#dom gn reader

This was never supposed to happen. Not like this anyways. Shroud said it would be an easy job, watching over MechaMan. But when he's tied up so perfectly in front of you, you can't help lick you lips at the sight.

"Y/N... Just let me go..." His soft groaning snaps you out of your thoughts. Robert sat tied to a wooden chair in front of you. His wrist were bruised from pulling against his restraints. "If this is because I let you go, it wasn't personal. I didn't really have a choice... you were at the bottom of the leader boards. We had an examp-"

Your fist connected with his face before he could even finish his sentence. Previously pushed back rage resurfaced. "That's bullshit, and you know it! Fucking Invisibitch was at the bottom! She should have been cut, not me!" You yelled, the sound of your voice echoing off the walls.

Now that you think about it, maybe it was good that he cut you. You finally had an excuse to let those sick and twisted thoughts about Robert out. As you take a step forward, you pull a pistol from your back pocket, using its muzzle to lift Robert's chin. "You know, I always wondered what you'd look like all beaten and tied up for me..."

You slowly drag the gun down the man's jaw, stopping until the tip slightly pulled his bottom lip. "Like you said, 'it's nothing personal', right?" A sick grin lights your face as you see Robert's lips slightly part and the dusted color of pink that lite his cheeks. "Now, be a good boy and open wide..."

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ It started small. 

A small offer to get you your morning coffee turned into a routine. Spending time with the rest of the agents outside of base, whether that was at the club or a restaurant, meant that your tab was always taken care of. Your complaints about the recoil of your gun have manifested as a gift box that lay atop your bed; inside was a [vandal/phantom/ex.] specifically designed for you in your favorite color. 

You’re never one to decline gifts, not at all. Your fingers are toying with the gun that lies across your lap. With the smooth, raised edges and the intricacy of the design, you know: no professional colleague would go out of their way to give anyone a gift so specific if there wasn’t any interest involved. 

You examine the note that accompanied the gift. 

“From Vincent “Chamber” Fabron.” 

Before setting the note down, you take one last look at Chamber’s neat handwriting. Refined and perfect.

You set the gift box aside, and you’ll figure out where to place it in your room another time. For now, you need to get ready for bed. 

A smirk makes its way to your lips as you make your way to your bathroom. You’ll have to confront him soon when you two are alone.

Vincent was a calculated man; every action had intention. However, he was seen as the respectable and reliable sentinel within the protocol, depending on who you’d ask. To you, he was pathetic and desperate. 

With every interaction, it was clear that he yearned for your attention, affection, and love. 

“[Codename], you must let me take you out sometime. Dinner, dancing, I know the perfect place.” He would flirt with you, just as you were about to enter the site. 

“The only way you’d be able to take me out on a date is if you paid me.” You’d flatly decline, checking your equipment to make sure you had everything. 

“That can be arranged, [mon chéri/ma chérie].” 

Who knew how literal Vincent would take your words?

He was the puppy with its tail wagging delightfully between its legs as it delivered your coffee every morning. You didn’t have to look at any price tag because he would always be sure to put his card down. It was an extravagant gift after another, thanking him and reminding him that no, he still can’t take you out on that date that he’s been dreaming of. 

Every gift felt soulless; you didn’t know what he was thinking each time he hit “confirm purchase.” However, this gift is the one that is decorated and designed with you in mind. It was all the confirmation you needed that Vincent was completely infatuated with you. 

Each step towards his room was one with pride; you were going to push Vincent’s desperation to its limits. 

°:. *₊ ° . ° .•

Vincent’s eyes grew wide from the words that slipped past your lip, “Really?”

Before you can respond to his small plea, Vincent clears the tense moment with a cough. 

“So, how much money would I need to send you for your company, mon cœur?”

You look up in thought, testing the waters, “How does ten thousand dollars sound?”

“Is that it?” Vincent challenges. 

His cockiness, you can’t help but laugh at it. 

“Well then, how about ten thousand dollars, you take me to the most expensive restaurant in town,” you begin to list, approaching slowly until you are right in front of Vincent’s face, “and you’ll let me borrow your black card.” 

“Deal.” Vincent agrees, no hesitation, and without a doubt. 

You don’t let the shock show on your face; instead, you blow a puff in his face that makes Vincent’s face scrunch up. You bring your palm up in expectancy. Timidly, he reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, sliding the card into your hand. Your fingers close around it, noting his eyes that can’t seem to meet yours, his cheeks flushed.

