#Malibu fics | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

punkssavior · 15 days ago

Text

tired of you.

| cm punk x fem!reader

my wwe fic tumblr debut. feeling chaotic.

title is a foo fighters song!

“regret, anger, and a pair of gym shorts.”

content warnings: post breakup. smut. angst. pet-names. choking. mentions of blood/semi-blood play. pain kink. pnv, riding.

i definitely went off the rails and lost the plot along the way.

wordcount: 8.3k

There was something wrong with you.

Maybe, the problem was the pounding headache. The one that’s lasted three days so far and felt like a doldrum banging in your skull.

Maybe, it was the streaks of eyeliner that stained your lower lashes and wouldn’t wipe off no matter how hard you tried.

Or maybe, just maybe, the problem was the urge to reach for your phone and dial up the number of a man who you know wouldn’t right his wrongs.

Yeah, something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

It was a Saturday night— alone in your one bedroom apartment. A quiet, dreary week that led right into a hellscape of a weekend. You were always told that breakups were hard, but never this hard.

The stubborn heart that beats inside you almost took hold of the reins when the thought of calling Punk crossed your mind. But the more logical part of your body, your brain, ultimately decided that— maybe that wasn’t the best idea.

The breakup was far from mutual. If anything, it was completely one sided. The last thing you remember from that night a few weeks ago was standing in your apartment door with angry tears in your eyes as Punk drove away from your duplex in a torn down Chevy Malibu.

Like nothing even happened.

You weren’t sure how much longer you could stare at your TV in boredom, watching the same rerun of action movies that played every Saturday night around the same time.

It was getting late.

Maybe you should get some sleep.

But God knows your mind wouldn’t allow it.

As you stand up to gather the growing pile of blankets that collected in the midst of your ‘breakup-self-loathing’, you begin to fight that intrusive urge once more.

You couldn’t call. It was way too late. He was probably asleep, or out somewhere training like he’d do when he couldn’t.

You didn’t want to bother.

Because that’s the last thing you ever wanted to be.

Bang, bang.

Your head whips around; two loud knocks at your door almost rattled it right off its hinges.

Bang, bang.

With a cautious air, you walk to the door and rest your hand on the knob. Before you could even begin to twist it, there it was again.

Bang, bang.

Soon enough your heartbeat matched up with the rhythm of the pounding door— making you anxious enough to look through the peephole.

Low and behold, as if he could read your mind from the miles that separated your apartment from his, there Punk stood. Leaning on the bannister that held up your rickety old porch with his arms crossed tightly to his chest.

It was cold, about 30°, yet there he was in a t-shirt, long dark hair slicked back, like he’d just walked through the rain. You freeze in your tracks, hand shaky over the brass doorknob as you debate opening the door.

Would you let him inside? Would you banish him out to the cold and make him talk to you from behind the threshold? Would you finally stick up for yourself and act like you were asleep? Hoping maybe, just maybe, he’d fuck off and take a hint?

You didn’t want either of those things. You didn’t want him to stand out in the cold, or turn around and leave.

You’d been secretly waiting for the moment where he wouldn’t care about the consequences of his actions.

Nor did you want him to “take a hint”.

You swing the door open, acting completely on instinct. But your breath is caught somewhere in your larynx when you realize that he is actually standing there.

“Nice jammies, player.”

“What do you want?”

Your heart stops. The words you spoke were completely off rip, seeing him in person for the first time in weeks must’ve carried a lot more weight to it than you anticipated.

Punk’s straight face morphs into a smile, his eyes darting down your figure and back up again.

“Came here for the gym shorts you stole. I did my laundry this morning and realized they were pretty much all gone.”

“So— why didn’t you come this morning? Instead of trying to break my door down at midnight?”

You cross your arms over your chest, the black and pink heart pajama set that he had gifted you for Valentine’s Day this past year seemed to be the star of the show. The draft from the outside was cold enough to send chills up your spine, as Punk stood there and just looked at you.

Come to think about it, maybe it wasn’t the wind.

“I was busy. Surely you were too, no?”

“I‘ve been here all day. Maybe if you called and asked, you would’ve known that.”

As you stand slightly elevated before him in your bunny slippers, you can’t help but notice the way he keeps inching closer.

“Well, maybe if you’d answered my calls from last week, we wouldn’t be standing here in the cold. Face to face. At midnight.”

You freeze, as he rattles off, your hands moving to your hips.

He called you last week?

“You called me last week?”

“Mhm. Sure did.”

A puff of air leaves your chest, noticing the now rising goosebumps across his sleeves of tattoos, and feeling slightly guilty about keeping him out in the cold.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you call me?”

Punk chuckles, brushing a lock of that slick dark hair behind his ear. He looked amused, to say the least— maybe he just wasn’t grasping onto the concept of breaking your heart and smashing it all to pieces. Maybe he thought that reaching out to you would be the good little ego boost he needed to carry on his week in the training gym.

“I called because I wanted to check in. Y’know— see how you were doing.”

Your brow furrows, in an attempt not to show him your hand of cards. Truthfully, your heart skipped about seven beats at the way his voice softened, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

“You’re joking, right?”

“And why would I joke about that?”

Punk leans on the doorframe, his eyes darting behind your shoulder at the living room that the two of you used to cuddle up and watch movies in. Maybe the sight of it after the breakup was finally cracking that iron-clad cage around his heart.

You never understood Punk. Not fully, at least.

Despite a three year long relationship that ended abruptly on a random Wednesday night— there were so many layers to his character that you just begged and pleaded to understand. He was caring, but sarcastic. An open book, yet somehow there were pages stuck together by an immeasurable amount of glue.

You wanted to learn more, your only wish was to be able to speak in a language that the both of you understood.

You figured that maybe, three years just wasn’t enough time.

“Wanna come inside?” you ask softly, breaking the silence, your voice barely reaching the surface of the now whipping wind.

“Only if you’ll have me.”

As you step back and let him in, you just— watch.

You watch how he kicks his sneakers off in the same exact spot he always did whenever he’d get home from the gym. You watch him anchor himself onto the wall, as if he were about to dig into his pocket and hang up his car keys on the hook that’s remained vacant since he left.

Must’ve been a repeated habit, or muscle memory. But your chest tightened at the thought either way.

“Your shorts are in my dresser,” you hum, still fighting the feeling of heartburn as he moves fluidly through your living room, “I could go get ‘em if you want.”

“Like I don’t know where your bedroom is. You think I’ve got amnesia or somethin’?”

Looking at Punk felt like a slap in the face. A hard one, at that.

His tight, perfectly fitted t-shirt molded to his cut body, contrasted to the loose gym shorts that hung just above his knees made you want to scream at him for being so visually appealing. But instead, you just smiled warmly, and bit your tongue.

There’s a brooding cloud of silence looming over both of your heads. An unspoken tension thick enough to cut with a butcher knife. Punk was acting casual, a bit too casual for your liking. I guess he figured that those stupid, sea green eyes searing into your forehead were enough to let you forget about what happened in this very room.

“Look, maybe you hit your head on the way here because last I checked, you dumped me. And now— here you are, standing in my living room.”

A catty smile flashes across Punk’s face, his lip ring catching in the light above your kitchen island as he leaned on it with that familiar sense of cockiness.

The one you knew, the one that you unfortunately loved.

“Shit, okay— we’re taking a bit of a leap here, aren’t we?”

“Tell me the real reason why you’re here. And don’t fucking bullshit me.”

The jumble of hurt words you’d been pushing down your throat for weeks— finally had a target. Your voice betrays you at the end of your sentence, fleeting off into a much weaker tone than you anticipated.

“I already told you why. I’m here for my shorts.” His posture straightens as he speaks, putting up his guard as the tension rises.

“Bullshit. You know I fuckin’ hate when you lie, dude. What is this, a wellness check? Did you feel so inclined to check up on my sorry-ass to the point where it kept you up at night?”

Punks hands come up in defense as you move an inch closer, wagging a helpless, beaten down finger at him. Yet that smug smile painted on his cheeks remained, only making you more enraged.

“Wellness check? What the fuck is your problem?” his laughter is indignant, as if he were pitying you, “You really think I’d drive down here in the middle of the night to smile in your face and laugh at you?”

“Newsflash, dickhead. You’ve been doing that this whole time.”

In seconds, Punk’s face switches back to a blank slate. He seemed visibly taken aback by your words. His hand, still dawned in a piece of old wrist tape, clung to his chest.

“Wow. Well, I’m sorry— for trying to keep the mood light— and greet you at your door with a fuckin’ smile when I know damn well that I’m the last person you want to see right now… But have you ever stopped to think that maybe you’re not the only half of this mess suffering? Maybe you’re not the only one who stays up way later than they should, thinking about where everything went wrong?”

As he grows more animated, he nears closer, to the point where you could still smell the remnants of his cologne and see the drops of frustrated sweat beading on his forehead. You wanted to keep screaming, but your voice was caged behind gritted teeth. You guarded yourself with your arms, mimicking his posture as you crossed them over your chest.

“Well maybe you should cut some slack for the girl you left crying in the doorway, Punk.”

His stage name shoots off your tongue like poison, now in a heated face-off with the man you once loved.

And maybe still did, beneath the scratched up, broken down surface. That was the reason why this all seemed so complicated.

“Do you want your fucking shorts, or not?—”

“—Keep the damn’ shorts, Y/N!” He cuts you off before you could even dream of continuing.

Another silence falls over the room after all the shouting, only the TV in the background filling only half of the void that was your brain right now. Despite getting those harsh words off of your chest, a part of you felt inclined to say no more. You figured you’d done enough irreparable damage to both yourself and Punk. It was in your best interest to leave it be.

“Sorry for yelling,” you mumble, a bit sheepishly.

Punk still stood against your kitchen island, his hand now rubbing his temples between middle finger and thumb.

“Don’t apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Awkward. That was the word to describe it. After airing out grievances, finding out that you weren’t the only party in this sick and twisted dance with a lingering feeling that tugged on your heartstrings, everything else surrounding you was just awkward.

You stare at Punk intently, letting him shake his head and mutter curse words under his breath.

“I’m sorry for coming here unannounced. But what I said was true.”

“Hm?” you hum, worried that if you said too much, his vulnerability would be guised as a momentary lapse of judgement.

“I still think about what happened.”

A deep breath catches in your throat the moment his eyes meet yours. It was hard to look at him in general after all that you’d been through, but it was even more difficult to pull yourself away from the defeated, sorrowful expression on his face.

Being so openly honest and true to his inner monologue was a rarity for Punk. You could tell how much he hated the fact that he was admitting this to you, let alone standing once again in your living room after already breaking your heart.

“Seriously,” you begin to say, bridging the gap between your bodies with a sharp tug on his wrist, “Tell me why you came here. If it wasn’t for those two pairs of stupid shorts that you haven’t asked me about in two and a half years, then what was it?”

Punk grimaces, still beaten down by his own honesty, “You just don’t let up, do you?”

“Answer me, asshole.”

You were still aggravated, and the quickly tightening hold you had on his arm was proof of that.

“I came here because I missed you, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?” A wave of something much more dreadful than relief washes over you— it seemed more existential and off putting than anything. “I missed your face. Your voice. The scent of your perfume. The way you bitch me out to get off and have a good time fuckin’ doing it.”

“I— I genuinely do not believe you,” you mutter, tripping over your words, slightly twisting the skin on his arm in pure, unbridled frustration, “There’s gotta’ be some other excuse.”

Punk’s face comes to a pinch, mulling over your words while simultaneously experiencing the burn from your untamed grip on him.

“There’s no other excuse,” he blurts, bordering a whine, “What? You want me to admit that I’ve been up for days? Unable to sleep, to eat, to wrestle, to fuckin’ unwind and jerk off without the thought of you crossing my mind? Is that what you want?”

Your jaw clenches at the rise you’re getting out of him, wanting nothing more than to smack him across the face.

“Maybe you should’ve said this all to me, what, a month ago? Instead of trying to pop by on a Saturday night like I’m one of your idiot friends?”

It was getting to a point where your nails were surely leaving marks, his arm fully surrendered to you as you took out your pent up anger on one of his innocent limbs.

Punk’s face tightens, the gap in his teeth visible as he writhes in discomfort, “Jesus fuck, you’re hurting me—”

“Touché.”

Having almost completely given up on trying to fight your cat-like grip on his arm, Punk does the unthinkable. With a crooked, masochistic smile, he wraps his free arm around your waist and pulls you straight into his chest.

“You wanna fight dirty?” he asks, his voice a low, rigid grumble.

Rather than replying, due to the sheer shock running through your spine, you just nod your head meekly.

“We can fight dirty,” a wry chuckle leaves his lips as he leans into your angry face, “Baby, those eyes of yours are quite telling.”

“I’m sick of your shit, Punk,” you spit, still tangled in his sultry words, “it’s too hot and cold with you.”

“Really? Tell me more. I saw how you froze up when I said that I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Tell me that my words didn’t leave a mark in that pretty head of yours.”

Holy fuck.

Holy fuck

This was getting to be too much.

You wanted to pull away; but the thought of tasting his lips again after you were forced away from them for so long just seemed intoxicating.

“I don’t have to answer you,” you mumble, trying your hand at defending yourself whilst simultaneously breaking your neck to ignore your desires.

“But I bet you really want to.”

You swallow hard at the feeling of his blistered palm trailing across your side. And your nails continued etching marks into his flesh; the closer he got, the harder you tugged .

“We’re not together anymore. I have nothing to fucking say to you.”

