Thinking about being stuck between Dadbf Simon and John during a movie. It’s very comfy being squished between the two.
cw: 18+ mdni, fauxcest, smut.
Simon playing with your pussy under the blanket, pads of his fingers keep flicking and rolling your misused clit over and over. You’re pressed up against John, his beefy hairy arm inbetween your tits as you hold onto his arm, bottom lip trembling as if he’d help you in this predicament you’re in. But he only takes a swing of his beer, “Play with your Dad alright, gotta be quiet, ‘M watchin the movie.”
You only let out a little whimper, the dialogue of the movie in your ear, along with your messy heat squelching everytime Simon slots a finger in your cunt so casually. His brown eyes flicker from you to the movie, scar on his face twitching with the growing smirk, your hips grinding into Simons hand that’s running through your glossy folds. Simons sucks his finger clean, dipping it back in your pretty hole with another digit, ragged voice hushed in your ear “You’d be bloody terrible at the theater swee’art, so fuckin loud.”
John is considerate though, very considerate! Giving you long, sloppy kisses that help you reach your climax easily after god knows how long of being edged during commercial break. Sucking your tongue as you claw down his arm, cumming again on Simons hand. You only fumble forward trying to keep yourself still, your face in John’s lap, face to face with the chubbing hard on in his jeans.
His pushes your curls back, rubbing your nape, “Give your Daddy a treat f’ interupptin my movie, yeah honey?”
And your face is all messy and fucked by the end of the movie, choking and on your full lips. Your own cum staining the couch John will clean up. Simon will coo, patting his knee for you to slide over because, ‘’S long past yer bed time swee’art.’
The brute of a man will smear John cum across your lips before slipping it into your mouth to suck on, sliding his wet fat cock into your snug cunt inch by inch, that Prince Albert piercing just right against your soaking walls. Simon will slow fuck up into you, one rough hand gripping your waist and holding you against his chest while grinding you down on his length, your choking uo sleepy moans, incoherent mumbles as Simon croons, “Gonna cum ‘nd then sleep baby, ‘s alright, Dad’s got you.”
John will zip himself up, kiss the top of your head, running fingers through Simons hair on the way to get you some new pajamas.
Simons aiming to make a mess of you tonight.
a/n: they’re running my mind rn. Like woah I actually do have plot for them. My fault y’all.
Warnings: MDNI, 18+, smut, brat taming, rough sex, multiple orgasms (m), f orgasm, dom/sub dynamics (Dom!Hotch and Sub!Reader), deliberate disobedience, edging/orgasm denial, overstimulation, light bondage, reader being gagged, creampie, cum everywhere, possessive!Hotch, aftercare. L/N used twice.
Summary: You deliberately try to undermine and piss Hotch off in the field so he'll be rough with you behind closed doors.
A/N: If this stinks I'm sorry. I wanted to try and write a fic that wasn't completely in past tense to challenge myself.
But also…. OH MY GOD MY PANTIES ARE SO WET AFTER WRITING THIS 🤤🤭🥴
You’re pushing it today, and you fucking know it.
Every time Hotch opens his mouth to give an order, you directly disobey him, already moving in the opposite direction of what he wanted. Every time he says “hold position,” you take three deliberate steps forward. And every time he shoots you that warning look, the one you know all too well, the one that makes your knees weak and your mouth dry, you smile back like you’re daring him to do something about it right here, right now, in front of God himself and the entire Kansas field office.
He doesn’t. Not yet.
He just keeps that muscle ticking in his jaw that clicks every time he's trying to keep himself professional and his voice clipped, low, and lethal. He knows what you're doing and is mentally tallying every single disobedient act you decide to display for later score.
Morgan keeps glancing between the two of you like he’s waiting for the detonation. Prentiss pretends to be fascinated by the geographic profile. And Reid, poor oblivious Reid, has (actually) backed all the way up against a filing cabinet, as if distance might save him from whatever’s coming when Hotch finally blows.
Rossi, of course, is enjoying the show.
You’re leaning over the evidence table, deliberately bending farther than necessary to reach a photo, when Rossi sidles up beside you.
“You trying to get fired, kid?” he mutters under his breath. Already knowing exactly what you're playing at. Rossi knows Hotch too well, knows you too well. And has definitely figured out just what your relationship entails behind closed doors.
You don’t even look at him. “Just keeping him on his toes, David.”
He hums, unconvinced. “He’s gonna put you on your knees later, and not in the fun way.”
You grin, sharp and sweet, when in reality you should've been mortified at the words coming out of Rossi's mouth. “We’ll see.”
Hotch’s voice cuts across the bullpen. “L/N. My six. Now.”
You straighten slowly, brushing imaginary lint off your shirt. “Yes, sir.”
You saunter over, boots echoing, and stop just inside his personal space, close enough that he has to tilt his head down to glare at you.
The rest of the room pretends they’re suddenly very very busy. And definitely not listening to whatever is about to happen between the two of you.
“You’re off the raid,” he says, voice low enough that only you can hear the tremor of fury underneath. Meaning that you've just struck bingo, and Hotch is giving you exactly what you were playing for later.
You blink, all mock innocence, before you raise your brows at him. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You’re staying here with the locals.”
You laugh, actually laugh, straight in his face. “No, I’m not.”
“That wasn’t a request.” His eyes flash, his pupils dilating, darkening. You can tell that he is trying to claw his way out of Hotch, begging to be released upon you.
“And this isn’t a negotiation.” You step closer, dropping your voice to a purr. “You want me on a leash, Aaron, you’re gonna have to put it on me yourself. In front of everyone. Go ahead.” You cross your arms over your chest.
His nostrils flare. For one electric second, you think he might actually do it, might snap right here, take his belt off, and drag you out by the back of your neck like you both know you want him to.
Instead, he exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, trying to ground himself before he says something too unprofessional. When he finally speaks, he leans down to whisper in your ear through gritted teeth, “Fine! You’re with me. You leave my sight for less than .01 seconds, I'll cuff you to the SUV and leave you in the car overnight like some abandoned pet left on the side of the road. Try me.”
You lick your bottom lip. “Promise?”
He turns on his heel before he does something he can’t take back in front of twenty witnesses and the entirety of his team.
The raid is a clusterfuck waiting to happen, and you are the match.
Hotch wants to go in quietly through the back. You’re already halfway across the parking lot toward the front door before he grabs your vest and yanks you back.
“Jesus Christ, do you have a death wish today?” He says, leaving little to no discussion in his tone, you know that tone all too well, even strive to get it out of him on occasion... well, more times than not.
You spin, grinning up at him. “Only if you’re the one pulling the trigger.”
He looks like he’s two seconds from gagging you with his own tie and bending you over right here, right now.
Morgan’s voice crackles over comms. “Hotch, we’re set on the east side. You two coming or getting a room?”
You reach up and key your own comm without looking away from Hotch. “We’re coming, 'baby girl'. Unit Chief’s just having a little performance anxiety.” You can already imagine Morgan's confused look at the nickname.
Hotch rips the earpiece out of your ear and crushes it under his boot.
You whistle, low and a little playful. “That’s destruction of FBI property, sir. Very naughty.”
He grabs the front of your vest this time, hauling you in until you’re nose to nose. There he is. “You do not speak again until this unsub is in cuffs. Not one fucking word. Nod if you understand.”
You nod, solemn and mocking. Already planning to break that exact promise.
He releases you like you’re radioactive.
The warehouse is a maze of rusted machinery and broken skylights. Moonlight stripes the concrete floor. You move ahead of Hotch, deliberately, clearing corners before he can tell you to wait.
He hisses your name, barely audible.
You ignore him.
You hear the unsub before you see him: panicked breathing, the clatter of a dropped magazine. He’s reloading behind a stack of crates twenty feet ahead.
You raise your weapon before you step into the open.
Hotch swears viciously behind you and moves to cover, but you’re already talking.
“FBI! Drop it!”
The unsub spins, wild-eyed, gun up.
You don’t flinch.
Hotch is shouting your name now, furious and afraid all at the same time, but you keep your voice steady, taunting. “Come on, sweetheart. You wanted us to chase you. Here I am.”
The unsub’s finger tightens on the trigger.
Hotch’s arm hooks around your waist from behind, and he yanks you sideways, throwing you both sideways behind a forklift just as the shot rings out. Concrete explodes exactly where you were just standing.
You land half on top of him, ears ringing, heart slamming against your ribs.
He’s shaking with rage, hands gripping your vest so hard the straps bite.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snarls into your face.
You grin, breathless, high on adrenaline and the feel of him under you. “You’re welcome.”
Another shot pings off metal above your heads.
Hotch flips you onto your back, shielding you with his body, weapon already up. His voice in your ear is lethal. “Stay. Down.”
This time, you finally listen.
He rises in one fluid motion, one precise shot to his leg, and the unsub drops like a puppet that just had its strings cut.
Silence falls in the warehouse, broken only by distant shouting as the rest of the team floods in.
Hotch holsters his weapon, turns back to you, where you’re pushing to your feet.
You meet his eyes across the moonlit warehouse, chest heaving, blood thundering in your ears.
The unsub is down.
The cuffs are clicking.
And Aaron Hotchner looks like he’s deciding exactly how long it’s going to take to make you cry tonight.
The jet is grounded until at least morning due to a mechanical failure in the engine, so the team books into the hotel closest to the hangar and landing strip.
Everyone’s exhausted, adrenaline crashing hard, all a little annoyed from the lack of sleeping in their own beds tonight. But the air between you and Hotch is still a live current, ready to explode any second now.
You’re leaning against the check-in desk, tapping your badge against your palm, when Hotch steps up beside you and quietly tells the clerk, “Two singles.”
You don’t miss a beat. “Separate rooms,” you echo, loud enough for Hotch and the clerk to hear. You flash him a saccharine smile. “How very professional of us, Agent Hotchner. Gotta keep up appearances for the Bureau. Wouldn’t want anyone to know their precious unit chief has been balls-deep in his subordinate every night for the last eight months.”
The night clerk’s eyes go wide. Rossi, waiting for his key behind you, chokes on a laugh which he pretends is a cough.
Hotch doesn’t flinch. He just signs the receipt with a pen that might actually snap in his grip, then hands you a keycard.
“Room 312,” he says, voice flat. “I’ll be there in five minutes. You open that door for anyone else, you won’t sit for a month.”
He walks away before you can answer.
You take the stairs two at a time, pulse already racing.
The second the door clicks shut behind him, the mask is gone.
He shrugs out of his jacket, tosses it toward the chair in the corner of the room, and stalks toward you like a predator who’s finally off leash and pouncing straight toward its next meal.
“Strip!”
You arch a brow at him. “Please?”
He’s on you in two strides, hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back, hard.
“Don’t push me any further tonight,” he warns. “You’ve used up every last ounce of patience I have.”
“Good.” You smile slowly up at him.
He kisses you all teeth, no mercy, until you’re gasping against his mouth. Then he spins you, shoves you chest-first over the foot of the bed, yanks your jeans and panties down in one rough motion.
His palm slides between your shoulder blades, pinning you flat. You feel the heat of him behind you, the hard line of his cock pressing against your ass through his slacks.
“You’ve been begging for this all day,” he says, his voice low and more controlled than you had anticipated when you started pushing him this morning. It's the way he gets right before he completely unravels you. “Every smart-ass comment, every eye roll, every time you said my title like it’s a fucking joke. You want my attention? You have it.”
He drags your hips back until you’re bent perfectly for him, feet barely touching the carpet. The first thrust of his clothed hips against your bare skin is deliberate, grinding, a promise and a threat all at once.
You push back, greedy for him to enter you.
He stills you with one hand splayed over the base of your spine, the other winding your hair around his fist until your neck arches.
“Stay still,” he growls. “You move when I tell you to move.” He leans over you, mouth at your ear. “Color?”
“Green,” you breathe, already trembling. “So fucking green.”
He pulls back just enough to unbuckle his belt, the metallic clink loud in the almost silent room. You hear his zipper, feel the blunt, bare heat of him drag up the seam of your body.
He doesn’t enter you. Not yet.
Instead, he notches himself at your entrance and holds there, agonizingly still, while you try to rock back and take him, sheathe yourself on his cock. His grip on your hair tightens, holding you exactly where he wants you.
“Beg!”
“Please, Sir—”
“Louder.”
“Please fuck me, Sir, I need—”
He slams into you in one brutal stroke, no warning, filling you so suddenly your breath catches on a scream.
Your legs wrap around nothing, toes curling into the carpet, hips snapping hard enough to jolt the bedframe into the wall with every thrust.
He flips you onto your back without pulling out, hooking your knees over his elbows, and spreading you wide. The new angle drags a broken sound from your throat as his thrusts take him deeper and deeper.
“Look at you,” he growls against your collarbone as he shoves your shirt up and runs his mouth over your skin, teeth scraping against you. “Acting like a spoiled little brat in front of the entire team. You think they didn’t notice? You think I didn’t see the way Morgan smirked every time you opened that mouth?”
“Maybe I wanted them to know,” you taunt, breathless, reaching for him. “Maybe I’m tired of pretending I don’t belong to—”
He cuts you off by pulling out entirely and flipping you again, this time onto your knees, face and chest pressed against the mattress.
He thrusts back in so hard your hands scrabble for purchase on the sheets.
