Okay so Sylus’s birthday event started today. And I went to use the free 10 pulls. Jaw drops bc I hear the noise. I click thru. I see Caleb’s animation pop up and sigh, but am grateful, I’ve been wanting to rank up his colonel myth. Continue to click thru, and Sylus’s animation pops up. Jaw drops *harder*. Whadya know, his birthday 5* pops up. I saved like 5 wishes for both the banner and the rerun, I had made peace with the fact I might not get either. I decide “what the heck” and use my 5 wishes on the rerun and you WON’T believe it. I’m on my 5th wish, completely okay with having to grind to get it, and I hear *the noise*. I think “..no way” and then Sylus’s animation pops up! I didn’t manage to screen record the second one, I was too shocked.
@pearherapple (you’re the only LADS friend I can think of)
❥ pairing: sugar daddy/ceo!sylus qin x assistant!reader
❥ summary: “She has spent three years loving a man she cannot have. He has spent three years wanting a woman he won’t allow himself to reach for — until the day he decides, quietly and without hesitation, to reach anyway. What neither of them realises is that they’ve been finding each other all along. She just doesn’t know he’s the one on the other side of the screen yet.”
❥ genre: fluff + angst + smut (18+ mdni)
❥ word count: 50K+??? (I am insane and not normal about sylus <3)
❥ status: ongoing - march 2026
❥ warnings/tags: sugar daddy!sylus, alternative universe, ceo!sylus, yearning/longing, sylus is 39 in this, assistant!reader, sugar baby!reader, power imbalance, eventual boss/employee relationship, idiots in love, mild hurt/comfort, emotional/sensitive!reader, very long fic, banter, sylus the rage baiter. mutual masturbation, sexting, size difference. reader is shorter than sylus. reader is always audhd coded in my writing but anyone can read it. sylus is soft for reader, flirting/teasing, inexperienced/virgin!reader. dry humping, grinding, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, piv sex, soft!dom sylus, just in overall soft!sylus. sub!reader, vaginal fingering, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, overstimulation, size kink, full on daddy kink… I mean… it’s a sugar daddy au. so… <3, oral fixation, breeding kink, praise kink, pet names (kitten. sweetie. sweetheart etc.), multiple sex positions, pleasure dom!sylus, aftercare. mc loves the color pink a lot.
⟶ a/n: HIIIIII here I am with a new fic. as of the moment I am writing this it's still a wip. this fic is probably gonna be over 60k words. either way I still wanted to share the post on tumblr already. I always wanted to write a sugar daddy au BUT didn't find inspiration until RECENTLY. so in the lads server I'm in they are currently doing a 'kink bingo'. it's a little event that writers can participate and write a story around a certain trope. I went with sugar daddy 🤭💖 I said I wasn't gonna write for a while but what can I say… sylus brainrot. he's literally my muse. EITHER way. I hope you enjoy this story. 🥺💖 for anyone wondering… this is how I imagine sylus his build. either way I never know how to write fic in a short format so enjoy another lengthy fic from me again! also because I don’t wanna post it in parts you’ll have a sneakpeek on tumblr but to read the story in its full length you’ll have to head to ao3. thank you and I hope y'all love it as much as I loved writing it! 💘 title inspired by the song 'provider' by sleep token. (I don't normally listen to that type of music but my bestie leah recommended me this song for the fic) 💕💕💕
ps: for anyone wondering… this is how I imagine sylus his build. (without the blood and scratches) 🤭😋🤤🥵🥴🫠😵💫
this goes without saying, but if you don’t like it don’t read it <3
AO3 • masterlist
New York City does not care about your feelings.
This is something you’ve made your peace with over the years — the way it moves around you without slowing down, all noise and glass and cold wind off the Hudson in the early mornings when you’re walking the four blocks from the subway to Linkon Tower, coffee cup in hand, trying to remember if you forwarded that document last night or only dreamed that you did. The city asks nothing of you emotionally. It simply expects you to keep moving.
You are, in this way, well-suited to New York.
What you are less well-suited to — what you have been quietly, privately, catastrophically less well-suited to for approximately three years now — is being in love with your boss.
The elevator opens on the fifty-third floor.
You are fine.
“Good morning.”
His voice reaches you before you’ve fully stepped through the glass doors of the executive suite — low and unhurried, carrying the particular warmth he reserves for very few people, and you are, for reasons that keep you awake sometimes, one of them. Sylus is already at his desk, as he always is, as he has always been every single morning in the three years you’ve worked for him, because the man apparently does not sleep like a normal person. The Manhattan skyline stretches silver and pale behind him through the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the early light, he looks almost painterly — silver hair, dark suit, those red eyes lifting from the document in his hand to find you the moment you walk in, the way they always do, like he has a sense for you specifically.
Like he was waiting.
“Good morning,” you say, and you are very proud of how normal your voice sounds.
“How was the commute?” He asks it with genuine interest, setting his document down, which is one of the things that got you in trouble in the first place. The way he actually listens. The way Sylus, who runs a multi-billion dollar enterprise from this office and commands rooms full of people who are intimidated just by his posture, always has time to ask how your commute was.
“Cold,” you say, unwinding your scarf. “The L train decided this morning was a good time to have an existential crisis.”
“The L train always does that.” He tilts his head slightly. “You should have taken the car.”
“I’m not taking your car to work, Sylus.”
“You could.”
“I know I could. I’m choosing not to.” You drop your bag at your desk and pull out your tablet, already scrolling to his schedule. “It makes me feel like a kept woman.”
The silence that follows is approximately one beat too long.
You look up. Sylus is watching you with an expression you can’t fully decode — something that passed through his eyes too quickly, smoothed back over by the composed, unreadable surface he wears most of the time. The corner of his mouth curves.
“Heaven forbid,” he says mildly, and goes back to his document.
You turn back to your tablet and breathe.
Three years, you remind yourself. You have survived three years of this. You will survive today.
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
Here is what three years has taught you about Sylus:
He takes his coffee black, no sugar, too hot for comfort, and he drinks it while standing at the window with Manhattan spread out below him like something he’s quietly fond of. He is pathologically early to everything and has zero patience for people who aren’t, with the single exception of you — for you, he simply comes to find you, appearing at your workspace door with that unhurried patience, as though waiting for you specifically is a different category than waiting in general.
He reads physical documents even though everything could be digital because he thinks better with paper in his hands. He keeps the office two degrees warmer than the building standard because he noticed, in your first winter working for him, that you were always cold. He has never once mentioned this to you directly. You figured it out yourself, six months in, when you checked the building’s climate control records out of sheer curiosity, and you had to sit with that knowledge quietly for a long time afterward.
He is privately, genuinely funny — not the performative wit he turns on in meetings, but something dryer and warmer that surfaces only in the quiet moments, usually aimed at you. He reads in at least four languages. He grew up far from here, far from any of this, and there are moments when something in his expression goes distant and careful and you sense the geography of everything he’s built between himself and whatever came before.
He has never raised his voice at you. Not once. In three years of high-pressure deadlines and impossible situations and the particular chaos that seems to follow a man of his ambition, he has never directed anything at you that wasn’t measured, and considered, and — underneath its careful composure — surprisingly kind.
He is also tall — unreasonably, almost absurdly tall, the kind of tall that means the rest of the world simply exists lower than him — broad-shouldered, white-haired, and red-eyed, and standing next to him, which requires you to tilt your head back at an angle you’ve gotten quietly used to, makes you feel both very small and, inexplicably, very safe.
This is the problem.
This is the entire problem.
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
“You have the Meridian Capital call at nine,” you say, following him into his office with your tablet. This is another part of the choreography — the morning briefing, where you trail after him and he listens without looking at you directly, which you have learned means he’s paying the most attention. “Board review at eleven. You have a lunch block—”
“Clear it.”
You glance up. “You specifically asked for that block last week.”
“I know what I asked for last week.” He settles into his chair, leaning back in that easy way of his, long legs stretched under the desk. Even seated, the man is an unfair amount of presence. “Book somewhere for lunch instead. Somewhere quiet — not the Meridian district, I’ll have been on a call with those people for an hour and I’ll want a change of air.” His eyes come to you, and they’re soft in the way they sometimes are when it’s just the two of you and the morning is still early. “Somewhere you’d like. You choose.”
You pause. “You want me to choose.”
“Is that not what I said?”
“You’re very particular about restaurants, Sylus.”
“I’m particular in general,” he concedes. “But I trust your taste.” A brief pause. The softness in his expression doesn’t waver. “Lunch for two, somewhere you’d like. That’s all.”
You look at him for a moment too long — which you do sometimes, which you’ve been doing for three years, and he always holds the look, always lets you, like he has nothing to hide and all the time in the world, which is terrifying because it makes you feel seen — and then you nod and look back at your tablet.
“I’ll find somewhere,” you say.
“I know you will.” He picks up his pen. “You always do.”
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
The Meridian call runs long, as you predicted, and you have reorganized two schedules and soothed one very anxious junior analyst by the time it wraps. Sylus emerges from his office at eleven-oh-three, jacket on, expression still and composed from the professional armor he wears in those spaces, and crosses directly to your desk.
He sets a cup of tea down at your elbow.
Your tea — your specific order, the one you’d mentioned offhandedly to him eight months ago and apparently never needed to mention again — brewed at the temperature you like, with the little paper sleeve because the cup gets hot.
“Your eleven o’clock moved to eleven-fifteen,” you tell him, not trusting yourself to acknowledge the tea directly, “which means you have twelve minutes, and also I found a restaurant — it’s on the Upper West Side, French-American, supposed to be very quiet on weekdays—”
“Perfect.” He’s reading something on his phone, already walking, and he pauses at the edge of your workspace and glances back.
“You barely ate this morning.”
You blink. “I ate some cereal. How could you possibly—”
“You have the look,” he says, simply, like this is a perfectly reasonable thing to say. “The one that means you ate something that technically qualified as food and decided it counted.” The faintest curve of his mouth. “It doesn’t count.”
“It absolutely—”
“Book a table for twelve-thirty.” He’s already moving again, unhurried, like the conversation is entirely settled. “I’m not signing a single thing until I know you’ve had a real meal.”
Then he’s gone, moving down the hallway toward the boardroom, and you’re left staring at the empty doorway with your mouth still open and the faint, traitorous warmth of being known so precisely by someone spreading all the way up to your ears.
You close your mouth.
You book the table and then pick up your tea.
It is perfect.
You are in so much trouble.
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
The restaurant he lets you choose is a small place tucked between a bookshop and a dry cleaner on West 74th — French in its bones but soft around the edges, the kind of room that smells like butter and old wood and feels completely removed from the city outside. You’re not sure how it stays so quiet in Manhattan. Maybe it exists slightly outside of time.
Sylus ducks slightly to come through the door.
He does this — accommodates the world’s architectures with a patient, practiced ease, as though he accepted a long time ago that most spaces weren’t built for him and has made his peace with it. You notice this more than you should. You notice the way he instinctively adjusts when he’s close to you too — angles himself, shortens his step, never makes you feel like the difference in your heights is anything other than simply the way things are.
The host seats you at a corner table. The light is golden and low.
“This is nice,” Sylus says, and he means it. You’ve gotten good at knowing when he means things.
“I thought you’d like it.” You unfold your menu. “It feels like somewhere you’d eat if you didn’t have to perform anything.”
He goes still for just a moment. Then, quietly: “That’s a very accurate read.”
“Three years,” you say simply.
Something in his expression moves — warm and careful at once, like he’s handling something he doesn’t want to drop. He looks at you across the small table, and in the golden light of this room outside of time he looks different than he does in the office. Younger, almost. Softer. Like the thing he usually holds back with both hands is closer to the surface.
“You’re distracted this week,” he says eventually. Not an accusation — an observation, offered gently, the way he offers you most things. “You hide it well. But I know your face.”
Your heart catches.
I know your face. Said like it’s simply a fact, something true and uncontested, filed away somewhere in him.
“I found something,” you say, because you can never not tell him things, in the end. He does something to your defenses — doesn’t dismantle them, exactly, just makes you feel like they’re not necessary with him, which might be worse. “An apartment. A loft.” You look at your water glass. “I’ve been dreaming about my own place for years. You know how New York is — I’ve been in the same sublet since I moved here, and it’s fine, it’s always been fine, but it’s not mine. Nothing in it is mine.” You smile, self-deprecating. “I walked past a listing last weekend. A loft in the West Village — high ceilings, big windows, exposed brick. There’s a little terrace that looks out over the rooftops and I just — I stood on the sidewalk and looked at it for a long time.”
Sylus is watching you with his full attention — the specific quality of stillness he gets when you’re saying something he wants to remember. His hands are folded on the table. He’s not eating. He’s just listening.
“It needs renovation,” you continue, quieter now. “A lot of it, still. Which is part of why the price is—” You exhale. “The price is a lot. More than a lot. My savings are good, I’ve been careful, but between the listing and the renovation costs it’s just—” You shake your head. “It’s not realistic right now.”
A long pause.
“Tell me about it,” Sylus says.
You blink. “I just—”
“Not the numbers.” His voice is gentle. “The place. Tell me about the loft.”
Oh.
Oh.
You look at him. He looks back, patient and entirely serious, and something in your chest aches in a way you don’t have good language for.
And so you tell him — the arched windows and the way the afternoon light would fall across the floors, the exposed brick that runs the whole length of the far wall, the little wrought-iron terrace barely big enough for two chairs and a plant but somehow perfect, the ceiling height, the bones of it. The way you’d stood on that sidewalk and seen, with a clarity that surprised you, exactly what it could become. What it could be. You tell him all of it, more than you meant to, more than is probably professional over a two-person lunch that you’re already trying not to read too much into.
Sylus listens to every word.
When you finish, he’s quiet for a moment. There’s something in his expression that’s gone a little careful.
“What’s the address?” he says.
You study him. “Why?”
“Because you’ve just described the place you want most in the world,” he says, very simply, “and I’m interested in things that matter to you.”
The ache in your chest deepens. You look at him for a long moment — this man who runs a company from the fifty-third floor of a Midtown tower, who is a decade older than you and a foot taller than you and should by any reasonable accounting be the most intimidating person in your life, and who instead feels, in moments like this, like the safest one.
You give him the address.
You don’t know what he’ll do with it.
You just know, the way you know most things about Sylus, that he’ll do something.
｡ ₊°༺❤︎༻°₊ ｡
The afternoon passes the way good afternoons in the office do — with a steady rhythm of tasks and small exchanges, the comfortable back-and-forth that you’ve built between you over three years like a language that only the two of you speak fluently. He stops by your desk at three to ask if you want anything from the coffee cart downstairs, which he would never do for anyone else, and brings you back a hot chocolate without commenting on it. You catch him at five-forty-five standing in the doorway of his office watching you finish up for the day with an expression you aren’t supposed to have seen — unguarded, quiet, something in it that sits low and warm in your stomach for the whole subway ride home.
It doesn’t mean what you want it to mean, you tell yourself, earbuds in, Manhattan rushing past outside the windows.
He’s just kind. He’s kind to you because you work for him and you’ve earned it and that’s all it is.
Forty-three blocks uptown, Sylus stands at his office window with your address on a notepad in his hand and thinks, for a very long time.
I have cried multiple times and it’s not even fully published yet. If we (as a fandom) ever had to choose just one person to write for Sylus ever again, you’d have my vote
SYNOPSIS: sometimes the most important relationships are ones that teach you a lesson, other times they're ones that help you learn to love again
a/n: hi hi !! i was inspired by harry’s song to write this ! i used both the interpretation a relationship being special despite not lasting forever + taking a leap of faith when ur scared to love !! i hope you guys enjoy this i lowkey am ass at writing angst and it’s my first time writing smut (two lines but still LOL) so i really appreciate any and all feedback !!! comments and reblogs are held close to my heart <3 enough w the yapfest ty for reading !!!
tags/warnings: caleb x nonmc!reader, rafayel x nonmc!reader, fluff, angst, hurt/no comfort from caleb’s side, comfort from rafayel, insecurities (not feeling good enough), cheating, smut (a couple lines), raf is a rich little shit, caleb is an asshole, mc is not a girls girl, happy ending,, lmk if i missed anything !
wordcount: 7.8k
masterlist
You met Caleb in the spring, accidentally running into the colonel while avoiding a pushy man on a busy street. “Sorry,” you fumbled out, eyes teary and heart in your throat. Caleb took note of your state immediately, a wave of protectiveness overcoming him.
“Are you alright?” His arm reaches out to steady you, watching you closely. He sees your eyes widen when you take in his uniform.
“Yes I’m fine, sorry to bother you sir,” you glance behind you quickly, seeing the man round the corner, Caleb follows your gaze, putting two and two together quickly. Before you can continue your escape Caleb speaks up, loud enough so the man can hear him.
“Sweetheart you should know better than to keep a colonel waiting,” his features are much less tense than they were before. You furrow your brows at him for a second, quickly letting yourself melt into his chest.
“Sorry baby I got held up,” you bat your lashes at him, glancing at the man following you, he stares right back at you.
“Do you have business with the Farspace Fleet?” His voice is sharp around the edges, eyes narrowing as he addresses the man. He quickly shakes his head ‘no’ and turns on his heel. Caleb can't help but scoff, his arm swinging over your shoulder and turning the two of you to walk the opposite direction. “Are you okay?’ the colonel asks you, his voice gentle as he smiles down at you, soft violet eyes catching your own.
“I am now, I can't thank you enough,” you breathe out, willing your erratic heartbeat to slow down. “Sorry for getting all on you colonel,” you blush, smiling when the taller man laughs at your words.
“No worries, I'm glad to help,” he pauses for a second, “and you can just call me Caleb.”
“Thank you so much Caleb,” his name feels nice on your tongue, “I’m y/n, can I buy you a drink or something?”
Caleb’s mind short circuits for a second, his whole life he’d rejected everyone's advances, he always had MC by his side. But now she's in Linkon and thinks he’s dead, he's not the same Caleb she loved. His heart unclenches when he meets your shy gaze.
“Do you like coffee?”
Conversation seemed to flow easy between the two of you after a couple minutes, soft laughter leaving your lips, blushing when you see Caleb laughing alongside you.
Caleb frowns when you beat him to the bill. “This is my thank you for helping me out,” you shake your head, “no way you were gonna pay.”
“Alright, alright” he sighs dramatically, “I’ll just have to get the next one.” You cock your head slightly.
“Next one?”
“Would you wanna get dinner with me?” Caleb finds himself wanting to make you flustered more, cute he thinks.
You debate it for a moment, you didn't exactly put yourself in the dating scene as much as you wanted, what's there to lose?
“I would like that very much,” you finally say, your smile widening when Caleb lights up.
Months later the leaves turned shades of orange and pink, your hand in Caleb's as the two of you walked in the park, a small breeze brushes past the two of you making you shiver slightly.
“Don’t” you groan, seeing the look on your boyfriend's face. Caleb bites his tongue, a smirk on his face as he silently shrugs his jacket off and drapes it over you, pulling you in by your waist.
“Told you to bring a jacket,” he taunts, laughing when you launch yourself at him, a small ‘oof’ leaving him as you smack his chest.
“Caleb?” The feminine voice makes the two of you stop and turn to face them, she was gorgeous, and she matched the description Caleb gave you of his first love. You felt your blood go cold, head spinning as you looked at Caleb. His mouth was agape, eyes sparkling as he stared at her, hand dropping yours instantly. Your heart clenched.
“MC,” he breathed out, he said her name like it was something holy, had he ever said yours in that tone?
“Oh my god it's really you,” her eyes watered, she didn't hesitate to run into his arms, and Caleb caught her like it was second nature. His eyes closed, burying his face in the crook of her neck, memories flooding back.
You stood there awkwardly, he had explained the situation to you, how were you supposed to react? While, yes, it sucked seeing someone hold your boyfriend so deeply, she was also just discovering he was alive. You bit your lip, insecurities creep up on you, finding yourself comparing yourself to her when you hadn't even introduced yourself.
When they finally pull away, you stare at Caleb, he quickly moves away from her, clearing his throat, “pips this is y/n” he gestures to you. MC smiles at you, waving before focusing back on your boyfriend.
“What the fuck happened?” she scolds, smacking him roughly and Caleb smiles down softly at her, like you weren't standing a couple feet away.
You suddenly feel out of place, your throat tightens up as you shift your weight on your feet. “I’ll um- I’ll let you guys catch up,” you speak up, only then does Caleb tear his gaze from her and focus on you.
“I’ll text you, okay?” he gives you a tight lipped smile, the same he gives cashiers and kind strangers. You don't say anything, turning on your heel and wrapping the jacket tighter around you.
“Who was that?” you hear her say, ears twitching back to listen out for Caleb's response.
“Just a friend of mine.”
You let the stray tear fall from your eye when you finally reach your car, taking a deep breath before driving home, alone. You leave Caleb’s jacket in your car, stomach twisting as you imagine what they're doing, is he still staring at her like that?
“Just a friend of mine,” the words echo in your head, anger and sadness brewing in your chest, a bitter taste in your mouth as you try to eat dinner. The same dinner you and Caleb had cooked together earlier.
The buzzing of your phone tears your blank stare from the tv, a random show you didn't care for filling the silence of your apartment.
[new messages from caleb <3]
Sorry about earlier I get how weird that must've been for you :/
I appreciate how understanding you were, thank you so much
Shes pretty shaken after i told her everything so shes spending the night at mine
I’ll text you tomorrow ?
You stare at your phone, heart breaking further as you reread the messages. She's spending the night with him? A new message makes you focus on your phone again.
Wanna go to that bakery you like tomorrow ? my treat :3
Your heart softens, maybe things won't change, he's still your Caleb. With shaky fingers you reply to him.
its okay,, i hope everything works out between you guys
Bakery sounds good tomorrow :3
Get some rest i love you
Goodnight, see you tmrw :P
You wait for him to say I love you, but it never comes. You don't let yourself ruminate, instead you get off your couch and head to your bedroom, eyelids heavy as you try to sleep, ignoring the growing pit in your stomach.
The next morning you stare at the ceiling for a handful of minutes before finally getting up and checking your phone. Caleb always sends you a good morning text, he was always awake before you were. You bite the inside of your cheek when there's no new texts from him. It's fine, he must've been emotionally drained from yesterday, it's good that he sleeps in, you reason, shooting him a quick ‘good morning :)’ before continuing on with your day.
You deep clean your room, trying to ignore the anxiety gnawing at you as you continuously glance at your phone. You’d made it to your living room when your phone buzzed, practically leaping at it to see the notification. Caleb.
meet at the bakery at 2? sorry i slept in
also is it okay if mc comes along ?
You feel nauseous as you read the second text. Were you being irrational? You had to be kind, you had to be understanding. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.
It wasn't bad, it was worse. You smiled at Caleb, instinctively going to wrap your arms around him, he moved back slightly to evade your embrace, eyes shifting to mc. He caught the way your face fell, the way your smile wavered as you swallowed thickly before turning to the girl by his side. You ignored the way your eyes stung as your boyfriend pulled a chair out for her, sitting next to her. You sat alone across from them.
“It's nice to see you again,” you spoke, giving her a small wave, “are you doing okay?” Your genuine concern made Caleb's heart ache. You were so kind, and he knew you didn't deserve this.
Time seemed to pass terribly slow, your words were rare and movements careful as you picked at your favorite pastry, appetite reduced to nothing as you listened to MC and Caleb reminisce on their past.
“I had forgotten how good your breakfasts were,” she smiled, turning to you, “have you ever tried the fried eggs he makes? I had them this morning and god it was like a part of me came back to life.”
“Did you guys wake up early today?” your voice soft, glancing up from your plate and at Caleb. He opens his mouth to speak but MC beats him to it,
“Yeah, Caleb has always woken up before me, he woke me up with breakfast at like 9 this morning,” she gushes. “How long have you been friends for?”
Your stomach hurts, heart aching as you nod at her words, Caleb stares at you apologetically, eyes swimming in, remorse? Guilt? You couldn’t pinpoint it. “Only a couple months, I wouldn't know him as well as you,” you reply, "I'll be right back,” you excuse yourself. You hear Caleb's chair scraping the floor, heavy steps hot on your trail as you rush into the restroom, closing the door and locking it quickly before he can stop you.
“Baby please let me explain,” he pleads through the door. Your ears are ringing, eyes burning as you try to regulate your breathing. What the fuck was happening? How can someone who made you feel loved one day make you feel like day old garbage the next?
You send a text to your friend quickly, begging her to call you in two minutes as a way out. She replies quickly, asking where you were.
Caleb retreats back to the table with MC, a smile on his face when he sees her. “She’s fine, I think the coffee didn't sit well with her.”
“She’s your girlfriend, right?” It's not a question, MC wasn't stupid. Caleb lets out a deep sigh, running his hand through his hair before replying.
“I didn't think I would ever get you back, I thought you wouldn't love me for who I am now.” MC stares at Caleb, he can't help the way his gaze softens as he looks at her, he can't stop the flutter in his chest when she reaches for his hand and he doesn't even try to pull away. He lets his fingers intertwine with hers.
“I love even the worst versions of you,” she replies softly, squeezing his hand. Caleb almost leans into her, forgetting where he was. He’s only pulled out of his trance when you pull the chair out from the table and take a seat, making him quickly pull away from MC.
“Sorry about that,” you mumble, “was I interrupting something?” Caleb is quick to shake his head.
“Y/N dont you like cats? MC has a stray cat she feeds-” Caleb's words are cut off by your phone ringing.
“Sorry I have to take this,” you mumble, answering quickly, expression morphing into shock and faux concern. “You’ll be okay, I'll be there soon okay?” You hang up quickly, gathering your things before turning to the pair in front of you. “I have to go, my friend needs me, see you guys around,” you rush out, not daring to look back as you exit the bakery, rounding the corner and rushing into your car, pulling out of the parking lot and speeding down the street. You pull over as your vision blurs, parking on the side of the road as broken sobs leave your body.
Your friends pick you up, taking you back to their place and having one of them drive your car to theirs. You don't answer any of Caleb's texts or calls for the next two days.
You go through the motions as you get home from work, heart empty as you toss your keys haphazardly on the entrance table. You barely make it to the shower, hot tears blending with the searing water on your skin. You're glad the steam has fogged up the mirror, pulling a large t-shirt over you, hair still dripping wet as you trudge out into the living room.
