#and goddamn it it's THEIR job to fill it now | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

alchemistc · 16 days ago

Text

The voice echoes. He's coming in and out of it, desperate to open his eyes, desperate to make sure he can actually feel all his fingers and toes, but it's hard.

He knows that voice though. He knows he does.

The building hadn't been as stable as they thought it was. Probably in the investigation later on they'll discover building codes not up to standard, faulty evacuation plans. He got the kid out, though. He knows he got the kid out.

Eddie too, he's pretty sure.

".. uck!" The voice yells. It's kind of funny, he thinks to himself, as he can feel the strings of consciousness slipping, how much his name sounds like a curse when you're having a hard time keeping things straight. And then everything fades to black.

---

"Buck, please. Just wake up."

He wants to, is the thing. It's not like he's not trying, he wants to tell the voice, wants to be a little petulant about it too. That feels like the right attitude to have, for some reason.

It's hard to breathe. Might be something has him pinned. He'd seen beams falling, he's pretty sure.

"Goddamnit!" the voice yells, and Buck strains to remember. "I can't move this fucking thing unless you're able to get out from under it on your own, so wake the hell up. C'mon. Give me something to work with."

Buck wiggles a toe. Fucking ow.

Fingers, next, and that - that's a whole new ballgame of pain, but holy shit he can feel it all. Jesus Christ it hurts.

"For fucks sake, Evan, I'll take anything, at this point. Please."

Buck's lips suddenly feel a lot less numb. He does know that voice.

Hasn't heard it in three weeks, except for on the voicemail he'd left three months ago complaining about downtown parking for the hundredth time and letting Buck know he was gonna circle the block again, but -

"T- Tommy?"

Buck blinks his eyes open just in time to see Tommy drop to his knees near Buck's head, a relief filled sob echoing around the space. Buck takes the opportunity to stare.

"Hey," Tommy says, breathless, the corners of his eyes wet, his turnouts fully covered in dusty debris. It's an achingly familiar sight, even if he's significantly less sooty than the last time.

"You swear a lot more on the job," Buck notes, and Tommy bites out a desperate laugh, slipping a hand from a glove to reach for Buck's cheek.

"How are you feeling?" Tommy asks, and Buck crinkles his nose, widens his eyes. He laughs again, and Buck - God Buck has missed this but he's still having trouble taking in a full breath and - Tommy pulls a hand away from Buck's neck. "Your pulse is steady. Elevated, but you should be - can you wiggle fingers and toes?'

"Hurts like hell, but yeah."

"Well. A building just fell on you. So that tracks."

Buck takes stock of himself, even though he feels goddamn miserable taking his eyes away from Tommy.

Sure enough, there's a beam barred low across his chest. Definitely at least bruised ribs, if not broken ones. He can't see much over it, but it feels like he's got full, painful movement in his legs. "Tommy, I think my halligan's pinned with me."

He snorts. There's nothing funny about this, but Buck finds himself snorting back, the two of them bouncing off each other until Buck eventually winces at the pressure and Tommy gets himself under control. He's fully crying now, wet fat tears streaked through the dust on his face. "Thank fuck I am also a firefighter," Tommy says, and Buck prepares himself for the moment Tommy gets the tool under the beam at the right angle to lift. "How's your pain?" Tommy asks, when he's situated.

"On a scale from ladder pinning my ankle to lightning strike?"

Tommy scowls.

"I'll be able to move if you make room. If that's what you're asking."

Tommy eyes the space. The beam. The settling dust and the only real angle he's got with enough leverage to make space for Buck to slide himself free. He won't be able to help Buck pull himself out. "The moment you have an inch you move backward as fast as you can. There's at least two yards of clearance behind you, and I'm not dropping this thing on your fucking head by accident."

Buck nods.

Tommy grabs his chin. "Verbal confirmation, Evan," he demands, suddenly so serious Buck has to swallow back a bratty retort.

"One inch, pull myself backwards."

Tommy nods. Situates his hands. "Good." And then before Buck can brace for the pain he's lifting the beam.

It's fast. So fast Buck doesn't have time to scream, or listen to the signals from his brain telling him he's fucking dying. Tommy lifts, Buck scrambles, and he has just enough room to clear his legs before rubble shifts to their left and Tommy's dropping the halligan to roll his entire body over Buck's.

A few broken pieces of concrete roll to a stop before they reach the two of them, and Buck beams up at Tommy. "Little bit of an overreaction, don't you think?"

Tommy settles his weight. Tips his chin so that he can see Buck beyond his visor. "I feel like maybe you aren't taking this as seriously as you should."

Buck shoves a shoulder against Tommy's weight, and he rolls right off, lays side to side with Buck while they both catch their breath. It's such a fucking familiar position that Buck fails to stifle a laugh.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, when he's calmed down enough that Tommy has stopped asking him concussion protocol questions.

Tommy sighs. Turns to his side, and Buck knows this position, too. They never did it in turnouts, though. "They grounded us an hour before the collapse."

"I heard," Buck presses. "I also heard the 217 was working fire suppression on the perimeter."

Tommy looks guilty. He rolls his neck, reaches out under the guise of checking Buck's pulse again.

Buck doesn't stop him.

"Yeah I might be fired," he says, and then shrugs a shoulder. "They called for full evac and when Eddie came out with that kid but you didn't -."

Buck feels a little breathless again. He almost asks Tommy how much he's got in his tank - Bucks's ran out a while ago. But they seem - pretty firmly trapped. Buck can't see an exit point, and he's almost positive there's not enough room for both of them to stand at the same time. They'll need that oxygen. "You came after me?"

Tommy sighs. Seems satisfied that Buck's heart is still doing what it's supposed to, and that he's not leaking internally. When he shifts his hand, it's not away - callused hands catch the underside of Buck's chin, fingers curl over his cheek. "I'd tell you not to read into it, but..."

Buck's breath catches. He holds it. There's - he has no idea how much air they have. They don't have time (or enough air, maybe) for Buck to lean up and kiss him. "Tommy."

"We'll talk about it when we're both safely out of here and bundled in our shiny blankets. If the 118 doesn't kill me first."

"What...?" Buck doesn't know what that means. They did everything they could to convince him not to reach out but they also weren't, like, calling for his head. He wants to know what it means. Tommy's brow goes up.

He shifts to his knees, holds out a hand. "Help me look around. See if we can find an air pocket."

He helps Buck to a kneel of his own like it's nothing, and despite the creaks and groans and the sting of sore muscles, Buck doesn't think there's anything permanently damaged. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It'll keep, Evan."

More than anything, Buck wants to call him out on that. The implication that Tommy knows more about the 118's current feelings on Tommy than Buck does. His name, suddenly back in play like Tommy hadn't used the lack of it to dig the knife in.

Buck shifts his weight and checks for his flashlight. Aims up, first, as high as the beam of light will go. There's really not much room in this little pocket of space.

He can hear Tommy shifting on his knees behind him. They need to be smart. Conserve air, conserve energy. Buck had been near a sidewall when the building came down, but who knows how long it'll take for the building to be stable enough to attempt a rescue. Maybe they're still gonna die in here, after all.

God, he doesn't want Tommy to die.

"Back to Evan, I noticed," Buck comments, doing a terrible job of not sounding eager, and he can hear the heaving breath Tommy takes, the way the shift of his body just pauses.

"The thing is, the moment I realized I might not have any more time, all I wanted was another five minutes. Just to hear you breathe. See your face. You wouldn't even have to know I'd done it, just -." He sucks a breath in through his nose. "I just realized the pain is still worth it."

That spurs Buck into action, because - because they're not gonna die - not here, not now, not for as many years as Buck can squeeze out of this life. He shifts. He pokes. He checks for light beyond the pockets between rubble. He takes even, measured breaths around the rapidly tightening muscles around his ribs and the moment he feels a draft he almost cries.

"Tommy!"

He turns to catch his eye, thrilled, ready to drag him over and -

"Tommy?"

He's slumped on his side. And - and god damnit, Buck is so fucking stupid, he should have checked Tommy too, should have known if he was hurt he'd hide it like the massive asshole he is.

There's nothing obvious until Buck pulls at his turnouts, and then he has to hold in a scream so he doesn't bring the rest of the place down on them.

---

The paramedics don't fight him when he shoves his way into the ambulance behind them. No one does, not as he's shoving Hen and Chim away from him while they desperately try to check his vitals, not when Eddie takes one look at the rebar sticking through Tommy's side and his face goes fucking white.

He crashes twice on the way to the hospital.

---

Buck comes to slowly, and is immediately pissed, because he's in a fucking hospital bed.

Eddie leans over him when he sits up. "Take a second, man."

"Did you drug me?"

The eyebrow raise is a little condescending. "You passed the fuck out in the middle of the waiting room when they told us Tommy's surgery went well."

Well that's - that's - oh God, Tommy's okay. He remembers now. Tommy pulled through. Tommy was out of surgery and they were setting him up in a room and it'd be a while before he woke up but he was -

"I wanna see him."

Eddie chuckles, and Buck seriously considers throwing something at him, but before he can find something to toss Eddie's leaning sideways in his seat to pull the curtain divider away. "Even the nurses were taking bets that you'd kill a man if they put you in separate rooms."

He'll have to thank Gina later.

Tommy's still asleep. In repose, he breathes deep and even, eyes fluttering behind his lids, and Buck remembers what an active fucking sleeper he is, how much it had infuriated him that Tommy could never remember his dreams. God.

He's bruised around the eyes, there's a clean shave on the side of his head where he'd taken falling rubble in his mad dash past the kid Buck had sent ahead of him. The hospital gown looks so stupid on him.

Buck glares when Eddie tries to wrangle him back under his thin blanket - swings his legs over the side and tries not to wince when he puts his weight down and feels exactly how fucked up his ribs are. The bindings are tight. He's gonna need help rewrapping them.

"Tommy said something about you guys wanting to kill him. Know anything about that?"

It's a little accusatory. A lot, actually. Eddie sighs. "He tried to bring your shit by the station a week later when he knew you were off shift. Chim and Hen weren't, uh ... particularly nice about it."

Buck blinks. He still hasn't gotten any of that back.

"So he just ...took it back? Didn't leave it behind?"

"Oh he took about fifteen minutes of having his head bit off and then grabbed the box and shoved it back in his bed before he left."

Despite how absolutely ridiculous that all sounds, it makes something sizzle under his skin. If it was all just adrenaline, all just heat of the moment panic, Tommy would have left that box anyway.

They know so much and still so little about each other.

He's pretty sure he might actually get the chance to know more now. Even if he has to pry it from Tommy piece by piece for another decade or five.