“Say it,” he snarls, one hand sliding up to collar your throat from behind, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave a bruise in the morning. “Finish that sentence.”
“I belong to you,” you sob, clenching around him. “Only you—fuck—Aaron—”
“That’s right.” He presses you deeper into the bed, hips relentless. “You’re mine. And tomorrow, when you can’t walk straight and my cum still dripping down your thighs during our briefing on the jet, you’ll remember exactly who you answer to.”
He reaches beneath you, finds your clit with better precision than a trained sharpshooter, no searching, no hesitation, just the rough pad of his finger settling right where you’re swollen and aching for him. He doesn’t move at first. Just presses, holds, lets you feel the weight of that single point of contact while his cock throbs inside you, stretching you open, owning every trembling inch.
You try to rock back, to chase more, but his grip turns iron.
“Stay,” he growls against the shell of your ear, breath hot, voice shredded. “You take what I give you.”
Then he starts to move, slow, cruel circles that drag over your clit with exactly enough pressure to make your thighs shake. Every stroke is perfectly timed with the roll of his hips, the thick drag of him pulling out until only the head remains before he slams back in, forcing the air from your lungs.
Your hands claw at the sheets. Your spine arches so hard it hurts. The pleasure coils tighter and tighter, vicious and unstoppable, until you’re sobbing his name into the pillow, broken and desperate little pleas of his name.
He speeds up, just barely, thumb flicking faster, hips snapping harder, the wet sound of him fucking you filling the room along with your wrecked moans.
“Cum,” he orders, voice cracking with restraint. “Cum on my cock right now. Show me who you belong to.”
The command rips through you.
You shatter, back bowing, toes curling, a raw scream tearing from your throat as your entire body locks down around him. Wave after wave crashes over you, so intense your vision whites out, every pulse of your orgasm dragging him deeper, milking him with greedy, rhythmic clenches.
He swears once and loses the last thread of control. His rhythm stutters, hips slamming forward one final time as he cums with a rough groan, spilling inside you.
You feel every throb, every pulse, the way he jerks and grinds through it, forehead pressed hard between your shoulder blades like he’s trying to fuse himself to your skin.
He stays there, buried to the hilt, chest heaving against your back, both of you trembling in the aftermath, slick with sweat and utterly spent. You can’t help it, your hips give a tiny, greedy roll, chasing the last sparks of pleasure, trying to keep him deep.
A soft, satisfied moan slips out of you.
Hotch’s chuckle rumbles against your spine. His arms tighten, pinning you flat to the mattress so you can’t move an inch further than you've already wiggled.
“You think we’re done?” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. He nips the lobe hard enough to make you gasp. “Oh, sweetheart. You’ve had your fun. Now it’s my time to play.”
He pulls out slowly, letting you feel every inch drag against your oversensitive walls. You whine at the sudden emptiness, but before you can protest, he’s already moving, shirt buttons flying, slacks kicked the rest of the way off, socks gone.
In seconds, he’s gloriously bare, all hard lines, cock still half-hard and glistening with your cum.
He turns his attention to you next, signaling with his hand for you to flip over on your back. You do as ordered.
Your shirt is shoved up under your arms. He yanks it off, unhooks your bra, and tosses both across the room. Then he grabs his discarded tie and crawls over you.
“Hands up,” he orders.
You obey instantly, stretching your arms above your head. He loops the tie around your wrists, threads it through the headboard, and cinches it tight. Not painful, but absolutely inescapable from your end of the deal. You tug once; the silk holds firm.
A helpless little thrill shoots straight to your core.
He settles between your thighs again, slides back inside you with one smooth thrust that makes your back arch. You’re so wet, so swollen, the stretch burns in the best way, you're not sure you can take the sensation much longer before cumming again.
“Good girl,” he praises, voice rough. “Stay just like that.”
He starts slow. Long and deep strokes that hit every spot inside you. His mouth finds your neck, your breasts, sucking bruises into your skin while his hips roll in that maddening rhythm he knows drives you absolutely insane.
It doesn’t take long before you’re writhing, breath hitching, thighs trembling around his waist.
“Please! Sir, I’m close,” you whimper.
He pulls out completely.
You cry out, hips bucking at nothing. He watches you struggle against the tie, thighs squeezing together for friction that isn’t there.
“Shh.” He strokes your hip in a soothing yet cruel manner. “Calm down a little. We’re nowhere near done.”
He waits until your breathing evens, until the desperation fades, then slides back in and starts all over again.
He does it four times.
Four times, he builds you right to the brink, fingers on your clit, mouth on your nipples, cock dragging slow and steady against your walls, until you’re sobbing, begging, tears of frustration gathering at the corners of your eyes.
The fifth time you get loud, really loud, a broken, whining “Please, please, I can’t—” spilling out over and over.
Hotch clicks his tongue. “Too noisy, baby.” He reaches for your discarded panties and balls them up. “Open.”
You shake your head, playful defiance flaring even through the haze.
He arches a brow. “Open that pretty mouth, or I stop entirely and you get nothing.”
Your lips part instantly. He stuffs the panties in, the taste of yourself flooding your tongue, muffling every sound to desperate, garbled whimpers.
“There we go,” he croons, brushing the back of his hand over your cheek. “Much better.”
He fucks you like that for what feels like hours. He comes once deep inside you again, groaning your name against your throat. Pulls out, strokes himself, and paints thick stripes across your stomach and breasts.
Later, he pushes your knees to your chest, and spills across your face while you keen helplessly behind the gag.
Each time he finishes, he starts again, sliding through the mess he’s made across your frame, using it to make you slicker, filthier. You lose count of his orgasms. You’re a trembling, oversensitive wreck, and still he denies you that second release, pulling out the instant your walls start to flutter.
Finally, finally, he collapses over you, sweat-slick and breathless, cock spent and utterly dry. He reaches up and carefully unties your wrists, massaging the faint red marks with his thumbs. Then he gently pulls the soaked panties from your mouth. You work your jaw, swallowing hard, voice hoarse.
He kisses you softly. “Up,” he murmurs.
You’re boneless, but he helps you sit. He slides the same wet panties that he just pulled from your mouth back up your legs, tugging them into place with deliberate care. The fabric settles against your abused, swollen pussy, trapping every drop of his cum inside you. You whimper at the pressure.
He leaves for a second before coming back with a wet cloth in his hand.
When he settles back down beside you, he cups your chin, tilts your face to his, and with the warm cloth, he cleans your cheeks, your lips, your eyelashes with tender, reverent strokes that make you melt against his hand.
But when you reach for a tissue to wipe your chest and stomach, he catches your wrist.
“No.” His voice drops into that stern, deep tone that makes you freeze. “You don’t clean the rest off. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not until we’re wheels-down at Quantico and you’re standing in my shower at home. You’re going to feel me on your skin every second on the jet, every time you shift in your chair. You’ll remember exactly who you bratted off to today, and exactly who owns every inch of this body. Understood?”
You nod, throat tight, arousal somehow flaring all over again despite everything.
“Yes, Sir.”
He smiles, a small, satisfied, and soft smile, before he pulls you into his chest. His hand spreads possessively over the sticky mess on your stomach, holding you close.
“Sleep, trouble,” he whispers into your hair. “You’re going to need it.
You’re already half-asleep when he speaks again, voice low in the dark.
“Next time you pull a stunt like that in the field, I won’t wait until we’re in a hotel room.”
You smile against his skin, sore and sated and utterly ruined.
“Next time,” you mumble, “I’ll be worse.”
He bites your shoulder in warning.
You wake up to the alarm on Hotch’s watch at 5:47 a.m. He’s already sitting on the edge of the bed, hair damp from the shower, knotting a fresh tie. You try to roll over and immediately regret it. Every muscle between your hips screams. Your thighs are sticky, your pussy swollen and aching, and when you clench experimentally, you feel the slow, obscene slide of everything he left inside you only a couple of hours ago.
He glances back, eyes satisfied.
“Up,” he says, voice still rough from sleep and sex. “Wheels up in forty.”
You groan. Actually groan. Getting vertical feels like an Olympic event that you never trained for.
He watches you struggle into yesterday’s jeans with the faintest smirk curling his mouth, when in reality, all you want is a pair of sweatpants.
The panties he pulled back up your legs after he finally untied you are soaked through, his cum, yours, the evidence of four separate loads, and every step makes the fabric drag against your oversensitive clit.
By the time you limp into the hotel lobby, the whole team is already waiting. Morgan does a double-take.
“Damn, sweetheart. You pull a muscle wrestling that unsub... or something?”
You flip him off with the hand that isn’t clutching your go-bag strap for support.
Hotch doesn’t say a word, just opens the back door of the SUV for you like a perfect gentleman, as you make it to the cars. You slide across the seat and bite the inside of your cheek to keep from whimpering when your ass meets cold and slightly hard leather.
On the jet, you take the seat farthest from the group, legs pressed tightly together, praying the movement of the plane doesn’t jostle anything loose. Hotch sits directly across the aisle from you, tablet in hand, leading the debrief like nothing happened last night. Like he didn’t wreck you so thoroughly that you’re still tasting him through your pussy.
He starts with the profile review. You’re supposed to contribute. Instead, you’re hyper-aware of the slow trickle working its way down your thigh every time the jet banks left. You shift, and the wet drag of cotton against your folds makes you swallow a gasp.
Hotch’s eyes flick to you. Calm and professional. Except for the slight curve at the corner of his mouth that says he knows exactly what you’re feeling.
“Agent L/N,” he says smoothly, “care to walk us through the victimology again and what we can learn from it for future cases?”
You open your mouth. Close it. Clear your throat. “Uh. Females, twenty-two to twenty-nine, brunettes, all abducted within—”
Your voice cracks on the last word because the plane hits a pocket of turbulence, and you feel a fresh pulse of warmth slip free. You clamp your thighs harder, face burning.
Reid starts rambling about geographic decay rates. You stop listening. All you can focus on is the slow, steady throb between your legs and the way Hotch’s gaze keeps drifting to your lap like he’s cataloging every squirm.
Forty unending minutes later, the wheels finally touch down in Quantico. You stand too fast, and your knees nearly buckle. Hotch’s hand shoots out to steady your elbow, the perfect picture of a concerned boss... or partner.
You make it down the stairs on wobbly legs, every step making the mess in your panties shift and cling. You’re praying no one notices the way you’re walking like you just rode a horse for twelve hours straight.
Rossi falls into step beside Hotch as you head for the car park. He doesn’t even bother lowering his voice.
“Atta boy,” he mutters, clapping Hotch once on the shoulder.
Hotch doesn’t answer, but you catch the faint, wicked tilt of his lips before he slides on his sunglasses.
You flip Rossi off behind Hotch’s back.
Rossi just laughs knowingly and calls over his shoulder, “Feel better, kid.”
♡ Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x brat!reader ♡ smut, brat tamer ghost, enemies to fuckers, don’t tell me what to do energy, praise kink, rough sex, oral sex, squirting, losing control, hand holding, mission fic (things got unprofessional fast, lol)
Synopsis: Forty eight hours in a rusted-out tower is a long time to spend testing a masked man’s patience. It starts with a stolen canteen and ends with your back against the glass, breathing in the scent of rain and a LT who has finally, finally had enough of your mouth. He promised to fuck the brat out of you. It turns out, Ghost is a man of his word.
Words Count: 7k
A/N: ✮⋆˙ Ok but… brat tamer Simon Riley has been haunting me and I needed him OUT of my brain immediately. I’ve had his voice in my head all night, so this happened. no regrets. enjoy! ✮⋆˙
The rain didn't stop. It didn't even slow. The clock tower was an island of rust and rot, surrounded by muddy fields and skeletal trees. For the last eight hours, the only sounds had been the rain, the occasional creak of metal, and steady rasp of Ghost's breathing.
You were cold, hungry, bored, and buzzing with a restless energy that had nowhere to go. Your spot was a crate in the corner, a good ten feet from Ghost's position by the south-facing window. It felt like a mile.
You pulled the dossier closer, the laminated pages crinkling loudly in the quiet. You turned to the photo of the target, a man named Volkov. He was a bland-looking man in a suit, but the intel said he was a mid-level arms dealer with a nasty habit of double-crossing his clients.
"Volkov," you said, your voice echoing slightly in the space. "Looks like a middle-manager who got lost on his way to a tax seminar. You think he ever contemplates his life choices, Simon?"
"Focus on the guard rotation," Ghost's voice cut through the damp air, flat and devoid of inflection. He didn't turn his head from the scope.
You sighed, letting your head loll back against the crumbling wall. "I'm just saying. He's got a wife, two kids. A golden retriever, according to this file. You think the dog knows what daddy does for a living? Maybe the retriever's the real brains of the operation."
Ghost's hand, which had been resting on the stock of his rifle, stilled. You saw it in the subtle tension of his shoulder. He was a statue of lethal intent, and you'd just thrown a pebble.
"His personal life is irrelevant," he said. "He's a target. That's all you need to know."
You smirked, a small, victorious curve of your lips he couldn't see. "Just trying to add a little humanity to the situation, LT. It's so cold up here. Might be nice to remember we're dealing with people, not just blips on a map."
He finally turned his head, just enough to pin you with a look from the dark eye hole of his mask. It was a look that could have frozen the rain outside.
"You want humanity? Go join the fucking Red Cross. You're here to be my spotter, not his biographer. Now, report."
