Kailey Rose💋💋

Note.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ: Good Boy is about an established relationship between Jonathan and you. Late nights happen, not all of the time but they do happen. You always stay up, no matter if it's midnight or 4am, always waiting for him. Tonight, Jon just couldn't help himself to what was waiting.

18+ (I have to say this), this has sexual content, like seriously.

Kinks or Fetishes: Dry humping, dom/sub variables, teasing, praise, late night sex, Cowgirl position, slow at first and fast at the end, unprotected p in v (Wrappp itt)

3,499 words. ABFAB oriented sex, words, and genital descriptions. Nothing past that is described.

The world doesn't stop needing saving, but sometimes, Jon wishes it would. Just for a night. Just long enough for him to get home before the city starts sleeping, long enough to walk through that door and not feel like he's missed something—missed you.

It's past midnight by the time he's back. His shoulders ache, his clothes smell faintly like smoke and ozone, and there's a hum still in his bones from flying too fast, too far, too hard. But all of that quiets when he pushes open the door and sees the glow of the lamp you always leave on for him.

It's like walking into warmth after being out in the cold.

You’re here. Still awake—barely. You’re curled up on the couch in one of his old shirts, the shoulders too broad, your hair messy like you’ve been running your fingers through it while waiting. God, you’re beautiful. Like always. Like every time he looks at you and feels his chest get too tight with everything he can't say fast enough.

You blink up at him, sleepy and soft, and he swears the earth tilts under his feet.

He crosses the room in a blink, drops to his knees in front of you like his body already knows where it wants to be—at your feet, in your arms, soaking you in. You smile and stretch out your hand and it's everything. It always is.

Just you—just this.

His breath catches like you’re wind in his lungs, like the only thing that makes him feel human after a night spent flying above everything.

And tonight... there's something different. Charged. Electric.

You lean in, eyes heavy-lidded, fingers threading into his hair, and it takes everything he has not to melt into your lap. His pulse trips over itself. There's a buzz under his skin like the moment before a lightning strike, a low pull in his stomach that turns into a knot the longer he looks at you.

Your legs shift to make room for him and suddenly he's leaning into your space, closer than he should be if he wants to think straight. But he doesn't want to think. Not even a little.

He could kiss you. He wants to kiss you. He wants to bury himself in the space between your shoulder and your neck and just stay there. Let the night strip him down and build him back up with your hands.

And you know. That smile of yours, the way your fingertips graze the edge of his jaw, lazy and featherlight—you know what you do to him.

His knees are weak. His heart's a mess. And still, he's the luckiest guy on the planet.

He's adorable in a way that no one else really can be, even when he's like this—in your space, breathing you in like you’re the oxygen his lungs need to survive, looking at you like he was to savor you like you’re his last meal.

It's tender, earnest, and adorable.

Your fingers trail up his jawline, pulling him closer. He'd been gone a while, one of those rare nights that had him out later then he usually wants to be.

You were okay with it, you would've stayed up longer just to see him come home in one piece. To breathe him in.

His shirt is smooth against your skin as your free hand wraps around his arm, tugging him up towards you. His pretty blue eyes looking at you like he can't bear to take them off.

It makes your stomach light up with fireworks. You press a soft kiss to the side of his mouth.

Jon's head swims. Everything shrinks down to you. To the whisper of your skin, the scent of your hair, your fingers tracing his jaw.

And all he wants to do is kiss you.

You tug on his arm, and he goes without a second thought. Your legs part, and he's settled in between them, his breath catching when you pull him close.

He can see every fleck of every color in your eyes. Every little detail. The sweet tint of your lips, the flutter of your eyelashes, the hitch in your breath when you realize just how close he is.

God, the way he looks at you, you’ll never get over it. The way he can look so hungry and so in love at the same time never fails to take your breath away like it was his to take, and it might as well be.

He's so pretty, above you, between your legs. His touch warm and tender.

You slide your hands to his broad shoulders, around to his shoulder blades, down the curve of his spine. Touching him always feels like this sacred thing, like you need to take your time and just savor it.

Savor the way his eyes look, the way his breath stutters. All of him.

You move, just a quick thing—and you do it because you know he'd move like he isn't a man that could easily not move an inch—you flip the position, him flat on his back on the couch and you perch above him.

For better access, to be honest. Your hands roaming along his body.

Oh.

Jon's stomach tightens, his pulse jumps. He doesn't think he's ever experienced wanting quite like this.

Your touch is electric, like the first burst of power in his body. Every brush of your hands makes him shiver, your skin against his sets him on fire, and his thoughts get tangled in every bit of you.

You lean over him, hair falling around your face in a soft curtain, and oh, you’re beautiful. And you're looking at him like he's more.

You know you’re not exactly overpowering him, but it's the fact he's letting you have the power over him that he could easily take if he wanted to. It's hot.

You lean down the rest of the distance, pressing your lips together softly at first, exploring his mouth like it's the first time.

He always tastes like mint toothpaste and something sweet, something distinctly him. It's nowhere near the first time you’ve had his soft lips against yours, kissing him like he's air itself.

It won't be the last either.

Your hands slide along his toned stomach, feeling it flutter under you.

It's slow, earnest, and raw need.

You don't even know how you went from sleepy to this, it was like he was just too addictive to miss an opportunity to map him out again. Relearn him like it's not the thousandth time.

It'll never be something you don't do. Learning him.

It's so easy to get lost in you. Between the taste of your mouth and the feel of your hair, the shiver of those fingers against his skin. It feels like the first time, every time.

Something like need pulls at his gut, and his arms wrap around you—pulling you against him. The both of you are pressed close on the couch, your body soft and warm against his, and the world falls away.

Your fingers dig into his stomach, teeth dragging over his lip, and Jon lets his head fall back. The sound he makes is something like a whimper.

The sound of his whimper is like music to your ears, a sound you’ll never not feel heat pool in your stomach because of. You trail kisses down from his lips, along his jaw and down the curve of his throat.

Your hands slide up his sides, feeling the muscles along his ribs twitch under your touch. He's so addicting, his every reaction and touch like fuel to the flames in your blood.

You’ll never tire of this, of having this with him.

Your hips shift, moving against him to position yourself more comfortably since he has them pressed flush against each other.

Jon's breath catches when your lips find the spot where his neck and shoulder meet, and his hands slide down to your hips. You move against him, and it's like his whole body feels it. His eyes flutter closed, his mouth opens on a silent ‘oh’—like the feeling is stealing the air from his lungs.

You mouth along the column of his throat, feeling his pulse jump against your tongue. His hands on your hips a welcome weight, and a sign as obvious as the bulge pressing against you between your legs.

You press kisses up his neck, open mouthed and wet, along the underside of his jaw. Hands resting on his ribs, fingers splayed across the muscle. You move your hips again, this time deliberately grinding against him instead of shifting in your spot on him.

You like the way his heartbeat speeds up beneath your palm, the way his breathing gives him away to you because he's so open—like a puppy wanting a treat so badly.

He whimpers softly against your ear when you grind against him, and the feeling sends shivers down his spine. His hands tighten on your hips, fingers pressing into the soft flesh—holding you in place. His hips move of their own accord, pushing up against you—desperate to feel more.

God, the sounds he makes draws a tingle up your spine and heat to pool down to your stomach. The way he presses his hips up has a soft noise leaving you, feeling the press of his bulge against your sleep shorts.

He's always so needy, so desperate for you. Like he'd never get enough of you and never wanted to.

And you eat it up every time.

You rock your hips against his in a steady grind, giving him what he needs and what you want. Your hands leave his sides to drop down to his hands holding your hips, fingers curling around his wrists as you sit up slightly to grind against him better.

And to watch the way his face fills with that needy look.

Jon's eyes fix on your face—those hooded eyes watching him, those fingers around his wrists. The sight of you moving against him like that... fuck, it feels too good.

His breathing comes faster, choppier, and his grip on your hips slides to your ass, pulling you down harder onto him.

You like the way he keeps his eyes on yours, watching you watch him. The way his breathing gets faster, it makes your heart beat faster. You moan softly when he grips your ass, pulling harder with each grind. It feels good.

Seeing that look on his face, keeping eye contact, feeling his bulge grind up into you, all of it feels good.

You only last a few minutes before it becomes too much to hold off, your hands moving to the buckle of his jeans, fumbling with it. As amazing as doing this is, as much as you love watching the way he becomes more desperate, you want him.

You want him so badly. “Off,” you mutter, half a demand and half a request for help.

His hips buck up against you as you fumble with his belt, desperate and needy. He can't help the low groan that escapes his lips when you finally get it undone. His hands move to help, pushing his jeans down roughly, freeing himself from the confines of his boxers.

You lift off his lap for a moment, tugging your shorts off, fumbling slightly. You sit back, between his legs to pull both your shorts and panties off yourself. You toss it, not caring where it lands, it'll land somewhere.

You crawl back onto his lap, leaning over him to kiss him. Pressing your lips together like you’re a woman starved, like you need him to breathe. One of your hands grasp his chin between your fingers, the other slides between you both.

You wrap your hand around the base of his dick, stroking him a few times, the head rubbing against your mound as you keep the kissing going until Jon breaks the kiss with a sharp gasp as you stroke him, his dick sliding against your wetness. 

His hands go back to your ass, squeezing tightly as he lifts his hips, trying to get inside you—needy and desperate. "Fuck, just—just put me inside you already."

You grin against his mouth at his desperation, getting him where you always love to. You're sure he enjoys it just as much. The way he lifts his hips like that'll work, if he could just angle himself he'll get where he wants.

You kiss the corner of his mouth, then his chin, and another on his cheek. Tender, slow. Dragging it out because now you sort of want to.

Just to hear him gasp again, or make one of those noises you love so much. You stroke him slowly again, languid.

"You gonna say please?" You murmur softly, hovering your lips over his again.

"Jesus Christ, just—please—please fuck me already." He whimpers, his face flushing with embarrassment and frustration. His hips jerk upward again, seeking out that hot wetness between your legs, muttering your name. “Please—put me inside and ride me before I explode."

You breathe a soft laugh at his begging, although it makes your blood heat up and heart pound in your chest. You love the sound of him begging you to just give him what he wants, like he'll just die without it. It's so fucking… god.

He could easy just take what he wants, overpower you and do it, but he's choosing to do this. Let you have that power when he could just flip you over.

Good behavior gets a good reward, doesn't it? You’re nothing if not sweet to him.

"Such a good boy, aren't you?" You croon softly, kissing him lightly as you line his dick up. You slowly sink down his length, moaning softly at the familiar stretch.

"Fuck, yes, I'm a good boy." He gasps, his hands gripping your hips tightly as you sink down onto him. The feeling of you wrapping around him is indescribable, and he has to bite his lip to keep from crying out.

You smile slightly at his gasped words, the way he just seems to lose himself in you so fast already. You never tire of seeing this, the pleasure wiped across his face, the way he touches you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered here.

It's addicting in all the best ways. You love it.

Your thumb pulls his bottom lip out from between his teeth, you don’t want him to stifle his noises—you love hearing them far too much to miss out on it.

You pepper light kisses along his jaw before you slowly move your hips, back and forth. You can feel him moving minutely inside, that slow pull and push makes your nerves light up.

"You feel so good. God, look at you, my good boy." You praise, your words edging into a slight moan.

He whimpers your name, his back arching off the couch as he tries to pull you down further onto him. His hands tighten on your hips, his fingers spreading wide to cover your entire backside. "More, please—please move more." He begs, his voice breaking.

You finally decide to stop teasing him, even if you do love what it gets you. You sit up, hands sliding to his chest for stability as you start moving your hips deliberately. You rise off and sink back down his cock, soft, breathy moans leaving you.

Your eyes, half lidded, watch him and the way his eyes flutter and feel the way his heart is hammering in his chest. His begging was sweet and arousing to all hell, but this is just as good.

Pleasuring him, getting to watch the way you can get him to respond to it.

And God, the way he feels inside you is fucking phenomenal.

"Fuck—oh my God—" Jon gasps, his hands sliding up to your hips again like he can’t hold just one place, pulling you down harder each time. His breath comes out in short bursts as he watches you undulate on top of him. Every movement sends electricity coursing through his body, making him shake slightly.

Your breaths grow a bit choppy, losing a bit of yourself in the sensation of his cock exiting and entering you. He just feels so good, so goddamn good. And the way he's gasping and practically shaking for you.

It's just everything.

He's so pretty like this.

You lean over him slightly, planting your hands on the arm of the couch behind his head for leverage. You move your hips faster, grinding slightly every time his dick bottoms out inside you.

The sounds of skin slapping skin and the wet squelch of him entering your pussy over and over again is obscene but almost adds to it all.

"You gonna come for me, baby? Hm?" You almost purr, right near his ear.

"Y-yes—fuck, yes I am." He stammers out, his eyes rolling back as you grind down on him. He can feel his release building at the base of his spine, the pressure growing with each thrust. "Oh, God." It hits him all at once and with a whimper he's coming.

You don't stop moving even as the warmth of him coming spreads through your pussy and lower belly, you keep your hips moving. With a bit less focus on him and more on yourself, but still very much loving the way he whimpers for you.

You sit up, planting your hands on his knees and snapping your hips forward quickly, angling to have him hit that special spot inside you. Your eyes slipping shut as you moan, chasing your own finish and dragging out the pleasure of his own.

Moans and soft groans leave you, your breathing choppy and quick as pressure builds in your stomach.

"Holy—damn," he chokes on a whimper, watching your hips snap forward. You’re chasing your own release now, body tight and graceful as you work yourself over his slowly softening length. His hands spread your thighs wider, watching your pussy swallow his dick again and again. "Jesus—"

You can feel his eyes on you, his whimper making your skin hot. You moan as you fuck yourself on his cock, fast and deliberate to work yourself over. You lean a bit further back when you feel his hands spread your thighs, your hands resting on his shins instead, letting your thighs spread wide.

The position has him hitting the perfect angle, even if you’re the one riding him. Your brows furrow and your lips part as that pressure in your stomach grows until it snaps and you come with a groan.

Your legs shaking and pussy convulsing around him.

His breath catches as you come undone, those pretty legs shaking violently as your pussy clamps down around him. He can feel every ripple and pulse, your wetness dripping down his balls as you ride out your high. 

"God, baby." He whimpers raggedly, watching your pretty face contort with pleasure.

You stay as you are for a moment, catching your breath as your heart pulses everywhere in your body. After a second, you sit up properly, your hands moving to rest lazily on his stomach.

Your eyes roam his face, from his dilated eyes to his flushed cheeks. You could just eat him up sometimes, he's cute even now. Satiated and flushed from an orgasm.

You lean down slightly, pressing your lips together in a lazy, loving kiss. Just soaking him in for a moment longer because having him like this feels too right to pull off of him right away.

Jon hums softly against your lips, his arms wrapping loosely around you as you kiss him lazily. He's boneless and satiated, his body feeling like jelly as he holds you close. His fingers trace idle patterns on your hip and side as you two just... exist in this moment together.

Jon and you don't even make it to the bed for a while. Just a tangle of limbs on the couch, your laughter against his throat, clothes crumpled somewhere on the floor, your warmth sinking into him like sun through skin.

And when you do finally drag yourselves to bed, half-dressed and wholly in love, your body fits into his like a song he never gets tired of hearing.

Note.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ: Milf Next Door is about Jason being enamored with his next-door neighbor in his apartment complex, who happens to be a 30-year-old mother. You’re a divorcee sharing split custody with your ex, usually taking care of your toddler aged daughter for most of the week.

16+, there's heavy topics, shitty men, and suggestive language.

Kinks or fetishes: None.

4,045 words. ABFAB reader, nothing specified outside having a biological female daughter you gave birth to.

You moved in last May. He remembered because it was the first time he heard a laugh that lit up the whole floor—yours. Your kid was chasing bubbles in the hallway, squealing like it was magic, while you stood by your door, smiling like the weight of the world wasn't on your shoulders.

Jason hadn't meant to stare, but he did. Long enough for you to notice and toss him a casual "Hi." he mumbled something back, probably too low for you to hear, and ducked into his apartment before he did something stupid—like ask your name. Not that he needed to. Your kid says it enough—Mommy, Mommy, Mommy.

He's lived here for years, and suddenly it feels brighter. Warmer. Like your kid's noise is life, and your singing through thin walls is a lullaby he wanted to listen to forever. It's ridiculous. He's ridiculous.

He told himself it's nothing. But then he started "coincidentally" running into you everywhere—the lobby, mailroom, even the laundromat he barely used. Once, he offered to help with your groceries—too many bags, your kid bouncing at your feet—but you just smiled and said you had it. He joked about your biceps being stronger than his, and your laugh nearly killed him on the spot.

You’re older—not by much, but enough to make him hesitate. Enough to remind him that your ex still swings by for his weekends, and he hates how his chest tightens when he hears the guy’s voice. You’ve got your life together: a kid, a job, that calm, effortless confidence he’ll never have.

And Jason? He’s just the guy next door, pretending not to notice and praying his siblings don’t meet you—they’d call you a “Milf” to his face. (Not that he hasn’t… thought it. Once. Or twice. Or enough to hate himself.)

It’s nothing. It has to be nothing. But every time your kid waves, every time you smile, it feels like getting punched in the chest. And he’d cross a thousand hallways just to get you to look at him like that a second longer.

Though today, he hasn’t seen you much—the quiet tells him your kid’s probably with your ex this weekend.

Until now.

You were arguing. Loud. You would’ve kept it down if you weren’t so… pissed off. Your apartment door slammed behind you as you stepped into the hall, pacing like you needed the movement to keep from combusting.

“No! That’s not fair, Sean.” You snapped, marching back the other way. This place wasn’t exactly a stranger to noise, but guilt still nipped at your edges. It was 8pm—people could’ve been trying to sleep.

But this was Gotham. Probably not. And right now? You didn’t care.

The moment he heard your voice, he was done for. He told himself it wasn’t his business—your divorce, your kid, all of it—and definitely not his hopeless crush. But then came the shouting. He opened his door, half ready to knock, but then he saw you pacing and—Jesus. You were beautiful when you were angry.

“I can’t afford—Goddammit, you son of a bitch!” you shouted, cutting yourself off as the line went dead. He hung up on you. You let out a sound of sheer frustration and threw your phone to the floor with a dull thud. Then just… stood there. Breathing.

Jason stayed still for a beat, watching. You looked like you wanted to punch something. He knew the feeling—and his apartment wouldn’t survive it. Better to step in before something got broken.

“Bad call?”

You tensed for half a second before glancing over. Your neighbor—Jason, if you remembered right—was standing in the doorway in his too-tall, quietly concerned glory. He looked at you like he got it. Like he’d seen this kind of wreckage before.

You sighed, offering a sheepish smile. The yelling wasn’t anyone else’s problem. You knew that. You didn’t need half the complex overhearing your mess.

“Yeah. Sorry, did I wake you?” you asked, voice quieter now. You bent to grab your phone. Screen was fine—aside from the old crack—but it worked. That was something. Shouldn’t have thrown it, though.

He shook his head. “No, you didn’t. I’ve heard worse through these walls.”

He leaned against the doorframe, looking down at you like you were breaking his heart without trying. Angry and lost and—God—everything else that made him want to be stupidly heroic.

“You okay?” he asked. Too soft. Too gentle. But you pulled it out of him.

He cleared his throat. “Need anything? Glass of water? Sledgehammer for your ex’s head?” Mostly joking. Mostly.

You laugh a little, shaking your head. It’d solve all your problems for a while, if your ex would just disappear. God, you wish he would stay out of your and your daughter’s life. But that wouldn’t be fair to your baby girl. She deserves a father—even if it means suffering.

You wipe a hand over your face, collecting yourself first and foremost. It’s a talent you’ve earned from years of motherhood, tiptoeing around explosive feelings. Not that Jason’s a kid, though you're still not sure how old the man is.

“I’m alright,” you say kindly, glancing at him again once your hand drops from your face. Your eyes flick down as your phone buzzes—a new text lights up the screen, and a frown etches itself there before you’ve even finished reading.

Not all that pleased anymore, if you were at all.

Jason nods awkwardly, uncertain now. He shoves his hands in his pockets, retreating halfway through his doorway. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. Sorry. I’ll—”

Another buzz. You tense. And you wonder if he noticed your hands shaking. It reminds him of pit rage, of his own hands refusing to steady for weeks. You must be riding the opposite current—helpless, angry, frustrated—but the trembling gave you away.

He hesitates.

“Want some company?”

You don’t respond at first. Your ears are ringing—it could be anger, frustration, or just… devastation. You haven’t cared about your ex in ages. You divorced him for a reason. But you love your daughter so fiercely, and he’s just awful.

His words filter through the static. Jason’s sweet—he really is. His sincerity’s written into the lines of his face. It doesn’t sound like a terrible idea, having company. A real adult conversation, someone to talk to who isn’t a four-year-old with sticky fingers.

“You’re welcome to accompany me down to the lobby,” you say. “Buggy doesn’t— I mean, Molly doesn’t like riding the elevator alone.” You add the context without thinking. “Her dad’s dropping her off. Some work thing.”

It takes Jason a beat to register that Buggy is a nickname. He smiles—she must be adorable. “Sure. Whatever you need.”

The stairwell door’s right across from him. He grabs the handle and pulls it open. “Ladies first.” Corny, old-school. But you deserve it. Besides, he doesn’t mind the view as you step past him, tight jeans and all.

Jesus, Todd. He scolds himself. Stop being creepy.

You smile at the gesture, shaking your head a little at the corniness. You head down the steps, and you hear him following behind—quieter than expected for someone his size. Sean was louder, and so much smaller.

You check your phone again. More texts roll in, some making you want to drop the damn thing and let it get stomped into concrete. But you don’t. You’re an adult. You’ve got responsibilities and obligations, and unfortunately, that device is tied to most of them.

“Motherfucker…” you mutter under your breath, picking up the pace—taking the stairs two at a time. You shove your phone into your back pocket and grab the railing, moving fast but careful not to trip.

Jason adjusts seamlessly, taking three or four steps at a time to keep up with you.

The lobby arrives faster than expected, and he stops at the door, waving you forward. “After you.”

For a moment, he hopes your ex doesn’t show. Things would be so much easier if it were just you, your kid… and him. He pushes open the door, letting you step outside. Then follows—and immediately sees the idiot who ruined your mood.

Your jaw tenses, but your face stays neutral, like none of this has pissed you off. You walk through the door Jason opens for you, cutting a brisk line toward your ex without a word. You stop in front of him, arms crossed, the resentment plain.

“I already told you, Renny, I’ve got a work thing. I can’t miss it,” he tries, scrambling for control. But you were married to him. You know every one of his cheap tricks. You wouldn’t have divorced him if you still fell for his smooth talk. He just looks pathetic now.

You don’t respond.

You walk around him and yank open the backseat car door, starting to get your daughter out before he makes good on his threat to leave her on the sidewalk.

You unbuckle your sleepy girl from her car seat, lifting her into your arms with a soft grunt. The dead weight’s familiar—this isn’t your first late-night transfer—and you cradle her easily, protectively.

Jason takes one look at the idiot and sees every guy he hates rolled into one: smug, entitled, wrapped in a corporate superiority complex. But then you pull your daughter from the car—and the world shifts.

He takes a step forward, half-ready to do something reckless—but stops when the little girl looks up at him with tired eyes.

“Hi…”

He freezes. He was ready for war, but now there's a sleepy child holding a stuffed rabbit. His heart melts instantly, his temper gone like smoke.

You smile at Molly’s greeting. Your little girl adores Jason despite their passing hallway encounters. Hospitality, it seems, runs in the family.

You glance up at him standing behind you. Sean’s probably thinking something dumb, but you don’t care. You look away and grab Molly’s overnight bag with your free hand, the other still clutching your daughter close at the hip.

You turn, facing Jason, though your eyes shoot daggers past him at your ex. Molly reaches out—freckled fingers like yours—gripping a handful of Jason’s t-shirt in her sleepy haze. She’s always been handsy.

Jason kneels without thinking, level with Molly’s gaze. He should be focused on Sean, but instead he’s watching tiny fingers curled into his shirt.

Sean’s garbage. But Molly? She’s all soft cheeks and drowsy eyes, yawning into your shoulder.

She deserves better. Not a father who bails for a meeting. Not a life built on broken promises.

Jason watches you reach up and stroke Molly’s messy copper strands, an absent-minded gesture you’ve probably done a thousand times. He sees you wait, patient but tense, as Sean delivers his canned apology about how vital his job is.

You don’t care. Not at all.

But you know Molly will—once she’s awake enough to realize Daddy didn’t follow through again. That meltdown? Yours to handle. Sean just gets to coast.

Jason stays focused on the little girl in your arms as Sean keeps talking, his voice a drone of excuses. Molly’s eyelashes flutter in a doze. Jason doesn’t move—afraid even a shift might wake her. His jaw tightens with restraint.

Don’t wake the baby. Breathe, Jason…

“This is real cheap. I hope you know that, Sean,” you mutter—whether it’s spite or sadness you’re not sure. You adjust Molly, jaw clenched tight. He doesn’t deserve to see her at all.

You glance at Jason, who’s still here even though he doesn’t have to be. You invited him for company, not to bear witness to this bullshit.

You scoff quietly and shut the car door with a hip bump, moving away from Sean and gesturing with a nod for Jason to follow. Not that he needs the invitation in his own apartment complex—your hands are just full.

You walk away, holding your girl close, her head resting against your shoulder. Jason follows, silent and broad-shouldered, radiating quiet intimidation. He hopes the idiot gets the hint.

Sean shoots him one last angry look before driving off like a child. Jason almost laughs.

As soon as the car’s gone, Jason turns to you again.

“You okay?” he asks, gentle as ever.

You don’t look okay. Holding Molly helps, but tension’s etched all over your face. It makes him want to do something. Anything to help.

He doesn’t know when he became part of your and Molly’s world, but here he is—for maybe the third time tonight—asking if you’re alright. Because he’s genuinely worried. About you. About her. Who wouldn’t be, with a kid that sweet?

You glance down at Molly’s sleeping face. Sometimes you wonder if you’re giving her enough. Gotham’s rough. The apartment complex is falling apart. Her father’s flaky and unreliable. What kind of future is that?

“I will be,” you say with a soft sigh, nodding a little. It’s a mother move. Classic. A ‘mommy’s fine’ line, tossed to a six-foot-four man who’s about as domesticated as a stray. Call it reflex.

But you’re lying. He knows it. Anyone would.

What you need is someone honest. Someone to remind you that you’re allowed to be hurt. That this isn’t normal, and you shouldn’t have to pretend it is.

“Bullshit,” Jason mutters, arms folded across his chest. “You’re allowed to be mad. To be angry and pissed as hell because that idiot made you stand in the cold holding your baby while he spewed excuses.”

He wants to punch something again.

