Sharp Tongues, Sharper Claws
pairing: (Deadpool) Bang Chan/Chris x (Wolverine) Female Reader
wc: 4.6k
cw: explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), enemies to lovers (sorta?), dark humour, crude humour (let me know if I missed anything here) (not proof read)
Minors DNI
Summary: You're used to cleaning up messes. Missions that go sideways. Teammates that can't shut up. And Chris Bang? He's the worst offender. A walking wound with a healing factor, a mouth that never stops, and an attitude that makes you want to claw his face off... if he weren’t so annoyingly hot while bleeding all over the floor.
He’s all bite and filth; you’re all claws and control. Together? You’re nothing short of carnage.
You might hate him, but god, you want him more.
The briefing room was the kind of place designed to suck every ounce of energy from a person. Cramped, windowless, and bathed in the flickering, harsh glow of fluorescent bulbs that buzzed like angry bees. The stale air tasted like burnt coffee and old metal, comforting in its familiarity, but still heavy, like the kind of place where nightmares waited in the shadows.
You stood leaning against the chipped metal table, arms crossed, claws flexing under your gloves, every nerve on edge. Across from you, Chris lounged with an effortless arrogance, one leg casually slung over the armrest of his cracked leather chair. His red suit, tight, obnoxious, entirely impractical, highlighted every lean muscle, every twitch of impatience. His mask was off, revealing that crooked grin that could be charming if it weren’t so damn infuriating.
“So, here’s the grand plan,” he started, voice dripping with that irritating mix of mock-seriousness and teasing. “We’re walking right into the lion’s den. High-security lab, the kind where bad decisions are made, and bodies disappear. You ready to rip some heads off, or are you just here for the free coffee?”
You shot him a look sharp enough to make a grown man flinch. “Chris, cut the crap and give me the facts. What exactly are we walking into?”
He leaned forward, fingers tapping a rhythm on the table, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Alright, alright. We’re infiltrating a lab where some seriously nasty shit is going down. Chemical weapons, illegal tech, who knows what else. Our job is to shut it down before it all blows up in someone’s face. Preferably not ours.”
You nodded, tension coiling tighter in your muscles. “And you’re sure this isn’t just one of your ‘I’ll charm them all’ schemes?”
He shot you a look, mock-offended but with a twinkle in his eye. “My charm’s lethal- mostly to you.” Then, breaking the fourth wall with a knowing smirk to a non-existent camera or audience (who knows), he whispered, “She loves the fact that I’m impossible to resist.”
You rolled your eyes but felt that familiar spark of something, annoyance, attraction, something messy that refused to be sorted out. “Focus, Chris. We don’t have time for your bullshit.”
He shrugged, that grin never fading. “Fine. But seriously, have you noticed the tension? The way we’re always on edge, claws and sarcasm flying? It’s like we’re a walking disaster rom-com.”
You snorted, the ghost of a smirk tugging at your lips despite yourself. “Yeah, a disaster waiting to burn everything down.”
His gaze darkened just a fraction, eyes locking onto yours with that dangerous, playful challenge you couldn’t quite ignore. “Good. Because I’m more than ready to play.”
Before you could respond, he shot to his feet, his suit a blur of red as he darted for the door. You barely held back a growl, claws unsheathing reflexively, and took off after him.
The chase was on.
The safehouse was little more than a crumbling industrial husk, tucked between abandoned shipping containers and city ruin. Broken windows, flickering streetlights, graffiti soaked in blood and time. You both moved through the night like predators, silent, coiled, deadly. But only one of you could stay focused.
Chris was the opposite of subtle.
He dropped down beside you on the rooftop, the creak of metal under his boots and the cocky grin on his face enough to make you grind your teeth. “Alright, partner,” he drawled, eyes gleaming beneath the moonlight. “I’ll take the east wing. You take the west. We meet in the middle. First one to neutralize their targets gets creative bragging rights, and maybe a kiss if you’re lucky.”
You didn’t bother looking at him. “I’ll shove my claws somewhere creative if you don’t shut up.”
“Ooh,” he murmured, clearly delighted. “You flirt like you fight, rough and dirty.”
You leapt across the gap between buildings without waiting for a signal. You didn’t need one. The mission was simple: infiltrate, retrieve intel, get out clean. But with Chris at your side? Clean wasn’t on the table. It never was.