“There’s nothing wrong with speaking your mind though, right? That’s what you used to tell me…”

That burning feeling in your chest was back again— like hot lava rising up your throat. You wanted to retort, but couldn’t help but notice how he was completely ignoring the small pooling of blood from the gashes on his forearm.

“…Remember what you used to say to me, Bunny? ‘Don’t be afraid to show a little bit of that heart, Punker. Acting like you care won’t kill you.’ Man, if only you could see yourself right now. Being a damn hypocrite…”

“Stop it.”

The nickname he’d revived from the dead felt like a karate chop to the throat, all while he was still holding you tightly to his chest. His body language read passion, but his words oozed anguish.

He glanced down to your lips, eyeing them with a crooked smile.

“What? Stop what? Stop trying to get you to break down those stubborn walls of yours and be honest with me? I know I hurt you baby, but you can’t keep it all bottled up forever.”

You grabbed him tighter. Tighter. Tighter. Until his face came to a pinch and he was yanking his arm from between your bodies.

He hisses at the sight of trickling blood running down his colorful tattoos, eyeing you shamefully like you were a dog that just crapped in the house.

But rather than letting that anger carry over into another screaming match, he takes the hand that you’d held hostage, and runs it through your hair.

“Bet you needed to let that out, didn’t you?” Punk coos, a complete 180 switch in his demeanor, that same hand trailing down your cheek towards your neck.

“You’re insufferable.”

“Ditto, player.”

SMACK.

Your palm lays flat across the side of his cheek, his head whips to the side. A surge of searing anger seemed to free itself the moment your hand connected with his skin, a small splatter of his blood from your fingertips painting across his jawbone.

He shakes his head, and looks at you, that grip he had on your hip tightening as his eyes narrow, and bore into yours.

“You asked if I wanted to fight dirty, didn’t you?” your voice is weakened by the sheer force of that smack. But Punk just nods like a pompous asshole, a slow and desperate smile sliding across his face with the corners of his mouth coming to a Cheshire-cat-like point.

In moments like these, you had to remind yourself of a few things. Punk knew you better than anyone else— your friends, most of your immediate family, even the people you’ve met in passing and spilled your guts to on a whim. You and Punk would spend hours just talking. About anything. About nothing. There was something about his demeanor that drew out the most vulnerable, tucked away parts of your person.

He also had the ability to use what he knew against you. And from the facial expression he made, and from what you could tell from knowing him, he knew that smack held a lot more weight than just pure anger.

He was into it. You were into it.

With a low, practically inaudible growl, Punks hand slides up the front of your body. You could feel the roughness of his palms and the cool touch of his fingertips lingering from standing out in the cold, as he makes his way past the little plastic buttons of your pajama top.

“I love it when we fight, Bunny,” he grumbles, that hand making its way to your throat, “You wanna show me how angry I make you? How much of an asshole I am for breaking your heart?”

Your breath sputters when he clamps his hand down, gently squeezing the sides of your throat. You could only imagine how you looked to him right now— still a bit ticked off, but now a whole lot more desperate.

“I want— an apology.”

“Really? That’s all you want from me right now?”

As you open your mouth to squeeze out an answer, he presses the pads of his fingers into your neck, hitting that blissful pressure point and instantly relieving your three-day-long headache.

“Yes. That’s it,” you breathe, finding it hard to concentrate on only one feature of his face.

The hand of his that stayed stagnant on your hip began to travel downwards, following the curve of your ass all the way down to where it met your thigh. You swallowed, feeling the pressure from his hand fighting the building, anxious saliva from going down.

“Are you sure about that? You don’t seem very confident—”

“—Yes. Yes. For the love of God, please just—”

Your sentence becomes more and more incoherent as Punk slowly spins you around. Your body replaces his, leaned against the kitchen island, still feeling cowardly beneath his over 6-foot stature.

“Just what? Wanna hit me again?” his eyes narrow with challenge, the grip on your throat still in charge of this dance, “Do it. Hit me again. Show me that you’re not afraid to show me what’s on your mind.”

SMACK.

The sheer power from the second slap loosened Punk’s grip on your throat— you breathed out shakily at the loss of the contact, feeling the delayed sting that shot through your palm the moment your knuckle cracked his jaw.

He eventually frees your neck from his hold to aid his wounded cheek, rubbing it softly as those viridian eyes ask you for a favor that his words had yet to reach.

“Jesus Christ baby. You sure know how to lay a good one don’t ya?”

“Fuck you.”

Your palm began to throb in time with the beating of your heart, the surface skin now tender from two measly slaps to a man who gets hurt for a living.

“Fuck me? Alright. If that’s all you have to say then—”

SMACK.

“I hate you! God, I fucking hate you!”

That dry, fervid rage suddenly morphed into a mess of soggy tears— your words biting violently as they fanned across his now helpless face.

You couldn’t help yourself from crying. As if you hadn’t done enough. But now, in the same vein of feelings you felt the moment you saw his silhouette through the peephole, crying was really the only thing you could do.

“I—I am so fucking sick of you! Who the fuck do you think you are? Coming to my apartment, standing there with that stupid, shit-eating smile. Acting like you didn’t have any part whatsoever in ruining my goddamn life!”

“Y/N, I—”

As much as you wanted this to be a civil conversation, there was no turning back as the tears rolled down your face and onto the floor.

“I’ve been crying over you for weeks. Weeks. You left me. After telling me our relationship was practically meaningless. After dumping me with zero fucking explanation! I’m tired of you, Punk. So. Fucking. Tired.”

Silence.

The tears just kept on coming, there was nothing you could do to stop them from searing hot streaks down your face.

Nothing you could do to stop you from yelling now, either.

“Fuck you! Fuck your stupid hair. That stupid shit box car you drive. Your stupid piercings— and stupid tattoos that you refuse to get touched up because I said I liked them the way they were!”

Punk’s face was a blank slate. All it took was for you to start barking out your qualms with him, and suddenly he was at ease like a soldier.

In the heat of your tirade, you slither out of his arms, angrily marching over to the couch and picking up a throw pillow.

“I can’t fucking believe you. You would think three years meant something, right?! But noooo. Not for Mr. CM Punk. You got to carry on life as usual after you left my house that night. You got to parade around your ring, hearing a crowd of people chant your name like you’re the second coming of Christ! All while I was at home sobbing over gym shorts! Fucking gym shorts!”

The pillow you’d been smacking against your hand was perfect ammo to toss at his head; you grunt as you throw it, listening to the pitiful thud as it slams against the wall behind him.

“You want the shorts? I’ll give you the fucking shorts. The same way I gave you the hours it took me to sew your fucking name onto the tags like you asked me to!”

Your throat felt like sandpaper, your heart racing at 90mph and fluttering with every honest truth you spoke.

“I bet a selfish part of you missed having me around, didn’t you? Because without me, who makes you breakfast in the morning? Who else sits through your God-awful, mean jokes when nobody else is around to hear them?”

It was getting harder to stay away from him now, the adrenaline rush that came with smacking him across the face was the last little push you needed for your penultimate sentence.

“Who else is there, Punk?” the volume of your voice lowers when you take a hurried step closer to him.

SMACK.

“Who else fucks you like I do?”

For a split second, you see the glass in Punk’s eyes shatter. You see all of his rugged features soften and he searches your face for something, anything to say.

But just when you think he’s about to pull away, and curse you out for berating him with your spiteful tongue, his lips crash against yours in a bruising kiss.

You melt into him instantly, all of the pieces of your scrambled up puzzle falling back into place the moment his hands hold you against his body.

His cheek was tender, hot to the touch, and your hand was still lingering from that one final smack, yet he encouraged you to cup his face as it hovered in the aftermath.

The initial kiss grows more primal, a twisted dance of heavy breathing and knocking teeth brings Punk’s hands to travel.

Suddenly your mind is back where it started, an unshakable feeling of wavering uncertainty as he lifts your leg to rest on his hip.

“You— you don’t get to do this,” you stammer, not making any attempt to regain your composure, “you don’t get to just— walk in here and destroy everything I’ve been working so hard to rebuild.”

Your noses knock against each other as your breathing becomes one, Punk pulls away with a tug at your bottom lip.

“Then tell me to leave. Push me away. Kick me out.”

As you open your mouth to retort, his body rolls against yours, leaving your head to spin and freeze up like it always did whenever he turns you on.

“Go on, Bunny,” he continues his torturous drawl, bending down to nip at the sensitive skin behind your ear as he whispers, “Tell me to leave.”

A quiet whimper takes over whatever else you’d planned on saying. Any and all remnants of anger from your rant had suddenly disappeared.

“You—”

Your sentence is cut short by your other leg being picked up off the ground. You gasp, clinging yourself to his hips as he spins you, holding you between the wall and the rising warmth of his body.

“You know I can’t do that, you fuckin’ asshole.”

Another searing kiss, one that made stars pass behind your eyelids as his hands held you tighter. Tighter. Tighter. Surely the pads of his fingers would leave bruises in only the places he could see— he loved to know that he was the only one to touch you in the places that get hidden beneath layers of cotton and lace.

He always did. He always will.

A gasp flies past your lips, and his, as he adjusts his grip on you, nailing you higher to the wall with the sheer weight and force of his lips. His own twisted form of crucifixion.

“God, you’re addicting,” he mumbles into your cheek, his line of kisses getting sloppier as he can’t decide where to pay attention to, “You slapped me ‘till my face went raw… You scratched me ‘till I bled…”

A groan of his own interrupts his string of lustful sweet nothings, only for you to take it as your opportunity to grab his chin in your hand.

You look him in the eye, still feeling the burning sensation in your chest— but this time, it wasn’t anger. It wasn’t sadness. It was fighting that feeling that you could never quit.

As you look at him, you take your thumb, still stained with blood from before, and trail it across his bottom lip. His lips and chin are defiled with that perfect shade of scarlet — his eyes glittering as you paint him red.

“…And you cursed me out like a fuckin’ bitch,” he chuckles wryly, his tongue flicking out to catch the blood you’d left.

“And yet—” You cock your head to the side, your features fully softening for the first time since he arrived at your door, “—you’re still here with me.”

Before you could even think, Punk is grabbing at the buttons on your pajama shirt and anchoring you to the wall with his hips. His actions are frenzied, popping open the first, second, and third button.

“Fuck this,” he grumbles in frustration, fully surrendering, tugging at the bottom hem and lifting that black and pink heart printed pajama top over your head in one full swoop. You can’t help but chuckle as he tosses it behind his head, and gets straight to work on worshipping the valley of your breasts with open-mouthed kisses.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, Bunny,” he breathes out between each time his lips press against you, “I wanna slap my damn’ self for breaking your heart.”

As he caters to you, you find your hands lacing through his hair, pushing it back to reveal a slit in his eyebrow. The same one he refused to shave back in no matter how many times you asked.

Maybe he thought that you seeing it tonight would help him get lucky.

And judging by the position you were in right now, it clearly worked its magic.

“All these sweet nothings aren’t gonna change the fact that you’re an asshole,” you state plainly, but finding it harder to speak due to him pinning you against the wall.

“You can call me— whatever the hell you want,” says Punk, tucking a strand of your frizzed up hair behind your ear.

The heated encounter had blindly begun to move towards the couch. You found yourself going limp in his arms the moment there wasn’t a sheet of drywall holding you up like a puppet on strings. Punk had you completely at his mercy— although fast-paced, steamy, extremely desperate sex was a staple in your repertoire.

“Is this how you planned on apologizing to me?” you ask, tailing off your sentence with a squeak as he tips you back to lay on the couch.

Punk crawls his way up your topless body, licking a stripe from your belly button all the way to the start of your jaw.

“Wasn’t planned, no. But I suppose that fucking it out to the point of forgiveness is better than a healthy conversation, right?”

Although forgiveness wasn’t a thing that crossed your mind until now, the events that had unfolded within the past thirty minutes had your head in knots. How could a man who you’d sworn off ‘till death come back into your life, simply with a bat of his pretty eyelashes and a flash of the gap in his teeth?

Maybe Punk’s visit was the universe telling you that you’d met your match. You simply couldn’t stay away.

After any and all clothes that barred access to the places he needed you most were removed, you found yourself swimming in a pool of dizzy, love-drunk thoughts. Punk took his time with you, yet still seemed as though he was rushing to get to where you needed him most.

“Fuckin’ Christ, I missed you. I missed you so much,”

Punk groans, taking a moment to stare into your soul before dipping down to bite at your bottom lip with his teeth.

You sigh in bliss, having not felt the touch of him, or anyone else for that matter, since the last time you saw him. As fucked up as it was, you missed this feeling.

You really missed him, too.

“Can I?” you begin to say, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt after another pick up of that steamy makeout session.

“Of course. Anything you want. Have me topless, have me naked, fully clothed, I don’t fuckin’ care.”

You chuckle at his eagerness, he helps you in taking off his tee, and your mind freezes up when you notice the beginning of a tattoo on his chest.

“Is this new?”

You trace the outline of ink with your manicured finger, following its shape all the way to the curve of his shoulder.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Been thinkin’ about a chest piece for a while.”

“Mmmh, yeah?” you hum, a fluttering feeling rumbling through your stomach the moment you realize that his hand had travelled to the waistband of your panties. “Chest tattoos are fucking sexy.”

Punk smirks, inching that wandering hand down past the waistband of your underwear towards your throbbing core. He bites his lip, that silver lip ring getting caught in the crossfire.

“Glad you think so, Bunny.”