A knock on your door has your stomach dropping, you didn't need to check to know who was on the other side of it. With a deep breath you open the door, red rimmed eyes meeting Caleb’s purple ones.
Caleb’s breath caught in his throat as he saw you. “Can we talk? Please?” He’s holding a bouquet of flowers in his hands, tulips. You didn’t like tulips, but he always got them for you.
Maybe it was how utterly emotionally drained you were already, but you opened the door further, stepping aside and letting him in. He doesn't hesitate to walk inside, setting the flowers down and letting his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer. You let yourself melt into his touch, body tensing when you smell her perfume.
“You wanna talk, so talk,” you state, voice shaky and cold as you sit on the couch, pulling your hand away from Caleb’s as he tries reaching for it.
“I’m sorry for how I’ve been acting the last few days, everything has been so hectic. I care about MC so much, and having her back feels strange,” he fumbles out, “I care about you too, it's just there's a lot of stuff that she and I need to talk about and work through.” He scrunches his face up, pinching the bridge of his nose before taking a deep breath and speaking again. “I promise I’ll do better, I already set boundaries with her and she's staying somewhere else. I love you y/n, I know I’ve been a shitty boyfriend and I am so fucking sorry but I promise I’ll do better.”
“You called me your friend,” you say softly, eyes focused on a loose thread of your t-shirt.
“What?” Caleb feels his heart pound against his chest, he can hear the blood rushing through his ears.
“When she asked who I was, you said I was your friend.” He had never heard your voice so small. You turned to look at him, bags under your eyes as you stared at him.
“I panicked, I didn’t know how she would react and-”
“What about how I would react?” You question, your eyes still focused on him, he breaks eye contact first.
“I cleared it all up with her, I promise you I’ll do anything for you to believe me.”
Would you cut her off if I asked? The question rests on the tip of your tongue, you don't ask it, too afraid of what the answer might be.
“I need you to prove it to me, I can't just be okay because you say what I want to hear,” you finally say. Caleb lets out a relieved sigh, he places his hand over yours cautiously, intertwining your fingers when you don't pull away.
“I will,” he whispers, “it's only me and you.”
You don't say anything, searching his face but only finding remorse. When he pulls you into him slowly you don't pull away, letting your lips move with his, relishing in the feeling of his body heat radiating onto your exposed thighs. You don’t pull away as he deepens the kiss, pushing away the images of them together as you tug his shirt off, fumbling with his belt buckle.
“Lillies,” you breathe against his flushed skin, “I’ve already told you before my favorite flowers are lilies.” You're both moving around, completely undressed as you look him in the eye.
“Okay, lilies” he mumbles, letting out a low groan as he slowly enters you, lips catching yours as he swallows your moans with his every thrust, eyes fluttering shut.
“I love you” you moan, your lips still pressed against his as he lets out a soft whimper, “I love you so much Caleb.” Your legs wrap around his waist, holding him closer against you, letting your nails leave deep red marks on his back, an attempt at claiming him as your own. You don't see the faint marks left by another that morning.
“Fuck baby, I’m so sorry,” he pants, “don’t deserve you.” He nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck as he finishes with a soft groan, holding you against him tightly.
You stare at the ceiling, fighting back tears as he pulls out of you slowly. He didn't say it back. Caleb stands to get a rag to clean you up, but you give him a soft smile, “I got it.” He furrows his brows, about to protest when you close the restroom door in his face.
Two weeks, you’d decided. You’ll give Caleb two weeks to show you he’s choosing you.
But as the days pass you feel your resolve growing weaker and weaker. You noticed the way his eyes glimmered when staring at her, but never at you. You noticed the way his eyes had never crinkled as he smiled the entire time you’d known him, but they do with her. You noticed the way his ears would flush when they’d brush hands, the way he’d force himself to look at you instead. You noticed how he invited her everywhere, even when it was meant to be just the two of you. When was the last time you'd held his hand? The last time he kissed you with love and not lust?
You decided to surprise him one day, your feeble attempt at making him remember the spark you'd felt upon your first encounter. You caught a train to skyhaven and made your way to his place. You’d bought a new plane model, one he hadn't gotten yet, hoping to build it with him. The sun was shining brightly between the clouds, hope still burning in your heart as you knocked twice on the front door. You bounced on the ball of your heel, smiling as you recalled the fond memories with Caleb, having built a handful of planes with him as date nights, kissing him when he let you add the final piece, giggling as he praised you gently.
When his front door opened, MC’s eyes met yours, smile dropping the second they did. You felt your heart fall, your stomach twisting as you gave her a small smile. “MC, I didn't know you were here,” you hope she doesn't catch the tremble in your voice.
“I thought Caleb told you I was staying here for a couple weeks?” She cocks her head innocently, “I offered to get a hotel but he insisted I stay with him, isn't he so sweet?” You force a smile on your face, knuckles white from how hard you were gripping the model plane box.
“Must have slipped my mind,” you say quickly.
“Did you need something?” she asks, you realize she's wearing Caleb's shirt, you can see a hickey peaking out by her collarbone, your mouth feels dry. You shake your head, blinking quickly before taking a step back.
“No I was gonna tell him something but it can wait, don't tell him I stopped by.” You turn away before she can reply.
“Pips, who is it?” Caleb calls out, emerging with his sweats hung low on his hips, no shirt on. MC turns to him with a sweet smile, the one that always makes him melt.
“Some sales people” she responds, her hands sliding up his chest as she leaves a kiss on his adams apple, “where were we?” Caleb thinks he smells your perfume.
“Was that Y/N?” He mumbles against her lips, violet eyes staring into hers, she pouts as your name leaves his lips.
“Does it matter?” She grumbles, hands sneaking under the hem of his sweatpants, “You think she knows about us?” Caleb bites back a whimper as her hand wraps around him, languid strokes make him lose his train of thought.
“Maybe,” he breathes out, “she won't break up with me anyway,” he moans out, head thrown back as she presses a wet kiss to the sensitive spot on his neck, "she's too nice to do that- cares about me too much.”
You gave the model plane to the first kid you saw, sitting on the train and staring out the window as the scenery flew past you in a blur. The last bit of hope in your heart had been extinguished, stomped out until no embers remained. He loved her in a way you knew he would never love you. Nothing would change that.
Three days later he picks you up for a date, a bouquet of flowers in his hands, tulips. The same kind as always. They weren't your favorite. You put them in water nonetheless, forcing a smile on your face as the two of you drove to the restaurant he’d made reservations at. Caleb tried to make small talk with you, giving him short responses and only half listening to his words. When he mentioned MC you turned your attention to him, listening to him gush about how she was promoted at her job.
“What are her favorite flowers? Does she like tulips?” You ask, hoping you were wrong. Caleb's smile seems to grow as he nods.
“They are! How'd you know that?” He doesn't see your face steel over, oblivious as he changes the topic to something a rookie said at work today.
He was never going to choose you. It was never going to be you. Your mind blanks for a second, a shooting star catches your eye as he parks the car, getting out and opening the door for you. You don't move.
It's a funny thing when someone gets an epiphany, some jump for joy while others scramble to take action, lest their idea slips their mind. You seem frozen in place as your mind seemingly resets.
“What the fuck am I doing?” you laugh dryly, eyes meeting Caleb's for the first time this evening. You can't stop the incredulous laughter that leaves your mouth, “Oh my god what the fuck am I doing?” You repeat yourself, a hand covering your mouth as you smile in disbelief.
“Baby? Are you alright?” Caleb’s face contorts in panic, reaching out to you only to pull away when you smack his hand “Hey what-”
“You were right,” you say, a smile still on your face as you turn to him, getting out of the passenger seat and standing next to him.
“Right about what? You're scaring me, you need to calm down, you're not thinking straight,” He glances around, grateful no one is around to see the state you were in.
“I deserve better.” You state, your voice wasn't small and apologetic, there was no kindness left in your words. “I don't know why I stayed when I realized you were choosing between me and someone else.” You shake your head, “I deserve to be the only choice, I deserve someone who wouldn't even think about entertaining another while they're with me.” Caleb opens his mouth to speak, you cut him off before he can. “I should have never been a choice, I should have been the only one,” you spit out. “Only me and you right?” venom drips from your words, Caleb flinches slightly.
“Did you say that to her while you fucked her too? After you lied to me about her staying somewhere else?” Caleb’s blood goes cold, face paling as the words leave your mouth.
You held out hope, you tried harder, he did nothing to change. He prioritized her the second she came back, he ran to her the moment she let him. He made a fool out of you, played you in plain daylight, and you all but let him. When did you become okay with being second best in your own relationship? When did you settle for less than you deserve?
“You were a good boyfriend for a bit there, but I don't deserve this shit.”
Caleb feels his throat tighten, he never thought you would actually leave him. He wants to tell you that you aren't a second choice, but he can't bring himself to lie to you any longer. He wants to convince you to stay, tell you he’ll do better, but he knows you deserve better. He knows he can’t let go of MC, he needs her, he loves her; It will always be her.
He doesn't try to chase after you when you walk away from him, hailing the first cab you see. Caleb thought he would feel relief, knowing he and MC didn't have to sneak around anymore, but as he watches your cab drive away he feels sick. A sinking feeling in his stomach as he realizes you weren't coming back.
It took you a while to get over Caleb, countless nights spent sobbing in your pillow and picking yourself apart. You’d go through the motions everyday; Go to work, come home, cry, sleep. It was a never ending cycle of you and your insecurities.
Your sadness slowly turned to anger, going out drinking with your friends as you worked through your emotions. Your friends were there to pick you up and piece you back, reminding you of your worth. It took three months for the memories to not leave a bitter taste in your mouth. You even found yourself feeling a bit grateful for the experience, vowing to never lose sight of your worth.
Slowly you’d reintegrated back into the world, hanging out with friends and visiting new bakeries and restaurants. It felt nice feeling free, knowing you didn't have to worry about anyone betraying your trust.
The AC feels nice against your skin, walking slowly around the art pop up your friends had invited you to. You’d heard the artist's name in passing, familiar with a couple of his more famous pieces. When you pause in front of a particularly interesting one you feel someone’s presence next to you.
“Seems kinda pretentious doesn't it?” The man stares at you, a playful smile on his lips. You smile back at him, focusing back on the painting before humming.
“I like it,” you reply, “kinda reminds me of a seagull choir or something,” a small chuckle escapes your lips. “You’re pretty harsh on yourself, don't you think?”
The artist's smile only widens as he follows you to the next painting. “I should've known better than to try and be mysterious,” he sighs out, you laugh. “Well since you know my name I think it's only fair I get to know yours, don't you think?”
“You saying I owe you something just because you're famous?” you quip back, biting back a smile as his eyes widen, waving his hands quickly.
“No! God no!” your laughter makes his panicking cease, jaw dropping slightly as he laughs in disbelief. “Oh you’re evil,” he smiles. You half expect him to thank you for attending and leave, but he follows you to the next painting.
“I’m y/n” you finally say, leaning closer to the painting and humming in appreciation, “I really like this one, my compliments to the artist.”
Rafayel smiles, chest puffing out in pride as he moves closer to you. “You can have it if you want, it'll only cost you a date with me.”
You scoff at his words, there was no way that was happening, you weren't nearly ready for a relationship. “Right,” you reply. Rafayel pauses, did he just get rejected? At his own art show?
“Was that a yes?” He asks, walking quickly to catch up next to you, leaning against the railing and staring at you when you grab a brochure and look at him. The painting he’s willing to give you is worth a couple million.
“I don't have room in my apartment for a painting that big,” you evade, flipping the brochure open before moving onto the next installation. “It was really nice meeting you, I love your work” you smile sweetly, Rafayel feels his knees buckle.
“What if I made you a smaller painting? One of a kind, one that fits in your apartment?” He stands in front of you, it's the closest you've ever seen him. You're suddenly aware why there's so many people swooning at his very move, his blue eyes stare into yours, you can see flecks of red in the lower half of them.
“One of a kind painting by Rafayel himself?” you gasp, “I could buy a house with that kind of money” you tease.
“I’ll give you all the money from this exhibition if you agree to go on a date with me.”
“Yeah okay” you say, the playful smile on your face slowly drops as he smiles back at you.
“Okay done, what bank do you use? I don't know exactly how much I'll make, it can take days for people to negotiate- I'll just send you the higher ballpark number,” he replies, not missing a beat as he pulls out his phone, typing away. “Also what’s your favorite flower?”
“Wait, no I was just joking!” Now it was your turn to panic, quickly running to his side to try and stop whatever he was doing on his phone. Your eyes narrow at him when you see the screen, it wasn't even on. “You’re evil” you echo his words from earlier.
“I’d say we’re even, cutie” the term of endearment has your face flushing, “your favorite flower?” he questions again, head tilted to the side as he awaits your response, the motion causes his purple bangs to cover his eyes ever so slightly.
“Lilies,” you reply, a pang in your chest as memories flood in.
“What time should I pick you up?”
You finally don't have a remark for him, mouth opening to protest, only to close it as his eyes glimmer at you. It must be from the lights shining on the paintings, you reason, there’s no way he's looking at you like that. There’s a reason you hadn't thrust yourself onto the dating scene, heart still fragile, insecurities still waiting to pounce.
“I can’t,” you finally say, tearing your gaze from his and placing the brochure in his hands, “I’m really sorry.” Rafayel furrows his brows, watching as you walk towards the exit. He takes a step forward, ready to chase after you, Thomas grabs his arm, pulling him towards the patrons who he’d kept waiting while he flirted incessantly with you.
A week later your phone buzzes while you're at work, casually sneaking a glance at it before your eyes go wide, slapping a hand over your mouth as you quickly excuse yourself outside.
[RAFAYEL QI has sent you $10,000 dollars]
your daily limit is only 10k, i’ll send you the rest tmrw or i can give it in cash when we go on our date?
You’re scrambling to try and contact him, calling his office number and being greeted by an exhausted voice. “This is Thomas, what can I help you with?”
“Hi, is there any way I can speak to Rafayel? It's urgent,” you bite your bottom lip, frowning when the man on the other side of the line laughs at you.
“And who is this? His long lost lover I presume?” His condescending tone makes your fists clench.
“Tell him it's y/n,” you snip back, bouncing your leg as you watch the cars drive past. There’s a brief pause on the line and a minute later you hear Thomas’ voice.
“Are you still there ma’am?” He seems much more respectful now than before. When you respond he lets out a sigh of relief, “Apologies for my attitude, Rafayel has asked me to give you his number so you can contact him directly, do you have something to write it down?”
You dial the number right after hanging up with Thomas, knee still bouncing anxiously as it rings once before being answered.
“Did you get your money, cutie? I can give you the rest cash if you'd like, it'll take a couple days for me to send-”
“Are you insane?” you hissed, “I thought you knew I was joking! How did you even get my bank information?” Rafayel is smiling on the other line, leisurely brushstrokes on his canvas as he listens to your scolding.
“I’m a man of my word, I don't intend on letting you slip away from me so easily,” he pauses for a second, “it's not everyday that someone sees the seagull choir inspiration behind my painting y’know.” You can't stop the scoff that leaves your lips, it only eggs him on. “One date is all I'm asking, please?”
“Why do you want to go on a date with me so badly?” You question, confidence wavering since the first time you'd met him.
“You’re beautiful, witty and funny, what more could a guy want?” He laughs.
His first love, you think, pushing the thought to the back of your mind. You let out a sigh, staring up at the clouds before biting your lip. He got his happy ending, what's stopping you from finding yours?
“You can pick me up tomorrow at 6 o’clock, I hate when people are late” you finally say, “I’ll text you my address.” You bite your bottom lip when you hear Rafayel thank you.
Rafayel shows up the next day at 5:59 PM, knocking on your door the second the clock hits 6 pm. You can't help but roll your eyes, smiling as you open the door. He's holding a bouquet of flowers, pink and white lilies.
The date goes well, much to your dismay, falling for his charms more than you anticipated. The two of you sit on the hood of his car, parked by the side of the highway overlooking Whitesand Bay. A comfortable silence falls over the two of you, the ocean breeze makes Rafayel's purple hair seem model-like, like he was made to be by the ocean.
“Can I ask you something?” His voice is soft, eyes focused on the waves breaking on the shore. You let out a hum for him to continue. “Why did you say you couldn’t come on this date with me?” There’s a brief pause, “you don’t have to answer, I’m just curious.”
You debate not answering, figuring it was much too soon to trauma dump and bring up exes. His index finger brushes against where yours rested on top of the car's hood. You steal a glance at him, his ears are flushed.
“My ex was in love with someone else,” you say plainly, sitting a little straighter, “He told me he only loved me, it was obviously a lie seeing as though he fucked her a couple days after telling me that.” You don’t tear your gaze from the ocean, letting its rhythmic sounds keep you grounded.
“As embarrassing as it is, I tried to make it work, let myself believe his empty words. My insecurities were eating me alive and it was just a bad situation. When I finally realized how stupid I looked I left, realized I deserved better than that.”
Rafayel turns to look at you, dumbfounded on how someone could treat you so terribly. “I didn’t want to rush into anything and make the same mistakes, I’d like to think I know my worth now, but you know how it goes.” You shrug, as if you hadn’t just bared your heart to him.
His hand finds its way over yours, intertwining your fingers and giving it a soft squeeze, his eyes flickering to your hands before settling on your face, unwavering when you look at him. “Give me one chance and I’ll show you the kind of love you deserve to know.”
The moonlight illuminates his features beautifully, the slope of his nose, curve of his lips, the color of his eyes. Your breath hitches as his gaze intensifies, honing in on you. “Please, let me be the one to show you,” his voice is gentle but firm, it sends a shiver down your spine in the best way possible.
You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat before speaking up, “okay,” you whisper, “one chance.” Rafayel smiles softly, using all of his willpower to not kiss you on the hood of his car.
You’re greeted by a bouquet of lilies the next day at work, a note in cursive sitting between the blooms.
“Thank you for last night, I hope to see you again soon- Rafayel”
The gesture makes your cheeks flush, your phone buzzing in your pocket.
[1 new message from Rafayel]
Did you get my gift? :3
yes they’re beautiful thank you so much
I’m shocked you remembered i like lilies lol
how could I not? they’re your favorite flower <3
Your cheeks burn as you lock your phone, embers of hope burn in your chest. What if it’s different? What if it’s worth a shot? You know your worth now, you won’t let yourself be treated as second best, not anymore.
Rafayel romances you hard. He takes you to dinner, sends you packages, and flowers to your home and at work, and shows up when you’re about to take your lunch break in his fancy sports car. “My horoscope said to appreciate the beautiful things in life, can I take you to lunch?”
You try to fight it, try to keep your words sharp and tone light. Slowly you find yourself wanting to let your guard down, letting your eyes linger on him for a second longer, embracing the flutter in your chest when he takes your hand in his to lead you through a busy street.
It’s scary to let yourself be vulnerable after being hurt viciously. But how beautiful is it to be loved? How wonderful does it feel to know you will be chosen over and over again?
And so you stop fighting it, heart pounding in your ears as Rafayel talks about a painting he was working on, telling you he’d found a new muse to inspire him.
“Someone new?” You feel the familiar pit in your stomach, eyes scouting the beach to see which way would be better for you to leave him. The sense of impending doom creeping up your spine, you should’ve known better, you would never be enough.
“Yeah, met them at an art pop up, I’m totally head over heels for them,” he smiles, eyes moving from the moon to your face, his smile morphing into a frown when he takes in your panicked features. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry- I think I just got the wrong impression about this” you shake your head, blinking rapidly and moving to stand up. Rafayel grabs your wrist and pulls you down, causing you to lose your balance and land on top of him.
“You’re my muse,” he states, “it’s only you.” His eyes glance at your lips, you notice. Your heart is still pounding, your ears ringing. “Can I please kiss you?” His breathing is shaky and you respond with your lips on his.
It’s electrifying to be kissed like you’re someone’s lifeline, to be held like they never want to let you go. His grip on you is bruising, like he’s finally letting himself free of any restraint as his tongue moves against yours.
“Been wanting to do this since our first date,” he growls between kisses, lips still pressed against yours, pulling you impossibly close to him. “Please be mine, only mine,” his voice is desperate, whiny almost.
When you finally pull away from him your face is flushed and gasping for air, hair messy as you stare down at him. Your cheeks burn, hyper aware of the growing hardness beneath you.
“I had something more romantic planned out next week,” he admits, shyly looking to the side, you grab his chin and force him to look at you. “Would you do me the honor of letting me be your boyfriend?”
And when he’s looking at you like the greatest treasure in the sea, like you hold his heart in your hands, how can you say no?
“Yeah,” you breathe out, a smile on your lips as you place a gentle kiss to his nose. Rafayel can’t contain his happiness, a grin on his face as he pulls you against him, the two of you laughing loudly as you roll around in the sand.
You’re still a bit guarded around him at first, grateful with how patient he is with you, never once pushing your boundaries or pushing you for answers. Instead he shows you how much he cares about you, still buying you flowers (always lilies), taking you on surprise dates and buying you the things you mention in passing.
You open up to him about Caleb after your two months together, and it all seems to click for him.
“Last name Xia?” he asks, you nod, brows furrowed.
“How did you know that?”
“The girl he cheated on you with, was her name MC?” You feel your blood go cold, you give him a slow nod. “She’s supposed to be my bodyguard,” he chuckles dryly.
You go quiet, maybe you should’ve stayed cautious, you should’ve moved cities or countries, or-
“I’ll fire her, I can get the information I need some other way,” he shrugs, taking his phone out and sending an email before you can even process his words.
“I don’t want to get in the way of your work,” you finally sputter out, you suddenly feel small, the evil voice in the back of your head growing louder.
“It makes you uncomfortable for me to work with her, yes?” He watches you carefully, only continuing when you nod ever so slightly, opening your mouth with a rebuttal, he cuts you off before you can. “She played a part in hurting you in the past, yes?” You bite your bottom lip, nodding once more. “Then why would I want someone like that to work for me? I would do anything to make sure you’re comfortable, cutie.”
Your eyes burn, your bottom lip wobbles as you wrap your arms around him. Rafayel is stunned for a second, quickly reciprocating your embrace and rubbing your back.
“I love you,” you whisper, face buried in the crook of his neck as you say the words, half hoping he didn’t hear you.
Rafayel holds you tighter, you feel his body relax beneath you. “I love you so much,” he breathes out, neither of you daring to move. When you finally pull away you feel lighter, your heart seems fuller as you look at Rafayel. He giggles and blushes when you press a myriad of kisses on his face, a sloppy wet one right on the mole on the apple of his cheek.
You let your walls down, showering him in love and allowing yourself to be clingy. You let yourself love to the fullest, it’ll be scary, but you’re willing to try.
When you bump into Caleb two years later you don’t hold any resentment towards him.
“Y/N?” the familiar voice makes your head whip around, Rafyel turns and looks as well.
“Caleb? It’s been a while!” you smile softly at him, he looks tired. “How have you been?” His colonel uniform is just as pristine as it was the last time you’d seen him.
“I’ve been alright,” his eyes flicker to the man next to you, a pit in his stomach when he notices the two of you holding hands. It should’ve been him, he should’ve fought harder, he should've been better.
“Oh this is my boyfriend, Rafayel!” your eyes sparkle when you say his name, the purple haired man puffs his chest out a bit, holding his hand out, Caleb puts his hand in Rafayels, biting his tongue when your boyfriend's grip is bone crushing.
“Nice to meet you,” Rafayel smiles, Caleb notes the way his eyes narrow at him momentarily.
“Likewise,” before he can say anything else you speak up.
“How are you and MC?” your eyes hold no ill intentions, and Caleb’s knees buckle as he remembers how kind you were, kindness he used against you.
“We aren’t-” he pauses, eyes flickering over your face. You were so happy. Caleb’s eyes catch the necklace you’re wearing, a starfish and the letter ‘R’ dangling off a chain. He notices the cardigan you're wearing is a size or two bigger than what you usually wear, it must be his.
You were doted on, you were first choice, loved unconditionally. You deserved that.
So instead of telling you the truth, that he and mc didn’t work out and he regrets his decision every night. Instead of telling you he’d do anything to get you back, he’d do whatever it took for you to give him just one chance, he swallows his words and gives you the best smile he can.
“We're doing good, I’m glad you found someone you deserve,” he hopes you can’t hear the waver in his voice, his eyes don’t dare glance at Rafayel. He can feel the daggers being sent his way without looking.
When you say your goodbyes Caleb has a bitter taste in his mouth, his head spinning as he watches you walk away, forcing himself to tear his gaze from you.
You smile up at Rafayel, giggling when he presses a sloppy kiss to your cheek. “Raf!” you gasp as he picks you up, carrying you to the car before setting you down gently in the passenger seat. His eyes soften as they look at you, face flushed as you hold his gaze, “I love you,” he mumbles. You smile widely at his words, kissing his lips gently, laughing softly when he melts into the kiss.
You were thankful to Caleb. If it weren’t for him, you’d still be settling, you’d brush off your hurt for the comfort of others and never put yourself first. It wasn't forever, but you found yourself and your worth.
Rafayel talks about a new exhibit he was putting on, every painting inspired by you. His words seem to fade into the background as you stare at him, a soft smile on your face. You found your forever, and you’d never have to worry about settling again.
Cadet Durlap watched with a pinched face as Fairy Godmother, someone who is, for all practical purposes, her mother, returned from an undisclosed expedition into the Beyond with a girl not much younger than she was. According to Fairy Godmother, this girl was the All-Knowing, the wanderling to rule all wanderlings.
The All-Knowing’s soulsenses are meant to be out of this world, literally and figuratively, since most wanderlings, even those trained from birth, rarely have any ability to control the expressions of their souls; when they do, it’s normally only to retract them to make them harder to detect. The All-Knowing, according to the prophecy, will be able to use theirs to grate against others, or maybe even scalp them from one’s body, if the more extreme stories are to be believed.
She had read and heard the stories growing up, everyone did. Cadet Durlap was an oddity herself, since she was born into an area more subject to the Beyond’s influence than most sectors of physical reality; she cannot sense her own soul as a separate thing from herself, let alone the expressions of those around her. It makes her somewhat of a social buffoon, unable to read the cues most others get from the instinctive and reflexive responses of others.
Luckily, it means no one can really read her soul expressions and thus, her inner emotions beyond her facial expressions and body language. Cadet Durlap had thought “reading the room” was a figure of speech, but apparently it’s possible beyond body language and physical facial expressions.