Buck shoves that thought right down and gives himself the next two days to think about.

"And what'd you do, while they were berating him?"

"Oh, I threw like three loaves of bread in there with your stuff while he wasn't looking."

"You gave him my moping bread?"

"Two of the sourdoughs and an Irish soda bread."

"What if he didn't open the box back up?"

Eddie shrugs. "I hedged my bets. Either he opened that box back up to do his own moping or eventually there'd be some moldy ass bread in there."

"I hate raisins, by the way," comes the croaky voice to Buck's left, and Buck doesn't hesitate to wheel his saline bag the extra foot to reach the bedside. Buck knows that already. He'd made the soda bread out of spite, at three in the morning when he realized the second pillow still smelled like Tommy's shampoo and he'd remembered the almost-argument they'd had about wet hair on the pillows.

Tommy's hand meets Buck's halfway, and his smile is tired and magnificent.

Eddie smirks. "So you opened the box, then."

Tommy doesn't look away from Buck. His fingers squeeze. "I opened the box."

"Eddie, I need you to go distract Gina for like, three and a half minutes."

"...I know I'm going to regret asking," Eddie says.

"Tommy's hooked up to a bunch of monitors that are gonna make some extra noise in a second here, and they've already seen us making out in this hospital, they don't need to be alerted to another free show."

Eddie's out of his seat immediately, and halfway out the door when he turns back. "Just so we're all on the same page, this is not me encouraging this. You two are just walking talking piles of trauma and you can't just kiss about it and suddenly everything is fine."

Buck can taste the bitchy comment on the tip of Tommy's tongue. He squeezes Tommy's fingers and counts himself lucky when all Tommy does is make a dismissive noise in the back of his throat.

It's not like Eddie's wrong.

The door clicks shut behind him.

---

Tommy sets aside a third jello cup and stares at the cards in his hand. He glances through his lashes as he sets two cards down on the pile. "Two sevens."

"Bullshit."

His eyes gleam with challenge as he flips them both over and Buck has to take another loss. He doesn't care, is the thing. He'll happily lose at cards to Tommy for the next -

Six months is a reasonable length of time, probably. They've hit that mark once before.

Tommy shifts his weight, grimaces, and Buck is on his feet in a heartbeat. "You need another pillow? Change the angle of the bed?"

He laughs, soft and warm, rolls his eyes. "That joke I made about you guys needing your own ward? You may not have it named after you, but it's practically the Ritz around here. All the nurses have come by like six times just to see if I needed my pillow fluffed. I'm good, Evan." Buck settles back into his seat. "I just have a hole the size of a boba straw in my side."

"It was significantly wider than a boba straw."

"Could still suck a tapioca pearl through it," Tommy reminds him, almost petulantly. It's been a treat discovering that Tommy can throw it back almost as well as Buck when he's ornery about being bedridden for a full two days.

Buck finishes rearranging his cards. Grabs three random ones and sets them atop the pile. "Three eights."

Tommy stares at his cards. Glances up at Buck. Turns his gaze to his cards one more time.

"One nine," he declares, and Buck doesn't even complain that he'd fully let him off the hook there.

---

Tommy is actually the worst patient in the world. They have to have Eddie over to wrap Buck's ribs for at least a week, and Tommy refused to take any pain meds home with him, and every morning when Buck fusses with the dressings on Tommy's side Tommy stares in the mirror and complains that the scar isn't even symmetrical to the one on his ribs. Buck spends twenty minutes reminding him he'd have a punctured lung, if that was the case, and that seems to shut him up for a little while, at least.

"Hey," Tommy says, on day eleven, when Buck leans over him on the sofa to say goodbye and head back to the loft. Tommy's fine, really. He needs rest and leaving for the night isn't going to kill either one of them. Still, he tugs at Buck's belt loops until Buck allows a knee to bend and press into the cushion beside him. "This is not me asking you to move in with me."

"What -?"

Tommy presses something into his hand. It's warm, like Tommy's been smoothing it in his palm for a while, grooved along the edge facing Buck's fingers. "Yet," he says, softer than before, watching Buck palm it with a smile that Buck is beginning to fully understand the implications of.

It's a key.

Buck blinks. The years stretch ahead of him. Grumpy grizzled Tommy bitching about the towel rack having too many wet towels on it. Silver fox Tommy grinning over some flirty kids head at Buck as he tries to make it back to the booth they got to the bar early to camp at. Tommy, tomorrow, fondly annoyed when Buck confesses he can't watch another true crime documentary or it'll actually kill him.

"I love you," Buck blurts, and feels like crying when Tommy tugs him close for a kiss.

#bucktommy #bucktommy fic #tevan fic #the double whammy

934 notes · View notes

apollostears · 2 years ago

Text

𝑇𝐴𝐿𝐾 𝑇𝑂 𝑀𝐸 𝑩𝑨𝑩𝒀 ＃︎！︎

❤︎ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒) + 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭, 𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰, 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦, 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤, 𝐩𝐞𝐭 𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐞, 𝐝𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲, 𝐮𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐱, 𝐝𝐨𝐦!𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐮𝐛!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫. 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐠𝐮𝐲𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐢𝐭

❤︎ 𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢 𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨, 𝐚𝐢𝐳𝐚𝐰𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐚, + 𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐨𝐤𝐮 𝐤𝐲𝐨𝐣𝐮𝐫𝐨

𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐛𝐡𝐦 <𝟑

「︎ nanami 」︎♡︎

⥅︎ his grunts rest so comfortably in your ears as nanami fucks into you, his chest pressed against yours. his breath tickles your neck while his lips ghost the skin of your ear.

“you alright baby? still with me?” nanami asks, his hand gently patting your damp cheek.

a lazy nod is all you give while whimpers tumble past your lips. nanami kissed his teeth and cooed teasingly, squeezing your cheeks together for your lips to form a pout.

“i need words angel. talk to daddy, baby.”

tears collected at your lash line again, a lust-filled gaze in your eyes as you looked at where nanami’s cock plunged into your cunt.

“feel you here, daddy.” you whined, finding the strength to caress your lower belly where you could feel his cock driving into you.

nanami smirked before leaning up to pull you up and on his lap. “lets see where else you can feel me. yeah?”

「︎ rengoku 」︎ ♡︎

⥅︎ rengoku is so excited to fuck you. he loves having you underneath him, your legs pressed all the way back into a mating press as he fucks his second load of cum into you. you’re a trembling mess as you feel another orgasm nearing.

“that’sss it. gonna cum for me again beautiful?” rengoku inquires softly, his lips pressing kisses all over your face.

a moan was stuck in your throat when rengoku dug his dick deeper into your pussy. “kyo, i feel—i feel like i gotta pee kyo!” you squeaked, a shiver running through your body when his thick fingers rubbed your clit.

the flame hashira smiles down at you with that dazzling smile of his right before he pulls his hips back, the head of his cock caught right at your entrance, and slams back into you.

body locked, you squirt all over him and his cock, triggering his own orgasm as he moans sweetly in your ear.

“so good baby. such a good job. shittt!” rengoku moaned, his own legs starting to tremble slightly.

a breath of relief went through you as fatigue blanketed your bones. “hey, hey, hey. stay with me princess. wanna go one more time.”

「︎ aizawa 」︎♡︎

⥅︎ he looked devastatingly handsome watching you struggle to take his cock. all he wanted to do was take a nap before patrol but you were so goddamn needy. now you have to work for it.

“daddy please! i—i can’t!” you cried, trying to slow down. aizawa smacked your ass roughly, glaring at you.

“did i say you could stop?”

a broken sob came out in response to his harshness. “no sir.”

“i won’t help you til you make yourself cum on my cock.” he speaks tiredly, as if he couldn’t be bothered by your needy behavior.

but you knew that to be false by the way his cock twitches inside of you every time you lift your hips to sink back down. truthfully, aizawa wanted to take you and fuck you until you couldn’t think. but sluts like you had to learn.

your hips desperately bucked in an erratic way as your hands dug tiny crescent moons into the pro-hero’s lower stomach. aizawa grunted in response and his hands flew to your hips tightly.

“gonna c-cum shota!” you moaned loudly, your pussy clenching tightly around him as your orgasm washed over you.

aizawa was just as dazed as you, watching the tremors of a good release tickle your body. your pussy was sucking him in so tight, he couldn’t help but cum with you.

“take it. fuck! take it all.” he hissed, his hands gripping your flesh tightly.

tiredly, you slumped forward and rested your face in aizawa’s neck. his hands soothing the skin he grabbed and speaking softly in your ear. you felt him shift around and next thing you knew, you were laid on your stomach, ass in the air.

a tired whine escaped you as aizawa lined his still hard cock at your entrance once again. “gotta keep my promise, don’t i baby?”

𝐛𝐫𝐛. 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐠𝐨 𝐜𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐛 𝐛𝐭𝐬 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐧𝐮𝐛𝐛𝐞𝐝. 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍!

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒. @kennyackermanswhore @chaoticevilbakugo @indiecursor @gabzlovesu @desiray562 @brownmochii @knjkitten @sweeneyblue1 @namjoonswifeyy @nyxeclipse @rubinocore @somerandompipzsxh @dabilovesme @histarean @hannas16 @caribbeanwifey19 @emonaculate @po3ticb3auty @waka-umm @wilsonsbuck @ctrlstar @jealousfuckingcunt @savagemickey03 @dukina @saintblk @sisnot @littlemochi @hoohoohope @ruubric

13K notes · View notes

iznsfw · 9 months ago

Text

Lucid Dream

IZ Days of Christmas 2023: Day 7 - Kim Minju

IZ*ONE's Kim Minju x Male Reader Smut

8,525 words

Categories | married man!You, wife!Wonyoung, daddy kink, degradation, rough sex, OC is not a good person

Content warning | cheating, humiliation, Wonyoung slander (it hurt to write but I read "Gone Girl" by Gillian Flynn recently so I guess that went into the whole wife-hating thing)

Skipping again a bit (still will do Chaeyeon and Chaewon and everyone because IZ*ONE best girls). Expect a commission and an IZ Days of Xmas fics this month again <3 I love you all, you make me happy. And as always, sorry for the inconsistency!

Wonyoung is beautiful.

You stare at her as she undresses in front of the full-length mirror. She’s the kind of woman whose vanity seldom rolls eyes because her adoration for herself—smoothing down her dark hair, strictly adhering herself to that keto diet, doing her skincare with the dedication of one who prays nightly to god (pick any)—is wholly justifiable. Look at her. Anyone would understand.

The dress she wore for her hosting show slips off her body. Her abs reflect in the mirror, the result of hard work in the gym. Wonyoung’s waist is impeccable. Magazines have written over and over tips to attain it but it seems that the signature Bratz doll feature can only belong to Wonyoung. The makeup was cleaned up by her stylist but her eyes still shine, her lashes are still long, and her lips are still plump.

Wonyoung is standing there in nothing but her underwear, an attractive set of lace.

Wonyoung is the perfect female form, a goddess from above choosing a man from below.

Wonyoung is beautiful, a feat that no matter how amazing besides true, she remains the same old fucking bore.

“Did you like my MCing, babe?” she asks.

“Uh-huh.”

Her legs, long and thin, move in planned strides down the room. To the bed. You know where this is going.

Your feet are killing you. Recline, welcoming yourself into the softness of the expensive mattress and pillows your wife paid for all in all. “Wonyoung, I’m tired.”

She’s a celebrity. Of course, endless days filled to the edge with schedules chase after her. She ought to understand. The nights are her only rest hours, yet with this energy, it’s like Jang Wonyoung never gets exhausted. Always bubbly, always sweet, always so seductive.

All these are positive traits that any other man would adore and own had you not married her.

Wonyoung makes an adorable sigh. “But you say that everytime,” she replies sullenly.

She’s pushing her lips out into this cute pout while her brown puppy eyes beg you to give in like you used to. Once upon a time, you were putty around Wonyoung. Never could give an answer without your voice shaking. Never could come near her without blushing.

She’s the prettiest woman in the world.

You’re the most awful, undeserving man in the world, for all you could think, as you look at her, is: Fucking bitch.

“Well, maybe it’s because I’m always tired.”

“How about,” she puts a finger on her chin, “I do the job for you?”

Her knees are bruised. You notice this when she drops to them so she could pull your pants to the ground. So she’s been doing this for so long? Lowering herself for you? Sucking you off? You thought that she’d get the hint by now: you don’t want to have sex with her.

So instead, she uses her mouth. Better than her pussy anyway. What are you saying? She’s a tight woman. But it’s the same thing everyday: she gets on your cock and you hear her annoying voice straining as she rides you. Her cunt, soaked and useless, makes you want to call her its name. She’s always needy. It isn’t flattering when you don’t reciprocate it.

It’s a goddamned chore. Wonyoung’s throat welcomes you. The other way around, actually: your cock welcomes a claustrophobically closed passageway and has to deal with it until you cum. It’s an unwanted visitor. She rang the bell, said hi, and you let her in. Doesn’t mean you like her there.

“Doing so good, baby,” you say. Oh, yeah, doesn’t mean you mean it either—although you do feel Wonyoung smile happily. She’s happy when she makes you happy. When she makes you give her the illusion that you have any happiness in this worn-out marriage.

Her lips seal around you. You can feel them suckling. Your knees are tense. The moans are forced, though. Hearing them come out from your own mouth makes you want to place a pillow over your face and press it down as hard as you can.

She slides you down her throat. Admittedly, you love the way she chokes. Her eyes get all watery, like she’s crying from pain. That sounds appealing.

You’re a critically messed up man, you know. But they’re what make the world go ‘round. Why do you think they write romance books about them—the bad boy, the mafia boss, the killer? Plus, one of those “terrible” people inspires the biggest Korean celebrity to continue hosting, dancing, and singing. So who’s so terrible now?

To conclude, if anything, you’re the one responsible for Wonyoung’s success.

To conclude, you groan as desperately as you can then release in her mouth. Wonyoung gags. Another pretty sound. Her eyes look up while she attempts to swallow. Saliva sticks to her chin. Semen floods up to the roof of her mouth. It reminds you of how it ends up there more often than in her womb.

You would’ve made beautiful children with Wonyoung in another world where she wasn’t famous and you actually loved her. You would have been a softer, kinder man. She would have been a person who’s easier to love and make love with.

“Wonyoung, Wonyoung, that… was incredible.”

If you weren’t a director, you’d be the one on camera. You’re a great actor when it comes to your wife. Your incompetence in the house is masked by husbandly exhaustion; an artificial gaze of attentiveness hides your indifference to conversation.

She smiles coquettishly. “I try.”

The wide closet parts. She chooses a pair of silk pajamas that hang around her thin frame. She climbs onto the bed and wraps an arm around you. Her skin is always cold to the touch. Like she’s dead or something. How interesting.

You stroke her hair. “I’d return the favor but… I’m actually gonna pass out. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She kisses your forehead. Wonyoung’s a sweet girl. “Good night.”

You smile. Say it back. Her eyelids flutter closed. Her palms are flat against each other and are placed under her cheek. Cute, you guess. She sleeps.

You don’t.

You should have—nothing good ever happens after midnight.

2:05 a.m., more specifically.

Amazing how time slips through your grasp like air. You reach and reach, desperate for a return, desperate for a flash to the past. As always, your efforts aren’t fruitful. The seconds pour through the pinched waist of the hourglass and you can’t stand it on its other head. You’re unable to revert back to the moment you took your arm from underneath your wife’s skull. The moment you opened your phone. If you hadn’t, maybe things would have been different.

But it’s past two, and you’re resting your back on the pillowy headboard with your phone in your hands. The circumstances just play right into danger: Wonyoung’s asleep, the night is eerily quiet, and the screen is there, awaiting the secret routine. Which girls would you cum for today? Why aren’t your thumbs clicking over censored sites?

Your feed shows a naked woman, her eyes staring up and her mouth wide. Scroll past that—you prefer the amateur videos, where the expressions balance between exaggerated and naturally provoked. A ton of videos could help in the bathroom where you take your nightly “shower,” and it’s not one of those.

Maybe you need the real thing.

Look at Wonyoung. Perhaps you should have let her ride you just so you could cum in a warm pussy again. After all, it’s the least you could do when you were once a fan of her. That’s how everyone starts: puppy-like adoration. But she doesn’t have the star quality she once did onstage; the coy thoughtful princess you envisioned her as. That’s why you haven’t fucked her in weeks.

You’re about to wrap your hand around your cock and ready yourself for another night of conflicted pleasure. This video is perfect for that already. You could jerk yourself off then get a good night’s sleep. Simple. This is the safest option for a dangerous want. By just watching, you’re not cheating on your wife. It’s just porn. Jerk off, cum, cum again probably, then sleep. Nobody gets hurt.

“Fuck me… please,” whimpers the woman in the video. Her legs are spread open. Her partner’s swiping his cock at her lips while she looks at him with equal hunger, equal desire. “I can’t take it anymore.”

Then, a text message notifies you, peeking from the top of your screen. It dares you to click it.

And it says the exact same thing.

fuck me please, i cant take it anymore.

i miss you

You look around, like you’re afraid someone might see it. There’s only the dimness of your bedroom that greets you. It’s safe, but this message isn’t.

The number is familiar. Has one of your friends gone crazy? Or did they send a text to the wrong person? Take it for spam, a perfectly coincidental one, or a scam, a typical, preying-on-the-married, pwning message.

But why would a contact spam you at a time so strangely perfect?

Don’t bother. Your fist works on your dick as you watch the video. The woman’s so wet that although she isn’t squirting, her juices start to stick to the man’s thighs. Her mouth is wide open as he finally pounds her.

What you’d give to have good sex like that again.

XXX-XXX-XXX sent a video message.

Fine. Click it, you’re curious.

Oh, so apparently, the answer is your marriage.

The video shows a face that’s more intimate than familiar. The ebony-black hair already tells you who she is, as does her body. Her form is encased in a floral tank top and nothing else. Although her chest is covered, she’s still a little daring with how her nipples stamp the fabric. She turns herself around to let you admire the curve of her wide hips and her round butt.

There’s only one woman with a body so perfect. And she’s the one and only Kim Minju.

There are reasons for everything. This is yours for why you didn’t give this number a name:

No one needs to know just from a text that you cheated on Jang Wonyoung.

That was so long ago, back when you were still boyfriend and girlfriend. You were drunk and missed Wonyoung’s old self. Why did she have to be such a bitch? Why did she dedicate herself to work and leave you dry? It’s not like the industry would go bankrupt without her. Minju came over, listened to your complaints—every little whine about Wonyoung being busy, every little jab at her workaholic character—then said something along the lines of, why don’t you have a little fun while she’s away.

And you thought… yeah, that was a really great idea.

That was the beginning of the end. After multiple secret meet-ups and raunchy sex in alleyways, you didn’t contact Minju again. You forgot her. You thought she did, too. She should have understood that your infidelity, albeit alluring, would be a thing of the past.

But here she is, in your messages, with a pornographic clip of herself in a round-cornered bubble. She’s waiting for a reply.

Although you’ve long lost your aspirations to be a better husband, you type what a good man should. This man is proper, faithful, and loving. He loves his wife only and the only other people he loves with this deep of a bond is his family.

Stop texting me or I’ll block you.

It’s not enough. You’re not a good man. You aren’t proper or faithful or loving or any of that shit. You were about to masturbate to an internet celebrity after turning down sex with your wife. What about that makes you a good person?

:( you miss me sooooo bad it’s pathetic, Minju replies.

You look at her again. You may not be able to turn back time with your metaphorical hourglass, but you can turn this hourglass body into any position you want. You could push her against a window for all to see, perhaps fuck her to the floor, or slam her on a desk like a teacher would to a test paper. Minju would let you do anything to her.

Stop it.

She really has to. As much as you dislike Wonyoung, she’s your wife, and you vowed on your wedding day to only have eyes for her.

But you’re only one man against a body like Minju’s that curves in every right place.

Three circles float up and down in a contained bubble before she texts you back:

alright…what a pity :( i’m already outside!! i guess ill have to go back…

You’ve never bolted out of bed so fast.

You look back at Wonyoung as you stand in the doorway. She’s still in deep slumber. Now, are the curtains closed? The entrances locked? Scan the house thoroughly, until you inch your way to the front door.

Hesitate. You didn’t know you had a conscience but here it is. It tells you to wonder if Minju really is behind it, like she said. She knows how to use the privilege of being Wonyoung’s close friend. That’s how she came to your house like she used to with no worry for paparazzi or suspicion. Best friends don’t fuck their best friends’ husbands, right?

Open the door. This one did.

Minju grew more beautiful in her absence. Her hair is silkier this time and her shy smile is brighter. The long coat is smoothed by her fingers, and you wish you could be the brown piece of fabric her pale hands run down. What makes you guilty for thinking it, even when you’ve done it, is the fact that she looks so innocent. It’s like it would be a crime to even buy her a drink.

How could she be innocent with that photo she sent? The time you spent together: you folding her over a table and promising to fill her up? Fucking her while Wonyoung is busy and counting on you to welcome her home? Sending nudes like there’s no tomorrow? Nothing about Minju is pure, yet she acts like she could do no wrong.

“Minju,” you say. Your voice sounds fragile. She has a way of breaking you befote you’re breaking her into breaking another bed.

She blinks theatrically. Everything she does is angelic. “Glad you opened the door.”

The knob is cold in your fist. It chills your animalistic brain and urges you to consider the consequences. Right, it says, here’s what a human—a good one—would think. If Wonyoung wakes and sees you with Minju, she’d have a lot of questions. If paparazzi are somehow hiding in the forest that extends to acres before your house, everyone would know you’re cheating on her. Most of all, you’re married, monogamy and everything.

So what will it be? This is your last and only chance to send her away.

You know what you have to do. Take a few breaths. “You have to leave. I’m not joking, it isn’t right.”

In response, Minju unravels the ribbon of the layers sealed around her waist. It falls apart. You do, too.

She’s a real danger. As it turns out, the girl isn’t wearing anything underneath that trench coat. She’s an artist’s naked muse—bare long legs, wide hips, and a sizable bust that has sculptors carving something else.

The cold hardens her pink nipples. You notice how her breasts are much bigger than your wife’s. How her hips are more tempting to grab, so you do. How her body is meatier, a lot more enticing that you wouldn’t refuse a day without touching it.

Minju fuels your infidelity, and you won’t stop for it if it kills you.

She simpers, fingers curling into your work shirt. “Still wanna make me leave,” she asks, “when you can breed me all night long?”

You laugh, huffing it out as you pull her inside and close the door behind her. Minju looks gorgeous pressed to it. She looks gorgeous in whatever situation, actually. Her thighs squish against the carved design and look thicker as a result. More reasons to dive into that shaven cunt and abuse it.

“You’re not leaving until we make a fucking mess, Minju.” You take your shirt off. Throw it on the ground. “And we better make it quick.”

“Of course.” She nods. She’s slyer than a fox, but she submits to you without a second thought.

You lean in to kiss her. The heat is unbearable. You can feel it from Minju’s body transferring to yours. It’s the effect of her natural skills as your personal slut: trying to fit her tongue deeper in your mouth while you pull her close like she’d dare to run away.

You haven’t gotten this hard for anyone else. It’s always been Minju you fall for. You miss the way she kisses, the way she roams her hands all over your torso, the way she’s goddamned insatiable. Feeling it all now in one, heated moment makes you dizzy. You’re taking in too much of her, but without her, you’d go thirsty again.

Your fingers are in her hair; hers are on your waist. Your teeth are clamped down on Minju’s bottom lip; hers are apart and allow soft moans to pass through—one, two, three. You fit each other in so many wicked ways. They did say misery loves company.

Open your eyes. The dream doesn’t stop. Minju’s still pushing her mouth in your face and you’re letting her. You don’t know if you ought to be relieved or downright horrified. You’re cheating on Wonyoung again with a woman whose body is just a bit nicer. You should be furious at yourself. You aren’t.

You’ve made out with each other on the way to the dining room. You and your wife worked hard for its designed walls and sturdy, well-furnished ornaments. A lot of money was raked out to make this house the best place to call home. So, why do you want to ruin it?

Well, because of her.

Minju leans on the dining table with a funny smile on her face. “She really doesn’t do it for you, huh?” she asks.

It makes you wince how you know who she’s talking about. Who else is she referring to other than poor Wonyoung? Poor, skinny, ugly Wonyoung?

Nibble at her earlobe. Hear little gasps come out of her. “Don’t talk about her,” you say.

You don’t want to have any afterthoughts about fucking Minju. Besides, being reminded that you’re disloyal to a woman who loves you very much is painful, even to a man like you.

Wonyoung is an angel. Minju isn’t—but you run after her to darkness.

“Ohh, come on, I know I’m better than her.” Minju squirms with erotic moans. Your kisses are going south, and she loves their little detour. “You don’t fuck her like you fuck me.”

When was the last time you worshiped Wonyoung? Like what you’re doing to Minju now? Your lips haven’t passed over it in ages that you probably wouldn’t know where the bigs and smalls of her body are. Like there’s anything to know.

“Actually,” you snort, “I don’t fuck her at all.”

You stop chuckling. That was the wrong thing to say. That was the wrongest thing to say out of the millions of other cocky phrases you could’ve thrown to Minju. The look on her face, the one that’s of pride and submission and dangerous knowledge united, tells you to watch your mouth.

You’re five seconds minimum too late to listen.

Minju grins. There’s the answer she wanted. “That’s how it is? Just looking at a girl and thinking you wanna stamp a divorce approval on her forehead? Jesus. This is why I never got married.”

“First off, nobody put a ring on you because you’re a slut, Minju.”

“That’s only the third reason.” Her fingers drape the sides of your face and tugs you in. You’re invited to the sight of her infallible tits. “These are the first two.”

The girl isn’t as busty as that woman Wonyoung likes to call her industry mom, but you bet they’re better. No, it’s a matter of truth. Minju’s boobs aren’t too big or too small; just the perfect, filling size to hold onto when you’re railing her from behind.

You choose to suck on them for now. It’s like a trip down memory lane when you kiss down her neck and collarbone. You remember how good her smooth, soft skin feels beneath you, how her moans are a favorite tune. Minju bites her lip while you do so to her shoulder.

It’s crazy to think that she just so happened to be born with this. She was born to be a pretty face with a sex-defined body that you pull and push and pry apart. Best thing is, she’ll lay back down and beg for more. It’s like she knows her purpose, which would’ve shot down her dignity and humanity.

Her nipple pops in your mouth. Your sucking guarantees its hardness, and Minju starts whining. She arcs her body, wanting something rougher. Thus, you seize the span of her hip to rub her pearl with fierce speed.

“Oh, fuck, god—” What others might take for blasphemy, you take for praise. Minju’s already soaking wet. She would have had embarrassing laundry to do if she wore panties. Maybe it’s a good thing she arrived wearing nothing.

She’s still so sensitive. You caress her clit after a few kisses down her midriff. She fidgets needily like you aren’t already touching her. You’re nearly right—this touch is nothing when she needs something harsher. That something involves you treating her less than a human being, putting her down and tearing at her hair.

“Please just fuck me,” she whispers. “Breed me, breed me, breed me—”

Yeah, that’s what she wants.

You don’t need further motivation, not when you’re presented with the prettiest pussy you’ve ever seen. Her fat lips are soaked. They frame the clitoris you’ve been stimulating that shines with slick. Then there’s the tiniest hole below it that begs to be used.

Your digits shove past all tightness. Her wetness allows a deeper exploration, so you curl your digits like you’re beckoning the orgasm forward. You know how easily you can get it out of her. All it needs to get Minju cumming around you is a slap, roughness, and giving her what she wants anyway. You know your methods, she knows hers. It’s a recognizable cycle that despite this, you can’t break.

Part your fingers widely to spread her. She’s so wet that she soaks your knuckles. There’s an ocean inside her waiting to be waved to shore. A storm, too, brews from the base of her throat as Minju whimpers. Her body lifts off the table but you force her down on it. She isn’t going anywhere, not without a fight.

Oh, and fight she does. She was an idol before an actress, so her muscles still memorize the circling motions that repeat on your fingers rather than move onstage. She sang once. That was a long time ago yet her voice sounds perfect as it strains her moans. Every little thing she does is a reflection of her past.

That’s why when she leans back, pupils dilating north, and says “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” you get deja vu.

Your palm hits her clit, adding impact to your strokes. “There you go, little slut,” you snarl. “Are you happy now? Maybe even a little grateful?”

If Minju’s ass isn’t pressed down on the glass mantling your dining table, it hovers so her pink little hole receives you better. It’s not without the help of her weak hands clinging to the table for dear life, but she seems to be losing her balance. Her hips are shuddering. Her beautiful face is squeezed up into a blissful wince. Her breaths are becoming blunt little gasps that say none of the gratitude you want to hear.

You slap her boob. Red blooms from her pale skin that deepens when another impacts her bosom. The recoil dizzies you. If anyone’s getting the impression that you’ll slap her bouncy tits until you hear a proper word of thanks, they’d be right. First impressions are right just for once.

“T-thank you—” Her voice cracks, breaking like her. “Fuck, shit, thank you, thank you.”

Squeeze her cruelly and pull on the perky nipple. Your thrusts become mindlessly paced. Your hand returns to your cock while the other ruins her pussy. The pleasure is telepathic. It’s connecting you; her screams and squirms make you do the same. The electricity firing up in your veins is a shared network. When you point your fingers to her spot, she arcs her back in the same direction. How beautifully fucked up is that?

“That’s not enough. You didn’t come here for nothing. What do you want, Minju?”

Minju babbles. You got your gratitude but not a proper answer. To be fair, she can’t speak when you’re fucking her like it’s your dick inside her, and when your lips are all over her collarbone.

“And you better keep quiet,” you add, curling your thrusts, “or Wonyoung‘s gonna hear. Do you really want her to know her precious friend is a big slut?”

However, despite the rumors she starts, Minju could be a very good girl when needed.

“Need you to make me cum,” she whispers. Her midriff is fluid as water with the way it rolls, showing off the hourglass shape of her waist and a soft tummy. “Do everything to me you can’t with Wonyoung. P-please, I can’t take it.”

Even if she can’t (wrong by the way), you’ll make her. She asked for it. She walked up to your house with a purpose: to be used, to be treated like less of a human being. So it’s understandable that you slam her down the table and seal a hand around her neck.

She’s so light that the forceful push doesn’t break the fragile glass. But there’s something of hers instead that’s going to be broken.

“Oh fuck! It’s so–” Minju’s eyes roll back. “Ohh… oh!”

Little sparks of wetness shoot in the air. Your pace turns merciless. With just three fingers, you puppet her body. Strings are pulled—her arms raise and her long legs strain to pull you in. You push and she keens, you pull and she yells. You’re making her desecrate the place with her water.

“C-can’t breathe.” A squeeze of her beautiful features—eyelids wrinkling, mouth parting, cheeks filling with scarlet—occurs before she squirts again. She whimpers pathetically, sounding so pitiful you want to laugh. “Ah, fuck, daddy—”

Something stirs inside you. When men hear that name, it ought to feel purely platonic and familial. They’d hear it from their daughter and feel compelled to protect them from men who’d do to them what you do to Minju. But you much prefer hearing that two-syllable word when it comes from a naked woman squirting all over the floor, from whom once you register it, you’re urged to pin her down, tie her down, hold her down.

Ironically, you release her. That isn’t because it’s over though. “On your knees. Follow me.”

Minju releases a gasp, grateful for the oxygen. The color returns to her face yet she barely has the energy to get off the table. You’re a generous man, and hey, it still counts as helping. So you yank her hair and force her on the ground. She fucking moans, a feat deserving of a healthy spank to her ass.

You walk to the living room. She follows you withher hands and knees bearing the cold tiles. You lead her to the place where you spend your time watching movies, rehearsing, and hanging out with Wonyoung if she’s ever home.

Speaking of, glance at the door of your bedroom. It’s still closed. It’ll stay that way.

Look down after wondering why Minju’s noisier. She’s playing with herself on the floor with no care for the cold chill of the tiles or the little dirt wedged between them. She lightly rubs her abused clit, quivering at the contact. You expect that from her—she’s corrupted, an irredeemable cause. She’ll get herself off anytime anywhere.

But what’s unexpected is what those watery eyes are focused on: you, in a framed picture on the wall. You look younger, happier. You’re in formal garments standing next to Wonyoung in a church.

It was you on your wedding day.

You spit on Minju. “Filthy cumslut.”

The drool slides down her cheek like a tear. She darts her tongue out and licks it. One could’ve thought it was candy considering the lift of a smile.

“I’m sorry, daddy,” she says resolutely. Her fingers still toy with her entrance. They won’t serve her well when there’s a bigger, better thing behind your pants to do it for her.

Your pants are already off. “Get up. Get the fuck up,” you command, but you do it for her.

You grab her neck and force her up. The look on her face is addicting, the way the shock turns into carnal need, the way she bites her lip. You press her to the wall, right under the framed wedding pictures, and finally plunge yourself inside her.

“Oh, oh, oh!”

What did Minju do to get this tight? Her walls are squeezed closer around you than you remember. They’re still wet from her squirting, easing your burden of fighting against the tautness of her core.

Her groans are pitched just like how you pitch yourself in her and make her fight for it. She tries everything: gathering the strength she has to push her ass into your crotch, rolling her body, looking back to watch your cock disappear between her lips.

“So big, daddy!” she cries. With a lick of her lips, she turns to face you. “Mmm, d-do you ever get this massive when you’re fucking Wonyoung?”

That seals it. There’s no restraint in using her body. Her plump ass leading to her toned back is a temptation by itself. You’d burst all over it (maybe in it) if you weren’t already firm in breeding her. But dear god—it rises and descends into your angled pumps so effortlessly that you aren’t afraid to spank it like you’re angry at her.

“Keep your whore mouth shut.”

Spank after spank you bestow and you realize, oh, you and Minju are really made for each other. The more her ass reddens, the more hot pain sparks on your palm. She throws herself back hard, you piston her harder.

Your puzzle pieces stick together so perfectly that it’s a shame you didn’t meet under different circumstances. She could’ve been an adorable girl next door and you could have been a guy looking to slip her a love letter. She would’ve been your loving girlfriend, a beautiful wife, someone you’d actually enjoy touching, so different from the woman asleep in the bed upstairs.

But that’s never happening. Minju’s a slut through and through, and she’ll forever be a sin you won’t go to confessions for. She was made to be fucked then discarded of when she’s no longer of use. You see it in the way she’s in a mantra of craziness, the way she yells, the way she looks back at you like she’s daring you to hurt her.

You choose the dare rather than to tell her the truth. You curl her hair into a fist and pull her into you.

“God, I’m so close.” Minju’s trembling body grows warmer in your touch. “I’m gonna cum all over your big gorgeous cock. I can’t hold out longer, daddy.”

Your teeth dig into her earlobe. You could make her bleed and she’d still find a way to make the pain heavenly. “I thought I told you to be quiet. Is Wonyoung waking up and ending your life worth it for this?”

“What if I say yes?”

“Fuck.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice, making her see you’d give her away to get a night with me? You’ll give up all this stupid shit t-to be my daddy. Because Wonyoung’s just sooo worthless, isn’t she?”

Savage her cunt and shove your fingers down her mouth just so she could shut up. You love this. Minju’s always so ready for you.

No, actually—now that you think about it, you hate it. You hate how she’s curvier than your wife, how she’s more alluring than she could ever be, how she moans despite the blockage in her throat. Everything about her is so sexy that the sound of her choking up spit makes you throb.

This is the wrong time to have a conscience. You’ve already split her apart. You’ve already got your fingers in her hair that pull hard to the point that damage is highly likely. You’ve already—

—got Minju screaming, biting down on your skin as her legs spread. What a strange thing to have as a natural reflex. That’s all she knows to do: spread her legs, hope her innocent face attracts a guy into her home and his dick into her pussy. Her skin, white as snow, has become impure with red blemishes. You see her purple-bruised neck flex when she yells into your hand.

“Daddy! Daddy!” Minju yells. Her fingernails leave fine scratches on the wall. “Fuck, I’m squirting so much I don’t know what to do—oh fuck!”

You bump the manic girl up on your knee before spreading her legs. A godless squirt of her juices hits Wonyoung’s face, the savior being the glass protecting the picture. Others bless their homes with water blessed by esteemed priests; you like to stand out. Choose to have Minju’s unholy juice flood the photo you once held dear.

Did something possess you? An evil spirit, a god of fertility? All are clichés but you can’t help but think so when you notice how fast you’re pumping Minju. It’s like greed’s finally reigned you. It’s difficult to resist. Minju just wrings your cock perfectly dry with her tight cunt, keeps you speedy with her desperate moans. You’re vandalizing her with your climax and she doesn’t want to be clean ever again.

“You think you’re special, Minju?” You press her to the ruined picture. Her side profile mashes on the glass. “You’re nothing, only a useless hole, just like that bitch. Now clean it up.”

Her eyes light up in shock. Excitement? “What?”

You pull her head back in order to have her full lips pressed against Wonyoung’s face. The clear squirt is still dripping from it. Minju’s face is red, and although your cock left her moments ago, she insists on tensing like it’s there. Is that how she lives? Her way of bonding is riding on the high she got the night before and the night before that. She always has sex in her mind that thoughts of it occur to her as they would to an animal.

That’s right; she’s an animal. Perhaps even a dog would have more self-control than her, ironically.

“Lick your mess,” you command. “Now.”

Minju whimpers. You bury your fingernails in her scalp until she loses her fake hesitance. Her tongue glides on Wonyoung’s face and relieves her of the mess. Her lips part and close, taking in her own taste.

She looks like she’s making out with your wife. Her pretty face smudges the other pretty face in the picture and it’s so much hotter than it’s got the permit to be. Wonder how it’ll look if she’s actually kissing the real Wonyoung—picture them with their legs locked together and tongues coming out to play—and you’re hard enough for another round.

“That’s right. You want to be Wonyoung so bad? You want to be the one I drive into the bed everyday? So fucking make out with her.”

“Y-yes, daddy. Oh.” Minju’s moans fog the glass. “I taste delicious.”

It’s probably a hygienically reprehensible thing to do. But her mouth is dirtier than the picture anyway. You force her lips deeper into it until you pull her away, satisfied.

Not quite.

Rub her clit a few more times. Hose her squirt all over the floor. You’ll have a mess to clean up. Oh, there’s all the evidence: her squirt on the floor, her lipstick in the shape of a languid kiss on the picture frame, the mess she made in the dining table where you ate her rather than your food.

But it’s all worth it. An evil idea plants and sprouts in your mind. “Bedroom.”

Minju pants. Her hands are flat on the wall. She turns to you, saliva and lipstick smeared on her chin, and asks, “W-which one?”

“You know exactly where.”

Her wide eyes tell you wordlessly that she got the point. She’s well aware of what room you want to use her body next. It’s not even supposed to be a question given the ways and moments you fucked her there.

“But daddy—if, if she hears us?”

You grin. “Then you’ll have to be pretty fucking quiet.”

The best thing about Minju besides her body is her passiveness. She may act up sometimes but she still needs your cock, and she’ll do anything to get it. So when she hangs her head to hide her smile, you spank her. It speeds her steps to the staircase. Continue doing so all the way.

It’s funny how she struggles to even lift a foot. Streams of your cum and hers slide down her legs, staining the carpet. You’ll have to wash that out, too. If you have the maid do it, she’s likely to put two and two together.

Even from the back, Minju’s body is beautiful. Her reddened ass twists from side to side and brings attention to her wide hips. The deep line on her spine is a path you trace your fingertips on. She quivers.

“Daddy,” she whines.

Hit her butt. Let it fill your palm. “Keep on walking.”

It’s borderline dehumanizing. You’re treating her with a ferociousness a woman like her should never have to go through. The eyes of the painted men and women on your walls lock on her. It’s like their hard stares are real. Minju bears the blows to her cheeks during her walk of humiliation up the stairs. Tiny yelps are caused by each one. It’s in her to be quiet now that Wonyoung is quite near, although not as close as she is to another heavy orgasm.

You slap her pussy, making her shake, then lead the juices mingling in it up to her asshole. She chews on the inside of her cheek to hide her moan. She reaches the last step with a huge sigh of relief.

The finality of the torture doesn’t last long. Fuck, it doesn’t even exist. You collect the semen and wetness from her legs, then drag it right back to her pussy.

You shove your fingers deep in her cave. There. Now your cum stays inside her. After that, it’ll drip all the way to her womb. She screams through pursed lips.

Push her hard against your bedroom door. Her stomach’s flatness goes up to the point that it’s the only thing engendered into the wood. Minju’s tiny gasp is already loud for you. Her beautiful side profile is mashed deep into the solid barrier between the two women.

Minju whimpers. Is she scared or heavily turned on? The thing with her is she likes both. So, yeah—she’s wet at the thought of being caught with you, being fucked within a distance of your wife wherein she could finally pin down your infidelity.

The little angel closes her eyes when your words hover near her prone ear. “Shut up,” you warn, “unless you want to lose your career. Or this dick.”

You slip your shaft between Minju’s shapely thighs. A friction is nurtured and grown into rough, pant-accompanied humping that leaves both of you breathless. Her pussy lips splay warmly on you and you’re allowed to rub yourself on her clit.

Minju tenses up. Her breaths are kept to a hummed volume yet their huskiness gets you to fuck her legs faster. The core between them is so warm and you haven’t even welcomed yourself in it again.

You carefully open the door. You don’t know what you’re expecting: Wonyoung crying with her face in her knees? An anger you never knew she could have? But what shows calms you. There’s your wife who remains asleep on the bed. From the soft snores, it’s easy to tell she’s deep in a dream.

“Wonyoung’s so pretty, daddy,” whispers Minju. You push her to the footboard where she holds on tight. “Do you think she’ll want to join if she wakes up? Or she’ll leave you for me?”

“Are you sure you want to act like that?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Depends on what you’re gonna do to me.”

Everything. You’re planning on doing everything to her.

Push her to the small pole of the wood. You’re forced to shove your fingers in her mouth again to keep her from yelling. The contact it makes to her clit is already overwhelming. But she’s all for overwhelming—she wants the kind of sex that leaves her beaten and bruised, the kind that leaves her sore and not knowing if she should tell you to keep going or halt.

You know what she’d choose.

Minju grinds on the pole. She’s dancing her hips again. Somehow, things of the past don’t leave her. Her idol days still leave an impact on her. The guy she made cheat on his wife a long time ago returned to her life to cheat again.

No, you’ve never been one for sentimentality, but things have somehow stayed the same. The slut that is Minju today was a slut all those years ago, too.

Grab her hips and force her to hump the ball of the pole. She soaks it instantly. Minju is corrupted to no hope of return. There’s your cum, leaking from her pussy and to the bedsheets. Her juices wet the pole and increase the creaking noises that would wake Wonyoung up if not for whatever dream she’s having.

“Oh, daddy! Oh, daaaddy—” she stammers, words bitten and broken in the major need to be quiet. “Just… fuck me. Please?”

“As long as you—”

“Be a good quiet girl, yes. I’ll do anything, daddy. Anything for this cock.”

She kneels down. Her tender mouth seals around your left testicle. You nearly shout right there and then. Minju’s running her lips on the underside of your swelling dick. She feels so good, and she is so good. She has all the tips and tricks to keep you hard memorized, if her brain wasn’t too full of other dirty thoughts.

The rasp in your throat materializes and makes her squirm her legs together. She puckers her lips then slips your cock through their joined entrance. Her almond eyes look wider tonight. Your tip pokes the back of her throat. She lets it rub there for now. You find pleasure in the texture that makes you leak. No, you can’t cum. Not yet.

Take a last look at Wonyoung before diving your rod to the depths of Minju’s throat.

It’s funny that the girl still has a gag reflex. Sucking dick is second nature to her. So is getting throatfucked. The walls of her oral hole flex to keep you in. She makes sharp inhalations only to take in the musky scent you thrust on her. In her?

Choking comes after. The orifice grows tighter which makes you fuck it harder. Saliva’s slick liquid state sheens your erection. Minju’s lost her breath a long time ago but she’s lost more than that now. The regular beat of her heart is gone. You can’t search her face for any color other than the palest white.

“You have to stop gagging, Minju,” you say. Don’t help her though; keep ruining that throat. “Maybe you really do wanna get caught. Makes you really wet, doesn’t it?”

She nods. Your hard tip bobs in her mouth as she does. Her pretty eyes, with their long lashes and big pupils that always seem to gleam with innocence, fill with watery tears.

“How cute.” You’re surprised that her hair is intact to her scalp after you pull it back. “But I make the rules around here. And I need you to seal that mouth shut and use it for good.”

There’s a possibility that, like Minju, you’re a dancer as well. But the upward grind of your body has no grace in it. It’s a rough, punked up beat that renders the girl humming and screaming. This roughness is nowhere close to natural.

You dip your cock in her just to see how far you could go, how far is needed to keep her quiet. Feed her more than she could suck. Every sensitive spot of yours is on fire thanks to Minju’s dutiful tongue and hard sucking. Your sack slaps her chin so hard it’s surprising it doesn’t hurt.

But, like you iterated, Minju isn’t normal. She takes the pain for pleasure and doesn’t give a damn if she gets wounded because of it.

The tears finally fall from her eyes.

The lines blur. Who is she—the woman asleep on your bed or the woman you fucked to be disloyal to her? Minju’s beautiful; so is Wonyoung. Jang Wonyoung is beautiful but there’s a category of beauty wherein the girl you’re destroying right now falls in. That’s the section for women who look pretty when they cry, who’ve accepted they’re as fucked up as whoever finds them and takes them in for who they are.

Your wife is pretty. You guess. But Minju is a beauty who lets you do everything to her, and that makes her a little bit more important.

Defile, defile, defile. Wonyoung wouldn’t let you get cum in her hair—(”I have a photoshoot, babe, you can’t!”). Semen sticks to Minju’s locks right now. Wonyoung wouldn’t let you be this rough with her—(“And what if they see? I shouldn’t look dirty to the fans.”) Minju is sitting there taking it like she’s just a cum dump. Wonyoung wouldn’t let you tear off her clothes because “they’re couture so it’s not really mine.” The coat Minju wore coming here lies discarded on the first floor.

Wonyoung doesn’t let anyone defile her. It’s her most fatal flaw. It’s the flaw that makes her husband see all the tiny imperfections she doesn’t allow the camera to see and chase highs in another woman’s throat.

So when Minju cries, gags, chokes—you realize it’s all so simple.

Slip out of her. The delusions clouding your head make you steal a look at the bed. Oh, now it’s unbelievable. Wonyoung is still asleep.

Not that it’s any inconvenience to you.

You prop Minju up to the vanity table. The counter carries the heave of her small chest. She can barely lift her head up. It makes her carry a look of humiliation that’s not at all true. She’s the most shameless woman you’ve ever met.

“Daddy… daddy…”

Twist her chin so she can look at herself in the mirror. Her body is amazing despite the handprints and bruises peppered on her stomach, butt, and neck. She flusters but your finger presses on her lips before she can look away.

“Not a single sound,” you remind her.

She nods. Good girl.

Minju’s a capable girl. Well, mostly. She offers those amazing dicksucking lips, shapely curves, and sometimes, her ass for ruining its own tightness. But nothing beats the feeling of her cunt. It’s all the right things: wet, tight, and perfectly quivering as they wrap around your shaft.

Minju closes her eyes. Bites down on her lip. She fights to be true to her promise of silence. Being a good girl and bad girl simultaneously is one of her versatile traits. The table creaks louder than expected. You would’ve shot another look at your spouse again, but Minju’s pretty face is in the way. Her cheeks are scarlet and her brows bead with sweat. She really is a beauty.

Your strokes are ceaseless. The thing that shocks you the least is the fact that her legs look as if they spread wider and wider. She splits while you split her apart. Place a hand on her tummy to muffle the sounds of skin colliding and wood creaking, and reach a better end: your cock is hitting her guts, making a bobbing print on her flat stomach.

“Look how deep I am, Minju.” You grin wickedly at her reflection. “You call me daddy anywhere, don’t you? How about I become a real one?”

Minju bounces herself on you. That’s a yes. A definite, enthusiastic yes.

Your penetration is rougher, gliding on places she can’t even imagine. If you cum right now, and this far in, you’ll live up to your name of “daddy.” Minju isn’t the only one who has to keep promises.

Corner a pulse point on her neck. Her core squeezes and although its resistance is tough, your pumps are more so.

“You’ll be my secret good girl. Daddy’s gonna put a fucking baby in your stomach, and no one has to know it’s mine. No one has to know you’re mine.”

Minju pouts, not out of sadness but of the orgasm that’s creeping from her feet to her center. It’s so close she could reach for it, taste it like a strong wind. You allow the tiny breaths and pants that leave her to be exemptions from your bedroom law.

“Wonyoung would be so happy for you.” You lick the sensitive spot behind her ear. “‘That’s so great, unnie! Come on, tell us who’s the lucky guy.’ And you’ll have to stop yourself from telling her that I did it. Can you do that?”

Minju emphasizes each repetition with a responding throb and push of her cunt. “Yes, yes, yes—”

Allow that, too. Burst inside Minju. Flood her insides with cum that shall infiltrate her fertile womb. Soon, that tummy would be round rather than flat. It’ll be your baby.

Minju got what she wanted in the end.

The next day, Wonyoung will wake up crying.

It’ll happen early in the morning, when the moon is still up and sheets still wrap your exhausted form. But she’s sobbing so loud that it’ll rouse you.

“What’s wrong?” you’ll say.

She’ll tell you about a dream she had. Wonyoung’s going to narrate a complex dream of Minju, her beloved former member and best friend, seducing you. It happened right in the house and in front of her. You dared to do it to her while she was sleeping and thought she didn’t know.

And you?

You’ll take her in your arms, kiss the inside of her trembling wrist, and say, “Oh, honey—it’s okay. I’m here, baby. I’m here. I’m here.”

1K notes · View notes

risuola · 7 months ago

Text

ENTRY #5 ♡ F. READER X GOJO SATORU // There's sugar to your kisses, it tastes like dessert.

contents: arranged marriage!au, fluff — wc. 2093

a/n: you welcomed the series so warmly and lovely, that I made this part longer. it's sickly sweet, it's fluffy — enjoy!

series masterlist

“What the hell am I doing–“

You groaned. Again and again. Sighing and throwing your hands into the air, helpless and hopeless. Resignation crawling up your skin, threatening to fight and win with your stubbornness and determination. You felt the characteristics you proud yourself with falter and peel away along with your pride and dignity and you found it ironic — pathetic — that years of harsh trainings, of bloody torture you endured, years of fights and pain did nothing to break you and now you’re losing your mind over a goddamn mochi.

Mochi.

A dessert made of rice dough, sweet and objectively adorable with its round shape and sugary filling. If someone asked you how much time you spent in the kitchen already, heating up the glutinous rice flour, mixing and kneading the dough, you wouldn’t know. Hours, most likely. Fighting a battle that you weren’t ready for, mixing ingredients, adding water, whisking, and then kneading again, burning your fingers and pads of your palms more times than you’d ever admit. And you hated it. Hated the corn starch that dusted all around the place, the sticky mass of heated rice flour that you tried to get just right and above all, you hated how much time it took you before it finally started to look like something you can work with.

“There we go,” you mumbled, kneading and stretching the dough between your hands and the marble countertop. There was a reason you were a fighter, not a cook and the current state of your kitchen made enough of a proof. Mochi now, cleaning later.

The fillings were delicious, you had to pat yourself on the back. You were very lucky today to grab the sweetest strawberries you ever ate. They tasted like summer, like hot, tropical heaven and you fought with yourself before you ate them all. The cream you whipped turned out just perfectly thick and fluffy. Then the green edamame paste — your husband’s favorite — came out just as good. Decadent almost, smooth and sweet, with perfect, bright green color and texture of a cloud. Half of your cream you mixed up with melted chocolate and while happy with the insides, you were still a little concerned about the dough.

You’re not gonna be defeated by a rice dough.

You managed to roll out the mass very thinly, perfectly, and began forming mochi, which turned out to be much easier to do than you anticipated.

Take the dough.

Scoop on the filling.

Close the dough.

Roll.

Repeat.

You filled up a tray, all of the balls prettily displayed on top of a parchment paper and you took it upon yourself to have a taste of each one. Delicious. Absolutely mind-blowing.

To the fridge they go.

Now clean.

* * *

Satoru got home around 7 pm — typical, if nothing comes up or hold him at work. His job as a teacher, you learned it quickly, was repetitive, predictable. He’s out the door just shy of 10 am and back near the evening, before the soft pinks and oranges of the summer turn into nightly blues and greys and you grew to appreciate the routine that settled into your lives. Spending most of the days separately made the first weeks of marriage much more bearable. It gave you and him enough time to get used to the new situation and cool off after many fights you had. But that was about to change and you were meaning to tell him today, sweetening the deal with mochi.

Oh right, mochi!

It got you a little too excited for Satoru to ignore, you looked a little brighter than usually, nervous even and he found it concerningly amusing. You’re rarely happy to see him back, he’s more used to see you ignore him than to greet him, and even if so – you’d usually pass him with a hi or an attempt of a small talk that he hated. Gojo couldn’t tell what was it that made you so much more vibrant that evening, you looked thrilled, your eyes glimmered in the dim lights of the house. You almost looked… happy? To see him? No, that couldn’t be it.

“Did something happen today? You look oddly excited,” he spoke, following his usual routine of taking off his uniform jacket and putting it neatly on a hanger in the hallway, folding his blindfold in half to have it ready in the morning and washing his hands and face. The soft, dry towel soaked up the excess wetness from his skin as he patted it away, pointing his ocean-blue eyes toward you expectantly.

“Well, yes, kind of,” you replied and dropped onto the soft cushions of the sofa in the living room. You twisted your body slightly and looked at him, and he got the hint because few seconds later, he sat down next to you. “Two things. First, I got an offer to work as a teacher in your school. Yaga contacted me–“

“You are the new teacher for the second years?” Satoru cut you and you couldn’t read him. A slight surprise was all you could decipher from the expression of his features.

“Yes. Well, not yet,” you sighed, “before I agree I wanted to ask you what you think.”

“And you’ll do as I say? Since when you’re doing as you’re told?” He teased and for a moment you considered eating all the mochi yourself. Maybe tying him to the chair and devouring it right in front of his eyes? You opened your mouth to say something rather unpleasant before he spoke again. “If you’re asking me for permission, we both know you don’t need it. I’m sure kids will benefit from having you to lead them.”

“Are you willing to be civil with me if we spend more time along each other during the day? Last thing I need is to argue with you more than we already do.”

“We don’t argue that much lately,” he protested and you huffed out a chuckle, nodding in agreement. You didn’t fight at all, if you think about it. It seemed as if slowly you were getting used to… everything.

“So, you’re fine with the idea?”

“I’m fine with the idea, yes,” he said, running a hand through his white, slightly damp hair and brushing it back. You took in his features, allowing yourself to just stare at the man you married, because even if wedded, you see him no more than his students are. He still sleeps on the couch; he still spends most of his time outside. “You’re staring.”

“I am,” you confirmed, shamelessly and it made him chuckle. “Talking about staring, close your eyes.”

“Why would I–“

“Close your eyes and open your mouth,” you ordered, getting up from the comfortable seat you were sunken into. “Please?”

“I’m honestly concerned,” he said but reluctantly lowered his eyelids. As if it made him any less aware of his surroundings. “What are you planning?”

“Don’t peek.”

Quickly, you padded into the kitchen and uncovered the mochi you kept out of the fridge for about ten minutes now. You took the tray and a glass of water and got back to where Satoru was situated. With his eyes closed, comfortable against the cushions. He felt your weight sinking onto the pillows next to him and a hint of something sweet in the air.

“Open up,” your voice made him hum, still uncertain but curious nonetheless. ‘Open up’ was such a foreign command for him to follow and the small amount of trust that was secure between you and him had to suffice for him to comply. “There we go,” you almost whispered and Satoru slightly flinched at the first contact of his mouth with, what felt like, a blob of cold unknown substance. For a reason he couldn’t really rationalize, he grabbed onto your waist to balance himself, even if there was nothing to throw him off.

Slowly, with caution, Gojo closed his mouth, allowing his teeth to meet the dough, go through it. Mochi. He recognized the sweet taste of his very favorite treat immediately but something about what was just melting against his tongue felt different to what he’s used to. The rice envelope was softer but chewy, sweetened just perfectly and the paste inside — green bean — had a texture of silk and butter, a luscious heaven itself. He felt it spreading along his taste buds, warming against the insides of his cheeks. A perfect mixture of fluffy inside and glutinous outside. So sweet, so delicious.

“Oh my god,” he whimpered. A sound so foreign, that it almost surprised you if not for the very vibrant wash of pleasure that relaxed his features. Just as the mochi melted in his mouth, he melted against the couch.

“Was it good?” You asked, while the answer was relatively clear from what you had a chance to witness. “I made them for you and they are not perfect yet but–“

“You made this mochi for me?”

Satoru’s bright blue eyes snapped open and his grip on your waist tightened. A shock pushed to the front of his expression, he blinked — once, twice — before you nodded slowly. Then he followed the direction of your gaze; his own landing on the tray full neat rows of plump rice balls, so perfectly imperfect against the dark wood below them. He could tell some had a green undertone, the edamame filling, and some were looking white and plain. Next row seemed to have chocolate inside and he could catch the hint of it in the air.

“You made all of this? With your hands?”

“From scratch, yeah,” you nodded, reaching for another one. “Chocolate.”

Being fed by you — his wife — felt odd, unfamiliar, and yet the subtle brush of your fingers against his lips whenever you gently pushed the doughy ball into his open mouth felt just right. Satoru thought he could get used to it, and the mochi.

“So you’re not only a good cook,” you’re not, but you hummed. “But also you can make mochi? If we weren’t already married, I would have asked you to marry me now.”

“That easy, huh?”

“That easy.”

You shook your head, visibly suppressing a giggle and Gojo hoped you wouldn’t hold it. It’s only now that he’s learning how pretty is your smile, how your eyes crinkle every time you allow your face to relax and take on a pattern of joy. He likes the shape your lips form, how they stretch whenever you’re happy and how your brows lift up just slightly above your half-closed lids. He wished you’d let yourself burst out laughing, but instead you shook your head yet again and let out a sigh of content. Good enough.

You reached onto the tray again. This time it was the white blob of doughy goodness hanging heavy between your dainty fingers. “This one is my favorite.”

There was no need to tell him twice. Satoru opened his mouth, eager for the sweetness you called your favorite although from your words he had a suspicion what was inside. Strawberries. You love strawberries. He learned that during the wedding celebration, when you eyed the fruit on his piece of the cake with the most adorable envy he’s ever seen – and then, those very same eyes glittered with pleasure when he exchanged his plate with yours. He remembers how you left the red, plump strawberry for the last bite, how you sighed with content as you bit into the juicy flesh of the fruit, how you nearly purred despite the stressful predicament you were placed into.

“Divine,” Gojo purred himself, as the flavors mixed in his mouth. The crisp, fresh strawberry, along the velvety cream and chewy dough made for an experience he could only compare to orgasm.

He wanted more.

Craved more and he blames it on you that the moment you sunk your teeth into the sweet treat, he leaned closer. His mind went blank when he wrapped his own mouth around the half mochi that sticked out, his lips brushed against yours. A drop of red juice run down his chin, wet and sticky against his skin. He didn’t care. Greedy for more, for you, he leaned in even more, tempted by the sweet taste of your sugar-powdered lips flush to his own.

You gasped. Purred. In surprise, in pleasure, or both.

The feeling unfamiliar, addicting, syrupy.

You should stop it.

You wanted more.

He should stop it.

He wanted more.

It was slow, sloppy and nothing but strawberry and cream.

taglist: @kinny-away , @anan-baban , @lotomber , @netflix-imagines , @kawliflo , @nishloves , @ghostfacefricker6969 , @thejujvtsupost , @yozora7154 , @cherrycolabarbedwirebedpost , @ae-mius , @ropickle , @chokesonspit

780 notes · View notes

jarofstyles · 4 months ago

Note

❛ come in me. i need you to fill me up. ❜

JEJE

This is late 😭 I wrote this a few days ago and forgot to post it… but it’s from the dialogue prompts I reblogged a bit ago and I felt like writing something!! 😃 and it’s dirty of course

This is from Illicit universe if you want to imagine that, or could be a standalone ❤️ and it’s pure filth

Check out our Patreon

Warnings- unprotected sex, creampie, breeding, the usual filth

——

Y/N mewled as she felt his cock filling her up. thorough, deep, hot, her face felt hot as he pressed down on her tummy. “Holy fuck.” The whimper resonated through their bedroom, along with the wet slap of skin and the soft sound of her little gasps and his grunts.

Harry's eyes rolled back as he felt her clenching around his cock, the sound of her mewling and whimpering driving him wild. It always did. He gripped firmly, fucking into her with his deep thrusts. Feeling every inch of her was what he needed more than anything. "Fuck, baby… fuck, I needed you." Harry's eyes rolled back, his head thrown back in ecstasy as he felt his cock filling her tight, wet pussy over and over again. It had been too long without it. He liked his job, but being away from her for business trips was becoming increasingly hard. Keeping his hand pressed firm on her stomach, his eyes refocused as her tits bounced with each thrust.

His length felt thick inside of her, stretching her cunt to its limits. It had been weeks since he’d been inside of her and it was showing with how she felt when he pushed inside. With each thrust, he filled her up completely, making her feel full to the brim with his hot, throbbing prick. The goal was always to make her feel good, full, satiated.

“Did you miss it?” Y/N panted, peering up at him with a loaded gaze. “Did you miss my cunt while you were away, H?”

Harry groaned at the dirty talk, his cock twitching inside of her. “Shit, angel... So much. You’ve got no fuckin’ idea. I couldn't stop thinking about it." He shifted his hips, changing the angle and hitting a particularly sensitive spot that made her gasp and tighten around him even more.

“What did you think about?” she needed to know. their phone sex hadn’t been as frequent as she wanted, but he was making it up to her now. Giving her exactly what he knew she’d need.