An immediate wave of pleasure crashes over your senses the moment you feel his finger tease at your dripping slit. He always took the time to make sure you were fully ready— but you were afraid that your screaming match from earlier had you more hot and bothered than you’d like to admit.

“Punk, c’mon—” you whine indignantly, writhing beneath him as he slowly starts to spread your own wetness across your folds, “Not getting any younger here.”

“Impatient now, are we?” he bites back, making it a point to slowly, tauntingly dip in and out of your entrance with his slender finger.

You can’t help but moan out in purse frustration— impatience, as he called it.

“If you don’t hurry this along and fuck me already, I’ll send you home with blue balls and no gym shorts.”

As he opens his mouth to retort, you shoot your hand down to catch his wrist, shaking your head at him disapprovingly.

“Don’t remember you ever being this desperate to get fucked, Bunny,” he chuckles lowly, keeping you and your stamina on its toes as he flips your position to have you straddling his lap, “And here I was thinking you were a fan of the slow, sappy shit.”

“People change, y’know,” you shrug, finding a comfortable position to grind your hips down onto his bulge as you slide your hands up his chest towards his throat, “I think you may have ruined me for good.”

Punk was an athlete. He was quick on his feet, and even quicker to get into the minds of anyone he deemed a worthy opponent. When it came to you, the most worthy of them all, he read you like a book. Cover to cover.

“Ruined you?” he asks, watching your hands climb his chest towards his throat, “Is that why you felt so inclined to almost kill me earlier?”

You clasp your hands around his throat, pushing out a shaky sigh from his chest. A smile spreads across your face like wildfire, your hips now wielding a mind of their own against the hard-on in his shorts.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be dramatic— Are you going soft on me, Punker? I thought you liked it a little— rough.”

When you looked back down at his face, what you didn’t expect to see was an airy grin. Punk must’ve done a lot of thinking in the time you were apart— because the Punk you knew a month ago wouldn’t stand for a second of this role reversal. But now, it seemed as though he was basking in the art of submission.

Safe to say, you had him whipped once again.

Fucking finally.

A low rumble from Punk floats to your ears, the first sign of his bleeding impatience. His eyebrows furrowed, the tip of his nose twitched, all while your hands were still wrapped around his neck and gently squeezing the pressure points on either side.

“I really meant it when I said you ruined my life, y’know,” you coo to him quietly, rolling your hips down past his crotch in order for your mouth to be level with the new ink traced on his chest, “Because now, I can’t think of anyone else who makes me feel the way you do.”

“Bunny…” Your nickname sounds like prayer in his gravelly voice, as you take your time and nip at the sensitive skin above his peck. Your teeth leave bruises in their traces, but you knew he didn’t mind.

“I really did try to forget about you. It’s true— but I just couldn’t help myself… Thinking about those big, sad, green eyes every time I slid my hand between my thighs t’ try and get myself off.”

A trail of bruises adds on to the weight of your words— all of which were true. You thought you’d had it all under control the moment your relationship with Punk ended. But the harder you tried to forget about those aforementioned eyes or the spiteful, sarcastic bite of his tongue, the more you really fucking missed it.

“You’re fucking evil, you know that?” Punk gasps, a broad hand flying to brush rogue hair from your forehead.

“What about me is so evil? The fact that you loved me so good and fucked me so hard that you stained my conscience?”

In a lingering spike of anger, you dig your nails into his abdomen, watching his muscles flex beneath the grapple you held. Punk winces, returning the favor with a tug at your hair.

“I don’t think it’s evil. I’d say you left your mark,” you add onto the torture, dragging your nails past the tattoo on his stomach towards the waistband of his shorts, “And now, I think it’s only fair that I leave mine.”

The speed in which your lips reattached to his should've been a worthy competitor to the speed of sound; moans catching between heaving, desperate breaths as Punk held you like you were the last thing he’d ever touch.

“Take your fuckin’ shorts off—” you demand, a lightning bolt of confidence shocking through your spine as he follows your orders without question. All while your lips were still entwined.

You blindly reach down past where the hem of his shorts were, a sloppy frenzy of movement as you feel his cock free itself and spring up from the confines of his briefs.

A moan is caught in your larynx as your hand finds his thick shaft, locking eyes with him the second that skin touches skin.

“I— I bet you’ve been dreaming of this shit. Beatin’ the hell outta’ me, bossing me around—”

“—Oh please. I could do this in my sleep. I was always just worried about bruising that big, dumb ego of yours.”

You bite your lip, and Punk just sighs, his head hitting the throw pillow that you didn’t choose to launch at him while he stood against the wall.

“The biggest and dumbest. Yet you loved me more than anything. Isn’t that strange?”

Your eyes narrow at his smug expression. Despite being on the short end of the stick, he sure did have a mouth for the ages.

“But I’m not the one that came here all mopey, trying to put on a fuckin’ show because I missed incredible sex and the smell of vanilla perfume.”

“You didn’t deny that you love me.”

Your lip twitches at his smug expression. You’re almost tempted to rear that same hand back and slap him once more.

“Bite me.”

In a haze of rough, needy kisses and enough love bites to kill a man, you’d finally felt that your teasing quota was met. One final peck to the tip of his nose had Punk gasping for air, as you slithered your hand between your bodies and palmed his cock. You lift your hips, his pupils blown like he’d just seen the center of the universe.

“Missed seeing you on top of me—” Punk blurts out, looking shocked at the delicacy of his own words.

You flash him a wicked smile, not wasting any time in pushing your panties to the side and teasing his tip at your entrance.

“Bet you missed this pussy too, hm?”

Your condescension only adds to the fire raging in those evergreen eyes. Punk can only nod into submission as you lower yourself onto him, stretching out your walls around his cock and reinstating your title as the perfect fit.

Collective sighs fill the air, but there was still a small amount of unspoken tension that lingered above your heads like a storm cloud. There was only one way to release that tension— and it was the best way that you knew how.

Before you know it, the pace of your rocking hips picks up in speed, and the trembling breaths leaving Punk’s parted lips sounded like church bells ringing in your ears.

“Oh my God, fuck— Bunny—” he grunts, his hands grabbing tightly onto to your waist like clothespins as he guides you up and down his cock.

“Say my name. My— real name.”

Now that demand was something you knew he hated to do.

Although never showing any distaste for your real name, he had an aversion to using it. Only allowing himself to use it was of the utmost importance.

For himself, he preferred you just call him Punk, simply because ‘Phil’ just felt too mundane for his eclectic, brooding tastes.

The same went for you. The phenomenon of a ring name was something that got him more hot than bothered— and since you weren’t a wrestler, nor were you planning to be, he was left to his own devices to give you one. That was when ‘Bunny’ came about.

He may have chosen ‘Bunny’ for a multitude of reasons—it could have been for the fuzzy boots you wore on the winter night you’d met him outside of an indie show, or the way your nose crinkled up every time he said something that made you wince. For a while, you’d assumed that he’d forgotten your real name.

But you never really questioned his logic. Hell, you rarely questioned any of his idiosyncrasies at all.

If Bunny was what he liked to call you, then Bunny it was.

“Say my name, Phil. Fucking— say it.”

An impetuous moan breaks you out of your reminiscing, feeling that rage inside of you bubble back up into the desire to cause him more than just emotional pain. You take your hand and cup his jaw, fiercely pulling his spaced out eyes back into yours.

“Ah, fuck— fuckin’ Christ, you’re a lunatic.”

Your grip on his jaw grows tighter, watching him fight a smile with the ruminating thought of his masochistic ways in the back of your mind.

“You love this shit,” you pant, still rocking your hips with an utmost force that eventually brought the coffee table beside you to rattle, “Admit it. Tell me you love it and say my fucking name.”

An array of sloppy sounds fills the room once again, you can see, and feel, Punk’s shoddy attempts to fight back your ruthless aggression with his hips.

He slams into you upwards, a ping-pong of changing power dynamics, your entire body somehow feels like it weighs a ton.

“Kiss me. Bite me. Do it— do it ‘till it hurts.”

Suddenly, you’re crying out, loosening your hold on his jaw to run your nails down the front of his chest. He winces in pure, unbridled lust at the feeling of that brief sharp pain, and snaps his hips up even faster.

“Say my name first,” you barely squeeze out the words.

“Shit— Y/N— I fucking love you.”

Your wish was his command.

As you continue to bounce on his cock with enough force to drive you off the rails, you duck down, and slam your lips against his.

It was almost as if that final kiss was what he needed to send him to the brink of climax— his rhythm suddenly sloppy and his hands now crawling across your back to keep you pinned to his chest. You almost go weak in his arms when he bites at your neck, running his hand through the back of your hair and holding you closer— as if closer than you were right now was even humanly possible.

“Punk, oh my God— just like that, yeah. Right— right fuckin’ there—”

The rhythm of his hips was hitting every single mark— your walls tensing around his thick shaft with each snap of his hips and every glance into his needy eyes. He groaned for you, that poor, beaten up face of his looking as though you had him under a spell.

“Nobody fucks me like you do,” you breathe out, hoping your words were everything he needed and more to push him to the edge, “I love you. I still love you— so fucking much.”

A symphony of moans breaks you out of your bouts of praise, his hips snapping upwards with utmost force and bringing your entire body to tremble above him.

“Oh fuck. Fuck, Y/N!”

And suddenly, as if you were whipped through space and time, stars and fireworks fluttering towards the pit of your stomach— his cock twitches inside of you with an unspeakable amount of desperation and desire, reaching his climax in tandem with yours.

“Jesus Christ,” you sigh, sinking down to lay your cheek atop the fresh ink on his chest.

Punk lets out a low whistle, one that sounds familiar, and oddly comforting to you. It is reminiscent of a sigh of relief, as if having you wholly again was the one thing that kept his sarcastic quips and shitty ego afloat. All of that tension that lingered in the doorway of your apartment disappeared in an instant, his hands wrapping around you tightly as you attempted to level your breathing.

“You really know how to wear a man out, don’t ya?” Punk comments, tracing hearts and stars across your shoulder blades.

“I feed off souls, it's how I stay young.”

A simultaneous, hearty chuckle shakes both of your bodies. There was a feeling brewing around in your head that you couldn’t quite place your finger on. Maybe it was regret, but it was far too early to tell.

Especially with him still being inside of you.

“A succubus of sorts, hm?” says Punk, picking up your chin.

“Maybe. Maybe my mystifying, witchy-woman powers are what brought you here.”

“Or maybe I’m the one who can sense sadness. Don’t think I didn’t see those kicked-puppy-dog eyes when you opened the door...”

There it was again. The Punk you knew and loved. Defensive, yet somehow still able to make you swoon.

“...Gotta admit, there is a bit of magic between us.”

After laying in Punk’s arms for a long while after, that overwhelming sense of impending doom had dissolved completely.

You watched Punk scramble up and down the stairs of your lofted apartment to grab you everything you needed. A warmed washcloth and a glass of water; the two staples in your aftercare routine.

“Need anythin’ else?” You hear his disembodied voice from the kitchen above the running water.

“Actually, I do,” you comment, sitting up fully on the couch after he’d re-dressed you in your pajamas, “I need you to admit that coming here at midnight to bother me about a pair of gym shorts was a stupid fuckin’ plan.”

Punk freezes in his tracks, a sly smile sneaking onto his lips as he reaches over to dramatically turn the faucet off, “Guess I didn’t really think it through. I was more focused on seeing you. I needed an excuse to cover my own ass— the shorts were the best I could do.”

“Do better,” you snarl, “Still want ‘em back?”

Before replying, Punk slides beside you on the couch, his arm ready to cradle your head into the crook of his neck. He presses his lips against the side of your head, keeping there as his breathing slows.

“You can keep the shorts, Bunny. Just as long as you take me with ‘em.”

#cm punk smut #cm punk fanfic #cm punk x reader #wwe fanfiction #wwe smut #cm punk angst #my debut post weeeeee

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sweeterthanficstion · 28 days ago

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— coast2coast (pt. one) || l.s.k

pairing: life guard!leon kennedy x surfer!fem!reader

tags: surfing au! set in malibu, 1998, i wrote this with re2 leon in mind but re4 leon works too, featuring claire (and chris in later parts!), UNEDITED!! so far only fluff (unheard of...) i'll add as i go!

oh actually, my shitty attempt at knowing anything about surfing despite learning everything through youtube, google and malibu rising by taylor jenkins reid (what started this whole thing). i am NAWT a pro --- so if any of you guys actually know a thing or two abt surfing hit me up!!! i'd love to learn more!

summary: Summer is a fickle thing, sticky-sweet and fleeting, gone before you're ready. You've learnt to love it while it lasts. For you, every summer has been the same—surf, sand, salt-water tides and the hot Malibu breeze. But this summer brings a new sort of challenge, a spotlight your not so sure you're ready for, as well as a boy with golden hair, eyes as blue as the waves, and a way of making your heart rattle between your ribs like it’s desperate to break free.

word count: 2.6k

a/n: AHH HI! i'm so excited to post this one!! it's currently summer here in australia and i've been down at the beach nearly every weekend, so it was only inevitable that my fixation on surfer!leon came back full force. i have this big story all set up in my head, but i was too excited to wait to finish writing it so i'm posting it in parts!! ++ oh also i had no idea corral beach was an actual place in malibu so my version is fictionalised. just. take everything in this fic with a grain of salt i have no idea what im doing lol

i also thought it'd be really fun idea since i'm so busy nowadays, that if you guys are interested at all, you can send in little ideas for blurbs for surfer!leon, and i'd love to write them! i'll figure out ways to fit them into the story, just as little extras, but obviously no promises on writing all of them!! i'll likely just pick the ones i think fit best into the plot. i just think that'd be AWESOME!! <3

playlist⭑masterlist⭑AO3 ⭑ series masterlist⭑next part (coming soon)

California is exactly how you’d left it. Exactly how you remember it. Nothing has changed between the sand beneath your toes and the palm trees lining the scorching hot tar roads, their shadows stretching long and thin like sleepy cats in the afternoon sun. The salt-kissed air wraps around you, sticky and warm, a gentle reminder that time moves slower here. Or maybe it doesn’t move at all.

