OMMGGGH IM GOING INSANE!!!

OMMGGGH IM GOING INSANE!!!

Im so so happy already hehe

Cant wait to see this beautiful humanbeing again!!!😍 I mean, yea .. there is a S3 we are waiting for... STILL HAPPY HEHE

THIS IS DESTROYING ME!!! 😍😍😍😍

Alan Ritchson in Reacher Season 2

Currently watching Reacher S2 again....WHY IS HE SO PRETTY AND HANDSOME AND WONDERFUL AND COOL ABD LOVEABLE AND CUTE AND BJCDKKDDKD

Im not okay

Im not fine

He is too fine

Please leave me alone

(Dont)

I CANT

(look at this back goddamn)

BRO ITS KILLLLLLING ME 😍😍😍😍😍😍

Agghhhhh!!!!!!

The things you'll do for a cup of coffee, pt2

I genuinely don't know if this is any good at this point and I'm so tired, I'm not sure I care. It is what it is, and if it entertains you, that's awesome. But I wrote 10,500 words of it, so I'm posting it, dammit! Also, my mom is currently in the hospital, so I could use the distraction right now, and my foot kind of hurts because I did actually drop an entire fucking wheelchair on it a few days ago and it's not broken, but yeah...it's not in perfect shape, either.

Find it on ao3 | Story Masterlist | My Masterlist (of masterlists)

The continuing adventures of Reacher and his caffeine addict girlfriend. In part two, you've broken your foot and have to stay off it for a few days, but you're quickly starting to go a little stir crazy. Reacher will have to be a little creative to keep you distracted.

Things to expect: explicit smut featuring dom!Reacher who likes to be called 'Sir', sub!reader who's kind of a brat, light bondage/restraints (zip ties), pretty mild bdsm, Reacher being a mother hen who *may* have carried you to the hospital bridal-style when you broke your foot, also he sometimes slips away randomly to take an entire branch of the Russian mob who randomly showing up at dinner with a black eye and some ribs, sex toys, vaginal penetration, orgasm edging/control/denial, referenced oral/anal/vaginal sex, mild pain as pleasure/spanking, blindfolds (sort of), gags (duct tape)...coming in around 10,500 words. Also featuring some typos and me talking myself in circles because I edited this at 2am. But hey, if you like this and want more Reacher smut, feel free to let me know in my asks, okay?

“Don’t even think about it.” Reacher’s voice is low and rough, filled with the sort of menace that you’ve really only seen him use with very, very bad people before. It should probably frighten you to hear the sound of it, especially since it’s actually directed at you this time, but—lord help you—it doesn’t sound menacing so much as it sounds delicious. Delectable. Mouth-watering.

Or maybe that’s just your natural reaction to Reacher when you look up at all six feet, five inches of sheer muscle and pure masculine power at the foot of the motel bed. He’s glaring down at you like you’re a recalcitrant child, his arms crossed in his most serious pose that’s always a little more distracting to you than he probably means it to be. Because, really, those arms. Those arms. It takes physical effort to drag your eyes from them and to look up at the scowling face of Reacher, somehow more devastating in how deadly serious it is. You silently wonder if there’s something a little wrong with you that you find that face so attractive when you’ve seen literal assassins and crime lords nearly piss their pants at the sight of it.

You lean back on your arms and gaze up at him. “What?” You try to sound innocent even though you both know exactly what you were going to do.

Reacher’s eyebrows go up, framing his chocolate eyes with a tawny gold and somehow, somehow, this look on Reacher is even better than the last one. Which, you think then, is a sure sign that you’ve about had it and you’re one fucking second from making a run for the door and getting back out into civilization and the fresh air and the Starbucks. You’ve actually stopped somewhere with a Starbucks for once!

It's either get coffee or jump Reacher, you think. Those are your only two options.

Of course, both of them together would be ideal, but the odds of that happening at this moment are pretty unlikely.

“You know what,” Reacher says impatiently. He adjusts those arms over his chest and your eyes stray downward to them for only a second, just to watch the bulging and flexing of muscles there, big palms closed. God, how you love those hands of his and all the things he can do with them. “The doctor said you had to stay off your foot as much as possible for a few days.”

You bite back a groan and mentally throttle the doctor from the emergency room. You should have gone without Reacher, you think. You should have just iced your foot and toughed out the pain. You should have just not broken your goddamn foot in the first place, and then you wouldn’t be stuck in this motel room with your foot in a boot and the biggest—and you do mean biggest—mother hen of all fucking time babysitting you.

“I am staying off my foot,” you reply, both of you knowing full well that it’s a lie. You’ve already gotten up twice today to sneak down to a vending machine for snacks. You even tried to bribe the guy who works in the motel office into distracting Reacher for you so you could go get a coffee—a good coffee.

You need coffee.

“So, what you were just about to do before I got here?”

You blink up at him as if you have no idea what the hell he’s talking about. As if you weren’t just about to hippity hop across the room to your cell phone to answer whoever was just calling you and, you think, whoever is just now being sent to voicemail. And then maybe order a pizza. Or an Uber. “I was just going to get the remote and turn on the TV.” God, please, no more TV. “River Monsters is on,” you pause to mentally add again, “and I hear Jeremy Wade gets bitten by a giant fish in this episode.” Like every episode. Idiot.

So. Fucking. Bored. You can’t take any more of sitting around in motel rooms and watching TV. You’d just spent a good ten hours on a bus with Reacher getting to this city when you broke your foot getting off the bus in a hurry because you had to find a bathroom as soon as fucking possible. And because Reacher is Reacher, you were taken to the closest emergency room so you could get your foot x-rayed and put into a boot, before eventually being carried—fucking carried, bridal style, which wasn’t really all that bad, if you’re being completely honest about it—back to the motel.

Where you’ve been for two full days, going slowly mad because you hate sitting still and Reacher is determined to give your foot a few days of rest just like the doctor ordered.

“It’s not going to get better if you don’t give it time to heal,” Reacher insists, clearly not believing your story. “And the swelling won’t start to go down until you give it at least a few days of rest.” You can almost hear the doctor’s voice along with Reacher’s when he says it.