You sighed, picking up your binoculars and peering out the north window. "North perimeter is clear. Two guards at the main gate, looking like they'd rather be anywhere else. One's smoking. Sloppy."
Ghost grunted, a sound of vague acknowledgment. He turned back to his scope. The silence returned, suffocating. It lasted for about ten minutes.
You shifted again, the rusty nail you were sitting on digging into your thigh. With a groan of protest from the old wood, you stood up, stretching your arms over your head. The movement pulled your jacket tight across your chest.
"Simon," you said, your tone casual as you walked toward him. You didn't call him 'LT' this time. "You ever think about how ridiculous this is? Two highly trained soldiers, sitting in a pile of junk, waiting for one guy to do something stupid?"
"Every day," he replied, his voice flat. "It's called the job."
You stopped right beside him, close enough to smell the faint scent of gun oil. You leaned your hip against the wall next to him, your shoulder brushing his.
"Doesn't mean I have to like it. It's boring."
He tensed at the contact. You could feel it radiating off him, a wave of irritation. "Boredom is a luxury, Sergeant. Pay attention."
"I am paying attention," you countered, your voice dropping to a challenging murmur. "I'm paying attention to you. You've been knotted up like a pretzel for hours. You need to relax."
His head snapped towards you, the skull mask a terrifying void in the dim light. He loomed over you, even with you both standing. The size of him was a wall of heat and muscle.
"My relaxation is not your concern. Your concern is the target."
You held his gaze, unflinching. You could see the storm brewing in that single dark eye. "Maybe I'm just trying to be friendly."
"I don't need a friend." He turned back to the window, dismissing you with a finality that was meant to be cutting. "I need a spotter who does her fucking job."
The sting of his words was a familiar thing. But you weren't done. You reached out and picked up the canteen sitting on the ledge beside him, a blatant invasion of his space.
"Thirsty," you announced, unscrewing the cap. "You don't mind, do you?"
You knew he did. It was his canteen. Everything in this nest was meticulously placed, part of a system you were currently gleefully dismantling. You took a long, slow drink, the sound of you swallowing loud in the quiet. You saw his jaw clench beneath the mask.
"Put it down," he ordered, his voice low and tight.
You took another sip, watching him. "It's just water, Simon. Don't be so territorial."
In a blur of motion, he moved. One hand shot out, faster than you could track, and clamped around your wrist. His grip was like iron, firm enough to stop you cold, but not enough to bruise. He twisted his hand, forcing you to release the canteen. It fell to the floor with a dull thud, water splashing onto the dirty concrete.
He didn't let go. He pulled you closer, until you were nearly chest-to-chest, your boots scuffing against the floor. He loomed over you, his masked face inches from yours.
"You want to play games, Sergeant?" he rasped. "Is that what this is? You're bored, so you're trying to get a rise out of me?"
His breath was warm against your skin. You could feel the heat of his body through his layers of gear, a stark contrast to the chill of the room. Your heart hammered in your chest, but you refused to back down. You tilted your chin up, a defiant spark in your eyes.
"Maybe I am," you whispered. "What are you going to do about it?"
For a long, agonizing moment, he just stared at you. His gaze was an assault, stripping you bare. Then, he let go of your wrist as abruptly as he'd grabbed it. He took a step back, putting distance between you, his posture rigid with control.
"You're going to sit down," he said, his voice clipped and professional again, as if the moment of raw tension had never happened. "You're going to shut your mouth. And you're going to do your job. Because if you compromise this mission with your juvenile antics, I will make sure the only thing you're ever bored with is counting the tiles in your cell. Am I clear?"
You stared at him, a thrill running down your spine that had nothing to do with fear. You'd poked the bear, and he'd shown his claws. Slowly, you bent down, picked up the canteen, and placed it back on the ledge. You didn't return to your corner. Instead, you sat down right where you were, cross-legged on the cold floor, in his space.
"Crystal clear, Lieutenant," you said, your voice soft but steady.
He let out a slow, heavy breath, the sound of a man holding onto his sanity by a thread. He didn't tell you to move. He just turned back to his scope, his broad shoulders a wall between you and the rest of the world. The rain kept falling, and the clock on the tower just kept ticking.
The stakeout stretched into its fifteenth hour. The rain had finally eased to a miserable drizzle, but the damp had seeped into everything, chilling you to the bone. You'd been "good" for a while, as promised. You'd called out guard changes, noted vehicle movements, and kept your commentary to yourself.
But boredom was a relentless enemy.
You watched Ghost, his focus absolute. He was a machine, and it was time to throw some sand in the gears.
You pushed yourself up from the floor, your joints aching, and sauntered over to the stack of supply crates against the far wall. You perched yourself on the very edge of one, the one with the stenciled red 'A' for ammunition.
The crate groaned under your weight. You knew he heard it.
From your pocket, you produced the combat knife. Not yours. His. You'd lifted it from his belt when he'd grabbed your wrist earlier. It was a beautiful, lethal piece of steel, and you began idly cleaning the dirt from under your fingernails with the tip.
The silence in the room changed. It went from professional quiet to charged, electric stillness.
You didn't look at him. You kept your eyes on your task, humming a low, tuneless melody that you knew would scrape against his nerves. It was a slow, obnoxious dirge that echoed in the chamber.
You felt his gaze on you before you saw him move. It was like a pressure on the side of your face. You kept humming, scraping a little harder at your nail. The knife was his, the crate was his, the silence was his, and you were violating all of it.
He moved. Not the explosive blur from before, but a deliberate unfolding of his frame. He pushed away from the window, his rifle now dangling from its strap, and stood to his full, intimidating height. He crossed the room in three long strides, his boots heavy on the concrete.
He stopped in front of you, a wall of black tactical gear and simmering anger. You finally looked up, meeting that darkeyed stare. You didn't stop humming. You just tilted your head, a picture of feigned innocence.
"Something wrong, LT?" you asked, your voice muffled as you put the tip of his knife between your teeth.
His gloved hand shot out, faster than you could react. He didn't grab the knife. He grabbed your wrist, the same one as before, his grip absolute. He pinned your hand against the rough wood of the crate. He leaned down, his masked face level with yours, the skull grinning inches from your lips.
"That's my knife," he said, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "That's my ammo crate. And that is my fucking patience you are scraping away with your goddamn fingernails."
He wasn't shouting. That was the most terrifying part. His voice was controlled, a current of menace that made the air crackle. His body caged yours, one hand on your wrist, the other braced on the crate beside your thigh. You were trapped, and the thrill of it was dizzying.
You pulled the knife from between your teeth, your voice barely a whisper.
"You could have just asked for it back."
His eyes narrowed. "You're a brat. You know exactly what you're doing."
"Maybe," you breathed, your heart pounding against your ribs. "Or maybe you're just too wound up. You need an outlet, Simon."
He leaned in closer.
"You think you're an outlet? You're a distraction. A liability. And I am one second away from gagging you and tying you to a fucking chair until this op is over."
The threat should have scared you. It didn't. It sent a bolt of heat straight to your core. You swallowed hard, your gaze locked on his. "Is that a promise, Lieutenant?"
For a moment, you thought you saw something flicker in those dark eyes. A crack in the armor. A hint of the storm you were trying to unleash. Then, it was gone, replaced by cold, hard resolve.
He let go of your wrist and snatched the knife from you. He straightened up, sheathing the blade with a sharp, final click.
"Get off the crate," he ordered, his voice back to that flat, professional tone. "Go back to your corner. And don't touch my gear again."
You held his gaze for a long second, your own pulse still racing. Then, with a slow movement, you slid off the crate. You didn't go back to your corner. You walked to the window, taking up a position a few feet away from his original post, and picked up your binoculars.
"Target's vehicle just pulled into the compound," you said, your voice steady. "Volkov is out. Heading for the east building."
Ghost was back at his scope in an instant, the shift in his focus immediate. The game was over, for now. The mission had taken over. But as you watched him work, you knew you'd left a mark. The quiet in the room was different now. It wasn't just empty space anymore. It was filled with everything that had just been said, and everything that still hadn't.
You waited, the ghost of his touch still burning on your wrist, for the next opportunity to push.
The next hour passed in a tense, professional silence. You called out Volkov's movements, his meeting with two other men, and his eventual return to his vehicle. Ghost grunted acknowledgements, his focus unwavering. The brat had been locked away, replaced by the soldier.
But as Volkov's car disappeared down the muddy track, the job was done for the time being. The immediate threat had been observed and recorded.
The silence that settled back over the clock tower was heavier than before.
Ghost finally stepped back from the scope, rolling his shoulders in a rare display of fatigue. You took the opportunity, leaning against the wall, your arms crossed over your chest.
"So, that's it?" you asked, your voice cutting through the quiet. "We just sit here for another thirty hours until we get the green light?"
"That's the op," he said, not looking at you. He was checking his rifle.
You pushed off the wall.
"You know, I have a hard time taking orders from a man who's too scared to show his face."
His hands stilled on the rifle. He didn't turn, but his entire body went rigid. It was a subtle shift, but you'd become an expert at reading the micro-expressions of his body.
"What did you just say?" His voice was quiet, deceptively calm.
"You heard me," you pressed, taking a step closer. "You bark all these orders, expect all this respect... but you're hiding behind a mask. It's hard to take seriously. It makes me wonder if you're even a real person under there, or if you're just as ugly on the outside as you are on the inside."
That was it. The line. You watched as his control, the thing he held onto with an iron grip, finally splintered. He turned. The skull mask was a twisted, grinning horror in the dim light.
"You think this is about respect?" he growled, taking a step toward you. "You think I give a single fuck if you, a cocky little sergeant who thinks the rules don't apply to her, respects me?"
You held your ground, even as he closed the distance, looming over you.
"I think it's about leadership. And I can't follow a ghost."
He let out a dark, humorless laugh.
"You want to see my face, is that it? You think that'll make you obey orders?"
"I think it'd be a start," you shot back, your chin jutting out defiantly. "What's the matter, Simon? Scared I'll laugh? Or is it worse than that?"
His hand twitched, and for a second, you thought he might actually touch you. His anger was a palpable force, rolling off him in waves. His chest rose and fell with heavy, controlled breaths.
"You have no fucking idea—" he began, but he was cut off by a sharp crackle in his earpiece.
"Riley, this is Price. Do you copy?"
Ghost froze. He turned his head slightly, his jaw clenched. You saw the war on his face—the desire to finish this conversation with you warring with his ingrained discipline. Discipline won.
"Copy, Captain," he said, his voice suddenly devoid of all emotion.
"We've got new intel. The target's meeting a bigger fish in two hours. Location's a warehouse thirty klicks east of your position. We need eyes on it. You're mobile?"
Ghost's gaze flicked to you, a look of frustrated fury in his eye. He was being pulled away from you, forced back into the role of Lieutenant.
"Affirmative. We're mobile."
"Good. Rendezvous at the old textile mill. We'll send coordinates. Watch your six, the area's hot. Price out."
The comms went dead. The silence in the tower was deafening. Ghost stared at you. The moment was broken, the tension shattered by the call of duty.
He moved without another word, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and starting to pack up the gear with brutal efficiency. He shoved the scope into its case with angry movements.
You watched him for a moment, your own heart still hammering. You'd pushed him, and you'd seen the rage simmering just beneath the surface. It was exhilarating and terrifying. You started to pack your own gear, the silence between you now a chasm filled with unspoken threats and promises.
As you zipped up your pack, he spoke. His voice was low, directed at the floor.
"When we get to that mill," he said, "you will be a professional soldier. You will follow my orders without question. You will not speak unless spoken to. And you will not," he finally looked up, his gaze pinning you to the spot, "mention my fucking face again. Are we clear, Sergeant?"
You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry. For the first time, you heard the command in his voice, not just the anger. You gave a short, sharp nod. "Clear, Lieutenant."
"Good," he grunted, turning back to his gear. "Because next time, I won't be responsible for what happens." The threat hung in the air between you, a promise of a reckoning that was just out of reach.
He was lying. You could see it in the way he moved. The way he kept his back to you for a beat longer than necessary after his gear was packed. The tension in his shoulders hadn't eased; it had coiled tighter.
You slung your own pack over your shoulder. You had one foot on the first step down when he spoke again.
"Stop."
A command, sharp and absolute. You froze, your hand on the rusted railing. You turned your head, looking back at him. He was still facing the window, his silhouette a dark shape against the grey light.
"Simon?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.
He moved then. It wasn't the slow, predatory advance from before. It was a blur of motion. He crossed the space between you. His hand shot out for the front of your tactical vest. He fisted the heavy material and yanked.
The air left your lungs in a gasp as you were hauled off your feet. Your boots scraped against the floor before you were lifted, your entire body suspended in the air, your face level with his. The strength in the single movement was staggering.
He slammed you backward. The impact with the large window was jarring, the glass rattling in its frame. A whimper of surprise escaped your lips as your pack was crushed between your back and the cold, damp pane.
His face was inches from yours, the skull mask a terrifying void.
"You wanted to see my fucking face?" he snarled, his voice stripped of all its military polish. "You wanted to see what's under here?"
His free hand came up to his mask, his fingers hooking under the hem. You were still reeling, your hands flying up to claw at his arm, at his chest, trying to find purchase. His grip on your vest was unyielding, an iron shackle holding you captive.