The first guard didn’t even see you coming. One swift motion, claws, a silent choke, the body slumping into the shadows. Precise. Efficient.
Across the complex, you heard the distinct bang-bang-bang of Chris’s guns, followed by a muffled, “Oops. Guess they didn’t like my knock-knock joke.”
You cursed under your breath and moved faster.
By the time you breached the lab wing, your blood was humming. Sweat beaded at your temples, heartbeat steady and strong. You were in control. You always were, until he showed up behind you, panting, smirking, bleeding slightly from a nick on his cheek.
“You always this graceful, or is it just when you know I’m watching?” he asked, striding up beside you like you weren’t elbow-deep in chaos.
“You’re bleeding,” you muttered, avoiding his eyes.
“I like it rough,” he said with a wink, stepping past you to scan the broken-down console.
Your claws flexed. “I should’ve let that guy finish the job.”
Chris glanced over his shoulder, voice dipping low. “Nah. You’d miss me. You like having me around.”
You turned to him slowly, close enough to feel the heat of his body. “Don’t get cocky.”
His smile curled into something darker, hungrier. “Too late for that.”
For a split second, the tension snapped taut, the broken lights above crackled, electricity humming through the silence. It wasn’t just a mission anymore. It was a fuse, lit and burning.
You shoved him back against the wall.
He hit it with a grunt, blinking, then laughing, breathless. “Damn. You really know how to get a guy’s attention.”
Your voice came out low, rough. “Keep running your mouth and I’ll give you something to scream about.”
Chris’s eyes gleamed with something wild, not fear, not mockery. Something deeper. Admiration. Want. Need.
“You promise?” he whispered.
You stared at him for a long second, then turned on your heel, heart pounding, pulse a wildfire beneath your skin.
“We’ve got the data,” you growled. “Let’s move.”
But the air between you stayed electric. Like something was about to detonate.
The warehouse was on fire.
You stood at the edge of the flames, smoke curling around your boots, watching the metal skeleton collapse in on itself like a dying beast. Sirens screamed in the distance. You could still feel the crackle of adrenaline in your veins.
And of course, from the smoke emerged Chris, covered in soot, one sleeve singed, grinning like a maniac with a bag of stolen drives slung over one shoulder.
“Good news,” he announced, coughing once before flashing you a soot-smudged thumbs up. “I got the data. Well, the extra data.”
You didn’t move. “You also blew up the entire building.”
Chris blinked. “Okay, yeah. But, and this is key, I didn’t die. Again. That’s at least a B+.”
You stomped over, claws half-extended, fists clenched. “You were supposed to disarm the explosives, not make sweet love to them!”
“Details,” he said breezily. “In my defence, I did disarm one of them. Then I got bored and started playing with the others. Turns out: boom.”
You growled low in your throat, hands twitching.
Chris raised both arms slowly. “Whoa. Easy, claws. You’re mad now, but give it a few hours and you’ll be crawling into my lap like-"
You grabbed the front of his suit and yanked him close.
“Finish that sentence,” you hissed, “and I will see if you regrow everything.”
He tilted his head, grinning down at you. “Promise?”
You shoved him back with a snarl.
Back at the safehouse, Chris whistled as he walked around shirtless, patching up his arm like he hadn’t just caused half a million in property damage. You were trying to focus on the drive’s contents, filtering through lines of encrypted data, but all you could hear was his humming. And smell him. Like gunpowder, smoke, sweat, and that faint trace of something addictive.
“Do you have to be so loud when you’re bleeding?” you snapped.
“I’m being brave,” he said, slapping a bandage on. “And sexy. Can’t do both quietly.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m delightful.”
“You’re a walking liability.”
He leaned against the doorframe, eyes trailing over you slowly. “And yet… you keep coming back.”
You exhaled sharply, rising to your feet. The tension was back, thick, pulsing, crackling under your skin. You hated how much you liked it.
“You’re a mess, Chris.”
He grinned. “And you love a good mess.”
You were knee-deep in a sewer. Literally.
The intel said the lab’s entrance was hidden below ground, and Chris, naturally, insisted on “scouting ahead,” which somehow led to him falling through a rusted grate with a splash and a scream. You stood above the hole for five full seconds, savouring the silence before you dropped in after him.
