#jules writes

you don’t realize how bad you feel until you plop down on the edge of nancy’s bed, your head pounding itself inwards, and your vision darkening just a little. you feel incredibly dizzy— tired even, and you shift your weight around the mattress.

“hey,” nancy musters up when you move groggily on the bed. it feels like your bones are filled up with wet sand and it’s weighing you down like crazy.

“are you okay?” she asks and stands up from her desk, making her way up to the bed and kneeling down in front of you. you mumble out a quiet yeah, smaller and weaker than you expected it to be. “i’m good, just, really tired.”

and by the look on nancy’s face, you know she’s not buying into a single word you say. her hands come up to cup your cheeks, her touch cold and contrasting to the heat you’re starting to feel.

“your face is warm, like, more than it should be.” she whispers softly, not alarmed at all, but more concerned.

“how’d you end up like this anyway?”

“i- i dunno, it started this morning and i couldn’t get it to stop.” you shrug and wince a bit when you turn your head down. “i just feel kinda achey.”

you hear nancy hum out quietly under her breath as if to think and she brings her hands down to yours. “c’mon let’s get some rest.”

nance sighs and pulls you up slowly, bringing you down to the pillow. the relief hits you instantly, and you feel a little less like a bag of cement. “good, stay there.” she says and tucks a blanket over your body, her lips leaving a soft kiss against the temple of your forehead.

when she pulls away, she quickly moves around the room efficiently and gently, so she doesn’t startle you and makes you feel any worse. a cold feeling against your mouth stirs you awake and you make out nancy, her hand on your chin and a cold glass of water in the other.

“drink up, kay? you’ll feel a little better and i’ll take care of you all night if i have to.”

“i didn’t think it’d hit me this hard.” you laugh, your throat rejecting the idea of you even laughing and a couple coughs following after.

“how’d you end up like this anyway?”

nancy says, her voice starting to fill up with concern as she feels up your face again. “i’m not sure, i think i just- overworked myself, y’know? spent too much time around the kids and didn’t get much sleep. plus, you know how the weather gets ‘round this time of year..”

you grumble out, your voice much hoarser than it’s ever been. her head tilts and you hear her sigh.

“i know, but you shouldn’t have to work so hard.” she tsks and tucks a few loose strands of hair behind your ears. her touch is light, soft, and warm. everything that helps bring you some sense of peace despite the fact you feel like you’re on your deathbed.

“i don’t deserve you, nance.” you murmur out and inch your head away from her when she tries to feel your temp again. “yeah, too bad this isn’t about who deserves what.” she snickers and leans down to press another soft kiss to your forehead.

“you’re too good to me, that’s for sure.” you muse and smirk at her, just a little bit. your vision starts to blur again and you start to fall asleep, nancy sitting down on the edge watching you and making sure that you don’t get worse.

time barely registers as she dabs at your face with a cool cloth, suppressing the heat traveling up your neck, and you let out a raspy grunt.

Bucky’s gaze lingered. “Yeah… thought it was just me.”

“Nope,” you said grimly. “I’ll let Lena know.”

Her reaction had been instant. “Get back here now, abort the task.”

The alarms screamed the second you stepped inside the loading bay.

“Contamination detected. Quarantine in effect.”

Doors slammed around you. Val’s state-of-the-art AI calmly gave out instructions you could barely hear.

Yelena’s face appeared in the window, pale and wide-eyed.

She shut of the alarm.

“Please follow the corridor to the quarantine area. Clothing removal required. Begin decontamination process immediately.”

You froze, Bucky bumped into you. “Wait, what?”

“No, that’s not happening.” He spoke up for the first time since you’d arrived back.

He nudged you into the room anyway. The doors hissed shut behind you.

Yelena face appeared in the observation room. “Bucky, if you don’t clean that shit off, you’ve got about fifteen seconds before it starts to eat you alive. If you’d been any further than six miles away, you’d already be dead.”

“Dead?” You asked, feeling your heart sink somewhere between your knees.

“Dead dead.” She confirmed.

“Ok.” You glanced around the sterile, fluorescently lit room, suddenly all business. “Ok. Barnes, get your fucking clothes off. You’re not dying.”

“Ladies first, sweetheart.” He snapped, hesitating while you yanked off your boots and threw them into the chute.

Half a second later, he was undoing buckles and pulling off gloves.

The more bare skin you uncovered the more you could see of the rash spreading down your arms and across your collarbone.

“Quicker!” Yelena barked through the intercom.

You grimaced. “This is like one of those nightmares where you’re naked in front of everyone you’ve ever met.”

He turned, a careful half-turn, trying to respect your boundaries, but you could see the tension coiling in him. Every glance was loaded.

“Don’t think about anyone else,” Bucky said quietly, close enough that his voice brushed your skin. “It’s just me and you here, doll.”

He moved with controlled precision, his hands not touching, but close enough to ignite every nerve ending. Your breath hitched.

You didn’t look.

Not at him, not at the clothes hitting the floor with increasing speed.

“Ok, the room is sealed, the showers are going to switch on. Clean off - thoroughly - I’ll give you some privacy but I’ll stay on comms.”

Jets opened up in the ceiling, showering tepid water everywhere.

He stepped closer to check the panel, his shadow fell across your bare arms. Every nerve ending jumped at the brush of air when his chest passed your shoulder. You didn’t look, but you felt him - the faint heat of his skin, the quiet exhale that you knew was meant to stay neutral.

“You sure you’re ok?” His voice was low, just over the hiss of the shower. Not loud enough for Lena to hear, but close enough for your pulse to spike. “Water's cold.”

“I’m fine.” Your voice was clipped, though your hands shook slightly as you adjusted the dials, trying to warm it up.

He watched you, the tense dip of his neck, the subtle flex of his shoulders. You caught a glimpse of him shifting his weight, his jaw tight, fists clenched just enough to betray that he was as aware of this as you were.

He moved behind you, and the gap closed almost impossibly. Your senses screamed - every breath, every twitch of his body so close, the light brushing of his arm against yours when he reached over, and the ache it caused deep in your belly.

He leaned slightly, just enough for you to know he was waiting, watching, tempted.

Finally the steam thickened, and with every inhale, it carried his scent. Leather, metal, and something uniquely him. You wanted to turn, wanted to watch him, but the rules - your own rules - kept your gaze fixed straight ahead. And yet… you could still feel him watching you.

“You need to clean off,” he murmured, soft enough that it could be mistaken for general caution.

You swallowed. “I’m going to.” Your voice betrayed you; cracked and thin.

His eyes flicked to you sharply, assessing you, and in that instant, you caught the faintest twitch of his jaw, the way his chest rose just a little faster. Your thighs clenched together, and you forced yourself to look past him.

You reached for the panel, and his hand brushed the edge of the screen so close your fingers almost met. A spark jumped from the heat of proximity, enough to make your knees weaken. You had to bite back a moan, a gasp, a sound that would give you away.

You wanted to step back into him, wanted his hands on you, his mouth, but the thought of closing the space between you felt impossible.

Lena’s voice echoed again: “Finish up, step aside!”

He exhaled slowly, stepping away from you. His eyes dropped as he did so, freely roaming your body. Concern, hunger, restraint all flicked across his face.

Despite Yelena's instruction, neither of you moved immediately. The tension lingered, heavy with every unspoken thought.

“We need to talk about this -” He started.

You turned away first. “Yeah. Need more clothes first.”

Bucky’s gaze followed you as you stepped toward the doors, and you felt it - that thrill, that silent challenge, that shared understanding that neither of you would let go just yet.

Setting down his bags of groceries - carefully because he bought eggs - he leans his full bodyweight against the sturdy wall, trying to hold back the tears prickling behind his eyes. This couldn't happen when he was home by himself? Breaking down in public is not exactly what he had in mind for his day off.

He clutches at his chest, grasping his shirt with one hand while his other goes for his phone. Who's he even supposed to call though? Maddie and Chim are busy surviving the newborn stage, Hen and Karen have taken their kids on a roadtrip through California, Eddie is at the beach with Chris. He's not calling Athena, that's for damn sure. He gasps as a sob tries to work its way out. He needs to get out of here. He has to get home somehow and quickly. He needs -

"Evan?"

At the gentle tone, Buck takes a shuddery breath, looking toward the entrance of the alley to see Tommy. He's clearly trying to make himself smaller and unassuming. Buck knows the breadth and width of him intimately.

"Are you okay?"

He's not. Not even a little. But that's not Tommy's problem. Buck is always too much, too loud, too impulsive, too clingy, too…Buck. Tommy shouldn't have to deal with that.

"I -" his voice cracks.