The look you give Reacher then is one of pure annoyance. “You know, I recall not too long ago that one of us got all cut up with a knife and needed stitches,” you remind him, narrowing your eyes as you glare at him. “And one of us helped stitch the big idiot up and told him that he had to be more careful and stop being so reckless or he was going to get seriously hurt. And then one of us just blatantly ignored all of that and went and took out an entire Russian mob, all by himself, without waiting for any input from anybody else.” Your voice has been slowly rising with each new one of us, your shoulders pulling together as you push yourself up a little further and your glare becomes more pointed. “And then one of us even had the balls to play the whole thing off like it was no big deal and they didn’t just sneak off for a few hours one afternoon to destroy an entire branch of an international crime organization all by themselves, only to show up at dinner with a split lip and a black eye, and some ribs from the diner downstairs.”

There’s a moment between the two of you as you continue to glare at Reacher and Reacher just stares right back at you. Then, “Which one are you in this story?”

The balls. The nerve. The sheer audacity of it. “You know what, Reacher?” That giant hunk of gorgeousness that is Jack Reacher actually has the balls to look amused as you glare up at him now, eyes bright with humor, his mouth pulled into that thin hint of a smile he gets—the one that always makes you swoon when you see it. “Come on over here,” you invite him over with a soft nod of your head. “I’m going to beat you to death with one of my crutches.”

The little smile gets bigger and damned if Reacher doesn’t look boyish and charming and so damn handsome that it’s just not right as he watches you. “Shouldn’t you surprise me instead of telling me what you’re planning, Y/N?” Reacher takes a heavy step toward the end of the bed and something feels different now, something in the way he’s holding himself and how he’s looking down at you. Dark and hungry and predatory. “It’s not as effective if I can see it coming.”

You know that look, you think. “Nope,” you tell him quickly, trying to cut it off at the knees. “Nope, it’s not happening.” Reacher gives you a surprised look, but it’s tempered by humor and, yes, lust. “I’ve been trapped in this hotel room for two days now and you’ve been hovering over me this entire time. I’m bored out of my mind and I’m going stir crazy and I’m in no mood for sex.” You pinch your lips and drag your gaze from Reacher’s beautiful face, down to those strong arms, and finally to one of his hands—his powerful hands with long, thick fingers that—okay, so maybe you are kind of in the mood for sex, but you’re still not going to tell him that. “You’ll just have to take care of yourself for a while.”

“That’s too bad.” Reacher has this way of sounding wholly unconvinced at your resolve. You find it absolutely infuriating.

“Too fucking bad.” You give him a sharp look. A look of pure determination and will that says that you are absolutely not giving in.

You’re not.

“Because I was thinking that if you’re so bored,” Reacher says, sounding so casual that you have trouble believing your eyes when he stretches his arms and shoulders out and lets you see the zip ties and duct tape that he’d somehow managed to keep hidden from you in his hands. “I could keep you entertained for a little while.”

You’re suddenly very still from where you’re positioned on the bed, your heart racing a little faster as you glance between the zip ties and the duct tape in thought. Your gaze moves slowly from the goods in Reacher’s hands back up to his face as you smack dry lips against each other and give him an appraising look. “Decided not to travel with only your toothbrush anymore, Reacher?”

Reacher’s smile gets a little bigger, a little more hungry and dangerous. “Actually, I found these in your suitcase,” Reacher answers with a shrug, taking one more heavy step to stop directly at the end of the bed and tower over you. The motel room suddenly feels smaller now that he’s standing so close to you, all tall and broad and powerful, that dangerous smile still on his face. “From when you were trying to patch that hole in the side of it a few cities ago.”

You remember. The two of you were in southern Florida, exploring the Everglades and chasing down the latest blues singer whose trail Reacher was following. You found the worn-out spot in your suitcase because a snake nearly got into it and hitched a ride with the two of you. Patching it with some duct tape seemed like the easiest, smartest move at the time.

Not that it matters at this exact moment. Not with the way that Reacher is looking at you. Not with the way that you’re reacting to him, suddenly very aware of how close he is to you and the strength contained in those powerful arms and legs of his. Of the tension in each corded muscle as if Reacher is wound up tight and ready to spring.

“In fact,” Reacher drawls in that low, silky voice of his. The one he only uses with you. His thighs bump the end of the bed, careful not to get too close to your broken foot. You feel the heavy weight of him there, his body pressing against it as he leans forward and you feel smaller and smaller the closer he gets. “You have a lot of interesting things in your suitcase that you haven’t told me about.” Your body gradually lowers on your arms, further and further back as Reacher moves over you, until you’re flat on the bed with Reacher carefully propped above you—heavy and warm and so, so close.

You lay back in the bed, arms at your sides, suddenly feeling too hot in the small motel room and unable to think much past Reacher’s presence above you. The size of him. His arms on either side of your head, palms open as the zip ties and duct tape are left carefully beside them. The humor in his eyes and his smile, the way that smile slips infinitesimally out of place as humor gradually gives way to desire. His nostrils flare and gaze hardens. He moves a leg between your thigh, sliding carefully between your legs until it comes to brush against the crotch of your pajama shorts, thick and warm as he purposefully moves it between your thighs to let the size of it drag over the wet of your panties and push against your folds in a long, teasing motion.

You swallow, trying to drown out the wave of heat and arousal that’s suddenly so fucking strong that it’s impossible to ignore. The quiet tremble of anticipation in your limbs. The heat in your core. Your nipples pebbled against the fabric of the t-shirt you stole from Reacher the last time he tried to exchange clothes at a thrift store, the bud hard and sensitive with each gentle tug of cotton against them.

“What things?” Your mouth is dry. Your heart is pounding in your ears. One of Reacher’s hands moves as he balances his weight carefully on the other and you’re dying to look over it, at the arm taking all that weight, but you can’t look away when Reacher’s free hand is moving toward your face. His mouth twitches into a faint smirk, but there’s no humor there whatsoever when he traces his fingers over your lips, his eyes tracking every movement of the touch before he looks slowly back up to meet your gaze.