Now, soaked from the knees down in god-knows-what, your boots squelched with every step. The flashlight in your hand flickered, casting eerie shadows along the damp tunnel walls.
Chris’s voice echoed ahead. “On the plus side, my suit is waterproof. On the downside, I think something just tried to kiss me.”
You grit your teeth. “If it didn’t drown you, it didn’t try hard enough.”
He turned back, water dripping off his mask, grinning. “Aw, are you worried about me, sweetheart?”
“I’m worried about getting cholera.”
He dramatically clutched his heart. “The only disease you’re catching down here is love.”
You stomped past him.
“Okay, ouch,” he muttered, following behind. “That one actually hurt.”
You found the lab door, disguised as part of the sewer wall. It had a retinal scanner, high tech, corporate, expensive. Chris tapped it with one gloved finger, unimpressed.
“Think I can charm it open?”
You sighed. “You’re the one who said you had ‘a fool proof plan.’”
He perked up. “I did. I do. Behold plan F: Fuck it up until it opens.”
Before you could stop him, he pulled a grenade from a hidden pouch, yanked the pin with his teeth, and slapped it on the scanner.
You launched forward, tackling him around the waist, dragging him down into the sludge as the wall exploded in a rain of sparks, steel, and water.
“YOU ABSOLUTE DICKWEED.”
He coughed, face half-submerged in muck, still smiling. “See? Told you it’d work.”
You sat there on top of him, dripping, furious, panting from the adrenaline, and then you realized how close you were. Chest to chest. Legs tangled. Your face inches from his, breath mingling. And he was grinning up at you with that dangerous sparkle in his eyes.
“Careful,” he murmured. “You keep climbing me like that, I’m gonna start thinking you like it.”
You were soaked. Filthy. Covered in grime. And somehow, you’d never felt hotter.
Your voice came out low. “If I ever climb you, Chris, it’ll be to throw you off a building.”
He reached up and pushed a wet strand of hair behind your ear, slow, deliberate.
“Make sure I land face up, then.”
You stood up fast, ignoring the throb in your chest. “Get your ass inside before I gut you.”
Chris laughed, trudging through the wreckage. “You’re cute when you’re homicidal.”
You followed with your claws still out, unsure if you’d use them on the enemy or on him.
Maybe both.
You’d been briefed in less than five minutes. No backup. No plan B. No time.
Just you, Chris, and a biotech fortress crawling with armed guards and enhanced mercs, the kind that didn’t flinch when shot, didn’t stop when you bled. Intel said they were developing weaponized mutations, nasty things, half-human, all teeth. Monsters that were faster than you, stronger than Chris.
It was suicide.
Naturally, he smiled the whole way in.
The compound was a hellscape.
Sirens screamed. Alarms blared. Smoke and gunfire painted the walls in red and shadow. You moved like instinct, claws slicing, body humming with fury. Every movement was lethal, precise, surgical.
Chris was chaos incarnate.
He cartwheeled between soldiers, guns blazing, laughing even as blood streaked his cheek. “Bet I take out more than you,” he yelled over the din.
“Bet you die trying,” you snapped back, slamming an enemy’s head into the wall.
You fought back-to-back, bodies in perfect sync. He covered your blind spots, you covered his. At one point, you threw him your extra clip mid-air, he caught it without looking, fired behind him, and winked.
You hated how good that felt.
It all went to shit on sublevel three.
There was too much. Too many guards. Too many enhancements. You were fast, but you weren’t a god. You bled. You ached. And Chris, Chris went down hard when a brute slammed him into a wall hard enough to crack concrete.
You screamed his name.
It wasn’t until your claws tore through flesh like fire that the guards fell back. You dropped to your knees beside him, fingers shaking.
“Chris. Hey, hey. Look at me.”
He blinked up at you, dazed, blood in his teeth. “Still hot when you’re mad.”
“Shut up. Shut the fuck up.”
He groaned as you pulled him into a sitting position. “They got the core. We can’t let-”
You cut him off by kissing him.
It wasn’t gentle.
It was brutal, raw, teeth and desperation. You grabbed him like he was the only thing keeping you alive, like if you let go, you’d fall apart. His hands fisted in your jacket, pulling you closer with a needy, broken sound in his throat.
When you finally pulled back, panting, he laughed, soft, breathless.