That’s the thing about California. A time capsule—sun, sand and sky.

June, July, August, Summer melts in your mouth like a sticky popsicle, one into the next, so quick you forget what it tastes like before it’s even passed.

No matter where you are in the world, what waves you're chasing, whether it be in Oceania, the Pacific, the Atlantic, summer melts, fickle and eager.

You’ve learnt to love it while it lasts.

“Another fish and chips!” One of the waitress staff calls from the front—Bunny’s Seafood Diner has been around for as long as you can remember, a weathered little gem perched off the coast of Corral Beach, Malibu. A quick and convenient right turn off the PCH, it’s a lighthouse for road-tripping families and sunburned surfers chasing their next ride.

You flip the fryer around your wrist with a practised flourish, “On it!” You call back, before you dip the metal back in the bubbling oil, the familiar sizzle of golden fries accompanying the bustle of the late afternoon rush. The kitchen smells of salt and grease and the faint tang of fresh-caught fish, a scent so familiar it clings to your skin like a second layer.

Claire breezes past with lazy grace, bumping her hip against yours. “Heading to the surf after?” she asks, her grin as wide as the beach outside, like her mouth was made for holding sweet oranges on hot summer days. She’s balancing a seafood basket in one hand and a plate of fries in the other, weaving through the bustle with the ease of someone who’s done it a thousand times before.

“How’s the forecast looking?” You ask back instead, tossing the crispy fries into a basket lined with deli paper.

“High tide in twenty,” Claire winks over her shoulder at you, side-stepping a counter corner like it’s second nature. “It’s gonna be perfect.”

You can’t deny that does sound perfect. After a shift as long as the one you’ve worked today, a surf might be all you need to feel alive again. You look back up at the foggy old clock on the wall—ten minutes left, five if you can sweet-talk your manager. You end up counting the minutes in your head, that familiar itch to feel the sand under your feet and the sun on your skin insatiable.

By the time the clock hits four, you’re halfway out the door, ready to trade the smell of fried seafood for the briny tang of the ocean instead. Claire is hot on your heels, boards tucked under both your arms as she chases you across the tar road that burns under your bare feet, down the splintering boardwalk, and onto the powdered-sugar sands of Corral Beach.

The sun has already dipped far past it’s zenith, and the world feels washed in gold. Golden rays stretch out across shimmering waters, painting streaks of honey over the horizon, the heat settling into a balmy hum that sticks to your skin in a way you can only love.

You follow the shaded path of sycamore trees until the beach opens up to surfer’s paradise—a long stretch of sand, waves that swell and crash, aching to be carved into by hungry surfers. The path curves past a weathered wooden bulletin board, been there as long as you can remember, and you think it might be older than Bunny’s, if that’s even possible.

“Wait!” Claire stops in her tracks, and you are helpless but to comply. Your eyes stay glued longingly to the beach while Claire’s squint at the array of flyers pinned up—some faded, some fresh. There’s a yoga class, a missing dog poster, and the usual surf report stapled to the corner, its ink smudged from damp fingers. But her eyes zero in on something bright and bold and new.

“Here we go.” She plucks a flyer off the board, turning it toward you like she’s struck gold. The words Corral Beach Annual Surf Comp are printed in big, blocky letters, accompanied by a grainy photo of a surfer carving into a wave.

“Oh, no,” you groan, already shaking your head.

“Oh, yes,” Claire says, a grin spreading across her face.

Claire’s been singing the same song since you were fifteen and cutting through waves better than most kids your age here on Corral Beach. That you should be out there winning trophies and medals and 10k cheques instead of cleaning out the back of the greasy old fryer’s in Bunny’s.

“C’mon, you have to do it!” She bugs on, waving the flyer around like some magic wand.

You laugh, ducking under her arm as she tries to push it into your face. “Claire, come on.”

“I’m serious!” she insists, jogging to catch up with you as you head toward the water. “You’re out here every day. You’ve got the moves, the skill—everything they’re looking for.”

It’s not like you haven’t thought about it. You’ve been surfing since before you could walk. You’d grown up right here on Corral Beach, knew these waves better than yourself. You’d watched your parents chase waves like it was their religion—Bali, Costa Rica, Australia, it was their entire life. Something they loved that was inevitable for you to love too.

“I’m just not the competition type,” you shrug, gaze drifting out to the waves curling in the distance. It’s not that you don’t want to—well, okay, maybe it is. The idea of standing out there, under the scrutiny of judges, crowds, and strangers, feels about as foreign as the first time you stepped onto a board. Surfing, to you, is about as religious as it is to your parents. An outlet, an art form, the ocean calms your restless soul when you need it most. Putting a score to something like that just doesn’t feel right.

“You’re one of the best surfers out here.” Claire presses, she does it so effortlessly. Poking and prodding, always enough but never so much as to push you over the edge. “Half the people in those comps are just there for a shot at a new wetsuit.”

You meet Claire’s gaze, hesitate, the memory of your dad paddling out at dawn or your mom teaching you how to duck dive flickering in your mind. “It’s not about that. My parents taught me how to surf before they taught me how to say mom and dad. They’d enter comps now and then, but it was never about winning. It was about the waves, the adventure.”

“And you don’t think that’s in you too?” Claire asks, raising an eyebrow as she shields her eyes against the sun.

“Maybe it is,” you say finally. “But that’s their story, not mine.”

Claire’s gaze softens for all of a second before she snorts, shoving your shoulder with her own. “You’re so full of it. You’ve got more talent in your pinky than most people out there. Just think about it, okay? It could be fun.”

You do nothing of the sort.

The second your feet are in the water, you forget all about the comp, all about your job and any other worries on your mind. Salt water seems to have that sort of effect on you. Wasting no time, both you and Claire paddle past the surf, straddling your boards in the ocean, watching as the other surfers before you take off one by one with each new wave that rolls in.

It doesn't take long before the first wave in a gorgeous set comes in, Claire’s all but primed for it. She takes off, gets into position, and pops up on her board, carving into it like it’s breathing. You follow suit as the next one comes in, and just like that, you fall into the rhythm of the ocean.

Wave after wave, you don’t stop until the sun is cotton candy pink, purple, gold. Most of the other surfers have dispersed by now, and Claire’s traded shredding the bigger waves for wading through the calm waters with her back pressed against the flat of her board.

You, on the other hand, feel like fate is decidedly on your side. You watch as another set rolls in, the first crashing just out of reach. It peels exactly as you’d hoped, slowly to the right, so when the next one rolls in right after, you paddle with it, catch the feeling of the tide underneath you, and like it's simply second nature, get to your feet.

This is where you feel most alive. There is not a second to spare for the other noise in your head, not about the past nor the future nor anything in between other than right here and now. Nothing but the instinctual insistence of how much longer can you stay on? How much longer can you keep your balance? Lean left, right, forward. Better, longer, more, more, more.

And when you’ve finally completed your balancing act, you dance up to the nose, hovering there on the tip of your board, arms out to steady yourself like sails catching wind, and then you close your eyes and let the crash of the wave topple you off.

It’s only once you’ve resurfaced, board nowhere to be seen, that you realise you didn’t feel the familiar tug of the leash around your ankle. By the time you drag yourself to shore, breath heavy and hair clinging to your face, you see it—the measly cord trailing behind you, frayed and snapped clean.

You huff a sigh, not surprised. It had been old crap for a while now. So had the board, but it carried enough summers in its scars to mean something. A history you weren’t quite ready to part with.

Claire’s already gathering her things by the time you meet her on the sand, shaking out her towel and tossing it into her worn tote bag.

“What happened to your board?” she asks, her tone casual, but her raised brow suggests she’s caught the fraying leash.

You lift your ankle and let the cord dangle, the sad state of it all the explanation she needs.

She winces, offering you a sympathetic smile. “Ouch. Guess it’s finally time for a new one?”

It’s only when you’re halfway up the beach that you spot it again. Your board? Your board!

It’s leaning lazily against the base of a lifeguard tower, looking as though it had simply wandered off and decided to wait for you all this while. Relief blooms in your chest, and you call to Claire that you’ll catch up.

It’s only when you’re closer that you notice him.

He’s standing by the lifeguard tower, a red rescue can slung casually over his shoulder. Blonde hair catches the light, tousled and damp like he’s been in the water himself. His broad shoulders are framed by the white-and-red uniform shirt that looks a little too crisp for someone who spends their day in the sun.

You can tell he’s new. There’s a hesitation in the way he stands, like he’s trying to look comfortable in a place he hasn’t quite claimed yet. But there’s something magnetic about him, the way he surveys the beach with quiet curiosity, like he’s soaking in every detail.

And you don’t mean to stare, but you’re caught in the moment, the way he looks like he belongs there despite it all, carved from the same sun and salt as the beach itself.

You’re still staring when his eyes meet yours.

They’re blue, impossibly so, the kind of blue that reminds you of the water when it’s so clear you can see straight to the bottom, the kind of blue you could fall into and forget how to breathe. His mouth quirks into a smile—easy, natural, like he’s been doing it all his life.

For a heartbeat, the world shifts, tilts ever so slightly, like the two of you are caught in some half-remembered dream. Something stirs in your chest, familiar yet unnameable, like déjà vu soaked in sunlight. You freeze, caught like a fish on a line, just before his eyes crinkle at the corners, and he lifts a hand in a casual wave.

“Hey,” he calls out, his voice carries over the sound of the waves, warm and low, and you think there’s a hint of the coast in it—just not this one.

You blink, salt-sticky and sun-drunk, realizing belatedly that you’re still rooted to the spot. “Hey,” you manage, shifting your weight on your feet.

He doesn’t move, but his attention is all yours now, quiet and steady, as though nothing else on the beach exists, like you’re the most interesting thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

“Nice ride out there,” he says, nodding toward the water, his voice dipped in easy admiration. “That last wave—you made it look easy.”

A laugh bubbles out of you, unplanned but genuine, a flush to your cheeks at the notion of being watched and noticed. You hope he mistakes it for sunburn. “Easy? You sure you weren’t watching someone else?”

“Nope,” he says, the smile widening just a fraction. “Definitely you. The board gave it away.” He says, nodding towards the board that’s still propped against the lifeguard tower like a loyal dog.

“Ah,” you say, realising. “So it was you.”

He shrugs, sweet and boyish in his sincerity. “Figured it deserved better than drifting out to sea.”

You glance down at your battered shortboard, the paint long faded from years of sun and surf. The edges are chipped, and the wax is uneven, but it feels like a part of you. “Thanks,” you say, meaning it. “Guess I owe you one.”

And before you can really think it through, the words escape you all at once. “You surf?”

“Not like that,” he hums, tilting his head toward the waves. Not like you. “Still trying to figure out how to make it look as easy.”

“That’s how it starts,” you say, a grin pulling at your lips despite yourself. “You’ll get there.”

He shrugs, a bit sheepish. “We’ll see. I’m mostly here for this,” he hefts the rescue can with a crooked smile. “Started lifeguard training last week. Figured I’d better get to know the locals.”

“Locals, huh?” You arch a brow, a subtle quirk to your lips. “And I’m one of those?”

“Definitely,” he grins, his voice sure now, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“Like this is where you belong.”

The words hang in the air, sweet and sticky like the heat of the day. For a moment, you don’t know what to say.

“Well,” you manage, recovering with a nod toward the tower. “Welcome to Corral Beach. Try not to let it chew you up and spit you out.”

He laughs then, and it’s warm, golden—like sunlight filtering through the trees. “I’ll do my best.”

He steps back, making space for you to collect your board, though his gaze lingers, like he’s reluctant to go but knows he should.

“See you around?” he asks, the question carrying a hopeful edge.

“Maybe,” you say, the word feeling light and easy as you turn toward the parking lot.

You don’t look back, but you feel his eyes linger, and it leaves a quiet sort of thrill in your chest, like the first rush of catching a wave.

likes n reblogs r very much appreciated <3

#spilled ink ₊˚⊹♡#IM SORRY IF THE ENDING FEELS UNFINISHED #AS I SAID I GOT SUPER EXCITED TO POST #updates will be slow as usual so im sorry about that!! that's why im hoping blurbs will be enough to fill the space in between if anybody #is interested of course #leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #resident evil fanfiction #leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy fanfiction #sweeterthanficstion #coast2coast #surfer!leon

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lemoncrushh · 5 months ago

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You're Never This Quiet

Summary: Harry has been quiet all evening and you wonder why.

Warnings: none

Word Count: 1330

A/N: From my 2016 collection, based on a prompt given. Fluffy reader fic with a little bit of trepidation in the beginning.

You and Harry had been dating for two years. Actually, by this point, to say you were "dating" sounded a little silly and juvenile. You were in love. Simple as that. The way he treated you was the way you wanted to be treated, and you gave it back to him tenfold. Sure, it wasn't always easy. You'd had a few bumps in the road, some twists and turns. But to look back at your time together made you burst with pride. Nowadays, any celebrity romance that lasted more than a few months was not only shocking but commendable.