The girl Fairy Godmother had brought seemed no different than the other cadets that attended through scholarship or village funding, at least to Cadet Durlap. Then again, she often relied on the visible reactions of others to figure out what to make of things.
Cadet Durlap watched disdainfully as this new girl was paraded through the halls. It was very looked down upon to refer to cadets by their first names, as that was usually the first step of trust and intimacy between bondmates, who often discovered they were each other’s soulmates.
She did her best to ignore the girl, Cadet Fox as she was called, even though it was a bit annoying how well she took to magic and the new social circumstances she found herself in. Cadet Durlap did not like that her new fellow cadet seemed to have no respect for the new social hierarchy she was surrounded by, talking to social elites and social dregs alike.
The actual problem began when Cadet Fox was sent on a mission and Cadet Durlap decided to go investigate something on her own, supposedly decently far from where Cadet Fox was meant to be operating, but no one told Cadet Fox that the other girl was even in the field.
As Cadet Durlap was trying to fiddle with a magic device that she was somewhat hotwiring to not give away her position to the attendants back at the castle, she was both murmuring to herself and momentarily unaware of her surroundings as it was fairly delicate wire work. Cadet Fox either didn’t seem to notice her absent attention, or did and didn’t care, and was able to sneak up on her.
“What the heck are you doing?” The sudden voice other than her own murmurings startled Cadet Durlap and she jumped, shouting a curse when this secret-from-the-adults mission was meant to be covert. Once she mentally chastised herself for likely blowing any meaningful cover they had, she wheeled around to ask what Cadet Fox was doing anywhere near her, still whispering just in case. Cadet Fox ignored her question. “The bigger question is why are you here, on my mission?” Cadet Fox finally took a moment to assess who she was looking at and rolled her eyes a little. “Oh. You’re Fairy Godmother’s prized Wanderling.”
Cadet Durlap, who was a bit sensitive about having people not refer to Fairy Godmother as her mother, bit back, “No, I’m not, she’s my mother.”
“Adopted. Now, why’re you intruding on my mission?” Cadet Durlap didn’t appreciate being brushed off, and as such rolled her eyes, asking why she had to tell her anything, which was responded to with, “Because it’s my mission? You have no right to be here.”
“It still is your mission.” She mumbles to herself oh so maturely, “Even though it’s not that hard.” They continue to bicker back and forth until Cadet Fox realizes that they’ve lost their target, then blames her for that as well. “Wait a minute.. You aren’t meant to be here either, are you?” Cadet Durlap realizes; she may not be the sharpest tack, but determination helps. “Who knew that Ms. Unknown Prodigy was a rule breaker?”
“Rule breaker? Please. We all know you use your status to get out of trouble.” Cadet Fox shoots back, which makes her hackles rise and she mouths off as well before she can stop herself.
“Do not!” She pulls a bit of a face, irritated that this girl is so easily able to pull a rise out of her. “Since neither of us are supposed to be here, I have a proposal.”
“Why would I ever make a deal with you?” The question from the other cadet is fair enough, neither has any reason to trust the other wouldn’t sell them out the moment that it’d benefit them. Cadet Durlap didn’t really have any good reason as to why, and it sounds as such. “Whatever. Have fun wandering the forest since you lost our chance. Don’t interfere again.” As Cadet Fox walks off, she takes the chance to make a childish face at her back before realizing that she does, in fact, have no clue where she is, and therefore will be wandering the forest. Stupid wayfinding lessons.. Cadet Durlap grumbles mentally as she begins to pick her way home.
“Cadet Durlap,” the girl flinched as Fairy Godmother’s voice rang out over the din of the hallway, “Cadet Fox. My office. Now.” Cadet Durlap wrangled the urge to run from the verbal lashing she was sure she would get before hanging her head and heading to the Headmistress’s office in the tower twin to the Astronomy Tower. She caught a glimpse of the unique brown into navy blue hair of Cadet Fox obviating the fact that she was doing the same.
Both girls trudged up the stairs, like prisoners to the gallows as Fairy Godmother came in, shutting the heavy wood door behind her. “Do you both know why you’re here?” Cadet Fox responds respectfully, with a carefully clipped “yes ma’am”, while Cadet Durlap murmurs a soft “yeah” in the presence of her mother figure. “Tell me then.” Her voice is final, like a judge trying to get a confession.
Cadet Fox, not one to easily lose her composure, responds first with her head held somewhat high, “Captured defectors escaped because we were arguing.” Cadet Durlap nods her confirmation, knowing that it was mostly her fault.
“That is what I was told, yes,” Fairy Godmother confirms before giving their sentencing, “For your punishments, you must work together on a mission of my choosing.”
Cadet Durlap’s head snaps up, brow furrowed as she and Cadet Fox speak at the same time, “Wait, together?” Both girls are exasperated, this is one of the worst punishments that they could’ve come up with.
“Yes. Together. And if I get wind of either of you strong-arming the other, I will not hesitate to make this punishment permanent, is that understood?” Fairy Godmother’s tone makes it clear that the decision is not up for debate, but that doesn’t stop Cadet Durlap much.
“But mother-” her objection is quickly shut down by a sharp look and rebuff from Fairy Godmother. “No if’s, and’s, or but’s, missy. Now get to work.”
“Miss, if I may…” Cadet Fox speaks up, and Cadet Durlap realizes she has an almost Elvish accent, then realizes that Fairy Godmother isn’t shutting her down, looking for an explanation only to see her mother with a raised eyebrow, likely because Cadet Fox rarely speaks against the headmistress. “Is this really a wise decision?” Cadet Fox seems to almost brace to be shut down, but when she isn’t, she hesitantly continues, “We have both made significant errors on missions when we weren’t working together.. Besides you know my track record with partners..”
Cadet Durlap’s curiosity is piqued, and not for the first time when it comes to the socially reclusive Cadet Fox as Fairy Godmother responds, her tone as calm as a pond. “Yes, I believe it is a good decision, and if I am incorrect I will atone. Yes, you both have made mistakes, but you both tend to learn from them. I think your heads put together, not in a horn lock, would create uniquely positive results, despite your differences.”
Cadet Fox sighs, knowing to quit while she’s ahead. “Very well, headmistress, what mission did you have in mind?”
Fairy Godmother’s smile is almost shark-like as she speaks. “I’m glad you asked. You’re going to work together to recapture the defects you both lost.” Cadet Durlap wants to pull her hair out, and a quick glance at Cadet Fox shows a similar exasperation, but she swallows it much better as she nods.
The pair are soon dismissed, as classes will be resuming from their lunch break soon, and the two girls stiffly agree to meet in the library that night to try and figure out how to start.
“Alright. So, how’re we going to do this?” The blonde haired girl tiredly asks as she scrubs her face with one hand.
“Oh so now you’re going to help?” Cadet Fox frostily asks as she looks up from her book. “After what, 3 hours?”
“I have a hard time focusing, and I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to me.” She tries her best to keep a grip on her temper as Cadet Fox sighs, especially when it seems the other girl is going to drop it.
“Whatever. Look, this is the main base,” Cadet Fox points to a secluded point near the base of a mountain range, deep in the forest on the map spread on the table. “They are most likely back there. We just need a way in.” Cadet Durlap, genuinely confused and still a little snippy, points out what feels like an obvious flaw in the plan. “Why would they go there if they know we know where it is?”
Cadet Fox smirks cockily as she reveals what the other girl doesn’t know, “They don’t. As far as I am aware, I am the only person who knows, and I found it on my own.” Cadet Durlap is a mix of shocked and impressed as she speaks, “Wait, really?”, genuinely trying to set up a basis for a partnership, only to be shut down as the other girl responds, “Of course. There’s a reason they called me a prodigy. Now, either figure out something or stay out of my way.”
Any impetus to actually try with the other girl that Cadet Durlap had developed was quickly quashed, but then Fairy Godmother’s threat from earlier rings in her ears. “Mother said this would be permanent if one of us bossed the other.”
Cadet Fox rolls her eyes, “I’m just telling you to get to work or stay out of the way. You really consider that bossing, Fakling?” That last word poked a raw nerve as Cadet Durlap wasn’t a wanderling in the traditional sense of one’s soulsense giving a cadet a magicks specialty. Thus, she had taken to calling Cadet Durlap “Fakling”, a fake wanderling, when she really wanted to cut the other girl deep.
“What did you just call me?” Cadet Durlap asks quietly. It wasn’t the first time she had been mocked for her own origins, but it was the first time it was said so brazenly to her face, her direct connection to Fairy Godmother usually containing such comments to whispers and behind-the-back gossip.
“You heard me. Get. To. Work.” Cadet Fox’s tone is chilly, and Cadet Durlap stands, her chair scraping loudly against the marble floor of the library, excusing herself as Cadet Fox murmurs with a scoff, “Can’t even handle the truth.”
Hey everyone! You may or may not know/remember, but I mentioned a possible story that I was debating on posting here back at the beginning of November.
I have been very busy trying to lay the groundwork because as I mentioned in this post, it is almost a decade in the making, and it wasn't written linearly nor consistently. I will be making a masterlist that will have links to what I think of as "typical" masterlist items, like chapters of the main story, blurbs/drabbles, character introductions, lore/worldbuilding that I am currently not sure will be expressly included in the main story.
Part of why I mentioned it in November and dropped off the face of the earth is because of a mix of IRL stuff and the fact that I have to literally invent a new language for parts of this story. The title, Vaelreth, is the spelled-out version of one of the characters in that language, but I won't get into all the details in this post.
The reason I make this post now is because the first chapter will be uploaded tomorrow at 2pm CST. I'm gonna schedule it so I don't forget.
There will be multiple versions of the character introductions because I think the math works out that this story covers about 56 years (at least as we would've experienced them, there will be a post where I attempt to explain the time dilation and constriction stuff to the best of my understanding)
Full transparency: I am also a full-time college student that is trying to get a job. I will try my best to be consistent with at least one post of some kind (blurb, chapter, lore, etc.) a week. Feel free to put asks in my inbox, they should be open, or you can put questions in the comments! I love rambling about this story and am so excited to finally start sharing it with you all.
Hey guys, so I have been working on something for a couple months now, but it has technically been in the works for almost a decade. It's a story I have written chunks of on and off with a friend, and the main character is actually part of how I got the username that I use here and on most social media sites.
A lot of the world building is cobbled together from various impactful stories/series/media that I've taken in over the last however many years, and it all started with Aphmau's many Minecraft series.
Unfortunately, I am no longer very close with the friend since we have grown apart, but I wanted to get y'all's opinions on whether y'all would like to read the story as I finally turn it into a more traditional format.
The news is fucking white washing Kirk in death. “At heart, he is a grassroots organizer.” “He was a compassionate, godly man.” “He wanted to bring god’s light to this country.” “His goal wasn’t to provoke, but persuade and lift up Gen Z.” “He was a free speech crusader who greatly valued the free exchange of ideas.”
Y’all are making him sound like fucking MLK Jr. Fucking stop.
Kirk said empathy is a “new age” idea and humanity’s greatest weakness
Kirk said that children/people need to be sacrificed for him to carry guns
Kirk said that Black, female, and indigenous hires are inherently less qualified for jobs compared to white men
He is literally a self-described Nazi: a populist nationalist
Kirk said that in the wake of mass gun violence, we should not allow “emotion” to cloud our judgement on the topic
Kirk said the Civil Rights Act was a mistake and MLK was an awful person
He claimed immigrants are making Americans poor
He claimed mass gun violence was the fault of “blacks” and “transgenders”
His motivation for everything was to implement a Christian-Nationalist regime, “in defense of” the ever-mythical and non-existent “Judeo-Christian Western Values”
He popularized “China Virus” and conspiracies around COVID-19
He has claimed that a cabal of Jews are bringing immigrants into the country to supplant the white population
Charlie Kirk was not a good person. He was cruel and relished in this. He died doing what he loved: encouraging gun violence. Remember him for the violence he encouraged, the very violence which killed him.
This man was a literal fascist. And liked it. I find it so telling that y’all will only “condemn violence” when the victims of it are the ruling class. And the only people y’all ask to turn the other cheek are those directly impacted by Kirk’s rhetoric and ideology of violence. Y’all who’re clutching your pearls over Kirk’s death are fucking hypocrites.
Melissa Hortman of Minnesota was an actual politician who was actually assassinated. No flags at half staff for her. No moment of silence. No calls for national mourning. No Presidential Medal of Freedom. Barely any outrage. In fact, the Senator from Utah joked about it, claiming that the shooter was a Marxist (false—Hortman’s death was a right-wing anti-abortion hit).
Kirk radicalized people into violence. And it killed him. And now all these right-wing chuds are cancelling public appearances because they fear the face-eating leopard they created. They care about gun violence only when they have a chance at becoming a number, never when it’s killing all the povels and us among the proletariat. They don’t see us—the people—as worthy of life. Only they are entitled to life and subsequently honor in death, the rest of us are poor degenerates.
do you wanna make somethin' of it (Robert "Bob" Floyd x fem!reader)
pairing: bob floyd x fem!reader (no y/n)
synopsis: turns out, our favorite WSO has a side hustle, as quinn's favorite cowboy.
word count: 10.4k
warnings: 18+ explicit content, minors DNI: audio porn, a truly unhinged amount of dirty talk, overuse of pet names, bob's raging size kink, overstimulation via vibrators (and otherwise), unprotected PiV sex, an unrealistic number of orgasms, some dumbification, as can be expected.
A/N: this is way late bc i had to make sure the people who reblogged the moodboard were legal, thanks everyone for the patience and support! esp thank you @hangmanssunnies for being so encouraging, @sometimesanalice for being a gem and betaing thank you @laracrofted for coming up with bob's (ahem) inspirational reveal, and thank you everyone else for letting me be feral. there were a couple people who reblogged the moodboard but I couldn't tag them, so for the record, if you ask to be tagged, pls do make sure you're taggable AND ALSO THAT YOU HAVE YOUR AGE IN YOUR BIO I AM NOT KIDDING. the title is from Jo Dee Messina's 90s country bop, "Do You Wanna Make Something Of It" -- okay enjoy!
You paused, halfway into your flight suit, looking down at your phone.
It was probably a bad idea to open an audio erotica app forty minutes before you had to be in the debriefing room with the rest of the aviators in your unit.
But.
You were ovulating, your vibrator was charged, and you’d just gotten a notification that BullRiderRhett had posted a new audio.
Before you knew it, you were grabbing your headphones and folding your flight suit by the door, leaving your tank top and sports bra on, but shimmying out of your panties. You set an alarm on your phone, connected your headphones and opened the app.
Quickie During the Rodeo
After my ride, I don’t have much time before they call up the winners…but you look so damn good in that sundress. We have to be quick, though. [M4F] [Short Audio] [Established Relationship] [In Public] [Strong Language] [Moaning] [SFX]
Yeah, you thought to yourself, that’d do.
You slid into bed, pulling a muting blanket over the lower half of your body as you settled into your bed and clicked play.
Immediately, the sounds of a rodeo pushed through your headphones.
You heard the shuffle of hundreds of feet, a rowdy crowd cheering, and distant country music over a speaker. You could almost imagine the dusty air, the smell of fresh hay and sweat, and the clamor of barrel racing in another arena.
There was a steady clanking of spurs as a pair of boots walked towards you.
“There y’are,” a low voice said, the perfect combination of fond and gravelly. You heard a shuffle of fabric, and a soft inhale, like the cowboy was wrapping you in his arms. Your eyes fell closed so you could immerse yourself in the fantasy.
“How’s my girl doin’?” he asked, his voice muffled like he had buried his head in your shoulder.
You never responded verbally to these things; it broke the illusion to speak to an empty room, but you liked that Rhett paused, as if waiting for your answer.
“Ah, well, I always ride better when I know you’re in the stands, cheerin’ for me,” he said. He had such a fantastic voice, low and soft, with this drawl that was so unpretentious and alluring. His canvas jacket rustled like he was hugging you tighter.
“Just let me hold you for a sec, yeah?” he asked, as the ambient sounds of the rodeo seeped back in. You found yourself just listening for the sound of Rhett’s breathing over it, a slow and steady rhythm that was deeply centering.
You heard when his breath caught, followed by a shuffling sound and a choked gasp from the cowboy.
“Whoa, whoa,” Rhett’s voice was warm with surprise and delight. “Cut that out, darlin’, we can’t, they’re gonna call me back–”
His voice broke off on a low moan that had you biting your lip.
Why did guys in real life never moan?
It was such a pretty sound, deep and masculine, and full of desire. It was one of your favorite things about Rhett. Your hand slipped under the blanket, rubbing over your pussy gently, getting yourself used to the pressure.
“Darlin’,” Rhett’s voice had gotten deeper, like a warning. “Ya can’t tease me like that, ‘s not kind.”
Your hips shifted at that voice, and Rhett laughed, low.
“Y’just can’t help yourself, can you, sweet girl?”
It was your favorite pet name he used, just the way he said it. You were obsessed with the gravel in his voice, the melodic twang coupled with a gentleness that belied all his ruggedness. It was like he was being quiet to make sure no one overheard him, like his words were for your ears only.
His spurs clinked as the noise of the rodeo faded, as though he was leading you somewhere away from prying eyes. A second later, there was a gentle, wet sound, like he was kissing you.
How would he taste, you wondered. Would his lips be soft? Or would they be chapped? Would he be ravenous, turned on from the adrenaline of the ride, or would he be slow, savoring your taste?
You turned on your vibrator, on a low and warming setting. You traced it lightly over your pussy, acclimatizing, as Rhett’s voice and the soft vibrations sent a heat under your skin.
Rhett’s breathing was heavy, like being near you made him breathless.
“Shameless,” Rhett chided, amused and fond. “I know I can’t stop you, but I’m not about to let anyone see ya like this. You’re mine.”
Your hips canted up into the vibrator, spurred on by the idea of being his.
“Oh, you like that, huh, sweet girl?” Rhett practically purred, his voice like a caress, “You like being mine?”
Rhett’s words washing over you, and vibrator’s motions met less resistance as you felt yourself growing wet.
“What if I…” he asked, and you heard fabric shuffling, like he was reaching down and under your dress. “Fuck, darlin’, are you wet for me already?”
You pressed your lips together to trap in a whimper.
You knew it was formulaic, but that didn’t make you less turned on. In this fantasy, you were Rhett’s girlfriend, you were already wet for him, you were needy enough to risk being caught to have his dick inside of you.
“Ya sure about this?” Rhett asked, and you could hear the intensity in his voice. Like he needed you too, just as desperately. “Yeah? Yeah, me too…fuck—yeah, feel me through my jeans. Feel how hard I am for you.”
You turned the vibrator up, imagining the rough texture of denim against your pussy. How hard Rhett would be, how good it would feel to rock up against the dirty fabric. Probably not the most hygienic, but he’d be so hot, even through his jeans, impossibly tempting.
“Go on, take me out,” Rhett directed, his voice a low whisper.
He moaned in your ear as a belt buckle came undone, and your head fell back as you circled the vibrator over your clit. God, he sounded so good, he sounded unraveled. You imagined the weight of him in your hand, and you shifted your hips, wishing you could feel the heat of him.
“Shit, okay. We hafta be quick,” Rhett panted. “I know, I know, turn around for me, darlin’. Brace yourself against the wall here…Christ, you look so good like this…ya ready for me?”
You couldn’t help yourself; you slid a hand down your body, changing the angle of the vibrator so you could run a finger through your folds.
Rhett held his breath, like it was too good, too much, and you waited.
Then came his strangled, relieved exhale, and you pushed a finger into yourself as you imagined him sliding into you.
“That’s right, sweet girl,” Rhett praised, his voice breathless, awed. “Let me into that tight pussy, nice and easy...”
Your mouth fell open as you imagined him filling you.
Would he be thick? Long? Maybe a slight curve to his cock? Cut or uncut? You licked your lips, your mind spinning with possibilities, your fingers a paltry imitation of the thing you wanted so badly.
“Ah, that’s it, that’s it,” Rhett murmured, and you couldn’t help but add another finger. “Such a good girl, for me, aren’t ya?”
You wanted to be his good girl.
Rhett was breathing hard, and the rhythm of it was perfect. You circled around your clit with the vibrator, and you were panting now too, your hips canting up as you fucked yourself on your fingers. You could imagine him driving into you, his hips thrusting his cock into you. It would be thick, you decided, broad and heavy.
“Ah, you’re taking me so well,” Rhett grunted. “You were made to take this fat cock, weren’t you?”
His breaths were coming faster, and you could hear him slamming his hips into yours. You could imagine his balls swinging, could imagine him driving into you to reach that spot your fingers just couldn’t brush against.
“This pussy feels so good, darlin’,” Rhett whispered, “the way you’re clenchin’ around me…”
Your thighs fell farther apart as you tried to time your fingers’ thrusts to his cadence. He was grunting after each thrust, this beautiful soft sound of exertion and pleasure.
A faint cheer rose above the sounds of your panting; another event had concluded.
“Shit, we hafta hurry, they’re gonna–” Rhett broke off, his hips snapping faster. “C’mere, let me play with that clit, let me feel you–fuck yeah, clench around me, just like that.”
You turned the vibrator up, your fingers faltering inside of you at the increased vibration and his words. Rhett’s grunts were getting higher pitched, a delicate thread of need seeping into them and you were going to lose your mind; it was perfect.
“Ah, such a good girl,” Rhett groaned. “God, I don’t deserve you, ya feel so good…are you close, darlin? Tell me you’re close, I need to feel you cumming on my cock, will ya do that for me?”
You were bucking into your hand, chasing a release that had come on so fast, so strong and you were so damn close, you just needed–
“There ya go,” Rhett breathed, his voice tight. “You feel–oh, sweet girl, don’t stop clenching me like that. Oh, you’re gonna make me cum with that tight pussy, fuck, are you gonna come with me, darlin’? Please come with me, please…”
You pumped your fingers in time with his pleas, Rhett’s voice growing hoarse as his hips sped up. You were so close, he sounded so good, you were almost there.
“Feels so good…Ah, I’m coming, I’m there– ah, shit,” Rhett moaned, his voice choking, and you orgasmed along with him, collapsing back into the pillow.
Your legs shook and you jerked the vibrator away from your sensitive clit, stroking gently over your pussy with your other hand and easing yourself down.Your body felt like it was humming and you turned the vibrator off, sated and pleasure drunk.
Something about Rhett always had you timing it perfectly, feeling so in sync and so primed, and when he came, it was like your permission to.
Rhett was groaning softly in your ear.
“So beautiful, darlin’,” he whispered. “God, I’m so lucky, look at you…so damn beautiful…”
The audio would fade out in another few minutes and you fumbled for your phone to turn it off, and turn off the just-in-case alarm that you’d set.
There was a bittersweet moment with audio erotica that didn’t exist in traditional porn– aftercare. Instead of just ending a scene, most creators seemed to enjoy winding down with their listeners, saying soft things, silly things, fond things. It straddled the line between soothing and demoralizing, and you couldn’t say you loved the contrast between the care in Rhett’s voice and the emptiness around you.
An emptiness that was interrupted by a loud pounding on your door.
“Hey, I can see your light under the door,” Bradley called from the hallway, “you better not still be asleep! If we’re late to Mav’s briefing you know he’s gonna have us doing laps around the tarmac.”
You stuck your tongue out at the ceiling on principle, grateful for the quiet of your vibrator and the distance between the door and your bed.
“Calm your tits, Rooster,” you yelled back, “I’m practically ready.”
“Damn better be,” you heard Bradley say, loud enough to be heard, soft enough to know he wasn’t actually pressed.
You gave yourself another ten seconds to revel in that perfect orgasm, and then swung your legs over the side of the bed. You cleaned yourself off quickly, dressed even quicker, and were out the door in no time.
Some might even say, with a pep in your step.
“Told you,” you muttered as you walked by Bradley’s row in the debriefing room, on time, and he huffed.
You settled into your normal seat, waving good morning to Callie and lifting your chin at Mickey, who grinned back at you. Bob was in the seat next to yours, as you’d all agreed early on that WSOs had to stick together, and you bumped his shoulder with yours as you sat.
The sweet man smiled, a hidden thing, and looked away quickly.
Sometimes, you felt like you knew there was more to him than he let on.
You’d seen him in action, seen him make split-second decisions that kept him and Phoenix in the air. You’d seen him crank out 200 pushups with Jake and Javy like it was nothing. But at the same time, he never seemed to hold your eye for longer than strictly necessary, seeming more comfortable to address the floor (unless someone pushed too hard, and he’d snap something so sassy it’d make you bite the inside of your mouth to keep from laughing).
When you’d first met him, you’d thought he was cute, in an Old Hollywood leading man kind of way, soft muscles and deep eyes.
You’d wondered if maybe you made him nervous. You’d thought maybe there was interest in those ocean blue eyes, but time went on, and he remained sweet and polite and kind. He was the same to you as he was with everyone else, and you were led to the reality that he was just an incredibly decent person.
Crushes came and went like water, especially in a group as gorgeous as the one you flew with, so you let him have his secrets.
The lights clicked off as Maverick strode to the front of the room, already talking and clicking his way through some kind of demonstration.
The hours in the room flew by.
By the time he finished, your head was spinning with a blur of parameters and calculations and mission expectations. You knew pilots felt the same way about your job as you did about theirs, but you were always grateful that at the end of briefings you only had to worry about systems and odds, not about flying a plane. As you were dismissed, everyone crowded to the center aisle, trying to get out and to the hangar as quickly as possible. Someone sneezed, or someone pushed someone; Harvard dropped his coffee.
It wasn’t full, and you were all in flight suits anyways, but you still startled when it fell, splashing over the row you were sitting in. Black coffee flew over seats and notebooks (thankfully no phones), and someone laughed as Harvard’s attempts to catch it just served to further empty the cup. Bob took the worst of it, on the end of your row.
"Ah, shit," Bob muttered, and you froze.
It wasn't that Harvard's spilled coffee had ruined Bob's notes, and yours too.
It wasn't that everyone in the briefing room was looking back at your row in surprise.
It wasn't even that Bob had sworn, even though you'd never heard anything harsher than "gosh" from the WSO's lips.
It was that that cuss, in that voice, in that same mumbled tone, had pushed you to orgasm four hours ago.
