#One - shot

[followyourfleart]

To Be Warm Again

blurb - Joel knows you deserve better. A closed-off, stubborn, fifty-eight-year-old man is the last thing you need. But when you’re this close to slipping through his fingers for good, he can’t bring himself to let you go—not when holding on feels like the only thing he still knows how to do.

warnings - nsfw,  mdni  18+, jealous, yearning, second chance romance, love birds, hurt, angst, relationship help, happy ending, insecure!JoelMiller, oldman!JoelMiller, Jackson!JoelMiller, implied age gap, some plot before the porn, emotional sex, dirty talk, pussy pronouns, SPITTING (hey we're the freaks tonight), face fucking, creampies (don't try this at home!).

One shot requested by: @ anyomous

wc: 10.1 k

Joel didn’t want to be here.

Didn’t want to sit at this goddamn table in this goddamn bar, pretending he gave half a shit about whatever livestock report Tommy was tryin’ to show him. Didn’t want to make small talk with Maria, who kept giving him those sideways glances like she was bracing for a storm.

And he sure as hell didn’t want to look across the room again.

But he did.

Every few seconds.

Like a fucking compulsion.

There you were. Sitting at the end of the bar. Back straight, drink in hand. Your laugh was softer than usual—he could only hear it in flashes—but it still hit him like a punch to the gut.

The man beside you? He was new. Joel had seen him around, helping out with the fencing crew. Young. Maybe thirty. No older than thirty-five. Sharp jaw, easy grin. The kind of guy who didn’t creak when he stood up. The kind of guy who could keep up with someone like you.

You were smiling.

Not the way you used to—not that quiet, tired smile you saved for Joel when you were curled up in bed, wearing one of his shirts and tracing old scars on his chest with your fingertip—but still. It was real.

You were smiling.

And it wasn’t for him.

Joel’s jaw flexed. He took another drink, fingers clenched so tight around the glass that the joints ached.

“Joel,” Tommy said cautiously. “You okay, man?”

He didn’t look at him.

Didn’t trust himself to.

Maria shifted in her seat beside Tommy, hands laced neatly on the table, watching Joel with those calm, sharp eyes that always saw more than they let on.

“We can go,” she offered gently. “You don’t have to sit here and torture yourself.”

“I ain’t torturin’ nobody,” Joel muttered, staring down into the amber swirl in his glass.

“Right,” Tommy said. “That’s why you’ve been starin’ holes through the side of her head since we walked in.”

Joel didn’t answer. Just rolled his shoulders, tried to act casual. Failed.

Because the truth was, he couldn’t stop looking at you.

Not since the moment he saw you walk in.

Hair brushed and curled, your favorite sweater hanging soft off one shoulder. Lip gloss catching the light. You didn’t look like someone trying to prove a point—you didn’t look like you were out to make anyone jealous.

You looked like you were trying to feel normal again.

And that cut deeper than anything.

Because Joel had spent years convincing himself he was the one who knew how to keep you safe. How to make you feel steady. Loved. Even if he never said it aloud, never gave you the words.

Even if he kept his past locked up behind his ribs and only ever let you peek at it in pieces.

He thought it’d be enough.

But it wasn’t.

You left.

And you didn’t slam the door. Didn’t scream. Didn’t throw a single fucking thing. You just… packed a bag, folded one of his shirts, and said I can’t keep giving you everything and getting silence in return.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t say what he should’ve said.

Didn’t say Don’t go.

Didn’t say I need you.

Didn’t say I love you.

Because he thought he had time. Thought you’d cool off. Thought you’d come back.

But here you were. With someone else.

And Joel had never felt older in his life.

His knuckles were swollen from last week’s patrol. His back ached from the cold front. There were lines on his face he hadn’t noticed before, deepening around his eyes and mouth like time had finally caught up.

What the hell did he have to offer you anymore?

What could he give you now, at fifty-fucking-eight, that you didn’t already deserve from someone younger? Someone untouched by twenty years of blood and grief and failure?

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, suddenly too warm in his coat, suddenly too loud in his head.

“I shoulda said somethin’,” he mumbled. Barely audible.

Tommy raised a brow. “What?”

“I shoulda—” Joel cut himself off. Exhaled hard through his nose. “Never mind.”

Maria leaned in, voice low. “It’s not too late, Joel.”

He shook his head.

“It is,” he said. “She’s movin’ on.”

Tommy sighed. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s just tryin’ to remember what it’s like to feel somethin’. After you spent months makin’ her feel invisible.”

That one landed.

Joel flinched. Visibly.

He deserved it.

He knew it.

But the truth was—he didn’t make you feel invisible because he stopped loving you.

He did it because he loved you too fucking much.

Because loving you meant dragging you into all the wreckage of his life. It meant you knowing how deep the damage went. How fucked up he really was underneath the surface. And he’d spent so long building walls, burying things—Sarah, Tess, everything in between—that letting you in felt like peeling his skin off.

But you’d already seen him, hadn’t you?

You saw every goddamn thing. And you stayed.

He had just forced your hands until you couldn’t stay. 

And he let you go anyway.

Now here you were.

And that man beside you? He leaned in to say something. You smiled. Shook your head. Looked down at your drink, then back up at him with a softness that wasn’t flirtation, not yet, but it could be.

It could become something.

Joel swallowed hard.

He needed something stronger.

The bourbon wasn’t cutting it. Not tonight.

Not with that man’s hand still resting a little too close to yours. Not with your laughter trailing through the bar like a ghost he couldn’t catch. Not with every goddamn ache in his body echoing the one in his chest.

Joel pushed up from the table, muttering something half-formed to Tommy, who just gave him a look. One of those you sure you’re alright? looks that Joel didn’t want to deal with right now.

Maria said something too, something soft, but he didn’t catch it.

Didn’t care.

He moved through the crowd like a man with a mission. Eyes forward. Shoulders tight. His boots thudding against the floor louder than they needed to. He kept his jaw clenched the whole way to the bar, biting down the burn rising in his throat.

He wasn’t drunk. Not yet. But he wanted to be.

Not sloppy. Not out-of-control.

Just… numb.

He flagged down the bartender with a lift of two fingers.

“Something rough,” he said gruffly. “Whatever’s got the most bite.”

The man behind the bar nodded and poured something dark amber into a glass that looked too clean. Joel wrapped his hand around it, let the chill seep into his palm.

He didn’t drink it. Not yet.

Just stared at it, watching the way the light fractured through the liquor. The way the ice cracked against the sides. It reminded him of tension—of pressure building until it finally snapped.

He was so tired of pretending this didn’t hurt.

So damn tired of holding it all in.

And then—

A tap.

Faint.

Right on his shoulder.

He turned sharply, half-expecting some drunk asshole wanting to start something. Maybe the guy you were talking to—hell, maybe Tommy, coming to drag him home before he embarrassed himself.

He opened his mouth to growl something ugly—

He stopped cold.

You.

You were standing there, looking up at him like you hadn’t just shattered his entire evening. Like you hadn’t carved him open just by walking into the same room.

Your eyes were soft. Cautious.

Like you were bracing for the wreckage too.

Joel’s spine went stiff. His mouth opened, then closed. His first instinct—to glare, to cover the bleeding with anger—flickered and died the second you tilted your head.

“Hey,” you said gently, barely audible over the buzz of the bar. “Can we talk?”

He blinked.

His throat worked around a knot that hadn’t been there a second ago. Talk? Here? With him?

You gestured vaguely toward the back of the room, where a few couples were swaying in the open space cleared for dancing. The music was slower now—some old Willie Nelson track playing softly on the speakers. You looked like you weren’t sure what to do with your hands. One of them lifted. Reached for him.

Not quite touching.

Not until he nodded.

“…Sure.”

The word felt jagged in his throat. He downed his drink in one brutal motion—felt the liquor burn down to his ribs. It wasn’t courage. Not really. But it was something. Something to help hold back the goddamn shake in his hands when you stepped closer.

You reached for his hand.

And Joel, without thinking, gave it to you.

His fingers closed around yours instinctively, like they remembered this. Like they’d been aching for this. You turned, tugged gently, guiding him through the bar. He followed.

And it was so easy.

Too easy.

That’s what scared him.

Because this—your fingers threaded with his, the scent of your shampoo drifting back as you walked ahead of him, your thumb brushing once against the side of his hand—this felt like home.

And home wasn’t something Joel had let himself believe in for a long damn time.

Not until you.

The dance floor was dim. Sparse. Only a few couples moving in lazy circles under the fairy lights strung up overhead. Your steps slowed. You turned to face him, your expression unreadable. Something sad flickered in your eyes, but you didn’t speak right away.

Instead, you pulled him a little closer.

Joel stared at you.

Then at your hand.

Then back up.

“You wanna dance?” he asked quietly, unsure, half-hoping he’d misread this whole thing.

You didn’t answer his question with words.

You just stepped in close.

And slowly—tentatively—you lifted your arms and draped them over his shoulders, like you’d done a hundred times before, in moments far easier than this one. Joel’s hands hovered awkwardly in the space between you for a second too long before they found their way to your waist. The fit was still there. Muscle memory. His palms curved around you like they remembered every inch.

You started to sway.

No rhythm. No flourish.

Just… movement. Just closeness.

The kind that ached.

Joel exhaled, slow and quiet. His forehead didn’t quite touch yours, but you were close enough that your breath ghosted across his chin when you spoke.

“I need to get my stuff back.”

It wasn’t angry. Wasn’t even cold.

Just a fact.

Something real to ground all this softness.

Joel’s grip tensed, just slightly. A beat passed. Then another.

“Yeah,” he muttered, eyes unfocused. “’Course. Figured you’d ask.”

You didn’t say anything.

Joel tried to hide the way his throat worked around the words he wanted to say.

The way his chest tightened at the thought of your toothbrush still tucked in the bathroom drawer. Your sweater draped over the back of the chair by the window. That dumb mug with the cracked handle you always reached for first. Your handwriting on the notepad by the fridge, where you’d scribbled half a shopping list before storming out five weeks ago.

He’d left it there.

Still did.

Your stuff was everywhere.

It wasn’t just stuff. Not really.

It was the only proof he’d managed to build something with warmth.

And now you wanted it back.

Joel cleared his throat.

“I can drop it off,” he said. “If you want. Save you the walk.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. Not all the way—just enough for your gaze to meet his. Joel hated the way his stomach dropped when he saw the flicker of sadness in your eyes.

“Or I can leave it on the porch,” he added quickly, like he didn’t care. “Whatever’s easier.”

You didn’t answer right away.

You just looked at him.

Like you saw through every defense he was scrambling to raise.

“Joel,” you said softly. “How are you?”

He blinked. Pulled his gaze away. Let it drift over your shoulder, toward the corner of the room where the shadows were quieter.

“I’m fine.”

He said it too fast.

Too clipped.

You didn’t buy it. He knew you wouldn’t.

You always had a way of getting him to drop the act.

You leaned in a little closer, your arms shifting slightly around his neck. “That’s not what I asked.”

He closed his eyes.

Just for a second.

Because he was so goddamn tired. Tired of pretending. Tired of swallowing everything that should’ve been said when it mattered.

His hands tightened gently on your waist. Not pulling. Not holding on. Just… needing.

“How am I?” he echoed quietly. “I wake up, and your shoes are still by the door. That sweater you always wear when you're cold—it’s still hangin’ on the back of the chair like you’re gonna come grab it in the mornin’. I make coffee and pour too much ‘cause I forget you ain’t there to drink it.”

You blinked hard.

Joel looked down at you again. There was no anger in his face. No heat.

Just exhaustion.

And grief.

He paused. His voice dropped to something near a whisper.

“I left your favorite vinyl on the turntable the other day. Just… forgot to change it.”

Your eyes shimmered in the low light. You didn’t interrupt. Didn’t say I’m sorry. You didn’t owe him that. You didn’t owe him anything anymore.

Joel swallowed hard.

“I’m not great,” he admitted, finally. “That’s how I am. I’m not great.”

The silence between you pressed in heavy. Not suffocating, but weighty. Like truth always was.

You shifted your arms, one hand rising to thread your fingers into the back of his hair. Joel closed his eyes at the contact. His grip stayed steady at your waist, but he swore he felt his legs go weak.

“I’m not great either,” you said softly. “Thought I would be.”

Joel gave a breathy laugh through his nose. “You seemed happy earlier.”

“I was trying,” you admitted. “I was pretending I didn’t still feel you in every room.”

Joel’s eyes opened slowly.

Met yours.

And there it was—that thing he thought he’d lost. That unspoken current. The pulse of something still alive between you, flickering just beneath the surface.

You swayed in silence again.

Neither of you said a word.

The music faded into the background, just soft enough not to matter. Just enough to give the illusion of rhythm while you swayed together in the quiet middle of a too-loud room.

Joel leaned in, forehead brushing against yours. Barely there. But it felt like too much and not enough all at once.

You smelled the same.

Like soap and skin and something faintly sweet—something that lived in your sweaters and in his sheets. Something he hadn’t been able to scrub out no matter how many nights he’d tried to sleep alone.

Five weeks.

Five fucking weeks.

It didn’t sound like much. Not in the grand scheme. He’d gone longer without food. Without rest. Without safety. But this?

This was something else entirely.

And for a second…

God.

For a second, he let himself pretend you were still his.

That you’d be there in the morning. That when he turned over in bed, he’d feel your bare thigh brushing his, your palm resting lightly on his chest, your breath rising and falling in that easy rhythm he used to memorize.

He missed waking up to you.

He missed the sound of your yawn when you stretched beside him. The way your hand always found his under the covers, cold and shameless, like you knew he’d warm them for you.

He missed the shuffle of your slippers down the hall. The smell of toast. That little click of your coffee mug against the counter.

He used to grumble, pretend he hated it when you cooked breakfast like he couldn’t do it himself.

But he fucking loved it.

You’d hand him a plate with that quiet smirk, always fussing—“Eat it before it gets cold, Miller”—and he’d do exactly that. Because it tasted like care. Like you loved him even when he didn’t ask for it.

He missed coming back from patrol and finding you stretched out on the couch in one of his flannels, legs bare, book cracked open on your chest, a throw blanket half-falling to the floor.

You’d look up when he walked in, and there’d be this softness in your eyes. This quiet little smile, like there you are, like the whole day had been waiting for him.

He missed that look.

Missed you tossing your book aside just to sit beside him, curl up under his arm, legs thrown over his lap like you belonged there.

You did belong there.

He missed passing the bathroom after a shower and catching the scent of your soap in the steam. That faint citrus smell. The one that lingered on his pillows. On his shirts. On his goddamn skin.

He hadn’t smelled it in days.

He left the bar of it sitting in the shower anyway. Stupid hope.

Like maybe if he didn’t move it, you’d walk in again. Humming. Smiling. Telling him to get out 'cause you needed the mirror.

Joel’s hands gripped your hips a little tighter.

He swallowed hard.

And then—God help him—his thoughts slipped lower.

Because it wasn’t just the comfort. Not just the routines. Not just the domestic quiet you brought into his chaos.

It was the heat of you.

The need.

He missed the feel of your hands on his chest, tugging his shirt off impatiently. The way your mouth dragged across his jaw with purpose. Like you knew exactly what he needed and weren’t shy about giving it.

You were never shy with him.

Not once.

He missed you pulling him in with a handful of his belt, whispering against his mouth, Come on, baby, take care of me, like you weren’t the one unraveling him.

He missed the way you straddled him on the couch, kissed him deep and slow while your fingers dragged down his stomach. How you’d rock your hips against his, lazy and teasing, like you had all the time in the world to ruin him.

He missed how you bit him when you came.

Soft, quick, right against his shoulder.

Like a secret you couldn’t keep.

Joel breathed out slowly through his nose, trying to steady himself.

But it didn’t work.

Because you shifted against him then. Innocent. Barely a move. But enough to bring your chest flush against his, enough for your fingers to tangle a little deeper into the hair at the nape of his neck.

You were warm.

So fucking warm.

And soft.

And his whole body was screaming for more.

He missed your thighs clenching around his hips as he buried himself inside you. The way your breath hitched when he pressed deeper. Slower. When he held your wrists above your head and whispered all the filthy things he’d never say anywhere else.

He missed the mess of it.

The sweat. The gritted teeth. The way you’d cry out his name like it meant something. Like you trusted him to break you apart and put you back together again.

He missed your skin. The taste of it. The scent of you in his sheets. The way you said Joel like a fucking prayer when he brought you over that edge again and again and again—

He missed being needed.

Physically. Completely.

He missed being yours.

Not just in the daylight. Not just in casual moments or shared coffee or post-patrol silence.

He missed being the man you reached for at night, when you were desperate and aching and honest in a way the sun never got to see.

Joel opened his eyes.

And you were right there.

You were still swaying with him.

Still close.

Still holding onto him like this moment mattered. Like it meant something. Joel could feel your breath against his throat, warm and even. You hadn’t spoken. Neither had he. And part of him wanted to stay in this silence forever.

But it wasn’t real.

It was borrowed time.

And he couldn’t keep pretending.

Not with you so close.

Not with the memory of your smile already fading from his house, from his mornings, from the quiet in the shower.

So he forced himself to speak. Quiet. Raw.

“I won’t stop you,” he murmured, barely louder than the hum of the song.

You blinked.

Pulled your head back just slightly, brows drawn.

“What?”

“If you wanna go.” He swallowed hard. “If you wanna be with that guy—”

“Joel—”

“—I get it,” he cut in. Not harsh. Just final. “You should. He’s younger. Smoother. Probably better at sayin’ all the right things. Probably ain’t spendin’ half a day tryin’ to get up from a chair.”

You stared up at him, clearly not amused by his joke. Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

Joel’s heart ached.

“And if that’s what you want,” he said softly, “I’ll wish you the best with it. With everythin’.”

You shook your head, once. Like you didn’t understand.

Joel held your gaze.

“I mean that. I’ll always be your biggest supporter. Even if I ain’t the one beside you anymore.”

Your breath hitched.

The tears came fast.

You let go of him like you’d been burned.

Took a full step back. Then another. Shook your head again, more violently now.

“Stop—” you choked, voice cracking. “Don’t say that. Don’t fucking say that.”

Joel’s throat closed. But he couldn’t take it back.

You looked down at the floor like it hurt to meet his eyes.

And then, just like that, you turned.

You pushed through the crowd with both hands, shoving someone out of the way, rushing for the back doors like you couldn’t breathe. Joel’s stomach twisted.

He stood frozen for half a second too long.

Then he moved.

The air outside hit him like a slap.

It was cold. Windy. Crisp.

You were standing a few feet away, arms wrapped around yourself, back to him, shoulders trembling.

He could hear the sharpness of your breathing—hiccuped, fractured, like you were trying not to fall apart again.

“Hey—” Joel called softly. “Wait.”

You didn’t turn.

Didn’t speak.

Joel stepped closer, slow.

“Just—let me say this,” he said. “Please.”

You finally turned. Tears were streaked down your face. Your eyes were red. You looked like you hated him and missed him all at once.

“You always do this,” you whispered. “Every time. When it gets hard, you freeze up. You disappear. You shut down and I’m left talking to a fucking brick wall.”

“I know,” Joel said. Quiet. Barely there.

“You don’t fight for me,” you said, voice cracking again. “You never fight for me. And now you’re telling me to go be with someone else—like that’s what I want? Like I left you because I didn’t love you?”

Joel shook his head. “That’s not what I meant—”

“Then what did you mean, Joel?” you snapped. “Because it sure sounded like you were giving me permission to leave like it doesn’t matter. Like we don’t matter.”

He was breathing hard now.

“I meant I want you to be happy,” he rasped. “Even if it kills me.”

You blinked.

Hard.

Joel took another step closer.

“I didn’t know how to love you right. I never got it right. But God—darlin’, I love you.”

You didn’t answer. Just stood there, trembling, tears tracking down your cheeks like you couldn’t stop them even if you wanted to.

Joel didn’t know what to do with his hands. His chest ached like a bruise, sharp and sore and tender all at once. He reached for you, slow, cautious—his arms wide like he was afraid you’d vanish if he touched you too fast.

But before he could pull you in—

You grabbed him.

Fisted your hands in the front of his jacket.

And kissed him.

Hard.

Messy.

Desperate.

Joel froze for half a second. Shocked. Breath stolen clean from his lungs.

And then—

Goddamn.

He kissed you back like a starving man.

Like he hadn’t tasted anything real in five whole weeks.

His hands flew to your face first, palms cradling your jaw with a tenderness that didn’t match the pace of his mouth—rough, hungry, grateful. Then they dropped, skimming your waist, your ribs, your back. Like he needed to touch every part of you to make sure you were real.

You gasped against him, lips slipping, teeth clashing just slightly. Joel groaned—deep—from his chest, like something inside him had just cracked under the weight of everything he’d been holding in.

The kiss broke for a second—barely.

You caught your breath.

Then grabbed him again.

You didn’t speak with your mouth. You poured it into him—every ounce of pain and love and fury and longing you’d been biting back since the night you left.

Joel didn’t care who saw.

Didn’t care who was still in the bar, or if Tommy looked out the window, or if Maria came after you.

None of it mattered.

Not when your mouth was on his like this. Not when your hands slid under his coat, under his shirt, gripping his waist like you never wanted to let go again.

He pressed you back against the side of the building, brick cold under your spine, his body flush against yours. His hands roamed like he’d earned it. Like he needed to feel you again, every inch, before it all disappeared.

You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against his lips.

“Take me to our home.”

Joel’s chest clenched.

Not a home.

Not your home.

Just ours.

His.

Yours.

Ours.

Something hot twisted in his gut. He buried his face in your neck, breath shaky, lips brushing the skin just beneath your jaw.

“You sure?” he murmured, voice low and wrecked and so goddamn soft.

You nodded, nose brushing his. “Joel. Please.”

That was all he needed.

He didn’t wait.

Didn’t think.

He just took your hand, gripped it tight, and started walking.

The streets of Jackson were still.

Quiet. Cold. Empty.

Winter was still holding on by its teeth—frost clung to the edges of porch steps, old snow gathered in shadowed corners of roofs and fences. The moon was low and yellow, clouds creeping over it slow like they didn’t want to interrupt.

But Joel didn’t notice any of it.

All he could feel was your hand in his.

Still there.

Still warm.

Still real.

He didn’t look back at you—not directly.

Not yet.

He glanced, sideways, just enough to watch the shape of you in the corner of his vision, like if he turned too fully, the spell would break. Like if he looked too hard, you’d vanish all over again.

It felt like a dream.

No, not a dream.

A story.

Something ancient. Mythic.

Like he were Orpheus, and he was walking you out of the underworld. Back to him.

Except this time—he wouldn’t look back. Wouldn’t ruin it.

Your fingers stayed locked in his, tight but calm. You didn’t speak, and neither did he. The silence wasn’t heavy. It was sacred. Like everything unspoken was too delicate to be named just yet.

He was scared.

Not of you.

Not of the cold.

But of what came next.

Scared of what he might say when the door closed behind you.

Scared of what you might see when you stepped inside and realized—nothing had changed.

He hadn’t moved your book off the coffee table. Hadn’t folded the blanket you always used. Your mug was still beside the sink. He didn’t touch the turntable. Didn’t fix the curtain you always claimed was crooked in the bedroom.

He hadn’t let himself forget.

Not a single goddamn thing.

When you reached the porch, Joel fumbled for the key.

The lock stuck—like it always did—and his fingers were stiff from the cold, from nerves, from you.

And then he opened the door.

Let you step in first.

He followed, closing it gently behind him.

And then… you stood there.

In the soft dark of his home.

Your home.

Your eyes moved slowly.

He could feel it—your gaze drifting across the living room, catching on the blanket you left draped on the arm of the couch. The open book Joel had kept exactly where you left it. The throw pillow you always used, still shaped to your body like it remembered better than he did.

He stood behind you awkwardly.

Cleared his throat.

“I, uh…” His voice cracked. He tried again. “I can make you coffee. If you want. I know it’s late but—”

But you were already turning.

Already closing the space between you with three sharp steps.

And before he could finish the offer, you were on him.

You gripped his shirt in both hands and crashed your mouth to his like you were making up for all the time lost in the silence.

Joel reeled.

He gasped against your mouth, caught off guard—but only for a second.

Then instinct took over.

He kissed you back hard. Messy. Like he needed to taste every second of the last five weeks he’d spent alone.

Your hands were greedy, tugging his shirt free from his jeans, palms sliding underneath to find his skin. He groaned—loudly—into your mouth, arms locking around you, pressing you into him like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space.