You look over at him, realizing it’s been a long time since you’ve spoken to another adult who wasn’t Sean or some coworker. It’s just been you and Molly. And she’s perfect. You’d never trade her for anything. But sometimes it’s easy to forget—you’re thirty, and you still need people, too.

Your eyes roam Jason’s face for a quiet moment—the firm honesty in his gaze, the tight set to his jaw that says he won’t take bullshit. It’s kind of nice, having someone look you dead in the eye with that kind of certainty, especially when the face happens to be handsome. Not that it matters.

“You’re right, I know,” you breathe, nodding slightly before glancing down at Molly asleep in your arms, all peace and soft breath. “I was really young when I had her. He was good back then. But then Molly grew, and he decided that was too much work.”

Jason’s heart cracks a little. All the anger he'd felt earlier falls away, replaced by… something else. Sympathy, maybe. Maybe a kind of raw ache.

He wants to comfort you. Wants to close the distance, to hold you against his chest while you speak your truth until the storm passes. No conditions. No nonsense. Just like you’re his girl or something.

He frowns and shoves his hands deep into his pockets to stop himself from doing something reckless.

“Why did you marry him?”

You run your fingers through Molly’s coppery waves—so familiar, so soft. She got the texture from her dad, not you. The question sits heavy in your head. You’ve thought about it plenty.

It happened fast. One night, and suddenly you were growing a tiny human in your belly. You were twenty-four. A waitress in Gotham. Your boyfriend was a trust-fund kid with smooth talk and shiny promises. You eloped. He said he loved you.

“I worked in midtown,” you say. “Sean was some Diamond District kid who liked the café I was at. We dated a few weeks. I found out I was pregnant with Molly… so we eloped. Just a lot of bad choices, honestly.” You chuckle, softly self-deprecating.

Jason’s eyes widen. Twenty-four’s young, especially here. Gotham doesn’t give grace—it gives scars. You were right: that was a lot of rough decisions.

“Do you regret it?” he asks, voice low so Molly won’t stir.

It feels natural, this softness. Not because the world demands quiet, but because he wants to protect this moment. You. Her.

Your smile changes—loving, deep. You look down at Molly, cradled like your whole world in your arms. There’s no regret. Not an ounce. You’d do it all over again if it meant holding this sleepy girl for even a second.

The pregnancy, the job, the collapse of a marriage—it was all garbage. But you got her. And she’s good. The kind of good that doesn’t hurt bugs or break hearts. A quiet sunbeam in a broken city.

“She’s too good to regret anything I did to get her,” you murmur, brushing a thumb against Molly’s chubby cheek. Jason watches, hopelessly enchanted. It’s no surprise to you—Molly wraps everyone around her finger. Now apparently including a very tall repairman with gentle eyes.

He wants to hold you.

Badly.

Wants to pull you into his arms, let you fall against his chest and soak up every ounce of safety he could offer. But instead, what slips out is—

“You’re a great mom.”

Because he’s a fool. A fool who’s completely undone by the way you speak and move and look like you’re stitched from warmth itself.

You blink, unsure if anyone’s ever said that to you. Ever looked at you and said it like it was true. But here’s this massive man—quiet, hulking, sweet—telling you that you’re a good mom.

You glance at him and see it. The way he looks at Molly, and you. Like something sacred. He should be intimidating—he walks like a vigilante, talks like he’s carved from asphalt and fire—but he’s always been oddly charming. From his awkward hallway greetings to the way he always held the elevator when your hands were full.

So you smile. Just a little. Soft. Not like the one you give Molly—it’s different. You’re not sure how, but he sees it.

“Thanks.”

You smiled at him.

You smiled.

He’s grinning now—full, lopsided, teenager-with-a-crush kind of grin. You made him feel like a kid again just by smiling, and you’re painfully adorable, especially with Molly resting in your arms.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he replies, voice dipping softer than intended. His cheeks warm, which is ridiculous for a grown man with scars and a past.

What do you do to him?

He’s practically puppy-eyed. And for someone with that height and posture, you’d expect arrogance the size of Gotham Tower. But instead, he’s tripping over himself for a single smile.

You’re not a flirt. Never have been. But something about him makes you want to keep him talking.

“Enough of all this single mama drama,” you tease gently. “What’ddu do for work?”

You rock Molly slightly, keeping her asleep, keeping Jason close. Not that you need to lure him in—he always seems to be right where you are anyway.

“I’ve got a repair shop,” he replies, shifting his stance. He’s nervous. Nervous. It’s honestly kind of ridiculous, and kind of perfect.

He’s had flings. Plenty. Used to charm. But one smile from you? One tiny tilt of your lips? Suddenly his heart’s turning somersaults.

“I’m real good with my hands,” he adds, and immediately regrets it. Brain fried. Definitely not making a move. Definitely.

It tracks, though. He looks like the kind of guy who comes home smelling like smoke and metal, grease on his knuckles. A hands-on type in a city full of white collars and crime scenes.

Another Gotham heart beating under a blue-collar chest.

Your laugh catches him off guard, light and fleeting. Your eyes drop toward his hands for a split second before climbing back up with an amused smile. If you're someone who doesn't doubt a repairman is good with his hands, well… it definitely sounded a little flirty.

“Yeah? I've never been that good at putting things back together,” you say with a small shrug, careful not to disturb Molly’s sleepy head nestled into your shoulder.

You’re rusty at flirting. It’s not something you've had to do in a while.

You have no idea the chaos you sparked with that laugh.

Was Jason a goner?

He was a goner.

“I could help with that,” he says, trying for subtle but failing spectacularly. He’s already imagining you in his shop, smiling over some busted engine as he shows you the ropes. Like he’s picturing a future. With you.

You’re not sure when he slipped under your skin—when the neighbor who found you furious in a hallway turned into the guy keeping you company through a rough night. Is this flirting? You don’t know. It's been years since you had to navigate that territory.

You’re thirty, with a sleepy child curled against your hip. He shouldn’t be interested. But here he is—choosing to stay, choosing to talk. When he could be asleep or anywhere else in the world.

“Gonna make me a skilled mechanic?” you tease, offering him a small smile.

What harm could come from indulging this sweet, awkward giant?

He grins wide—so wide it almost hurts—and counters, “Or anything else to do with tools.”

The smile is ridiculous. Uncontrollable. Are you really having this effect on him? Is he this far gone over a woman he's only properly spoken to for an hour?

God, he wants to kiss you. Propose, maybe. Right there in the damn lobby.

You chuckle again, nodding slightly. You’re not exactly the fix-it type—you don’t have time to mess with broken faucets when you’ve got a toddler sprinting through the halls. But now? You could picture learning from him. Or letting him fix things for you and Molly while you get to watch.

Win-win.

“I guess it’s lucky we’re neighbors then,” you say lightly, “don’t have to travel far.”

You’re unsure if it came off smooth or just plain awkward. Last thing you want is to sound like you’re chasing younger men. You hate that thought.

But Jason knows an opening when it’s handed to him.

“Very lucky,” he replies, not bothering to hide how he’s looking at you. He wants you to notice. Wants you to see him.

He's fallen. Not falling. Fallen.

He wants to be someone to you. Wants to carry your secrets and hold space for yours and Molly’s messy little world.

He’s fantasizing about rings now. Jesus.

You shouldn't be flirting. You’re a single mom with a child still snoring against your shoulder, chatting up a twenty-something in the lobby after a brutal hand-off with your ex. But here you are—smiling, laughing, feeling things.

Your smile widens slightly. He’s disarmingly sweet, isn’t he? Spending his night like it’s just you, him, and Molly—and nothing else in Gotham matters.

But the city does exist. It always does.

“I’ll stop by your shop after work tomorrow, sound good?” you say softly.

You can’t believe you’re making plans. You shouldn’t be. But here you are. And Molly will absolutely adore it. So will you, honestly.

Did you just say yes? Was he just that charming?

Jason’s brain explodes: YOU’RE IN.

“I’d like that,” he says, honest and breathy, trying not to let all the joy leak into his voice.

He wants to fist-pump. He wants to spin in circles like an idiot. But he won’t risk waking Molly and ruining this moment.

God, he wants to kiss you. Wants everything.

You nod, smile turning bashful. Sure, no one's officially called this a date—but it feels like one. It’s been forever since you went out. Since Sean. Since Molly.

You adjust your grip on your daughter and feel downright giddy just thinking about seeing him again. It’s something so small, so silly, and yet here you are, grinning like you’re sixteen again.

"See you then." You say, lingering for a second—unsure whether to stay and just keep talking until the sun comes up or go back to your motherly responsibilities and put your daughter in her bed to sleep for the night.

"Goodnight, Jason." You finally say, deciding on the latter.

His heart nearly skipped a beat, but his brain was finally starting to come back online.

"Goodnight." He answered, his voice still coming out a little soft around your name. Why did you have such an affect on him?

You turned and walked toward your apartment, and he didn't watch you go. That would be weird. He's a man. He's not weird.

Note.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ: Summer Softness is about an established, gay relationship between Sirius and MMC. It’s Sirius's first summer that he hasn’t spent with the boys since he was twelve. And he honestly can’t find it in himself to miss it much, at least not when his mornings are any blokes fantasy. Well, a bloke like him. 

18+, this has sexual content, like seriously.

Kinks or fetishes: Dom/sub variables (just in the dynamic position sense), anal prep, anal fingering, mild dirty talk, anal sex, M/M sex, slight age gap but what queer in the 70s/80s didn’t let’s be honest, slight powerplay, slight inexperienced/experienced dynamic, unprotected sex. 

5,948 words. Male centered sex, male oriented pronouns when referring to oneself in third person.

Fuck JK Rowling. I’ll utterly debauch her characters. 

The first thing Sirius noticed—besides the delicious ache of sleeping in—was the bed was cold. Not stark or obvious, just the absence of warmth. Of you.

He stretched lazily across the mattress, fingers curling against the faintly warm sheet, breathing in the lingering scent. Bergamot and cloves, soft cotton, and that worn-skin warmth that always made him think of the inside of your sweaters. 

Comforting enough to ache.

Sunlight filtered through thin linen curtains—midmorning, too late by your standards, too early by his. The flat was quiet. Not lonely, but humming softly with life just out of reach. 

The ticking clock, rustling leaves, the ghost of coffee on the air. You were still here then.

He rolled onto his back, sighing into the hush. There was something nice about the way your place felt lived in, like a cardigan stretched soft from wear. Books stacked in every corner, paperbacks with creased spines. Shelves full of plants. Sunlight spilling in like the place was breathing.

So different from his flat with the boys’. 

Theirs was loud, cluttered with takeaway cartons and the hum of someone always awake. James with his music, Peter clattering in the kitchen, Remus sighing about the mess but only shifting books so he could sit. Even alone, it felt noisy, soaked in seven summers of echoes. 

But here, he could hear himself think. Hear himself feel.

Sirius slid from the blanket, feet finding the soft wool rug beneath the bed. The pyjama bottoms he’d tossed on last night were yours. Didn’t fit perfectly, but the drawstring helped. He liked the way the hem skimmed his feet.

The flat creaked softly as he padded into the hall, careful not to disturb the quiet. The candle on the windowsill was still lit—must’ve been from this morning. One of the ones you always get from that little shop in Camden, the one with the handwritten labels. 

You’d dragged him there once, and he’d pretended not to like it, but he’d watched you smell every single candle like it was poetry.

He passed the sitting room. No sign of you.

The kitchen maybe?

Still nothing. Just two mugs in the sink—one your favourite, chipped on the rim, but you swear it gives it character. 

Sirius knew if he touched anything, he’d mess up a perfect little system you’d never explain but would absolutely notice.

So he didn’t.

Instead, he leaned against the kitchen doorframe, listening for signs of life. A page turning. A cough. A footstep creaking over the wood. 

You were somewhere close, probably in your study nook by the window, glasses slipping down your nose, pen between your teeth, annotating something for a student who wouldn’t care half as much as you did.

And for some reason, that thought made him smile.

He could’ve stayed at the flat, spent the summer falling asleep to the boys arguing over socks in the fridge or whether curry counted as breakfast. And he will go back—because that’s part of him too. 

But for now, he wanted this.

The softness. The quiet mornings. Half-read books and cloves in the sheets. 

Wanted you.

Before uni stole the hours and life got louder again.

So he let the stillness wrap around him like a blanket, leaned his head back against the wall, and waited. For footsteps. Your voice. The turn of the page.

For you.

You had gotten up around his usual time, early morning—rising with the sun. And you’d stayed in bed longer than usual, if just to take in how peaceful Sirius looked. 

But you got up eventually, had to get some papers done and breaking your routine wasn’t something you did.

You walked back into the lounge from where you’d stepped out to the back balcony to smoke, and take a quick call—you’d managed to take the phone receiver with you—You didn’t want to wake him up by talking too loudly. 

You paused in the middle of the room, smiling slightly. Eyes running along the bare back of your boyfriend, who was rather lazily leaning back against the kitchen doorframe looking as comfortable as a cat in a sun patch. 

“Didn’t know you were up. Morning, love.” You murmur after a moment, setting the phone receiver on the coffee table.

Sirius’ whole chest warmed at the sound of your voice. Soft and raspy like you only ever were in the morning. 

He gave you a lazy smile, stretching lazily, the hem of his borrowed pants brushing his feet. You looked so damn soft like this. He could see the shadows of your shoulders through the thin sleep shirt. The dark circles under your eyes. The rumpled hair.

God, Sirius was so gone for you.

He pushed off the doorframe, padding barefoot across the living room to where you were standing, and pressed himself against your front.

“How long have you been awake?” He mumbled, still half-asleep.

Your smile softened at the way he pressed himself against you like melting butter—it’s adorable. Your hands move to his waist, holding gently to make sure he doesn’t go slipping against the rug beneath you both. 

He looked like he was still capable of passing out for a few more hours. 

Your fingers run up and down his sides lightly once you’re sure he’s stable on his own two feet. 

You enjoyed things like this, seeing him in the mornings. Getting to go to bed with him in the nights. 

Felt domestic, you liked it. He felt right being in your space, existing in it. Doing little things. 

“Since about seven, had some left over papers from yesterday to do.” You mutter, dipping your head enough to find his lips. You press a few short, soft kisses to them. Because he was too cute like this not to. 

“Didn’t want to wake you that early.” You add after, to explain your absence. 

Sirius sighed softly against your lips, eyes still half-lidded, body still warm and loose. It was all he could do to loop his arms around your shoulders and press up against you, seeking that sleepy, skin-to-skin contact. 

He always ran warm, but you were like a furnace. You could probably sleep with a single blanket even in midwinter.

He let his hands wander, sliding over your hips and up under your shirt, finding that thin expanse of bare, sleep-warm skin just above the hem of your trousers.

"You should've woken me."

You hum in acknowledgement, fingers running up along his sides before coming around to gently hold his face. 

It was easy doing this, touching—it hadn’t usually been your way of loving people, but it was Sirius’ and it slowly became something you did naturally after so long. 

Your thumbs gently brush along the curves of his cheeks, tilting his head up just enough to get a proper look at that handsome face. He looked properly unkempt, like he’d rolled out of bed without a care in the word and yet he still looks so breathtaking. 

You could never bore of it. 

“You’re a grump in the wee hours.” You murmur, pressing a placating kiss to the tip of his nose before leaning down to press more across his cheeks and to his lips again. 

Can anyone blame you, though? He’s too bloody precious not to savour. 

“Plus, you were up late last night.” You hum lightly.

Sirius couldn't help but frown. You were right, of course—he was a grump in the mornings, and he had been up late last night. 

But being grumpy never stopped him from wanting your attention.

He made a small noise of protest, leaning up to catch your lips again. This time he made sure to slip his tongue into your mouth, just a hint—a tease. 

"Don't care. You should've woken me anyway." He was still warm and pliant from sleep, and he was determined to take advantage of it.

You grin slightly, exhaling through your nose. You could do about a dozen different things, most quite pleasant. 

Drag him back to bed, stay in late for it. Make breakfast, keep the day flowing. Or lounge around with him and his teasing, sleepy attitude. You adore it. 

Your hands slide into his hair lightly, fingers threading through the long, soft strands—careful of potential knots. Your eyes look over his face as you straighten up, tongue running over your lip before you shake your head with a soft chuckle. 

He’s so mouthy, you love it. 

“So bossy.” You mutter with a fondness in your tone, smiling down at him. 

“You’re awake now, s’gotta count for something.” You murmur lightly, thumbs brushing along the shell of his ears before both of hands drop to the nape of his neck, cradling him gently. 

Sirius gave a quiet, contented hum, tilting his head back into your touch. He could feel the slight drag of your calloused fingers against his skin and suppressed a shiver. 

God, it was unfair that his touch was just so damn tantalizing. He had the overwhelming urge to kiss and bite the inside of your wrist, just to see the look on your face. 

Instead, he pressed his lips to the underside of your jaw, trailing up to the spot behind your ear. He knew full well what that did to you.

You’re pretty sure this boy lived and breathed being a tease, not that you’ve ever minded it. Made things fun, for the most part. 

Unless he did it when you were trying to work, it’s not fun trying to grade schoolwork with a bloody stiffy uncomfortable in your trousers. But you digress. 

The kisses up your jaw, to the spot behind your ear was a low blow, but it does make you grin slightly, out of amusement then anything else. 

You know what he’s trying to get out, what he’s more manifesting then asking for. But there’s no way you’re caving into him this early. 

You press a lingering kiss to his cheek before pulling away, giving his pretty arse a swat as you walk into the kitchen. “We should get something in that belly of yours, I’ve still got a few papers to get through.” You say it casually, like you hadn’t just done anything remotely touchy.

Sirius swore softly, biting back a whine at the loss of contact. Your hand was right there, and now you were just walking away? 

Unacceptable. 

He followed you into the kitchen, his bare feet padded against the hardwood floor, and tried not to look too much like a puppy who'd just had his favorite toy snatched.

"You'd rather finish your work than spend time with your incredibly attractive boyfriend. Wow. Thanks." He folded his arms and leaned against the counter, giving you the best indignant glare he could muster.

You chuckle, shaking your head at that. Glancing briefly back at him over your shoulder as you fill the kettle, taking in the indignant glare you’re getting. 

He’s pretty, grumpy or otherwise, but he won’t win. Any other time you’d probably be giving in, but he looks cute like this. 

You set the kettle on the stove before turning to look at him, leaning a hip against the counter. You cross your arms, almost mirroring his stance, and regard him with a look. 

He’s pouting, even if he’s trying to hide it by looking indignant, you can see it. In those pretty eyes of his.

“I’m a man of balance, who said I can’t do both?” You say with a light shrug of your shoulders, there may be a touch of innuendo there. 

You’d give him the proper morning fuck he’s obviously looking for, but you really do have to finish the ungraded work you’ve got left over.

Sirius was trying to maintain his glare, he really was. But the slight innuendo in your tone had the effect of making him interested.

He raised one eyebrow, tilting his head slightly to the side.

"You think you can focus on your work and multitask well enough to give me what I want, huh?"

He pushed off the counter, crossing the kitchen to stand in front of you. He let his gaze run over your figure, a slow, assessing look.

"You might be overestimating yourself."

You grin at that, tilting your head a bit to meet his gaze. There’s plenty about your capabilities he doesn’t know yet, hasn’t learned about. 

You’re multifaceted when it comes to balancing business and pleasure, you’ve lived long enough to have quite a few things under your belt.

You uncross your arms to brush your fingers along the curve of your jaw, your other hand resting against the counter. 

There’s been a lot you both haven’t explored mostly because it was a gradual process to acclimate him to being a bottom for a man like yourself. 

But he’s a cheeky bastard.

“Don’t bite off more than you can chew, love.” You say, tone light but there is a legitimate warning in the words. A soft line drawn just in case this was territory that he wasn’t ready to cross, it’d be fine either way. 

Doesn’t ruin or change anything if he backs out and keeps flirting.

He let out a scoff. "I can handle anything you throw at me."

Sirius leaned forward until he was inches away from your face, so close your lips were nearly touching. He could feel your breath on his skin, warm.

He raised one hand to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips trailing along your jaw as he did. 

He was a bit like a cat playing with its prey, circling you slowly. 

"The real question is," he murmured, his gaze locking with yours. "Can you handle me?"

You know that he could be talking out of his arse right now, letting his need to rise to a challenge speak for him. But there’s no learning without testing, and there’s always revoke of consent, which you’ve talked about on multiple occasions. 

Can’t hurt to test his limits.

He’s like a minx, all sly and coy. The way he looks at you like he’s trying to make you cave to his utmost desires. You won’t, but you’ll let him try. 

You love him, love all of this, but you’ve always been able to keep your head level even in pleasure. Especially around him. 

“Right then. S’pose I should let you try. First for everything.” You mutter, a slight tease to your tone. You walk him backward, taking back the slight control you let him have momentarily. 

“Come on then.” You guide him in the direction of your office, which was used for multiple things once upon a time.

Sirius let him lead the way, a smirk playing on his lips. He wasn't about to protest that.

He followed you into your office, taking in the space with a glance. It was organized, if somewhat cluttered. Bookshelves crammed with books, a heavy desk with a lamp, a leather couch. 

It suited you. Tidy, but comfortable.

Sirius ran his fingers along the back of the couch as he made his way over to the desk, taking in the stack of ungraded papers waiting for attention. 

"You really gonna work on that right now?"

You walk past him to the filing cabinet nestled between the side of your desk and the wall, you haven’t touched it in a while—haven’t had the opportunity since with him it’s a slow incline to trying more things. 

You’ve got a wide scope whereas your pretty boy is still learning his own. 

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, the way he almost hasn’t quite caught onto what you meant. It’s cute. 

You’d think the context clues would be enough, but you can’t fault him when he’s got a small view of sex and things revolving around it. You’re fine with explaining. 

“You want to be fucked, I need to finish my work. You’re a capable man, no?” You say it lightly, opening a drawer on the cabinet to rummage through. 

Looking for more of your lighter items, ones that wouldn’t be too much considering the low level of experience Sirius is at with this stuff still.

He felt a slight blush creep up his cheeks at your bluntness, though he tried to hide it behind an eye roll. Typical.

It was true, he was inexperienced. But he didn't want to stay that way. He wanted to learn... everything.

Sirius perched himself on the edge of the desk, watching you dig through the drawer. He tried to seem nonchalant, as if the very discussion of what was about to come didn't make his heart beat a little faster.

"Of course I'm capable," he said, scoffing. "But that's not the point."

You pull out a velvet bag, the kind that cinches at the top by a string. You close the cabinet and turn to face him as you open the top of the medium sized bag. 

You’re not questioning if he’s capable of not of sex, you’re well aware he is, but his tolerance. Limits. Important stuff. 

He’s pretty, takes it well, mouthy and bratty. But he’s impatient, hates waiting, a power bottom that you’re fully capable of melting into something like putty. But you wanted to challenge him, and you’re giving him what he wants. Seems like a fair trade off to you, you get work done and he gets fucked. 

“What are the rules?” You ask absently, pulling out a small tube of lube—a necessity regardless of experience—and a circular rubber item. You’ll explain what that is before everything. You’re just getting what you need. And want.

“What do you do when you want to stop?” You add, like always.

Sirius folded his arms, trying to maintain his composure despite the growing sense of anticipation.

"Red to stop. Yellow to slow down."

He'd read about that system, and it sounded reasonable enough. And simple.

He watched you pull out the items, taking in their shapes and uses with an air of nonchalance. He could recognize the lube, but that other thing? It looked unfamiliar. 

"What's that?" He pointed at the rubber item. A note of intrigue crept into his voice.

Satisfied at the recitation of the rules of what to say with he wants to stop, or if you check in. You’ve gone over it every time, you had him read up on different types of consent systems. 

Stoplight was easiest to remember, and got the quickest response in stopping or slowing.

You held out the rubber ring in your palm, extending it out for him to look at. Curiosity was good, meant he wasn’t nervous—you’re not sure if he’s ever really been nervous past your first time together. 

He’s a headfirst type, you have to manually slow him down sometimes.

“It’s called a cock ring, goes around your base, enhances the sensation and all that. Delays orgasm.” You explain lightly, watching his face carefully. 

You won’t force it to be involved, it’s just good for the sort of thing you plan to do with him. But it’s not a necessity. “It’ll be on me, not you.”

Sirius studied it in your palm, taking in its rubbery smoothness and the way it stretched just slightly. He'd heard the term 'cock ring' before, but he never really knew what it was until now.

He glanced up at you, raising an eyebrow. 

"Delays, huh?" He tried not to let his curiosity betray his initial slight concern. It sounded... interesting. But then he heard the last part of your sentence and relaxed a little.

"On you, then." The tension in his shoulders relaxed a fraction.

You smile a bit as the tension that had gradually grew in his shoulders from this topic left him at the idea of it not going on him. It was endearing. 

You’d never shove him into uncharted waters like that without building his tolerance first, overstimulation wasn’t fun if it wasn’t built up to. 

You pick up the few papers you need to work on with your free hand, moving around him to sit on the leather couch. Lounging back as you look at him, head tilted slightly. 

You regard him for a moment, he looks relaxed enough. Not too nervous to put a stop to this. 

“Mm-hmm.” You hum lightly before gesturing your chin towards the small tube of lube. “You’ll have to prep yourself.” You say, brushing a hand through your hair. 

You usually do it, but not today. You plan to do this just as you said. You’ll work while he gets what he wants out of you.

"Prep... myself?" He paused, a hint of incredulity in his tone. he'd imagined it going differently this time, somehow. 

But, this was a new concept.

He reached for the lube, his fingers closing around the small tube. His eyes flicked over to you as he watched you settle back onto the couch. Your nonchalant nonchalance felt almost provocative as you made yourself comfortable.

Sirius swallowed, a mixture of nerves and excitement stirring within him. "And you... you're just going to work on your papers while I... ?" 

You could see the nerves grow, but you know when to step in and when to let him figure it out. He wasn’t floundering, he was fine. He’s fingered himself before, way before you—he can do it again. 

You may spoil him, but that doesn’t make him incapable of sexual independence. 

You shift, shrugging your shoulders as you pull the pen off that had been clipped to the top of the papers in your hands. 

You’re going to be paying attention, this isn’t about ignoring him—you’re not sure you could—it’s just about getting two things done at the same time. 

“You’ll be fine, love.” You mutter reassuringly, gaze turning down as you grin slightly. Half your attention shifting onto the words on the paper, the other half still on him. 

You won’t leave him hanging if he does end up needing help, you’ll intervene if it’s real.

He took a deep breath, trying to collect himself.

He *is* fine. Right.

Sirius popped the cap of the lube, the sound strangely loud in the quiet room. 

He felt vulnerable, being the only one actively doing something. The lube was cool against his fingers, slick and foreign as he spread it on his fingertips. The idea of you just sitting there, working, as if everything was normal…

"You're just going to ignore me, aren't you? Focus on some boring paperwork." He grumbled, giving you a pointed look.