“Alright, it’s just coffee,” Maverick called over the clamor. “We’re burning daylight, people, come on.”
Harvard was apologizing profusely, someone was passing paper towels out, but you felt completely out of your body, in shock.
Bob was BullRiderRhett.
The WSO who asked for ginger ale when everyone else did shots at the Hard Deck, who cleaned his glasses when he got nervous, who stayed up all night to help Payback’s kid put together a Lego Statue of Liberty last time he was in town …was the guy who had talked you through the last few months of orgasms.
(Yes, you had an annual subscription).
(Yes, you deserved it).
When you let yourself back into your room at the end of the night, it still felt surreal.
In retrospect, you should’ve been a million times more dialed in– you’d had a $73 million machine under your hands, and the only thing on your mind all day had been this revelation.
How had you never noticed before??
Now that you were thinking of it, Bob did have that slight accent when he was tired, or when he was mad enough at something stupid Jake said…but what were you even supposed to do with this knowledge?
You moved through your skincare much the same way you’d moved through most of the day – on autopilot.
A knock on your door startled you.
“Now’s not the time, Bradshaw,” you called, automatically.
“Uh,” called a too-familiar voice, “not Bradshaw.”
You winced at your reflection in the mirror, trying desperately to decide if you recognized Bob’s voice from countless drills or from your Favorites list. You crossed your arms across your chest, your sweatshirt dragging against the hem of your pajama shorts as you slouched over to the door.
“Robert,” you announced, as you opened it, mentally smacking your palm against your forehead. You had literally never called him Robert; what was wrong with you??
Could’ve been worse, you mused.
You could’ve said ‘Rhett’.
“Hey,” he said, and if he was thrown by the use of his full name, he didn’t show it.
He looked the same.
The same, but in the way that had made you catch your breath when you first met him, when you were relieved that he was so unassuming and kind, because if he’d been any kind of authoritative, it would’ve debilitated you.
Tonight, he’d clearly showered after drills.
His hair was freshly combed and still damp, darker than normal. A tendril fell in front of his glasses, leaving a small line of fog against the outer corner of one of the lenses. He was in a plain white tshirt and light sweatpants, and you made yourself stop from looking further because you were not about to objectify your friend just because you now knew that he could dirty talk with the best of them.
And now you were thinking about that.
“Are you mad at me?” Bob asked, and it snapped you out of your spiral.
He was frowning at the sill, his hands shoved in his pockets, and his chest tight. There was a purse in between his eyebrows, and you really could not understand him, because how could a man who was objectively gorgeous, subjectively sweet, be this adorable? He looked up and the moment your eyes met, you looked away.
“No,” you said quickly, clearing your throat. “Of course not. Obviously.”
“I mean, not obviously,” Bob said, rubbing a sneaker against the carpet in the hallway. “You practically sprinted out of the briefing this morning, refused to speak to me over comms during drills, and you won’t look at me for more than two seconds, and that’s normally someone else’s line to me.”
It was a weak joke, but it was funny, and you could hear in his voice that he was trying to set you at ease, and that really only made you feel worse.
So you stepped aside and held open the door, not really trusting yourself to say anything else. Bob looked nervous, and you wanted to tell him it was you, not him, but instead you waited in silence as he stepped into the room.
You only had the light over the sink on, and the room was in soft shadows, but you thought it might be more weird if you turned on a light, like you were calling attention to it. You shut the door and Navy rooms didn’t really come with guest furniture, so you gestured to the foot of your bed, while you paced.
“This is going to be awkward,” you warned him, glancing in his direction, and wishing you hadn’t.
He was sitting on the foot of your bed, as directed, legs spread slightly and his elbows resting on his knees. You could see the muscles of his shoulders through the tshirt, and his eyes seemed especially bright, in the dim light from the room.
“Okay,” Bob said easily, and you appreciated that he wasn’t rushing you. Maybe he was starting to understand that this was something you were working through, rather than something he had done.
You switched directions, walking the length of the room, and then the length again.
You had to say it.
You’d just have to say it, and that would explain it, and then it would be out, and then you could figure out how to move forward. Bob was a problem solver, like you, and you were both smart enough to figure this out. You were also both adults. You could just say it.
You stopped in front of him, and Bob sat up a little straighter, like he wanted to be sure he was being respectful to the weight of whatever you were saying. God, he was such a good person, why did you have to be such a creep.
“Iknowaboutbullriderrhett,” you said in a rush, clasping your hands in front of you. The words seemed to echo around the room and you stared at Bob, waiting for him to react.
He didn’t, not really.
He nodded, slowly, and you watched him process the day through the lens of your revelation.
“So, you’re disappointed it’s me,” he said, like he was clarifying, and you shook your head.
“What?” you asked, confused, and Bob shrugged.
“Like if you were expecting a ranch hand from Wyoming, I get it, it’s weird that it’s just me.”
You blinked. “That…that’s beside the point; I feel guilty, like this is a weird invasion of privacy, and isn’t that what you should be asking, anyways, is if I’m going to tell anybody? I won’t, but–”
Bob shook his head, his expression still pretty guarded. “Whose opinion do you think matters to me more than yours?”
And how the hell were you supposed to respond to that?
“What?” you managed again.
Bob looked at you.
It was maybe the longest uninterrupted eye contact you’d ever had, and you weren’t sure if it was because he initiated it, or if something was different. But it made you curious, it made you stop rambling, it made you be still, and let Bob look, because you liked how he was looking at you.
He smiled, that familiar, bashful, expression, and it calmed you slightly.
It wasn’t like there was a demon possessing your friend, it wasn’t a dark secret, it was just a part of him that he didn’t bring out at work. His smile reminded you that you knew him, that you trusted him.
Then his head fell to the side, his eyebrows lowering behind his glasses, his expression turning inquisitive as he said, “You didn’t answer my question.”
It was still Bob.
But his voice was lower, his voice was softer and you knew that voice, but seeing it fall from petal pink lips was a revelation and you shivered. You pulled the sleeves of your sweatshirt down over your palms, hoping you could disguise it, but Bob saw it anyway.
Of course he did.
He could calculate projectile trajectories while at supersonic speed; of course he could see when his voice made you shiver. The expression on his face turned smug, and that was new, that was nothing you’d seen before and you were pretty much infatuated with it immediately.
Objectively, Bob was the best.
You knew it, everyone knew it. This was maybe the first time you’d seen him look like he knew it, and something like pride blossomed in your chest at the thought that it was because of you.
“I’m not disappointed,” you said honestly, and Bob smiled fully.
That was how he should always be, you decided, proud of himself, pleased by you.
He pushed himself off the bed.
He walked towards you slowly, slow enough that you could tell he was giving you time to back away, or tell him to stop, but you sure as shit weren’t going to do either.
Instead, your head tilted back as he came to stop in front of you.
“We have two options,” he said, almost conversationally, like you weren’t this close to melting into a puddle at seeing this side of him. “One: I go back to my room; we’ve learned something new today, but we go on like normal. Or–”
“Or,” you chose, not waiting to hear what the second option was. “Whatever ‘or’ is, that’s the one I want.”
It truly didn’t matter; if the choice was him walking out the door or not, you wanted whatever made him stay.
He huffed an exhale of a laugh, a soft sound that you’d heard a dozen times but it still made your breath catch. You’d grinned fondly when you heard it over comms, after Callie calmly roasted Jake, you’d shivered when you heard it in your headphones, but now that Bob was physically in front of you, you thought this was the best iteration of it.
“What do you like?” he asked softly, and it felt like a loaded question.
Like maybe he was asking which audios, or maybe the themes, or if him, in front of you, was enough. The room felt suspended, like someone had paused the film of your life and you could see everything outside of yourself. The heat in Bob’s eyes, the way his fingers, held loose at his side, twitched slightly, like he wanted to reach for you. The way your own breath caught, like you were careful not to break a spell, like you wanted it to never break.
You kissed him.
You probably could’ve been more graceful about it, but he was standing just there, and you needed to know, needed to feel him against you. You reached for his arms, your hands grasping above his elbows to pull him down and press yourself closer.
He was so soft.
The moment your lips brushed over him, you felt him bending, moving. His glasses bumped into your nose as he adjusted and then his hands were on your waist, spreading over your back and how had you never noticed how big his hands were? They felt huge, and his chest was strong and warm as he pulled you into him.
You could smell his shampoo, something earthy and sweet, and it was intoxicating how pure it was. He didn’t feel pure. He felt hot, kissing you back with an urgency that stole your breath away. Bob kissed you with certainty, with earnestness, and you were obsessed.
You pulled back, staying in the cradle of his arms, needing to be this close when you answered the question he’d asked. Long lashes fluttered against the tops of his cheeks as you broke the kiss, and Bob pulled in a long breath through his nose. When he opened his eyes, the blue of them was so bright, cutting. You didn’t know how he held it all, his sharpness and softness, gentleness and intention.
“Can I show you?” you asked.
He blinked, the motion slow, as he looked between your eyes, trying to focus with you so close. You saw the corner of his mouth turn up in that bashful smile, and his arms around you tightened slightly.
“Show me,” he said, your question but now a command, and your mouth went dry.
His voice sent a flush of heat over your skin, and whatever he wanted, you’d say yes, for this man who was your friend and your fantasy, and asking you so nicely.
It amazed you how you didn’t feel nervous.
This was arguably the most intimate situation you’d found yourself in in a hot minute, but instead of nerves or anxiety, you could only think of how much you wanted Bob to see how much he affected you. From that first moment you’d met him, to the crush you’d packed away, to the voice that haunted your dreams, you wanted him. And you wanted to see how that would affect him.
You walked over to the sink, grabbing the vibrator from where you’d left it after you cleaned it this morning. Bob walked back over to the bed, taking up his original post at the foot of it, but his eyes never left you. He toed off his sneakers, and you slipped out of your pajama shorts, leaning over to arranging pillows against the headboard.
You climbed into the bed and rested your back against the pillows, nudging Bob’s thigh with your toes before you bent your knees. He turned himself to face you, his long legs unfolding outside of yours. It was like he was being careful not to touch you, and you liked that this was how it was going to start– just his voice and your pleasure. You hoped once he saw what a tight string was tied between the two, maybe he’d get a little more involved. A part of you wished that you’d deepened the kiss earlier, but it was just as well to have the anticipation of it.
It was ridiculous that you were already turned on.
You’d had eight hours to come to terms with the fact that Bob was Rhett, but as he sat across from you, it was like his gaze was scorching you. His bright eyes ran over you hungrily, and you rolled your neck, enjoying being the object of his gaze.
You’d been bold when you suggested it, but now the silence of the room seemed to stretch. You wondered if you should ask Bob to talk, or if that would be weird. Bob looked at you, his damp hair falling in front of his glasses again, and he brushed it aside absently.
“Is this where you lay, when you listen to me?” he asked, his eyes tracing over the simple bed, the regulation bedding, the pillows you’d brought in to spruce it up. His voice was low, curious, and now that you were listening for it, you could hear the traces of a drawl, hanging on the edges of it.
You nodded, unable to look away from him, and his nose flared slightly at the confirmation.
“You’re so pretty,” he said, and it washed over you. It was such a simple compliment, but the truth of how he said it, like every fiber of his being meant it, warmed you.
“God, thinking about you…” he trailed off, “just lying here, looking like this…getting off to my voice…do you touch yourself first? Pet that pussy before you use your toy?”
Your mouth actually fell open hearing Bob Floyd say ‘pussy’ so casually.
And he said it sitting in your bed, his eyes on you, his voice dropping into a deep drawl and yeah, you were going to do whatever he asked.
You shifted slightly, a hand falling between your thighs to press over your clothed cunt. You cupped yourself, loving the way Bob’s eyes followed your hand with rapt attention. The kiss, his words, his eyes…you weren’t wet yet, but you could feel your body warming, turning towards Bob.
“Love that you take your time with your pussy, warm her up, slow. ‘s not a thing you have to rush, not when the building feels so good. And I bet you feel so good, don’t you, so soft and warm…”
It didn’t feel slow, not with how hot Bob’s voice was. How good it felt to have him in the room with you, not just an empty echoing in your ears but physically here. You continued to tease yourself over your panties and you felt when they grew damp, when your arousal slowed your fingers, made the fabric slick.
“Fuck,” Bob breathed, and you whimpered.
The sound was involuntary, a reaction to seeing sweet, wholesome, Bob swearing over the sight of you. It made you feel regal, and if you had to guess, pulling sounds out of you made him feel the same. At the sound of your whimper, Bob’s eyes dropped to your mouth, and you watched the tip of his tongue push through his lips, as he wet them.
“Ah, you sound so good, too, I can’t believe–” he broke off, laughing quietly. “Can’t believe I’m jealous of my own damn self. How many times have I made you cum, and I’ve never gotten to see it?”
It was your turn to laugh, not quite willing to reveal how much you listened to BullRiderRhett.
“That many, huh?” Bob’s voice was smug, and it was such a good sound on him. You ground your wrist over your clit, pressing into the hard bone, craving the friction.
“Take your panties off,” he said, “touch yourself, not the vibrator yet.”
You followed his instruction, pulling up your legs to peel off your panties and resettling. You extended a leg down the bed, pressing inside of Bob’s long leg, as you trailed your hand between your thighs. At the first brush of skin against your sensitive folds, your head tipped back against the headboard.
It was just your hand, but with Bob here, it felt like it was almost his. It was his bidding at least, and you explored yourself leisurely, dragging your fingers through your wetness.
“Yeah, that’s right, bet you feel so good,” Bob said, his voice so low. “Feel yourself, sweet girl, tell me how it feels.”
You gasped, your hips rising in a pavlovian response to the endearment. It was somehow even more overwhelming when it was Bob who spoke it over you, here, in the flesh. When he could see that your skin prickled, that your breath caught, in response to him.
“Say it again,” you whispered, hoping he’d understand, and when you looked back at him, the expression on his face was one of adoration and hunger, awe and need.
“Sweet girl?” he asked gently, but his eyes were so dark. “You like being that for me, don’t you? My sweet, sweet girl.”
You nodded weakly, your fingers suddenly not enough. You rubbed over your clit, trying to stop the truth from spilling out of you as heat fanned out through your body from your touch.
“Yours,” you corrected weakly, and you scrambled for the vibrator and switched it on, using the intense humming of the toy as an excuse to hide from Bob’s reaction to your admission.
You felt one of his hands wrap around your ankle, and his long thumb stroked from your heel up to the joint. It was the perfect touch, and just grounding enough to keep you from being overwhelmed by the vibrations.
“You sound so pretty,” Bob murmured, “those little whimpers you make, fuck.”
Were you whimpering?
You felt like you noticed everything a bit too late, too loud. You realized you were pulling the vibrator over your cunt in a mimicry of the strumming motion Bob’s thumb was tracing on your ankle, and your hips canted up. Pleasure swirled in you, hot and tingling, but you felt something missing.
“Bob,” you panted, god, how were you already panting, “I need–”
You turned the toy higher and broke off, writhing.
“Darlin’, love you saying my name like this,” Bob drawled, and it was a proper drawl now, and how he said darlin’ made you feel like you might combust. “Can’t believe I get to see you like this, you look so good…knowing this isn’t your first time working yourself to my voice, makes me so damn jealous.”
You whined, pressing the vibrator more firmly against your skin, your hips starting to grind into it.
“Tell me,” you asked, your voice reedy, and Bob huffed a laugh, like you didn’t even have to ask. He ran a hand over his thigh, coming to rest at the seat of his sweatpants and you bit your lip as he adjusted himself through the thin fabric.
“So damn jealous,” he repeated, “thinking how many orgasms I’ve missed. How many times you came when I asked, how those thighs would tremble as you fucked yourself thinking of taking me…fuck, honey, you’ve heard me cum, and I’ve never–”
A moan pushed its way past your lips, as you realized that the groans and grunts and needy noises that you got off to weren’t incorporeal: they belonged to Bob.
You looked down at the foot of the bed where Bob was watching you greedily. His eyes roamed over your spread legs, the twitches in your thighs, the slackness in your jaw, and you looked at him too. His pale skin was flushed, color in pink splotches high on his cheeks, and his lips were parted. His chest rose and fell as he drew in deep breaths, and when he shifted slightly, you moaned again.
“Can you touch yourself?” you asked, almost shy, wanting to see him. You felt good, so insanely good, but the thing you’d always loved about the Rhett audios was how much pleasure it sounded like he was getting too. There was something so hot about knowing you were the root of someone else’s desire and pleasure, and you wanted so badly to be that for Bob.
“You’re gonna have to wait just a little longer, sweet girl,” Bob said, but he ran a hand over the thigh of his sweatpants, adjusting himself again, and your hips bucked up of their own volition. You guessed he was wearing underwear under his sweatpants because you couldn’t see an outline, but the idea of his dick hanging that far down his thigh had your mouth watering.
“Wanna see you,” you protested, hearing a sound like a pout in your voice and Bob’s hand on your ankle tightened. He looked at you hard, and you knew he was gambling, trying to decide if he wanted to play a card.
“I know, sweet girl,” he said, licking his lips, “but you have to earn my cock.”
Your eyes rolled back and your core clenched at those words. How many times had you heard Rhett tease you with that? But it was different now, because Bob was here. Because he was real, and his cock was real, and however many times you’d wondered about Rhett, your curiosity could be sated in Bob.
When you lifted your head to look back at Bob, he was slackjawed, watching you writhe. You were practically humping the toy, chasing an orgasm that suddenly felt so much closer. The vibrator felt stronger than normal, or maybe you were more sensitive, but you felt your climax building, and your thighs started shaking.
“I wanna see you,” you repeated, and it sounded pathetic, but it was true, you did. In a moment, this had switched from getting off in front of your friend to needing your friend’s dick, and you didn’t know how Bob knew it but he did.
He readjusted his grip on your ankle and before you could react he pulled.
You slid down the bed, your thighs parting around where he now kneeled; he braced himself over you, and you whined, needing his touch. He kissed you, his mouth wide and plundering, slanting his lips over yours. You moaned into his kiss, so different from the soft gentleness of your first embrace. This was Bob kissing you, and his tongue delved into your mouth and you opened for him.
“I’m too greedy for that, sweet girl,” he whispered, his lips against yours. “I know if I get between these thighs I’m going to lose myself, and I want to see how much you want it. I wanna be here, fully here, the first time I get to see you cum.”
He reached down, and you felt his hand trace over yours. You’d nearly dropped the vibrator when he pulled you down the bed, but now Bob tightened your grip, and guided it back to your cunt. You keened as the vibrator pushed between your folds, and Bob followed your lead, wanting to see how you fucked yourself for him.
It was better with him.
His strong hand bracketing yours, his other at the back of your neck, holding you steady. His hand was on yours but he brought his face close to yours again, and you drank in the reality that he was here, this close, holding you. His breath was hot against your skin, and his glasses were fogging up from how hard you were breathing.
“So are you gonna let me see it, darlin’?” he asked against your skin, and that voice, coupled with his touch, nearly had you there. “You gonna come for me, let me see what it looks like when my sweet girl gets off with just my voice and the toy we’re using on her? You’re almost there, honey, I can see it, come for me come on now–”
He sounded so good.
His voice was perfect and soothing and it felt like a dream but it wasn’t, it was real. He was holding you, feeling you, breathing the same air and working you. You’d never been so aware of your body and how it was tuned towards someone else. You cried out his name as you came, your back arching and your free hand fisting in Bob’s tshirt, reminding yourself he was there, he was there, he was there.
You felt like you were floating.
Pleasure coursed through your body and you could feel it pulsing in your fingertips, beating in your heart. You became slowly aware of the room around you. The air felt cold against your sweat-dampened skin, the hum of the refrigerator was the only noise other than your hard breathing. Bob was still over you, and he’d pulled the vibrator away from you, switching it off without really looking, running a soothing hand over your hip. The hand at the back of your neck was firm, holding you tightly so you could feel him.
“How’re ya doing, sweet girl?” he asked softly, and you felt him press a kiss to your cheek. “Did that feel good?“
You hummed in agreement, words still beyond you. His voice was so gentle, but had a raspy edge, like he was thinking over the last several minutes, holding them in his mind.
“You did such a good job for me,” he murmured, and you turned into his touch.
He was like sunshine, wasn’t he?
Just warm, and good, and you wanted to bask in him and his light like a dryad. His eyes darted away once he realized you were looking at him, and it made your heart skip a beat, that he could somehow be shy after coaxing you through one of the hottest orgasms of your life.
You were trying to think of how to say “your turn” in a way that wasn’t corny or cringey, but what you came up with was, “Can we keep going?”
Bob’s eyes snapped back to yours, and the world seemed to pause for a moment, hovering. Waiting, hoping, and Bob’s chin dipped, just slightly, and all was right.
“Baby,” he said, in the low, perfect, voice, “I’d like nothing more.”
When he kissed you, you were both smiling, somewhat giddy, and any nerves that had gathered during that pause dissipated, as you kissed his smile-thinned lips.
You shifted slightly, pushing yourself back up the bed and pulling Bob with you.
He moved easily, his long body spanning over yours, pressing you back into the mattress with the most delicious pressure. His hands were wandering, then, delicate fingers tracing over your sweatshirt, and when he lingered at the hem of it, you pushed him off. You didn’t want to be patient, didn’t want his chivalry, and so you pulled your sweatshirt over your head before you had time to second guess yourself.
The way Bob looked at you, you wished you’d done it sooner.
His tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip as he stared at your chest and you pushed yourself off the bed by your shoulders, so you could reach behind you and undo your bra. The moment the garment fell off, Bob’s hands were on you, his wide palms cupping your breasts. Your eyes fluttered shut at his touch, humming in the back of your throat as his fingers explored you. You felt the bed shift as he moved, and you gasped when a warm breath ghosted over your bared skin.
Bob kissed down from your sternum, wet kisses over you, and by the time he reached your nipples, he was practically lapping at your skin. You whimpered as his mouth closed over your nipples, his tongue swirling over you as his hand teased your other breast. When he hummed, you felt it all over, the soft vibration over your skin.
“Bob,” you gasped, and he moaned.
“Ya sound so pretty,” he whispered into your skin, “somehow better than I imagined.”
Your breath caught as his mouth moved to the valley between your breasts, and he laved the same attention to the other. He couldn’t have meant that how it sounded. As incomprehensible that this was happening, it was wilder still to think that he had imagined this, as you had.
“You thought of me?” you asked, your own voice sounding nearly breathless.
“Honey,” teeth grazed over your nipple, and Bob chuckled, that beautiful low laugh. “Who do you think I’m talkin’ to when I make those audios?”
His lips closed over you again, but the swirling of his tongue wasn’t enough to distract from the words he’d just uttered.
He wasn’t done, either.
“Y’know how many nights I’d wondered about the taste of your skin,” he murmured into it, “or what your tits would feel like in my hands? What sounds you’d make when I kissed you, how soft you’d be, everywhere? If you’d cry, or moan, or laugh when you came, or how you’d say my name…”
Your hand wound back into his hair and you pulled him back up to your mouth. This kiss was desperate, so much unsaid between the both of you. So much longing, so much wondering and now it was here. You couldn’t explore each other fast enough, and you were clawing at his clothing, trying to feel as much of his skin as possible. Bob was just as eager as you were, pulling off of you to shuck off his tshirt and sweatpants, and you reached for his glasses.
He blinked at you slowly as you pulled them off of him.
This sweet man.
He was so focused on you, his eyes so intent even as he struggled to focus, and you couldn’t believe how lucky you were. You leaned over to place them carefully on your nightstand, and when you came back to the bed, Bob’s arms settled around you in the most comforting embrace.
You loved the feeling of his skin.
He was so soft, pale skin covering deceptively strong muscles, and you were obsessed with the dichotomy. Your hands greedily traversed over his broad shoulders, thick biceps, taut stomach, and when you got to the hem of his boxers, you felt his breath catch as he shifted over you.
Fuck.
You’d thought it might’ve been a trick of the light, or a trick of sweatpants, some kind of trick, but under your hand, Bob felt hung. Your fingers rubbed over the bulge in his boxers, and Bob’s head dropped to your shoulders.
“We don’t have to–” he started, and broke off when your touch reached the end of him. You were just tracing the shape of him, but your breath caught when you felt his fat head, the cleft at his tip, even through the thin fabric.
“We do,” you said, swallowing quickly, not even trying to hide the way your thoughts were racing, “I really hope you have a condom, Floyd, because we really, really have to.”
He huffed, and then he pressed a kiss to your shoulder, pushing himself off you and reaching down to feel around the ground for his sweatpants. You loved that he had a condom on him – not because it meant that he was expecting this, but because it just confirmed for you that Bob was the type to look at birth control as shared responsibility, not just a matter of whether a gal took the pill or felt like risking going without. He fumbled for a moment, and you couldn’t help yourself.
While he was distracted (admittedly, this was probably a task you could have thought of while he still had his glasses on) you leaned over and traced your tongue over his collarbone. He smelled so good, and you could just taste the salt of his sweat. Bob’s breath grew ragged, and you loved the sound of it, kissing up his neck and finding that tempting spot where you could feel his pulse. You loved how frantic it was, loved the steadiness of him.
He found the condom.
You shifted back to your elbow, watching with blatant interest as he shoved his boxers down his thighs, tore the wrapper open and rolled the condom onto his dick.
Holy. Shit.
He looked like a work of art.
A beautiful flush had worked its way across his chest and throat, the tendons on his arms and hands stood out in stark contrast, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from his cock. He really was that big.
“What is it?” he asked quietly, and your eyes darted back up to his face to find his brows furrowing slightly, since he couldn’t read your silence or your expression.
You pushed yourself up to kneeling on the edge of the bed, Bob still standing beside it, and reached for him. He stepped into your embrace easily, mollified by the shared warmth between your bodies, as you reassured him with soft kisses wherever you could reach.
“I thought it was a line,” you admitted, somewhat embarrassed at how wantonly you’d just been staring at him. “Just a cliche ‘oh, you want to choke on this big dick’, but…but you’re actually, you know…”
Bob smiled, somehow bashful, as you pitched your voice lower in an approximation of Rhett’s drawl.
“Is that an offer?” he asked, and oh you liked this side of him– teasing, relaxed, a little cocky.