A sob breaks through. Then another and another, and soon he's fully crying, breaking down like he hasn't since the night Bobby died. The night Bobby told him he loved him, that he'd be okay, that the team were going to need him.

Except they didn't. They didn't need him. They don't need him. And he's not okay. Nothing is okay, and it never will be again because Bobby fucking died. Bobby left him here to just…what? Go on with life? Keep going every day like there's not a giant Bobby-shaped hole everywhere he looks? Somehow keep living even when everything feels like it's falling apart, like he's failing everyone he loves?

"I know. I know," Tommy is saying. Had Buck said some of that out loud? "I'm so sorry, Evan. I know. It's not fair. None of it is fair. I'm sorry."

At some point, they had sunk to the ground, Tommy holding him tightly. Buck's breathing starts to even out as Tommy keeps talking, keeps holding him, holds him together at all the places he feels like he's about to break apart.

When Buck is able to breathe mostly normally again, he lifts his head from Tommy's shoulder, sniffling as he wipes at the tears left on Tommy's henley.

"Sorry about that," Buck says, embarrassed for many reasons. "I don't know why -"

"Hey," Tommy cuts in, kind but firm, "you have nothing to apologize for. I miss him, too, and I didn't think of him as a father."

"I know, I just feel silly breaking down like that on you. I should be over this by now. Not feeling so many things."

"Evan, you have the right to feel everything. Losing a parent - even someone who was a father figure - is a big deal. Especially when you're as close as you were with Bobby. Okay? You never have to be sorry for missing someone you loved."

Tommy starts to move his arms like he's going to let go, but Buck catches his hands, placing them back where they were.

"Not yet," Buck says, half joking, half serious. "Need you to hold me together a little longer."

"I can do that," Tommy smiles softly. They sit for a moment holding each other quietly before Tommy says, "You know, grief isn't linear. You don't go from one stage to the next boom, boom, boom. It's not simple or easy, and you'll probably repeat stages a few times. And that emptiness you feel? It never really goes away. That person was a part of you, and that will never change. But all the other people you love who also loved him can fill in the gaps. You'll see bits and pieces of him in other people, and sometimes that helps, sometimes it makes it worse. But the people we lose are never really gone as long as we keep them right here," Tommy finishes, pointing at Buck's chest where his heart is thumping quickly.

"Wow," Buck says after a moment, sniffling again as he tries to hold back a fresh wave of emotion, "when did you get so smart about grief?"

Tommy barks a laugh and says, "It comes free when you lose your mom as a kid and then sign up for active duty as soon as you're of legal age."

"Ah," Buck nods. "Makes sense." This is not the right time, and he knows that, but he can't help asking, "Will you come over?"

He realizes too late how that sounds when Tommy raises an eyebrow and smirks at him.

"Not like that," Buck amends. "I just want your company. And maybe we can talk?"

Tommy's face softens.

"Okay. That sounds nice actually."

They finally get up, releasing their hold on each other long enough to dust themselves off and collect Buck's groceries. Tommy grabs his hand before they exit the alley. When Buck looks down, Tommy shrugs.

"In case you still need the support," he says.

As they walk the last few blocks to Buck's house, he asks, "What are you doing on this side of town anyway?"

Tommy's shoulders tense almost imperceptibly, but Buck notices before he can come up with an excuse.

"Tommy, were you hoping to run into me?"

"No, I just - um - I like the kombucha at that froofy health store you always go to. Running into you is just a bonus."

"Uh-huh, and how often do you buy kombucha?"

Buck knows he's got him when Tommy winces.

"Two, maybe three times a week. Sometimes four."

"Tommy," Buck laughs, "you could've just called."

"It wasn't the right time," he says, squeezing Buck's hand. "It didn't feel right to ask about us when you were going through something life-changing."

"Mm, you have a point." Buck squints in the afternoon sunlight, but looks at Tommy seriously when he says, "But I had already decided I want to be with you before Bobby died. That hasn't changed."

He isn't expecting Tommy to stop in his tracks, or to turn toward him and kiss him, surprising him like he did the first time they kissed. It's just as soft and sweet as that first time, but now it's familiar too.

"What was that for?" he asks when they pull apart.

Tommy starts walking again, dragging Buck along.

"I love you," Tommy says, nonchalant, like he didn't just empty Buck's brain and then make him trip over his own feet.

"I - I'm sorry. What?"

"I said, 'I love you,'" he repeats, eyes sparkling mischievously when he looks back. "I figure there's no point in not saying it. You should know. Even though I think you already do." He looks at Buck pointedly, and Buck nods because he does. He does know. "So I thought I should say it."

They continue walking, and Buck's house comes into view.

"I love you, too," he says. "You should know I love you, too."

"I do," he squeezes Buck's hand again.

"Is there anything you don't know?" Buck laughs.

"Hm," Tommy hums, thinking. They reach the front door, and while Buck grabs for his keys, Tommy says, "I guess there's one thing I don't know yet."

"Oh? What's that?" Buck asks as he opens the door, stepping through.

The house is a little messy. Buck knows he needs to pull himself out of his funk and do some laundry and sweep soon, but that can wait for a moment.

Tommy hangs back, not crossing the threshold.

"Tommy?" Buck prompts. "What don't you know?"

Seeming to steel himself, Tommy huffs.

"What I don't know is, do you want me to stay just for some company? Or do you want me to stay…longer?"

He looks nervous, and it's understandable. Buck doesn't let him stew for long. He reaches out a hand, hoping Tommy will take it and step through the doorway. There's a moment when Buck feels a pit open in his stomach.

Then Tommy takes his hand and steps inside, steps into the mess with Buck.

Your skin is glowing from the sun and fresh air you’ve gotten on this two-week trip. Your hair is loose, light, and so is that dress.

You’re lucky you and Steven had talked Marc out of double-checking your suitcase before your last hop from Chicago to Boston. There’s no way he would have missed this number. Pink linen floats down to brush just above the hinge of your knees. He can see the faintest shadowy outline of your thighs as the sun lights you up. The sweet color wraps you up in all the places he wishes he could do with his hands instead, though the dress has a low enough back so that when his gentle touch lowers to your back to protect you from a crowd of people shuffling by, he gets to watch in real time as goosebumps flare over your skin.

“Cariño,” he murmurs into the place where your shoulder meets your neck, his hot breath seeming to crawl all over you with promise. 

You turn from the stained glass collage you’d been inspecting with a knowing glint in your eye. “Jake. We’ve missed you.” “I’ve been around.” He’d chosen to take a back seat during much of your vacation trip, apart from being glued to your side during every security queue, glaring at the TSA officer’s screening wand like he was going to break it in half for daring to look you over more thoroughly than he could. 

You arch a brow. “Spying on us, Lockley?”

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth barely lifting when his non-answer makes you laugh. He’d forgotten how good you smell up close.

It’s maybe not the most relaxing vacation, keeping an eye on things. But he still got to watch Steven being chased by a dozen hungry pigeons and several geese through Millenium Park. He’d rolled his eyes when you fussed over Steven’s minor battle scars. He had no sympathy for his alter; Marc had told him not to feed the local wildlife. 

And he’d still gotten to see you in your favorite bikini at the beach, lounging in the sun with your book, turning over under the umbrella now and then like a drowsy cat. He’d been there watching in the headspace when Marc’s patience finally snapped, and he dragged you back to the rental’s shower and held every inch of your warm skin in his hands as you cried out your release.

Jake would have made you wait a little longer for it. Taken his time. He was certain you’d been teasing them all along, showing off your curves in the sand before dipping into the sea to cool off, returning to them with salty tendrils of water clinging to every bare inch of you. But he’d enjoyed it just as much as the others when Marc tucked you into bed at four in the afternoon, loose-limbed, sated, and sleepy.

“Is something the matter?”

Your question brings him back to the present. The sundress. The museum. A crowded house some old crone had left to the city in her will when cars still competed with horses for parking space, packed full with artifacts and priceless artworks on an absurd number of floors. Given the tight space, the place is booked out several days in advance. Steven had gotten you in for free with the help of his museum employee card and turning his intellectual charm on one of the docents.

Jake answers your question with thinned lips and a quick jerk of his chin. No, there was nothing the matter. It was just too damn crowded in here, and he hadn’t liked how the body’s heart rate had spiked when Steven turned from a minutes-long fixation over a painting to find you gone. It was his worry that had brought Jake to the front.

You’d only been in the next room over, impatiently waiting your turn to take a photo of a painting. You hadn’t been lost or hurt, just frustrated by the idiocy of tourists. But it wasn’t safe to lose track of you, not even for a moment. There were too many people. Too many new places he wasn’t as familiar with. Too many strong emotions they weren’t used to in the comforting routine of your daily lives.