He yanked the mask up, just enough. It wasn't a full reveal, just a teasing glimpse. The bottom half of his face was exposed. His jaw was clenched, a thick, dark stubble shadowing his skin, stark against the fabric pulled up over his nose. And his mouth... it was full, a beautiful, cruel slash in his face, twisted in a snarl.
You stopped struggling. Your breath caught in your throat. He wasn't ugly. He was the furthest thing from it. He was all harsh angles and raw masculinity, a stark contrast to the cold, inhuman mask.
And then his mouth was on yours.
It was an assault. It was punishment. His lips crushed against yours, hard and demanding, fueled by the hours of frustration you'd heaped on him. It was sloppy, all anger and barely contained rage. His stubble scraped against your upper lip, a burning, delicious friction.
You fought it for a second, your hands pushing against his chest. But his taste, the raw, masculine scent of him flooded your senses. Your resistance crumbled. A soft, involuntary moan escaped you, and your hands slid up, no longer pushing but clinging. They wrapped around the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, under the edge of the mask.
The shift in your response was all the permission he needed. The kiss deepened, the anger giving way to a hungry heat. He angled his head, slanting his mouth over yours, his tongue sweeping in to claim yours. It was a filthy kiss, one that promised all the things his threats had only hinted at. He tasted of sin, and you were lost.
He finally broke the kiss, both of you breathing heavily. He held you there, pinned against the window, his dark eyes—those beautiful, stormy eyes—boring into yours. He was still holding his mask up, the glimpse of his face a shocking, intimate secret.
"That's what's under the mask," he rasped, his voice thick and gravelly. "That's what you get when you push me too far. Now, are you going to be a good little soldier and follow my orders? Or do I need to fuck the brat out of you right here, right now?"
Your mind was a haze of lust and adrenaline. Your body was thrumming, pressed against his, aching for more. You licked your swollen lips, tasting him there. You knew, with absolute certainty, that this was a point of no return. You could nod, agree to be his soldier, and see what happened next. Or you could keep pushing, and see if he'd make good on his threat.
A slow, wicked smile curved your lips. You let one of your hands slide down from his neck, tracing the hard muscle of his chest until you reached the front of his pants. You pressed your palm against the hard, thick length straining against the fabric.
"I think," you whispered, your voice husky, "you need to be more convincing, Lieutenant."
His eyes flashed. The corner of his mouth kicked up in a dark, feral smile that was more terrifying and more arousing than anything you'd ever seen.
"Your funeral," he growled.
He didn't give you another chance to speak. He crushed his mouth to yours again, and the world outside the rain-streaked window ceased to exist.
The kiss was a brand, searing away every coherent thought. His hand released your vest only to fist in your hair, craning your head back to give him better access. You were no longer pinned against the window; you were plastered against him, the hard lines of his body a contrast to the heat of his mouth.
He broke away with a ragged gasp, his forehead pressing against yours. His breathing was as labored as yours.
"Down," he commanded. He didn't wait for you to obey. He used the grip in your hair to push you down, guiding you to your knees on the cold, dirty floor.
You landed with a soft thud, looking up at him. He was a dark god towering over you, the skull mask a grim reaper's visage above the exposed, sensual line of his mouth.
"You wanted this," he snarled, his hands moving with frantic, angry precision. He ripped open the Velcro on your vest, yanking it over your head and tossing it aside. "You just couldn't fucking leave it alone, could you?"
His movements were rough, but not careless. He freed your breasts from your shirt and bra with a single, impatient tug. The cool air pebbled your skin, but you barely felt the cold.
"On your fucking knees and stay there," he ordered, his hand going to the rifle slung across his chest. He lifted it, not aiming it, but holding it with casual, terrifying ease, the barrel pointed in your general direction. It was a threat, a reminder of the power he held. "Don't move."
The message was clear: this was still a punishment. You were at his mercy, and he was going to take what he wanted. And God help you, you wanted to take it. You knelt, panting, your hands at your sides, your eyes locked on his.
He kept the rifle trained on you with one hand while the other worked at his own belt. The sound of the buckle and zipper was obscenely loud. He freed himself, his cock springing out, thick and hard and flushed a dark, angry red. He was huge, and the sight of him made your mouth water.
"Open your mouth," he commanded. "And if you think about using those teeth, I will make you regret it."
You did as you were told, your lips parting. He stepped closer, the head of his cock brushing against your lower lip. He hesitated for a fraction of a second, the conflict warring in his eyes. Then, with a guttural groan, he pushed forward, sliding into your mouth.
The taste of him, salty and musky, exploded on your tongue. He was hot and heavy, filling your mouth completely. He kept the gun trained on you for a few heartbeats, a final, chilling reminder of his control. Then, as you swirled your tongue around him, his hand finally dropped the rifle. It clattered to the floor, forgotten.
His other hand flew to the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair again. "Fuck," he growled, the word torn from his throat. "Look what you fucking made me do."
You hummed in response, the vibration making his hips jerk. You set to work, your head bobbing as you took him as deep as you could, your hands coming up to brace against his powerful thighs. This was no longer a punishment; it was a conquest. You were going to undo him, piece by piece.
He started to move, his hips thrusting shallowly, fucking your mouth with a growing urgency. His breathing was coming in harsh pants, the only sound over the rain on the roof. You looked up at him, meeting his intense gaze, and the look on his face—raw, unguarded pleasure—was your undoing.
He seemed to realize he was losing control. With a snarl, he pulled back, his cock slipping from your lips with an obscene pop. He tried to step back, to regain the upper hand.
"Enough," he bit out, his voice rough.
You weren't having it. You surged forward, catching him off guard. Before he could react, you lunged up for his hand. You grabbed his wrist and yanked his gloved fingers toward your mouth, sinking your teeth into the leather and fabric over his palm.
He hissed in surprise and pain, his body going rigid. "You little—"
You bit down harder, a warning. You released him and glared up at him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
"Don't you dare pull away from me," you panted, your voice fierce. "You started this. You finish it."
He stared at you, his chest heaving. The skull mask made his expression unreadable, but his eyes... they were burning. He looked at you like you were a puzzle he was finally solving. Then, he did something you never expected. He laughed. It was a dark, utterly feral sound.
He yanked off his gloves, tossing them aside, and reached for you again. This time, there was no anger in his movements, only a desperate, consuming need. He hauled you to your feet and spun you around, pressing you against the window ledge once more. His hands were on your pants, roughly tugging them down over your hips.
"Too many fucking clothes," he muttered against your ear. His hands, finally bare, were hot on your skin as he shoved your pants and underwear down to your knees. The contrast of his warm, calloused palms on the cool skin of your ass made you shiver.
You reached back, your own hands fumbling with his shirt, desperate to feel him. You pulled it from his pants, your fingers sliding underneath to touch the hard, warm plane of his stomach. You felt the taut muscle there, and a low groan rumbled in his chest. The sound was pure victory.
His hand slid around your hip, between your thighs, finding you wet and ready for him. "Fuck," he breathed, his fingers sliding through your folds with a deliberate, teasing slowness that made your knees buckle. He held you up with his other arm, his body a solid wall behind you.
Just as he was about to sink a finger inside you, a sharp, static-filled crackle erupted from his discarded vest on the floor.
"Ghost, this is Price. Do you copy? What's your status, over?"
Ghost froze, his hand still cupping you. He let out a string of profanities so low and creative they made your head spin. He pressed his forehead against your shoulder, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.
He reached over, snatching the comms unit with his free hand. "Copy, Price," he said, his voice impressively steady, if a little strained. "Just... a minor gear malfunction. We're on our way out."
"Good. Don't be late. Price out."
The line went dead. He dropped the comms unit on the pile of clothes. You felt his cock, still hard and heavy, press against your ass. He turned his head, his lips brushing your ear.
"Ten minutes," he growled, his finger finally pushing inside you. "You've got ten fucking minutes to make me forget every goddamn rule I just broke. Starting now."
His finger was thick, calloused, and utterly devastating. He curled it inside you. He added a second finger, stretching you, the slight burn quickly giving way to a deep, pulsing pleasure.
You couldn't hold back your moans. The sound echoed off the stone walls, shameless and loud. If anyone was within a mile of the tower, they would know exactly what was happening. The thought only spurred you on.
"Simon," you gasped, your head falling back against his chest. "Fuck, your fingers... they're so big."
He groaned against your back. His thumb found your clit, circling it with a pressure that had your legs trembling.
"Talk to me," he commanded, his voice a harsh whisper. "Tell me what you want."
You laughed, a breathy sound. "You want me to talk dirty, Lieutenant? You want to hear how good you're making me feel?"
"Yes," he hissed, his fingers pumping faster.
"I'm so fucking wet for you," you panted, your hips rocking back against his hand. "I've been wet for you for hours. Thinking about you pushing me up against this wall, taking what you wanted from me."
He made a choked sound, his control clearly slipping. He yanked his hand from between your legs, leaving you feeling suddenly, achingly empty. Before you could protest, he spun you around, lifting you onto the narrow window ledge. He kicked your pants and boots the rest of the way off, leaving you completely bare from the waist down.
He knelt before you, a dark, worshipful and terrifying sight. He pushed your thighs apart, his hands gripping them tightly. "I need to taste you," he growled, the words a primal declaration.
He didn't wait for an answer. He leaned in and dragged his tongue through your folds in one long, slow stroke. The sound that tore from your throat was obscene. He groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body.
"Fuck, you taste so good," he murmured, his voice muffled. He licked and sucked, his mouth working you with a desperate, hungry intensity. Your hands flew to his head, your fingers gripping the edge of his mask, holding him against you as you writhed on the ledge.
"Simon, please," you begged, not even sure what you were begging for. More? Less? Release? "Please."
He pulled back, his chin glistening with you. He looked up, his dark eyes locking with yours. "You're going to come on my tongue," he stated, it wasn't a question. "And then I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't remember your own name, let alone mine. Understand?"
You could only manage a choked nod, words shredded by the pleasure searing through you. He buried his face against you again, his tongue a hot, wet lash against your clit as his thick fingers thrust deep to replace his mouth. The obscene sounds of his fingers pumping your slick cunt, combined with the hungry slurping of his mouth, were a symphony of filth that had you crying out. His tongue was a devil, flicking and circling with a brutal precision that made your thighs shake. He wasn't just eating you out; he was fucking devouring you. This goddamn Ghost was a fucking master at it.
The pressure coiled deep in your gut, a white-hot inferno that threatened to incinerate you from the inside out. His tongue was a masterful tormentor, his fingers a relentless invasion. It was too much, it wasn't enough. You were on the edge of a precipice, and he was the only thing holding you there.
Then, he did something that shattered you completely. He reached up with his free hand, the one not buried inside you, and offered it to you. It was a gesture so startlingly intimate, so out of place in this desperate encounter, that it broke something open inside you. You stared at his hand, large and calloused, the knuckles scarred, and then you looked at his eyes, burning up at you from between your thighs.
You took it.
You laced your fingers through his, a desperate clinging grip. He squeezed back, his hand firm and grounding, a silent promise that he was there, that he had you. He was the anchor in the storm of sensation he was creating, and you hated him for it. You hated how much you needed it, how much you loved this raw, painful intimacy.
The pressure broke.
Your orgasm tore through you, a violent, seismic event that ripped a scream from your lungs. You weren't just coming, you were unraveling, every nerve ending firing at once. Your back arched, your body convulsing, and you squeezed his hand so hard you thought you might break his fingers.
He didn't stop. He drank you down, his tongue lapping at your release as if it were the sweetest nectar. He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your oversensitive flesh, pulling another, smaller wave of pleasure from your exhausted body.
When it was over, you were a boneless, panting mess, slumped against the cold glass of the window. He finally pulled back, his chin glistening, his chest heaving. He stood up slowly, his cock jutting out, impossibly hard and flushed a dark, angry red. He didn't let go of your hand. He kept his grip firm as he grabbed your hip with his other hand, pulling you to the very edge of the ledge. He was going to fuck you now, and you were going to let him, your hand still clasped in his, a silent, damning testament to the fact that you were his.
"Time's up," he rasped, lining himself up with your entrance. "Brace yourself, Sergeant."
He pushed inside you in one long, powerful thrust. The stretch was intense, a burning, full sensation that stole your breath. He was big, and he filled you completely, hitting places deep inside you that you didn't know existed. A low, guttural sound escaped your lips, your head falling back against the window.
He didn't give you time to adjust. He set a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping against yours, the sound of skin on skin loud and primal in the quiet room. His hands were everywhere, gripping your hips, sliding up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your sensitive nipples.
"Fuck," he groaned, his eyes fixed on where your bodies were joined. "You're so fucking tight. Squeezing my cock like this..."
You couldn't form words. The pleasure was too overwhelming. All you could do was hold on, your nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt. Your mouth hung open, a string of saliva escaping to trail down your chin. You were gone, lost in the raw, animalistic way he was taking you.
He seemed to notice your state, a dark satisfaction in his eyes. He leaned forward, capturing your mouth in a deep, possessive kiss. He swallowed your moans, his tongue dueling with yours. Every time a particularly hard thrust made you cry out, he kissed you harder, silencing you and demanding everything you had.
"Can't take it, Sergeant?" he teased, his voice a rough pant against your lips. He pulled back slightly, watching your face with an intensity that was almost too much to bear. "Is my cock too much for you?"