“You’ll regret this, Vincent.” 

There’s a small pause, but without missing a beat. 

“This is exactly what I want.” 

°:. *₊ ° . ° .•

Vincent shifts in his seat as he glances over the menu; all the words are illegible, and he’s completely distracted by the feeling of the pretty, pink vibrator buried in his ass, the same vibrator you bought using his own card. Vincent crosses his legs from underneath the table, applying pressure to his already painfully hard cock. He recalled being on all fours, his hands and knees being cushioned by the backseat of his car as you lathered lube onto your fingers, circling his puckered ass. 

Your cruel words echo in his mind: “You want me to use this on you, right? You’re paying me extra if you want me to put it in you.” 

He remembers how quickly he followed your order when you told him, “Exhale for me.”

Once Vincent’s sigh reached your ears, you eased one finger into him. You relished in the abrupt moan that left him as you began to move your finger. Vincent’s nails dug into the cushions of the backseat as your fingers teasingly moved side to side, stretching him open. You felt Vincent’s body trembling as you fingerfucked his tight ass. Cooing words of comfort, your other hand soothingly rubbing the small of his back as you sheathed another digit. His tightness clung desperately to your fingers, every roll of his hips pressing back into your hand: a wordless plea for more. 

Precum drips embarrassingly off his pink, flushed tip and stains his briefs, as he bites his lip at the memory. Vincent’s mind would continue to wander, distracted and unable to hear your question. A yelp that turns into a quiet whine makes it past his lips, having hit his knee on the table in shock when the vibrator moves faster and intensely against his walls. 

“I asked you what you recommend on the menu.” You repeat, your words dripping in impatience. 

The way your fingers toy with the remote of the vibrator reflected in Vincent’s glasses.

He swallows thickly, shaky hands bringing the menu back up, trying his best to hide his flusteredness, and trying even harder to ignore the bliss that rang inside him. 

Vincent scrunches his eyebrows together, desperately wanting to grind his bulge against the seat. 

“I’d probably recommend the steak,” he stutters out, practically drooling at the teasing speed you had set on the vibrator, picking up and lowering the intensity as you saw fit. Vincent’s display is just so precious, you couldn’t help but relieve yourself by crossing your legs, granting you some friction to your heated groin. 

“I’ll get the steak then,” you tell the nearby waiter just as they are about to pass your table. 

Though with the look of hunger in Vincent’s eyes, it is obvious that he isn’t going to make it past the appetizers. 

He is starving. 

Vincent’s eyes are stuck staring at the clothed dinner table. 

His foot taps anxiously, face burning underneath the palms of his hands. Vincent can’t bring himself to look at anyone else, humiliated by the pleasure he is receiving from underneath. But then, if he looks at you, he knows surely he’ll come undone. 

He is trapped.

Vincent’s cock aches with need, and muffled voices echo throughout the restaurant, while his heart thumps in his chest.

Surely one of those voices is whispering about how perverted he is, you’d taunt.

You revel in the small whimper that escaped him. A noise like that can easily be swept away by the rest of the chatter in the busy restaurant, but no, all your attention and focus are on your pathetic coworker. 

It is a frequent thought you have: the sentinel that held point with ease on his own, the same man who could easily dominate the battlefield with his equipment and skill, the type that made enemies reconsider their purpose, the refined and perfect man. Yet here he is, falling apart and making a mess inside his pants, all because of the small vibrator twitching against his prostate. 

Vincent’s frames have slipped down the bridge of his nose, staring up at you through wet lashes. Drool dribbles down the side of his mouth, and his body heaves from his heavy pants.

You love him like this. 

The vibrations are at their highest magnitude; his grip on the table turned his knuckles white as the toy tipped Vincent nearly to the edge. Rubbing deliciously up against his walls, Vincent’s cock twitches at each buzz that sends an electric shock up his spine. 

He’s never ached for a greater pleasure, continuously shifting in his seat. His lips part, quickly shutting just as they open, and glancing at you briefly before looking back down. 

“You look like you want to say something.” You remark, taking notice of the way his body trembles from your words. 

Vincent bites back a whimper, sending you a glare from across the table. 

“Stop teasing me, I’m so close.” 

Gosh, he’s so pathetic, you almost feel bad. 

Almost. 