Your cool hand curls into his warm one, breaking his train of thought. He frowns down at your clasped hands like it’s a sight he doesn’t know how to parse. Or a gift he doesn’t deserve. You squeeze his fingers as though you can read his thoughts.

“You don’t have to hover, you know. I’m fine.”

“Yeah?” His eyes slide up to yours, a warm brown that sees right through you. “You sure? Steven was worried.”

In the headspace, Steven’s presence shifts uncomfortably. I was, a bit, only because she was so disappointed when the exhibit on Greco-Roman antiquities she wanted to see isn’t open. It’s a bleedin’ shame too, because they’re showing this absolutely gorgeous marble statuary from the sixth century BCE that’s supposed to have been inspired by ancient Sumerian royal portraits, but there’s some speculation they might have been from Ur instead-

Jake tunes the rest of Steven’s monologue down until it reaches the pitch of a soothing British documentary and studies your face. “You wanted to see some statues or something?”

Disappointment flickers, but you shrug. “Yeah. It’s fine. It’s closed for a private event later tonight. I’ll see it another time. Maybe the next time we visit.” It’s the entire reason you’d wanted to come here, but whatever.

You’re so pretty when you smile, but you’re even more beautiful when you’re feeding him a line of bull. Your smile doesn’t touch your eyes, and your shoulders have dipped, some of your earlier excitement having dimmed to a mere twinkle. You say it’s all right, but…

It’s a visiting exhibit, mate. It’ll be gone next week. And our flight leaves tomorrow morning.

Jake lets out a soft tut of disapproval.

“What?” You’re ready to laugh again. You always are. You bring so much light and warmth into their lives. You give them so much. Your time, your love, your patience. He wonders if you leave enough of these things for yourself.

Luckily, he thinks he knows a way to balance those scales.

“Just doesn’t seem fair. What’s it closed for?”

You lift one shoulder.  “Private viewing for a donor.” The docent had told you and Steven as much, during your chat before entering the museum proper. Jake’s scowl deepens. “So some rich asshole gets to see this shit whenever he wants to and you don’t?” He shakes his head. Absolutely the fuck not. “Where is it?”

You blink, nonplussed. “It’s set up in rooms at the end of the third hall gallery – Jake!” You hiss out his name as he takes your arm and pulls you out of the room you’re in and up the stairs. You already know he’s up to no good, but you can’t help but giggle through breathless steps through the crowd. “We can’t-” “I just wanna have a look-see,” he claims, a wicked glint in his eye. The two of you mount the stairs as a gaggle of gossiping teenagers clamor down. One or two of them glance back at your bare legs as you pass.

Is that little shit in the hoodie trying to look up her skirt? Let me front. I’ll kick his pimply little ass.

Jake ignores Marc’s growl but curls an arm around your waist anyway. For what he’s got planned, they don’t have time to teach the kid a lesson. Maybe later.

Definitely later. Marc pauses in the headspace. Ah. You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?

Steven’s gape of horror is palpable. Absolutely not. We’ll be tossed out, and it’s my name on our bloody tickets!

He doesn’t acknowledge either of his alters. He simply leads you through the rapidly thinning throng to the end of the thickly carpeted hallway, where a large poster proclaiming the wonders of the exhibit beyond is pasted over with the words: CLOSED FOR PRIVATE VIEWING. “See? I told you so, Lockley.” You fold your arms and give him a smug look he wants to put you over his knee and spank you for. He loves it when you give him cheek. “Like I said, it says closed. As in off limits.” “Yeah.” He slides a glance over his shoulder and sees two docents trying to coax an old man with a walker off the elevator. Perfect. “It also says private.” Before either of the docents can spot you, he slips past the poster and pulls you inside before you can protest. Thankfully, apart from the artifacts, the room is empty and perfectly still.

Your mouth is already open to scold him when he hears footsteps outside. Shit. He claps a wide palm over your mouth, his body pinning yours against the doors. “Cállate.” His heartbeats thud against yours as he listens to the footsteps approach the door to the private exhibit, pause, and then recede again. He relaxes slightly. He wouldn’t care about being caught, no matter what Steven said, but he doesn’t want you tangled up in the mess.

The trouble is, you’re stubborn. You hate being told what to do, even by your boyfriends, and you’re not afraid to let them know it. You squirm defiantly against his hold and he only grips you tighter, breathing out an amused huff in your ear. “Pobrecita,” he drawls lazily, whisper-quiet. “You don’t want them to hear us, do you?”

You lick his hand and he lets you go at once with a grimace. There’s a reason he wears gloves, all of them practical. And clean.

He snorts at the childish move that nevertheless earns you a silent snigger from both his headmates. “Is that the thanks I get?” He wipes your spit on his jeans.

You don’t answer. Your eyes are wide, your lips parted. You leave your bag on the floor and approach the centerpiece of the exhibit as though in a trance. When you turn back to him again, the return of your glow nearly knocks him on his ass. Your smile is radiant.

The room’s empty, so he doesn’t crowd you as you slowly meander through the room’s offerings. He takes a quick look around, then makes himself comfortable on the sort of low settee common to art museums and tells himself he’s keeping watch on the nearby doors.

He isn’t. He’s watching you, the joy on your face, the adorable, quizzical furrow of your brow as you inspect a placard closely, the dreaminess with which you inhale like you’re trying to breathe in the history of these old, dusty bits of rock and paint. You’re happy. It’s quiet and blessedly dim, the only lights installed in the floor to highlight the shadows of the ancient carved figures. And Jake experiences something new and unexpected. Something he can’t quite name. A cipher in a language he doesn’t know. He doesn’t even try to figure it out. He just watches you, his thoughts slowing down.

By the time you’ve finally had your fill, his eyes are dark and languid as they track you. The way you go completely still under his gaze. The slow bob of your throat. Your eyes flick from his face to his shoulders to the wide splay of his knees as though you’re analyzing a predator’s next move.

Jake draws a thumb across his full lower lip, leisurely taking you in from the top of your head to the tips of your toes in your summer holiday espadrilles that give you a few more inches of height. He takes his time on the way back up, taking quiet satisfaction when one of your thighs gives a little twitch, giving you away. You want this as badly as he does, though you’d never ask for it. That’s a shame, though in this case whether you ask for it or not, he’s giving it to you.

You take a step towards him and pause when his mouth hardens. Whatever he wants, you haven’t earned it yet. You search his face, your breaths low and fast in your chest.

His brow arches ever so slightly and he jerks his chin up an inch. You turn and take in the statue of Persephone behind you. She’s beautiful, covered in delicately carved flowers, a spill of pomegranates at her feet. She’s also completely bare, her naked thighs barely covered by no more than her impossibly long hair.

You don’t let yourself think about it, or you know you’ll chicken out. You simply slip the dress off your shoulders and let it puddle on the floor.

Jake’s eyes blaze hotter, darker, but a smirk plays on his lips when you add your bra to the pile. Your hands have just brushed the lace of your panties when he tuts. His voice is calm, but full of intent. “No.”

You pause. No?

The pulse in your throat flutters visibly as he gets to his feet and takes his sweet time making his way to you, step by step. By the time he gets to you and skims his fingertips down your cheek, you’re nearly trembling. He clasps his fingers into the hair at the base of your neck and watches your last shred of nerves fade away as you succumb to the desire he’s stoked in you instead. He tilts your head up and rewards you with a deep, all-encompassing kiss, sliding his tongue over yours until you moan for him.

Jake chuckles, even as his cock throbs painfully as he slides his hand over every blazing inch of your smooth skin. He’s so hard in these fucking jeans he can feel the ache halfway up his abdomen. “Hush, mi vida. Am I gonna have to gag this pretty mouth to keep you quiet?”

His words, spoken against your sensitive lips, send a jolt of heat straight between your legs, he can feel it in the hitch of your breath.

“Yeah. You’d like that.” It’s not a question. Your knees tremble, and his grin turns sharp and lean. Feral. You catch your whine by the skin of your teeth as he lets you go. “Hands on the bench, princesa.”

You move at once to the low settee. You know where your bread is buttered, and right now it’s by keeping on his good side.

He sinks to his knees on the floor, his palms cupping your ass, his thumbs skimming over the borders of where you’re nearly panting to be touched. He’d never admit to it, but the way you arch your back and present him with this view so willingly? It fucking unravels him. He can’t remember a single piece of art he’s seen today. This is the only art that matters. He takes a step or two away from reality itself at the visible wet stain on your panties. Marc’s low groan seeps through his consciousness. Fuck. Look at that. That sweet pussy’s dripping for us.