You shook your head, your hands fisting in his shirt. "No," you managed to gasp. "Don't you dare stop."
He chuckled, a dark, sexy sound. "That's my girl," he praised. He slid one hand down to where you were joined, his thumb finding your clit again. The dual sensation of him pounding into you and his skilled fingers on your most sensitive spot was too much.
The pressure built again, faster and more intense than before.
"Simon, I'm gonna come again," you whimpered, a warning. You'd never... you'd never done this before. Not like this.
He just smirked, that feral light back in his eyes. "Do it," he commanded. "Come all over my cock."
And you did. The orgasm ripped through you, and with it came a gush of fluid that soaked both of you. You cried out in shock and pleasure as you felt yourself gush around him, the wetness coating his thighs and the floor below.
Ghost froze, his eyes widening in surprise. He looked down, then back up at you, a look of utter, unadulterated awe on his face. "Fuck me," he breathed, his voice full of wonder. "You're a squirter."
Before you could feel an ounce of embarrassment, he kissed you again, a deep, filthy kiss that seemed to say he loved it. He didn't stop, didn't even slow down. He kept fucking you through your aftershocks, his movements becoming more erratic, more desperate.
"Such a good fucking girl," he praised, his voice breaking. "So fucking perfect. Made a mess all over me, and I'm going to fill you up."
With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself and came with a deep, shuddering groan. You felt the hot pulse of him inside you, filling you up, just as he'd promised. He stayed like that for a long moment, his forehead resting against yours, both of you trying to catch your breath.
Finally, he pulled out, a soft whimper escaping you at the loss. He reached down, grabbing your hand with a surprising tenderness, and helped you off the ledge. As soon as your feet touched the floor, he gently pushed you to your knees again.
"Open your mouth," he ordered softly. You obeyed, looking up at him. He took his still-hard cock in his hand and stroked it, aiming it at your face. You watched, mesmerized, as he brought himself to the edge again with a few quick tugs.
"Simon," you breathed, your tongue darting out to wet your lips.
He came with a low, drawn-out moan that was the sexiest thing you'd ever heard. Hot, thick ropes of cum splashed across your face, painting your lips, your cheeks, your forehead. He held your hand the entire time, his grip firm and grounding.
When he was spent, he looked down at you, a smug, satisfied look in his eyes. "Fuckin' beautiful," he murmured, his voice husky. He reached down, using his thumb to smear his cum across your lower lip. "Now swallow."
You did, your eyes never leaving his. He let go of your hand and stepped back, his chest still heaving. He looked around the room, at the discarded gear, the puddle on the floor, and then back at you, kneeling on the ground, covered in him. A slow, genuine smile spread across his exposed lips.
"Price is going to kill me," he said, but there was no regret in his voice. He reached down, pulling you to your feet. "Come on, Sergeant. Let's get cleaned up. We have a meeting to get to."
He finally pulled the mask all the way off, tucking it into his belt. He was just as handsome as you'd imagined, all sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw, his eyes a warm, rich brown you could get lost in. He handed you your shirt, his touch lingering.
"And after the mission," he said, his voice dropping to a low, promising rumble, "we're going to finish this. Properly. In a bed. For about a week."
You smiled back, feeling a dizzying mix of satisfaction, exhaustion, and anticipation. The mission wasn't over, but you knew, without a doubt, that something fundamental had just changed between you.
"Looking forward to it, Simon," you replied.
He just chuckled, pulling you in for one last, searing kiss before you both frantically got dressed, the clock ticking relentlessly on.
A/N: The requested part 2 to my Mob!Bucky fic, which you can find here if you haven't read it. I became possessed by an idea and this is the result. I really hope you guys like it :)
Summary: Bucky finally gets permission from your father to take you out to dinner, in exchange for a favor. Said favor makes him disastrously late for said dinner. How can he possibly make it up to his princess?
Word Count: 3.4k
Content: some depiction of minor injuries, mention of firearm possession, Smut (18+ MDNI) - oral f receiving, p in v, mating press, heel kink, some brat taming if you squint
“With your permission, sir, I'd like to take your daughter out to dinner.”
Bucky had rehearsed this moment in his head for two months. Two months of sneaking around, of hooking up in cars and ordering takeout instead of sitting down to dinner where you could be seen with him. Two months of you nagging him to talk to your father so that you could go on an actual date for a change.
All that waiting, all that rehearsal, and he still feels his knees shaking just a little, his heart pounding in his chest as he meets your father’s eyes with an unwavering gaze. If nothing else, he will appear unafraid, even if inside he’s shitting bricks.
Your father, sitting back in his chair with his hands folded casually in his lap, lets the silence swell for a moment, his eyes piercing Bucky’s. Bucky could practically feel the air flex around him, every molecule in the room responding to your father’s authority, his power.
Slowly, he leans forward, his expression unchanged. “Run that by me one more time.”
Bucky swallows, already feeling nervous sweat beading at the back of his neck. He refuses to let it show. Instead, he stands up straighter and explains, “You know that we spent all that time together on the road. I think she’s a great girl. She's smart, and tough, and surprisingly sweet, and…” Bucky trails off, shaking his head. He’s talking too much. “Anyway, I’d like to… take her out, show her a nice time. But you’re the boss, so if it’s a no, it’s a no.”
He needs it to not be a no. You’ll never let him hear the end of it if it’s a no.
Your father’s eyes narrow by a fraction. He takes his time considering, looking Bucky up and down as he does. Evaluating him.
“You’ll be respectful? Hold doors open for her, get her home safe?”
“Yes, sir.”
"And you understand the consequences if you mess this up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you break her heart, I’ll break you.”
He doesn’t say it threateningly. He delivers it as fact, like he’s observing that the sky is blue.
Bucky swallows again. “I understand.”
After a moment, your father breaks into an amiable smile, which is honestly more terrifying than the expression he’d worn before. “Good. I don’t see why not.” He points a thick finger at Bucky’s chest, warning him, “But you better show her a nice time.”
Bucky breathes a quiet sigh of relief and nods stoically. “Thank you, sir. I will.”
As Bucky turns to leave, assuming he’s been dismissed, your father rises from his chair and walks around the edge of his desk.
“Not so fast.” He claps a large hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “You wanna take my daughter out, I’m calling in a favor.”
Bucky winces. That can’t be good.
Three fucking hours late.
You’d put on the dress and the heels and the lipstick, dolled up in the exact way you knew would test Bucky’s patience in public, and you waited. And waited. And waited some more.
No call, no text, nothing. Your calls went straight to voicemail.
Suffice to say, you’re royally pissed. Whenever you see him next, you plan to rip him a new one.
You debate calling up a girlfriend and hitting a club, letting Bucky see on your instagram story exactly what he’s missing. But you don’t, because you already know your bad mood would just infect everything around you.
You throw your shoes across the living room and collapse on the couch, sulking.
At 11:13 pm, the man of the hour finally rolls in the door, letting himself in with the spare key you’d given him two weeks ago.
“Sorry I'm late, babe,” he calls out, hanging up his jacket and setting down a black gym bag in the dim light of the entryway.
Fuming, you launch yourself up off the couch and plant your hands on your hips. “Is that all you have to say for yourself? I waited three fuckin’ hours for you.”
Bucky makes a beeline for the kitchen, barely even glancing in your direction. “I got caught up. Family shit.”
Family shit. Code for anything involving his particular line of work that you weren’t privy to know. The excuse did absolutely nothing for you.
“Do you know how hard it was to get that reservation?” you call after him, your voice gaining a shrill edge as it bounces off the walls of the hallway. “There’s not another open table for two weeks, Buck.”
The faucet in the kitchen turns on. “I said I'm sorry,” he snaps over the quiet roar of running water.
That makes you see red, and you storm down the hall, bursting into the kitchen. “Don’t you take that tone with me—”
The admonishment dies in your throat as you take in the sight of Bucky standing over the sink, his cheekbone marred with a cut and his bloodied knuckles thrust under the flow of the faucet.
“Christ, that fuckin’ stings,” he mutters to himself.
Guilt washes over your temper like cold water. You'd been so angry that you hadn’t even considered why he was late, hadn’t even thought to be worried about him.
You grab the first aid kit from a nearby cabinet and face him. “Bucky.”
He grunts, “I’ll be fine, I just need to—”
“Come here.” you say firmly. When he doesn’t move, your voice grows sharper. “Now.”
Bucky sighs, dries his hands, and reluctantly approaches you, looking every bit like a kicked puppy. You hop up onto the counter to better see what you’re doing, dig around in the kit for an antiseptic wipe, and clean the cut on Bucky's cheekbone.
He stands between your knees, his palms warm against your thighs. “I really tried to make it on time,” he says apologetically. “Things got a little hairy.”
“Are you all right?” you ask, unwrapping a small bandage and pressing it carefully over the cut.
“Just a scratch.” The corner of his mouth curls upward at your dubious and concerned expression. “I'm all right, I promise.”
All of your ire from before deflates out of you, and you drape your arms around his shoulders, drawing him closer. “C’mere.”
Bucky wraps his arms around your waist and melts into your embrace, tucking his head into the crook of your neck and sighing. Tension bleeds out of him as you hold him tight, rubbing slow strokes along his spine. With every touch, you try to tell him — you’re safe. You're here. You're home.
Eventually, he lifts his head, his hands wandering to your hips as he looks you over with a particular type of gaze — soft, and just a little hungry.
“You look pretty,” he remarks, squeezing your hips. “You get all dressed up like this for me?”
You roll your eyes playfully. “Restaurant has a dress code.” Leaning in close, you add as a concession, “But I did pick the color for you.”
He closes the distance to your lips and kisses you deeply, humming appreciatively as he runs his hands along your curves. It's your turn to melt into it, your body turning pliant underneath his touch.
“Got you somethin’,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the hollow below your ear, earning a little shiver from you. “Earlier today, before everything went south.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah.” He shoots you a roguish grin, the troubles from earlier tonight fading to the background. “You wanna see?”
You nod, biting your lip excitedly. Bucky isn’t one for frills himself, but he likes to spoil you, and he’s good at it, too. The last gift he procured for you, a beautiful pair of earrings, sparkle in your earlobes at this very moment. He likes when you show off his gifts.
Bucky slips back down the hall to grab his bag, and when he returns, he holds a cardboard shoebox in hand with a familiar logo printed on the top.
You gasp in delight and snatch the box, throwing aside the top of it. Inside, beautiful patent leather shines back at you — luxurious, red-soled stiletto pumps. Louboutin.
“Oh my god. They’re gorgeous,” you whisper, lifting one of the shoes carefully out of the box to examine it from every angle. Catching the self-satisfied smile on Bucky's face, you raise an eyebrow at him. “You're not gonna give me some bullshit story about these falling off a truck, are you?”
“Need-to-know only, princess,” he replies, kissing your cheek. “Try ‘em on for me.”
As slow as a striptease, Bucky runs his hand along the length of your leg until he reaches your ankle, and slips one of the heels onto your foot. It fits perfectly, of course, because Bucky is a man who pays attention. He repeats the gesture with your other foot. You stretch your leg out in front of you, rotating your ankle so that the patent leather glitters in the kitchen light.
“Oh, Bucky,” you coo. “I love them. Thank you.”
“You forgive me?” he asks, settling between your knees again, his hands wandering to your waist, thumbs pressing little circles through the fabric of your dress.
You tilt your head, presenting to consider. “You might have to work a little harder for my forgiveness.”
“You love to make me work for it, don’t you?”
“Maybe.”
Bucky tugs you forward to the edge of the counter, pressing you against him completely. He kisses you slow and lazy, the hunger still there, but rumbling below the desire to savor, to revel in the taste of you.
You wrap your legs around his waist, letting him feel every inch of your body against his, letting yourself feel every inch of his cock as it hardens between you. You nip his lower lip teasingly, in an effort to wind him up a bit.
It works. With a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl, Bucky pulls down the front of your dress to access your breasts, which are just barely still covered in the scrap of lace that somehow qualifies as a bra. Just as you open your mouth to nag him not to stretch the dress (because it’s designer, of course), he closes his mouth over one of your nipples, sucking hard through the fabric. You gasp and tangle your fingers into his hair, manicured nails grazing his scalp and drawing a moan out of him that vibrates against your skin.
As he lavishes your chest with his tongue, you writhe against him, the hem of your dress rucking up around your hips, one of your shoes falling loose and dangling off your toe. Bucky slides down the zipper of your dress like he handles a weapon — careful but certain, reverent but restrained — and he pulls the garment up, off. When his eyes settle on the matching lace underwear and bra that lay underneath, his eyes grow dark, starved.
Smoothly, he catches the dangling heel before it falls and slips it back into your foot. “Keep ‘em on,” he says, his voice low and a little dangerous. “You look too pretty in them to take ‘em off yet.”
He sinks to his knees right there in the kitchen, bringing the warmth of his mouth to the inside of your thigh. Your hand finds his hair again, tugging him towards where you want him, but he ignores you, preferring to take his time working up the velvet soft skin of your thigh. When you tug again, Bucky sinks his teeth into you, not hard enough to draw blood, but certainly not gently. You yelp, indignant, and then your complaint fizzles out into a moan as his tongue soothes the wound.
“You trying to boss me around, princess?” he teases, then leans down to suck a mark into your skin.