Tonight, you and Harry had gone to a party in Malibu. It was a casual affair on the beach, and like at most parties, you mingled with others throughout the evening, some people you knew, some you were meeting for the first time, but you always managed to circle back to each other. Harry would pull you close, kissing the top of your head before returning to his previous conversation, or perhaps walk with you to a nearby bar to get a refill on drinks.

This time, however, you noticed something different about him. Harry was never really one to stand still, always fidgeting if he wasn't chatting or telling a silly joke. Even if he was being affectionate with you, he wouldn't be serious for long before doing something like tickling you or commenting to others about how great you are. Tonight, he wasn't doing any of those things. Tonight, he was almost...quiet.

You watched him from across the room as he sat in the middle of a semi-circle sofa. For once he wasn't the center of attention. He sipped on his drink and nodded a few times, but you barely even saw his mouth move. A couple times you even saw him rub one of his palms down the leg of his jeans before switching his glass to his other hand and repeating. It was a little disconcerting to be honest, and you felt your stomach tighten. Someone said something to you, but you barely heard. Instead, you smiled politely and excused yourself.

"Hey," you whispered in his ear from behind the couch.

Harry nearly jumped up from his seat before turning to look at you.

"Oh, hey," he grinned when he realized it was you. "Come 'ere."

He gestured with his hand for you to sit next to him. You walked around the sofa and squeezed in. He gently took your hand and threaded his fingers through yours, making you feel a little more at ease. But you were still a little concerned.

"You okay?" you asked.

Harry nodded, giving your hand a little squeeze. But the fact that he swallowed hard was not lost on you. You knew something was up.

You continued sitting with him until his glass was empty and he set it down on the coffee table in front you. When he sat back and ran a hand through his hair, he leaned toward you to whisper.

"Wanna go for a walk?"

"Sure," you nodded apprehensively.

You knew your eyes had to be big as saucers and your heart was just about beating out of your chest as you followed him outside to the large deck. The summer wind hit you in the face, the temperature warm even in the late hour.

Heading toward the edge of the deck, you were surprised when Harry took the stairs and stopped at the bottom one.

"We're going on the beach?" you questioned as you saw him take off his shoes.

"Yeah," he replied, trying to roll up his jeans. "Although I probably shouldn't have worn these."

You giggled lightly, feeling odd that this was the first sign of humor he'd shown all night. You slipped off your own shoes, grateful to be wearing a sundress, and took his awaiting hand before stepping out onto the warm sand.

You cringed slightly at the sensation of sand between your toes. You waited for Harry to say something, expecting to hear his usual comedic comments, but still he remained silent. As you got closer to the ocean and the sand became more compact, you gingerly swung your connected hands between you, hoping to lighten the mood. When Harry looked at you and smiled, you felt your heart flutter.

"I love you," you declared bravely. It was something you said regularly now, but somehow his reserved personality tonight made you a little afraid to say it out loud.

"I love you, too," he echoed.

If Harry heard the loud breath you exhaled, he didn't acknowledge it. You continued to walk together in silence, sans for the crashing waves and the wind in your ears. Finally, you couldn't take it any longer.

"Is something wrong, Harry?" you inquired.

"No...why?"

"You've been pretty quiet this evening," you commented.

There was a slight pause before Harry said, "I have?"

You stopped walking then, releasing your hand from his.

"You're never this quiet, what's wrong?"

Harry turned to look at you, a mixture of worry and confusion on his face.

"Nothing's wrong," he blinked.

"Yes there is," you nearly choked. "C'mon, Harry. We've been together for two years. I know you. Something's up."

Harry bowed his head and ran his hand over his face.

"Yeah, it has been two years," he agreed.

You narrowed your eyes, now confused yourself, and also more worried than ever. Your stomach was now doing somersaults, and you swallowed and wrapped your arms around your middle to try to settle it.

"I...uh...was..." Harry took a deep breath, "trying to decide the right time to do this."

"To do what?"

You watched as Harry shoved a hand in his pocket and pulled something out, though you couldn't quite see what it was. But when he knelt down in front of you in the sand, taking your hand in his, you had to cover your mouth with the other to block the scream that was rising in your throat.

"[Y/N]," he said loud and clear, "I'm sorry I've been such a dope today."

He chuckled lightly, shaking his head.

"I'm so fucking nervous," he muttered before clearing his throat. "My love, will you marry me?"

That was when you saw the ring in his other hand as he held it up. It glistened in the moonlight, reflecting the colors of the night sky and the water.

"Harry!" you barely got out as the tears were already welling up in your eyes. "Oh my God!"

"Is that a yes?" he asked.

You half laughed, half cried. "Oh my God, yes!"

Harry grinned as he swiftly slid the ring onto your finger, giving it a kiss. Then he stood up, taking your face in his hands and kissing your lips.

"I'll make you so happy," he promised, his eyes twinkling.

"I know, baby," you nodded. "You already do."

He kissed you again, this time deeper and longer. Your fingers tangled in the back of his hair as you tried to get as close to him as possible.

"I love you so much," you murmured against his mouth.

After holding each other for a while, and much more kissing, you both decided to ditch the rest of the party. Instead, you continued to walk down the beach, hand in hand, as a newly engaged couple. The idea made you giddy when you thought of it.

When Harry suggested you walk up the beach and sit down for a while, you eagerly agreed. He put his arm around you, and you leaned into him, draping your arm around his bent knee.

"Sorry about your jeans," you said as you felt the wetness from the sand.

"What?" he wondered before realizing what you were talking about. "Oh," he laughed. "It was totally worth it."

You smiled as he nuzzled your neck.

"I'm sorry I was being so quiet," he added.

"It's okay," you assured him. "That was totally worth it, too."

MASTERLIST | KO-FI | FEEDBACK

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fan fiction #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fan fic #harry styles fic #harry styles one shot #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x yn #harry styles x you #harry styles fluff #harry styles blurb #harry styles concept #harry styles imagine #harry styles writing #reader fic

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cloveswifey · 2 years ago

Text

Secret

Parings: JJ Maybank x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Secret relationship, kissing, cuteness, fluff, hierarchy, short imagine, money mentions.

Type: Fluff

Words: 0.3k

JJ and Y/N had been secretly dating for a few months now. They didn't want anyone to know because they were afraid of how their friends would react. JJ was a Pouge and Y/N was a kook, and they knew that their relationship would be frowned upon.

They would sneak around and meet in secret places, like the abandoned building on the outskirts of town or the park after dark. They would hold hands, talk, and kiss, but they never went too far. They were both afraid of getting caught and didn't want to risk getting in trouble.

One day, they were sitting in the park, watching the sunset when JJ turned to Y/N and said, "I don't want to keep this a secret anymore. I want to tell our friends and be with you openly."

Y/N was surprised but happy at the same time. She had been having the same feelings for JJ but didn't want to ruin their secret relationship.

"I feel the same way," Y/N replied, smiling.

They decided to tell their friends the truth and end the secret relationship. Their friends were surprised but supportive. They were happy for JJ and Y/N and didn't want to get in the way of their happiness.

From that day on, JJ and Y/N were a real couple. They were happy, in love, and grateful that they had each other. They didn't care what anyone else thought because they knew that their love was real.

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lotusbxtch · 1 month ago

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SoCal to NorCal: Chapter 3 - Mill Valley

Series Masterlist Chapter 1: Malibu Chapter 2: Hwy 101 & Beyond

Series Pairing: husband!Joel Miller x f!Reader x boyfriend!Frankie Morales Series Summary: Joel is your rock, and Frankie is your ocean. So what happens when you bring the three of you together? - or - you and Frankie roadtrip up from Southern California to Northern California so he can meet Joel. A polyamory fic. This series exists in the Triple Frontier universe and is a Joel Miller AU/Triple Frontier AU. Series Rating: Explicit, 18+ only, MDNI

Chapter 3: Mill Valley

Chapter Pairing: Frankie Morales x f!Reader x Joel Miller Chapter Summary: The three of you are finally together, and sparks ignite passionate flames that will change everyone. Word Count: 8.8k - get a snack, it’s a long one! Rating: Explicit, 18+ only, MDNI

Warnings/tags: polyamory, consumption & preparation of food and alcohol, MFM dynamics, MMF dynamics, brief masturbation, oral (f and m receiving), unprotected p in v sex (wrap it up, folks!), multiple orgasms, orgasm denial, multiple creampies, cum kink, cum eating (Frankie is a bit of a cumslut tbh), squirting (there’s a lot of fluids lol i’m sorry in advance if that’s not your thing), slight size kink, gratuitous descriptions of male and female anatomy, heavy use of Spanish pet names/nicknames/phrases, Frankie and Joel are switches in this one, sub!Reader, Frankie the PEK, consent kings, Joel’s filthy mouth is absolutely its own warning but Frankie’s gets one too this time, romance, idiots in love, a splash of angst, soft!Joel but also menace!Joel because we love a man with duality, brief mention of Frankie’s young daughter named Isabella, brief mention of parental & relative deaths, Reader uses she/her pronouns, Reader is able-bodied, has breasts, and has hair that can be pulled, otherwise no description of Reader's skin color, size, body shape, hair color, eye color, or ethnicity, no use of y/n. Everyone is testing negative for STDs and Reader is on birth control.

a/n: the moment you’ve all been waiting for! This chapter was a labor of love because I wanted to get the dynamics *just* right. These three are so special to me, and I would be remiss if I didn’t mention @for-a-longlongtime (who also beta read), @mountainsandmayhem (my daddy and beta reader), and @alltheirdamn - my lovely girlies who helped me shape this story. Shoutout to @mermaidgirl30, @joelmillerisapunk, @sin-djarin, and @yxtkiwiyxt who I’ve given little previews of so we could scream together about them. Please let me know if I’ve missed any tags! Dividers & banners by the lovely @saradika-graphics, thank you. (Please note that the chapter graphic is NOT meant to be accurate to Reader — vibes only!)

If you enjoy my writing, please leave a comment, feedback or reblog! It would mean the world to me. Thank you!

“I don’t know why they call it the Golden Gate Bridge when it’s red and not gold.”

You roll your eyes hard as Frankie snorts at his own awful joke, and turn your attention to the blue-gray waters below you & the bridge. The breeze whips through your hair and the Jeep’s interior, ruffling your boyfriend’s dark brown curls peeking out from under his trusty Standard Oil ballcap.

“One more bad joke and I’m going to toss you off the Marin Headlands when we get over the bridge,” you quip at him.

Frankie grabs your hand, kissing the back of it with a smack. “You would never, hermosa.”

A bright smile lights up your face as you look at him. “You’re lucky that you’re so cute, Morales.”

After an early breakfast in Santa Cruz, you and Frankie continued northwards on your road trip. You opted to drive I-280, the highway providing fantastic views of the lush evergreen trees and rolling hills you loved so much. Frankie couldn’t get over how wildly green it all looked, especially since he’d spent so much time in Los Angeles amongst the concrete and manicured lawns.

You’d stopped for lunch at your favorite San Francisco dim sum restaurant, hotly debating with Frankie which one of the many bamboo steamer rounds contained the best dish - your favorite is xiao long bao, while Frankie favors black bean pork spareribs. Both of you agreed that the dan tarts were amazing, so you’d bought a few to-go for Joel to savor later. Now, you’re driving across the Golden Gate Bridge into Marin County, heading towards your and Joel’s house in Mill Valley.

You sigh and pull the forest green plaid button up a bit tighter around you; despite the sun peeking through, it’s still cold, per usual for this time of year in the north Bay Area.

Frankie clocks your movement, and smirks knowingly at the shirt. “Does he know you took it?”

“Maybe,” you purr mischievously. “He’ll know soon enough if not.”

Huffing a laugh, Frankie turns back to the road, flipping on the turn signal before hooking a right onto your residential street. Majestic redwoods line the road, towering overhead, and you sigh in relief and comfort at the familiar sight. Living here with Joel makes you feel closer to nature than your apartment in Los Angeles. The stress melts out of your bones with each breath of fresh air.

As you drive down the quiet street, you see your beautiful house appear. Slightly younger redwoods surround both sides of the corner lot property, isolated from your next-door neighbors. The two-story craftsman home is spacious but cozy, with warm-stained cedar shingles wrapping around the exterior, complimented by deep sage trim. Native plants thrive in the front yard, and smoke leisurely meanders from the chimney, lending an enchanted ambiance. It’s the perfect balance of your and Joel’s vibes: a modern forested haven.

Frankie approaches your river-rock paved driveway, pulling in carefully next to Joel’s well-worn charcoal pickup truck. Your heart swells in happiness at the sight of it. Following, however, are tiny pings of nervousness and excitement. You glance at Frankie; his expression is calm but unreadable. Typical of Frankie – his Delta Force background and introverted personality mean that he habitually retreats a bit into himself in new situations to observe quietly. Squeezing his hand, you give him a soft smile, which he returns as he squeezes your hand back and puts the car into park. It feels a bit strange to have your boyfriend in a place foreign to him but so familiar to you.

You hear your front door squeak open before you see Joel’s broad frame exit, dashing in a denim button up and his Levi’s. The double-denim outfit would look ridiculous on most other men, but not Joel; the weathered blue only enhances his rugged handsomeness.

Popping out of the Jeep, you call out, “Hi, baby!” while bounding over to him. His eyes flit over you, an amused look on his face when he spots your overshirt.

“I was wonderin’ where my favorite flannel went,” he chuckles. “Should’a known you were gonna take it with you.”

“It’s my favorite too,” you quip back, setting down the box of dan tats for Joel on the driveway so you can wrap your arms around his neck. You press a kiss to his full lips. “I can borrow it whenever I want. Wife privileges, you know.”

Joel rolls his eyes but smiles, giving your backside a soft smack and laughing when you yelp playfully. “Get your cute ass inside. We’ll take care of the luggage, baby.” You squeal in delight and nod, picking the box back up and heading towards the house. Frankie swings open the tailgate, removing his and your bags from the back.

Joel rounds the car, and Frankie takes a breath to steady himself. Everything is going to be fine.

“Hey, Frankie,” Joel greets the other man with a warm handshake and a clap on the shoulder.

“It’s so great to meet you in person, Joel,” Frankie says warmly. The two men look at each other for a moment, and then Frankie bends to pick up your luggage at the same time Joel does. Their hands brush at the handle and both jolt a little at the contact.

Frankie pulls back sheepishly, bringing a hand to the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Ah, I’ll let you take your wife’s things, I guess,” he sputters a bit. God, why do I feel so awkward with Joel? He literally told me to eat out his wife on video chat.

“You mean our girl,” Joel corrects before smiling at Frankie warmly, lifting the case with ease and tipping his head towards the house as he walks towards it. Frankie smiles tentatively at him and nods, a bit relieved, and grabs his own bag. “C’mon,” Joel says, “let’s get these bags inside so both of you can settle in a bit before we start prepping for dinner.”

Once the guys drop off the luggage into the entryway, you and Joel lead Frankie on a tour of your house. Dark hardwood floors contrast with the muted tones of the walls, each room a different soft color. The furnishings are modern with a slight vintage flair, creating a cozy yet refined atmosphere. A wood-burning fireplace sits in the corner of the living room, a fire softly crackling inside. You explain where each of your favorite decor and furniture items came from – you and Joel tend to patronize the local thrift markets and mom & pop shops, which creates a softly eclectic feel.

Frankie runs his hand across the back of the plush cream couch as he looks up at the skylights in the ceiling. “Tons of natural light, that’s awesome,” he notes.

“That was my one non-negotiable when we were looking at houses,” you note. “Say what you want about marriage being a compromise, but that was one thing I couldn’t imagine living without.”

Joel nods. “If she doesn’t get enough light durin’ the day, especially in the winter, she gets in a bad way,” he notes. You scoff at your husband’s (admittedly astute) observation.

“Oh, I’ve noticed,” Frankie chuckles, admiring the bank of wide windows across the kitchen and the sets of French doors leading out to the enclosed patio and backyard. “One time in December, I caught her sunning herself like a lizard in this little shard of light coming into my living room.”

“Frankie!” you gasp in false indignation, eyes darting between the two of them as they suppress laughter. “Not even an hour in and you’re already ganging up on me? How rude.”

“That’s our girl,” Joel smirked, clapping Frankie on the shoulder as he leads the way towards the stairs to show him the bedrooms.

Our girl. Warmth seeps into Frankie’s heart as he follows Joel upstairs.

While you unpack your bags, Joel and Frankie head out to the nearby corner grocery for dinner supplies and the adjacent liquor store for some of the new shipment of Japanese whiskey that the store’s owner, Bill, had set aside for Joel.

Talking with Frankie is surprisingly easier than Joel thought it would be. He’s a bit more serious than Frankie, sure, and there’s a difference in age, but they have quite a few common interests; it turns out that both of them are football fans, for one. While Joel is a diehard Houston Texans fan, Frankie roots for the Los Angeles Rams. Despite their difference in football fandoms, they both are avid grillers. They also both fish: Joel prefers lake fishing and Frankie loves to go on ocean fishing excursions. Surprisingly, you’ve managed to turn them both into unironic fans of The Great British Bake-off – they agree that the camaraderie and wholesome nature of the show is a balm to the sometimes-cruel world.

As it turns out, they’re also similar in their values.

“For most of my adult life, it’s just been me and my brother, Tommy,” Joel explains, shifting the grocery tote on his shoulder as they walk back to the house. “Our parents died when we were teenagers, and then our only aunt in California passed away when I was 21 and Tommy had just turned 18. He was — is — a pain in my ass, but he’s my brother, so I did what I could to take care of the two of us. That meant workin’ in construction to make ends meet, and bailin’ his ass out after he came back from the Army and kept getting into trouble.”

Frankie huffs as he shakes his head. “I… can relate to that on a few levels. Mi mamá raised me alone in east LA. All we had was each other. When I got old enough, I joined the Army, too. Made it into the Delta Force.”

“That ain’t easy,” Joel notes, waving to the owner of the shop across the way.

Sadness flashes across Frankie’s face, but he quickly schools it, the operative in him taking over. “Yeah. My teammates and I ended up out in Florida after we left. Sort of became each other’s family.” He swallows hard.

Joel doesn’t miss the shift in emotions. “My brother was in Operation Desert Storm,” he explains. “The kind of shit they experienced together sort of… trauma bonded them to each other.”

Frankie nods in agreement, then hesitates, looking unsure. Joel knows from experience with his brother that military members aren’t often keen on sharing their vulnerabilities with others. He can’t imagine it’s any easier given he’s the husband of Frankie’s girlfriend.

They both stop to admire a miniature train set in motion in the window of a toy store. After a few moments, Joel turns to Frankie.

“I know you’ve had your fair share of difficulties, but I want you to know that you only have to tell me what you want me to know,” Joel says softly. “I’m practically a stranger, so I’m not expectin’ you to divulge your deepest secrets to me. But know that whatever you say, I won’t be passin’ judgement.”

Frankie exhales a shaky breath, clearly relaxing at Joel’s reassurance. He begins to walk towards the house once again, Joel falling into step by his side.

“I had a rough go of things after our last mission,” Frankie murmurs. He grows quiet for a few breaths, concentrating his gaze on the pavement under his feet as they walk. “To straighten myself out, I moved back to LA. Despite everything I’d done and been through, my mom never wavered in her support of me. And after a while, my daughter and her mother also moved back so we could share custody again. So, family is really important to me, too.”

He takes a deep breath, looking over at Joel, whose eyes haven’t wavered from his. A sense of recognition hangs palpably in the air between them. Joel’s never held anything against anyone who’s struggled in their life, especially if they’ve proven they can turn things around. He saw it with Tommy, and he can see it in Frankie’s countenance clear as day.

“I’m glad to hear that,” the older man says simply, giving Frankie a small smile. Although they’d met less than 12 hours ago, Joel feels far more comfortable around him than he imagined he’d be.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so hard after all.

The incredible smells wafting from the kitchen wake you from your nap. Stretching your limbs, you climb out from under your sherpa blanket and pad to the kitchen. You smile softly, quietly taking in the scene before you. Joel is chopping green onions on the kitchen island while Frankie mixes broccoli, cauliflower, and carrots in olive oil, sprinkling in seasoning between tosses. Pearl Jam plays softly from the bluetooth speaker.

“Whatever you’re making smells so good,” you purr at Joel, kissing his neck and peering over his shoulder.

Joel chuckles. “That’s all Frankie, baby,” he says, motioning towards your boyfriend with his chin. “He’s makin’ us his famous roast chicken.”

You squeal excitedly. “Oh my god, yay! It’s one of my favorite things he makes!” Hopping over to Frankie, you wrap your arms around his waist and mold your body to his back, peppering kisses across his broad shoulders. He sets the bowl of vegetables down, wiping his hands on a towel before turning to face you.

“Joel mentioned that you’ve talked about it ad-nauseum so he finally wanted to try it for himself,” Frankie explains, placing his hands on your waist. “And you’ve hyped up Joel’s cheesy garlic bread, so I figured it would be a fair trade.”

You beam at Frankie, thrilled that the two of them are seemingly getting along great. “Your signature dishes! This is awesome.”

“It’s pretty much all I can make besides grilled meat and breakfast food,” Joel laughs while he mixes the garlic bread spread.

You giggle, draping your arms around Frankie’s neck as you look at your husband. “You’re lucky I like cooking; our cholesterol levels would be through the roof if it was up to you to provide sustenance.”

“And I thank the heavens every day that you do, sweetness,” Joel demures, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he walks around you and Frankie to grab the cut baguette for the garlic bread.

You turn to Frankie and notice emotions fighting across his face - warmth, admiration, and hesitation. He’s been reserved with his displays of physical affection since arriving, despite his usual habit of almost always keeping his hands on you at any given moment. To reassure him, you pull him into you and kiss his lips softly. He hums quietly and returns the kiss. Pulling back, he cups the sides of your face and caresses your cheeks with his thumbs, his eyes gentle, earthy pools of devotion.

Your heartbeat kicks up. Emotions flood your mind as memories of the road trip play in your mind, Frankie’s eyes searching yours while you breathe each other’s air. Words unspoken seem to thicken the space between the two of you.

The nervousness about Frankie meeting Joel has faded throughout the day — he fit so well into your dynamic with Joel that it almost felt like he’d always been there. Now, the fluttering in your stomach has more to do with why.

Your lips part, about to bring your feelings to the surface, but before you can, Frankie shifts slightly to gently smooch your forehead, then picks up the bowl of vegetables again. Your breath whooshes from your chest quietly, your lips pressing together. He turns his attention back to cooking and spreads the produce across a baking sheet.

“Do you mind putting another log on the fire, honey?” Joel calls over to you, sliding the garlic bread into the top oven before Frankie places his tray of vegetables into the bottom oven with the chicken.

“Yep!” you respond, padding back into the living room to toss more firewood into the flames. With both of your men engrossed once again in dinner prep, you meander to the couch. You sink into the cushions, biting your lip while your mind turns over where your blossoming feelings for Frankie might lead all three of you.

You want to ask Frankie if he feels it too: that pull of your heart to his, the tug that goes beyond just physical chemistry. The ease with which he slots into your life, this life with Joel. Does he feel like a puzzle piece has surfaced, one that he didn’t even know he was missing until it snapped into place?

And Joel. He’s always so good at reading people, so he has to have clocked your emotions, even if you’ve been denying them yourself. He’s okay with you sleeping with other people, and clearly he doesn’t take issue with you being affectionate towards Frankie in front of him. Nonetheless, he didn’t sign up for his wife falling for another man. The guilt settles like a film over the effervescent happiness of the day thus far. Joel is the ultimate giver to those he loves… but are you pushing him past his boundaries?

After your delicious dinner in the dining room, the three of you migrate back to the cozy couch, each nursing a finger of the Japanese whiskey, the complex swirls of subtle fruit, vanilla, and toffee dancing across your tongues. The meandering conversation shifts back to your (tried and failed) attempts at the Santa Cruz carousel ring toss.

“See, baby, I told you that chuckin’ that ring won’t do you any good.”

You guffaw at your husband’s disapproval of your carousel ring toss strategy at the Santa Cruz boardwalk. “Oh, I’m outnumbered? You actually agree with Frankie on this one?”

“Yeah,” Joel shakes his head in disbelief. “I’m glad someone else finally had the sense to tell you that just throwin’ the ring at the hole won’t do you any good.”

“Maybe if you quit clowning around and aimed, you’d actually make it in,” Frankie quips, and he and Joel dissolve into laughter at the cheesy pun.

You roll your eyes. “Ugh, I’ve created a monster. I can’t believe you both are so fluent in dad jokes. Clearly I’ve made a mistake bringing the two of you together.”

Joel chuckles, chuffing your chin with his finger and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Pffft, good try. I’ve known you long enough to know you love the cheese.” You roll your eyes again but can’t help a smile from gracing your lips.

You sit with your back leaning against Joel’s side, cradled by his strong bicep wrapping around your front. His fingers caress your shoulder and arm absentmindedly while the conversation shifts to Joel’s latest woodworking projects. Your feet sit in Frankie’s lap, his long, thick fingers massaging out a knot in your calf, head nodding and eyes on Joel as he listens and asks questions. Frankie’s been wanting to get into a new hobby that uses his hands, so he was excited when you told him that Joel is a lifelong wood crafter.

Looking between Joel and Frankie, you can’t help but feel your body begin to buzz - and it’s only partially the whiskey talking. Here are your two favorite men in the world, finally together, both with you. It’s something you only allowed yourself to dream about in the dead of night, when Frankie had Isabella with him and Joel was wiped out from work.

When you’d lay in your LA rental alone, body writhing under the sheets, thighs parted and fingertips slick with your arousal; swirling away at your center while fantasizing about your husband and your boyfriend taking turns with you, or even sharing you simultaneously. You’d bit the pillow to stifle your moans on more than one occasion as you came, dripping onto the sheets. Always assuming it was nothing more than wishful thinking, that Joel wouldn’t be keen on sharing you in person, that Frankie wouldn’t want to fuck you in front of your husband. That the three of you would never end up spending time together.

But now, it’s real. And you can’t wait a second longer to finally live your dream.

You try to be subtle at first: slipping your feet further up Frankie’s legs, shifting your body to press your breasts out more invitingly, and slowly letting your hand slide down Joel’s thigh. But Joel, if nothing else, is keenly observant, and he clocks your intentions immediately.

His voice halts for a moment, and then a deep chuckle vibrates his chest. “Whatcha doin’ there, wanderin’ hands?” he teases you, grabbing your advancing hand gently.

You feign innocence. “Oh, I’m not doing anything,” you blink up at him with big eyes, playing the part. “Just happy to have you two here with me.”

Joel huffs and gives you a soft sideways smile, his dimple popping at your games. He brings your hand to his lips, kissing the knuckles sweetly. “Don’t you dare try to use the same tricks on me that you did 10 years ago. Naughty thing.”

His large hand shifts from your shoulder to your neck, clasping the breadth of it gently: not enough to restrict your blood flow, but enough to let you know he wants to call the shots tonight. Despite that, the action pulls a whine from your throat and makes you just as dizzy with need. Frankie swallows hard at the sight before him.

“Do you want us?” Joel asks.

“Yes, Joel,” you nearly whimper.

“Now tell me, sweetness,” Joel continues, leaning forward to murmur in your ear, “what d’ya want? Do you want us to take our time? Lay you out on the bed and take you apart piece by piece?” He presses a kiss to your jaw, sending shivers down your neck. “Or do you want us to ruin you right here, fuck you on these cushions until you’re screamin’ our names?”

The combination of absolute filth pouring from Joel’s mouth and his hand encasing your throat sets your body on fire and triggers slick to pool in your panties. You glance down at Frankie’s lap and see how hard he’s become in seconds. His pupils are blown, eyes obsidian pits of desire. There’s a part of you that wants them to take you immediately, but you know you want your first time with the two of them to be unhurried.

“Bedroom, Joel,” you breathe. “I want to make this last.”

Joel lets out a satisfied growl. “Good girl, telling us what you want. Do you want Frankie to kiss you?” Frankie’s breathing gets heavier as Joel releases his hand from you and nuzzles your cheek.

“Yes, god, please,” you whimper. Frankie places one of your feet on the ground carefully and spreads your legs so he can crawl on top of you, kneeling at the base of your thighs. After taking off his hat, he glances up and makes eye contact with Joel, who gives the slightest nod. It’s not lost on you how close the three of you are, breathing the same air, panting with need.

You pull Frankie to your lips, hands framing his face just as he cups the base of your skull with his palm. The moment your lips touch, both of you let out stifled moans, and you melt when you feel Joel’s arm wrap tighter around you. His big paw slides over your torso to cup your breast through your flannel - his flannel - and your tank top, thumb teasing your nipple into a hard peak.

You and Frankie continue to deepen the kiss, the arousal growing between all three of you. One of your hands glides over your husband’s meaty thigh to palm at his quickly-hardening cock. The other winds its way into your boyfriend’s silken curls, pulling lightly and eliciting a hiss from him.

He bites your lower lip and grabs your hip, grinding his length against your jeans-covered center. “Fuck, nenita,” he groans. All you can do is whine his name in response.

“Let’s take her upstairs,” Joel directs, sucking a quick hickey into your neck that makes you gasp. Frankie nods and wraps your legs around his waist while you continue to pepper kisses across his face and neck. Both men ascend the stairs towards the main bedroom with you in tow.

Once you step foot in the bedroom, Frankie sets you onto your feet and immediately starts kissing you again, licking into your mouth when you gasp. His hands slide down to cup your ass through your jeans. You open your eyes briefly to look for your husband, who’s leaned against the door frame, arms folded casually, as if this is just another Friday evening.

Frankie bites your lip, eliciting yet another gasp from your mouth, while Joel stalks towards the two of you. He slides behind you, grabbing Frankie’s hips to pull the both of you into him, and grinds his thick erection against the swell of your backside. Frankie jumps a bit, surprised, but groans lowly in his throat. Moaning, you reach your hand back blindly to guide Joel’s head towards your neck. He chuckles, knowing exactly what you want, and sucks another love mark into the soft skin there.

You feel intoxicated, on another planet, ceasing to exist in the bounds of time and space. Just floating, a vibrating being made only of raw desire for the two men surrounding you.

“Help me get her clothes off,” rasps Joel, and the two of them work in tandem to strip you of the offending garments. Four hands pull cloth away, stroke your hot, exposed skin, glide along your curves, making you sing the sweetest song of sighs, whines, and whimpers. You break your kiss with Frankie when he looks down to pop the button to your jeans, and turn your head to the side to pull your husband’s mouth to yours, noticing the infinitesimal difference between the taste of him and the way Frankie tastes. Joel growls into you, sliding his tongue along your teeth, and you swear your legs are going to turn to jelly. Joel’s leather & spice scent intertwines with Frankie’s rosemary and cedar aroma, combining into the perfect addictive cocktail.

All you can see, smell, taste, touch, feel, is them. Your men.

Once you’re stripped bare, you look between the two of them. “Please,” you beg, and the two men nod, starting to hastily shed their own clothing. You climb onto the bed, the olive washed-linen bedding soft against your heated body. Spreading your thighs, you slip your fingers around your drenched folds, body humming with need. A needy whine escapes your lips, and Joel looks up from dropping his jeans to his ankles.

“Uh-uh, darlin’,” he tuts. “I didn’t say you could touch yourself.” You withdraw your fingers but pout. Frankie smirks at your display of frustration while he whips his t-shirt off, baring his golden chest.

“Listen to Joel if you want to get your rewards,” Frankie reminds you. You part your thighs wider for him, hoping to entice him into breaking. He groans at the sight, his eyes becoming glassy. “You’re playing dirty,” he grouses.

Joel, now completely bare, looks over to see you laying your trap for Frankie. He shakes his head. “Naughty girls don’t get their sweet little cunts licked,” Joel singsongs at you.

He grabs you gently by the throat. “Listen very carefully if you want to come tonight.” You nod, your body flaring with desire at Joel’s dominance as you give him your full attention. “I’m going to sit against this headboard, and you are going to sit right between my legs, with your back to me. I’m going to spread your pretty thighs for Frankie and he’s going to eat you out until you come for us. Understood?”

You nod rapidly. “Words, sweetness,” Joel reminds you.

“Yes, Joel,” you barely manage to squeak out. Joel murmurs approvingly, and slides himself behind you. Bracketed on either side by his strong thighs, you’ve never felt more safe.

Once the both of you are settled in position, Joel leans towards you again. “What’s our safeword?”

“Persimmon,” you and Frankie say in unison.

Joel looks up at Frankie, slightly surprised, a devious smile curling his lips. “Such a good girl, explaining our rules to Frankie,” he purrs into your ear, and you preen at the praise. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice his gaze flick momentarily to Frankie’s naked body and hard cock bobbing proudly, and you feel his breath catch in his chest.

“If things are getting to be too much for either of you, we can slow down or stop,” he reminds both of you. With that, Joel grips your thighs with huge hands.

“Frankie,” Joel commands gently. “Come suck on her pretty little pearl.”

Frankie’s smirk deepens, and he slinks onto the foot of the bed, crawling on hands and knees towards the two of you. You drape each of your legs over Joel’s thighs, and he uses his hands to angle you open even further. Frankie’s eyes shift between your shining center and your flushed face as he lays himself between your thighs. You feel entirely exposed, on display.

Frankie licks his lips, and you let out an anticipatory whimper.

“You’re desperate to taste her, aren’t you?” Joel prompts Frankie. You see your boyfriend’s dark eyes meet your husband’s deep amber ones, so similar.

“Been thinking about it all day,” Frankie admits, slowly dragging his lips and tongue from the inside of your knee to the junction of your thigh. “Driving me crazy with those tight jeans of hers.” Shivers erupt across your skin, your breathing harsh from their teasing.

“Those are my favorite pair of her jeans,” Joel agrees. “They cup her ass so nicely.” Frankie hums, biting your thigh gently and then soothing the pinch with his tongue. You keen quietly and arch your back.

“Look at how wet she is for us,” Frankie notes with adoration, teasing the outside of your slick folds with the pads of his fingers, watching how your pussy clenches on nothing. He chuckles, then swipes his digits through your arousal and brings them to your lips.

“Taste yourself, nenita,” he husks, and you comply, sucking his fingertips into your mouth and swirling your tongue around them. Your own sweet tang coats your mouth. He groans, grinding into the mattress, and then Joel is grabbing your chin to kiss you. Your lips part with a sigh, and Joel massages your tongue with his own, tasting your flavor for himself. His chest vibrates against your back with his growl of satisfaction.

Frankie’s hands grip your thighs as he watches the exchange. “She always tastes so damn good,” he hums, kissing your cunt with a smack.

Joel parts from your lips and nods. “Sweetest pussy I’ve ever eaten.”

You squirm and moan, making Frankie chuckle again. “Is there something you want?”

“Does our girl need to come?” Joel croons, running his hands along the inside of your thighs.

Nodding your head rapidly, you beg, “Please, Frankie.” You see Frankie’s lip curl into a smirk, and then he licks a broad stripe up the length of your cunt. A high-pitched whine escapes your mouth as you throw your head back against Joel’s sturdy shoulder.

“That’s right, let Frankie know how good his mouth feels,” Joel coaxes you, and Frankie starts eating your pussy with vigor. He keeps his hands on your thighs, opening you wide for your boyfriend, who’s latched onto your swollen clit and is suckling it gently while he strokes your inner walls with two fingers.

“You’re making me feel so good, baby,” you gasp, looking between your legs at Frankie coaxing your body into pleasure. Joel’s hands briefly squeeze your thighs harder at your words. His cock presses thick and firm against your lower back, aroused at watching another man bringing you pleasure. One of your hands reaches back to grip Joel’s arm, while the other tangles in Frankie’s soft curls, keeping him locked onto your core. Finally being held by the both of them at the same time makes your head spin.

Your orgasm gathers in your bones, your breaths coming in pants as your legs start to shake. Joel slides his right hand from your thigh up your torso to your breast, flicking your nipple with his thumb until it pebbles, causing you to gasp.

“Fuck, Joel, I’m gonna come,” you moan to your husband, your boyfriend doubling down on your ministrations to your folds.

Suddenly, Joel booms, “Stop, Frankie.”

The younger man immediately parts from your center and looks at your husband, eyes flashing with surprise and another, more feral emotion. You whine loudly, your orgasm beginning to fade.

“Joel,” you beg, both a question and a plea. He smirks against your neck.

“Did you ever notice how when you deny her orgasm, her whole chest and neck flushes hot?” Joel asks Frankie, almost as if you aren’t there. Your cunt pulses, desperate.

“N-No, actually,” Frankie stammers slightly, pupils blown as he looks at your naked body, a shimmer of sweat coating your skin like dew. “I… never actually deny her an orgasm.” His eyes move back to Joel, desperation tinging the periphery. “I just want to make her come, over and over again.”

Your chest heaves, dizzy with need. Fuck, this is so debauched and hot.

Joel’s smirk deepens. “Ahh, how sweet, always giving our girl what she wants,” Joel purrs. “It’s a good thing you follow directions like a good boy.” You swear you hear a moan that Frankie barely swallows.

“Kiss her,” Joel orders Frankie, and Frankie audibly groans this time before he crawls up your body to capture your lips with passion, making you gasp. He licks into your mouth, claiming you with visceral, searing intent. You whimper against him; tasting yourself on his tongue drives you mad. As you and Frankie continue to feed off each other, Joel sucks hot, wet kisses against your throat. You keen and press yourself into Joel harder, grinding your ass against his throbbing cock. He growls a bit, thrusting his hips lightly.

“Joel, please,” you beg in between kisses with Frankie.

“Tell me what you need, darlin’,” your husband coos.

You pull away from Frankie and take a steadying breath. “I need… more. I want to be filled up.”

Joel groans at your words, biting down at the juncture of your shoulder and neck, making you whine. “Fuck, such a needy little thing aren’t you?”

An impatient whine escapes your lips, and this time it’s Frankie chuckling. “Tired of my mouth on you, baby?”

“Never, Frankie,” you rasp. “I could never get enough of you.” Frankie kisses you deeply again; your fingers intertwine with his curly locks as your heart flutters. Breaking the kiss, you admit, “I want to feel both of you at the same time.”

He fucking whimpers at your request. Joel smiles wickedly into your shoulder.

“Well go on, then, sweetheart,” Joel rumbles. You lift your hips just enough for Joel to line himself up and sink into you. Both of you moan simultaneously as he fits himself snugly inside of your pussy. Pleasure sings in your veins, making you arch your back when he bottoms out.

Joel licks a line from the base of your neck upwards. “Feel better?” he murmurs into the shell of your ear, biting your earlobe. You gasp wordlessly, your core clenching on his thick length, making him groan in response. “Fuck… I’d say that’s a yes.”

Frankie sits back on his heels, taking in the sinful sight before him: Joel’s thick thighs holding you up; your soft legs spread open for him; pussy split open lewdly on Joel’s cock; your slick and cream gleaming at his base. His dick jumps, his eyes trained on where the two of you are joined.

In a potent haze of arousal, you start to grind on Joel, seeking any ounce of friction to quell the fire in your core, but he seizes your hips with his large paws, halting any movement. You cry out in confusion and need.

Joel snickers, amused. “Not so fast. I didn’t tell ya to move, did I?” You close your eyes in sweet frustration, your head tipping back against Joel’s broad shoulders as you shake your head.

“I’m gonna give you what you need, sweetness,” your husband promises you, then turns to Frankie.

“Francisco,” Joel commands. Your boyfriend snaps his head from looking between your legs to staring right into Joel’s eyes. His breathing picks up, a weighted thrill cascading down his spine from hearing his full name straight from Joel’s lips.

“Give our girl what she wants. Suck on her clit until she comes. And if she moves, don’t you dare give her your mouth. Understood?”

Frankie nods, his lips parted and soulful brown eyes full of desire. I’m so fucked, you realize in that moment.

