chair finally being wheeled aside as Jeb stands up, pants falling to his ankles, and you shiver with excitement when he steps close.

Your toes just barely reach the floor.

Jeb places a large palm on your lower back, tentatively, like he’s trying to figure out how best to proceed now faced with the view of your ass, covered only by the thin fabric of your panties.

He’s hesitating, you can feel it, and you’re just about to say something to egg him on before he loses his nerve and you have to start all over with him, when his other palm comes down on your left ass cheek.

Swift and firm.

You yelp, even though you knew what was coming, and while you can’t see it, you feel his hand stop mid-motion before slapping you again.

“Is it- do you want me to stop?”

He sounds all nervous, much too nervous for this game to be truly fun, so you wiggle your ass, and give him what you hope will do the trick.

“Please, sir, I need it. I need to be punished”. You make your voice as breathless as you can.

“…If you don’t, I’ll have to tell everyone that Jeb Magruder can’t even put a dirty little Democrat in her- ouch!”

This time, his slap is harder. More purposeful.

You’re already wet from when you sucked his cock and elicited those sweet, sweet moans from him, but now your clit is throbbing with desire.

Do all bad girls just want to be spanked by handsome, morally corrupt men in expensive suits?

Absolutely.

Most of the good ones too, if the men in question look like Jeb Magruder.

Even his tears turn you on.

“More…” you pant, hands roaming for something to hold onto to on the desk. A stack of papers goes flying, but Jeb doesn’t seem to care.

Instead, he grunts as he slaps you again, his other palm on your back pushing you down to hold you in place.

It takes your breath away, the force he’s suddenly applying, and now you’re the one moaning helplessly as he continues to spank you, making the flesh on your ass quiver perversely under his hand.

Soon, he even starts mumbling things under his breath, and there’s no mistaking just how into this he is.

“You like this, huh? You like me punishing you?”

There may be question marks at the ends, sure, but they’re nothing like the ones that spilled desperately from his lips with every word just moments before.

“Yes…yes, sir, please”, you gasp, and you can feel the muscles of the hand holding you down tense at the “sir”.

He needs to be in control.

Craves it.

Halting his slaps, you feel his fingers between your legs, and when he runs them over your sex, feeling the soaked fabric, he actually growls with a mix of lust and disbelief.

“You’re so wet…God, how are you so wet?”

It doesn’t sound like he’s talking to you as much as to himself, but then he catches you by total surprise when he leans forward over the desk, grabs a fistful of your hair, and pulls your head back.

He doesn’t pull hard, not at all, but the move still stands in Mr. Hyde’esque contrast to the man who could scarcely utter the word “spank”.

Equally so, his voice is uncharacteristically deep and husky when he asks you if you’re sure you really want more, and the shivers running through your body make you writhe under him.

“You want me to give you what you deserve for coming here, to my office, and exposing yourself to me like some…some…”

That he cannot say.

It doesn’t matter.

“Yes, yes please”, you practically mewl.

He lets go of your hair, and you imagine the gush of air as he lifts his hand over your ass once more, and….

And the door to the office swings wide open.

.

.

.

.

.

“Jeb, you in here? We need to-“

John Dean, wearing his best suit and an urgent frown, stops dead in the doorway.

For a few excruciating seconds the silence is deafening, and you wish you could see the expression on Jeb’s face behind you.

No doubt you look like a deer in the headlights yourself.

A deer wearing only panties, bend over a desk while one of The White House’s former top dogs has you pinned down, cock still out, shirt and hair wildly disheveled.

“Jeb, we, uh…we need to…can you…the President…uh…”

Dean’s voice trails off like there’s just not enough oxygen in his brain to remember why he’s even here.

He’s looking at you, transfixed as if he was staring at a solar eclipse.

Permanent damage to the cornea in 3, 2 …

“Dean…”

Jeb’s long, spread fingers on your back are perfectly still. You sense he may be pointing at the door with his other hand.

“Get out.”

Of everything that has happened within the last hour or so, the determination with which Jeb delivers those two words is by far the most surprising of all.

“Now.”

Dean finally looks up from your exposed body to his colleague, and you can tell he’s just as stunned.

“But…no…Jeb, we have to go. You- you must come. There’s been an, uh, incident…”

“Get. Out.”

You could break ice taps off the “out”.

Dean starts shaking his head, trying to collect himself.

“No, it’s the President, Jeb. Mitchell told me to come get you. There’s an…”

His eyes briefly flicker back to you, remembering the third set of ears in the room.

“Uh, we’re having a meeting.”

He tries to give Jeb a comically knowing look that ends in a frightened grimace.

“You’re going to shut that door now, Dean, or I’m coming over to do it for you.”

Jeb’s not wavering, nor is he apologizing, and fuck isn’t that the sexiest thing in the world.

It takes guts to pull that off with his pants around his ankles, but it’s working.

“For God’s sake man, you can’t…you can’t say no to Dick!” Dean hisses, sounding slightly hysterical now.

“OUT!”

Choosing not to wait to find out if Jeb will make good on his threat to come over, Dean slams the door.

Footsteps disappear down the hall. It sounds like he’s running.

You breathe a sigh of relief, but before you can say anything – like, “Wow, Jeb, where did that come from?” – the man behind you grabs your waist and turns your body over, pulling you up so you’re once again sitting on the edge.

Damn, he’s strong.

His mouth crashes onto yours while his hands find your (fairly sore) ass to pull you close, and the underside of his cock presses against your pelvis, the head leaking onto your stomach.

There’s no fumbling now.

No asking for permission.

He seems possessed, almost.

You throw you head back, and he uses the opportunity to finally lavish attention on your breasts, one hand grabbing the left, squeezing, while he dips his head to the right, lips closing around your nipple, tongue lapping at the bud.

These are not the moves of a practiced lover, but what he lacks in technique, he sure as hell makes up for in eagerness.

You have never felt wanted like this before, worshipped, and you’re ready to give him absolutely everything.

Working the last buttons of his thoroughly crumbled, damp, shirt open, you push it off his shoulders and run your hands over his smooth, sculpted chest while he shakes off the garment the rest of the way, simultaneously kicking off his pants and polished shoes and nearly falling over as he attempts to plant kisses all over your breasts at the same time.

“Careful, sir”, you grin, and he gives you a goofy smile, a bit of the ‘old’ Jeb coming back, before blind thirst takes over again, and you lie back and lift your pelvis off the desk so he can rip off your panties.

He steps between your legs and pushes them wide apart, staring down at your pussy like’s he lost to the world. Carefully, he runs a finger along your entrance, and his whole body seems to quiver at the feel of the velvety slickness.

“So wet… you’re so wet for me…” he repeats, but this time it sounds less disbelieving and a lot more triumphant.

You want his fingers everywhere.

On you, inside you, exploring and penetrating every crevasse of you, but it’ll have to wait (a silent wish – there will be another time).

“Fuck me, Jeb, just fuck me.” You’re so out of air and he hasn’t even entered you yet.

He removes his fingers from your sex and places a hand on the desk next your body, leans over you and pumps the shaft of his cock with his other hand.

His hair is such a mess, and his eyes are a whole new shade of deep, dark sea. A drop of sweat lands on your cheek.

“Say that again.”

“Fuck me, si-“

All thought and reason leave your brain when Jeb guides his cock to your entrance and slowly pushes into you, stretching you, and although you’re so, so wet he feels big.

He was just in your mouth. You know the size of him.

But this is different.

Your walls instinctively clamp around him, making the space even tighter, and he closes his eyes and groans with such undiluted pleasure, emotion swells in you.

He hasn’t done this in a long, long time.

After a few seconds of accommodating to the sensations (and to keep from cutting the experience short, judging by how his cock pulses inside you), Jeb grabs your hips and straightens up as he pushes further into you, inch by inch, filling you up until he’s completely sheathed in your heat.

“God, you feel so good…so good…”

His chest is glistening, and the muscles of his biceps flexing from not giving in to instinct and taking you too hard, too soon.

…But that polite resolve goes out the window real fast when you tell him in throaty gasps how big he is, how you’ve never had anyone fill you up so perfectly.

How you’ve wanted him, him, from the moment you first saw him.

Teeth clenched and eyes wild, he pulls halfway out only to quickly thrust into you so hard, the heavy furniture creaks loudly under you, and you cry out and stretch your arms over your head to reach for the opposite edge of the desk to hold on to.

Jeb doesn’t let up, sending shockwaves of pleasure through you with each deep, frantic thrust as he grunts from leaning into all the strength he’s got.

And oh, fuck, the endurance of this man, despite the alcohol coursing through his blood.

.

.

.

.

.

He no longer feels drunk.

Not one bit.

He’s high on your naked body as he towers over you, on how tight your pussy feels around him even as the wet slabs grow louder with every thrust.

High on how you have so willingly submitted to him.

How he sent Dean running, tail between his legs, the little shit.

Him!

Jeb Magruder.

The “not a very intelligent man” who broke the law to fit in with the big boys, whose touch leaves his soon-to-be ex-wife cold, and…

To hell with it all.

Looking down at how his cock now penetrates you over and over and listening to your moans and cries as he thrusts harder, faster, the way his hips snap against your body, he feels delirious.

Unhinged.

Maybe he has finally gone mad from the stress.

Your cheeks are flushed, mouth open and eyes hooded with desire for him, and maybe the other Jeb, timid everyday Jeb, shouldn’t enjoy it so much when your features twist with a blend of pleasure and discomfort as he slams deep into you with increasing brutality, but oh god, this version of him sure does.

You deserve to be fucked this way.

You were begging for him to put you in your place, and dammit he’s going to do it.

A young, too brazen for her own good Democrat.

When your gasps become quicker, more shallow, your body thrashing on the desk as your thighs crush his midriff, Jeb decides to take another bold step, removing a hand from your hip and licking his thumb so he can use it to lightly circle what he hopes is the right spot for you.

And, oh, the thrills when you moan for him to not stop, please don’t stop, all the while his cock is still pumping in and out of you.

He’s pushing you towards your climax, he knows it, and he’s right at the edge himself, but he won’t let go before you do.

He wants to take with him the memory of how he pleased you, this girl who shouldn’t want anything to do with him, and when you finally cry out his name as your pussy constricts around him and you arch your back in ecstasy – yes, ecstasy - this becomes one of the best nights in a full decade.

Pleasure washes over him and through him, setting on fire every fiber of him when he buries himself in you one final time, spilling his seed deep inside you, the shudders making him crouch over to support himself on the desk.

His groin is still pressed against you, gluing you to him, when you reach for his face, fingers snaking around his neck and pulling him down for a kiss that he gladly reciprocates, wanting to extend the moment forever and leaning over the desk to rest his elbows on either side of you.

You kiss him until both of you gasp for air, and Jeb Magruder feels his heart skip a beat when you smile blissfully up at him.

You attempt to smooth the unruliest of locks out of his face (to no avail), and he sighs and closes his eyes at the intimate tenderness that threatens to break open the dams.

It’s only when you collect a tear from his jawbone with your lips that he realizes he’s already crying.

.

.

.

.

.

Afterwards, after Jeb Magruder has given you one of the best orgasms of your entire life (and you’re not exactly a nun, truth be told), he roams around in his drawers for a tissue and ends up handing you a dainty, lace thing with embroidered initials.

“Jeb, is this…?”

“Um…yes.”

“Fine.”

With Mrs. Magruder’s handkerchief you wipe away Mr. Magruder’s cum that’s leaking out of your pussy.

Then you sit on the carpet in the middle of his office, him in boxers, you in panties and his white shirt, and you drink some more of his scotch while he smokes and talks.

And talks, and talks, and talks.

It all comes tumbling out, the whole sorry tale of his and his colleagues’ misdeeds, of how they concocted ‘a mission’ so incredibly stupid that it’s most likely going to land them all in jail.

Of how he knew it was wrong, how it made him sick in the end, and yet he didn’t stand his ground, not once.

He talks of feeling like a fraud even before also becoming a criminal for a cause that doesn’t make much sense.

Correction: That makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.

“But…the polls are already in his favor. Everybody says he’ll get reelected. So…why??” you ask, and Jeb nods miserably, then shakes his head, and you just know that the media will relish tearing him apart in front of the entire country.

There’s no avoiding it, even if his “sweetheart deal” does land him a slightly reduced sentence.

He’ll be a national disgrace.

And damn if you don’t feel sorry for him, as if he has fucked all logic out of you.

(“Now, that’s how they get you”, you can hear Katie say.)

You, for one, will not particularly enjoy seeing him trying to keep it together, and hear him stutter and stammer in the spotlight when the house of cards crumbles.

“Jeb?”

“Yes?”

“Please don’t lie when it starts. Tell the whole truth.”

He grimaces.

“Mitchell won’t appreciate-”

“Fuck Mitchell. You’ve already taken the deal. Don’t get yourself into more trouble by muddying the truth.”

He nods and looks down, and you wish he wouldn’t completely abandon the assertive side of him so easily.

That Jeb might make it out on the other side with strength left to turn his life around.

“I’m…I’m not a monster.” He says, looking up at you again, lashes sparkly with fresh tears.

