Simp Central

He was standing in the middle of the room, going over an agenda for the next island you were about to visit. You should have been listening. Instead, you were stuck in the past.

When he ordered everyone around, you heard him ask softly if you were all right. When he gestured at the map, you felt his fingers tracing your skin. When he looked at everyone else, you saw his dazed eyes roaming over your naked body.

It had been more than a month since he’d made you come all over his fingers—and then denied you the chance to reciprocate. More than a month of obsessing over the idea of ending up in bed with the infamous Surgeon of Death again.

You kept wondering whether you could make him feel as good as he’d made you. Whether it was true that men were easier to please than women. Whether he even still wanted to continue whatever it was you’d started.

You came back to reality a bit too late.

Law was already laser-focused on you, arms crossed, wearing that expression he got when he was done dealing with someone else’s nonsense.

“What?” you asked.

“You’re not paying attention. Again.”

That again dragged you straight back to that meeting over a month ago, when you’d been too busy imagining his fingers on you to listen to his plan. You wanted to rebut—not admit to daydreaming, and definitely not about that.

“We leave at six. You’re with Cap and Bepo,” Ikkaku whispered. She was sitting beside you, as usual, and as usual, she had your back.

“You said we leave at six, and I’m with you and Bepo. I got this,” you said out loud.

Law raised an eyebrow, rolled his eyes, and muttered, “Good thing you’re at least listening to Ikkaku.”

He didn’t wait for a response before continuing with the plan. This time, you forced yourself to listen.

The meeting dissolved the way it always did: chairs scraping, voices overlapping, Law already halfway gone in full-focus mode. 

Ikkaku bumped your knee with hers as you stood. “You look like you just ran a thousand miles in your head,” she murmured.

“Did I?” you asked, too quickly.

“Well,” she said, stretching her arms over her head, “at least you survived the meeting without getting yelled at.”

“Low bar,” you replied.

“Still counts.” She leaned closer, voice dropping. “Six o’clock. Don’t be late. Cap hates that.”

Then you went with Law and Bepo.

At first, it was the three of you moving through the dock together, the island already loud with color and noise. Lanterns were being strung overhead, music drifting from somewhere deeper inland. Bepo’s ears twitched the moment he noticed.

“Festival,” he said, brightening instantly. “Captain, look—”

Law barely spared it a glance, adjusting the nodachi strapped at his side. “We’re not here for that.”

But Bepo was already halfway gone, drawn in by food stalls and unfamiliar scents, apologizing over his shoulder as he disappeared into the crowd.

You watched him go, then looked back at Law. “Well. That didn’t take long.”

He adjusted his coat, eyes following the direction Bepo vanished in. “He’ll catch up later.”

“Sure,” you said lightly, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder. “After he eats enough to get a tummyache.”

Law huffed—a quiet, unwilling sound that might have been amusement. You fell into step beside him as you walked, the space between you narrow without either of you acknowledging it.

“So,” you said, after a beat. “Is there a reason you are so tense? I mean, it should be a chill visit and all that.”

“You never know,” he replied, scanning the street ahead with practiced sharpness. “Also, I am not tense.”

You raised an eyebrow. Such a blatant lie. He had to know you wouldn’t buy that.

You gestured vaguely near his brow. “It’s kind of obvious. You get this little crease right here.”

He finally turned his head, giving you a look over the rim of his hat. “Careful,” he said. “You’re paying a lot of attention for someone who couldn’t follow a meeting.”

“Hey,” you shot back, defensive on instinct. “I just learn better one-on-one.”

“One-on-one,” he repeated, slower now, eyes narrowing just slightly as if he were turning the phrase over in his mind and finding more meaning than you intended.

“Oh—no,” you said quickly, waving a hand. “That’s not what I meant. And you know it.”

“Like what?” he asked, the corner of his mouth twitching. 

Your stomach flipped. You looked away, pretending to find something fascinating on the road ahead.

“Um—I didn’t mean it like that,” you muttered. “And you know it.”

“Like what?” he pressed again.

You didn’t have enough confidence for that. So you stirred the conversation elsewhere.

Clearing your throat, you gestured again, closer this time—your hand hovering near his brow, close enough that he definitely noticed. “That crease,” you said. “It only shows up when you’re trying really hard not to think about something.”

He went still, steps slowing just a fraction.

“And what,” he asked, voice dry, “do you believe I’m thinking about so, so hard?”

For half a second, the answer came too easily.

Hopefully having you close again.

You swallowed and pulled your hand back, curling your fingers into your palm like they’d given you away. “I don’t know,” you said lightly. 

“Don’t you?” He reached up to fuss with his hat—straightening the brim, tilting it, anything to give his hands something to do. 

You didn’t answer. And he didn’t press on.

“We—we need to focus on our mission.”

You raised a brow. “There’s barely a mission here. We’re just picking up supplies.”

“That still counts,” he insisted. “And I don’t see you carrying any.”

You scoffed. “I’m on your team, and you don’t have any either.”

He hesitated, jaw tightening as he realized he’d walked straight into that one. After a beat, he exhaled through his nose and looked away.

“Let’s just… get it done.”

The medical supply shop was cramped and overstocked, shelves packed so tightly that you kept brushing shoulders as you passed each other.

Law handled the talking. Bandages, antiseptic, painkillers—practical things. You watched the way his fingers moved with confidence, how he double-checked labels out of habit, how his voice steadied when he focused.

Outside, the air was cleaner, sunlight filtering through the trees at the edge of town where wild herbs grew. You crouched to gather what you could recognize, tying them off with twine while he hovered nearby, pretending to be useful. When you finally glanced up, he was staring at something small and bright near the base of a rock—a single flower pushing up through the dirt, stubborn and a little crooked.

He picked it.

By the time you stood, herbs bundled under your arm, he was suddenly very interested in adjusting his collar. 

“So,” he said, casual in theory only. “Uh. This was… there.”

He held the flower out like it might explode.

You blinked. “Is that for me?”

“I mean—if you want it. You don’t have to. I just thought—never mind. Forget it.” He started to pull his hand back.

You took it before he could retreat.

“It’s nice.”

He scratched at his cheek, gaze fixed stubbornly on the tree line. “Yeah. Well. You’re—” He cleared his throat, obviously hating every second of this. “I mean. It reminded me of you.”

That stopped you short.

That was…unfamiliar behavior for your captain.

You smiled despite yourself. “Thank you. That’s cute.”

He recoiled instantly. “I’m not cute,” he shot back, offended on principle alone.

“You are,” you said without missing a beat.

He finally looked at you then, incredulous. You knew most people wouldn’t dare say that to him—wouldn’t risk the look and the sharp comeback. Possibly an outburst. But you were close. You knew how deeply he cared for everyone, how he kept himself locked tight because caring had cost him too much already. How he made sure everyone ate properly, checked in when someone looked a little too withdrawn, quietly set aside the crew’s money just to pick up everyone’s favorite sweets like it was nothing.

You remembered how careful he’d been with you, too. How your first kiss hadn’t been rushed but made to be a sweet memory. And later—when things had edged closer, unfamiliar and fragile—he’d been the same. Pulling back the instant you hesitated, never pushing, never expecting anything in return.

Cute was the way he cared too much and hid it behind stubbornness and bluster. Cute was this—flowers held out awkwardly, affection offered sideways, always pretending it meant less than it did.

He scoffed, folding his arms. “You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m really not.”

He opened his mouth to argue, already halfway into a rebuttal.

“Yes, you are,” you cut in, voice quieter now, but firmer. “It’s in the way you care. For everyone. For me.” The words spilled out before you could second-guess them. “If you weren’t cute in any way, I wouldn’t want you so close.”

You mumbled the last part, already regretting it, heart thudding too loud in your ears.

When you dared to glance up, his arms had loosened, posture slack like you’d knocked the wind out of him. His ears were red—actually red—and he looked just as flustered as you felt.

“We’re just… comfortable.”

You snorted. “That’s one word for it.”

“I was fulfilling an agreement.” He crossed his arms.

That made you laugh. You folded your arms in imitation of him, exaggerating the pose. “You must be the most honorable pirate then.”

He chuckled, then gave you a smug grin. “They should add that to my wanted poster.”

You snorted again, nudging his boot lightly with yours. “They really should.”

“Do you still want to carry out that arrangement?” he asked.

You raised a brow, watching him. “Do you?”

“I asked you first.”

“Very mature.”

“Answer me.”

There it was—that bossy, clipped tone. That one that reminded you why he was the one in charge. Why he was able to handle your crew and all your shenanigans. 

“Yes,” you said at last, a little softer. “But only if you want to.”

“Alright. Let’s do another lesson soon.”

“You’re calling them lessons like you have any more experience than me,” you teased.

“I don’t. But I did some research to ensure it’s good for you. From a medical point of view.” His tone stayed perfectly flat, but the faint color creeping into the tips of his ears betrayed him.

You noticed immediately.

“Oh,” you said sweetly, leaning in just enough that he had to glance back at you. “That’s cute too.”

He groaned. “Let’s go,” he muttered. “Before you start listing examples.”

You bumped his shoulder as you walked past him. “Scared I’ll prove my point, Captain?”

He followed immediately, matching your pace. “Scared you already have.”