And the thought of choking on him…it was a really great fantasy. He’d hurt your jaw something fierce, but you wanted to see if you could draw those breathy whimpers out of him. Figure out what your tongue could do to him, see how much he could take, push him a little further, and make him cum down your throat.
“Honestly,” you said, and yeah, your throat was dry just from the thought of it, “I really want to try that, sometime.”
At your tone or your words, you couldn’t be sure, Bob’s hips pushed forward slightly. With the height difference of you kneeling and him standing, his cock brushed against your ribs. You were both suddenly so aware of him, his thick cock resting between you, and Bob’s hips pushed forward again.
“You’re so soft,” he murmured, and his hips slid back, slowly. His hands were on your waist, holding you still as he ground against you. Your mouth fell open at the heavy motion, the promise of it, and the duration of it.
“You’re so big,” you whispered, another truth that should’ve sounded like a cliche, but instead was just a fact.
“You’ll fit me,” Bob said, with such confidence and certainty that suddenly you didn’t care if it was in your mouth or between your legs, you needed him in you.
“Please,” you asked, and Bob groaned, actually groaned, like you asking was the best thing he’d ever heard. His hands were so tight on your waist, like he needed that control and you knew how you wanted him.
You leaned up to press a quick kiss to his lips, and then turned back to the bed, your hand sliding up towards the headboard, your ass lifting like an invitation. Bob wasted no time, climbing back over the bed and shifting you so you were lengthwise on the bed again, and then draping his long body over yours. Your head rolled between your shoulders; he felt so good. Warm and strong, and all around you, and then you felt his big hand between your thighs. He opened your thighs gently, and then a thick finger traced between them.
“So wet,” he murmured, so close to your ear, and you shivered. “You’re gonna feel so good around me, aren’t you?”
You nodded, words failing you in your anticipation. But Bob wasn’t in a rush. His calloused finger teased through your folds, smearing the remnants of your orgasm up over your clit, playing with your cunt, until you were shaking.
You whimpered, your arms trembling as you braced yourself on the bed. You pushed your hips back into his touch, and you felt Bob’s breath shutter from his chest pressed to your back, but he didn’t move any faster.
“Don’t rush me, honey,” Bob said, his voice low, and you tried to hold still, you did, but his teasing was too much.
He alternated between spreading your folds, circling your clit, dipping his finger into you just enough to tease you, then pulling back entirely. You felt like you were aching, desperate for him, needing him. Bob spread you open with one hand, and you felt his thick head at your entrance, seeking. You saw the hand that wasn’t playing with your clit drop down to the bed beside yours as he braced himself, and you pushed your hips back, weakly.
“Ask me nicely, sweet girl,” he said, his voice so low, and you swear you nearly came on the spot.
“Please,” you managed, your voice sounding entirely too weak, “please, please, I need to feel you–”
You broke off when he pushed into you.
A steady, overwhelming pressure as that beautiful, enormous cock pushed into you. Your back arched and you gripped the sheets as he stretched you out, the gentle, even pressure nearly blinding. He was so thick, you felt like you could feel his heartbeat, like you’d been lit on fire, and the only thing you knew you needed was more, more.
Your head dropped to the sheets, even as your hips worked weakly back into his, welcoming him despite the burn.
Bob’s hand covered yours, his thick fingers tangling with yours on the bedsheets, and you felt cherished, you felt wrecked, you felt perfect.
Fuck, he felt so good.
You were full to the point of overwhelmed, and you realized he’d stopped pushing, was fully seated inside you. You felt so connected, so whole, even though you were heaving like you’d run a marathon.
Bob‘s nose traced your cheek, his soft lips kissed your jaw as his breath tickled your ear. “Does that feel good, darlin?” he asked.
You nodded, wordless, it felt like a dream come true. You felt every inch of him in you, every inch of him over you, and it was perfect.
“So,” Bob whispered, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear, “what do you say?”
“Thank you,” you moaned, you’d never been so grateful for anything in your life. “Feels so good, fuck, thank you–”
Bob groaned, and his hips pulled back before he slammed back into you. His thrust would’ve pushed you up the bed, except for his body over yours, holding you steady.
“Sweet girl, it’s like you don’t want this to last long,” he said, almost angry, and the sound of his voice had your eyes rolling back in your head. He sounded so good, he felt so good, he was so perfect, you were so full… “Like you’re trying to drive me mad with this tight cunt, with those sweet little whimpers, you feel so good, baby.”
You couldn’t do anything.
You were a molten mess of heat and driving need, your body aching and craving and sated by the thick cock pressing inside of you. Bob was thrusting so deep into you, his fat cock head prodding against a spot you distantly registered wasn’t made up, but might’ve been, for how perfectly he was hitting it. You weren’t aware if you were making sounds or just lying there, all you knew was how fucking good he felt in you, how you needed him to never stop.
“Feel so full,” you gasped, and Bob pushed into you again.
“Damn right,” Bob muttered, his voice dark, “full of my dick, like you’re fucking meant to be. Gorgeous girl, bent over, taking my cock like you need it.”
You whimpered, clenching around him. “I do, I do,” you babbled, “need you.”
Bob moaned, and it might’ve been the prettiest sound you’d ever heard. How was he real? How could he be this good, this kind, this fucking hot??
The sounds in the room were dizzying.
Bob’s hips slapping into your ass, the squelching sounds where you were joined, your gasps and his breathy grunts. It was perfect, and you felt the heat around you condensing in your core.
He knew, somehow.
The fingers that had been spreading you for his cock, moved to the top of your cunt, teasing over your clit. Your legs jerked, your mouth dropping open as Bob circled your clit, his fingers tracing over it, gently pinching it and coaxing you higher.
“I’m gonna cum,” you panted, heat and need rising.
“Christ, please,” Bob said, his voice so earnest, so dear, as you pushed back into him. “Let me feel it, sweet girl, let me feel this pussy I’ve been dreaming about. Want to feel you milking my cock, so damn good, you can do it, come on…”
He pumped into you once, twice, and you shattered. Your legs gave out, shaking, and then Bob’s hands were on your waist again, holding you up. You moaned his name, trembling and lost, and he held you, ever steady. He kept working into you, his thick cock pressing into you, like he was the only thing tethering you to this pane, and you felt drunk off of him.
“There it was, that was beautiful…fuck, you’re so hot, that feels so damn good. You sounded so gorgeous, sweet girl, you did so well…”
You moaned as his words coaxed you back.
He was still pumping into you, that steady, punishing pace and you were so sensitive but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. He felt so strong, so hot, so close to you and you needed it. Needed him. His thick arms cording around you, his strong grip digging into your hips, his fat cock stuffing you, you never wanted it to stop.
“You’re so good,” you whispered, needing him to know. Not just how he felt, or how he sounded, but who he was. How he was, and how much he meant.
Bob’s hips stuttered.
You were aching, you were spent, but you tightened your core and clenched around him.
“Baby,” he groaned, “I’m close you can’t–”
You rolled your hips.
Bob grunted, and then he was moving, faster than lightning. He swept your hands out, pushing you down by your shoulders into the mattress, his body draping over yours. You turned your head to the side, and like he knew, he was there, kissing you.
It was sloppy, it was messy, but your lips and tongue tangled together, like you both needed the sweetness of a kiss to balance the savage way Bob’s hips were fucking into you.
Each press of his hips ground your pussy into the mattress and the pressure was so fucking unreal. You moaned into him, and Bob seemed drunk off the sound, off of you. You were so overstimulated, so out of your body that pleasure was the only thing that made sense. Only the way his hips rubbed your clit into the mattress, only the way his cock was stroking into the deep part of you, only the way he was panting against your lips.
“You’re everything,” Bob whispered, just a breath away. “So much better, so much – fuck, you feel too good. Will you come for me again, sweet girl? I want to feel it so bad, need another one from you, can you do that for me?”
You shook your head, wrung out, but you felt it building anyways. Fuck, how was that possible? But Bob’s thrusts, the pressure on your clit, the weight of his warm body, the need in his eyes, it was driving you higher.
And then.
And then he got close.
He broke off from the kiss, his thrusts growing almost frantic. Each breath he drew ended on a gasp, a soft whine that reached deep into your gut and set off something primal. He was fucking into you but he was whimpering, and you knew he needed it, needed you, like he said. He moaned, a needy, beautiful sound, and before you could feel his orgasm, yours broke over you.
You collapsed into the mattress, Bob covering you, and you distantly heard him getting louder as your thighs shook. He sounded so pretty, those sweet moans and the desperate gasps driving you mad. The world was just molten heat, desperate thrusts, echoes of whimpers and you faded into the vacuity of it.
When you came back, you were on your side.
You were drenched in sweat, you both were, and a sheet was covering you from the cool room. Bob had taken off the condom, you noticed absently, and had pulled your sheet up over both of you, tucking you into his chest. His arms were warm around you, and when you exhaled, you watched the blond hairs on his forearms blow back and forth.
“How’re you doing?” Bob asked softly, and you could weep. It was him, so familiar, so gentle, and so much better than any recording, any fantasy, anything. Your arm swung halfheartedly in his direction.
“You jerk,” you sighed, “you’ve ruined my subscription.”
Bob chuckled, the bed shaking with his deep laugh. “Think you can content yourself with the real thing?”
You shifted, turning to face him. In the dim light of the room, he somehow still managed to look like an angel. His soft eyes were unfocused, his mussed hair was snarled from your fingers, and he was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.
You leaned over to kiss him, Bob’s lips already thinning on a smile. “I think I can manage,” you said.
chances are high i'll do a part 2/followup with both of them recording an 'overheard' audio...let me know! comments and reblogs are the surest way to make that happen 💙
You didn’t even hear him move at first. Your breath came in shallow pulls, your limbs too weak to lift, your muscles still twitching in the aftermath of everything Steve’d just done to you. The ache between your thighs was hot, pulsing with a mix of soreness and something sweeter, wetter. You weren’t sure if it was your heartbeat echoing in your ribs or the ghost of his voice still whispering through your head.
You blinked slowly, trying to center yourself, but the room seemed to tilt and spin softly around the edges. The sheets clung to your back with sweat, your skin prickling as cool air brushed over the open mess between your legs.
Then you heard it–a slow, unmistakable sound. The metal of his zipper lowering.
Your head turned toward it, sluggish and heavy, like you weren’t in control of your body anymore.
Steve stood at the foot of the bed, eyes trained on you like a predator who’d already caught his prey and was savoring the next bite. His blue eyes glinted beneath the low light, sharp and unwavering, framed by tousled blonde hair that looked almost golden against the dim room. He was stroking himself lazily, one large hand wrapped around the thick length of his cock. It was hard already- flushed at the tip, veined and slick from the precum beading there. Massive.
Your gut twisted. Your cunt clenched weakly, still fluttering from before.
He was hard because of you.
And he looked completely composed. Relaxed. Like he hadn’t just spent the last hour slowly pulling you apart with his hands and watching you fall to pieces.
He caught you staring and let out a soft hum, almost amused.
“All twitching, huh?” he murmured, his gaze dropping to your bare, swollen cunt. You flinched when he stepped forward, but it wasn’t just a step- he climbed onto the bed on his knees, settling between your spread thighs with deliberate ease. The mattress dipped under his weight as he crawled closer, close enough for his knees to keep your legs spread open... but more importantly, close enough to touch.
His cock, already glistening with precum, bobbed against your slick folds as he shifted closer. He guided himself downward with one hand, the head of it nudging through the mess between your thighs. He groaned, low and pleased, as he began to rub himself between your soaked lips, slow and unhurried. His length slid up and down, painting your clit with the sticky heat of his precum, mixing with your arousal until everything was wet, swollen, and slippery. Steve let out a low whistle under his breath, eyes flicking between your face and the slick mess between your thighs.
“Y'all messy baby,” he murmured, voice low and dark with satisfaction. “That all for me, sweetheart? You want me that bad?”
He gave another lazy thrust through your folds, slow and indulgent, dragging the tip of his cock from your entrance up to your clit again, making your whole body twitch.
“Fuck,” he groaned, rocking against you. “Made you wait too long, huh? Poor baby- just soaking for it now.”
You twitched beneath him, overstimulated and breathless.
Then he pressed the head of his cock right to your entrance. Just the tip. Just enough to test your swollen opening.
Your open hole quivered instinctively, trying to close around him, and it made him groan- deep and low from his chest. He didn’t push, not yet- just held there, watching the way your body tried to suck him in and shy away at the same time.
“God,” he rasped, hips twitching forward. “She’s kissing me. Such a sweet pussy for her Captain.”
His cockhead throbbed, and you felt the sticky bead of precum smearing along your entrance as he rocked against you slowly, letting the tip grind in maddening circles that made your breath hitch.
You gasped, a high whimper caught in your throat. It still ached there. Still sore. And you were already clenching around nothing- around just his tip- like your body was begging for more, even as it tried to resist it. The contradiction made your head spin.
You could feel yourself 'mouthing him', pulsing close, gripping and releasing around the ridge of him like your body couldn’t decide if it wanted to pull him in or force him out. He was right- those tiny, greedy contractions did feel like kisses. Like your cunt was trying to seduce him back inside.
Steve groaned again, deeper this time, the sound vibrating against your skin. "She knows who she belongs to. Doesn't even need you to say it, sweetheart. Your body's already begging me."
But Steve didn’t push forward. Instead, he pulled back, dragging the head back up, slapping it lightly against your clit. Once. Twice. Your hips jerked.
And then, as you tried to catch your breath, the question slipped from your lips. “Steve… should we- do we need a…?”
He paused, just long enough to make you think he might stop.
Then he leaned forward, close enough for his lips to graze your ear.
“We don’t need one of those, baby,” he said, warm and sure. “I want to feel you. Like I’m meant to.”
His voice poured over you, low and coaxing, like melted honey hiding a sharp edge. Each word was carefully chosen, sweetened to soothe, to slip past your resistance.
He kissed your cheek, your temple, the words seeping into your skin like heat. Like ownership.
“You want me to feel good too, don’t you?” he murmured again, slower this time, like he was speaking to something fragile. “Don't say no, sweetheart. You've been so good for me already. Let my hand inside, you gotta let me touch you like this.. You're so sweet. Let me feel ya all wet and warm.”
His hand slid along your thigh, thumb stroking gently, keeping you calm even as your pulse spiked. You felt like you were floating, untethered from reason, from caution. Everything about him wrapped around you like a warm net.
“You’ve taken everything else I gave you tonight,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw. “Let me take this too.”
You didn’t respond. But when he lined himself up again, his cockhead slick and heavy, and began to push in- slowly, deeply- your body didn’t stop him. It couldn't after what he’d done. After how he’d worked you, softened you, praised you like you were something precious.
Your legs trembled, but you didn’t close them. You didn’t run. You just let him in.
“Atta girl…” he murmured.
The pressure was unbearable. Even after everything, you weren’t ready. Even after the way he’d worked you open, worshipped you with his hand until you sobbed his name- you still weren’t ready for this. For him. But Steve was slow- so slow- pushing in just an inch, then another, every movement stealing the breath from your lungs as the thickest part of him spread you wider than you thought possible.
“That’s it,” he whispered, his hand came up, warm and steady, cupping your cheek. His thumb brushed over your skin, slow and gentle- soothing, even as your eyes watered from the ache. “All the way,” he murmured, voice soft like a lullaby as he pushed deeper, inch by devastating inch. You could feel the thick sides of his cock stretching you wider, the pressure blooming into pain-pleasure that stole your breath.
“Yeah, f-fuuck baby…” he groaned again, as your cunt clenched helplessly around him. “Just like that.”
His hips met yours at last, the full length of him buried so deep you felt split open around him, completely possessed. Your head going empty. "Almost there."
You gasped- sharp and breathless- as your core stretched to take him. Your vision sparked, tears springing to your eyes, your thighs twitching as your hips tried to shift, to retreat. He was too deep. Too much. Your body was fluttering, clenching, trying to make space for him but failing.
His cock pushed up against your cervix, and you tried to wiggle- just a little- to get comfortable, to breathe. The ache was real, pulsing and bright, pressure blooming like a bruise already forming.
But Steve just smiled.
He leaned down, his broad chest flattening you against the mattress, the weight of him grounding you completely.
“No, sweetheart,” he murmured against your ear. While he pushed your thigh up letting him get deeper “Stay still. You’re doing so good.”
He didn’t thrust. Lingering there , buried deep, unmoving- like he was settling in. Like you were where he belonged. The fullness burned, your body trying to adjust, trying not to panic.
Steve's lips brushed the curve of your throat, soft and slow, while his cock throbbed deep inside you.
“I’m so glad we waited,” he said, almost reverent. “Didn’t rush this. You were worth it. Every slow touch. Every kiss. Every night I wanted to take you, but didn’t. You were worth waiting for.”
He leaned in as he said it, brushing a kiss against your cheek like a reward. His hand never stopped petting your thigh, soothing over trembling skin like he thought that gentleness could erase the sharp stretch burning deep inside you. Like his sweetness could distract you from the way he had you split around him.
You felt your throat tighten. Shame? Guilt? Gratitude? Something tangled and thick and hard to breathe through.
Your body still shook. Your mind reeled, trapped somewhere between heat and hesitation, caught in a fog of arousal and disbelief. You wanted to speak, to say something solid. But the words slipped like water through your fingers.
“Steve,” you breathed. It was barely a protest. Just a cracked sound in your throat. “This feels- I don’t know… I don’t know if- ”
“It’s okay,” he said, cutting you off with a soft hush, brushing your hair back with careful fingers, his hand stroking your thigh in long, grounding sweeps. “I know it’s a lot. I know how full you are, sweetheart. But look at you, baby. You’re taking it. You’re doing so well.”
He leaned down again, pressed his lips to the corner of your mouth. “You’re making me so proud.”
You weren’t sure if the wetness between your legs was from arousal or the leftover mess from before. Everything was slick, every tiny movement overwhelming, every breath dragging heat through your lungs like smoke. You weren’t sure if the tightness in your chest was dread or need. Or both. Maybe both.
But when he rocked his hips- just once, slow and deep- your breath caught. The stretch reignited, your body clenching instinctively, trembling as your insides fluttered around him.
A broken noise escaped you. Somewhere between a gasp and a moan.
“No one else is gonna feel like I do,” Steve whispered, his lips brushing your jaw like a lover’s. His cock dragged against that tender, swollen place deep inside you, and your back arched in response. “No one else is gonna fuck you this full. This deep.”
He paused, just enough to let the words sink in. Then he pressed in again, just a fraction deeper, stealing your breath.
“You’re the Captain’s girl,” he said, softer now. “Say it.”
You hesitated. That flicker of doubt flared again, sharp and bright. Your hands trembled at your sides. Your body was betraying you, clenching around him like you needed it, but your mind was still caught- spinning.
“Say you’re mine, sweetheart,” he urged, his voice low and coaxing, as his cock ground deeper. You could feel him pressing against the barrier of your resistance, not pushing further- yet- but testing it. “I need to hear it.”
His hand moved down again, rubbing your clit in tight, knowing circles that sent sparks shooting up your spine. His other hand gripped your hip tighter, anchoring you in place, forcing you to feel every inch of him pulsing inside.
You shook. Your voice caught.
“I’m yours,” you whispered, the words cracking out of you like confession.
And Steve grinned those blue eyes of his twinkled and made you melt. his hair slightly falling over his forehead.
"Yeah you are.." He began to move- slow, steady thrusts that forced whimpers from your throat, your walls clenching weakly around him.
“That’s my girl,” he murmured, his voice honey-sweet and low, even as the rhythm of his hips grew more deliberate. “Taking me so fucking good. Gonna make you mine all over again.”
The stretch still stung. Every push inside scraped over the raw ache of your walls, making your whole body flinch with it- but he didn’t stop. He moved through your resistance like he didn’t notice- or didn’t care. And maybe he didn’t. Maybe all that mattered was the way your body opened for him, the way it clung to him, sucked him deeper no matter how overwhelmed you felt.
It hurt. God, it hurt. But every time he drew his hips back and thrust in again, the pain shifted it burned into something else, it was nothing short of bliss. White-hot and unbearable. And when he caught just the right angle, dragging the thick ridge of his cock along that swollen, tender place inside you, colors splashed behind your eyes like fireworks.
"Ugh! St-eve.."
He groaned when you cried out, a soft keen slipping free without permission. The sound made his pace stutter, his hips bucking deeper with a pleased grunt.
“Fuck, you feel that? Look at you, making all those pretty noises just for me.”
His hand gripped your thigh tighter, firm and unyielding, guiding the angle, rocking his hips up with each stroke until you felt like you could barely breathe. His other hand slid up to cup your jaw again, holding you in place like you were something delicate- and already his.
“Gonna ruin you, baby,” he growled, still sounding so fucking sweet. “One stroke at a time.”
You couldn’t stop it. The build came fast- your body already on edge, every nerve frayed from how he touched you, opened you, claimed you. Steve kept moving, hips rolling slow at first, then plunging deeper, fuller, forcing obscene wet sounds out of you with every thrust. The rhythm was deliberate, ruinous.
You could feel everything- the way his thick length curved up, dragging over that raw spot again and again, lighting up every nerve ending until your thighs trembled around his hips, useless and spent. His weight pressed down, anchoring you, and there was no escaping it, no dodging the stretch, the slide, the way it filled you again and again.
Every movement seemed to dig deeper, forcing the breath from your lungs, making your spine arch off the mattress in search of something- relief, surrender, more. Your clit throbbed, the friction against it undeniable, and every pull out made your body beg to be filled again, need clenching deep in your belly like a fist.
Your body wasn’t just reacting- it was pleading.
“That's it,” Steve murmured between clenched teeth, voice rough and hungry as he fucked you through it. “Squeeze me, baby- show me you want it.”
Your body betrayed you completely- tightening, fluttering, clinging to every inch of him like you couldn’t bear the thought of letting him go. Your muscles clenched in time with the driving thrust of his hips, your cunt griping hard, desperate to keep him locked inside. You felt the pressure building again, that unbearable swell rising through your belly, your thighs tightening as your vision sparked.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Steve groaned, his voice unraveling as he pushed harder, deeper, hitting that tender spot that made fireworks burst behind your eyes. “So fucking tight when you’re close. You were made to come on America's cock, weren’t you?”
Your breath shuddered, lips parting on a gasp. A moan fell from you- high, wrecked, helpless.
And then you came, hard and fast, your cunt pulsing violently around him, clenching tight like your body wanted to lock him in. You cried out, body convulsing beneath his, legs twitching as he fucked you through it. He groaned, the sound filthy and desperate, lost in how tight you were as your orgasm milked his cock, the wet suck of you wrapped around him only driving him harder. The pleasure was blinding, crashing over you like a wave you couldn’t stop riding.
Steve didn’t slow down. Didn’t let up. He chased you right through your orgasm, chasing his own.
And Steve didn’t pull out.
His rhythm stuttered, hips grinding in tight, rough thrusts as his cock throbbed deep inside you. He groaned from his chest, voice raw and wrecked, as he pushed as deep as your body would allow and then spilled into you. You felt it all- the heat, the flood, the thick pulses of him pouring into your stretched cunt. It was too much and not enough, every throb branding you from the inside.
“There we go,” he groaned, voice shaking as he held you down. “That’s it, baby. Take all of it. Don’t waste it..”
You whined beneath him. Dazed. Overwhelmed. The mess of it slick between your thighs, leaking out from where you were still joined, running down and soaking into the sheets, your cunt still fluttering weakly around him, refusing to let go.
He didn’t move. Just stayed there. Fully sheathed. Buried to the hilt.
The weight of him was a blanket over you, hot and heavy and possessive. His broad frame pressed down on you, pinning you into the mattress. Every inch of him was dense with muscle, a living cage you couldn't escape, not even if you'd wanted to. He pulsed one more time inside you, and you felt it- that last twitch of him trying to claim even more. Your body, exhausted and sensitive, could do nothing but take it.
His chest rose and fell against yours as he exhaled, breath ghosting across your cheek. You didn’t know if the tears on your face were from pleasure or the shock of how deeply he’d taken you.
Then he kissed your temple.
“You were worth waiting for,” Steve whispered again, voice soft but thick with something darker underneath. He brushed your hair back with fingers that trembled slightly from the force of what he’d just done to you. “But now you’re mine. Really my girl.”
He said it like a vow. Like a truth that had always existed- and now there was no going back.
Tags: @ohdrey89 @venunsgirl (If anyone else to be tagged I'm sorry!)
Title: Not Ready Yet
Pairing: Steve Roger x Female Reader
Summary: Steve Rogers has been nothing but the perfect gentleman- sweet, attentive, patient. He’s made you feel special from the moment you met, like something rare and cherished. So when he finally invites you over for dinner after two months of slow-burning romance, you think you know what’s coming. You don’t…
Word Count: 6.1K
Warnings: / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Dom!Steve, Vaginal Fisting, Gentleman-to-Deviant Vibe (Soft Dom-to-Darker Shift), Size Kink & Super Soldier Strength, Manipulation (Soft-Edged, Coaxing Control), Dubious Consent, Pleasure-Drunk, Praise Kink, Your Naive but Steve is Calculated, Internal Conflict (Bliss-to-Dread Arc), Overstimulation, Pain & Stretching (Mixed with Pleasure), Aftercare Used to Maintain Power, alcohol Mention (Wine During Dinner)
A/N: my entry for @avengers-assemble-bingo for April Kinky Bingo... this one was something else..
Square: A2- Fisting
Card Number: KB003
You had never felt so cherished in your life.
Steve Rogers was everything they said he was, and more. Gallant. Polite. A little shy, even. The kind of man who bought fresh flowers from the Saturday market just because he thought of you when he passed them. Who walked you home every time you went out together. Who kissed you on the cheek that first night, even when you'd leaned in hopeful, wanting, to meet his lips.
It had taken three dates for him to finally kiss you properly. But when he had? You'd felt it in your bones. Like your body had been waiting for it, your skin leaning in before your mind could even catch up. That first real kiss had been soft, reverent, almost hesitant and yet it lingered in your memory like something carved into marble.
You’d been seeing him for a little over two months now. Slow and steady. Holding hands, forehead kisses, flirty looks. And then tonight- tonight, he invited you to his place for dinner.
The idea that something might happen tonight left a flutter of nerves dancing in your belly. You weren’t sure what to expect, but everything about Steve made you feel safe. Respected. Treasured. If anyone was going to be your first in this new relationship, you were glad it would be him.