“Took you long enough.”
You stared at him, chest heaving. “I thought you were gonna die.”
He touched your face, voice suddenly serious. “Would’ve come back. I always come back to you.”
Something in you cracked. All those months of bickering, tension, flirting like it was foreplay for a fight, it exploded like a dam breaking. You surged into him again, mouth hungry, hands desperate. He kissed you like he’d waited a lifetime.
Your bodies tangled on the floor, bruised and burning.
There were more guards coming. You could hear them. You didn’t care.
This wasn’t just tension anymore. It was obsession.
It was claws dragging down his chest. It was teeth biting your shoulder. It was him growling your name like a promise.
And when it was over, when your breath evened and your bodies stilled, tangled in blood and heat, he brushed your cheek with one ruined hand.
“So,” he whispered, smirking, “do I get to call you mine now? Or do I need to almost die again?”
You stared down at him, heart pounding.
“You call me yours,” you said quietly, “and I’ll tear your throat out.”
He grinned, eyes dark. “That’s a yes.”
You didn’t make it back to base after the mission. Hell, you barely made it into the back of the van.
Chris slammed the doors shut behind you with a dramatic “And THAT, kids, is how you kill seventeen guards without chipping your molars!” and then turned to you, bloodied, grinning, glowing with pure post-murder adrenaline.
“You.” His voice dropped half an octave. “You’re insane. You sliced that guy in half like you were carving a Thanksgiving turkey.”
“You caught a grenade with your teeth,” you snapped, advancing on him.
“Yeah,” he panted, licking blood from his lip. “Pretty hot, right?”
Then? Boom. Impact. Mouths crashing together like the world was ending and the only thing worth doing was getting one last, filthy, bloodstained fuck in before oblivion.
He shoved you into the wall, grinding into you with zero finesse, and gasped, “Okay, if this is heaven, then Saint Peter has a very specific kink folder.”
“Shut up,” you growled, ripping at his belt like it personally offended you. “Less talking, more-”
“Oh, I plan to talk the whole time.”
You climbed into his lap like war, teeth bared, body burning. He dragged his fingers down your back with a reverent, “God, you’re like a violent wet dream. My perfect, stabby demon wife.”
“You’re literally the most annoying man alive.”
“And you’re sitting on my dick, so I guess we both have flaws.”
He thrust up into you, hard and filthy and mean, and you bit his shoulder to keep from screaming.
“Jesus fuck,” you gasped. “What are you made of-”
“Vibranium,” he whispered. “Also spite.”
He fucked you like a man possessed. Like a man who could die any second (again) and needed to leave a mark inside you as proof of life.
When you moaned, he choked out, “Louder. Let the team think I’m giving a motivational speech back here.”
You slapped his face. He moaned harder.
He pinned you against the wall, one hand gripping your jaw, the other pressing down where you were joined.
“You’re gonna come just like this,” he growled, “and then I’m gonna carry you into the next mission like a human backpack.”
You clawed down his chest. “You talk too much.”
“I’ve been told. By assassins. In five languages.”
When it finally hit, it was primal.
You came with a sob, fists in his ruined shirt. He bit your neck and came with a low, “Fuckfuckfuck, yes, that’s it, ruin me-”
The van creaked. Something thumped. A weapon fell off the wall.
He didn’t even notice.
You collapsed on top of him, both of you slick with sweat and blood and… other things.
He kissed your temple. “So… team name ideas. I’m thinking ‘Claw & Order.’”
You groaned.
“What? Or ‘Boned & Dangerous.’ I have layers. Like an onion. A sexy onion.”
“You’re not allowed to talk after sex ever again.”
He smirked. “Too late. I branded you. I own your afterglow. This is a lease-to-own situation.”
You laughed despite yourself, wrecked, bruised, and very much not okay.
But in his arms, panting and raw and still a little high on violence?
You felt like the only thing that made any sense in the world.
The van ride home was... quiet.
Well, visibly quiet. Emotionally? It was a scream-filled pressure cooker of “holy shit, did we just fuck each other into another timeline” tension. You sat on opposite benches like two high schoolers who’d accidentally hooked up at prom and didn’t know how to make eye contact anymore.
Chris cleared his throat.
You glared out the window.
He cleared his throat again, louder this time, then muttered, “Soooo. That was… y’know. Great cardio.”