Soon you met up with Bepo again, who was practically bursting with pride. Somehow, despite getting completely swept up in the festival—stopping at every food stall, playing a few games, and even getting a temporary face painting—he had actually done his part. You couldn’t help but grin as he carried bags and bundles, waving a paw toward you.

“Look! Look what I got!” he said, nearly tripping over his own feet in excitement.

You and Law helped carry everything back to the submarine, navigating the narrow dock with careful steps. By the time the last bag was stowed away, the crew had gathered around, rubbing their hands together and casting hopeful looks toward Law.

“Alright,” he said, arms crossed, frowning at the merry chaos around him. “We’re done here. Let’s move out.”

“Not so fast!” Shachi piped up, hands clasped together and eyes sparkling. “The festival’s just getting good! Can’t we stay a little longer?”

“Tch…” Law muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. You could see him trying to resist. And then Bepo tilted his head slightly, giving that little “please” look that would melt anyone’s heart.

Law groaned but finally relented. “Fine.”

The crew erupted in cheers, and even Law found himself drawn into the crowd a little and went with most of you back to the town.

Later, the others called out, waving you toward a lively bar tucked between narrow streets, music spilling into the night. You shook your head politely, offering a small, regretful smile. The raucous energy, the clamor of voices and laughter—it wasn’t for you tonight. 

Instead, you found yourself slipping quietly into the captain’s quarters, carrying a small folded package. You couldn’t help the mischievous little smile tugging at your lips.

Law, who left way earlier than anyone and was already on a submarine, looked up from his desk, pen paused mid-note, eyebrows raised. “What?”

You stepped closer, holding the package out like it was a fragile treasure. “For you.”

He squinted at it, tilting his head. “Why?”

You shrugged lightly, pretending casual indifference. “You got me a flower.”

He blinked, caught off guard by your logic.  “One. And one that would die soon. This… is something more.”

Your lips twitched in exasperation. “…Oh, for fuck’s sake. Just accept it.”

Finally, he reached out and took the package from your hands. The corners of his mouth lifted into the faintest, almost imperceptible smile, though he was careful not to let it reach his eyes fully.

Law carefully unfolded the package. Inside lay the small bookmark: a strip of sturdy paper with tiny, delicate illustrations of the very same flower he got you, inked carefully along the edge.

“…Thoughtful. Annoying, but thoughtful.”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning slightly closer, a teasing smile on your lips. “I think you meant thank you.”

He glanced at you, a flash of exasperation in his eyes, before letting out a short sigh. “Fine. Thank you,” he said, his tone clipped, but softer than before.

“That’s better,” you replied, letting your gaze linger on him, taking in the subtle ease in his shoulders.

‘Why didn’t you go with the others?’ he asked.

“Didn’t feel like it. Wanted to bother you instead.” You shrugged, trying to be casual.

“What kind of bother?” His brow lifted slightly, voice teasing.

Well, that was loaded. You hesitated, fidgeting with your fingers, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t know… just to spend time here,” you mumbled. But he caught it anyway, reading through the nervous twitch of your hands and the little quirk of your lips.

“So,” he said finally, his voice dropping to a low, careful tone, “how about a lesson today?”

You blinked, forcing a light, teasing lilt to your words even as your fingers twitched restlessly. “Well… I mean, I’m ready if you are.”

He studied you for a moment, that familiar calculating pause, then nodded. “… Then. Let’s begin.”

He reached for you, and before you could react, his lips met yours. At first it was slow as usual, testing, exploring, but soon, the kisses grew more urgent, more fierce. Your hands found his shoulders, gripping slightly as the heat of the moment flared between you.

You stumbled back against the edge of his desk, the solid wood pressing into your back, and a soft gasp escaped your lips. Your balance wavered. He pressed closer, his hands cupping your face, tilting your chin up, and you realized just how beautifully  overwhelming this moment was.

“Law—!” you started, heart hammering in your chest, but the words were lost as he captured your lips again, fingers tangling in the fabric of your shirt.

The desk was in the way. Your hip bumped hard against it, jostling you both. The sharp edge dug into your side, and the sudden discomfort snapped you slightly out of the whirlwind of sensation.

You pulled back, cheeks flaming, stumbling a step away. “Uh… maybe… the bed?” you said, voice awkward, breath uneven, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.

“Fine,” he said, his voice calm, yet the way he reached for your hand gave him away, guiding you gently but urgently toward the bed.

The bed was definitely softer than the desk had been, but the awkwardness between you appeared instead.  You lay side by side, a careful distance separating your bodies, each aware of the other without quite touching. Law’s eyes tracked you with intensity, while you stared at the ceiling, tracing invisible patterns with your gaze to distract yourself from the heat of his scrutiny. 

“You're nervous.” It wasn't a question.

“Aren't you?” you countered, trying to keep your tone playful even as your heart raced.

“I saw you naked before,” he stated, pretending so hard to be nonchalant, but you knew him better than that.

“I am aware of that, thank you,” you responded sarcastically.

“We don’t have to do anything. Are you aware of that?”

“Obviously. Are you?

“Obviously.”

You snorted. “See? How could I be like this with a stranger? It’s awkward with you sometimes, and you saw me at my worst. Like, how can you just trust someone random like that?” 

“Then don’t. You’ve got me.” 

For now, you thought. But that arrangement—this so-called lesson—was temporary, a fleeting contract of sorts. Once you learned and experienced, it would be over, and if you wanted more, you’d have to chase that closeness elsewhere. That thought should have been thrilling, but instead, it pressed against your chest like a strange pang that you chose to ignore.

“Well, obviously I trust you more than a stranger,” you retorted, attempting to sound confident. “But that doesn't make this whole situation any less…awkward.”

“Alright then, let's get awkward.” 

With that, Law leaned in. Slowly. Close enough that the warmth of his breath brushed your lips, his face now only inches from yours. He paused there thoughtfully, golden eyes searching yours—giving you one last, silent chance to pull away.

But that wasn’t what crossed your mind.

Instead, you reached up, cupping his face in both hands and pulling him the rest of the way in. Your lips met his in a quick, decisive kiss.

Then another.

And another.

Each one a little less careful than the last, until the hesitation that had knotted your chest disappeared completely, even when Law's hand sneaked its way to pull down a zipper on your boiler suit, and you lifted a bit to help him push the material off your chest, leaving you with flimsy top.

You gasped into the kiss, feeling Law's hand move underneath your tank top to cup your breast through your bra. Your nipple hardened under his touch, a jolt of pleasure shooting through you. You arched into his hand, craving more contact.

Law pulled back from the kiss, a smirk on his lips. “Sensitive, aren't you?” he teased, giving your breast a gentle squeeze.

“Shut up,” you breathed, face flushed and tingling. You grabbed his wrist, guiding his hand to squeeze harder. “Don't stop.”

Feeling encouraged by your reaction, Law slipped his hand under your bra, pushing it up, now touching your bare breast directly. His fingers found your hardened nipple, rolling and pinching it.

You gasped and arched as Law's fingers teased and massaged your sensitive nipple, sending waves of pleasure through your body. Your hands began to roam greedily over his chest and arms, feeling the firm muscles beneath his shirt.

Law's other hand drifted lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your pants. His fingers brushed against the soft skin of your hip, making you shiver. 

“Wait,” you gasped out.

Law froze immediately. “What’s wrong?” he asked, the shift in his expression instant—concern reflected across his eyes as his hands ceased moving.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, trying to catch your breath. “It's just… it's your turn.”

“My turn?” Law looked at you like you'd grown a second head, his brow furrowing in confusion.

You nodded, biting your lip. “Yeah, you made me feel good last time. I want to learn how to make a guy feel good too.”

For a second he just stared at you, processing, then huffed out a quiet breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

“Later,” he said firmly.

“Law—”

“For now,” he interrupted, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face, his voice gentler but just as insistent, “just let me…”

Law's hands were trembling slightly as he reached for the hem of your top, his eyes never leaving yours. In one swift motion, he peeled the fabric up and off, tossing it carelessly to the side. His gaze flicked down, taking in the sight of bare skin, the swell of breasts encased in the simple cotton bra.

Then his hands drifted down, skimming over the sensitive skin of your stomach, hips, before hooking into the waistband of pants. With a sharp tug, he yanked your boiler suit down, exposing your legs and underwear. Then he did quick work on your underwear too, leaving you once again bare beside him.

He took his time, his tattooed hands mapping out every curve and contour of your body as if committing it to memory. He traced the line of your collarbone, the dip of waist, the flare of hips…

By the time he settled between your thighs, you were panting, skin flushed, and body aching with a need. And then, with a wicked grin and a gleam in his eye, Law set to work, determined to unravel you completely.

Your heart raced as Law’s fingers moved, his rhythm growing more confident with each passing second. Even though he’d only done it once before, it didn’t take him long to figure out what worked—how to keep you right on that edge, every movement more confident than the last. You could barely catch my breath, chest heaving. The room filled with the sound of your soft gasps and whines, and the slick motions of his hand.

“Don't stop… please don't stop…” you whimpered, fingers digging into the sheets beneath you. 

He didn't respond, too focused on his task. His brow was creased in concentration, determined to make you feel as good as last time, hopefully even better. 

The tension built and built until finally, with a loud gasp, you came undone. Your back arched off the bed, inner walls clenching around his fingers as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you.