Sweet lord, he’s the most irresistible crying man you’ve ever seen.

“I’m not making excuses, I’m not, but…I wasn’t always like this.”

He gestures to himself, and your better judgement rolls her eyes at your aching heart.

“I’ll take what’s coming, and I…”

You reach over and take his hand.

“I believe you.”

You’ve made a career helping men in power do so much bad to this country, is what the ‘old’ you should be saying.

But it won’t do any good.

He knows. None of you can change the past.

Instead, you scoot over to him and straddle his lap, and kiss and nibble at his neck till he sighs again, and his hands slide under the shirt.

“Come home with me,” you whisper in his ear, and he pulls his head back to look at you.

“Now?”

“Yes. Just until the morning. Then I’ll let you escape back to the suburbs after breakfast… and morning sex.”

If “the suburbs” made him briefly wince, “morning sex” has the opposite effect.

“I’m not sure I should drive, to be perfectly honest.”

“I’ll drive.”

“Oh?”

“I borrowed my friend’s car today. It’s not exactly an Oldsmobile like you’re used to, though, it’s more just…old. Very old. Too old, probably. But it can still drive!”

Jeb laughs, and it’s a beautiful sound.

“That doesn’t sound all too comforting.”

He kisses you, large hands cubbing your ass that he has thoroughly marked.

“I take safety very seriously.”

You snort.

“That’s a tall order, Mr. Magruder.”

He has regained enough spirit to reply with another one of those infuriatingly cute goofy looks of his.  

You stand up, but not before he holds on to you just long enough to slip his tongue into your mouth once more before you break away.

He’s very into kissing.

You see potential.

“Come on, then.”

He gets up too.

You both get dressed.

You leave his office and get in Katie’s car (Jeb tries not to look too worried at the state of the thing, or the lack of a seatbelt on the passenger side), and you drive back to your closet studio and push him into your bed and tell him it’s time to live out one of your fantasies now.

“Okay.”

He will truly do anything you tell him.

And, oh fuck, is he a fast learner…

.

.

.

.

.

It’s been one much satired televised hearing, one unsurprising sentencing and seven months of jail time in Allenwood, Pennsylvania, when Jeb Magruder emerges into the sun wearing the same pinstripe suit, he had on when he arrived.

Dean has already been out for months, having ultimately made a much better bargain than Jeb, of course, whereas Mitchell’s trial has only just begun.

And the President?

He still sleeps in his own bed.

For now.

Jeb has been asked by the same President’s office to participate in a press conference to ensure the public that he has learned his lesson, and that he has had time to “reflect” on how he failed the administration with his “misjudgments” and “poor understanding” of the law.

The White House was fuming at his disloyalty during the hearing. Now they want him to bow and scrape and beg for forgiveness.

“Perhaps Mrs. Magruder could join you?” the press secretary had asked him over the phone a few days before his release, and he had wanted to hang up.

But he still has manners.

He declined to do any interviews. No press conferences.

For the second time, he has said no to Dick.

It felt even better than the first time.

He’s out.

Just like Gail is out of their old house, having moved to a new home closer to her parents while he was serving his time.

They’re on speaking terms, and he will see the kids as often as possible.

He wished he could have spared her the embarrassment of still being married to him when it all went down, but she weathered the storm with admirable calm.

Gail’s not one to wallow in self-pity (unlike other people used to…), and not for the first time he thinks that she probably knew a lot more than she let on.

He’s ever grateful for her not cutting all ties with him, as he imagines many an ex-wife would have been tempted to.

He squints against the light and takes a deep breath of freedom.

“Hey, McQueen Eyes.”

In the middle of the near empty carpark outside the prison, a young, brazen Democrat is perched on the bonnet of a banged-up, anything but safe old car.

“Hey.”

He tries to play it nonchalant, but the grin stretching from ear-to-ear will not be contained.

“You need a ride…sir?”

“Yes. Yes, please.”

“I don’t carry Republicans, just so you know.”

“Ah, I see.”

A beat.

“How about undecided voters then?”

“Hmm. We can work on that.”

“Good.”

“Where to?”

Anywhere you want.

.

.

.

Thank you for reading!

You can find all my other Hamish Linklater character fics here:

Masterlist

Tagging @agirlinherhead @aherdofbees @pegplunkett @supplanther @littleredwritingcat @girlwiththenegantattoo

[wayward-dreamer]

Enrapture

Square/s Filled: Mirror Sex - @anyfandomgoesbingo​ Custom The Boys card

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Female!Reader

Word count: 4,000

Summary: Y/N is a P.A on the Solid Gold music program, and is excited for Soldier Boy’s appearance. She hopes to catch his attention for a few seconds, but doesn’t expect him to take such an interest in her.

Warnings: Swearing, some angst, Soldier Boy being a Grade A asshole, drug use, A WHOLE LOTTA SMUT: dirty talk, degradation, oral sex (male receiving), deepthroating, face fucking, brief female masturbation, brief mention of glory holes, nipple play, mirror sex, hair pulling, spanking, unprotected sex (SB pulls out), hand job, cum swallowing. EXTREMELY NSFW 18+ ONLY. A touch of narcissism, more assholery.

A/N: I am officially OBSESSED with how this turned out, so I hope you guys like it! As always, happy reading and enjoy! :) beta’d by my love @evergreencowboy​ (sorry not sorry for killing you lol)

Y/N had always prided herself on doing her job in a timely manner and doing it correctly.

When she was hired as a P.A for the Solid Gold segment at one of the major television stations, it was unexpected to say the least. She had applied, but considering the entertainment industry was so male dominated, she was sure it was going to slip through her fingers. Then one day she got the call that the job was hers, and she never looked back after it. There was never a dull moment on the set of the music program, especially when supes were invited to join the hour. Sometimes they would be surprisingly good, and other times it was clear they were just there to fulfill their duties from talent management at Vought American.

Keep reading

[georgiapeach30513]

I Live to Serve Soldier Boy

Summary:  Soldier Boy needs you, and you’ll do good to remember you serve him

Pairings:  Soldier Boy X Reader

Rating:  explicit

Warnings:  explicit language, explicit sexual content, smut, non con/dub con, PIV sex, unprotected sex, bondage, breeding kink, creampie, kidnapping, basement wife tropes, Stockholm Syndrome, 18+ ONLY

Word Count:  2K

Soldier Boy Masterlist

A/N:  For @duhitzdae this came from her amazing idea.  

Keep reading

[misguidedasgardian]

Hey I wanted to request a soldier boy x reader where she has powers to read minds and telekinesis and he force her to marry him and how he would react his second child being a girl ? But you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.

Yes! I loved this!! this is a continuation of WHAT I WAS PROMISED

Warnings: Childbirth and related pains, Ben is being an asshole (what’s new?), implied forced marriage and kidnapping, hinted forced breeding, cursing, Ben is disappointed for a little while, misogynistic behavior, might miss some warnings

Your water broke at exactly 10 am, you knew because you had checked the time Ben had returned from a "mission" in town, and then... the waterworks. You whined in discomfort and Ben came running in and slipped on your water and slipped to the floor, it would have been so funny if it weren't for the excruciating pain that came after, making you scream instead.

“He took you to the small town’s hospital, and here you were, almost 36 hours of the worst pain you had felt in your life when you could expel your baby from your tired body

You could have sworn Ben was scared at some point at the 24th hour mark… you thought you saw fear in his eyes when the doctors said that this was taking too long and you wouldn’t be able to “take it” anymore.

But you were a sup, and stronger than you looked, so you pulled through… 12 hours later you heard a cry, cheers from the nurses and doctors, and someone saying near your ear

“Congratulations! it’s a beautiful baby girl” she muttered. Oh you were so happy, a little girl! your body immediately relaxed and you felt so calm. You felt her faint cries while they cleaned her and cut the cord

Soon she was in your arms, and everyone left the room to leave your small family alone. Ben showed up in your eyesight as he looked at the two of you with a weird look on his face. You looked down to see your baby girl already falling asleep in your arms

“What should we name her?” you asked him, but he didn’t answer, he didn’t move. So you reached out and grabbed his wrist tightly, in ona long second all his thoughts and feelings came rushing to you. “You are disappointed” you muttered, feeling so tired and defeated you couldn’t stop the bitter tears that fell off your eyes

“No honey, I just…” he said quickly, but his face said otherwise

“You preferred a boy” you whispered looking down at your beautiful daughter curled up against your chest

“No…” but his thoughts didn’t lie

“Well… is not my fault” he took a step back releasing from your grasp and hiding from your power, he seemed like he wanted to argue with you about that statement, but stopped at the last minute. “If you are so disappointed you can just leave” you spurted out

“No, baby…”

“Leave” you demanded, choking out a cry, and since he was an expert in flying from conflict, he did leave the room, breaking your heart in the process

Your worst dreams came true because he could do whatever the hell he wanted with you and you wouldn’t be able to stop him.

The nurse that came in next looked sad when she saw you crying, and grabbed your baby girl from your arms and left it in the crib right next to you

“Look sweetheart, The Berau sent me” she said warmly, and you just nodded, knowing the drill, they were always watching you, “You do not, under any circumstances let this baby out of your sight, ok?” you nodded, “The hospital nor doctors no nurse has the rights to take this baby from the room without your permission, no matter what shit excuse they give you, ok?” you nodded again, scared again for her safety, “I just needed to say this to you, I already told your husband”

“Thank you”

“You need to rest” she said warmly, “I gave you some of the good stuff” she signaled the bag and the IV plucked into your arm. You giggled

“Thanks” with your baby sleeping right next to you you felt asleep quickly, content with feeling your body already healing for the excruciating 36 hour workout you just pulled 

Ben sat outside your room he almost fell asleep seated on that uncomfortable plastic chair, then the nurse came out of the room with a shy smile

“They are both sleep, you must be so happy” she said sweetly

“I am” he said with his grave voice, his eyes scanning this siren's body up and down, she was HOT…. NO. he told himself, you are married asshole, your wife just spend 36 hours pushing your baby out of her 

No other women, no drugs, no whoring, you barely let him grab a drink… You nagged him all the time but gods if he loved you. He adored you and taking you for himself was the best thing he had ever done. 

You made everything better

You made his horrible memories from the Russians disappear

You made him being monogamous and drug free and he loved it

You gave him a beautiful and strong baby boy, and now a little girl

And now you were crying alone in your room because he prefered to have another boy thana  little girl

Maybe he felt guilty, maybe he was scared of having a girl because he treated women so poorly in his life, his own daughter was going to see right through that, he did force her own mother to marry him… how the hell was he going to explain that?

He looked at both ends of the hallway with squinted eyes, he knew if Vought got wind of this they were going to be stopping by. He could feel his blood boiling at the thought of them getting his dirty hands on you or his babies. He would die before he let them get to you.  

He stopped his dark thoughts when he heard his daughter cry inside the room, without a second thought he jumped and got inside the room 

You were sleeping soundly, the pain and tiredness still present on your face, and your newborn daughter crying her little lungs out. 

With a little hesitation he walked towards the crib

“You should let your mother rest,” he said, like she could understand him, but she wouldn’t stop crying, so remembering everything from his son's first months of life, he grabbed her gently, taking special care in holding her head. As she felt his strong arms she stopped crying, and he looked your way to make sure you were still resting, and you were, you must have been so tired. 

Ben looked at his newborn daughter to find her looking back at him, with those ghostly eyes that seemed blue, but he knew that was going to wash off in a couple of months, but still…

“Hey, don’t look at me like that” he chastised. She draw some small noises and he visibly relaxed when he looked at her more closely 

He didn’t feel the same as when his son was born, when he came into this world he was excited, proud, with his chest filled with arrogance, but now, holding his daughter he felt… he felt scared. 

Scared he was going to drop her, or crush her between his strong hands. Scared that he was going to hurt her in any way. She was so innocent, so small.

”You look like your beautiful mother” he said like he was blaming her for something, “I don’t care if you are a girl, ok?” he muttered, “You are still training, becoming a sup just like your father and mother you hear me? no special treatment” she just kept looking at him, and his resolve just crumbled. That fear was overcome with an immense need, a need to protect his daughter so fiercely, he had never felt anything like it, he would burn the entire world to the ground for her 

“Ok maybe a little special treatment” he whispered leaning in to kiss her forehead, “Only maybe, ok?” he kept looking at her face with the faint lights from outside, she was so cute. 

“I mean look at your face cmon” he growled, “I’ve never been able to resist some doe eyes and a pretty face, haven’t I? Fuck” he admired his daughter in his arms and smiled warmly’ “only one look and you got your old man grabbed by the balls, uh? Is that how it is going to be?” The baby girl seemed to nod, just moving her head randomly and that was enough for Ben to chuckle, seeing himself on his daughter so clearly it warmed his heart

The baby just look at his fathers face and babbled something incoherent, she was a newborn after all, “I’m going to fuck up everyone that tries to hurt you, my princess” he whispered sweetly as he cuddled her against his chest, “no poor fucker is ever going to be good enough for my baby girl”

He recalled a jackass from a show you made him watch. He stated that a girl can always be the light on her father’s life, and he believed it to be true just by holding his little girl

“Now how should we name you, uh?” 

