Garden of Eden

Easter bakesales; the heart of any good God-fearing suburban family. Only they can get you to feel too guilty to say no to their blue-eyed, blonde-haired cookie cutter children trying to sell you Betty Crocker instant brownies made half-assed by trophy stay-at-home wine moms.

You never bothered attending in previous years. You were always the volunteer (read: coerced) kitchen slave working behind the scenes, pumping out ridiculous amounts of chocolate toffee cookies and lemon lavender blondies– something most everyone insisted was far too much of an acquired taste to do well at a church bake sale, but always seemed to sell out first three consecutive years in a row. Eat it, Susan.

This would be your first year actually showing up to the function; Father Wolfwood having managed to convince you quite thoroughly when he had you folded under him begging for more a couple weeks prior. You couldn't find yourself staying mad about it, even if you did initially give him a huff and the cold shoulder over the fact he took advantage of your... somewhat submissive nature in such a vulnerable position. But to be honest; you probably would have done it even if he'd asked you without incentive. Which, in itself, was a bit of a head scratcher for you– after all, why would you willingly surround yourself with the people you so vehemently loathed on the average Sunday? Why would you want to see them both of your free weekend days?

Regardless of how or why, it brought you here; rubbing the sleep out of your eyes as you yawned away the last vestiges of blissful unawake, slouched over in a creaky old dining chair. Waking up at six in the morning wasn't new to you working full-time, but somehow it was so much harder on weekends when you knew you could still be curled up under the blankets warmed by another body.

Taking a deep breath, you eased yourself to sit up properly, tired eyes looking across the wooden table and locking onto your beloved priest as he flipped through some papers attached to a clip board– no doubt the preparations list for set-up and who was bringing what and when.

In his tired state, softer around the edges, you always found yourself taking an extra long moment to soak in the strange sense of domesticity that settled around you like rays of golden sun peaking through parts in tree leaves and branches. The lazy grin he would give you upon seeing your usually much more disheveled morning state first thing, the soft kiss he would place to your temple without fail on his way to the coffee maker, paired with the gentle warm of a hand on your hip.

Small things like that made your heart squeeze whenever you managed to experience it. It wasn't often you could stay over with him, but after being there a day or two a week over the course of several months you'd managed to get a good idea of the routine.

"Oh, Jesús, a través del Inmaculado Corazón de María, te ofrezco mis oraciones, trabajo, alegrías, sufrimientos de este día, en unión al Santo Sacrificio de la Misa para el mundo–"

It was the longest standing relationship you've had– let alone the longest standing healthy relationship– and you often found yourself staring at him with perplexed intrigue when things were quiet and intimate between you, when you would simply exist in the same space together. More than a few times had he met your gaze mid contemplation, always tipping his head quizzically at your furrowed brows and pouted lower lip.

And yes, you found yourself even more befuddled by it in moments like these, sat at his shitty little two-seat dining table in the lofted living space of a church, clad in only your boxers and an oversized t-shirt that certainly wasn't your own. Befuddled by exactly what you found so endearing, what made this feel like two pieces of a puzzle locking together as Wolfwood murmured his morning prayers with his forehead in his hand, elbow propped up on the table.

The longest standing healthy relationship you've had also happened to be one kept secret from friends and family– and the entire general public, really. Sensibly. It was something that made you think every now and then, but you knew better than to look a gift in the mouth like that. Maybe not having other people constantly sticking their noses in your business allowed for a healthier personal dynamic, allowed you to look inwards for more introspection instead of having every other person giving you their shit opinion and clouding your judgement. Not like you were ever one to listen to advice you were given by your peers anyways.

"Hey, space cadet," His gruff morning voice catches your ears, not realizing you had temporarily gapped out in place observing the surprising softness that was Wolfwood. You blinked in return, shaking your head and inhaling deep.

"Sorry, still waking up. What did you say?"

"You okay to start setting up the tables outside while I get ready?" He asked, most likely a little slower this time.

Again, you were met with the glaringly obvious truth that despite you not being a motivated person, nor necessarily inclined to help out with anything that had to do with churches that contributed to your lifelong religious trauma; you would do anything for Wolfwood. You didn't even give it a second thought before shrugging, nodding your head while gazing at the disgustingly dark liquid in the mug before you. Wolfwood always said I don't have creamer, you don't need creamer, and you always tried to argue that you don't hate yourself quite enough to drink black coffee on a regular basis. He'd just laugh.

As if sensing the disdain simmering just under the surface, you heard Wolfwood snort, immediately followed by him standing from place and pacing over to the ancient fridge. You quirked a brow, watching him reach down to the lower section of the door, before stepping back over to the table.

The vanilla sweetened creamer thunked down in front of you normally wouldn't be such a big deal, not if you hadn't known the only reason he had it was for you specifically. That blanket of domesticity washed over you once again, heart squeezing and chest feeling tight. It wasn't like you to settle into something so comfortable and be fine with it, not run from the possibility of something steady or stable.

Perhaps that's why he didn't say anything or expect anything, simply sitting back down in his seat with one leg crossed over the other, arm slung over the back of the chair as he continued reading through his list.

"Y'know, the toffee one is better," You murmured teasingly as you cracked the seal and poured a generous amount into your mug. He only scoffed, a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips.

The longest standing, healthiest, most comfortable relationship you've had... and it was with your local small town priest. If God was real, at least he had a sense of humor.

Everything went by much quicker once you'd managed to wake yourself up– blissfully sweetened coffee being a large contributor– so you found yourself slightly less grumpy as you pulled out plastic tables and chairs from the storage room and walked them all the way around the side of the building to set up near the gazebo.

Rolling your sleeves up to your elbows, you turn your wrist to check the time, noting the influx of newest edition mom vans pulling into the gravel church parking lot. Most likely the keener I'm better than you families– grandmas definitely not excluded. The anxiety began to rise in your chest as you glanced towards the church, no sign of Wolfwood in sight.

Setting up the chairs and tables for the bake sale, you didn't mind doing. Having to be the personal greeter, you did mind, since you knew from the bottom of your heart you'd get some kind of out of pocket, backhanded comments from the more... devout personalities.

Deciding to choose your battles this early in the morning wasn't exactly on your agenda, but it's not like you had a choice as a couple of old women your mother surrounded herself with walked up the concrete stairs, immediately greeting you with quizzical looks. You force a tight smile, give a slight wave as you pull the metal legs out on a table and set it down to stand.

"What are you doing here? Where's Father Wolfwood?"

"I'm doing good this morning, thanks for asking, Deborah," You reply, setting up a few chairs behind the table before evening the vinyl tablecloth over the top. It was tacky; a white base covered in peaches with verdant leaves behind them.

Upon glancing up, you could see your snide reply went completely over their heads, only receiving the blank lead-poisoning stare as they awaited expectantly for you to answer their initial questions. With a sigh, you straightened your back, hearing the adjoining cracks in return.

"He's just getting things ready inside, should be out in a bit," You decidedly answer only one of the two questions, considering the other would be much more incriminating and you weren't ready to deal with that amicably.

They nodded, pleased with the answer, before chatting amongst themselves and setting their containers of baked goods down on the tables you had already set up.

At some point the sun started to rise up a little too high, beat down a little too warm, and the growing crowd of nosey church-goers was doing nothing but grating your nerves down to the bone. Arguments of where things would look better, demanding more chairs to be set up, and of course since you were the designated helper assigned by the beloved priest himself, you were to comply with any requests or suggestions. It certainly didn't help when your mother showed up either, commenting on how you could have worn a more formal shirt, or that you were scuffing up your good Sunday shoes. It was ironic, considering you were finally here after years of her harrassing you to attend. You couldn't ever please the woman.

With clenched teeth, you pinch bridge of your nose between your thumb and forefinger, heaving out a slow, even breath as another shrill voice joins the choir of opinions on what they think would be best, only to inevitably result in bickering and disagreements.

"Hey, looks good out here!" A voice you can only recognize as salvation calls out, and your eyes shoot open at the sliver of reprive Wolfwood's presence might give you–

But once your eyes catch the shirt he's wearing, you instantly run a blank.

It's ugly. Hideous, even; the pattern matching the tacky table cloths– a short sleeved button up no doubt meant to be a direct affront on any decent Hawaiian patterned shirt. Too many questions ran through your mind, wondering what in God's name possessed him to wear something so undeniably atrocious in the general public when he could have– no, should have– just worn a black shirt. As any priest should, one would assume.

Then again, Wolfwood wasn't ever one to fit in the mold.

It takes him a bit to make his way over to you, doing his due diligence of addressing the people that came more specifically to win brownie (ha) points with him than to assist in the actual bakesale in a helpful manner.

"Thanks for holdin' down the fort," He says to you, hand coming down to tug at one side of the table cloth you had just laid out to even the coverage.

"These table cloths are hideous. That shirt is hideous."

"Deborah said I look charming."

"Deborah is a fucking liar," You scoff in return, though can't help the amused smirk daring to curl at the corners of your lips as you take in the shirt more closely. It's unbuttoned maybe a bit too low to not be considered scandalous. Even your eyes managed to wander for a moment too long, taking in the barely visible curve of muscle underneath the loose fitting shirt, though it did hug his biceps nicely. "And she's been trying to hop on your dick for months now."

"Ohh, has she?" Wolfwood inquired, eyes wide and brows raised as if he was genuinely surprised by your statement, as if he genuinely hadn't been privy to the many subtle arm touches and playful invitations to join her for a private dinner.

You were going to laugh at his obliviousness, going to mock him, but before you could he was leaning in just a little bit closer, words whispered. "Care for a threesome?"

Asshole. Your nose scrunched, and that shit-eating, mocking grin on his face told you he wasn't as clueless as you had been made to believe.

Lifting an arm, your fingers curl inwards, holding back your usual playful slaps that were reserved for when it was just the two of you. If you'd had just a shred less self awareness you would have ended up throttling him directly in the shoulder, but both you and him knew you were pinned in a position where you were simply left to flounder, cheeks warm and brows furrowed.

"Fuck off, freak," You mutter to him, rolling your eyes and refocusing your attention on setting up clear plastic display cases for the baked goods.His laugh was boisterous, a sound that never failed to make your stomach twist in knots even now months later. The fact he had no fear in expressing how much he enjoyed your presence even to the public was always surprising, and it was something you wish you had the luxury of being able to return.