When you arrived, he greeted you at the door with a soft smile and a warm kiss. The table was already set. The apartment smelled amazing- garlic, herbs, something comforting and homey wafting in from the kitchen. The lighting was low, the music quiet and jazzy in the background. You felt wrapped in a cocoon of calm.
He’d made grilled salmon, roasted vegetables, and some kind of lemony couscous that was surprisingly addictive. Not too heavy. Just right. He poured you wine, told stories that made you laugh, reached across the table to touch your hand or tuck your hair behind your ear. Every move was effortless. Intimate.
By the time the plates were cleared and you were curled up beside him on the couch, your chest was warm with wine and quiet wanting. Every part of the evening had been like something out of a dream- his arm curled around your shoulders, your cheek resting on his chest, the subtle way his fingers traced lazy circles on your arm. The soft jazz playing from his record player gave the moment a haze of golden nostalgia. You felt drunk- but not from the wine. From him. From the weight of his presence and the way it wrapped around you like something you could sink into and never climb back out of.
The kisses started sweet- just lips brushing lips. Then longer, deeper. The kind of kisses that made your heart race and your thighs clench. His hand slid to your hip, your thigh, the small of your back, always steady, always sure. His body was so much bigger than yours, all heat and strength and solidity, and yet he touched you like he thought you might break. Like he was holding something rare and delicate.
You expected him to guide you gently to the bedroom, maybe with a soft smile and an outstretched hand. Maybe he’d whisper something tender, lace your fingers together, and lead you into the next chapter of this perfect, storybook evening.
But when he picked you up? When he rose from the couch with you in his arms like you weighed nothing, like he’d been waiting for the moment to show you just how strong he really was?
Your heart all but stopped.
You clutched at his shoulders, eyes wide, breath caught in your throat. His body was everything you imagined and more- solid, warm, impossibly strong. Your fingers curled instinctively over the thick muscle of his shoulders, feeling the effortless strength in the way he held you. His chest was broad and firm beneath your cheek, rising and falling in a steady rhythm, like nothing in the world could shake him.
But he didn’t falter. Didn’t tease. His movements were purposeful, sure- like your body was meant to be in his arms, like it belonged there. He held you with the same reverence he gave you when he looked at you across candlelit tables and brought you fresh flowers- only now there was heat threaded through it. A quiet intensity.
You could feel the flex of his biceps with every shift of his arms, the stability in his grasp as his large hands supported you with perfect ease. The sheer size of him around you made you feel small, delicate- utterly encompassed. His warmth bled into you, wrapping around your spine, your ribs, your heart.
As he carried you through the apartment, you found yourself clutching tighter, unsure if you were afraid of falling or simply overwhelmed by the feeling of being so completely handled. The hallway lights cast a golden glow over his profile, and the sound of your own heartbeat filled your ears.
He carried you like you were something fragile. Like something he owned. Like something he was finally claiming.
"You okay?" he murmured, glancing down at you as he pushed open the bedroom door, voice low and warm against your skin, and something in his tone made your spine tingle.
You nodded, heart fluttering like a bird in a cage. "Yeah."
His smile was small but warm, but there was a flicker in his eyes- like a spark catching light. "Good. Been wanting this for a long time."
The bed was already turned down. Soft lighting spilled in from the hallway as he set you gently atop the sheets and knelt between your legs. His big hands slid up your thighs, slow and reverent. Then he leaned over you, covering your mouth with his again, coaxing another kiss that deepened into something hot and breath-stealing. You sighed into it, fingers tangling in the front of his shirt.
He didn’t rush. Every kiss was deliberate. His mouth moved over yours, then to your jaw, then your neck, trailing heat and want everywhere it touched. You arched into him without thinking, thighs parting as his body hovered above you.
His hands explored slowly, like he had all the time in the world. Over your shoulders, your arms, your breasts- pausing there, cupping them with reverence and a barely-there squeeze that made your nipples tighten under your bra. You gasped into his mouth, and he smiled against your lips like he’d been waiting for that sound.
With slow, practiced ease, he began to undress you. You let him. Let him peel your clothes away like unwrapping something precious. And when your shaking fingers reached up to unbutton his shirt, he didn’t stop you. He watched, eyes dark and fixed on your face, as you tugged each button loose one by one, revealing more golden skin and hard muscle than your starry mind could handle.
You ran your palms over his chest, tracing every ridge and curve. He let you explore, let you marvel, even leaned into your touch like it thrilled him just as much.
By the time he had you down to nothing, he didn’t go straight for where you ached. Instead, he kissed along your ribs, your belly, your hips. He inhaled softly at your inner thigh, fingers trailing just shy of where you needed them.
"You’re already getting there," he murmured, voice like velvet and heat. "Want you soaked for me before I even touch you there. Wanna feel you melt around my fingers."
Then he kissed you again, and when he pulled back, there was something new in his eyes.
Intent.
His voice stayed low, almost reverent, like this moment meant as much to him as it did to you. He slicked his fingers slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving your face. You could feel the weight of his attention, how focused he was. Not just on your body, but on your reactions. Watching the rise and fall of your chest, the way your thighs parted, the flush creeping across your skin.
"Been thinking about this," he admitted softly. "About how you'd feel... how warm you'd be."
He smiled, just the barest hint of it, like he was already savoring the moment before it began. "Finally get to feel you, sweetheart."
Your breath hitched.
Oh.
You swallowed. Nodded. Your thighs shifted, welcoming.
Steve slicked his fingers slowly, watching you the whole time.
"We’ll take this nice and slow…" he said, settling between your knees. "We’ve got all night."
Then his fingers found you- slow at first, not pushing in, just toying with your entrance. The pad of his finger circled there, teasing, tracing the slick heat of you while he watched your face for every flicker of response. Your body fluttered around him, clenching reflexively at the mere suggestion of penetration. He murmured something low and pleased under his breath as your hole twitched, pulsing at the gentle pressure. He could feel how badly your body wanted to be filled, even if he was taking his time giving it to you.
The first one slid in easy, and you gasped at the sudden intrusion. Warm. Thick. He moved it gently, curling just enough to make your hips twitch. His thumb rested against your mound, still and grounding, until it started to move.
A slow, deliberate brush over your clit. Featherlight at first. A single circle that made your breath hitch. Another, firmer, that drew a moan from your throat before you could stop it.
"There she is," Steve looked at you smiling, like he’d just discovered a secret. "You’re already so soft for me."
He didn’t rush.
His finger stroked in and out while his thumb teased gentle circles, the rhythm enough to make your legs tremble. Then he started to curve that finger upward on every slow stroke, dragging it along the top wall until it hit something inside you that made your whole body jolt.
Your moan spilled out loud and helpless, your hands flying to your own skin- gripping your thighs, sliding up your belly, unsure where to hold onto the heat that bloomed between your legs. Every time he curled his finger into that soft, spongy cluster of nerves, your walls fluttered around him, tighter, wetter, like your body was trying to pull him in deeper.
He did it again. And again. Unhurried. Precise.
"That's it," Steve murmured, voice like silk and sin. "Feel that, sweetheart? Right there."
You nodded, eyes glassy, already halfway gone.
The second finger came after a minute of slow strokes, coaxing your body open. You felt it- every new inch. Wider. Fuller. The stretch just enough to make your toes curl.
His thumb never left your clit.
With two fingers buried inside you, he started to move them- not in and out, but apart. A slow, gentle scissoring motion that made your breath stutter and your hips lift instinctively. The stretch deepened, and you could feel every subtle shift of pressure, every widening sweep as he worked you open from the inside out.
"Still doing okay?"
You nodded, biting your lip. "Yeah. Just… big."
It was more than just the stretch- it was him. His fingers felt impossibly full inside you, so much more than your own ever had. The way they moved, the way they filled and stroked, finding every sensitive inch like they were made for your body- it was overwhelming. Your fingers could never curl quite like that, never press up against that perfect spot with such patience, such purpose.
He dragged them back over your sweet spot again, slow and unrelenting, and your thighs twitched helplessly.
He smiled. Kissed the inside of your thigh.
"That’s just two, honey. You’re doing so good. Opening up so pretty for me."
You barely heard him over the sound of your own moan.
Steve shifted slightly, and you felt the gentle nudge of a third finger teasing at your entrance, slick and warm and heavy with promise. Your breath caught. He hadn’t pushed in yet- just let it sit there, letting you feel the potential of it.
"Steve," you gasped, one hand grabbing at the sheets, the other curling at your side. "I- I’m good. Two is… so good."
And it was. It felt incredible. Like he was everywhere already, like your body could barely keep up with the stretch of just his two thick fingers dragging over your sweet spot again and again, stroking deep in ways you’d never reached on your own. You didn’t need more- your brain was already fogging, your thighs trembling. You felt full. So close to ruined.
Steve didn’t argue. Not right away. He just hummed, like he understood.
When you looked up at him, your breath caught for a whole new reason. His brows were slightly pinched, lips parted like he might say something but wasn’t sure how. There was something in his face- not heat, not hunger, but concern. A flicker of worry. The sharp, clear blue of his eyes had darkened
"I know, sweetheart. I know it’s a lot. But I need to make sure you’re ready for me. Really ready. Gotta stretch you to fit me." he murmured, reaching for a bottle of lube on the nightstand. "Can’t have you breaking when I finally have you."
His fingers didn’t push all at once. First, he went back to stroking over that spot inside you, slow and deliberate, keeping your head spinning and your legs loose. Every drag of his fingers over that aching bundle of nerves sent another wave through you, your breath catching, your thoughts scattering. You tried to focus- on his voice, on his eyes- but it was impossible when every nerve ending was lighting up with sensation.
As he began to work the third finger in, the pressure built fast. Your mouth dropped open, a broken moan escaping as the stretch deepened- more than you thought you could take, more than you thought you wanted, but so achingly full it made your toes curl. His fingers were slow, steady, coaxing you open inch by inch, and the third felt like so much. It wasn't just the width- it was the way he pushed up, dragging over that tender, swollen cluster of nerves inside you like he knew exactly where it was. And he did. Again. And again.
"You're taking me so well," Steve murmured, his voice rasping low as he leaned over you. "Feels good, doesn’t it? I know it does. Can feel you clenching, baby... greedy little thing."
You barely registered the soft crack of a lid opening. You were too far gone to notice the subtle shift as he poured a little more slick over you, letting it drip down over his fingers, your entrance, mixing with the wetness already flooding you. It made everything easier. Smoother. Filthier.
He hummed, thumb circling again as he worked those three thick fingers in deeper. "So slick for me now. You needed this, didn’t you? Been so patient."
He leaned in close, breath warm against your ear. "You're so tight around me, baby. So small. Look at you- trying to take all this. You're doing so good."
His voice was soft, almost coaxing, but there was a weight behind it, a possessive edge that made your core flutter even harder. "I know it’s a stretch. I know it’s a lot. But I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’m just looking after you."
He twisted his fingers again, rubbing up into that spot that had you arching, crying out. "Gotta open you up right. Make sure you’re ready. You trust me, don’t you? Let me take care of you."
You felt yourself build- your breath catching, hips twitching, thighs quivering like another orgasm was already crawling its way toward you. Not a full one, not yet- but something small and devastating, the kind that made you want to cry.
"Don’t hold back," he whispered, voice thick with pride and hunger. "I want to feel every part of it. Every flutter. Every little break."
And just as you started to fall into it, Steve spread his fingers apart in a slow, deliberate fan. The stretch lit your nerves like a firework, and your voice cracked into a sob.
"There you go." he breathed. "God, just look at you..."
Then he brought them back together, pressing deeper, making you take it. All of it.
It was slow. Careful. But when the knuckle passed, your breath caught in your throat. Your hips shifted, thighs trembling. The stretch was so intense, so deep, and yet the pleasure lingered like a haze across your skin. You felt dazed- drunk on it. Drunk on him. Each drag of his fingers inside you made your body sing, your breath come shallow, your thoughts slip further from your grasp.
His free hand moved then, sliding down your thigh with the same maddening patience. Gentle. Soothing. But it wasn’t just comfort- it was control. His palm gripped your leg, grounding and commanding, keeping you spread just the way he wanted.
"C’mon, just one more," Steve said softly, almost coaxing. "Make sure you’re gonna be safe. Want you to enjoy it when I take you, yeah?"
You whimpered. Nodded. What else could you do? He had you unraveling with just his hands- and you trusted him to ruin you completely.
"Yeah, one more," Steve whispered. "Just my pinky. It's my smallest finger. You'll feel so good."
You didn’t even get a chance to think. His hand shifted smoothly, his fingers forming into a cone. The moment he pressed forward, your back arched off the bed, a soft gasp breaking free from your lips. It was instinctive- offering him a better angle as your body yielded.
The pressure flared white-hot as he pushed, all four fingers breaching you past the second knuckle. You panted hard, the stretch intense and dizzying, like you could feel every ridge of every finger working you open from the inside.
His fingers twisted gently, stretching you wider than you’d ever been. But your body wasn’t quite ready to take the final push- not yet. You felt the resistance, the way your muscles fluttered and clung around his knuckles, not letting him all the way in. It was too much. Too deep.
Steve didn’t force it. He didn’t even pause. His hand moved from your thigh to your clit again, rubbing in slow, purposeful circles- soft at first, then firmer, matching your panting breaths. You whimpered, hips twitching under the renewed stimulation. Your arousal was building again, thick and hot, the ache inside you sharpened by the way he was working you open.
Then he moved. Bent low, fingers still buried in you, and took your nipple into his mouth. He suckled gently at first, letting his tongue flick over the tight peak, then deeper, wetter, his mouth hot and hungry as his fingers never stopped moving. You cried out, arching into him, overwhelmed by sensation.
The wine buzzed low in your blood, making everything feel hazy and soft around the edges- but your body was humming. On fire. Your skin tingled under his lips, your core clenched around his hand, and still he coaxed you further.
"There we go," he murmured around your breast. "That’s it, baby. Let me in. Let me feel all of you."
And slowly, as he kissed and played and rubbed every tender part of you, your body gave. The tension melted just enough to let him press that final set of knuckles in, your walls stretching wide to accommodate him.
"Let me in, honey," he whispered. The sensation was blinding. You moaned, raw and high, as your body finally let him sink in all the way- his knuckles pressing flush at your entrance. Your eyes rolled back at the overwhelming stretch, your mouth falling open as a wrecked sound tore from your throat. You could feel every inch of him inside you, the fullness deep and dizzying, stretching your limits and then some.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he rotated the hand buried inside you- turning so his palm was facing up. You felt everything shift, the pressure rearranging into something unbearable and glorious. He sat back slightly on his heels to watch, eyes dark, jaw tight, chest rising and falling in controlled, hungry breaths.
"God, baby," he muttered, dragging his thumb gently over your skin, just below your navel. "You're so wet. Can feel you dripping all around me."
He pushed in further, and you could feel it- the weight of him, the slow slide of his hand breaching you deeper, his fingers curling slightly as he explored every inch. Your body clenched around him, a helpless, reflexive squeeze that made his breath catch.
His other hand pressed to your belly, firm and possessive. Then he pressed down, just enough for you to feel the pressure echo through your core- and then, with a slow, wicked smile, he wiggled his fingers inside you.
The sensation made your whole body jerk. Your breath hitched sharply as you felt the movement from both directions- inside and out.
"Can feel you now from both sides," he murmured, eyes locked on your face as your body trembled. The idea of it- of being so thoroughly filled that his hand was something you could feel through your own skin- was almost too much. It nearly made you come right there.
His fourth finger shifted, spreading wider. You gasped as your skin and muscles moved with him, stretched for him, obeyed the rhythm of his hand without resistance. Every flutter, every tiny ripple of sensation, rolled through you like waves you couldn't stop riding. He just smiled, calm and hungry, soaking in the sight of you coming undone under the weight of his touch.
You couldn’t answer. You were dumb with it. Flushed, panting, wine-fogged and pleasure-drunk. You stared up at the ceiling, glassy-eyed, mind floating somewhere between surrender and bliss as he watched you come undone around him, completely open and filled.
His hand pulled back slightly, easing out just enough that you could breathe- but it only made the absence sharper, made your body clench harder in protest. He shifted his hand just so, tucking his thumb in tight beside the rest.
Then you heard it- the soft click of the lube bottle again. He didn’t rush, didn’t ask. He just poured more slick over your pussy, letting it drip down over his hand, easing everything. The sensation of the cool gel against your overheated skin made you shiver, and when his hand slid back in- slow, sure, claiming- it went easier. Smoother. Wetter.
Then his other hand was sliding down between your legs.
You barely had time to react before his fingers were back on your clit, rubbing in slow, steady circles designed to undo you all over again. You whimpered, breath stuttering, thighs twitching. It was too much and not enough all at once.
And somewhere through the haze, a thought tried to rise to the surface- Wasn’t this just supposed to be about getting you ready to take him? It wasn’t a protest, not really. Just a wobbly breath and a slurred, "Steve… do you really… need to go this far?"
You felt his body still, just for a beat. Then you felt it- the subtle pressure of his thumb beginning to press inward, joining the rest.
"Shh, baby," he cooed, the sweetness of his voice wrapping around you like silk and chains. "You’re doing so good for me. Just a little more. This is all for you, remember? So I don’t hurt you later. You trust me, don’t you?"
His thumb kept pushing, slow but firm, as his fingers curled again and rubbed your clit in soft, hypnotic circles. "Almost there. That’s it, sweetheart. Let me take care of everything.. Just need to relax, breathe for me.." he voice soothing but firm, like he was easing you through something important. "Just need you a little wetter. A little softer.
"You’re almost there anyway," he murmured. "Just a little further. You’re my best girl, right? You can give me this…"
His hand slid up to your chest again, thumb flicking your nipple before he bent low to mouth at it- suckling slow and deep while his hand remained buried inside you, the stretch lingering. You felt yourself melting beneath him, your blood hot from the wine, your brain cotton-soft and floaty.
Then he started to press deeper. You felt it- every inch, every widening push- as he slowly worked his hand further inside you. His fingers brushed your cervix, just a whisper of contact that made your hips buck and your breath stall. He dragged against your walls, firm and careful, stretching and spreading you with the thickest part of his hand, inch by inch. The pressure bloomed everywhere.
Your breathing turned ragged. Stilled. Each inhale caught at the back of your throat, a desperate little gasp as your body tried to reconcile the impossible fullness with the endless heat. It was too much.
Steve could hear it- your pulse pounding, your heartbeat racing beneath his hand. He paused, just enough to press his palm flat against your belly again, soothing and steady. "Shh, baby," he murmured, rubbing your clit with slow, coaxing circles. "You're doing so good for me. I’ve got you."
He twisted his hand slowly, working the angle, easing in more- his thumb still tucked tight. The shift made you cry out, thighs trembling, back arching. Your body writhed beneath him, sweat beginning to gather at your temples and between your breasts.
"That’s it, sweetheart," Steve murmured, voice warm and firm, grounded in command. "You’re doing so good. Just breathe through it for me, okay? In… and out. With me now."
He slowed the movement of his hand, letting the pressure at your entrance stay constant, steady. You felt every twitch of muscle, every strained stretch as his hand shifted inside you. It stung- but the pleasure was right there underneath it, riding the edge of each breath.
“Deep breath in,” he said again, his other hand sliding along your thigh, keeping you grounded. “Exhale. That’s it. Keep going. I can feel you trying to take me.”
You whimpered, voice breaking on the inhale, but you obeyed- moaning on the exhale as he gently pulled his fingers apart again, spreading you around the bulk of his hand. It burned. It thrilled.
Your muscles fluttered, tight and frantic around the stretch, and Steve’s thumb pressed soft circles to your clit as his hand slowly rotated again inside you.
"You're so close, baby. I can feel it. Just let go. Let me in."
He watched you- every shift in your expression, every tremble in your breath- with rapt attention, like the sight of your body trying to take him was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
And Steve just watched- entranced and hungry. His gaze swept over you like he couldn’t decide where to focus. Your face, flushed and lost. Your chest, heaving. Your pussy, stretched impossibly wide around his hand.
"Steve?"
He looked like a man utterly ruined by the sight of you taking him.
"Just a little more- yeah, like that. Deep breath in… and exhale."
Then came the push.
Thicker. Deeper.
Your body relented to his invasion.
Your feet kicked and slid over the bed, legs tensing and heels dragging against the sheets as your body scrambled for somewhere to put the sensation. It was involuntary- your muscles seizing, shifting, trying to escape and welcome the stretch all at once.
A whine bubbled up from your throat, high and thin, and Steve shushed you gently.
"I know, sweetheart. It’s intense, isn’t it?" he murmured, eyes locked on yours, steady as stone. "But you’re doing so good. Almost there. Just keep breathing."
The resistance gave way, your walls opening around him- wide and slick- as Steve pressed his whole hand inside you, slow and reverent, like he was slipping into something sacred. It felt like you swallowed him, your body stretching to take every inch. The thickest part of his hand pushed past your entrance, and you felt it all- knuckles, knotted pressure, heat blooming through your spine.
A guttural noise ripped from your throat, unbidden, broken. You were panting now, sweat clinging to your skin, your vision swimming.
And Steve? He stilled. Just held there, buried to the wrist, drinking it in like a man watching sunrise break over battlefield ruins.
He looked down at you with a quiet intensity, breath shallow, lips parted, like he was drinking in the sight of you stretched around him. Not just awe- something deeper. Hungrier. His eyes flicked over your face, your trembling body, like he was trying to memorize the moment before it slipped away. There was no need for words- his expression said everything. You were his. Entirely.
The way you clenched around him said it all.
"So full you can’t even breathe, huh?" Steve murmured, the hunger in his voice barely restrained. "Thought it hurt? But then I touched you and you just- " he chuckled darkly, "clenched down like you need it."
Your body twitched again, whimpering as his fingers rolled over your clit in tight, maddening circles. You were so stretched, so overwhelmed- and he loved it.
"Wish I had a mirror," he whispered, dragging his lips across your temple. "Wish you could see what you look like taking me like this."
Slowly, he began to curl his fingers, forming a fist inside you inch by inch. Your eyes rolled back in your head, your mouth falling open in a soundless gasp. Your head slammed back against the bed, back bowing high from the mattress. You’d never- never- been this full.
Steve twisted his wrist, gently at first, then deeper. You could feel every ridge of every knuckle moving inside you.
"Look at you. My perfect girl. So fucking deep… and still stretching for more."
He guided your hand down, easing it toward his wrist where you could feel the impossible stretch for yourself- your imagination catching up with reality, picturing just how deep he truly was. The thought alone made your walls flutter. You couldn’t even close your fingers around it his wrist..
"Oh, you like it, don’t you?" he murmured, voice dark and pleased.
It did something to you, knowing where he ended and you began- feeling exactly where your body had engulfed him, where he filled you to the brim. That connection, raw and surreal, made your head spin. The way you touched him let you feel the impossible, and it only made you clench harder. His fist seated deep inside you. Your fingers barely curled around it, trembling with the effort, the contact making the moment even more surreal.
"That’s all of me inside you. You’re mine now. Captain America’s little hand puppet, huh?"
Then, in a cruel little twist of sweetness, he took the hand you'd just had on his wrist and gently moved it down, guiding it up to your clit. His own hand covered yours for a moment, pressing your trembling fingers into motion. "Rub for me now, honey. Just like that. Let me see how needy you are."
Your fingers shook as they obeyed, drawing shaky little circles as he reached for the lube again- cool slick dripping over your skin as he coated his wrist. You could feel the tension build, feel his hand shift again inside you, pushing deeper- then easing back, the catch of his knuckles tugging against your entrance before he slid back in slow.
"Now, put your other hand on your tummy, baby," Steve instructed, your shaking hand going to where he'd pressed before.. "Feel that? That bulge right there- that’s me. That’s my fist, moving under your skin."
Your moan broke into pieces as the sensation took over everything. Your mind was unraveling, thoughts slipping through your fingers like sand. You were too full to think, too stretched to breathe. Every time you clenched down- every flutter, every squeeze- his hand was forced deeper, and it made the pressure sharper, more unbearable.
"Who knew you'd be such a good girl," Steve rasped, voice thick with pride and hunger. "So greedy for your Captain..."
He leaned closer, voice low and rough at your ear. "You have no idea how good you are, sweetheart. No one’s ever done this for me. They all cry and beg- but not you. You want this. Want me to ruin you. Stretch you out so all you fit is me."
You couldn’t even form words anymore. Just soft, broken sounds that spilled from your lips as your body writhed under him, nerves singing, muscles fluttering.
He started moving his hand- slowly pulling his fist out, then pressing it back in again, inch by inch. Deeper this time. His wrist following with every push until the blunt base of it met your slick entrance, stretching you wider, reshaping you around the sheer size of him.
You felt him press into your cervix, nudging it upward with every inward roll of his fist. It should’ve hurt- but it didn’t. It was all pressure. Endless, rolling pressure that sent your vision spinning.
"Going to stretch you out like this," Steve growled softly, voice thick and reverent. "Then you’re gonna take my cock, yeah? That’s a good girl… you’re so close, aren’t you? You just wanna cum all over my fucking fist, don’t you?"
You moaned, broken and desperate, your whole body arching into him. Every time you clenched down on his hand, it drove him deeper- your body trying to keep him, to take him, to never let him go.
Then he started to move faster- just a little. Using the strength in his arm to pump his fist in slow, firm strokes. The drag was heavy, relentless, the catch of his knuckles tugging at your entrance only to be followed by the obscene stretch of him sinking in again.
“That's it, baby,” Steve growled, watching you like you were the most precious, filthy thing he’d ever seen. “Just come for me. Just come and I’ll take it out…”
Your fingers obeyed on instinct, moving in tighter, desperate circles over your clit- just the way he’d shown you. Each pass sent a shock of pleasure through your body, your thighs twitching, your vision hazing at the edges. It was too much. It was everything. The pressure built like a storm in your gut- hot, unbearable, perfect.
And Steve kept moving. Pushing deeper. Pulling out. Letting the weight of his hand crash into your core until your hips jerked with every thrust. The squelch of lube, the slap of his palm against your overstretched entrance- it was obscene. Messy. Perfect.
You couldn’t even make sounds anymore. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out- just choked gasps and strangled breaths. The only sound in the room was Steve’s panting, his breath growing ragged with every tight clench of your body around his fist. He growled softly, low in his throat, watching you unravel beneath him.