You glanced up at that, taking him in. Alright, maybe it was too far too fast. It was a solid attempt, you suppose. Better to know early on that you still needed to be involved in things then let him stew in discomfort and try to keep a bravado up. 

You’d rather you both be comfortable. 

You set your paper aside, planning to get back to it but you’ll help first. You don’t like the look on his face, it’s not teasing like the others had been. 

Well, at least you knew the first limit. Your pretty boy loves to be handled, not left to his own devices. 

Good to know. Though you sort of knew already.

“Alright, come here.” You mutter, gesturing with a hand loosely. “Don’t drop any lube, it’s a small thing and the others in the bedroom.” You say lightly, like it’s an after-thought. 

You shift your position, sitting further down on the couch, legs spreading to allow him room to sit on you.

Sirius let out a sigh, a mix of relief and mild annoyance. You’d figured him out far too well for his comfort.

He walked over to the couch, taking the space you offered, his thighs settling on either side of your hips. The lube in his hand seemed to burn his palm as he perched on your lap, his legs bracketing your thighs.

"Finally." He muttered, giving you a glare, though the effect was somewhat lessened as he was basically pouting at this point.

Such a greedy thing, yet can’t handle doing it alone. 

You’d tease if you knew it was going to be taken properly. But he’s obviously feeling vulnerable and you wouldn’t mock that. 

Your hands fall to his arse, adjusting him to settle better, your hips lifting slightly before you’re comfortable. 

The pouty glare makes you shake your head with a soft chuckle through the nose, he’s endearing. But you suppose this was what you did it for, to find out what's too much and what’s good. 

A new line drawn in the sand, doesn’t wanna do prep on himself. Fine by you. 

Your hands slide up, tugging at the hem of his pants he still had on. Not exactly useful if he wants to get anything he’s seeking. 

“Off with these.” You say, one of your hands wiping the lube off his palm and onto your own so he can do as you said as you lean back to give him room.

Sirius rolled his eyes, shifting on your lap to accommodate your request. He lifted up, just enough to push the pants down his thighs. He kicked them off his ankles, leaving him naked from the waist down. 

The fabric fell somewhere on the floor—a small, wrinkled mass that neither of you paid much mind to.

He watched you for a moment, taking in the image you made. Your shirt half-unbuttoned, your trousers still on. And him, bare and vulnerable over your lap. It was a stark contrast.

Your gaze roams over him, taking in the bared flesh. He was so pretty it was almost unfair. 

Creamy skin, coarse dark hair that grew in thin enough to go mostly unnoticeable unless you touched. The flushed skin of his inner thighs leading to his flushed dick. 

All of it pretty. 

You trail your fingers up the side of his thigh, the hand without the lube on it, just touching. You tip your chin up to find his lips, pressing your mouths together in a kiss as your lubed fingers move under him to his arse. 

You massage the ring of muscle with two fingers as you lick your tongue into his mouth, pressing your fingers against his pucker as you do. The muscle fights you before giving way, two fingers sliding in slowly. 

You’d usually go slower, one finger at a time but it’s not exactly necessary and if you spend too much time on it you’ll want to take him apart. 

That’s not what this was about, you still had to finish those papers as well. Which you still fully plan to do.

The sensation of you pushing two fingers inside him had him gasping into your mouth. His hands dug into your shoulders, nails biting into the fabric of your shirt. 

Your tongue explored his mouth as those fingers did the same to his arse, and he found himself making desperate whining noises against your lips.

The whines were proper torture, against your lips and echoing in your ears. Made you want to say fuck all to the plan and just fuck him as is. But you don’t, because you could do that any day. 

This wasn’t meant to be an any day fucking, this was to find lines and limits. To see if maybe he’d like the more specific things you do. 

You scissor your fingers to stretch him properly, curling to press against his prostate here and there because it’s honestly irresistible not to. You add a third finger a moment after, using it to stretch him a little more—better safe than sorry, really. 

You pump your fingers in and out, listening to those bloody delicious sounds he makes for you in response. You could die right here and be perfectly content with that. 

You rub your fingers against his prostate every inward pump of your digits, just because there wasn’t a reason not to.

“Ah—fuck—“ Sirius gasped, arching against you. His hips shifted restlessly over your lap, seeking out more stimulation. His mouth dropped open, panting against your shoulder as the third finger made its way inside. 

The feeling of being stretched open was addictive.

You could go on forever just to hear those noises, the way he goes from mouthy and bratty to this undulating mess is addictive. You’ll never not love taking him apart piece by piece until all that’s left is a whiny, blubbering mess. 

Your free hand slides around to the curve of his arse, fingers digging in to encourage the way he’s shifting his hips against you. Your fingers kept their paced, deliberate movements—all but abusing his prostate for a moment. 

You’ll admit it was a moment of weakness, that want to hear him come undone for a brief second. Can anyone blame you? Your pretty boy makes the most delicious noises when he’s being properly handled. 

You can’t get enough of those panting breaths and desperate whines. You can feel his flushed, weeping cock grinding against your stomach, dampening the fabric of your shirt with each press. 

It’s fucking addictive.

“More—please—” Sirius whimpered, his voice breaking as you pushed your fingers deeper. The pleasure was overwhelming, the pressure on his prostate making his vision blur. 

His cock was aching, leaking precum onto your stomach. He needed more, needed you to fill him up and fuck him senseless.

Fuck your work, there’s no way you’re going to be able to even want to split focus away from him at this point. You could, just for the sake of getting off on him fucking himself on your dick while you grade papers. 

Be a right prick and encourage him while doing nothing. But you’re not in the mood for that anymore, you’re in the mood to touch and bring him to the brink yourself. 

You pull your fingers out of him, leaning back to unbuckle your belt and undo your trousers, your knuckles brushing the underside of his dick. You manage to get your fly open, shoving your trousers down far enough to pull yourself from your briefs. 

You reach past him, grabbing the small thing of lube where he had left it. He squeezes a good amount on your hand before lathering it over your cock. Your tongue pressed against your bottom lip as you guided him forward by the hip, your other hand lining yourself up.

Sirius moaned softly as you positioned yourself, his hips lifting slightly to help you align. The head of your cock pressed against his entrance, and he bit his lip hard to keep from crying out. 

He was so desperate for you that he didn’t even care about the burn; he just wanted you inside him.

You press inside not a moment later, lifting your hips and one of your hands slides back to curl your fingers against the apple of his arse again. Your head drops against the backrest of the couch, groaning low in your throat at the sensation of him tight around you. 

This will never not feel fucking phenomenal, the way his muscles spasm around you, taking you in. 

You bottom out after a moment, your breathing ragged as you force yourself to stay still long enough to let the muscles adjust around you. When You feel him relax, you’re wrapping your arm around his torso, head going to the crook of his neck as you pull out and thrust back in. 

The pace is rough and fast, a touch almost desperate. You’re usually methodical and slow, taking your time to be precise in how you fuck him. But right now you couldn’t be arsed to be meticulous. 

Your hand on his arse squeezes the soft flesh, using it to press him down into each of your thrusts upward.

“Ah! Ah! Ah!” Sirius cried out with each powerful thrust, his hands scrambling for purchase on the couch behind your head. 

The angle was perfect, hitting his prostate with every deep snap of your hips. Your arm around his torso kept him pinned perfectly in place for your brutal pace.

God, it should be illegal how good he feels wrapped around you. How much his noises and cries of pleasure turn you into a mess. 

Your hips snap up into his, the sound of skin slapping skin loud and echoing and the squelch of the lube like music to your ears. It’s disgusting and filthy and you can’t get enough of it. 

You feel like a horny teenager that’s just got his first taste of a proper fuck. 

Your head drops back against the couch again, finding his gaze to watch the way his expression shifts and pinches with pleasure. He’s fucking gorgeous like this. 

Your hands move to his hips, fingers digging in as you all but rut your hips up into him, pumping in and out of his arse. “God, look at you.” The words leave you gruffly with a groan, brows pinching together.

One of your hands leaves his hip to wrap around his weeping cock instead, stroking at the same pace of your hips. “Why don’t you come f’me. Like a good boy does.” Your words are airy but no less of a coax.

“Oh god! Oh god! Oh god!” Sirius chanted, his voice hoarse from screaming. The feeling of you stroking his cock in time with your thrusts was too much. 

He felt his orgasm building rapidly, his balls tightening and his muscles clenching around you. “I-I’m gonna...”

There’s not much else warning before ropes of white spurt out of his dick, ribboning on the hand you have wrapped around him and both your stomachs. You don’t stop pumping both your hand and your hips, before eventually your hand leaves his dick to grasp onto his hip again. 

Your head drops all the way back, eyes closing and brows pinching as you chase your own high. Your thrusts are rough and fast, abusing his prostate as his muscles spasm around you from his orgasm. 

A deep groan leaves your throat as you reach your own finish. You thrust minutely before grinding into him, pumping into him before your hips come to a stop. 

Your breathing ragged and shallow, body practically buzzing with an orgasm. You stay as is but tilt your head down to look at him, grinning slightly at the blissed out expression on his face. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous.” The words leave your mouth gruffly, like a groan of its own.

Sirius was panting heavily, his body trembling from the intensity of his orgasm. He felt you grind into him one last time before you stopped moving altogether. 

He looked back at you through half-lidded eyes, a lazy smile spreading across his face. “You’re not so bad yourself.” He murmured.

You breathe a laugh at that, shaking your head. You’ll take it. At least you know you didn’t go too far or hurt him, his mouthy nature is still intact. 

You can’t even bring yourself to tease back, he looks too good like he is. Content, satisfied, sleepy. 

You lean your head up, dipping it to press a series of light kisses against his lips. He tastes like sweat. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up and back in bed, I’ll make you some breakfast after. Sound good?” You murmur softly, your fingers trailing softly up his back as you brush your noses together.

"Mm, sounds perfect," he mumbles against your lips, his body already starting to relax and drift off. 

You’re so gentle now, so different from the rough, demanding man who just fucked him senseless. He wraps his arms around your neck as you help him up, his legs feeling weak and shaky.

Note.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ: Good Girl is about an semi-established relationship between Jason and FMC. She's Roy's 18-year-old daughter, Jason is Roy's 38-year-old best friend, she's just the prettiest thing he's ever seen and it's hard to keep his mind when she's around. She's just such a good girl.

18+ (I have to say this), this has sexual content, like seriously.

Kinks or fetishes: Age kink, innocence, dom/sub variables, corruption, slight exhibitionism, dirty talking, experienced man/inexperienced girl, female virgin taking, perv Jason, gentle sex until the very end, big dick/little pussy, unprotected p in v but on birth control (wrap it anyway)

3,827 words. Female focused sex, female oriented pronouns when your talked about by others.

Read Part 1 before reading this, context is somewhat important.

By the time night rolls around you’re busying yourself in your room with preparing everything.

You’ve got candles lit on your desk and dresser, because yes you’re one of those people and it also means they can keep the light off to avoid suspicion. Your bed has a towel on the sheets so you don't stain or wet anything during... everything.

That poses too much risk tomorrow morning when you need to clean. How're you meant to explain away a large wet stain, or possibly off-colored stains on your sheets? You don't even want to try.

You lay down on your bed, bottom half on top of the towel, you’re wearing a nightgown with no panties on beneath, like he requested, and now all you have to do is wait.

Fiddling with the collar of your nightgown as you do, the little bows ribbon strings soft on your fingertips.

Meanwhile downstairs, Jason's nursing a beer, trying to act normal around Roy. He has no clue that Jason's about to defile his little girl upstairs—some part of him feels gross about it, and bad. But the other part, the perverted half, is thrilled about it.

He throws back the rest of his beer, his dick twitching in his pants. "Night." He calls out to Roy, receiving a 'night' in return from him. He makes his way up to your room, heart pounding in his chest.

When he reaches your door, which he only knows is yours because you painted shit on it—flowers, hearts, the like—raising his hand, he knocks softly on your door.

When you hear the soft knock at your door, you pause for a second, determining who it is knocking. Usually your dad would throw a goodnight right after for you, when it's silence you know it's Jason that's outside your bedroom door.

You shift around for a second, finding a good position on your bed, atop the towel beneath your hips, before trying to look casual.

"Come in." You say just loud enough to be heard but not any louder. You’re nervous but not as much as you thought you would be.

Jason twists the handle slowly, pushing the door open just enough to slide his big body through. He takes you in instantly—spread out on the bed like a damn buffet, tits pushing against your silk nightgown, hair spread out like a halo. His dick tents his pants. 

"Jesus."

His first response to seeing you after slipping into your room makes your lips twitch with a smile, slightly amused. You didn't have many nightgowns that screamed 'hey I'm sexy' aside from this one, but even this one was a bit simple.

Nothing like some woman your age would wear to look sexy and hot, but whatever it works.

You shift slightly to sit up against your pillows more, making sure the towel beneath you doesn't shift. "Hi," you mutter softly, albeit a little nervously. Only just a little bit.

"You okay?" He asks softly, watching you carefully. You look nervous but not scared, your nightgown doing little to hide your body. "Do you still want this?" He adds, unbuttoning the top of his shirt slowly. He doesn't want to pressure you into anything.

His soft questions don't register at first, him slowly unbuttoning his shirt is quite distracting. You watch his fingers pull buttons free for a minute before looking up at his face when you register he's asked something.

His concern is sweet, and definitely appreciated.

You nod a little, lying back against your pillows slightly. "I'm okay and I still want this, I promise." You say softly, giving another small nod even if your words are enough.

You’re excited even if you're nervous, you want this.

You really want this.

He exhales slowly, relieved. Crossing the room in three long strides, he looms over your bed. "Fuck, you're cute." He grunts, reaching out to stroke your cheek. His other hand finishes unbuttoning his shirt fully, shrugging it off to bare his tattooed torso.

You lean into his stroking touch on your cheek, eyes dropping to his tattooed torso when his shirt's shrugged off. Some tattoos are cut through with old scars.

"Scoot back on the bed." He murmurs, his eyes locked with yours. "On your pillows."

Your eyes move back up to his when he murmurs directions for you, you plant your hands on your bed and scoot back more for him. You lift your hips to pull the towel beneath you up as well. Letting it sit beneath your hips again.

You don't want to be on your pillows because you'd rather keep things clean of bodily fluids as best you can. For obvious reasons.

He notices the towel but doesn't mention it, finding it actually kind of hot that you’ve thought this through. He kicks off his shoes, then unbuckles his belt slowly, maintaining eye contact with you the whole time. "Comfortable?"

You watch him slowly get undressed in front of you, his hands undoing his belt with slow movements like he wants you to see everything. Whether it's so you don't get nervous or not, you’re not sure.

You look up at him again when he speaks, his question making you smile slightly. "Yeah." You murmur softly, nodding a little. You almost feel like you’re dreaming, that he's not actually here about to pop your cherry.

But he is and you’re excited and nervous.

It's risqué and maybe stupid, he's older by two decades and your dad's best friend, but you want him regardless.

He lets out a soft sigh, pleased that you’re comfortable. He stands up, letting his jeans and boxers drop to the floor before kicking them aside. His dick is already hard and straining, precum leaking from the tip. He crawls onto the bed, settling between your spread legs.

You inhale deeply when he's nude before you, eyes roaming down his body. His dick is big like you figured it would be, he's big so of course it would be, but holy shit.

That's supposed to go in you.

You’re not so sure it would fit.

You lean up slightly when he settles between your thighs, fluid leaking from his dicks head, you nervously pull your nightgown off. You’ve never actually been naked in front of anyone.

You lay back down after dropping it off the side of the bed, trying not to focus on it as you settle down flat. 

Well, fuck him, you’re gorgeous. Every inch of your skin is dusted with those fucking adorable freckles, your tits are perfect, capped with rosy nipples that are hardening under his gaze. 

He settles his hips between your thighs, his cock throbbing against your mound. "Christ,"

His roaming eyes on your body make you nervous, the way he's taking you in. You can see the dilation in his eyes, and it's all it takes for you to feel more comfortable—he's attracted to you.

When you feel his cock settle against your mound you jump a little, a bit startled because of you focusing on his face. You look down, his thick and long dick looks like it'd never fit but you’re the virgin here, he's older and experienced and probably knows what works.

But still, Jesus. The thing's a monster.

He reaches down, spreading your thighs further apart to give himself better access. "You're so fucking tiny." He mutters, staring at your virgin pussy. It's a dusky pink and smooth, with a tiny little slit. He rubs the head of his dick against your entrance, applying gentle pressure.

The way his rough hands spread your thighs apart for himself makes you tingle slightly, and his muttered words make your cheeks heat up. The way he's staring at your pussy, like it's mesmerizing, makes you nervous but you don't move away from it.

Your breath shudders when you feel him rub the head of his dick against you, applying that gentle pressure and it makes for a weird but not unpleasant sensation. It makes you want to clench up but manage to stay relaxed, open to him.

Watching him nervously but not at all unwanting of it all.

He pushes against your entrance, applying a bit more pressure. His dick is leaking precum, making it easier for him to slide inside you. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." He grunts, his eyes locked on where you’re about to connect. He pushes harder, his tip popping inside your tight little pussy.

A sharp gasp leaves your lips when you feel the burning stretch of him inside your pussy, however little it is. It's a sharp sudden pain you hadn't anticipated but you know it's normal.

You bring your hands down instinctively to his large hands holding your thighs open, fingers curling around the back of his hands tightly. Your head drops back against your pillows, eyes closing as you focus on breathing and adjusting to the sudden intrusion into your body.

Your breasts rise and fall with your heavy breaths, brushing against your arms.

"Just breathe, sweetheart." He whispers roughly, pushing in another inch. Fuck, you’re so tight around his head. He can feel you stretching around him, those virgin pussy trying to adjust to his size. He squeezes your thighs gently with his hands, watching your face for any signs of discomfort.

His rough whisper accompanied by another inch of his dick pushing into you is met with a whimper—one of your hands drops down from his to cover your mouth. You don't want to be too loud and risk someone hearing.

Your eyes open and you look at him through your lashes, her brows drawn in a furrow. He's so big, which she anticipated but having it push into her pussy is a whole other thing.

It hurts, for sure, but her desire to have him takes priority. She tries to relax, taking deep breaths through her nose and exhaling out just the same.

Jason groans as he feels you tightening around him, those little gasps and whimpers going straight to his dick. Fuck, you’re doing so well taking him. 

He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours as he pushes in another inch. "Such a good girl."

Your eyes close when he leans down, forehead to yours as he pushes in another inch of his cock. It almost feels like too much when you know it's not, the foreign sensation of being invaded making it feel that way.

His praise makes you feel like you’re doing a lot more than what you are, that you’re doing so good. You relax slightly, despite the ache of the stretch, and try to loosen your muscles up. Your eyes open and meet his gaze, it's as intimate as anyone can get with his forehead to yours.

And to think this man's your dad's best friend.

"Fuck, I'm so deep in you." He mutters against your lips, his hips pressing forward until his pelvis is flush with yours. He's bottomed out in your tight little pussy, his dick throbbing and leaking inside you.

You grunt and your hips jerk slightly when he bottoms out in you, his hips pressing flush against yours. His words are dirty but they send a tingle up your spine nonetheless.

You exhale deeply, eyes dropping off him to look down where you’re flush together, albeit curious. You were almost a little surprised he fit entirely inside you with how he looked compared to you.

The pain slowly trickles away after a few minutes, something else replacing it that makes your skin feel sweaty. Your eyes flicker back up to his, a little unsure what the fuck your feeling in your belly right now.

He watches you carefully, seeing the slight change in your expression. Your body is less tense, those pretty tits rising and falling faster. "Do you still hurt?" He asks roughly, his hands sliding down to cup your bottom, spreading your cheeks slightly. That delicious pussy contracts around his length, making him hiss.

When his hands, rough and calloused but gentle in a way, slid down to cup you and spread your cheeks slightly, you couldn't help your reaction. It made something inside you get brushed against and it felt like a frisson up your whole body.

Your breathing quickens slightly but at the sound of his hiss your focus recenters onto him, did you... hurt him somehow?

"No. Are you okay?" You answer his question and ask one of your own, your brows furrowed in concern.

"Fuck, yeah I'm okay." He growls, squeezing your ass cheeks. The feeling of that tight little pussy wrapping around him is incredible. Jason starts to rock his hips slowly, his dick sliding in and out of you just an inch or two.

You go to respond to his growled words, despite the squeeze his hands have on your ass, when his hips start to move and it's like a white sheet goes over your vision for a solid second.

The sensation is entirely new and mind blowing. And a bit painful too.

Your back arches just a little and you choke out a moan before quickly covering your mouth with your hand again—god forbid your dad comes to investigate a weird noise coming from your room.

Not when it just got good. Toe curling kind of good, a feeling you never knew could even exist before now.

"Fuck." He hisses, feeling your small hands muffling your noises again. He hooks his arms under your thighs and wraps your legs around his waist, opening you up even more. He starts to thrust shorter, deeper strokes, hitting deeper inside you.

The new position has you feeling like you’re teetering at some kind of edge, leaning precariously toward falling. Your back arches more and your hand muffles the moans gradually growing in consistency. Your thighs shake against him, your stomach sucking in with each stilted breath you take.

Whatever he's hitting deep inside you has you seeing stars and feeling like you’re a buzzing, live wire. Your breathing picks up pace as your hips jerk with each slow thrust of his hips.

Jason can feel you tightening around him with each deep thrust, those legs trembling against his waist. Fuck, you’re close already. "That's it, sweetheart." He groans, "Let it happen. Come on my cock." He grinds against you harder, hitting that sensitive spot inside you relentlessly.

His words are filthy and vulgar and make you feel hot all over. You whimper and moan against your hand, muffling it as much as you can. His hard grinding hitting something inside you with an almost abusive accuracy that has you gasping in air against your hand covering your mouth.

Your legs tremble and your toes curl as you tumble off that edge he had you teetering on. Your head drops back and your eyes roll as you gasp sharply against your hand, gushing all over his cock.

He feels you gushing around him, that pussy clenching down on his dick like a vice. "Fuck yes." He groans, burying his face in your neck as he continues to thrust through your orgasm. He can feel his own release building, his balls tightening.

You take your hand off your mouth, opting out for burying your face in the crook of his neck when he leans down to yours. You gasps against his sweaty skin, body jerking with his thrusts as he chases his own release.

You whimper against his skin, arms coming around his shoulders, nails digging into the skin on his back as he fucks you damn near too sensitive. Your pussy convulses around him in pulses, whether to suck him in or push him out is beyond your comprehension at the moment.

"I'm fucking close," he whispers, his voice ragged against your neck. His hands grip your ass harder, fingers digging into the flesh. Each thrust becomes less controlled, more desperate. "Are you on birth control?" He mutters, barely able to form coherent thoughts as he feels his orgasm building.

His question mixed with everything he's doing to you, the hard grip on your ass, the desperate thrusts into your overly sensitive pussy, has it hard to form a coherent thought.

Your nails dig into his skin, breath fast and heavy against his neck mixing with whimper-y moans. Having to really think is almost a goddamn feat in this state.

"Jesus— yeah, yes. On birth control." You manage to get out against his neck, followed by a whimper punched out of your lungs by his thrusts.

"Thank fuck." He groans, hearing your confirmation. His thrusts become erratic, chasing his impending release. He buries himself deep inside you, his cock throbbing intensely.

With a final low groan against your neck, he comes hard, pulsing streams of hot cum deep into your convulsing pussy.

Your head drops back slightly with a choked gasp when he pushes himself deep inside you, the searing heat of his cum filling your pussy and lower belly with warmth and a weird sensation of being full.

Your body tenses for a second before going lax, your legs sliding off from around his waist and your hands dropping low on his biceps instead of his back. You let your eyes close as you try to catch your breath, cunt pulsing in time with your heartbeat.

You just lost your virginity to your dad's best friend, and damn was it phenomenal.

Jason holds you for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest. Once he's sure you’re okay, he carefully pulls out of you, his softening dick making a wet sound as it leaves your pussy.

You shivers when he pulls out, the sudden emptiness feels strange after all of that work just to get him inside you.

He grabs a few tissues from the nightstand and gently wipes you clean before tossing them in the trash.

You exhale slowly, thighs twitching when you feel him wipe you clean, it was a sweet gesture though. You relax again, thinking about everything that just happened. 

Your lips curve up into a little grin as you giggle a little bit, your hands—faintly shaky from your orgasm—coming up to cover your face and muffle the noise slightly.

The situation had a sense of surrealism to it.

"Shush... your dad will hear." He whispers, gently removing your hands from your face with a soft smile. "What's so funny?" He murmurs, studying your bright eyes and flushed cheeks.

Your innocence just got fucked away, and God help him, he loved every second of it.

He's not wrong so you bite your lip with a smile, letting him gently remove your hands from your face. You take in the soft smile on his, he looks relaxed that way.

It's a look that suits him, you think.

You just gave your innocence away to your dad's thirty-eight-year-old best friend, a man twenty years your senior. It's filthy in some way, but it was so good, and he was so sweet with you.

"Nothing, just happy." You mumble softly, tilting your head a little against your pillow to look at him better. Quite content with everything despite all the risks.

He chuckles softly, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "Happy, huh?" He murmurs, his eyes softening as he looks down at you. "Well, that makes two of us. Though I have to say, corrupting my best friend's little girl..."

Your smile softens a little when he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear, the gesture sweet. His eyes softening when he looks down at you is like the cherry on top.

You snort quietly at the idea of him corrupting you, maybe defiling but he didn't ruin you. You’re still the same person, he just... opened a very pleasuring door.

"Please, corrupting?" You say with a humorous tone. Your hand sliding to one of his, fingers curling around three of his own. "Stay with me tonight?" You whisper questioningly.

He squeezes your fingers gently, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. Your innocent request tugs at something deep inside him, a protectiveness he never knew he had for you. "You want me to stay?" He murmurs, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "What if your dad finds out?"

Your dad is probably sleeping downstairs, oblivious to the fact that you just lost your virginity to his best friend.

He's got a right to be concerned, if he is, about your dad finding out about what he did. It's not you he'd be mad at in the end. But your dad and him have been friends for decades, he probably knows that man's schedule like his own.

Plus, he literally sneaks around for a living.

You give the fingers you have in your grasp a small squeeze with a soft smile. "I'm sure. And you probably know when he wakes up, just sneak out to the guest room before that." You say quietly with a small shrug of one shoulder.

He nods slowly, considering your words. You’re right, he does know Roy’s routine like the back of his hand. And the guest room is right next to your bedroom, making it easy for him to sneak out before Roy wakes up. "Alright, deal."

You grin when he agrees to stay, happy as can be. And if he thinks you'll be letting go of him after tonight, he's dead wrong. But you'll be careful, you’re not stupid.

You won't risk whatever you’ve got by being reckless because you want things.

You shuffle to give him room on the bed, tossing the towel you set down before you did anything—now slightly wet with prior activities—off the bed before pulling the blanket down. "Come on, mister." You beckon, patting the spot next to you.