[copiasforeskin]

[mypoisonedvine]

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐧𝐨 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞... || father paul hill x reader

summary ✟ you want something that you can't have. he needs something he shouldn't take. it's a match made in heaven, but there's nothing holy about it.

word count ✟ 6.6k

warnings ✟ spoilers for midnight mass (even in the warnings!! but only up to episode 4, and it's somewhat canon divergent anyways, but still), SMUT (slightly dubcon due to overstimulation, penetrative and oral sex [m receiving], fingering, squirting, multiple orgasms, a bit of painful sex/pain kink), virginity loss (for both of them!), extensive religious references throughout, 'father' title, brief suicidal ideation, self-injury (but not for mental health-related reasons, and not by the reader), age gap (reader is 18 and a high school senior, father paul is ??? older than that), innocent reader, tons of blood consumption, vampire shenanigans, way more fluff than this has any right to have

...𝐧𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞. 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬, 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧, 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧.

"I wasn't sure if you would come," he admitted quietly, sitting far off in the back of the room.

You swallowed nervously before you answered, clutching the strap of your bag where it crossed your chest, standing in his doorway and wondering if you looked as nervous as you felt. "I wasn't sure either," you replied.

And that was true, because when he'd asked you to visit him at his parsonage tonight, you had been too stunned to fully believe it. It seemed a little too good to be true, among other things. But even so, you were never really going to turn his offer down; because ever since Father Paul had arrived here on this quiet, dreary little island, you had begun to feel things you'd never felt before.

All of your friends at school had crushes, they had since elementary school, and you weren't sure if you were a late bloomer or… just not a bloomer at all. Then you met Father Paul. And though you had never expected or wanted to— not for your priest, anyway— you bloomed.

Your face got warm watching him give his homilies; your legs crossed and flexed against each other each time you heard his voice. You loved the way he said things, so wise and thoughtful. Though you'd always been active at the church, your activities there had doubled just for more chances to speak with him.

Where your lack of sexual interest had seemed like perhaps a blessing at first— a gift from God in your quest to maintain purity until entering the bonds of marriage with His soulmate created for you— now it felt like you were being unimaginably tempted. Was this from Him as well? Was He testing you to strengthen your faith?

Or was He showing you the man you were meant for, as impossible as that could be?

Father Paul, after all, wasn't made to have a companion. He was made to lead God's children; his purpose was greater than literal fatherhood, his destiny was not matrimony to another human but to the Lord and His church.

But gosh, he'd make such a good husband: so kind, so sensitive, so intelligent yet never condescending. And, well, he wasn't so difficult on the eyes, either. Sometimes he'd put his hand on your back, or your shoulder, and it usually took all your strength not to bite your lip when he did things like that. His touch was intoxicating.

Even now, standing in his dimly-lit parsonage, your skin was alight just imagining that he might touch you tonight. You weren't sure if that was why he requested for you to come here— you were far too sheltered to know how people might subtly proposition each other— but your intuition was strong enough to know he wanted something uncouth. If he hadn't, he wouldn't have asked you not to tell your friends, or your parents, that you were going to see him. There had been a certain look in his eye (even though he hadn't been looking at you when he said it, not directly), a certain darkness to his gorgeous voice…

Further evidence was what he said next. "Shut the door, please."

Nodding, you shut the door behind you.

When you looked at him again, he was standing— though you hadn't heard him move at all, hadn't heard his chair scrape on the floor or even his clothes rustle.

"Why did you come, then?" he asked. It took you a second to remember what he was even talking about.

"You asked me to," you answered plainly.

"I think there's more to it than that," he pressed, and you felt your throat tighten up. He knew. And to be fair, you already pretty much knew that. But even so, it was a little terrifying to hear him really acknowledge it, even if he was being subtle.

You were mostly just scared that he was about to admonish you. He wasn't the type for that, but it would be just as excruciating for him to have called you here just to let you down easy— for him to sit you down and have a talk about boys and girls and the special feelings they have for each other. About how there's nothing wrong with what you feel, just… misguided. And you'd have to just sit and nod and pretend not to be mortified, apologize if you made him uncomfortable, promise you would never act on childish temptations like this. Maybe you'd throw your dad under the bus, say you were attracted to a priest because of the fatherly support he'd given you that your real father never had. Maybe you'd thank him for everything he'd done for you and for his grace in your folly.

You'd act like you were okay with it. But you wouldn't even go back home, you'd just walk straight into the ocean knowing he'd have to speak at your funeral.

Ironically, in that moment you were tempted to pray— silently, in your mind— that Father Paul wasn't about to reject you. But that would've been such a waste, because God was absolutely not about to help you defile yourself and one of His most faithful servants. You were on your own for this one.

Amazingly, in all that thought, only a fraction of a moment had passed. “You do?” you asked quickly, keeping it all vague while you still could.

“Yes,” he agreed. “I think you came here expecting something— something you know that you shouldn’t want, but your body can’t help but crave.”

Geez, you knew he was insightful but you didn’t appreciate the way he’d apparently managed to read your mind.

“Is that accurate?” he asked you, smiling slightly.

“Yes, Father,” you admitted sheepishly, looking down at the floor.

“No, no, don’t look away,” he pleaded gently, taking a step closer to you— and you could see him a little better now in the light of the room, see the way his hair had fallen into his face slightly and the disheveled tilt of his white collar. He smiled a little bit when you met his gaze again. “You’re so young... I don’t think you know how young you are. I don’t think you know how pretty you are, either, or you wouldn’t be coming here looking for… well, looking for what it is that you’re looking for right now.”

As your face heated up a bit, you struggled to keep looking forward at him just as much as you struggled to find a response: but thankfully, you did both. “Thank you,” you awkwardly replied, “but I think I’m where I should be.”

“Oh, I think so too,” he agreed with a quick nod. “You’re exactly where you shouldn’t be, but— but you’re also exactly where you belong, I think.” He furrowed his brow as he pondered his own words. “That doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

“No, it makes perfect sense,” you denied. “To me, at least.”

Something overtook his expression— something a little darker, something not quite sinister but not exactly friendly, either— as he tilted his head back to look down at you just that much more. For a split-second, his nostrils flared and his eyes blinked quickly. "I'm sorry," he sighed quietly.

You would’ve assumed it was the beginning of his rejection, if it weren’t for the way he said it: deep and rough like the rocky bottom under the shore; thick and sweet like honey. You were certainly no expert, but you felt pretty confident that wasn’t the voice of a man about to turn you away. "What for?" you asked quietly.

"I'm sorry," he repeated as he stalked closer, your heartbeat hitting double time as he approached you. Though you had no way to know it, in his mind, he said the briefest prayer: Bless me, Lord, for I am going to sin.

And then, all at once, he was on you; You gasped as he grabbed you in an embrace, leaning in to breathe heavily by your face, moving lower to your neck where he inhaled deeply. You realized then what he was apologizing for, and you smiled a little as you shivered in his arms. "Don't be sorry," you soothed, eyes falling shut, "this is all I wanted."

"I'm so sorry," he said one more time, a hoarse whisper that tickled your ear, as his lips ghosted over your neck, "but I'm so hungry…"

For one perfect moment, you were truly blissfully ignorant. That moment ended as soon as you felt his teeth sink into your skin, though. You whimpered in pain, clutching at his shoulders, about to scream— but you couldn't, somehow. Your voice was gone, stolen by pain that crawled all over your body as you felt something drain from you; something more than just the blood spilling from your neck into his mouth.

Your toes curled inside your shoes, and if it weren't for his arms holding you so tightly, you surely would've collapsed.

As you grew weaker, choking on your shallow breaths and hearing your own whimpers of pain die out like a candle’s flame being slowly starved, he leaned down and laid you gently on the couch; you could barely tell the difference between standing up and laying down, spare for his weight on top of you as he drank eagerly from your wound.

You blinked rapidly as you stared up at the ceiling, tears welling and gently rolling from the corners of your eyes as pain faded into numbness and the ringing in your ears was even louder than the sounds of his heavy breathing and quiet moans of satisfaction.

Energy drained from you until you felt the pull towards the dark, the gentle wash of exhaustion beginning to lull you to sleep; and though your mind was foggy and swirling with confusion and fear, you knew this sleep wouldn’t be the sort that sunlight could wake you from. “Father…” you whispered, beneath your breath and near-silent but not unheard.

Just before you could give into it, he sat up slightly and hovered his face above yours. “Keep your eyes open, angel,” he whispered quietly. You tried your best, blinking and squinting as the light from the room cast a bright glow around his dark hair. “Hey, look at me…”

His eyes were dark, and you could feel the weight of his stare— heavy and cold. Your blood stained his lips and dripped down his chin, and as your gaze followed one drop as it rolled down over this throat and stained his white collar, your eyes drifted shut again as you let out a slow sigh of defeat.

"Don't sleep," he instructed patiently. "Don't rest yet. There's more He has in store for you."

When something warm dripped down to your lips, into your slack and panting mouth, you swallowed it instinctively without thinking. It hurt your neck to swallow, and yet every time you did it, you hurt less.

And less. And less. Until all your pain was gone, and with renewed energy, you opened your eyes and reached up to grab his arm and pull it down to your mouth so you could suckle at the mark on his wrist. He smiled proudly down at you, even laughing just a bit, as he watched you moan and eagerly drink from him as well. Already you were addicted to the taste, to the rush of energy it gave you and to the way it felt to have his skin against your lips.

“That’s enough for now,” he chuckled, pulling his arm away, but you reached out for it still.

“No, Father—” you whined, sounding much too needy and pathetic for your tastes, but you couldn’t help it; you’d never felt quite like this, satisfied in a way you hadn’t realized you’d needed so badly.

“Don’t be greedy, little one,” he frowned, and the firm correction made your breath catch and your hips squirm for a moment. It certainly distracted you from your desire for his blood, and reminded you of your desire for… something else of his.

Your eyes were just a bit wide as they looked up at his face, then back to the arm you were reaching out for like a child clamoring for a toy— and already his wrist had healed, just a moment after you drank from it. You didn’t understand it fully, but you understood as much as you needed to; you could feel it in you, too, this power. You reached up to your neck and though there was blood still on your skin and staining the couch beneath you, your skin bore no wounds. For some reason, you hoped that his teeth might’ve still left a scar— and you looked up at him, finally noticing the way it felt to have his body on top of yours.

When you made eye contact with him, you could see the question in his eyes: What do you want? And you found the answer on your lips, before you even realized you’d found the strength to speak it.

"I'm hungry too, Father."

He smiled at you, gentle and heartwarming as ever, and reached up to cradle your face in his hand. You could feel his hesitance, and you understood what you were asking him to do was well outside of his rights as a priest, but you continued as you reached up to run your fingers through his hair.

"We've given ourselves to each other already, haven't we?" you whispered. "My blood is in you, and yours in me. Please, Father, take my flesh, too— take my body. It's yours."

"Sweet child," he sighed, leaning in closer and pressing up against you; you hummed happily, relieved by his closeness. "My precious dove… I took what I needed from you. It's only fair that I give you what you want as well, isn't it? That I provide what you came here for? Your reward, perhaps, for being such an agreeable meal."

You shifted uncomfortably beneath him, glancing away and gnawing your lip for a second. "It's not just a favor, though, is it?" you finally found the courage to ask— though you didn’t ask it courageously.

He laughed quietly, tilting his head slightly as he spoke. "Are you asking me if I lusted for you, the way you have for me?"

You were almost tempted to deny it, with him looking at you like that. "Yes, I am," you whispered.

"I did," he answered after a moment that was brief yet excruciating. "I did, and I was so used to denying myself that it was almost second nature to turn my gaze away… but lately, I've been feeling so much less guilty for my desires. And for my indulgences."

He still moved slowly, though, as he leaned down to kiss you. It gave you time to admire how lovely he looked like this, to run your fingers further through his hair and up over the back of his neck so you could pull him down to finish closing the gap and press your lips to his.

You tasted blood— yours, his, didn’t make much of a difference— and you tasted his tongue as it slid between your lips; you tasted wine, and it was sweeter this way than sipped from the chalice.

Your fingers clutched at his hair, mostly an accident as your fist had tightened instinctively, but he gasped against your lips and it only made it easier to deepen the kiss as you felt his body press up harder against yours. Only when you felt him between your legs did you realize they had opened on their own, and you whimpered quietly when you felt that he was hard— fuck, just getting him hard made your chest fill with the warmth of pride. Do they give out trophies or medals for this, for making your priest get a hard-on that you get to feel through his trousers as he ruts his hips up against you? Maybe a commemorative plaque? You wanted a commemorative plaque.

As titillating as a dirty little secret can be, this wasn’t like that. It didn’t feel wrong, or sinful, or clandestine. It felt so right and you knew he felt it, too, when he let you reach down to hastily open his belt. You knew he felt it in just the way he looked at you, stroking his thumb gently over your cheek— whispering to you, calling you his angel again just to see how desperate it made you.

But just before you could reach into his trousers and finally touch him, he pushed your hands away.

“Not yet,” he explained breathlessly. “I need to prepare you first. And if you touch me now, I won’t have the patience to do it properly.”