One of Jake’s eyelids gives a twitch. No, pendejo. She’s dripping for me. He hooks a thumb into the gusset of your underwear and barely takes a moment to breathe in the scent of your heady arousal before he leans in. He has to taste you. Has to, or he swears he’ll fucking die right here.

You taste so fucking sweet, and if the mewl you let out is loud, the cry that resounds around the room when his palm strikes your ass is even louder.

“Starting to think you want to be heard, mi vida,” he teases, relishing your strained moans as his fingers circle your entrance before filling you in a slow, euphoric drag. “You want this whole museum to hear how well I fuck you?”

Your response comes out as a jumbled whine buried into your arms, a whine that only builds as he licks and fingerfucks you to an alarmingly quick orgasm. You certainly take it with no complaint, your thighs quivering, your breaths rushed and hiccuping as he laps you clean. He thinks he hears his name, but it’s hard to tell.

“Needy girl,” he murmurs, guts twisting at the dazed look of pleasure on your face as you let him smear your own come over your lips. “Ábrete.” He strokes your flattened tongue with the pads of his fingers for a moment before sliding them all the way in. Your cheeks hollow as you suck, so fucking beautiful. Then you open your eyes and look up at him, the tiny pricks of saltwater from your orgasm still sparkling on your eyelashes. You look at him like he’s the only thing you could ever want, the only thing in your entire world.

His fingers pop out of your mouth as he fumbles with his belt and the damn zipper. 

Rubber in the front pocket, Steven whispers, and falls silent when Jake lets out a low growl that runs out of oxygen the second his cock sinks inside your velvet heat. No condom. No barrier at all, just the trembling in his throat and the six seconds of breathless near-pain as he white-knuckles past coming right there and disappointing the two of you. The thought of the shit Marc and Steven would give him just gets him through.

“Jake,” you croak, husky. “Need – more, please — move, I need-”

“You don’t tell me what you need.” He sheathes himself fully in one languid, powerful thrust that grabs your sentence by the throat and puts it to a quick, merciless death. His fingers twist into your hair at the base of your skull and pull just hard enough to make your eyes roll. “I know what you need, mi vida.” 

And he gives you exactly that. There’s not the luxury of truly taking his time with you, and he fucks you like he’s almost angry about it, as though he’s been robbed of the chance to show the silent statues around them exactly how beautiful you are when you’ve been spun out to ruins between the skilled work of his hands.

You’re going to scream, he can feel it as soon as he hits the angle you need, the one that builds so much delicious pressure inside you, doubling with every precise thrust of his hips. The wet squelches of your bodies joining are obscene, but there’s nothing he can do about that, you’re gushing around him, squeezing and moaning and- You come around his cock with his fingers in your mouth, your walls so tight he swears he blacks out for a second as you come and come and come – twice? Three times? He doesn’t know, doesn’t care, you push his hand away, then reach back behind you and yank his mouth to yours as he hurdles over the edge of bliss with you. It’s your mouth that muffles his sounds now, your sweet tongue that soothes the low growls of deep satisfaction as thick ropes of cum fill you.

He kisses you hard as the two of you come down, thinking of nothing but the plush of your bottom lip between his teeth and the sweet, blissful pleasure. He only comes to reality when you wince. Shit. Yeah, you’re twisted like a pretzel in his grip. He lets you go, gently massaging your neck to relax the stiff muscles there.

Jake muscles through his haze to ask, “You okay?”

“Mhm.” You arch into his touch like a purring kitten. 

He swipes his hand through his hair, still checking you over. “Was it too much, bebita? Did I hurt you?”

“No.” You sigh a long, languid whoosh of air from your lungs and flatten, as though you’ve officially given all you have to give. “That was… that was…” you mumble, cheek flush to the settee, your skin coated in sweat. “Messy. And sooo good. I feel sorry for the statues that had to watch, though.”

He smirks at your joke. He should fuck you in public more often, if it makes you this wet and leaves you this satisfied, but he wisely keeps this thought to himself for now. Well, almost to himself. Still, Steven and Marc are quiet as Jake puts you back together again – pulling your dress over your head as you giggle, combing his fingers through your wild sex hair, granting you the soft, tender kisses he only offers when you’ve shown him once again that your heart is the most priceless artwork he’s ever been entrusted with.

“We’d better go,” you say eventually, reluctantly. You’re still clingy and sweet from your post-coital high, and you don’t even try to break free from the warm cage of his arms. He’s pretty sure you’d fall into a heap if he let you go. “That rich asshole’ll probably be here any minute for his private viewing.”

“Mm.” He breathes in the smell of your skin, your hair, his palms enjoying the luxury of feeling you up without much hurry. He wonders if you’d buy more sundresses like this if he asked. Fuck that, he’ll buy you some himself. 

I second that.

Third. Yep. Yeah.

He plucks your panties off the floor as a souvenir and makes sure you slip out of the exhibit without anyone noticing. You relax into him as he slings his arm comfortably over your shoulders, not giving a single shit that you look like any other besotted couple wandering the museum five minutes to closing time and pissing off the staff.

It’s worth it. If you wanted it, he’d do it. Anything at all, for that happy, contented look you’re wearing right now.

The docent who’d chatted you and Steven up earlier gives the two of you a wave as you exit. “Thank you for coming! We hope you enjoyed the chance to view the Sumerian collection, Mr. and Mrs. Lockley.”

A flush warms your skin back to a near boiling point. We hope you enjoyed the chance to view the Sumerian collection. Mrs. fucking Lockley? You pause as though you’re sure you’ve heard wrong. “What?”

The docent beams, her bright red glasses frames glinting. “It’s not often we book out the room for a private booking – never mind for only an hour. But the museum is very grateful for your patronage. The children’s education program you funded will help plenty of kids see the collection before it closes.”

Your mouth falls open, and somehow Jake manages to nod his thanks at the docent and sweep you back out into the balmy summer evening before you regain the power of speech.

But when you look up at him, ready to give him several earfuls, the tight, almost embarrassed look on his face gives you pause. At your questioning gaze, he shrugs slightly.

“You mentioned it months ago,” he murmurs. “Before we even booked the vacation. You love museums but you don’t go often, because you said you wished you could see an exhibit without the crowds rushing you. And I don’t like crowds either, so…” He stills as though he’s afraid you’ll read him the riot act. 

A fist squeezes so tightly around your heart that you’re positively sure that when it releases, it’ll never be quite the same shape again. It’ll have his imprint on it. Their imprint.

“Jake…” you don’t even know what to say. You just look at him with wetness clinging to your lashes. You’re sure you look a fucked-out mess, but he only smiles, like he can't believe you're real. A soft, sweet smile that kills you with how precious and rare it is when Jake is fronting. 

“I told you, mi vida. I always know what you need.”

He’d grabbed a file, pressed a kiss to your head and whispered behave before leaving once again. Unspoken apologies and promises in his eyes all the while; he’d take you out tonight, once things settled and he could give you his full attention. It was a nice, lovely sort of promise; one that you’d clung to whilst whiling away the hours counting the number of tiles on the ceiling.

You were bored, alright? Day off spent in his office, mostly alone; he’d had two surgeries and several patients to check on, thus leaving you to your own devices. It was nice, to entrench yourself in that which he cares most for: his work. You respect him and what he does, love his dedication and tenacity. But it would still be nice, you think, small pout curving your mouth, if today of all days you’d be given the gift of his full attention.

You know, you know; work comes first, always. Especially work as important as his. Saving lives, just as you do; tireless and thankless. 

You’re still a little impatient to have him all for yourself, is all.

The sun has dipped below the horizon when he finally frees himself of the shackles of obligation. Linkon is bathed in bright lights, a stark contrast to the dusky sky; your eyes trail over the neons of a city coming alive through the large windows, a wistful sigh dancing free of your mouth. 

You vacate his chair when he returns, closing the door with a finality that has butterflies dancing in your stomach. 

Zayne makes a small gesture, shaking his head sharply to the side when you move to take your place on the low couch across the room. Confusion colours your expression, head tilted to the side; but Zayne simply smiles, takes your hand, and pulls you down onto his lap when he sits down.

A blush dusts your face as you make yourself comfortable, Zayne’s arms coming around your waist to hold you in place, chin on your shoulder. His eyes dance over the jerky handwriting on a loose slip of paper, a pen in his hand; he’s still working, but you don't miss the way his entire body relaxes the moment he has you in his arms.

It’s quiet enough that you can hear the rush of traffic from the streets below, muted conversations from the hallway as nurses pass. Zayne circles a phrase on the form, signs his name at the bottom. His signature is neat, simple; unphased by your staring he puts it to the side and grabs the next sheet. A low pile sits pride of place atop his desk, and you groan quietly as you realize you’ll be here for a while yet.