Jason smirks slightly as he slips under the covers beside you, the heat from your bodies mingling comfortably. Despite the gravity of what you’ve done, there's an easy, almost innocent feeling to curling up next to you. He pulls you close, tucking your head beneath his chin.

You sigh in contentment when he pulls you close and tucks you beneath his chin, relaxing immediately into his warmth. He's like a big furnace; you could curl around him and be warm forever.

You settle for a leg over his torso, snuggling close. Your eyes close and you settle down, letting the exhaustion of everything settle into you and lull you into a quiet calm and drifting slowly off to sleep. His warmth and the comfort of having him there helps speed things along.

He smiles softly as you throw your leg over his body possessively. His mind registers this action—it's territorial. Like a damn cat. 

He pulls you closer, one hand slipping down to cup your bare backside. His mind races with thoughts, most of them centered around you and what you both just did.

Note.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ: Good Girl is about a semi-established relationship between Jason and FMC. She's Roy's 18-year-old daughter, Jason is Roy's 38-year-old best friend, she's just the prettiest thing he's ever seen and it's hard to keep his mind when she's around. She's just such a good girl.

18+ (I have to say this), this has sexual content, like seriously.

Kinks or fetishes: Age kink, innocence, dom/sub variables, corruption, voyeurism, vaginal fingering, female focused pleasure, dirty talking, experienced man/inexperienced girl, female virgin, fingers in mouth, perv Jason.

4,606 words. Female focused sex, female oriented pronouns when your talked about by others.

Part 2.

Roy's house is chaos—the kind that feels like home if you let it. Doors slam, laughter echoes, Roy yells from the kitchen, and the occasional thud shakes the ceiling.

The place is alive in a way the Manor never was.

Jason's slouched on the worn couch, beer in hand, trying to stay calm. Which isn't easy, especially when you’re here.

It's been a year since he first walked in and saw you—Roy's oldest daughter. You weren't some awkward kid he could ignore. No, you were whip-smart, confident, beautiful, with a smile that could undo a lesser man.

And Roy, like the clueless bastard he is, had said, "This is the one you'd better not corrupt."

Since that moment, he's been screwed. Roy hasn't noticed. Thank God, he hasn't noticed. But it's a daily battle—keeping his face blank, pretending the smell of your shampoo doesn't linger in his head, or that he doesn't stare when you’re not looking.

Like now.

You walk downstairs, barefoot, in a skirt and stocking set that should be illegal, hair a little messy, phone in hand, lip caught between your teeth. Completely oblivious to how you wreck him.

He looks away, taking a slow sip of his beer, but you’re like gravity—impossible to ignore. He's faced death countless times, but one eighteen-year-old girl—Roy's daughter—has him feeling like a lovesick idiot.

It's not just your looks, though those don't help. It's the way you talk, listen, and see the world—like you still believes in things he's long given up on.

He's screwed. Completely, utterly screwed.

You lean against the kitchen island after entering the room—the living room visible from where you stand—your elbows propping up your weight, chin resting on one of your fists. 

Your feet cross at the ankles beneath you as you smile at something your dad says while he's rummaging around the fridge.

You’ve got one of your usual fits on, a pretty light blue skirt that stops a little short, white stockings with lace poking out around your thigh, a flowy, white blouse to put it together.

You turn your head a little, enough to look over your shoulder, and you spot Jason walking towards the kitchen, beer in hand—you knew he was here already, had spotted him on the couch when you came down, you lift your free hand and gives him a simple finger wave before your hand drops back to the island.

His eyes drop to watch that movement. The way your skirt rides up slightly when you adjust yourself against the island. The white stockings teasing him with that lace top.

You haven't even done anything suggestive—you’re just existing. He's slept with women who've tried way harder to look like this.

And your little way of greeting him without saying anything was as adorable as it was dumb.

You focus back on your dad after the silent greeting you gave Jason, although you'd probably pay him more attention if he hadn't known you were here—even if that sounds weird in your own head.

You have, you still would, always. Not that he has to know that.

You lean further against the kitchen island, your fingers tapping the marble island as you watch your dad get things out of the crisper drawer to make himself a sandwich—probably Lian too—your skirt riding up with the lean to show a peak of white panties that match your stockings.

Fuck. Jason's breath catches in his throat, and he's suddenly very aware of how tight his pants have become. Every muscle in his body tenses as he tries not to look—tell himself it's wrong, forbidden—but holy shit, those fucking panties.

You point something out to your dad, the action bringing you more across the island. Your hips are pressed to the marble edge, skirting hiking up more. The roundness of your ass, semi covered by your panties, is exposed more.

Your stockings stop at your mid-thigh with a hem of lace on each one, matching your white panties that obviously have a hemming of lace at the top as well.

The shape of your mound isn't hard to peek, your underwear fitted to you.

His hands curl into fists at his sides, knuckles white with the effort of not reaching out to touch. To grab that perfect little ass and pull you back against him. He can almost feel the warmth of your, smell the sweet scent that he knows would be there.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You crossed your arms against the marble top of the island, leaning your weight down on your forearms and crossing your ankles slightly. The action presses your thighs together, rounding your ass and hips.

Your mound is hidden more with the press of your thighs, like a perfect little thing. Looking like you want to be bent over the island without even trying to, or probably even meaning to. But here you are, ass exposed with your panties, displayed for Jason behind you so perfectly without meaning to.

Jesus Christ. His mind goes to dirty places. Images of pushing up that skirt, pulling down those tiny panties, spreading those toned thighs. You'd probably squeak if he smacked that round ass—God, would you sound like that when you came? That innocent little mouth letting out filthy noises?

You can feel him looking at you, well, more specifically your ass and covered pussy. It's not... a bad thing. Not to you anyway.

You drop back flat on your feet, your thighs jiggling slightly, before you excuse yourself to the bathroom. You walk out of the kitchen, having to brush past Jason's hulking figure in the doorway to do so. You glance up at him, innocently through your lashes before continuing on your merry little way to the bathroom.

Was it an invitation? Or just an innocent glance?

The moment you brush past him, he has to fight the urge to grab you, pull you back, and kiss that sweet mouth of yours. Innocent or not, that glance was loaded with something.

He followed you to the bathroom, standing outside the door, listening to the sound of the sink turning on.

You’re in the bathroom for a minute, actually doing nothing but no one needs to know that. You know he followed you, he may be quiet but with the way he was looking at you? There's no way he didn't follow.

After what you deem a normal amount of time, you open the bathroom door. And there's his imposingly large body, he's taller than you so you have to tip your head up to look at him.

You knew it. You don't give it away though.

Your pretty eyes on his, hand on the doorknob of the bathroom door on your side as you look up at him with unintentional innocence.

He leans an arm against the doorframe above your head, looming intentionally. His eyes rake over your face, a muscle twitching in his jaw as he struggles not to react to the innocent sexuality radiating off you. 

"Everything alright in there?" His voice is low, gruff.

The way he's looming above you, his arm leaned against the doorframe above your head. It shouldn't be so attractive, but it is. It makes your spine tingle and heart pick up slightly, your bits aching.

His low, gruff question has the same effect on you as his looming presence does.

God, the things you'd let this man do to you.

Your nods gingerly, lips parting to respond. "Of course." You say, lips turning in a sweet smile that you always do. But your pupils are slightly dilated, and you’re definitely imagining things.

Not that he has to know that.

He lets out a low, rumbling growl, his eyes never leaving yours. "Good." He pushes off the doorframe and steps into the bathroom, crowding you into the small room. His free hand reaches out and pushes the door shut behind him, clicking the lock into place.

You swallow thickly when he's crowding you back into the bathroom, he's shutting the door behind him and the sound of the lock clicking into place echoed in your brain.

You never expected this sudden action from him, but you’re not complaining. If this gets you what you want, so be it.

He's older, brash, and your dad's best friend. But you want him, and he obviously shares the sentiment.

"What're you doing?" You ask softly, a little quietly. If a little curiously.

"Something I probably shouldn't." His voice is a deep whisper as he leans closer, tilting his head down to yours. He catches your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tipping your face up. 

"That innocent act of yours..." He traces your bottom lip with his thumb.

His words are like a shiver down your spine, especially with the way he leans closer and tilts his head down to yours. His thumb and forefinger catching your chin, tipping your face up towards his. God. 

Your eyes dilate more as he traces your bottom lip with his calloused thumb. It was almost unfair how he did it. Your innocent act isn't technically an act, it's just who you are. Even if you know some... stuff that isn't very innocent.

"What about it?" You ask quietly, your bottom lip pressing against his thumb as you speak.

A groan vibrates in his chest as your lips brush against his thumb. "It makes a grown man want to do things he shouldn't." His voice is a dangerous whisper as he slides his thumb into your mouth slightly, feeling your lips wrap around it.

His thumb invading your mouth wasn't expected, but not unwelcome. Your lips wrap around it, tongue pressing against the rough pad of his thumb. The way he's looking at you is like a thrum in your skin.

A small noise bubbles up in your throat. Doing things he shouldn't seems to be less of a problem for him right now, at least to you. And you’re not complaining about it at all. It's all you want.

You suck his thumb slightly, dilated eyes keeping contact with his.

His eyes darken as he watches you suck his thumb, those innocent eyes locked with his. He can only imagine what else you might suck so innocently. He pulls his thumb out of your mouth and replaces it with his fingers, pushing two digits inside your warm mouth.

"Turn around." He growls.

When pushed his fingers into your warm mouth like that, it made you tingle. You suck on his fingers lewdly, doing as he tells you to do and turns around, managing to keep his fingers tucked in your mouth as you do it.

Not knowing what he's doing, not being able to see him, is as thrilling as it is nerve wracking. But you’re not doing to change it, no, it's far too fun. He's giving into you and you’re giving into him, why ruin it? You don't want to.

He watches you turn around, your hands gripping the sink as you keep his fingers in that mouth. He makes sure you’re both alone before he speaks again, just a short pause to listen for any noise outside the bathroom.

"Keep those lips busy." He commands, his other hand reaching under your skirt to pull your panties to the side.

His command makes you shiver, and you do as he says. Sucking on his rough fingers, some of your spit drools out around his fingers. When you feel his other hand reach under your skirt your heart picks up pace in your chest.

You’re well groomed, the carpet matches the drapes for sure and you keep it short but not gone. You’ve only ever gone near your pussy yourself, feeling someone else so close down there makes your spine tingle.

His breath catches in his throat as he feels your smooth almost bare flesh beneath his fingers. He traces your swollen lips through your wetness—Christ, you’re so fucking wet.

You moan around his fingers, the sound muffled still. It’s almost unfortunate. Your arches back slightly, pressing your round ass back into his hand when he circled your clit slowly. It's almost immediately overwhelming, his rough fingers pressing and circling your clit like he's touched you a million times before—but he hasn't.

"Good girl."

His praise makes you moan again, rubbing back against his fingers, seeking it out as your pussy gets wetter for him. Because of him. God, all because of his simple touches.

He bites back a groan, his cock straining against his zipper as you grind back against him. He pushes his fingers deeper under your skirt, parting your lips and sliding a finger inside your tight hole. "You like that, don't you? Being touched by a big bad man like me?"

You gasp and moan when you feel his finger slide inside your tight pussy, something you’ve only done to yourself and he's got much bigger hands than you do.

You feel your back arch more, pressing against his hand as you whimper and moan. His words make shivers and tingles trail along your skin, he isn't wrong either. You do, you like being touched by a man like him.

You do your best to nod with the fingers he has stuffed in your mouth. You never want him to stop, it feels so good and he's barely done anything to you.

He feels you nod eagerly around his fingers, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest as he presses a second digit inside you, stretching that virgin tightness. "Been saving this pretty pussy for someone special, huh?" He murmurs, curling his fingers to hit that sensitive spot inside you with each thrust.

You moan, the volume muffled by his fingers' stuffed in your mouth, when he adds a second finger inside your pussy. You can feel the stretch, and god does it feel so, so good.

Your thighs tremble slightly as your hips arch, seeking the sensation he's giving. You’ve been saving yourself for someone special, of course you have. You’re just such a good girl, taught right.

You pull your head back from his fingers in your mouth, to speak. "Savin' it f'you, Jay." You say and you're not even lying. You have been since you first saw him, color you determined. No matter how much older he is and his friendship with your dad.

His heart skips a beat at the sweet confession. "Fuck, you're perfect." He grunts, his fingers pumping faster inside you as he rubs your clit with his thumb simultaneously.

He can feel your walls tightening around his fingers, your sweet little pussy getting ready to clamp down. "Come on my fingers, baby girl."

You moan, biting down on your plump bottom lip to keep the volume from heightening to too loud, they are in a bathroom with your dad in the same house after all.

Your hips moving pathetically to rock back with his motions. The faster thrust of his fingers in your pussy mixed with the rub of his rough thumb on your clit is almost too much. You whimper, hands clamping down on the sink edges, his words running through you like a shiver.

Your pussy clamps down around his fingers as you come with a soft cry. Legs spasming and pussy convulsing.

He feels your pussy clamping down on his fingers as you come undone, that body trembling beautifully. He continues rubbing your clit, prolonging your orgasm as he groans at the exquisite feeling of your tight walls fluttering around him. "That's it, ride it out baby girl."

You whimper and moan as he continues to rub your clit, prolonging the rush through your body like electric shocks. Your hips twitch and jerk against his hand, breathing heavy and fast with whines edging the exhales. 

It almost borders of too much for your poor little clit to take, throbbing with the overuse.

"God, please, please, please..." You whimper and cry, unsure even why those words are tumbling out of your mouth. Stuck between wanting to rut against his rough hand and pull away from the sensitivity growing from it.

"Shh, baby, too sensitive?" He asks softly, letting up slightly on your swollen clit but continuing the gentle pulsations inside you. He can feel your muscles still twitching, adjusting to the intense pleasure. His other hand moves around to cup your breast through your shirt, squeezing gently.

Your whimpers grow quieter when he eases up on your clit slightly, hips still twitching to his touch. Your back arches slightly when he cups you through your shirt with his other hand, pressing your chest up into his rough palm when he squeezes gently.

The sensation strangely good. You can't even feel the texture of his hand through your top, but you can definitely imagine it. 

You’re slowly managing to catch your breath as your body adjusts to the pleasure thrumming through your body.

He lets out a soft sigh of relief, happy to give you a moment to recover. He keeps his fingers buried inside you, just gently pulsing now, and continue to hold your tit. After a minute, he speaks up again. "Alright, baby girl, I need to take care of myself real quick."

You lift your head up enough to look at him through the mirror when he speaks, he's so steady despite the fact his fingers are still buried in your pussy and he's cupping you over your top like it's his favorite spot. It's almost amusing.

His words bring awareness to the fact he's probably aroused too, obviously even if you’re not in the right position to peek at it. He waited to get you over the edge before he gave himself any pleasure? Most guys wouldn't. But then again, he's older than your age range of guys.

"Okay." You say softly, curious almost what he's thinking of doing for himself.

He glances at you in the mirror, giving you a stern look. "Stay put and keep your hands on the sink, understand?" He instructs firmly, his voice low and commanding. Once you nod, he pulls his fingers out of you and unzips his pants and frees his hard cock.

He's so demanding, not that you’re complaining. You always knew he was, just not in this context of course. His way of life kind of calls for it. But sexually demanding is a whole different ball game.

You lift your head more, trying to get a peek through the mirror's reflection of him. Of more of him. Your eyes trailing down his body but your own blocks anything below his waist.

It's almost a pity.

But you do as you’re told like a good girl; stay put and keep your hands on the sink.

He catches you trying to peek in the mirror and he smirks, knowing you can't see much. He wraps his hand around his thick shaft, starting to pump slowly. He closes his eyes, letting out a soft groan as he thinks about how tight and warm your pussy felt around his fingers.

Your eyes dart back up to his face in the mirror reflection, watching his eyes close and the soft groan he lets out. It sends a tingle up your spine. You want to know what he's thinking about as he pleasures himself.

You want to know how to pleasure him, put that expression on his face yourself.

But you’re not known for being over eager, you take what you’re allowed to get.

You’re a good girl.

You continue to watch his expressions, since you can't see anything below his waist, as unfortunate as that is. You like the faces he makes.

He opens his eyes and catches you watching him intently, a small blush on your cheeks. He smirks and picks up the pace, his hand moving faster up and down his cock. Jason locks eyes with you in the mirror, his gaze dark and intense. "You like watching me, baby girl?"

His smirk when he catches your gaze on his face, the dark and intense look in his eyes all send a tingle up your spine. His question makes you blink, but you don't look away, not wanting to miss something. A twitch in his expression belaying his pleasure.

You’ve participated in acts that weren't vaginal, you’ve never watched anyone before, but you want to see everything he does. You can't help it. "Yeah." You mutter quietly, albeit bashfully.

A low chuckle escapes his lips as he watches your blush deepen at your quiet admission. He pumps his cock faster, letting out a shuddering groan. "Fuck, I'd love to see those pretty eyes watching me while I fuck your tight little pussy."

The shuddering grown he lets out is almost too much for you to keep your obedience up, you want to turn around so bad and just see what he's doing to himself. Glimpse his cock and how he's touching himself. But you keep being a good girl, keep with his demands.

His words make you shiver, a small noise leaving your lips. It was such blunt confession. "You wanna... fuck me?" It's a genuine curious little question despite the situation. You like the idea.

He pauses his movements, letting out a choked laugh at your innocent question amidst such a heated moment. "Baby girl, look at you, all rosy cheeks and pretty eyes, asking if I wanna fuck you." He shakes his head, smirking. "Hell yeah, I wanna fuck you."

Your cheeks heat up slightly at his admission, as blunt as it is. Sure, you knew he wanted you obviously he just fingered you in your family bathroom and now he's jerking off to the back view of you.

But having sex is different in a way. Or maybe it's because you’re younger and think in a different way, who knows.

"Would you be gentle with me?" You ask softly, somewhat feeding into the idea of letting him do that to you. Fingering is a line, taking your virginity would set him far beyond it.

He lets out a low whistle, his eyes roaming over your reflection in the mirror. "Gentle? Baby, I'd be as gentle as I need to be to make sure that sweet little pussy of yours can take me." He starts pumping his cock again, slower this time.

Your lips twitch with a little hint of a smile at his low whistle and roaming gaze along your reflection in the mirror. It's both endearing and attractive in a way. His words make you wonder how big he is, he's a large man everywhere else, it'd make sense if he marched downstairs too.

God, you want to look behind you so badly. You can see his arm start moving again, at least that tells you he's stroking himself again. "Tonight." You say after a moment, albeit gingerly.

He stops moving again, his eyes snapping to yours in the mirror. "Tonight?" I repeat, his voice low and husky. He swallows hard, his cock throbbing at the implication. "You wanna lose your virginity to me tonight, baby girl?"

His low and husky voice making a shiver edge up your spine slowly, you shift slightly against the sink as you keep your eyes on him in the mirror reflection. 

You saved it for him, no better way to lose it than to him.

You may be eighteen and your dad's his best friend, but he wants you, and you want him. You wanted him. You’ll give your virginity to him.

"Yeah, I do." You mutter softly, giving a small nod even though it wasn't needed. You’ll make it special for yourself, with him. Make it worth it for him.

A soft sigh of relief escapes him at your confirmation, his heart pounding in his chest. He gives his cock a few more strokes, his orgasm approaching quickly now. "Fuck, baby girl," he groans, his hand moving faster. "You're mine tonight, and I'm gonna make it unforgettable."

You bite your bottom lip slightly as you watch him, his groaned words making your skin tingle slightly. You wanted this for God knows how long. You listen to the sounds his self-pleasuring makes in the bathroom, watching his expressions through the mirror reflection.

Imagining what the image behind you looks like but you don't turn to look, you’re a good girl.

You'll continue to be good through the rest of the afternoon and tonight. For him, always for him.

He lets out a deep, shuddering groan as he finally reaches his climax, his hand moving furiously as he paints the bathroom wall with his hot, thick cum. He stands there for a moment, panting heavily, before finally cleaning himself up and tucking himself back into his pants. "Tonight, baby girl."

Watching him reach his climax without actually seeing his dick or any of the functions happen is a different kind of thing. The shuddering groan, the way his face looks blissed out as he comes. It's almost addictive to watch.

You take him finally moving as your cue that you can too. You pull your skirt down from where he'd pushed it up your hips, back down to cover yourself. His words make you smile a bit, excited.

"Tonight." You echo back softly.

A satisfied smirk plays at his lips as he finishes cleaning everything up. "And baby girl? No panties tonight." He says it intentionally casual, as if mentioning the weather, knowing it'll make you blush. "Want easy access to that sweet pussy."

And you do. You blush heavily at his casual and blunt request; he's everything you aren't, and it always throws you for a loop when he speaks with no filter. Not that you’re complaining.

The idea of him having 'easy access' to your pussy is something you never really thought of that way before, of course he would. You nod regardless—you’re a good girl; you’ll do what you’re told.

Although you’re not sure any access will be easy, but it's the fantasy that counts. And it's a fun one.

He chuckles softly at her flustered nod, loving how easy it is to make you blush. "Good girl." He murmurs approvingly, giving your ass a light slap as he moves past you to exit the bathroom. He pauses at the doorway, glancing back with a wink.

His praise makes you feel good, like all the flustering is worth it if you get that each time. You jump slightly with a squeak when he lightly slaps your ass while moving past you to leave the bathroom, you breathe a disbelieving laugh when he winks back at you before leaving your sight.

This man is something else and you’ve always known that. And fuck do you love it. He's everything no one else can be, older, experienced, Jason.

He's Jason and that's all you'll want.

There's a smug grin plastered across his face as he leaves the hall leading to the bathroom. He can't believe he's going to pop his best friend's daughter's cherry tonight. Fuck, that's crazy.

Part 1 is A Boy and His Sister, go read that first. Or don't.

PRT 3.

PRT4.

────────

Note.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ: Dead Boy Walking is a continuation of 'A Boy and His Sister'. This is set to the time of him being Robin, and as suggested by the title, this is going to be angsty. A sister that loves the boy she raised, her baby brother and he's out at night getting his shit beaten up. A Dead boy walking.

16+, obvious negligence surrounding childcare, parentified older sibling, sibling-loss, etcetera.

Teen boy angst, siblings being too different. LearningParent!Bruce. Death in the family adjacent.

2,594 words.

She's still wrapping her head around it, how it happened. One night she gets a call from some random number, picked it up by chance because her gut was telling her to do it.

She always thought that one day she'd get a phone call from the local department telling her to come identify a body. That it'd be him in a freezer, on a table. Gone because he wasn't ever one for listening.

She just hadn't expected what it actually was. Hell, she still doesn't and it's been three years since Bruce Wayne took in her brother, it was weird. Strange. She was skeptical and refused to let him take custody.

She fought tooth and nail for him. For Jason. After their mom died and dad ended up back in Blackgate, she took him. Finally fucking got him.

She got him.

And this rich prick comes prancing into their lives by chance? Because he tried stealing tires?

There was no court, no fight. No lengthy battle that put her deeper into debt.

Actually, the motherfucker paid off all her standing debt. All those loans, all those credit cards, the first custody battle with the state. It was all gone from her name.

She hated it. Hated the man thought he could just do that and she'd give him her brother. What is she, a fucking human trafficker?

He took her out to brunch three years ago today and explained everything to her. She wanted to think he wasn't hiding anything because he looked so honest, so sincere in his want to give a kid a life.

An orphan wanting to uplift a boy he sees himself in. She saw it, saw that look in his eye.

The kind men get when they aren't going to let go.

She didn't let go, she just loosened. She fell for that face.

They didn't tell her, no. She found out on her own.

Her fifteen-year-old brother was out there at night fighting fucking criminals, getting shiners and broken ribs when he should be studying and going to school. Having the life she never would've been able to give him.

She loosened because she thought Bruce would push him to education, to a life, to one that didn't mean sleepless nights and worry about penny-pinching for dinner.

Instead, he gave him sleepless nights, a costume, and the ability to hate and take that hate out on people.

And now—now she was sitting on the coffee table in her shitty apartment with her baby brother on her sofa as she cleaned a gash above his eyebrow. Her baby. Her little boy was bleeding.

He was meant to be the one that got out, the one that could have the life. The future.

And instead, she's staring at his future, as bleak as it would've been with her. And it guts her. Because he's still just a boy, her boy.

"Jay..." His name leaves her quietly as she closes the first-aid kit she had beside her, it's the first thing said between them since he climbed through her balcony window.

"Don't start." His voice was raspy, hoarse. Snippy. Like he was exasperated over her worry like it was uncalled for. Here he is, beaten up, and he's annoyed she's worried?

She stares at him for a second, his gaze averted to the carpet. His hair was matted, bloody in the patch of hair at his temple, face pale and dirty with grime and his own blood.

He looked older than her and yet a boy all at the same time.

Eyes haunted, face pulled tight, arms crossed like he needs to play defense with her. Like a stranger.

She held him as an infant, fed him, and loved him. Watched him grow. And now she's watching him self-destruct in the same way a Todd is destined to.

By their own hands.

"Why are you doing this, huh? Some kind of white-knight complex? What's he been telling you?" She leaned closer to him, tilting her head to try and catch his gaze. Her elbows propped on her knees to hold her weight.

His eyes suddenly snap to hers, all fiery with anger. Like she said the bad thing. And he's angry at her, and it's so bright. His fingers fisted and his knuckles were white with the pressure. "Why're you makin' it such a bad thing to go out there and– and help people!?"

He's a kid, not a hero. And if that's what he's being told, that he can make some kind of difference in a city allergic to change, he's being exploited.

Because this city will never change.

And he's being fed this idealistic view of a better thing, that maybe if he extends himself just enough the mother herself will bend to his will for good.

He's naive, a boy. And she hates that this is what it's being used for.

"You're fifteen, you're only meant to go to school and make friends. Not fight people in alleyways and rooftops. Not getting your fucking ribs and face broken in." She scoffs, standing up from her seat on the coffee table, and taking the kit with her.

His eyes follow, so full of that anger. Like she's crushing everything that he is. And she doesn't want to, hates to see that on his face. But she won't see him be snuffed out by this city like she has everyone else.

"What'ddu know, huh? You hide— you hide away in this apartment doin' bum-fuck nothin'!" He all but shouts at her, shooting up from the sofa on wobbly knees. She fights the urge to help him, to sit him back down.

His words are biting, meant to hurt. And they do, they do. But he's just angry, just upset she's throwing reality to his idealism.

"If you think this," she gestures a hand at his bright costume dulled with grime, "is going to do anything, whatever it is you think it will, you're wrong." The words gradually grow in volume because he's just not listening.

"You're going to diedoing this, you're going to die in that stupid costume. You're going to fucking go out and no one will know who you fucking are because you're just the boy who got taken out by Gotham." She yells, the kit dropping halfway through and she ends up two feet from his face.

"I'm not going to lose my baby brother because of some dumb fucking idea that this city will ever change. Whatever he's telling you, it's the delusion of a sad, miserable man." She leans to his level, hands going to his shoulders like it'll make him hear the words, not the tone.

"Get off me!" He shouts, shoving her back with rough hands to her chest. She stumbles back, the coffee table ending up the only reason she doesn't fall.

They stare at each other, both wide-eyed—the same blue shade mirroring.

He looks guilty, and sad, for a moment. Like a kicked puppy who got cornered and didn't know what else to do but lunge. And she knows that, and it hurts. Because she can't save him.

"I love you, Jay." She murmurs, straightening herself back up. She just wishes he'd hear her. That he'd know she was just trying to protect him.

Something nobody else seems to be doing.

He just scoffs, that look steeling back up to anger and callousness. "Yeah, whatever." He grabs his mask off the cushion opposite to the one he'd sat on earlier. Shoving it back on he heads for the window. "Don't talk to me."

The words have her heart in her stomach because he sounds so sure of it. Of the fact he doesn't want her to be around him. And it's sickening.

Because she's watching him leave, the same way he came stumbling in bleeding, and she can't do anything about it.

He wouldn't listen.

𓇢𓆸

It was November when he died. She remembers it exactly because everything had been numb when she got the phone call. The very one she'd been waiting years for by then. She always knew it'd happen one way or another.

He was gullible and naive, and he tried so hard to be approved of, by the kids he ran with sometimes before Bruce took him in, by her. By their mom. And then it was Bruce he chased after.

He just wanted to be something to be proud of. He wanted to prove himself. He was impulsive and reckless and so full of too much heart that it killed him. It always would have killed him in the end, wouldn't it?

Good things never last long.

She didn't want to know how, she didn't want to see the body. She couldn't stomach it, couldn't stand the idea that the last sight she'd see of her baby brother would be what was left behind.

So, she didn't.

Alfred invited her to the funeral, and she went. And she sat in the back

because she wanted to kill him. Kill Bruce for doing this. Kill him for letting Jason in on that life.

For letting him wear that costume.

That stupid fucking costume.

She hated him for the fact that the last moment she had with her baby was an argument because Jason idolized him so much.

And she cried when his casket was buried because it was when it all caved in.

Her baby brother was dead, taken by the same city that seemed to take everything golden and good.

She couldn't do anything about it, just like she couldn't do anything about it that night. He was an unstoppable force of nature, he did as he did and nobody could tell him otherwise.

A golden heart with a stubborn brain.

A Todd.

He came in like one—cold, abandoned, and scraping for love. And he went out like one—stubborn, all by his own impulsivity to be something.

But Jason was already someone, she knew that. Saw it.

But he never saw it for himself.

And now she doesn't get to see who he may have become. He would've been great.

He would've changed things.

────────

"What book did you decide on?" She asks as they walk back through the aisles towards the front, she's practically dead on her feet but she manages a smile for him.

He's holding two, one in each hand. One looks like a comic, the other something more novel-ish. Old. Like a Jane Austen. He looks up at her with a bright smile, lifting the left one to read the title first.

"Found this one, zombies." He says, showing her the cover with a grin that can only be described as boyish. He drops the hand down to lift the other book, the installment for the latest series he'd been reading.

Her smile melts and she lifts a hand to run through his hair, tugging him closer as she looks ahead to watch where they're going. She liked it when he was happy and excited.

When he let himself be a kid.

"That's neat, which one're ya planin' to read first?" She asks the question just to keep the conversation going, to let him fall into that simple excitement. He deserved a break from the stress of existing for everyone else.

"This one, I wanna finish the series. Then I'll probably move on ta' the zombies." He explains, looking at both book covers with furrowed brows like it'll decide for him in case he second-guesses.

"It'll keep ya busy, the fun kind." She says, giving the back of his neck a squeeze before letting go when they reach the counter—thankfully they're the only ones up there.

He reaches up and sets them on the counter, his smile not there for the librarian. He's not shy, far from it, he's just skeptical. Which she supposes is pretty fair considering.

She pulls out the wad of cash she'd counted in the diner earlier, counting off the amount needed after the books got rung up. Forty-five dollars and eighty-nine cents. Which isn't really terrible, but it's half her made money.

She doesn't give that away, just leans a hip against the counter to block his view as she hands the amount over before shoving the remainder into her pocket.

The librarian puts the two books in a bag, the receipt with it with a few changes loose in there. She grabs the bag and pulls it off the counter to hold it down to him, he takes it near instantly.

He peeks inside like he's gotta make sure both are securely inside, when he's satisfied he smiles and holds it in both arms in a hug against his stomach. She rests a hand on his shoulder to steer him toward the exit.

"Ready to get home?" She mutters, opening the door with an elbow. He walks through first and she follows immediately behind, keeping him close by the hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah. We gonna pick some dinner up?" He asks, his focus around them and on the book bag. She focuses enough for the both of them anyway, steering them towards the bus stop they'd been at an hour ago.

"Yeah. Chinese?" She mutters absent-mindedly, stopping by the sign. She wraps a loose arm around his shoulders to hold him against her front.

He holds onto the bag securely like someone will steal it right from him and he's well prepared to go out biting any hands and arms that come too close. "Definitely."

She smiles and nods despite the fact he can't see it, but she's sure he knows she'll get him Chinese regardless of if he can see her agreement.

She'd get him anything, and he knows that.

She'll always do whatever she can to make sure he has what he wants as well as what he needs.

He's her baby brother, she'd give the world up for him.

────────

But the world eventually takes, and it feels like it took the last of her humanity when it took him from her. What's a world when the very golden hue that kept her intact, that made her tolerate it, was gone.

You give a person something to cradle, to nurture, to grow and then you rip it right out from under them.

She swaddled him at night. Scraped together money for milk when her mom never stopped the drugs. She gave up eating so he could. She sold her things to buy him clothes and shoes as he grew.

Watched him fall and get back up, watched him scrape palms and knees and giggle away the ache. She watched him as his innocence faded the first time their parents fought and he could understand fear.

She watched when innocent scraped knees became shiners and bruised ribs. When mom's candy became drugs. When dad's work became jail and crime.

She watched him go from coloring on old paper to running the streets. She watched him go from smiling to wary. She watched him go from childlike to haunted.

Watched him go from her baby brother to something unrecognizable as anything but a martyr in a world full of hands reaching too close.

And martyrs eventually die.

He never should've been one. She never should've let go. Not to a miserable, sad man like Bruce Wayne.

She knew how to fight, how to know what's dangerous. And yet, he snuck by. And her negligence cost her brother's life.

A deal she never meant to make.

This is going to be a bit different to my other ones, this is an AU short series I did that got a lot of attention, so I figured why not put it on here too.

PRT2. PRT 3. PRT4.

────────

Note.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ: A Boy and His Sister is about an established relationship between pre-Bruce Wayne Jason and his older sister. It's not a big age gap, but it might as well be—a girl 19-going-on-30 working her life away to give her brother a good chance in the world when they'd both got given a shit hand. And she'd do anything for him.

16+, obvious child neglect, parentified older sibling, etcetera.

Set a year or two before Bruce comes into the picture.

4,087 words. This is a named female OC.

There's never not been a moment where he wasn't under her care, never a moment where she wasn't always there—warm, open, and loving. It's not like their mom would ever have enough energy or awareness to try, not anymore.

Jason knows his sister went through it long before he did. He doesn't remember much from when he was younger, but he remembers the sound of yelling. Remembers hiding behind her legs when their dad came home angry. Remembers their mom crying in the bathroom with the door locked, and his sister telling him to go to sleep even though he knew she wouldn't.

She took the worst of it.

By the time Jason was old enough to really get it, she had already stopped expecting anything from them. She didn't ask their mom for help. She didn't wait for their dad to come back. She just worked. Made sure they had food. Kept the apartment from falling apart.

She never talks about it. Not about how long she dealt with their dad's shit before Jason was old enough to fight back. Not about how she started working before she should've had to. Not about how their mom used to be different—before the pills, before she stopped trying.

Jason doesn't push. He knows. And if there's one thing he understands about his sister, it's that she won't let herself break. Not for their mom, not for their dad.

She refuses to be like them.

She's still soft, in a way Jason doesn't get. She still tucks a blanket over their mom when she passes out on the couch. Still pays the rent when their dad disappears again, like she's hoping that maybe, maybe, this time he'll stay gone.

Jason doesn't get it. He doesn't want to get it.

He's already decided—when he's older, he's leaving. He's not sticking around to see how much worse it gets.

But Nelly? She stays. For him.

✿

The bell above the door jingles when Jason steps inside, but no one really looks. The place is too busy for that, the usual mid-afternoon crowd packing the booths and counters, forks clinking against plates, tired voices mumbling over steaming cups of coffee.

He breathes in deep, the scent of grease and something just burnt enough to be real filling his lungs.

It's warm here. Louder than he likes, but it drowns out the thoughts he doesn't want, so he'll take it.

Jason moves through the space like he belongs—because in a way, he does. He's here often enough. Knows the sounds, the faces, the way the floor sticks a little in places where someone mopped half-assed. Knows when to keep his head down and when to pretend he's just some kid passing through, like he hasn't been sitting in the same booth three days this week.

No one asks why he's here again, not that they ever do. It's not like he's causing trouble. He's just existing, same as the guy hunched over his coffee and the waitress refilling cups without looking.

But Jason's different, because he's waiting.

He doesn't say it, doesn't need to. He just lets his eyes track movements behind the counter, catching the familiar flash of dark hair when Noelle passes by.

His sister's busy, like always. Moving fast, working harder than anyone should have to, but she doesn't complain. Never does. She does this for Jason.

She never says that either, but he knows.

It's better here. Better than the apartment, where the walls are too thin, and the air always smells stale. Where their mom is either passed out or yelling, and their dad—well. It doesn't matter.

He's gone more than he's around, and Jason likes it that way.

Still. He doesn't think about it too much. Doesn't let himself.

Instead, he settles into the booth, knees pulling up toward his chest, hands shoved into his pockets.

Jason watches, waits.

Pretends he doesn't care.

Nelly spots him after a moment, a small smile replacing the tired look on her face. Like clockwork, almost every day she's worked this week he'll pop in and wait for her. She knows why he does it, she doesn't comment on it ever.

It's better he's where she can watch him.

She steps away once she can, grabbing a warm plate of food the line cook Leroy makes specifically for Jason per her request—she's in good with him, he's a good guy.

She walks over to the table he's settled himself in—same as the last few days—setting the plate down for him.

She leans down and presses a kiss to his unkempt hair, "Hey, kid." She hums softly, leaning back with a small smile.

He looks okay, no new marks or scuffs, at least that tells her he hasn't been getting into trouble today.

It's all she can really hope for.

Jason rolls his eyes when she kisses his head, but he doesn't move away or tell her to stop.

Instead, he leans into it for just a second, soaking up the touch the way he always does—brief and gone too soon.

"Hey, Nelly." He mumbles.

Jason's attention wanders to the plate as she sets it down, his mouth watering at the sight of the steaming food. He tells himself he's not that hungry, he tries to ignore the sharp bite of hunger in his stomach.

He's not entirely successful.

She knows he likes to act a lot bigger and older than he is, some part of her clenches at it—he's just a kid and yet she couldn't stop him from growing up too fast. Their life, their world, doesn't call for childhood to be what it's supposed to be.

No matter how hard she did try.

She leans her hip against the side of the booth seat, watching the way he looks at the plate of fresh food like he's thinking about devouring it but unsure if it's the greatest idea.

A habit they both have, honestly.

It sucks to see it be mirrored in her kid brother though.

"You go to school today?" She asks after a moment, brushing a hand through her hair.

She's never forced him to go, she knows how shitty the school is down here. How dangerous it can be. She helps him learn basic needs whenever she's home, she does enforce that.

Jason shrugs, pretending the question doesn't bother him as much as it does.

"Nah. It's a shithole."

It's more than a shithole, but he doesn't need to say more. Nelly knows the school's bad. She knows the teachers don't care, that the other kids are just as rough.

She doesn't argue, though. She knows it's a waste.

His gaze flicks back up to her, noting the tired look on her face. "You workin' tonight?"

She accepts his answer, there's never been a reason to clap back at the idea of him not going—she picks up the slack when she can. She did go to school when she was a kid, however inconsistent it was. She did graduate, so she uses that to help him learn.

She puffs out a breath as his question, covering her eyes with her hand as she thinks—mulling over her schedule.

She works a lot and sometimes gets the days mixed up, she also sometimes picks up shifts for coworkers that need to get off for whatever reason.

"No, I shouldn't be. Tomorrow night I work till eleven though." She says after a moment, her hand dropping back down to look at him again. "We'll go over some of your school stuff tonight, reading, writing all that." She adds, since he skipped today then this is the alternative.

Jason lets out a soft snort, almost amused.

Some of your school stuff.

As if there's a lot to go over.

"Fine," he grumbles, grabbing the fork and digging into the food.

It's good, but it doesn't surprise him—it seems Leroy's the only one in the kitchen that can really cook. Of course Nelly would get him a plate from him. It's her way.

"Got plans?" Jason asks between bites, glancing up at her again.

She smiles slightly when he finally starts eating, she knows he would eat it at some point, it just makes her feel better to know he at least stuffed something in his belly.

It's a constant worry for her, if he's eating. If he's eating good food and not junk from a corner store.

She's not around much, work takes up most of her time and as much as she wants to be around more, bills need to be paid, the fridge needs to stay at least a bit stocked—he needs clothes, necessities.

And all of that means working to get the money to do it.

"Yeah, with you, obviously." She retorts playfully, one hand moving to give the nape of his neck a light squeeze. It's not often she gets off work with a few hours left in the day, she'd rather spend it with him then doing god knows what somewhere else.

It also means he's safe.

Jason scoffs, swatting her hand away. "Ugh, gross." He's kidding, obviously.

He wants to be with her, too, but he also knows there's not much fun for him in watching her try and teach him how to read and write.

Still, he eats another bite before asking, "Can we go to the library first?"

Because if he's gonna be forced to do anything productive, he might as well get something he enjoys out of it.

He's probably one of the only kids around here that actually likes going to the library, and not for some notorious reason either. It's endearing, because it's so normal.

He deserves to have something that isn't constant pressure or weight pressing down on him.

She used to have a library card when she was still in high school, used it to get him kid stories whenever she could because if he could have anything she wanted it to be at least comfort.

Now he's got this like for books she never even thought about. Classics, the like.

"Yeah, sure. Plannin' on gettin' a book or just browsing?" She asks, the library's a bit further up town which isn't an issue. She's got a bus card, got it from an old coworker who eventually managed to move away from this part of the city. She strictly uses it for him.

Jason shrugs, not exactly sure what he's planning. "Eh. Both." He looks up at her as he says it, almost like he's gauging her response.

Like he's waiting to see if she's gonna change her mind about letting him get a new book, or two, or three.

Not that he doesn't know the answer already.

"Can we go to the big one?"

There's a few smaller local libraries close to where they live, but he's got his mind on the uptown location.

She made some good tips today, mostly regulars came in and plenty of them like her. She'd spoil him rotten if she ever had the means to, she really would. Whatever he wanted, she'd never withhold from him.

It's probably good he's so into books, at least it's beneficial.

Books are unfortunately not cheap, it's why having a library card was so nice—until she graduated and had to return it. It's not terrible, but going to the used book store isn't as good, especially with the kind of shit that goes on down here. It's unreliable.

"The one on 11th?" She questions since there's two big libraries, one uptown around the outlets and the other a block from the library they usually go to.

She'd go to either one if he wanted to, he gets so little that he really does like and she's been so busy.

Denying him isn't on the table.

He hums in confirmation, nodding his head.

The massive library on 11th Avenue in uptown Gotham was his favorite. It was huge, with more books than any kid could ever hope to read, and a quiet, calm atmosphere that made it one of the few places in Gotham where Jason actually felt relaxed.

"Yeah. That one."

He's got plenty of books at home, a collection gathered over the years from both the library and a few secondhand stores around the city. Still, he can never get enough. They're an escape.

The travel time to the big one on 11th, which is the one around the outlets, is decently long—probably half an hour compared to the 15 minute walk to their usual spot. She doesn't mind it, she'd do it for him.

She already said yes, she's not going to take it back.

It's also safer than anything around their slice of the city, not as much risk of being jumped or mugged, more police presence which deters more crime—aside from the obvious types that seem to plague the city as an entirety.

She can manage it, today at least.

"Yeah, alright. Let me clock out and we can head to the bus stop." She says, her hand moving to ruffle his hair before she steps back from the booth. "Finish your food, I'll be right back." She adds, gesturing at his plate before making her way towards the back staff room.

Jason rolls his eyes at the hair ruffle, trying to keep the slight smile from his face.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm almost done." He tells her, already shoveling another forkful of food into his mouth.

It's a testament to how hungry he is that he doesn't complain about traveling all the way into uptown for the library. The trip's not exactly easy—the bus is usually too damn crowded and it takes forever—but he's willing to do it for the book selection.

And for some peace—he likes the quiet there.

She comes back after a few minutes, devoid of the waist apron and nametag the diner requires their waiters and waitresses wear. She's counting tips, the folded bundle sliding into her pocket by the time she reaches his booth again.

She'll probably spend it all on him.

She leans against the table, his plate empty—he's always been a fast eater, she doesn't know how he manages to scarf it down and not have a stomach ache after.

But she supposes it also makes sense, He only gets a good, hot meal when he comes here to wait for her.

"You ready?" She asks, pushing the empty plate to the middle of the table with the fork he used on it so the busser can get it when they leave.

It's a habit, muscle memory that isn't the easiest to break honestly.

It's also just good manners, which she taught herself.

Jason nods, standing up from the booth and stretching his legs.

He follows behind her as they make their way to the door, his thoughts a mixture of excitement at getting a new book and trepidation as they step out into Gotham.

Jason keeps close to her, eyes sharp and head on a swivel as they head towards the bus stop. This time of day's never great—the sun is going down and the streets are getting more crowded and rowdy.

He sticks close beside her. Close enough to reach out and grab her hand if he wants to.

She keeps one eye on where he's at by her side and the other on everything else, shits too common to go down and she's in no way going to let him out of her sight.

He walks these streets all the time, but it doesn't mean she'd be reckless with him.

It's never a good time to walk around in this area, but it gets a little worse when you lose the safety of the sun. They both know the best routes to take home, but they aren't going home so those are voided.

It's just a straight shot to the bus stop and keeping an eye out.

She slings an arm around his shoulders, keeping him closer than he'd been before while maintaining an air of casualness, her hand splayed across his collarbones to easily move him if she needed too.

He may be able to fight, but anyone bigger than him is an instant danger.

Jason leans into her side without even thinking about it, her arm curled over his shoulders like a shield.

He likes being close to her like this—not that he'd ever admit it. It makes him feel small in a good way, safe. Like he's under her protection.

Which he is.

This late in the day the bus station is even more crowded than usual. Kids his age hanging out in groups after school, adults on their way home from the train station or work, just a big mix of everyone trying to get somewhere.

Nelly's steps come to a stop when they reach the bus stop, a few familiar faces waiting as well—well, familiar to her at least. The diner's a hot spot for most locals that live in the area.

She's probably waited a table for at least most of the people waiting for their bus.

She pulls him in front of her as they wait, her free hand moving to rest on top of his head as she keeps his back pressed to her front. Gives him most of the open space as they wait, she doesn't feel comfortable letting people brush into his space.

He's small, easy pickings.

Even as capable as she knows he is, you have to be to survive—he is small, and he has no chance if an adult tried something with him. It's her job to keep him safe, and she'd put herself in any situation before she ever let something—someone—touch him.

Jason lets her arrange him however she wants, not resisting when she moves him around like a puppet.

He's used to it, and honestly, he likes the way it makes him feel. Protected. Wanted.

He closes his eyes, breathing deeply as he leans his head back against her stomach. It's strange to be letting his guard down like this, vulnerable and on display in a crowded area, but she's got him. He trusts her.

He knows she won't let anything happen.

She glances down when she feels the pressure of his head resting back against her, a soft smile crossing her face at how genuinely relaxed he looked.

It's been a while since she's seen the tension bleed out of his face, he looks his age when it does leave him.

Her hand slides down from his head to beneath his chin, her palm gently cradling the dip underneath as she looks back up. Times like this remind her of just how young he really is, even if it only shows in small, fleeting moments.

He's just her brother, her everything.

And she'd do anything for him. Absolutely anything. Sometimes that scares her, how easily she feels like she could lay herself down for him—take anything if that meant he was okay, safe, and warm.

It's not the life she signed up for, but he makes all of it worth it.

Jason's almost asleep on his feet when the bus arrives, pulling him out of the brief moment of peace with a loud rumble and the hiss of the doors opening.

He doesn't want to move away from her. He could spend all day with his eyes closed, listening to her breathing or the steady thump of her heart against his back. But she's already gently pushing him forwards, towards the bus steps.

With a grumble, Jason forces himself forwards, making his way up and into the warmth of the vehicle.

She guides him to an open seat, settling him down in it first—the spot was deliberate on her part, on one end of him was an older woman and she takes the seat on his other.

She never, never, sits him down near a man. Call her biased, it's easier to trust a woman.

Especially when it comes to the bus, most women riding are either old or tired, minding their own business. Men are just… harder to not be skeptical of when it comes to downtown buses.

Although she wouldn't say she places her complete trust in her process, anyones capable of anything.

She slings her arm around his shoulders again, tugging him into her side, her hand resting on the side of his head to keep him close.

She's not stupid, just because it's easier to be comfortable around a woman doesn't mean she'll leave him open to bullshit.

Jason leans into her side again, not even trying to fight the way his eyelids want to fall shut.

Her body is warm and solid, familiar. It's hard to keep his eyes open as the bus lurches forwards, beginning the long ride throughout the city.

He can hear people talking in hushed voices, feel the eyes of strangers on him as they pass by. None of it gets him, though. He just presses his cheek against her chest and listen to the beat of her heart.

There was a lot of familiarity to this for her, really. She'd cradle him when he was a baby all of the time, any chance she got really.

He was bottle fed because their mom couldn't stay off the drugs long enough not to potentially poison him. So she fed him then too, kept him alive basically. He was her everything very early on.

It was hard not to hold onto him, her fingers gently threading through his messy hair as he dozes off.

She was nine and taking care of a baby and for a long time she held resentment towards her parents for not being able to do one good thing with their shitty lives—but then she grew up and Jason was that one good thing.

He was a good thing in a bad world.

Sure, some part of her still wished she could be a normal teenager—go out, have boyfriends, go to parties, do stupid shit—but the bigger part knows this is where she's meant to be.

If he didn't have her, where would he be?

She couldn't imagine letting him slip through the cracks like she had, be lost to the city like everyone else.

He was hers and she'd never let him fall and not get back up again, never.

She was content to do this, if just for him.

Jason fades in and out of sleep, his eyes fluttering open occasionally just to check on his surroundings. No one on the bus is paying attention to him now, but it just makes him feel better to make sure.

He turns his head, pressing his face against her again. Her scent fills his lungs, a mixture of the perfume she wears and her sweat.

It's strangely calming, mixed with the gentle hum of the bus and the rumble from beneath them.

Jason's fingers curl into her shirt, gripping the material like it's a lifeline.

She rests her chin on top of his head, although she doesn't close her eyes or let her own guard down like he has—the bus isn't someplace where they could both be relaxed and comfy.

But she's glad he is, for once.

The way he's holding onto her, small fingers curled into her shirt, gripping the material tightly—it reminded her of when he was a baby, he'd hold onto her the same way. Just a lot smaller, something left without help in a big world that would chew him up and spit him out.

She never let that happen, she never plans to.

Her other arm wraps around him, keeping him close and nestled against her side. She knows better than anyone he probably hasn't slept well, if at all, in a while.

He's just a kid, as much as he adamantly denies, and kids need sleep.

So, she lets him rest on her.

She'll be his safety net, his rock, for however long he needs her to be.

And she'll continue to be it past that.

────

I would actually appreciate feedback on this little series; I like hearing people's thoughts and how they perceive my work that isn't an y/n insert.

Note.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ: Whimpering Virgin is about two horny teenagers, of age of course, that haven't bumped uglies with each other, but one thing leads to another. (Both are 19 years old, college dorm sex)

18+ (I have to say this), this has sexual content, like seriously.

Kinks or fetishes: Innocence if you squint, teaching sexual acts, virginity taking, anatomy exploration, experienced girl/inexperienced boy, learning from porn, tit playing, riding, unprotected p in v but on birth control. (Wrap it anyway idk)

6,554 words. Female centered sex but no stated pronouns, second person POV oriented.

The textbook in front of him might as well be gibberish. He's read the same sentence six times, but he can't focus.

You. You’re utterly distracting.

You’re so close, your head bent over your notes, hair slipping over your shoulder no matter how many times you tuck it back. His eyes keep drifting, catching the way you chew on your pen, the way your lips press together when you concentrate. You’re completely lost in your world, oblivious to how he's been staring for five minutes.

He shifts, trying to focus, but then you lean forward, and he catches the faint scent of your shampoo. Sweet. Yours. His senses short-circuit. He should be studying—you both’ve got an exam in three days—but you’re here. You’re always here, in his space, in his head.

It's not just tonight; this has been building for weeks. Maybe longer.

Even closing his eyes doesn't help. All it does is make him hyper aware of you—knees brushing together under the desk, the sound of your laugh, the memory of your skin under his fingertips when you’re both tangled on the couch, kissing until your both out of breath.

But this feels different. Deeper. Permanent.

He glances at you again, watching the way your lips curve as you scribble something down.

Yeah, there's no way he's getting any studying done tonight.

Eventually, you can feel his eyes on you, how could you not when you’re so familiar with his gaze? It makes you feel a little bashful, a little flattered.

You write in your notes for a moment longer before glancing at him through your lashes. Your lips twitching with a little smile at how transfixed he looks.

There's been a lot of moments recently where you’ve caught him looking at you like that when you’re supposed to be studying or something like that. It makes your skin feel all tingly, in a good way. You shift, your knee bumping his again under the desk.

He feels the gentle bump of your knee against his, and it's like a jolt of electricity. He tries to play it cool, but his heart is pounding in his chest. You know he's been staring, and the fact that you’re smiling about it makes his stomach do a weird flip.

After a few more minutes of scribbling notes down on your notepad you lean back in your chair, setting your pencil down before stretching your arms above your head with a groan before standing up out of the chair, brushing a hand through your hair.

"Alright, I think that's enough studying for tonight, anymore and my brain might explode." You remark as you drop back onto his bed with a dramatic sigh, shirt ruffling up around your navel, lower abdomen exposed.

His eyes snapped to the strip of bare skin you unintentionally flashed when you’d stretched and flopped onto his bed. Swallowing hard, he tries to answer like a normal person instead of a horny teenager. "You always say that,"

"And I always mean it." You say jokingly, sitting up on your elbows. You look him over from where he's still sitting in his chair. His eyes, though, aren't on your face.