You didn't miss the subtle lean in, the bump of his shoulder against yours, before he was off to join with the masses in discussion of how everything would be set up, leaving you to your dirty work and heavy lifting.

Not too long after, everyone managed to get settled. You would have been a little more pissed off about the constant back and forth and carrying chairs from the church storage closet to outside when more and more people started showing up, but every time your frustration would bubble up and make your throat tight, you would catch eye of Wolfwood in that fucking disgusting shirt, and it would quickly fizzle away to be replaced with something else. Perhaps fondness wasn't quite the right word, because you're certain fondness wouldn't result in a grimace or a scrunched nose, but maybe something close to that.

Also, you couldn't deny that, as horrible as it was, you wanted nothing more than to tear it off of him. There was at least six hours left to this goddamn bake sale, so you quickly tucked that thought into the back of your mind.

Several hours passed, and since you were such a doting... church-goer, you had also taken the liberty of manning the cash box with your beloved priest. It's not that you would ever mind sitting next to Wolfwood for several hours on end, it was more the fact you were irate, and it was hot, and even though you were fanning yourself with your clipboard it didn't do a damn thing to protect you from the sun beating down directly on your pretty little head.

You were rocked back in your chair, head tossed back behind the back-rest, idly fanning yourself with the otherwise pointless clipboard. Most of the other patrons had taken refuge in the gazebo, seeming content to be shielded from the unforgiving April sun. The thought popped in your mind that nothing was stopping you from joining, but you'd far rather burn the shit out of your face and forearms sitting next to Wolfwood than sit in comfort with a gaggle of passive-aggressive church women.

Peeking an eye open, you peer up at Wolfwood through the corner of your eye only to find he was looking back at you with a self satisfied smirk. You'd like to say you've grown accustomed to his frequent stares and glances, but the attention still made you flush.

"Have I told you how gross that shirt is?" You grumble, trying to get the attention off of your quickly warming face.

"About six times today, yeah," Wolfwood mused in return.

"It makes you looks like a fishing dad."

"Guess I'm in luck, considering your type is older."

You clam up, jaw clenched tight at the observation. He wasn't wrong. He most certainly wasn't wrong. That didn't mean he needed to point it out so shamelessly.

Another scoff, and another muttered comment about ugly fucking shirt had him sitting upright in his chair, reaching for the cash box and idly counting the bills you have collected thus far.

"If you hate it so much, why don't you take it off me?"

Oh, now wasn't that a tempting offer. Surely Wolfwood had little to no idea that your sanity was holding on by a thread anyways, and his comment did nothing but egg you on further. All you did was hum, close your eyes, furrowed brows and tight-lipped scowl adorning your face as you continued to fan yourself.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it) for you, your religious companion didn't have the luxury of a clipboard to fan himself. He seemed to be bearing the heat just fine, comparatively, though you did make note of the way he sighed, the free hand that reached up to pop another button on his shirt, the droplet of sweat dripping down his temple.

Jesus fucking Christ, for being a priest he certainly was sin incarnate.

"Put those away before Deborah sees," You grumble, eyes locked onto the peek of sculpted muscle and smattering of tasteful chest hair.

Wolfwood barked a laugh, placing stacked bills back in the cash box and flicking the lock closed. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a pack of smokes. Unbecoming of a priest, but it wasn't exactly a sin. "Why, are you worried she's going to steal me? Whisk me away in her two-thousand 'n eight Grand Caravan?"

Maybe it was the heat, or maybe it was because you used up a perfectly good Saturday to sit in said broiling heat just because you were head over heels for your local priest, but you didn't respond in your usual snarky tone. Your tone was even, sharp, no-nonsense and matter-of-fact as you spoke, "No. I don't want people getting an eyeful of what's mine."

Wolfwood choked on his inhale, coughing a few times on a pull that was a little too sharp, the statement catching him by surprise. Your gazes lock, and you can see the bewildered expression, the disbelief brimming behind wide eyes.

There had never been a discussion whether or not the two of you were exclusive, never a discussion on exactly what the two of you were doing. It never seemed like the right time, and the answer was more complicated than both of you cared to explore. There had been simple passive implications, each of you going out of your way to show you care in the small ways you could. This was neither simple nor passive, it was a statement.

Never once had he looked like a deer in the headlights, not in the time you've known him, and it only fuelled your disgruntled desire further.

He huffed an amused exhale, shaking his head and smirking after he got his bearings. "Maybe you should go sit under the gazebo, I think this heat is gettin' to you." A dismissive statement that didn't go unnoticed by you, considering you yourself were the master of dismissing his playful remarks and harmless teasing.

You didn't take his advice, staying right where you were despite your growing agitation the longer the day went on. The crowd began to disperse, thankfully deciding that they should help after sitting around all day being the textbook definition of useless.

Every emotion swirling inside of you came to a header as you were folding up the tables and chairs, preparing to lug them back inside to the storage closet so you can go home and take a long cold shower. A few of the chair clips didn't click, a table leg got stuck in the grass, and an insurmountable heap of other tiny inconveniences had you huffing in poorly concealed anger as you leaned over a table, fingertips ghosting over the clip on the other side but unable to reach it. A growl of frustration passed your throat, but before you could yell an obscenity, a body that was far too warm pressed in close behind you, reaching a longer tanned arm out and flicking the plastic latch for you.

"There ya go, short stuff."

Normally, you'd be muttering a quiet thanks, accepting the condescending help with relieved frustration– but you felt the sweat dripping down your back stick to your shirt when he came in close, could feel the heat of Wolfwood's damn near bare chest pressing into your back making it more unbearably hot, and the press of his pelvis into your hip had your mind finally breaking.

When he backed off, you were quick to stand, and judging by the reaction on the priest's face you were probably scowling up a storm. "Help me bring this shit to the storage closet. Now."

The demand was clipped, fingers tugging at the metal supports of a few chairs leaned up against the outer wall of the church and storming off towards the front entrance. You didn't hear Wolfwood following behind, but you were sure he was aware enough of your foul mood to follow through with what was requested of him.

Using a little more force than necessary, you pushed the front door open with your shoulder, stomped your way over to the storage closet, and dumped the handful of chairs onto the hardwood floor with a lack of grace. It was significantly cooler in here, at least, and you hadn't bothered turning the lights on in your rush.

The door opened up behind you, light peeking in before fading away again when it closed. "Hey, are you– where's the damn light switch," Wolfwood sighed, leaning the table he was carrying up against the door to the storage room in favor of palming at the wall, searching for the light.

The sound of Wolfwood's voice added to your irritation, his half voiced question, the fact that he's run this church for over a year and he didn't know where the fucking storage room light switch was–

You didn't think before you turned on your heel, reaching out to grab a fistful of the priest's shirt and giving him a tug. He audibly protested for the briefest of moments before you were pushing your lips up into his with bruising force. He took a half step back, but your grip on his shirt only wound tighter, tugging him back.

It didn't take him long to hum, for a hand to find your waist, for a slow, deliberate pressure pressed in on his end. The way he kissed was surprisingly sweet, tender, and that frustration that had been simmering in the pit of your gut all day finally boiled over. You didn't want sweet, you didn't want tender.

With a low growl of disapproval, you pushed forwards, foregoing any sweetness in favor of parting to clamp your teeth down on the exposed skin of his collarbone in a manner just shy of aggressive. Certainly, you weren't strong nor imposing enough to be able to walk the priest backwards as easily as you did, especially since he had an aversion to not being in control at any given time of intimacy. He was giving you this, allowing you to walk him back into the wall, which was significantly closer than either of you had initially thought. A winded noise came from the depths of his chest when broad shoulders collided with poorly insulated drywall, the resounding thump falling on deaf ears as Wolfwood reeled, elbow hitting the lightswitch.

"Ah– there it is," He breathed, umber brown eyes flitting down to meet your sharp gaze, to watch as your deft fingers impatiently tugged at whatever remaining buttons were still holding his ugly ass slutty fucking shirt together.

"Shit, Jesus," Wolfwood grunted, brows furrowed as he cupped your hands in his own, trying and failing to halt you in your tracks long enough for him to ask exactly what had gotten into you.

Truthfully, you didn't think you could give him a reasonable and coherent answer. Remnants of your epiphany from earlier that morning rang bells in the back of your mind, you were agitated by the heat, by the amount of bullshit and idiots you had dealt with today, and if you had to spend one more second looking at this stupid peach patterned shirt instead of tanned broad muscle you were going to have an aneurysm.

He seemed to get the idea that there was no stopping you as you persisted, slipping your hands out of his grip just to move back and continue working. For some reason, his teasing was more irritating, less endearing than it usually was.

"Y'know I was just teasin' you earlier about takin' this off of–"

"Please shut up."

Your brusque tone caught him off guard, you could tell, but you really couldn't find it in yourself to care when you already felt your erection straining against the tight of your slacks.

But, much as you should have expected, Wolfwood was quick to catch your wrists in a tight grip when you got to the final button, when the shirt fell open to reveal warm tanned skin and the dark trail of hair disappearing into his pants. It didn't matter how many times you got a look at him, you still felt tight in the chest, stomach still twisting in response. With your wrists bound, you couldn't do much past pushing up onto the balls of your feet, creasing your Sunday shoes to crush your lips against his again.

This time, it was more teeth and tongue than lips, and Wolfwood didn't seem to hesitate to give as good as he got. He gave you that, at the very least.

"What's the deal," Wolfwood muttered when he pulled back just out of reach, despite how much you tried to chase him. "Yer bein' a needy brat."

A knee pushed forwards, pressing between your legs and nudging up against your growing problem as if to emphasize his question, further prove his observation. The way you exhaled quick, the way you twitched and leaned forwards seemed to be enough to get you off the hook for now.

"Shit, angel– you're already hard?" His question was rhetorical, meant to mock. You knew this, but even the slightest bit of attention to your growing problem was enough to get you to fold.

Up until now, Wolfwood was never one to shy away from giving you what you needed; certainly not when you were the one to initiate– a rarity in itself. You only ever jumped him once when you were miserable and confused and drunk off your ass. So when you weren't met with the usual urgent touches, fingers digging into your pelvic bone as they shucked down your pants, you were confused. Frustrated. Agitated.