He didn't let up, working you through orgasm with single-minded intensity until you collapsed back onto the bed. But he still didn't stop. He kept going, kept touching, kept stroking, until you could feel another peak building fast and hard. You were so sensitive, every nerve ending raw and exposed, but it felt too good to make him stop.

“Wait, I… I can't… ahhh!” you gasped, hips bucking up to meet his hand as he drove you towards another peak. The pleasure was almost too much to bear, the sensation of it stealing the breath from your lungs and the strength from your limbs.

This time, when you came, it was with a long, low moan of his name. Your body shook and shuddered, orgasm ripping through you with a force that left you utterly boneless. Law finally slowed his movements, letting you catch your breath as you lay there panting and twitching with aftershocks.

“You know,” you murmured after a moment, “I think I'm starting to get the hang of this. Maybe it's time for a little payback,”  you insisted breathlessly. “I want to learn. I want to touch you too.”

Law paused, looking into your eyes.

“You're serious,” he murmured. You nodded, reaching up to cup his face. 

“Completely. I want to explore every inch of you, just like you've explored me.” You let your hand drift down his neck, over his collarbone, feeling the heat of his skin. 

Law swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. “Alright,” he said, his voice rougher. “If you insist.”

He leaned back, giving you more access to his body. You took the invitation eagerly, sitting on him, your hands roaming over his chest, feeling the hard planes and ridges of muscle beneath his shirt. You could see his heart beating faster, matching your own racing pulse.

Encouraged, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to his collarbone. You felt Law shudder beneath you, a quiet groan leaving his lips. Your hands continued to explore, slipping under the hem of his shirt to caress the hot skin underneath.

Your fingers danced over his abs, tracing the defined lines, as you placed open-mouthed kisses along his collarbone and up his neck.

One of his hands tangled in your hair, gripping it lightly as he tilted his head to give you better access. The other hand slid down to grip your hip, squeezing the flesh there.

Feeling braver, you tugged at the hem of his shirt, looking up at Law with a question in your eyes. He understood your unspoken request, quickly pulling his shirt off and tossing it aside. Now you could see all of him, the ink on his skin, and the beauty of his body. 

You slid a thigh between his legs, feeling the growing hardness there. You rubbed against it subtly as you kissed and licked your way up to his jaw, his chin, his mouth.

Law groaned so perfectly, his breath hitching as you nipped at his bottom lip. Spurred on by his reaction, you reached down and popped the button on his jeans, then slowly slid down the zipper. Then you took his pants and underwear off. 

Your eyes widened as you took him in. He looked incredible, though that hardly came as a surprise. Still, seeing him like this, with nothing between you, made your breath catch in a way you hadn’t expected. It was the first time you’d ever seen a man naked, and the reality of it was even better than you had imagined. Whatever vague ideas you’d had before didn’t quite compare to the real thing. If anything, the truth was far more striking than anything your imagination had managed to come up with. 

Then again, maybe it wasn’t entirely fair to compare. This wasn’t just any man.

He lay on his back, the dark lines of his tattoos standing out boldly against his skin. They rose and fell with each slow breath, drawing your eyes across familiar patterns you’d seen countless times before—yet somehow they looked different now.

And so did he.

There was a look on his face you’d never seen before. Not the calm, unreadable expression he usually wore, nor the teasing smirk, nor the annoyance when he was mad. This was something else entirely.

Without hesitation, you wrapped your hand around his hard length. It throbbed against your palm, pulsing with a life of its own. You stroked him slowly, getting a feel for his shape and size.

Law cursed under his breath, his hips jerking up slightly as you touched him. 

“Fuck, that feels good,” he mumbled.

Your thumb swiped over the leaking tip, spreading the bead of moisture around. Law shuddered, his hand fisting in your hair.

“Like this?” you asked, looking up at him with a coy smile. “Or do you want to show me how you like it?”

“Keep going,” he commanded, his eyes intense as they bored into yours. “You're doing just fine.”

You hadn’t expected to get it right so quickly, but any doubts melted away as Law’s breath hitched, his chest rising and falling faster with every movement, responding to your touch. His hips began to rock into your touch, seeking more friction.

“Don't stop,” he grumbled. “Fuck, your hand feels incredible…”

Your own breathing grew heavier as you focused on pleasing him, wanting to do everything right for your best friend's first time.

He tried to keep his composure, to maintain some semblance of the calm, collected surgeon, of the strict captain, but it was a losing battle. Each drag of your fingers chipped away at his control until he was left a panting mess. 

And what a marvelous sight it was. 

“I'm gonna…” he gasped out, his voice strained. Then you felt the first hot spurt of his release, coating your hand and his stomach. It pulsed out in strong bursts, his member jerking and throbbing against your palm as he found his peak.

Law's grip on your hair eased as the intense sensations washed through him, his body going slack against the mattress. You watched, fascinated and a little awed.

Finally, his breathing began to slow, and his member softened slightly in your hand. You felt pride at having reduced this strong, competent man to such a state of blissful vulnerability.

Law opened his eyes, looking down at you with a lazy, satisfied grin. 

“Not bad.”

“Yeah?” you asked, heart still racing.

“I wouldn’t lie,” he replied.

“I would hope so,” you murmured, biting back a grin.

He cleaned you and himself up, and you made a conscious effort not to comment on the fact that he already had tissues within arm’s reach beside his bed.

Afterward, he handed you a glass of water, let you use his shower, and even his products—small gestures that many would have found surprisingly considerate. But not you. You already knew this was part of why so many followed him, why people gravitated toward Law. Even when he tried to hide it, his care ran deeper than he let on.

“What?” he asked, catching your lingering stare.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, turning away, but he raised an eyebrow, unamused.

“I’m glad I’m doing this with you,” you admitted softly. “A stranger would never care like that.”

The couches on either side of you remain forgotten, eerily still in the passage of time, they don’t have dents of conjoined body weight that strains their velvety pillows. All the hand woven throws on them, untouched, un-crinkled. No sign of them thrown off in a lazy sprawl.

You and Jason didn’t even look at them when you arrived at his safehouse cabin, having been drawn to the front of the fireplace, like moths to bright light —precious floor time, as you had called it earlier— you drifted fast to create your makeshift fortress.

And now here you are. His shoulder brushed against yours. His thigh warm where it rests beside your knee. The futon he insisted on bringing—because you mentioned, half-laughing, that hardwood floors would murder his spine—unfolded beneath you like he’d known you’d end up here.

Jason shifts beside you, slow and easy, enough that the futon dips and your hip nudges into his. He doesn’t move away—he never does. Instead, his arm settles behind you, brushing your back with that familiar, grounding warmth that always makes your shoulders drop a little.

The fire cracks softly, and the glow spilling over him feels unfair. All warm golds and long shadows, softening a man who spends the rest of the world hard-edged. Here, he’s just Jason. Your Jason. The one who always looks back at you like you’re the only steady thing he’s got.

You lean into him without thinking, letting your head rest against his shoulder. He shifts just the tiniest bit, settling you closer, like he was waiting for you to do exactly that and you coo into his warmth. 

His fingers find your thigh in patterns of absentminded, lazy little circles that make it very hard to pretend you’re not melting. Not because it’s new, but because it’s him. Because somehow no amount of time together has made this feeling normal enough so that your heart doesn’t want to jump out of your chest.

The silence between you is thick but silky, like the blanket you’re both wrapped under. Not awkward. Not anticipatory. Just full of everything that doesn’t need to be spoken for you to feel it humming between your ribs.

Your hand drifts toward his on instinct, brushing across his knuckles before you weave your fingers through. Jason’s chest rises in slow, quiet breaths, the kind he only ever takes when he’s fully, privately at ease.

And then he hums, low in his throat—almost a laugh, almost a sigh.

“Y’know…” he murmurs, tilting his head just enough that his cheek grazes your hair, then your temple, “we’ve got two perfectly good couches behind us.”

You smile in his chest without lifting your head. “And?”

Jason’s thumb strokes along your thigh, slow enough to feel intentional.

“And we still end up right here.” He leans down just slightly, voice brushing your ear like a secret. “Pressed up against each other on the floor like teenagers.”

He pauses, warm lips grazing your temple.

“Not that I’m complaining. Just saying… there’s gotta be a reason.”

Jason shifts just enough for his nose to skim your hair, his voice dipping into that gravelly, amused tone he saves for when he’s about to get under your skin.

“‘Cause if I didn’t know any better…” his fingers slide a little higher on your thigh, just enough to make you breathe in, “I’d think you drag me down here on purpose.”

You pull back half an inch to give him a look, but he catches your chin lightly between two fingers, smirking.

“Mmhm,” he hums, eyes half-lidded, way too pleased with himself. 

It earns him a chuckle from the depths of your throat.

“Act innocent all you want.” You tell him “Every damn time we’ve got a surface to lay down, a blanket, and five minutes alone? You end up glued to my side.”

He scoffs—mostly because you’re right.

“And what about you?” He mumbles.

“Must you need the confirmation?”

Jason nods, then laughs under his breath, warm and low. He presses his forehead to yours, grin softening into something deeper.

“Baby,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb across your jaw, “you think I’d sit anywhere else when I could have you right here? Not a chance.”