“Now we can’t have that,” you say, leaning across the table, “you’ll cum when I say you can.”

Your vulgar words send a throb to the head of his cock, making it ten times harder for Vincent not to lose his self-control, to not cum in his slacks at that very moment. 

Vincent is comparable to a small puppy, begging you through whines and whimpers to get what he wants. He is so embarrassed, Vincent can’t believe he is about to cum just from his prostate being stimulated. He can’t cum from just this.

Please don’t make him cum from just this. 

You lay your chin atop your palm, tilting your head, “You know we can stop all this teasing, get to the main course.” 

Looking up in faux thought, you remind him, “Though it’s going to cost you.”

All of these charades are transactional. 

Vincent throws a band onto the table, completely covering the meal that hadn’t arrived yet and the tip. 

“You and your wallet can handle it.” You reassure, letting him drag you out of the restaurant. 

°:. *₊ ° . ° .•

Your fingers intertwine around Vincent’s chestnut-brown locks, guiding his head from between your legs. You kept yourself upright against the brick wall, letting out a heavy sigh as Vincent is teasing your [clit/head of your cock] with his tongue. He bobs his head, sucking you passionately like he’s been starving. 

In a way, he has been. 

With all your relentless yet pleasureful torment, Vincent couldn’t make it to his car. 

He needed you, now. 

So here he is, on his knees, the filthy ground dirtying his dress pants. His cock is sprung free, the chilled air brushing lightly against it while the vibrator hums lightly against his p-spot. It’s sweet torture; worshipping your thighs and pelvic area with kisses and sucks, but not being able to touch himself in return. 

Grinding up against his face, sometimes making it difficult for him to breathe; you are overwhelming him with the taste of your precum and your scent. It was embarrassing to admit that he’s had similar fantasies, but none were as ravenous as the scenario happening now. Vincent would find himself fisting his pathetic cock every night to the thought of you. You plagued his mind despite all the ways you’ve rejected him. Vincent is still willing to be at your beck and call. If being obedient meant getting a sliver or crumb of your notice, then he’d happily oblige, even if that meant making an embarrassment of himself in front of your colleagues or strangers. 

With his dreams becoming a reality, he could get addicted to this. 

“How often do you think about [eating me out/sucking my cock]?” You mock, having enjoyment in the way each word caved in on him. 

“Quite often, mon trésor,” Vincent purrs, removing his mouth from you and nudging his cheek against your thigh. 

“Yeah?” You taunt.

Vincent lets out a shuddering breath, kissing your thigh. 

“Practically every night,” he muses.

“That’s what I like to hear,” you chuckle, pushing his head back down, relishing in the sudden whine that left him. 

You can’t forget that anyone can catch both of you, but quite frankly, you don’t care. 

Vincent has completely broken down, and you are in complete bliss. 

Being paid to let Vincent [eat you out/suck your cock], you can only fantasize about all the luxuries you’d buy yourself once you drained yourself down his throat. There isn’t a better feeling for Vincent compared to being between your legs and having his lips wrapped so prettily around your [cunt/cock]. 

His heart aches, imagining how much money you’d ask for to let you fuck him properly. But your [cunt/cock] in his mouth means everything to him and more. 

While Vincent’s prostate is being stimulated while he [greedily laps at your cunt/hollows his cheeks around your shaft], somewhere in his [pussy/cock] drunk haze, he knows this is heaven. Not the endless void that surrounded him before being revived, but the [sweetness between your folds/precum that dribbles from the tip of your cock]. 

His natural devotion has the knot in your stomach coil tighter, your other hand reaching out to caress the side of his cheek. Vincent looks so beautiful, eyes glossy, with drool and your essence dripping down his chin. 

Vincent has never looked any better. 

None of his designer suits, fancy watches, or expensive shoes could make him look just as ravishing. You aren’t afraid to confess: you liked Vincent best right after a fight. He’s bruised, bloodied, and despite looking so helpless, that defiant spark is probably why you wish to see how far you can push him.

You drank up all his reactions; toying with him is the best entertainment. Acting like a sexual mess in the restaurant, and now he’s a greedy slut with his [nose rubbing against your clit/hand cupping your balls]. 

Even with the sounds of cars passing by and conversations among people that get blocked out by the sounds of Vincent’s slurps. Tucked away between two walls, unseen by anyone, it’s almost as exhilarating as the secret relationship —if you could even consider it a relationship —you had with Vincent within the protocol.