Your coat hit the floor with a thump, and his followed soon after. You both knew what the other craved. 

Your lips moved down his neck, open-mouthed and reckless.

Joel swore under his breath. “Shit, baby—”

Your teeth scraped his pulse point and he hissed.

He couldn’t think.

Couldn’t breathe.

The adrenaline, the grief, the relief—it all crashed together like a wave breaking in his chest.

“I missed you,” you breathed against his skin. “I missed you so much.”

Joel’s hands were everywhere—your back, your waist, the curve of your ass, your thighs, your jaw. He couldn’t decide what to touch first. Couldn’t hold enough of you, not all at once.

He wanted you in his arms. In his bed. In his house.

Where you fucking belonged.

You pulled back just enough to look at him—cheeks flushed, lips swollen, hair wild from his hands. And Joel?

He stared at you like you were the only goddamn thing in the world that ever made sense.

He didn’t let you walk.

He couldn’t.

You were back in his arms, and Joel Miller was not taking a single goddamn risk.

He carried you to the bedroom like something precious. Sacred. Like if he set you down too soon, the moment would vanish—just another dream he’d wake from, soaked in sweat and aching with loss.

Your arms were around his neck. Legs around his waist. Mouth on his jaw, his neck, the hinge of his throat. Joel groaned every time your lips brushed skin. He was hard already. Had been from the moment you kissed him outside the bar. But he ignored it. He could wait. He would wait.

He stepped into the room and kicked the door shut behind him with his boot.

You looked at him like he was everything.

Like home.

He couldn’t take his eyes off you.

He sat you down on the edge of the bed with careful hands, just for a second. You started to reach for his belt, desperate, and Joel caught your wrists again—not rough, not punishing. Just still.

“Slow,” he rasped. “Let me.”

Your eyes flicked up to his, wide and breathless. You nodded.

He exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath for five weeks.

Then he knelt in front of you. Not to tease. Not to play.

To worship.

His hands came to your ankles first, callused thumbs brushing just under the hem of your pants.

“You’re shakin’ already,” he murmured. “Missed me that much, huh?”

You gave him this broken smile. “Joel—”

He slid his hands up your calves, your thighs, slow and sure.

“I know,” he said. “I missed you too.”

He leaned forward and kissed your knee.

Then your inner thigh.

“You been thinkin’ about this?” he asked, voice low and rough. “’Bout me undressin’ you like this? Slow?”

You swallowed hard. “Every night.”

Joel smirked. “Yeah? Bet you touched yourself. Got all needy in that big ol’ empty bed.”

Your breath hitched.

“Thought about me,” he said, dragging your pants down inch by inch, pressing a kiss to every new strip of skin. “Thought about my hands on you. Mouth on you. My cock inside you—deep. Slow.”

You moaned—loud and broken—and Joel’s chest ached with it as he tossed your pants over his shoulders.

“God, I missed that sound,” he growled. “You sound like heaven when you want me.”

You took off your own shirt and bra. God, those breasts. He loved them. Beautiful and tight. Another classic example of you. He stood, hooked his thumbs in your waistband, and pulled your underwear down next. You lifted your hips willingly.

He didn’t look away—not once—as you were revealed to him again. And fuck—his knees almost gave out.

Pretty. Pink. Folds swollen and wet to the point that he knew you would be embarrassed about it. But never him. He loved how messy you got when you wanted something, like your body was speaking for you when your mouth clamped shut. 

He stared up at you from below, chest heaving, eyes dark with something deeper than lust. Something older. More carved in. More earned.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “You’re so fuckin’ gorgeous like this. Laid out for me. All soft and warm and—mine.”

Your breath caught.

Your thighs trembled.

He kissed your inner knee, the inside of your thigh. His hands rubbed up and down your calves, your hips, his thumbs digging into the softness like he was grounding himself.

“I missed this more than I missed anythin’,” he rasped. “This right here—” he kissed the crease where thigh met hip, “—was all I thought about. Woke up some nights with your name in my mouth and nothin’ but air in my fuckin’ bed.”

You whimpered.

Joel leaned in, closer. He kissed lower.

And then—

He devoured.

There was no preamble. No soft, lingering kiss meant to ease you in.

No, this was hunger. This was over a month of tension, weeks of near-misses, days of unsaid things and glances that scorched.

His mouth met your cunt like it belonged there. Like he’d been born for this, for you. His tongue parted you, slow at first, just to taste. Just to sample the mess you’d already made for him. But then—

Then he groaned. Low and deep, the sound rumbling through his chest like thunder.

“Jesus Christ,” Joel muttered, voice rasped and reverent, breath hot against your folds. “You taste better than I remembered. Sweet fuckin’ heaven.”

Your thighs twitched at the sound, at the praise, at the pressure of his tongue licking a long, deliberate stripe right through your center.

You cried out—sharp and breathless—your hips jolting off the mattress. And he grinned against you. Like the bastard he was.

His hips jolted forward against nothing, instinctively, like his whole body couldn’t take being this close to you without burying himself inside.

“Fuck,” he growled, lips still brushing your soaked skin. “She’s drippin’ for me already. Look at her, baby. So fuckin’ wet.”

Your thighs twitched at the sound of it. The way he said it.

“You miss this?” he rasped, voice low and dangerous, eyes locked between your legs. “Missed my mouth on her? On this sweet little pussy?”

“Y-Yes,” you gasped, breathless. “God—Joel—yes—”

He chuckled darkly. “Thought so.”

Then he sucked your clit between his lips—slow at first. He knew exactly what to do, knew exactly what made your voice catch. Then harder. Focused.

Tongue flicking over you in tight, calculated strokes until your back arched and your hand flew to his hair, fisting tight.

You weren’t quiet.

You couldn’t be.

The noises—your moans, the wet suck of his mouth, the low sounds he kept making like he was drinking you in—filled the room like heat.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” Joel muttered. “She’s so goddamn soft. So sweet. You feel that?” His voice rumbled against your clit as he flattened his tongue and dragged it up through your folds. “That’s what I missed. The way she opens up for me. So greedy.”

You whined—broken and desperate—grinding your hips against his face.

He didn’t stop you.

He loved it.

“Go ahead,” he murmured, licking into your entrance, tongue fucking shallow and slow. “Use me, baby. Rub her all over my face. I can take it. I need it.”

“Joel—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Nah.”

Joel’s voice came from low in his chest, ragged and breathless. He pulled back just an inch, his mouth flushed and glistening, his eyes wild.

“Not yet,” he said again. “Don’t come yet. She ain’t done with me, is she?”

You barely shook your head. Couldn’t even speak—

 Not before he fucking spit.

It landed right on your clit—hot and thick—and he watched it hit like it was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. You jolted, crying out, already grinding into the air—

And then he licked it up.

Groaning as he did, slow and deep, mouth dragging through every soaked inch.

“Jesus fuck,” he muttered, thumb spreading you open wider. “Look at her. So wet she’s fuckin’ shinin’ for me.”

He spit again. Lazily this time. Watching it trail through your folds, mix with everything else he’d already coaxed out of you.

“Joel— your mouth,” you gasped, trembling beneath him. “God— I can’t fucking think when your mouth’s on me.”

Joel looked up at you, pupils blown, face shining. “Then don’t. Let her do the thinkin’.”

You moaned loud and shameless. “She’s not the one begging. I am.”

Joel grinned, tongue flicking out to catch the mess before it could drip too far. “That right? Then tell me. What do you want?”

“I want more,” you said, voice wrecked. “I want every bit of you. Tongue, fingers, cock—all of it.”

He growled, face diving back in like you’d just set off a fire in his brain. His tongue swirled, mouth suctioning hard around your clit, then easing off just enough so he could spit again.

“Fuuuck,” he groaned, watching the new mess drip over your cunt. “She loves it. Fuckin’ sloppy for me.”

“She’ll take everything you give her,” you breathed, chest heaving. “You know that. You trained her. Broke her in.”

“Oh, I know.”

He sounded proud. Possessive. Obsessed.

“She knows who she belongs to.”

Your body shuddered.

“I love her, you know that?” he said, fingers spreading you open for his tongue again. “Love this pussy. Love how she feels, how she tastes. I could fuckin’ die between her.”

Your fingers twisted tighter in his hair, thighs squeezing around his head, desperate and overwhelmed. But he loved it—grunting low, letting you pull him in deeper, tighter, closer.

“She’s got me fuckin’ obsessed,” he muttered against you. “Get hard just thinkin’ about her. Wake up fuckin’ leakin’ ‘cause I dream about the way she clenches around my tongue—”

He slipped a finger inside you. Thick. Rough. Curling just right.

Your whole body snapped.

“Oh my god, Joel—!”

“That’s it,” he groaned, voice low and ruined. “Come on. Let her come. Give it to me, baby—I want it. Want to feel her pulse on my fuckin’ face.”

You shattered.

Your thighs locked up, your body bowed off the bed, and your pussy clenched hard around his finger as you came with a cry that echoed off the walls. You said his name like it was the only thing you knew. The only word that mattered.

Joel didn’t let up. Not even as you started to tremble.

Not even as your legs threatened to close.

He held you open—pinned—and kept licking, kept sucking, kept claiming.

He moaned into you, letting you ride it out on his face, licking up every drop you gave him like he needed it to survive.

Joel could still feel your pulse on his tongue.

He still had your slick all over his mouth and beard. The taste of you burned into him—sharp and sweet and sacred. It had knocked something loose in him. Something primal. Something that made him want to tear the rest of his clothes off, drag you into his arms, and finally sink into the place he’d been dreaming about for five long, lonely weeks.

He staggered up from the bed, breath ragged, belt undone with trembling fingers. His body was flushed, hair mussed, lips still wet from your taste.

“You don’t know what you just did to me,” he muttered, voice hoarse like it had been scraped from the inside out. “I can’t fuckin’ wait anymore—I gotta be inside you, baby, now, I—”

But you moved.

Slid off the mattress like smoke. Like fire under silk skin and bare thighs. A slow, molten kind of hunger.

And Joel froze the moment your knees hit the floor.

You looked up at him with heat in your eyes, mischief in your mouth, and a hunger that dared him to stop you.

“Wha—baby—what’re you—”

“Shh,” you said, voice like velvet dragged over flame. “Let me.”

His hands fisted at his sides. His chest rose and fell in hard, shallow pulls. He looked down at you like he wanted to stop you, like he should stop you—

But didn’t. Couldn’t.

You undid the rest of his belt slowly, methodically. Let the tension stretch between you like something alive. The button popped. The zipper dragged down with a slow hiss.

And through it all, your eyes never left his.

“You know how many nights I imagined this?” you murmured, kissing the strip of skin just above his waistband. “How many times I touched myself pretending it was your cock between my lips?”

Joel groaned, hips jolting forward, instinctive and needy.

Your fingers slid beneath his boxers, confident and sure. And you didn’t tease.

You freed him. Let him fall heavy into your palm.

Fuck.

So thick. So hard it looked painful.

You looked at him like he was a goddamn revelation. And the sound that spilled from your lips—low and reverent—nearly knocked Joel off his feet.

“Oh, baby,” you whispered, wrapping your fingers around the base. “You’re perfect.”

Joel shifted, self-conscious in the way only time could teach. He wasn’t young anymore. He was never young, even when he met you. But you fed him well, and with all the labor, he bulked up, bringing out his stomach.

You slapped his thigh. Not hard. It was like you knew where his thoughts were heading. Just enough to snap his gaze back to you.

“Don’t do that,” you said, low and sharp. “You don’t get to hide from me. Not here.”

Joel’s throat worked. “You don’t gotta say that—”

“I’m not sayin’ it to be nice, Joel,” you growled. “I’m sayin’ it ‘cause I’ve been fucking starving. And now I get to taste what I’ve been dreaming about since the second I walked out that door.”

Joel’s eyes darkened.

You leaned in and kissed the base of his cock, slow and reverent. His body shuddered.

“You taste like him,” you whispered against the skin. “Like the man who used to own me without even trying.”

And then you licked.

From root to tip.

Deliberate. Worshipful. Filthy.

Joel’s head dropped back. “Jesus Christ.”

You opened your mouth—wide—and took him in.

Hot. Wet. Deep.

Joel moaned, sharp and sudden, a sound dragged straight from his spine. His hips jerked, but your hands were already tight on his thighs, holding him in place.

You worked him slow. Rhythmic. Purposeful.

You weren’t just giving head—you were consuming him.

Joel didn’t know where to look. The way your lips wrapped around him, the hollow of your cheeks, the spit starting to drip down your chin? It was sickeningly gorgeous.

He looked down, saw your eyes staring back at him. Saw your jaw straining to take more.

“S’too good,” he rasped. “Too fuckin’ good. You’re gonna ruin me.”

You pulled off just far enough to speak, letting a string of spit fall from your lips to his cock.

“Maybe I want to ruin you,” you whispered. “Maybe I want you thinkin’ about my mouth every time you jerk off alone in the dark.”

Joel hissed through his teeth. “You got a mouth on you.”

Your tongue traced a slow circle around his tip.

“And you love it.”

“I do,” he growled. “Fuckin’ love everythin’ about that mouth. But you keep goin’ like that, baby, and I’m not gonna last.”

“Good,” you said, licking along a bulging vein. “I want it. All of it.”

And then?

You took him again.

Deeper this time. Throat tighter. Drool messier. Your spit sliding down his cock in obscene trails.

Joel’s hips stuttered. His hands fisted at his sides like it physically hurt not to touch you. Like he was barely hanging on to the dominance he always carried.

“You like that?” you said when you pulled off again, spit smeared on your lips, eyes glazed with hunger. “You like seein’ me like this?”

Joel groaned, barely coherent. “Look at you. Mouth full’a cock, beggin’ for more.”

“I am begging,” you whispered, licking the tip and smiling like the devil. “So don’t hold back, Miller.”

Something inside him snapped.

He gripped your hair—tight, firm, not rough but definite—and held you right there.

“You want me to use this mouth?” he asked, voice low and filthy. “That it?”

You moaned again, eyes fluttering closed as your throat worked.

Joel cursed. "Fuck."

And then he started to move.

Slow at first. Testing.

Your hands gripped his thighs harder, anchoring yourself now.

Joel watched the way you took him. Let him own your mouth. The way your lips stretched, the obscene squelch of your throat as he pushed in and out. He could hear every inch of it. Wet and raw and real.

You looked up again, and he nearly came on the spot.

“You’re so fuckin’ good at this,” he gasped. “Jesus, sweetheart—you take me like you need it.”

You blinked up at him, teary-eyed and eager, your throat fluttering around him again.

Joel growled.

“You like it when I fuck your mouth like this? Like a goddamn filthy man?”

You nodded, or tried to, and he felt the motion around his cock.

His knees nearly gave out.

He was panting now. Full-body trembling. His hands threaded deeper into your hair, tugging at your scalp in a rhythm that matched his hips—thrusting in, slow but hard, dragging against your tongue and hitting the back of your throat again and again.

You whimpered, gagged just a little—and Joel lost it.

“Oh, fuck, baby—don’t do that—don’t you do that unless you want me to come right fuckin’ now—”

You pulled off, gasping, spit connecting your mouth to him in a slick string. His cock was flushed, angry-red, twitching in the open air, gleaming with your spit.

You licked your swollen lips, then backed toward the bed slowly.

Kneeling there.

Waiting.

Like a fucking vision.

Hair messy, skin flushed, mouth parted, chest rising and falling like you were starving for him. Like you needed him to get over there and do what he was made to do.

Joel stared.

Didn’t speak.

He dropped his flannel to the floor—then his shirt, then his jeans, his boxers—and crossed the room without breaking eye contact. He was breathing like a man chasing down his last chance. His thighs ached from how tight they’d been clenched. His stomach wasn’t flat anymore, body worn down by age and time—but you looked at him like he was everything.

Like he was still the man who could ruin you with just one touch.

He crawled up onto the bed—slowly, knees sinking into the mattress, palms planted on either side of your hips.

And you?

You laid back, legs parted, eyes heavy-lidded, the picture of wrecked devotion.

Joel hovered over you, arms caging you in.

For a second, he just looked at you. Like maybe this was a dream. Like maybe if he moved too fast, it would disappear.

Then he kissed you.

Hard. Deep. Tongue sweeping into your mouth like he needed to taste every part of you again. Like he didn’t just want to fuck you—he wanted to live inside you. Breathe with you. Lose every broken part of himself in the warmth of your skin.

Your hands gripped his arms. His back. Anywhere you could reach. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in tight.

And then Joel reached down, slid the head of his cock through your folds.

Up. Down. Just to coat himself in you.

He pushed in slow.

The first inch had his breath catching. The second had his eyes closing. And by the time he was all the way in—seated deep, buried inside you—Joel’s soul had already left his body.

You were everything.

Everything.

Warm and soft and tight, like you’d been molded just for him. Five weeks apart, and still—you welcomed him like nothing had changed. Like he belonged there. Like he’d always belonged there.

You gasped, mouth falling open, fingers clutching his arms like they were the only steady thing in the world.

Joel couldn’t move.

Not yet.

Not when it felt like this. Not when it had been five goddamn weeks of aching and silence and empty rooms and dreams that ended in nothing but sweat and a hollow bed.

His eyes opened slowly. Just to see you.

Your brows drawn together, lips parted, a soft shine in your eyes that had nothing to do with pain.

You weren’t crying.

But it was close.

So was he.

Joel braced himself above you—one forearm pressed into the mattress, the other hand gently pushing your hair back—and kissed you.

It wasn’t messy. It wasn’t greedy.

It was reverent.

He kissed you like he needed you to understand. That he never wanted to be without you again. That no one—no person, no place, no damn argument—could ever replace what you were to him.

When he finally moved?

It was slow. Careful.

A pull, and a push.

He exhaled, voice breaking. “You feel so good, darlin’.”

You whimpered beneath him, nails pressing into his shoulder blades.

Joel didn’t rush it.

Every movement was like worship. Like penance. Like he was apologizing with his body—saying all the things he hadn’t known how to say before.

He rolled his hips again.

Your mouth fell open. “Joel—”

“I know,” he breathed. “I know, baby. I missed you. Missed this.”

Your eyes met his. And for a moment, everything went still.

Just heartbeats.

Breath.

Bodies pressed together like they’d never come apart again.

Joel kissed you again, deeper this time, hand slipping under your back to hold you closer. And then?

He moved faster.

Not rough. Not harsh.

Just urgent.

Like he couldn’t stand the space between your skin and his.

You moaned—high and sweet and wrecked—and that sound went straight to his chest.

Joel groaned low. “That’s it,” he rasped. “That’s the sound I been waitin’ to hear. Five weeks without it, and I thought I’d lose my damn mind.”

You clung to him harder. Wrapped your legs around his hips, anchoring him there.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered. “Please don’t stop.”

Joel’s rhythm shifted—deeper, harder, but still loving. Still present. His forehead dropped to yours, eyes half-lidded, breath hot on your lips.

“Never gonna stop again,” he muttered. “Never lettin’ you walk out that door.”

You arched beneath him.

His name left your lips again, this time softer. A plea. A promise. A prayer.

Joel held you tighter.

“You fit me,” he panted. “Like you were made for me. Like you always fuckin’ have.”

Your breath hitched. Your eyes fluttered shut.

And Joel watched every second of it.

Because that’s what he’d missed most.

You. Just like this. Not just the sex. Not just the body. But the way you looked at him like he was worth it. Like you saw him, even when he couldn’t stand to look at himself.

He fucked you like it mattered.

“That what you needed?” he asked, thrusting again, a little harder. “Needed me to fuck you like you belong to me?”

You nodded—whimpered—and he growled.

“Say it.”

“I belong to you.”

“Louder.”

“I fucking belong to you, Joel!”

That was all it took.

He grabbed your thigh, hitched it higher on his waist, and slammed into you. Again. Again.

The bed creaked. Your cries filled the room. Joel’s voice—low, hoarse, reverent—was in your ear.

“Missed this pussy so bad,” he panted. “Missed how tight you squeeze me. Missed how you fuckin’ moan when I hit that spot—right there—yeah, you feel that?”

You squealed—a sound so pure and broken it made Joel want to cry.

He couldn’t stop.

Didn’t want to stop.

Not when you were wrapped around him like this, clinging to him, crying out his name like it was the only word you remembered. Not when you were looking at him with that shattered kind of love in your eyes. Like you’d missed him just as much.

Your thigh was hooked high on his hip. Your hands were in his hair, on his back, gripping, clawing, grounding yourself. Joel could barely think—could barely breathe—with how tightly your body hugged his.

“Fuck, baby,” he panted, voice strained. “This feel good to you?”

You nodded fast, desperate. “So good—so good, Joel, I missed you—I missed this—I—”

He caught your mouth in another kiss. Swallowed the words. Gave you everything in return. His thrusts hit deep, perfect, the way only he knew how to give. And he listened for it—that cry you made when he angled just right. When he found that spot and pressed into it, unrelenting.

“There?” he murmured, dragging his hips again.

You sobbed. “There.”

Joel grinned against your cheek, even as sweat ran down his back, even as his muscles ached and trembled.

And then you were saying things—soft, half-broken, whispered against his ear like confessions.

“I love you,” you breathed. “I never stopped. I never stopped.”

His heart clenched.

He pulled back just enough to see your face, still moving inside you, still holding your gaze like it was holy.

“I love you,” he said, voice breaking. “Been lovin’ you since the start. Been waitin’ for you to come back so I could say it again.”

You kissed him—messy, desperate, teeth clicking.

“Don’t let me go again,” you whispered.

“Never,” Joel swore. “Not a fuckin’ chance.”

Then he slid a hand between your bodies. Found your clit. Pressed two fingers to it, circling slow, firm, just the way you needed.

You screamed.

Your whole body arched beneath him—taut, electric, unraveling. You came hard, pulsing around him, your voice sharp and open in his ear.

And Joel—fuck—Joel lost it.

You clenched down, and he was gone. Buried deep, his body locking up, breath stalling in his throat. He groaned loud, raw, like the release had been dragged from his bones. His forehead dropped to your shoulder as he came inside you, holding you as tight as his arms would allow.

Everything was you.

Your scent. Your breath. Your body. Your voice still saying I love you like a prayer.

Joel stayed there, wrapped around you, chest heaving against yours. The room was warm now—sweat-slick skin, tangled limbs, the sheets pushed down and forgotten. Your bodies were still joined, hearts thundering in time.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

His breath slowed against your shoulder, nose tucked into the crook of your neck, and you ran your fingers through his hair—soft, slow strokes. He could feel your pulse beneath his lips, steady and alive. Like you were anchoring him there. Like if he let go, the world might slip again.

He didn’t want to move.

But eventually, he had to.

Joel exhaled slowly and began to pull away, his hands careful at your hips. He didn’t want to hurt you—didn’t want to lose that closeness, not even for a second.

Still buried deep, he paused.

Then he slid out of you, slow and reverent.

You whimpered softly, body shivering at the loss. Joel glanced down, and the sight of it—his cum, white and hot, spilling from you—had his throat going tight. His stomach clenched.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Look at that.”

You shifted on the bed, stretching slightly, and the movement only made more of him leak out of you, trailing down your thighs.

Joel cursed again. His voice was raw with wonder and regret.

You looked at him, flushed and glowing. A lazy, content smile pulled at your lips.

“Gonna gawk, or you gonna hold me?” you teased gently.

He huffed a breath—half a laugh—and climbed back into bed, gathering you into his arms like you were something fragile. He tugged the blanket up over both of you, let your head rest on his chest, one hand smoothing over your back, the other tangled in your hair.

For a while, it was just that.

Breathing.

Touching.

The afterglow wrapped around you like another blanket, and Joel held you tighter, like maybe he could trap time. Keep it from moving forward and tearing this moment away.

But it did move.

And eventually, you spoke.

“Can we talk?” you asked quietly.

Joel stiffened—barely. He nodded. Cleared his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

You lifted your head just enough to meet his eyes. “I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you.”

“I know,” he said softly. “I—fuck. I know.”

Your eyes searched his. “But I needed more, Joel. I needed you. Not just your body, not just your actions. I needed your voice. Your thoughts. I needed to know what was goin’ on in your head when you shut down like that.”

Joel looked away.

The guilt was sharp. Cutting.

He exhaled, rubbing at his face. “I’ve always been like that,” he admitted. “Since… since Sarah. Since everythin’ after. When shit gets too much, I just… just go quiet. I don’t know how not to.”

You laid your palm over his chest, right above his heart.

“It hurt,” you whispered. “When we fought, and you walked away from me with silence. It made me feel like I didn’t matter. Like I was yelling into a void.”

Joel’s eyes flicked back to yours. Pain settled behind them, low and heavy.

“I don’t want you feel that way,” he said hoarsely. “I just… I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t wanna make it worse. Didn’t wanna say the wrong thing and ruin everythin’.”

“You not saying anything was the wrong thing,” you said gently. “That’s what hurt us.”

He nodded slowly. Took your hand in his. Pressed his lips to your knuckles like they were sacred.

“I know. I see that now.” He swallowed hard. “I want to fix that.”

Your expression softened.

“I don’t expect you to change overnight,” you murmured. “I just want to feel like you’re in this with me. That when things get hard, you don’t disappear.”

Joel’s grip on your hand tightened.

“I won’t,” he said. “You have my word.”

Silence fell again—but it was warm now. Comfortable. Like a sigh through the sheets.

After a moment, you nestled closer.

“I missed this,” you whispered. “Not just the sex. Just… this. You. Me. Quiet.”

Joel pressed his lips to your forehead.

“I missed you every damn day,” he said. “House was too quiet. Coffee didn’t taste right. Nothin’ did.”

You smiled. “You make shitty coffee anyway.”

He chuckled. “Hey now. It’s improved. Slightly…”

You laughed softly and tucked yourself against his side, a perfect fit.

Joel stared at the ceiling for a while, then turned his gaze down to you.

“I’m gonna try. I want this—you. For long as you’ll have me.”

You looked up at him, eyes shining again.

“Forever sound okay?”

Joel kissed you, slow and soft, like it was the easiest vow he’d ever made.

“Forever sounds perfect.”

Guys, it feels really good to be writing something different, other than terms & conditions. I love t&C, I really do, but something new never hurt anyone once in a while!

[musingsofheaven]

standford!art having a huge crush on the women's volleyball team captain with plump thighs, soft and curvy in all the best places who giggles and makes fun of his stuttering when he tries to talk to her and when he finally gets her in hes bed he doesnt even know what to do with all that 🍑😛

CAPTAIN’S ORDER

summary: Art just got dragged to watch the women’s volleyball team practice and he didn’t expect to see you. Didn’t expect to keep showing up like it wasn’t obvious. Keeps telling himself he’s just supporting the university, which is bullshit, because his eyes stay locked on your thighs every time you move. And when you look at him? Game over.

pairings: stanford!art donaldson x vball captain!reader

warnings: 13.9k words. mature themes. unprotected p in v. cunnilingus. tongue fucking. creampie. cockwarming. dacryphilia. overstimulation. praise kink. breast play (sucking/groping). semi-public teasing. implied somnophilia. light d/s dynamic. read responsibly.

note: another ask that’s been sitting in my inbox for over a month but never forgotten. i hope this fic brings to life exactly what you were imagining when you sent it in, anon, because when art finally gets between reader’s thighs, he really does cry about it.

It starts with your thighs. Thick, strong, impossible not to stare at. He doesn’t even mean to stare. But it’s the kind that flexes when you move and bounces when you laugh. Most of the time, it’s half-visible beneath shorts that never quite stay put when you play. He wasn’t even supposed to be there. He’s too tired to go… but his teammates are annoying as hell. So only came because the guys were going. Not because of you. Someone mentioned a late-night volleyball practice and the whole crew was already lacing up. He doesn’t even pay attention to what they are saying when they’re joking like idiots, half-bored and desperate for anything that wasn’t another silent evening in the dorms. Art just shrugged, and dragged himself along. He wasn’t expecting anything. He wasn’t even paying attention.

But then he walked into the gym and saw you. You were on the court, hand braced against your hip, and holding a volleyball like you weren’t even thinking about it. You are barking instructions to your teammates without raising your voice. The authority is there, and he can feel it in his spine. And don’t get started with the shirt you wore because it was damp at the collar, clinging to your lower back, sleeves shoved up past your elbows. Hair is fixed and tied with a scrunchie. Shorts are tight and snug across your hips, it’s hugging your body curves. Pacing along the court lines, pointing to each mistake your team makes, and calling formations like you own the whole goddamn space.

And maybe you did. That- that kind of person does not come easily to other people. Authoritative. Leading. Intimidating. Confident. You didn’t look like you were trying to be impressive. It’s not like he feels threatened, no… he feels like he’s been enchanted, honestly. You weren’t showing off to those eyes who are watching you. Just moving with the kind of natural authority that made it impossible not to watch. Even when you smiled, it was focused- half-distracted, half-mocking. Like you had bigger things on your mind than being stared at. Like you knew they were there and didn’t give a shit. Maybe you don’t, but it doesn’t stop people from watching you. Then you dropped low into a crouch and called for a set, Art thought he might actually forget how to breathe. Or he might have seen God and gone to heaven. Your legs coiled under you, tense and clean and perfect, then released as you sprang up and swung. Damn, look at that… The sound of your spike echoing sharply against the gym walls.

He was already sitting by then- front row of the bleachers with a Gatorade bottle loose in his hand that was warm by now. His hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, still slightly damp from his own practice- but he hadn’t even registered the feeling of it in his skin. He didn’t remember walking over. It’s like the last thing he can remember is being at the tennis court and now he’s in the gym watching you. Didn’t hear whatever dumb thing the guy next to him said. All he could do was watch. Like target locked. He’s like Cupid who can’t let go of someone until he gets them.

He thinks he’s going crazy because he can’t even form clear thoughts when you turn. Jogged a few steps. Adjust your shorts with one hand, your shirt with the other. Glanced up. Just once. Just briefly. But it’s enough to scan the bleachers where half the tennis team sat slouched in their t-shirts, hoodies, or whatever they are wearing, and yeah don’t forget the backward caps as if they’re pretending not to ogle. Your gaze passed right over them- right over him- without slowing. You didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Didn’t acknowledge a single one of them. But okay, you might stare a little at that blonde boy who looks like he just pissed his pants. His flushed cheeks that can pass like someone slapped him. Cute.

It literally took him three seconds from squashing the bottle he’s holding when he gets a glimpse of you turning your head to their side. You hadn’t even looked at him directly. Might not have seen him at all. Well, that’s what he thought. But it didn’t matter. He could already feel the image sinking under his skin- especially the curve of your ass jiggle when you jump, and the way your thighs moved when you walked back into position. He saved and locked the whole thing into memory like it’s his storage which has a lot of space for it. Just for you. You can’t really blame him, right? He’s just a guy! He’s blonde and maybe he’s also a little dumb when it comes to girls. And… he’s just admiring, that’s all. You have a good… thick… thighs… big… ass… of course, he will appreciate them.

From watching your practice because his teammates forced him turned into a pattern. A routine. It was just supposed to be one time thing, just him sitting there with the guys, pretending he didn’t care, pretending you didn’t fuck him up a little and make a mark in his mind. But then it happened again. And again. A few days later, he just happened to be walking past the gym after eating outside the campus. The next week, he quickly finished his workout at the gym and the doors were open. Eventually, he just started going. Not with the guys. Not with anyone. Just him. Alone in the bleachers. Always in hoodies. He’s just quiet. Just watching the team. He told himself it was nothing. It was relaxing. At some point, it is because it’s not his own practice being watched on, but others. Well, that’s almost the reason. That he liked the pace of the drills, the echo of sneakers on hardwood, the slap of their hands on the ball. He liked studying athletes outside his sport. Which was bullshit. He knows he’s not fooling anyone but himself. Because all he really did was track you on the court. He doesn’t give a fuck about other girls in the court.

Eyes just stuck on you. The way you moved. The way you drink your water. The way you stood when you weren’t thinking about it- hip cocked, one leg bent, hands loose at your sides. The way you glare at your teammates when they do something stupid for multiple times in a row. The way your shorts never quite stayed put when you called plays. The way your shirt clings to your body when you are sweaty. You always looked a little flushed. A little shiny from the sweat. Your thighs flex when bent a little as you wait for the ball. Your ass shifted when you turned. And he watched. Silently. Obsessively. Dumb as hell about it. It’s like he’s having a massive crush on you. He didn’t think anyone noticed. But they did. They just walk up to gang him up and ask why he’s always here. But maybe they notice his attention is always on their captain- always looking at you.

It actually started with small things. One of the middle blockers nudges you during the water break, muttering something under her breath, and both of you snickering behind your bottles. Another girl glanced toward the bleachers while they stretched. The new recruit smirked as you spiked, yelling “someone’s watchingggg you.” And you- you said nothing. Of course you didn’t. You don’t have time for guys. Until one night, when practice was ending, and he was still sitting there, hands folded over his knee, pretending to scroll on his phone even though the screen was black.

You walked straight over him. He looked up too fast when he saw you were already halfway to him. Hair sweaty. Face glowing like a glazed donut. Breath was a little uneven from the last round of drills you did with the girls. Shirt clinging to your back, and shorts hugging every inch of your ass. You looked confident. Effortless. Beautiful. Sexy. Hot. He would suck the shit out of your thighs and bite your ass if you gave him the chance. Because how can he not when you are curvy in the best places he can imagine? It’s proportioned just right. Like it really fits you. You are a girl who knows how to carry it with confidence. He must be in heaven right now because you just stopped in front of him with your hands on your hips and your eyebrows are slightly raised like you are asking him something he doesn’t know. He blinked like he was buffering. He’s thanking all the gods existing for this moment brought to his feet. Thank you. Thank. You.

“I know you,” you said. Your tone is casual. He blinked, too stunned to say anything other than a “Huh?” Why are you talking to him? He’s not prepared. He’s not mentally ready! He looks like shit. It’s not like he doesn’t want you here… but it’s just surprising. He didn’t actually think he would face you like this. “You’re a player too,” you added and cocking your head like you were already teasing him. “I-uh. Tennis,” he stuttered, nodding too fast. You chuckle. God, it was unfair how easy it sounded. “Thought I recognized you. You’ve been watching practice for days, right?”

He hesitated. Maybe it’s been weeks already but you are just being a kid by just saying days as if he only watches you for three days and not longer. “No-I mean-I just happened to be” He can’t even form a proper sentence and he’s stuttering like a fucking kid who’s in front of his whole class for the first time. “Mmhm.” You took a half-step closer. “You’re cute when you lie.” His face burned. Oh, shit. Please, is he already blushing just because you said he’s cute? Anyone, save him.

He dropped his eyes to your shoes like they could save him. You smiled like you’d already won. “You coming next week?” He nodded. Then panicked. “I mean- if you don’t mind.” Saying this only to make him not look like he’s too eager to come next week and see you again. “I don’t,” you said. “See you, tennis boy.” After making him stutter and blush you just walk back to your team with the same confident sway he’d been watching for two weeks straight- only now he had permission.

Oh, boy and then it happened… after that interaction, you started wearing the tighter shorts. Not dramatically, not all at once. Just a subtle shift- fabric that clung a little closer, hem that sat a little higher, waistband that hugged your hips just right. They were still athletic, still comfortable, still your best pair to move in. But they moved differently. They rode up when you crouched. Bunched when you served.

Showed more of your thighs when you paced. And every time you reached for the ball cart, it felt like just a little more of your ass peeked out than it should’ve. The girls didn’t care. It was off-season, half the team was showing skin, and you were all just trying to survive the sweat. But when they noticed you tugging the waistband up before warmups? When they caught you adjusting the tightest pair right before water breaks? That’s when the comments started.

“Shorts getting smaller?”

“He’s already looking, babe.”

“Make it bounce. Just once.”

And maybe you did. Not for them. Not even to be mean. But because he kept showing up. Quiet. Hoodied. Alone. Sitting in the same spot near the front with his knees apart, fingers clenched around a bottle he never drank from, eyes locked to the court like he wasn’t even aware he was staring.

He thought he was subtle. He wasn’t. You started watching for it- those little flickers of panic when your eyes met his, the way he’d immediately drop his gaze, sometimes all the way to the floor, sometimes straight to your legs like it made things worse. The flush on his neck gave him away every time. It would rise slowly, just under his jaw, spreading red until his ears burned and he had to shift in his seat like that would make it go away.

You never called him out for it but you turned in his direction just to see if he was still there. And every time? He was. He didn’t say a word. But he kept showing up. Watching like he couldn’t help it. Like the way your ass bounced when you landed a jump set was going to kill him slowly. And you let him. Every single night. Because if he wanted to look? You were going to give him something to remember. And the worst part was, you knew. You always did every time he came to the practices. And now? Now it’s over.

You’d won the whole thing- the NCAA championship, the final match, the fucking moment-and campus feels like it’s glowing. The house is packed, music shaking the walls, and the rest of your team is already half-drunk. Everything smells like sweat and sugar and noise. And he’s here, too. Of course he is. It’s not hard to spot him. He’s just in the corner with someone else, maybe his friends or his teammates, not that it matters.

He’s holding the red cup with alcohol in it, and he’s in his typical hoodie that covers his neck like it’s calming his nerves. Legs spread too wide for your liking and it’s definitely taking up much space for someone who doesn’t want to get noticed. Curls are damp and a little flattened at his forehead which have not fully dried off after he showered. Just staying there and he hasn’t moved in a while ever since he sat down. Just sips from his drink and watches the crowd like he’s still on the sidelines.

But his eyes keep coming back to you. Every time you laugh. Every time your medal catches the light. Every time you raise your arms and your shirt lifts a little- he’s looking. And then he’s not. But you know he is. So you take your time getting there. You weave through people slowly, nodding, laughing, swaying with the music until you’re close enough that your thighs brush his knee when you stop. You lean one shoulder against the couch arm beside him and look down like you didn’t plan it.

“You hiding?” you ask. His eyes snap up, wide. His cup dips slightly in his hand. “No- just, um. Sitting,” he says. His voice is soft. Almost careful. “Congrats. You were… insane tonight.” Your lips twitch. “Yeah?” He nods. Quick. A little nervous. “Yeah. I mean-you always are. But tonight-yeah.” You let your smile show. Slow. Knowing. “You watched?”

“Of course.”

“Cute.”

His gaze drops to his drink like it might help. You don’t move. Just let the music thump around you while the silence between you gets heavier. His cup shifts in his hands. His fingers tap once against the rim. “God you are drunk already, aren’t you?” you tease him. Smirk on your face and lashes flutter as you look at him. “I’m not drunk.” You laugh softly. “You are.” He doesn’t argue again. Just looking at you. Really look this time. You’re still flushed from the win, still glowing, your legs pressed close to his, your medal glinting against your chest. You don’t say anything else. You just let it hang there- like you’re giving him space to figure out what he wants to do about it.

He doesn’t move. You do. You don’t wait. You don’t ask. Don’t hesitate. Don’t even give him time to shift his cup out of the way. You just move in one slow, easy motion, medal tapping against your chest as you drop straight into his lap like it’s the most obvious seat in the room. The couch dips hard. His breath stutters. And then he just… freezes. One hand was still holding his drink. The other stiff against his thigh. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares straight ahead like he can’t trust his own body. You’re warm in his lap. Solid. Real. Pressed against him in a way that feels permanent.

Your back settles comfortably to his chest as if you've done this before, like you just have your own seat on his lap. Like you belong there. Like he belongs to you. He doesn’t know where to look. His eyes bounce from your shoulder to your hand to the empty space across the room like maybe it’ll swallow him. But his neck is already flushed. His jaw’s tight. The tension under his hoodie is so loud to the point you can feel it vibrate straight into your system.

And then someone sees you. “OH MY GOD!” one of your teammates screams across the room, slapping another girl’s arm. “She actually sat on him,” another gasps, fake shocked. “You’re so done for, babe,” a third adds, giggling as they start crossing the room like sharks smelling blood. You don’t look at them. You don’t even blink. Instead, you press a little closer, leaning back against his chest just enough that your hips shift in his lap, and lift your drink to your mouth with a lazy smile.

“Hey,” you call out casually, waving over someone you know near the edge of the couch, “did you see that last point? Setter almost tripped over me.” They laugh, sliding into the conversation like nothing’s burning beneath you. You keep your voice light. Breathless. Like sitting on Art Donaldson’s lap in front of ten people is just another end-of-season ritual. “Oh my god, yeah,” someone else chimes in, “you looked pissed.”

“I was,” you hum, grinning as you take another sip. “They would’ve blamed me if it went out. And I’m the one carrying the whole backline, apparently.” The girls laugh again. One of them crouches next to the couch just to whisper, “Is he breathing?” loud enough that you know he can hear it. You still don’t flinch. Instead, mid-laugh, you slide your hand down and take his free one gently from his thigh- like it’s just been waiting and place it directly onto yours. His palm lands warm on your skin. Just above the knee. You leave it there.

He twitches, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to stay. But you keep talking. Smiling. Turning your head to the conversation without moving anything else. His hand stays. And god, the way he’s holding his breath? Like it might all vanish if he shifts too hard. Like one wrong move might wake him up. But this is real. You’re glowing. He’s still not going anywhere. The conversation doesn’t stop. Someone’s halfway through retelling a point from the second set-badly- while another girl keeps waving her drink for emphasis, sloshing liquid over her hand with every exaggerated detail. Everything is loud, flushed, and breathless. Post-championship high. But in that corner of the couch, you’re still pressed into his lap, drink in hand, posture easy like you’re not doing anything at all. Like this is just comfort. Like his thighs weren’t tensed under you from the second you sat down.

You keep your smile soft, eyes tracking the group in front of you, nodding along like you’re listening. But your weight shifts slightly- just enough to adjust your seat, just enough to reposition the hem of your shorts, just enough that your hips roll forward in the smallest, slowest arc over his lap. It could pass for nothing. It probably does. No one flinches. No one calls it out. You’re laughing at something someone says across the couch, your drink raised, your medal still cold against your chest. You look relaxed. Still glowing. But under you, his body reacts like he’s been struck. He stiffens. Breath stutters. His hand tightens just slightly on your thigh- barely there, more instinct than decision and you feel it. The way his legs shift. The way his jaw clenches. The way his eyes flick downward like looking anywhere else might help.

It doesn’t. So you do it again. Another soft shift. Another innocent adjustment. Another drag of pressure that’s barely anything-but still enough to make his cup tilt in his grip. You glance down, watching his knuckles go pale where he grips the rim. Then you lean in. Not dramatically. Just enough. Your head dips toward his like you’re reacting to something someone said, like you’re about to whisper a joke. Your mouth grazes the shell of his ear. And without looking at him, without breaking rhythm, you murmur: “I can feel how hard you are, you know.” Soft. Easy. Like it’s a fact.

And before he can even begin to answer, you’re smiling again. Turning slightly, laughing at something across the couch, like nothing happened. You take another sip from your cup. Your free hand presses lightly against his thigh, thumb brushing the edge of your own skin, grounding the heat between you like you don’t even notice it. But he does. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. You feel the tension ripple through him- contained, barely managed, and absolutely wrecked. You can feel the way his fingers twitch on your leg as he lays them there to rest.

His breath is shallow like he’s trying to keep himself together like a puzzle piece. You don’t have to say another word. Not really because you don’t need to. His body says everything for him. You couldn’t leave early. Of course not. You were the captain. You had speeches to give. Teammates to hug. People to thank and photos to smile through and drinks to toast. You had to carry the trophy into the second location and take ten thousand blurry selfies and act like your legs weren’t already tired from the five-set match and hours of celebration.

But he waited. Quiet. Patient. Still buzzing from the way you’d whispered in his ear like it’s some secret he needs to keep. Still hard beneath the waistband of his jeans long after you stood up from his lap and vanished into the crowd. He didn’t follow you. Didn’t ask. Just watched you walk away with your medal still swinging and your voice echoing in his head like you’d dropped a match into his lungs. He waited until the lights were low and the house started emptying. Until someone tossed him a bottle of water and a spare sweatshirt and told him to “get out of there before you combust.”

Now he’s here. On his knees. Face buried between your thighs like he’s praying. His hands grip the back of your legs as if it’s the only thing keeping him motivated to be here. And you’re still wearing his goddamn hoodie he gave you in the middle of the party because of your soaked shirt. You’re still wearing the medal. Your shorts are somewhere on the floor. And his mouth is slow. Careful. Worshipful. Like this is a favor you’re letting him perform. Like he’s just lucky to be allowed here between your thighs, under your fingers, lips dragging wet across your skin as he licks and kisses and breathes you in like this is the win he’s been chasing all year. You let your head fall back against the pillows. Fingers curling in his hair. He groans low when you pull quietly, desperate, like he loves it and you feel it all the way through you.

You haven’t said a word since you let him in. You didn’t have to. He’s now where he wants to be and he’s been dreaming of this moment ever since he saw you the first time. He waited. Through the noise, the bodies, the championship high that kept everyone buzzing long after the final whistle. Through photos and toasts and too many sticky drinks, through the sweat clinging to your skin and the way your shirt had started to turn see-through beneath the lights-clinging where it shouldn’t, sheer enough to show everything beneath. You hadn’t noticed. You were still laughing, flushed and sparkling from the win, from the way everyone was looking at you like you’d won it alone.

He noticed. He always noticed. He was still quiet, still sitting off to the side like he didn’t want to take up space, but he got brave, just once. Pulled his hoodie off over his head, walked over without meeting your eyes, and held it out like a peace offering. “You look cold,” he mumbled, even though you didn’t. Even though he was the one shivering. You took it anyway. Slipped it over your shoulders, your sticky shirt bunched underneath, the sleeves falling past your hands. You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t have to. The look you gave him- tired and soft and knowing. It was more than enough. It stayed with him all night.

And now you’re in his dorm. Your back against his pillows, his hoodie still on, legs bare and spread over the sheets like you’ve always belonged here. Your shorts are somewhere on the floor. Your hair’s a mess. There’s a fading smudge of glitter near your collarbone from someone else’s celebration. He’s on his knees in front of you, his eyes wide- beautiful blue eyes gazing up to you with full adoration behind them. He can’t believe this is happening, that you are here, perfect and real.

Because he can't, not really. Sure, he imagined what the possible things could happen when you’re in front of him but this isn’t part of it. He definitely has fantasized how about having you, to touch you, to have you in his bed, to press his lips on your thighs. And now you are open and waiting for him with that big smile of yours like this isn’t breaking the shit out of him. Like this is not a big deal. Didn’t even know where the fuck he should begin with all of this. There’s so much of you. So much thigh. So much curve. Your ass spilling over the edge of the mattress when you shift, soft and devastating. He doesn’t speak. Just moves closer. Places both hands on your legs and strokes slowly, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

Then he leans in. Presses a kiss to your inner thigh. Then another. Then a third, dragging his lips over your skin like he’s trying to prove he deserves this- every inch, every breath, every second of it. You sigh, tilting your hips slightly toward him. “Hey,” you murmur, lazy, playful, and voice curling under the low hum of the dorm fan. “You good down there?” He looks up, dazed. Swallows. “I just…” He shakes his head, almost laughs, eyes dropping again to your legs spread in front of him. “I don’t even know what to do with all of you.” You smile. Really smile. It’s a little smug. A little sweet. You lean back further, stretching out in his hoodie, your medal glinting faintly against the fabric. “Then take your time,” you whisper. “I’m not going anywhere.” And neither is he.

He still hasn’t touched your panties. Not really. Not yet. If someone asks him how he’s doing, his answer will be 50-50. He will be the happiest man in the world right now, but he’s also the one who’s so fucked up and going spiraling inside. Why? Because he’s been kneeling between your thighs and just staring like he’s processing all of this before he touches and tastes you for the first time. His hands are warm and shaking when he moves them slowly towards your thighs, tracing their flesh and curve as if he’s memorizing the feeling and the shape of them in his palms. Both of his hands move to squish and squeeze it once… feeling and testing the water first. Then again, nails digging a little into the flesh and both of them gripping your thighs fully like he doesn’t want to let go.

There are no words that can be found in his mouth. Eyes not looking up at you, he just keeps kneading and gently stroking the softest parts of them, where no one gets to touch unless you let them. His thumb slides up inside your inner thighs, and it’s close enough where you want him to touch you. When he exhales, it’s shaky as if he’s getting triggered by just holding your thighs. Then came the kisses. They’re soft at first. Careful. Barely there. Just slow presses of his lips along the edge of your thigh, then a little higher, then lower again. He’s not trying to tease you. He’s not playing a game. He’s just trying to understand you through touch. Through taste. He doesn’t want to take it because he’s scared to take it so fast, and it will be gone in the blink of an eye.

You watch him as you lean back slightly while being propped on your elbows. Didn’t even notice how the fabric of your panties got a wet patch in the middle and is clinging more to your cunt with a sticky feeling. But it’s frustrating because he still doesn’t touch you. He just keeps kissing your thighs, your hips, and the very tops where skin gets soft and sensitive, his mouth dragging slowly and softly like he’s praying. You thread your fingers through his curls. Tug gently. Tilt his face just a little closer to where you want him. And he moans. Not loud. Not for anyone but you. Just a low, helpless sound against your skin that makes your thighs twitch and your stomach pull tight.

You wait a beat. Let him breathe. Then, sweet and quiet: “You like my thighs, baby?” He stills. You feel it- every inch of him freezing for just a moment, like he forgot how to answer. His breath fans against your skin. He doesn’t even take off his lips off your thigh when he nods. So afraid to let go when he doesn’t even get all of the taste he can get. His voice is low and a little cracked when he speaks, like he’s thinking of many possible responses he can give to you, but this is the only one he can give and probably enough: “Yeah. Fuck. I- yeah.”

That made you smile. Can’t help it. You tilt your hips just a little closer to his face and let your knees fall wider. “Thought so.” He hums like he might fall apart. Kisses your thigh again, slower this time, then noses gently against the edge of your panties, still not pulling them aside. His hands move up to your hips, holding them steady, like you are the only thing grounding him right now. You’re still wearing his hoodie. He’s still on his knees. And he hasn’t even tasted you yet. But god- he already looks wrecked. He doesn’t move until you let him.

You let him take his time kneeling between your thighs, and his lips drag slowly along your skin. You just let him even though his breath is warm and uneven. You let him even though he’s almost breaking himself by just doing this slowly just to ground himself and not get so lost in it. You let him hold your hip with his hand while the other one is grazing his thumb on your outer thigh. You let him even though what you want is for him just to eat your pussy out. You’re still in your panties- thin, soaked, and clinging- and he’s close enough to feel everything but hasn’t touched the center of you yet. Not really. Not until you say so.

When he finally looks up, he’s flushed. Eyes wide. Jaw slack. He doesn’t speak, but you feel that he’s asking. Needing. Like he wants it so bad it hurts, but he’s still too careful to assume. You nod. Just a little. Your fingers slip into his curls, light and gentle, and you guide his head forward- not forceful, not rushed, just there. Letting him know. “Go ahead, baby,” you say quietly. “I want you to.” That’s the key to open the gates, and the floods flood in quickly.

He takes a breath before he leans in. The mouth found the fabric first, lips parted, and moved against the soaked panties. Tongue dragging flat and licking it softly and slowly like he doesn’t care if there’s a barrier or not. He can taste you still. He doesn’t push. Don't bite. He exhales like he’s smelling the scent of you, and this is making you feel a little shy even though you are a confident person. He’s making your knees weak by just doing that through the fabric. God, you even feel the way his hand tightens in your skin, the way it presses deeper in the flesh. You feel it in the way his moan rumbles low and soft into your heat, his mouth working a little more intentionally now- open kisses, wet and steady, dragging through your folds beneath the fabric.

It’s not perfect. It’s not practiced. But it’s hungry. It’s real. He licks again, slower this time. Tongue flat, broad, and firm. Then again. Each one a little deeper, more sure. And when he starts sucking softly through the fabric, you tug his hair just enough to make his eyes flutter closed. “That’s it,” you murmur, voice low. “Right there.” You’re not teasing. Not guiding out of pity. You’re just showing him what you like, but you are showing him what he’s doing right. Because he is. And you want him to know it.

He moans quietly against it and even grunts there like the sound came straight from his abdomen, and you can feel how it vibrates right and straight to your pussy. It makes your breath catch with just that action he made. Hips rolled instinctively, and he likes the way it’s benefiting him that you grind into his mouth because he can taste more of you; it also means you feel good, and he’s going to enjoy it more, which he shows by pressing his tongue harder, dragging his lips, and burying his face deeper like this is the most important thing in the world. He doesn’t ask for more. But he’s aching for it. Still licking you through your panties, sloppy and slow and completely gone for it- hands gripping, thighs flexed, body trembling just slightly from how long he’s been holding himself together- he looks like a mess. And you haven’t even let him take them off yet.

He’s not as gentle anymore. Still slow, still careful, but there’s something deeper in the way he moves now- like need is starting to win out over hesitation. His mouth presses harder. His tongue drags with more weight. Each kiss sinks lower, each stroke of his tongue lingers longer, and when you shift under him, hips rocking just slightly into his face, he moans like it hurts. It’s all through the fabric- your panties wet, clinging, soaked with how long he’s been teasing, but it doesn’t stop him. If anything, it makes him greedier. Hungrier. He licks right through it, like he wants to memorize your heat before he’s ever allowed to feel it bare.

And then he finds it. Right there- your clit, swollen and sensitive under the thin cotton and the second he locks his mouth around it, everything gets hotter. He doesn’t rush. He just sucks. Open-mouthed and slow, the fabric darkening with every breath, his lips wet and shaky as he pulls soft sounds from you without ever touching skin. His fingers dig into your hips like he’s trying to hold you steady, keep you right there, and keep himself from going insane. You arch your back for him. You whimper but barely audibly. And then he pulls back. Just a little. Just enough. But his mouth is still parted. His lips look shiny, and his breathing is unsteady, with his pupils blown widely like he’s love-struck by it. “Can I?” he asks, voice raw, barely there. “Please?”

You don’t speak. Hands just reach down gently, and you slip your fingers beneath the waistband of your panties to drag the wet panties slowly to the side. Hold it there for him. The second you do, he exhales like it’s a relief. Like gratitude because he’s been waiting for this moment- to lean in, to part his mouth against it, to lick it directly without any fabric from it. He’s not teasing; he just continues what he’s doing- licking and sucking your pussy. He doesn’t even care if the fabric is just pulled aside; his hands still come up. It’s steady and soft when he brushes yours to push them from holding your panties.

He didn’t even second-guess or hesitate to do it; he just did. He replaces your grip with his own to hold your panties now. Fingers slip beneath the band like it’s some instinct he has over you. Didn’t even yank or fumble over it. He just takes over gently, like this is something to be careful with. Something he should do, not you. And it shows in how he holds it tightly and how his thumb is tucked against your hips and how his knuckles graze your skin when he leans in. The look in his eyes is low, and it even rolled behind when he dragged his tongue in full length to your pussy lips in one slow stroke. That one is not slick or sloppy, nor is it hurried, but it’s deep and intentional to be like that. It’s a continuous movement that starts from the bottom end, and it doesn’t stop until his tongue reaches your clit, and he doesn’t tease you.

He carefully licks and enjoys the moment like he’s trying to understand and learn how you taste and feel in his mouth. The sounds released against your cunt are barely audible; it’s a quiet groan, but it vibrates through your body, and he does it again when he notices that you reacted when he does that. It doesn’t take long before he gives another slow stroke of his tongue, thicker and firmer this time, before it flattens and spreads each pass of it from the base up to the clit. The other hand settles on your thigh, and fingers that hold you are grounding him as he eats you deeper, like pulling him away will be more of a fight than just pushing his head out there.

He keeps holding your panties to the side. His grip is firm now, not letting them slip even as his tongue moves in long, languid motions- up and down, again and again as if he wants to open you with his mouth alone. His nose nudges your clit, and he doesn’t even flinch. He leans into it. Stay there. Letting the pace be guided by how your hips move, your breath hitches and catches, and the way your thighs can’t help but close around his head without your control. And he doesn’t stop. If anything, he presses in closer. He’s not licking anymore. His tongue is fucking you now, steadily thrusting it beyond the slit and inside of you, which makes your body twitch.

He’s not messy with what he’s doing; he’s gentle and doing it softly, which makes you want to cry because all you want is for him to eat you like he’s hungry for it. But there’s an appeal to how controlled the pressure he’s doing is, how each stroke drags through the slick like he’s syncing his body to yours. His grip tightens around the panties he’s holding to the side while his other hand remains on your thigh to keep your legs open before he guides it to his shoulder and you let him without any hesitation. You also did the same to your other leg so you can wrap it around him. Locking him in place where he belongs, and you are sure he likes it in the way he groans when your ankles cross behind his back.

The sound is low and deep as if he's been suppressing it ever since he latched his mouth there. His tongue thrusting slowly, rolling it, and focusing on getting it deeper if that’s even possible. Your hips roll up to meet it, fingers tangled in his hair, breath breaking against your lips, and you can feel the heat climbing fast now, climbing hard. It’s too good. Too much. You can’t stay quiet. “God, baby…” You breathe, one hand sliding down to cradle the back of his head. “You’re really doing that, huh?” He moans into you, deeper this time, and it shakes through your core. You feel it all the way down. You let out a soft laugh, breathless and messy, and your voice dips low as your thighs pull him closer. “Using your tongue like it’s your cock,” you murmur, lifting your hips right into his face. “Is that what you wanted?” Your fingers tighten. “Wanted to fuck me like this?”

Another thrust of his tongue, firmer this time, slower. You gasp. Try again. “Do you feel how wet I am for you?” He can’t answer. He doesn’t even try. He just groans- long and drawn out and devoted- and keeps going. His tongue sinks deeper, mouth dragging, face flushed and buried, like this is the only thing he’s ever wanted. You’re open for him, shaking under him, and he just keeps fucking you- tongue pushing in, lips catching on your clit, hands gripping tighter now, holding you open like he needs to feel you fall apart around his mouth. His hips rock subtly into the mattress, like even his body can’t take it anymore, like he’s getting off just from the sounds you make. And still- he doesn’t stop. He holds your panties aside with a hand that’s almost trembling, rubs softly against his sheets, and fucks you with his tongue like he’d die if you told him to stop. Thighs start to squeeze his head instinctively, body responding to how he’s thrusting and moving his tongue in your cunt; he also does it fast. Switching from shoving inside and sucking it.

You like how steady his mouth is and how devoted he is to what he’s doing and how fucking real this feels now. Sounds were released and made by him when you do it, not because he’s overwhelmed but because this is exactly what he wanted. He’s proving that with how his fingers dig into your hips to keep you down in place while his tongue is still licking, slower now, deeper at your entrance. And then he sucks. Not a tease. Not a pass. A full suction. Lips sealed around your pussyhole, tongue still inside you, sucking like he’s trying to pull you open, like he wants to drink from the source.

His moan breaks against you, low and guttural, and it doesn’t stop. His mouth stays right there, sealed and locked and obsessed with the heat and taste of you, the wet swell of your hole fluttering against his tongue. You can’t even breathe- you just stare down at him, mouth open, chest rising fast, and he keeps sucking you like your pussy’s the only thing he’s ever needed. His tongue pushes deeper while his lips pull back- just enough to draw again- soft, wet suction, like he’s kissing your hole, like he’s trying to inhale it. He breathes through his nose, desperate and steady, jaw moving as he tongue- fucks you in rhythm with the sucking, like this is how he wants to get you off. Mouth full of your hole. Tongue buried. His whole face was soaking in it.

“Oh my god- fuck… right there- don’t stop-” Your words don’t even sound like words anymore. Your thighs lock tighter. He shifts to fit better beneath them, tilts his head to stay sealed against you, sucking, sucking, sucking, the pressure tender but unrelenting, and every time his tongue strokes in deeper, your walls flutter around him and he moans like he feels it in his cock. He’s not even thinking anymore. Just sucking your pussyhole like he belongs there. Like he wants to taste you to come. Like he wants to swallow it.

And when it happens- when you start to shake, when your hands tighten in his hair, when your body starts to give- he doesn’t pull back. He sucks harder. Because that’s his reward. And he’s starving. You don’t mean to beg, not really- but it slips out anyway. Breathless, cracked, barely a whisper between gasps. “Don’t stop, baby. Please, don’t stop.” And he doesn’t. Not when you sound like that. Not when you’re pulling him tighter with your thighs like you’d drag him inside if you could.

He groans the second he hears it- low and deep, like something inside him breaks- and seals his mouth tighter over your pussyhole, lips locking around your entrance, tongue still pushing slow and deep inside you like he’s trying to fuck you open with his mouth alone. It’s not messy, it’s not hurried- it’s focused. Hungry. Every movement exact, every kiss purposeful, every slow suck like he’s trying to drink the orgasm out of you.

And then it happens. Your body starts to give in, hips stuttering against his face, hands fisting in his hair, and thighs trembling so tight around his head. He moans into it again- louder this time, like he’s grateful. Your pussy pulses around his tongue, and he just stays there, still sucking your hole through it, slow and deep and perfect. He wants to feel every twitch with his whole mouth. Your breath catches. Your muscles tighten. You feel yourself fall apart around his tongue, and he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t lift his head, doesn’t ease up. He just stays locked in place, licking and sucking through every flutter of your cunt like he’s not finished until you’re empty. You breathe out something like a laugh, ruined and shaking, head falling back against the pillow as your thighs slowly loosen around him. “You’re going to kill me,” you whisper.

He groans again; it’s low and desperate before he sucks your pussyhole one more time. Like he’s still not full. He almost looks disappointed when he pulls back because he doesn’t speak at all. His breathing is hard, his face is flushed, his lips are wet, his gaze looks like he’s lost before he stands up with all of that, and his hair is a little damp, and he’s just there on the edge of the bed like he’s not sure what to do next. But when you nod at him, he starts taking off his shirt, and his sweats are shoved down to the floor along with his boxers in them. Cock sprang out at the action, and it’s already flushed and soaked at the tip. It’s hard and looks painful because it’s so red and leaking. You managed to pull your panties away from your body, and he took a deep breath at the sight.

He climbs to the bed without saying anything, and his hands cage your body, hovering over you with his shallow breathing. Legs automatically parted for him without even thinking, just welcoming and ready. He leans forward slowly, not guiding himself inside yet and not pushing. He is just lining up and letting the thick, leaking head of his cock drag through the mess he made of you. Not fucking. Not teasing. Just pressing himself along your slit like he needs the friction just to stay alive.

His hips rock gently, slow and unsteady, and his cock slides wetly between your folds- bare, deliberate glides that catch on your clit just enough to make him shiver. He didn’t even look at you; he just buried his face in your neck the moment his cock made contact with your pussy. Breath hot against your skin, and his voice could pass as a whisper, how low or shy he sounds when he’s fucked up and speaking through the strain stuck in his throat. “Fuck- I don’t- I can’t… this is-”

He doesn’t finish. Just hides there, panting, letting the length of his cock rub again and again against your pussy like he’s afraid to go further, like this alone might undo him. You feel the tip drag up over your clit and down again, slick and thick and so careful, like he’s savoring every inch of pressure he gets without fully slipping inside. You smile into his hair, fingers running down his back, soft and slow, as you press your lips to his temple. “You feel so good,” you murmur, barely above a whisper. “You’re okay, baby.”

He lets out a sound that isn’t quite a moan, hips stuttering, forehead pressed to your shoulder like he needs to hide from how much he feels. His cock drags down again- thick and hot and heavy- grinding softly against your clit until your breath hitches. “You’re shy now?” You tease, you say gently, still breathless, still smiling. “After everything you just did to me?” He laughs, but it’s ruined- broken into your neck, quiet and trembling- and he just keeps moving. Not pushing in. Not yet. Just rubbing slowly, back and forth, dragging the head through your folds like he’s trying to memorize what it feels like to be this close. Like, this is the whole thing. Like you’re already enough.

And all you can do is hold him. Let him rut into your cunt like you’re his first and last. Let him feel it. Because he’s not fucking yet. He’s falling. You shift under him, just enough to let your hips tilt and your thighs open wider, guiding him in closer with the softest squeeze of your legs. His cock slides through your slickness as if it belongs there, thick and hot and already flushed deep, the tip catching at your entrance before gliding back up to your clit again- slow, shaky, almost desperate. Breath shaky against your skin, warm and making you shiver. Your neck could feel how he’s shaking and the way his arms get tense on either side of your body like he’s holding back from being fucked up completely.

“Put it in,” you tell him, commanding even. Your lips brushed against his ear when you told him that. “I want you.” But he doesn’t move. Not in the way you expect. He doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t look at you. He just thrusts forward again, dragging himself through your folds like he can’t stop, like he’s too far gone to do anything else. His face stays hidden in your neck, lips parted, breath catching as his cock glides through your slick with slow, shaky pressure.

“I-I can’t,” he whispers, and it breaks right out of him, raw and low. “Your thighs…” He grunts against your skin with his hips twitching and the head of his cock sliding between your wet slit every time he rocks forward, but it’s slower this time. He’s trying to feel every skin and shape with each thrust while his whole body trembles above you, yet he still keeps going. He keeps rubbing his cock between your folds, enjoying the press and drag again and again.

“They’re so soft,” he breathes, voice shaking. “You’re so warm- I can’t think- fuck, you feel too good…” Each glide is heavier than the last. His cock pulses every time he passes over your clit, and still, he doesn’t lift his head. He just stays there, breath stuttering, mouth hot against your throat as he keeps rutting into you like your thighs are going to make him come. But he feels overwhelmed and flushed over you regardless of how he stays still but loses and goes crazy about how you feel.

“Just- just a little more,” he says, but it’s not really towards you but to himself, as if he’s trying to justify how his cock keeps chasing the friction you can give to him. “Just… like this. Just a little longer…” You can feel it- the way his cock slips and stutters along your entrance, how your pussy clenches around nothing with every pass, and how his whole body’s begging for you to pull him in. But he won’t do it until you ask again. Or until you guide him. Because right now? He’s too deep in it. Too shy to look at you. Too obsessed with your thighs. Too gone to stop.

He keeps rutting between your folds, cock dragging slowly and soaked through your slick, trembling above you like he’s trying so hard to stay composed, but his body’s already begging. His breath breaks into your skin, face still tucked into your neck like he can’t look at you, like he’s too shy to see what he’s doing to you. The tip of his cock catches against your clit and then slides down again, dragging over your entrance in a slow, sticky glide that makes you ache- and still, he doesn’t push in. He just keeps rocking, lost, murmuring into your throat like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Feels so good… I can’t- fuck your thighs- your pussy is so…” It’s too much for him. So you help. You reach between your bodies without saying anything; your hand is steady and slow before your fingers wrap around the base of his cock. You feel him twitch and shudder the second you make contact with it, and there’s also a breathless gasp muffled into your shoulder while you guide him down. Not forceful. Not demanding. Just be careful. Sweet. Like you’re lining up a child’s spoon to their mouth. Like he needs help eating.

“Shhh,” you whisper, hand soft over his cock, guiding the head back to your entrance. “Let me, baby. I’ve got you,” he whined. He buries deeper into your neck, one hand fisting the sheets, the other slipping under your back like he’s holding on for dear life. And when your pussy flutters as the tip of his cock finally nests right against you, ready to sink in, that’s when you feel everything in him falter.

“You don’t have to think,” you murmur, rocking your hips up just slightly to help. “Just let me do it for you.” He nods. It’s tiny and slow, and he follows your hand. And then he pushes. Just an inch. Then another. That made him moan. Loud, desperate, shaking. The sound breaks into your throat, echoing into your skin like he’s never felt anything like it before, like it’s too much, like you’re too much, like being inside you might kill him.

But you just hold him there. Your hand was still wrapped around the base of his cock, and your other arm was around his back. Keeping him close as his body sinks slowly into yours like this is how he learns what love feels like. And when he bottoms out, trembling and silent, stuffed full into the wet heat of you. Then you feel him fall apart- without moving.

Just shaking, moaning, hiding, and finally… finally inside. He doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, buried as deep as he can go. His cock is thick and warm and pulsing inside you like he’s been waiting his whole life to fit somewhere like this. His face is hidden in your neck with his breath shaking, skin damp. The rest of his body feels like it’s trying to remember how to exist. He isn’t tense- he’s soft all over, like just being inside you has taken something out of him. You hold the back of his head as his hips stay still. His full weight is against you as his chest presses to yours, and you don’t rush him. You just let him feel it and let him just take his moment there.

“You did so good,” you praise him like your breath almost catches. You make sure your voice sounds soft against his ear with your hand still cradling him like he’s some precious diamond that might fall apart and break if you stopped holding him. “You’re doing so good, baby.” He exhales like it hurts to hear that. A sound low in his throat, muffled by your skin, but real. His fingers push deeper to the point his nails dig into your waist, but not painfully enough to leave a bruise, just enough to grip you like you are the only one grounding him. You could feel the tremble run through his system before he said something again.

“Thank you,” he mutters before repeating the same words again and again like he can’t just stop himself, “Thank you- f-fuck, thank you-” Your lips touch his hair and hum while you let him keep hiding there. Let him fall apart gently, slowly, and all the way inside you. He’s so deep. You can feel every twitch of his cock that makes your breath catch, but he’s still not moving- just holding. Just staying. And when your hips shift up ever so slightly, when your walls flutter around him from just the weight of it, he moans. It’s not loud. It’s not showy. It’s helpless.

“Feels good, baby?” you ask him. It’s like you are rocking him in your arms, the way your words are warm and slow. When he nods, it makes you smile, and it’s so endearing how he still presses into your throat like he’s not ready to do that yet because he might cum quickly. “So good,” he whispers. “You’re so warm. I didn’t know- I didn’t know it could feel like this.” He starts to move. Not much. Just a slow roll of his hips, the tiniest drag of his cock inside you, but it’s enough to make both of you gasp. He does it again, just a little deeper, and you tighten your arm around him like he’s about to slip through you.

“That’s it,” you murmur. “You’re doing so well. You feel so good inside me, baby.” He breathes something that isn’t even a word- just a noise, a broken sound caught halfway between a moan and a prayer- and rocks into you again. Slow. Careful. So present it aches. And still, he thanks you. “Thank you,” he murmurs again. “I want to make you feel good. I just want to make you come. I just want to be good.”

“You are,” you assure him, brushing your lips against his temple. “You are. You’re so good. You’re perfect, baby.” He makes another sound into your neck, and it’s almost a sob but soft. Grateful. His cock pulses as he starts to move a little more, hips finding rhythm, but it’s slow and shallow, like he wants to make love to you with every inch he has.

And the whole time, you hold him like he’s yours. Because he is. The moment you let him inside your world, you consider him yours. You know he’s not just fucking and pushing his cock inside of you. You know he’s thanking you for letting him be here, and it’s not hard to pick up by the way he’s acting. He figured out how you like the rhythm, and he has this attitude where he wants to please people, so he wants to match it. There’s something gentle in the way he moves. It’s still restricted because, you know, he’s shy in the way you can feel it, like he’s not certain if he’s allowed to want you this much as he does. His hips rolled, and he thrust smoothly and deeply. You can feel each stroke of his cock; it’s enough to make your back arch into him and moan your lungs out to show him that you like it.

He responded with the way he holds you, like he’s asking for something, but not with words. With his whole body. With the way he keeps you wrapped up. The way he trembles. He doesn’t pull back to look at you. He stays close, mouth brushing your cheek, breath caught in his throat as he starts to move a little deeper. His cock slowly thrusts inside of you. You can feel its thickness and size filling you up, and you can feel it every time he pushes it inside. His voice is shaky and low. “Does that feel good?” And then he asks another, but it’s barely louder than a breath. Thankfully, you are skin to skin, so you heard it: “Am I doing it right?” You gasp, clenching around him, hands sliding down his back to hold him closer, and you nod into his skin as you whisper,

“Yes, baby. So good. You fuck me so good.” That breaks something open in him. It’s like your praises are fucking him up but not in a loud way. It shows the way his hips stutter every time he hears it, as your words land exactly and hit what he wants to hear. His cock goes deeper, if that’s even possible, but it kisses your cervix because the angle is just right. It earns a low groan from him before he thrusts another again and repeats what he did. One of his hands remains beneath your lower back while the other is resting at your waist. Both hands holding you gently and firmly at the same time to anchor himself to your body.

“S-shit. You’re so tight,” he mutters when he feels you clench around him, and he doesn’t even care if he doesn’t sound in control anymore. “Feels like you’re pulling me in.” It’s obvious how he’s trying hard to keep everything under control and slow, to make everything last, and how he wants to stay in the moment. Every thrust is deep, full, and intentional. There’s no rush. Just this overwhelming need to stay connected, to do it right, to make you feel everything he’s too shy to say out loud. He lets out a shaky breath, and then- “Can I go a little harder?” It comes out hesitant, like he’s asking permission for something he already aches for.

He doesn’t move until you give it. “Yes, baby,” you breathe, tilting your hips for him. “Take what you need. I’ve got you.” He moans into your skin and starts again, but this time with a little more pressure behind each thrust of his hips. Not fast. Not rough. But with more rhythm and not sloppy. His cock pushes in and out of you with steady movements before he kisses your jaw down to your neck like he’s dreaming and can’t believe that you let him do this. “I love how you feel- p-please- mhngh-” he moans out softly even though he’s not really starting yet, and his words feel dreamy. “I love being inside you. I love how you wrap around me…”

How he moans, how he breaks, how he twitches, and how his movements stutter just drive you to purposely squeeze him tighter just to earn another sound from him, and his body even reacts. He’s so fucked out already, and you don’t even care at this point if you will cum or not because just watching the way he thrusts, the way his breath catches, and the way his cock stays inside like he never wants to leave is enough for you just to get pleasure out of it.

You can even feel how close he’s getting, but he’s still holding it. There’s already tension bubbling through his stomach and the shake that traveled down to his thighs, and how his hips twitch when your pussy grips around him. But he doesn’t let go. Not yet. Not until you tell him. Because even now, even while he’s fucking you perfectly, filling you completely, thrusting deep and soft and full like he’s learning what devotion feels like, he still needs your voice to carry him through.

He continues to rock and move inside you. His hips rolling with a slow but focused rhythm and his cock dragging deeper with each roll of his hips. It’s like his cock has already imprinted the shape of him inside of your pussy by now, and he certainly knows your body now too. He’s hitting the right angle, how to press it right, and how to stay deep like he’s cock-warming from your pussy for a few moments before he pulls out and pushes again. And you moan just from the stretch alone he’s giving you. Warm breath stays against your throat, and arms hold you carefully as his pace gets faster and heavier.

Then he pulls back a little, just enough to see you better. His eyes flick down, lips parted like he’s been thinking about it this whole time, and his hands slip to the front of the hoodie still wrapped around your body. His hoodie. It’s yanked up halfway and damp with sweat, and he can see how your shirt underneath is still clinging to your skin. Lips found your jaw as his hands pushed up the hoodie from your body more, and it exposed the shape of your body underneath. He takes his time with it and doesn’t rush even though he’s already inside of you. It’s like taking it off his intimate area and resting his cock there in your pussy.

It doesn’t take long before his fingers find the hem of your shirt after your hoodie. He pushes it up too, but inch by inch until it’s bunched above your bra and shows the swell of your chest. He also slides that up too, just enough to let go of your chest and show your nipples to him. His palms cup your tits while he continues to fuck you. And when he sees them- when his thumbs brush over your nipples, and your back arches into his touch- he groans. “God, fuck- look at you…” His voice is unsteady and cracking.

His head lowers, and his mouth is warm against your chest, just hovering above it while he’s still inside of you and still moving. Besides your thighs and ass, your tits are also the ones that always caught his attention, so he’s not forgetting about them today, of course. So he drags his hips forward and deeper and pulls out just enough until it reaches close to the head of his cock while he gropes your tits like he’s been dreaming about it. Hands are big and a little clumsy because of the eagerness to touch them, but he’s also starved for it, so his thumbs keep brushing back and forth. His fingers are curling and gripping under the swell as he continues squeezing it softly like a stress ball, and he wants to feel every part of you in every way he can.

His cock doesn’t stop moving inside of you; he keeps thrusting and pressing, but the difference is he’s watching you now. Eyes on your breasts and how they bounce with every roll of his hips. He likes the way your lips part or how you bite your bottom lip. And he loves the way your legs wrap around his body to pull him deeper and lock him in. “You’re perfect,” he compliments you, voice low but obviously sounding like he’s already pussy-whipped. “So fucking perfect,” he adds before he leans in again and his mouth latches onto your right chest. His tongue licks softly around your breast before he starts sucking your nipple and licking it as he does so. Each suckling earns a groan from him, and it's also because of how your pussy clenches more around him when he starts doing that. And even then- even inside you, even shaking- his hands stay soft.

Because he’s not just fucking you. He’s worshipping. And he wants all of you in his hands. He continues moving inside of you, liking how deliciously his cock drags deep with each thrust and how his mouth is hot on your nipple and wrapped around it like it’s the only thing that keeps him sane. Hips rolling with focused and steady movements, and each thrust was thick and heavy. It presses right into your cervix while everything about what he’s doing feels careful… gentle… attentive… grateful. He’s the kind of boy who knows how to fuck but still puts the person’s pleasure above his and still listens with his whole body, and right now? He’s waiting for you to tell him he’s doing it right.

And then it happens. One thrust lands just a little harder, hips catching the curve of your ass at just the right angle, and the sound it makes- wet and full and sharp- claps. It echoes. He freezes. Just for a second. Like he wasn’t expecting it to sound that loud. Like he didn’t realize how noisy it could be. And then your pussy clenches around him- tight and needy- and your ass jiggles against his hips as he rocks back in..His breath breaks on your neck. And then he groans. “Oh my god-” And he does it again. Another thrust. Deeper. Harder. Just to hear that sound again. Clap. Clap. Clap. The slap of skin-on-skin, the way your ass bounces into him with every push- it wrecks him.

He starts moving faster, hips snapping forward with a rhythm that’s still tender but filthy underneath, all guided by the sound of your body against his. “Fuck- your ass- shit- it’s so- god-” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just moans into your chest and keeps fucking you, deep and steady, and clap clap clap with every stroke, the rhythm filling the room like he’s addicted to it. His hands slide down to grab the curve of it now, fingers digging in, guiding you into him, watching the way it moves, feeling the way your pussy pulls him in tighter with every sound.

“Feels so good- feels so fucking good- you’re so soft- can’t stop- want to keep watching it- please-” He’s moaning into your skin now, sucking at your tits between each thrust, fucking you harder but still holding you like you’re precious. Like you’re his. His cock presses deep and thick inside you, your body bouncing into his hips over and over, the wet slap making his hips twitch like it’s too much and still not enough. “Thank you- thank you- your pussy’s so warm- I don’t want to come yet- I’m trying- fuck- I’m trying to be good-” And he is. Even now- slamming into you harder with every clap of your ass, breath breaking against your collarbone- he’s still trying to hold back. Still waiting. Still need you to say it’s okay. Because he won’t come until you tell him to. Because you own him now.

Hands travel up to his chest without thinking; it’s warm and steady. Your hand stays there while the other rests on his jaw, and fingers curl around his jaw while his hips move deep. Wet skin slapping against each other echoes in the room, and you guide his face up until his eyes meet yours. He looks completely fucked out when you take a look at him; his eyes are glassy, his lips are parted, and his brows are knit closely as if he’s going to cry because you hold him like that. He’s still moving inside you, slow but hard, cock dragging deep as his breath catches, hips twitching like he’s trying not to fall apart with every thrust. “I-” he gasps, voice already breaking. “I need it… I need your pussy… please…” It’s barely a sentence. Just a tangle of want and panic slipping past his lips like he thinks you might take it away.

And it doesn’t even make sense- he’s already inside you, fucking you so deep your toes curl, the clap of his hips against your ass echoing through the room- but he still asks like he hasn’t earned it. Like he needs permission to feel this good. You tighten your grip on his face, cradling his jaw with both hands, not rough- just firm, grounding. Like you’re keeping him here. Like you want him to feel it. “You’ve got it, baby,” you whisper, voice warm, steady, and made for him. “You’re inside me. You’ve been inside me this whole time.” His eyes flutter shut while he shudders at your words. It took him some moments before he looked at you again, eyes so beautiful and blue, wide, and lashes standing out, the corner of his eyes tearing a little, and he looked like he was not even in the moment and so gone.

Thrust grows faster, deeper, and heavier. His hips snap into your body with a deeper rhythm of his movement. It’s like your words trigger something and unlock the reason for him to let go. It’s not like this with other girls; he’s not this messy. He’s not the one being fucked up. But when it comes to you, he couldn’t just help to press closer and mouth your jaw like he’s some kind of person who’s afraid of distance. Hands grips your hips tighter to keep himself together, but he’s not succeeding with that plan either. “I love your pussy,” he dumbly says, not even realizing what he’s saying. “I love how it feels- I love how it holds me- I don’t want to stop- please let me-” His words got cut off with a whine when you shut him up with a kiss, and it’s slow and deep. Lips sliding together as your thighs wrap tighter around his waist to suffocate and make him closer to you.

You rock up to welcome and meet each thrust he’s doing. His whole body is shaking and trembling now, but you enjoy every thrust he gives because it’s making your pussy flutter even more, and you clench so tight that his cock can barely breathe. He’s pulling back enough so he can rest his forehead against yours. He can’t even form a proper sentence with the way his breath is hitching and voice is shaking: “Please… I’m gonna come. I can’t- I can’t hold it- can I come inside? Please- please tell me I can…” And he means it. Not just the words. Not just the ask. He’s eager for your permission, and it shows in the way he says it and looks at you while he begs. He’s asking for trust. For you. And you owe him.

Your hands are still on his face, thumbs brushing just beneath his eyes as his hips move, slow but firm, cock dragging deep with every thrust like he’s scared to stop. His face is hot and red, soaked with sweat, and his eyes are closing from the pleasure, but it still looks like he’s pleading for something. He’s completely gone. You know he’s closer than before because his hips falter and get more sloppy, and his grip on your body tightens like he needs something to hold. His moans soften and break into little sounds that make you crazy inside when you feel his hot breath on your neck and hear it so close.

Pussy squeezes and clenches around him. It’s tight and unintentional; it goes quickly to his system, and he gasps, hips jerking, and cock twitches deep inside your cunt. Eyes open quickly and find yours again. It’s teary, wide, and desperate. That made you lean in, pressing a kiss to his cheek before you spoke against it. The voice sounded so sweet and tender, teasing him. “Inside or outside, baby?” The question is messing with his head. He takes a deep breath like it hurts just to think which option is the best, but pulling out and busting it in your stomach is the option he likes the least.

He nods even though the question does not require a yes or no answer; his body shudders, and he’s literally a wreck, like he’s about to cry when he starts speaking, “Inside. Please. Inside- please, please.” Your smile is soft, nearly cruel in how sweet it sounds when you murmur back, “You want a creampie, baby?” And that’s all it takes. He whines into your skin, shuddering as his hips stutter, cock throbbing at the edge. Forehead pressed to yours when his head falls forward like he needs to make contact and can’t hold himself together unless he feels you right there keeping him from fucking up more. “Please let me- please- I want to come inside- I want to feel it- I want to fill you up.”

“Are you going to come for me?” you whisper, voice just above a breath. “Gonna fill me up just like that?” He nods again- frantic now, voice trembling as he moans against your mouth. “I need to- fuck- please- I’m trying- I need you-” And you don’t make him wait. You wrap your legs tighter around him, pull him closer, your lips right against his ear as you breathe it out. “Come for me, baby. Fill me up.” And he does. Right then. His whole body jerks, hips slamming forward as his cock throbs inside you, thick spurts spilling deep, soaking you with everything he’s been holding in. He moans into your neck, long and low, shaking as he presses as deep as he can go, whispering over and over, “Thank you, thank you, thank you-” You don’t even realize you’re close until his voice breaks again. Until he whispers ‘Thank you’, like it’s all he knows how to say, his cock throbbing deep inside you, hips stuttering like he’s holding back tears.

And then it crashes all at once- the tight clench of your pussy around him, the ache deep in your belly, your thighs locked around his hips as your orgasm gushes out of you, hard and wet and so full. His voice barely held together. His body was trembling. Your pussy clenches around him as he comes so hard he whimpers. And still- he doesn’t let go of you. Doesn’t stop kissing your cheek, your jaw, or your shoulder. Because you let him have it. Because he asked and you said yes. Because he’ll never want anything else again. He gasps like you just pulled the air out of his lungs, crying out as his cock jerks inside you, spurting hard, filling you, pushing so deep it feels like he’s trying to live inside your body.

And then he collapses. Not away. Not off. But forward. Into you. Face buried between your tits before he groans. His breath is warm against it, and his lips are parted and wet like he’s drooling as he stays there like it’s a safe haven. “Thank you,” he whines, his voice sounding so small and his breath shaking when he says that. “Thank you- fuck- thank you.” You cradle his head gently, your fingers running through his damp curls, your body still fluttering around him as he keeps thrusting- small, slow, aftershock rolls, messy and deep and needy. And then his lips find your nipple again. He sucks. Slow. Soft. Like a baby. Like he needs it. Like it soothes him. His mouth wraps around you, tongue moving gently, cock still twitching inside you, still leaking into your cunt while he moans low and broken.

“Feels so good,” he whispers against your skin, suckling like he can’t stop. “You feel so good- so warm- I don’t want to leave-” His hips rock forward again- shallow, weak little thrusts- as more comes spilling out of him, slippery and wet between your thighs, your bodies pressed so close there’s no space left for anything else. Just his mouth on your tits. His cock is still inside you. His voice said thank you like you saved his life.

And you did. Maybe at some point you do, but God, he feels so blessed right now. His hips continue to move and keep thrusting through it even if it's slowly, weakly, and sloppily. He just doesn’t know how to stop because his cock keeps pulsing before he gives one last slam of his cock inside before he can feel it thick, hot, and pull and settle inside. It feels good and makes your clench and clit pulse. His breath stutters against your chest before he slows down. The pace falters. The tension in his thighs gives way. His moans soften into sighs.

And he drops. Full weight. Skin to skin. Still inside. His body settles into yours like he’s finally come home. Like he belongs there. His chest presses to your breasts, sticky and flushed, his cheek against your skin, and he doesn’t move. Except his mouth. He keeps sucking your nipple- soft now, slower, not even for arousal anymore. Just comfort. Just closeness. Lips parting around you like he’s calmed by the shape of your chest in his mouth, and you just let his tongue brush lazily on your skin. Let his cock twitch and soften while he’s buried inside. Let him, even if it’s heavy, thick, warm, and wet from the mixed cum from both of you.

He groans quietly, like he knows he should pull out but can’t. “Don’t- don’t make me leave,” he murmurs, voice thick and dazed, breath spreading across your chest. “Wanna stay right here…” You hum and pet through his hair, your fingers gentle along the nape of his neck, and he melts. All over again. Just drips down into you like he’s yours now. Like he always was. He shifts once- barely- just to press his body closer, thighs flush against yours, sticky warmth seeping between you where he came so hard it spilled out. “Feels so good,” he whispers. “Feels so safe. Just let me… just like this…” And his mouth stays there. Still suckling like you’re his. Still there inside of you, just cock-warming, and he’s acting like he can’t bear to pull out.

So you let him, and you stroke his hair while his breathing starts to calm down and slow. You could feel the tension ease from his shoulders, system, arms, spine, and whole body. He slowly sinks into yours, naked and warm. Liking the way you both warm each other and how he stays inside you even though it’s softened now, thick and heavy and resting where he emptied himself, warm come leaking around him, between your thighs, seeping into the sheets- but he doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t even try. Just continuing to suckle at your nipple despite his mouth slackening a little, but he feels more hungry. His mouth parted softly, and it lulled him deeper into your chest like it’s not even about sex anymore.

It’s about comfort. About staying. About being allowed to have this. You feel him sigh against your skin- long and low- and then he mumbles something that barely makes it past your skin. “Don’t move… I want to sleep like this…” You smile into his hair, wrapping your arms tighter around him, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Okay,” you whisper. “Stay right here, baby. I’ve got you.” He hums contentedly, dazed, so sweetly tired. His mouth doesn’t move and stays in the same place. It’s latched gently while his cock also rests inside of you despite how it’s softening because he loves having you around him like it belongs there.

He also feels a sense of possessiveness as he does this because he feels like you were made to keep him warm. And he falls asleep like that. Breathing against your chest. Held in your arms. Loved in the deepest, wettest, and fullest way. Still inside. Still touching. Still yours. You close your eyes, one hand stroking his back, the other holding his head to your breast, and let him rest. Because you know. He’s not going anywhere. He can’t. Because you’re his home now. And he never wants to leave.

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀twenty-twenty-five © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

[skzficdump]

No self-control

paring: han jisung x fem!reader

gender: smut, stablish relationship

word counting: 1.2 k

warnings: unprotected sex, creampie, oral sex (fem reciving), slight dominant han, dirty talk, slight degradetion (one use of whore), needy reader, multiple round, multiple orgams, shower sex

You're relaxing by the private pool, enjoying the sun and the cool water. You're wearing a super sexy bikini that you know Han loves. The bikini is a deep red that highlights your tanned skin, and the minimalist design leaves little to the imagination, with thin straps that cross at the back and a small triangle in the front that barely covers your breasts. The matching thong sits low on your hips, revealing more than it hides. Suddenly, you hear the door slide open and see Han approaching. His expression is one of need and desire, and you can feel the intensity of his gaze on you, tracing every curve of your body.

Han leans in close and, without saying a word, kisses you deeply. You feel his body press against yours, and you can't help but notice the firm erection pressing against your stomach through his swimsuit. You laugh softly, pulling away slightly to look into his eyes. "Really, Han? Just seeing me in a bikini makes you get like this?" You tease, smiling mischievously.

Han, instead of feeling embarrassed, becomes more dominant. "You're so sexy, I can't control myself," he says, his voice low and full of lust. He takes your hand and, without giving you time to react, leads you inside the house, straight to your bedroom. His grip is firm, possessive, and you can feel the urgency in every step he takes. Once inside, Han gently pushes you against the wall, his lips finding yours in a passionate kiss. His hands roam your body, exploring every curve through your bikini. "I want you so much," he murmurs against your skin, and you can feel the warmth of his breath.

He leads you to the bed, and without wasting any time, he removes your bikini, leaving your body naked and exposed. The sunlight streaming through the window illuminates your skin, highlighting every detail. Han quickly removes his swimsuit, revealing his erection, hard and ready. He kneels between your legs and, with a wicked smile, begins kissing your inner thigh, slowly moving up to your core. His lips and tongue leave a trail of fire in their wake, and you can feel every hair on your body prickling with anticipation.

"Ji, please," you whisper, but he takes his time, savoring every inch of your skin. When he finally reaches your clit, he circles it with his tongue, causing waves of pleasure. "You're so delicious," he says, his voice vibrating against you. "I could eat you all day." His fingers join your core, exploring your folds, finding sensitive spots that make you gasp and squirm. "Hanji, don't stop," you beg, and he complies, intensifying his strokes. He brings you to the brink of orgasm, but just as you're about to fall, he stops.

"I want to feel you," he says, positioning himself between your legs. "I want to feel your pussy suck me." With one firm thrust, he enters you, filling you completely. "You feel so good," he growls, his eyes fixed on yours. "You're mine, and you always will be." He begins to move, his thrusts rhythmic and deep. "Han, harder," you urge, and he increases the pace, his hips slamming against yours. "You're so good, such a whore for me," he says, his voice thick with lust. "You love this, don't you?"

You nod, unable to form words as pleasure washes over you. Han kisses you deeply, his tongue exploring your mouth as his body takes you to the edge. "This pussy is made for me," he whispers against your lips, and the feeling overwhelms you. Your orgasm hits you hard, your body shaking and convulsing around him. "Han, yes, yes," you cry out, and he follows soon after, his release filling every inch of you. You feel him spill inside you, his seed hot and sticky.

Han lowers himself onto you, both of you panting and trying to catch your breath. "I love you," he says again, kissing your neck and shoulders. "You're mine, and always will be."

As you lie there, recovering from the intense encounter, Han begins to gently caress your body, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin. "Did you like it?" he asks, a satisfied smile on his face. "A lot," you reply, your voice still shaky from the intensity of your orgasm. "You're amazing," you add, and he laughs, a deep, throaty sound that vibrates in his chest.

Han stands and offers you his hand, helping you up. "Let's go shower," he says, leading you to the bathroom. He turns on the faucet, and hot water fills the room with steam. He pulls you into the shower, and the water falls over you, washing away the sweat and the evidence of his passion. Han takes the shower gel and begins to lather you, his hands gliding over your body with a familiarity that makes you feel cherished and desired.

His hands linger on your tits, massaging them gently, and you can feel your desire beginning to stir again. "Han," you whisper, and he looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire. "Yes?" he asks, his voice husky. "I want more," you admit, and he smiles, a smile that promises more pleasure.

As the hot water falls over both of you, Han gently presses you against the shower wall, his lips finding yours in a passionate kiss. His hands, covered in suds, roam your body, exploring every curve and corner. You can feel his erection pressing against your belly, hard and ready for you again.

"You're insatiable," you murmur against his lips, smiling. "And I love it," he replies, his voice low and full of lust. He turns you over, pressing your back against his chest. His hands slide from your hips to your breasts, massaging them gently while his erection rubs against your ass.

"I want you so much," you whisper, tilting your head back to kiss his neck. Han moans, his grip tightening as he lifts you slightly, positioning his erection at your entrance. "I need you inside me," you whisper, and he obeys, entering you with one deep, firm thrust.

The shower water mixes with your moans and gasps as Han begins to move, his hips slamming against yours in a maddening rhythm. His hands grip your hips, guiding your movements, making sure each thrust is deep and satisfying.

"Hee, harder," you beg, and he increases the pace, his thrusts becoming faster and more intense. You can feel the pleasure building inside you, each movement of his hips bringing you closer to the edge.

"You're mine," he growls, his teeth grazing your shoulder. "You always will be." His words, full of possession and desire, push you over the edge, your body shaking as orgasm washes over you. Han follows soon after, again painting your walls white.

He leans against you, both of you panting and trying to catch your breath. The shower water continues to fall over you, washing away the sweat and the evidence of your passion. Han kisses you softly on the neck, his hands still exploring your body.

"I love you," he whispers, and you turn to face him, a satisfied smile on your face. "And I love you back," you reply, kissing him deeply. "Always."

[girllblogging777]

THINKING ABOUT spencer reid on your birthday

౨ৎ⋆˚࿔ headcanons (in honour of my bday !!!)

spencer reid who has had your birthdate memorised since the moment he met you

spencer reid who knows it all, down to the minute and the exact place you were born in, he could recite your birth chart by heart in his sleep

spencer reid whose eidetic memory makes him remember everyone’s special dates. but he’d be so scared of forgetting yours, or missing it, that he’d probably have it circled on his calendar

spencer reid who, as your coworker in the BAU, wouldn’t make a big deal out of it like the others did. instead of annoying you with the birthday song all day, he’d do something meaningful

spencer reid who would probably bring you your favourite coffee, along with a pastry he know you like. he’d quietly slip a note on your desk, maybe even a book he annotated just for you

spencer reid who, as your boyfriend, would make sure your birthday goes absolutely perfectly. nothing could possibly go wrong, not on his watch

spencer reid who would plan it all. he’d wake up earlier than you, reluctantly untangling himself from your warm body to attempt making breakfast

spencer reid who would insist on giving you the princess - no, the absolute queen treatment for the whole day. it’s not exactly as if that wasn’t the case every other day. but he would make sure you don’t have to lift a finger

spencer reid who, if you like parties and celebrations, would invite all of your loved ones and decorate your shared apartment for the occasion. he’s not exactly a social butterfly, but making calls suddenly becomes his thing if needed

spencer reid who, on the other hand, wouldn’t pressure you if he knew you weren’t a fan of birthdays. he’d insist on staying inside to relax and cuddle, taking a day off without second thoughts just to stay by your side

spencer reid who just wouldn’t want you to feel bad on this day. he knows birthdays can make you feel quite emotional, and he’d gladly over you his shoulder (and affection) if you happened to cry

spencer reid who would make you feel loved. not just on your birthday, but on everyday you spent with him

[sevikasbbymama]

i’m constantly thinking about repressed, scientist wife!reader/councilor!sevika.

(drabble, 18+ NSFW, minors + men DNI!)

——————

she meets you at a gala, one of the fancy ones that she hated going to, sobbing into your hands out in the garden.

your husband had cheated on you, and now you didn’t know what to do. you had just moved here for opportunity, yet now you were apparently in a loveless marriage.

sevika comforts you, and it’s as awkward as you thought it’d be. but still, it’s comforting.

she spends time in your lab often, saying it’s to “watch your progress”, but turns out she really enjoys your company. the day she walked in and the silver ring was missing from your finger, she just held you in her arms.

you only felt worse because your husband had cheated with his childhood friend. of course you were the in between girl, even in your own marriage.

months, you hadn’t been fucked properly, kissed the way you liked, touched, held— yet he could happily do it with that woman.

you were spiraling. was it you? your curves where she was petite, the small pudge on your stomach where she had been fit…

sevika noticed, she had begun to notice a lot of things about you lately. when she had visited your new apartment, she saw the bags under your eyes, and it didn’t make her happy.

“you gotta talk to me…what the hell’s going on? your friends threw you a damn divorce party but your sulking?”

“it’s not that, sev. i…” your hand subconsciously grazed your stomach and sevika immediately understood.

and that definitely didn’t make her happy.

she walked around the island of your kitchen, coming up behind you. she was careful, slow, giving you the chance to stop or push her away if you wanted to.

god, you didn’t want to.

“you tellin’ me you’re losing sleep because, what, you don’t think your attractive?”

her hands rested on your hips as she pressed her chest against your back, her nose nudging your neck softly.

“i know you saw her sev…she’s beautiful—”

“she’s a damn homewrecker. that makes her ugly. you…you are a damn work of art.”

your breath hitched as her hand ran up your arm, her mech one shifting under your shirt. she adored the small noise you let out when the cool metal of her hand touched your warm skin.

“you don’t have to say these things…”

“i want to. need to tell you how fuckin’ perfect you are.”

you could feel your pulse racing under her touch. fuck, this was really happening. you had thought about this before…occasionally…when you were lonely and all you had were your fingers and your imagination. but damn the real thing was better, so much better.

you were throbbing between your legs. each word she mumbled into your ear while her hands roamed your body only added to the slick collecting on your shorts.

“can’t believe you’re comparing yourself when you look like this…these fuckin’ tits…” and you moaned at the way her hand rested under your breast, waiting.

god, she was making you prove you wanted this.

you arched into her touch, your hands gripping the marble in front of you. “please…sevi, keep talking…”

her hand fully cupped your breast, pinching and rolling your nipple between her fingers as she pressed soft kisses along your neck. “look at you…filling my hand perfectly.” her thumb yanked down your tank top, letting your breasts spill out over it.

she traced your areola before taking another handful of you. she switched over to her mechanical hand so that she wouldn’t hurt you with what she was about to do.

“and this pretty pussy…” she said, her hand slipping into your shorts as she kissed your cheek. her middle finger slid through your folds, and you could feel her chuckle against your back. “fuck, baby, you already made a mess and i haven’t even fucked you properly. wait till i make you cum…gonna have you soaking the sheets…”

oh fuck, she was getting to you. “vika…” you turned your head slightly, wanting to look at her. her mech hand moved up to cup your face. “want me to kiss you?” she asked, her voice tender compared to her rough finger over your sensitive clit.

“y-yes, please…” you didn’t have to ask twice. her lips were rough against yours, and it felt so fucking good. she was eating you alive, but it wasn’t sloppy, it wasn’t too wet. it was perfect. the way her tongue slid against yours— it had your hips rocking against her fingers.

“fuck—” kiss “take what you need baby” kiss “shit- your cunts so damn tight…it’s a fucking sin that this pussy hasn’t been stretched properly…” you moaned, your hand coming up to grip her forearm. the harder her fingers pumped into you, the more you gushed against them, and the louder the sound was.

“vika…” you pleaded.

“wait till i get you in that bed…you got toys here baby?”

you nodded eagerly, your pussy clenching hard on her fingers at the thought. sevika laughed, adding a third finger to your desperate cunt.

“i’ll take that as a yes.”

“vika…’m gonna cum…please, can i?”

the way she growled into your ear made you realize that asking for her permission did more to her than you expected.

“course you can, let me feel it.”

and with her permission, your legs were shaking as you struggled to keep yourself up. you were a mess, drool falling from your mouth as your release slipped down your inner thighs

“that’s it baby…breathe…i got you.”

——————

pt.1 maybe? also if you can tell, the more you read, it wasn’t supposed to be this long. literally was supposed to be a paragraph and a photo. turned into this. i love this.

[number4syndrome]

morning distractions | ln4

☀️ summary: you were supposed to be on time. but Lando had other plans.

☀️ pairing: Lando Norris x fem!reader

☀️ word count: 1k+

☀️ warnings: 18+, mirror sex, unprotected (p in v), dom!lando, light chocking, slight degradation, public consequences

☀️ author’s note: heey!💛 so this idea just came to me one day and just had to write it out. it’s nothing big, a just a fun little something. i hope you enjoy it!! thank you for reading <3

I groaned when I heard my alarm. Hit snooze, but peeked at the screen. 6:00 a.m. God, it’s early.

Suddenly, I felt his arm tangling around me, pulling me closer—one hand on my waist, the other wrapped around my chest.

“You’re not planning to leave, right?” he groaned, voice still hoarse—like it always is in the morning. It always makes my stomach twist.

“You know I have to,” I mumbled, twisting around to face him.

God, he was a beautiful man.

His brows were perfect, his nose a little crooked—just enough to make him even more manly. His lashes? So long it should be illegal. And his lips… magical. Thick, soft, the perfect shade of pink.

I kissed him softly. He hadn’t even opened his eyes yet, but he responded immediately. He moaned into my mouth when I tugged on his hair, my leg hooking over his hip. He groaned and twisted us, suddenly hovering over me, lips trailing down my neck.

“Fine, then I just won’t let you go,” he mumbled between kisses.

“Lan… you know I have to go. Don’t make this harder than it already is,” I whined under him, gently scratching my nails down his back.

He breathed in my ear at the feeling. Fuck. He’s really making this hard.

“Come on, baby. I told you—I’ll be your sugar daddy. I’ll pay you more than your bosses if that’s what it takes,” he murmured, still kissing every inch of my face, my neck, my chest.

“Lando, we’ve talked about this… I need to be financially independent.”

“You really don’t.”

“I want to,” I said softly, brushing my hand over his cheek.

He pouted but melted into my touch, burying his face in my hand. He looked like a dream. I always loved that about him—that he never tried to hide his vulnerability. Not with me.

“Come on, pretty boy. Let me go,” I whispered, kissing his lips softly.

He groaned but shifted off me. I got up and walked into the bathroom to brush my teeth—still wearing one of his oversized neon LN4 t-shirts. The ones I love most.

I started brushing when I saw it in the mirror— Lando walking in behind me. Taking off his boxers. Stepping straight into the shower.

I gasped. The toothbrush nearly slipped from my mouth as I watched him get fully soaked under the water. His biceps flexed as he ran his hand through his curls. He turned around, and I watched. Watched the water slide down his chest, over his abs, down his v-line, and lower.

He was half-hard already.

A smug grin tugged at his lips. He knew what he was doing.

“Thought I’d take a quick shower,” he said, biting his lip. “Doesn’t bother you, does it?”

Asshole.

I shook my head. Slowly. But he knew I was lying. He could see it.

But two can play this game.

When it was time to rinse my mouth, I bent over the counter. Maybe a little more than necessary. The shirt rose just high enough to show off my lace panties—his favorite ones. The red ones. The ones that made him feral.

I glanced back at him as I dried my mouth with a towel. He was fully hard now.

His eyes were filled with lust. Hunger. Maybe even a little anger.

“Oops. Sorry, did I distract you?” I asked innocently.

I turned, starting to walk away— But then I felt him behind me.

Fast. Like a predator.

He pushed me forward, hands gripping the back of my neck—not choking, just holding. Claiming.

“You wanna play games, sweetheart?” he growled, mouth close to my ear.

My entire body lit up like it had been struck by lightning.

“Alright then. Call your stupid boss. Tell them you’re gonna be late,” he said, his hand slipping between my thighs—fingers stroking over the lace in a slow stripe. I moaned.

“Because you’re not leaving until I’ve fucked you into this counter. Got it?” he growled, grinding his cock against my ass.

“Yes…” I gasped.

“Didn’t quite hear you.” He bit my neck.

“Yes, sir,” I shrieked.

“That’s more like it,” he grinned against my skin, pushing my panties aside.

“Now look at yourself, darling… while I ruin you completely.”

He pushed into me with no warning. I screamed.

“Fuck, Lando—!”

He thrusted into me—fast, deep, unrelenting. He wasn’t gentle. He was feral. And deep down? That was exactly the plan.

“You like what you see?” he hissed, voice strained. “You made me mad. You drive me fucking crazy.” “But you like it, don’t you?” “You like making me mad. You like when I ruin you before work.”

His teeth sank into my neck—just enough to bruise. He trailed a hand down my stomach, found my clit, and started circling it. Firm. Purposeful.

I buckled.

His fingers grabbed my jaw and lifted my face to the mirror.

“No, no,” he cooed, “You were so full of yourself teasing me like that. Look at you now. Still think you’re in control?”

“No—fuck, Lando—oh my god…” I moaned, losing it fast.

“You gonna come for me?” he whispered. “Come on, baby. Come all over me. And after that, I’m gonna fill you up so good, you’ll be dripping all day—sitting in the office, pretending you’re innocent.”

That was it. I screamed, my whole body collapsing against the counter.

“Fuck—” he grunted, his own release following right after, hips stuttering as he filled me up, collapsing over my back.

We stayed like that for a moment, breathing hard. His hand found mine, tangling our fingers together.

He kissed my temple.

“God, I love you.”

“I love you too,” I breathed, barely conscious.

He gently pulled out, grabbing my panties and sliding them back into place.

“Lando, I need to clean up,” I whined.

“No, you don’t,” he said, kissing me hard. “I told you—you’re gonna walk into the office today with my cum leaking out of you.”

I gasped. He was insane.

“I’ll leave you to get ready, sweetheart,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m gonna make you a coffee, alright?”

Like he didn’t just absolutely wreck me against the bathroom counter.

I stared at my reflection. My hair was a mess. My face was flushed. My legs barely holding me up.

I grabbed my phone, and texted my boss:

‘Gonna be late today. Traffic’s horrible.’

[andy-15-07]

Whiskey Kisses

PAIRING: Mickey "Fanboy" Garcia x Reader 💋

WORD COUNT: 1489 ✍️

REQUESTS: Open! 💌 (send yours my way — I love writing them all!)

🌟 Danny Ramirez Masterlist 🌟

REQUEST: I have a request for danny's imagine book... do you know his character fanboy from top gun? well, I was thinking about it, and may you can write about a girl who is a bartender at the hard deck, and she is always hanging with the aviators as a friend, till fanboy invites her to a night out and she accept (bc he is danny ramirez lmao) and then they have a lovely night together (plsss write a hot scene with them, I need it!!!!!!

You’d worked the bar at the Hard Deck for almost two years, long enough to know exactly how much the aviators could drink before Penny cut them off, and exactly how much flirting they’d try before you rolled your eyes and made them pay double.

Most of the time, you felt like one of them , or at least their collective therapist. You poured them beers, watched them hustle pool, listened to them gripe about training and mission briefs and who had the better call sign.

But one of them? He was different.

Mickey Garcia. Fanboy. Sweet, clever, easy-laughing Fanboy who somehow managed to sneak past every wall you’d built between you and the cocky flyboys. He’d lean over the bar just to ask how your day was, grin at you like he knew some secret, and slip you a tip big enough to make Penny raise an eyebrow every time.

Tonight, the Hard Deck was buzzing. Rooster and Hangman were squaring off at the piano. Phoenix was calling out Hangman’s bullshit. And Fanboy? He was at his usual stool, right at the corner where you couldn’t help but bump into him.

You slid him a fresh beer without him asking. “Your tab’s getting dangerous,” you warned.

Fanboy lifted his glass in salute. “Good thing I’m not scared of danger.”

You huffed a laugh and leaned closer, your elbows on the sticky bar top. “You’re not nearly as smooth as you think, Garcia.”

He smiled , that crooked grin that made your belly warm every time you saw it. “Wanna bet?”

You rolled your eyes but your smile gave you away. Before you could retort, a new wave of rowdy pilots demanded your attention. When you turned back, Fanboy was gone , but when the crowd thinned, you found him waiting at the end of the bar, drumming his fingers.

“Hey,” he said, a little softer this time.

You wiped your hands on a rag. “Hey, yourself. Another round?”

He shook his head. “Actually… I was gonna ask. You ever get a night off?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Rarely. Why?”

Fanboy leaned in, close enough that you caught a whiff of his cologne , clean and warm, with a hint of sweat from the California heat. “I got two tickets to that shitty dive bar downtown. Live band, cheap whiskey. Come with me?”

You blinked. You knew the place , tiny stage, sticky floors, local bands screaming their hearts out. It wasn’t exactly romantic. But the way he was looking at you, hopeful and nervous at the same time…

You pretended to consider. “If I say no, you’ll just keep tipping me fifty bucks a drink until I say yes, huh?”

He laughed. “Maybe.”

You tossed the rag over your shoulder. “Fine, Garcia. Pick me up after close. And you’re buying.”

His grin was worth every smart-ass comment you’d get from the rest of the squad for the next month.

By the time you closed up, your feet were killing you, your hair smelled like spilled beer, and you were absolutely sure this was a terrible idea. But when you stepped outside and saw Fanboy leaning against his beat-up car, the driver’s door open for you, your nerves melted.

“You ready?” he asked.

You shot him a look. “You sure you can handle me outside the bar?”

He didn’t flinch. “Try me.”

The dive bar was exactly as shitty as you’d expected. Neon lights flickering half out. A two-man band screaming covers into busted mics. But the whiskey was cheap, the dance floor sticky, and Fanboy’s arm fit perfectly around your waist as he pulled you through the crowd.

One drink turned into two. Then four. Then you were laughing too loud, pressed against him in the back corner booth, your legs draped over his lap while he traced circles on your knee.

“I like this,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. “Seeing you like this.”

“Like what?” you teased, swirling your straw through the last inch of whiskey.

Fanboy’s eyes dropped to your mouth. “All mine.”

Your heart stuttered. Maybe it was the whiskey, maybe it was him, maybe it was both. But you didn’t think , you just grabbed his collar and pulled him into a kiss that tasted like cheap booze and everything you’d wanted for months.

You barely made it back to his car before you were on him again , hands tangled in his hair, legs wrapped around his waist as he pressed you up against the door. You laughed against his mouth when he fumbled for the handle.

“Keys, Mickey,”

“Fuck the keys,” he growled, and his mouth was on your neck, teeth scraping just enough to make your knees buckle.

Somehow, you made it to his place , a tiny, half-unpacked rental near the base. You didn’t bother turning on the lights. He kicked the door shut behind you, lips never leaving yours as he stumbled you backward until your knees hit the bed.

You landed with a soft thud, grinning up at him. “You’re pushy tonight.”

Fanboy knelt between your thighs, fingers tugging at your waistband. “I’ve been waiting for this since the first time you poured me a beer,” he admitted.

You lifted your hips to help him, your jeans hitting the floor a second later. “And what is ‘this,’ exactly?”

He leaned down, lips brushing your jaw, your throat, lower. “All of you,” he murmured against your skin. “Want all of you, baby.”

Your breath caught when his mouth found your chest , teeth and tongue working under your shirt until you were gasping, your back arching off the bed. His hands mapped every inch of you, rough and eager and so fucking sweet it made your eyes sting.

You tugged at his shirt until he peeled it off, tossing it somewhere you’d never find it again. His skin was warm under your palms, taut muscle shifting as he kissed you breathless.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

You bit your lip, shameless under his hungry gaze. “Want you to fuck me, Fanboy.”

His groan was low, wrecked. “Say it again.”

“Mickey,” you gasped when his fingers slipped under your panties, brushing over your slick heat. “Fuck,want you to fuck me, please,”

He laughed softly, pressing a kiss to your belly. “Good girl.”

Then he was sliding your panties down, tossing them behind him, and lowering his mouth between your thighs. The first swipe of his tongue had your hips jerking, a sharp cry breaking free when he sucked at that perfect spot, his hands pinning you down like he’d been dreaming about this for months.

You were close embarrassingly fast , heat coiling in your belly, your fingers buried in his hair, tugging as you rocked against his mouth. He moaned like he loved it, like he couldn’t get enough of how you tasted, how you squirmed.

When you came, you clapped a hand over your mouth to muffle your cry. Fanboy pulled back just enough to look at you , his lips glistening, pupils blown wide.

“Don’t you dare hide that from me,” he rasped.

You barely caught your breath before he was kissing you again, the taste of you on his tongue as he worked his jeans open, shoving them down just enough. When he pressed against you, hard and hot, you wrapped your legs around him and tugged him closer.

“Mickey,”

“Got you, baby,” he promised, forehead pressed to yours. “I got you.”

He pushed in slow, inch by inch, until you were full, gasping his name into the crook of his neck. He didn’t move right away, just rocked his hips enough to make you whine, his breath shuddering against your ear.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, his voice rough with awe. “So fucking good,”

“Then move,” you begged, nails digging into his back. “Please,”

He did , slow at first, savoring every roll of your hips, every stuttered moan you gave him. Then faster, harder, until the bed creaked under you and you were both gasping, cursing, clinging to each other like you’d drown if you let go.

When you came again, it was with your name on his lips, his mouth pressed to yours to swallow your cries. He followed a heartbeat later, hips stuttering, your name spilling out like a prayer.

After, you lay tangled together in the dark, the only sound your breath and the faint hum of cars on the street outside. Fanboy traced circles on your bare hip, his lashes brushing your collarbone when he blinked.

“You good?” he murmured.

You huffed a tired laugh. “You’re dangerous, Garcia.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, a grin tugging at his lips. “Good thing you’re not scared of danger.”

You smacked his shoulder , then kissed him again, slow and soft this time.

Last call had never felt so good.

[kathren1sky-blog]

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

For the requests: "I would certainly take all night" with Eris, please. I would be forever indebted to you. Can be smut or not, write it however you want! :)

Held in Firelight

Pairing: Eris x f!reader

A/N: Hi! No need to be indebted, don't worry! I just hope you'll like this bc I really liked this idea but I wrote it after six hours of class so it might not be my best work. I also don't know how to label it because it's a bit fluffy with a tiny sprinkle of angst and allusions to smutty bits? Idk idk I really like it tho

Warnings: arranged marriage, cheating (but the parties involved are aware so idk)

Word count: 1k

“I think he has a new lover.”

Your words cut through the comfortable silence that had settled over the sitting room. Eris raised a brow, but you continued to stir the wine in your glass, your eyes fixed on the swirling red liquid.

The silence stretched, broken only by the crackling embers in the fireplace. Eventually, he asked, “What makes you think that?”

You shrugged one shoulder. “He spent every night out this week. He doesn't do that if he's just sleeping around. He still comes home.”

Eris hummed, as if contemplating your answer.

These were your favorite moments—when Eris didn’t have court duties to attend to and could spend hours talking and drinking with you. It was your favorite way to ease the stress and tension of the life you had been forced into.

“He was out even two nights ago?”

You looked up at him. The firelight flickered on the side of his face, turning his hair into molten copper. You felt a sudden urge to reach across the couch and run your fingers through it.

“Yeah,” you replied. “Why do you ask?”

“It was your birthday,” he stated simply.

“So?”

He looked startled. “You really don’t care that he forgot?”

You sighed, setting your glass down. “Eris, he hasn't remembered my birthday in years.”

He didn’t reply, but his jaw clenched. You couldn’t tell if the flames in his eyes were just a reflection of the fire or if it was that simmering power of his.

With another sigh, you pressed on. “Let’s say he remembers,” you said. “Then what? You really believe he would spend the whole night with me, taking his sweet time to make me feel cherished, at least on my birthday?” You shook your head, the mere thought making you scoff. “No, I prefer it this way. He doesn't care about me, I don't care about him, and there's no point in pretending we do.”

Eris remained silent, his gaze fixed on the fireplace, his fingers clutching the stem of his glass so tightly you thought it might break. You knew he cared about you, that he hated your situation as much as you did, but even he couldn’t change it. Maybe once he became High Lord he’d banish arranged marriages and spare others from this fate, but it was too late for you.

Picking up your glass again, you tucked your legs beneath you and settled back against the pillows. You took a sip of wine, hoping that its rich taste might offer an excuse to change the topic, but you came up empty. You’d already commented on the flavor when he opened the bottle.

“I would certainly take all night.”

His voice was quiet, almost thoughtful, but when you turned to look at him, he was still facing away from you.

“What?” you blurted out. Surely, you had heard that wrong.

Finally, his eyes met yours, determined and unflinching. “I would take all night with you,” he repeated, “I would cherish you. And not just on your birthday.”

Your breath hitched. There had been a few lingering touches, a brush of fingers, words whispered after one too many glasses of wine. But never like this—so plain and blatant, so unguarded.

“Don't say that,” you murmured.

“Why not?” His eyes bore into you, pinning you in place. There was no escape—not that you wanted one. “We both want it.”

He was right. There was no arguing with that. Yet you still shook your head. “Eris, we can't.”

He moved closer. You didn’t resist when he took your glass and set it on the small table alongside his. An empty bottle stood next to an unopened one.

“Why not?” he asked again, his voice gentler now. “Just because you’re married? How many other females has he been with?”

Countless.

Maybe Eris was right about that too. Maybe you didn’t owe loyalty to a husband you had never wanted—a husband who had never been loyal to you. If he could have all the females he wanted, then maybe you could have the one male you wanted. The one person who always understood you, who never judged or mistreated you.

“When was the last time someone made you feel cherished?” Eris’s hand covered yours, his slender fingers intertwining with your own, squeezing once. “Made you feel good?”

You had never thought about your marriage in those terms. You had never wanted that union in the first place, so you had clung to the small things. Time away from your husband was good. You hadn’t shared a bed in a long time, and your conversations were awkward and stiff enough that the thought of intimacy hadn't crossed your mind in years. And you’d told yourself that was good enough.

But deep down, it had never really felt good.

Eris was still looking at you, his expression soft and understanding. As if he could see your every thought.

You looked away, unable to stomach it. “I don't know,” you finally whispered.

“Let me be that person.” He reached out, gently tilting your chin. “Let me make you feel good.”

Your eyes met again, and your resolve wavered. Then he brushed his thumb over your lips and spoke in a barely audible whisper.

“Let me love you.”

That word.

Love.

Your husband had never uttered it to you, nor had you to him. But hearing it from Eris… you knew he didn't mean just now—a stolen moment to carry in your heart. And that realization was the final push you needed.

You didn't know who moved first. One moment you were staring into each other's eyes. The next, your lips met.

He tasted like a wish come true after years of waiting.

You were done longing and yearning in secret, done pretending you didn't know what you truly wanted.

And as Eris loved you in front of the fireplace, you finally felt good. You felt cherished. And he took all night to make sure of it.

Taglist: @mrsjna @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @anneas11 @azrielslittleslut @lilah-asteria @lorosette @azrielsrealmate @pey2618 @mellowmusings @k8r123-blog @daughterofthemoons-stuff @minnieoo @saltedcoffeescotch @georgiadixon @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @ivy-34

1k taglist: @onebadassunicorn @thegoddessofnothingness

[austinbutlerslovers]

Come Get Hank

Label Mature 18+

Summary Hank is up to his old antics again, so when you rescue him black out drunk from a bar, he repays you handsomely with physical gratitude.

❤️‍🔥Passionate Smut❤️‍🔥 Your Hank • wild boy • lover boy • drunken behavior • bad boy behavior • always pulling him out of trouble • he never stops • constant groping-kissing-affection • Hank being an absolute menace • play fighting • dirty talk • "are you mad at me" • Hanks care giver • physical over riding mental • manhandling • being picked up in Hanks arms • lap sitting • edging • oral on fem• multiple orgasms • p in v • drunk sex • cream pie • cock resting • aftercare • Hank happy for once

🔗Hank Masterlist 🔗 Masterlist

💭 Plot consultant @aust-een✨ Inspo via new trailer footage

Come Get Hank

Your phone rings just after midnight, some unknown number, some slurred voice on the other end asking, “You Hank’s girl?”

You sit up in bed, already sighing. “Yeah. Where is he?”

“He’s at the bar….He’s… uh… kinda on the pool table.”

Of course he is.

By the time you get there, the bar’s spilling over with a packed Friday-night crowd, neon signs buzzing, beer sloshing, music loud enough to shake the walls. You shoulder through a wall of people and find him immediately.

Hank’s the damn center of it all.

He’s on top of the pool table, white tee, green cargos, cheeks flushed, his sandy blond hair sticking to his face swaying half in-time to “Bitch” by Meredith Brooks.

He’s holding a beer in one hand as a mic, the other flung out like he’s balancing on a tightrope. And he is dancing …no, performing…eyes closed, hips rolling in rhythm, dropping to his knees with a sway of his shoulders before whipping around on the felt, legs splayed in some sloppy spin move that makes the whole bar erupt in cheers.

Your Hank Thompson.

You exhale, and push through the crowd.