“You know what things.” He holds your gaze as he traces his fingers over your lips for another moment, calloused fingertips on delicate skin. His thigh shifts subtly against your cunt, your panties damp with arousal as your body clenches instinctively around nothing. You’re forcing yourself to take slow, steady breaths as his hand suddenly moves lower, easing gently over your jawline and to your throat in one slow, smooth motion. His big palm settles there, spread over your throat and encompassing it with one hand, impossible to ignore as he closes it just enough to remind you how vulnerable you are underneath him, how powerless. If you didn’t trust Reacher so damn much, if it were anyone else, you’d be afraid of the strength in that hand and how helpless you are in this position.

But Reacher—well, the little squeeze you feel then, the way he just lays claim to your throat like that as he towers over you, the way you couldn’t fight him off right now if you wanted to…you’re pretty sure that you’re panties are soaked through by now and your pajama shorts are probably a damn interesting sight, too.

“Or do I need to remind you while I’m keeping you off your feet?” His thumb strokes over your throat softly, right over your pulse point, your heart racing underneath his touch. His gaze is fixed on you, flecks of gold mixed in with brown as the light catches it just right. He lets out a long exhale and you feel your face burning from his breath and from your awareness of him. Your leg with the broken foot is carefully splayed out on the bed to keep your injured foot out of the way, but it shifts and bends at the knee, your heel digging into the mattress. You’re only half aware of what your body is doing, your legs trying to close in and drive him further between your thighs, trying to get more contact, to get something closer to your cunt, something inside of you. His smirk grows a little bigger, his gaze a little more heated.

His thumb stops stroking. “Well, Y/N?”

A question.

Permission.

As if you would ever say no to Jack Reacher.

“You’re all talk.” A challenge, low and breathy, the words vibrating against his hand around your throat. Your nipples ache, they’re so hard as you feel his hand when you speak. Your chest rises and falls with each steadied breath. You, pinned beneath him and at Reacher’s mercy.

“Alright, then.” Reacher takes up the challenge and you feel a dizzy sort of euphoria when he does. The heat of his proximity disappears as he pushes himself back up on the bed, maneuvering himself gingerly around you as you watch settle to the side of you. You let out a surprised yelp when Reacher suddenly grabs both of your wrists and gently tugs you up the bed, pulling them together and using a zip tie to attach them to the head of the bed. He gives it a sharp pull, working it carefully so that you can’t get loose but it’s not too tight, either. “How’s that feel?”

Perfect. “I’m not impressed.” You sigh and shake your head at him. “Really, Jack,” you say, goading him on in your sweetest voice. “Is this the best you can do?”

 As much as Reacher doesn’t like being called Jack—and you can see how much he doesn’t by the subtle vein in his forehead and the way his eyes narrow at you ever so slightly—you can tell that he’s taking it the way it’s meant to be taken. That he’s even amused by it as he slowly leaves your hands where they are and moves next to you on the bed, his gaze leisurely dragging over the length of you before coming back up to meet yours. “You know, if you keep talking back to me like that, I might have to find another use for that mouth of yours.” His eyes stray down to your mouth with an intense look as he gets a slow, sinful grin, as if he’s mentally creating a list of all the things that he could do with your mouth.

You’re clenching your legs together unconsciously as you watch him. You don’t even notice that you’re already turning your wrists in the zip tie, unable to keep too still from all the pent-up energy you have from being stuck in the motel room for so long and the way he’s looking at you now. “Are you sure that you’re up to the task, Jack?” God, but you love the way he’s looking at you with a mixture of irritation and pure carnal desire. “I’m just not sure if you’re a big enough man to get the job done.”

Reacher grins—a wide, feline grin that ratches your body up another notch. He leans in close to you, a hand coming to rest just above your breast and moving casually lower as his face comes in close to yours. He cups your breast through your t-shirt and kneads it gently, holding onto it as if it belongs to him. It might as well for the way you’re arching into it, and him, when he leans in as if to kiss you. Reacher is one of those men who just has a presence, who you can’t but notice in a way that has nothing to do with the bulk of him and everything to do with that quiet sense of power and authority that radiates from him. Every time he walks into a room, everyone can’t help but notice. Every time he smirks at you or lays claim to you, like he is now as he toys with your breast and thumbs at your hardened nipple, sending a sharp wave of pleasure straight through you, everything else in the room falls away.

Every time he leans in to kiss you, his face mere inches from yours, the heat of his breath against your skin, chocolate brown eyes focused in on your every reaction, his presence overpowers everything else.

It’s perhaps your favorite thing about being in a relationship with Reacher. That moment of absolute disconnect from the rest of the world and everything in it. Just you and him in this single moment and the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. The way he’s touching you as if you belong to him completely. The way he leans in to kiss you, letting his lips graze gently against yours as his nose brushes yours lightly and he almost but not quite kisses you.

“When I’m done,” Reacher says against yours lips, playing with your nipple, his big body leaning overs yours, “you’re going to remember exactly how big a man I am by taking every inch of my cock in your mouth.” The kiss he gives you then is insistent and aggressive, claiming your mouth with a low growl that vibrates against you. “Until you’re covered in spit and tears from taking me in your throat.” Another kiss, his lips bruising yours, his tongue pressing inside to explore your mouth as his body angles further above you. “And when I’m ready…” A hard, nipping kiss at your bottom lip as you try to catch your breath. “You’re going to hold your tongue out for me to cum in your mouth and swallow every,” he pauses for emphasis, hand kneading your breast a little more roughly, fingers moving to pinch at a nipple with new word, “last…drop.” Your body clenches underneath him as Reacher pinches your sensitive nipple between his fingers. Reacher doesn’t give you any space at all, doesn’t move so much as an inch from where he’s pressing his mouth against yours, until you’re practically drowning in the heat of him. “What do you think of that, Y/N?”

Truth be told, you can’t think. At least, not that clearly, not quicky enough to respond. Not with  Reacher’s lips on yours, his breath in your mouth, the taste of him. Not with his hands on you, a palm so big that it perfectly cups your breast as if your body was made just for Reacher’s touch, just so he could pinch and fondle and explore every part of you. Some part of you is aware of your wrists twisting in the zip tie, of how if you keep going like this, it’s going to hurt and leave marks, but you just don’t fucking care. Not with the image of Reacher’s cock in your mouth, your face sloppy with sucking him off, his gaze focused entirely on you as you swallow his seed and lick at your own lips to ensure that you’ve taken every last drop of him.