Even with a fragment of privacy, Vincent feels much more comfortable whoring himself out to you. The ground beneath him puddles up with an intoxicating mixture of precum and slobber; he’s beginning to get antsy. Knees aching, his dress pants aren’t made for him to be on his knees. 

Vincent feels himself getting close again, the rhythm of the vibrator intensifying and slowing down, its teasing pace not exactly helping his predicament. Surely you know Vincent can’t keep enduring all this pleasure; his body needs to release all of his built-up tension. 

Goosebumps litter his body, his actions getting sloppier by the second. Harsh pulses of the toy vibrate fastly against his prostate, his hole being abused by the vibrator’s ministrations under your control. Your [cunt/cock] is completely soaked, hooking one of your legs over Vincent’s shoulder for leverage, ushering him closer despite his [tongue already deeply fucking your cunt/your cock already meeting the back of his throat, gagging him]. His mouth feels warm around you. Each time Vincent lifts his head to get a breath of fresh air, the wind brushes against your sensitive [cunt/cock], making you recall your surroundings. 

Vincent feels small underneath your intense gaze, his needy cock quivering, working your own [cunt/cock] with his tongue, flicking at the sensitive nerves. His cock is neglected, his eyes practically begging you to allow him to cum, to give his leaking cock the release it needs, and to paint his mouth with your cum. 

That’s when a cheeky idea comes to his mind. 

Vincent releases his lips from your [cunt/cock] with an audible pop, reaching a hand to his mouth, giving a fake yawn into his palm. 

“Is that all you got, [Name]?” 

You shoot him a glare that shakes Vincent throughout his whole body; you are not to be tested. You crank the vibrator back up to its highest setting. Vincent mewls at the sudden and intense change in stimulation, nearly buckling over until you suddenly grab the back of his head to bury him back between your legs. Shockwaves rumble against his p-spot, giving his weeping cock just the right amount of pleasure it needed. Instinctively, his hands reach up, one on your thigh to stabilize himself as you face fuck him, the other reaching under you to [rub between your folds, spreading your folds so he has better access to your cunt/massage your balls, making sure every part of you is given attention]. 

The loud, bustling sounds of the city during rush hour couldn’t compare to the immense overstimulation of the toy, the sound of Vincent’s heart beating in his eardrums, or the coil in his stomach restricting itself even further and signaling just how close he is to releasing. Each hard-hitting reverberation of the vibrator against his prostate pushes him into sucking on your [clit/cock] harder, yearning for your own orgasm. 

Peering down at Vincent, his face flushes as his eyes begin to tear up, his lips glossy, his expression matching your own. His ass tightens around the vibrator, a drop of sweat falling down his temple, his eyes roll back slightly from your ruthless pace. 

Vincent can’t catch his breath at all, drowning in you. Your movements are nonstop, chasing your high with one last grind of your hips, shutting your eyes tightly as the coil in the pit of your stomach fiercely unravels as you pull yourself off of Vincent. 

Cumming all over Vincent’s face is just the push that helps carry through his own orgasm, painting the ground in white streaks as you [rub your clit/pump your cock] to ride out your orgasm. 

With a relieved sigh, you turn off the vibrator, and when you open your eyes, you laugh as you stare at Vincent’s soaked face. Not only is his face covered in your cum, but so are his glasses. 

“Is there something on my face, [mon chéri/ma chérie]?” Vincent asks, chuckling to himself through his blurred and soiled frames. 

“Yes, actually,” you grin, removing Vincent’s specs from his face and cleaning them on your shirt, wrapping your hand around the bottom of your shirt and wiping his face, “there we go.” 

“Merci,” Vincent lovingly thanks you, accepting your outstretched hand as you help him get back on his feet.

You readjust his button-up, vest, and tie- knowing that being this vulnerable and disheveled is something Vincent isn’t used to, making sure you readjusted your own clothes as well.

There’s a pause.

“So what now?” Vincent asks. 

“Let’s go home and clean ourselves up,” you think to yourself, “and maybe we can cuddle and get food delivered.”

“Must I pay for aftercare?” Vincent hesitantly questions. 

“Never,” you reassure. 

when he agreed to this, he didn't realize how taxing it would be to anticipate every single one of your actions.

if he spoke, his only answer was silence. then your warmth would surprise him from the back, your hands resting on his shoulders when your breath unexpectedly hit his ear. his heart rate rose, the pace of his breath quickening—he wasn't the kind of man who’d falter so easily and yet the sweet agony of receiving so much and so little at the same time was driving him insane.

one pinch—a jolt. his back lifted off the chair trying to get closer to your teasing hands. your hands tugged and flicked at his sensitive nipples, his chest rapidly rising and falling.

“nngh—!”

you wished he could hear himself right now, his usually stoic composure unravelling under your ministrations. there wasn't a moment where he wasn’t trying to guess what you’d do next. even the tiniest brush of your fingers against his skin would erupt hundreds of goosebumps, which only made him ache for more.

but he wasn’t a beggar. before he’d choke out a plea for more, you’d have to torture him for much, much longer. patience is a virtue… he was used to this much. that’s what he wanted to believe, but with his hearing gone and his only sense overwhelmed with fleeting touches, he couldn't hear himself whispering prayers for you to give him more.

The third fight that week had been over Chinese takeout.

House picked sesame chicken instead of your usual kung pao, then mocked you for sulking about it. It was petty. So goddamn small, it should’ve been laughable, but the silence that followed was anything but. You’d shut yourself off, again, pretending it didn’t bother you, and he’d leaned harder into the joke, because that’s what he did—poke until you bled. And you? You didn’t even give him the satisfaction of reacting. You just ate around the chicken. It didn't matter.

This dance was familiar now. You were cold, distant, unreadable. He was spiteful, abrasive, provoking. Somewhere under the surface, it wasn’t about the chicken or the jokes or the forgotten texts—it was about the way your walls had been creeping up, brick by brick, and he’d started testing just how high you’d let them go before you cared enough to knock them down.

He needed a response. He wanted to goad you into saying something sharp, wanted a rise, wanted you to scream or slam the door or throw the food in his face. Anything but this silence you’d been weaponizing lately. You didn’t mean to withhold affection, at least not at first. It started as self-preservation. He could be cruel, and you could be cold. You’d thought if you gave him less, there’d be less to lose.

So when he flirted with the woman at the bar after work—obvious, smirking, that cheap performance of charm he knew never worked on you—you knew it was for you. She touched his arm and laughed too easily. His smile was too wide. He didn’t even look back to see if you were watching, which somehow made it worse.

You said nothing.

Not a single word on the way home. He limped beside you with that smug, defensive air, waiting for the explosion, the jealous accusation. Maybe even a shove or a slap. You gave him none of it. Just silence. You walked into the apartment ahead of him, hung up your coat, toed off your shoes, calm as ever.

He hated it.

God, he hated it.

He followed behind you, locking the door, jaw tightening with each click of the deadbolt.

“Go on,” he said finally, voice a little rougher than usual. “Say it. Whatever angry, self-righteous speech you’ve got cooking in that scary little head of yours.”

You turned slowly, looking at him like he was something fragile pretending to be dangerous.

“There’s nothing to say.”

“Oh, come on,” he snapped, dropping the cane by the wall. “I smiled at some woman and now you’re gonna act like a fucking ghost for the next week? Again? Grow up.”

Still, you were quiet. Walking toward him slowly, footsteps soft on the hardwood. There was something in your eyes that made him falter. He shifted, discomfort prickling up his spine. That look—it wasn’t anger. It was worse. You were looking at him like you’d made a decision. One that left no room for negotiation.

“I’m not mad,” you said, tone gentle. “You wanna flirt? Flirt. Just remember who you come home to.”

His back hit the wall before he could process the way you surged forward. Hands on his chest, firm, controlling, pressing him back as you leaned in close enough to kiss but didn’t. Your breath brushed his lips, and he blinked, confusion flickering there in those stormy blue eyes.

“…What are you doing?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

You grabbed his wrist, dragged him to the bedroom. He followed on instinct alone—he always did when it came to you, always would—and before he could say another word, you shoved him down onto the bed. He landed with a grunt, propping himself up on his elbows, mouth parting to speak, to bark something cocky, maybe, but you climbed onto his lap and all the air in his lungs disappeared.

Your lips crashed into his.

You weren’t soft. You weren’t careful. You kissed him with hunger, with desperation, as if the weeks of distance and petty fights no longer mattered. The only thing that mattered was his mouth against yours. You kissed him until his mind went blank, until his hips pressed into yours, until his hands gripped your waist, torn between pushing you away and pulling you closer.