You somehow found the self-control to pull your hands back and nod, your bottom lip catching between your teeth as he sat up and his gaze lowered to your spread legs. He rolled up his sleeves (all nonchalant, like he didn’t even notice that it drove you fucking crazy) before he pushed your legs just a bit further apart and carefully slid the skirt of your dress up your thighs; you felt like a present being delicately unwrapped by one of those people who likes to save the paper, but, you know… in a sexy way. It’s hotter than it sounds.

He let out a little sigh, his chest visibly deflating from it, and tilted his head as he looked down at where your plain cotton panties barely covered you. One finger drew a line down the fabric, right over the seam of your lips, and even through the garment you felt it so clearly that your body jolted.

“Oh,” he smiled, “you’re so… responsive.”

You already felt so exposed to him like this, but it became much more literal when he hooked that finger under the panties and pulled them aside; even though it was quite warm in the room, there was just enough of a draft that seemed to cling to your opening, giving away to yourself how wet you must be already.

He got a little more intense for a second, his nostrils flaring briefly, and he grabbed your underwear with both hands, just by the waist, only to tear them off with a quick snap! that echoed around the room.

Fuck. So much for saving the paper.

“Oh, little dove,” he croaked as he tossed the ruined panties aside, holding your legs open again since you’d mindlessly begun to let them close. “God, look at you.”

It didn’t sound like he was taking the Lord’s name in vain, even though he obviously was. It sounded like he was completely aware and purposeful that he was invoking the Lord’s name in this moment; his gaze drank in the sight of your body with so much reverence that it seemed perfectly right for him to call on God right now.

You whimpered weakly, the sound nearly lost in the back of your throat, as his fingers started to spread you open and slide over your slickened folds. "No one else has ever even touched you before, have they?" he realized, watching the way you reacted to every little movement.

"No, Father, never," you assured, though you struggled to keep track of the conversation at this point.

"Have you touched yourself?" he pressed, smirking at you slightly.

You hesitated before you answered honestly, "yes."

"And did you think of me?" he wondered. "Did you imagine it was my fingers… exploring you? Taking you apart?"

A sigh fell from your lips as he rubbed your bud in gentle circles, but you remembered his question after a second and nodded quickly.

"Did you put your fingers inside yourself?"

"No," you confirmed. "I was too afraid."

"Are you afraid now?"

"No," you said again.

He pushed two fingers inside you at once, making a sharp pain tear through you for just a second. Thankfully, it faded quickly, and you were left with a curious fullness and the delightful friction of his fingers moving slowly against your walls.

And when they curled in just the right way, your hand shot out to grab his wrist before your mind had even reacted to the feeling. It was a sharp sort of pleasure, severe and nearly overwhelming from just a second of it. “F-Father,” you stammered, but he just smiled down at you, flashing teeth that still had a few traces of your blood on them.

“Oh, that’s it, isn’t it?” he cooed, curling his fingers into that spot again even as you tried to move his wrist or your hips enough to get the sensation to de-intensify just a little. "Why are you pushing me away?” he asked roughly, his free hand holding your hips tightly so you couldn’t squirm anymore. It was pitiful how you could fight with all your strength and he barely had to do anything to keep you at his mercy.

“I-it’s too much,” you whined. “Father, please…”

“It’s not too much,” he promised. “It’s exactly as much as it’s supposed to be. Now, tell me how it feels.”

“It feels— ah, fuck— it feels… good, but it’s so…” you trailed off, voice falling to a whisper. “I don’t know if I can take it…”

“You can,” he whispered back, leaning down a bit, letting go of your hips to hold your face. “You can, my sweet dove— I know you can.”

“Fuck,” you cursed again, seeing your leg start to shake as pressure gathered deep inside you.

You bit your lip to try to keep down some of your moans, but he corrected that near-instantly. “It's alright if it feels good," he encouraged you. "It's supposed to. Don't quiet yourself— I want to hear you."

He pressed harder against the spot, he moved his hand faster, and you tossed your head back with a wavering cry.

“That’s good, just like that,” he praised.

The feeling was building up so quickly inside you, making your hips rock and your thighs quiver and your back arch more and more with every twist of his fingers. There was something familiar about the weight that pressed right up against your entrance, from the inside, and your eyes shot open in shock and fear as you worried what would happen when you reached the peak. To be entirely transparent and a little crass, it felt like you needed to pee— really bad.

You tried to warn him or ask him to stop but when your mouth opened, all that came out were moans and pleas for more. “Give into it, dove, don’t be afraid— just let go,” he soothed, though the softness of his voice was ironic contrasted with the brutal force of his fingers fucking into you with unmatched speed. He had to keep raising his voice to be heard over the sound of your desperate, crying moans: “I know you can take it, come on, I know you can," he groaned, sounding almost demanding in the most delightful way. "Oh, I know you're so close… I wanna hear you, c'mon, sing for me little dove— come for me, show me you’re ready for me to take you.”

The best way to describe it would be like a massive ocean wave hitting a wall; like it was building and building until it crashed all at once. And when it crashed, you let out a noise you were sure that you’d never made before as you felt a sudden gush of liquid come out of your body.

You tried to sit up to see what was happening, but you were too weak, too overwhelmed as convulsions shuddered through your body like electric sparks up a coil. For a second he didn’t slow down— for a second you thought he wouldn’t stop at all, leave you suspended in this no matter how loud you screamed or how drained of energy you became. But, thankfully, he had mercy on you and slowed his movements down to let you start to catch your breath and process what you had done. Finally you could lift your head and look down at the mess you’d made.

He didn’t need to ask if that was new for you: it was obvious, with the way your mouth and eyes were wide open when you looked up at him. He seemed a little surprised, too, but less than you were; after all, he’d rolled his sleeves up, so he must’ve seen it coming to some extent, right?

And it was a good thing he did, too, because his forearm had gotten the worst of it: you noticed a few spots where wetness had darkened his clothes and the couch, too, but you noticed a larger patch of wetness right by where the bulge of his cock threatened to pop right out of his trousers. Of course, after a moment, you realized that one wasn’t from you, and your face (which was still a little numb and tingly from your orgasm) warmed up quickly.

“O-oh, Father, please,” you whimpered, “I-I’ve been good, I need you…”

“I know, dove,” he cooed as he carefully pulled his fingers out of you and brought them to his mouth where he sucked on them shamelessly. “I know, and you’ve been so very good,” he agreed once he was done licking your taste from his hand, his voice a little deeper now as he leaned down to hover over you again.

“I’m ready— please, Father,” you whispered, humming happily when he pushed his trousers out of the way and pulled his cock out with a tight grip around it.

But, you see, you felt a little bit less ready when you actually saw it. Because only then did you appreciate that it was much, much bigger than two fingers. You really didn’t see how it would ever fit inside you, but you were still excited to try.

He only had to move his hips forward a bit to press himself right up against you; that close by, it was even more intimidating, though the warmth of his body was also soothing as well. He looked down to watch his cock rub over your opening, and the sight seemed to have quite the effect on him considering he let out a little sigh and shut his eyes for a moment.

"Forgive me," he whispered hoarsely, gaze darting up to your face again briefly when he opened his eyes. "I've never… I won't make it very long, I don't think. I'll try, but—"

"It doesn't matter," you promised. “Please just— fuck, Father, I need to feel you inside me.”

You didn’t usually swear this much. But, you didn’t usually drink blood and have sex with priests, either, and those were probably a bigger deal than the swearing. And it’s a good thing, too, because you did it again when he slid his cock inside you in one stroke.

“Fuck!” you sobbed, clutching at his arms through his sleeves hard enough that you were at risk of tearing the fabric.

His head fell onto your shoulder; he was trying so hard not to move, to be patient and gentle with you, and you could tell from the way he breathed like he was halfway through running a marathon even though you were both completely still. He was trying so hard not to move, but he’d already given in to so many instincts tonight, and his self-control wasn’t exactly at its highest right now.

So he moved, and you cried, but he reached up to hold your face in his hands and kiss your tears away. “Father,” you whispered to him under your breath.

“My dove,” he whispered back.

The stretch left a stinging, burning pain inside you; every movement of his hips only hurt you more, but you didn’t even mind. You liked it, even. Once already tonight he’d given you pain so he could take his own pleasure, and it didn’t bother you much either way.

Of course, when he pulled out just enough to push his head against your spot, it wasn’t all pain for you anymore. You were so sensitive from coming before that it took no time at all to begin treading that same path again.

His breaths were so heavy that each was nearly a moan, if a rough and deep one so quiet you'd almost miss them. But they were like music to your ears; you wanted to hear nothing but his pleasure from now on, if it sounded this good.

When your head tilted back to let a shiver tingle up your spine, you felt his lips against your neck, licking up what was left of the blood from your wound and leaving gentle kisses and bites over your jaw. You moaned at the feeling— louder than you’d expected, and petering out to a whimper at the end..

"You sound so sweet, little dove," he whispered roughly, "and you feel… I don't think I have the words for how you feel."

He started to rock his hips a bit faster, your hands gripping tighter on his neck and tugging unintentionally on his hair again. Overall he was still moving quite slowly— patient, deliberate, like he was savoring every detail of your body— and pressing himself deep into you at the end of each thrust. So deep that you choked on your little whine each time; so deep that you were sure he had claimed your entire body as his plaything.

And you didn't mind at all, you were happy to belong to him when this was how he staked his ownership. Already a humming, electric feeling buzzed under your skin, making your fingers and toes curl and forcing desperate moans to jump out of your slack mouth.

Each pang of pleasure made your walls tighten; which made you both wince from the unbearable tightness of it all. “You’re close, aren’t you?” he asked darkly.

“Y-yes,” you groaned, even though you could hardly believe it. “Yes, Father, don’t stop…”

Even so, when the peak of it hit you, it was so intense that you almost wanted him to stop after all; your hands found purchase on his shoulders and tried to push him away, but he grabbed them by the wrist and pinned each of them back to the cushions of the couch beside your head, beginning to thrust faster.

"Oh, sweet dove,," he groaned, struggling to hold himself back when he could feel your body succumbing to the pleasure he brought you with his own. "You can't let anyone else touch you. You have to be mine."

“Yours,” you agreed, “yours, Father, I’m yours—”

“Christ,” he hissed, and you hadn’t expected to not only hear him swear, but to hear him say that at a time like this. It was… jarring; incredibly hot, yes, but also jarring. “Say that again.”

“I’m yours,” you promised, clutching at his black shirt as you stared up at him through your lashes with half-lidded eyes. “All yours.”

The sound that slipped out from between his teeth was undeniably a growl, and he descended on you for one more ravenous kiss as his thrusts became so fast and desperate that all you could hear was his skin against yours.

And then his pace faltered; and then, as he sighed against your lips, a warmth began to fill you from the inside, not at all unlike the warmth in your stomach when you drank his blood. His thrusts stuttered and slowed to a stop, both of you letting out a low sound of satisfaction, both of you sinking down into the couch and each other.

He laid his head on your shoulder, smiling and letting out a quick ‘hm’ to himself.

"What?" you pressed quietly, reaching up to comb your fingers through his hair.

"I can hear your heartbeat," he explained. "I mean, I could before, but… it doesn't make me hungry like it used to. Or at least, not in the same way."

You smiled and let your eyes fall shut, relaxing beneath his weight. It made it hard to breathe, but it was also oddly comforting.

The two of you laid that way, silent except for quiet breathing and still except for your fingers twirling locks of his hair, for an immeasurable amount of time. You never fell asleep, but you weren’t quite awake either: you just let yourself float in that lovely in-between place, finding your mind uncharacteristically quiet and empty of worries.

When he started to move, the dull ache of soreness inside you pulled you from rest and made you wince slightly. “Sorry,” he mumbled, “I’ll try to do this carefully…”

He was still hard, which meant he was still as big as he had been this whole time, which meant it was a little painful for him to pull out right now-- but as soon as he’d done it, you felt his warm come begin to leak slowly from your opening, and somehow it eased the sting.

Once he had sat back with a slow exhale, you sat up as well and licked your lips as you saw your own blood stain his cock; it was almost as if you moved on instinct as you found yourself sitting up, reaching for him and looking up for approval.

"Oh, Father, let me— please…" you begged, but before you even got an answer you were bending forward and licking the blood off of his length, hearing him groan a little as his hand gripped your shoulder.

He hissed in a breath when you wrapped your lips around the tip of his cock, while you moaned quietly at the taste of his come and yours blending together. It tasted so wonderful that you couldn’t help but keep licking over every inch of him, hoping to taste it all, and he certainly didn’t make any move to stop you.

You adjusted your position until you were (semi)comfortably on your hands and knees, though it was more like hand and knees since only one kept you balanced while the other gripped his thigh through the shoved-down trouser pants. When you started to suck on the head again, swirling your tongue and licking up the thin liquid that gathered at his slit, you found a natural rhythm of bobbing your head and taking him just a bit deeper with each movement.

At first, when you gagged, you felt a little embarrassed and worried you would disappoint him-- but he groaned as he grabbed your hair, and pulled you down to make you do it again.