“Bucky,” you complain breathlessly, pushing weakly at his head.
“What? No one’s gonna see it here.” He pulls back to admire his handiwork, absently grazing his thumb over the soaked fabric of your panties with a feather-light touch. "Don't worry, I’m not gonna get you in trouble with daddy dearest.”
As he continues his slow journey up your thigh – leaving bites and marks as he pleases, persisting in his teasing strokes against your panties that are just shy of the pressure you need – you groan, frustrated and needy, tugging once again on his hair.
A strong hand grips your wrist, and Bucky looks up at you again, his expression stern. “Is that any way to get what you want?” He pins your hand to the countertop, and with his other hand he gently pulls the lace to the side, exposing you completely to him. “Ask me nice, and maybe then I'll give it to you.”
Smirking, Bucky blows cool air over your glistening cunt, and you shudder, feeling the irresistible tug of surrender.
“Please, Bucky,” you beg, “Want your mouth so bad.”
“Better.” His smirk softens, and he presses an open-mouthed kiss right over your clit, perfect but fleeting as he pulls back to reply.
“Let me make it up to you, baby.”
Then he drags the flat of his tongue along the length of you, briefly dipping into your entrance before continuing his ascent. You gasp, struggling to keep your balance on your countertop perch as you throw your head back in pleasure.
As Bucky devours you, slowly and thoroughly, you try not to clamp your thighs around his face, mindful of his injured cheekbone. Bucky, however, doesn’t seem to have any reservations about this, and seems almost offended that you’re holding back. He buries his face between your legs, fucking you relentlessly with his tongue in an effort to make you let go.
Against your judgment, you do, your trembling thighs pressing in against his ears. As you rock your hips towards his face, you wobble atop the countertop momentarily and, completely by accident, scrape one of your heels along the muscle of his back.
Before you can apologize, Bucky lets out a muffled, strangled noise as if he’s the one seconds from coming, not you. Stunned and deeply aroused, you experimentally press the heel in again, testing the sharp wood against firm muscle. He practically growls and latches his mouth over your clit, lips sucking, tongue swirling. Without warning, your orgasm pulses through you like a shockwave, overwhelming, cataclysmic.
You dig both heels in then, shamelessly riding his face through the crest of it. Bucky groans against you as he works you through your climax, hands gripping your hips so hard they’re sure to leave marks. He laps at you until you’re shaking all over, until you push at his head pathetically again.
As soon as Bucky rises to his feet, he scoops you into his arms bridal-style, carrying you to bed like a gallant knight carrying a damsel in distress. You suppose you are — your need for him is considerably distressing.
He places you down on the mattress and begins peeling off your undergarments, careful to adjust the fit of your heel when he almost pulls it off along with your panties.
The gesture makes you smile, and you place your heeled foot against his chest. “Bucky Barnes, do you have a thing for heels?” you ask cheekily.
“I have a thing for you,” he replies, with a kiss and nip at the inside of your ankle. “But these are sorta doin’ something to me.”
You gently nudge his cheek with the toe of your shoe. “Are you gonna take your clothes off or not?”
Bucky shakes his head. “Try again.”
Sitting up, you reach for his belt buckle and bat your eyes a little for good measure. “Bucky, please take your clothes off and fuck me.”
Finally, he tugs his shirt overhead and smiles wickedly down at you. “She can be taught.”
Eagerly, you unfasten his belt and lay back, practicing patience as he takes his gun out of his waistband, peels off the rest of his clothes and rolls a condom onto himself.
“So pretty,” he croons, easing himself over you. “Laid out for me wearing nothing but these.” His nose nudges the delicate jewelry dangling from your earlobes, then his teeth graze the shell of your ear, making you shiver.
Manhandling you a little, he sweeps up your legs, pressing forward until you’re folded in half beneath him and your legs are up by his shoulders.
“And those,” he adds, turning his head to admire your heels, rutting his cock lazily through your wetness. “Should be illegal.”
“I have the sense that it might be, Buck,” you say breathlessly.
He grins. “Details, details.”
You both groan simultaneously when he pushes in, the angle allowing him to fill you so deep you feel him everywhere. Some faraway part of your brain thinks that you wouldn’t mind him messing up every now and again if this is how he makes it up to you. And when he starts moving, all parts of your brain go dumb.
Every thrust makes the headboard thud against the wall, makes you mewl and cry out his name like it’s the only word you know. Pressed beneath him like this, you can only grasp at the sheets like they’ll somehow keep you tethered to earth, can only throw your head back in ecstasy.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he rasps as you clench around him. “Always take me so well. You feel like a fuckin’ dream.”
“Bucky, please, I'm so close—“
“Come on, princess,” he encourages you, thumb finding your clit with ease and stroking you in time with his thrusts. “Show me how good I make you feel.”
He drives into that spot inside of you that makes your vision blur, makes everything disappear except him and his cock and the all-consuming pleasure that rushes through you. As your muscles lock and you whimper deliciously and your insides squeeze around him in waves, Bucky shudders and buries himself to the hilt, spilling into the condom with your name on his lips.
When his little aftershock-thrusts subside, he carefully unfolds you, looking you over to make sure he didn’t get too carried away. When all he finds is a blissed out expression on your face, he kisses your cheek, stepping away to dispose of the condom and grab something to clean you up with.
In the afterglow, he collapses half on top of you, his head resting heavy against your stomach, occasionally brushing his lips against the soft skin just below your ribs.
“You may consider yourself forgiven,” you declare as you card your fingers through his sex-mussed locks.
He smiles, victorious. “I still wanna go to that fancy restaurant with you. What are you doing in two weeks?”
"Putting on another fancy dress and making you work for it again.”
“Sounds perfect.” Another kiss, this one just above your navel. “Did you eat?”
“No, I was too mad to be hungry,” you admit.
“What about now?”
You consider for a moment, then reply decisively. “I want pizza.”
He chuckles. “That's my girl. I'll order Sal’s.”
As Bucky reaches for his phone and rolls onto his back, you watch him, the echo of ‘my girl’ looping in your ears like a beloved song you can’t get out of your head, and don’t want to.
The order placed and phone tossed aside, Bucky returns his attention to you, eyes warm and soft in the low light.
“I’m sorry you had a rough night,” you murmur, resting a hand against his chest.
He shrugs. “Eh, it was worth it.”
When you raise an eyebrow at this, he sighs and explains, “I was doin’ your dad a favor. It was a bargaining chip that let me finally take you out in the first place, ironically.”
Suddenly, your heart feels a little too large for your chest. “Bucky…”
“Told you, worth it,” he repeats, like he didn’t risk life and limb tonight just for the privilege of being seen with you in public.
You feel a surge of affection, too strong to contain, so you wriggle close to him, wind your arms around his torso, and squeeze him so hard it knocks a laugh out of him.
“I really, really like you, Bucky Barnes," you mumble into his chest.
He takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of your hair, brushes his lips momentarily against the crown of your head. “Feeling’s mutual, princess.”
Summary: His biggest pet peeve is being hung up on. So.. actions have consequences.
Pairing: Michael B. Jordan x Black!Reader
Warnings: daddy kink (I had to LMAO), brat!reader, hair pulling, rough sex, dom/sub energy, choking, use of N-word bc I CAN
hehe i had something else up my sleeve :) enjoy
It starts like every fight does: with something small.
A text left on read leads to a shift in tone. Or an errand she didn’t run, or one he didn’t ask for nicely enough. The fuse was already lit, but neither of them could ever leave it at a low simmer.
“Why you always gotta say shit like that, Michael?” she snaps, pacing the living room with her phone in one hand, speaker on, while her friends sat on FaceTime on her laptop. “You don’t ask – you tell. Like I’m supposed to jump when you tell me to.”
Michael’s sigh is heavy on the other end. Too calm. Too deliberate. “Because every time I ask you to do something, you catch an attitude like you just did.”
“Because I don’t like being bossed around!” she fires back instantly, heat rising in her voice. “I’m grown. I don’t need to be managed.”
“I’m not trying to manage you. I’m trying to help you not burn yourself out–”
“Then stop acting like I don’t know how to handle my own shit!” she cuts in again, voice sharp and unwavering.
He goes quiet. Not defeated… Calculating. She knows that silence by now. It’s not retreat, it’s containment.
But her blood’s already boiling. That headstrong fire in her chest keeps pushing. “You don’t get to tell me how to do me, Michael. I don’t care how many times you think you’ve been around the block–”
He cuts her off this time. Firm. “Will you shut up for one goddamn second?”
The air shifts. Her mouth opens, then closes. No one’s ever told her to shut up like that. Not like that. It’s not cruel, not abusive. But it is authoritative. Stern and low, laced with a patience so razor-thin it could slice clean through her next sentence.
Her throat tightens. It’s instinctual, the way her pulse thuds. The silence on her end stretches for a moment too long.
“Are you done?” he asks, quieter now. More like a warning, than an actual question to be answered.
Something about his tone makes her feel cornered, like a match pressed too close to oil. So instead of backing down, she doubles down.
“Y’know what?” Her voice is cold now. “Bye.”
And just like that, she hangs up.
That’s the part she should’ve thought twice about. Because if there’s one thing Michael doesn’t do, it’s being hung up on. Not by producers, not by directors, and definitely not by her.
But in the moment, it feels like a win. She tosses her phone on the counter and exhales, shaking out her hands. Her friends are mid-FaceTime, witnessing the entire blow-up from their side of the screens – jaws agape and eyes wide.
“Whewwww.” Tati whistles, “You really hung up on him?”
“Sure did,” she says, her chin lifted. She squares her shoulders like she’s proud. Like she didn’t just pour gasoline on a lit bonfire.
Nas cackles. “You know that man is probably already on his way.”
“He can try.” Her lips twitch upward. To no one’s surprise, defiance is a badge she wears proudly. “Ain’t nobody scared of his ass.”
But less than ten minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. A deliberate, slow, three-count knock that sounds like it was carved out of brick.
Kris’s eyes widen on the computer screen. “Oh. My. God.”
“You better go answer that before he kicks the door in,” Tati whispers with glee, gleaming with secondhand chaos.
She squares her shoulders and stalks to the door, heart pounding, jaw tight, her phone in hand. She doesn’t even pretend to be surprised when she opens it and finds him standing there: grey sweats, black tee, jaw sharp enough to cut a diamond.
Michael doesn’t say a word. Not at first. He just glances at the phone in her hand… then at her… then steps inside like it’s his apartment. (And the way he moves, it is.)
“Hang up on them,” he says, voice steady.
She doesn’t move.
“You heard me.” He closes the door behind him and locks it, chocolate eyes fixed his eyes on hers. “Hang up on them like you did me.”
She hesitates, lips parted like she wants to say something clever—but nothing comes.
Tati’s voice chirps faintly from the laptop on the table. “Girl…”
Michael leans in, slow, invading her space like smoke slipping under a door. “I don’t like repeating myself.”
That does it. Hurriedly, she pads over to the coffee table… and she ends the call.
He takes her phone from her gently, places it face-down on the entry table, and doesn’t look away once. Not when she shifts. Not when she swallows. Not even when she tries to stand taller, like that’ll save her.
“You got your little audience hyped. You got your last word. You done?”
“Are you?” She squeaks.
His brow ticks. “You keep pushing like you want me to remind you what happens when you act like this.”
“What, you gonna yell at me?”
He steps even closer, his voice dropping to something low and coiled. “No. I don’t yell. I don’t need to.”
She tries to keep her expression even, but her breath stutters. Because she knows exactly what he means.
He doesn’t need to raise his voice to break her down. He can do that with a look, a touch, a command whispered at the just right frequency. And the worst part is that she likes it. Loves it, actually: The challenge of pushing because she knows he’ll push back.
And still… this time feels different. He’s not playing.
“You wanna act grown, talk reckless, hang up on me? Cool. Be that girl.” His gaze narrows. “But don’t forget who you do that with.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, but he’s already closing the space between them. Backing her up until her spine hits the wall by the door. His palm braces the wall beside her head, and suddenly she feels very small.
Not in a bad way. In the way that makes her toes curl, that reminds her that for all her fire, he’s the flame that started it.
His voice is barely audible now. “You like to mouth off. You like to see how far you can take it. But now I’m here. So go ahead, baby…”
A pause.
“Talk your shit.”
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out besides a shaky breath, caught between pride and surrender.
And he smirks. A dark, knowing kind of smile. “Hm.”
She swears her heart skips a beat when he leans in just a little closer, breath brushing her cheek like a whisper lined with warning.
“You had a lot to say earlier.” His hand doesn’t touch her yet, but it’s so close it feels like it does – his palm against the wall by her head, his body radiating heat like a second skin. His tone is slow. Deliberate. Mocking. “Where’s that mouth now?”
She lifts her chin in a futile attempt at pride and tries not to blink too fast. Still bold, still standing tall, but the tension is in her shoulders now, coiled and tight.
She wants to answer. She wants to clap back and grab that smug smirk off his face and remind him she’s not scared of him.
But her tongue won’t move the way she wants it to and her pulse betrays her.
Michael watches all of it with sharp, steady eyes. His lips twitch once at the corner, smug and low. “That’s what I thought,” he murmurs. Then he drops his hand and steps back, only slightly, just enough to make her feel like she can breathe again.
But the air is heavier now.