Still, small mercies. You can feel Zayne’s chuckle rumble against your back, feel a lightning-quick press of his mouth to the curve of your shoulder.

“Behave,” he tells you again, flipping through a stapled report that has his brows furrowing. 

You will not, you think; not when he pulled you into his lap so effortlessly and smoothly that your pulse still flutters from it. Not when you’ve missed him all day. The evening is quiet, and yet charged with things left unsaid; you shift in his lap, thighs rubbing together impatiently. The movement has him inhaling sharply through his nose, hand moving to press over the top of your thigh and stilling your motion. His fingertips find the hem of your skirt, just a small brush of skin-on-skin; but still it makes you stiffen, his fingers curling to fist over the fabric. Your breath is shaky, his other hand motionless over the monotonous paperwork. 

Biting down on your bottom lip, you purposely shift your hips back and forth, back and forth; the swell of your ass grinding gently over his lap. 

The effect is instant; Zayne’s hand on your skirt tightens until his knuckles bleed white, a rough cadence of your name spilled against your hair when he turns his head sharply to look at you. But you refuse to meet his eye; feigning innocence, you brush your hair back and tap the toe of your shoe on the floor, ignoring the burning stare on the side of your face and choosing violence instead.

Your hips move as you shift your weight from leg to leg. Purely virtuous, you lean forward until your elbow lands atop the desk, chin cradled in your palm. If your back arches in a fetching manner, if the press of your ass to his groin is suggestive, why - it’s all a happy coincidence.

Zayne sees right through you, as he always does. 

“You’re distracting me.” Not a question, nor an accusation: a mere statement of fact. Your smile is saccharine as you glance over your shoulder, meeting his gaze that burns with untapped fire.

“Am I?” You ask with gently furrowed brows, inquisitive and entirely too pleased with yourself. Your free hand moves to cover his with a small hum beneath your breath, slotting your fingers between his and slowly dragging his palm up your thigh. The fabric of your skirt bunches, skin on shameless display. When you seek to move his hand inwards towards the apex of your thighs, Zayne goes still. Pulls his hand free from yours to instead press his palm flat to your stomach.

His patience is at an end as well, it would seem.

He pulls you until your back is flush with his chest, head tilted back on his shoulder. Your breast heaves though your smile is wide, anticipation hot in the air.

“You know what happens to bad girls with wandering hands,” he warns you, voice a whisper as he noses against your hair, breathing in deep of your scent.

You pulse thunders, mouth going dry. You catch sight of the moment of no return, the precipice on which you’ve dragged both him and yourself. And decide all at once to leap.

“I don't think I do, actually,” you respond with a careless shrug, sure of your victory.

His hand twitching minutely is your only warning. He moves fast, grabbing your wandering hands and gripping your wrists tight enough a gasp rips free of your throat. He pushes them down, using your own body against you as he grinds the heels of your palms over your mound; close, but not quite where you need it most. Your answering laughter is breathless and musical, hips shifting purposely over his groin until you can feel the hard rise of his erection digging into you.

Zayne is not long idle; he keeps both of your wrists trapped in one large hand, the other pulling impatiently at his tie. “You need another lesson in patience, it would seem,” he murmurs, mostly to himself; he refuses to rise to your bait, back straight and legs firmly still even as you feel his cock twitch. His tie comes loose, the sound of the fabric pulled free making your toes curl.

You bite down on your lip as he maneuvers until the pale blue fabric is wound over your wrists, pulled taut and knotted until you’re bound, fingers lacing together instinctively. The knot is loose, you’d be able to slip free of it easily; unspoken communication passes between you that he would do nothing to you that you would not desire. The trust implicit makes your head spin, tied and vulnerable as you are. 

“Hands on the desk,” he instructs, his palm flattened over your spine. He pushes you forward leisurely until you obey, folded hands landing noiselessly where he wants them. The press of silk catches on the edge of the desk, saving you the ache.

“Good girl,” Zayne whispers, smoothing his hand up and down your back. The words of praise send a frisson of delight through your veins, cunt clenching instinctively as your back arches seductively for him, legs falling open over his lap.

Your breath comes in pants as you feel him move; unable to see what he plans, all you can do is squirm atop his thighs as desire coalesces in your core. The sound of his belt coming apart, the pull of a zipper. Your skirt is pushed up and out of the way to bunch at your hips, a dexterous finger hooking into the top of your panties. You inhale sharply, lifting your hips to allow him the freedom to pull your panties down until they stretch between your spread thighs. 

You’re wet already; cool air on your intimate reaches making you shiver. Zayne’s hands linger on your exposed skin; palm roving over the swell of your ass, gripping a tight handful that has your thighs tensing beneath his ministrations. He hums beneath his breath at the sight of obscenity, giving way to a low groan that has you certain he’s using his free hand to grip himself tightly. The image of his hand fisted around his leaking cock makes you writhe; eager and desperate to have him inside you.

Patience is a lesson to be taught. One Zayne is intimately familiar with when it comes to you. 

His hand leaves you, leaving you cold; long enough that you begin to shift your hips, silently begging for him to return. A sigh is your only answer, a part of you confident he’s probably shaking his head at you.

In a blink, his open palm comes down on the side of your ass in a sharp crack. It jolts through you, making you gasp. Not hard enough to burn, not yet; the skin tingles, and Zayne immediately rubs over the spot to soothe the ache. He pauses a moment, waits for you to nod your head, before he swats the other side. Sharper, this time; enough to have you flinch forward, halfway off his lap.

“Hands,” he reminds you, grabbing a fistful of flesh that spills between his fingers to drag you back. His voice has gone low, rumbling deep in his chest. The sound makes your stomach flip, teeth sinking down onto your bottom lip as you obey and keep your bound hands steady on the desk. 

“Good girl,” he says again, voice dripping sin. You wonder if he’s smirking or serious, and despite the danger you turn your head to check; too bold by half, but if there’s anything you delight in the most it’s pushing his buttons.

His hand comes down on your ass, harsh this time. It rips a too-loud moan from your throat, the sharp burn of it bleeding through your nerves. Still, Zayne is calm, calculated; he rubs the mark he’s left lovingly, gaze locked on his work.

“Eyes forward,” he tells you, leaving no room to argue.

“But -” You argue regardless, his immediate answer a sharp smack to your steadily darkening skin, mottled and flushed and pretty as a painting.

You bite down on your words, swallowing them back until they disappear. Your head nods in acquiescence before it falls forward, back arching further in an open invitation. Not content to give him the last word, however, you smile secretly to yourself before dealing the decisive blow. “Yes, sir.”

The answering silence is deafening. Zayne’s breath comes out shaky, and for a moment you think you can hear him swallow. He spanks you again, simply because he can; sharper this time, hard enough it burns and you can feel the heat of instinctive tears prickle the back of your eyes. 

He doles out your punishment silently, spanking you in different places, bruising your ass until you writhe from even the lightest touch. Your chest heaves by the time your mental tally reaches twenty, skin aflame and cunt dripping on his pristine trousers. 

“Please,” you whisper, voice hoarse from crying out. Tears gather in your eyes, spill down your cheeks; it aches but in the best way, pleasure-pain that makes you ready to beg for his mercy.

“Hmm?” Zayne responds, nonchalant as he rubs an open palm over your heated skin, thumb sweeping gently between your cheeks until you moan. “I don't think I caught that.”

Fire burns in your face, but you’re too keyed-up to care. “Please, sir,” you beg, words dripping like honey from your mouth. “Please stop. I need you.” The words come out in a whine, Zayne’s equally cruel and kind hand coming down on your bruised ass to hear you whimper for him.

“Hmm,” he says again, considering. Your nails sink deep into the back of your hand, hips lifting to ease the burden and to entice him forward. “Are you going to be good?”

Relief washes over you, like sinking into a warm bath. “Yes,” you respond, too quickly, head nodding eagerly. “Yes, I’ll be good, I can be good for you, please -”

The sweet crooning of your desperation makes him groan, his palm moving from your ass to follow the path of your spine, until his fingertips dance on the back of your neck. The touch is soothing, grounding; your muscles tremble from the teasing, from the convalescence of pleasure and pain and the sheer need to come apart from his hand alone. 

A kiss, whisper-soft, is pressed to the arch of your spine. He whispers to you as he taps a finger on your hip, urging you off his lap. You stand on shaky legs, leaning your weight on his desk and exposing yourself fully to him. You feel your forgotten panties slip down your legs, caught on your ankles that threaten to fold at any moment. “Sweet girl,” Zayne says, words lingering softly in the air, “I need you to sit quietly. Can you do that for me?” 