He let you go just in time for you to pull back and get a gasp of air, looking up at him with watery eyes from beneath his erection casting a shadow on your face. You were ready for more, but his hand wrapped around your neck kept you from leaning in again, and pulled you up to meet him where he leaned down into a sloppy (yet perfect) kiss.

You found yourself trying to chase him when he pulled back, but that hand on your neck kept you at bay and you blinked your eyes open to find him smiling proudly at your neediness. “I wish you could stay all night,” he whispered, “but we should wash the blood off your clothes and get you home before your parents worry.”

With a nervous swallow that pressed your throat against his hand, you nodded.

𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓, 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐒

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

You heard the quiet exhale of a suppressed laugh, glancing through the latticed partition to see his fingers intertwined while his hands rested on his lap. It was pretty dark inside the confession booth, but there was just enough light to sparkle on the golden embroidered details of his chasuble.

“I’ve known a man,” you continued, “outside of marriage.”

“In the Biblical sense?” he asked.

You scoffed a little. “I guess you could say that.”

“And what does it feel like? To be with him," Father Paul asked quietly.

“It feels like a little glimpse of Heaven,” you explained. “And since I think I’ve surrendered my shot at ever getting to see it for much longer than that, I might as well get as many glimpses as I can, right?”

"Sound logic," he chuckled. "I'm guessing that means I'll see you at the parsonage later this evening."

"How long should I wait to leave? So it isn't suspicious?"

"Come with me as soon as everyone's left," he demanded. "Tell your parents you're helping me with… something."

"Something?" you repeated incredulously.

"I don't care what anyone suspects anymore," he groaned, "I just need you. And I'm hungry."

"You know I can't satisfy that urge," you smirked. "My blood won't cut it now that… now that I have a little bit of you inside me."

"More than a little bit, I bet," he added, like he didn't even care that it made a tingle hit right between your legs. "Doesn't matter, though— I have something that'll feed us both. For a while, at least. Take communion with me tonight, angel… after we visit Heaven once or twice."

Even with no one to see it, you fought to keep from grinning ear to ear. And though you knew it was risky, you were helpless to his commands to come see him as soon as you could, giving a flimsy excuse to anyone who cared to ask why you were staying late at the church.

The second you knocked on his door, he opened it; and the second he opened his door, he pulled you inside and pounced on you.

His hands ran all over you, his body pressed you back against the wall, his lips and tongue tasted all over your neck. "I meant to tell you, you gave a really nice homily today," you managed to pant breathlessly.

"Thanks," he groaned softly. "It was so hard to write, when all I've been able to think about for days is you and the way you sound and the way you feel and the way you taste…"

You purred beneath the weight of him, finding your hips rocking up of their own accord.

"Are you hungry, little dove?" he whispered. You nodded desperately, and he reached onto the table nearby to hold up the crystal decanter of communion wine; before you could reach for it, he opened it and moved it to your lips. "The blood of the covenant," he spoke to you as he lifted it and allowed you to drink. Your hunger washed away— some of it, at least— and you hummed happily between swallows.

He pulled it back when you were done, and you licked your lips to get the last drop down. It was his turn now, and he took a long swig: as he drank from the decanter, a drop of sacrament rolled down from the corner of his mouth; so you pressed your tongue to his jaw and licked up the dark red line, moaning quietly at the relief even just a drop of the liquid brought to your aching stomach.

His throat bobbed with each swallow, and even without your new power and its new cost, his neck looked fucking delicious.

As he finished and stopped tilting the decanter back, he met your gaze and set it aside. He smiled— gosh, his teeth were sharper than you remembered— and cradled your face in his hands

"Oh, dove," he cooed. "I've filled your belly, but you need more. You need to be filled another way."

You whimpered pitifully as you nodded. "Yes, Father, please…"

"Get on your knees," he instructed quietly, "and pray."

[flaccidpncake]

Yeah

[jyngerpeach]

first time drawing since February ayooo

still a WIP - definitely gonna finish this

[aesopsharpmybeloved]

i was doomed from the moment i set my eyes on this vampire priest boi

[catechismus]

little dark age - midnight mass

my little tribute to the cinematography of this show. 

youtube: x

[agirlinherhead]

Sixty Eight Days To Save A Life PT3 (chpt 5)

Jeb x OFC 18+ 1.1k

Kicking of where we left off, just a little 1k of smut in which Jeb triumphs.

(Once again I'm phone typing from a shitty hospital fold out bed. Pls excuse errors)

[plainlo-inthemorning]

So I woke up to this, and now I’m never getting out of bed. Or I might die. Like Jeb🥵🥵🥵 I love him being a good student, and I love their god awful bedroom decor being the scene of his graduation 😂

I could read your smut every day, all day, and not work ever again, and you know what? That would be a damn satisfied life 😉🔥🔥🔥🔥

[pegplunkett]

gaslit might be over but hot jeb summer is only beginning

Long Hot Summer

part one | part two

ao3 link here

pairing: haimgruder x OG val (my beloved!)

word count: 2746

rating: pretty f*ckin explicit as usual, my dudes!

middle image of our boy jeb by @plainlo-inthemorning

Val pulled into her driveway on Saturday morning, singing along to Deep Purple on the radio to find her next-door neighbour out watering his lawn. She had woken up early and decided to take a trip to the hardware store to make a start on painting her new living room, one of the many plans she had for her house. When she saw the tall figure of Jeb Magruder out in his garden, she remembered with a jolt that she’d had a dream about him the night before. She had woken up in the dark, squeezing her thighs together as she lay in bed. The image in her mind had been as vivid as the ache between her legs, and she remembered feeling his mouth on her neck, his breath on her skin. She hadn’t seen him since the evening she moved in and had convinced herself in the few days in-between that she was remembering him wrong, that he probably wasn’t quite as handsome as she recalled. She was pleased to see that she was wrong. If anything, he looked even better than that first day, dressed casually - for him, at least - in a blue polo shirt and slacks. The early morning sun cast a golden glow across his dark hair and his forearms as he concentrated on his garden. She clambered out of the car and waved at him.

‘Good morning, neighbour!’

Jeb looked over, seeming startled by her appearance for some reason. Must have been lost in thought, Val supposed. She could have sworn a panicked look flitted across his face for a split second but then he smiled weakly and waved back at her. 

‘M- uh-', he cleared his throat, ‘Morning!’ he called back. Val turned and grabbed her bag of supplies from the backseat of the car. When she straightened up with her bag of sandpaper, paintbrushes and rollers and turned for her front door, she noticed that Jeb had managed to drop the hose he was holding and seemed to have thoroughly soaked his shoes. Poor guy. 

An hour later, Val stood back in her mostly-cleared living room and realised that she had everything she needed to get painting, except for a ladder. She had thought that maybe standing on chairs would do the trick, but it turned out she still wouldn’t be able to reach high enough. She chewed her lip and considered another trip to the store, before realising that surely a friendly neighbour should be able to help her out, right?

_______________________________________

Jeb took a deep breath and tried to pull himself together. He’d managed to avoid seeing his new neighbour since that first night, hesitating at the front door every morning before leaving for work, trying to put her out of his mind as he went through the motions at the office, but he couldn’t put off running into her again forever. When he’d gone out to tend the lawn that morning, her driveway was empty, so he figured he was safe to do some watering. Maybe he’d wash the car, too. Gail had taken the boys to visit her parents for a few days and he’d been planning what he’d do with his free weekend when suddenly there was Val, greeting him as she got out of her car. And then she’d bent over to pick something up from the backseat and all he could do was stare at her ass and marvel at how it looked in yet another pair of shorts. An orange pair this time. God, her hips, her thighs. She looked so good bent over and he tried not to picture himself right behind her, sinking his cock into her while she looked over her shoulder at him, telling him to go harder, harder. Jesus Jeb, get a grip, he told himself, and in his panic at almost being caught staring, he’d dropped the hose, which was why he was now changing into dry socks and shoes. 

Back downstairs, Jeb felt a little more composed and wandered into the garage. He raised the door to let the sunlight in and after pottering around for a while, tidying and reorganising, focusing on small achievable tasks that would take his mind off her, he thought he’d treat himself to a mid-afternoon beer. He had a little mini-fridge stowed under a workbench and two comfortable chairs in the corner. Gail had decorated the house, but out here, this little corner was Jeb’s domain. He had considered putting in a bar, but even though Gail claimed not to care what he did with the space, he knew she'd disapprove. Just as he had settled into his chair and found a Yankees game to listen to on the radio, there she was again. Val. His heart felt like it lurched in his chest at the sight of her. Silhouetted in the sunlight, standing outside the garage. Her hair gleaming, her shorts curving along the sweep of her hips and he had to blink to make sure he wasn’t imagining her. 

‘Hello again!’

‘Hi, hello, what- uh, what can I do for you?’

Jeb scrambled to stand up, feeling like he’d been caught out somehow, even though he was perfectly entitled to have a beer in his own garage during the day. He realised then that he really just wanted Val to like him. Her eyes went to the beer in his hand and to his relief, she grinned pleasantly.

‘Sorry if I’m interrupting, I just wondered whether you had a ladder I could borrow? I promise I’ll bring it right back when I’m done.’

A ladder! Yes, this he could definitely help her with. Everyone appreciates a helpful neighbour and while Jeb was starting to realise he would probably do anything she asked, he was glad that this was something he could easily provide.

‘Yes, yes of course, I’ll just, uh, I’ll grab it for you now.’ Jeb pulled his folded-up ladder from the wall and leaned it against the worktop. ‘Would you.. would you like a beer?’ Jeb wasn’t sure what came over him, but surely it was the neighbourly thing to do, wasn’t it? Being hospitable? She probably just wanted to get the ladder and go though, she was busy, had things to do, he could see that.

‘You read my mind, I would love one Jeb, thank you! This heat is killing me.’

Wait, what? With a start, Jeb realised he was just standing there, so he beckoned her in and pulled another bottle from his fridge, motioning for her to sit down. She walked in and took the beer from his hand, and Jeb was acutely aware that this was the closest she had been to him. He could see now that there were freckles dotted across her nose and she smelled of something smoky but sweet. Some kind of incense, maybe? Val took the other chair and Jeb settled back into his, trying to appear cool and collected. Trying not to look at her breasts because the way they moved when she bounced into the chair made it clear that she wasn't wearing a bra. This was fine, wasn’t it?

‘Thanks for this, I haven’t even started painting yet but I already feel like I have a day’s work done,’ Val sighed. She looked around appreciatively. ‘Nice set-up you’ve got here. So, Jeb Magruder, what is it that you do for a living?’ 

Jeb hesitated for a second. ‘I uh, I work in the White House. Campaign stuff.’ Val’s eyebrows raised as she drank her beer and Jeb shifted in his seat. From what little he knew about her, it seemed highly unlikely that Val was a Republican voter, and so far she seemed to like him well enough so he tried to change the subject. 

‘Is Val short for Valerie?’ Jesus Jeb, what’s the matter with you. He immediately felt stupid for asking, but Val didn’t seem to mind.

‘Nope, Valentine,’ she grinned. ‘I was born on February 14th and I guess my parents are hopeless romantics.’ 

‘That’s, oh, well that’s lovely.’ He meant it too. It seemed like whenever he thought he could guess something about her, or get some kind of handle on her, she twirled away and instead revealed something he didn’t expect. 

‘Is Jeb short for…’ she cast around for a second. ‘Jebediah?’

Jeb chuckled, finally feeling his nerves around her ease a little bit. ‘No, just Jeb.’ His father had named him after a Confederate general, but he didn’t want to tell her that. They’d just managed to get away from the subject of his work and the last thing he wanted was to risk that even his name might be a disappointment to her. 

They talked about her time in college, him growing up in Staten Island and before he knew it, almost an hour had gone by. Val only just seemed to realise it too, when she asked him what time it was and said she’d better get going. 

‘I’ll carry the ladder for you,’ Jeb insisted. ‘It’s heavy, and I can help you get set up.’

‘You’re a lifesaver, Jeb Magruder.' He didn't know why she kept using his full name, but he found that he liked it. How her mouth looked as she said it. It was better than a nickname somehow. 'Also, I meant to thank you earlier!’

Jeb lifted the ladder under one arm and looked over at her. ‘You did?’

‘Yeah, your tip about making the bed the day I was moving in! Genius! It was the first thing I did and lemme tell you, I was so glad it was done when it was past midnight and all I had to do was take off my dusty clothes and drop into it.’

Jeb almost spluttered in surprise. She was making fun of him. No, she.. she was smiling as always, but this smile was different. Wicked, even. He could feel his face burning and was glad when she turned and started towards her house, calling that she’d get the front door for him as she walked ahead, hips swaying in those goddamned shorts. 

_______________________________________

Val, Val, Val, what are you doing? She felt reckless and giddy as she led Jeb into her house. There was something so hot about how easy it was to get him flustered and she just couldn’t help herself with that last remark. She knew it was wrong of her to flirt so brazenly with a married man, but she’d seen the way he looked at her and now that she knew he was almost certainly a Republican, the idea of putting those typical conservative family values to the test sent a thrill of excitement through her. And god help her, she just really wanted to fuck that man. To have him come apart beneath her, bring him to tears with her mouth, hell, maybe even make him come so hard that he has a liberal awakening. She led him into the living room, where her few pieces of furniture had been covered with sheets and she pointed to a corner of the room.