And that’s when he sees you.

He freezes at the end of a spin, eyes locking on yours like the whole bar just fell away. He grins wide, cheeks flushed cherry-red, and his blue eyes light up in surprise.

“Baby!” He yells excitedly.

He hops down leaving his beer, nearly missing the edge of the pool table, and stumbles toward you with a boyish, drunken glow lighting up his face. His hair is damp the golden strands tucked behind his ears.

“You here for me?” he asks breathless, pressing his forehead to yours like he needs you to hold him steady.

“I came to drag your ass home,” you respond, and your hands are already at his waist, steadying him.

“Tiny said I was killing it,” he says, eyebrows lifting. “Like a… like a goddamn rockstar.”.

You glance past him at Tiny, the giant bartender, who gives you a helpless shrug.

“I bet you were,” you murmur. “C’mon, rock star.”

He pulls you back to him as the music shifts to a slow dirty beat, “One dance baby,” he says bringing you against his chest, and you roll your eyes, but you don’t fight him as he smiles. 

His hands slide low on your waist, pulling you closer until your bodies are pressed together, thigh to thigh, chest to chest, with no space in between.

He lowers his head pressing soft, open mouthed kisses on your neck as you sway.

“You smell so fucking good,” he whispers, dragging his cheek along your jaw. “I don’t wanna stop touching you.”

He grabs your hips and grinds against you, slow and lazy, his mouth sliding over your neck kissing and sucking lightly as he breathes you in. There’s a desperation to him…like he wants you here right now, and doesn’t care who sees it.

He brings his face to yours, his lips needy as he kisses you, soft, breathless, aching, and you can feel how badly he wants you.

“Hank, let’s get you home,” you whisper against his lips, and he slowly pulls back looking in your eyes as he nods.

He sways as you pull his arm over your shoulders, his weight heavy against you. But he won’t stop smiling, he won’t stop kissing your temple, or sliding his hand over your stomach as you walk together, mumbling over and over again how glad he is you came, like it’s the only truth he knows.

Back at his place, he can barely make it through the building without knocking into a wall. You’re both breathless, him slurring every other word, and you shushing him as you take his key and he starts singing, “I’m a bitch, I’m a lover…” at full volume in the hallway as you unlock his front door. 

“Hank,” you hiss, covering your hand over his mouth. “You’re gonna evicted!”

He just grins humming the rest of the lyrics under your palm as you bring him inside kicking the door shut behind you.

The second you release him and lock it shut, he bolts straight for the fridge, cracking open a fresh beer with that familiar snap-hiss as you try to stop him.

“Hank, no—” 

But it’s already too late, he’s playfully walking backward toward the bedroom taunting you, one hand catching the wall for balance as he stumbles, the other raising the bottle to his lips.

“You gonna stop me?” he says, eyes half-lidded and smug, before tossing the beer back with a cocky grin.

“Hank Seriously?” you scold, following him in. “You need water, not beer.”

He sets the bottle down on the nightstand with exaggeration, his hands raised like he’s just been caught robbing a bank. “I barely drank it,” he says, feigning innocence, even though the bottle is already half empty behind him.

You can see he’s wasted, his eyes sparkling as he sways in place with a dumb grin. 

“You need to rest this off,” you sigh, stepping in to help him peel off his shirt, and the moment you do the whole vibe changes. 

His smile softens and his gaze lowers raking over you like you’ve just dropped down from heaven and landed in his bedroom.

“Fuck, you look so beautiful ” he says, his voice low and weighted with intention.

He’s drunk, dazed, and he wants you, his skin flushed, his chest broad and rising fast. 

His torso is lean, solid muscle cut beneath golden skin, a faint trail of hair disappearing into the waistband of his slouched cargos..and way his bulge prominently sticks out between his legs…makes you want him too.

“You’re resting with me,” he says, his voice,  light, happy…in that loose, tipsy way, and his are hands clumsy but sweet as they skim your sides, sliding your shirt over your head until you’re left in your bra and skirt.

His fingers find your zipper lowering it with care before easing your skirt down over your hips, leaving you in just your panties.  

He drops to his knees and you roll your eyes, trying to suppress a smile. “I can’t believe I had to drag you out of a bar where you were dancing on a pool table tonight Hank” you chastise, and he grunts struggling, before he unlaces and takes off your boots.

He stands up, slightly off balance, staring at you with a sly grin. “I was just getting started,” he says unbuttoning his cargos with fumbling fingers and kicking off his sneakers. He strips down to his white boxers, the fabric doing nothing to hide how hard his erection is.

He pulls you to him, his firm biceps flexing around your shoulders as he stares into your eyes, and you can feel the hardness of him poke insistently against your thigh as his hands slide down your lower back.

“You mad at me?” he whispers.

“No, Hank.” You shake your head looking up at him with a grin. “…Not tonight.”

“What about now?” he says, stepping back just enough to grab his beer, and he tilts it to his lips quickly downing it as he grins, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Hank stop!” You gasp, reaching for the bottle but he moves faster snagging your wrist and, scooping you under your hip with one strong arm making you yelp. “Hank!”

He turns with you in his arm, hand braced on your hip holding you tightly above him, and his strength is your undoing completely.  His hair falls back as you lock eyes, a slow gaze of desire passing between you, and he pulls you down on the edge of the bed with him, beer still in one hand, the bottle sweating against his thigh.

You press your chest to his and slowly grind in his lap, as he groans against your neck, the sound low and full of want.

 “You drive me fucking crazy,” he whispers, dragging his mouth across your jaw, your collarbone, down to the curve of your breast, his voice is rough, lips damp. “Fuck, you always do.”

Your hand skims down his abs feeling the soft rise and fall of each drunken breath. 

He’s warm, flushed, smiling at you like he’s never been more content in his life, and when your fingers slide lower squeezing the hardness of his erection, the beer bottle finally falls from his grasp thunking to the rug.

You palm him through his boxers, your fingers tracing down the thick, heavy length of his cock, already straining against the fabric, and you gently squeeze the tip as he sighs.

“I want you so much” he whispers, his blue eyes searching yours. “I want to taste you,”

He keeps one arm around you as he eases you down, laying you flat on your back, then he slides a hand beneath you, unclasping your bra with drunken focus, like it’s the most important thing he’s ever done. 

He pulls your bra off and cups your breasts in his warm hands, his thumbs brushing over your nipples as he leans in and kisses each one, slow and tender, his tongue circling lazily.

His mouth lowers down your stomach, unhurried and reverent in that hazy, drunk way that makes you feel like the only thing in his entire universe, and when he slides your panties off, he does it carefully like he’s unwrapping a precious gift, his eyes focused and worshipful.

“Fuck baby you’re so pretty…” he whispers, his breath shaky as he settles between your legs, and his hands gently part your thighs as he lowers his mouth.

His tongue is lazy and wet, his lips parting, as his first moans vibrate loud and deep through your core

“Hank..fuck,” You gasp, one hand flying to the sheets, the other into his hair.

His mouth is all heat and mess, his nose nudging your clit, his tongue dragging in teasing circles. His face moves side to side, mouth open, his lips sliding through your slick like he’s starving for it. 

His thumbs part you wider as his groans sink deeper, his tongue flattening, and flicking, against you until you’re gasping, clenching, feeling an unbearable pressure you don’t want to stop.

“Hank yes! ..right there,” Your moan, the sound rising higher softer your hips bucking up, thighs trembling.

He hums, eyes fluttering, lips parted moving up and down encouraging you to grind against him, and you do your hips rolling  against his mouth, chasing it, needing it and his moans match your rhythm, lazy and deep, his tongue flicking in just enough to keep you pushing against his face. 

Your clit throbs from the intensity, and your hand digs into his hair, keeping him close, keeping him anchored to you, feeling helpless, trembling.

“Hank…God—” you cry out as everything inside you locks up tight, the pleasure pulsing through your core, your thighs shaking, your chest heaving.

But he doesn’t stop, even as your legs start to pull closed in reflex, his hands slide up keeping them spread as you arch and cry out, grinding helplessly against his mouth, until your orgasm wrecks you completely.

Your legs shiver, your fingers pulling his hair, guiding him as you you ride it out against his mouth, until it’s too much, until your hips shudder violently as he finally pulls back with a breathless groan.

His mouth is slick, wet, and he wipes it across your inner thigh before climbing back up your body.

He kisses you again, and it’s deep, open-mouthed,his breaths stuttering, his hands slightly shaky as they spread your thighs wider.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he breathes, grinding his cock against your soaked folds through his boxers, teasing you slowly.

“Hank .…” you whisper, fingers tugging at the curls of his nape to draw him closer, and he dips his head, his lips grazing your neck. 

“You have no idea how fucking much I want you,” he says against your skin, and his hand slides between you, pulling down the band of his boxers.

His cock is heavy, hard, the shaft pressing hot against your inner thigh, and his weight unstable, drunk, his muscles tensing as he steadies himself. 

He tries to push inside you and misses, the first thrust nudging hard into your inner thigh.

“Shit,” He mutters, eyes glancing down, and he reaches between you, his hand wrapping around his cock pressing your entrance, finally pushing inside, slow and deep.

You both moan your legs spreading instinctively as he settles, and his shoulders flex as you clutch his back until you’re full of him, completely overwhelmed.

“Fuuuck,” he whispers, voice cracking as he starts to move. “Fuck, baby… you feel so good…”

His thrusts jolt through your core, hard and unrelenting, and the sounds falling from his lips become filthy, desperate, messy.

“Fuck..baby ..can’t..stop..”he grunts between thrusts, each word punched out with every drive of his hips. He curses, his thrusts stuttering, his mouth pressing against your neck, and you cling to him, nails digging into his back.

You’re already so close, your body tensed and pulsing around him, and the way he moans, broken, and hurried, pushes you over the edge. You arch into him with a gasp, toes curling, legs trembling as your orgasm crashes through you again.

He follows slamming several more thrusts into you before he’s groaning deep from his chest, like the sound’s being dragged out of him. His cock pulses thick inside you, filling you with each sloppy, twitching thrust, until it’s just his heavy breath his chest pressed to yours as his hips finally still.

He stays on top of you, all muscle and sweat, his face buried against your neck, his breathing wrecked, his mind gone.

You smile, sated, your body feeling warm with the afterglow as you drag your fingers lazily down his back.

“You okay Hank?” you ask softly, and he lifts his head just slightly, flushed and glowing, his blue eyes dazed but focused on you.

“Yeah…I’ve never been better,” he says, barely above a breath and he leans in kissing you soft and lingering, the kind that feels like a confession.

He slowly pulls out of you, his cock sliding free with a long lazy drag that leaves you aching, and he rests his cock slick and warm across your stomach as he catches his breath.

When he looks down at you smiling, eyes hazy with drunken softness it stirs something deep and unexpected in your heart.

Because you swear… for the first time, Hank Thompson is truly happy.

END 🧢

🔗Hank Masterlist 🔗 Masterlist

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[userinker]

so i did this thing

[alldthoughtsinmyhead]

The Good On-Set Assistant.

Summary: You're not a slut, you're just really good at your job.

Warnings: Smut

What if you worked in production on a movie that had Aaron, MBJ, and Lewis Hamilton?

I mean... you're not a slut... but some things can't be helped, can they?

You're assigned to all three men. You have to do whatever assistants do. Make them feel at home. Whatever that means.

On your first day with MBJ, he’s nursing a headache. A painkiller should fix it, but there’s none available, so you do what every dedicated assistant does:

You offer to empty his balls.

Guess what?

He feels better right after.

The problem? He now thinks you’re his. So he drags you into a dark corner every chance he gets on set to empty his balls—right into you.

So now you’re stuck gargling Listerine so your breath doesn’t smell like cum every time you open your mouth.

MBJ wraps, and you heave a sigh of relief. Your kidneys will fail if they have to process another dump of cum into your stomach.

Next, you’re assigned to Lewis.

He’s so sweet—he really is. Problem? He can’t stop staring at your ass.

See, you have a thing for skin tights. They’re super comfy. But they also show every curve of that wagon you’re dragging around.

So Lewis has the same problem every other man—and bisexual woman—has on set: he can’t take his eyes off it.

One day, when he’s had enough, he begs you like his life depends on it.

“Just a taste,” he swears. “I’ll never ask you for anything ever again.”

So you let him bend you over. What’s the worst that could happen?

The worst that could happen? He’s grabbing your ass cheeks every chance he gets.

He’s standing nude in his trailer, running down your battery with calls, while precum drips from the tip of his flagpole because he’s been dreaming of backshots with you the whole time he was on set.

You’re not one step into his trailer before he’s dragging down your tights and heating himself up inside you, groaning out his gratitude and relief.

You go home full of cum every day.

The claps from his trailer had just started getting noticed when he wraps.

You heave another sigh of relief. It’s finally over, you say.

But then Aaron fucking Stone Pierre gets cast.

And guess what? You’re assigned to him.

Yeah... the gods hate your coochie.

His first day on set has you wearing panty liners for no other reason than to prevent a damp stain on your tights.

These are high-quality tights, but they’re definitely going to snitch on you. So you slap on those liners like a seal on your nether lips.

The first day with Aaron goes well. He’s so tender, so gentle, handles you like a cup of tea.

But by day three?

He’s staring at that ass like a starved man.

The day he asks you, it’s a different kind of request.

“Can you sit on my face?” His eyes boring into yours.

How can you resist?

So you oblige.

Peeling your tights off your skin, you plant your cooch right on his face... and he sends you straight to heaven.

Moments later, he’s wiping fluids from his nose and face while you’re struggling to rediscover your legs.

And so your routine starts.

Every morning before he goes on set, you sit on his face as you read him his lines.

Helping him memorize his lines is in your job description.

So what if you grind your coochie on his face? He’s not complaining, is he?

Evenings after he wraps his scene for the day have you on your back, holding your legs open as he pumps into you aggressively, taking out all the anger he held back on set.

He batters your love tunnel and fills your baby pocket with cum over and over again.

You take him, your cries and whimpers muffled by the panties he’d shoved into your mouth.

When he’s drained the last drop of cum, he takes out the tiny thong from your throat and kisses you.

So now you’ve been a good assistant to three good men. Helping them do their jobs, because that’s what good assistants do.

Aaron wraps now too—and suddenly you’re feeling alone. And bored.

One day, you get an invite to a private party.

You get dressed and arrive on time. When you open the door?

All three men are standing there… waiting for you to step inside—and close the door.

@daniiwrites, you inadvertently inspired this one. lol. Got drunk and drafted this... please ignore typos.

[kpopstaytiny]

Five minutes

Pairing: Bang Chan x F!reader

Word Count: 2277

Genre: smut, pwp

Warnings: smut (minors DNI), softdom!Chan, sub!reader, oral (male receiving), hair pulling, cursing, public-ish setting / risk of being caught (backstage, unlocked door, knock on door), power dynamics, slight degradation / dirty talk (mild), lipstick smearing / marking, no aftercare (reader walks away separately), time constraint / rushed sex.

Writer's note: As soon as I saw this picture, I knew I had to write a little blurb. He's got all of us going feral. Enjoy!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

I pull it out, thumb already clammy, and everything inside me stills.

A photo.

Black tank top clinging to his chest and shoulders, catching on muscle like it was stitched just for him. Reddish-brown cargo pants creased sharp where his thighs part, legs spread just enough to look careless and commanding at once. His arm draped over one knee, bicep flexing under that black armband, chain bracelet glinting in the low backstage light — like a dare.

His hand hangs off the chair. Two fingers curled in, loose, lazy. Like even gravity answers to him.

But it’s his eyes that steal the breath from my lungs. Half his face hidden behind the phone, but that gaze — heavy-lidded, dark, molten — like he can already see me on my knees.

No smirk. No words. Just heat.

My heart kicks so hard it aches.

Another buzz, sharper this time, slicing through the haze:

Come here. Five minutes.

Fuck.

I don’t even remember slipping the phone away. My boots hammer down the corridor, each step a pulse between my thighs. I try to steady my breathing, but it’s useless; my chest feels too tight, skin too warm, the heat crawling up my neck giving me away.

Staff drift by, barely glancing at me. Thank god.

He’s still in stage clothes. The thought burns low in my stomach, sharper than I want to admit. My pulse feels like it’s everywhere at once — throat, wrists, under my tongue, where I’m already wet and wanting.

Five minutes. That’s all he offered. But I’d trade hours for just that.

The last corner comes too soon, yet not soon enough.

The door stands ajar, shadows spilling out across the hallway floor. My hand hesitates for half a breath — then I push it open.

The air inside is warmer, the faint scent of cologne and sweat curling around me. Or maybe that’s just him.

Chan’s there.

Exactly like the photo — only worse. Real. Breathing. Shoulders loose, legs spread, gaze cutting through me like a blade.

Black tank top clinging to his chest, cargo pants rumpled at the thighs. That damn chain bracelet catching what little light there is, the black armband hugging muscle so tight it looks ready to split.

His eyes drag up my body, slow as a hand on bare skin.

“Took your time,” he murmurs — voice low, rough, a scrape of sound that lands hot between my thighs.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t need to. Just tips his chin, waiting. Watching me squirm.

My breath stumbles, chest tight enough to hurt.

He shifts, the chain clinking against the chair’s edge. His fingers stay curled, knuckles pale from restraint.

“Go on,” he says, so casual it burns. But his eyes give him away — hot, dark, pupils swallowing the brown. “Take what you want.”

My pulse trips, boots still planted on the floor. And then I do.

I walk toward him — boots hushed against the floor, every step deliberate, controlled, though heat’s already licking up my spine, pooling low.

He doesn’t move. Just tracks every step I take.

The chain at his wrist catches the light as his fingers twitch against the chair, a silent reminder of everything he’s not doing.

I stop close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him. Close enough to see his chest rising, slow and steady, muscle carved sharp under the stretch of that black tank top. The overhead light slides over his jaw, catching on the faint sheen of sweat at his throat.

My breath catches. Heat clenches low and tight.

I step in, swing a leg over, sink onto his thigh. The cargo fabric drags rough under my skirt, scraping against bare skin and soft cotton — and fuck, the friction lights me up fast. My lips part on a quiet gasp I don’t bother to swallow.

His gaze stays locked on mine. Steady, unreadable. No smirk, just dark, unblinking heat — like he’s letting me work for it, letting me burn.

I brace a hand on his shoulder, palm pressed flat against solid warmth. Tilt my hips, slow, deliberate — grind down once, breath catching on the sharp spark it sends through me. I let it go, soft and shaky, because I want him to hear it.

His mouth twitches — barely. A flicker of hunger, approval, something darker.

I drag my hips again, harder this time. The chain on his wrist clinks as his hand curls tight against the chair, but he still doesn’t move. Just watches. Lets me take what I came for.

Heat climbs, sharp and restless, tightening under my ribs. It’s good — so fucking good — but it won’t be enough. And we both know it.

My breath quickens, chest rising and falling as I chase it anyway, grinding down against the solid line of his thigh, needing more. The edge stays out of reach, teasing, taunting.

“Please,” I breathe, meeting his gaze head-on. “Help me.”

For a heartbeat, nothing.

Then he shifts — just enough. His thigh tenses under me, the chain clinks as his knuckles go white, and his free hand settles at my hip. Not pulling — just guiding, steady, like he could do more but won’t.

“Show me, baby,” he murmurs, voice lower now, rough around the edges. “Get yourself off.”

The new angle drags a gasp from my lips, heat sparking up my spine. I rock against him, harder, chasing the sharper pressure. For a second, I swear it’s enough — almost.

But it slips, dissolving under me, leaving only frustration and a slick ache that makes my breath stutter into a broken moan.

I look up at him. Jaw clenched, chest rising deep, pupils blown wide enough to swallow me whole. He wants this. Wants me like this — wrecked, desperate.

My teeth scrape over my bottom lip. Heart pounding so loud it feels like it’ll shake me apart.

Fuck it.

I slide off his thigh, sinking to my knees between his legs. The cargo fabric drags over heated skin, my pulse beating out a messy rhythm in my throat.

His eyes darken, mouth parting on a ragged breath. He thinks I’ll keep grinding, keep chasing something we both know there’s no time to catch.

But time’s slipping through my fingers, and I’m done wasting it.

I press my palms to his thighs, heat seeping into my skin, pulse drumming at my temples. I look up at him — breath catching, but steady where it matters.

“Not enough time for me to come,” I murmur, voice low, roughened by heat and frustration. My mouth tips into the smallest curve, a promise dressed up as a threat. “So I’ll make sure you go on stage wrecked instead.”

His breath catches — sharp, chest hitching. His jaw tightens, a flicker of muscle betraying him.

“Bet you’ll still feel my mouth while you’re out there,” I add, softer this time, taunting. Letting him see every filthy thought behind my eyes.

His throat bobs in a swallow, helpless. For once, he doesn’t hide it.

My fingers find the waistband of his cargos. Button slips open under my thumb, zipper dragged down slow enough to hear. The chain at his wrist clinks as his knuckles turn white against the side of the chair — tension drawn so tight it feels like it might snap. He doesn’t reach for me. Won’t. It’s killing him, and fuck, that only makes it worse.

“Fuck,” he breathes — voice barely there, rough like it’s been scraped raw. The sound sinks straight to my core, leaving heat pulsing low and thick.

I palm him through his boxers. Hard already, hot and straining under the thin fabric. His breath breaks, chest stuttering into a quicker rise. Almost shaky now.

“Eyes on me,” I murmur, voice softer than I feel.

He obeys. Pupils blown, lips parted around a shallow inhale he can’t quite catch.

I free him, fingers wrapping around the weight of him. My palm floods with heat, slick already gathering at the tip. His head tips back just a fraction, and a ragged sound scrapes out of him — part gasp, part groan, too raw to be anything but real.

His knuckles blanch around the chair, veins standing out in sharp relief. Grip so tight it looks painful.

I lean in, breath ghosting over flushed skin. His hips twitch, the smallest break in control.

“Just watch and enjoy,” I whisper — and then I take him in my mouth.

The first slide drags a hiss from between his teeth, head falling back enough for me to see the stretch of his throat, tendons drawn tight. Chest heaving, breath uneven, shoulders tensed like he’s fighting every instinct to fuck into my mouth.

I swirl my tongue around the tip, tasting salt and heat, lipstick smearing messily across flushed skin. The chain rattles as his fingers crush the chair, plastic creaking under the force.

“Shit,” he rasps out, voice frayed and broken around the edges.

Heat coils hot and tight inside me, my own thighs pressing together, but I don’t stop. I hollow my cheeks, sink down slower, deeper, deliberate. His hips jerk despite himself, a breathy groan tearing free before he can swallow it down.

Every time I glance up, his gaze is waiting. Dark, locked on mine, pupils drowning out the brown. His chest staggers in uneven pulls, jaw so tight it looks painful, lips still parted around each rough, punched-out breath.

He’s holding back. For me. And fuck, it makes me ache.

Laughter and footsteps drift in from the hallway, closer than they should be. The door’s still unlocked, the reality of it scraping against my spine like teeth. His breath stutters — he teeters, caught between control and the need to let go.

Then he snaps.

His hand lifts — gentle at first, like he’s just going to move my hair out of the way. But his fingers curl into the back of my head, guiding me down. The other slips from the chair to cradle the nape of my neck, steady but heavy. At first it’s coaxing, soft. Then firmer, rougher, making my pace match the ragged drag of his chest.

The slap of wet heat, the broken sounds falling from his lips, the burn of my knees against cold floor — it all tangles together into something fever-hot.

“Fuck—” he chokes out, voice rough, shaking apart in my ears. “Just like that—don’t stop—”

My lipstick smears messily across him — hot red stains blooming vivid against flushed skin. I see it when I pull back just to breathe: messy, ruinous, mine.

His breath shatters into short, panicked gasps; chest heaving wild under my palms, shoulders bunched so tight the muscle strains at the seams of his tank. His fingers flex in my hair, the other hand heavy and grounding at my nape — desperate to keep me there, to hold on as he breaks.

Then — a knock. Sharp. Too close.

“One minute!” someone calls, muffled but cutting through the haze.

His whole body jolts, grip spasming tighter, a raw curse tearing free: “Shit—ngh—fuck—”

He tries to answer, voice cracking, strangled from the edge. “Y-yeah—one sec—”

But it breaks him.

His hips jerk up, hand fisting harder in my hair, guiding me down, forcing me to take him deeper. His thighs go rigid under my palms, trembling so hard it feels like they might give.

A ragged moan rips from his chest, hoarse and broken, heat flooding my mouth in sharp, salty pulses. I swallow around him, tongue chasing every twitch and pulse until the tension leaks out of his muscles and his hands fall away, limp, shaking.

His chest heaves, sweat darkening his hairline. The smear of lipstick is still there — vivid, ruined, clinging to flushed skin. No time to wipe it away; his pulse kicks wild under his skin, breath still fractured.

He tucks himself back in, fumbling, breath ragged, chest rising and falling too fast to hide. His ears glow crimson, flush licking up his neck and across cheekbones still too sharp with adrenaline. His fingers tremble around the zipper of his cargos, betraying what he won’t say.

His gaze drags down to my lips — swollen, color smeared in the filthiest proof of what just happened — and his throat works around a swallow.

I lift my chin, breath shaky, pulse hammering under my skin. “Don’t forget who put that look on your face,” I murmur, voice low, wrecked, but sure.

His jaw flexes, breath stuttering through parted lips — just once. Then his eyes spark darker, a flicker of that teasing dominance rising through the ruin.

“Don’t worry,” he rasps, voice shredded and low. “I won’t. And you won’t forget what’s coming either.”

He leans in, thumb brushing over my lower lip, smearing the red even further — claiming, messy, intimate. “Watch me out there,” he breathes, voice still hoarse, still raw. “Remember what you did.”

Another knock snaps against the door, harder this time, urgent.

His jaw twitches. Breath still ragged, chest still fighting to calm as he drags the door open. Harsh hallway lights spill over him, catching the flush still climbing his throat, the red burning at the tips of his ears.

For a heartbeat, he pauses on the threshold — lips parting like he might say more.

Then staff tug at him, pulling him toward the wings. His steps stumble, just for a breath, like the memory of my mouth still clings to him, heat branding itself into bone.

And when he squares his shoulders under the blinding stage lights, chest still heaving, the smear of my lipstick hidden under his clothes where only he can feel it — I know he won’t forget.

And fuck, neither will I.

[muchamusedaboutnothing]

It's been a while since I shared this one. Long overdue.

Save Yourself

MoC!Dean x Reader

Dean’s POV, One shot.

Song fic inspired by “Save Yourself” by Kaleo.

Wordcount: 1837

Warnings: angst. Lots of it. 

This was beta’d by the lovely @jpadjackles. Sam hugs go out to her for her help. ;)

Tagging peeps at the bottom. And I’m still fairly new to tumblr, so any comments would be greatly appreciated.

SAVE YOURSELF

If I’m being completely honest with myself, I should have seen this coming. Sure, I may not have known I was going to wind up with this damned Mark on my arm, but I knew from the moment we met that you were too good for me. Too innocent. Too pure. And not in predictable ways. Not like you hadn’t seen your share of blood and darkness and evil.

No. You were no stranger to the things that would give most people nightmares. But you never lost sight of the good. In the world. In people. In the possibilities that lie around every corner. You’re more like Sam in that way.

An image of the first time I saw you flashes through my mind. You, with your wide eyes and keen gaze, demon blood on your shirt and a bottle of holy water in one hand. You’d put up one hell of a fight before Sam and I had gotten there, and your hesitation to trust a couple of lanky, flannel-clad strangers had quickly given way to a friendship once the demon had been exorcised and the case was closed.

Friendship. I should have left it at that, but the palpable connection between the two of us was something I could only resist for so long. I’m just a man, afterall.

Once you moved into the bunker I just couldn’t help myself. You were always looking up at me from under those dark lashes. Chewing on that bottom lip of yours while you read over lore books. And nobody should smell that good all of the damn time.

I should have resisted when I caught you stealing glances at me. Shouldn’t have paid any attention to the way you matched your breathing to my own while you snuggled closer to me on movie nights. To the way my heart forgot how to play it cool, jumping and skipping at the simplest of touches.

Yes. I’d known way back then that this was all a bad idea. I was bad news for you. And that was before the Mark.

And yet, here you are sitting across from me, scribbling words on a lined piece of paper in your notebook while the shadows from the fire crackling nearby dance across your face. Even now I’m mesmerized by the way the light plays on your features, showcasing the slant of your nose, the angle of your jaw, the little V on your top lip.

I swallow hard, grateful you’re too entranced in what you’re writing to feel my stare. Lord knows I won’t be able to explain what you’ll find in my eyes if you look.

I hardly recognize myself these days, and the Mark of Cain tightens it’s grip on me more and more with every passing hour.

You’re determined to find a cure. You sound just like Sam when you talk about it. The two of you are hopelessly optimistic about a situation that is anything but. You study lore into all hours of the night, run through scenario after scenario with Sam, desperately searching for an answer. A way to save me. And goddammit if I don’t love you more for it.

The problem is that it’s become all too clear to me which one of us needs saving.

I watch you as you squint a little, trying to read what you’ve written in the light of the fire. I stare down at the notebook resting in my own lap. At the blank page there. You’ll expect me to have written something down soon.

You glance up from your notebook long enough to see both our glasses are empty, and you hop right up to remedy the situation. You cross the threadbare rug with your bare feet to grab the half empty bottle of whiskey. You hum a little to yourself as you approach again, doing a little turn as if you’re dancing to the song in your head before stopping to pour some of the amber liquid into my glass.

“Thank you.”

The words are barely out of my mouth before you duck down and brush your lips against mine in a kiss that’s soft and unhurried. I lean into it, to you, and I feel my heart thud a painful rhythm because just like me, it seems to know that one of these times is going to be the last time I feel your lips on mine.

When you pull back you give me just the smallest hint of a smile before filling your own glass, sitting and tucking one foot up under you as you go back to your notebook.

I don’t know how you do it. How you manage to be so happy, so content, despite all the turmoil. Despite the heavy weight I’ve cast on your shoulders simply by loving you this past while.

It was your idea, this weekly act of writing down the things that scare us, or cause us pain, and crumbling up the pages to toss into the fire. I’d gone along with it at first mostly just because it seemed to make you happy.

Turns out it feels pretty good to watch secrets burn. Hell, it might even be one of the reasons the Mark hasn’t completely poisoned every ounce of who I am yet.

But it won’t work forever.

And I know you’re the one real thing anchoring me to the memory of the man I want to be. The one I used to be. But that’s all it is. A memory. I’m not that guy anymore. And the longer the Mark eats away at me, the more I understand that I’ll never be that man again.

Every night it’s the same thing. I’m torn between my desire to feel something, anything for just one more day, and knowing I should send you away. A better man would have cut all ties by now. And that’s what you deserve.

Somewhere inside me I’ve got to find the strength to convince you I don’t love you.

I’ll have to break you. To destroy any ounce of hope you’ve been holding onto. Because that’s the only way I see you ever walking out of my life.

It makes me sick just thinking about it. I’ve played out that soon-to-be fight in my head a hundred times if I’ve done it once. I can’t imagine the words that will have to leave my mouth, the things I’ll have to do to convince you to go.

I take a swallow from my whiskey glass and set the cup down, stealing one more glance at your face.

You let out a soft sigh and tear a page from your notebook, crumpling it up with a smirk of satisfaction. You toss it into the flames and watch it blacken and turn to ash. Then you look up at me expectantly as you reach for your glass and take a sip.

And so for the third week in a row I write down the words that break what’s left of my blackening heart. The words I can’t bear to say outloud just yet:

I’m losing myself. But I’ll be damned if I’m taking you down with me. I loved you once, more than any one man should be able to love, but this darkness is consuming me. I don’t know how to love anymore. And I’m done going through the motions. You have to go.

Go … and forget all about me.

Find someone else who deserves to see that light in your eyes, who deserves to be the reason behind it. Someone who won’t taint it with darkness, despair, violence.

So go, Darlin.

Save yourself.

The words I write are a combination of soul-bending truths and lies so horrific I’m not sure how I’ll say them outloud to you when the time comes. But I’ll say them if it’s the last thing I do. Because as long as you keep looking at me like I’m a damn hero you won’t be safe.

I tear the page out and crumple it with one hand, leaning forward and tossing it into the fire. The flames lick at the paper, consuming it in a manner I’m all too familiar with.

You make your way over to me, your hand going to the back of my neck as you lower yourself onto my lap, facing me.

“Hey handsome,” you purr.

God, it’s almost too much to handle. I avert my gaze, finding a new interest in the pattern on the rug. And I should just tell you now. Fast and hard like ripping off a bandaid. It’s as good a time as any to break a heart.

Or two.

And Sam is nearby. He’ll be right here to stop me if, God forbid, the act of pushing you away is all it takes to throw the flood gates open wide and this monster inside of me takes hold.

God, you’ll be devastated. Even after everything that’s happened, you won’t see it coming.

You’ll know why I’m doing it. You’ll insist you can save me. That I’m still worth saving, even though I know differently. You’ll look at me with those big, watery eyes, and I’ll have a hard time not believing everything you say in the moment.

Because against your better judgement, you’re in love with me.

And that’s why I know I’ll have to shatter that beautiful heart of yours into a thousand goddamn pieces to keep you safe.

Your hand cups my cheek, your thumb brushing along the stubble on my chin, and hell …. I don’t know how I’m going to do it.

It won’t be long now. The mark won’t allow me to go through with it if I don’t do it soon.

I meet your gaze, find the worry hidden there that you’re doing a damned good job at concealing, for the most part.

I wet my lips with my tongue as your other hand lands on my chest.

“You’re supposed to let it go, you know,” you say softly. “That’s the whole point of burning our secrets, so we don’t have to hold them in.”

I should do it. I should. But your lips are dangerously close to mine. So close your breath tickles my skin….

Not tonight.

Tonight I’m going to wrap my arms around you by this fire and hold you close against me. I’m going to mourn the loss of my old self. Of you. Of us.

I’m going to revel in the feel of your chest pressed against mine. The way you pace your breathing to match my own. Let my heart hammer out that unsteady rhythm like it’s competing for the title of world’s worst drummer.

Tonight I’ll stare into those eyes, still wonder-filled and hopeful as you gaze up at me from under those dark lashes, and I’ll know I was a better man for a time because of you.

And I’m too goddamn selfish to tell you just now, but you’re better off without me.

Tagging peeps who asked to be added to my fics, or that liked my first fic and/or will hopefully help boost the signal. ;) Still fairly new to tumblr, so any signal boosting is greatly appreciated. 

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[skzficdump]

Hidden Pleasure

paring: hyunjin x fem!reader

gender: smut

word count: 680

warnings: cheating, dry humping, slight degradation, dirty talk, sex without protection, creampie

You're at home, alone with Hyunjin, your boyfriend's best friend. The temptation is strong, and the spark between you has always been there. As you stand in the kitchen, Hyunjin approaches from behind, his presence warm and familiar. "Hey," he whispers in your ear, and you feel a shiver run down your spine. You turn around, and your eyes meet his. You nod slowly, unable to resist the temptation.

Hyunjin takes you by the waist, pulling you towards him. "Just a little fun, okay?" he says with a mischievous smile. You let yourself go, your body responding to the contact. Hyunjin lifts your leg, wrapping it around his hip, and you can feel the hardness of his arousal pressing against you.

"This isn't exactly cheating, is it?" you think, but your body is already responding. Hyunjin lifts your skirt, revealing your soaked panties. "Mmm, you're so wet," he growls, his voice thick with desire. "Just a little more, okay?" he asks, and you nod, unable to resist.

Hyunjin presses against you, his movements rhythmic and desperate. You can feel every inch of him, the thin material of your panties and sweats the only barrier between you. "It's just a little fun, okay?" Hyunjin says, his voice choked with pleasure. "We're not doing anything wrong. I'm not even inside you."

The pleasure builds, and you find yourself thrusting your hips against him, wanting more. "Please, more," you whisper, and Hyunjin complies, his movements becoming more intense. "You feel so good," he moans, and you know he's close.

Finally, Hyunjin climaxes, and you follow, your body shaking with the intensity of your orgasm. You lie there, panting, the scent of your desire filling the air. "It's just a little fun," Hyunjin says again, as if trying to convince himself. "It's no big deal."

It's another day, and Hyunjin has been acting more daring with you. You're in your room, and he leans in closer, his eyes full of desire. "I'm tired of waiting," he says, his voice firm and determined. "Just the tip, okay? Just to feel you a little."

Before you can respond, Hyunjin is already on top of you, his body pressing against yours. You can feel his arousal, hard and ready. "Just the tip," he repeats, and you nod, trusting him to stop there.

But as soon as Hyunjin enters you, something changes. He pushes deeper, and you realize it's not just the tip anymore. "Hyunjin, wait," you try to say, but your words are choked with a moan. "Hyunjin, stop, please."

Hyunjin doesn't stop. His movements become faster and more desperate, and you realize he's losing control. "Your boyfriend will never fuck you like I do," he says, his voice filled with lust and contempt. "You're mine, do you understand? Only mine."

"Hyunjin, please don't cum inside you," you plead, but he's too lost in the moment. "No, I won't," he says, but his movements don't stop. "But first, I want you to cum for me. I want to feel you come undone on my cock."

His words turn you on, and despite your attempts to resist, you feel pleasure wash over you. "Hyunjin, no," you try to say, but your body betrays you. "You're so good, such a whore for me," he growls, and his words take you over the edge.

Finally, you reach orgasm, your body shaking with the intensity of the pleasure. "Good girl," Hyunjin says, his voice filled with satisfaction. But he doesn't stop there. He keeps moving, his thrusts getting faster and deeper.

"Hyunjin, please, I told you not to do it, not inside, he'll notice," you plead again, but it's too late. You feel him tense, and with a final moan, he releases inside you. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he says between gasps, but the damage has been done.

You stay there, silent, processing what just happened. A mixture of pleasure and guilt washes over you, and you wonder what this will mean for your relationship with your boyfriend and Hyunjin. Hyunjin slowly pulls out, a satisfied smile on his face. "I told you, no one will fuck you like I will."

[georgiapeach30513]

He Offers Me Protection

Summary: Dean did not know you were an angel, only that you were his angel. He also didn’t know that by touching a magic mirror he was going to release his worst nightmare; his evil twin. When Soldier Boy kidnaps your sweet boyfriend, and pretends to be him, there is more then just one thing that’s odd. And Dean never had toxic masculinity, or claws….

Pairings: Dean Winchester X Reader, Soldier Boy X Reader

Rating: explicit

Warnings:  explicit language, explicit sexual content, dark, angels/demons, unprotected sex, PIV sex, creampie, dub con/non con moments, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 2.1K

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Soldier Boy Masterlist

*Divider created by @firefly-graphics

“Dean!” You swat your boyfriend’s hand away as you try to cover the trifold mirror on your dressing table with a blanket. “Stop tickling me!” Your voice drowns out in a fit of giggles. It was time to get in the bed for your nightly routine, and he’s tickling you during the cover of these damned mirrors.

“Why do you always do that, Angel?” Oh gods, you love to hear him mewl that nickname to you. The way it vibrates up his chest at such a low timbre that it makes your insides tremble, and your knees weak.

“You know I always do this,” it just is what it is.

“I know you’re always superstitious, and I wouldn’t want any demon or monster to hurt you. But you see, I’m a hunter,” he says proudly, placing both fists on his hips, and he holds his chin high. Looking more like a cartoon prince than a ferocious hunter.

”Really? And just when are you doing your monster hunting when you’re working at the garage?” His bright green eyes shine as he playfully bites his lip. “Just how many monsters have you killed?”

“Not as many as demons,” Dean’s mouth turns up into a dangerous smirk. “In fact, I ensnared one in this very house.”

“Did you?” Your voice goes up an octave. You play right along with him. “How did you trap him?”

“Her,” Dean corrects you. He starts stalking towards your body, and you smile, backing away.

“How did you trap her?”

“I hear my cock is great for demon trapping,” you gasp, clutching your imaginary pearls, and stare wide eyed, and mouth open at him.

“Dean!”

“And I love to hear her say my name. Over and over again, especially when she’s coming on my cock,” screeching, you dart away from him. He takes a brief moment before he’s chasing after you. His long legs catch up quickly, not that you are really trying.

Dean lifts you up by your waist, and drops you stomach first onto the bed. With a little smack to your rear, you're already lifting your ass, arching your spine, and looking back at him. The slutty man that he is, Dean rips his belt out of his loops in one go. He tilts his head as he lifts the silky top of your nightie. Pulling it all the way until your bum is on full display.

“Angel, you’re soaked,” he says, splitting you apart. “Ooph, the things you do to me.”

“Why don’t you take your pants off, and show me what you’re going to do to me?” Dean smirks before making a show of pulling down his pants, and that glorious cock springs free. The precum beading on his tip is calling you like a beacon, and you want to taste his essence.

”Ehh! Stop!” He demands, knowing that you’re about to lick him clean. “You’re a greedy little slut, you know that?” You pout up at him, and it gets you another smack to your ass, “Yeah, you know what I’m talking about. I’m going to give you what you want,” he groans, pumping his length in his fist as he walks closer, and then lines himself up.

“I’m going to give you exactly what you want,” Dean warns before he crashes into your wet heat. Stilling only long enough for him to take hefty handfuls of your hips, and he sets at such an achingly slow rhythm. Rolling his body into you as he fully sheaths himself inside. Going deeper with every movement into you.

Closer.

Deeper.

Harder.

Steadier.

Every movement is geared at making you weak. Weaker with every single thrust into your body. His pace is so steady that you have your eyes going cross, and your arousal drips down your thighs. He is a devil that makes you feel like you are in heaven.

It should be illegal the way he makes you feel. The way he grunts every time that he bottoms out, and he bites his lip. The pulsing of his finger tips on your body grip you so tightly you know you’re going to have bruises. And the power he holds over you is intoxicating.

One of Dean’s hands drops your hip, and he lifts your body up. Bringing your back flush with his front as he rockets himself into you. Your voice squeaks out his name, and whimpers sing out his praises for how he controls your body.

“Mmm,” he croons in your ear, giving the soft flesh a nibble. “Look how pretty you look taking my cock. Look at what a fucking mess you’ve made of the bed. My perfect, pretty little slut,” you’re too disoriented to understand what he’s talking about until he grips your chin, and points you right at the trifold mirror.

“Dean!” You screech watching your body recoil as he stuffs himself in your warmth. His hips snap him into you with so much force that tears sting your eyes. “Why?”

“It’s right here in our room. We have three angles to watch you from,” you don’t know why, but that mirror that he purchased has always freaked you out. But watching him nip at your neck as he slides his thick manhood in the most delicate spot of your body as you feeling things you never have before.

“You’re quivering, Angel. You like it, huh?” You love it.

“Uh huh,” you whine, and he stabs into you with the most perfect force at the most perfect depth that you go cross eyed.

“There’s my sweet girl,” you keen at the sound of his praises. “My sweet little slut that looks so perfect, and feels even better.”

You right your vision as you stare at the two of you. Feeling too much from Dean, and too much from seeing the two of you connected. He’s so in tune with your every being. You feel the rubber band in your belly start tightening as your climax gets closer. The intensity is almost too much to bear.

“I’m almost there, Angel. Just keep going,” he says as he bites on your neck. The pressure of his bite pushes you right over the edge, and you plummet into your ecstasy. Vision goes blurry, and you think you see his reflection lift off your neck, and wink at you, but you still feel the pressure from his mouth.

“Oh, god!” You scream, and he slams himself into you so deep that you see stars. His reflection smiles so large at you, but Dean’s mouth pulls off your neck with a pop just as his warm seed spurts into your belly, and you finally relax.

“I don’t know what you just did.”

“Fucked you to sleep,” he kinda did, but that’s not exactly what you are talking about. He made you see and feel things that shouldn’t even be possible. “Here. Lay down,” he whispers, gently coaxing you onto the bed. “Stay here.”

It sounds like he walks away, but you feel his thick fingers bury themselves into your ruined pussy, “Coat yourself in my fucking seed, you stupid little fuck toy.”

“Hmm,” lifting your head, you glance around. “Did you say something?”

“What?” Dean asks from the door to the bedroom. He’s carrying a wash cloth to clean yourself with. “Are you talking to yourself again?” He playfully asks before placing the warmth in between your thighs. “I might have fucked you too hard. Your cunt sure is pretty and swollen,” you swear he growls, so you open your eyes to see him gently smiling at you. Despite the anger in that growl.

“Are you okay?” You nod your head as your eyes drift closed. “Get some sleep, Angel.”

“You, too, you little bitch!”

“Mmm,” you moan into your pillow. Your fingers cling to the bed sheets as the most intense amount of pleasure rushes through your veins. This must be what a wet dream is. Every bit of your body is on fire. Your dreams override your body so much that it almost feels real.

“Dean,” whimpering out your boyfriend’s name, you know that it is out loud, but you hope he doesn’t wake from his own dream. Unless he wants to. “Oh, god.”

“Do not have that fucking name on your lips when I’m the one that is fucking you so good that you’re waking up from your goddamn sleep.”

“What?” You peek through your lashes, realizing the feeling in your body isn’t a dream. Your body shifts on the bed in such an erratic way that he has to be rutting into you with so much need. So desperate in his own arousal that he had to fuck you while you slept. The thought of that makes slick pool to your sex.

“You like knowing I couldn’t help myself, huh? Had to start fucking your slutty little cunt while you slept. Fuck, you feel so good. Much better with my cock buried deep inside of you. I bet you feel me all the way to your whore throat, hmm?”

You don’t know what’s gotten into Dean. He has never been quite into this amount of dirty talk. But you like it. “Yeah, you like it. You’re fucking soaking the bed. Perfect slut. She lets me fill her needy little holes whenever I want, huh? Answer me, you sweet fuck toy.”

“Yeah,” you whine. Your voice is wrecked. Completely and utterly shot to pieces. “Yeah, like that. Oh, fuck, Dean.”

Dean growls on your skin as he bites the sensitive area from last night. He looks over your body at the trifold mirrors with a sinister grin, “Close enough. Tell me, Angel, how does it feel to be fucked like I own you? How does it feel to be my sex toy, and fuck you like you belong in the pits of hell?”

Gripping onto the bed sheets like a life line, you scream out his name. With your eyes clinched, your boyfriend peers into the mirror, grinning like a Cheshire Cat. But his reflection scowls. His mouth yells expletives that nobody hears. “I own you. And one of these days, your sweet angelic body is going to be swelling with my fucking seed, and I — we can finally be free from our prison.”

“Angel!” The reflection’s voice is heard out loud, but your body is sweating. Coiled up so tight with pleasure you can’t even think. Pliable. Delicate. The man behind you glances down, and the skin on your back ripples. Movement all down both sides of your spine pricks at your skin. Like something from inside is itching to get out.

“Yes! Fuck yes! I was fucking right! Right there, Angel, darling. You like that. You like being a dumb submissive baby. So dumb, you’re letting your fucking glamour down. Your goddamn wings are trying to sprout out.”

Dean’s ministrations are brutal as he stabs you. “She’s blacked out, you whiny little bitch. She’s mine now. There will be a new dawn. A perfect beautiful angel cunt filled with demon cum,” he laughs manically watching as the reflection tries to pull himself away from your body. Trying not to give into the motions the monster behind you is doing.

“You can’t escape me, Dean. And you’re going to have a front row seat to me using your precious Angel as nothing but a breeding tool for me. Next time I’ll give you some popcorn. You should have listened when she wanted to keep the mirror covered, and for you not to touch it,” he winks before a final pounding thrust into your ruined pussy has him spurting his cum into your womb.

He pulls himself out of you, and turns your swollen cunt towards the mirror. His calloused hands pull apart your silky lips, and he watches the reflection screaming with no sound as his seed leaks out of you.

“Gotta keep that in there so it takes,” he crows as he stuffs the cream back into your body. “Maybe next time I’ll tie her up. This Angel is nothing but a fucking slut anyways. Thanks for all you’ve done for me, Dean.”

“Gotta keep that in there so it takes,” he crows as he stuffs the cream back into your body.  “Maybe next time I’ll tie her up.  This Angel is nothing but a fucking slut anyways.  Thanks for all you’ve done for me, Dean.” 

Reflection Dean stares horrified as the perfectly identical version of him lets down his own glamour.  Growing long gnarly claws, and he licks his lips with a freakishly long forked tongue.  “Don’t feel like getting my horns out, but I want to watch you suffer your sweet Angel being defiled by a soldier of the underworld.” 

“You’re a monster,” the reflection croaks out.  He can’t even look at the demon dick hardening again.  “A vile creature.” 

“Yeah, but you can call me Soldier Boy.  And I’m going to enjoy seeing this angel fall from grace.” 

Masterlist

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