There’s a hum of amusement from Reacher as he gazes down at you, nuzzling his softly against your face. “Use your words, Y/N. I’m not going to give you anything unless you tell me you want it.” Another hard, bruising kiss, the kind that steals breath that you don’t really have as you sink into the bed underneath him. “If you want me to make you feel good, you need to ask me for it.” He lets out a low, dangerous chuckle. “If you want to suck my cock,” Reacher stares down at you with a look of pure lust. “You’re going to be a good girl and beg me for it.” Reacher moves to press his body against you and let you feel the thick bulge of his cock through his jeans, grinding it near your hip, dangerously close to your soaking cunt. “Do you want me to make you feel good, Y/N?” Another hard press of his cock against you, his thigh thick between your legs and brushing against soaked panties and pajama shorts. His hand leaves your breast and moves lower, lower, teasing over your hip, at the waist of your pajama shorts.

“Yes.” A breathy whisper, spoken on a pant with air that you’ve barely managed to breathe.

Reacher’s heavy body rumbles against yours with a quiet huff of amusement. “Yes?” His hand rests at the waistband of your shorts, fingers close to slipping underneath as his thumb traces circles over your stomach. “Yes, what?” Reacher holds your gaze with a stoney intensity, the overpowering presence of Jack Reacher that makes it impossible to ignore him, to back way, to do anything but just give in as he refuses to give you even an inch of space, demanding everything.

“Yes, Sir.” A new wave of heat moves over you at the words, the way they sound in your voice, the taste of them. The submission there, calling Reacher Sir, a dizzy sort of feeling that feels like being drunk.

“Hmmm…” It sounds guttural, like Reacher has become a man possessed, like he’s more beast than man as his thumb traces maddening circles against your stomach, fingers slipping beneath your shirt and the waistband of your shorts to move over bare skin. He kisses you again, softer this time but just as insistent, pressing his weight down against you as his tongue claims your mouth for himself. “That’s good, Y/N.” His hand slips lower, lower, at a torturously slow pace, into your shorts, over the band of your lacy panties—the ones you bought especially for Reacher a few weeks ago, just to drive him crazy when he sees you wear them. His hand is warm through the thin lace as it moves slowly over your hip, teasing toward your cunt at an agonizing pace. “But I think you can do better, don’t you?” His lips touch yours, not even in a full kiss this time—just a grazing of lips, his tongue dragging over yours, a tasting more than anything else. “Now, tell me what you want, Y/N.”

Your skin is on fire, but whether it’s from Reacher on top of you or the way he’s touching you, or your own need, or from the goddamn words coming out of your mouth…you don’t know. You don’t care. Everything else is long forgotten at this point and you couldn’t care about anything of it if you tried. Your broken foot, being stuck in the motel, Reacher hovering over you constantly to ensure that your foot gets time to rest, the stupid TV playing the same stupid reruns over and over again, the coffee shop you desperately want to visit, his hands on you.

His hands on you. Fingers sliding over lace soaked with your juices, over your slit, two thick digits pressing against the material as if to bury inside of you while your thighs part to give him more room and his body brushes down against your nipples that are pebbled through the thin material of your shirt.

“Tell me what you want, Y/N.” His voice is dangerous, with just an edge of cruelty, just an edge of don’t fuck with me. Of the Jack Reacher who makes grown men pale just by giving them one hard look. Jack Fucking Reacher, who never backs down. “Tell me.”

“Please.” It’s a struggle to remind yourself exactly what you’re supposed to be saying, what you’re supposed to be asking for. Those fingers push against you, push lace between your folds and nearly inside of you. “Please make me feel good, Sir.”

“Good girl.” Reacher practically purrs his approval, and if the feeling of his body against yours, his chest rumbling against sensitive nipples in a soft, tickling sensation that makes you want more, wasn’t good enough, the praise is. Oh, does the praise feel so good to hear, nearly as good as his lips so close to yours and his hand cupping your wet cunt through your panties. “That’s a good girl for me.” His big palm settles against your cunt, hot as it strokes over you there, your folds spread open from where your legs have parted to give him more access, a delightful combination of heat and desire. He kisses you again, but it’s soft—softer than anything so far, a gentle touching of lips that feels hazy and intimate. “How do you want me to make you feel good?” Reacher drags his palm up and down your cunt, letting you feel the heat of it over every inch of your slit, up to your clit, pausing to rest his palm there for a second before moving lower again. “Be specific for me, Y/N. Ask me very nicely for what you want and maybe I’ll think about giving it to you.”

Your face is burning—you can’t help it. Your mouth feels dry and you want to smack your lips, to run your tongue over them, to do something to moisten your mouth and give yourself a chance to breathe, to cool down, to steady yourself.

“I’m waiting, Y/N.” His palm curls against your cunt, fingers hooking at the edge of the crotch of your panties. One little tug from Reacher’s hand is all it takes to make those panties dig in, to bunch material at the cheeks of your ass, a cord of lace over your parted cunt as your hips to follow the tug until they reach Reacher’s body and he presses you back down. “You can do this for me, Y/N. Tell me now.”

“I—” You shiver a little against the panties as Reacher gradually lets go, palm resting at your cunt again, fingers against flesh. “I want you to touch my cunt, Sir.” You never do get used to saying it aloud—that’s probably part of why Reacher likes it so much, likes to tease you with it until you can barely remember the words to put them together at all.

That’s probably part of why it feels so fucking good to say, to hear your own trembling voice and words you would never say to anyone else, words that belong only to Reacher while he gazes down at you like you’re the perfect fucking prey—the midnight snack he’s been craving for days and just now gets to indulge in.

He doesn’t look smug so much as cruel with satisfaction at hearing you say it, at giving in. “Close, Y/N.” You’d be infuriated at the amusement in his voice, at the way he’s staring down at you, if only you had the ability to think. “You’re getting better. But it’s not exactly what I wanted from you, now, is it?”

One of his thick fingers moves over the length of your slit, dipping just inside of you, and you make a little squeak of a sound at the touch, something desperate and pathetic and so filled with need because damn Reacher for drawing this out so fucking long and—he angles himself so that you can’t help but look directly into his eyes every time your own flutter open, every time he teases you with a hand at your cunt and presses his body down against you. Reacher is everywhere—touching you, on top of you, watching you, teasing you.

“You can do this, Y/N.” He rests his forehead against yours. “You know what I want.”

Your lips feel chapped, your throat dry as you swallow anxiously, your gaze trapped on his. “Please—” A breathy whisper of a sound with an edge of a whimper. “Please touch my cunt, Sir.”

The way Reacher looks at you then, the look of pride and desire there, is so erotic that it makes your body physically ache for more, your cunt clenching around nothing, your nipples barely being touched at all. Your skin, burning hot and so aware of Reacher right fucking next to you, but separated by clothes—too many clothes.

Why the fuck are you wearing so many clothes?

You should never wear clothes again, not if it means being separated from Reacher like this, not if it stops you from touching him the way you want to.

“Good girl.” The words make you wet, so wet against his hand that Reacher is moaning as he leans in and kisses you again, gently pushing against your lips, teeth scraping against them, his tongue on yours. “Such a good girl.” He gives you what you ask for, exploring your slit and letting that finger dip inside of you—a tip and then a knuckle, gradually burying fully inside, softly curling as you pant, or moan, or cry. You don’t even know what sounds you’re making anymore, what noises are coming from you, except that it’s all so fucking loud in your ears as Reacher hums and purrs and plays with your cunt. “You’re so wet, Y/N. So tight and wet.” He drags a finger from your cunt, then buries two back in, stretching you open as your cunt clenches around him and he stares down at you like nothing else in the world exists except the two of you in this bed and his fingers scissoring and curling in your cunt. “Do you like it when I play with your cunt like this, Y/N?”

You’re losing track of things—of the words you mean to say and the sounds you’re making, and the way Reacher is there in front of you and inside of you, and the low sound of his voice, rough like gravel, in your ears and vibrating against you. “Yes...Sir.”

But if Reacher can tell that you’re getting overwhelmed, it doesn’t seem to bother him. You’ve played this scene out, or one close enough to it, enough for him to know that you’re perfectly capable of telling him to back the fuck off if you need him to, and Reacher, the beautiful giant of man that he is, will back off.

Reluctantly, maybe, and with a great deal of effort, but he will.

Until that moment, though…

“What else, Y/N?” Until that moment, he’s not going to stop. “What else should I do to you?” Until that moment, Reacher always plans to draw the torture, a sweet torment that gets harder and harder to stand with each passing second. “Do you want me to take you like this?” His fingers draw back, your cunt agonizingly empty as your body tries to protest and follow his disappearing fingers, only to be pressed back into the bed by Reacher’s waist. “Do you want me to fuck you with my fingers like this until you cum?” Three fingers, thick and hot pushing inside of you, stroking over the walls of your cunt with a slow precision until they find the spot Reacher is looking for and your thighs try to close around him and your hips buck against him and you moan and Reacher—Reacher fucking grins.

A slow, wide grin, open and bright and too beautiful to process as he fingers you slowly, with delicate strokes, his forehead still resting against yours, his mouth so close to yours that you’re sharing breath as you pant and tremble underneath him.

“Is that what you want, Y/N?” It’s an endless torture, his fingers inside of you, his body pressing against you, your wrists twisting in the zip tie, unable to look anywhere but at him. “If that’s what you want, you need to tell me, Y/N. Remember? You need to ask me nicely.”

“Please…” It shouldn’t turn you on, hearing yourself beg. The way Reacher keeps pushing, always pushing, demanding and claiming. Teasing. It shouldn’t turn you on to hear yourself whimper and whine and beg for sexual satisfaction. “Please can I cum, Sir?” But it does.

The way Reacher grins as if he’s just won a prize, the way he’s so fucking careful with you even as he demands everything. It just makes sense, this thing that happens. You and Reacher. Submissive and dominant. Giving in and taking. A trust so intimate that the only part that frightens you is that one day you may not have it at all—the idea that maybe Reacher will grow tired of it and move on, and you won’t ever know that feeling again.

You won’t know what it’s like to look in his eyes and feel seen, wholly and completely, and to be desired. Your thighs are trembling with a rising climax and you’re practically whimpering with the building tension inside you, the heat between your thighs and the wet there.

“That’s good, Y/N.” You want to melt into that voice, to swim in it. To hear it every second of every day, singing your praises and telling you how good you are. “You’re just such a good job for me today.” If you were fully capable of thinking, if you could look at Reacher from a distance and see past the dizzy haze of sex and eroticism that that man just seems to radiate, you might recognize the mischievous look in his eyes, the way they sparkle and that his grin is just on this side of feral. You may know that you’re not going to get exactly what you want in exactly the way you’re asking for it.

But you’re not capable of that at this moment.

“You can cum, Y/N.” A hard press of his lips against yours, one of those kisses that steals breath from your lungs and reminds you who’s in charge, as if you could possibly forget at this moment. “I’ll make you cum all day long,” he promises, nearly as breathless as you. “But not yet.”

His fingers pull abruptly from your cunt and Reacher shifts easily on the bed, propping himself on his arm and bringing his fingers up into view. You’re still trying to process what just happened, the sudden loss of stimulation inside you, the emptiness there, when your head rolls to the side to watch him bring his damp fingers to his mouth and slowly taste you on them with a moan. “You always taste so good for me, Y/N. Do you know that?” He grins down at you while you slowly ease back from the almost orgasm, your body fucking throbbing with need. “I could taste you like this every day and never get tired of it. Such a delicious cunt.” Reacher makes a show of sucking your juices from one of his fingers, holding your gaze as he does.

It's devastating, just like Reacher, and in the context of what just happened—of Reacher teasing you so mercilessly and then pulling back, only to grin and taunt you like this—your response isn’t entirely rational.

“I think I hate you.”

Okay, it’s not at all rational.

But Reacher doesn’t care, doesn’t appear to take it seriously in the least. In fact, he just laughs, an infectious sound that would be glorious to hear if only you weren’t seconds away from an orgasm when he decided not to give it to you.

“I did say that I’d think about giving it to you,” Reacher reminds you with raised eyebrows and no remorse whatsoever. “I didn’t say that I would give it to you.” He pushes himself up on the bed and reaches for the duct tape. “Besides, we still haven’t gotten to have that talk about what you keep in your suitcase.” You watch him move to rip a piece of duct tape off the roll and turn back to you with an indecent grin. “And I think it should be a long, thorough conversation. Don’t you?”

You’re not sure what Reacher is planning now, but you think there’s a good chance you might not survive it. “Go fuck yourself, Reacher.”

Reacher knows better than to take you seriously when you say that, especially since you say it to him so often. Stupid bastard. “Maybe later. For now,” he pauses to look you over once, dragging his gaze back to your face slowly. “You know what to do if you need me to stop and you can’t say anything, right?”

“Kick you in the balls,” you offer.

The strip of tape is over your mouth before you can say anything else and you huff against it, making a low growling sound to let Reacher know that you’re going to get him back for this somehow, whatever this is that he’s planning.

“Such a perfect mouth.” Reacher ignores your growling, leaning down to kiss your taped mouth with a soft touch of his lipsbefore he pulls back. He reaches out to touch you again, a big palm that starts near your cunt—your hips arching against your will when his hand draws just a little too close it, your body desperate for him to follow through on what he started—and gradually moves upward. “You know, Y/N,” Reacher drawls, his hand now on your waist. It slips under the hem of your shirt, a warm, meaty palm moving up your stomach now. “I like you like this. All quiet and helpless for me, ready for me to play with you and use you however I want.”

“Fuck you.” It comes out muffled from the tape, a garbled noise that you can only translate because you know what you said and that Reacher can translate without any real effort because he knows too well at this point to not know what you said.

But it doesn’t stop him. No, when you think about it in retrospect, you’re pretty sure that it’s what inspires this next part.

“But I think…this would be a lot more fun…” His hand drifts back down your stomach, toward the end of your shirt. His fingers linger at the hem, playing with it and tugging at a loose string there as Reacher just gazes down at you with that mischievous look on his beautiful face and you know, you just know, that you’re going to have to get him back for this somehow. That you and Jack Reacher have a date with revenge at some point in your respective futures. “If we tried this.”

He tugs at the bottom of your shirt and pulls it upward as you take a sharp breath in surprise, jumping at first and pulling your legs together, but settling back into the bed as Reacher maneuvers your shirt upward to expose your chest for him. He folds your shirt up over your face so that you can’t see anything and now you’re really feeling vulnerable and at his mercy, whining through the tape and panting and feeling your nipples so hard it hurts against the cool air suddenly washing over your bare skin. There’s quiet for a long moment, deadly quiet where all you can hear is the sound of you breathing and nothing else, not even Reacher, and your world shrinks infinitesimally smaller than it was before—to only sounds and sensations. Your breathing and the pounding of your heart in your chest, the rush of blood in your ears, your wrists twisting against the zip tie, your panties soaked through and your thighs damp, the boot on your broken foot impossibly heavy. The thin polyester quilt on the bed, the one that’s never quite warm enough until you’re huddled against Reacher’s big body to sleep, scratching against your bare back.

A big, warm palm comes to settle on your stomach finally and you jump and squeal at the sudden touch that you couldn’t anticipate, the heat of his hand and the rough callouses there magnified by the lack of sight and the deadly silence in the room. Then Reacher speaks, soft and low, and it’s good—it’s so good. You never knew his voice could be so smooth before, warm and soft and sweet like honey. “Shh, Y/N. Easy now. I’ve got you.” That hand on your stomach, the sound of his voice, is everything. Everything. You’ve never wanted to be touched so badly, to feel him everywhere, as you do now. “Good girl. That’s it.” Reacher takes his time, easing you back into feeling him there and hearing his voice after taking all of it away so quickly. “Just listen to my voice. I’ll take good care of you, I promise.” He makes those soft circles with his thumb again and it’s wonderful, so fucking wonderful, as you slowly start to breathe normally again. “I always take care of my good girl, don’t I?” His hand slowly starts to move, small circular motions near your hip as you settle back into the bed and turn your face toward the sound of his voice even though you can’t see him through the shirt. “You trust me, don’t you, Y/N?” You’re only half-aware of the question, so caught up in his hand at your hip, in the biting air against your nipples, the goosebumps on your skin. “Do you want me to stop?”

Stop. That’s the only word that really gets through to you. It’s the only word that matters. You growl through the tape, a hoarse, muffled jumble of words that echoes what Reacher said to start this little scene of yours. “Don’t you even think about it.”

Whether Reacher knows what you said or not—and he probably does, because Jack Reacher always seems to know everything—Reacher just huffs a laugh at your response and you find yourself fascinated with the sound of it, the rush of air from his nostrils as his body rumbles and how you can feel it in his hand on your body. “That’s good.” His hand moves upward now and you force yourself to keep taking steady breaths, silently willing his hand back to your breast. To your nipples. To do something—something—you need him to do something because they’re so sensitive that they’re driving you mad. “You’re doing such a good job for me.” His hand moves up your rib cage, to the space between your breasts in one smooth ghosting of fingertips. “We’re going to have so much fun.”

You’re not sure you’d describe this as fun, trying to move to bring his hand where you want it to be, leaning your body over to force your breast near his fingers and huffing into the fabric of the t-shirt. “Now, Y/N,” Reacher says in warning, but damn if you can’t hear just how much he’s loving this. Damned if you don’t love it just as much, even if it’s frustrating, infuriating, so fucking annoying that he won’t just put his hands on you. “You know better than that.” God, you hate him. You really fucking hate him. “You don’t get what you want unless you ask nicely.” You’re going to kill him. Murder him. Tie him to the bed and torture him like this and fuck him senseless, until he can’t fucking move or think for a week. “And since I already promised to make you cum…” He eases your body flat on the bed again and you try to arch your back up toward him, to push your breasts out and offer them up with a muffled, “Fucking please!”.

 But Reacher doesn’t give in.

“You’ll just have to be patient and let me do what I want.”

You whine when you’re forced back down on the bed without getting what you want. You whine even harder when you hear Reacher laugh, that low, silken laugh of his, and feel the bed shift under his weight. Your head is turning to try and follow the sounds he makes, or doesn’t make, as he moves. Further down the bed, near your leg with the uninjured foot, trailing a hand down the length of it. You feel an irrational sense of loss the moment his hand is no longer making contact with your skin, even though you know that Reacher is still in the room, still here with you. It only gets worse when you feel the weight on the bed shift and you sense that Reacher isn’t on there with you anymore at all. You blink against the cottony material over your face, each huff of air you exhale making it feel hot and moist, and you strain to hear exactly where he is. To know exactly what he’s doing.

You’re just starting to get restless on the bed and trying to scoot yourself up into a seated position when you feel Reacher’s hand at your ankle again, tugging you back down into place and keeping you there as he makes tsk tsk sounds. “So impatient today.” He sounds way too fucking amused by this, you think. “This is going to take a lot longer if you don’t behave for me, Y/N. If you don’t behave, I’ll have to punish you.” His hand is tight around your ankle, deliciously tight and hot, keeping you firmly in place. You can’t tell exactly where he’s standing in the room, but it’s close enough that he can cup a hand over your cunt again, a slow stroke of his palm over soaked lace and pajama shorts. “You want to behave for me, don’t you?”

No. The thought is there before you even have time to think it. You hate the idea of giving in, hate that Reacher is enjoying this so much, hate that he’s making it so hard on you and drawing this out so much instead of just giving you whatever you want.

Yes. Yes—fucking yes. You’ll do whatever it takes to get him to touch you, to give you what you want. You don’t care what it takes. Your cunt feels so empty, your body overstimulated and completely untouched at the same time without the ability to see what’s happening around you. If he doesn’t finish what he already started and get you off, you’ll fucking kill him the minute you get out of this zip tie.

You’ve lost track of what Reacher is doing until you feel his hands at your waist, tugging at your shorts to drag them down over your hips and taking your soaked panties with them. You don’t fight Reacher as he pulls them down your legs, careful not to disturb the boot on your injured foot, until most of you—save the t-shirt he’s effectively using to blind you—is naked for him. “That’s better.” You think you hear the clothes being tossed aside somewhere, but you don’t have time to think about it because he’s climbing onto the bed between your legs and his hand is back at your cunt and he’s tugging your legs apart to spread you open for him while he palms you there. “Much better.”

Reacher keeps one hand on your thigh and pulls the other away from your cunt, leaving you maddeningly exposed for the longest minute of your life, before bringing his hand down in one sharp slap. You scream through the tape more from surprise than anything else, your body writhing in Reacher’s grasp as he still holds onto you, keeping you perfectly positioned for him. He rests his hand against your cunt as you come down from the surprise of the hit, the warmth of his palm pressing against you.

“You look so beautiful like this, Y/N.” A long stroke over your spread cunt, over your wet slit and up to your clit, spreading your juices there, calloused fingertips scraping over delicate skin. “Have I ever you told how much I love having you like this?” He moves his hand further down again, dipping a finger fully inside of you, teasing against that sensitive spot in a long curling stroke of his finger while your thighs tremble and pull against him.

“Or how good you are at taking my fingers?” Another stroke, your body clenching around him, your stomach pulling taut. Everything feels tense and liquid and like too fucking much.

“You take my fingers so well.” Another stroke. Another, gradually winding you back up toward the climax he wouldn’t let you have. You turn your face in the t-shirt, turning away from him and closing your eyes, unable to do anything else while he plays with you.

“You take my cock so well, too, wherever I want you to take it.” Reacher’s finger pulls back and you feel him press more inside of you, going immediately back to those gentle strokes, to his fingers moving gently back and forth. “In this tight little cunt.” His movements get a little rougher now, his voice a little harder. You’re panting against the t-shirt, the material catching against your face with each new inhale of breath.

“Or that smart mouth of yours.” Reacher’s hand leaves your thigh, but you don’t have time to recognize the freedom to move against him before his other hand is at your clit, circling and stroking in a lazy motions while you’re audibly whining…moaning…you can’t tell. You don’t care. Your jaw clenches as you huff against the tape and the t-shirt keeping you blind. You lean your face into your arm, unable to do anything but feel whatever Reacher is doing to you.

“Even when I take your ass.” A long, merciless teasing inside of you as your toes curl and your legs tense and you hear yourself moaning, and that sweet tension settles inside of you until it’s nearly ready to explode, and Reacher’s finger at your clit never stops for a second. “Such a good girl for me, always so willing to take whatever I give you.”

You’re crying when his finger leaves your cunt suddenly and the fingers inside of you pull out, but it quickly turns to a scream as his hand comes down in another slap against you, settling at your clit, a sharp pain that’s close, so fucking close, to pleasure. You’re panting and nearly crying, eyes tearing up from sheer frustration at being edged so close to climax a second time and Reacher pulling back and leaving you with nothing again. You’d hate him if you could think that clearly, if you weren’t so desperate to just be pushed over the edge, to just fucking cum on his fingers or on his tongue, or his cock, you don’t care. Just to have him let you finish!

Reacher waits until you’ve calmed enough to sound like you’re not crying anymore, a meaty palm settled on your thigh, his heavy body between your legs so that you can’t really move them. “You even take my punishments well.” You try to look toward him through the t-shirt, wishing for all the world that you could see Reacher then, to see the way he’s looking at you and what he’s doing. To watch him watching you as he touches you. “I’m interested to see how well you do with this.”

You don’t register what he’s saying, what he’s talking about, until you hear the buzzing sound that you recognize as one of the toys from your suitcase. Your body stills, wrists tense in the zip tie and hands clenched tightly closed, as you try to see through the t-shirt to look at Reacher and see which toy, exactly, he’s pulled out. You tend to keep a few with you in your suitcase, tucked away safely just in case you have some time to yourself while Reacher is off doing something that you’re not invited to because Reacher has this thing about not putting you in any danger while he walks straight into a gun or a knife fight.