“Go ahead, run that mouth again,” he says as he steps back, “Go ahead. Tell me how independent you are. How grown you are. How you don’t need me telling you what to do.”
She doesn’t respond. Or rather, can’t. Not because she’s afraid, but because he knows exactly how to hit the spot between irritation and need.
Between rebellion and submission.
“You don’t like being told what to do?” he asks softly, voice like black silk. “That’s too bad, baby. ‘Cause I’m not asking.”
He stops in front of her again, lifting her chin between his fingers. Not rough, but not soft either. She meets his eyes and feels her knees threaten to give.
“You think I pulled up just to argue?” he mutters. “You wanna hang up on me like I’m some random nigga? Run that mouth around in front of your friends and think I’m not gone handle it?”
She swallows hard.
“You think you grown?” he asks again, lips brushing her jaw as he leans in close. “Then act like it. Apologize.”
She blinks at him.
For a split second, she thinks about pushing back or cracking a joke. But he’s looking at her like he’ll put her through the wall if she tests him again … and not in a way she wouldn’t love.
“I’m sorry,” she says finally, voice quiet.
He hums condescendingly, cupping a hand behind his ear. “Huh? I didn’t quite hear that.”
“I’m sorry.” Stronger this time but still tight-chested.
Michael’s eyes narrow, but he nods once. “Better.” Then he leans in again, closer this time, his lips at her ear.
“But that mouth still got too much confidence,” he whispers. “So here’s what we’re gonna do.”
He reaches down, takes her hand, and laces their fingers.
“You’re gonna go to the bedroom. You’re gonna keep that same energy. And I’m gonna remind you why you don’t ever do me like that.”
She gasps – quiet and involuntary – but it’s already too late. He’s leading her down the hall, not looking back.
“You wanna be a brat?” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll give you something to cry about.”
She stumbles slightly, heart in her throat, thighs already pressing together.
The bedroom door shuts behind them with a soft click, but it may as well be a jail cell clanging shut.
Michael drops her hand the moment they cross the threshold. He doesn’t say a word – just walks toward the edge of the bed and sits down, legs spread, gaze sharp. “Take off your shorts.”
She pauses. Just for a second.
“Now.”
It slices through the air. The kind of command that doesn’t need repeating. Her fingers go straight to the waistband.
She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t argue. Just slides them down, revealing the soft cling of cotton panties underneath, the faint tremble in her thighs, and the defiance still flickering – nay, dying – in her eyes.
But he sees the way her chest is rising faster. Sees the goosebumps crawling up her skin even though the room’s warm.
“Come here.”
She steps forward slowly, like she’s daring him to do something.
He does.
The second she’s within reach, he grabs her wrist and yanks her over his lap. She lets out a gasp, balance thrown, hands hitting the mattress to brace herself.
“You wanna act like a brat?” he growls low, one strong arm locking across her back. “Then I’ll treat you like one.”
CRACK.
The first spank lands sharp and sudden, and she jumps. Half from pain, half from the shock of it. But doesn’t give her a second to process.
CRACK.
CRACK.
CRACK.
Each one lands harder than the last. She writhes against him in his lap, biting her lip, fists clenched tight in the comforter.
“Mouth runnin’ like a faucet all night,” he mutters to no one in particular. “But now you got nothing to say?”
She gasps, trying to twist. “Michael—”
SMACK. His hand slides up her back, to the nape of her neck, pushing down just enough to pin her head down to the mattress. “What happened to all that attitude, baby?” he taunts. “What happened to all that grown shit? Huh?”
Her voice breaks. “I–fuck, I’m–”
He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“You’re what?” he whispers. “You sorry? Or you just sorry you’re in trouble?”
She whimpers. And he loves it.
He yanks her up, flips her effortlessly onto her back. She lands on the mattress with a bounce, wide-eyed, breathless, thighs pressed tight together.
He climbs on top of her, knee between her legs, fisting a hand in her hair.
“You hang up on me again,” he warns, face inches from hers, “and next time, I’ll spank you in front of your little friends. You understand me?”
She nods. “Yes.”
“Yes what?”
“…Yes, Daddy.”
He crushes his mouth to hers, a filthy, open-mouthed kiss that drags the air from her lungs. His tongue slides deep, claiming, devouring, then he pulls away with a growl.
“Strip.”
She scrambles, breathless, pulling her shirt off, her panties down until she’s completely bare and her skin’s still flushed from the spanking. Her upper thighs are slick, mouth parted in something between fear and desire.
Michael sheds his clothes with a terrifying calm, like a predator uncoiling as he stalks his prey. His cock is hard, thick, already leaking. When she reaches for him, he grabs both wrists and shoves them above her head.
“Don’t you even think about touching me.”
He keeps her wrists pinned with one hand while the other trails down her body. Across her throat, between her tits, down to where she’s soaked and trembling.
“Drippin’ like this, but swore you didn’t need me,” he growls. “Independent, huh?”
She’s panting, squirming, aching, trying to roll her hips toward him.
He slaps her pussy once – just once – and she chokes on a moan.
“That mouth got you in trouble,” he murmurs, settling between her thighs. “So I’m gonna fuck it outta you.”
And then he does: one thrust, fully to the hilt. No time for her to even think of taking a breath. One hand still holding her wrists, the other gripping her hip so tight she’ll feel the bruises tomorrow. He’s talking the whole time, each word filthier than the last.
“You’re mine. Say it.”
“I’m–fuck–I’m yours!”
“Louder.”
“I’m yours, Daddy!”
“That’s what I thought.”
He leans down, one hand wrapping around her throat, squeezing against her pulse point until she’s gasping for air.
Her raspy moans turn into choked sobs. Her legs shake as her body thrashes beneath his, overwhelmed and unraveling.
“You wanna cum for me?” he pants, voice rough.
“Yes–please! Please, I–”
“You’re grown – earn it.”
He flips her again, face down, ass up. Doesn’t bother with any pleasantries as he buries himself back into her, pounding mercilessly with one hand tangled in her hair, the other spreading her cheeks.
“Yout better not ever hang up on me again,” he growls through clenched teeth. “And you better say thank you when I put you in your place.”
She’s babbling now, just a mess of whines, moans, broken pleas.
“Please–Daddy! Please, I can’t take it–”
“You can. You’re a big girl, right? You can do it..”
He reaches around, rubs her clit in tight, fast circles, and she screams when she cums again, her back arching, walls fluttering around him like a fucking vice.
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t event slow down.
She cums again. Then again.
And by the time he spills inside her with a deep, guttural groan, she’s shaking, face buried in the sheets, crying from overstimulation, whispering “thank you” like a prayer.
—-
He doesn’t say a word at first. Just breathes heavy, catching his breath. Then he pulls out gently, and she gasps, more from the loss of contact than the pain.
He gathers her in his arms without a word and carries her to the bathroom. Sets her down in the tub while warm water washes over her legs. He grabs a cloth to wipe her face free and thighs, and pressing soft kisses to the bruises he left on her skin.
“You okay?” he murmurs against her temple, hand stroking up and down her back.
“Mhm.” She hums with a nod, still dazed. “I’m good.”
He chuckles softly. “And still hardheaded.”
She smiles weakly, nuzzling into his kiss. “Still yours though.”
—-
The next day, her thighs are still sore. Though kissed every bruise, massaged her legs in bed, cooked her breakfast like he didn’t fuck the attitude clean out of her the night before, he remembers. And he expects gratitude in silence.
So when he calls later that evening, his voice low, calm, and affectionate, and she’s got the audacity to hang up on him again?
He doesn’t call back. He doesn’t text.
He just gets in his truck and drives to her building.
She hears the knock, knowing what (and who) it is before she even turns her head toward the door. Her stomach flips with the kind of anticipation that tastes like sin.
She opens the door, leaning against the frame. “Oh. We doing this again?” she says, arms folded.
Michael doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink. He just walks past her into the apartment, locks the door behind him, then turns. “Get on your knees.”
She raises her brows. “Michael–”
“Don’t speak.” He raises a hand to stop her interjection, stepping in close. “Not one word. You lost mouth privileges.”
Her lips part, almost reflexively, but his expression kills the thought where it stands. He’s not playing.
She drops to her knees. And for the record, it’s not because he asks. It’s because she has to – because her body’s already aching for whatever punishment he’s been planning since she ended their call.
Michael walks behind her, then back to the front, slow like he’s circling prey. He tilts her chin up with two fingers, his voice terrifyingly gentle. “You hung up on me again.” He notes simply.
She doesn’t answer.
“After everything I gave you last night. After I made your little bratty ass cry into the sheets.” He brushes a thumb across her lips. “You just don’t know when to quit, do you?”
Her heart hammers in her chest.
“You wanna act like you don’t need me?” His zipper comes down slowly, tauntingly. “Fine.”
His cock is already hard. She reaches for it with open lips, but he grabs her wrist tight. “No hands. No talking. You just take it.”
He ushers his cock into her mouth with no preamble, filling her throat so deliciously she could cry – and she does. He doesn’t give her time to adjust; just buries himself to the hilt, one hand on the back of her head.
“There she go,” he mutters. “That mouth that wouldn’t shut up yesterday.”
He rocks his hips forward again, slow and punishing. Her throat stretches to take him, eyes fluttering with effort as she gags around him.
“You so loud when you’re on the phone.” His voice is low, like a dark wave crashing inside her skull. “But you can’t even breathe when I’m in your mouth.”
She whines around him as she tries to pull back for air.
Michael growls. “No. You asked for this.” He fists her hair tighter, holding her still as he fucks into her throat. Her eyes are glassy now, spit dripping down her chin. Her mascara is ruined, her knees are aching, but she just can’t get enough.
“Go ahead, baby. Cry on it.” He doesn’t stop or soften. “You wanted to act out. You wanted to hang up on me again.”
He pulls out just enough for her to gasp, then shoves back in again, deeper than before.
Her nails dig into her own thighs, holding herself still as her throat spasms around him. She’s choking, drooling, absolutely wrecked, and loving every second of it.
He finally pulls out, letting her collapse forward onto her hands, coughing.
“Up.”
She shudders.
“Up. On the couch. Now.”
She scrambles to obey, tears streaking her cheeks, chest heaving.
The second her knees hit the cushions, he’s behind her, yanking her leggings and panties down her thighs, spreading her wide. He spits once on her pussy then slams in with a growl that could test the strength of her couch.
“You don’t get to be smart and disobedient. Pick one.”
He fucks her silent, with each stroke heavier than the last. He’s grabbing at her neck, her hips, her wrists, pressing her face into the cushions as he makes her take it, over and over.
“I told you,” he snarls into her ear, hips snapping, “I don’t play when it comes to that phone. I don’t play when it comes to you.”
She sobs out. Choked, gasping sobs of pleasure so overwhelming her whole body trembles. She’s completely wrecked: can’t think, can’t talk.
All she can do is take it.
And he doesn’t stop until she’s limp under him.
Later, he pulls out gently, breathing hard, and scoops her up in his arms before she can even sit up. Like last night, he carries her to the bathroom again, runs a bath, and holds her in the water until she stops trembling.
His lips brush her temple as she leans into his chest. “You okay?”
She nods faintly. Then whispers, barely audible: “…yes, Daddy.”
Anonymous asked:Hi! I loved your brat tamer dex & fem reader! Can i request one where the reader wants to go out at night with her friends while wearing something revealing, dex refuses and to piss him off she jokes about finding some dude to pay for her drinks and dex is not having it AT ALL 😼😝
🫧 riling brat tamer!dex up
this is short, i'm slightly overwhelmed with the number of requests. but i would absolutely add to this if you have further thoughts.
your friends weren't the most punctual group. they, just like you, announced things at the last minute. plans formed the night before, scrambling to arrange every detail. and it worked out perfectly every time, like some cosmic power had allowed it to happen just as you wished.
but for dex, this was torture.
he was a man of routine, strict routine. he would be happy if nothing ever changed, but he understood life, and understood you, well enough to know that was impossible. so he let it happen. he said yes to your endless ramble over breakfast, swishing your fork in the air as you spoke, leaving your food to grow cold.
"—and this is the club where you need to pay a ridiculous entry fee, and so dana booked it for us, and it was discount—"
"sweetheart, you can go." he laughed, reaching over the table to tap the edge of your plate. "no need to explain. now eat."
so he watched you be on your best behaviour all day, doing exactly as he asked, not bombarding him with questions and requests all at once. he even sat on the edge of the tub as you did your makeup, swapping between watching you and reading his book.
"let me get you a snack, don't want you drinking on an empty stomach." dex mumbled, passing you with a hand drifting over your back as he left.
he was okay with you being out, trusted you and your friends enough that you'd be safe. and you knew if you ever needed dex, he wouldn't even let the phone ring once before he was on his way to get you. but returning to the bathroom with some cheese and crackers, seeing you adjusting the straps of the tiniest dress he'd ever seen; his mind had blown its fuse.
"you sure you wanna go out in that?" he offered, the plate now dismissed on the dresser.
you stopped fumbling with the hem of your dress, pressed against the skin of your breasts. and looked up at him. "this? what's the problem?"
dex scoffed, taking a hair tie from the dresser and throwing it on the floor behind you. "pick that up for me?"
you knew the moment you bent over to grab it, your argument was null and void.
"yeah, not a chance." he folded his arms. "take it off."