He sucked in a sharp breath, hands caught in the air before you grabbed them with one hand, holding his wrists with a force that made his pulse stutter.

“You think I don’t care?” you said, voice low, breath against his cheek. “You think I’d let you do all that shit today if you weren’t already mine?”

His pupils were wide. Mouth red and open. He looked drunk. Stunned.

You kissed him again, deeper, slower now, tongue forcing past his lips until he bucked forward without meaning to.

You only stopped when his head tipped back, panting, lips red and wet and so thoroughly used he looked dazed.

“You’re mine,” you murmured, voice low and breathless against his jaw. “You got that?”

His throat bobbed.

Then again, firmer: “Say it.”

“…I’m yours,” he rasped, eyes fluttering. “Jesus.”

You grinned, a flicker of satisfaction twisting in your chest. You reached down and tugged his shirt up, letting your nails scrape his ribs on the way. He hissed at the sensation, and then you were working at his belt, slow, deliberate, drawing this out like punishment.

“You wanna act like you’re not desperate for me?” you asked. “You wanna make me jealous? Fine. You wanna be someone else’s for a minute? Go ahead. But I’ll make sure you remember who you fucking belong to.”

You palmed him through his pants. He twitched. Bucked.

You kept going.

you straddled him with a deliberate slowness that made him grind up into you instinctively. You slapped his hip, once, hard enough to make him groan.

“Stay still.”

He stared up at you, lips swollen, hands gripping the sheets. You reached into the drawer beside the bed, tore open a condom, and rolled it down onto him with practiced efficiency. He twitched under your touch, breathing fast. Your lips brushed the shell of his ear as you spoke.

“You don’t get to come until I say,” you whispered.

He whimpered. Actually whimpered.

And then you sank down on him.

He swore, half-choked, hands shooting to your thighs but you pinned them down to the mattress once again. He couldn’t buck, couldn’t move, not unless you let him. You set the pace, grinding down until he was shaking, teeth clenched, whole body straining for more. But every time he got close, every time his breath stuttered and his eyes fluttered, you stopped. Slowed. Pulled away just enough to make him sob out something desperate and broken.

“Please,” he gasped, hips jerking, cock twitching inside of you. “Fuck—please, I can’t—”

You leaned down and bit his neck, hard enough to leave a mark. Then another. Your mouth mapped him in bruises, teeth and tongue leaving proof behind until he was panting, babbling, nearly incoherent.

“I’m yours,” he cried. “I’m yours, I swear—I’m yours, just—please—don’t stop—don’t stop—”

You let him get close again.

Then pulled away.

He whined—whined, like a man unraveling, the smug bastard doctor had been reduced to nothing but a trembling mess beneath your hands.

He sobbed your name. Not out of pain. Out of pure, aching need.

“I’m yours,” he whispered, hoarse now, his voice barely holding together. “I can’t—please—can’t take it.”

“Good,” you said, watching him break apart. “That’s the point.”

“You gonna act like that again?” you asked, words hot and sharp against his throat. “Flirting like some asshole trying to get a reaction out of me?”

“No,” he breathed. “No, I swear—I swear, I just—I just wanted you to care—fuck, I’m sorry—”

That was what broke you.

You kissed him again, slower now. Not gentle, but real. Raw. Your hand threaded through his hair, and he kissed back with that same desperation, moaning into your mouth. You rolled your hips again, finally letting him chase it, finally letting him have you.

This time, you didn’t stop.

He came with a shout, body jerking beneath you, hands clawing at your waist like he might fall through the bed if he didn’t hold on tight enough. His lips were bitten, slick with spit, red as sin. His chest heaved, and his arms wrapped around you tightly.

You collapsed on top of him, still joined, heartbeat pounding against his. He was gasping, lips parted, cheeks flushed red, chest heaving under yours.

He tried to speak. Couldn’t.

“…Still smug?” you asked against his shoulder.

He groaned, face buried in your neck.

You kissed his forehead, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. “You don’t get to question whether I’m here for you,” you murmured. “But if you need a reminder again, I’ll be happy to fuck it into you.”

He let out a breathless laugh, voice wrecked. “Jesus.”

You pulled the covers over both of you. He curled into you without asking. For once, quiet.

You smiled.