You knew better than anyone that Wolfwood was surprisingly perceptive, so the fact he was standing above you with an awfully smug smirk instead of doing anything set you off completely anew. You scowled up at him, pulled away and scoffed, before grabbing at a chair you had thrown on the floor. Unfolding it, you tossed it back to the floor, the legs rattling as it landed rightside up.

"If you're gonna be fucking useless at least take a seat to make it easier on me," You snapped. His smug expression didn't once falter, and he didn't once move. Asshole.

Lithe fingers reached out, curled around the buckle of his belt, and tugged with a little more force than necessary. Of course, you were of the understanding that Wolfwood wasn't exactly small, so either he stumbled forwards to mock you, or you genuinely caught him by surprise. Your hands dug into the relaxed muscle of his shoulders, pushing down, forcing him to sit on the chair you had so graciously set up for him.

"What's got you so–"

"I said please shut up," You cut in, taking your respective seat directly in his lap, close enough that your clothed erection was brushing up against his stomach and making you jolt.

You lean in, kisses messy and desperate, the stark contrast of your touch making him hum. One hand cupped the side of his neck, thumb brushing over the scratch of stubble on the cut of his jaw, gentle and reverent. The other was fisted in the back of his hair, angling his head back and making him groan into your greedy mouth.

He seemed to get the idea, though continued to do nothing to help. It appeared that was a common theme for him today, let you do all the work while he fucks around. What a piss-off.

With a low, frustrated growl, you inch back on his lap, hands abandoning their respectful positions to work at the buckle of his belt. His own shifted up, loosely landing on the dip of your waist, forearms resting heavy and warm on your thighs. A huffed exhale was breathed through your nose, tongue pushing into his mouth as you struggle for a moment too long. Finally getting it undone, you make an airy noise of satisfaction at feeling his hips raise. At least he wasn't being completely useless.

It took some effort, toes touching the ground and thighs burning as you held yourself up far enough to tug his pants and underwear down just far enough to free his half-hard cock. You sat yourself back in your respective seat, peeling away from the kiss to pull at your own pants. The kiss left you hazy, lips glossy with shared spit, barely parted as you tug at your own belt, undoing your pants and pulling your painfully hard erection free from its confines. You heave a sigh of relief, leaning into him for a moment of respite, a few long seconds of appeasement that helped your boiling anger bubble down to a slow simmer again.

A deep breath in, a shaky exhale out, your hand moved to encircle Wolfwood's cock, fist moving with gentle patience you hadn't harbored five minutes ago. He rewarded the good behavior, a hand leaving your hip to hook a finger under your chin, tip you down, lean his neck forwards and kiss you in the way he knew you loved. It was so easy for him to work you up, so easy for him to lay you open and bare, the way his mouth moved and his tongue curled against yours.

But it just wasn't enough.

Your hand moved quicker, squeezed a little tighter, and once he was hard enough to stand at attention you were scooting up his lap, whining an airy little noise into his open mouth when your hand clasped around the both of you. The simmer in your gut began to bubble again, the warmth of him pressing into you, how slowly he was working you open. You needed more.

"Fuck sake," You grumble when he parts from you to lay a couple slow kisses at the corner of your mouth, trailing to your jaw. Your attitude doesn't seem to go missed, his teeth gently catching on the skin making you suck a breath between your teeth. "Can't you go any faster?"

"You seem to be doin' fine on your own."

Motherfucker.

The sneer, the slight curl at the corner of his lips, his words all set you off again. Your jaw clenched so tight you could hear your molars grind, fingers squeezing tighter around the both of you.

"Fucking ridiculous," You end up huffing out, the anger in your gut churning and melting into arousal, cock twitching as you stood from your place. "I've been doing fucking everything today."

Dropping to your knees, palms laid flat on Wolfwood's inner thighs, you push them apart as you lean in. He raised a brow in intrigue, but was quick to gasp and lurch forwards when pretty pink lips wrapped around him and swallowed him down to the hilt in one single motion.

"Shit! " He choked, hands finding your hair as your throat clenched around him, nose buried in the thick wiry hair sat at the base. Your eyes watered, brows furrowed, and you felt yourself gag once, twice, before pulling off with a gasp.

A strand of spit kept you connected to his cock before dropping to the empty space between you, your lips just as glossy as his length with your gathered saliva.

"I set up your fucking tables for you–" You stand from your place, thumbs hooking in the waistline of your pants and boxers, pushing them to the floor after kicking off your shoes.

"– I sit in eighty degree weather for hours for you–" You clamber back to his lap, fingers encircling the base of his length as you line him up, spit slick tip prodding your tight ring of muscle.

"– I deal with passive-aggressive old women I hate all day for you–" Slowly, you begin to sink down; all the anger and frustration bubbling over and churning with arousal, creating a heady mixture that fogged your head and spread heat through your gut and chest.

"– and now you won't even put in even the slightest bit of minimal effort into fucking helping me here," You sigh out, sinking down to a sit in his lap, sheathing his cock completely in your tight warmth.

Tanned fingers dig into your thighs, cupping just below the swell of your ass as you lift yourself, then sink, then repeat, setting a pace that certainly got your point across. Your own fingers curl into the meat of his shoulders, dull nails sinking into the skin and carving crescent moons in your wake.

"It's too fucking hot out, and your ugly fucking shirt–"

Protests began to die on your tongue the faster you moved, the more your thighs burned, eyes sliding shut as your back arched and your body tensed and shook. It was good, the push, the pull, the fullness helping stoke the fire growing and growing. A part of you had expected the weight of his cock to tamp the fire down, quell the heat, but it only seemed to push you further towards the edge without actually giving you any relief.

Frustrated tears pricked at your eyes the longer you went and the faster you moved, muscles tensing and shaking as you struggled to keep the pace. Every time you felt yourself building up, closing in on the edge, your legs would give out, unintentionally edging yourself to absolute insanity. A pathetic little whimper fell from your lips, indignation and petulance pushing you nearly to tears.

Finally, you gave up, lips parted as you panted softly, breaths shuddered against warm tan skin. Your forehead fell to the space between his shoulder and neck, willing back the distressed sniffle as you sat in the deafening silence of the storage room.

A warm hand shifted up, palming up your thigh, hip, settling low and comforting on the small of your back under your partially unbuttoned shirt.

"Done with your tantrum, brat?" Wolfwood inquired, voice condescending, mocking, a stark contrast to his tender touch. You scoff, but don't have the energy do much else.

"Isn't a fucking tantrum."

"Right, 'n I'm Mother Mary."

You hated whenever he said that, but you couldn't find it in yourself to even be mad anymore. Just frustrated, just distressed, helpless and hopeless with Wolfwood buried balls deep inside of you.

"... yeah, 'm done," You eventually mutter, voice wobbly as you held back tears.

Strong fingers encircled your waist, lifting you a few inches before dropping you back down, testing the waters. You gasp, hands dig into his shoulders, and he does it again, then again. You're complacent, trembling in his grasp, breathless and desperate and needy.

All he gave you was a low hum, broad hands cupping underneath your upper thighs as he began to stand. "Good," Wolfwood said low, walking you over to the nearest surface– a stack of totes filled with craft supplies and miscellaneous fabrics. He set you down on top of them, hands pushing your thighs up, knees into your chest, hips bucking forwards.

"Looks like someone needs a fuckin' attitude adjustment," He mused, not missing the glassy haze in your eyes when he gave a few short thrusts, teasing you with just the tip.

"I don't need a– ah–! "

One hard smack of his hips up into yours silenced you, statements of denial tapering off into a depraved moan as you held onto him, toes curling at the sensation.

Had you been moderately more perceptive, less in your head, you would have seen that Wolfwood was just about at the end of his rope as well. After all, it wasn't just yourself you were edging. He was simply enjoying watching the show more than you hated putting it on.

His lips met yours, messy, teeth clacking together at the force, tongues pressed together. Spit dribbled down your chin, warm and wet and adding to every debauched slap of skin meeting skin, at the unforgiving pace he set to put you in your place.

Sweat trickled down his temple, the room growing hotter by the second. You felt a hand leave your thigh, urging you to part a few scant inches to watch what he was doing. Seeing his hand wrap around the edge of his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders, you were quick to reach out and clasp your fingers around his wrist.

"Don't– keep it on," You insisted, voice choppy, choked out and breathless between every hard thrust.

"You want me to keep it on? " Wolfwood couldn't help but chuckle low, obviously amused by the fact you were so insistent on looking at something you'd been endlessly bitching about all day.

However, he did nothing but appease you; hand back to your thigh and forcing your knees into your chest, folding you into the wall as the totes below you shook and rattled. You could feel every pull and drag, every ridge and vein as he fucked you with reckless abandon, bullying his cock into you as if it were a punishment. The coil in your gut began to wind tight again, the familiar feeling you've been so desperate for the entire goddamn day–

"Thought it made me look like a fishing dad, huh? Or do you like that? Want me to bend you over 'n call you kiddo? "

There was no build-up. It was fucking shameful how fast you were cumming from the pet name, shameful how much of a mess you were making as spurts of white hot seed splattered against your partially clothed chest, soaking into your button-up. Strangled cries fell from your throat, choked out, heady, and utterly sinful.

Wolfwood's hips stuttered to a halt, a stunned expression on his face at the reaction, at the unannounced premature climax shaking you to the core. It didn't take long for him to recover, hands clenching tighter against warm skin, eyes growing hazy and dark.

"Oh, Christ," He growled, giving you absolutely no respite as he set the pace even harder, pulling you in to meet every buck forward.

One hand moved, his touches becoming more urgent, more desperate, grabbing at the meat of your hip, your waist, before shooting up and cupping your jaw in a vice grip, fingers squeezing your cheeks. He angled you back, fucked you stupid, ignoring your cries of too much and slow down as he leaned into you, noses touching.

"That why you've been such a needy fuckin' brat all day, huh? Not gettin' what you need? Missin' daddy's dick?" He rasped, each word more punched out than the last. Filthy words had you keening, tensing in overwhelm, had him groaning in response. He was absolutely feral, an urgent heat he hasn't unleashed on you in months.

All you could do was whine, brain scrambled from the speed, the force, the orgasm still hazing your brain and clouding your thoughts. Every resounding slap just pushed you deeper, jaw slack as you moaned and whined for him, taking everything you were being given. Your thighs burned from the angle, from the earlier efforts you had put in, and you could feel yourself melting into his grip.