Your boyfriend lays between your and Joel’s legs once again, subtly grinding into the mattress. He locks eyes with you, hovering over your throbbing clit, and blows cool air across it, making you twitch desperately as you will yourself to stay still, your velvet walls squeezing around Joel.

“Good girl,” your husband growls gently, kneading your hips reassuringly. Frankie props himself up on his elbows, then brings his thumb to your clit, gently pulling back on the hood to fully expose it. Swollen, flushed with heat, and shining with your arousal, Frankie can’t get enough of the sight.

“So beautiful, querida,” Frankie whispers reverently, then his mouth closes around your bud and sucks.

Restricted in your movements and trying to follow Joel’s directions, the flare of pleasure you experience is released by your body as a long, low moan. Frankie groans at your taste and sounds, his tongue swirling over your pearl in a precise pattern, and with the exquisite stretch of Joel’s cock against your walls, your nerves feel like they’re on fire. Your orgasm once again begins to build, slick slowly drenching Joel, his length swelling harder inside of you with every minute that passes.

“Frankie,” you beg, “I want to come so badly. You’re making me feel so good.” His eyes flash to yours.

It’s like a switch flips in Frankie, and suddenly, your sweet boyfriend turns into a menace.

“Aww, pobrecita,” Frankie mocks lovingly, pressing a kiss to your clit. “A fat cock filling you up and my tongue playing with your little clit isn’t enough for you? So demanding for someone who has to be allowed to come.”

You gasp at Frankie’s words, not used to him being such a tease, but Joel’s dark laugh only eggs him on. Determined to pull out all the stops, Frankie flattens his tongue and traces the length of one side of your pussy, accidentally brushing right against Joel’s shaft in the process.

Your husband lets out a surprised moan and his cock throbs. His reaction doesn’t go unnoticed by your boyfriend.

“Joel?” Frankie asks, eyes wide, a dozen questions conveyed in a single look.

You turn to Joel, conflicting emotions flickering across his face: yearning, confusion, vulnerability; but glazed over it all is a powerful desire. Joel’s never shown interest in other men, you remember. You and Frankie hold your breath.

One of Joel’s calloused hands tentatively moves from your thigh to tangle in Frankie’s hair, cupping his skull. You feel Frankie’s shoulders shudder. The two men’s eyes lock.

Joel gives Frankie a small nod.

You feel the relief and excitement wash over Frankie’s figure in waves. “The safeword applies for you, too,” Frankie reminds Joel gently, and Joel nods again. The three of you breathe for a moment, on the verge of exploring uncharted territory.

And then, Francisco Morales begins to simultaneously, single-handedly, take you and Joel apart.

Frankie slides both arms under your and Joel’s legs, his hands coming up to grip the sides of Joel’s thighs from beneath to anchor him to the both of you. Joel’s cock twitches inside of you the second Frankie’s fingers brush his skin. He looks down at Frankie, his lips parted in awe, eyes dark with desire. Frankie holds Joel’s gaze as he gently licks the base of Joel’s shaft.

Soft moans crawl their way out of your husband’s throat, his grip on your thigh tightening even more as his other hand explores Frankie’s curls. Frankie laps at it again, this time dragging his tongue further up and onto your pussy lips, swirling around your clit again. You and Joel both moan sequentially, the sweetest sounds that Frankie’s ever heard in his life. His senses are flooded with your and Joel’s essences.

He continues licking Joel’s cock and your pussy, and slowly, your husband’s resolve begins to crumble. The wet, sloppy kisses Frankie laps across the two of you leave Joel panting for more, and he struggles to remain still inside of you. Meanwhile, your head is reeling - your boyfriend is licking your husband’s dick, and he’s enjoying it. Never in your wildest dreams did you imagine this happening – and now, you can’t see, hear, feel anything but that.

“Frankie,” you whine, “please let me move.”

He peeks his head up from between your legs, where he’s been dutifully preoccupied. His lips shine with your arousal, and when he parts from your body, Joel groans in protest as well. Frankie smiles smugly, looking up at the two of you. “Do you think she deserves to come?” he asks your husband.

Joel’s chest heaves against your back. “Yes,” he grits out, his voice sounding raw. “She’s been so good for us.”

Frankie looks at you diabolically, his smile nearly predatory. “Look at that, nenita. Guess Joel is gonna reward you after all.”

Joel slides his hands from your thigh and Frankie’s head up your torso to cup your breasts gently, squeezing the heft of them and working his thumbs over your nipples. You keen, and he pulls your hair to the side to brush his lips over your neck. Shivers erupt across your skin.

“Go on, darlin’,” Joel encourages. “Let Frankie see how well you ride my cock.”

You groan in relief, and shift your legs to plant your shins against the bed. Rising up, you keep your eyes on Frankie while you slip Joel’s cock almost all the way out, and then swirl your hips as you slowly sink back down. Both men moan in unison; Joel closing his eyes and throwing his head back against the headboard, and Frankie with his gaze flitting between your face and the show between your legs.

“You look so good stuffed with Joel,” Frankie purrs, his face inches from where your most intimate parts slide together. You seat yourself further onto Joel. His fat tip kisses your cervix, teasing the nerve endings there, then he slips into just the right corner deep in you that only he and Frankie have ever found. Your loud gasp tells the men everything they need to know.

“Right there?” Joel asks rhetorically when you start to rock against it, your breath speeding up. You nod your head rapidly, mewling with pleasure. He thrusts up, meeting you with each movement.

Frankie takes that as his cue to latch back onto your puffy clit, and a hoarse whine rips from your throat. He moans in response. The vibrations from his voice pull you closer to your peak, your hips working against both Joel’s cock and Frankie’s mouth.

Moans, gasps, and whimpers fill the air. A thick fog of hedonistic energy crackles between the three of you. Every cell of your body is vibrating with pleasure. Your hand finds Joel’s own, tangled in Frankie’s hair, and your fingers intertwine, fully under the spell of the man bringing the both of you to the brink. Beneath you, you feel Joel’s thighs begin to shake, his thrusting becoming erratic. He’s right at the cusp of his orgasm.

“Frankie,” Joel groans, “Make our girl come.”

Frankie doesn’t need anything else. He swirls tiny, precise, fast circles against your throbbing pearl with his tongue, and between Joel’s cock and Frankie’s mouth, you shatter.

Spasms wrack your pussy as you squeal your two lovers’ names in succession, and both men curse. Below your thighs, you feel Frankie’s hand move to cup and massage Joel’s heavy sack, then he’s licking at Joel’s length desperately.

“Come for us, Joel,” Frankie begs. You swear you feel Joel stop breathing.

In the wake of the moment of stillness, Joel’s cock erupts inside you, his hot seed painting your cunt. A strangled cry shoots from his lips, and his hand crushes against Frankie’s skull and your fingers. His entire body shakes, and you don’t know if you’ve ever felt your husband fall apart so thoroughly.

Frankie, drunk on your dual orgasms, laps ferociously between your thighs, drinking up the combined nectar of your and Joel’s cum. The minute the both of you begin to relax, Frankie surges up, kissing you deeply. He feeds your and Joel’s essence to you with his tongue.

You’re in an absolute haze of ecstasy.

“Please, sweetness, I need to fuck you,” Frankie pleads, his body shivering with need. You lean forward, sliding off Joel’s cock, and let Frankie shift you until you’re perpendicular to your husband, draped across the middle of the bed on your back. Your boyfriend gets off of the mattress and stalks to the side where your feet lay, then pulls you towards him by your ankles until your hips are nearly dangling off the edge. His hard cock bobs angrily, the tip glistening with precum.

“Let me see you,” he whispers, spreading your thighs open. Your pussy is obscenely glazed with Joel’s cum, his milky spend clinging to every fold and curve between your legs. Frankie lets out a pained moan, and your breath hitches in response.

“Goddamn,” Frankie murmurs devotedly. “You’re a goddess.” He guides his cockhead through your silky folds, both of you moaning at the slipperiness. Your head lolls to the side. Joel watches you with tired but desirous eyes, clearly enjoying Frankie taking his turn. His softened cock lays across his thick thigh, the last of his cum dripping from the tip.

“Frankie, please,” you whine, spreading yourself even wider, your cunt fluttering in anticipation. Frankie groans, then shifts forward, spearing his hardness into you in one long thrust.

The sensation makes you keen, your back bowing off the bed sheets. Frankie secures your parted thighs with a large hand clamping down on each, and he moans unabashedly at the sight of his cock spreading your walls, some of Joel’s cum seeping out. Sinfully slick heat envelops his length, and it takes everything in him not to come on the spot.

“You’re still so tight, amorcita,” Frankie grits out, “still taking me so well.” He pistons in and out of your wrecked pussy, his thickness slicked up in your and Joel’s releases. Wet squelches from your pussy float through the air, dancing around your whines and Frankie’s grunts of pleasure.

It’s sensorially obscene in the most delicious way.

Waves of bliss wash across your body as Frankie drives you further towards your second orgasm. Sweat shines across his strong body; it clings like dewdrops to his forehead, his dark curls sticking to his skin here and there. You grasp his forearms, trying to tether yourself to reality while he kisses that devastating spot within you with his cock. Unable to resist, you snake your fingers down towards your clit, starting to swirl and press exactly how you like it. A whine breaks free from his lips when he feels you start to tighten around him.

“Nenita,” Frankie cries out, his cock swelling even harder. “You feel so damn good.” He pauses to catch his breath for a moment, then gently moves your hands to your thighs, keeping them spread for him as he swipes his thumb over your throbbing pearl. Your moan hitches in rapturous pleasure. With Frankie fully in control of your body, you surrender to his ministrations, eyes sweeping across the sight of him driving himself deep inside you.

The bed shifts beside you, and you feel Joel pressing kisses over your heated skin. “You look so beautiful taking Frankie’s cock,” he murmurs. Your mind buzzes with warmth at his husky baritone, his lips leaving tingling trails in their wake across your forehead and neck. His calloused fingertips trace circles around your pebbled nipples, pinching and soothing repeatedly to enhance your pleasure.

Looking up at your husband, you whisper, “Kiss me.” Joel obliges, kissing you deeply, sliding his tongue along yours, your lips and tongues dancing as Frankie continues to cause your orgasm to rise further in your limbs with every thrust.

It’s even more perfect than you could have imagined.

Frankie moves your legs to rest upright along his torso, ankles on his shoulders, and the new angle has you breaking your kiss with Joel with a high-pitched whine. “Oh fuck, Francisco, right there,” you practically sob. Frankie leans his body into you a bit more, burying himself to the hilt each time, and Joel reaches over to rub your clit.

Having both men focused on bringing you to climax is a heady potion. Your thighs start to shake and every breath turns into a reedy cry. “Joel… Francisco… fuck!” you moan, tightening around Frankie’s girth, his thrusts beginning to speed up as he approaches his own orgasm. “You’re gonna make me come!”

“Then come for us, sweetheart,” Joel husks, and it’s enough to have you clamping down on Frankie’s cock, finally shattering with a scream.

Your cunt floods with slick, and when he withdraws slightly, you gush, splashing Joel’s hand, your thighs, Frankie’s cock and belly, and the bed. Frankie grits out a loud moan as he slams home, each thrust making you gush more, until he reaches his peak. He whimpers your name loudly as he buries himself a final time and unloads his spend into your pussy, his cum mixing with Joel’s inside of you, filling you to the brim. As your twin releases wane, Frankie carefully pulls out, collapsing at the end of the bed beside you, the both of you breathing hard.

“Good girl, darlin’,” soothes Joel, kissing your neck. Tears from the intensity of your peak roll down your hot cheeks. Your senses are pleasurably muted, brain fuzzy in the afterglow. Frankie rolls towards you at the same time Joel slots himself right next to you. Laying a hand on each of their bodies, you try to ground yourself as you come back to Earth. The thick musk of sex permeates the air; all three of you breathe heavily, blanketed with endorphins. Frankie and Joel both affectionately stroke your body, their touches soothing instead of arousing. You take turns kissing each man; your mouths move slowly against each other, soaking in the intimacy.

You knew your first time together would be hot, but you didn’t predict it would feel damn near magical.

After a few minutes, Joel sits up, stretching. “Why don’t you two get cleaned up in the shower, and I’ll change the sheets?” You nod, and he presses a tender kiss to your forehead, then gives Frankie’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. The two men hold each other’s gazes for a moment, fondness and shyness battling in their eyes, then Frankie pats your thigh.

“C’mon, bebita, let’s get you clean,” Frankie encourages you, swinging his legs off the bed and standing up. He offers his hand to you and you accept the help, wiggling almost bonelessly off of the bed. Giggles bubble up your throat when you have to stem the warm flow of their seed from between your thighs with your fingers. Joel smacks your ass gently as you pass, eliciting more of your laughter as you and Frankie enter the bathroom.

You watch your boyfriend set up the dual-head shower, perching yourself on the marble countertop across the room. Your hand is still pressed to your center, but when Frankie’s done adjusting the water temperature, he spins around, getting to his knees in front of your spread thighs.

“Let me see,” he asks softly. You remove your fingers, letting the mixture of their warm cum seep from you like honeyed nectar. Frankie hums approvingly, then delicately laps at your folds and inner thighs to clean you up with his mouth. You run your dry hand through his curls, sighing happily, licking the taste of the three of you off the fingers of your other hand. Frankie looks up, and instantly captures your lips with his, radiantly smiling against your mouth.

The bliss, the peace, the happiness… you feel three little words rising in your throat. And you don’t know how much longer you can hold them off.

Or, at this point, if you even want to.

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