You can feel the heated tip of his cock nudging at your soaked folds when you rock back on your heels, teeth sunk snugly into your bottom lip. He teases you, cockhead catching on the rim of your cunt until you moan, loud and uncaring who hears. Words are difficult to form, lost as you are in the haze. Only two remain in your addled mind: “Yes, sir.”

Twin hands grip to your hips, yanking you down in a rush. His cock slides home, splitting you open until he’s nestled to the hilt deep inside you. The stretch burns pleasantly, rocking a gasp from between bitten lips, his instruction to keep quiet immediately forgotten. Zayne’s answering moan is a balm to your ears, however, at the sweet glide of his thick cock into you. You feel full, nearly sated; the pressure and pleasure from it has your bones turn molten, lazing back on his lap. Knees spread obscenely over his thighs, head lolling to the side on his chest. Your breath ghosts over his neck, sweat lingering on both of you. 

His chest heaves with every breath, hand flattening over your abdomen. Wordless, he pushes down, hard enough that for a moment you wonder if he can feel himself buried within you. 

The pressure makes you writhe, cunt clenching around his cock like a vise. It feels like heaven, an ache so desperate you can practically taste it, lingering heavily on your tongue. He refuses to move, however; content to remain stock-still, simply basking in the enveloping warmth of your cunt as he listens to your moan. 

Zayne noses at your crown, mouth leaving a lingering kiss to your hair. You bring your still-bound hands to your chest, fingers twining uselessly together. You’re spread open over him, laying back into his warmth and feeding on his desire. The pressure builds in your core, hips shifting impatiently in an attempt to get him to move, an approximation of his name falling from your mouth.

You manage to keep yourself quiet -sort of- and still -decidedly not- for perhaps five minutes. Five torturous minutes of Zayne looking over his paperwork, a palm over your mound and fingertips just between your soaked folds. Touching your clit, frustratingly still; he doesn't move, doesn't bring you to the edge. Just holds you there, in a perpetual state of sweat-slicked desperation. Even with his cock buried deep inside your slick cunt still he doesnt move, refuses to fuck you in earnest. Simply sits, patient as a saint; smirks a bit, when he shifts his weight and lazily moves his hips upwards to spear himself impossibly deeper within your dripping heart and causing a litany of moans to fall from your open mouth. A plea of his name intermixed with your whining, Zayne sighs when he can feel the tension rise to higher tides.

“You never learn,” he says to you, not unkind. You can practically taste the fond exasperation as he presses another kiss to your heated skin. You can only groan, clenching around him in your own woeful attempt at a tease, head tilting until you can press your mouth to the sharp line of his jaw. 

“Then teach me, sir.” Your reply comes quick and bold, a declaration from your smiling mouth as you feel his abdomen tighten against the small of your back, his cock twitching. 

“Hopeless,” he whispers, all fondness and no bite. Zayne moves, reaching down before easing you to standing; you do so on legs that tremble, but his hands grip tight to your hips to steady you. He mirrors your movement, still inside you and if that doesn't make the knot in your gut tighten and curl. He stands at your back, hips pressed flush to yours, and moves a hand to your shoulder until he can press you down. 

The side of your face meets his desk, the wood cool and soothing on your flushed cheek. Zayne towers above you, keeping you steady and still. From this angle you can just barely see his face, see the light dusting of pink on his cheeks and the way his mouth is dropped open, a vision of hunger. His eyes are heavy-lidded, gazing fervently at you with naked desire. And then he smirks, the smallest curve of his lips, and you know you’re in danger. 

“Perhaps this can help you keep your mouth shut,” he muses, and it’s only then you see the hand at your shoulder move into your line of sight. Sitting pretty in his palm, damp and balled up, are your panties; he must've grabbed them before moving. Your face flushes anew, embarrassment making you clear your throat and close your eyes in an attempt to hide.

“Open,” Zayne says, voice hard as steel once more. Your breath catches in your throat, eyes shooting open to come face-to-face with the evidence of your arousal, the pulse in your cunt making you nearly feverish. You hesitate, just a breath; but Zayne sighs after a heartbeat, beginning to slide slowly out of your needy cunt.

A low whine jolts out of you, hips moving back to chase him. He stills, single brow arched, as he waits; swallowing thickly, your lips part, mouth opening obediently for him. Zayne breathes out a wavering good girl, and shoves the fabric between your teeth with little ceremony. The taste of your own cunt sits thick and heady on your tongue, musk filling your senses and making you moan quietly into the fabric.

Spit soaks the panties immediately, spilling between your lips. You can feel Zayne’s eyes on your face, watching rapt the way you struggle to find the balance between embarrassment and desire. Your face is on fire -

“Was that so difficult?” He teases with a gentle hand on the back of your neck, thumb rubbing soothingly at your hairline. You’re wise enough not to attempt speech, using naught but your eyes to stare up at him beseechingly. Tears still cling to your lashes, makeup streaked down your cheek.

“Beautiful,” Zayne whispers, fingers carding through your hair. Somehow, that makes you feel even more exposed; skirt pushed away, writhing on his cock, and it’s the fond affection burning deep in his eyes that makes you wish to hide. 

He finds his mercy, hands dropping to grip the swell of your hips. Your bound hands find purchase on the edge of his desk, a breath before he finally, finally begins to move. He rolls himself back leisurely before snapping forward to impale you on his length, the surge of sudden pleasure setting fire to your veins. His head drops and you can see the tensing of his jaw as he begins to fuck you in earnest, cock splitting you open until stars dance on the corners of your vision.

He fills you very nearly to perfection, cunt tightening around his shaft through the burn, chasing the high he brings you as Zayne rocks his hips forward and back. Rough, ruinous; you’re stretched and filled and you feel your spit slick down the curve of your cheek, soaking the desk even as delight dances across your nerves with each and every depraved noise he plucks from your lips. A keen, when he shifts the angle, thrusting hard into that rough patch of skin hidden within you. He throws his weight into it, bracing his hands on the edge of the desk to bow above you, hair falling into his eyes and teeth exposed in a snarl of your name, each time he feels you clench around him.

It’s torture but you know you’ll thank him for it; you cannot find your breath, cannot see or think past the delicious stretch, the rasp of his shirt against your bruised ass; the dance between pain and pleasure as he presses incessant against your sweet spot. Zayne slams himself forward, splitting you open; white-hot pleasure welling up from within every pump, every shift. He takes no quarter as he sets his pace, bruising and fast and refusing to abate as you writhe and arch and moan into your gag.

Stars dance behind your heavy lids as you weakly jerk your hips, meeting his every thrust as your pulse quickens. Your teeth bite down on the ruined fabric each time Zayne fills you, splayed open and cunt dripping from the utmost desperation. You clench hard around his shaft, summoning the energy to curve the corner of your mouth ever so slightly up into the smallest smirk when you catch sight of Zayne’s eyes darkening at the pressure. A facsimile of a grin, lips spread and spit-slicked as they are. He smirks in kind, visibly refined, but you can see the way he begins to come apart at the seams. It causes a bubble of laughter to swell within your breast, drunk on the power and the knowledge that only you can ruffle him to the point of sheer desperation. 

Your throat tightens as you choke and nearly gag on the panties, fire in your veins. Your expression crumples into something halfway feral, even as Zayne gradually slows his pace to a lazy roll of his hips. The muscles in your thighs tense in response, a sharp whine of protest as he eases off you. He gives a sharp exhale in answer, reaching to easily pull the panties from your mouth. 

You gasp and swallow the spit pooled in your mouth, grateful despite it all to catch your breath. He thrusts into you slowly, dropping your panties somewhere to the floor before running the back of his hand gently down the side of your face. His eyes seek an answer, a worried crease to his brow; but you’re soaked to the knees, denied for too long your release. 

“Please,” is all you can manage, a shudder roaming down your spine when Zayne groans. He moves to roll you to your back, pulling out for a beat. You whimper nonetheless at the loss of contact, you cunt painfully empty as he shifts you up the desk until you’re comfortable. He stands between your spread thighs, takes his place before you. Stares down at you with naked affection, thumb swiping over the mess you’ve made on your jaw. You can see the way it affects him, the sheer hunger weighing him down as he gazes upon you.

His thumb slips between your lips as he eases forward, cock sliding into your cunt easily. Your lips close around him instinctively, giving a firm suck. His answering moan makes his expression fall, his breath coming out in a broken gust. His jaw tenses and you can feel the fire before the burn, his hips snapping forward to impale you on his length.