Each warm breath huffed against your lips had you reeling, eyes rolled back into your head as you whimpered and mewled; overstimulated, overwhelmed. Every time you tried to string together enough words to beg, to protest, try to say anything, he would fuck up into you harder. He left no room for you to do much other than take it, love it.

The handle of the storage door clicked, a choir of muffled voices chattering amongst themselves behind the thin wood no doubt trying to find where their beloved priest had run off to. It rattled, catching against the table leaning up against it, handle unable to push down completely. The voices sounded concerned, frustrated. You wanted to tense, wanted to get him to stop, but his thrusts were unabating, only pulling out and pushing in enough that his hips wouldn't smack against the swell of your ass. Though that was only half the issue when you yourself were making a considerable amount of noise.

When you managed to breathe a pathetic little Nick against his lips, he kissed you hard enough that it pushed your head back into the wall. He moaned, you whined, and you could feel his hips stutter. You had fucked him enough times to know he was close. 

Tongues moved in tandem, his fingers digging into your cheeks, into your thigh, clenching and grasping you so hard you thought you might bruise. The voices faded, and you released a breathy moan you didn't know you had been holding into the kiss.

"Gonna cum." Wolfwood parted from your lips with a wet smack, tongue passing over the plush of your lower lip once before muttering, "You gonna be a good boy for me, kiddo? Gonna take it all? "

God, if you could cum again so quick you would have.

You nod quick, head feeling heavy, foggy. "Yeah, 'm gonna take it all, Nick–" 

"Daddy." He corrected, causing your throat to grow tight, your stomach churning. You hadn't really discussed this particular kink with him, but you had certainly fucked into your own hand at the thought of nearly this exact scenario an embarrassing amount of times. It wasn't something you anticipated, the fact that he would be so into this. 

Choking on your words, each thrust into you growing more urgent, quicker in succession, you moan. "Gonna take it all, daddy–"

His hand released your cheeks as he pressed another heated kiss against your lips, palm sliding down to your lower back to tug you into him, force you closer. The totes below rattled and shook in protest, but the tight, tender hold he had on you was more than secure. 

Something you had learned over the months is that Wolfwood was mouthy in bed. He was vocal in the sense that he could talk you through an orgasm like no one better, whisper filthy things into your ear to get you to tumble over the edge faster than you could count; but past the occasional groan and grunt, he didn't make much noise. So when he was breathing into your open mouth, huffing out a depraved moan as his thrusts faltered, poured liquid white heat into you, it had your entire body tensing, committing the sound to memory. It was fucking hot.

Stammered thrusts slowed to a halt, his cock still hard enough to cut diamonds as he poured everything into you. His mouth moved sinfully good, tongue working you open again, leaving you desperate for more despite just draining him for all he was worth. Touches grew more gentle, less dire, calloused fingertips brushing reverent over your skin where bruises were surely going to form in the shape of his hands. Not that it would be the first time.

A few long moments passed of post-orgasmic bliss, kisses melting from messy to soft, before he was pulling back just to press his forehead against yours. 

"Holy shit, kid," Wolfwood chuckled, breathless and exhausted. You weren't fairing much better.

"Yeah," Was all you could rasp in return, eyes glazed over with exhaustion. The day had been too long for you to want to stay conscious after being fucked into oblivion. 

Wolfwood seemed to understand this, umber gaze falling to the cum stains on your shirt. He looked amused, exhaling a quick breath through his nose as he slowly, begrudgingly, pulled his now softening cock from your tight heat. You whine in protest at the immediate loss, at the drip down, milky white decorating the lid of the tote you were rested on. 

"Mm. Can't let you go back out there lookin' like this," He murmured, peppering your cheek and temple with a few gentle pecks. A finger hooked below your chin, tilting you back so he could kiss you one more time, slow, sweet.

His free hand fished into his pants pocket, pulling out an absolute mess of a keyring and rested it in your open palm. "Here. Go take a shower. I'll handle cleanup."

Your legs wobbled when he helped you down to the ground, using the wall as additional support when Wolfwood walked away to fetch your pants and shoes. He brought them back, handing them off with care. Really, you only bothered to slide your underwear and pants on, deciding putting on your shoes was far too much work to simply walk through a corridor and into Wolfwood's living space. 

"Hold up," He called out just as you reached the door, urging you to turn and glance over your shoulder. He already looked cleaned up, for the most part, shirt buttoned up, for the most part, and tucked into his pants. The only tell was his tousled hair, or the wrinkles in his shirt he hadn't bothered to smooth out. 

Strong hands grabbed at the table wedged under the door handle, sliding it out of the way and lifting to lean it up against the adjacent wall. He pulled the door open, peering out and glancing around. The sight brought you deja vu, shooting you back to the first time, the situation that had landed you here in the first place. It looked no different, the glance around before a hand clasped around your wrist, giving you a slight pull to urge you out the door. 

Caught in your head, you stumbled forward before a gentle, yet firm hand locked onto your hip. 

"Hey," Wolfwood whispered low as he leaned down to kiss your temple, the husky timbre of his voice melting you. "You did great today. I appreciate you helping out so much."

It's not that you ever scoffed at his praise, but for some reason this one was a little deeper, a little more tender, and a lot more meaningful. Your chest grew tight, words lodged in your throat, but just like every time he expressed such genuineness towards you, he didn't expect you to say or do anything in return. The warm of his palm pressed a little more firmly into your lower back, guiding you out the door, encouraging your feet to shuffle you down the hall towards the massive wooden door of his living quarters. 

You really only clued in to how well you've come to know both Wolfwood and his ways when you so seamlessly and quickly executed your clean-up. You knew exactly where he kept his towels, knew that he stored the special soap you used in the mirror cabinet because you refused to use his, knew exactly where you needed to pull the shower nozzle to get the perfect temperature. There was that domestic tenderness tugging at your heartstrings again, the familiarity of it all really only making itself prevalent in these moments. Never once did you think you were someone that could fall into a routine with someone, stick around long enough that you could grow so intimate like this.

The sound of the bathroom door opening startled you from your thoughts, blinking up at the ceiling as you sat at the bottom of the tub, staring at white subway tile. You didn't even question it when you heard the rattle of a belt buckle, heard clothes hit the tiled floor below, the peel back of the shower curtain. Didn't once think to question the nudge to your arm, urging you to scoot a little further towards the warm shower stream, allowing a space for him to slot in behind you, to sit with you, to pull you into a gentle embrace. 

However, you did think to question the half-hard erection poking at your lower back when he tugged you into his chest, pressing a few small kisses to your shoulder. You huff an amused noise, tipping your head back to look up at him with an incredulous expression. 

"I didn't even do anything. What's with this?" You inquire, half expecting some smartass response like you usually got. What you got instead was a neutral expression, soft gaze trailing along exposed skin before locking with your own. 

"You don't have to do anything," He murmurs, low and intimate. "I just love you."

Breath caught in your throat, eyes locked. He gave you a beat or two to process it, before he was kissing you with such saccharine reverence you didn't know how you could possibly return it. But, like usual, he didn't expect you to say or do anything in return. 

Love, huh?

Late night shifts sucked.

It was a mutual understanding that in any backwash shithole town, anything opened past eight at night was only ever populated by the occasional insomniac or rebellious group of high–schoolers that think they're cool for drinking lukewarm black coffee. Not exactly favorable when your wage completely depended on tips, but you had to make the best of it. You were new at the diner, fresh meat, so of course they'd give you the shifts no one wanted. A few more weeks of this and you should be in the clear, but the struggle was even making it that far on pennies and pocket change.

A less than favorable position to be in, not knowing that your pockets would have run dry halfway through your venture to the coast, but this was merely a bump in the road that was your grand adventure to broaden your horizons. Or at least that's what you tried to tell yourself.

So here you were. Staring in the face of a middle aged burnout diner "chef" telling you he didn't want to actually cook anything past a certain time despite the fact you were both scheduled to close. Useless fucker.

With a shake of your head, an obvious roll of your eyes, you reached down to the rows of coffee stained mugs resting ugly and chipped against the back counter. Taking the rag over your shoulder, you decided you'd at least try to look busy just in case anyone actually came in on a Tuesday at ten pm. Unlikely, but you weren't about to get an earful from a gaggle of particularly mean old women again.

The end of your shift was just around the corner– your useless chef counterpart having already left for the evening. He wasn't interested in staying if there weren't any tips to pool. Nut up and be a man, he said, you're capable of handling yourself, kid. If you were in his position you might leave all the same, but it didn't irritate you any less that he even had that option, or that you just weren't confrontational enough to tear into him for leaving you alone in the middle of fucking nowhere to close a diner you've been working at for less than two weeks.

Deft fingers worked at the cash register, clicking the archaic buttons with animated ticks and chimes, before a set of blinding headlights pulled into the parking lot. You narrowed your eyes, inquisitive as the car pulled up close to the front door, obscured by the partially closed blinds. The headlights shut off, and the sound of a car door opening and closing made your mind jog back into action.

Shit. You forgot to lock the front door.

Worn out sneakers slid against the cracked tile below, scurrying over to the door in an attempt to reach it before this enigmatic stranger could beat you to the punch, even if it meant tripping over yourself in the process. It seemed that whatever deity was in charge of your fate was feeling cruel this evening, as the moment your fingertips ghosted over the cool steel lock, the door was being pushed open with a chime.

What an awkward situation you've managed to wedge yourself in, you think, swallowing thick as you stare up at the tall man that was stepped halfway through the door, brow arched in a silent inquiry. He was broad shouldered, leather jacket half unzipped revealing an unprecedented amount of enticing pectoral cleavage with how low cut his white v-neck shirt was.

"Uh... you open?" He asked, voice gruff around the edges like it was strained. You weren't sure if it was the trance you'd found yourself in watching the slight sway of his rosary when he shifted, or because you once again realized you wouldn't ever be able to stand up for yourself even if you tried, but you simply found yourself gaping for a beat or two.

"Yeah, we're... I mean– I was just closing up, but–"

"Great," The man interrupted, pushing through the threshold of the door completely and making his way over to one of the split leather barstools. Your eyes narrowed at his air of arrogance and had half a mind to tell him to scram. Or at least you'd like to.

Huffing out a sigh, you rolled your eyes for the nth time that evening, rounding your way around the stretched out bar countertop to stand face to face. Now that you got a better look at him, he was...moderately handsome. The scruff on his chin added some kind of rugged allure to the entire bad boy ensemble he seemed to have going on. Though maybe that was just the small-town fever talking. The lack of eye-candy in this place was a cardinal sin.

"A menu?" He asked, and you had to repress another eye roll as you steeled yourself for the headache of a conversation you were about to have.

"If you haven't noticed, the cook has left for the evening," You explain with much more patience than you felt brewing inside, but it was quickly whittled away by the aggravating arch of the stranger's brow and the curl at the corners of his lips. "So you can choose between pre-frozen pies, two hour old coffee, or milk that expires tomorrow. Other than that, you're shit outta luck."

Sure, part of you should probably be putting a little more care into the first conversation you've had with a person outside of your coworkers today, and probably the only chance you were going to get at receiving a tip, but you'd trade freedom for a couple of dollars in your pocket.

Lucky you, this enigmatic stranger seemed to have some sense of humor, the smug smirk on his face growing marginally as he leans back in the creaky barstool. 

"'Yer really sellin' me on the two hour old coffee," He mused, hand patting against the countertop twice before leaning back in. "I'll take one of those."

With a tight lipped smile, you gave a quick nod, turning on your heel and reached for the pot of coffee you had yet to dump out for the evening, noting that the machine wasn't even on by this point. You couldn't remember exactly when you had shut it off, but surely the coffee itself was less than lukewarm by this point. Part of you wondered if you should turn on the warm function for even just a minute or two, but that meant you had to be here a minute or two longer than completely necessary. He was the one that decided to come in two minutes from closing, after all, so he can deal with ice cold coffee. 

Grabbing a mug, you set it on the counter with a frustrated and ungraceful clink, filling it up nearly to the rim with what was left in the coffee pot. Turning back to the man at the bar, you were in absolute shock and awe to see him cupping his hands in front of his face, in the middle of sparking up a cigarette. It took you a beat or two to wonder if he really had the audacity, and wonder what fucking era this idiot was from. 

"You do know it's not the eighties anymore, right?" You spoke incredulously, fingers still wrapped around the handle of the mug. The look he gave you was inquisitive, like he didn't quite understand what you were referring to, before he was tucking the zippo back into his leather jacket pocket. With a scoff, you decided to pick your battles for the evening, setting the mug down in front of him, some of the contents splashing over the rim and splattering the otherwise clean countertop. You weren't getting paid enough to argue with some smug asshole about smoking indoors when you were already supposed to be locked up for the night and on your way home.

"So," He began, words muffled around the cigarette between his lips, "Haven't seen you 'round here before. New to town?" Lithe fingers reached up, trapping the cigarette between his index and middle finger, inhaling deep before pulling it from his mouth. You'd be lying if you said it wasn't a little attractive, but again, that was probably the small-town fever getting to you again. 

"More like passing through," You explained, eyes locked onto the motion of the man's free hand reaching for his coffee, lifting the rim of the mug up to his lips. Glancing away, you decided to busy yourself with reorganizing mugs on the counter that were already in perfect order. He seemed to catch this too, the subtle smirk not quite obscured by the ceramic.

"Mm, passin' through, huh?" He inquired, surely a rhetorical question, before taking a slow sip. Lowering the mug, he delicately placed it on the counter, fixing you with a look you couldn't quite decipher. "Ain't exactly a pleasant place for someone like you to be making a pit-stop in, let alone stop to make a few bucks."

You could feel your brows crease at his words, eyeing him with a guarded expression. Taking a moment or two to gather your wandering thoughts and racing heart, you decided to deflect the statement, try to let it roll off your back, but something told you this guy was a lot more perceptive than he let on. 

"Yeah... The city is more my style," You said, voice sounding more tense than you wanted it to. Not that it mattered, considering the look he was giving you from under his brow told you that you were both aware of the real reason.

"You seem like a city boy," He played along, something you were moderately thankful for, even if his comment did seem somewhat backhanded at first. "Too pretty for a place like this."

His elaboration made you reel for a moment, a befuddled expression on your face as you blinked dumbly at him. His face was neutral, eyes trained on you as he brought his cigarette up to his lips again, as if he was expecting you to say something in return. When you didn't, he gave a shrug of his shoulders, exhaling deep, plume of smoke curling and twisting in the space between you. With a small wave of your hand, you cleared the smoke from your face, shooting him a less than amused expression before rolling your eyes and busying yourself with your closing procedures again. A tense silence fell over you as you worked at the register- though the ambiguous man seemed unbothered by your outwardly guarded demeanor, shoulders slack, forearms leaning on the countertop as he indulged in his coffee and cigarette. When you noticed it burning dangerously low, you found yourself sliding an empty mug in his direction, wanting to avoid him potentially putting it out on the counter. Not that it really would have mattered, considering it was already riddled with cracks and holes, but you had some sort of integrity with keeping the place as clean as you could. He gave you a nod in thanks, stubbing it out at the bottom of the cup.

Just as you had finished counting the bills in the register, you saw him stand out of the corner of your eye. Upon glancing over, you could see him fishing his wallet out of his back pocket, flipping through some bills. 

"Oh-" You called out, earning a quick glance in your direction. "Uh... Don't worry about it, I've already counted the register so... It'd just complicate things. It's only a buck 'n a half anyways." With a wave of your hand to emphasize your intentions, he stood in place for a beat longer. 

"If you say so," He shrugged, tucking his wallet back into his pocket. "I'll never say no to free coffee."

"I'm sure it was awful anyways," You joked, the barest of smiles curling at your lips for the first time since he walked through those doors. He snorted in response, tipping his head and shrugging. 

"Wasn't horrible, as far as two-hour old coffee goes."

Shaking your head in response, you found yourself huffing a small amused laugh, removing the half-apron tied around your waist and tossing it beside the register. You watched him shift in the corner of your vision, though he didn't move to leave right away, instead standing in place and glancing out the half-obscured windows towards the parking lot. 

"Didn't see another car in the lot," He mentions, and you could already tell where this was going. "Need a ride home?"

You huffed a laugh again, though this time more sardonic, shooting him a disbelieving expression. He seemed nice enough, but you'd rather be overly cautious than dead in a ditch somewhere.

"No, I'm good. I don't take rides from strangers that barge in two minutes to closing," You stated, leaving no room for discussion on the matter just in case he decided to be pushy. He only smirked. 

"Damn, should've come in a minute earlier," He teased stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets as he gave you a quick once-over. When you didn't concede, he took a slow breath in, then nodded, taking a step and a half back towards the door. "Alright then, city-boy. If you insist." Taking another step back, he gave a wave of his hand, pulling the door open with a chime and retreating towards the parking lot. You couldn't help but roll your eyes, an unexpectedly amused smile on your features. Perhaps it was because everyone seemed so standoffish to you thus far, so having someone engage in a conversation with you was a nice change, even if he was a bit odd in a way you couldn't quite place. 

With a heavy sigh, you went to clean up the little mess that was made. You were shocked to see a twenty dollar bill sitting on the counter, no doubt left behind by your local enigmatic stranger, making you hum out a small noise of intrigue. you stuffed it into your pocket before tossing out the stubbed out cigarette and washing both mugs by hand. You took your time, considering you were already forced to stay nearly a half hour past your shift, it really didn't matter. You wiped the counters, swept up the floors, didn't bother mopping for a second time, though tried your best to make it at least look presentable. Well... as presentable as this diner *could* be. Shutting off all the lights, you padded your way over to the door with a resigned sigh, pulling it open with a chime. You were immediately met with a car in the lot just a few spaces away from the front door, driver's side window rolled down to reveal the same man patiently waiting, eyes closed and arms lounged back behind his head. You immediately considered heading back inside and exiting through the back, but you supposed if he was going to murder you, he probably would've been a little more alert. And, admittedly, you were intrigued as to why he'd decided to nap for a half hour in the diner parking lot. 

Keeping him in your peripherals, you locked up the door, the resounding click seeming to stir him from relaxation. You glanced up just in time to see him stretch an arm out, resting one wrist on the wheel, the other half hanging out the window. He shot you a knowing expression, lips curled in a smug smirk, obviously finding some amusement in your puzzled and cautious disposition. Brows furrowed, keys clenched tightly in your hand, you stepped away from the door and headed across the parking lot- opposite to where the man was parked. What you didn't catch was his surprised expression, the fumble of his keys being pulled out of the ignition, and his haste to open the car door and approach you.

"Hey, y'know you don't have to be so stubborn," He called out, not even shutting the driver's door behind him as he took long strides to meet your pace.

"I already told you I'm not taking a ride from a stranger," You say pointedly, glancing up at him in the corner of your eye. Though you couldn't deduce exactly why, you stilled to a halt, taking in how his pace met yours exactly, staying a few steps away so as to not seem intimidating. "Listen, I appreciate it, really, but... Stranger danger, 'n all that."

You were expecting him to have some kind of negative reaction, at least in your previous experiences, and gripped your keys a little tighter inside your jacket pocket. Instead, he seemed to huff an amused breath, stuffing a hand in his jacket pocket, that unfortunately familiar smirk curling at the corners of his lips once again as he holds out his other hand.

"Name's Wolfwood," He says, catching you off guard for a moment, "Nicholas D. Wolfwood." 

Even though you were aware of exactly what he was doing, and the fact he was even being cheeky about it, you couldn't help but find it somewhat charming. Endearing, even, if you were to use the term loosely. That much was obvious in your immediate reaction, consisting of a sigh and a small smile, disbelieving but bemused nonetheless. Your eyes glance up, catching his umber gaze in a more personal connection. His smirk spread, widening slightly, seeming to think that he had won you over. 

"It was nice meeting you, Nicholas," You say softly, leaving him stupefied in place as you spun on your heel and walked. You felt a little better about the encounter, now knowing now he was just an idiot with no negative intentions. 

"What's your name?" He called out, not seeming to follow after you as he'd already done, and instead letting you go your separate ways for the time being. You scoffed, unbeknownst to him, unbelieving and amused by the audacious personality of this enigmatic man.

"Guess you'll have to find out," You say over your shoulder, never once stopping your confident strides down the sidewalk, leaving him standing in place.

Sure, it may have been uncommon for the townsfolk here to even approach you, let alone leave exuberant tips and offer friendly rides home after your shift, but you had a feeling men like Wolfwood just liked testing the waters, dipping their toe in, see what they can get away with. He didn't necessarily seem bad, but more bad news. You've had your fair share of run-ins with people that held themselves the same way Wolfwood did, knowing that leaving them in the dust would shake them off. Guys like Wolfwood didn't take kindly to rejection.

Or, at least you thought.

It turns out Nicholas D. Wolfwood was more tenacious than you had originally anticipated. It had been a few days, granted, but you didn't expect his familiar sun-kissed face pushing through the creaky door of the diner in broad daylight halfway through your shift so many days later. Your conversation was brief, something along the lines of guess you can't get enough of me. He didn't agree nor disagree, only smirked and asked if he could actually see a menu this time. You obliged with a tight smile, mostly leaving himself to his devices after you had taken his order and promptly delivered his food. For once, you actually had other customers to attend to. 

Perhaps tenacious wasn't the correct word, you thought to yourself upon seeing the stack of bills just a little too great to simply pay for a meal in the place he had been sitting, now occupied by empty space and even emptier silence. Presumptuous, you think with a huff of amusement, arching your brows at the torn piece of paper with a phone number scrawled on it resting at the bottom of the stack of bills. Your eyes dart up to the door, briefly scanning over the parking lot- for what, you aren't quite willing to admit- before shaking your head. Flipping the paper over in your fingers, you roll your eyes, crumpling it up and tossing it in the receipts bin beneath the register.

This seemed to be your routine, one you became quite familiar with much to your chagrin. At some point you began to take it with a spoonful of sugar, because hey, at least Wolfwood was a half decent conversationalist, and he left you more than decent tips. At some point he had become comfortable enough to reach over the counter and tuck the folded bills into the pocket of your half-apron, shooting you a much too casual wink. His excuse was he didn't want any of it to go to the unenthusiastic chef, but you pondered the credibility of that statement considering his behavior thus far. 

In his time frequenting the diner, you found out Wolfwood enjoyed cars. You could have assumed that much, considering you had gotten a couple glimpses at the one he drove a few times now, and although it was old it was in undeniably good condition. Sleek, black, shiny enough you could probably see your reflection in it if you got close enough. You'd never had much of an interest, favoring other hobbies that didn't revolve around toxic masculinity quite to that extent, but on a particularly slow day you humored him. 

"So. Cars," You sigh, leaning over the counter with your arms crossed, eyes drooping from the double shift of constantly being on your feet. Anything that paid the bills, even if you were mentally and physically exhausted.

Wolfwood hummed behind his mug of warm coffee, umber eyes peering at you over the rim of his tinted sunglasses. Resting the ceramic down, there was an amused smile tugging at his lips. "Mhm. Cars," He says in return, being smart about the fact he knew you had no idea what to even begin talking about on the subject. You scoffed, knowing he wasn't going to simply talk about something unless provoked, and even then it was a tossup. Touché.

"So... is it just, like, a hobby?" You inquire, holding your hand out, palm to the sky, as if emphasizing your question, hoping he would elaborate further past your question. Luck seemed to be in your cards, earning a shift in his expression as he glanced off, pondering his answer. 

"More like a job."

"So you're a mechanic or something?" You sound unconvinced, taking in his appearance. You had never seen him dirtied up, covered in oil, and you don't want to stop and think about why your jaw tightened and your gut clenched at the visual in your head. 

"Not really," Is all he settles on, lifting the mug back up to his lips, maintaining eye contact as he takes an awfully smug sip of his drink.

You scoff, rolling your eyes as your hand falls back to the countertop. After his first few times coming in, you felt much more comfortable giving him glimpses outside of your attempt at a customer service, well-mannered mien. He seemed to enjoy your attitude, or at the very least be amused by it.

"Well then what do you do, exactly?" You crack, pushing yourself from leaning, palms curled around the edge of the countertop. The hum of florescent overhead lights occupied the empty space, the tick of the wall clock reminding you how close you were to nightly freedom once again. 

"I keep tryin' to show you," Wolfwood muses with a shrug, "You're the one bein' stubborn."

He doesn't have to elaborate for you to understand what he's talking about, considering you couldn't count on both hands how many times he had offered to drive you home from work. By this point, you thought of it more a battle of wits than anything. A game, or maybe an ongoing joke that was going on just a little too long, toeing the line between a joke and being a serious proposition. You breathed in deep, heaving out a heavy sigh as you locked eyes, neither willing to be the one that cracked and looked away first. Rolling your tongue over the back of your teeth, you raise a brow, forcing the knowing smirk down the longer you stared. 

You wouldn't admit it, but you'd come to... somewhat enjoy his presence around your otherwise dull work. Enjoy him.

He was quick to catch the crack in your façade, a dent in the armor you had built around yourself so well that had kept him out until this point. So, Wolfwood smiles, leaning back in his barstool, and straightens his back. He looks just as confident as he did every time, and maybe it was because your feet were sore and your calves ached from standing all day, but you had already made your mind up before the question even came out of his mouth. 

"So. Want a ride home?" 

The exhaustion from the day must have caught up to you with the way you smiled, the way you breathed out an airy little laugh as you hung your head, shaking it more so at your inability to stick to your guns rather than his continuous insistence. 

"God," You sigh out, lifting your head to meet his gaze. His expression was unchanging, cocky and confident as it was every time, but you both knew he had you this time. "Fine. Yeah, fine. You can drive me home."

You had been half expecting a celebratory cheer, or at the very least some snide comment along the lines of took you long enough. Instead, he simply gave a nod, reaching into his back pocket to procure his wallet, flipping through some bills. He knew the drill by now- knew that the coffee was free so close to closing, knew that you wouldn't want to mess up counting the register, but he always felt the need to toss a twenty on the counter as he stood. Today was no different, and you couldn't help but be a little perplexed by it. He got what he wanted, why was he still trying?

"See you in a bit, pretty boy," Wolfwood mused, reaching over the counter to grip your jaw between his thumb and forefinger. It was a fleeting touch, calloused fingertips sliding away just as quickly as they had landed there, and you could only watch him leave with red-faced bewilderment before losing sight of him once he exited through the front door. You gaped, lips parting momentarily, before clamping your jaw shut and shaking your head, taking the half-drank coffee over to the small sink and washing it by hand. 

The entire fifteen minutes of your closing procedures felt like tooo long and not long enough, anticipation and anxieties clawing at your throat as you swept and mopped the cracked tile floor. God, why did you agree to this? What if he was some murderous psycho killer? What if he was some creep stalker that just wanted to know where you lived? Thoughts rolled over you in waves, drowning out rational thinking and leaving wake for a dry throat and heart palpitations. Your hands shook as you tugged the front door open with a ding, eyes quick to land on the all too familiar black car parked a few spaces down from the front door. Swallowing the growing lump in your throat, you turned in place and locked up, steeling yourself with a deep breath as you shoved your hands into your pockets.

By the time you had turned around again, Wolfwood was leaning over the passenger seat, cigarette hung loosely between his lips as he gives a light shove, pushing the door open enough for you to let yourself in once you look the car. Perhaps it was you postponing the inevitable, dragging it out as long as you could, but you found your gaze roving over the sleek black paint. With the neon shine of the diner sign, you could indeed see your reflection in the paint. A white stripe ran down the expanse of the car just above the chrome trim, the letters G.T 350 scrawled in bold between the small gap. A chrome snake was stamped on the side, and your steps slowed to read the bold chrome COBRA underneath before finally circling the front and getting to the passenger door. 

It was low, low enough that even you had to duck a bit to climb in, settling into your seat awkwardly as you carefully pulled the door shut behind you. Knowing nothing about cars, there wasn't much you could comment on, although a quick glance around could tell you this was far from stock. Metal arches encased the two front seats, the back seats completely removed to make way for a welded metal box, obscuring your view of what lay behind it. Hanging from the mirror was a rosary, mahogany wooden beads dangling low, cross still swaying back and forth from the motion of you entering the car.

Wolfwood was patient, an amused smirk slightly shielded by the fingers clasped around his cigarette. He watched you, watched you take in your surroundings, the confusion evident on your face as you peered at the metal bars running through both the front and the back of the car. You were at a lack of words, both from the nerves and the lack of knowledge, so all you did was vaguely gesture to a couple of the bars running overhead. 

"Roll cage," He said smoothly. As if you knew what that was.

"Address?" A simple question, but something about the nonchalant way he said it had you questioning why he was so eager to drive you home in the first place. When you blurt out the street name and number, he seems to pause in thought, humming a low sound. "Alright."

He motioned to your seatbelt, and with an unamused arched brow, you were quick to note that he most certainly wasn't wearing his own. You give him a once over, eyes raking over his relaxed posture and casual demeanor. That at least put some of your anxieties at ease. Reaching up over your shoulder, you grip the seatbelt, pulling it over your body and pushing it into place with an exaggerated force, locking eyes with him as it clicked. All he did was snicker, turning the key in the ignition as the car rumbled to life.

It was a muscle car, an old one, and despite not knowing anything about them, you could tell from the purr and rumble it was tinkered with, yet in immaculate condition. It didn't sound standard, but what did you know?

"How good are you with speed?" Was the question that broke the silence, urging you to glance up at him with a perplexed expression.

"Thought you'd wanna take your sweet time now that you finally got me in here," You sass back.

He smirks, hand on the stick shift– next to which sat some kind of lever– putting the car in reverse as he slung his arm around your seat, peering back over his shoulder, backing out of the space. It was for show, you know it was, considering there wasn't a single other car in the lot for him to look out for. "Oh, I'm gonna. But that doesn't answer my question."

A statement as bold as it was confusing. You were certain you must have looked stupid as your gaze trails from his face, down to the hand he'd placed back on the gear shift, then out the windshield. The car rolled forwards, slow and steady, only fueling the disconcerting feeling that began to settle in the pit of your stomach. Seeming to sense your unease, his hand moved, clapping against your knee twice as he fixed you with probably the most genuine expression you've received in the entire time knowing him. It was softer around the edges, kind in a way you couldn't quite describe, and in that moment you knew you could trust him with... whatever it was he was trying to get at.

"I... guess I'm fine with it?"

"You don't sound too sure 'bout that."

"I'm fine with it," You corrected, settling back into the seat as his hand moves to clasp at the glasses sat on the bridge of his hooked nose. Removing them, he folded one side in, tucking them in the low cut of his v-neck shirt, before adjusting himself in his seat.

"Alright," He chuckles, sounding a bit too smug for your liking. "If you need to hold on, there's a bar."

With a brief motion of his hand, your eyes follow, looking at the piss poor excuse for a handle hanging flimsy just above the door. Simply due to nerves you were tempted to preemptively grab on, unsure of what exactly he had in store for this simple drive. The other, more rational, part of your brain won through for once, telling you the chances of him putting you in immediate peril were slim to none, considering his car would also be victim to any catastrophe that may occur.

The car pulled out from the lot, cruising down the street– the opposite direction of your house, you might add– at a disappointingly average speed. With the way he had been talking, half of you had expected him to floor it right from the get-go. Brows furrowed, eyes on the road, your hand that had subconsciously reached up and gripped the seatbelt loosened, falling into your lap. It took a minute or two to get off the side streets, the car rolling up to the last red light in town before they began to wind through the mountain loop roads. Motion in your peripherals catches your attention, and you were familiar enough with Wolfwood to recognize it as him reaching for the pack of cigarettes he kept in the inner pocket of his jacket. The spark of a lighter made your ears perk up, cherry burning red, blending with the traffic light bathing the two of you. 

Tension eased from your shoulders, the scent familiar. You found yourself inhaling deep, heaving a soft sigh, gaze flickering out the passenger side window to see the last sparse buildings on the edge of town. Wolfwood spoke, though in your moment of serenity you hadn't heard exactly what he said. Before you could turn your head, or hum the inquisitive noise rising up in your chest, the red surrounded you turned green, and your back was slamming into the seat behind you. 

Squealing tires and the smell of burning rubber overloaded your senses as Wolfwood accelerated, car flying past what little there was of town and headed off towards the mountains. Voice caught in your throat, one hand shot up to grasp at the seatbelt, the other grabbing at the flimsy handle above the door. The closer you came to the bend, the further your heart crept into your throat, and the speed in which you were going, you knew he most certainly wouldn't make a successful turn. You closed your eyes, braced for impact, but the squeal of tires gripping the road was the only thing you heard, and your shoulder colliding with the side of the door was the only thing you felt. 

Momentarily winded- from the shock more than the impact- your eyes shot open, desperately clinging to reason and safety. You watched the car skid around the corner, eyes shooting down to the movement of Wolfwood's hand push the e-brake back down and reach towards the gear shift again. The increasing speed was slightly more gradual this time- slightly- giving you a mere second to catch your breath and gasp for air, unknowing to your exclaimed Jesus fuck! Wolfwood barked a laugh, finding amusement in your adrenaline fueled terror. Capable hand swerved the wheel, steadying out the tires on the road as you approached the next curve. 

It was a constant state of fight or flight, though freeze seemed to be your body's most preferred reaction, save the white knuckle grip tightening on both the hand bar and your seatbelt. Every slide around every corner, every acceleration that sent your body back in your seat, had your stomach and heart doing flips. At some point, though you couldn't pinpoint when, sheer terror had turned into something a little more fuzzy, a little more addicting. There was still a spark of fear in your eyes, but more overwhelmingly there was intrigue, excitement. 

"There it is!" Wolfwood exclaimed over the rev of the engine, the screaming tires, and before you could think better of it, you braved a look at him. Umber eyes were glancing at you in his peripherals, brows pinched in cocky triumph. What he was so pleased about, you couldn't say, but the look in his eye alone had you trembling in your seat.

Both of his hands were steadied on the wheel, one for control and one for stability, before his hand shot down to the brake again, pulling up and sliding the car around another tight corner. More than a couple times as the car slid, you thought your door was going to collide with the rocky mountainside or slide into a ditch, but he always managed to keep it steady, keep it smooth, and suddenly you understood how cars weren't exactly a hobby for him. 

Reaching the peak of the mountain, Wolfwood flicked at the stick shift, slowing the car to a reasonable speed before pulling onto the shoulder, the purr and rumble of the engine filling the space  your labored breaths didn't occupy. You were shaking, trembling like a leaf, adrenaline coursing through your veins as your hands slowly and hesitantly released their respective grounding purchase. Perhaps it was the last vestiges of fear that had you unbuckling your seatbelt, pushing your door open, swinging your shaky legs out as you struggled to rise to your feet. You didn't close the door behind you, instead taking a few steps over to the metal meridian at the mountainside, hands clamping around the cool metal to help hold you up. 

Your ears were filled with the chirp of crickets, the idle rumble of the car behind you, and a sharp, pitchy ring. Taking deep breaths, you willed your heart to calm, though your body was slow to follow behind. Your mind trailed back, the way your stomach flipped over every hill, around every corner, Wolfwood's capable hands keeping the both of you on the precipice of something much more dangerous. Oh God, the way his fingers curled around the wheel, the way they engulfed the shift stick, that look in his eye when you let yourself freefall and embraced the feeling.

Crunching gravel grabbed your attention, wide eyes trailing up from toe to head, locking eyes with Wolfwood as he stood beside you. One of his hands was in his pocket, the other pinching his half-finished cigarette between his middle and forefinger, chest rising as he inhaled deep. You found yourself mimicking the motion, breathing in deep with him, holding it for a moment. His brow raised, barely perceptible, tipping his head as he inched a step closer. He reached out, cigarette burning low between his fingers as he offered it to you. 

You didn't smoke, not past a social puff or two when drinking, but you found your hand reaching up to accept anyways. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was the idea of having your lips around something that had previously been between his. 

Only when your fingers were a mere scant inch away from accepting, he pulled it back, gaze unwavering as he stared at you, into you, eyes roving over your face, then your body. You could only watch with rapt attention as he placed it back between his lips, inhaling deep again. This time it seemed deliberate, seemed focused, anticipation rising up your throat as he took another step into you. The free hand tucked into his pocket slid from its place, bridging the small gap between you by cupping your jaw, fingers digging into your cheeks and coaxing you to open up. 

"C'mere," He murmured, trails of smoke spilling from the corners of his lips as he leaned down. Your eyes fluttered, lips parted, and in that moment with your heart still racing and your body still vibrating, he could ask you to do anything and you would without question. 

Smoke filled your senses as he pursed his lips, blowing into you, filling your lungs and your nose and your mind with everything that was Nicholas D. Wolfwood. You breathed in, the second-hand smoke burning your lungs before he closed the distance, chapped lips locking with your own. 

He tasted like coffee and cigarettes, something that would normally make you recoil, but you found yourself melting into it, legs wobbling for a completely different reason now. A noise bubbled up in your throat, soft and airy and light, as you exhaled through your nose. Smoke curled around the two of you in an intimate dance, wisps dancing and dissolving into thin air before your gaze fluttered shut completely, letting yourself freefall for the second time that night.

Hands reached out, both yours and his, yours clasping in the thick leather of his jacket lapels and clenching tight, willing him to step closer, press into you, consume you whole. He was already a step ahead of you, flicking his cigarette into the gravel before an arm came to curl around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. The calloused fingers digging into your jaw and cheeks pried a little harder, keeping you open and pliant as he pushed his tongue into your mouth, flicking against your own with a kind of expertise that made your stomach flip. A soft, airy noise passed your lips at the intrusion, one of your hands shifting up, desperate for purchase, something to ground you. It settled on cupping the back of his neck, fingertips carding through the short dark tresses there.

You felt your legs shake, felt your knees threaten to give out from under you when his arm encasing your waist shifted down, strong hand taking a fistful of the meat on your hip and tugging you into the line of his body. The small, surprised little noise you emitted must have amused him, feeling his lips curl at the corners before he pulled away a scant inch, tongue slow to return back between his lips. 

"Fuck you taste good," He purrs, thumb sliding down from your cheek to press into the plush of your bottom lip, pushing so the tip of his nail tapped against your teeth. You had half a mind to part your lips for him, let him probe, encourage him. And you did, kind of, parted your lips imperceptibly, jaw hanging open enough for him to fit the tip of his thumb between your teeth, only for you to gently clamp down. It was cheeky, teasing, half-mast gaze staring up at him through your lashes. The hum he emitted was pleased, yet intrigued. Using the leverage of the thumb between your teeth, he hooked his index finger under your chin and tipped your head back, leaning again.  

It was a strange sensation, the possessive nature of his grip mixed with the soft of his lips against the corner of your mouth trailing down, the scratch of his stubble sending a shiver from head to toe. Your eyelids flutter, unfocused as you stare up at the clear starry sky above, fingers winding tighter in the back of Wolfwood's hair. He returned the action with a nip at your jaw, canines sinking into your skin enough to make it sting, eliciting a gasp from you. Ever the opportunist, his thumb probed further, pressing the pad into the center of your tongue. His mouth worked back up, warm words falling on deaf ears as he breathes against you, into you, sealing his lips over yours again in a kiss that was more teeth and tongue than lips. 

He must have felt your legs shake, the weight of you leaning into him for support, because the hand squeezing at your hip moved down, passing the swell of your ass and cupping your upper thigh, coaxing you to wrap your leg around him. You oblige this time, though end up gasping into his greedy mouth when he displays effortless strength in hiking you up, winding your legs around his hips, and resting you down against the metal meridian overlooking the cliffside. 

The press of him against you, the solid plane of his chest bumping against yours, the half-hard tent in his pants you nearly mistook for a belt buckle pressing into your lower stomach, a rumbled out groan coming from between his lips when your legs wound around him tighter, pulling him more firmly against you.

"Shit," He murmured against your lips between heated kisses, "Y'er eager, huh?"

Normally your first instinct would be to knock him down a peg or two if he sounded so cocky, but the aftershocks of adrenaline were coursing hot through your body, leaving wake for burning desire you'd been pushing down for far too long just to seem like you had the upper hand. You nodded, humming a noise of affirmation, tapering off into something a little filthier when you felt the roll of his hips, angling his hips down. When you moaned low, that seemed to be enough to kick him into action. 

Both hands slung under your thighs, tugging you close and pulling you up, carrying you back towards his car. Your heart thudded in your chest, anxiety rising like bile in your throat at what was to come, unsure how exactly you could bring up something so detrimental this far in. That, coupled with the tender squeeze of your heart when his hand cupped the back of your head, protecting it from potentially getting bumped against the arch of the door while he climbed in with you in his lap, had you second guessing your own hubris of flying so close to the sun.

"Relax," Wolfwood said low, seeming to catch your sudden unease. Feeling brave, you glanced up to meet his gaze. 

His eyes were dark, umber brown blown wide, nearly black, and despite him looking like he was ready to eat you alive, there was a kindness swimming behind it all. So, when he spoke low, an intimate husky timbre, you believed him. "Don't gotta do anything you don't wanna do. Jus' tell me." 

Only managing a nod, he mirrored the action, fingers trailing from their position at the top of your head and gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger. He was slow to pull you in again, as if he was waiting for protest. When he wasn't met with any, he indulged, though a little less messy and a little less hungry. This time, he worked you open, eased you into it, placed both of his hands on either of your knees straddling his lap and palmed upwards. The touch had you sinking, tension easing from your body as you lowered yourself more firmly into his lap. You were met with the hardness straining against his dark jeans, the zipper pressing up between the apex of your thighs. You moaned, small and hesitant, and he nipped your lip, a silent command to not hold yourself back. 

One of his hands shifted up, ghosting higher between your legs, and suddenly your nerves came to a tipping point. Eyes clenched shut, brows furrowed, you feel the heat of his hand pressing up against your pelvis.

"Nick-" You gape, sucking a sharp breath between clenched teeth, preparing for the worst. There was a pause in the pressure of his touch when he clearly didn't find what he was looking for, a falter, and you were ready to stumble out and run before his touch glided down, two fingers pressing firm against the crease in your jeans. Your hips kicked, a gasp ripped from your throat when his fingers probed a little harder, cunt leaking from months of neglect. His movements were smooth, languid, urging your thighs apart just a fraction wider as his touch grew more bold.

He hummed an appreciative noise, tongue passing over your jaw, then biting down, his touch working in small circles. "Keepin' secrets from me, pretty boy?" 

His lack of negative reaction had your heart soaring, nerves dissipating in an instant. You must have looked surprised, stunned in the moment, because he huffed an amused breath against your warmed skin while his hands worked at the button of your pants. Feeling the need to clear the air, ask your questions, your lips parted, question hanging on the tip of your tongue, only to have the hand delving into the front of your pants punching the air from your lungs, winding you. 

A deep, gravelly groan- something more akin to a growl- came from the depths of his chest when he felt the patch of wet in the crotch of your underwear. "So fuckin' eager," He mouthed against your cheek, swiping a stripe down, then up, hand coming up high enough to slip beneath the band and work his way back down. You could barely breathe, skillful hands working your stiffened clit between his index and middle finger. It was too much, yet too little at the same time, hips bucking into the touch desperately seeking more friction, more fullness.

Hazy eyes cracked open just in time to catch the shift of his free hand running over his own pants while he worked you so expertly, the heel of his palm dragging hard against the defined line straining against dark washed denim. Despite the confidence in his demeanor, he looked messy, hair tousled and lips parted, eyes trained on you with a sense of reverence that made you whimper. You watched his jaw tighten, watched the tendons in his neck flex when his fingers trailed low, catching on your weeping entrance. He was met with eager compliance, sliding your hips forwards on his lap, sending you leaning back against the steering wheel, inadvertently causing his fingers to dip deeper. 

You were wet, impossibly so, head tipping back and eyes sliding shut as Wolfwood worked deeper, caressing the spongy spot inside you with effortless ease, like he knew exactly where to touch you and how. The pitchy noises falling from your lips had him humming low, adjusting in his seat to push his hips forward, fingers stroking faster, curling. 

"Shit. Fuck. Up," You heard him mutter, though gave you no time to process the request before his fingers slipped out of you. You jolt, whining petulantly, only to have both of his hands grabbing at your ass and hiking you up. You complied, thighs burning at the angle you were kneeled at, hips arched, sun-kissed fingers curling into the band of your pants and underwear, sliding down. 

It was clumsy, clumsier than you'd like to admit, sliding them down to your knees just far enough to reveal the slick sticking to your thighs. You kept your ass up, hips arched, as Wolfwood fumbled with his own belt. You found it endearing in some way, how his fingers slipped a couple times taking out the prong, pulling with a hurried impatience. He didn't even bother undoing it all the way, working his button and zipper quickly after. 

You nearly sputtered when he hiked his pants down to sit at his mid-thigh, cock standing proud between you with a silent intimidation with the size and girth. It wasn't completely insane, but considering you'd had nothing but a humble vibrator and your own fingers for a good hot minute, it had your cheeks warming with anxious anticipation. This made him chuckle, cocky and gravelly and deep, but you couldn't find it in yourself to snap something back at him. 

A hand on your hip urged you to settle back into his lap, shuffling a bit to find a better angle. You tucked your knees up, back hunched as he pressed you more firmly back against the steering wheel, suddenly thankful for the lack of surface area providing a horn. He seemed to read your mind, one hand under your thigh and keeping you bent, the other gripping the base of his cock and sliding against the sopping wet crease of your cunt. "Thank fuck for six-bolt," Wolfwood mused, but you were far too occupied watching the slide of his leaking tip caressing your swollen clit to process or care about what he was talking about. 

His palm was hot under your leg, hiking it up a little higher, your muscles screaming from the angle of your knee pressing into your chest. He continued to tease, tapping the weight of him against you, enjoying the wet smack against your clit. You startled, yelped, bucked your hips with a depraved whine, hoping that he would get the idea and just fuck you already.

The hand holding the base of his cock angled it down, thumb pressing at the center as he pulled his hips back, pressed the tip into you, slowly sliding forward. Your breath caught in your lungs, trying desperately to arch into him, push him deeper, faster, but the hand steadfast against the meat of your leg kept you locked in place. 

"Fuck," He groaned out long and low, fingers digging into your skin and pulling you into the upwards thrust of his hips. He was teasing you with it, you know he was, your eyes glassy from both frustration and overwhelming pleasure. His other hand locked onto your hip, pulling you down closer, just a little faster, until he was fully seated inside of you. You were already trembling, clenching around him, and you could feel his cock kick inside of you, a punched out sound coming from between his clenched teeth. 

From the way Wolfwood had been handling you, you expected him to start out slow, ease into it, torture you a little bit longer than necessary just for a little payback. That certainly wasn't the case, not with the way he pushed your thighs up, pinned you against the wheel, and fucked his hips up into you with reckless abandon. You cried out, eyes slid shut, hands scrambling for purchase on anything they could. One hand curled around the smooth edge of the dashboard, short nails digging into the thick leather finish, the other coming up and grabbing at the handle above the driver's side door. 

Wolfwood was ruthless, weeks of obvious interest and yearning poured into each roll of his hips, each pull to meet every thrust, the frantic grip and release and caress of his hands against your bare skin. You could barely keep your eyes open, struggling to keep them parted as you panted, gasped, moaned for him, the smell of sex filling the car, fogging the windows. Umber eyes locked onto the part of your lips, glossy and kiss-plush, spit slicked, his jaw hanging slack as he fucked into you.

"Fuck, baby," Wolfwood growled, the term of endearment making your pussy clench around him a little tighter. He huffed a noise, his hand trembling imperceptibly as it left your leg, coming between your legs, swiping quick lines back and forth over your clit in an attempt to push you closer to the edge. With the falter of his hips, the stutter in his thrusts, you could tell he was close. "C'mon, pretty boy- give it to me."

His commanding tone had your head swimming, lightheaded and floating. The coil in your gut wound tighter, needing more, anything more to push you over the edge. 

Your hand left the dashboard, reaching out and curling nimble fingers in the collar of Wolfwood's low cut shirt. Twisting the fabric in your grip, you tugged him into you, earning a surprise noise quickly muffled by your greedy open mouth. He returned the fervor, letting out a long groan as he pulled you down, keeping you bouncing on his cock as your climax hit you. 

Brows arched, tongue eager, you mewled and whined into his mouth as your body trembled, cunt clenched, your slick and his pre-cum coating your inner thighs and dripping down. He pulled back just a fraction of an inch, a shuddered breath leaving his throat, a low moan, hips snapping up once, twice, continuing to fuck you even as he filled you to the brim. Everything slowed, your legs shaking in his grip, cheeks ruddy and face hot, sticky and high and satisfied beyond relief. 

He panted against your lips, exchanging heavy breaths for a moment or two longer before he leaned in again, stealing you one last time with an open tenderness you didn't expect from someone like Wolfwood. You parted, heart still racing, slowing in the silence that stretched between you as you caught your breaths. The only noise between you was a grunt from Wolfwood as he pulled you up and off his softening cock, his gaze trailing down to the slow drip of your shared fluids making a mess out of his jeans and car seat. He exhaled, smirk curling at the corners of his lips as he helped you pull up your underwear and pants. 

Urging you over the console, a flat palm collided playfully with your ass, making you jump and nearly hit your head on the bars stretching overhead. You glance back to glare, but he was too occupied tucking himself into his pants to catch your ire. Lucky him. 

You settle into your seat, thighs still weak and trembling, fingertips red and sore from how tightly you had been gripping the hand bar. Weakly, you grasp at the seatbelt, struggling with shaky hands to clip it in. Wolfwood was quick to reach over, hand engulfing your own to steady it, helping you get the clasp in with a quiet click. His hand came up, gently caressing your chin much as he had at the diner earlier that night, before grabbing his carton of cigarettes and shaking one loose. Your eyes slide shut, head back against the headrest as you hear him roll down the window and spark up, smell the familiar brand you've come to call comforting, then the rumble of the car engine as Wolfwood starts it up and pulls away from the cliffside shoulder. 

The drive towards your house was muss less action-packed, surprised to see Wolfwood actually doing the speed limit compared to how much he seemed to be doing earlier. It was quiet, favoring the low hum of the radio. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, you found, both of you simply satiated, satisfied, relaxing in the presence of each other. 

When Wolfwood pulled up in front of your house, he left the engine running, leaving you to think that maybe this was it. Maybe he got what he'd been wanting from you, and maybe this would make things easier when you eventually got to leave this shitty town. You unbuckled your seatbelt, though once again he was reaching out, grabbing your hand. He leaned over, taking the buckle from you and tucking it back in its place. An off gesture, you think, but when he comes back he's holding your chin in the palm of his hand, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your lips. It was chaste, long, but when he pulled back you could see an unfiltered kindness in his eyes. 

"See you tomorrow?" He asked, and your heart swelled, chest rose as you inhaled deep. 

With a smile, a soft amused breath, you nodded.