‘Over here would be great, thank you so much.’

She savoured the sight of his arms once again as he carried the ladder to the corner and stood it upright for her, making sure it was steady. She bit her lip and tried to come up with a way to stop him from running out the door.

‘You’re the best. While I have you though, what do you think of this light fixture? I was thinking of replacing it, but maybe I should leave it?’ She pointed up at the old fashioned light that hung from the centre of the ceiling that she genuinely couldn’t have cared less about.

‘I like it,’ he said, looking up. ‘It’s um… timeless.’ He stepped around to look at it from different sides, like he was giving it serious thought. Val was looking up too and stepped back, not realising that Jeb had circled around behind her and was standing so close. She collided with him, both of them exclaiming in surprise, and managed to send them both crashing into one of her soft armchairs in a tangle of limbs. 

‘Oh my god I’m so sorry, are you okay?!’ she asked, laughing too hard to get up. Jeb was laughing too and between giggles assured her that he was fine, but then stopped abruptly. And Val could tell why. The way they landed had left Val sitting on his lap and now she could feel an unmistakable bulge hardening beneath her. Jeb’s entire body had frozen, as if in fright, but Val made no move to get up.

‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’ll just go, I’ll, uh.. if you could just..’ The words rushed out of him and Val could hear the embarrassment in his voice. But instead of standing up, she leaned back against his chest, pushing her ass into his lap, eliciting a strangled whimper from him. ‘What..what are you..’

‘It’s okay,’ she whispered. 

She turned her face and dropped a kiss on his cheek, then shifted her position, sitting forward and still facing away, her knees either side of his thighs and slowly started to grind against his growing erection. Knowing how much she turned him on was sending sparks through her limbs and the friction of their clothes rubbing against her pussy, with his hardness so rigid under her was giving her a delicious twist of pleasure. But what was really doing it for her was the ragged breathing and helpless whimpers coming from Jeb behind her. She looked over her shoulder at him to see him transfixed by the movement of her ass on his lap. He looked up at her, eyes wide and mouth open in disbelief at what was happening. 

‘Should I stop, Jeb?’ Her voice was low.

‘N-no, please… please don’t stop,’ he breathed, blue eyes almost looking tearful. 

His hands fluttered on the arms of the chair, clearly unsure as to whether he should touch her, even though she was literally grinding on his dick. She took his big warm hands in hers and put them on her tits, guiding his fingers to pinch her nipples through her t-shirt. He gasped as he felt them harden under his touch, and she moaned, arching her back at the pleasure it sent spiralling through her. She felt his body stiffen again, but this time it wasn’t from fright. Even through the layers of clothing she could feel his cock twitching under her and she knew that Jeb had just come. His shuddering breath would have given him away even if everything else hadn’t already. Well, that was almost too easy. Val hopped up from the seat and turned to see Jeb looking stricken, his face pale and mortified. 

His mouth opened and closed and he stood up in a hurry, running his hands through his hair and looking panicked while Val watched him with interest. 

‘I, uh, I’m..’ He was stammering and clearly had no idea what to say. 

Val decided to cut him some slack and reached up, taking his face in her hands. She pulled him down into a kiss, his soft lips parting to allow her tongue into his mouth and she could feel rather than see that his hands were about to start flapping uselessly in confusion again. She pulled away and tilted her head. 

‘Thanks for all your help, Jeb. You can go out the back door if you’d prefer, seeing as.. y’know,’ she gestured to the front of his trousers.

Jeb nodded wordlessly and turned to go, then stopped. ‘Th-thank you, and I’m.. I’m sorry,’ he said, his eyes still wide, as if he still wasn’t quite sure what had just happened. 

‘Nothing to be sorry for,’ Val grinned. 

Jeb opened the back door and turned around again. ’This is probably a dumb question and out of the blue I guess, but.. you.. you’re a Democrat, aren’t you?’ 

Her smile grew even wider and she looked thoughtful for a second. ‘You know, if anything, I’m really more of a socialist.’

Jeb looked like he was about to pass out as he wordlessly turned to leave and shuffle back to his house. Living in the suburbs was shaping up to be much more fun than Val had expected.

[pegplunkett]

hamish + red carpet + big long leggies = chaos

[plainlo-inthemorning]

He’s unstoppable.

[just-jack-oconnell]

If anyone is interested in reading Haim’s plays, here’s the link to purchase a copy.

[prettyboyhamish]

not my dumbass misreading the URL and thinking hamish said all that about his own play lmaooooo can you imagine

[agirlinherhead]

MASTER LIST.

(Because I write multiple fics now apparently)

This is the Sea

Monsignor Pruitt x Reader. (18+)5k smut no plot.

Make It Rain.

Father Paul/John Pruitt x Reader (18+)3k smut no plot.

Playlist Here.

Captain of a Shipwreck.

Father Paul/Monsignor Pruitt x OFC

Warning: Actual plot! Fluffy HEA guaranteed 🥰

Playlist Here

Morning Makes Another Day.

A Father Paul x OC/Reader series.

Cute with a little healthy smut

Playlist for this fic: Here

Try Set Me On Fire

A Beverly Keane origin story!

Bev Keane x OFC

(one sided Bev x Paul implied briefly)

Hazard Lights.

FICTIONAL Jeb x OFC. (Gaslit) 18+

Listen. This is Haimgruder (HamFam trademark), a dramatised Hamish faced character placed in a complete canon-divergence from reality.

[plainlo-inthemorning]

The Night … You Let the Right John In

WARNING: Dark smut. Minors look away. And always use protection irl.

To the Hamfam. Your collective wickedness and insatiable thirst brighten my days.

Summary: You’ve (F) never met anyone with eyes that sparkled in the dark quite like John’s (M). You blurted it out to him, not too long ago, when the two of you were taking an evening walk together. Why you don’t know, but he has a unique ability to reduce you to a blushing schoolgirl with the raising of a jet-black brow …

.

.

You can hear his breath hitch as you slowly cross the small living room towards the couch, placing one bare foot in front of the other on the old wooden floorboards until you’re standing in front of him, looking down.

He leans back a little then, pelvis subtly shifting forward as he does so. His handsome features are filled with questions, a hint of suspicion and, unless the shadows on his face are playing tricks on you, a dash of awe.

He places his half-empty coffee mug on the small side-table, careful not to bump it against the lamp. The lamp whose golden glow is currently the sole source of light in the house.

The way it illuminates only the right side of John’s face makes his gorgeous, ever expressive brown eyes with their thick lashes look otherworldly to you.

You’ve never met anyone with eyes that sparkled in the dark quite like John’s.

You blurted it out to him, not too long ago, when the two of you were taking an evening walk together.

Why you don’t know, but he has a unique ability to reduce you to a blushing schoolgirl with the raising of a single jet-black brow.

You had felt your cheeks go hot with embarrassment, but John had only smiled a strange little smile that you had interpreted as shyness.

He’s a stranger to compliments concerning his looks. Weird as that sounds.

Now, there’s an expectant stiffness to his posture on the couch as he watches you.

He’s waiting.

You take the bait, and step between his legs, which he readily spread a bit more to allow you space.

After craning your neck to longingly gawk at his face for weeks, this new vantage point feels so exciting, so filled with new possibilities it gives you goosebumps.

As well as a throbbing ache between your legs.

And you haven’t even touched him yet.

Nor has he made any attempt to touch you.

You didn’t expect him to even if, particularly over the last couple of days, you have become certain that not only does he want to, he longs to.

It’s in the way his gaze gets lost in your movements when he thinks you’re not looking.

The way his voice turned suddenly uncharacteristically croaky when, yesterday, he took up all the space in your tiny hallway and you had to edge past him to close the front door and he apologized, endearingly, for being in the way, for imposing so.

As if you weren’t the one who had invited him in.

He makes a show of respecting your boundaries, that much is clear.

Not that you have set any. Quite the opposite.

You’ve desired him, every fibre of his dizzyingly tall, mysterious being from the minute you first laid eyes on him. Despite of how the circumstances of your initial meeting made it all so wrong.

So shameful and bizarre.

That you should harbour such impure thoughts in that moment.

But alas, the heart wants what it wants.

And what it currently wants is for you to seat yourself in John's lap. Naked.

He told you his real name. That means something.

He’s not moving on the couch, but the fast rise and fall of his chest betrays his calm resolve. You’d be surprised if he wasn’t hard already.

You bend down to cradle his face between your hands, and your long hair falls forward like a veil around you both, shielding you from imaginary prying eyes.

Judging eyes.

“John…” you whisper, lips now inches from his.

He is holding his breath now, but his eyes are wide, unblinking, as they meet yours with a new intensity that nearly makes you lose your footing.

“I’m going to kiss you,” you say softly, and the man swallows and nods, lips already parting.

And so, you do. Kiss him.

Tentatively, chastely at first, then with building passion as he leans into your touch, sighing with what you imagine is starvation for intimacy.

Your mouths melt together so naturally it shocks you both, and the sensation of tongues meeting, exploring, elicits soft moans.

At that, his hands come up to caress your face in return, lightly thread through your hair as if it was precious silk, before moving down your body to rest on either side of your waist.

Where just before he was sitting so passively, he now pulls you closer till you almost fall over, and you have to steady yourself gripping the back of the couch behind his head.

You both grin into each other’s mouths.

Finally, you seem to be on the same page.

You’re about to eagerly place a knee next to him on the couch to lower yourself down onto his lap, when he suddenly winces and breaks the kiss, and you quickly stand up again, letting go of him for fear you may have overstepped after all.

A kiss is a kiss, but maybe taking it further is still somehow too complicated for him.

Too painful.

No matter that, yes, he definitely is very, very hard. The bulge in his pants literally speaks volumes of his need for you.

“I’m sorry,” you begin. “I didn’t mean to force …”

“No.” John reaches for your hand and squeezes it, his palm so hot to the touch you briefly worry if he’s feverish.

His eyes are pleading.

“I do want this. I want… I …”

He stumbles over the words, fingers nervously rubbing the back of your hand, and you look to the floor to give him a moment of privacy to gather his thoughts.

When you look up again after a beat, the earnestness on his face just about makes you melt into a puddle on the floor.

“I want you,” he says, quietly but with conviction, and another wave of pulsing heat shoots straight to you core.

Your underwear is long soaked through, of course, as his scent alone seems to communicate with the utmost horniest parts of your primal brain whenever he’s even remotely close.

It’s intoxicating, and more than once in the weeks of you two getting closer, you’ve wanted to spontaneously burry your face in his shirt, or the crook of his neck (if only you could reach that far up) and inhale his very essence like a fine drug.

John tugs at your hand, a reassuring smile spreading on his face and banishing the shadows of whatever demons it is he carries around with him.

The ones that have him hunching his shoulders whenever he gets lost in thought, making it seem like he could fold in on himself and disappear.

You want to ask him a million questions about his past, his pain, how someone so startling good-looking and charming came to be the way he is.

Came to be here.

But he’s not ready. Yet.

Hopefully one day soon.

“Come back to me,” he says now, and you step forward again.

“I would never want to hurt you,” you say.

“You won’t. But…um.” His smile turns slightly sheepish. “You may have to help me a little here.”

Could it be that…? No, surely not.

Your fingers find the top button of his shirt, and he visibly flinches when you work it open. The shirt he always wears (except when … no, you won’t think about that now).

You pause.

“John, have you … I mean, are you…”

You almost can’t get yourself to ask, he’s a grown man, for Christ’s sake. Older than you.

Still, a part of you feels stupid for assuming. You don’t know what his life has been like.

He lets out a short chuckle that may be more of a snort and shakes his head. You can’t tell if he’s sad or amused.

“No. I’m not,” he says and inwardly you breathe a sigh of relief.

“I’m just…well, I haven’t… like this … in a while.”

He looks down.

“I’m afraid I’m not in very great shape.”

You cup his chin with your hand and gently tilt his face so you can lock eyes with him again, your thumb smoothing away at old frown lines at the side of his mouth.

“Bad breakup?” you ask, too coyly, and feel even more stupid than before when his eyes narrow.

“I guess you could say that.” There is a slight strain to his voice, and you silently curse yourself for poking, even if you were mostly joking (mostly … ).

You don’t want to ruin the moment, now that you have finally arrived at it after circling each other.

John sighs with something that might be melancholia, might be something murkier. Then he shakes it off, literally shaking his shoulders like ridding himself of a mare, and smiles once more, intertwining his fingers with yours.

“I promise you, you’re not taking advantage,” he says and winks at you in a way that makes you want to giggle.

All will be well, it seems.

There’s so much of him and you want it all.

Now.

Inside you and on you.

Although that last part may not be the best way to go – it might be better if you take charge, his ‘situation’ considered.

No need to accidentally put him in an awkward position, so to speak.

That’s fine. You can work around it.

You’re about to straddle him on the couch when you suddenly have another impulse.

Letting go of him, you instead get down on your knees between his legs, placing your palms on his shins before slowly running them up.

John raises his eyebrows in surprise, shifting a little uneasily.

“Just sit still, John, and let me take care of you” you whisper, the new, sensual tone in your voice causing him to inhale sharply.