You didn’t move.
“Seriously,” he continued. “Ten out of ten. Five stars. Would get pinned to a wall again.”
“I will stab you,” you said sweetly.
He grinned. “Promises, promises.”
Back at your apartment, you tossed your gear onto the floor and beelined for the fridge, cracking a beer and pressing it to your cheek to cool off your still-burning skin.
Chris, bleeding and bruised and somehow still infuriatingly smug, flopped onto your couch with the kind of noise men make when they want attention.
“So,” he said, legs spread wide, looking around like he was casing the place. “Nice place. Real ‘stab-me-on-the-counter’ energy. Matches your vibe.”
You tossed him a bottle. He caught it one-handed, still grinning.
“Do you always make that much noise when you cum?” you muttered, sipping your drink.
He perked up. “Only when I’m genuinely impressed. Which is rare. I mean, usually I’m a solid B+ experience. But you? You brought the A-game. I’m gonna need a chiropractor and possibly an exorcist.”
You rolled your eyes. “You’re a menace.”
“And you,” he said, standing up slowly and walking toward you, “are way too hot to let just walk away after that.”
You raised a brow. “What are you gonna do, monologue me into submission?”
“I could,” he said with a wink. “Or…”
His hand slid around your waist. You didn’t stop him.
“…I could show you how sorry I am for making so many post-orgasm jokes.”
“You’re not sorry.”
“I’m not,” he agreed. “But I am hard again. So that’s kind of the same thing.”
You barely had time to finish your beer before he yanked it from your hand and set it on the counter, spinning you around so fast your back hit the fridge.
“Chris-” you started.
“Shhh,” he murmured, kissing you like he’d been waiting his whole goddamn life. “You said I talk too much, remember?”
His hands were everywhere. Under your shirt, gripping your thighs, dragging your hips against his already hard cock through his pants. You didn’t even remember him taking the gear off, must’ve blacked out from sheer horniness. Or rage. Or both.
“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling back to look at you. “You’ve got no idea how hot you are when you’re pissed off.”
“I’m always pissed off.”
“Exactly.”
He dropped to his knees with zero ceremony, yanking your pants down and lifting one of your legs onto his shoulder. You gasped as his tongue dragged up your slit like he meant to leave a scorch mark. No finesse, just raw hunger.
He moaned, loud and obscene, mouth messy with spit and slick. “Jesus, I’d kill for this. I’d die for this. Probably already did.”
You gripped the edge of the counter with both hands, knuckles white. “You’re such a fucking perv.”
He looked up, grinning. “Say it again.”
You shoved your other leg over his shoulder. “You’re a filthy, smartass perv with a saviour complex and a fucking god complex.”
He groaned. “Okay, now I’m gonna make you come just so I can hear you scream that.”
He didn’t give you time to prepare. Just buried his face between your thighs and devoured you. Not soft. Not sweet. Messy and chaotic and addictive. He sucked on your clit like he owned it, slid two fingers inside like they belonged there.
You came with a curse and a shudder, pulling his hair so hard he actually moaned.
“Fuck- c’mere, c’mere-” You dragged him up, breathless, and kissed him like you meant to knock out teeth. He grabbed your ass, lifted you up with a grunt, and turned, slamming your back onto the kitchen counter.
Wood cracked.
You didn’t care.
He undid his pants like a man possessed, cock springing free, flushed and dripping.
You bit your lip.
“Go on,” he panted. “Say it. Say you want it.”
“I need it, Chris.”
He lined up and pushed in all at once, no teasing, no prep, just a thick, filthy slide that made you both cry out.
“Fucking hell,” he hissed, head dropping against your shoulder. “You’re so tight, so fucking hot, shit-”
You wrapped your legs around his waist and yanked him deeper. “Harder.”
“God, I love you.”
The words slipped out before he could stop them. You froze for half a second.
But he was already moving again, fast, punishing thrusts that made the counter shake, your head tilt back, your breath leave in ragged gasps.
“You gonna come for me again?” he growled in your ear. “Let me feel that perfect cunt grip my cock, fuck, I’m not gonna last-”
You grabbed his face, stared into his wide, messy, adoring eyes. “Do it. Come inside me.”
He came with a broken cry, spilling deep inside, hips still grinding through the aftershocks, your name a reverent prayer on his lips.