"when do you ever drop something at a club? come on, dex." you pleaded. "this is new. you said you liked it."
"and i do." he reasoned. "for me, here. off."
you groaned, "could've got all my drinks for free instead tonight. guys love a tiny dress."
the words came out as a mumble, in passing as you stuck your head back into your wardrobe. but they had barely left your lips before the back of your dress was sliced open. you heard the fabric tear with ease, dropping to puddle at your feet.
"dex!" you exclaimed. "this was two-hundred dollars. of your money."
he shrugged, his mind echoing your words alone. "think of the money i'm gonna save tonight when you're not buying drinks. because you'll be here."
"dex." you breathed, mouth agape in shock. stupid mouth moving before you thought.
"no use begging now." he held you so gently, your bare body against him, his eyes bore into yours. "can't have you thinking about what other guys want to see. hm?"
you shook your head. "i don't think about other guys."
"you're a smart girl." he whispered against your cheekbone, hands sliding so softly over your hip. though not affectionately, it felt more like a warning. of what was to come. "you know i can't let you get away with this."
You audibly huffed as she followed your girlfriend into the next store. What was supposed to be just a grocery errand has now turned into a shopping trip.
Somehow you had managed to convince your girlfriend to spend her day off running errands with you. It was supposed to be just a quick trip to pick up some fresh produce for the rest of the week, but on the drive to the grocery store your driver (girlfriend) had gotten distracted by the lavish window displays along Passeig de Gràcia. Prada, Louis Vuitton and Gucci had decorated their storefronts with the latest season pieces and your girlfriend was like a moth to a light of flashy displays.
She promised that she had only wanted to stop by Louis Vuitton "to window shop" but two hours later, your girlfriend was still not done shopping.
Alexia had her hands full with 3 paper bags, her new purchases nestled inside. You were quietly following behind her, your own hands empty. Your slightly irritable mood was the result of the Barcelona heat and the spontaneous detour. Gone was your bubbly self from this morning, and in its place was an attitude. Your girlfriend knew something was up with you, she was just purposely ignoring it because she knew the sudden change in mood is just you being petty.
"Qué quieres hacer? Let's try Prada… " Alexia suggests calmly, already steering you towards the store. Her eyes were laser focused on the window display, completely ignoring the daggers you were shooting behind her head. You had no choice but to nod and smile at the security guard as he opens the doors for you.
At least there's airconditioning here, you think to yourself as the cooling air greets you.
Within seconds you watch as the sales associates flock towards Alexia, immediately recognising her and most likely sensing a big sale commission. You dutifully follow behind her, not even remotely interested in the bags and shoes on display. All you wanted was to buy your avocados and go home.
"….algo a mi novia" you hear the tail end of Alexia telling the sales associate that she was looking for something for you. False. You were definitely not looking or wanting anything. When the sales associate turns to look back at you, you subtly shake your head, silently mouthing "nada" to which you receive a nod of acknowledgement in return.
But the sales associate probably knows that your girlfriend was looking to spend money today regardless of our refusal so she focuses her attention back to your Alexia— who was now pointing at a crystal bag on display.
"This is nice, amor. Si?"
It's a small black shoulder bag, the entire body adorned with white crystals. Judging by how your girlfriend was already standing in front of a mirror trying the bag on, you could bet that this was going to be another purchase.
"Si. It's nice." The quicker you agree with her, the quicker you can get out of here is your mantra whenever you are out shopping with Alexia.
You thank the sales associate as she places a tray of glass bottles, two glasses of sparkling water, and Prada stamped macaroons. Every single store you had visited treated you both like royalty, offering you refreshments and such. You snap a quick pic of the fancy tray for your IG stories, captioning and tagging it "out with my sugar daddy @alexiaputellas"
"Voy a comprar esto, por favor" Your girlfriend hands the bag back to the sales associate. To no one's surprise, she was buying the bag. You roll your eyes, silently munching on the fancy Prada macaroons.
Alexia walks over. Your eyes narrow into slits, watching as she saunters over to you. You weren't even prepared when she cheekily steals the last bite of the macaroon you were eating. You gasp, mouth agape. That was a damn good macaroon and you hadn't planned on sharing.
She pointedly ignores your glare, giving you a grin and a wink as she chews. It's like she's purposely trying to start a fight with you, already knowing you were not in the mood.
And just to piss you off even further, she adds: "Are you sure you want to look at anything, amor?"
You knew she was purposely prodding you, skating on a dangerous line to gauge your mood. Seeing just how much further she can push you before you snapped.
Which was fine, because you could push just as hard.
The sales associate has returned with Alexia's purchase and the card reader.
Smiling at your girlfriend, you say pretty loudly: "No. You probably can't afford it"
It was silent for a moment.
You see Alexia's smile freeze, the corner of her lip twitch ever so slightly. The subtle furrow of her eyebrows as she processes what you had just said.
The sales associate obviously overhears, but suddenly seems very interested in the fancy ribbon tied neatly around the shopping bag.
Alexia is unfortunately very used to your antics and regains her composure just as quickly. She chuckles, stepping closer to you until she is staking claim of your personal space. She cups your chin, squeezing your cheeks together until your lips are forced into a pout. Her eyes fall to your lips before she whispers, her voice and husky. "Watch your mouth, brat"
Then she presses a smacking kiss to your lips as if that was enough to pacify you. Usually it would be, but you wanted more than just one kiss.
Unfortunately your girlfriend had already turned to the sales associate to pay with her card.
While your girlfriend was busy you noticed that there was one more macaroon on the porcelain plate. You grab it before Alexia can, shoving the entire thing in your mouth.
When your girlfriend turns back to you, she doesn't even try to fight a smile at the sight of you chewing with that cute little frown on your face. She thumbs away at the crumbs that linger on the corner of your mouth. You're still frowning at her, partly irritated, but cheeks puffing as you chew on the last bit of that delicious macaroon.
God you were adorable-- a huge pain in the ass-- but adorable; Alexia thinks. In that moment she understood the whole "cuteness aggression" tiktok thing you had told her about a few days ago. She initially didn't get it when you showed her tiktok videos as examples, but now she understood. She was practically fighting the urge to smother you in kisses right then and there.
So instead she settles with a quick affectionate pinch to the side of your waist and another stolen kiss.
—
"One more shop, por favour. C'mon"
"Baby, I'm tired…" You whine, dragging the vowel as you drag your feet along the cobblestone path. Childish. Maybe. But you don't care how you sound right now. "My feet hurt"
Your girlfriend glances down at the boots on your feet. They were Aquazzura, a delicious dark chocolate brown. And sexy as hell. She gestures at the boots flippantly. "I told you not to wear those high heel boots"
You roll your eyes. "I wore these thinking we were only going to the grocery store, Alexia. I was not expecting this detour"
She audibly huffs and stares down at you. Even through her brown tinted sunglasses you see her hardened stare. "Don't use that tone on me. And what is a detour anyway, we don't have a word like that in Spanish"
Your girlfriend clicks her tongue, lolling her head to the side. These were all telltale signs that she was getting slightly annoyed. Her accent was slightly more prominent, weaving in between the English words. You can tell she was trying hard not to slip into fluent Spanish, a thing she only does when she has reached her patience limit.
Well too damn bad you were just as annoyed-- if not more.
You face her straight on, your boots thudding as you step closer to her. Despite the height difference, you meet her eyes stubbornly, chin lifted and all. You shove your finger into her chest. "A detour is all our relationship will be if you don't stop dragging me into random places instead of the supermarket"
Her palm meets your ass. Ow
"What did I say about that mouth. Watch that attitude, brat"
You pout.
She turns her back and walks away with all the shopping bags, leaving you standing there.
Rude.
She makes it a couple steps before you bellow from behind her: "Will you at least hold my hand?"
She stops.
You see her literally take a full-body deep breath before she berugingly turns around and walks back over to you with heavy steps. The small smile on her lips tells you that she is exactly where she wants to be. With an eye roll for added effect, she transfers the shopping bags from one hand to the other so they are all grasped together in one hand instead.
Then she offers you her now free hand, her fingers wriggling in invitation.
"Ven aquí— come on, brat."
You allow her to pull you along, your hand now enveloped in the warmth of hers. You don't think there was anyone else on this earth that could deal with your antics. Your own mother often joked that Alexia was doing the rest of the world a favour by dating you. Alexia would just smirk that tantilising smirk of hers and throw an arm around your shoulder, joking back with a "God saves the toughest battles for his strongest soldiers"
To which she would get a sharp elbow to the stomach— which never fazed her. Your elbow would be slamming against pure muscle anyway.
She would of course soften the blow with a "I'm lucky to have her" and a kiss to the top of your head.
Looking up at your girlfriend, you find her laser focused on leading you to whatever shop she wanted to go to next. She had that look on her face, the one where her eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly that a small wrinkle appeared in the space between her eyebrows. Her eyes are looking straight ahead, probably on the lookout for anything that may cause harm on your path, like a lone bin or an unsuspecting street sign. You never have to worry about much when you're with Alexia. You could turn your brain off around her and trust that she would take care of you.
Snuggling closer, you wrap your other hand around her arm, your entire side now pressed up against her so that your steps were practically synchronised.
"Thank you, baby"
And then you lean towards her and bite down on her bicep.
just because you can.
₊‧.°.⋆✮⋆.°.‧₊
headcanon: brat!reader and Alexia are biters. pretty sure this is the second time they've bitten each other lol
・❥・- kisses, butter
*This work is my original creation. Please don’t copy, share, or translate it without asking for my permission first. Thanks for respecting that!
Okay but bucky tying reader up just so he can go down on her for hours. no penetration, no touching him—just his mouth, a vibrator, and his god-tier stamina. he’s addicted to her
You blink up at him, chest rising and falling fast, wrists already bound above your head to the headboard with soft silk ties. “Wait—what?”
“I said,” Bucky murmurs, climbing between your legs, “I’m not gonna fuck you. You don’t get my cock. Not tonight.”
He kisses the inside of your thigh once. Then twice. Then bites just enough to make you gasp.
“You’re gonna lay there like my pretty little meal,” he says, dark voice rich with sin, “and let me take everything I want from you.”
Your pulse kicks.
“But—what about you—”
“Not about me.” His hands—one flesh, one metal—slide down your thighs, parting you open like you’re a gift he gets to unwrap slowly. “You don’t get to touch me tonight. You don’t get to ride me. You don’t even get to look at me when you come.”
You’re already soaked.
“You’re gonna close your eyes,” he whispers, lips brushing just above your mound, “and take every fucking orgasm I give you.”
He holds up the vibrator — a slim, rose-colored thing he’s already charged, tested, memorized the settings on. His thumb flicks it on. The quiet hum is menacing.
“Hours,” he promises.
You try to push your legs together, but his shoulders are already settling between them.
“Bucky—”
“Ah ah,” he interrupts. “No whining. You asked what it was like when I really let go. When I stop holding back. This is what it looks like, baby.”
He drops the toy beside him and licks a long, slow stripe up your slit.
And then it begins.
At first, it’s slow.
Teasing.
He kisses like he’s got time. Like he’s not in a rush to get anywhere, because he’s already home. His hands keep your thighs spread wide, thumbs rubbing soft circles just to keep you relaxed.
He sucks your clit into his mouth gently, just enough to make you arch. And when you try to chase it, he pulls back and grins.
“You taste unreal, sweetheart.”
Your fingers curl against the ties.
“I could live here,” he breathes against you. “Never leave this pussy. Just eat you for breakfast, lunch, and fuckin’ dessert.”
Then he flicks his tongue fast, just once—sharp—and you squeak.
He hums, satisfied. “There’s that sound.”
After the first orgasm, you’re gasping.
After the second, your legs start to shake.
By the third, you’ve already forgotten your name.
He doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t stop.
“You still with me, doll?” he murmurs, sliding the vibrator between your slick folds.
You whimper, already twitching.
“I know,” he coos. “Sensitive. That’s the point.”
He holds it there, humming low and steady, while his mouth returns to your clit—tongue working in messy circles, slow at first, then faster when he feels you tense.
You break again.
Your thighs tremble. Your eyes squeeze shut. Your mouth drops open but no sound comes out.
And still—still—he doesn’t stop.
At some point, you start begging.
“Please—Bucky, please, I—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.”
“I’m—s’too much—”
“You can take more,” he says calmly, darkly, like he’s in church and you’re the altar. “This pussy was made for my mouth.”
He flattens his tongue. Sucks your clit again. Moves the toy slightly—just enough to drag the vibration against that sweet, aching spot inside you that makes your hips jerk.
“You’re perfect,” he groans, half-drunk on your taste. “So goddamn perfect. Can’t stop. Don’t wanna stop.”
He licks you through another orgasm, and another, and another—until your voice breaks, your thighs quake, your throat aches with his name.
“Say it again,” he murmurs. “Tell me who makes you come like this.”
“You—Bucky, fuck—you do, you—”
He kisses your thigh sweetly. “Good girl.”
You lose track of time.
All you know is the sheets are soaked. Your hair’s stuck to your forehead. Your wrists are burning and your whole body buzzes.
You feel like a live wire.
Like the edge of a scream.
And still—still—he’s going.
His mouth glistens with you.
His beard’s wet.
His fingers trace shapes on your hips while he presses the vibrator deep again, like he’s mapping constellations on your skin.
He murmurs praises like prayers between each wave:
