It Was Good Until It Wasn’t

B • 26✨ • pisces • black woman • attitude kinda savage but her heart is gold ✨

[thebriarbunny]

𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚃𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚄𝚙 ⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

𝒥𝑜𝒽𝓃 𝐿𝑜𝑔𝒶𝓃²² 𝓍 𝓈𝓊𝓃𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑒!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

6.3K words

c/w ᝰ.ᐟ unprotected p in v, teasing, pet names (sweetheart, sunshine, pretty, baby + no y/n), oral (f. receiving), fingering, mutual pining, cream pie + one very down bad handyman ⋆✴︎.ᐟ

Knock. Knock.

“Coming!”

Your voice carries through the apartment over the steady trickle of water somewhere inside. Rain boots squeak across the soaked hardwood as you hurry toward the front door, splashing through a puddle before yanking it open.

The second you see Logan standing in the hallway, relief crashes into you so hard you don’t even think before reaching for him. Your fingers wrap around his wrist, tugging him over the threshold while you kick the door shut behind him with your boot.

“Oh, thank god.” You let out a breathy laugh, already pulling him farther inside before he has the chance to say hello. “Thank you so much for coming over. I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.”

Logan barely manages two steps before he stops. “…Jesus.”

His eyes move slowly around the apartment, taking everything in without saying anything. Every towel you own has been thrown across the floor in an obvious attempt to stop the water that has already escaped the laundry room and spread halfway through the kitchen.

Damp clothes hang from cabinet handles, dining chairs, doorknobs, and the oven handle, dripping steadily into baking sheets and mismatched bowls you’d shoved underneath them to catch the water.

A pastel floral duvet is draped across the backs of two barstools, three bras spin lazily from the ceiling fan, and a string bikini is looped around the refrigerator handle.

The whole apartment smells like fresh laundry, warm vanilla, and clean cotton lingering in the air beneath the faint scent of standing water. It’s complete chaos.

“I’ve been trying,” you blurt out before he can say anything else, throwing both hands toward the disaster surrounding the two of you. “I Googled it.”

“I can tell.”

“I watched, like…” You squint toward the ceiling, trying to remember. “…Seven videos?” He nods once. “And every single one told me to do something different.”

“I believe that.”

“So then I panicked.”

His eyes drift back toward the puddles stretching across your floor before settling on you again. “…Yeah.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “I can see that.”

“Come here.” You wave him toward the laundry room. “It’s worse over here.”

His head dips as a soft laugh escapes through his nose, though it disappears almost as quickly as it came.

Logan follows without a word, stepping carefully around a towel as his boots splash through the thin layer of water covering the floor.

You’ve somehow managed to get yourself almost as wet as the apartment. Damp strands of hair cling to your forehead while everything else has been shoved impatiently behind your ears, your fitted white tank hugging your frame.

That tiny jean skirt kisses your upper thighs, creeping higher every time you step over another puddle, bright yellow rain boots squeaking against the tile as you stop beside the open washing machine and look back at him with the most hopeful expression you can manage.

“There she is,” you whisper sheepishly.

Logan steps up beside you and looks into the drum. The washer isn’t full of clothes anymore because you already hauled every last piece out by hand. It’s still nearly full of cloudy blue water, soap suds floating across the top thick enough that he can’t even see the bottom.

“It won’t drain,” you explain, chewing lightly on your bottom lip.

“Alright.” He reaches for the cuffs of his flannel, rolling one sleeve up before doing the other, exposing his forearms. By the time he finishes, he can already feel your eyes on him.

Your lips part ever so slightly, your attention catching on his hands before drifting farther up his forearms, getting completely lost somewhere between the strength in his hands and the quiet concentration written across his face when he reaches in to check the depth. The water skims his flannel and it’s clear—the shirt has to go.

“This okay?” he asks, already shrugging off one shoulder. Your mouth goes a little dry, lips still parted, lashes fluttering when he asks you again. “Sweetheart?”

The pet name does nothing for your sanity, your cheeks blooming with warmth as you try to answer a question you never heard. “Hmm?”

“My shirt? Can I take it off?” he asks through a chuckle.

“Of course,” you smile. “Take anything off.”

A quiet snort slips out before he can stop it as he strips the plaid fabric off his body, showing off the white cutoff t-shirt underneath. He wraps the bigger shirt around his waist, cinching it with a knot before adjusting the bandana on his head.

“Let’s see what kind of mess you’ve gotten yourself into, sunshine.”

His bandana keeps most of his hair pushed back, though a few stubborn pieces still fall forward across his forehead as he squints down into the machine. The cutoff shirt stretches tightly across his shoulders every time he shifts his weight, the muscles in his arms flexing beneath sun-tanned skin as he twists the center agitator back and forth.

“…C’mon,” he grunts under his breath. You watch his jaw tighten as he gives it one more firm pull.

The agitator slides free. Logan takes a careful step backward, lifting the surprisingly heavy piece out of the washer with both hands. The movement makes the muscles in his forearms tighten beneath his skin, veins standing out as he adjusts his grip to keep it from slipping.

His worn blue jeans are tucked into work boots, and for a second you’re so distracted watching him that you almost forget he’s waiting for an answer.

“You got somewhere I can set this?”

“Oh!” You blink hard, snapping back to reality. “Hang on.”

You spin toward the hallway a little too quickly, and the rain boot hits another patch of soapy water. Both feet slide out just enough to send your arms pinwheeling through the air.

“…Oh, shit,” Logan huffs, his head snapping up instinctively as you manage to catch yourself, bent over at the waist. Nothing but ass and purple lace greeting him as you struggle to find your footing.

He tears his eyes away almost immediately, clearing his throat as heat creeps into his cheeks. His shoulders shake with a quiet laugh he can’t quite hold back, his head tipping to the side as the prettiest little thing he’d ever seen somehow managed to look like she’d stepped onto the ice with her skate guards still on.

“I meant to do that,” you smile over your shoulder, scurrying into the bathroom before returning a few seconds later with a thick striped beach towel bundled in your arms.

Logan blows out a breath as he watches you move, every inch of your apartment a hazard for a slip and fall. He smiles as you lay the towel on the floor, glancing up at him safe and sound.

“Perfect,” he hums, offering you a hand, guiding you closer.

The two of you lean over the washer together, peering into the cloudy blue water that hasn’t budged an inch. Logan studies the drum a moment before nodding once.

“I think your drain’s clogged,” he mumbles, looking to his left where you stand beside him, but you’re bent over now. The white tank top clinging to your curves is translucent—the purple lace bra underneath cups your breasts so perfectly he can’t help but sigh, the low scoop and soft swell of your breasts leaving him wondering what words left his mouth last and where he was goin’ with any of this.

His heavy eyes lift and you quirk an eyebrow teasingly, your glossed lips drawn to the side.

“Somethin’,” he huffs, and you nod. “I—I think things.” Words leave his lips, but they’re not the ones he’s reaching for. Your giggle fills the little laundry room, his laugh joining it. “Sorry—”

“Don’t be,” you smile, stepping a little closer, watching the breath catch in his chest.

“I think your drain’s clogged,” he says, getting his feet under himself again. Logan reaches both hands back into the drum, feeling carefully beneath the cloudy water.

His brow furrows a little deeper, the tip of his tongue slipping out to rest lightly against his upper lip while he concentrates, fingertips searching along the bottom where he can’t see.

“Hang on,” he mutters. “I think…” He pinches onto something beneath the water, his expression shifting with recognition. “I think I got something.”

His fingers tighten around whatever he’d managed to catch beneath the hazy water before giving it the gentlest tug.

“Shit…”

“What?” you ask, your eyes widening immediately as you peer over the edge.

“I think it’s gonna rip.”

Your nose scrunches and you laugh softly. “It’s okay.”

“You sure?” he asks, looking back at you. “I don’t wanna wreck your stuff, sweetheart.”

“If it fixes my washer, it fixes my washer,” you say simply, resting your hands on your hips, and he chuckles.

Logan smiles as he gives the fabric another gentle tug, every muscle through his forearms tightening. His biceps flex with the effort, boots squeaking faintly against the damp tile as he plants himself a little wider.

“Well…” he murmurs, glancing over at you with the smallest smile. “If I break it…” Another careful pull. “…I’m replacin’ it.”

A laugh bubbles out of you almost immediately. “Logan, you’re not replacing anything.”

“We’ll negotiate later,” Logan says, his brown eyes flicking toward yours for just a second before he braces himself for another pull.

You let out a breathy little laugh, shaking your head as you fold your hands behind your back. “There is no negotiation.”

“We’ll see,” he hums, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looks back into the washer.

A strip of black lace slips through the cloudy blue water first, dripping between his fingers before hanging there in complete silence.

Water drips steadily from the towels hanging around the apartment while neither of you says a single word. His eyes drop to the lace dangling from his hand before very, very slowly lifting toward you. Yours are already on him. “…Oh.”

He pulls again, and this time pale blue satin slides free beneath the black lace, a delicate strap catching somewhere inside the drain before cherry-red mesh follows behind it, tiny bows glistening with soapy water as they break the surface.

Your lips part and Logan’s lashes flutter. “I—Umm… I don’t…” He clears his throat when his voice cracks around the words. A horrified giggle escapes you before you can stop it.

“Oh my gosh.” You press both hands over your mouth, already feeling your face warming from your neck all the way to the apples of your cheeks while Logan looks very deliberately back into the washing machine, trying to focus on literally anything except the fact that he’s somehow standing in your laundry room holding what is very obviously the prettiest collection of panties he’s ever encountered.

“I don’t think I’m done,” he admits after another second.

“You’re kidding,” you sigh.

Bubblegum pink lace slips free this time. Then delicate little white florals. Another gentle pull brings soft lavender mesh knotted through the first three, followed by a ribbon of satin that disappears beneath the growing bundle collecting in his hand.

Somewhere deep inside the drain they’ve managed to twist themselves together into one impossible knot, every tiny strap looping through another until what should’ve been one pair becomes two…then four…then six, the growing chain spilling farther and farther across the striped beach towel you spread on the floor only minutes earlier until you’re in the double digits.

He lets out a slow breath through his nose, the corners of his mouth trembling as he tries not to smile.

“I am so embarrassed—”

“I’m impressed,” he mumbles.

“Stop,” you giggle, holding out a hand to block his handsome face when he catches you peering through your fingers.

“This is quite the collection,” he teases, hissing under his breath in faux pain when you shove at his shoulder.

You cross your arms over your chest, turning away slightly, rubber boots squeaking against the tile when a little whistle breezes past his lips. The culprit of it all, the white lace t-string that barely qualifies as underwear in the first place, threads through his thick, rough fingers. The final pair of panties in the makeshift line.

He looks down at you, the dimple in his cheek deepening, waiting to catch your eye again.

“C’mon, pretty. Don’t be like that,” he chuckles as he drops the panty chain to the floor in a heap, reaching for you as he straightens, his hand settling against your hip to turn you toward him.

Your heart beats a little faster when his brown eyes rest on your lips, the tension in his shoulders unwinding when your mouth tips into a smile.

“I can’t believe there were that many,” you whisper, trying not to laugh.

“That’s what I’m sayin’,” he sighs, glancing at the pile before returning his attention to you. “How do you think I feel? I told you I was replacing them.”

“Shut up,” you chuckle, feeling your stomach flutter as he wets his lip, his thumb rubbing against the wet cotton at your hip—snap!

The sudsy water gurgles, bubbles popping from the middle of the drum, as the blue soapy water twirls down the drain like a cyclone until all that’s left is a clean slate.

Your lashes lift and your gaze rests on his. A part of you knows you should be relieved that the water is gone. A smaller, far less practical part of you has been hoping the machine might remain stubborn for an extra hour if it meant Logan had to stay.

“Well, look at that.” He smiles, looking down at the drum.

“You’re amazing.” You squeal, your arms wrapping around his neck, lips pressing against his cheek before you draw away.

For one long second, Logan forgets how to act.

His eyes stay on yours, searching your face like he’s making sure you really meant to do that, the warmth of your lips still lingering against his cheek.

His tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip before he lets out a slow breath through his nose, one hand tightening where it rests against your waist.

“Well,” he murmurs, his voice lower than it had been a second ago.

“What?” you ask, the smile playing in your voice.

“I don’t think anybody’s ever thanked me quite like that.”

Your hands smooth down his chest, his hand falling away from your hips reluctantly. He looks away under the excuse of checking the washer again, dragging one hand along the back of his neck.

He’d spent plenty of time fixing things for people—broken garbage disposals, leaky faucets, doors that wouldn’t quite shut, washing machines that refused to drain just like this one.

None of those jobs had ever left him standing in a tiny laundry room with the most beautiful woman he’d ever met smiling up at him like that. For the first time, he finds himself wishing something else around the apartment were broken—not because he wants another repair, but because he isn’t anywhere near ready to leave.

“I, uh—think we’re golden,” he says, reaching down for the agitator and resting the final piece of the puzzle back in before clicking it in place like it’s nothing.

“That’s it?” you ask, glancing between him and the washer. “You’re completely finished?”

“Unless you’ve got something else hidin’ somewhere that needs me,” he answers with a chuckle, hoping there’s something around here that will give him a little more time with you and another kiss on the cheek at the very least.

You glance around the apartment, taking in the soaked towels, the mixing bowls scattered beneath dripping clothes, and the duvet still draped across two barstools in the kitchen.

There is more than enough cleanup left to keep you busy for the rest of the day, but none of it technically requires a broad-shouldered hockey player you’ve had a crush on all semester.

Your lips press together in a slight pout before you can stop them, your boot digging lightly against the wet floor as you look back into the empty drum.

Logan notices immediately. “What’s that face for?” he asks, brushing the water off his rough hands on his jeans.

“What face?” you ask, peering at him out of the corner of your eye.

Logan catches you smiling before you realize you’re doing it. “That one.” He nods toward you, amusement pulling at his mouth. “You looked happier when your washer was broken, sunshine.”

“Did I?”

“You absolutely did.”

You bite your cheek as he lowers the lid of the washer, starting an empty load just to test it out. “So did you,” you mumble, calling his bluff, and his lips fall open like that can’t be so—like you’re reading him all wrong—but the chuckle gives him away.

“You think so?” Logan asks quietly. “…Guess I wasn’t hidin’ it very well.”

“M’happy it’s fixed,” you hum. “Obviously. I just thought it might take a little longer.”

Logan rests one hip against the washer, folding his arms loosely across his chest as he studies you. “You wanted it to take longer?”

“Maybe,” you smile.

“Huh,” he huffs, one hand lifting from his side to rest on your cheek, making your pulse jump as the other slides around your waist again.

Logan brushes his thumb across your cheek, his palm settling carefully against the side of your face when you lean into the touch.

“You know,” he murmurs, “it didn’t take shit breakin’ for you to call me over.”

“No?” you ask, and his arm tightens around your waist, guiding you closer. You smile bashfully, hands wrapping around his waist as well, chest pressing against his until your soaked breasts push into his broad chest.

“Been waitin’ for a while,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow pass over your skin. “Just needed you to give me a reason.”

“Yeah?”

His eyes hold yours as the corner of his mouth lifts. “‘Course.”

The sincerity in his voice steals whatever response you were about to give him. Your fingers tighten in his shirt, feeling the warmth of his chest beneath the thin fabric as you tilt your chin up toward his.

“Are you going to kiss me, or did I flood my apartment for nothing?” you whisper, your lips so close to his that all you can feel is the breath of his chuckle.

“You didn’t flood your apartment for this,” he mumbles, the warmth of his words brushing over your lips as he teases you.

“You know…” he murmurs, pulling back just enough for you to chase his lips, “…you’ve been lookin’ at me all afternoon.”

“So’ve you.”

“…Yeah.” The admission comes so easily it makes your heart stumble. “I’ve been tryin’ real hard to be a gentleman.” He lets out a quiet exhale through his nose, like there wasn’t much point pretending anymore. “Been havin’ a hard time lookin’ anywhere else.”

Your mouth parts on a soft breath, and Logan’s body reacts to it instantly. His own lips part, catching your bottom lip in a gentle tug, humming out a deep sound before he murmurs, “I think you’re makin’ it pretty difficult.”

His forehead falls to yours for the briefest second, both of you smiling into the inch of space between your mouths. His thumb strokes once along your jaw before his lips press together, like he’s trying to convince himself to keep doing the gentleman thing he’d been talking about thirty seconds ago.

“Fuck it,” he murmurs.

Logan’s big arms wrap around you in one smooth motion as he lifts you clean off your feet. Your legs hook around his waist as his mouth crashes into yours, stealing your breath as you kiss him for the very first time.

He turns and presses your back to the wall, his body settling against yours with a heavy weight that makes your breath catch as your spine meets it.

He dips in again, kissing you slower this time, deep enough to make your head spin and everything else fall away. Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, nails sliding in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling a deep groan from his lips.

You giggle breathlessly, and he buries his face in your neck, his fingers flexing against your skin as he physically holds himself back. His smile pulls along your skin, the weight of his body still holding you where he wants you, and even though he’s not kissing you for the moment, you can tell that it’s killing him.

“Sweetheart,” he mutters, warm at your neck, his teeth sliding against your skin.

“John?” you answer, the sound of his first name leaving your lips doing nothing for his restraint. He glances toward the ceiling for a second before looking back at you, his broad shoulders rising and falling with a quiet sigh.

“Baby,” he mutters against your neck, his voice rough enough to send a shiver through you. His eyes squeeze shut for a second before he tips his forehead to yours with a quiet laugh. “I’m bein’ so damn good right now.”

He sets you to your feet, your body still pinned to the wall, his rough hand cupping your cheek as the other holds you close, kissing you again.

“You don’t have to be,” you whisper, and his jaw tightens, his deep, dark eyes falling to your lips again.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, smiling when the corner of your lips curls. “You are trouble, aren’t you?”

You look back at him through your lashes, shaking your head no, but everything in your body language screams yes as he stares back at you, his lips still tingling.

“Can I ask you something?” he whispers.

“Mhmm,” you hum.

“Would you let me take you out sometime?”

You bite your lip, stifling the giggle bubbling on your tongue because the answer had been sitting on the tip of it before he’d even finished asking.

“I’d really like that,” you whisper.

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” you answer.

“You can keep those boots on,” he teases as he steps between your legs, his body pressing against yours, and it’s clear that the last thing he wants to do is wait until then.

“I have something a little cuter I can wear,” you whisper.

Logan’s eyes drift over your face before the corner of his mouth lifts again.

“Somehow…” he murmurs, his thumb brushing absentmindedly against your hip, “…I don’t think that’s possible,” he sighs, stealing your breath when he steps back. “Pick you up around six?”

“Six sounds perfect.” You smile, fixing your skirt where it’s ridden up your thighs a little, feeling your body throb from your head to your toes.

Logan reaches for his toolbox, then the doorknob, his fingers wrapping around the brass handle before he slowly pulls it open.

He steps out before turning back toward you.

“Tomorrow.” You smile, your head resting against the doorframe—a floaty sensation coursing through your veins, the desperate need to kiss him again leaving your body trembling with adrenaline.

“Tomorrow.”

For one impossibly long second, it feels like you’re both waiting for the other person to break. Instead, Logan smiles. He gives one small nod before finally forcing himself to turn away, the old toolbox swinging lightly beside his leg as he starts down the breezeway.

You stand in the doorway long after he should’ve disappeared from sight, one hand still resting against the edge of the open door as your eyes follow him farther and farther away.

The afternoon sun catches the back of his shoulders, flannel tied around his waist shifting against his jeans. He looks over one shoulder, catching you still standing there watching him.

You lift your hand, waving with the tips of your fingers, feeling your heart race in your chest before he rounds the corner and falls out of sight.

You let out the tiniest sigh before easing the front door shut, the latch clicking softly behind you. Your back settles against the cool wood of the door, your eyes drifting shut as the biggest smile you’ve worn in weeks spreads across your face all over again.

Your shoulders slide another inch down the door until your rain boots squeak against the hardwood beneath you.

“Tomorrow,” you repeat, nodding to absolutely no one. “Not today. Tomorrow.” You press your lips together, trying very hard to look serious despite the fact that nobody is there to witness it.

“Which means…” You point one finger toward yourself in mock warning. “…You are not going to chase after him.” You nod solemnly. “You are a grown woman. You are capable of waiting…” Your eyes drift toward the front door. “…Twenty-four hours.” You pause. “…More or less.”

The washing machine sloshes cheerfully behind you as your head tips back against the door with another little groan. “Oh, he’s so handsome though,” you pout, your lips still tingling, the smell of his cologne clinging to the cotton of your tank top.

You push yourself away from the door and wander aimlessly toward the kitchen, your fingertips trailing across the backs of dining chairs draped in damp clothes.

“You’re not texting him.” You tap your cellphone as you pass it. “You’re not calling him. You’re not coming up with some household emergency because—because you can’t…”

“And besides…” Your eyes flick toward the laundry room where the machine continues humming along perfectly. “He fixed the only one you’ve got.”

A smile slips across your face before you can stop it. “He asked me on a date.” You gossip the words into the nothingness of your kitchen, your yellow puddle boots squeaking when you twirl. “He asked me.”

You stand there for a beat, the quiet hum of the washing machine filling the apartment before you let out one long sigh through your nose. “…Alright.” Reality.

The flood might be over, but your apartment still looks like a tornado spun through for fun. Towels lie scattered across the hardwood, damp clothes hang from cabinet handles and dining chairs, and somewhere beneath the floral duvet draped over your barstools is probably the mixing bowl you’d spent half an hour using to bail water out by hand.

The laundry basket waits against the wall exactly where you’d abandoned it earlier. You cross your arms over your body, peeling off the white tank top first, flicking it into the basket, shimmying the denim skirt down around your hips before lofting it into the heap as well.

You gather a handful of drip-dried clothing strewn across your place, cheeks warming all over again as flashes of the last hour replay in your mind.

The crease between his brows while he concentrated. The way he’d completely forgotten how words worked the second he’d looked over and caught sight of you. “…Poor guy.” The smile refuses to leave your face.

One by one, you begin dropping everything into the hamper, wandering back toward the scene of the crime as the water from the test-run starts to drain, the metal drum turning like a top for the final spin.

Something metallic rattles softly on the washer and your brows knit together, eyes snapping toward the appliance.

A wrench?

It sits on top of the metal lid, bouncing with the last lazy turn of the drum before settling perfectly still in the middle of the washer.

A laugh escapes before you can stop it.

“John Logan…”

He hadn’t touched a wrench all afternoon. Not once. You’d watched every second of it. He’d rolled up his sleeves, reached into the washer with those big hands of his, hauled the agitator out without so much as looking for a tool, and somehow fixed the entire thing anyway.

The wrench wasn’t forgotten… It was an excuse.

You lift it into your hand, turning it over once between your fingers as your smile grows impossibly wider.

Knock. Knock.

Your heart stumbles, a smile breaking across your face before you can stop it. You round the corner, not even glancing toward the peephole before you throw the door open.

You lean into the doorframe, smiling as the wrench hangs lazily from your fingers, giggling breathily as your heart pounds.

His eyes find yours first, his lips parting like every word he’d prepared has disappeared into thin air when he sees you in those little puddle boots and the panty set he’d spent the last few minutes fantasizing about, but it’s so, so much better.

Logan simply stares. Every coherent thought leaves him as his little plan unfolds into something more beautiful than he could have ever imagined.

The toolbox hanging from his hand suddenly feels twenty pounds heavier as his eyes fall down your body, lingering for a moment before lifting back to yours. “I—I forgot somethin’,” he manages, though it comes out rougher than he’d intended.

“Did you?”

You look down at the wrench resting in your hand before lifting it between the two of you. His eyes flick to it for all of half a second before they wander right back to your face.

He steps forward as your fingers fist in the front of his cutoff, bunching the soft cotton beneath your hand as you give him one determined tug over the threshold, and his lips find yours first.

The toolbox clatters to the floor, the front door slamming shut as every ounce of restraint he’d pretended to have around you disappears the second your lips meet.

Logan lets out one low sound against your mouth, lifting you off your feet just as effortlessly as he had before. The urgency makes your heart race, the wrench slipping harmlessly from your hand into the hamper of clothes as he presses deeper into your place, work boots pounding over the hardwood, and your fingers fist the hair at the nape of his neck.

“In there,” you mumble through a smile into your kiss, and he chuckles hungrily, his hold on you tightening.

He kicks off his boots at the threshold of your bedroom without missing a beat, setting you down just to walk you back to the mattress, his hands coming up to comb the bandana out of his hair as your fingers greedily tear at the knotted flannel around his waist.

Logan strips off his shirt as you toss his flannel aside, smiling against your lips as your fingers unfasten the hardware of his blue jeans, his voice deep and warm when he whispers, “You sure?”

“Don’t stop,” you breathe, your hands reaching behind your back to unfasten your bra as his jeans fall in a heap at his feet.

“Fuck, baby,” he mumbles, dipping down to get closer as his big, rough palms reach up, cupping your breasts in his hands, his lips sucking down on your neck. Your fingers wrap around the band of his boxers, drawing the material lower, shoving them down his thighs.

Logan kisses up your neck, lips brushing by your ear as he sighs deeply. His fingers hook around the panties on your hips—the last piece of clothing separating you from him.

“I’m still trying to be good,” he whispers against your ear, his voice honeyed and deep. You can hear the smile in his voice as he snaps the fabric against your skin, making you suck in a breath.

Your hand drifts between you, the tip of his thick cock already pressed against your thigh. He groans beside your ear when your fingernails trace softly from the base of his dick, shuddering out a breath as you work your way slowly to the tip, goosebumps spreading across his tanned skin.

“Are you?” you ask teasingly, sucking in a breath when he lifts you off your feet, taking you down to the mattress, pinning you under his weight as he steals the smile off your lips.

His tongue slides between your lips, rolling slowly with yours as your fingers thread through his hair, his hips rocking into you with a practiced sway, rutting against your clothed clit, making your thighs fall open.

“Been waitin’ for this forever,” he mutters into the kiss, his forehead dropping against yours when he breaks the kiss, looking at the space between you as his dick grinds over the purple lace between your thighs.

“Please,” you whisper, and his eyes lift to yours.

“Teasin’ me all afternoon?” he chuckles, pulling back, his body sliding lower on the mattress. “Think you don’t deserve a little teasing too?” His lips travel over your chest and stomach, pressing softly below your navel as his thumb traces over the lace panties along your slit.

He works lower, lips teasing the insides of your thighs as he kisses down your legs, stripping off your boots before he lets them fall to your bedroom floor. His biceps and shoulder muscles swell as he dips down again, the stubble on his jaw grazing your soft skin.

“Logan,” you pout, and he chuckles between your thighs, the warmth of his laugh making your legs draw in, but he spreads them apart again, those rough hands you couldn’t keep your eyes off earlier pressing your thighs into the mattress.

“Tell me you didn’t wear that little skirt just to torment me?” he hums, his mouth dipping down so his teeth can catch along the lace, dragging it down your thighs. “A wet, white tank top… How?” he asks as he tugs the lace the rest of the way down your legs before he bunches it up in his fist, tossing it to the side. “How was I not supposed to end up right… fucking… here…?” he asks, his breath blowing warm against your clit.

“I’m gonna take good care of you,” he murmurs, the words making your thighs tremble. Your hips lift off the mattress when his tongue drags up your center, a moan falling from your lips and filling your bedroom as his groan vibrates between your thighs at the taste.

Logan smiles, pressing your legs wider into the mattress, kissing your clit and making your back arch off the mattress as your hands fly to his hair, holding him close.

His rough fingers trace up your legs as his tongue circles your puffy clit, sucking against it as two thick fingers shove through your entrance.

Your eyes roll back in your head as he works his fingers in and out, curving them to hit that spot that has your thighs shaking with every push of his hand and flick of his tongue.

“C’mon, baby,” he mumbles into your pussy, adding a third finger, stretching you out as he feels you tightening around his digits, humming against your clit as he tastes your sweetness on his tongue and you break, fluttering around his fingers as his name leaves your lips in a breathy cry.

He watches you from between your thighs, working you through each wave of your orgasm until you’re gasping and whimpering in overstimulation, your hands tangling in his hair to drag him up to your lips.

“Proud of you,” he mumbles between kisses as you try desperately to catch your breath, the two of you smiling into your kiss when he rubs the thick head of his cock between your thighs, catching the wet mess he’d left pooling between your legs.

“Fuck, you drive me insane,” you whisper, feeling him rub his tip against your entrance.

“Yeah?” he asks, pressing just enough for your lips to fall open. His mouth curls against yours, feeling how desperate you are. “How was it?”

“So fucking good,” you whisper as your hands wrap around his body, nails sliding down his strong back.

“What about this?” he asks, feeling your hips lift off the mattress, making him sink deeper into your pussy as you grind up to fuck yourself on the first few inches.

“Keep teasing me, Logan. See what happens,” you smile, and he laughs.

“Still picking you up at six tomorrow,” he manages to push out, the muscle in his stomach tightening with how good you feel around him.

“Can’t wait,” you breathe, your eyes flicking up to him.

“I’ll drop you off and you can drag me back inside and we can do this shit again, huh?” he asks as you reach up, cupping his face in your hands, pulling him down to your lips. You catch Logan’s deep moan as he presses your hips down into the mattress, pushing in, stretching you wide.

“Yes, s-shit,” the words whimper past your lips as you cradle his sharp jaw in your hand, peering down to watch his hips draw back, the length of his cock pulling back slowly just to drive back in.

“Feels so good,” he groans against your mouth, pushing in and out. “Taking me so good,” he breathes, his forehead resting against yours to watch as his toned hips strike your skin again and again.

“Fuck, baby. That’s it,” he praises as you lift your legs, hands squeezing the back of your thighs, a loud moan falling from your mouth as his pace quickens, thrusting harder, in and out.

He leans into you a little, the position letting him fuck into you impossibly deep, his eyes rolling back into his head as your bottom lip slips between your teeth, your hands twisting the sheets below.

“I’m gonna cum,” you whimper, and he nods like he knows what you need, changing the angle just enough to fuck into you as his fingers rub and circle your clit.

“Fuck, John,” you whine, your back arching off the mattress as he rocks into you further, swirling his fingers over your clit when his lips find yours.

“Cum for me, baby,” he breathes. “Cum on my cock—”

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him into you as your body falls apart around him, your pussy squeezing him so tight he buries himself in your neck, grinding his teeth with the effort, moaning against your skin as he fills you with his climax too, his hips stuttering as your body softens around him.

“Fuck, baby,” he sighs into the crook of your neck as you giggle blissfully, your fingers slipping and threading into his hair. He stays like that for a moment, breathing and nuzzling into your neck, taking in the scent of your sweet perfume as he presses gentle kisses up to your ear. “I don’t think anybody’s ever thanked me quite like that.”

🧺🫧 tag list on my pinned post👙 @liss2709-blog @sushi-girl04 @judesgfirl @cdiaz18 @abbottjunior01 @obsessedwrafe @vanillaiceyhot @maialopez23 @rexit-mo @georgiastars13 @princessaaa13 @dragonvalyria @livlovesfastcars @thebitchylibra @corvusmorte @st8rkey @imperfectlyperfect78 @winchestersbgirl @glitterandviolence13 @twylas114 @miramindlesslywriting @emelia07 @maybankslover @archxve @jujuonthatbeat1357 @parker-barnes-af @aria1108 @magcon7280 @kristenm74 @dancerbailey3 @phoebesatoru @purplerainx1 @simp4f1 @at-arax-ia @lovesturni0l0s @kkkkisworld @hearts4norris @styles-sturniolo @angelnameddani @macbaetwo @tangledinmyfeelings @ethanthequeefqueen @taliescapes @grahamsbunny @party444you @primadonnasdream @gretavanhockey @buttercuppy8 @ashloveshockey @fentyqloss

[sassydw]

[trippinsorrows]

mirror

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒𑁤 love runs deep, but sometimes the pain runs deeper. and sometimes....it's irreparable. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𑁤 angst. 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒𑁤 six thousand, five hundred, and some change (6k+) 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𑁤 roman reigns x black!oc  𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𑁤 graphic and dividers by me. 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐎𑁤 ❝mirror❞ by justin timberlake 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𑁤  be sure to have read part one, never be the same and part two, say something, before reading this.

⠀ ꨄ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 + 𝐉𝐎𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐘 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ꨄ

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀© 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐒™⠀

Previously

“I lied because I love you!”

“And that’s the problem!” He shouts, either too deeply embedded into his own feelings to notice the way Solana jumps at his volume or perhaps, in this rare moment, he’s just uncaring. “That’s always been the fucking problem.” Roman punches his hand into his open fist to accompany each perfectly enunciated, sharp word, further emphasizing his frustration. “We’ve been stuck in this goddamn cycle for over twenty years now, and at this point, I don’t know how we break it.” But the frustration collapses with the slump of his shoulders and dip of his lips into a deep frown. “Or if it’s already broke us.”

Gail immediately refocuses on Solana, unsurprised to see her body language mimics that of her husband with the additive of the silent tears that stream down her face. Shoulders also slumped, mouth opening and closing as she struggles to verbalize what Gail knows must crush her to say aloud.

“Feels pretty broken to me.”

The silence is deafening.

Lita casts a quick glance between the two of them, leaned forward as she lowers her voice.

“Okay, there’s a lot—”

“I can’t do this right now,” Roman murmurs. Two set of eyes flick in his direction as he stands, turning in the opposite direction of Solana who remains seated, eyes shut, the tears continuing to fall.

“Roman—“

The last minute attempt to convince him to stay is a failed one. The door shutting behind him with a softness that contrasts everything that just occurred and remains in the small room that suddenly feels overwhelming with an influx of emotions.

“He’s done,” Solana whispers. Gail starts to move to reach and place her hand over Solana’s, but the other woman shakes her head. A one shoulder shrug and the saddest smile that’s ever graced someone’s face. “We’re done.”

“I’m getting really worried.”

Leya’s whispered confession draws the focus of her siblings. Her eyes remain down on her lap, on the intricate design of the pillow that she has hugged against her chest. It’s a sort of therapeutic technique she learned a long time ago. When she was younger and her OCD was the worst it’s ever been. Brie would instruct her to hold a pillow close to her chest, holding and squeezing it while taking deep breaths, pretending that the combination and eventual release of her breath and the tension in her body represented the “bad thoughts” being released.

It was helpful. Very helpful in some cases.

But right now, it’s not doing much.

“He’s still not back home,” Nic adds, frown deepening. His eyes flick around the room, his jaw shifting in the same way their dad's does when he's in the midst of thought, working and mulling over scenarios in real time while still maintaining verbal communication. “And he and mom are talking less and less.”

“Not even that,” Aria speaks up, looking among her brothers and sisters. Like once before, she sits only a few inches away from Leya. A symbolic seating of sorts considering they are two of the few siblings who still live at home. All for obvious reasons, whether it be them still being minors or situations like Leya where it just makes since given her having RJ. But their residing in the home also means that they've been granted a front row seat to the tension that's marred their family home over the past few weeks. “You could….you could tell they were upset with each other before, but now…now they don’t even seem angry anymore. They just seem….sad.”

It’s a shared sentiment among the older of the Reigns kids. Even Aroha, on the verge of her twelfth birthday, has pressed her siblings for questions regarding their parents obvious conflict. Both Aria and Leya have done their best to answer without answering, but Aroha isn't the baby of the family anymore with a limited ability to understand what's going on. She knows that something is very wrong, and there's only so many different ways they can dodge the obvious before she becomes aware of how dire the situation is.

Soon enough, Aubrey, Tavita, and RJ will be the only ones spared from the glaring realization that something is definitely, deeply wrong.

The kids were hoping that the joint therapy session Aria saw on her dad’s calendar when updating his phone for him would be the thing that did it. That helped their parents get through or over this hurdle that they’ve seemingly encountered.

But the evening of said session, Solana returned home alone. Roman didn't walk into the front door until they were setting the table for dinner, and Koa and Kai were feeding the pets.

And once all the younger kids were down for bed, Leya checked the camera app on her phone to see her dad climb into one of the family's many cars, start it up, and drive off.

She must have stared at the empty spot where the car once sat for a good ten minutes. At least until the image was blurred and distorted by the tears that were burning her eyes.

The displeasure of having a front row seat from the moment this all began, when her mom marched into the home carrying with her an energy that would change everything, has meant that Leya has, in many ways, been affected the most by it all. Lost in the chaos of a storm that has no visible end in sight and leaves in its wake destruction that's gradually starting to feel irreparable with each passing day of no reconciliation in sight.

For her and all of the rest of her siblings outside of the OG's 2.0, it’s been the most fucking uncomfortable thing ever. When the rough patch hit years prior, there were at least attempts to feign and maintain the role of a happy couple. Their efforts were not without the holes that the older kids were able to spot plain as day, but the fact that their parents at least tried to pretend that everything was fine, for the sake of not wanting to worry their kids, meant something.

But this isn't then.

Their parents aren’t even trying to force or fake shit. They’re just….there.

“I briefly overheard them talking last night—”

“Really?” It’s the most hopeful Leya has felt and sounded since they all arrived at Lina’s place, needing the space to speak and talk freely without Aroha or their parents overhearing. “What—what did they say?”

Koa shakes his head. His foot taps against the floor, his fingers also moving in rhythmic patterns against his knee. “I couldn’t make out all of it, but something about waiting until after Aroha’s birthday—”

“Waiting for what?”

Kai fixes his gaze on Lina. “He just said he couldn’t make it out.”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Guys,” Tama’s deep voice cuts through what’s sure to be a part two from the last time they gathered together, except this time, he’s not about to let things get as far as they did before. He wasn't for it then, and he damn sure isn't for it now. Things were just bad then, but they're significantly worse now, and that's saying something. “Stop it. Now.”

“What if it’s happening this time?” Leya whispers. To herself. Maybe her siblings. She’s not sure. She just knows the sensation of her eyes burning is followed up with a wet feeling against her cheeks. “What if…what if they’re getting a divorced?”

“No way.” Nic's rebuff is quick and sharp. His voice drops an octave, deepening in the way almost all of the boys' voices do when they're irritated or uncomfortable. Again, just like their dad. “No one loves each other more than mom and dad.”

“Certainly doesn’t feel that way anymore.”

“Koa!”

“What?” He snaps, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s been over two weeks, and things aren’t getting any better. They’re only getting worse.”

“I can’t believe he had a stroke and didn’t tell mommy,” Lina voices what she’s been wondering since her sister broke the shocking, alarming news. “They tell each other everything.”

“Not this,” Kai mutters.

Tama starts to check his younger brother once more but opts to try to keep the conversation focused and on topic. “He probably didn’t want to worry her—”

“He’s done a great job with that.”

“Sissy,” Leya sighs. Lina looks at her twin, the solemn expression on a face that’s hers but also not making her shoulders drop. “Sorry,” she murmurs. “I just—” She swallows, eyes growing watery. “This can’t be happening. Mommy and daddy are soulmates. They can’t—they can’t get divorced.” She looks around the room, a sense of helplessness that’s foreign and suffocating. “They still love each other. I know they do.”

Lina has always been the problem solver of her siblings. Tama as well, but the final say has always been run past her. It’s always been her gift in life. A gift she inherited from her father. Underneath an often rough, tough exterior is a problem solving brain that is typically the source of countless, possible solutions.

But she sits among her brothers and sisters, stunned and damned to the silence that represents failure.

She can’t solve this.

Doesn’t know how.

Her words, however, trigger something within Aria. She lifts her head, slowly, mouthing something to herself. It’s faint and low but heard and noticed by Leya who looks at her with glossy eyes.

“What is it?”

The question manages to temporarily relieve the rest of kids from the depressing realization that the life they’ve always known, loved, and appreciated might be on the path of change.

And not the good type.

Samaria licks her lips, looking around the room, her gaze settling on Tama and Lina.

“I think I have an idea.”

————

The sound of the front door slamming and the soles of her foot slapping against the wooden floor serve as blurred background noise. Everything outside of racing thoughts, most of which were intrusive in nature, have clouded up her headspace. Ever since her phone lit up as she was in the midst of vacuuming out the OG's 2.0 playroom and saw a text from her eldest son. Simple in nature. Heavy in meaning.

We need you.

Solana was out the door in under twenty minutes. The short distance from the Reigns estate and the home of her eldest two children has never felt so far away as she sped through traffic, uncaring of any laws being broken in the process.

All she could think about was the fact that it was rare for her son to send such a short, non-descriptive message. Even more, especially since he moved out, Tama has always preferred to talk over text. At least with her.

So Solana knew that something had to be very wrong, hence the urgency that guided her movements and relentless efforts to make it to her babies.

Except the minute she rounds the entryway and heads for the living room, calls for her son and daughter left unanswered, worry is swapped for something else.

Shock.

Emerging from the kitchen, most likely through the backdoor entrance off said kitchen, Solana stands across from the man she's barely spoken more than ten words to over the past several days.

Roman.

His expression, she's certain, mirrors hers. He eyes her skeptically before his mouth settles into a line and her own mouth parts once and then twice before she manages to speak.

"What—what are you doing here?"

Though the minute it comes out, she immediately both regrets and answers her own question. If Tama reached out to her because something is wrong, of course he'd reach out to his dad as well.

Roman must realize this, too, as his answer never comes, or rather it's intercepted by the sound of footsteps as she turns around to see several of her oldest children. Tama is included in said group, but the expression on his face, on all of their faces, doesn't indicate a level or urgency.

It indicates….anxiety.

Like they're nervous about something.

Roman finally breaks his silence, voicing what Solana is thinking. "What's going on?"

Lina steps forward, her siblings eyes fixed onto her as she motions with her arm to the living room. "Please. Sit." She leans to the side just enough to ensure locking eyes with her father. "Daddy, you too."

And just like that, the concern about what had happened shifts to what's about to happen. Solana, however, would like to believe that her kids wouldn't have called both herself and Roman over here for nothing. So instead of pushing back the way she wants to, she silently walks into the living room, placing her purse on the space beside her.

Roman follows suit, sitting across the way, of course.

Though she understands it and prefers it, she also hates it. As upset and angry and hurt and everything else as she is towards and with her husband, it hasn't dulled the wound in her chest that's been birthed and only grown day after day since this all went down.

"Kids." Solana turns to see Roman is focused on their children who've also joined them in the living room, lined up almost in front of the television. Lina. Leya. Tama. Aria. Nic. "I'm not gon' ask again."

As much as Solana dislikes the almost irritated tone he's taken with them, the question is valid. Though she has a feeling she's not going to like the answer any more than he will.

Tama takes a deep breath and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his dark jeans. "Look, we know….we know you guys aren't in a good place right now."

Solana shuts her eyes. Her suspicions have now turned into confirmations.

"Tam—"

"And we know that you've always told us to stay out of it," Lina cuts in, the only one in the group other than Tama, that would have the balls to interrupt Roman like that. "That your marriage is none of our business and between the two of you."

Solana licks her lips, gradually willing her eyes open. "Lin—"

"But whatever is happening between you guys right now is affecting all of us," Nic's additive does nothing more than increase that weight on Solana's chest. She's not stupid. As much as she would like to believe she and Roman have done their best to not allow their situation to impact the kids, that's just not a feasible nor realistic expectation. With the exception of Aubrey and Tavita, Solana knows her children well enough to know they inherited their father's discernment.

They can see what doesn't need to be stated.

Aria takes another deep breath as she takes over for her brother." We know something is wrong, and we love you both too much to sit back and do nothing."

Solana doesn't need to be looking at her husband to see the way his jaw shifts and moves as he works to find the right, best words. “Samaria—”

“Please,” Leya cuts in, stepping forward, lips pressed together as her parents focus on her. “For…for us.”

It’s a bit of a cruel string to pull. A manipulation tactic if not for who it was to evoke it.

The only thing that neither Solana nor Roman can ever say no to.

When it comes to their kids, it’s always a yes.

It’s why, despite them sitting on opposite sofas—Solana on the one facing the TV and Roman on the one adjacent to the TV—they're on the same page for a first time in a long time.

Aria is the one to walk over to them, breaking from her brothers and sisters. “We know that we’re obviously biased since we’re your kids. Not to mention it’s not really our place, but we thought....” She stops, looking over at someone else to take over as she grabs the remote, setting up the television, the emotion in her voice indicative of her struggle. “We thought maybe if you hear it from someone other than us, it’ll help you remember.”

Solana shifts on the sofa, hating the way she struggles to maintain her volume. Indication and reminders of her immense difficulty over the past two weeks in trying to keep it all together. “Remember what?”

Lina is the one to handle the question, the final one, as the kids start to spill out the room.

“That you’re RoSo.”

The term makes both husband and wife still. But whatever is felt from hearing something that carries so much history and weight is redirected when music starts to play. A song she recognizes almost instantly.

Aren't you somethin' to admire?

'Cause your shine is somethin' like a mirror

And I can't help but notice

You reflect in this heart of mine

The dark screen lights up, cursive black font set against a white backdrop.

RoSo

Solana’s hand drops to her stomach at the transition to Dwayne and Matteo, clearly at the Warehouse, in the midst of a workout. The music remains playing in the background at a lower volume to accommodate the sounds of the interviewees.

“Uncle Dwayne. Uncle Teo.” Tama’s voice is loud and clear, confirming he’s the one filming the two men who stand with light sheen of sweat splayed across their forehead, hands on their waist. “What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think of RoSo?”

Dwayne chuckles, looking at Matteo. “You wanna go first, Fabio?”

Matteo casts a wry smile and glances at the camera. “That’s easy.” He shrugs. “Love.”

Roman’s jaw clenches.

“Fucker stole my answer,” Dwayne curses, also looking at the camera. “But like he said, love. Unlike anything I’ve ever seen, either.”

The clips switches as a smiling Afia and Bayley stand next to each other. Like the men, dressed in workout/training attire and clearly at the Warehouse but caught right before the beginning of their sparring session.

“Tias.” It’s Lina’s voice this time as she presents the same question as her brother. “What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think of RoSo?”

Bayley scoffs. “Douche, but that only applies to the first half.”

Afia lightly slaps Bayley on the arm, shaking her head before taking a soft breath. Her pretty eyes flick upward, narrowing slightly in the way she does when in deep thought. “Soulmates.”

“As much as I hate to say anything remotely good about your irritating ass dad, she’s right.” Bayley feigns an over-dramatic sigh before her mouth settles into a small, genuine smile. “Soulmates for sure.”

'Cause I don't wanna lose you now

I'm lookin' right at the other half of me

The vacancy that sat in my heart

Is a space that now you hold

Another transition to another clip that reveals Cameron, Melina, and Mickie, also at the Warehouse, which instantly has Solana convinced that the kids must have asked everyone to meet them there.

That faction of Solana’s friend group only attends the Warehouse for fight nights and major matches, primarily when Roman is fighting, and even then, they’re more there for her than for the actual fights.

And just like the last two times, the same question is presented, but the timbre of Nic’s deep voice is heard instead of Lina’s much lighter, softer one. Mickie is the first to answer in the way that only Mickie would.

“Hot.”

Nic’s exasperated sigh makes Solana smile. “Aunt Mickie.”

Cameron, however, quickly jumps in with her own answer accompanied by a soft smile. “Inspiring.”

Melina casts her a sideways glance, playfully nudging her. “You make them sound like motivational speakers.”

She shrugs, pushing her braids back over her shoulder. “I mean, Solana kind of is.”

It’s hard for Solana to pinpoint exactly what part of what she’s watching affects and impacts her the most. The words. The participants. The effort her children have clearly put in to make all this happen, and in such a short period of time, it seems. Each compliment, however, seems to do something to her. Lessens just a little bit the weight she’s carried with her nonstop the past two weeks.

But she's tuned back in, resisting the desire to look over at Roman who’s also watched quietly thus far, as Mickie makes a ‘pfft’ sound. “Roman isn’t.” She rolls her eyes, lifting her hand to examine her nails. “He’s the meanest person I know.”

“Mickie,” Melina mutters, gesturing to the camera. “That’s his dad.”

“Oh my God, it’s not a secret. Literally everyone knows Roman is mean.” She throws her hands up, looking away, gasping. “Here. You.”

Confusion dwells as the footage becomes shaky before the camera refocuses on an unfamiliar face, but he wears a solid black shirt with a familiar, red insignia on the right side, just above his pectoral muscles.

Bloodline.

However, Solana’s guess would be he’s not of the…..field type. Perhaps something related to tech. Slim build, greasy hair, some strings clinging to his forehead, and the way he pushes his thick rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose as well as the overall startled expression all but confirm it.

There are numerous positions available throughout the Bloodline, and despite popular misconception, not all of them require the ability to maim and kill. There are many other roles that need fulfilling, some of which include sitting behind a desk.

This man is clearly a desk type.

“What’s your name?” Mickie asks but immediately waves away as if physically pushing her initial query to the side in place of what’s most relevant. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Isn’t Roman Reigns an asshole?”

“Mickie!”

Another smile appears on Solana’s face as the nervous expression on the man’s swiftly morphs into something of horror. His widened eyes and dilated pupils magnified 10x over.

“The—the Tribal Chief?” His eyes switch to the camera, slightly above the frame, which Solana would guess is him realizing just who is holding said camera. He gulps. “No. N—no. The—the Tribal Chief is a great man—”

“Okay, that’s enough.” A quiet laugh actually spills over when Mickie literally shoves the man away, prompting outcry from Cameron and Melina. “See, even strangers are afraid of him. Why?” She mouths she word, sound absent but lips easily readable. “Asshole.”

“Ignore her.” Solana watches Melina shake her head when Nic refocuses the camera on her, and even before she can fix her mouth to say it, Solana just knows. Can tell by the gleam in her eyes what the answer is.

“Amor.”

Love.

Additional clips interviewing closest family and friends continue to flash across the screen, but Solana feels frozen in place and time from that word. A word that so deeply encompasses so much of her life. Of her relationship.

Carved into her, metaphorically and physically. The latter of the two further emphasized when she realizes her hand is placed against her chest, fingers covering the black and red ink near her clavicle.

Her tattoo.

The one she got for Roman.

For them.

She swallows, emotion continuing to build as the lyrics burn into her soul.

Show me how to fight for now

And I'll tell you, baby, it was easy

Comin' back here to you once I figured it out

You were right here all along.

Except the emotion only extrapolates when unexpected participants fill up the flat screen TV.

Aubrey, Tavita, and RJ are sitting at the table she recognizes from being the one in their shared playroom. Naturally, all three are wiggly, but only Aubrey is smiling happily. RJ and Tavita instead carry pouts and scowls that remind her so much of….of Roman.

Roman

“Okay, guys—”

Koa’s voice is cut off by a whining, pouting Aubrey as she reaches up with her arms. Tavita and RJ present a question Solana can’t entirely make out. “Can you hold me?”

A heavy sigh makes her chuckle as she wipes at her eyes. Koa offers, in the nicest voice he can, she’s certain, a delayed acceptance. “After, Aubrey.”

Kai’s irritated voice sounds from elsewhere, most likely behind Koa, with his arms crossed and frustration written all over his face. Neither of her twin boys have ever been very good with….little kids. “Why does she always want to be held?”

“I don’t think she knows how to use her legs.”

“Leave her alone. She’s only three.” Aria snaps, and it causes the tears to spill over at a faster, heavier rate. All the kids. All of her kids partook in this, the older ones handling the filming with her younger kids partaking in the answering portion. Hence why she would guess this interviewing of the OG’s 2.0 would be the last set. “And would you two shut up? I don’t want to have to edit this out.”

“Guys.” Kai cuts in, forever the one to keep everyone focused. “Do you know what RoSo is?”

It’s a shared answer with a loud “yeah!” coming from all three.

“Who is RoSo?”

Again, another joint answer, naturally, RJ’s answer differing from that of his technical aunt and uncle.

“Mommy and daddy!”

“Grandpa and abuela!”

Solana sniffles, smiling at the kids’ enthusiastic replies, Aubrey clapping happily. And for the first time since the start of the video, Solana’s eyes drift over to the other side of the room where Roman sits on the edge of the sofa. Leaned over, his hands fisted together over his mouth, brows furrowed and and focused on the screen with the same level of intensity and intrigue that’s sat with her from the moment the video started.

It makes her heart swell.

“That’s right.” Aria giggles and gasps dramatically. “And how do you feel about RoSo?” A beat. “Do you guys love RoSo?”

That final question, however is what really evokes the biggest smile, laughs, and glee from the children with a loud, unanimous “yes!”

The timing is synced perfectly, it seems, as the final refrain begins and all of the clips fill the screen, one by one, sounds muted to allow the music to play louder and without interruption. But it’s when the post-chorus begins that Solana nearly loses it.

“Oh my God.”

Clips of herself and Roman.

From their wedding in Mexico shortly before the girls were born. Solana smiling and holding onto his arm.

Several from their vow renewal ceremonies over the year.

Her dancing playfully as he spins her around and tugs her against him, craning his head down to kiss her shoulder, her own over his forearm. Smiling.

Them in the pool, him holding her as she smiles down and kisses him. Right before he squeezes her ass under the water, prompting her to gasp and swat at his shoulder.

Of her in the kitchen cooking and him sneaking up to hug her from behind. Her hand over her chest, smile on her face and head tilted back to cradle the back of his head as he kisses her.

Roman sitting at the table talking to the kids, giving them one of his many lectures, hand gestures and all. Solana behind him, nodding and playfully mimicking his non-verbals. The amused smile on Leya’s face giving her away as Roman turns to look at her. Her expression immediately dropping, eyes widening with faux innocence. Lighthearted mockery veiled by her quickly kissing his temple and darting away.

Them on the beach, her giggling and attempting to run only for his long legs to easily allow him to catch her. Though the original audio is muted to allow for Timberlake's volalization, Solana can hear her laughter through the screen as he picks her up and spins her back around.

Hospital footage from several of the kids’ births. Roman sitting at the edge of the hospital bed, holding their baby, her peering over his shoulder.

Him holding her against him as she leaned her forehead into his chest, squeezing his arms while he swayed gently with her to ease the pain and discomfort from her contractions.

Her standing between his open legs, comb in hand as she parted his hair while saying something to the kids only to jump when his hands lifted to her waist, clearly squeezing playfully. The smile on her face as she looked down and captured a kiss before gently tugging at his beard before resuming.

Roman's head back, lips slightly parted as she was curled into him, hand on his chest. On the family's private jet, clearly on the way home from one of their vacations. Both of their eyes shut as they stole a rare moment of the peace and quiet needed for a quick nap.

So many clips.

So many stolen moments, some of which, she hadn't even realized her kids captured on video.

So many memories.

By the time, it’s finished, Solana can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t anything. She’s overwhelmed and filled with an abundance of unnamed entities that have her heart heavy, her stomach tight, and her hand over her chest. It’s a trick of the mind, she’s certain, but she can almost feel the thud of her heart against her shaky palm. Her eyes burn and jaw trembles. It’s only as the sight ahead of her becomes blurry and the weight travels down to her legs that she has to move.

Has to find escape, her legs carrying her out of the living room and to the back of the townhouse, through the kitchen and out the back sliding door.

Her vision remains disrupted, big gasps of breath taken to inhale as much of the fresh air as she can handle, but it’s a shaky process. Her inability to regulate her breathing fueled by the sob making its way up the back of her throat. She continues to walk, feet carrying her into the patch of grass the outlines the patio and recently uncovered pool.

The same grass that cushions her knees when she falls to the ground, one hand over stomach, the other covering her mouth as the sob finally breaks through the surface. She’s doubled over, emotions overflowing and manifesting in the way she wails loudly. Intermittent gasps and sharp intakes of breaths as crying battles with the crippling somatic sensations that feel an awful like the early stages of a panic attack.

It most likely is one, too.

It’d be the third one she’s had over the past week.

But new sensations, different yet familiar, gradually seep in and manage to de-escalate. A gentle touch, fingers grazing against her arms. A gentle tug that has her back against against something firm but soothing as the hands shift to where solid, strong arms circle her waist. Solana’s hands naturally fall on Roman’s forearms that secure and lock her to him.

It makes her stomach twist tighter and tears fall harder.

Neither stop her, however, from uttering the first real, authentic words to him since their disastrous therapy session. Any interactions and conversations since then have been forced, fake, and inauthentic.

There’s nothing inauthentic about the heartbroken words that she manages to force out in between gut wrenching crying. “I’m sor—I’m sor—”

“Sol—”

“We’ve—we’ve built a life t—together.” It’s a life she never envisioned for herself. Before Roman, Solana didn’t see herself making it to thirty. But because of him, she’d had her first set of kids by thirty. “I can’t lose—that. I can’t lose you.”

Despite the tightness in her chest and the way her eyes burn from how much she’s cried over the past few two weeks, she manages to channel enough strength to turn to look at him.

It’s like looking at herself. A different side of herself. Harder, stronger, firmer. A pillar. The other and best parts of her in so many ways.

His glossed eyes burn into her, hand lifting to palm her cheek. “Solana—”

“You’re my best friend.” She sniffles, shaking her head as his thumb brushes away her tears. “I don’t know how to do life without you, Roman, and the fact that one day, a day that's sooner rather than farther, is a reality that I will have to face terrifies me. I don’t—" Another deep, sharp intake of breath that makes her chest tighten and shoulders slump once more. "I should have told you about the pregnancy."

"Sol—"

"I hated—hated lying to you. I—I shouldn't have, but I—I thought if I could—if I could spare you from feeling that pain, then—then I was going to do that for you. All you've ever done is protect me, and I—I wanted to be the one to protect you for once. "But in the grand scheme of things, it doesn't really matter anymore. It was selfish of her to keep such a thing from Roman. Yes, just as she stated, she wanted nothing more than to protect her husband the way he'd always protected her. Intentions, however, matter not in the face of the outcome and reality. She was wrong, and there's no way around that. Plain and simple.

She bites down on her bottom lip, realizing that this is the moment to lay it all out. Good, bad, whatever it may be, Roman is more than deserving of the truth. He always was.

"For almost twenty years, there wasn't a single day where I wasn't haunted by the —the memories of my rape or—or my mother's murder, and sometimes—sometime both." Solana manages a shaky breath, powering through it all. "I couldn't help it. Couldn't control it. But that…that I could. I—I know you don't believe me, but I hadn't thought about it in years, Roman." She lifts her eyes to his once more, having to push back the next wave of tears just beyond the horizon. "When—when we got pregnant with Nicky, when we had him, I pushed it so far to the back of my mind that it wasn't until we were arguing—"

And just like in the days following both the discovery and the loss, an immense weight on her chest and in her heart. That weighs her down and makes her desperate to reach for something. For someone. Because there wasn't a day that passed that Solana didn't want to tell Roman, didn't want to share the truth as to why they couldn't be intimate. What'd happened. What they'd lost.

But she didn't. And that is a mistake she will have to carry with her for the rest of her life. A mistake that she'll regret for the rest of her life.

Looking at him once more, seeing the emotion dancing in his eyes, a rare display and reflection of vulnerability that's never felt stronger, Solana is overcome once more.

“I love you.”

A combination and accumulation of everything that’s transpired over the past two weeks. Emotions that have deprived her of peace, stripped her of calm and layered her with the weight of loss.

Solana’s children have always been her greatest source of joy, but the fact of the matter is that she has them because of him. Because of Roman.

And as frustrated and upset as she’s been with him, that she was, the bulk of her emotions hasn’t been anger.

It’s been hurt.

A type of pain that she hasn’t experienced in years. Old wounds gradually and torturously ripped open that, prior to this, she was sure she’d healed from. A level of unhealthy codependency.

She would never ever do anything to hurt herself. Would never do that to her kids, nor does she have any desire to not be alive.

But….

There’a sick, twisted feeling that’s sat with her since that session. Since Roman more or less, and maybe she did, too, confirm that their marriage is over. A feeling she hasn't experienced since before he entered her life. Before he turned her existence into living. And just the thought of that living not including him in any sort of capacity….it's something she can't bear.

She can’t. It's why her initial approach to the deeper reason as to why she reacted so strongly to learning of his stroke was traded in for another heavy truth that needed to be addressed. Upsetting to discuss, of course, but not nearly debilitating as that truth.

"I know…" She closes her eyes, hand over his that's still on and hasn't left her face. Same with his intense stare and the presence of his body before her as they remain on the ground, unmoving and frozen in space and time. "I know you're upset with me, and—and that you don't want to see me, s—"

"Solana."

It's not like it's the first attempt he's made to speak in the midst of her verbal catharsis, but something about the pleading undertone of his deep voice penetrates through her dense wall of contrition, regret, and remorse. She blinks away the next set of tears, incapable of ignoring the wave of relief that stems from him looking at her, touching her even, in a way he hasn't in weeks. His regard and disposition towards her, as well as hers towards him, have been nothing short of frigid. But the warmth felt from his touch, seen in his face, and heard in his voice almost instantly melts away the icebergs that formed perimeters around her heart.

And perhaps maybe his.

One hand dips to her waist as Solana realizes at some point in the midst of her sentiment fueled soliloquy, he'd angled them so that her body was facing his. The press of his fingers into her skin as he gently tugged her close made something thud in her chest. A precursor for what would follow following his next statement.

His eyes narrow, gleaming with intensity and adoration she hadn't realized she'd been craving and yearning for so deeply. The absence of his affection has been a sort of torture she hadn't realized she was gradually succumbing to in the midst of their impasse. "All I see is you." Her lips part as a shaky exhale is lost in the midst of her anguish and relief at words that carry more weight than anyone outside of herself and the man in front of her could ever know or understand. "You said you can't lose me, right?" The faintest, smallest hint of a smile weighed down by reciprocated sentiment is preceded by the way he shakes his head in a small, subtle motion. "Well, that makes two of us, cause I can’t be without you, either.”

The combination of the words, the emotions, and the echoing of her own vulnerable confession, is what forces the next wave to the surface. And Solana will never deny that there's a continued theme of selfishness as she throws her body against his, allowing him to hold and cradle the back of her head as she sobs into his chest. Recognizes that there's certainly some level of relief he also feels at this devastating rough patch of theirs finding some sort of path to resolution in comparison to the alternative that was dangerously close to being the final decision. But it, if she had to guess, doesn't outweigh what weight is pulled from off her as he once again reiterates his love for her.

"Tell—tell me—" she hiccups, grasping at his shirt once more. "Tell me what to do to fix this. I'll do—I'll do anything, Roman. Just….just tell me what you need me to do." And she means it. Whatever frustration and anger still lingers towards his concealment of the stroke is heavily outweighed by her desire to heal. To fix.

Whatever it takes.

"We need to get away," he finally answers and pulls back to look down at her. She continues to hold onto his shirt, as if release means releasing him as well. Never. Roman lifts his hand to stroke the top of her head. "This weekend. Leya and Rashad can watch Aubrey and Tavita." Solana nods, her willingness to blindly accept not even allowing her to consider who would watch their youngest set of kids. But of course, Roman is already several steps ahead. He's always been the one to plan and arrange so she doesn't have to. Always done everything he can to make her life as easy as possible.

But ease doesn't exist in her world without him.

She can't imagine a world without him.

"And we'll talk," he continues. Her eyes flutter shut once more when he lies his forehead against hers, minty breath fanning her face. "Okay?"

In perhaps most settings, the promise to "talk" would ignite a massive wave of anxiety. But for Solana, it's exactly what she needs to hear. Exactly what they need to do. Should have done a long time ago. Such a simple but powerful necessity to maintain and sustain a marriage. A marriage she's not willing to give up on. She won't.

She can't.

Whatever it takes.

Nodding in acknowledgement, she can't stop herself from moving her arms around him, holding him as another round of tears accompany her heartfelt, "I love you."

Her eyes clench shut once more as he drops his hand to the small of her back, voice tight and thick. "I love you, too, Solana. I always have, and I always will."

[red-lamb]

[out-andabout]

more

[zagrebinaa]

[siribaes]

ᥫ᭡. 𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐃 — john tucker x ( black!fem!reader ) contents: fluffiest of fluff. discussion of black hair care & maintenance. AAVE. flirting. secret crush dynamic. not proofread.

"ouch!"

"i barely ran the comb through, jay."

you sat the hot-pink comb down onto the counter. folding your arms across your chest, you moved to stand in john tucker's view. his face scrunched in genuine agony. you sighed.

"be honest. have you ever gotten your hair braided?"

panic flashed across john's face. quickly, he schooled his expression folding his hand behind his head. he shrugged all in effort to play it cool.

"yeah."

"john tucker—"

"fine! no? but what if i said my little cousins put plaits and barrettes in my hair a couple times. that count?"

"nope."

john grumbled. his plump lips formed into the most adorable pout. you couldn't help but giggle.

"don't laugh." he groaned. "it's not funny."

"oh, but it is. you're a whole ass hockey player! you get shoved, punched, and yelled at on the reg." you mimicked his pout, and softened your voice. "but this tough wittle hockey player is tender headed."

he slumped against the chair, running a hand through his curls. "i know! i'm just tired of the maintenance. i sweat during workouts, at practice, during games. i’m tired of washing it everyday—"

"wait, you wash your hair everyday? you poor thing." reaching out, you ran a hand through his gorgeous strands. surprisingly, they were moisturized and super coily. okay, maybe john tucker wasn't a complete novice. "stop washing your hair everyday. you'll kill these curls."

"see! this is why i need you." he reached for your hand, the same that was just touched his hair seconds prior. his hand eclipsed yours, swiping his thumb across your knuckles. gently, caressing the skin. the gesture was small, still launched a flurry of butterflies in your belly. john kept his gaze on you, those big, brown puppy eyes staring up at you. "please."

why did he have to say it like that? sure, it was no secret that john tucker was a complete sweetheart. that was drew you to him in the first place. one-night sophomore year you got lost coming from a frat party off campus. he was finishing a late-night workout session when he saw you, in tears and phoneless. you never forgot how gentle and calming his voice was as he made you a cup of tea and called you a uber back to campus. but this—the softness in his voice was a first. it had a twinge of need within, almost like it was reserved for you, and you only. that combo made you all soft and gooey on the inside.

"fine. no whining or complaining. got it."

"yes ma'am."

your cheeks warmed as you grabbed the hot-pink comb. in effort to distract john you switched to ratatouille on your bedroom tv. as you parted his hair, he would crack jokes and tossed conspiracy theories about if wolfgang puck or gordon ramsey had small rodents controlling their every move in the kitchen.

"i mean, c'mon. what there was a lil mouse or something hiding in his blonde bouffant."

"first off, bouffant is crazy. second, even if gordon did have a rat up there, isn't that like a health-code violation?"

john tucker shrugged. "i'd still eat the food."

you playfully smacked his arm. "jay that's nasty."

"bruh makes a banging beef wellington."

once you were done parting, you grabbed the paddle brush.

"you ready?"

slowly, john nodded. "just be gentle. 'kay?"

"ok-ay."

you sectioned off half of john's hair. then, you gathered the other section in your free hand. with the brush you started at the ends, gently and slowly working through the knots. john was a trooper. every now and then, he would squirm in his seat or let out the tiniest of whimpers sending your mind elsewhere. wondering if that's what john tucker sounded when he—

girl, focus!

you cleared your throat as you twisted the freshly detangled section out of the way.

"you okay?"

"y-yeah!" you squeaked. "just gotta work out the knots on this side. and then i'll start braiding."

"you weren't doing that the whole time?!"

"aye, what i'd say?"

john's grumbles made you chuckle as you worked the paddle brush through the last section of his hair. after that was done, you worked your fingers towards john's scalp gathering a few strands for the cornrow. not creating too much tension, your fingers gathered more strands as you braided down his curls. you made sure to move quickly, as you finished the first braid, moving to the other side. you let your fingers stay in rhythm as you braided down the second section.

"all done!" you grabbed the hand mirror and handed it to john tucker.

his eyes raked over his reflection. fingers glided against the two, neat cornrows. a toothy grin grew on his face as he turned to face you.

"damn, you really hooked me up." he rose, easily towering over you, he enveloped those muscular arms around you. hugging and squeezing you tight.

more warmth bloomed, traveling from your cheeks down to your neck as john lifted you off your feet. he dangled your for just a moment, before sitting you back down, on the plush carpet.

"thank you." he murmured. his gaze boring into yours. making your heart skip a beat.

"no problem." you adverted your eyes, sliding your chair back under your desk. "just remember to wrap it at night. you gotta durag?"

"durag?"

you whipped your head around. all to see a goofy smile plastered on john's face.

"boy if you don't—"

"i have one, damn! i'm not completely clueless."

y'all both laughed as the movie credits rolled on the tv screen. the closing score played softly, in the background.

"so," john took a step closer. his eyes sweeping over your face. "how can i make it up to you?"

you tapped a finger against your chin. thinking. "what about that beef wellington you been ranting about?"

he grinned. "deal."

⋆˙⟡♡⟡˙ ⋆

author's note: okay this might be the fluffiest thing i've written so far lol. i'm on a roll :). but just a little fic for my john tucker <3 i feel like there's not a lot of fics for him, especially with black-fem/woc-fem coded readers or oc's. so, this is for my off campus girlies, enjoy xo!

[brownininini]

Super Soldier's resistance.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F! Reader.

Word count: +1.6k words.

Summary: Questioning your boyfriend's super-soldier resistance gets you into both pleasurable and overwhelming trouble that you can't easily get out of.

Tags: MDNI! +18, smut, sexual content (if you are underage, do not interact with this work or I will block you), established relationship, p in v, porn without plot, Bucky aka big dick, unprotected sex, soft sex, Saying "I love you" during sex, missionary, praise, Bucky likes it when you call him by his name, nicknames, cursing, rough sex, mating press, I have no idea what the other position is called, creampie, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, squirt, proper use of a super soldier’s resilience, Bucky gets a little chatty during sex, reader affectionately calls Bucky "Sergeant", no Y/N. No beta reader. My native language is not English, so there may be possible mistakes.

Masterlist.

"I love you, baby... I love you so much..." Bucky whispered, his voice hoarse with lust, savoring every millimeter of resistance your pussy offered him. "You're so good at this..."

He knew his size was a challenge for you, but seeing you beneath him, writhing and moaning in that enchanting, sweet way only fueled his desire and love for you.

“I-I love you, Bucky…” you replied in a trembling voice. “S-Shit…”

The curse had slipped from your lips thanks to his deep, circular movements; his cock had hit that particularly good spot, making you arch your back.

“Do you like it there, doll?”

You bit your lower lip as you nodded, somewhat desperately, feeling the need to grind against him to soothe the heat and itch inside you.

Instead of thrusting, Bucky began to slide his cock with a torturously slow, sensual motion, wanting you to feel every contour of his throbbing cock.

“I could spend all day worshiping you like this.”

You let out a moan that sounded almost like a sob as your toes curled and your sweaty thighs squeezed his hips, trying to push him deeper into you. You wanted to encourage him to pick up the pace.

As he looked into your glassy eyes, he pressed his lips together to stifle a moan and shut his eyes tightly, struggling to maintain the rhythm of his hips, which were beginning to falter.

“J-James…” You moaned his name like a prayer.

You reached out your hand toward his face, gently caressing his cheek and feeling his stubble for a moment before tangling his hair in your fingers.

Your other hand did the same, drawing his face closer to yours to kiss him. His dark hair fell across your cheeks, tickling you as he came back to himself.

“My sweet girl…” he whispered against your lips. “So beautiful and good…”

His metal arm slid under your hip, lifting you just enough so that his pelvis remained pressed against your clitoris while his hips kept grinding and grinding.

Bucky’s lips began to kiss your cheeks and jaw with his mouth open, and you could hear him panting and growling against your skin in that way that left no doubt he was about to come. For your part, you moaned beneath him, your hands exploring his broad back and your pussy throbbing greedily around him.

“Oh, James… I-I…” The words didn’t quite come out as you let out a faint sob.

Your orgasm hit, spreading from your core to the rest of your body. It was like being in a daze, letting the pleasurable heat devour you.

Bucky’s cock throbbed against your sensitive walls, and with a deep, hoarse moan, he let himself come inside you, filling you with his warm, thick seed.

You barely felt Bucky’s weight on top of you.

You closed your eyes as you panted softly and your boyfriend buried his face in your neck, feeling his heavy breath brush against your skin.

“Baby, you’re amazing, ” he murmured against your neck.

It didn’t take long before you felt his kisses on your skin, brushing those spots that made you tremble beneath him and let out little giggles. But you knew his intentions—especially since he couldn’t hide them, given how his cock remained hard inside you.

“Aren’t you tired yet, Sergeant?” you teased, humming playfully into his hair.

Bucky moaned against you, this time a little embarrassed that his super-soldier endurance was keeping him from reaching satisfaction so easily.

“I just need to go to the bathroom to take care of it.”

Before he could pull out of you completely, you wrapped your legs around his hips and your arms around his neck, holding him close to your body.

He barely stifled a moan as he slid deep inside you once more, completely sensitive because he was hard as a rock, with a red tip and dripping with pre-cum inside you.

“That won’t be necessary because I have a tempting offer for you, Sergeant.” You spoke in that playful, seductive tone that Bucky knew so well. “If you stay, I’ll help you with your problem however you want.”

“Honey. If doing it slowly makes you want to cry, I don’t even want to imagine what’ll happen if I lose control…”

He couldn’t finish his sentence as he felt the soft, playful bite on his lower lip.

“How hard can it be to satisfy a super soldier?” you murmured against his lips.

“Honey, I don’t think you can…”

“I can handle it.”

You sounded far too confident—a confidence that was on the verge of shattering.

☆

The creaking of the mattress and the constant thud of the headboard against the wall echoed through the room along with your moans, sobs, and the slapping of skin.

Bucky was fucking you desperately while you moaned helplessly, your face covered in tears and your knees pressed against your shoulders.

He’d never fucked you that wildly and roughly before; he’d really been holding back all this time and was seizing this opportunity to take you exactly as he’d been craving for months.

Bucky’s eyes darted from your tearful face to his cock sliding in and out of you—completely soaked with your fluids and a ring of his own cum around the base from the three previous times he’d climaxed.

“O-Oh, fuck,” he moaned, his voice breaking. “I can feel you.”

The tip of his cock had started to hit your cervix, making you roll your eyes back and sob from the new pressure.

“Do you feel that, baby? It’s my cock kissing you.”

You weakly reached out your arm toward him, trying to push his body away from your hips because of the hypersensitivity, but instead, Bucky let go of your legs to grab your wrist, pulling you to force you to sit up for a second on the mattress while he wrapped your arm and the other one around his neck.

You whimpered as the change in position caused his cock to slide out of you, even if only by a few inches, giving you a little relief from the overwhelming pressure.

Bucky’s strong arms quickly hooked under your knees, and he stood up, lifting you with him with impressive ease.

“I’m so fucking horny for you, baby. Why do you want to run away?” he growled against your cheek as his hips thrust against yours, fucking you deep. “You said you were going to put up with it for me.”

“B-Bucky…” you squealed, your voice breaking.

Your body was trembling, and you couldn’t escape his thrusts as he carried you and held you open to use you.

“Say my name, baby,” he moaned as he planted open-mouthed kisses on your jaw. “Come on, do it.”

Your toes curled as your pussy clenched tightly around him, feeling another orgasm coming.

Bucky moaned as he felt you tighten around him, and that only encouraged him not to stop.

“Say it.”

“J-James…” you screamed. Your fingernails dug into his back.

Your squirt drenched his entire cock and slid down Bucky’s muscular thighs until it reached the floor, which was already splattered with the juices of your orgasm.

“So perfect,” he moaned. “My good girl with a perfect pussy.” His tongue traced your cheek, savoring the saltiness of your tears. “I’m going to cum inside you so you know just how much I love you.”

He thrust hard one last time, staying buried deep inside you with his balls pressed against your ass as he came inside you once more and you clenched tight around him.

A muffled sound escaped you because of the intensity as your body went limp, your arms hanging limply and your back arched backward while you remained deeply united.

Still holding you tightly, he bent over you, pressing his forehead against your collarbone as he breathed heavily and his hips trembled slightly against yours, gasping at how incredibly sensitive he felt after emptying himself inside you so many times.

You both needed a few minutes before moving or speaking.

Bucky was the first to move. His steps were slow as he made his way to the bed, laying you down carefully so he could pull himself out of your swollen pussy. You both moaned at the loss.

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” he asked as he brushed damp strands of hair from your face.

His fingers gently brushed your face, and at times the coolness of the metal felt comforting against your burning body.

Slowly, you turned your gaze toward him, watching as his expression shifted from gentle and slightly concerned to one with a smug smile.

“Was it hard to please a super soldier? You look a little tired.”

You let out a snort and tried to push his face away with the palm of your hand so you wouldn’t have to see him looking so proud of your current state.

“I hate you, James Buchanan Barnes.”

You didn’t mean it, but he knew that hearing his full name meant trouble.

“I’m sorry, my love,” he murmured in that soft, affectionate tone he always used in situations like this.

He took your wrist again, only this time to plant a series of kisses on your skin—almost desperate and full of regret.

“Do you need anything? Water? Food?”

You smiled weakly as you watched him jump to his feet, scanning the mess in the room for the box of tissues to clean up between your legs.

You’d underestimated him.

He’d made you eat every single one of your words, but all it took was for you to say his full name for all that arrogant confidence to vanish as if it had never existed.

In a matter of seconds, the man who just minutes earlier had brazenly boasted of a super-soldier’s resilience had transformed into the most attentive and concerned boyfriend in the world.

[imnotjustreadingg-volume-two]

The red henley

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader word count: 3k warning: red henley bucky | fluff | smut (not going into heavy details but it's fully smut) summary: bucky loves his red henley but reader loves it even more.

The first time you saw Bucky Barnes in that red Henley, you nearly tripped over a stack of Steve’s sketchbooks left carelessly on the common room floor.

It was a deep rich cranberry red. Soft, worn thin at the collar and hugging his thick arms and broad chest but just low enough, right around his waist, it stretched with a soft forgiving yield over the slight, comfortable curve of his stomach.

You knew what the rest of his body was made of, hardened through decades of war and trauma and relentless training even brutal survival. Yet somehow, that tiny soft detail underneath the faded cotton made him feel human.

Real. Grounded. Lovable in a way that made your throat tight.

You’d always been a bit bigger than the average S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.

Not slow nor soft but strong in a way that didn’t carve itself into sharp, visible muscle definition. Your strength was forged through stubbornness, pure physical endurance and careful precision. You were tall enough that you weren’t usually dwarfed by the people around you.

Except by Bucky.

Bucky made everyone look small.

He towered over you even when he was slouching against the kitchen counter at 6:00 AM, arms crossed over his chest and a cocky little grin hidden behind his steaming coffee mug. When he leaned against the wall just behind you in the narrow hallway, close enough that you could feel the radiant furnace like heat from his chest through your hoodie, you felt tiny.

He loved to joke about it, too. He’d use that low, gravelly Brooklyn voice that had never quite shed the winter chill or the rhythm of the 1940s.

“Careful, doll, I might step on ya.”

“You sure you can handle that whole sandwich on your own? Need me to cut it up for ya?”

“Need me to carry you upstairs? You look like a strong gust of wind might blow you right out the window.”

You always rolled your eyes, scoffing amd calling him an arrogant ass. But inside? You melted into a puddle every single time.

And Bucky? He didn’t say it out loud, but he savored every annoyed scoff, every time you smacked his metal forearm with a hand that didn’t hurt him at all. Every time you narrowed your eyes at him with a poorly hidden smirk.

You were fire and gentleness all wrapped up in a package he had convinced himself he’d never deserve. Not after Hydra. Not after decades of blood, terror and icy silence. He had long given up on the idea that someone would laugh with him again. He certainly didn’t think someone like you would quietly sneak into his thoughts at night, curling up in the dark cracks of his heart like you had always belonged there.

You caught him that morning stretched out on the living room sofa, his long legs spread wide, his red henley rumpled and riding up just enough to expose a sliver of skin above the waist of his dark sweatpants. He was leaning back against the cushions, metal and flesh fingers lazily tapping against the worn dog tags resting on his sternum.

The morning sunlight caught the gleaming plates of his left arm, but your eyes didn’t track the chrome. You looked right at his waist. At the soft subtle swell of his stomach, rising and falling in deep, peaceful rhythm. He looked like a man who was finally, for the first time in eighty years, safe enough to rest.