His lips hover a breath above yours before he adds, teasing but honest enough to crack you open a little

“Besides… you get real cuddly on the floor. Kinda my weakness.”

You don’t even try to hide your smile this time—it just blooms, warm and helpless, because he’s doing that thing again. That thing where he teases you until you’re flustered, then softens at the last second like he can’t help giving you the truth underneath.

“Your weakness, huh?” you whisper, lips brushing his.

Jason’s smirk tilts, lazy and fond. “Mm. Big one.”

And then he kisses you.

Not hungrily. Just slow—achingly slow—like he’s got all night and wants to savor every second of it. His hand slides to the back of your neck, guiding you in, and your fingers curl into the front of his shirt without thinking. The fire pops behind you, sending a warm ripple across your skin, but Jason is warmer, deeper, steadier.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to nudge his nose against yours. “See?” he murmurs, breath ghosting your mouth. “Floor time makes you sweet.”

You shove him lightly in the chest, mostly to hide the way your heart just stuttered, but he only laughs, low and amused, and pulls you straight back into him. This time he lies back on the futon, tugging you with him until you end up half sprawled across his chest.

“‘M always sweet you asshole.”

“Aha, indeed.”

His arm wraps around your waist. Solid muscle, heat, that quiet strength you never have to ask for. You settle into him, your cheek pressed to the spot just over his heartbeat, and he exhales like you’ve put him exactly where he’s meant to be.

The firelight dances across the room. His fingers trace lazy patterns up and down your spine.

After a minute, he speaks again—soft, teasing, but quieter, like he’s letting his guard slip a little.

“Gotta admit…” he murmurs into your hair, “I like when you curl up on me like this.”

You tilt your head up, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

He looks down at you, eyes warm enough to ruin you.

“Yeah,” he says, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “Makes me feel like I’m… I don’t know, needed!? Yours...”

Your breath catches—so subtle you’re not sure he noticed.

But he did. And his hand stills on your back, fingertips sinking in just slightly.

“Jay..”

“’Cause I am,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper. “You know that, right?”

Jason’s words are still hanging in the air when you shift on him—slowly, like you’re sliding into a better position without any particular intention.

But he knows better.

Your leg drapes across his waist. Just a little weight. Just enough to make his breath catch. Barely.

You pretend not to notice.

Instead, you nuzzle into the warm column of his throat, lips brushing the skin there like an accident. A soft, lingering accident. Jason’s hand on your back flexes, fingertips digging in for half a second before he catches himself.

Good.

You let your nose trail up the line of his neck, lazy, innocent, torturously tender. His pulse jumps under your mouth—fast, but ever so contained. He’s trying so hard to be unbothered.

You’re not done with him however.

Your palm slides across his chest, slow enough that you can feel each breath he’s trying to regulate. He’s solid under your hand, warm, muscles going tight one at a time like he’s bracing for something he doesn’t want to admit he wants.

Still you say nothing.

You just shift again. Just enough that your hips settle a little closer over his. Not grinding. Not obvious. Just aligned. A feather-light tease that sends a hot, invisible jolt through him. You feel it. You feel everything.

Jason exhales, a quiet, shaky thing he tries to turn into a laugh.

It does not sound like a laugh.

You bite back a smile and press your lips to his stubbled jaw—soft, slow, completely devastating. He tilts into it instinctively before he forces himself still.

His fingers slide lower on your back.

You don’t give him what he wants.

Instead, you kiss the corner of his mouth—barely there, a whisper of warmth—and pull back before he can quite chase you. His eyes crack open, dark and unfocused, a little ruined around the edges.

You settle your head back on his chest like nothing happened at all.

He makes a noise in his throat. Frustrated. Fond. Helpless. His heartbeat is thunder under your ear now.

“I know you’re mine,” you whisper.

You shift one last time, just a tiny roll of your hips as you get ‘comfortable,’ and Jason’s arm tightens around you—reflexive, full-body, soft growl stuck in his chest.

He mutters something incoherent into your hair.

You smile smugly into his shirt.

Jason is officially in hell and he’s loving every second of it.

“And I’m yours.”

Jason lasts all of—what—another eight seconds? Maybe ten, if you’re too generous.

Because you stay exactly where you are, pretending to be oh-so-innocently settled on top of him, and then you do it—that move. That tiny, absentminded roll of your hips like you’re just adjusting your weight.

It’s not even a grind. It’s not even purposeful.

But Jason’s whole body reacts—hips jerk the slightest bit under you, all blood rushing suddenly to his cock, breath punching out of him like you knocked it loose. His hand, the one resting on your lower back, spasms and grabs a handful of your shirt.

“Jesus—” he breathes, barely audible.

You smile into his chest wickedly. He knows you do. He feels it.

And that’s the moment he officially cracks.

One second you’re lying on him, all soft and innocent, the next—

His hands slide down to your hips, grip tightening, and he flips you onto your back in one fluid, pissed-off-but-turned-on-as-hell motion. The futon dips beneath the sudden shift, and you gasp more from the shock than the force.

Jason hovers above you, breath unsteady, hair falling into his eyes like he lost it somewhere in the movement.

And he looks beautifully wrecked.

Flushed pink. Jaw tight. Pupils blown wide. The thin veneer of “I can handle this” absolutely torched in flames.

He braces one forearm beside your head, the other still clamped around your hip like he’s anchoring himself. It slips away only for a moment’s time, to adjust his bulge inside his pants.

“You think you’re funny,” he growls—quiet, deep, breath warm against your lips.

You grin up at him, soft and taunting. “A little.”

Jason’s eyes flick down your body, then back to your smile, and he huffs out a broken laugh.

His lips pepper kisses across your face and jawline, each one of them sloppy and slow.

“Yeah?” He says between kisses. His thumb strokes along your hip, possessive, hungry, already losing any attempt at patience. “You’re lucky I love you.”

You tug lightly on the collar of his shirt. “Do something about it then.”

That’s it. That’s the actual kill shot.

Jason lets out a sound—somewhere between a groan and a surrender—and crashes his mouth directly to yours, all heat and pent-up frustration and relief. His hand grips your thigh and pulls you flush against him, no space left, no guessing.

Jason’s kiss is hot enough to dizzy you—deep, and hungry, coating the skin around your mouth with saliva, like he’s been trying not to do this for the past thirty minutes and you finally snapped the last thread holding him together. His hand slides under your thigh as his tongue touches yours, tugging you up to meet his hips and the low sound he makes when your bodies line up is downright sinful.

He bucks his hips directly into yours eliciting a small moan out of you when your clit rubs perfectly on the seam of your pants.

You pull him closer by the front of his shirt, kissing him back just as fiercely—teeth catching his bottom lip and pulling it into your mouth, fingers threading into his hair. You can feel him melt into it, lose the last scraps of restraint, push his weight down over you like he wants you under him, wrapped around him, nowhere else.

But there’s no way you’re letting him win that easily.

Mid-kiss, you twist your grip in his shirt and roll your hips slow and steady, with cocky intention this time. Jason’s breath stutters; he breaks the kiss with a sharp inhale right against your mouth.

“Oh, you’re—” he starts, but you don’t give him the chance.

You use his moment of shock to flip him.

You hook your leg around his waist, shift your weight, and suddenly he’s the one on his back and you’re straddling his hips. The futon dips under you both, the fire crackles, and Jason just freezes.

Not in fear, but in awe.

His hands fall to your thighs like gravity dragged them there, fingers spreading over your skin, squeezing like he needs the reassurance you’re real.

You lean down, kiss him slow—slow enough to make him chase the end of it when you pull back half an inch.

He exhales shakily.

“Baby,” he warns, voice shredded down to something deep and ruined, “don’t start something you can’t finish.”

You smirk, shifting your weight deliberately over him, drawing a curse out of his throat.

“Who says I’m not finishing it?”

Jason’s head falls back with a low groan, his hands tightening on your hips—possessive, helpless, gone.

That’s when he moves.

One sharp thrust of his hips up into yours—enough to knock a gasp out of you and make your hands slap against his chest for balance. He grins up at you, wild and triumphant.

“Got you.”

You glare at him, breath uneven. “Cheater.”

“Survivor,” he counters, grabbing your waist and dragging you down again so your faces nearly touch. “And if you keep teasing me—”

He flips you back.

Fast.

Effortless.

Like you weigh nothing.

Your back hits the futon again and he cages you in with his body, breathing hard, forehead pressed to yours. His lips ghost along your jaw, down to your neck, warm and maddeningly slow.

“You gonna behave now?” he murmurs against your skin, voice barely holding together.

You curl your fingers into his hair and tug just enough to make him curse under his breath.

“No.”

Jason laughs—breathless, disbelieving, insanely turned on.

“Good,” he growls, dragging your hips up against his again, “’cause neither am I.”

He kisses you again—deeper, dirtier, more desperate—and this time neither of you hold back. Smooching sounds fill the room and Jason’s scent mingles with your own, so much, you don’t know where he starts and you begin.

His hands fly to the button of your jeans, the pads of his fingers fiddling with it.

The button pops with a sharp, silver click, but Jason doesn't rush to strip you. Instead, he pauses, his large hand splayed flat against the heat of your stomach, his thumb hooked just inside the waistband. He’s looking at you with such intensity that feels heavier than his actual weight.

Jason’s kisses turn hungry fast — the kind that steals the air from your lungs and gives it back to you warmer. You arch up into him, not consciously, not even teasing this time, just responding to the heat of him pressed fully against you. 

He moans, low and helpless, the sound punching out of his chest like he’s been holding it back for weeks.

Your fingers tangle in his shirt. You tug hard and he jerks a little, hips pressing into yours with absolutely zero finesse. He bites down on a laugh, breath hot against the wet patches his lips have left on your throat.

“That’s… not fair,” he manages when you palm him through his pants, voice tight, breath shaking.

You drag your nails lightly down the back of his neck.

“Who said I was playing fair?”

He loses it for a second. His hand grips your thigh, hauling it up around his waist like he needs you anchored there or he’ll come apart. His body settles deeper against yours, chest to chest, hips locked to your hips, the futon creasing under the weight of both of you pressing together like there’s not a single inch you can spare.

Your shirt rides up, you don’t even know when, and his hand slides under the fabric, warm, broad, rough in that way that makes your breath catch. He strokes up your side slowly, until his fingers shimmy inside your bra from the front and begin to flick at one of your nipples.

Your own hands slip beneath his shirt, feeling the heat of him, the solid muscle, the way he tenses the second your fingertips skim the edge of his ribs. He shudders and you feel it all the way down to your pussy.

“That’s it,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours, eyes blown wide and dark. “God, you drive me—”

His voice breaks.

You kiss him before he can recover.

It gets messier than before, very very fast.

His mouth is open against yours, desperate, almost clumsy in the way he chases you. He drags you up into him, half-guided, half-grabbed, bodies tangling as hands roam and clothing shifts, little gasps slipping between kisses. You’re barely aware of what’s moving where or how clothes are stripped messily off you — just skin, heat, the wet drag of his breath against your cheek, the way he sounds when you touch him just right through his pants.

He pulls back only long enough to look at you — really look at how beautiful you look with just your underwear— chest heaving, lips red from kissing you stupid, a string of saliva connecting your faces.

“You’re not getting away from me tonight,” you murmur, voice like spice and honey all at once.

You wrap your arms around his neck, tug him down on you again.

“Didn’t plan on it, princess” he mumbles, the word vibrating against your collarbone. His smile is downright sinful.

He pulls back just enough to meet your half lidded gaze, his eyes roaming over your face like he’s trying to memorize the exact shade of you. 

His hand slides up, disappearing beneath the curve of your back, his rough palms dragging over your scorching skin. He finds the strap of your bra and undoes it with a soft click. He lets his thumb trace the curve of you, over and over, until you’re arching off the futon just to meet the pressure.

“Jason,” you breathe, half-plea and half-complaint.

“What—I’m just lookin’,” he grunts, a slow, predatory smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “I’m takin’ my time. You’re the one who wanted to play games, baby. Now you gotta sit with the consequences.”

He leans down, but he doesn't kiss you. Instead, he brushes his lips against the sensitive hollow behind your ear, inhaling deeply. His beard scruff burns against your skin, a delicious friction that makes you shiver. He moves lower, his tongue darting out to lick a slow, wet stripe down the side of your neck, stopping right where your pulse is thrumming like a trapped bird.

His other hand finds your inner thigh, fingers digging into the soft skin there. He doesn't go for the center—not yet. He just kneads the muscle, his touch possessive and grounding, reminding you of exactly how much stronger he is than you. 

Jason knows how much you love it when he pins you down just like this.

“You’re shaking,” he observes when your legs decide to give out, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that vibrates right through your chest.

He shifts, dragging his body up yours until his nose nudges yours. He stays there, breathing your air, his hand finally sliding up, up, until the heel of his palm brushes against the damp patch of your underwear. He doesn't move. He just applies pressure on your clit with his pointer finger—steady, delicious pressure—and watches your eyes blow wide in pleasure.

Before he moves further, he gives your clit a fast flick.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, his voice a rough velvet when he circles a finger at your entrance, feeling how sticky you are. “Me making a mess of you on the floor?”

You can’t even answer; you just nod, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, trying to pull him lower.

Jason chuckles, a dark, low sound. He finally relents, his fingers slipping beneath the lace of your panties, finding you already slick and hot and achingly pulsing for him. He doesn't rush. He circles the hood of your clit with agonizing slowness, his touch light as a feather one second and firm the next, mocking the way you’ve been teasing him all night.

He watches your face the whole time, tracking every hitch in your breath, every little broken sound that leaves your throat, looking entirely too smug for a man whose own heart is trying to beat out of his ribs.

Jason’s fingers continue that torturous slow-motion circling, his eyes never leaving yours. He’s reading you like a map, noting the exact second your pupils dilate or the way your hips stutter upward when his thumb find a specific, sensitive ridge.

You don’t even have time to whine at the loss of friction when he moves to completely take off your panties, because he’s back to you inhumanly fast.

His fingers spread your puffy folds apart and he rubs from your sopping hole to your poor clit, with two of his fingers, up and down again and again, so achingly slow that you can’t help but chase it with your hips.

He’s being deliberate. It’s his revenge for the way you played him earlier—an undoing that leaves you grasping at the fabric of his shirt just to stay tethered to the room.

“You’re so loud for me,” he says, his voice thick with a dark sort of pride. “Even when you’re trying to be quiet, your body’s fucking screaming.”

He dips a finger inside you, shallow and testing, and the sound that breaks out of you is high and thin. He swallows it with a kiss, his tongue mimicking the slow intrusion of his hand. It’s too much—the heat of the fire on your side on your skin, the weight of him on your chest, and the slick, sliding friction of his fingers fucking themselves inside your squelching pussy. 

Just as he adds a second finger, stretching you open with a scissoring motion a groan of his own, a loud —crack— echoes through the room.

A cedar log in the fireplace decides to give up, snapping in half and sending a violent spray of orange sparks against the mesh screen. The sudden noise is like a bucket of cold water in the middle of a fever dream.

You jump, your back arching off the futon, and Jason’s head snaps toward the hearth, his shoulders tensing instinctively as if his bodyguard reflex kicks in for a split second.

The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the frantic thumping of two hearts trying to find their rhythm again, pulsing in both of your ears.

Jason looks back at you, a single stray spark reflected in his dark eyes. He’s still hovering over you, his fingers still buried in you, but the spell of the ‘perfect moment’ has a tiny, jagged crack in it.

Bent on not letting this destroy the moment completely, Jason takes a beat and continues sliding his fingers inside you ever so slowly.

He huffs out a breath when you mewl, a lock of black hair falling over his forehead.

“Scared the hell outta me, shit” he whispers, though he doesn’t move an inch away.

You let out a shaky, breathless laugh, your hands sliding from his hair to his cheeks. “The ah—floor is a dangerous place, Jay. Hazards everywhere.”

Jason’s gaze teasingly drops to your lips, then down to where his hand is still hidden away between your thighs, feeling the way you’re pulsing around him. The smirk from earlier returns, slower this time, more dangerous.

“Right. Hazards,” he repeats, his voice dropping an octave. He leans back in, his nose brushing yours, the playful banter dying a quick death as he replaces it with raw intent. “In that case, I better finish this quick before the house burns down, huh?”

Your lips purse in dissatisfaction at that, your eyes squinting. Solemnly, you shake your head at him.

“What?” Jason teases, smirking ever so slightly “want me to take my time instead?”

He doesn't wait for a comeback, for he knows your answer. He just hooks his other hand under your knee, dragging your leg up and over his shoulder, exposing you completely to the firelight and his hungrily wrecked expression.

Jason watches you for a heartbeat, his chest heaving as he takes in the sight of you—disheveled, legs draped over him, skin glowing with a sheer coat of sweat like polished amber in the firelight, your pussy glistening in need for him. His playfulness is still there, dancing in the corners of his mouth, but it’s being rapidly overtaken by a hunger that looks almost painful.

“Right,” he mutters, more to himself than you, patting down his body. “Clothes. These have gotta go.”

He sits back on his heels, a move that feels like a physical loss the moment his heat leaves your skin. He doesn’t take his eyes off you as he reaches for the hem of his shirt, his knuckles grazing the jacked ridges of his stomach. In one fluid, impatient motion, he yanks the fabric over his head and tosses it somewhere toward the dark kitchen on the left.

The firelight catches on the broad expanse of his chest; the scars that map out his life of vigilance, the heavy, tensed muscles of his arms. Seeing him like this—bare and braced for you—always makes the air feel a little too thin to breathe.

Fuck—even every vein that props over his muscles sent you into a frenzy.

He makes quick work of his belt, the leather creaking in the quiet room. When he finally shucks his pants, the futon groans under his shifting weight. He’s back over you in nanoseconds, but he doesn't go for the kill. Not yet.

He settles between your knees, his large hands sliding up your inner thighs, spreading you wider until you feel the cool air of the room hit your skin—and then the scorching heat of his gaze.

“Jason…” you murmur, reaching for him, but he catches your wrists and pins them gently above your head.

“Uh-uh,” he rumbles, his voice a low, warning vibration. “You spent all that time teasing me. Now you’re gonna stay right there and take it.”

He leans down, but instead of kissing your mouth, he starts at your knee. His tongue traces a slow, wet line up the sensitive skin of your thigh as his lips wrap around patches of your skin, his beard scruff nuzzling to you sending fresh jolts of electricity through your nerves. You writhe under him, but his grip on your wrists is like iron—steady and grounding.

And fuck, you love it when he bends you in half like this. Even if by the time he reaches the glossy center of you, you’re breathless and your head is tossing back against the futon.

Jason pauses, his hot breath ghosting over your folds, making you shiver. He looks up at you, a wicked, ruined sort of grin on his face.

“You wanted floor time,” he whispers against your throbbing slit. “I’m gonna give you floor time you’re never gonna forget.”

Then, he dips his head.

The first lick of his tongue on your slit is broad and slow, catching every bit of your sticky slick. You let out a broken, jagged sound, your hips jerking upward instinctively. He groans into you at the taste, his tongue finding your clit and swirling around it with a rhythmic pressure with the tip of his tongue that makes your vision go white at the edges.

He’s not rushing. He’s savoring you, his fingers letting go of your wrists only to dive into the futon on either side of your hips, bracing himself as he drinks you in. Every time you try to close your legs, his shoulders act as a wedge, keeping you open, keeping you vulnerable, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

The sound of the fire is a distant hum compared to the rushing blood in your ears. Every muscle in your body is wound tight, vibrating like a live wire snapped in half as Jason continues eating you out.

He’s using his tongue with a terrifying level of focus, swirling, flicking, and then applying the flat of it all over your slit, before his lips lock around your clit and suck, ever so gently. It makes your heels dig into the futon and your hands find his hair, pulling him closer even as you try to escape the sheer intensity of it.

“Jay—please,” you gasp, the words breaking apart as he finds that one specific spot that makes you see stars and keeps abusing it with his tongue. 

He doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets more aggressive with it, his hands sliding under your glutes to tilt you further up, until you’re bent upwards, meeting every one of his wet laps with a desperate tilt of your hips. 

The friction is perfect, agonizingly so. It’s a building pressure behind your ribs, a tightening in your stomach that feels like a spring being coiled tighter and tighter until something has to snap.

“Baby…Look at me,” he pleads against your skin, eyes all soft when he pulls back for air, his voice muffled as he leaves open mother kisses all over your pussy, then some smaller, more focused in your clit. His tongue is darting out to place small kitten licks on your sensitive bundle of nerves.

His hand plucks one of yours away from his hair and comes to interlace with it onto your stomach tenderly.

You force your eyes open, your breath coming in short hitches. You see the top of his head, his dark hair messy and wild between your fingers, and the way his broad shoulders are bunched with the effort of holding himself back. The dimples on his biceps flex when his palms force your legs open, so he can keep licking, keep sucking.

Then, he does it. He uses his thumb to pin your clit in place while his tongue sweeps over it in long, firm strokes.

That’s it for you.

Your world narrows down to a single, blinding white light. You cry out, a raw, high pitched sound that is lost in the crackle of the wood, as the first wave of your orgasm slams into you. 

Your walls clench desperately around nothing, pulsing in a frantic rhythm that matches the thumping of your heart. Jason doesn’t pull away; he drinks in every shutter, every twitch of your thighs, his own breathing ragged and harsh.

He stays there, giving your clit small and pointed licks and tiny kisses until the last of the tremors fade into a heavy, boneless warmth.

You’re floating, your limbs feeling like lead, your chest heaving as you try to remember how to breathe. Jason finally lifts his head, his chin, dripping, slick with your juices and cheeks red, looking like he’s just survived a fight.

He doesn't give you a second to recover, however.

He crawls up your body, his skin sliding against yours in a delicious, heavy drag of heat. He hovers over you, bracing his weight on his forearms, his eyes dark with a hunger that hasn't been even slightly sated by your release.

“Love it when you come on my tongue. Oh shiiit.” he rasps, his voice a ruined growl.

He reaches down, guiding his hand across his length, giving it a few twisted jerks before lining it up to your entrance—still wet and sensitive from his tongue—and pushes inside.

He goes slow at first, catching all your wetness with the fat tip of his cock, letting you stretch and flutter around him, a guttural moan escaping his throat as he feels how tight you still are, how much you're still humming from your climax.

He sinks in until he’s buried to the hilt and you’re molded perfectly to shape of his dick, his forehead dropping to yours as he just breathes you in for a second, his heart hammering against your chest.

Your pussy clenches desperately around him, sopping all around his entire length.

“God, you’re… you’re perfect,” he murmurs.

His hips begin slow; a soul-crushing grind that tells you the real ‘floor time’ you so desperately wanted, has only just begun.

The hardwood floor groans beneath the futon, a rhythmic creak that underscores every heavy thrust Jason makes to drill into you. 

He isn't rushing either; he’s taking his sweet time and up all the space you gave him, fucking you with a slow, agonizing friction that feels like it’s peeling back every intimate layer of you.

The heat from the fireplace is a constant presence against your side, scorching you with kisses of fire’s warmth, but it’s still nothing compared to the furnace of Jason’s skin and the pace of his hips. 

He’s solid, crushing weight above you, his arm muscles roping and snapping under your touch as he anchors himself. His hands find yours, lacing your fingers together and pinning them to the floor beside your head. Because he has to, and because he wants to feel the way your knuckles knock against the wood when he hits the right depth inside you. When he hits all the spots that make your eyes roll back.

“Floor’s too hard, huh?” he grunts, his jaw tight as he pulls back almost entirely before sinking in again, faster this time, hips stuttering with bullet like strength. The friction is excruciatingly good and you’re feeling so full that your eyes water.

The way he’s picking up the pace makes your toes curl into the folds of the throw blanket before you wrap them around his waist to guide him into you further.

You remember to shake your head in response to him, your hair fanning out across the futon like a halo. “Don't... don't stop. Go harder. Jason puhleasee.”

“Wasn't plannin' on it,” he breaths out, a jagged, broken sound.

He shifts his angle, his hips tilting for his cock to catch that spongy spot his fingers had already teased into a raw, pulsing ache.

The impact sends a jolt through you that feels like a spark from the fire—sharp, hot, and impossible to ignore. Every time his weight comes down so he can fuck his mushroom tip inside you, the futon dips, your skin slaps frantically and the shadows of your joined bodies dance wildly against the ceiling in the orange glow.

He starts to pick up the pave even more, the movements turning from a grind into something more urgent, even more primal. The sound of his thighs slapping against your ass is wet and rhythmic, a counterpoint to the messy mewls you’re making into the crook of his neck or into his mouth.

It’s a sticky mess, really. Spit everywhere, your thighs and his coated with your sleek.

Jason’s breathing is a series of harsh hitches now. He’s already losing that "hard-edged" control he prides himself on on his best days, his movements becoming less calculated and even more desperate to chase his own release. He buries his face in the space between your neck and shoulder, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that’s just shy of a bite.

“You’re so wet,” he mutters, the words nearly lost to the friction. “So damn wet for me. I keep sliding out.”

It’s like he’s going insane afterwards; he’s kissing you one second and the other he’s got a nipple in his mouth to lick and suck onto, and the next one he’s biting down the flesh of your chest, like he could chomp a piece of you and eat you.

In a frenzy of touches, he releases your hands, his palms sliding down to grip the edges of the futon, his arms caging you in as he drives into you with everything he has. The floor vibrates and creaks with the force of it, a dull thudding that resonates in your very bones. 

It’s messy, it’s loud, and it’s perfectly, quintessentially him—taking the rough, unyielding reality of the world and turning it into something that belongs only to the two of you.

Suddenly you are so glad the two of you came to this random safehouse of his in the middle of the snowy woods for Christmas. You get to have him all to yourself like this, anywhere, anytime.

Just the two of you and no one else, trying to swallow each other’s tongues.

Only the fire can hear your squealing moans tonight, and if you made a hole through the floor right now with the force Jason is fucking into you, it wouldn't even matter.

You’d love it, even in the afterglow.

Just the thought of it makes you even wetter.

Jason’s movements slowly lose their drilling edge, replaced by a desperate series of bucks that tell you he’s right on the brink of coming too.

His pace slows down, a fraction of what it was before, his face pulling away from yours so he can look at you with those lust blown green eyes. His hips buck upwards, hitting the spot that makes you lose it—

“Yeah, that’s right,” he tries to say, though he slurs his words out of gritted teeth and hisses of pleasure “yeah baby I’ll give it to you slow, shh—fuck—I gotchu.”

His fingers dig into the padding of the futon, then your hips, just to make you match his own rhythm, knuckles white. He drives into you with bruising force that it doesn’t even matter if he’s been pretending to go slow.

You’re both spent, moving with hurried twitches, chasing each other’s release; you by locking your feet behind Jason’s ass and forcing him to be rougher, maybe a little faster too since his pace is downright torture. Him by slamming your hips into his while his hands leave bruises on you.

Every swallow thrust is pure collision, a shatter wreck of skin and friction. You can feel the tension coiling in his thighs as they go taut, the way his entire body has gone rigid like a bowstring about to snap.

“Baby,” he chokes out, his voice completely shredded and high pitched. He lifts his head, and for a second, the mask of lust is totally gone.