You can’t tell what he has in his hand or what he’s doing, exactly, when you feel him start to climb up your body, but he settles almost across you with his upper body at your side and the bulk of him between your legs to keep you from closing them. Then you feel the quietly buzzing toy against the inside of your thigh, the vibration so dangerously close to your sensitive cunt that you squeal at the first touch of it and Reacher—fucking Jack Reacher—turns it off before you can enjoy it too much.

“You know, when I first saw those toys in your suitcase, I was a little upset.” Your face turns toward him again, toward the sound of his voice, warm and rough and soft. All those little qualities that you associate with Reacher that you would swear you can hear in his voice when he speaks. It feels so quietly intimate, the way he’s talking to you now, the way you’re splayed out for him. “I wondered if perhaps I’m not giving you what you need and that’s why you have this.” The toy brushes against your thigh before Reacher brings up against your cunt, smoothing the length of it over your wet slit like he’s done a hundred times before with his own cock as he’s preparing you to take him. You hear yourself whine, a high pitched, desperate sound as he uses the juices from your dripping cunt to wet the toy down.

“But then I realized that I may as well use this to my advantage.” A long, rough stroke over you, teasing the thick tip of it at your entrance. You feel the heat of him shifting over you, his voice somewhere centered above you. “For example, now I can do this…” The toy pushes in—hard and thick, nearly as big as Reacher is, slowly teasing in inch by inch as Reacher works it back and forth inside of you until it’s all the way in and your cunt is clenching tightly around it and you know exactly which one it is. You can feel the thick tip of it resting against that spot inside of you and the piece at the base that arches upward to vibrate against your clit. Reacher leaves it turned off, toying with you by teasing it in and out a few times as your body tries to follow it to keep it inside of you, even as Reacher keeps you pinned in place.

“Or even this…” He turns it on to the lowest setting and leaves it halfway inside of your so that you can feel the vibration, but not enough—god, not fucking enough.

“And I can still do this.” His tongue is hot as he drags it over your chest, licking a hot stripe over the middle of your stomach to the spot between your breasts while you pant and cry. Your hips and legs are trying to move against him, to push the vibrator further inside, to do anything, it doesn’t matter what. You can’t keep still and you can’t keep quiet, and you can’t fucking take much more without losing your fucking mind. He hums a low, contented sound against your skin, lapping at the valley between your breasts, nuzzling his face there for the longest fucking moment of your life.

“And you have no choice but to take whatever I want to give you.”

You don’t know what you’re crying or trying to say, but you’re sure as hell crying something when Reacher’s mouth finally settles at one of your nipples, licking and suckling at it like you’re his breakfast while that vibrator is torturously close to tipping you over the edge but still not close enough. Reacher is so very happy to play with you like this, to nip and suck at your nipple, biting at it gently so that you’re turning your face back and forth behind the t-shirt and you’re writhing underneath him because you can’t take it anymore, but Reacher isn’t in any kind of a hurry.

It takes forever until he finally decides that you’ve had enough, resting his mouth against your breast, near your saliva drenched nipple that’s sore from his attention but even more sensitive against the air when he pulls away. “Do you want to cum now, Y/N?” It takes him asking a couple of times before you’re even able to figure out what he’s asking, you’re so highly strung. “What do you think?”

Yes. Yes. “Yes, please—Sir! Please!” Sounds muffled behind the tape. You’re not even sure if that’s what you say. You’re not even sure if you say anything at all or if they’re just noises strung together that could almost be words if you were able to speak clearly.

Thankfully, it doesn’t matter. The vibrator pushes fully inside of you and Reacher’s mouth is back on your nipple, his body big and warm and pressing you into the bed as you finally go crying over the edge. Your leg with the unbroken foot manages to bend at the knee and you’d be shoving yourself off the bed from your back arching and your head digging back into the pillow if Reacher’s heavy body weren’t keeping you pinned in place. The world shrinks even smaller. Impossibly smaller, to just you and the climax and the feeling of your cunt being so fill, your lungs gasping for air, heat at your core until you’re almost sobbing and whining in the t-shirt.

“That’s it.” Reacher’s voice begins to filter back in, a soothing sound that’s so seductive and sweet that you turn your head toward it and wish desperately to lean into it, to settle your face near his and just close your eyes and rest there. “Good girl—you took it so well. I’m so proud you.” You’re limp in the bed, the vibrator no longer inside of you. Reacher is leaning above you somewhere, almost directly above you and looking down at you. You’re sure of it. “Such a good girl. I knew you could do it, Y/N.” He leans his face down, somehow knowing exactly where to press his lips to kiss against the duct tape over your mouth from the other side of the t-shirt. “I love watching you cum like that.” His nose brushes against yours through the shirt. “You’re so beautiful, Y/N.”

And because Jack Reacher is who he is, because he always seems to know everything, including the exact timing to wait to let you come back down before ruining everything in the best way possible, he settles against you just like that until you’ve nearly about to remember that you’re still tied up.

And then you feel the vibrator at your cunt again, feel the thick tip of it at your entrance. Reacher’s face settles near your ear, his voice a cruel whisper through the shirt. “We’re not quite finished yet.” He teases it inside of you, turning it back on at the lowest setting as you’re crying through the tape again. “I did say that I’d make you cum all day long, didn’t I?” He waits, waits, waits, and eases the setting a little higher. “And it’s very important to me that I keep my promises.”

You might protest against him, the vibrator moving gradually toward the highest setting, Reacher’s relentless teasing, his mouth setting at your throat to leave sucking kisses there that you just know will leave delicate bruises behind for the all the world to see. You might complain and tell him that you’ve had enough and he really does need to stop.

Maybe.

If only you could think that clearly.

But that’s the thing about Reacher—he always seems to know fucking everything, including how to keep you from thinking too clearly while he forces you into a second orgasm.

And a third.

Until you’re definitely not getting out of this bed any time soon, let alone putting any weight on your broken foot.