Your body was shaking. It was too much. Too deep. Too intense. You tried to speak, to cry, but your voice was gone. You couldn’t do it-
And then you did.
You broke.
Your body snapped taut, back arching off the bed as you bucked and thrashed, thighs locking around his arm, cunt fluttering in desperate, helpless spasms around his fist.
Steve’s free hand came down hard across your belly, pinning you in place as you rode it out. "That’s it, baby," he whispered, eyes wide and reverent, watching every second of your collapse. "Take it. Take all of it. Fuck, look at you… squeezing me so tight. You were made for this."
You came in silence, eyes rolled back, mouth open on a wordless scream, your muscles seizing around him like your body never wanted to let go. Your body shook with aftershocks, thighs quivering, breath hitched in your throat as your arms flopped helplessly to the bed. You were light-headed, dizzy, your vision pulsing with black at the edges. Your muscles gave out.
You went limp.
Your limbs fell heavy against the sheets, chest rising in short, shallow bursts. The room spun softly around you, dim and warm, your body floating in the aftermath of something that had pulled you apart and left you scattered. Every inch of you pulsed with aftershocks, too spent to flinch, too full to even think.
Only then did Steve start to move again. Slowly, carefully, he began to ease his hand from your body- inch by inch, his fist sliding free from your ruined, fluttering walls. The sensation made you whimper, twitch, overstimulated and boneless. Your eyes fluttered half-shut, dazed and cloudy, as you watched him lift his hand.
It glistened with your slick. Wet. Shining. Marked by everything he'd just pulled from you.
He brought it to his mouth.
And licked.
One long, slow drag of his tongue over the curve of his knuckles. He didn’t look away from you. He watched you while he did it- watched your broken expression and blissed-out face as he tasted your release from his skin like he was savoring the finest dessert.
"So good for me," he purred, voice low, soothing as his clean hand gently moved yours away from your core. You flinched from the touch, but he only pressed his palm there- warm, grounding, firm.
"You’re gaping now, honey," he murmured, almost like he was cooing it. "Your abused little hole’s all twitchy, trying to remember how to close. That’s okay. You did so good."
He reached for the nightstand, offered you a glass of water, his voice still tender. "Sip, baby. Just sip for me."
You blinked slowly, dazed. You didn’t even realize when he moved again- just felt the shift in air as he settled between your legs, gaze dropping low.
"Oh god," he breathed. "You’re so open..."
He ran a single finger around your entrance, the slick noise obscene and wet as your hole fluttered around nothing. You whimpered.
"Want you to try and squeeze closed," he whispered.
You didn’t know why. But you did.
Your body tried. Weakly. Muscles trembling as you worked to draw yourself back together. He pushed his finger back in and you winced trying to hold it.
"There you go," he praised softly. "Nothing permanent."
You barely had time to process the relief before he stood up from the bed.
Your dazed eyes followed him in slow, horror-tinged disbelief- watching as his hands moved to the button of his pants. This was supposed to be over. Your body was still twitching, your insides aching, stretched to their limit. But the way he looked at you- so calm, so sure- made something sharp twist in your chest. He hadn't lied.
As he stared down at the stretch of your slowly closing cunt, something dark flickered behind his eyes- satisfaction, maybe. Anticipation.
Then his gaze met yours.
"Told you," he murmured, unzipping slowly. "This was just to get you ready. We’re not done."
It was a joke. A letter to a criminal—UK's most wanted. You told him he was hot. Told him you were a virgin. Left your address, because it’s not like he’d ever get out, right?
✉ 2K FOLLOWER SPECIAL .ᐟ | [ AO3 ]
18+ AU, DUBCON, fem!reader, takes place in the UK, porn with plot, pathetic!reader, harddom!simon, asshole!simon, implied stalking, (morally irredeemable) pining, oral (f receiving), shit-ton of degradation, praise if you use a magnifying glass, virginity kink, pussy pronouns, pussy & face slapping, dacryphilia, unprotected sex [ 10.2k words ]
✘ SEQUEL : ' IN CONTEMPT '
Who knew working at Tesco would be such a fucking nightmare?
It’s almost absurd how people can forget how to use their brains the second they step through the automatic doors. It’s a massive store, but you’ve come to believe that its sheer scale only amplifies some customers’ overwhelming stupidity.
You find yourself watching, day in and day out, as people stumble over the easiest parts of shopping, like scanning a barcode or finding the right aisle despite the sign above their heads. It’d be laughable if it wasn’t so damn frustrating. You can’t even afford the luxury of venting because you're stuck behind the register, forced to plaster on a fake smile, nodding while they hold up the line, your eye twitching as you answer the same question for the umpteenth time in 30 minutes.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity of gritted teeth and hollow patience, your shift comes to an end. The relief is brief, but it’s there, at least. You drag yourself out of the store, shoulders slumped under the weight of the day. The commute home isn’t any prettier, but it’s a kind of mindless ritual that’s grown familiar over time—20 minutes on the train, crammed between strangers who are just as exhausted, just as done with the grind. The train lurches and hums beneath you, a rhythmic noise that almost lets you forget the stress. But you’re too far gone for that kind of escape, your mind still whirling with all the things you’ve had to swallow throughout the day.
The train empties as the sun sinks below the horizon, each stop peeling away another layer of the late afternoon crowd. You finally step off the train at the final stop, the air crisper than when you left for work nearly 11 hours ago. The walk home is short, but it’s long enough for your legs to remind you that you’ve been standing for hours. Ten long minutes to your flat, a familiar route that feels both comforting and suffocating in its monotony.
After walking down some quiet streets, past some sketchy alleyways, you finally reach your tiny one-bedroom flat. It’s tucked just outside Bromley, and it’s small, not much at all, but it’s enough. It’s the kind of space that suffocates you some days and feels like a sanctuary on others. You push your key into the lock and push the door open. You kick your shoes off and they thud as they hit the floor, echoing through your small flat. You hang your keys on the singular hook you stuck on the wall, barely noticing the clink of them settling into place.
This is what most days look like for you: wake up, subject yourself to a long, draining shift, then return home to an empty flat and an even emptier fridge. It's a routine that feels as hollow as the flat itself. The days fly by in a boring cycle of work, silence, and the echo of things you thought you’d left behind when you took the leap and moved out.
After college, you made it a point to leave your parents’ house. You couldn’t stay in the nest anymore, not when you so strongly believed there was something better waiting out there. You had to prove you could stand on your own, that you didn’t need the constant supervision or the suffocating presence of a family that just didn’t get it.
Honestly, who could? Who could stay locked in a house that felt less like a home and more like a cage? College had been the escape you’d craved, the independence you had always wanted. You dove in headfirst, joining club after club, meeting all kinds of people, each one with their own story, a sort of authenticity that people in high school never had.
In college, one of the many things you got involved in was Vets Club, which wrote letters to veterans, thanking them for their service. It was a simple thing, but there was something about it that felt right. You’d write a few lines of gratitude, nothing big, just a small act of kindness. And sometimes, you’d get a letter back. The responses were always the same—surprised and grateful that someone even bothered to take the time. It never felt like much, but it always made you feel good, knowing you could brighten someone's day just by saying thank you.
But now, when you’re standing in your tiny flat, staring at a barren fridge that only houses a bottle of wine and some leftover takeaway containers, you wonder if wasting your time on asinine things like that were worth it.
You’re having a… Well, a hard time, to put it kindly. The kind of time where nothing seems to go your way, and you can't quite shake the feeling that maybe you made some wrong choices. All of your college friends? They're out there, living it up, traveling the world, landing glamorous careers, posting photos of sunsets in Bali and dinners at places with names you can’t pronounce. They’re thriving, but you’re stuck here, watching their highlight reels on social media while your own life feels like it’s paused on a loop of dead-end shifts and lonely nights.
You had big dreams once. You convinced yourself that an art history degree was going to be the key to something meaningful, something that would set you apart. Now, though? Now, you can barely find work, and the opportunities that do pop up feel like they’re beyond you in all shapes and forms.
Rent and bills are manageable, but manageable doesn’t mean easy. To you, it means scraping by, choosing between a decent meal or keeping the lights on for another month.
Your parents help sometimes, covering the electricity bill here and there, but you’d rather die than let them know how bad it really is. You don’t need their pity, their unsolicited advice, or the smug ‘I told you so’ about picking a more practical degree. No matter how deep you’re sinking, you’ll claw your way up alone. It’s not pride, it’s survival. You’ve always done it yourself, it’s just easier that way.
And the real kicker? The cherry on top of this already pathetic sundae? You’re a fucking virgin. No one to warm your bed, keep you company. Mid-twenties and untouched, while your friends from high school are already posting pictures of shiny rings and baby-bumps. Like struggling to stay afloat wasn’t humiliating enough, you’re also trailing behind in the one thing that’s supposed to have happened already.
You’ve had chances—plenty of chances—but every time, you freeze. The pressure, the vulnerability, and the fear of not measuring up always make you bail.
Not that you’re a prude. You’ve done everything but. Had shitty oral a few times, given it even more. And if the guy’s screaming was anything to go by, you were either naturally good at it or he was just being dramatic. Either way, it was a fleeting moment of triumph in an otherwise awkward, unremarkable sex life, not quite the high point you’d imagined, but in your world of half-hearted hookups and ‘almosts,’ it was something. Proof you weren’t completely out of your depth.
Not that it really mattered.
You shut the fridge and turn to open the cabinet with the same lack of enthusiasm that’s come to define your evenings alone. Peanut butter and jelly, quick, mindless, barely even a choice. You spread the peanut butter, then the jelly, the motion mechanical, just something to fill the silence. The takeout leftovers can last till tomorrow.
You pad over to and collapse on your second-hand couch, the cushions sighing under your weight, and pull your legs beneath you. You grab your phone out of your pocket, thumb idly swiping up to unlock it. The screen lights up, and for a moment, you just stare at it. An infant-sized handful of notifications blink back at you—an automated bill reminder, a news alert you’ll ignore, a lone text from your mom checking in. That’s it. No stream of messages, no flood of tagged posts or party invites. Just a near-empty notification bar, silent in its own damning way.
With a sigh, you lock your phone and toss it aside, letting it land somewhere on the cushion beside you. No one’s waiting for you to reply anyway. Instead, you grab the remote and flick on the TV. The screen blinks to life and you skim through a few channels, the lowest-tier cable offering not much more than black-and-white novellas and the news. You settle for the latter, knowing it won’t add much to your day, but it’ll at least fill the space with noise.
The pretty woman on the screen drones on about politics and stocks, things you don’t have the capacity to care for. You nibble at your sandwich, half-listening as the segment shifts. The soft murmur of the newscaster is background noise until something catches your ear, an undercurrent of excitement creeping into her voice as she announces a breaking story. Your attention sharpens as she mentions a supposed notorious figure, someone whose name apparently carries weight in the world of crime.
A man known only as Ghost. No full name, no history, just a shadow stitched together by word of mouth and grainy security footage. The anchor’s voice is steady as she rattles off his crimes. High-profile armed robberies that bled banks dry, embezzlement schemes that unraveled entire corporations, and a trail of bodies left in the wake of meticulously executed mob hits.
It’s the kind of name you’d expect to hear on the news, or in the underbelly of the city where crime festers unchecked. A name spoken with a mix of fear and reverence, as if he was more myth than man.
And yet, despite knowing nothing about him beyond what you've learned in the last 5 minutes of the broadcast, the sight of him on your TV—towering, masked,—hits you in a way you hadn’t anticipated. Intrigue coils in your stomach, but you can’t fight the way he unsettles you.
He’s been arrested. The news anchor’s voice carries the weight of the revelation, the story intensifying with every word. After years on the run, the law has finally caught up with him. Ghost—a ghost no longer—is now locked away in the High-Security Unit of Belmarsh, one of southeast London’s most formidable prisons, home to terrorists, murderers, and just the worst of the worst.
You stare at the screen, the words sinking in as you take another slow bite of your PB&J. There’s a strange sort of chill that runs through you, not from familiarity but from the sheer presence of the large man on the screen, as if he’s in the very room you’re sitting in. The news anchor’s voice drones on, but you’re already lost in thought.
You think back to Vets Club, remembering how the club would sometimes send letters to other people—petty criminals who were locked up for minor counts of drug possession, vandalism, or shoplifting. Stupid shit. At first, it seemed odd, but the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. Why not offer a little kindness to anyone that needs a pick-me-up? They didn’t have to be war heroes.
As long as they didn’t kill anyone—or anything.
So just like the veterans, you guys would send letters. And just like the veterans, you'd sometimes get a reply, a genuine thank you, as if the fact that someone cared enough to reach out made a difference. It was just about being human, about showing some kindness when so much of the world felt cold.
You never wrote to someone like Ghost before. Not someone so... bad. Not someone whose reputation is so undeniably, explicitly rotten. Someone who, many would argue, is explicitly undeserving of such kindness.
You snap back to reality, and his figure dominates the screen—broad shoulders, large muscles even under the clothing, the kind of man who demands attention. The CCTV footage is grainy, a mere screen capture from a longer video plastered on the TV for your viewing pleasure
His face is masked with a skull-patterned balaclava, the fabric stretched taut over his facial features, distorting the skeletal design just enough to make it seem like the grinning visage is shifting with every movement, angular lines that give him an almost inhuman quality—like a wraith lurking in the dark.
He’s swathed in black from head to toe, the fabric of his dark jacket and and even darker pants absorbing the dim light, making him one with the shadows that cling to every surface around him. Each step is silent, calculated, his presence more of a feeling than a sight—an omen in the periphery, waiting.
It’s strangely captivating, the way he looms, the way the static buzz of the television makes it feel like he could crawl through the screen at any second, like that stupid Ring movie. You sort of wish he would.
His image lingers, burned into the LEDs of your TV, burned into your mind. You’re not sure why it catches you the way it does, but you can’t look away. Something about him—his sheer presence, even through a screen—snags at your curiosity like a loose thread begging to be pulled, a sweater unfurled into a heap of yarn. God you’re so lonely.
Your mind drifts as your fingers move almost instinctively. A few quick Google searches lead you down a steep rabbit hole, a litany of news reports covering crimes that stretch back years. No one has seemed to figure out his real name, no verifiable background. Alleged military ties, some say, possibly ex-special forces. Others insist he was born into the criminal underworld, raised by it, shaped by it, an enforcer forged in violence.
Though nothing could be determined for sure, most of the reports agree on one thing for certain: he was methodical, precise, and had an undeniable dedication and passion for his craft. You presumed that’s what made him a terrorist-level threat.
Then you stumble upon another fact—and you pause. Belmarsh Prison, his current home, isn’t even that far. Just a thirty-minute drive from your flat.
That should be alarming, but the thought sinks in your mind like a stone dropped into a well. For a second, the dull, predictable rhythm of your life feels disrupted—a ripple in reality, as if you've slipped into some parallel version of your life, one that isn’t just last night’s leftovers and tomorrow's 10-hour shift.
For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of excitement. It makes your life feel a little less dull, like something unexpected, something outside the ordinary routine, has just entered your world. Maybe you could write him a letter—
—No. What the fuck? That’s insane. He’s killed people, and you want to send him a letter?
…
You decide to send him a letter.
It’s not like you’re his number one fan—or a fan at all, for that matter. Plus, the chances of him even reading it are slim to none, he’s probably buried under piles of letters that sound just like the ones you used to write, if not worse.
It’s just a letter. You’re not looking for anything in return. You’ll write to him, then move on, because why not? It’s not about trying to change him or sympathizing with him, it’s just... kindness.
Your half-eaten sandwich is abandoned on the coffee table, forgotten the moment the thought takes root. You push yourself up from the couch. The floor is cold beneath your feet as you move down the narrow hall and toward your bedroom, each step fueled by something you don’t care to name—excitement, recklessness, boredom, maybe all three twisted together.
Your bedroom is dim and poorly lit by your bedside lamp. The air feels alive, the window cracked open, allowing the evening breeze to slip through and blow through the room. The curtains sway with it, shifting shadows across the walls, fleeting and fluid, much like the thoughts in mind.
You reach for an old journal tucked away in your bedside table, its spine softened by years of thumbing through its pages. The cover, once smooth, is now rough with wear, smudged with time and old ink stains. As you flip through, the pages crackle—thin, fragile things filled with half-formed ideas and late-night ramblings from high school.
You find a blank page and grab a pen from the bedside table, its weight familiar, and grounding, and shift into a cross-legged seat on your bed. The mattress dips beneath you, the duvet stretching with the movement.
For a moment, you hesitate. What do you even say to someone like him?
You reason with yourself that if he’s unlikely to even read the letter, then it doesn’t matter. You don’t expect anything to come of it, but the thought of sending a message feels like the most fun you’ve had in years.
You press the pen to the paper.
‘Dear Big Bad Ghost,’
A quiet giggle escapes you at that, the kind that bubbles up when you know you’re doing something absolutely stupid. But really, what’s the harm? You have nothing to lose, no reputation at stake, and no consequences beyond a letter that will likely end up thrown in a trashcan. You might as well have some fun with it. A little tongue-in-cheek humor never hurt anyone.
Your pen glides across the paper, words spilling faster than you can second-guess them. You tell him how you found out about him, how you saw his face flash across your TV screen, how his name is spoken like an urban legend on the news channels. And—because there’s no point in pretending otherwise—you admit the truth outright: you thought he was hot, because—let’s be honest—you wouldn’t be doing something this rash if he wasn’t (you make sure to write that, too).
You just keep going. You tell him you’re 24, impossibly lonely and still a virgin, stuck working at Tesco with the worst coworkers possible, with little excitement in your life. You’re sure you’ve painted yourself as painfully average, definitely the most boring woman on the planet, though you wonder if that in itself might intrigue him. Or maybe he won’t care at all. Either way, the words are already there, ink drying on the page.
You tell him that if this were happening back in the States, they’d have slapped him with a RICO charge so fast he’d get whiplash—but lucky for him, he’s dealing with the UK’s legal system instead. A small mercy, though not much of one.
Your pen barely lifts from the paper as you continue. If he ever gets out, you tell him, your door is open for a ‘good time’. You underline it for emphasis, like a wink through the page, though you’re quick to add that, realistically, you’re sure he’ll be locked up for life.
Still, you suppose, even the worst criminals must get bored. Maybe he’ll want a pen pal to entertain him for the rest of his days.
You sit back, tapping the pen against your chin as you reread the letter. It’s ridiculous, a tad insane, but the thrill of it makes your stomach buzz. Some prison guard will probably skim it, roll their eyes, and toss it straight into the bin.
But still…
You scrawl your name at the bottom and the moment the ink dries, you tear the page from your journal, fold it neatly, and slide it into an envelope. You write your address in the return section. Just in case. Your fingers hesitate at the edge, but before second thoughts can creep in, you lick the edges, the bitter taste making you wince and seal it shut.
Next thing you know, you’re sliding on some slippers, unlocking the front door, and stepping into the cool night air. The mailbox is just a few paces from your front door. The world has gone to sleep for tonight.
You reach the rusted blue box, heart hammering as you pull open the slot. The envelope feels heavier now like it carries more weight than it should. You hover there for a second longer than necessary, gripping the paper between your fingers.
And then you let it go. It’s chilling how easy it is.
The past two weeks have passed in a blur of work, exhaustion, and the crushing weight of an uninspired routine. You’ve long since moved on from the letter. You’ve nearly forgotten about it entirely. Life doesn’t give you much room to dwell on dumb things like that—not when you spend your days dodging entitled customers and biting back the urge to commit minor acts of violence in the break room.
Today was particularly brutal. Some guy spent ten minutes arguing with you over a 5 quid price difference like it was a matter of life and death. A toddler managed to knock over an entire display of crisps while her mom scrolled through Instagram, blissfully unaware. By the time your shift ended, you felt like you’d been put through a meat grinder and then asked to clock out with a smile.
Rush hour on the train only adds insult to injury. Someone sneezes directly onto the back of your neck. Another person else eats an offensively pungent egg sandwich within arm’s reach. You spend the entire ride back gripping the overhead rail and wondering why you ever thought adulthood would be anything more than a slow, soul-draining trudge toward the grave.
By the time you finally get home, your body aches with exhaustion that seeps into your bones. You kick off your shoes, chuck your bag onto the floor, and drag yourself toward the kitchen. There’s no energy left in you for cooking, so you grab some leftover takeout from the fridge and toss it into the microwave, staring blankly at the rotating container as it whirs to life. No, it’s not the same takeout from two weeks ago.
You settle onto the couch with your dinner, flicking through the limited selection of channels. With an eye roll, you settle on the news once more, just as a reporter’s voice cuts in, crisp and professional.
At first, you’re barely paying attention, too focused on shoveling lukewarm noodles into your mouth. But then—
BREAKING NEWS: MASS PRISON RIOT ENSUES AT BELMARSH – GHOST AT LARGE
The bold red banner streaks across the screen, sharp and urgent. Your fork stalls midway to your mouth, noodles slipping off the prongs and back into the container as your brain struggles to catch up.
The news anchor doesn’t miss a beat, her voice steady, polished, and edged with just the right amount of alarm:
“Authorities have confirmed a large-scale riot at Belmarsh Prison earlier this evening, resulting in multiple casualties and the escape of several high-profile inmates—including ‘Ghost’, who was awaiting trial for dozens of indictable offenses.”
Your stomach tightens.
Ghost might be on your doorstep and London might look like Gotham, all before dawn even breaks tomorrow.
For a moment, you simply sit there, absorbing the weight of it. You should probably be more concerned. Probably get up, lock the doors, check your windows, and maybe even send a half-hearted text to your parents that, no, you haven’t been stabbed or kidnapped yet.
After a few more seconds you wisen up, mentally slapping yourself. Super-Mega-Criminal-Ghost has bigger problems than tracking down a random girl who sent him one dumb letter out of the hundreds you’re sure he’s gotten. You’re not special. You’re not even remotely relevant in this situation.
Your eyes lock onto the screen as aerial footage of Belmarsh fills the frame. The prison looks like something out of a videogame—thick plumes of smoke curling into the night sky, roaring flames illuminating figures in riot gear as they swarm the perimeter, floodlights sweeping across the wreckage of what was, until hours ago, one of the most secure facilities in the country. Sirens wail in the background.
Somewhere in that chaos, a man you sent a letter to—that more closely resembled a dating profile— has vanished into thin air.
You exhale, exhausted and too tired to brood on it further. Even if he did show up and break down your door, you’re sure your life couldn’t get worse, so you decide to ignore the news and reach for the remote. With a press of a button, the world of reports and fear-mongering headlines is cut off and replaced by the manufactured warmth of a sitcom.
The studio audience laughs on cue.
You force yourself to eat, to go through the motions. Take small, measured bites, as if chewing will somehow settle the restless feeling creeping up your spine.
It doesn’t.
When you finish the sad lump of noodles, you head to the kitchen. Dishes clink as you rinse them, your mind half-present as your body moves on autopilot.
By the time you’ve cleaned up, the tension in your body has quieted. You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re fine. It’s just another night with one more thing to add to the ever-growing list of reasons why this city is exhausting.
You make your way to the bathroom with a sigh, shutting the door behind you. The day clings to your skin, heavy and lingering, but the promise of hot water is enough to shake off the worst of it.
You twist the shower knob. Pipes groan, then sputter, before a steady stream rushes out. You strip down, kicking your dirty clothes into the corner as steam billows, curling against the mirror until your reflection blurs.
After testing the water with your hand, you step in, a sharp inhale slipping past your lips as the warmth crashes over you. It seeps into your muscles, loosening tension you hadn’t even realized you were still holding. You tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut as you let it pour over you.
Your body moves through the motions on autopilot. Shampoo, scrubbed into your scalp. Conditioner, combed through the ends with your fingers. The buy-one-get-one soap glides over your skin, the scent of cheap vanilla and pomegranate thick in the humid air, mingling with the steam that cocoons you. You carefully shave where necessary before the water washes everything away.
You finish your shower, stepping out into the warm fog of steam clinging to the bathroom walls. You take your towel off the hook and drag it over your skin, patting your hair just enough to keep it from dripping but not enough to fully dry it.
Right now, all you want is to crawl into bed and pretend this night is just like any other, despite the very real fact that the London Bridge might actually go down overnight.
You don’t bother wrapping the towel around yourself. There’s no point. It’s just you here—always, unfortunately, just you. As much as you wish that wasn’t the case, there’s no reason to pretend otherwise.
Pushing open the bathroom door, steam rushes past you, rolling into the hallway like a ghost of its own. The air is cooler than usual, biting at your damp skin. A shiver rolls through you, goosebumps prickling to life as you clutch the towel tighter around yourself.
You move quickly, bare feet padding against the floor, the cool air chasing you down the hall. You shake it off, the shower was especially hot today, after all.
Once inside your bedroom, you flick on the small lamp on your bedside table. The weak glow struggles against the shadows, barely illuminating the room beyond a soft, feeble pool of light. You sigh, staring at it for a moment. You really should invest in another one, something stronger, something that does its job—but the thought of subjecting yourself to the blinding glare of overhead lighting is unbearable.
The usual cool breeze from the window rolls in and whisks against your skin as you stand in front of the large mirror sitting atop your dresser, as naked as the day you were born. You absentmindedly rub lotion onto your arms and legs, the smooth cream sinking into your skin with satisfying ease, a small act of self-care amidst the shit-show of your life. You swipe on some deodorant, a miscellaneous powdery scent briefly masking the other smells that linger in your room.
You pull open the top drawer, fingers brushing past folded fabric until you find a pair of plain black no-show panties. The material is soft between your fingertips.
You hook your thumbs into the waistband, bending slightly as you slide the fabric up your legs, smooth against your skin. It settles high on your hips, snug and familiar.
But as you straighten, the air feels different.
Your breath stalls, a tight, involuntary hitch in your throat. A prickle skates down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck rising, your body sensing the shift before your mind can grasp it. Then comes the scent. Subtle quickly shifts to suffocating.
Ash, woody and bitter like a lonely bonfire.
Gunpowder, metallic and pungent like a shrill war cry.
And beneath it all, something brutally masculine. Utterly tart, like blood welling on your tongue, bitter, metallic, yet impossible to spit out so you’re forced to swallow.