His eyes are blown wide, dark and vulnerable and so glossy, searching yours for that one final bit of permission to let go. His lips are parted perfectly, with that beautiful crease down the middle of the bottom one, his jawline sharp as the light hits him. “Look at me—can I come inside? Y’r pussy feels like heaven.”

You wrap your legs tighter around him, pulling him in, your heels hooking into the small of his back to bridge the last microscopic gap between you. His fucking stutters in a white-hot roar now, eclipsing the crackle of the wood, a building pressure that demands everything you have left in you to give him.

“Dun’ wanna pull out.”

“Fuck yeah, Jas—Jason,” you sob against his lips. “Make ah—a mess.”

He lets out a sound that is half-growl, half-shatter. His hips jerk in a final, deep surge, burying himself to the hilt as his own climax slams into him. He goes still, his head falling back, the cords of his neck standing out in sharp relief under the firelight. You’re right there with him, your body clenching around him in a frantic pulsing that feels like it’s shaking your very soul loose, your inner walls are painted in streaks of white, hot cum, and he bucks his hips devastatingly into yours so he can fuck his own release even deeper into you.

For a long, suspended moment, the only sound in the room is the overlapping gasps of two spent bodies who have run out of all air.

Jason collapses forward, his weight pinning you deep into the futon, his heart thundering against your ribs like a captured drum. 

He’s truly shaking; his forehead pressed into the crook of your neck as he tries to regulate a breath that still won’t come. He feels massive, heavy and so very tender in your arms. You coo into him too, wrapping your arms completely around his back to pull him in closer into you.

He can’t suffocate you if you’ve already run out of breath, but even if he did, you’d adore him still.

Slowly, the world starts to bleed back in again; the smell of woodsmoke, the fading warmth of the embers, and the dull ache of the floorboards on your back that Jason warned you about earlier.

Jason makes a low, tired noise in his throat—a sound of pure contentment—and nuzzles his nose into your skin, his hair, damp with beads of sweat sticking to your temple.

“Told you,” he murmurs, his voice a gravelly ghost of itself. “Floor time... dangerous.”

You let out a weak, shaky laugh, your fingers tracing the dip of his spine. “Shut up, Jason.”

“Make me,” he huffs against your lips, sucking your bottom one into his mouth, but he doesn't move. He just settles deeper into you, his arm wrapping around your waist to anchor you both to the spot, right there in the glow of the fireplace.

You feel him harden up inside you again and oh fuck— it’s time to have him on his back.

You’re gonna show him just how bad hardwood is for his back.

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2025. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work //

A/N: hiii, merry Christmas everyone! This is my gift for all of you, I know it took me so long to get this out but work is kicking my butt. Also this is SO self indulgent, im so sorry I just need him like this right now😭

Taglist: @starfiremylove @vanillacici

Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but if you you liked this you can let me know in the comments <3

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and the sight of him steals what little breath remains in your lungs. His white streak catches the low light, those soulful eyes dark with want. There's silver threading through the black of his hair now. At his temples, too. Evidence of time passed, of life lived together. It only makes him more devastating.

"Yeah," he murmurs, fingers dancing higher, never quite touching where you ache. "I do know. But I want to hear you say it."

"Jay—" It comes out broken, pleading.

His thumb brushes against you through damp fabric, the barest pressure, and your whole body trembles. He watches your face with an intense focus that borders on animalist— something predatory and instinctual. The realization that you're the target of that attention makes heat pool low in your belly.

"Are you gonna be good for me?" He murmurs as his fingers hook into your underwear, dragging them down with agonizing slowness. "'Hmm?"

"Yes." You nod frantically. "I'll be good. I'm always good, I'll be your good wife—"

"You're always my good wife." Jason's other hand cups your face, thumb brushing your lower lip. "But tonight?" He leans in, breath ghosting across your mouth. "Tonight, I need you to be my good girl."

The distinction between the words, the promise embedded in their subtle shift, sends heat throughout your body. Wife implies partnership, equality, the life you've built together. Girl suggests something else entirely. Something that requires surrender.

You understand perfectly, and your lower half clenches in anticipation.

"Yes," you breathe. "Please, Jason, I'll be so good for you—"

He kisses you then, swallowing the rest of your words. The intensity is almost overwhelming. Dizzying and euphoric, like a drug that works on contact. His tongue sweeps against yours as his fingers finally, finally slip between your thighs, finding you slick and wanting.

You gasp into his mouth, hands scrabbling for purchase against his broad shoulders. Even now, after years, you're obsessed with the reality of him. The heat of his skin, the controlled strength in every movement. He knows exactly how much pressure to use, where to touch, how to make you forget everything except the feel of his hands on you.

"Shit," he groans against your lips, fingers exploring. "You're soaked."

The crude observation makes you clench around nothing, butterflies fluttering in your stomach as he slowly drags through your folds.

He trails open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, teeth scraping, and you know he'll leave marks. He always does when he gets like this—possessive, focused, determined to map evidence of his claim across your skin. You'll wear his bruises proudly. Tokens similar to fine jewelry. Visible proof at the base of your throat when you pour coffee tomorrow morning, evidence of your vow to be his in every way he'll have you.

"Going to give my wife what she wants," Jason murmurs against your collarbone, and there's dark amusement in his tone. One finger circles your entrance, dipping inside just enough to make you whimper before withdrawing. "Isn't that what I promised? For better or worse, in sickness and health..." He pushes two fingers in suddenly, and your back arches off the bed. "In desperate fucking need?"

You can't respond. Can't do anything but keen and clutch at him as he works you open, curling his fingers with perfect precision. He knows your body better than you do sometimes, knows exactly where to touch, how much pressure, what angle makes you see stars.

"There we go," he praises, and the approval in his voice makes warmth bloom in your chest alongside the building heat lower down. "That's my girl. Taking my fingers so pretty."

His thumb finds your clit, rubbing slow circles that contrast the increasingly urgent thrust of his fingers, and you feel yourself getting close already. Too fast. But Jason's been teasing you all evening—stolen touches while making dinner, his hand on your thigh during the movie you'd barely watched—and your body remembers. Anticipation wound tight through hours of waiting.

"Jason," you gasp, eyes fluttering shut. "Oh, fuck. Jay, I'm—"

"Not yet," he murmurs, and his fingers slow to something torturous. Deep, long strokes that keep you on edge. "Want to feel you a little longer, sweetheart."

The denial makes you whimper, hips rolling to seek more friction, but Jason's free hand comes to rest on your lower abdomen—not quite holding you down, but a grounding presence. A reminder that he's in control.

"Look at me," he says, voice rough, and you force your eyes open.

He's so close now, shifted up so he can watch your face while his hand works between your thighs. The hunger in his gaze makes you clench around his fingers.

"Fuck," Jason breathes, and there's something almost reverent in his tone despite the crude word. "How'd I get this lucky, huh?" His fingers curl, hitting that perfect spot, and you gasp. "Pretty face. Pretty sounds." His thumb circles your clit. "Pretty pussy."

"Jason—" It comes out broken, desperate.

"All mine." He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, and his breathing has gone ragged. "My wife. Get to touch you like this whenever I want. Get to make you shake and beg and—" His fingers speed up, and you keen. "—fall apart on my hand."

My wife. My wife. My wife.

He kisses you, hungry and deep, swallowing your whimpers as his fingers work you relentlessly. When he pulls back, it's only enough to speak against your lips, and his voice has dropped to something even darker.

"Gonna make you come so fucking hard, sweetheart." Another curl of his fingers, another wave of pleasure. "Wanna feel this perfect cunt squeeze my fingers. Wanna watch your face when you let go for me."

The devotion in his voice breaks something open inside you. You clutch at his shoulders, his neck, trying to anchor yourself as the pleasure builds higher.

"There you go. So close now, aren't you? Gonna soak my hand?" He kisses your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth—gentle touches that contrast with the increasingly urgent work of his fingers. "Let me see it, yeah? Let me watch you fall apart for me."

His thumb presses harder against your clit, his fingers curling just right, and you're right there on the edge. Trembling and desperate and so full of feeling you might burst.

"I've got you. Always got you."

His mouth is on yours again—swallowing the moan that tears from your throat as your orgasm finally crashes through you. You clench around his fingers rhythmically, pleasure rolling through you in waves, and Jason works you through every second of it.

"That's my girl," he murmurs against your lips when you finally still. "So beautiful."

He withdraws his fingers slowly, carefully, and you watch—dazed and boneless—as he brings them to his mouth, licking away what remains with a groan that vibrates through your bones.

You're still catching your breath when Jason shifts, moving down your body with clear intent. His hands are already pushing up your shirt, mouth following the revealed skin.

"Jason—" Your voice sounds wrecked. "Baby, I just—"

"I know." He presses a kiss just below your navel, and you feel his smile again. "But I told you, didn't I? I'm gonna take care of my wife tonight. Gonna make you come on my tongue until you forget your own name." He looks up at you through his lashes, and the combination of his rough face between your thighs and that surprisingly sweet gaze makes your heart clench. "You okay with that, sweetheart?"

As if you could ever say no to him. As if you'd want to.

"Yes," you whisper. "Please."

Jason's answering grin is sharp enough to cut. "That's my good girl."