“I’ll be good to you. And you can just let me know if you want me to stop, okay?”

He nods silently, and you massage the inside of his thighs, fingers drawing little patterns on the fabric, applying increasingly more pressure the closer you get to his belt.

He looks spellbound, his breathing now short and shallow.

When you work his belt open, then his zipper, he lifts his hips a little off the couch to aid the process along, and you pull the garment down without easing it all the way off his legs, so that instead his long limbs are effectively tied at the ankles.

Still plenty of room to maneuverer in, but not enough for him to change positions in a hurry.

His erection is straining against his boxers, and he hisses between his teeth when you trail his length with your fingernails.

“Tell me you want me, John.” You squeeze your hand around his cock and feel it twitch under the thin layer of cloth.  

His eyes are hazy with desire now, his hands making fists on either side of him.

When he reaches for you, you swat him away with your free hand.

“No touching just yet,” you smirk, and he leans back again with a cute, semi-frustrated groan.

“I want you,” he says plainly. Stating a fact.

“How much?”

You squeeze his cock a bit more. He gasps, jaw clenching hard.

“More than anything. Please…”

Satisfied, you hook your fingers under the waistband of his boxers and pull them down, finally coming face to face with his entire length, so perfectly big and smooth and already glistening, you instinctively clench.

You can’t wait to feel him stretch your walls, filling every inch of you to the point of pleasurable pain.

But first …

Taking hold of the base, you lick a wet line all the way up the underside of his cock, and his head lolls back as he groans loudly.

“Oh, fuck…”

It’s the first time you’ve ever heard him curse.

How delicious to make him unravel.

You twirl your tongue around the head, meanwhile lightly pumping your hand up and down the shaft, and shivers run through his body, making his flesh tremble under the palm of your other hand still on his thigh.

When you take him in your mouth suck lightly, flicking your tongue against him, he can’t stifle a bark, and you would have snickered was it not because you have your mouth so full it would make you choke on him.

You try to relax your jaw as much as you can as you bob your head up and down, gradually taking more and more of his cock in while still massaging the base and casually stroking his balls now and again.

His helpless moans spur you on, as does the fact that he’s quite obviously trying to keep from thrusting forward, and you run your hand up his stomach and under his shirt. His skin there is as hot to the touch as his hands.

When you start to work him faster with your mouth, moans turn into rapid gasps, and you realize he won’t last much longer if you continue. It has been a while for him.

Better not push your luck, as you really, really want to get in on the action too.

You pull back and let his cock flop onto his stomach with a moist smack, and you stand up as gracefully as you can with sore knees, and pull your t-shirt over your head.

John watches you with his mouth half open and a look in his eyes like he wants to devour you.

It would be close to menacing if he wasn’t so hot that you absolutely want him to bite into you.

Another time (praying to all things unholy and horny) you’d die to see that look burn into you while his tongue and fingers invade you.

As sorrowful and fumbling as he can appear during the day, you’re struck with a strong suspicion that maybe, just maybe he could be hiding a master’s degree in eating out young women.

There’s hunger lurking in the corners of his eyes as he takes in the curves and valleys of your body.

When you unbutton your denim shorts and slide them down your legs suggestively, those same eyes seem to go nearly feral with want, and you feel the hairs at the back of your neck stand up from the thrill of being wanted like this.  

It’s been a long time for you too. You almost forgot about your own sexual powers.

Shorts off and kicked to the side, you unhook your bra and work the straps down your arms, then – trying not to feel the tiniest bit self-conscious – you pull your delicate underwear down and gingerly step out of it, casually flipping your hair over your shoulder as you do so and hoping it just may look like the most erotic shampoo add, John’s ever seen.

Not that he appears to be watching much tv.

When you finally lower yourself onto his lap, placing a knee on each side of his body, he puts his hands on your thighs, as carefully as if he’d never touched a naked human being before.

“Can I…?

You snake your arms around his neck and lean in to pretend-bite his lower lip. He sighs needily.

“Yes, you can touch me,” you say, and John wastes no time running his hands up your flesh and around you to grab your ass and pull you flush against him.

You both moan as you grind over his cock, and something about him still being almost fully dressed and you being naked, pressing your body to his, is such an added turn on.

While kissing him, you reach down between you to grab hold of his length and lift yourself up a little so you can position him against your dripping entrance.

“Yes, please, yes…”, he pants into your mouth, but you’re not about to give him everything at once.

Lowering yourself down slowly, you let the wide head of his cock penetrate you, savouring with a gasp how big he feels, before lifting yourself off him again.

He whimpers in protest and tightens his grip on your ass.

Still, he stops clear of thrusting up into you, or forcing you down.

Though he easily could.

His strong fingers are already marking you, you’re sure.

“Be a good boy and sit still, John,” you whisper in between kisses, hoping he won’t be turned off by a little dirty talk.  

You needn’t have worried. His cock twitches, and he readily obeys, stilling all movement.  

Interesting.

Holding his length like a toy, you lower yourself onto him again, deliberately clenching hard and forcing a mewl from John’s lips. You move up and down over the head a few times, only allowing for shallow penetration to tease him, all the while wanting to scream out loud yourself at how amazing it feels.

With your free hand, you cradle his neck and lean in to plant sloppy kisses on his throat above the collar of his shirt, causing deep groans to rumble through his chest.

You lower yourself down further on his cock, feeling the muscles in your thighs quiver, and John buries his face in your neck and gasps while digging his (blessedly short) nails into your ass cheeks.

“Are you determined to torture me, woman?” he growls, and his breath is fire on your skin.

“I think you like a bit of torture,” you say. “Who knows, maybe you even deserve it…”

You instantly regret adding the last part, it’s too risqué, and worry that John will take offence.

Instead of saying anything back, one his hands lets go off your ass and comes up to lightly close around your throat.

He’s not applying the least bit of pressure, but the dominant nature of the gesture alone drives your lust to new heights, and you whimper. His eyes burn right into your soul.

“Maybe I do…”

And then, without warning, he turns the tables, disregarding your previous order and thrusting up into you so hard, you scream in surprise.

His cock stretches you further than anyone ever has before, and as he buries himself in you to the brim, you grip his shoulders, nearly tearing his shirt at the seams.

He’s so big, but then he starts moving and you find a rhythm that has you grinding your clit against his groin with every thrust.

He’s holding your ass with both hands again now, both steadying you and resolutely guiding you up and down on his cock, and all pretence of you toying with him have gone out the window.

You’re completely at his mercy.

You probably were from the beginning.

Still, his movements are limited from his legs being ‘bound’, and his thrusts become more frustrated, more erratic, as he chases his high.

Your own orgasm is approaching fast, partly from your clit being stimulated, partly from his cock hitting all new spots so deep inside you, and partly from the electrifying feeling of being taken.

You want him to do more, you realize. You want him to punish you.

To ravish you in all the ways you’ve never let any other lover do.

Apparently, your kryptonite is a man who appears all mild-mannered and slightly lost 85 percent of the time before suddenly turning into a beast of teeth and claws and a rock-hard, terrifyingly perfect cock willing to fuck your brains out.

You can feel said cock throbbing inside you, but right when you think he’s about to come before you, John pulls you closer against him so instead of moving up and down, you’re now grinding back and forth, causing perfect, intense friction between your clit and the base of his member.

“I want to feel you come”, he pants, and lowers his face to your chest to lavish kisses on your breasts, taking first the left, then the right nipple between his teeth and flicking his tongue at it, much in the same fashion you treated his cock.

And that’s what it takes.

With him buried deep in you and your nipple in his mouth, you come apart, champagne rushing through your bloodstream and mind going completely, blissfully blank as you gasp to the ceiling. You’re all fizzing nerve ends and clenching spasms, and John wraps his arms tightly around you, crushing you to his chest as his cock pulses deep inside you and he groans into your hair.  

Afterwards, you sit like that for a long time, both gasping into each other’s necks, your arms slung limply around John’s broad shoulders, your skin sticking to his equally damp shirt.

If possible, he smells even better to you now than he did before.

When you finally straighten up, kissing his jawline along the way, the strange expression on his face takes you aback.

His eyes are not exactly vacant, and yet … somehow he seems suddenly far, far away.

His cock is still inside you, softening. You’re vaguely aware that his cum will be running down your inner-thighs whichever way you stand up.

There’s really no lady-like trick to scooping up a handful of semen before it hits your couch.

“John…?” you say, tugging gently at the collar of his shirt. “Where did you go?”

“Huh?” As if he’d flicked a switch, the light returns to his features.

He runs his hands tenderly up and down your naked back, and smiles in that disarming way that he does, that brings out the adorable crinkles around his eyes. “I’m right here.”

Before you can say anything else, he pulls you in for a kiss, and everything is right and warm.

When you break away, he bares his teeth in a cheeky grin. “That was amazing.”

“It was alright”, you smirk back at him, before squealing as he immediately tickles your side.

“Such a tease,” he hums, satisfied with your wild squirming in his lap, and the intimacy of your banter makes your heart thrum so loudly he surely must be able to hear it.

“Okay, okay, I give up” you whine, and his fingers halt their dance.

“It was great. You’re great, John.”

He smiles victoriously, and you can’t help but laugh. Boys will be boys, it seems.

Your curiosity about his past is nearly killing you, though. So, he’s clearly not a novice when it comes to sex, thank God, nor is he as reluctant to taking what he wants as you first thought.

But there’s old heartbreak there.

Possibly mixed with a strong dose of not-quite processed grief, you’re guessing.

Your mouth is dry, and his cock is finally sliding out of you, and so you get up from his lap, predictably clumsily, and make for the kitchen on unsteady legs to get some water for the both of you.

And paper tissues.

You don’t turn on the light and as you stand by the sink and turn the faucet, you look out into the moonlit back garden of your house.

At the end of it, the forest rises up, dark and quiet, but always alive with its own secret universe.

You love living out here so close to the wild, even if you are quite far from the small community’s only convenience store (notoriously stocked with so few items it makes a mockery of the title).

You’re filling water in the first glass when John comes up right behind you, snaking his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder.

You almost drop the glass in the sink, and the man chuckles before kissing your shoulder.

It never ceases to amaze and somewhat annoy you just how damn quiet he can be.

A man of his size shouldn’t be able to sneak around like that.

His chest is bare against your back. He has taken off his clothes after all.

“Did you miss me already?” you ask, leaning back against him, pressing your ass lightly into his naked groin.  

“Mmm, maybe,” he whispers, tightening his grip on you.

There’s something a little possessive about it, like he’s holding on to a prize.

You don’t mind being his.

Neither do you mind it when his hands slide down your front.

You put the glass in the sink and turn off the water, and then you have to grip the edge of the kitchen counter hard as John’s fingers find your wet sex and begin exploring.

You can feel his erection growing. Man’s got stamina.

You spread your legs and bend over the counter as he slides his fingers between your folds and around the edges of your entrance, purring at the wetness.

“I’m afraid I may have to take advantage, with you like this …” John says in a slow, low baritone voice that makes your own desire spike again. Even if you’re a little sore after him stretching you wide.

“Yeah?” you shoot back, already breathless. “And what if I refuse you?”

John presses his cock against your ass, and grabs a fistful of your hair, pulling your head back.

Lightly but as assertively as when his fingers closed around your throat earlier.

“…I might just take you anyway,” he whispers before kissing your ear.

And though you’re certain he’s joking judging by everything you know about his kind character (which, admittedly isn’t that much), his flat delivery makes your core positively ignite with twisted yearning.

Oh, you’re ready to play along with this.

“I refuse,” you gasp, challenging outraged damsel as best you can without giggling with excitement.

John picks up on the game straight away.

He must have a natural fetich for roleplay. Which in a way suits a man who seems like he’s trying to escape himself a lot of the time during the day.

“Right,” he drones darkly, half-failing to disguise the glee creeping into his own voice. “If you won’t cooperate, I have no other option but to restrain you…”

You’re about to say something back, when he lets go of your hair and quickly pulls both your arms back, almost causing to fall face first onto the counter if it wasn’t for him holding you.

You try to straighten up, but he forces you down, hands securely behind your back.

You yelp in surprise when you feel him quickly tying something around your wrists, but he only shushes you.

He must have taken a belt or a tie or something with him when he followed you in here.

He knew what he was going to do.

Sometimes those with the kinks are the last ones you’d suspect.

What devilish delights.

You’re starting to doubt that you’ll make it to mass tomorrow.

When he’s done tying your wrists together, John positions you on the counter like he was moving a doll around.

Only your toes reach the floor, and despite going along for this weird ride, you feel completely, defencelessly exposed as you’re lying there.

Your heart is beating fast when John takes a step back behind you, perhaps to survey the scene.

Then he’s between your legs again, and you shudder as one of his fingers slides into you almost experimentally. When you gasp with lust, he slides in another finger.

“Mmm, I have to say, I enjoy looking at you from this…new angle,” he says in his low growl. “So helpless and wet…just waiting for me to give you what you need.”

Someone’s certainly gotten a confidence boost.

He moves his fingers in and out of you while stroking himself with his other hand, it sounds like, but soon your own moans are so insistent you don’t notice much else.