You were staring.

You couldn’t help it.

“I can feel your eyes on me, y’know,” Bucky drawled without bother to open his own. He sounded half-asleep, entirely smug. “What’s the matter, doll? Never seen a man relax before?”

You flushed instantly, your gaze snapping violently toward the wall. “Just wondering how you haven’t busted the seams of that shirt yet,” you shot back, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.

He cracked one blue eye open, glancing down at the stretched red fabric covering his ribs and belly. A lazy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Guess it just likes me.”

“I like you too,” you muttered under your breath before your brain could filter the words.

His dark eyebrow arched up toward his hairline. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

He chuckled, sitting up slowly. The movement made the hem of the shirt rise even higher, revealing the dark line of hair trailing down his stomach into his sweatpants. You looked away again, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“You always get so shy when I’m wearing this shirt,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, low and heavy with teasing promise.

You didn’t deny it. You couldn’t.

It was Sam’s idea.

A heavy sparring session in the gym to get your reflexes back up to speed after a short mission hiatus. You hadn’t been thrilled about it to begin with, but you were even less thrilled when Sam got called away for a briefing halfway through, leaving Bucky to step onto the mat to fill in.

“You sure?” You asked, hands on your hips, eyeing his massive frame. He was wearing his usual black tactical tank top, shoulders gleaming with sweat. “I don’t want to break you, Barnes.”

That earned you a real grin toothy, sharp, and entirely playful. “I’m quaking in my boots, sweetheart,” he said. He reached down, grabbed the faded red Henley hanging over the gym bench, and pulled it over his head.

Of course.

You sparred.

He teased.

You lost the first round when he swept your legs out from under you.

You won the second by catching him off balance with a elbow to his kidney but during the third round, he caught both of your wrists in one smooth, sweeping motion, driving you back into the soft matting.

He pinned you effortlessly.

Your wrists were trapped over your head beneath the solid weight of his metal hand. He hovered directly over you, his chest heaving against yours, strands of dark hair falling into his eyes. His body was heavy and dense, a solid metal and muscle, but he controlled every ounce of his weight so precisely that he didn’t hurt you.

He just grounded you. Locked you in place beneath him.

Your breath hitched. Your heart thundered in your ears like a war drum.

Bucky looked down at you for a beat too long. The smirk faded from his face, replaced by a dark, intense heat that made your blood burn. “You’re dangerous,” he whispered, his heavy chest pressing down against yours with every intake of air.

“So are you,” you managed to reply, your voice barely audible over the hum of the gym’s ventilation.

He stared at your lips for three agonizing seconds before rolling off you, landing flat on his back beside you on the mat. He stared up at the high ceiling, his chest rising and falling with something that had nothing to do with physical exertion.

The Avengers compound was completely silent late at night, lit only by the low hum of the refrigerator and the pale blue moonlight pouring through the kitchen floor to ceiling windows. You were standing by the counter in your shorts and an oversized tee, waiting for a mug of chamomile tea to steep, lost in your own head.

Bare feet padded softly against the hardwood behind you.

You turned.

It was Bucky.

In the red henley.

Again.

“Seriously,” you said, leaning back against the counter and trying to ignore the sudden wave of warmth crawling up your neck and pooling in your low belly. “How many of those shirts do you actually own?”

“Just one,” he said softly, leaning against the opposite counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “I wear it when I need to feel… safe.”

That gave you pause. You lowered your mug, really looking at him. His eyes weren’t teasing now. They were soft, clear blue, completely bare and vulnerable in a way he almost never allowed himself to be around anyone else.

“It smells like home,” he added, his voice dropping into a quiet confession meant only for the quiet kitchen. “Or… like you.”

You blinked, frozen. “Wait... what?”

He looked sheepish, reaching up with his right hand to rub the back of his neck. “You borrowed it once. Remember? After that nightmare mission in Norway. You were soaked to the bone, freezing, and looking like you’d punch Steve in the mouth if he tried to make you wear anything tactical again. I gave you this shirt.”

You remembered. You hadn’t even realized it was that shirt.

“Even after washing it, it seems to keep your scent,” he said, his eyes fixing on yours with intense sincerity. “I just… I liked it better that way. Started wearing it whenever I felt the winter coming back into my head.”

Your throat felt tight. “Bucky…”

“I know you think I just tease you for fun,” he said quickly, stepping forward. The distance between you closed in three slow, deliberate strides until he was standing right in your space. “And I do... don’t get me wrong... but it’s not just a game... not for me.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“I like you,” Bucky said, his voice thick with unsaid years. “Hell, I know I love you. I didn’t think I could feel something like that again. I sure as hell didn’t think I’d ever say it out loud but there it is.”

You stared at the man who had been broken by the world, torn apart and pieced back together, standing in front of you in a worn red shirt offering you every piece of himself he had managed to reclaim.

You set your mug down on the counter behind you with a small clink. You reached up, placing your palms against his warm jaw.

“I thought I was the only one,” you whispered, pulling him down just a fraction. “Crushing. Falling. Losing my mind over you.”

Bucky exhaled a sharp, shuddering breath, his eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of your skin against his. “You’re not,” he choked out. “You never were, doll.”

You pulled his face down and kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed.

It wasn’t desperate.

It was deep, warm and full of every unspoken thought that had lingered between you in hallways, kitchens and gym mats for months. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling your hips flush against his. He held you like you were precious, even though he knew you were strong enough to take on the world. You gripped the soft cotton of his red shirt, tugging him closer, holding him like he was fragile even though you knew he was made of steel.

His tongue slid slowly past your lips, tasting you deeply. Alow rumble echoing in his chest when you let out a soft sigh against his mouth. His metal hand found the small of your back, pressing firmly, lifting you up slightly so you had to wrap your legs around his waist.

He didn’t break the kiss as he carried you effortlessly out of the kitchen, down the dim corridor, and into his bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.

The room was dark, illuminated only by the city lights outside his window. Bucky set you down on the edge of his bed, but he didn’t pull away. His hands moved to the hem of your shirt, raising his eyebrows in silent request. You nodded, breathing heavily and he pulled the shirt over your head, dropping it to the floor.

His eyes swept over you, over every curve and every inch of smooth skin. The look in his eyes wasn’t just desire, it was reverence.

“You are so beautiful,” he rasped, his metal fingers tracing a light, agonizingly hot trail down your side, lingering over the swell of your hip. “So fucking strong. Perfect.”

He grabbed the bottom of the red henley and pulled it off, tossing it aside.

Without the barrier of the worn cotton, your hands immediately found his chest, sliding over the hard muscle of his pecs, down over his ribs, and resting on the soft warm curve of his stomach. Bucky tensed for a split second, an old instinct like an urge to pull back, but as your thumb gently stroked his skin, he let out a long breath and sank into your touch, melting under your hands.

“I love this,” you whispered, leaning up to kiss the center of his chest, then down to his ribs, then planting a soft kiss right over his lower belly.

Bucky groaned, his fingers tangling in your hair. “Doll… you’re gonna drive me out of my mind.”

He nudged you back onto the mattress, sliding his heavy body over yours. The heat off him was intoxicating. He kissed you until your breath came in shallow, desperate gasps, his hands exploring every part of you kneading your thighs, tracing your waist and thumbing your nipples into tight peaks until you were writhing underneath him.

When he reached down to strip away the rest of your clothes and his own, there was no hesitation left. He pushed your knees apart, settling himself between your thighs. His thick shaft brushed against your core, slick and hot, making you arch your back with a soft whimper.

“Look at me,” Bucky commanded softly, his voice thick with raw need.

You opened your eyes, meeting his intense, dark blue gaze.

“Get up.” He ordered you. You stood automatically. He took the red shirt he threw on the bed. The fabric soft between his fingers. “Wear it…”

You immediately stretched your arm, taking the henley. The soft material slid on your skin and his scent, still on the fabric, intoxicated your senses.

He sat better on the edge of the bed, opening his legs. He pinched the shirt and pulled you against him. His metal hand smoothed against your tight.

“You’re a vision with my shirt on…” his finger trailed the legs until reaching your ass. He gave you a loud smack and then slid his finger inside your core, already warm and welcoming.

You perched forward, bending on his shoulder. He gripped your waist with his flesh hand while the metal fingers made their way in and out of your pussy.

As you felt the pleasure rising, your core clenched. He removed his fingers.

“What?”

He picked you up without talking and put you on his lap. You trembling tights around his hips and the tip of his cock peaking out between you.

He took his length in his hand and pumped a little, then he slid into you in one smooth, agonizingly slow push.

You gasped, your fingers digging into the firm muscle of his shoulders as he filled you completely. The stretch was intense, heavy, and overwhelmingly good. He stayed still for a long moment, letting you adjust, his chest pressing against yours, his metal hand coming up to cup your cheek tenderly.

“You okay?” He whispered, his thumb stroking your cheekbone.

“More than okay,” you whimpered, tilting your hips up to meet him. “Bucky, please…”

He began to move.

His pace was unhurried at first. Deep, heavy thrusts that targeted every sensitive nerve inside you, driving a low continuous moan from your throat. He wasn’t rushing to finish, he was taking his time claiming every inch of you and listening to every hitch in your breath. The friction was incredible, his weight against your body as you rode him. He moved his hips with precision, as your pleasure was his only purpose in life. He gave you deep and firm thrust from below. His hands grabbed better your body. The henley between you as the only layers separating your skins.

As the pace picked up, the soft sound of skin slapping against his and your breathless cries filled the dark bedroom. Bucky’s rhythm grew faster, harder. His jaw clench, sweat glistening on his chest and foreheads. He locked his fingers with your left hand, pinning it behind your back, while his metal arm slid beneath your hips, lifting you higher to drive himself even deeper into you.

“Bucky... fuck...” you gasped, your toes curling as a tight coil of tension began to snap in your lower stomach.

“I’m right here, doll. I got you,” he growled near your ear, his breath hot against your neck. He struck a spot deep inside that made your vision flash white. “Give it to me. Let go.”

The pleasure broke over you like a wave. You cried out his name as your walls clamped down hard around him, pulsing in a deep agonizingly sweet release. Hearing your voice crack, feeling you shatter around him, pushed Bucky over the edge. With a harsh guttural groan, he slammed into you one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go.

His whole body shuddering as he came inside you.

Later, much later, the room had cooled down.

You were curled on your side on the couch in his bedroom, your back against his chest, his arms wrapped securely around your waist. The red henley still hung loosely off your shoulders, smelling of cedar and sweat and Bucky’s distinct scent.

Your fingers reached down, tracing slow, aimless circles over his stomach where the red fabric stretched over him as he lay beside you.

“You really do love this shirt, don’t you?” he murmured sleepily into your hair, his voice heavy with satisfaction.

“I like what’s in the shirt,” you corrected softly, turning your head to smile up at him.

He huffed a warm laugh against the back of your neck. “You’re terrible, doll.”

“I know.”

He was silent for a long moment. The rhythm of his heart beat steadily against your shoulder blades, calm and measured.

“Don’t ever leave, okay?” He whispered, the quiet vulnerability returning to his voice, stripped of all bravado. “Don’t go back to your own quarters. Stay here.”

You shifted, turning in his arms until you were facing him. You leaned up, pressing a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw, right over the pulsing vein in his neck.

“Not even if you ask me to,” you promised.

Bucky smiled. A soft, beautiful and completely unburdened smile. He pulled the blanket up over both of your shoulders, tucked your head under his chin, and closed his eyes.

And in the quiet dark of the room, wrapped up in you, Bucky Barnes knew he was finally home.

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[ohdearfawn]

Out of Service | John Logan

Pairing: John Logan x Fem!Reader

Summary: Your car breaks down, and lucky for you, the customer service at the off-campus mechanic shop is beyond exceptional.

Content Warning: MDNI +18, no use of yn, car sex, piv (protected!!), semi-public, unintentional overstimulation (tears are shed), oral (f!receiving), logan being a huge munch, tiny bit of size kink, logan also being a sweetheart

Word Count: 2.5k

Author's Note: thank you all for 200 followers! my love for john logan is through the roof, (i need myself a man like him), so i hope you enjoy this as much as i do

General Masterlist // John Logan Collection

The doorbell rings as you walk in the mechanic shop. The refrigerator hums quietly in the corner and the light flickers every few seconds. You recognize the face behind the counter, but you’re not sure from where.

“Hey. How can I service you today?”

“Hi um.” You lean on the counter, smiling shyly. “A bunch of lights are on in my car and I can’t figure out what they mean.”

“Mind if I take a look?” He tilts his head, beaming an extremely contagious smile.

“Not at all.”

He pushes the chair back and walks towards the garage, yelling to whoever is inside. The sleeves on his coveralls are rolled up, veins prominent through his forearms. If it isn’t the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen. He turns back and reaches for the main door, holding it open for you. “Show me the way.”

You walk in front of him, the scent of your perfume filling his nose. It’s so sweet and uniquely matches you. It could replace the oxygen in his lungs and he wouldn’t complain.

“This is mine." You pat the car and unlock the door. Your parents bought it used and it’s lasted you since sophomore year of high school. Frankly, you’re surprised it hasn’t given out yet.

He walks around the outside looking for any signs of damage. The paint is smooth and finely waxed. "Not even a scratch on her, huh?"

“Nope.” You open the door and he slides in. The seat is worn, steering wheel leather equally used. He starts the engine and it sounds just fine—until, the system finishes calibrating and ringing rapidly.