You’re still facing the mirror, bare skin gleaming under the dim light, damp where the shower’s heat still lingers. Your reflection is all soft curves and slow, steady breaths, the delicate contrast of black fabric against your skin.
But you’re not looking at yourself anymore.
Your eyes are locked onto something else. Someone else.
Over your right shoulder, a hulking figure sits backward in your desk chair, big, long legs spread on either side, the heavy, shadowy outline of him filling the space behind you. His presence is so sudden, so jarring, that it takes you a moment to even process it. From what you can make out, he is facing you, arms crossed over the backrest like he owns the room.
You’re frozen, trapped in your own body, your mind a tangled mess of confusion and fear. You scramble to process how this could even be happening. Your eyes dart to the window over your left shoulder in the reflection, the wind howling on cue as if to mock you.
Your window is violently wrenched ajar, and suddenly, the drop in temperature makes sense. That’s what you felt earlier—the sudden chill that wrapped around you the second you stepped out of the bathroom. How you didn’t feel it moments ago is beyond you.
Your heart pounds in your ears, a brutal thundering that mutes the voice in your head telling you to run, single-handedly hijacking every morsel of reason you possess. Each beat is so violent, that you think you can feel your ribs splintering, cracking to make room.
You can’t help but stare at yourself, standing there, exposed and utterly vulnerable, tits perked and on display like it’s time for Sunday dinner. But it’s impossible to make yourself move. Your feet feel like cinder blocks.
Your eyes flick back to him.
He hasn’t moved. Not an inch. A statue of flesh and shadow, his towering frame swallowing the space behind you. Your breath stutters as your gaze collides with his—an accident, a mistake. Dark eyes, barely visible, catch the light as he leans in, closer, closer still.
You regret it instantly. Your stomach flips, twisting in on itself as something molten ignites deep inside you. Butterflies—you’re sure—but they feel wrong, tainted, clawing their way up your throat, wings drenched in bile, desperate to break free.
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe.
Just silen—
“Shouldn’t’ve given a dog a bone, Girl.”
Oh.
Oh.
Shit.
You swallow, the motion sharp and dry, as your eyes fixate on the sliver of him that the mirror allows you to see. Your tongue feels like it’s too big for your mouth, thick and clumsy, but it's not just that—it’s as though it’s been wrung dry like you’ve forgotten how to speak, how to make any sound at all.
Could be fight, could be flight—or could be sheer, reckless stupidity. Superficial courage floods your veins, burning hot and impulsive. You don’t know where it comes from, only that it’s there, forcing you to turn, to face him, not through the mirror’s reflection but for real, head-on. Your body obeys even as your mind screams to stop, to run, to do anything but face the giant sitting in the chair behind you. It must be adrenaline.
You pivot, and the room changes. It warps.
He fills the room—dominates it—far more than four walls should ever allow, and far more than your traitorous mirror portrayed. His frame is more ape than human, more God than man, every inch of him radiating undomesticated power that seems to bend the very air around him like a mirage.
He’s dressed in grey, prison-issued sweatpants, the soft fabric taut over his thick, spread thighs. A matching grey sweatshirt is tied around his waist, a small, white wife-beater stretched across his chest. The fabric strains against the thickness of his body, pecs beneath like boulders, barely contained by the threadbare material. The shirt looks as though it might snap under the sheer pressure of him.
It almost seems pointless for him to wear it.
A sick part of you wishes he didn’t.
Around his neck, a set of dog tags dangles, the metal catching the light as it sways in rhythm with his slow, steady breaths. His arms are a canvas of dark ink—twisting amalgamations of war and death, flames and ruin etched into his skin. The same balaclava you’ve seen on your screen stretches over his face, but it feels even more menacing now.
His eyes—dark brown, nearly black—burn as they lock onto you. There’s an eerie glow to them, a depth that makes your stomach twist. You can barely make out their full shape, but you feel the weight of his gaze, the way it maps your body with an intensity that singes. He’s memorizing you, branding you into his mind, scorching every visible inch of your skin just by looking.
Which, right now, is essentially all of it.
It’s suffocating, and overwhelming. The space around you seems to shrink, the walls pressing inward, forcing you to feel the heft of his presence. Your bubble, your safe little world, vanishes, replaced by the oppressive weight of him, his sheer size and power making the room feel like a part of a dollhouse, too small to contain him. Every breath feels harder to take like you’re drowning, and he’s the rip current that dragged you out from shore and pushed you under.
And then, as if sensing your every thought, as if aware of your discomfort and your disbelief, he shifts. Just a subtle movement at first. But a shift is all it takes before he’s not sitting anymore.
Your breath catches in your throat, as he slowly rises from the chair, taking up even more of the room, shadow growing longer in his wake, his muscles rippling in the lamplight. He doesn’t rush. No, there’s no need. He moves, each large step bringing him closer to you.
All that ‘courage’ drained. You never thought you’d be the frozen-in-fear type, but here you are, your body stiff and uncooperative as you look up at him. Your neck cranes back further and further, unwillingly following as he stalks toward you, each step near imperceptible to the ear. At least you know why you didn’t hear him come in.
You’re backed flush against your dresser, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your chest tight with panic, but you can’t look away. You don’t even know if you want to. There’s a strange magnetism to him, something almost predatory in the way he moves, so controlled, so sure.
It’s addicting.
Your thighs clench together at the internal acceptance, a small attempt at some kind of control over the sick part of your brain that’s turned on by this.
“Quiet little thing.” His voice is low, gravelly like it’s been rubbed raw, but there’s a hint of amusement in it, a wicked edge that makes your skin prickle and your cunt gush. He takes another step closer, a mere foot away, the distance between you is agonizing. “Glad you’re not a screamer.”
He pauses just in front of you, towering over you. The weight of his gaze chokes you like a noose. He doesn’t miss when your thighs clench. You could have sworn you saw the flicker of a smile beneath the balaclava, though it’s hard to tell.
“I’m not gonna bite, Girl,” he tuts, “unless y’want me to.”
The way he says it—so carnivorously—sends a jolt of electricity down your spine, a hot flush of pure shame of pooling low in your stomach. You're still frozen, unsure whether you should respond, run, or drop to your knees.
“Y’sent me a letter,” he continues, his voice softening just slightly as his eyes flick to your tits like he’s checking out a new appliance.
“Tellin’ me all about your boring little life,” He steps even closer, “And that sweet little cunt, untouched like you want me t’make it mine.”
You try to speak, but only your mouth moves, your vocal cords too dry, too hoarse, and your throat constricted. He notices. The slight twitch of his lips like he’s enjoying how utterly speechless you are, how dumb you look.
“Y’want me t’make it mine? Hmm? That why you gave a ‘Big Bad’ man your address?”
You swallow in an attempt to lubricate your throat, but it’s futile. Is this what you were subconsciously hoping for when you wrote down which street you lived on and your apartment number? Did you want this? Were you that lonely—that desperate?
“Can y’imagine how hard I came,” he leans over you, his breath hot against your ear, you feel it through the mask, “How I rubbed my cock raw to the thought of some dumb virgin with the audacity of a dozen slags?”
Yeah. You were that desperate.
You nearly whimper at the way he talks to you. You finally manage to take a breath, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I— I didn’t think you’d—”
He cocks his head slightly as if considering your words “What? Didn’t think I’d show?” he repeats, dragging the words out slowly, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips as if he’s savoring the mockery in them. “You invited me here. It’d be rude to reject such a generous offer.”
You bite back a scoff. As if he’s so gracious, breaking into your house and cornering you while you’re naked. Talk about audacity.
“Go fuck yourself.”
“I have,” he shoots back, shrugging almost imperceptibly as his hands find your hips, tracing the fabric of your panties, eyes darkening at the way your mons dimples beneath his thumbs. “Won’t be as good as her.”
Your pulse spikes, a mix of anger and something darker curling in your chest. You should shove him away, scream at him to get out, but his hands are so warm when they hold you. The proximity of his body has you paralyzed, his hands still firm on your hips, as if to remind you that he can have his way with you at a moment’s notice.
You open your mouth to speak, but his hand moves higher, wrapping around your waist, while the other slides down to grip your ass, pulling you against him with a force that leaves no space between your bodies. The words die in your throat as your tits collide with his stomach and your cheek presses into his chest, the hard beat of his heart thudding beneath your ear, as he holds you there, pinning you in some weird, bone-crushing hug.
He smells like soap and something musky and everything you’d expect a fugitive to smell like, like cigarette ash and a smidge of gunpowder. It makes your pulse stutter, like a drug you didn’t know you were addicted to. You can’t help but melt into his strong frame despite your brain screaming at you to push him away.
“Y’feel that, sweetheart?” he hums, his hand kneading the fat of your ass, pressing his bulge against your pelvis through his sweatpants. “Ever felt a cock that big before?”
“Please,” you whisper, the plea a stark contrast to the defiance you try to muster. Your body trembles, a mix of fear and blistering heat. “Just... don't.”
He chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Don't what, sweetheart?” he murmurs, his fingers rising from your ass to trace the delicate line of your throat. “Don't touch you? Don't remind you of what y’are?”
He tips your head up to his as you flinch at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than any physical blow. “I…” you stammer, faltering as you meet his dark hazel eyes.
“Virgin,” he deadpans as he grips your chin between his digits, “Y’terrified. It's written all over your face, baby” He coos condescendingly, eyes scanning your body, lingering on the cute flush in your cheeks, “Curious, too, aren't you? Wondering what it would be like.”
You swallow hard, eyes flicking away from his. “No,” you lie, the denial weak and utterly unconvincing.
He lets out a low, exasperated grunt, like you’re testing his patience, like this is tedious for him. And then, without warning, his hands clamp around your thighs, lifting you effortlessly before settling you atop the dresser. His grip is firm as he pushes your legs apart, spreading them as far as they’ll go to make room for himself. The wood is cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him, from the rough drag of his palms as they find purchase on the soft flesh of your thighs, from where he dips his head to your throat.
“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me, sweetheart,” You don’t know when he pulled his mask up, but you can feel his canines graze against your jugular, making you wince. He crowds your space, forcing you to tilt back until you’re leaning against the mirror, until there’s nowhere to go. You can feel his lips twitch against the skin of your neck, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
“I can smell your cunt.” He licks a fat, hot stripe from your collarbone, past your jaw, and to your cheek, all before growling in your ear, “She’s droolin’ f’me, ain’t she? Gonna give me a taste o' her?”
Your eyebrows knit at the feel of his tongue slobbering all over you. Your breath hitches, and you can’t help but tremble. You can feel your panties sticking to your folds, but you’ve never been this wet before. “I... I don't know,” you whimpered, overwhelmed by everything he was making you feel.
“Don't know? Please,” he scoffs, his voice thick with disdain. Without any hesitation, both of his hands find the gusset of your panties, balling them before ripping them in half. You yelp as they fall and settle against the dresser top. “Awh. Look at that,” he gets to his knees, thumbs spreading your glistening folds. “She's leakin’ onto my hand." He chuckles as he stares at the dampness between your legs.
He lunges forward, his mouth latching to your pussy like it promised him a million dollars. A strangled moan rips through you as his tongue swirls and plunges into your weeping hole, mimicking the thrusts he intends to deliver later. He laps and nips, teeth gently but fervently grazing your clit, sending shivers of both pleasure and terror through your body.
Your head jerks back, waves of pleasure that have you gasping for air. His tongue works you in ways that should be illegal. You cling to the edge of the dresser, your knuckles turning white as he buries his face in you. You peer down at him as he eats you, his mask pulled over his nose.
“Whinin’ already?” he growls, his voice muffled against your cunt. He sucks harder, reveling in the way you arch your back and press your hips into his face. “Like a bitch in heat.” Your hands find his head and he suckles at your clit harder, eliciting a string of please, please, please’s from you.
“Beg for it,” he commands, “Beg to come on m’tongue, baby.”
“Yes,” you choked out in a gasp, the word a desperate plea lost in a wave of overwhelming sensation. Your body thrums with frantic energy, every nerve ending firing in a symphony as you desperately claw at his balaclava, nearly smothering him. “Please,” you beg, your voice thick with need. “Please, I— ‘m—”
He pulls away from you, gasping for air. His eyes find yours and he lands a firm slap to your cunt, making you jolt. “Tell me,” he hisses. “Tell me y’want to come for me.”
“I... I want to,” you gasped, your body trembling on the verge of collapse. “I wanna come for you, Ghost— Please—.”
“Good fuckin’ whore,” he slaps your cunt again, before diving back in, his hot tongue carding through your folds. He slips his ring and middle finger into your hole and you wail as he massages your g-spot. He slobbers on your clit, wet squelches echoing through the room as you feel the coil tightening in your belly. “Come, let me taste this slutty fuckin’ pussy.”
A strangled cry rips through you as the pleasure reaches its peak, a blinding wave of sensation that absolutely shatters your control. You convulse around him and he has to hold you still, pinning your hips down as your muscles clench and release in a series of involuntary spasms that make up the best orgasm of your life. Hot, thick spurts of cum flood his mouth as you croak out a broken string of curses and moans.
He laps at you unhurriedly, savoring the taste, the feel of your release coating his tongue. “Fuck,” he moans, his voice rough with satisfaction. He pulls back, lips and chin glistening, and looks up at you with a smirk. “Love you virgins. Come so easily.”
Heat surges up your neck, pooling in your cheeks—a traitorous flush of shame that only worsens when you try to press your legs together. You didn’t think it would affect you like this, didn’t think you’d feel a spark of something twisted at being called the most horrific of names.
Your gaze darts away from his, unable to withstand the weight of it. Your hands move on instinct, a feeble attempt to shield yourself, to reclaim some sense of control. “Stop staring,” you whisper, not used to having eyes on you. But even to your own ears, it sounds weak—like a plea rather than a command.
He chuckles, a low, mocking sound as he rises to his feet, pressing his massive bulge against your bare cunt. “Stop what? Admiring my handiwork?” He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before harshly squishing them between his index and thumb, your lips puckering. “Don't be shy, sweetheart. You should feel lucky. Could’ve ruined this pretty fuckin’ mouth instead.”
You bite your lip at the thought of taking him in your mouth, stretching your throat and making you gag. He was so big, would stretch your pussy so good and you know it. He could give you what you’ve been wanting, what you’ve been needing. Tears prickle your eyes as you recover from your orgasm. “Just... fuck me, Please…?” you hum, unsure..
He grins, briefly flashing his teeth in the dim light. “Eager, are we?” He straightens, pulling you by your knees to stand on your feet. “Don't worry. Got more in store for you.”
He hauls you off of your dresser and toward your bed without much effort. Your legs feel like jelly and you trip over yourself, falling back onto the mattress, your body bouncing with the impact. He chuckles as he moves toward you, looming over you, his eyes burning with lust at the sight of you all spread out beneath him.
He reaches for the hem of his wife beater and pulls it over his head, tossing it aside without care, not bothering to take off his balaclava. You drag your gaze over his broad torso, taking in every inch as he stands before you. His muscles shift beneath scarred skin, every ridge and plane carved by years of violence you can’t even begin to imagine. Scars that have scars, bright pink wounds closed over. His dog tags rest between his pecs, gleaming dully against the heat of him.
Your eyes trail lower, catching on the unmistakable wet patch darkening his sweatpants, a frighteningly long outline of his hard cock to accompany it. He watches you closely as your gaze traces the contours of his body, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.
"Like what you see, Girl?" His voice is low, thick with a dark amusement. It’s rhetorical, he knows you do. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and pulls them down, revealing his length with a singular motion.
No underwear. A Right dog, he is.
Your breath hitches, a gasp trapped in your throat as you take in the full view. His cock is thick and heavy. A brutal, veined length that periodically twitches every time his gaze drops to your sodden cunt. A thatch of dark, dirty blonde hair frames its base, leading up to his navel. The uncircumcised head glistens in the lamplight, a single drop of pre drooling from his tip. You wish you could flick your tongue against it, gulping down every ounce of his slick he’d be willing to let you swallow.
“What’d y’want?”
You can't form the words, your mind blank, throat tight with a mix of fear and anticipation, the air heavy with implicit tension and the scent of sex.
How could he even fit inside of you?
You just dumbly nod in response to whatever he said. Meek, almost imperceptible.
He tuts, “Noddin’ ain’t enough, sweets,” he growled. “You’re a big girl, ain’t you?
“I…” you stammer, your cheeks burning with shame at saying something so lewd out loud. “I want…”
“Say it,” he taunts as he takes his cock in his hands, pumping slowly. His voice is like thunder, a low, dangerous rumble. “Say y’want this cock.”
“I... I want your cock,” you whisper, the words barely audible. You’re too focused on the way his pre drips onto your spread pussy.
“Louder,” he demands, landing a firm slap against your clit. “Can't hear you.”
“I want your cock,” you enunciated, your voice a little stronger this time.
“Louder, y’fuckin’ slag—”
“I want your fucking cock!” you shout, the words echoing through the room.
He shrugs and a satisfied smirk spreads across his face. “Geez, all y’had to do was ask.”
You could slap him.
He positions himself between your legs, the bed dipping as he crawls closer to you. He takes your thighs in his hands, pressing them up to your chest. His knees dimple the duvet on either side of your hips, the ruddy head of his cock tracing the puffy folds of your entrance. Each time his tip grazes your clit, a tremor runs through your body.
“So fuckin’ sensitive,” he groans, “So wet f’me, too, Christ.”
He presses forward, your pussy stretching taut over his mushroomed tip. You wince, your eyebrows knitting in pain. He was huge, impossibly thick, and the feeling of him pushing against your sensitive flesh was both terrifying and exhilarating.
“Gonna split this cunny in half, girl,” he winces as you pulse around him. He draws tight circles on your clit and you’re reeling, choking on your own gasps, “gonna feel me in y’fuckin’ throat.”
He pushes himself deeper, inch by agonizing inch until he sheaths himself inside of you completely. Tears stream down your face, a mixture of pain and pleasure overwhelming you. You cry out at the stretch, your body arching into his as your hands search for anything to steady yourself, settling on the hard plains of his back.
“Jesus baby, so tight,” he grunts, stalled inside of you as he tries not to blow his load. “So fucking tight.”
You slowly loosen around him as you adapt to his size, but the burn still has you lightheaded. You've never been so full in your life. Your nails claw into his back, leaving raw streaks and crescent-shaped marks on his scarred skin. “Fuck me,” you rasp, “Please, Ghost, fuck me.” Your hips buck involuntarily as you babble, desperate for more of him.
He chuckles a low, guttural sound that you swear you can feel vibrating through your body. “Cock-drunk already, are we?” he taunts, “Fuckin’ whore,” He pulls back slightly before plunging forward with renewed force, cramming his cock against your cervix, hitting places you couldn’t even reach with your own fingers.
He was right. You could feel him everywhere, stretching you, filling you, owning you, utterly consuming you. Every thrust punched the air out of you, the rhythmic plap, plap, plap of his thighs meeting yours reverberating through the room as he fucked you.
“Fuck me harder, I need you— please—” You were so close already, worked up from your last orgasm and already teetering on the edge of another, the pleasure building each time the head of his cock strokes your g-spot. He picks up the pace with a groan and hammers into you, unable to breathe as his cock stretches you to your limits.
“Ghost,” you sob, fat tears falling from your eyes, wetting your cheeks before you can stop them. His name escapes your lips through hiccups, unable to think of anything except how full you feel, how you could’ve possibly missed out on this for so long.
He slaps your cheek, the sting is a sudden shock that jolts you back to the present. “Stop fuckin’ callin’ me that,” he snarls, his voice thick with pure sex and an edge of possessiveness, just lurking beneath his words. He leans directly over you, your legs pinned between his torso and yours. He groans before shrugging up his balaclava and licking your stray tears. You’re too deep in it to fully process, too consumed by the heat of the moment to care.
“Call me Simon when I fuck you,” he rasps against your lips,
“Say it.”
“S—Sim—on,” you mewl, your voice punctuated by each of his thrusts. “S—simon, p—ple—ase…”
“Please what?” he snarls, the head of his cock devastatingly rubbing your g-spot with each thrust, “Please fuck you harder? Please make you cream all over this cock?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” you wail, your body writhing beneath him. “Please, Simon— Fuck!”
“Atta fuckin’ girl,” he praises through gritted teeth, and with renewed vigor, he fucks you harder, caging you in as he fucks you into the mattress, each stroke shoving you farther up the bed.
“Squeezin’ me so tight,” he rasps, “So fucking tight.” he gripped your thighs harder, the fat dimpling beneath his fingers, surely to bruise in the morning. He presses you further, painfully folded in half. “Feel me? Feel how deep I am inside o’ you?”
You gasp, your body trembling, heat pooling low in your belly, sparks shooting up your spine, “Yes,” you breathed, your voice a strained whisper. “Too much... it's so much, Si—”
You’re on the edge, pressure just building and tightening as your walls pulse around him, ready to milk him for all he’s worth. His hips stutter and he knows he’s done for. “Fuck, let go, Let it happen, pet,”
At his command, a raw, guttural cry tears from your throat, and a shattered echo of his name launches into the humid air. It isn’t much of a word, not really, but a primal sound, a desperate, broken exclamation born from the white-hot core of your pleasure.
Your back arches, lifting you off the bed, your spine a rigid curve against his. Your hips buck wildly against his, grinding and shuddering. The hot, slick rush of your release coats his cock. It spreads across his abdomen and your thighs as well, a glistening sheen in the dim light. Your breath hitches and ragged gasps escape your lips as the waves of pleasure wash over you.
The world narrows, focusing solely on the feel of his skin on your own as he still thrusts into you, telling you to “Cream this fuckin’ cock,” as he groans, just as lost in the pleasure as you. The aftershocks of your orgasm reverberate through you, leaving you trembling and weak as he fucks you through it to reach his own.
A series of breathy moans escape his lips in tandem with yours, each one a ragged exhale as his hips begin to twitch, thrusts growing sloppy as you pulse around him, energy rippling through his muscles as his own orgasm approaches.
“Oh-,” he breathes, his voice a low, jagged rasp, a guttural urging. “Fuck! Fuck— Shit, just like that, girl.” His hips slam against yours, a final, desperate thrust that presses him flush against your cunt. He spills inside you, a hot, thick tide of his cum flooding your cunt. Ropes of his seed paint your inner walls, as far as he can reach, marking you as his. A wave of heat pulses through you, the feeling of him filling you completely, claiming you from the inside out.
Eventually, the tremors die down, and he rolls off you, the sudden absence of his weight pinning you down leaving you feeling strangely hollow. Your thighs fall limply as he lets go of them, a strange ache that almost bothers you.
A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound of contentment.
“Broken little bird aren’t you?” he drawls..
You lift your head to see him eye-level with your pussy, watching as his cum leaks out of you. You lay still, your body aching, your mind spinning. You want to protest, to deny his words and shut your legs, but you don’t think you could form a genuine sentence if you tried.
Not only did you (finally) lose your virginity, but you lost it to a criminal. That broke into your house.
He moves to sit next to your laid figure and reaches out, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your jaw, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Don't look so glum, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice softening slightly. “You did well,”
“for a first-timer.”
A blush creeps up your neck, and you instinctively turn your face away, curling into yourself. “Shut up,” you mutter, your voice hoarse.
He lets out a low, husky chuckle. “Oh, usin’ fightin’ words now, are we?” His fingers find a stray strand of your hair, twisting it lazily between calloused fingertips. “Funny, didn’t see you puttin’ up much of a fight five minutes ag—”
You don’t let him finish. Grabbing a tousled pillow, you launch it at his face. It bounces off his head with a pathetic little thump. He snorts, catching it mid-air, the plush looking comically small in his massive hands.
“Oh, we’re throwin’ shit now?” He smirks, squeezing the poor thing for emphasis. “Little minx—”
The sudden blare of the doorbell slices through the moment. You both freeze.
His eyes flick toward the door, sharp and assessing, mood immediately changing. “You expectin’ anyone?”
You shake your head. “No.”
His jaw tightens. The weight of reality comes crashing back. He’s a fugitive, and did, in fact, break into your house.
“I’ll get it,” you hum, already moving.
He gives a slow nod, hungrily watching as you rummage through your dresser for something decent. You yank an oversized T-shirt over your head and grab the first pair of pants you can find, his sweats. They nearly slide right off your hips, the waistband hanging dangerously loose, but there’s no time to fix it.
You leave the bedroom, your pulse drumming in your ears as you make your way to the front door. The second you pull it open, your stomach drops.
Two cops.
Their faces are unreadable, their eyes scanning you, the dim space behind you, everything. “Evening, miss. Sorry to bother you, but we’re making the rounds,” one of them says, flashing a tight-lipped smile. “You seen anything suspicious? Anything out of the ordinary?”
Your fingers tighten around the doorframe. You think of Simon. His hands on your waist, the weight of him between your legs, the low rasp of his voice still ringing in your ears. But you swallow hard and shake your head.
“No, nothing,” you say, keeping your voice light, casual. “Why?”
The other officer exhales sharply, shifting his weight. “ Highly dangerous man on the loose. Escaped with the rest of those arseholes from Belmarsh. Last spotted in this area.” His gaze flicks past you again, scanning the dreary interior of your flat. “Figured we’d check in, see if anyone’s seen him.”
You school your face into something neutral, shaking your head again. “Haven’t seen anything lately, sorry to disappoint.”
They watch you for a second too long. You wonder if they can hear your heartbeat slamming against your ribs. But finally, they nod.
“All right. Just be careful, ma’am. Lock your doors.”
“Will do,” you say, forcing a tight-lipped smile of your own.
You shut the door.
Your heart is pounding. You press your back against the timber, exhaling sharply before pushing off and heading back to the bedroom.
“Simon—” you call, nudging the door open.
The bed is empty, sheets tangled, the ghost of his warmth already fading. The curtains billow, the night air slithering in, laced with the scent of him—sex, sweat, something else that’s so distinctly him.
Okay so. Rose asked for a full review of cheesecake factory bc today’s my birthday and that’s where I went for dinner with my friend Elena, who’s boobs you’ll get to see momentarily in the back of a picture of the food.
We also got a plate of fried calamari and I ended up bringing my slice of cheesecake home, so I can update after I consume it. Elena also filmed her singing happy birthday to me so
Did my nails myself, the second I got home I popped them off bc they were just gel pressons I made. The food was SOOO good. Will def be left overs for a WHILE. Expensive, but you get what you pay for, yk?
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