His gaze is glued onto your stomach, something a little new in his eyes. Your head tilts a little as you watch him, chewing on your bottom lip a little.

"You wanna make out?" You ask after a moment, grinning a little. He looked like he wanted to, plus you’ve already done the course work you needed to.

What's the harm in kissing your boyfriend?

His eyes snap up to your face. The question catches him off guard. "Like right now?" He asks, swiping his thumb over his lower lip unconsciously. Your suggestion shouldn't turn him on this much. It's just making out. You do it all the time.

You breathe a quiet laugh at his expression, a mixture of surprise and interest. It was cute. Your eyes drop down to his lips when he swipes his thumb over his lower lip, you’ve seen him do it before.

Your eyes move back up to his, shrugging your shoulders a little—something meek and playful in equal measure.

"No, like next week." You say, albeit sarcastically. You’ve made out plenty of times, it's what you do most often after study sessions. But you’re well aware you’ve never done anything past that.

"Shut up," he mutters, standing up from his chair. He crosses the room in a few quick strides. You giggle a little at his mutter, biting your lip when he gets up from his chair and crossed the room in those quick strides. He climbed onto the bed next to you, pushing you back down onto the mattress with a hand on the middle of your chest. "You're such a dick." he says, but his tone's teasing.

A noise leaves you when he pushes you back down onto the mattress after climbing up. Your hand moves up, fingers curling around the wrist of the hand on your chest.

Your lips turn up into a grin at his teasing words. "Wow, calling me a dick when I offer to kiss you." You remark jokingly, your gaze meeting his in the new position.

Feeling your fingers curl around his wrist sends a spark down his spine. Your grin makes him smile even wider in response. "I'm not exactly complaining about the kiss," he says, tilting his head down to yours. His gaze flickers down to your lips briefly before snapping back up to your eyes.

"Yeah, yeah." You mutter absentmindedly, focus elsewhere. You tilt your head up and press your lips together in one smooth motion. Your hands moving to his sides—fisting the fabric of his t-shirt. 

You can banter back and forth at some other point, right now you want this.

You tilt your head to the side to deepen the kiss like you usually do. You turn your body slightly to face him more with how he has you pressed to the mattress, one hand sliding up from his side to weave through his hair.

"Mmf," he hums softly into the kiss. Your body pressing against his is making thoughts fog his brain. Your hair spread out on his pillow looks good. Too good. His hands drop to your hips possessively. He slides his tongue against yours slowly, like he always does when you make out.

This is always the best part of the end of the day, getting to be close to him and kiss him until you’re both breathless. But this time it felt different, a kind of intensity to it that's heavier than it's been before, not that you’re complaining.

His hands dropping to your hips, holding almost possessively makes a shiver go up your spine. Your lips moving easily with his own—a dance you know effortlessly.

You meet the slow slide of his tongue against yours easily, the action familiar by now. Your hand in his hair tightens slightly and the one on his side does as well.

The hands gripping his shirt and hair sends a shiver down his back. He breaks the kiss to trail his lips down your jaw and neck, his breath ghosting over your skin.

You tip your head back almost immediately when you feel his lips trail from your own down your jaw and neck. Sparks of electricity thrumming through your body from the simple wet kisses along your skin.

"You're so fucking pretty," he murmurs, his hands sliding under your shirt to touch bare skin.

Your lips stay parted, glossy with shared saliva, as you catch your breath and lose it at the same time. His murmured compliment sends a tingle up your spine, a small noise escapes your throat when you feel his hands wandering.

Breath catching slightly as his warm skin slides along yours. This was new, this was definitely new and you were definitely not complaining.

"Lift your arms," He whispers, his voice muffled against your neck. He wants your shirt off. He needs your shirt off. His hands are already under it, splayed against your stomach. You always wear these baggy shirts that hang off your shoulders.

You shiver when you feel that whisper against your neck, his voice muffled. Your lips twitch at the ticklish sensation and from the tingling vibration. You can feel his hands splayed against your stomach, warm and new.

Exploratory.

You do as he says after a moment of your brain catching up, hands leaving his body as you lift your arms up by your head, back lifting off the bed slightly to do it.

You bite your lower lip to stifle a breath, you’ve never gone this far before with him. Hell, him kissing your neck wasn't something you’ve ever done before now.

He takes advantage of your raised arms, quickly tugging your shirt up and off. It flies somewhere behind him, landing on his desk chair probably. His eyes devour the sight of you in just a black bra, your chest rising and falling rapidly. "Holy shit,"

You shake your head to get the hair to settle back and off your face after he pulls your shirt off, watching as he tosses it somewhere behind him. 

The room is silent aside from the uneven breathing for a second as his eyes devour the sight of your upper body, your lips turning up in a smile.

A laugh escapes you at his words, well aware of the fact he's probably never seen a pair of breasts like this in real life. It's cute, and god, more of a turn on than it has any right to be.

"You can... touch if you want." You say, biting the inside of your cheek slightly.

"Fuck yeah I want," He mumbles under his breath, his eyes already moving downwards to admire the shape of your tits. They look amazing. His hands move without him specifically telling them to, sliding up to cover your. "So fucking soft," he murmurs, squeezing gently.

You inhale when his hands cup your breasts through the bra covering them, squeezing the soft flesh gently. Your eyes shift between his hands on you and his face, his expression was cute but his hands felt so good.

Being his first for this is definitely stroking your pride, but it's also something else—something warm in your body.

You press up into his touch involuntarily, your eyes hooded as you watch him. This makes you wonder why it took so long to step past just heavy kissing, aside from the obvious reasons.

He can feel you pressing into his touch, and it's the hottest thing ever. His thumbs brush over your nipples through the thin fabric of the bra, feeling them harden under his touch. "Jesus," he breathes out, his voice low and husky.

A moan slips out of you when his thumbs brush over your nipples, the hardened peaks sensitive to the touch. Your eyes slip closed for a second as you refocus, your eyes opening after a moment and looking at him.

You laugh slightly at how his voice sounded, although you'd be lying if you said it didn't sound good. He might be the first person who's ever paid so much gentle attention to breasts, it's cute. And hot, really.

"Firm your grasp just a little," you say softly, your hands sliding up and over his on your breasts.

His hands squeeze gently, cupping your tits more firmly. He leans down to kiss your neck again, trailing his lips along your skin as he listens to your breathing pick up. 

Your eyes roll back slightly, the mixed sensation of him squeezing your tits and kissing along your neck is far too good. Maybe it's because it's him that's doing it, or fuck maybe he's just some kind of born natural.

His hands slide up to your shoulders, pushing the straps of your bra down. "Can I...?" He trails off, unsure.

Your breath catches slightly when you feel his hands push the straps of your bra down, your eyes refocusing on him. His unsure question is as adorable as it is incredibly hot.

You shift your body weight, your legs spreading a bit with the movement. "Yeah, of course." You murmur, reaching beneath you to undo the clasps for him—most guys struggle the first time, he doesn't need the pressure.

He watches as you undo the bra, revealing your pretty tits to him again. Without wasting a second, his hands pull it down your arms, leaving it to hang from your wrists as he leans down to capture your left tit in his mouth.

He catches you wholly by surprise, breath stuttering in your throat when his warm mouth captures your tit into his mouth. Your hands fly to his head after getting the straps off your wrists, fingers curling into his hair as your head drops back against the mattress.

Your eyes roll back before closing as you moan, back arching slightly and pressing yourself against his mouth. You hadn't expected him to be so bold as to go straight for something like that, or even know how to do it. 

But fuck you are not complaining.

His tongue circles your nipple, learning from instinct what feels good as he sucks lightly. One hand stays on your tit while the other moves to support your lower back, pushing you closer to his mouth. He knows he looks inexperienced as fuck doing this, but he can't stop.

You don't even know how he's so good at this, or at least it feels good. Your heart's racing and your breaths getting stuck in your throat as his tongue circles your nipple and sucks at it.

One of his hands down to support your lower back is a sweet little gesture. You moan softly, lifting your head to watch him work your tit despite his inexperience.

Your fingers in his hair tighten slightly, keeping his hair out of his face so you can watch unhindered. "Jesus, Tim." You murmur before biting your lower lip, eyes hooded.

Pausing momentarily, he glances up at you with a sheepish grin, his lips brushing teasingly against your nipple as he speaks. "Too much?" He murmurs, eyebrows raised in playful innocence. 

Despite his attempt at nonchalance, his cock throbs insistently against his jeans, betraying his intense arousal.

Your lips part and your eyebrows furrow in pleasure, the teasing brush of his lips against your nipples as he speaks is just everything and too little at the same time.

The playful innocence on his face is cute, despite the fact he just ravished your tits like he's done it before, which you know he hasn't. 

Born natural, apparently.

You use your hands in his hair to your own advantage, pulling on the strands to tilt his head up. You lean yours down and capture his lips with your own, kissing him for a moment before pulling back a breadth.

"No, but I have no idea how you did that so well." You murmur, leaning back into your original position after.

He chuckles softly against your lips, his grin widening as he returns to sucking on your nipple gently.

You inhale when his lips return to your nipple, sucking gently. The sensation just as good as before, sending tingles through your body. You bite your lip and let your head fall back on the mattress again.

"I watch porn," he murmurs between sucks, his hands roaming over your breasts and back. His cock throbs again, and he shifts slightly to ease the pressure in his jeans.

His murmured words make you laugh slightly, of course that's how a 19-year-old guy would learn how to do this. It's not surprising but it's also a little amusing.

One hand leaves his hair to settle on his shoulder, the other still in his hair curls against the strands. "What else did you learn through that crap?" You ask, albeit breathlessly from his ministrations on your tits.

His tongue slides across your nipple as he answers, his hands moving to unbutton your jeans. You lift your head slightly when you felt his hands slide down there, followed by the tug on the button of your button as he undoes it.

How he manages to keep his mouth working your nipple while undoing your jeans is honestly impressive, to you at least.

"Mostly positions, I guess. Though honestly, I've never actually done any of this before," he confesses, looking up at you with honesty in his eyes, knowing you wouldn't judge him.

His confession is cute, but you already figured he was a virgin. Not that it was obvious, but guys their age flaunt their experience like it's a badge. He was so sweet and gentle over most things—it took them forever to even kiss. It just hinted at it a little.

"That's okay, you have to start somewhere." You say, your fingers in his hair thread through the soft strands.

He smiles slightly, his confidence boosted by your reassurance. His hands slide into your unbuttoned jeans, fingers curling under the waistband of your underwear. He looks up at you for confirmation before tugging both down, revealing your bare pussy to his eager eyes. 

Fuck, you’re beautiful everywhere.

Since dating him you haven't had sex, and he never tried anything past kissing, so you never really bothered with keeping up with the high maintenance like you used to do before. Shaving, sometimes waxing.

Though you’re sure a man who's only seen a cunt on a screen isn't going to care about how much pubic hair is there or not. Or well, no that’s not true. 

She’s sure a man like Tim wouldn’t give a shit.

Plus, he's not just some guy. He's her boyfriend, someone that matters.

You lean back slightly, dropping your hands from him to prop yourself up on your elbows. Your knees spread slightly to let him explore, it's his first time anyway. 

It's a little hot, the way he's so transfixed.

His eyes darken as he takes in your pussy, spread open slightly with your thighs apart. "Do girls usually shave down there?" He asks suddenly, genuinely curious.

His fingers twitch slightly, wanting to touch but also scared of doing something wrong.

You know he's rather inquisitive, it's one of many traits that drew you to him. That analytical thinking. But it's new to hear sexual questions, but it's also kind of nice. 

Most guys wouldn't bother, they'd just assume what they assume and go on with it.

He's untouched by all of that, nothing but what he's learned through research on a screen analytically. It's cute. 

You look down at your cunt, you’ve got some hair, well groomed but you used to shave completely. Not all the time, just usually when you expected to get laid.

"I mean it depends, some like the feeling of being bare, others don't. I used to shave completely but haven't in a while." You explain with a small smile, your eyes drifting back up to his face.

"Does it... feel weird? Like having hair down there?" He asks innocently, leaning closer to examine without actually touching yet. Your cock is throbbing harder in your jeans, but he wants to learn everything he can before diving in. "Has anyone ever... gone down on you with hair?"

You bite your lip slightly at his question, the corners of your lip curling into another smile. Your breath catching when he leans closer, the way he's so focused is honestly as adorable as it is so unfathomably sexy.

Who knew innocence, to an extent, was your thing. You know somewhere deep down in him there's probably a little freak, everyone's got something.

You mull his questions over for a moment, allowing your brain to form a good answer.

"I mean no, it depends on what underwear you wear. I like cotton or silk, nicer on the bits." You answer his first question, then move to his second one. "No, actually. Before we got together I shaved, most guys don't like the hair."

"I kind of like it," He murmurs, his voice dropping an octave lower as he finally gives in and gently traces the hair with his fingertips. His cock aches at the simple touch, wondering what it must feel like between your legs. "Like how some people have body hair, you know?"

You bite down on your lower lip more when his fingers trace your pubic hair, the faint touch almost teasing even when you know it's just him exploring. You refocus on his words, breathing a soft laugh.

God, he's just so cute and sexy and everything in between. Where was he your whole life? If he was your first sexual partner you might have had a better time back then.

"Yeah, I get it." You say with a small nod. Your eyes drop back down to where his hand is between your legs, opening them a little more for him.

His fingertips linger for a moment before he tentatively brushes against your pussy lips, feeling their softness. Holy fuck, you’re even wet. 

He glances up at you, biting his lip nervously. "Um, is this okay?" He asks, his voice crackling slightly with barely contained excitement.

Your eyes flutter slightly when his fingers brush against your pussy lips, against the soft skin and wetness gathering from everything he's done so far. You’re honestly probably the most aroused you’ve ever been.

You look at him again at his question, the seeking consent is sweet. The small voice crack makes you smile slightly, he's probably been waiting for this for ages.

"Yeah, it's okay." You say with a small nod, giving him all the permission that you can. And god, are you practically seeping with it.

He swallows hard, his chest heaving slightly as he carefully pushes apart your lips to expose your wet pussy. You inhale when his fingers push your lips apart, exposing your wet pussy to him and the air, a shiver running up your spine.

Fuck, you’re beautiful. His finger hesitates for a moment before he touches your clit, the small nub feeling firm and swollen under his touch. "Holy shit,"

Your eyes roll back when his finger touches there, just the slightest hint of pressure enough to send sparks through your nerves. A small noise leaves your nose before your eyes refocus and you try to watch his hand's exploration of your pussy.

You smile slightly at his reaction to what he's touching, it's cute and hot because dear god is your sweet, loving boyfriend slowly killing you.

"Does this feel good?" He asks softly, circling your clit slowly. His eyes watch your stomach muscles tighten slightly with each touch. "Or is this too much?" His brows furrow slightly as he adds another finger, spreading your lips wider. Holy hell, you’re wetter than before.

You love his questions, you really do. But getting your clit rubbed while he's asking them is like asking you to focus while you’re experiencing cloud 9. 

Your eyes roll back when he adds another finger to the one slowly circling your clit, thighs twitching.

Your lips part and your brows furrow slightly, hips arching to meet his touch involuntarily. You know you’re getting wetter, you can feel the cold air a lot more than you could before down there.

"It's good— good." You say as best you can, not wanting him to stop because he thought something was wrong.

"I'm sorry I'm asking a lot of questions. It's just... I'm kinda in the dark here." He says sheepishly, adding a third finger to spread you open more. His eyes widen as your pink flesh parts to reveal a small hole, slick with wetness.

You groan softly, your thighs spreading wider. You don't want him to apologize for his questions, you'd answer anything he needed answered, but fuck he was making you feel so good it was like he pulled every tangible thought out of your mind.

One of your hands fists the sheets beneath you, needing to grab onto something to anchor yourself. His motions were steady and soft but fuck, you haven't been touched by another person down there in ages and he's doing so good.

"Don't— don't apologize, baby. It's okay to ask... questions." You stumble over your words but manage to get them out coherently.

"Okay." He nods, relieved that you don't mind the questions. He takes a deep breath and slides his middle finger into you, feeling your warmth wrap around him. He gasps lightly, his hips involuntarily bucking forward as if seeking friction. His eyes lock onto yours, pupils dilated with desire.

Your eyes roll back and your back arches when he slides in his middle finger, you clench around the slender digit. Your hand fisting the sheets tightens slightly as you moan, thighs twitching as you stifle the urge to close them—not to stop but to keep him where he is.

Your eyes focus and meet his gaze that was already locked onto you. His pupils dilated with his desire, and god is it hot.

You bite your lip as your hips instinctively move to seek out friction. God, if he fucks you you’re never going to let him leave for a while.

"Fuck, you're so tight." He murmurs, slowly moving his finger in and out of you. He can feel your muscles clenching around him, pulling him deeper. His cock throbs in response, aching to be inside you. 

You moan as his finger fucks in and out slowly, your stomach muscles clenching. Your head falls back against the mattress, throat arched slightly as you exhale sharply.

Your thighs trembling and hips twitching with every slow, thrusting motion of his finger.

He adds another finger, stretching you gently.

When he adds that finger a choked moan leaves your throat, your hips rocking to meet his motions.

You’re fist grasping the sheets tightens as you gasp softly. He's the virgin here but fuck if he isn't reducing you to something desperate.

"Should I... add another?" He asks breathlessly, watching your reaction. His cock is painfully hard watching you writhe. Seeing you lose control is fucking gorgeous. He slowly moves his fingers in and out, stretching you deeper each time. "Or is this too much?"

You blink, attempting to focus on his questions. It's a bit hard to do while he's fucking you with two fingers, and so well for a first timer. You lift your head slightly to look at him, meeting his unsure, lust filled gaze.

It takes you a minute to form a coherent thought let alone a response, the slow in and out thrusts of his fingers going deeper each time is mind numbing.

"Depends on," you breathe out after a minute, "how big your dick is." You finished with a sharp inhale as your eyes fluttered and your pussy clenches around his fingers.

"Oh god," he mutters, watching your expression tighten with pleasure. His fingers pick up the pace slightly, sliding easily in and out of your wet heat. "It's average," he answers truthfully, though his ego takes a slight hit. "Like six inches."

You moan when his fingers pick up the pace, your thighs shaking as you keep them spread open for him to continue. You manage, somehow, to focus on his response.

Six inches isn't bad, most guys act like that's somehow something bad. A pussy is only so deep, average is pretty well endowed if used right.

You can tell his ego was slightly hit by having to answer, your free hand slides down to curl around his forearm. "Not bad. But I'm not talking about length, baby." You say, breathless from everything he's doing.

"Oh," he lets out a shaky laugh, snapping his hips forward slightly without meaning to. His fingers push deep inside you, making you arch your back. "You mean thickness?" He asks softly, watching your stomach muscles tighten again.

You groan when his fingers push deeper each inside you, your stomach tightening. He's far too good at this, he learns so fast it's almost disconcerting.

You clamp your thighs down around his hand involuntarily, your head dropping back slightly and your fingers curled around his forearm tighten. 

This is probably the best fingering you’ve ever had, maybe you’re biased because he's your boyfriend.

"Yes— yes, that's what I mean." You say after a moment, stumbling on your words.

"It's... average," he answers hesitantly, his fingers slowly curving upwards to hit that spot inside you that makes your hips buck. "Like five inches around," he adds, watching your face contort with pleasure. "Is that too thin?"

You moan and your hips jerk when he curves his fingers upward, pressing against your g-spot like he somehow knows where it is despite his virginity. 

This motherfucker researches too much. 

Your fingers tighten around his arm, leaving slight indentations.

You personally like average sizes, it's easier to take and less soreness afterward. But he wouldn't have that kind of experienced foresight, he learned these things from porn and forums probably. 

Guys with above average sizes. Guys with no knowledge on what women really like or want. 

"Five inches isn't thin, baby. You're perfect." You manage to get the words out rather strung together. "And it means you can fuck me at any point now." You add.

"Fuck," he breathes out, his heart racing at your words. He slides his fingers out of you and quickly pulls down his pants. 

You inhaled sharply when he slid his fingers out, leaving you feeling rather empty after all the drawn out pleasure. You get properly distracted when he pulls his pants down with fumbling hands, wrapping his hand around his cock and slowly strokes himself.

And fuck, was he pretty. Veiny, pale with an angry red tip that's leaking precum already. He's probably throbbing from holding off so long, pleasing you and asking his questions over gratification.

"Should I... do you want me to use a condom?" He asks, voice trembling with anticipation and nerves.

Your eyes drift up to his face, smiling a little at the tremble in his voice. "I'm on birth control, you don't have to wear one if you don't want to." You say, might as well let him choose for his first time.

"No condom." He decides quickly, wrapping his hand around his length again. "Do you... do you want to be on top?" He asks softly, watching your body carefully. "Or should I... God," he trails off, trying not to whimper. "Do you like it slow or hard?"

You breathe a soft laugh at all his questions, it was cute. He's always been inquisitive but seeing him so nervous while asking questions is new, but it's endearing.

Usually you liked to just do whatever, but he wasn't some random fling, he was your boyfriend and this was his first ever time having sex. You let your eyes roam down his body again, he just looked so good. 

Good enough to be appetizing really.

"It's your first time, baby. What do you want to do?" You ask, your eyes returning to meet his gaze. Letting him set the pace for this, considering everything.

"I want... I'd like you on top first," he admits shyly, biting his lower lip. "So I can see you and learn what feels good. Later, maybe I'll try being on top." He moves to lie back on the bed, stroking himself slowly as he watches you.

You can definitely do that for him, you’re well versed in being on top or on your knees. It's an easy position for the guy, and a good view too. You sit up when he lays back on the bed, gaze roaming him. The way he keeps stroking himself, slow and steady as he watches you.

"Yeah, okay." You say softly, turning to crawl up the bed, towards where he settled himself. You straddle him easily, hips elevated above him.

"We'll go at your pace, promise." You reassure, your hands tracing along his sides before moving between them to pull his hand away from himself.

"Holy fuck," he breathes out, his free hand gripping the bedsheet beneath him as you positions yourself. He can feel your warm pussy right above him, and seeing you naked like this... god, you’re gorgeous. His cock throbs against your inner thigh.

Your eyes roam his face for a second, looking for any sign of discomfort before looking down and guiding his cock to your entrance. You’ve never been someone's first before, it's kind of an exhilarating feeling. 

Especially since it's him, and you love him.

You align him properly and slowly sink down, his dick sliding into you. You moan softly, hands planting on his chest for balance. You can feel the fast beating of his heart against your palm, like a hummingbird.

"God," You breathe out, your eyes fluttering slightly.

"Oh-oh god—" He cries out, not able to contain his own voice as you sink down on him. He's touched himself a million times but the sensation is completely different. It feels like you’re crushing him in the best way possible.

He feels so good in you, nestled inside and touching everything like a live wire. Your eyes drift up to his face after a moment, taking in his expression. His pretty blue eyes overtaken by his dilated pupils, the sounds he makes.

You bite your lip, hands on his chest pressing slightly as you move your hips. Feeling his dick slide out a little bit and sink back in as you move slowly, a soft moan leaving your throat.

You savor the feeling of him inside you, eyes watching his face carefully just in case. It's his first time, you don't want to end up doing something wrong.

"Holy fuck—" He gasps out, his hands gripping your waist tightly as you move your hips. You feel so warm and soft inside. He knew nothing could really prepare him for this, nothing compares to actually feeling it. His back arches involuntary as you move your hips, moaning loudly.

His tight grip on your waist is an unfairly attractive move and he isn't even trying to do it. The way his back arches as you move, the loud moan that leaves him, is addictive.

It almost amplifies every sensation of him inside you, your nerves on fire in such a good way.

You pick up the pace slightly, slight sounds coming from where you’re connected. Your breasts bounce and thighs jiggle slightly each time you’re seated fully on him.

"You feel so good, Timmy." You moan, mostly to encourage him since it's his first time but also because fuck, he does feel so unfairly good.

"Fuck, I– I think I'm gonna—" He cuts himself off with a loud moan, his grip on your waist tightening even more as he starts to come inside of you. He knew this would happen pretty fast, it's his first time after all.

It was going to happen sooner rather than later, usually does, but fuck if it wasn't still hot to watch him come undone beneath you. Feel him shoot his load inside, filling you up with the searing warmth.

You don't stop though, mostly because you know you can get more out of him. He looks so pretty like this.

The slapping of skin meeting filled the room obscenely. Your breathing grows more ragged, breasts bouncing as you ride him. Your moans grow more consistent, mixed with softer, more whimpering noises that come out of your nose.

"You're doing so good, so good, baby." You praise breathily.

"Holy shit... that feels..." He trails off with a whimper, his senses overloaded with pleasure, still sensitive from his first orgasm. Your dirty talk is doing something to him, especially mixed with those sweet praise words. 

Without warning, he sits up slightly, wrapping one arm around your back to pull you closer, using the other hand to guide your movements.

He throws your focus off a bit when he suddenly sat up slightly, the change in position makes your hips open more. The sudden boldness takes you off guard but it's sexy as hell.

One of his arms wrapped around your back, pulling you closer as his other hand guided the movements, it was sweet and hot all at once. And helpful.

You wrap one arm around his shoulders as the other flattens on his knee. You keep your hips moving, albeit faster and harder. Rolling them inward to account for the new position. 

"Fuck— you gonna make me come, baby? You feel so good." You say, breathless and followed by a moan.

He nods, trying to speak and failing as a loud whimper leaves his throat. Your head drops back, exposing the arch of your throat, moans choked off. The sound of his whimpers are addictive, you want to keep hearing them.

You don't change your rhythm because he sounds so close again, and it sounds like heaven to your ears to listen to it. Your stomach tightens, the coil builds fast.

He starts to move his hips upward, meeting you thrust for thrust, pushing deeper inside of you. He can feel his second orgasm quickly approaching, and he's eager to find out if it'll be just as intense as the first.

When his hips start to move up into you, the coil in your stomach snaps. "Oh, God. I'm coming— fuck, Tim." You reach your orgasm with a cry of his name and a moan, your cunt clenching around his cock.

He lets out a strangled groan as your tight walls clamp down around him, triggering his own intense orgasm. His hips jerk erratically, pushing deep as he pours himself into your welcoming heat.

"Holy fuck!" He nearly shouts, burying his face against your neck to muffle the sound.

Your hand around his shoulders slides up to his hair when he buries his face against your neck to muffle himself. You slowly come to a stop, your breathing heavy and fast, skin glistening with a thin layer of sweat.

You were hot, sweaty, and thoroughly satisfied. Your cunt tingly and throbbing with your pulse, still stuffed full with his cock—the warmth of his cum filling your cunt and leaking out around him is a welcomed sensation.

You rest your cheek against his sweaty hair, breathing still rather heavy. "You can officially throw your v-card out the window." You murmur jokingly, threading your fingers through his sweat-damp strands.