He keeps working you, shifting between fingering you and reaching further under you to tease your clit, and you’re objectively impressed at how fast he has you right back at the precipice of another orgasm.

Of course, he doesn’t let you come yet, though.

The counter is a bit low, and you figure John must be bending his knees behind you as he rubs the head of his now fully erect cock against your cunt again and proceeds to enter you in one long, maddeningly slow thrust.

Even now, you have to adjust to the size of him, but after sheathing himself completely in you, he doesn’t give you long to recover before he pulls almost all the way out again, only to thrust into you so hard, the edge of the counter digs into your hips.

You cry out, and he stops at once.

“Of course, of course…” he’s muttering, “so sorry, I didn’t think.”

It’s meant for you, but it sounds like he’s talking to himself.

He leaves you for a second, and you can hear him grabbing one of the kitchen towels hanging from the hook on the door to the garden.

Then he’s back, folding the cloth and pushing it under you on the counter.

Thoughtful. For someone who has tied you up without asking first, that is.

A small gesture representing the mystifying duality within.

“All good?” he asks politely, and you smile though of course he can’t see it from where he’s standing.

“Yes, we’re good,” you reply, breaking ‘character’.

It’s the last coherent thing to leave your mouth for the next several minutes, as John proceeds to fuck you like he hasn’t had sex in half a century.

And here you were just a short while ago, concerned about hurting him.

The vulgar sounds of his hips snapping against your ass, and the wet noises of his cock invading you over and over fill the kitchen, the house and possibly the entire forest behind it, and when he reaches around your body to fondle your clit, you whimper so pathetically, it makes John laugh, even if he’s quite out of breath too now.

“You really do this, don’t you?” he asks huskily and bends over you, and you’re about to scream, yes, fucking yes, and please don’t stop, when you remember ‘the game’.

“N-no,” you gasp, squirming under him for good measure. “Let me go!”

John straightens up and gives your ass a light smack with an open palm.

“Now, little girl, behave yourself,” he scolds you.

“Although … I think, I know just what you need…”

He’s still thrusting into you, but with less force, and you’re startled when you feel his fingers circling your other hole.

Is he…?

Before you can ask what’s he up to, he works a finger into you, and suddenly you’re squirming for real.

It’s not that the feeling is unpleasant, but you’ve never had anyone pay any interest to that part of you before, and you don’t know if you’re ready for the adventure right now.

“John, don’t…” you pant, but once again he shushes you. This time though, he also places his other hand flat on your back to keep you from moving.

“Just relax, you’ll like it, I promise,” he’s saying, his voice oddly detached again, and you realize he’s not just ‘exploring’.

His cock is still moving inside you, but now he’s pumping a finger in and out of your tight ass as well, and the feeling is fast sending you spiralling.

Obviously, John notices.

“That’s a good girl, just come for me. That’ll make it much easier…”

Easier? Oh god, what is he going to do?

You seriously doubt he’ll hurt you, but even so you feel uncomfortable at how much at his mercy you are if things do take a turn into (more) unwelcome territory.

Twisted desires or not.

You want to take back some form control, and the only way right now would be not to come.

Except your body wants differently.

And when John makes an attempt at inserting another finger into your ass, while thrusting deep with his cock at the same time, you’re pushed over the edge, moaning so noisily you embarrass yourself.

You haven’t come even halfway down from your orgasm when he pulls out of you, cock and fingers, and repositions you a bit.

“Ah yes, this definitely fits the height a little better,” he says, and you know exactly what he means when his cock now grazes your ass quite a bit higher up than before.

“Please, John, don’t…”, you snivel, still in the throes of your orgasm, but he’s already dipping what feels like several fingers into your cunt to gather up wetness, before coating the rim of your other hole, and working the juices into you with his long, prodding digits.

You’re feeling panicky. He’s too big. It won’t work.

“Try to relax…” John says, now completely ignoring your continued pleas for him to stop, and you tearing at your bonds.

And then the head of his cock is pressing against your ass, slowly spreading you in a way you’ve never, ever experienced before.

“That’s it, just take it…” hums the man behind you and continues to reach around you to rub your clit, taking advantage of you ebbing climax to coach your body to open up more.

The feeling of being penetrated anally is so overwhelming, soon you can’t do anything but grunt into the kitchen counter as he slowly guides his cock into you.

It’s painful, yes, but coupled with John’s methodical ministrations to your clit, at the same it’s one of the most intense sexual sensations you’ve ever been subject to.

You don’t know if you’re going to pass out or come a third time, or both.

John doesn’t attempt to thrust all the way into you, thankfully, but stops at what feels about halfway, before he starts moving in and out of you, setting a steady pace all the while rubbing your sex.

Whenever you tense up too much, he applies more pressure to your sensitive nub, and whether you want to or not, the pleasure makes your muscles relax, allowing him to pick up speed.

Even though he never buries his full length in you, that doesn’t keep him from fucking you more forcefully, and without being able to see his face, from his groans and laboured breathing there’s no doubt that he’s exercising all his restraint to keep from letting go, and truly pounding into you.

When he massages your clit with more purpose, you know what he wants, and sure enough you feel his thrust start to become more uneven as he approaches his own orgasm.

Your pride wants to hold back to spite him, even more so than before, but, like before, there’s no way you’ll be able to.

And though you bite your lower lip to keep silent, by now John has figured out exactly how to touch you to make you sing.

And so, he presses on, fingers so slick with your juices and his own cum from before slipping and sliding over your nub, even into your cunt, until you give him exactly what he’s after, and your grunts turn to cries like a bitch in heat.

Good thing your inner feminist is so occupied with having her rational, strongly independent brains fucked out that she can’t disown you for getting off on John realizing your most secret, shameful rape fantasy right here in your own kitchen.

In less than an hour, you’ve effectively gone from fearing he was a blushing virgin to being bound and assaulted anally by a man who has abso-fucking-lutely had a lot of sex in his previous life.

However far back in time it may have been.

His intensified attack on your already way, way overstimulated sex makes you crash, screaming and shaking, into the most mind-blowing, laws-of-nature-defying orgasm of your life, that almost knocks you out cold.

The kitchen is gone, the night is gone, there are only blinding lights and John’s hands on you, before he tumbles off the cliff himself with loud, wholly animalistic moans of the deepest pleasure.

This time, he pulls out, but you don’t register a thing of your surroundings, before John’s carefully lifting you up from the counter, having freed your hands without you noticing.

Your feet are on the floor, but you can’t keep yourself up, your limbs don’t work anymore. Your sight feels blurry and still filled with tiny dancing sparkles, like you’ve stared into the sun.

John doesn’t let go off you for a second, gently turning you around and easily lifting you up in his arms, and you lean your head against his chest and close your eyes like a sleepy child as he carries you into the bedroom and puts you down on the bed, pulling the covers aside.

He tugs you under the sheet before stepping away from the bed, and in your daze, you think he might be leaving, which would be wrong, so wrong.

He doesn’t.

Instead, you hear him turn on the water in the sink in the bathroom, and after a little while he comes back, a tall shadow-figure moving quietly through your house, and gets in next to you.

Only then do you start to come to.

Even though he did most of the work, your body feels so beat and thoroughly sexed out, you think you may never get out of bed again.

The last embers of your third orgasm are still making your cunt throb, while your ass… well, you guess you can carry a cushion around with you for a few days if you absolutely must leave the house.

Nothing suspicious about that at all.

You curl up on your side, facing John who moves a little closer and reaches out to smooth a sticky lock of hair away from your forehead.

There are still beads of sweat on his temples as well. Or maybe he just washed his face.

Carefully tugging strands of hair behind your ear, his fingers then caress your cheek, thumb tracing your brow, and your eyes flutter shut.

“Did I hurt you?” he whispers.

You open your eyes.

He’s looking at you with what appears to be genuine concern.

His face has changed back to that of a man who wouldn’t hurt a fly.

“You did,” you say.

He frowns unhappily. Which, in all honesty, should infuriate you a whole lot more than it does.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It was wrong of me.” His voice is nothing but remorseful.

The smooth criminal.

“I mean, I did enjoy it eventually, as I’m sure you, um, noticed,” you say quickly, before checking yourself in the middle of almost apologizing for hurting his feelings.

When in fact he was the one who jumped you.

It’s just, he looks like a little lonely boy.

Or rather, a lost puppy, pining for your approval.

There’s a pause in which you just look at each other.

There’s so much he’s not telling you, but for the first time, it feels like some of his secrets may be about to breach the surface.

When he still doesn’t speak though, you take a deep breath and lay it out.

“I don’t want to feel afraid around you,” you say and hold his gaze. “If you feel that you cannot trust yourself around me or promise me right now that another time you’ll stop if I ask you to, then it’s goodbye, John. You can leave the house right now. I mean that.”

He doesn’t blink. Oh, those strange, strange night-time eyes…

The unsettling fact that you’d never actually be able to physically force him to leave is clawing at your mind, but you try not to let the fear in.

You’ve been around the man for weeks and he been nothing but kind and respectful.

Up until tonight.

There is a dark well in him.

You thank your subconscious for the unhelpful commentary.

“I don’t want that either. I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” he replies quietly, honestly. “Not you. Never you. I’ll be better, I promise.”

He moves in to kiss you softly on the lips, and you sigh at the tenderness of his mouth.

“I want to be better for you,” he whispers. “Please don’t turn me away. I only just found you.”

You pull back a bit to study his face.

“So, what happened before? In the kitchen?”

He has the decency to still look ashamed.

“I lost myself. I thought…I thought you were playing along.”

He inhales like the truth is in the air around you.

“It’s been a really long time since I was…since I was with anyone. I got carried away. I’m sorry, truly.”

Now you’re the one to move in to kiss him. You cup the side of his face, and he puts an arm around you, pulling your naked bodies close together.

You don’t care that you’re both sweaty.

If he climbed on top of you and glued himself to you for the rest of the night, you wouldn’t try to push him off.

“You made me come harder than I ever have, John”, you say when you finally break the kiss, and a grin spreads on his face before he remembers how sorry he’s supposed to be, and he tries to adopt a more sombre expression.

You giggle. He’s too obvious.

He knows it, too, and he presses his forehead to yours with a chuckle.

It sounds relieved.

“I’d be very happy to do it again another time. If you’d like,” he says, and his breath ghosts over your eyelashes.

“In any way you’d like,” he adds, hastily.

You’re letting him off too easy, but truth is you’d be overcome with loss if he were to walk out of your life.

The connection has been made.

Somehow, he’s yours.

“So, church tomorrow…?” you ask playfully, and John snorts theatrically, and rolls onto his back.

“I thought we’d already been over this.”

“I know,” you say, and cuddle up to him, bathing in his scent. “But I thought maybe you’d changed your mind about it, recent events considered.”

“Well, I haven’t. Especially considering recent events,” he replies, jokily, and shifts a little so he can put his arm under and around you, holding you to his side.

You reach up to trace his face with the tips of your fingers, claiming him.

Venturing further, you run a hand over his shaved head, feeling the stubble of his hair that’s quickly growing out again.

He looks ridiculously sexy to you as he is now, but you’re predicting he’ll become nothing short of lethal with what appears to be salt’n’pepper locks.

Good god.

He reaches for your hand and squeezes it.

“I’m not great at being close to people. Never have been,” he says. The humour is gone, leaving only a raw, painful honesty that makes your heart leap into your throat.

You don’t know how to respond.

“I’m not great at … love,” he says. “’Love…is a virtuous mind, whereas attachment…’”

He scoffs at his own words, a bitter, hollow sound. “I haven’t been good at telling the two apart…”

Christ, has he been in a cult?

Is that his secret?

John brings your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles, before turning it over and planting a kiss in your open palm, eyes closed.

You are hit with such a rush of emotion it makes your eyes sting.

It feels like you’re standing on a ledge.

“I could show you...”

He looks down at you, searching your eyes for any hint of lukewarm sentiment.

He doesn’t find any.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay?”

“Show me love.”

He guides your hand down his chest to the nearly healed gun-wound on his stomach.

The wound you cleaned and bandaged all those weeks ago, having dragged his nearly unconscious form into your car and brought him home like a stray dog you found by the side of the road.

The wound that, miraculously, seems to have endured the exercise you just did.

He puts his warm, big paw over yours.

“Show me life.”

.

.

.

Thank you for reading!

Hope you liked it :) I got the idea the other day while furiously vacuum-cleaning post covid hibernation and listening to Robyn’s Show Me Love at full volume on my headphones. Half the lyrics below – if you can handle a dose of candyfloss sweetness ;)

You can find the rest of my fics here.

Show me Love by Robyn:

Always been told that I've got too much pride Too independent to have you by my side But my heart said all of you will see Just won't live for someone until he lives for me Never thought I would find love so sweet Never thought I would meet someone like you Well now I've found you and I'll tell you no lie This love I've got for you Could take me 'round the world

Now show me love

Show me love, show me life Baby show me what it's all about You're the one that I ever needed Show me love and what it's all about, alright

Don't waste this love I wanna give it to you Tell me what you got, show me what you can do Show me love, show me everything I know you've got potential So baby let me in and show me love …