Your back arches clear off the desk, something deeply erotic simmering the air as you stare directly into his hungry eyes. Your core tightens with every hardened inch sliding home, Zayne’s thrusts audible and obscene to your ears. It sets you alight from the inside out; warmth licking up your spine, teeth biting gently down over his thumb in a silent scream when you clench hard, Zayne’s thrusts turning shallow until the head of his cock pushes insistent, harsh, directly into your sweet spot. 

His movements are erratic, your muscles going limp as pathetic whines spill of their own volition. Zayne grits his teeth, doubling down through the haze; he pulls out his thumb but replaces it instantly with two fingers, pushing your tongue down until you threaten to choke. You suck on his fingers desperately, feeling him slam into you; you wonder, distantly, just how many marks you’ll bear from this. In between the smarting of your ass and the press of his loosened belt against your thighs, the sheer savagery of how Zayne stakes his claim. Your vision blurs as you wrap your tongue around his fingers, the tightening of your core threatening to snap.

His fingers drag out of your mouth, gripping tight to your flushed cheeks and forcing your face closer to his as he bends forward, not once slowing his bruising pace. “Let me hear you,” he growls, teeth clenched tight enough to crack. “You have a clever mouth every other time. Show me, sweet girl, just how bad you want me.”

His name is ripped from your throat instantly, halfway to a scream as he yanks you upwards until you’re sitting instead of laying back. Your bound hands grip tight to the front of his shirt, crumpling the fabric as you shake like a leaf in the wind and hang on for dear life. The effect is instant; the shift in angle proves both of your undoing. Zayne fucks upwards into you, a loud cry of your name breaking through his low groans. Sparks dancing on your skin, he wraps his long fingers around your throat and pins you with a look of severity, choking the breath from you.

Foolishly, the remaining air in your lungs expels sharply from a heated gasp. And Zayne is there to steal it; searing his mouth across yours, tongues gliding together as he devours you whole. You give in happily, greedily; giving all of yourself as he breathes life into you, fingertips digging sharp pinpricks into the sensitive skin of your neck. The desk creaks beneath you, the knot in your core ready to unfurl. 

His free hand slots between you, and the quick press of the pad of his thumb rolling over your swollen clit is enough to have you fall. Caught betwixt his mouth and his cock, your mouth opens in a scream that Zayne swallows down as you bend and arch, fire licking from his mouth all the way down to your toes. It burns, a delightful delectation that has your arousal spilling from where you join; but it’s enough to ruin you utterly. You crest the edge just as Zayne slams forward, burying himself as deep as your pliant body allows; you come with his name breathed from your mouth and into his, dancing on another scream. Too many sensations at too high a volume, your entire body jerks as wave after wave washes over you. It’s euphoric, ruinous; senses too on-edge as Zayne fucks you roughly through it.

He catches you when you fall; hand leaving your throat to grip tight to your hips. His mouth still on yours, sharing his breath and his rampant desire and everything of himself with you. He holds you steady as his thrusts turn sloppy and desperate, pulling you forward and burying himself right to the hilt. Trapped by him, you clench your aching cunt around him as he thrusts once, twice -

Zayne’s back and shoulders bow forward as he paints your insides with his spend, holding you tight enough to bruise. You tremble violently, feeling the searing heat of his claim so intimately deep within you, pulse pounding far too loud in your ears. Your body filled with aches and pains but still resplendent and radiant, utterly spent and taken. You bite down on your bottom lip as Zayne shudders through his peak, groaning into your mouth that this time, you might swallow his secrets. 

"Did you really think that you could kill me?!"

Malavai shook his head in a vain attempt to clear the ringing in his ears. The metal floor was cold beneath his palms as he tried to sit up, but his vision was spinning so rapidly that he wasn't even sure which way up was.

"Get up. Get up," Vesper snarled. The words around the bay and around Malavai's skull, banging against the dull ache building there. His head must have hit the floor; that was the only explanation for why he couldn't focus on the figure approaching him.

The room grew hot, hot enough that his eyes began to water as he looked out at the destruction. Flames licked the wrecked remains of battledroids, caressed the durasteel carcasses until they wept warped metal. He couldn't be sure if it was oil or blood beneath his palms that made his effort to stand slick. Limned by the halo of fire was Vesper, all ruin and wrath as he twisted through the wreckage with unnatural grace.

"I said get up!" Vesper shouted as he rushed forward in a sudden burst of speed. Malavai threw his hands up as if that would protect him. There was nothing between him and the man he had betrayed, and no hope of any rescue. There would be no vengeance if he died here. He could only think to himself how fitting that end would be before another blow to his face caused him to sprawl back again.

This is blood, he thought to himself as he tasted metal on his tongue. He felt it drip from his nose and his lip, but there was no time to ascertain how serious the injury was. He could still hear Vesper's footsteps rattle the floor.

Vesper laughed, but it was a wheezing, hollow sound, like air rushing over dry bones.

"I should kill you," he laughed. "I should kill you. I should tear you to pieces. I should make you an example."

Vesper's words bordered on madness, and yet Malavai felt himself flinch away from him all the same. All of that pure malevolence made it hard to breathe, and he reached up to make sure that there wasn't anything blocking his throat. He'd seen Sith Lords do more with less effort.

"Don't try to struggle." The sudden stillness in his tone made Quinn's blood run cold. "You'll only make it worse for yourself. Baras may have your loyalty, but I could will your heart to stop."

Dread. That was the only word for it. Dread that built relentlessly inside of him, blocked all of his senses until all that he could focus on was how still his pulse had become. Malavai looked up at him—was he pleading? He couldn't be sure—Vesper's face was twisted, some horrible visage that was both beautiful and terrible at once. There was no light in his eyes save that which the fire gave,

and then he could not breathe.

Hands, fingers, nails clawed at anything that might give release

ripped up his own clothes

his own skin

gasped for it

but Vesper did not relent, only twisted the knife—the Force—inside of him, made his blood boil

made it sing

until he was certain that he was going to die.

Until Vesper stopped, knelt over him as he panted for breath, and grabbed a fistful of Malavai's hair. He pulled back hard, and he limply fell back against the floor.

"Remember that," Vesper gasped above him, throat ragged and raw from the smoke. "You live only because I will it. Pray I do not change my mind, Malavai Quinn.

You’ve been feeling restless all day. Jongho had promised to come home early so you could spend some time together. Lately, he’s been so busy that he’s constantly at the office, only coming home to sleep for a few hours.

You try your best to be understanding, knowing how uptight and rigid his boss can be. You also can’t help but feel a little sad, perhaps a bit neglected. You know Jongho loves you, but you want the attention you so greatly long for.

You take another look at the clock and see that it’s almost midnight. You sigh and throw yourself backwards on the bed, stretching in a starfish pose. The longer you stare at the ceiling, the more worked up you become. Sleep completely escapes you and all you can think about is Jongho.

Jongho and his massive cock.

How it stretches you. It always feels as if he’s going to split you in half and you can’t even complain. You love it and you know you wouldn’t have it any other way. The thoughts of Jongho floating in your mind make your body prickle with heat. Your hand trails down to your tiny sleep shorts unconsciously, bunching the fabric in a way that drags against your clit. You let out a feeble cry, reveling in the long awaited touch.

You let out a soft curse as a single finger enters you. Your hips lift up to meet the stimulation and you try to chase your high. After a few moments of scissoring yourself open you add a second finger, groaning at the insufficient stretch. You need more. You need Jongho. You won’t get him for a while though so you settle on the next best thing.

You grab your phone off the nightstand and scroll through to a page that feels illegal. You know you shouldn’t, you should wait for Jongho to get home. But you’re so desperate, so eager for something extra to get you off. You file the guilt away and get comfortable once more.

You focus on the figures moving on your screen, trying your best to imagine it’s Jongho and you. Your breathing gets heavier by the minute and you feel like you’re about to explode. You move your fingers at a rapid pace and you feel so desperate to come that you can’t even think of anything else.

You can’t help but let out strained whines as you buck your hips. You feel a knot forming in your stomach and you’re eager to let go. You choke out a moan and come with a force so strong that it makes your vision blurry. You drop your phone on your stomach, the dirty video still playing. You throw your head back and exhale at the overwhelming yet euphoric feeling.

As you’re coming down from your high, you don’t notice Jongho slinking in through the door. He walks with quiet steps, observing your naked form. He watches your heaving chest and he can immediately feel the tightening of his pants. However, as ravishing as you look, he can’t have you acting out like this.

He takes note of the video on your phone, and clicks his tongue in disapproval. At the noise, your eyes fly open. You panic at the presence of Jongho and scramble to turn your phone off and to cover yourself as best you can.

“You really couldn’t wait for me princess? Just had to watch strangers fuck to feel something?” His face doesn’t betray his feelings. He stares at you with an intensity that makes you freeze. “Answer me.”