He nods weakly, still basking in the afterglow of the intense encounter. His heart is pounding in his chest, and his body is limp with exhaustion. He nuzzles against your neck, planting soft kisses along the column of your throat. 

Note.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ: Older Boys is about an established relationship between Remus and you, someone older then him. It’s the early 80s, who doesn’t go to a house party to get drunk or high or fucked? But it doesn’t exactly go how you’d wanted it to. Well, in the beginning at least. 

18+, this has sexual content, like seriously.

Kinks or fetishes: Dom/sub variables (just in the dynamic position sense), anal prep, anal fingering, mild dirty talk, anal sex, M/M sex, slight age gap but what queer in the 70s/80s didn’t let’s be honest, protected sex. 

It’s pride month, I’m queer and hate JK Rowling so I took her beloved intellect and had him take it up the ass.

8,241 words. Non-magic AU. This has male center pronouns when someone talks about you in third person, male organ centered sex. (cock, dick, stiffy, erection, etc)

The music was smooth—so smooth it felt like something Remus should’ve grown up with instead of the cackling, staticky pop that always felt behind the times. This wasn’t like that. It was mellow, a little funky, with bass vibrating beneath the floorboards and voices that didn’t have to yell to be heard.

It smelled like weed and perfume—powdery, heady, expensive. Warm bodies packed in too close, low lights, a splash of laughter from people who knew they were safe to be loud.

And Remus didn’t belong here.

Not bitterly—not exactly. But he felt like he was in a film, like he’d wandered onto the set and no one had kicked him out.

They were all so easy in their skin—the way they dressed, danced, kissed like it didn’t mean anything and didn’t have to. Like they’d done this again and again because that was just what adults did.

This was a proper party. No one throwing up from nicked vodka, no one boasting about their first shag in a way that made it obvious they had no idea what they were doing.

These were uni students. The real kind. Ones who knew about joints that didn’t burn too fast. Ones who drank bourbon like it was beer.

And Remus?

He’d spent seven years watching James snog the life out of anyone with a mouth and Sirius light things on fire for fun. His only reference was that kind of party. This one felt like another planet.

But you—fuck, you fit here like you’d been carved from this world.

People knew you. Touched your shoulder, leaned in to grin and say things he couldn’t hear. They didn’t really talk, not properly. But they knew of you. And it was enough.

And Remus watched, sitting on your lap, fingers curled in your shirt because it was the only thing grounding him.

Your hand toyed with his collar, lazy, like instinct—touch him so he doesn’t float too far. Hold him close enough that he doesn’t look like he might bolt.

He probably looked like he might bolt.

The drink in his hand was half-warm now. Something dark and sweet and expensive, poured for him by someone with winged eyeliner and gold bangles. She’d smiled like she knew you and had decided he was safe because of it.

But she didn’t know him.

None of them did.

Remus was just some kid who followed you in. Someone’s boyfriend, a plus-one, a tagalong.

Except you didn’t treat him like one.

Your arm was around him like it belonged there. Not staking a claim, not really—just comfortable. Like he was.

But he didn’t know how to sit still on you. Not in a place like this, where everyone else had already passed through whatever awkward phase he was still fighting through. He was 18 and brand new to everything like this, and you were 24 and carved out of marble.

Sharp nose, sharp eyes, sharp everything.

Even your touch was sharp. Assured. Like there was no doubt he wanted to be here. That he was good enough to be here.

Remus didn’t think he was. But maybe if he pretended hard enough, it’d stop showing on his face.

The music shifted. Someone stood to dance, and someone else joined, hips moving like they’d been trained to. He watched them, envied how unafraid they looked.

He pressed closer to you without meaning to. Your knee shifted beneath him, and he breathed in the scent of you—smoke, aftershave, a little leather. Always something masculine, clean, like you knew how you smelled and had done it on purpose.

You always did things on purpose.

Remus glanced at your face. You were watching the room, relaxed, but not unaware. You never really were. There was always calculation in your eyes, even if your mouth was easy, even if your body said, “I’m just here for the ride.”

You weren’t.

And yet you still had him folded into your chest, legs spread wide to make space for him, like Remus was something you’d brought and didn’t mind showing off.

Like he wasn’t out of place at all.

Remus let his head rest against your jaw and closed his eyes for a second. Just a second. Let the music thrum beneath his ribs, let the warmth of you wrap around him.

Let himself pretend, for just a little bit, that he belonged.

Maybe, if you kept looking at him like that, he’d start to believe it.

You tipped your head back on the couch after a moment, when someone approached from behind, probably wanting to chat. 

You didn’t know everyone here, not by name at least but you’ve probably met half of them some way. You partied a lot more when you were younger, bit of a whore. 

But what queer man in the late seventies—’84 now—wasn’t? 

Your fingers traced along the collar of Remus’ shirt still, even as your eyes turned to look at the person who approached only to go stock still. Your grasp on him tightened a bit and you straightened up from your relaxed lean back. 

Your arms moved to drape around his waist instead of the lazy touch it’d been. 

“So, a new plaything, yeah? Not to say I’m surprised.” Rennay’s voice rings over the music, just loud enough to be heard over it. Your jaw ticks, and you resolutely look away from her. 

It’s the shittiest part of living in the same town; ghosts sometimes reappear to haunt again. 

The change was subtle, but Remus felt it.

That easy slouch, the lazy grip, disappearing in an instant.

He looked up, expecting a stranger. A random interruption, maybe someone selling drugs, maybe something worse.

Instead, it was a girl.

Older than him, though likely younger than you. Early twenties at most, maybe, with shiny dark hair like a raven’s wing. She had sharp eyes, a sharper tongue. 

A wicked sort of beauty that might’ve been pretty if she hadn’t leaned so hard into striking.

You hadn’t been told she’d be here, but you also didn’t expect to be. You didn’t keep tabs on the woman, didn’t care to. Until now. 

And you sort of wish you’d kept track of where she’d turn up because there’s no part of you that ever wanted to see her ever again. 

You shifted, gently moving Remus to stand up first so you could get up. You’re not going to let her subject him to the same treatment you’d gotten from her years ago. 

There’s no point when you’re a capable adult now, with priorities instead of way too much recklessness. 

“Piss off.” The words are sharp coming out of you, warning. 

Your hands land on Remus’ hips after standing to your feet, keeping him close to you as you move the both of you away from the sofa—not moving fast like you’d prefer because you don’t want to hurt him doing that.

I followed him off of the couch, but the distance was *minimal*. His stance, like he was shielding me. His hand, gripping tight to my waist. 

You were protective. Not the aggressive, “stay away from what’s mine” way—the subtle, effortless way.

As if it was second-nature.

Your body was solid, shoulders like a wall. Remus knew, instinctively, that you didn’t think he needed it.

This was for your own comfort.

Remus watched the girl’s face, still plastered with a sly sort of smirk. She followed the two of you.

“Don’t be like that,” she said. “You didn’t even stop to say hello.”

Your jaw clenched at that, at the way she just followed. You hadn’t expected her to give up exactly, but you just wished she’d get shoulder checked or something and you could lose her. 

You kept him in front of your body, so he didn’t get bumped by people as you kept walking for the door. 

You never really left parties without saying bye to your mates, but this wasn’t exactly a situation you wanted to spend more time than necessary in. 

Not with Remus there, not when you’re not exactly stable enough to stand up for yourself and him at the same time. Not when you feel small.

“Take a hint, Rennay. Usually that means someone doesn’t want to fuckin’ talk to you.” You spit the words out, arm wrapping around your boyfriends waist to guide him through people, elbow out so it was bumped into instead of him. 

Your focus split on quite a few things. 

Rennay had no hint of shame on her face. A small laugh left her instead, a pretty little sound that held just a hint of mockery.

She leaned around your shoulder, getting a proper look at Remus. He stiffened automatically at being the subject of her glare.

And her face lit with recognition.

“You look familiar,” she said to him, not hiding the once-over she gave him. “What’s your name again, sweetheart?”

It barely took you any time to respond to the light touch on your shoulder of her leaning around it, and the tightness that hit your chest at the idea of her even looking at Remus let alone talking to him. 

You released him for a moment, shoving her back by the shoulder touching yours. 

“Don’t fucking touch me.” The words leave in a harsh, cold snap. Your hand retracted like you didn’t even want to touch her, your arm went back around his waist—tugging him closer. 

You weren’t comfortable with this—never was, but more so now that she’d turned focus. 

“You look at him, talk to him, even breathe in his direction, I will put you out on your arse, Rennay.” You say, not even caring to be subtle with the threat in it. You don’t care if she’s a girl, if she plans to start something you won’t let her. 

She gets away with too much as is. 

Always did. 

Something flickered across her face.

Her smile didn’t falter, of course. But her eyes gleamed with annoyance now.

“Jealous already?” Her tone was mocking. She was laughing at you. “I don’t want your used up little boytoy. Got plenty of those of my own.”

The words made Remus shiver, like she’d reached over and wrapped an icy hand around his throat.

But your grip on him didn’t release—if anything, it tightened.

There was a lot he tolerated, mostly because you didn’t really feel the need to fight until it was a last ditch effort. But hearing her call your boyfriend a ‘boytoy’ like he’s just another body. Like your still fucking around, like Remus isn’t anything but some new thing you want. 

You release him, hand shooting out to grab her by the front of her top and dragging her face to face with you. You don’t care who she is anymore, not that you’d been trying to get away a few seconds ago. 

Because she’d crossed a line you refuse to let her stay over. 

“Call him that again, that face of yours won’t look the same ever again.” The words are biting, and you have her pulled up onto her tiptoes from the height difference. 

You don’t hurt women, but she was less a person and more a parasite. One that won’t leave you alone.

There was a flicker of something in her gaze.

A hint of fear.

But it was gone a second later, buried beneath bravado.

She smiled at you, a smirk that was meant to be coy.

“Bit of a harsh reaction, love,” she said, like she was talking to a temperamental puppy. “What, you think he’s going to stay? Think you’ve found a nice piece of ass that’s willing to—“

That was as far as she got before you slammed her up against a wall.

You wanted to hurt her, you did. For everything she did to you and continues to do, like some kind of shadow on your life that wouldn’t go away. 

You aren’t some scrawny teenager anymore who just wanted to be wanted but was ashamed to be wanted by lads. And she twisted that up. 

And you refuse to let her go after the one good thing in your life now. You get close to her face, your lips turned up in a sneer, eyes dark and narrowed. You want her to feel every bit of what she caused you. 

But you can’t make yourself do it. You might’ve a year ago, when you were still lost.

But retaliation doesn’t taste so sweet anymore.

You release her with a shove back into the wall, harsh and rough.

“Stay the fuck out of my life.” The words are spat out roughly before turning back towards Remus, you move back to him. Arm slipping around his waist once more, touch careful as you move the two of you towards the front door again.

Remus had never seen you like this.

All hard lines and violence barely leashed, even if it had never come out.

And for him, you’d gone soft again. The hand on his hip gentle, almost a caress.

You took him to the front door. People were watching now, but all he saw was the back of your neck—the muscles taut and flexing beneath your skin.

He touched your shirt, just a finger on the edge of your shoulder.

“Are we—are we leaving, then?”

You nod at that, opening the door with your free hand when you reach it. You move him out first, refusing to let him be behind you. You step out after, closing the door behind you both. 

The night’s colder than it’d been when you first arrived. Or maybe you're cold. You aren’t sure. 

You pull Remus closer again just in case it is cold, in case it’s not just you. The cars only down the road, it’s not like you’d be walking all the way to your flat. 

But you also don't quite think you could stomach any sort of space right now—even just walking. You’re uncomfortable in your skin. 

You walk down the pathway, steps slower than they'd been. To make sure Remus is able to keep up without straining himself, you’ve learned that the cold can sometimes impact his bad leg, and he decided to leave his cane in the car, so it wasn’t lost or misplaced at the party. 

Every step he took sent a small spark of pain up his bad leg.

Nothing that would make him wince or stop, but something he was fully aware of. Something he tried to ignore.

But you were aware of it too. The change in pace was subtle, but it was there.

All so he wouldn’t lag behind. So you could keep your grip on him, still locked around his hip like there was a chance he’d pull away.

He wasn’t going to—he could feel your unease like a palpable thing.

It wasn’t long before the car was reached and you unlocked the passenger side first so he could get in safely. You open the door for him, holding it by the top of the window frame. 

Once he’s inside and settled you closed the door gently, not wanting to accidentally knock a knee. 

You get in the drivers side a moment later, turning the car on so the heat could warm you both up. 

You leaned back in your seat after, hands dropping to your lap. You needed to compose yourself a bit more before thinking of actually driving, you felt too… tight to safely do anything. 

You look down at your hands, fingers closed against your lap. You spoke up after a moment, voice low. 

“It was her,” there’s a brief pause, like you had to think about the next few words. “The ex that outed me when I was a teenager.” You say, exhaling through your nose a bit.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The story hadn’t come all at once. About what happened.

Not in some sit-down, eyes-meeting, hand-on-heart sort of way. That wasn’t your style. You didn’t do confessions the way people expected—you let them unravel, thread by thread, until suddenly someone was holding a piece of you and realizing you’d handed it over when they weren’t looking.

The first hint came on one of those late nights where everything was soft: the music, the light, the way you touched him, like you didn’t want to wake the version of yourself you used to be.

You’d both been lying in bed, half-tangled and half-naked, when Remus asked something offhand. Not even heavy—something like “Did you always know?” because you two were talking about coming out. And you had gone quiet in that way you did when your thoughts slipped behind your eyes.

You didn’t answer then. Just pulled Remus closer, pressed your nose to the side of his neck, and said, “Another time.”

It came in pieces after that.

A month later, over burnt toast at your flat, you’d muttered, “Seventeen. That’s how old I was.” You said it like you were handing over a weapon. “She was pissed I left her. Told everyone in the pub I’d been sneaking off with a bloke while I was still with her. Which wasn’t true. I hadn’t even touched a lad yet.”

Remus didn’t say anything, just reached for the knife to butter his toast and brushed your fingers together.

That was enough for you to keep going.

“She knew I liked looking. I’d told her. Thought we could be honest. She used it like a bloody knife. And that was it. Whole street knew before I’d even gotten home. My mates stopped ringing. People I’d grown up with wouldn’t sit next to me on the bus. And the girls? Christ, they wouldn’t even look at me. Not unless they wanted to laugh.”

There was something bitter in your laugh—not self-pitying, just tired. Worn out from holding it.

“I was a coward back then. Started pulling girls again. Anyone who’d let me. Thought I could fuck it out of my system. Be normal again. My dad didn’t ask. Just stopped looking me in the eye for a bit.”

Remus remembered that story. From Rosalind, your mum, actually. She told it over tea once when you were out buying cigarettes. How you used to come home reeking of booze and perfume, too loud, too brittle. How it broke her heart to see you trying so hard to feel nothing.

She'd looked at Remus then, across her steaming cup, and said, “He doesn’t do that anymore, you know. Doesn’t come home with strangers. Doesn’t fill the house with ghosts. Just comes home with you. That's all I ever prayed for.”

The full story came on a rainy night, after you’d argued about something small—something stupid. Remus had pulled away a little too fast, frustrated, and you had gone cold, flinched like you’d been slapped.

Later, wrapped in a towel, dripping from the rain, you’d said it low: "When you grow up believing no one's going to stay, you get good at pushing first. I didn’t mean to."

That’s when Remus asked again, softer this time.

“Did it hurt, being outed like that?”

And you had stared out the window for a long time before replying.

“Not as much as pretending I wasn’t. That part... that’s what rotted me.”

Remus never pressed again. He didn’t need to.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Remus’ breath caught in his lungs.

The image of her came rushing to mind, harsh and bitter. Gorgeous. Sharp. Like the type of girl who would never know what it meant to hold something softly and fear breaking it.

"That was *her*?" He asked, the surprise unmistakeable.

The words 'I'm sorry' were on the tip of his tongue, but you didn't look like you needed to hear those.

He didn't know what you needed to hear instead.

You exhale softly, letting your head fall back against the seat's headrest. You’d gotten over majority of what happened in your teenage years, mostly because it never really mattered in the end. 

You’d grown up, changed—mostly because of the boy sitting next to you. But this still stung.

Still rotted in the marrow of his bones. Because it was a moment you’d been stripped of control and choice. 

And that kind of thing sticks around for a long time and you haven’t yet figured out how to let go of that kind of anger. 

You’re trying. And you walked away when you needed to.

When before, you’d have lightly gone through with your words. Because anger ate away at the marrow of your bones when it festered long enough. 

And that anger festered for seven years.

You turn your head, eyes roaming along the lines of his face. Taking in the worry and hesitation. And you smile a little, hands moving to pat your lap in invitation before muttering one just in case. 

“Com’ere.” The words are soft, softer than your other ones had been. Quiet too.

Remus unbuckled his seatbelt and moved closer without hesitation.

It was impossible not to—not when you were asking like that, not when he wanted to be close just as much as you seemed to.

He settled on your lap, straddling your thighs, and it was immediately easier to breathe.

Better.

Your breath was hot against his throat, warm everywhere you both touched. His fingers sought out your skin, and he traced along your arms—your shoulders—the sharp jut of your collarbone.

You watched him with a tilt of your head, smiling slightly. This was probably the only time you’ve ever had to look up at him, it’s a bit endearing. How he looks from this angle, the touch of his fingers sliding along you like he’s exploring what he already knows. 

And you let him, easily. 

Your arms are draped loosely around his hips, fingers tracing up and down along the small of his back. 

It felt better like this, having him close, being able to touch him. 

The words Rennay had said were still there, and you didn’t like how it made you feel. That tightness in your gut. 

Your hands slide up slightly, dipping under the fabric of his shirt to touch skin. The waxy feeling of scars sliding against your palm before it fades into softer skin makes a breath leave your chest. 

“What she said isn’t true, you know that right?” You murmur, fingers tracing skin softly. 

Your touch left sparks in its wake, heat that pooled low in his stomach.

Remus nodded, shifting closer, closer, until your mouth feathered across the sharp line of your jaw. The words came out as a breathless whisper against your skin.

“I know. Of course I know.”

He kissed your throat, open mouthed, wanting to taste you. Wanting you to know.

Your eyes drift closed at the first kiss, lips twitching with a smile. It’s a bit of a comfort, to know he wasn’t stung by the words or that he was thinking on it. 

It was good that he wasn’t, because it wasn’t true. He wasn’t just something you were keeping around, wasn’t a toy. 

He was… a lot of things. And none of them shallow. 

You spent a long time being shallow, liking people for their bodies and the hole it filled momentarily in the moment—but he was more. Your heart stuttered too often to be anything less. 

And he’s so beautiful. Inside and out. 

Your hands slide up his back as you lean forward in your seat, pressing against him as you tilt your head to find his lips with your own. 

Hands coming out from beneath his shirt to cradle his jaw in your fingers, bringing his face closer to yours to angle him into the kiss. 

It was the sort of kiss that melted Remus: hard and hot and intense, the kind where every touch felt like fire against his skin.

His hands clutched at your shoulders. His fingers gripped the material of your shirt a little desperately, the need to get closer overriding his better sense.

One of you groaned—maybe you, maybe him. He didn’t know.

His hips rocked against yours—just the barest bit of friction that still sent sparks of heat through him, made his heart speed up.

“God,” he murmured, the word lost in the kiss.

Your brows furrowed at the barest hint of fiction from him grinding his hips down, your hands dropped from his jaw to his hips. You pressed further into the kiss, the edge turning a bit rougher but no less tender—you didn’t get properly rough unless he asked you to be. 

One of your hands slides down to cup his arse, pulling him down against you properly. Having no issue guiding him, or letting him figure it out himself. 

But you wanted to touch him. 

Your own hips rose up slightly, allowing yourself to meet into the friction as you groaned lowly against his mouth. 

You’re not sure how it went from something vocally vulnerable to this, but you’re not complaining. You’ll take the physical intimacy as well; it always felt different with him. 

You’ve fucked plenty, experienced more than your decent fill. But it still managed to feel different with him. 

Remus’ hips rocked again, more purposefully this time.

Harder. Faster.

He could feel how you both affected one another—heat and need and a desperation he couldn’t name. His blood felt like it was boiling. Every inch of him ached and he was still craving more.

He wanted to be naked and breathless and pinned down. He wanted you on top of him. Around him. In him.

His breath hitched.

The words left his mouth, raw and wanting.

“Take me home.”

You grinned, pulling back to maneuver him back into the passenger seat—it was easy enough, but you were careful not to hit his bad hip into anything. 

You leaned back in your seat, adjusting your jeans a bit—not your fault the bloody boy could get you bothered like a teenager. The erection sitting uncomfortably. 

You’d have suggested the car if you had anything here to aid in the process, or if he were more versed in bottoming—it was still a whole process to prep him, and there’s no way you’d shag him otherwise. 

He’s not ready for something like that. And it’s one thing you won’t do with him.

You wait for him to buckle in before putting the car in drive, after buckling in yourself of course. It’s a bit hard to focus on driving when you’ve got a stiff one and your boyfriend is mere feet beside you. But you manage fine enough, even if it’s taking all your effort to focus.

Remus reached across the space between you two, his fingers seeking your thigh.

He didn’t tease you—didn’t try to get your attention with a touch.

He needed it for himself.

Every one of his breaths was just a little too fast. Every part of him was too hot.

He wanted to get his hands on you. He wanted you to touch him until he gasped.

He wanted you to push him back against the wall. He wanted you to drive a little farther, pull over onto some dark street and—

By some miracle, you two made it back to your flat without Remus going mad. It was a short drive, but every minute felt like an hour.

You felt like you were seconds away from imploding, but you managed to pull the keys out of the ignition and get out of the car—a bit reluctant to leave the touch on your leg. But managed. 

You closed the driver side door before walking around to his side, opening the door for him. 

You wait long enough for him to unbuckle but not a second after, you pull him from the car—gently—and your hands drop to the backs of his thighs, bending down slightly before hauling him up into your arms. Hands cupping his arse to keep him held against you.

You’re moving for your flat a moment later, freeing up one hand to unlock the door and shoving it open with a kick of your foot. You walk through the door, shutting it behind you with your hip as you move through the hallway. 

Not really wasting much time in moving through the layout.

You carried Remus like he weighed nothing, his body held against yours like something precious.

He held on to your shoulders for balance, his legs wrapped around your waist instinctively.

You moved fast—not rushed, exactly, but as impatient as he was.

By the time you two made it to your bedroom, his hands were pulling at your shirt, wanting to touch your skin. 

He needed it more than he needed air, but he couldn’t get words out. Instead, he buried his face against your throat.

You didn’t let him get far with pulling at your shirt before depositing him on the bed carefully. Tossing him carelessly wasn’t an option with his bad hip and leg. 

Not that you’d do that anyway, you liked to be careful with him. You don’t join him right away either, you’ve got shite to grab. 

You move to your dresser, opening the top drawer where you keep all the miscellaneous shite—doobies, joints, lighters, condoms, lube, etc. 

The things you’d need for situations like this. It’s just been customized for him these days, to fit what you’d need for him in these scenarios.

You grab a condom, because you’re safe first, and then your thing of water-based lube—you used to use oil based but you learned that your pretty boy has more sensitive skin. 

You moved back to the bed, tossing both the lube and the condom down on the mattress beside you.

Remus watched you when you’d been rummaging through the drawer.

You knew what you were looking for, your eyes set and determined even as you sorted through lighters and half-empty bottles of aftershave.

His hands played with the sheets, the fabric twisting in his fingers. All of his attention was focused on you, the shifting of your shoulders, the flex of your back beneath your shirt, the curve of your spine.

You made him feel like his brain was leaking out of his head. Like he’d never think straight again.

You rested a knee on the bed, leaning over him. Your back bends as you use your fingers to tip his head back and press your lips together. 

The kiss is unhurried, slow, tender. Prep isn’t always the most comfortable thing, at least for a bottom—you’ve learned that being with him. 

You never used to care, because most of the people you’d shag came prepared for that to occur. Your boy always needed the process first, the prep that came with the territory. 

Especially since he’s not as experienced as you are, his body still needs to adapt to it all. 

You pull from the kiss a moment later, moving to undress him. Your hands gentle as you pull his shirt off, careful of not tugging around his bad hip, before tossing it to the floor. 

Your hands skimmed down his sides. “Alright?” You murmur, checking in like you always do.

Remus nodded immediately, his breath leaving in a sharp rush from just the touch of your hands on his skin.

He was too sensitive, too desperate for your touch. He had been all evening—since the two of you left the party, in the car, here.

He needed you.

He reached for you, tugging you a little closer. His hands went for the buttons on your shirt, starting to undo them.

He wanted you out of those clothes. He wanted you to be just as bare as he was, so he could feel you against him.

You complied with the tug, moving to kneel between his legs, hands falling to his knees to spread them open more. 

You looked down at him from there, eyes roaming. He always looked beautiful on his back, looking up at you with nothing but utter want and the safety to express that.

You liked that feeling, being safe enough to see it so openly on someone's face. Especially someone you love as much as you love him. 

You help him unbutton the rest, shrugging the weightless fabric off your shoulders after it comes undone, tossing it off the bed. 

You lean down, planting your weight on your elbows so you don’t place too much on his body. You brush your noses together, breaths mingling slightly. 

“Use your words f’me, love. I need to hear you.” You mutter, thumbs brushing his temples. Vocal yeses and nos are better.

Your skin brushed against his own—hot and smooth and almost unbearably tempting.

Remus let out a shaky breath, shuddering slightly at the touch. Your weight pinning him to the bed made him ache with need and want, his hips shifting reflexively against you.

You wanted verbal consent—and he was more than happy to give it.

"Yes," he murmured, the word almost a moan. "Yes, please, please—"

You grin slightly, dipping your head to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then down his jaw. You took your time despite it all, despite the fact you’d been impatient before. 

But now that you had him beneath you, willing and wanting, you wanted to savor it like you prefer to. 

You lean up on your knees after a moment, your hands tracing down his sides. He was so pretty. 

Soft skin, coarse hair on the chest, scars crawling up his left side from his hip. The little trail of sandy brown hair disappearing into the waistline of his trousers. 

He’s beautiful. 

Your hands drop to the button of his trousers after your moment of admiring, fingers working it open. Your gaze finds his again, keeping focused on them. 

“Shall we get started then, hm?” You murmur, voice low and light. At least trying to make this part pleasant enough in the beginning.

Remus nodded again, his breath coming in short and fast.

He wasn't afraid.

He was needy.

He could feel his body heating up from your touch, like a flame being stoked to life bit by bit. He shifted his hips again, grinding against you lightly. Just a hint of friction—not enough to do more than tease.

"Please—" he echoed again. His breathing was quick, his skin on fire. "Touch me."

You planned to, of course you did. You wouldn’t get him this pent up and leave him there, that’s just cruel. And you’d be torturing yourself. 