You point at the dash. “See, it's all of that stuff." Some of the icons make sense, while others had to be there so the company could make money. "I had my oil changed last week."

He leans back. “Not here I’m assuming.” His gaze clicks to yours. “I would've remembered a pretty face like yours."

You blink twice, lips parting softly. "It was the shop by campus.”

His tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth disapprovingly. "Ah, see that's why you gotta come to us. We'll take care of all your needs. Not just an oil change."

Nerves buzz beneath your skin. You glance down at the gravel, poorly hiding the pink staining your cheeks. A hand runs through your hair, pushing it up and out of your face. It's undeniably worth a couple hundred of bucks to see this man more than once.

“What time are you available till?"

The corner of his mouth curls upwards, legs spreading in the seat. He bites back his tongue. Most girls don't flirt back, let alone fight fire with fire.

A loud pop rings through the air and steam simmers from the hood. He jumps out of the car and you instinctively step behind him. Warning chimes echo through the car as every light imaginable flashes across the display.

You want to say something but you also don't want to face the reality of what's happening. The engine sputters one last time before going quiet. Damn.

You open the backdoor of the car and sitting down. The air freshener suddenly smells weary, fabric on the walls a darker shade than before. Maybe you should’ve knocked on wood earlier.

“I’m gonna take a look." He glances over to you his heart tugs. He'll fix the damn thing himself if it meant seeing you smile again.

He reaches into the driver's seat, popping the hood. The gloves in his pocket cover his hands painfully well. You wish he would take them off again—it would make you feel better.

Gravel crunches beneath your shoes as you follow him. His hands sort through the engine without hesitation. There's something about seeing a man know what he's looking for that makes your head spin.

His lips purse as fluid drips down his arm, absorbing into the glove. "Yeah, just as I thought." He pulls his hands out and throws off the gloves. "She's not going anywhere today."

You sigh, “I think I could’ve figured that out on my own Mr. Mechanic.”

He can't tell if you're pissed at him or the car. Either way, he knows a solution to one of those problems. He shakes his head and taps his name tag. “Not Mr. Mechanic. John Logan.”

The name clicks in your head. He plays hockey for your school and is always plastered on social media. You've also heard the endless speeches on him being a womanizer. Best orgasm you'll ever have—or something like that. “I know who you are.”

“And yet, I don’t know who you are."

”Right now," your lips curl upwards into a smile, "I'm an unsatisfied customer."

He steps back, closing the hood of the car. The dark blue fabric pulls taut across his biceps. "Okay unsatisfied customer. What could I do to satisfy you?" His gaze lingers on your lips a second too long. "I have a few ideas of my own—if you want to give them a try."

And that's how you ended up in the backseat of your car with Logan.

Any care for the fact he’s still on the clock is out the window. His face is buried between your thighs and hasn’t come up for air in close to three minutes. But he doesn’t want to—you’re as sweet as you look.

He sticks his tongue further inside of you, eyes peering up. You’re blissed out—cheeks flushed, lips red from the makeout session previous to this. You're genuinely one of the most beautiful women he's ever seen.

He finds your sweet spot with ease and hooks his forearms around your thighs. This is ranking number one on your list hottest things a guy has even done in bed—even if you’re not in bed.

His tongue takes advantage of the spot, massaging it with precision. You cry out, nails clawing into the leather seats. The cars already broken, a little more damage won’t hurt. His grip grows tighter as you squirm, pacing slowing enough to withdraw an orgasm.

You look down and make eye contact with him. The smirk on his face is nothing less than devilish.

“Logan, please, please, please, I can’t—“

He pulls away and your body relaxes into the leather. “Is it too much? Too…good?”

Another wave of arousal courses through you. His cockiness was nothing less than a turn on.

He chuckles, attaching around your clit and sucking hard. The sounds leaving your chest are lewd and embarrassing but it fills his chest with pride. Majority of the women he sleeps with fake their moans for his pleasure and the guys tease him about it. If only they could see him now.

Your back arches, hips trying to move but he’s too strong—damn those flawless biceps. His tongue draws figure eight's against the nub, applying the perfect amount of pressure.

With one final circle, you come undone all of his face. He effortlessly lifts your thighs, slotting his mouth directly over your opening. Every last drop is licked from your skin. By the time he's done, a tear streams down your cheek from the overstimulation.

He frowns and rises to meet you at eye level. You can smell the woodsy cologne he wears and the motor oil clinging on his skin. It’s intoxicating and incomparable to anyone else. He wipes the tear away, leaving soft kisses where it fell. Each one is so gentle and reverent, your skin might as well be blessed.

His mouth follows the specks on your skin until he reaches your bra. It’s his favorite color with white lace peeking out of the seams. He cups the sides, fingers ghosting over where your nipples are. You reach underneath your back to take it off but he swats you away. All it takes him is one attempt and the tension breaks loose around your ribs.

He throws it into the trunk before attaching his mouth to your breast. There’s no question on whether hickies will be there tomorrow. The side not getting his mouth has his fingers. They flick the nipple back and forth, pinching it softly.

Your hand slips into the waistband of his boxers and grabs his cock. He’s hard as a rock and fucking huge. There’s no way he’s going to fit inside of you.

You smear slick from the tip and pump him slowly. His mouth falter in its movements, groans turning into moans. You’d be lying if you said they weren’t the most gorgeous sounds you’d ever heard from a man.

His hips buck into your hand and he stops you. “Can I fuck you?"

“I was starting to think you'd never ask.” You shoot a playful glare.

He reaches into his work uniform pocket, pulling out a foil wrapper.

Your shoulders still. "Do you always have a condom in there?"

“Only when I see pretty girls like yourself come along." He winks and slides off his boxers.

“And how often does that happen?" You perk up an eyebrow and shift so your back is against the car door.

He tears the package open with his teeth and rolls it on. "Well, today is the first day. But maybe tomorrow if I’m lucky."

You snicker and he crawls up to you.

“How do you want me?” he hums against your skin.

“However gets you inside of me.” You sound more desperate than you meant but the way he looking at you makes it well worth it.

He positions himself so that his back is flat against the seats, legs crammed around you. It exposed the muscles in his thigh and you’d be content riding that instead—maybe another day.

He grabs his dick and pumps it once. “Come ride me baby.”

“God, yes please.”

He bites back a laugh, anticipation growing in his stomach. He can’t tell if it’s nerves or excitement—it’s like that before game feeling—but the warmth of your hands on his chest eases it.

The car is so cramped, it doesn’t allow much room for you to sit comfortably. You awkwardly position yourself over him, trying to ignore the arousal dripping down your thighs.

“Logan,” you sigh.

His eyes shoot up from between your legs, face coated in worry as he sees yours. “Not comfortable?”

Your head shakes side to side. The car seat crunches as you both shift around. He sits in the seat, legs spread wide and you straddle him.

“Better?” His eyebrow hops up.

You grin and line him up with you. “Definitely.”

”Take it slow.” His voice is laced with sincerity, all the confidence from earlier gone. “I don't care about my pleasure. It’s whatever makes you feel good."

You nod and sink down quickly. He stretches you out so much—no amount of foreplay could've prepared you for this. Glancing up, he looks just as overwhelmed as you are. You’re so tight around him, he has to think of Dean to stop him from cumming.

His hand caresses your back softly and your head falls into the crook of his neck.

"You ready for me to move?” you whisper, leaving a kiss below his ear.

His heart pounds through his ribs, hopefully you can’t feel it. “Yeah. Only if you’re ready.”

You nod and lift up, pausing as you reach the tip. As you sink down, the stretch isn't as bad as before but your nails still dig into his biceps. Moans rattle through the car, hopefully no one is on the outside. You reposition so your hands on holding onto his shoulders.

He's looking up at you like you'll disappear any second. Though, for once you feel seen.

You both breathe in sync and his grip on your ass firms. He lifts you up again, lowering you down slower than before. He's never been this gentle before, but for a reason he can't figure out—it feels right with you.

“Keep going,” you whisper. You guide a strand of hair out of his eyes and rest your forehead on his gingerly.

The pace is stays slow but you can feel all of him. With each thrust, he groans and you moan softly. The side of his face burns underneath your palm.

Your moans grow into short gasps as shifts forward in the seat. He’s so much deeper inside of you this way. His name falls off your lips over and over and it makes his head spin.

Your nails digging into his shoulders as a warmth spreading through your body. You clench around him and his self restraint reaches it’s end. He circles your sensitive clit fast causing your legs to tremble.

He watches your expression and it softens his own. He rests his mouth beneath your chin, whispering, "Let go baby, I got you. Let me feel you."

He fills you as deep as possible and for a moment there's no telling where you end and he begins. You cry out, body trembling through your orgasm. His fingers press into your pelvis, muscles shuddering underneath you as he cums too.

All your weight collapses into him and the seat, cramming both of you into each other. He can feel your ribs press into his with each breath.

"Christ sweetheart. That was..." He laughs under his breath. "I don't even know."

The nickname makes your heart flip. Only then does it occur to you that he doesn't actually know your name, you never told him. It rolls off your tongue faster than you can stop it and his breathing stutters.

He repeats it once out loud and a million times in his head.

"I'm pretty sure that's the name of the girl I'm going out with this weekend,” his voice drips with confidence.

Your face flashes with surprise. “Is it really?"

"Yeah, I mean—she has yet to let me know if she wants to go. But I'm pretty sure she does."

You bite your tongue gently. “I bet she would love to."

He chuckles and clears his throat. “I think I'll have to drive her though. If she doesn't mind that.”

Your eyebrows furrow, head shifting back until you hit his shoulder. "I don't think she does. How come though?"

“I got distracted by this really pretty girl coming into the shop and now it’s going to take me an extra day to fix her car.”

“Damn, does she at least get a discount?”

He places a tender kiss on your forehead. “She'll get it for free.”

You smile before you can stop yourself. “Lucky girl.”

His hair tickles your skin as he shakes his head back and forth. “No, if anything I’m the lucky guy.”

[mrs-delaney]

Out of Your Hair

pairings: AJ Barner x Reader 🌧️ wc: 630 an: okay! so last night at 2am i was definitely maladaptive daydreaming instead of sleeping and i plotted this out in my head and i was afraid i'd lose it if i didn't write it down, so i did, and now it's yours. i have no idea where it's going or if it will ever go anywhere but that's the fun part of writing right? 🤭 if you want to be added to my taglist just let me know! new faces always welcome 🩷 masterlist

You're on your stomach with your face turned toward the window, one arm shoved under the pillow, the sheet somewhere down around the backs of your knees. His hand is going up and down your back. Slow, the whole span of it, the heel of his palm rough where the calluses are. He's been doing it since the two of you got done.

Rain on the glass.

Days. You have known this man days. You keep remembering that, and it keeps refusing to sound true.

"Baby."

"Yeah — no, I know." You're already up on your elbow. Your shirt is somewhere on his side of the bed, which is the wrong side, which is going to require getting all the way up. "Give me five minutes. Ten, tops, and I'll get out of your hair."

The hand stops.

"What?"

"I'm going." You're sitting up, dragging the sheet with you. "I just need a minute, my legs are — hang on."

"Where are you going?"

"AJ."

"No, where are you going?" He's up on an elbow now too, and you can feel him actually looking at you, which is a thing he does with his whole face. "It's eleven o'clock."

"I'm aware of what time it is."

He gets a hand around your arm — not hard, barely anything, more of a suggestion — and puts you back down onto the mattress like you weigh nothing, which to him you do.

"Lay down."

"I'm —"

"Lay down." His arm goes across your back and stays there, and it's heavy, and it is very clearly not moving.

Neither of you says anything for a second.

"I was gonna say, do you want to order something?" he says. Flat. Like he's been waiting to finish it and resents that he had to. "I'm starving."

You don't say anything.

"Out of my hair," he says.

"It's an expression."

"I know what it is." He says it slowly, the way you'd read a word off a sign in another language. "Out of my hair. Like you're — what, like you're in it?"

"AJ."

"I'm asking."

"It's just a thing people say."

He's quiet for a second. You keep your face where it is and wait for the next question, because there is always a next question with him. For who taught you that? For any version of him being smart about it. You brace for it.

It doesn't come.

"Well, that's stupid," he says.

"Okay."

"No, like — that's a stupid thing to say. To me. Right now." He shifts. Gets his face somewhere near your shoulder. "I had a good time. Did you not have a good time?"

"Oh, my God."

"That's not a yes..."

"I had a good time."

"Okay." He sounds genuinely relieved, like the answer was in doubt. "So then why are you trying to leave?"

You put your face back in the pillow. He takes that as the end of it, which it is, and reaches over you for his phone off the nightstand — the whole arm across you again, the weight of him briefly on your back, no apology for any of it. The screen lights up blue on the ceiling.

"There's a Thai place that's open. There's also a place that does, like, everything. Wings, pasta. Pizza."

"You want everything."

"I want everything," he agrees. He's scrolling. His thumb hasn't stopped. "This is the one my guy told me about. Or — no. Hold on, that's the other one."

"Order whatever."

"That's not helpful."

"AJ, I'm not moving. Order whatever you want."

"You're staying, by the way," he says, still scrolling, and it lands somewhere in the middle of the list, in the same voice he used for the wings, and he does not look up when he says it. "So."

"Okay."

"Okay." He turns the phone sideways. "They got dumplings."

[pocketsizedpanther]

Mr. Pierre for GQ Hype

[zagrebinaa]

[zagrebinaa]

[aidashakur]

Heavily fuck w the lovey dovey shit… love being someone’s baby

[kaylantamia]

@jasminendaniels

[ruesdeluxe]