“I-I no, no Jongho, I just ha-had to…I’m sorry.” You avert your gaze and stare at the edge of the bed. “I know I should’ve waited for you.”

He grunts at that. “Damn right you should’ve.” He turns to the closet, losing his shirt as he goes. You follow his movements with a wide stare, not sure what to anticipate. He neatly hangs his crisp polo shirt, ensuring no wrinkles will appear. Your breath hitches once he turns around.

You gape at his well built chest. You see it every day, but it still takes you by surprise every time. You so badly want to run your hands across his torso, but choose to stay still.

“On the floor princess.” He patiently stands there as you scramble off the bed, obeying him straight away. You tuck your knees under you and lean against the side of the bed. You gulp dramatically as you look up at Jongho towering over you. He looks down at you as if you’re a mere speck of dust, so tiny and insignificant.

After one approving nod at you, he undoes his belt. The clanking of the metal sends a jolt through you, making your heart beat rapidly. He takes his time, maintaining the concentrated eye contact. You feel your mouth go dry, and you excite yourself at the idea of him finally in your mouth.

Once his belt is off he crouches down to be on your level. “Now princess, I’m gonna have to be a little mean.” He doesn’t look at you as he wraps the leather around your wrists. “I didn’t want to be mean, but you’re not leaving me with many options.”

He tugs at the makeshift cuffs, ensuring that it’s not too tight. “I need you to be good for me alright?”

You give a simple nod which seems to please him. After checking the tightness of your restraint, he stands up with a grunt. He’s wearing a passive expression, as if he’s unaffected by everything that’s happening. And maybe he is. You never quite know what to expect from Jongho.

He reaches into his trousers, pulling out his aching hard cock. You can already feel your mouth watering at the sight. Staring at the engorged tip, you’re overcome with the desire to take him into your mouth right away. However, you resist, even though it feels like torture.

He doesn’t take off his bottoms, only sliding it down a few inches to give him enough space to move. You can’t help but feel immensely aroused by the scene unfolding before you. Jongho, his chest exposed to the warm lighting. Jongho, with his beautiful and tempting cock right in your face.

“One rule baby, eyes on me only,” he says in a calm manner. “Don’t look away.”

You feel your throat constrict from your pulse speeding up, and all you can manage is a weak nod. He rolls his eyes at your lack of words.

“That’s fine, you don’t have to talk. One less slutty hole to take care of.”

Jongho slides a careful hand down his length, resulting in a light hiss from him. It seems as if he’s been worked up for a while, needing to take the edge off. You can sympathize with that, however your current position is allowing you no thoughts other than the creamy precum dripping off him.

You remember his words, and shift your eyes to meet his own. Jongho looks at you with a deep hunger, simmering within his belly. He bites his lip as he goes faster, his hand now making loud squelching noises as he gets closer to his release. You so badly want to look down, but his serious gaze makes you think twice.

“It’s hard to control yourself right?” He says breathlessly. “Well you’ll have to learn how to darling.”

In a moment of stupid bravery, you ask a question. “Can I please touch myself?”

He grabs ahold of your jaw with a tight grip, making your cheeks squish together in a way that he would find cute in any other scenario.

“Have you learned nothing?” He hisses out.

You should’ve known better.

You keep your silence and continue to hold the eye contact after your rejection. He pumps himself steadily, only letting out soft grunts for your ears to hear. Your head feels light, like you’re floating in the clouds. Your vision goes hazy the longer you take in what’s happening right before you.

“Please J-Jongho.” A timid voice escapes you.

“Please what princess? Do you think you deserve anything right now?” His strict tone makes you whimper, going deeper into that foggy state of mind.

After a couple more purposeful strokes Jongho comes undone. He paints your face with his release, spurts of white landing all over your cheeks. Some drop onto your lower lip and you’re eager to dart your tongue out to taste him. You feel filthy, and yet you still want more.

“Get up.” Jongho orders.

You scramble to get to your feet, aching for stimulation. You hope that Jongho will go easier on you now that he’s had a release, but you know that’s only wishful thinking. You settle against the headboard, hands still tied together in front of you. You’re itching to hold on to any part of Jongho, needing to feel his skin on yours.

“Spread your legs baby.” He instructs.

You spread your legs within a quick second which earns you an amused smirk from Jongho.

“How did I get so lucky with such a desperate slut?” He asks, however not expecting an answer.

As Jongho climbs on the bed, you can feel your heart racing. You try to control your breathing as if that will make any difference in hiding your want. The apparent wet mess that is your pussy is truly a sight to behold.

Jongho’s gaze is locked in. He stares at your center like he’s a predator, and you feel a shiver go through you. You can’t help but let out a slight whine.

“Shh baby, I’ll take care of you.” Jongho says sweetly, but you know better than to let yourself be fooled.

In a split second he’s on you. His face is buried in your cunt, making you yelp in surprise. His tongue darts out in swift movements, breaching your hole slightly.

The feel of his mouth on you makes you feel as if you’re floating. You can’t help but whimper, feeling overwhelmed in the best way possible.

“J-Jongho oh my god nngh please fuck.”

You just ramble without a single coherent thought in your brain. That’s what Jongho tends to do to you. He pushes you into that headspace where everything is fuzzy and pleasurable.

“Good girl, taking it so good.” His raspy voice vibrates against you and you mewl at that. He attaches his plump lips to your clit, sending shockwaves through you. You wish you could tangle your hand in his hair, holding him impossibly closer to you.

“Fuck Jongho! Baby I,” you can’t even finish a complete sentence. The only thing you can do is lay there and take it.

His tongue moves around in ways that shouldn’t be humanly possible, but then again, Jongho doesn’t even seem human sometimes. He hums in pleasure, lost in the feel of your plush pussy.

Your hips buck up against him, sending a clear message of needing more. He suckles on your sensitive bud with a renewed fervor, and even adds in a single finger to your hole. You moan unabashedly, not caring for much anymore.

“Almost t-there…” You let Jongho know.

As the bubble feels ready to burst, it goes away in a flash.

You let out a sob you weren’t aware of holding in. Jongho comes up for air with a look of smug satisfaction, staring you down with a challenge in his eyes.

“Sorry princess.” He says with zero remorse.

You open your mouth to say something bitchy but Jongho silences you immediately.

His mouth is back on you, this time with the addition of three fingers inside. His fingers feel so thick and perfect, filling you up snug. He works his tongue even faster, going in rapid and frequent circles. You’re sure the sheets are ruined by now, but you choose to ignore it.

“Taste so good princess, I might just pass out in your pussy.” His lewd words make your face heat up in embarrassment. You tilt your head up to the ceiling, blinking rapidly as if holding tears back.

Jongho slips his hand under your hips, moving you even closer to him. The movement causes you to gasp and uselessly flop your bound wrists around.

He speeds up his fingers, adding a squelching sound. All you can hear are the wet sounds of your sopping cunt and your loud panting.

As soon as your stomach tightens up once more, Jongho takes it all away. This time your tears actually fall. He takes a second to coo at your red, upset face. He cups your cheek tenderly, wiping away the hot tear streaking down.

“I know, I know. You’re doing so well baby, I’m so proud of you.” He takes another second to just look at you. “You can come this time.”

He goes down on you a third time, this time with an addition of a promise. You try to relax, knowing you’ll be able to come finally.

“God I love this pussy. All mine to take.” He all but growls, making you moan loudly.

“I love- to make you happy, just ah fuck just make me come please.” You squint your eyes shut, everything feeling so overstimulating.

You dig your nails into your palms, leaving red prints behind. Jongho is moving his whole wrist so quickly that it jostles you from your position. You feel your whole body moving along with his movements, creating a chorus of whines and whimpers.

You clench around him, making him groan in bliss. He uses his thumb to circle around your bud rapidly, making the coil tighten in your belly. Whenever you feel ready to explode, your release is granted.

You come with an almost scream, a feral sound you couldn’t describe even if you tried. As you come down from your high Jongho caresses your legs.

“Good job, there you go. Did so well for me.” His voice soothes you, sending a tingle down your spine.

As you open up your mouth to speak you wince slightly. Your lips are so chapped that it’s almost painful. You somehow croak out words.

“Lips. Dry.”

Jongho gives you a sympathetic pout and starts to move. You think he’s about to go get water but then you feel an intrusion into your very sensitive core. You tense up as he moves his fingers around. He makes a scooping motion and takes them out carefully.

Before you can resist he’s already put your own cum on your lips, smearing it around like lip balm.

“There, is that better?”

You stare at him incredulously, wondering which realm of hell he appeared from. You smack your lips together, tasting yourself.