You gently pull his trousers off, careful of his bad hip in the process. You tossed them away after getting them off his ankles. Fingers sliding up to his scarred calf, lifting the leg up to press light kisses along the warm skin. 

You let it go to draw your fingers up along his thighs, coarse hair tickling your palms. “Relax,” you mutter, dipping your head to press your lips together. 

Your left hand moved from off his thigh to palm against the erection pressing against the soft fabric of his boxers—the touch firm enough to give him some relief without properly getting him off.

Remus’ legs fell open immediately, his hips tilting upward. His fingers dug into your hair, holding you there. His lips parted immediately, giving you access to his mouth. He kissed you back fiercely—like his entire body had been waiting for the chance to press into you. 

He needed you to really touch him, to prep him properly before you took him apart with your cock like you always did.

You licked into his mouth when his lips parted for you, tasting him and consuming him however much you want to. 

The way he tilts up into your touch, knowing full well how much he wants more, is almost addicting enough to keep playing with him. But you won’t make him suffer waiting longer. 

You keep him plenty occupied with the feverish kiss as you pull his boxers down, shifting his legs to free him of the fabric. Your fingers trace along his inner thigh while your unoccupied hand moves to grab the tube of lube you’d set off to the side. 

His hips jerked upwards again as your fingers teased his inner thighs, close but not close enough. 

You break the kiss momentarily to pop the cap and squeeze the viscous gel onto your fingers before tossing it to the side again. You lean over him to press your lips together again.

"Mmmph—" He hummed against your lips, spreading his legs wider apart to give you better access. Your mouth was like a drug—addictive and hot and perfect.

Your fingers found their way between his thighs, past his weeping cock—which you’d give proper attention to later—to his pucker. You start slow, like you always do because it’s just better that way for your pretty boy. 

Your finger presses against him, messaging lightly at first while you devour his mouth like you’ve been starving of it—all a distraction for the most part. It’s better to keep him preoccupied with a good sensation to distract from an uncomfortable one. 

You pressed your middle finger firmly, feeling the ring of muscle slowly give way until it slips inside—only to your first knuckle at first, and you work with that to slowly relax it to ease more in. 

It’s a slow process with him still, but that doesn’t mean you can’t make it good, even if it’s not the most comfortable thing at first, it’ll gradually get better once you can get more than one finger in.

"Fuck, yes..." Remus gasped against your lips as you slowly breached him. The initial discomfort was quickly overshadowed by the delicious stretch and the way your tongue danced with his. 

His hips lifted to meet your finger, encouraging you to go deeper even though it hurt a little at first. 

He needed more.

You grin at the gasped words against your mouth, the way he arches into it. He’s come a long way from your first time together, took ages to get him to properly open up, enough that you had hesitated to even try proper penetration. 

But he’s much better now. 

You pump your middle finger in and out of him, feeling the muscles slowly relax around your digit. You pulled from the kiss to trail them down his jaw, to his neck. You pressed a second finger against his pucker, pushing it in to join the first. 

With that done easily enough, you begin to pump your fingers more deliberately. You curl them slightly, pressing against his prostate every inward pump of your digits. 

You mouth along his throat, knee sliding up slightly to press his right thigh further open to angle your hand better.

"Mmm... fuck, right there..." Remus whimpered as you hit that perfect spot inside him with your fingers. His legs trembled uncontrollably now, his body completely surrendered to you. 

The pleasure was overwhelming—your fingers stretching him open while your mouth devoured his neck and shoulder.

You’ve never gotten off so much on someone else’s pleasure like you have his. There’s something about the way he reacts, the way he’ll shake or moan, or make those bloody stomach tightening whimpers. 

It makes you feel like a horny teenager with no control, cream in your pants from a touch type. It’s bullshite and yet you love it. 

You don’t stop hitting his prostate, but you scissor your fingers to properly stretch him because you’re not really sure you can last longer without feeling him properly around you. 

Now you’re the impatient one again. 

You continue until you’re sure he’s good, your fingers leaving his too-lovely arse to lean back. You're breathing a touch ragged as you shuck off your own boxers and grab the tossed condom from off the mattress, eyes roaming his flushed body as you do.

He looked up at you through hooded eyes, biting his bottom lip as he watched you roll the condom onto his thick, hard length. 

He spread his legs wider, planting his feet on the bed to lift his hips up slightly—exposing himself to you completely. "You're taking too long."

Your gaze falls to his lovely arse when he lifts his hips up, breathing out a chuckle as his impatient words. So bossy for someone doing none of the work, but you can’t act like you don’t love it. 

Your hands grasp around the fronts of his thighs, dragging him down further to position him better. Once satisfied you grab the lube again, popping the cap as you watch him—god, he looks too good like this. It should be fucking illegal. 

You smear a generous amount of lube onto your condom covered dick, for extra aid. And you lean over him, squeezing some out on his flushed cock, so it’s not rubbing dry against your stomachs. 

You toss the tube to the side, one hand finding his waist and the other guiding you to his prepped hole. “So impatient.” You mutter, leaning over his body as you slowly press inside. Not too fast.

Remus gasps sharply as the head of your cock presses against his entrance, already stretching him open. He whimpers as you slowly push inside, body tensing for a moment before relaxing around you as you start to slide in deeper. His legs wrap around your waist automatically, pulling you closer.

A lesser man would buckle at the way he feels wrapped around you, warm and tight. And you might be teetering there. 

Your now unoccupied hand moves to brace your weight, forearm resting next to his head. Your head drops to the crook of his neck, mouthing along his throat. You don’t move for a moment, letting him adjust first. And maybe soaking in the bloody phenomenal sensation. 

You can feel his cock pressed between your stomachs, the cold viscous lube mixing with the warmth of leaking precum. You move after a moment, hips pulling out barely an inch before pressing back in—just to test whether or not he’s ready for any kind of moving. 

And god, the drag has you seeing stars like a fucking virgin, it’s almost pathetic how whipped you are for him. 

You’ve fucked too many people to react this way. And yet here you are, weak kneed for his lovely arse.

He lets out a soft, strangled noise as you start to move. Arching his back, pushing his chest out at the sensation of you sliding in and out of him making him lose all rational thought. 

He’s a mess, a needy, desperate mess for you. 

His hips start to meet your thrusts, needing more friction, more pressure. With the instant reciprocation you shift slightly, your hand at his waist slides down to his hip and your other hand rests against his head. 

You thrust your hips more deliberately, pulling out more and more each time. You aren’t rough but you’re teetering on the edge of it—you never go past it without being asked. 

You’re always careful with him first and foremost. 

You groan low in your throat, the feeling of him wrapped around you has your gut tightening and blood boiling. He feels so good. And you tell him as such, muttering sweet, dirty nothings into his ear as you fuck him like you’ve been starved of it. 

And you sort of have, the last time you got him like this was way too long ago. You’re definitely taking this opportunity and running with it. 

“Fuck, you feel so good, love.” Your voice is rough, raspy, but it’s no less of a praise.

"Harder," Remus whispers breathlessly against your ear, needing more than sweet words right now. He can feel his climax building already, his body clenching around you with each thrust. His hands run down your back, nails digging into your skin. "I'm not fucking fragile."

His words send a shiver up your spine, it’s not like the two of you haven’t gone rough before—it’s something you're into, maybe too much, so of course sometimes you do on good days. 

But most of the time you avoid it to avoid mucking something up, and maybe you do need to be reminded he’s not fragile. That he can take some roughening up. 

And god, does the idea sound good. You don’t need much persuading. 

You shift, sitting up on your knees instead of leaning over him. Both your hands drop down to hold his hips and prop his lower half up, your knees spreading to widen your stance. 

Your gaze roams over his body, his flushed cock. All of it. You pull out, nearly all the way, before shoving back in. And that sets the pace—you move faster than before, your thrusts ending rougher, skin slapping skin harder. Your head drops back, brows furrowing, eyes closing as you groan raggedly.

"Fuck... yes..." He moans out on each harsh thrust, practically pushing up to meet them, greedy for more. One hand moves to dig into the sheets while the other reaches for his sensitive flesh, fasting around himself in time with your movements. His entire body tenses as he gets closer, closer.

There’s always a level of rough you stay on with him, mostly because you know that too much could hurt his bad leg and you refuse to do that for momentary pleasure. But fuck if this doesn’t feel so good. 

Your chin drops and your eyes reopen to look at him, watch the way he self pleasures to reach the peak he’s chasing. Usually you’d be doing that, but there’s something hot about seeing him do it while you roughly fuck his arse. 

Watching the way he jerks with the thrusts, the way his skins flushed and sweaty and his cocks weeping for release. It’s a sight that’s your new favourite. 

“God, fucking look at you.” The words leave you gruffly, your thrusts growing a touch rougher than you’d usually let yourself because you’re so close and you want to finish him off first. And fuck it feels phenomenal.

His head rolls back as he watches you watching him, his strokes becoming more desperate as you fuck him harder and harder until he’s finally pushed over the edge. 

His body convulses around you, his cock spilling out hot ropes of cum onto his stomach and chest while he cries out your name.

Your pace stutters when his arse spasms around you as he comes, your fingers tighten their hold around his hips before you forcefully relax your grip. But you’re teetering off the edge regardless, the spasming muscles around you are too much to even attempt to hold off. 

You thrust in roughly before stopping, staying deep in him as you pump the condom full with a groan low in your throat. Your stomach clenching with your breaths and orgasm, head falling back and eyes closing. 

Talk about sweet relief, they definitely meant coming in your boyfriend’s arse when they said it. 

You stay like that for a second, coming down from the high before you look back down at him and slowly pull out, careful of hurting him. You pull the used condom off and tie it shut, tossing it in the bin beside your bed. 

You lean over him after that, hands cupping his face gently. “You alright, love?” You murmur softly, checking in like you always do. Beginning and end.

"Mmhm..." He hums softly, his body still buzzing from the intense orgasm. His legs feel weak and his arse is tender from how hard you fucked him, but it's in the best way possible. He reaches up to pull you down for a soft kiss, lips still swollen from earlier.

You return the soft kiss in full, peppering his pretty, swollen lips in gentle kisses. You’re glad he’s alright, he usually is but you’ll never stop asking. Not out of worry he’ll break, just naturally going too far maybe. 

Your fingers trace his cheeks and jawline gently, pulling back to look at him. All spent and satisfied looking, like he could knock out and wake up a full day later. Poor thing, you just wrecked not only his arse but his schedule too. Can’t say you feel too badly about it, it was well worth it if he’s okay and happy. 

You brush sweat damp hairs out of his face with gentle hands, giving him an amused smile. “Let’s get you cleaned up and settled, yeah?” You mutter, you’ll probably force him to eat and drink something before letting him crash out for the night. 

You’re pretty sure he just drained him of all his fluids.

"M'mm..." He nods sleepily, his body already starting to feel heavy and exhausted. 

He lets you help him up and clean him up, your gentle touches soothing his sore muscles. You make him drink water and eat some fruit before finally allowing him to crawl back into bed under the covers.

You join him not much later after cleaning up the leftover fruit from the kitchen, you’d have left it if you didn’t know he’d probably eat the rest when he wakes up. 

You crawl into the bed carefully, settling behind him before wrapping your arms around his torso, gently pulling him into the curve of your body. He exhales quietly, relaxing into you like sun-warmed putty. 

You press a kiss to his sweat damp hair, feeling as his breaths even out and he goes soft in your arms. Smiling slightly, you close your eyes and just savor the feeling.

────────────────

Note.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ.ᐟ: Recon Mission is about an established relationship between Wally and You. He was supposed to have Dick as a partner for this but he got reassigned with Artemis and the only teammate they had left over was you, his biggest distraction.

16+, this is suggestive but pg for the most part, pretty fluffy.

Kinks or fetishes: None.

3,330 words.

You’re at an abandoned facility just outside Keystone, soft wind stirring the dust, mid-afternoon sun casting long shadows. mission is strictly recon, no threats on radar—just a follow-up on something Nightwing’s team wrapped last week. Their earpieces crackling quietly with silence, comms mostly off.

But it’s there if anything ever popped up, although the chances are low it’s still a possibility.

But as thorough as the team is, one member is not exactly pulling his weight right now. 

☕︎

Okay, so maybe this wasn't how the mission was supposed to go.

Wally was supposed to be partnered with Dick—clean, fast, in and out. He’d keep things professional, hit all the checkpoints, log every bit of info, and then they’d race back and call it a day. Easy recon. Just gather data from an old crime scene, check for stragglers, maybe flirt with a vending machine if Wally was bored enough.

But Dick got rerouted. Something about Artemis needing backup—figures—and now he’s stuck with…

You.

Last resort, his ass. More like last nerve if the team hears how little recon he’s actually doing. They know what happens. They’ve seen him trail off mid-sentence during briefings just to stare at you. M’gann literally had to flick him once. 

Not proud of it—but also, have you seen how you look?

You’re crouched a few feet away, picking over some scorch marks on the concrete, and Wally’s been pretending to scan the perimeter for, like, ten minutes now. Real talk: he could’ve done a loop around this place twice already. 

But why would he, when he can just stand here and watch the light hit your cheekbones like it’s got a personal vendetta?

Your hair’s caught in the breeze. Not like, action-movie style—more like lazy, sun-dappled, ‘should be illegal to look this good while you’re technically working’ kind of way.

Focus, Wally. Scan. Data. Recon.

...or maybe take one more second to appreciate the way your fingers move over that burnt metal, like it’s a piano key and not some relic from a villain’s temper tantrum. 

Yeah. One more second.

It’s not like you’re in danger. The place is dead quiet. He’s running circles around you without moving a muscle.

And sure, the team tried keeping you two apart. Something about “compromised mission integrity” or “Wally, you’re literally drooling.” he doesn’t remember. He was probably too busy watching you tie your hair up. 

Tactical distraction? Unfair advantage? He thinks so.

Anyway, they’re not here now. It’s just Wally, you, and a bunch of charred debris that means absolutely nothing compared to the way your lips purse when you’re concentrating.

He shifts just a little closer. Casual. Not at all because he wants to bump shoulders or breathe in your shampoo or say something dumb just to make you laugh.

It’s a recon mission.

Totally professional.

Except he’s been staring at your back like you’re the answer to every question he’s ever had.

God, he loves recon.

You know he’s staring at you, hell, you’ve known for the past 20 minutes. It’s not like he’s ever been discrete about it, and it’s not like you’ve ever not liked it. 

It’s never lost its cute quality to it, like a puppy wagging its tail like it sees nothing but you, not the world around you. 

The sky could be crumbling, the sun imploding, the ground cracking open and Wally wouldn’t spare it a glance. He’d just keep looking at you.

You lean back, brushing a gloved hand though your hair and turning your head to look at him. He’s supposed to be doing a scan, although you’re sure he could’ve gotten done with that ages ago if he was actually doing it. 

You're pretty sure he’s in the same spot you left him in. 

You breathe a laugh, shaking your head at him. He’s adorable, he really is. 

You stand to your feet, dusting your gloved hands off by swiping them against your suit—the deep golds and white a little dusty from moving around in this place. 

“You’re gonna catch a fly like that.” You mumble, glancing down at his parted lips. 

“Like what?” He says, all feigned innocence. He’s been busted. Might as well roll with it.

You’re standing now, stretching slightly, and Wally’s traitor of a brain instantly conjures up images that have no business being part of a League mission. He pushes those away, replacing them with less distracting, slightly more professional thoughts.

You’re looking at him, your lips curling into that half-smile that feels like a secret.

“I’m doing recon,” he protests, glancing around dramatically. “Recon is important.”

You roll your eyes at his response, but it’s nothing if not endearing. It’s not even a serious mission, not really—it’s just left overs, a quick recon to see if anyone missed something potentially important. 

Although the others are rather officiant, you never know. 

But he always manages to derail it when you two are in the same room together, or you’re within his viewing distance. 

It’s cute, attractive, and flattering all at once. 

It makes it feel lighter, like you guys aren’t supposed to be doing a real job right now. One of his specialties. 

“Uh huh.” You hum, turning your back to him to do the rest of what you’re supposed to do, and probably pick up his slack so you don’t potentially miss anything. 

You could force him to do it, make him behave, but it’s not serious enough to warrant that quite yet. 

And he’s been good, so far.

“Hey, come on!” He protests, putting on his best wounded puppy voice. It probably works—he should patent the speedster-in-distress look.

“You know I'm multitasking.”

Is he? Nope. He’s already at your side, shamelessly standing right behind you. 

He’s close enough to see the dust in your hair, the sweat on your neck, the way you bite your lower lip when you’re focused, the little glint in your eyes from the sun bleeding in. 

He resists the urge to press his chest against your back and circle his arms around your waist.

Professional, Wally. Focus.

You get why you both are usually separated during missions ages ago, and you were on par with it because unlike him you can’t blip out of the way of oncoming harm. 

But it doesn’t mean you don’t enjoy how whiny or teasing he can get when you’re together. 

He’s utterly shameless, in a way that’s more in line with a hormonal teenager than a grown, 28-year-old man. 

But it’s your Wally and you love your Wally, you wouldn’t change a thing about him—even if he can be a little exasperating when you two are meant to be working. 

“Of course you are.” You murmur just to keep him entertained, sometimes he reminds you of a puppy that needs constant attention and you’re content to give it. 

You’ve been doing it for god knows how long by now. 

“Hold this.” You add, handing off a piece of metal to him. 

Wally obediently takes the metal, gripping it firmly, and then proceeds to promptly forget about it entirely. The second your hand leaves his, he gravitates toward you again, drawn like a magnet.

He’s standing so close that he can count the marks on your face, which is pretty impressive considering the dim lighting in here. He'd probably be able to kiss you if he leaned down and…

Right. Mission.

He clears his throat, desperately trying to keep his hands busy with anything that isn't you. "Sooo... find anything interesting in this charming hellhole?"

Your lips twitch at his deceptively casual question, he asks it like he hasn’t been staring at you the whole time you’ve been in this crumbled place. 

If you found something interesting he’d probably be the first to notice it, or maybe he really is that puppy-eyed around you. 

You shake your head as a confirmative ‘no’, pulling your own scanning device out of its spot in your utility belt. 

You do a quick scan of the area in front of them, getting nothing about. The metal is all from earth, no weird space tech, no engravings. Not a thing here, really. 

“Seems like a one and done kinda thing.” You murmur aloud, it’s mostly to yourself but since he’s practically glued to your back right now he might as well be the one you’re talking to as you air your thoughts out.

“I think we can head out of here, nothings here.” You add with a shrug.

Wally’s heart skips a very undignified beat when you say you two can go. It's probably a little too eager, the way he’s already shifting into position, ready to loop them back to HQ. 

He has to rein it back in a bit, though. Gotta keep up appearances. Can't look like a hyperactive five-year-old on a sugar high. 

He leans forward, letting his chin rest on your shoulder, keeping his voice low and casual.

"So... just you and me, huh?"

Your lips turn up into a small smile at the familiar weight of his chin resting on your shoulder, his voice low in her ear, and the way his eyes settle on the side of your face. 

He’s too adorable, sometimes. Makes your want to pinch his cheek, ruffle his hair, or kiss him. 

Maybe all three.

You lean back against him only because you’ve technically completed the mission, and there’s no point in remaining professional—or at least trying to be the level-headed one here—when there’s nothing to be professional about. Your hand lifts to his hair, resting on his head. 

“Just you and me.” You mumble, leaning your cheek against his temple. He makes it hard not to want to let him smother you with his love and affection until you’re sick of it, if that’s ever possible. 

It’s like he’s got his own gravitational pull and your all but lost to it, pulled in his orbit. 

He hums at the touch of your hand in his hair, a sound that's half sigh, half purr.

He can't help it. It's like you flip a switch in his brain. One second he’s the suave, charming, professional Flash and the next he’s just Wally, the guy who can barely string a coherent sentence together when you’re this close.

He turns his head, his nose brushing against your neck, your cheek.

"You know..." He starts, his voice a low rumble. "We could technically take our time getting back."

The small smile on your face slowly lifts into a full, fond smile. The light brush of his nose up your neck and to your cheek makes you breathe a soft laugh, somewhere between endearment and affection mixing in the noise. 

You’re not sure you’re ever been capable of ignoring him, even in those moments where you really did try before you two got together. 

Where he’d chase you around during missions, trying to flaunt his best lines and get you to smile. You used to be much better at hiding your reactions. 

All of it is built on late-night conversations, shared looks across chaos, and the kind of bond you don’t mean to form but just… happens. At first, you weren’t impressed. 

He flirted, you ignored. 

He chased, you sidestepped. 

But Wally? He’s persistent. Not in a pushy way—just in that sweet, golden-retriever loyalty that makes you look twice.

Over time, you saw it. The cracks in the jokes. The depth in the laughter. And the way he always showed up, even when he shouldn’t have been able to.

Wally adores you. Worships you, really—but in the goofy, heartfelt way that’s more about celebrating your existence than putting you on a pedestal. 

He listens when you talk. He remembers things you say in passing. He’s a mess around you, but it’s never insincere. 

You slow his world down. He speeds yours up.

He’d take a bullet for you. Run across time itself to save you. Not because you’re fragile, but because loving you is the one thing that makes sense in every timeline.

You’re his center. And no matter how fast he runs, you’re the one thing he’ll always slow down for.

You lean into his touch, letting it settle in your bones like a relaxant made just for you. And the idea of just taking time, however long it actually is, and just being with him sounds fun—sounds nice. 

It’s not like your job allows much free time for dates or just to relax and private moments where you two can be together in the fullest of ways. 

He always somehow manages to carve out something, whether it’s somehow finding his way to wherever you are, or cracking wise-ass jokes to get a smile or a laugh out of you. 

And you never not appreciated how he’s always able to do that. To be luminous. 

“We can do that.” You hum softly, leaning into caving into him. He doesn’t even have to do much of anything anymore to get you to cave in. 

As if he needed more permission to stop pretending to be professional. The second you give the okay, he’s pulling you into him, his arm snaking around your waist.

You feel even better like this: his chest against your back, your fingers in his hair, your laugh brushing against his ear.

His other hand finds yours, his fingers intertwining with yours. He presses a kiss against your neck just because he can, feeling your pulse against his lips.

"God, I love recon." He mumbles, his voice muffled by your skin.

You might love recon too. Maybe just a little bit. If it brings moments like this? The slow, simple kind that makes your chest loosen up and feel warm at the same time, that makes your heart flutter at his proximity only because you love it, love him so much. 

You’d take recon any day. 

You both have better, important things to do with your time—you could help the team with other things since you dug nothing up here. 

But Wally kind of has this way about him that pulls you in and makes you want to just stay, settle, let him mend you both into one being for just a little. 

It feels mundane, normal. Like you aren’t two heroes in a world that never has a break for you. It feels like it’s just you, and him, and the act of simply being. 

And you indulge, if just for a little bit. Because why not? 

“I love you,” You retorted sweetly, pressing a kiss to his head lightly.

"Yeah?" He murmurs against your skin, tightening his grip on your hand reflexively. The words never fail to get a reaction out of him.

Wally’s 28 years old. He’s been doing this hero gig for nearly 15 years. He’s seen things ordinary people couldn't even dream of. And yet somehow...those words still make him swoon like a lovesick teenager.

He smiles against your neck, planting another kiss just beneath your ear. His fingers find the edge of your suit, toying with the fabric there.

"Say it again," He mumbles.

You lean into his touch like it’s the reason you breathe, the why behind your heart beating. Your lips twitch when he presses a kiss beneath your ear, his fingers against your suit making the skin tingle. 

He’s like a natural tease without even trying, it makes you want to giggle a little. 

His mumbled words vibrate against her skin making it tickle a little, a small shiver running up her spine because of it. 

He makes the world feel stable, grounded, like for a moment it’s not spinning and they aren’t constantly everywhere all at once. She’s here, he’s here. 

And she’d give him anything he asked, whenever, whatever, however. 

You’d bring him the sun, the moon, and the stars if he wanted to hang them in his room just to have. You put up the cape and mask, you’d settle, you’d die for him. 

You’d live for him. 

“I love you.” You repeat, your voice soft and low.

Hearing those words again lights a fire in him that's equal parts warm and electric, leaving him lightheaded in the best possible way.

Wally spins you around, gently but with purpose, until he’s holding your face in his hands. You eyes are even more gorgeous this close, practically glowing in the dim light that somehow makes everything a little bit more intimate.

He brushes his thumb over your cheek, his fingers tracing your jawline like something precious and delicate.

"Say it again," he whispers, even though he knows he’s being greedy, "Please."

You lean into his hands holding your face, the smooth textured touch of his gloves against your skin isn’t as great as feeling his skin on you but it’s him and it’s enough. 

His warmth seeps through, like he’s the sun and you’re a flower soaking it up. 

Leaning towards him just to get a little more of that luminance.

The way he looks at you is just breathtaking, like you’re everything the world has to offer him and he’s utterly transfixed with it. 

You’ll never grow tired of seeing it, of seeing that love smeared across his face all the time. 

Never hidden, always out in the open for anyone and everyone to see. 

You breathe a quiet laugh through your nose at his whispered plea for you to say it again, like you’d ever say no. Like that would ever be a possibility. You’ll say it to him until you can’t breathe anymore. 

Until he’s heard enough of the words.

“I love you, so much.” You say, your hands moving to rest on his sides.

Hearing those three words feels like it might just undo him right here, right now. He’s torn between laughing, crying, and kissing you until he passes out from lack of oxygen.

So naturally, he does all three.

His laughter is mingled with a gasp as he pulls you against him, one hand burying in your hair while the other finds a home on your hip. 

He’s kissing you like you're the only thing that matters at this moment, like you're the one who controls gravity and he’s just helpless in your orbit.

You melt into the kiss and him like it’s second nature, one of your hands moving up to the side of his neck, your thumb against his jaw. 

He kisses you like a man that’s just come home to the love of his life, like he's starving of oxygen and the taste of your mouth all at the same time. 

Your hand still on his side slips around to his back, fingers splayed against his mid back, holding him as close as he’s pulling you. This is what makes everything you two do, all the stress and the exhaustion, worth it in the end. 

Just getting to have him in any capacity. 

It’s like coming home. 

And the fact he does it with such ease, loving you like it’s just something he’s done all his life. Holding you, touching you, looking at you like you’re the reason he does anything at all—it’s all consuming and so lovely, like being cherished and being cradled in gentle hands all at once. 

Wally could kiss you forever, lose himself in the taste of your lips, the feel of your hands on his skin, the way your body molds into his. But eventually oxygen becomes a problem, and he has to pull away, breathing heavily.

He presses his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, just taking this moment in. Your hair is ruffled, his lips are kiss-swollen, you’re both a mess in your dirty suits.

He laughs, low and slightly hoarse.

"I love you too, you know."

Your lips turn up into a wide smile, a soft laugh leaving you at his confession. It’s adorable. And you’d never want to give this up for anything. 

“I know.” You murmur softly, exhaling softly.