And then his mouth is on you, and coherent thought becomes impossible.

authors note: dilfson todd....im purring and preening and crying and creaming!!!!! no other explanation for this

“Recently, I’ve been feeling… frustrated,” you say, voice barely above a whisper, your fingers twisting in your lap. “Like I’m pent up, and I keep…” You hesitate, your eyes flicking up to meet his, catching the subtle tightening of his jaw. “Touching myself.”

“What?” Law asks, his voice strained. Surely, he mustn’t have heard you right.

Your face burns, embarrassment clawing at you. What did you expected him to say? You’ve just blurted out the most intimate confession of your life to your captain, your friend, the man you’ve been fantasizing about for years

Before you could clumsily apologies for your words, you hear Law clear his throat.

“And you decided to come to me” Law responds, his voice coming out strained, his eyes trained on you.

You nod, afraid your voice will betray you. But your fidgety hands, your shallow breathing is all it takes to give you away.

His eyes flick down, noting the rise and fall of your chest, the flush creeping across the swell of your breast, taunting him in that top that was too low-cut for his own good

Law curses himself internally for the onslaught of thoughts flooding his mind as he watches you. Of course you would come to him – he is the ship’s doctors – where else would you go for medical advice.

But watching your body’s reactions as he focuses his gaze on you, the reddening of your face and your plush thighs shifting as if chasing release, his carefully maintained control unravels

He knows you’re a virgin – thanks to that stupid drinking game a few months back.

-

He’d planned to crash before the next island, but the crew dragged him in. It wasn’t their nagging that kept him there however, it was your laugh, soft and real and the way your cheeks flushed when you raised your glass during “I have never.”

“I’ve never…” you said, your eyes flicking to his.

Penguin, clearly drunk, blurted, “But how?! You’re totally hot.”

Law muttered under his breath – he hated that comment, but he was curious too.

You were hot.

When you locked eyes with him and added, “I’ve never found someone I wanted to give myself to,” he barely made it out of the room before images of you beneath him sent him straight to a cold shower, hand wrapped around himself, your name on his lips.

-

Law strides towards you, close enough to see the way your body betrays your nerves, but still maintaining a respectful distance. “What exactly can I do for you, then?” he asks, his tone professional but strained, a faint cough punctuating the word as he forces it out.

“From what you’re saying, it sounds like… sex is the best way to relieve those feelings.”

The word hangs between you two, the weight heavy on your chest as you open and close your mouth, hesitation taking over.

“I…” you start, but your voice is meek, and all you could think about was how you wish you had some sake.

“Tell me what you need” Law says, his tone low and steady, but you can hear the shakiness of his breathing.

“You” you finally respond, forcing your eyes to meet his piercing gaze.

Law closes whatever distance remains between the two of you, his form swallowing yours whole as he looms over you.

He is a doctor, a professional. Your captain – your friend.

There was a line he had drawn that he swore he would never cross, but the sight of you in front of him, the desperation in your voice, your vulnerability – his resolve wavers.

“Say it again”

He needs you to tell him once more before he completely destroys this line he’s drawn – to take you the way he’s been dreaming since that stupid drinking game.

“I want you, Law” you repeat, your tone firm, surer.

Before you can process, Law dives his face onto your neck, a gasp falls from your lips as he plants rushed kisses up your neck, your cheek, until he reaches your lips. He captures your lips between his, his movements slow, passionate.

Laying you down onto the table, he drags his lips across your chest, down your stomach before reaching your quivering thighs. Pulling down your trousers he reveals your soft, plush thighs and your panties soaked in the middle, begging for his touch.

He chuckles to himself at the sight. Seeing just how horny you are – how needy you are for him, his body fills with confidence. The desire he’d been bottling up so weakly spilled over.

He peppers hungry, sloppy kisses across your inner thighs, your body convulses at the unfamiliar sensation. This feels better than you could have thought.

Soft, unrestrained groans leave his throat as he examines your body with his hands, bringing his mouth over your drenched pussy. Pulling your panties aside, Law watches as your walls clench around nothing, as if to coax him deeper into you.

He responds to your body’s cries with his tongue, lapping up your juices.

Running his tongue slowly between your slit, he quickly locates your clit, your body arches in response. His kitten licks cause your body to practically levitate off the chair, your moans growing more strangled as the orgasm you were trying to hold off comes rushing to the surface.

Law latches his mouth onto your clit, his tongue moving left and right at a torturous pace. He slides his slender fingers inside you, his medical knowledge helping him locate your g-spot with ease.

You let out a choked cry as your orgasm floods over you, the feeling so intense you forget how to breathe. Law maintains his rhythm between your legs, his words “good girl” hum against you, pushing your climax further.

He lifts his mouth off you, slowing his fingers down as he watches you come down from your high, the nastiest grin plastered on his dripping face. You look so fucked out already, and as much as he needs to take this further, he pauses.

He slowly slides his two fingers out of you – the sudden emptiness making you whine – and brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean of your juices.

“Did that help” Law enquires, the strain of his cock against his jeans drawing your attention away from his question.

You know why he’s asking, or rather what – how much further do you want to take this?

Sitting yourself up, your hand finds its way between your legs. Fingers either side of your pussy, you spread yourself open – inviting him.

“I told you, I want you.”

“Fuck me”

“Please”

That is all Law needed to hear before unbuckling his jeans. He is so desperate to have you. To know he will be the first (and if he has his way, the only) man to feel you this way. To make you fall apart under his touch.

Law grabs a condom from a box in his desk drawer, and slips it onto his throbbing, leaking cock before grabbing lube from the same drawer.

He brings himself between your legs, softly pressing his pink lips against yours, sliding his tongue against yours. You can taste yourself, the salty, unfamiliar taste earns a whimper from you.

“Can you taste how good you taste, hmm?” Law mutters against your lips, a smirk breaking out across his mouth.

He brings the lube to his hand, gathering some on his fingers and gently rubbing the sticky substance around your entrance and onto his tip.

He rubs his cock head up and down your slit, his movement teases you, exciting you further.

“Please, Law”

“Please what, pretty girl,” his asks, his tone mocking but gentle.

“Put it in. I need you”

Hearing your words breaks the final crumb of restraint he had left – your continued consent brimming him with reassurance.

He slides himself in, his hips moving slowly, allowing you time to adjust to his size, before bottoming out in you.

The stretch causes you to yelp – you’ve never felt so full in your life. No matter how many fingers or “toys” you use on yourself, there is nothing that felt like this.

You can feel the heat of his dick even through the condom, the twitches that escape as he himself accustoms to being inside your tight, gummy walls.

“Fuck … so – ugh – so full” you struggle to get out, as Law brings his fingers to your face, brushing your hair out of the way, his mouth coming to meet your ear.

“You feel so good, beautiful” his voice breathy and desperate

“Like you were made for me”

“How do I feel inside you? Can I move?” he practically begs, unable to mask the neediness in his voice.

“Y-yes please” you whine, your hips moving in response to his question, as though you were chasing after him.

“Needy girl”

Law pulls himself out of you slowly, before thrusting back inside you, both of you moan at the sensation.

His composure’s hanging by a thread. He wants to make a mess of you, to ruin you – but he knows it’s your first time, and he wants to be gentle for you.

His pace is slow but precise, his thrusts making his tip rub against your g-spot. Your head is thrown back in ecstasy, the mix of pleasure and pain sends your mind into a frenzy.

“Pretty girl”

“You feel so good, so warm.

“Thank you”

Law’s words are drowned out by the squelching sounds of your sopping cunt. You are so overwhelmed with pleasure – the feeling of his cock buried deep inside you, his pelvis rubbing against your swollen clit with every thrust, the warmth of his breath against your neck and face.

The moans escaping Law’s throat that sound awfully close to whimpers.

This time your climax is more intense and comes with very little warning. Your hands which were holding onto his back, now dig their nails into his skin, your pussy clamping tight around him as a loud, guttural moan tears from your throat.

Law brings his head up from your neck to watch your facial expression contort, unreserved from the pleasure taking over.

Your reaction makes his abdomen tense, his pace becoming sloppier and hurried.

“Look at you, coming on my dick,” he praises, his brow furrowed and his voice breathy.

“You look so beautiful falling apart like that.”

Words fail you while your climax ripples through your body  – only whiny moans. You hear Law’s breath becoming uneven, soft whimper falling from his lips.

You feel pressure inside you, and above you, a man with his head thrown back, groaning loudly as he climaxes.

You both sit in the silence, Law still inside you as reality washes over you both.

Suddenly you burst out laughing, covering your face.

Panic and confusion flood through Law, anxiety starts to make him question whether he made a mistake and fucked up with a treasured member of his crew.

Before he can ask, you speak.

“That … was incredible. I can’t believe we did that” you giggle as you speak, propping yourself up till you’re face-to-face.

He rolls his eyes but the blush across his face gives him away.

He leans down, kissing you softly on the forehead, “You took me very well, beautiful” he responds, his voice gentle.

He cleans you both, tossing the condom.

You watch him for a moment in silence, internally gleaming at the fact that your stupid plan actually worked.

“Let me know when you’re up for round 2” you say, your tone teasing, but your face burns red as you imagine fucking him again – your body already aching for him again.

Law turns to you, his eyes narrow but a small smirk on his face.

“Be careful what you wish for.”

Thank you for reading, it's been ages since I posted but I'm backk :)🫶🏾