You both stayed there for a long minute, panting, limbs trembling, sweat-slicked skin pressed together like gravity itself didn’t want you to part.
Eventually, he nuzzled your neck and whispered:
“So… breakfast tomorrow?”
You snorted. “You don’t even eat breakfast.”
“Okay, brunch. Or lunch. Or post-coital coffee and mutual emotional repression.”
“Sounds romantic.”
“It is,” he whispered. “Shut up.”
And for once, you did.
But only because his hand was already sliding down your stomach again.
You smacked the back of his head.
He laughed.
You woke up to the smell of something burning and the sound of someone humming off-key.
You groaned.
Everything hurt.
Your hips, your thighs, your spine. There was probably a Chris-shaped dent in the kitchen counter and one in your soul to match. You sat up slowly, glancing around like you’d just survived a war, which, technically, you had. A war with your dignity. And your vocal cords.
There he was.
Chris.
In your kitchen.
Wearing only a pink apron that read: Kiss the Chaos in aggressively cheerful font. And nothing else. Not even socks.
“What the actual fuck,” you mumbled.
He spun around, spatula in hand, beaming like a man who hadn’t absolutely wrecked you seven hours ago. “Heyyy! Sleeping Beauty lives. I was about to poke you with my sword. Again. Or perform CPR. With tongue. And maybe some inappropriate groping.”
You sat up with a wince. “Why are you so loud?”
“Because I’m celebrating! You survived round one and two with the sexy chaos gremlin and lived to tell the tale.”
You squinted. “Are you… making eggs?”
“Making is a strong word. I’m doing… things. To eggs.”
You stared.
He set a plate of eggs down on the nightstand like it was the offering of a man who’d definitely railed you until you forgot your name. Twice.
You blinked at the eggs. “Are these… edible?”
“Define edible,” he said.
“…Can I eat them without hallucinating my dead grandmother?”
“Debatable.”
You took a bite anyway. You were starving. Possibly dying. And too sore to argue.
Chris sat next to you on the bed, unapologetically admiring the marks he’d left on your neck and chest.
“I should warn you,” he said, tapping one of the bruises with a smirk, “that I’m gonna get real smug every time I see these.”
You raised a brow. “So… all the time?”
“Exactly. Constant ego boost. Like, oh, hey, remember that time I made you scream my name loud enough to scare the neighbours? Good times.”
You kicked him lightly under the blanket. “You’re a menace.”
“I’m your menace now.”
You paused mid-chew.
He blinked. “…Shit. Did I say that out loud?”
You stared at him.
He cleared his throat. “What I meant to say is: wanna go another round before brunch?”
You stared harder.
“…Or we could talk about our feelings,” he mumbled, already pulling the apron off. “After I’m inside you again.”
You groaned, flopping back onto the pillows. “You’re insufferable.”
“You like it,” he said, crawling over you, mouth already trailing heat down your stomach. “Don’t lie.”
Then, casual, nonchalant, like dropping a landmine and walking away, you said, “So. About last night. You, uh… said you loved me while you were balls deep.”
Chris froze.
You didn’t even look up. “Just wondering if that was, like, a blood loss thing or if you’ve got brain damage from one too many smoke bombs.”
He blinked. “Oh. Wow. Okay. Uh—that.”
You looked at him now, one brow arched. “That?”
“That was…” He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “...a slip of the tongue. Mid-orgasm. I blacked out. I don’t even remember what year it is.”
You stared.
He gave you a weak smile. “I might’ve also said I love tacos and morally ambiguous knife fights at some point. I was very overwhelmed.”
You crossed your arms.
He held up his hands. “Not that I don’t, I mean, like you. I do. A lot. Probably more than is safe for my lifespan. But the ‘love’ word is scary and you’ve got claws and I didn’t want to die before breakfast.”
Silence.
You took another bite of egg. Chewed. Swallowed.
“You’re lucky you’re good with your mouth.”
Chris exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since last night.
Then he grinned. “So… does that mean I can say it again after round three?”
You shoved him onto his back and climbed on top of him, smirking down at the man who accidentally confessed his feelings while railing you into another dimension.
“Say it again,” you said, voice low and dangerous.
He grinned up at you, flushed and already half-hard. “I love you.”
You kissed him hard. “Good.”