Harry's breath hitched as he thought back to their phone calls. They were good, anything was with his love, but nothing could compare to the real thing. Flesh against flesh, the taste, the sounds… "I thought about fucking you in the shower, bending you over the sink and pounding you out until the water turned cold." He thrust harder, the headboard jostling a bit as he looked down at the pretty cunt he had missed so desperately. “Had the perfect bathroom and no pretty little slut t’fuck full. S’a goddamn shame…”

“Shit.” Y/N whined, wrapping her legs tighter around his waist. “I know you hate wasting cum, baby. M’sorry I wasn’t there for you to have when you got worked up. Next time you’ll just have t’take me with you.”

Harry grunted, making a note of that. No trips for that long without her again. He would have to ensure she was there next time. Pay for her his damn self if they cared about him taking a plus one. Clingy? Maybe. But she was his god damn soul mate and he needed her. "I fucking hate it when you're not there, Y/N. I end up jerking off in the shower, imagining it's your tight little cunt I'm fucking." His lips ghosted hers. “It all belongs inside of you.”

Y/N's back arched off the bed, her nails digging into Harry's back as he thrust into her harder and spoke dirty words to her. Hazy eyes glazed over with pleasure at his words. Her legs pulled him closer, trying to get deeper, deeper, deeper.

“Put it in me then.” She coaxed. “I missed it just as much. Hate feeling empty.” Her body loved every single bit of him, getting off on the mere grazes of his fingers but the desperation he showed had her dripping around him. Call her selfish but she wanted everything. “Cum in me. Need you t’fill me up. Give me what you’ve been holding back.” She mewled. “I want it.”

Harry's control snapped at her words, his body reacting to the request before his brain could connect. It wasn’t his normal, but the combination of how good she felt, how long it had been and her words had shot the target. He slammed into her one last time before stilling deep inside her. His hips jerked a few times as he unloaded his heavy balls deep into her spasming cunt. "Fuck, fuck, fuck! M’sorry baby, I couldn’t hold it.” He slurred, body shaking slightly, mouth slack. Her orgasm usually came first, but she had triggered it without giving him warning. “I jus’ fucking missed you so much…”

Harry's cum shot deep into her, filling her cunt to the brim with hot, thick ropes of his essence. It overflowed slightly from around their joined bodies, running down her ass and onto the bed. Filthy, messy, completely them. His cock twitched and throbbed inside of his girl, each pulse sending another spurt of cum deep into her, filling the primal need. He panted, kissing her between inhales as his cum continued to ooze out of her. “M’sorry baby. I’ll take care of you in a second.”

Arms wrapped around Harry, holding him close as she pulled his face against her neck. Soft strokes to his hair followed whispered soothing words as he caught his breath. In all honesty? She found it incredibly hot that he had lost control like that, pouring his heart and cum into her without hesitation. It was a compliment. “It’s okay, baby.” Comforting him was instinct. “I know you’ll take care of me. wanted your cum so bad anyway…” She kissed the side of his head, letting him catch his breath. “Think you have some more for me?”

Greedy, greedy. Always needy. It’s something he utterly loved about her.

Harry groaned against her neck before slowly pulling from her heated channel. White cum dribbled down her ass as he grinned sheepishly at her question. “Maybe.” He gave her a sly little smile, licking his lips as she pulled his mouth down for a kiss. “Let me clean you up with my tongue n’food and give you your own orgasm first. Need you t’be taken care of.”

#jarofstyles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles fanfic #harry styles smut #harry writing #harry styles imagine #harry drabble #harry styles blurb #harry styles writing #illicit #harry styles au #harry fanfic #harry styles fanfics #harry styles fic #harry styles fluff #harry styles imagines

753 notes · View notes

chelseeebe · 11 months ago

Text

still into you

after abruptly leaving hawkins (and you) seven years ago, eddie munson, ex-boyfriend turned rockstar, makes a grand return. how will things pan out when your lives couldn’t be further apart?

this has been in the drafts for god knows how long and you can definitely tell where my writing started to improve as i came back to it.. hope y’all enjoy anyway! this is so long good lord. also includes a bit of bestfriendism with stevie!

18+. mdni. smut. mentions of alcohol. eddie is a dickhead. no use of y/n!

read part two here.

‎♡‧₊˚

‘you know he’s coming back next weekend?’ steve mutters, nodding towards you as you rip the sellotape from the brown box, beginning to stack the cans of soup.

‘is he? oh my god oh my god,’ feigning excitement with a straight face.

you’d already known he was coming back, you’d received the invitation just like everybody else. except, you’d swiftly put the gimmicky piece of paper into the trash and got on with your day. confused why everyone else seemed to be losing their goddamn minds over it.

he huffs quietly, helping you with the heavy tins, ‘are you gonna go?’ steve didn’t actually work in melvalds but came in on his breaks purely to chat and distract you from your work.

‘am i gonna go? hmm, let me think.. no.’

‘he wants to see you.. you should come,’ prodding his elbow into your side, collapsing the box into a flat piece of cardboard.

‘you spoke to him?’ ears perking up. you didn’t care if he’d mentioned you. no, really.

‘yeah.. he called a few weeks ago, y’know when the invitations got sent out,’ picking up the next box to start filling the shelf.

‘oh! it’s nice to know he called you and just hilarious to know i never got a phone call,’ getting frankly quite sick of hearing about eddie fucking munson and his grand return.

once upon a time, eddie had actually been your boyfriend. must’ve been 7 or so years ago by this point.. anyway, that was before he’d got his big break and decided that he was going to completely forget about hawkins.. and about you. you’d still been together after his first tiny tour, excitedly waiting for him to come home when he just.. never did.

he’d had the decency to at least call and tell you that he was breaking up with you.. we’re just in different places right now.. it’s not you.. i don’t want you to ruin your life waiting for me..

it was essentially a whole bunch of bullshit, because the very next month he was spotted with some bottle blonde model looking suspiciously close at some club he’d have absolutely hated the year prior. it was like a punch to the gut, flicking through the pages of the trashy magazine just knowing that you hadn’t been enough for this new lifestyle of his.

from then on, you’d decided to disengage with any and everything about him. turning the tv off when corroded coffin came on one of the morning talk shows, leaving the room at parties when one of his song’s inevitably came on and just completely blanking out of the conversation when his name was brought up. it was easier that way, saved your feelings and the awkward glances you’d get.

at some point things had become slightly more complicated and you’re not sure how exactly it had happened but you had wound up pregnant. and by jason carver no less. maybe it was your shared disdain for eddie that had brought you together. who knows?

but it had happened and now you had to deal with it. and although jason may come in a close second to world’s biggest assholes.. you had gained a beautiful daughter from it all and had become quite content with your single mom life.

people had come and gone, robin jetting off to some fancy college in california.. jonathan and nancy ending up in new york at some hot-shot newspaper.. the kids you’d sort of gathered had all gone off to various colleges, becoming adults themselves. all except for steve.

steve had stayed in hawkins like you, begrudgingly following his father’s footsteps, getting a job at his accounting firm. it was good money and kept his dad happy so he couldn’t fault it really. he’d even got his own place just down the street from your house and at some point you’d just accepted that he was probably your only friend in hawkins.

it had brought the two of you undeniably closer and maybe you’d even call him your best friend now. well, except for right now as he was beginning to piss you off with all this fussing over eddie.

‘you have to come.. it’s not just for him, everyone is going.. it’s a reunion,’ steve continues to pester you despite your efforts to shut him down.

‘steve, i’m not going and that’s that.’

he sighs, staring at you with a blank expression, ‘okay, well.. i’ll tell him it’s a maybe,’ checking his watch before frowning, ‘shit, i’m late.. i’ll see you later,’ throwing the empty cardboard to the floor before dashing off down the aisle, giving you an exaggerated wave as he disappears.

you just knew that he was not going to drop this until you agreed to go. but he could kick and scream as much as he liked, you had absolutely zero desire to go this flimsy reunion and even less desire to see eddie in the flesh.

it’s another dull week of stacking shelves and managing a team of absolute morons and before you know it, it’s the day before that fucking reunion and steve is still as incessant as ever that you must go.

‘my mom can look after ella.. please just come,’ he sounded like he was a second away from getting on his knees to actually beg you to go.

you’d started to just ignore him now, getting on with whatever you were doing, choosing to give him the silent treatment. he hated that.

‘you’re so annoying,’ he scoffs, still helping you unbox the bags of chips, ‘will you just come for five minutes.. you don’t even have to talk to eddie, it’s the first time we’ll all be together again.. puh-leaseee,’ breaking into a weird sort of sing-song tone.

you exhale through your nose, visibly frustrated by the man, ‘i’m going to ban you in a minute,’ raising your eyebrows, taking the same tone you used when ella was being a brat.

‘no you won’t,’ furrowing his brows, ‘what if i promise to stand in between you the whole night? i’ll beat him with a stick if he even tries to talk to you,’ completely serious with what he just said.

you chortle, covering your mouth as one of the elderly customers walks past, slightly bewildered by the noise that just escaped your mouth, ‘couldn’t you just beat him with a stick anyway?’

‘ehh.. not really, he is paying for the whole thing,’ straightening the bags of air he’d just placed on the shelf, ‘i mean, i could if you really want me to.’

you roll your eyes, of course he was. he’d rented the fanciest restaurant just outside of town for your gaggle of pals. any chance to flaunt the fact that he’d made it out of this hell hole and left the rest of you in the dirt.

‘i have a child, steve, i can’t just go out and leave her at home.. some of us aren’t free like you are,’ turning to face him with a stern hand on your hip.

‘i just told you my mom’ll look after her.. she hasn’t seen her in so long and.. and you can stay at mine and i’ll take you to her first thing in the morning,’ his eyes are round, glimmering in the harsh overhead lights.

‘i don’t have anything to wear,’ shrugging, you really didn’t. becoming a mother isn’t quite so glamorous and a lot of clothes you’d once fit into had become a little tight.

‘when d’you finish?’

narrowing your eyes at him, ‘two..’

‘great.. okay well, i’ll take a half-day and we can go shopping.. on me,’ wiggling his eyebrows at you. the thing about steve is that he believes that most problems can be solved by throwing money at it.

he wasn’t wrong, of course.

because you reluctantly agree to go shopping with him on the condition that you weren’t definitely going to this thing. you were just going to try on dresses. that was it.

you get a cab to the restaurant, there was no way in hell you were doing this sober nor did you want to subject steve to being sober for your sake. palms clammy as you clamber out of the vehicle, immediately regretting your decision.

no one would care if you didn’t go, right? you could quite easily just get back into the taxi and go home without forcing yourself to endure the night.

steve’s one step ahead of you, grabbing your hand so you can’t run away. throwing him an awful glare but you weren’t really mad, just annoyed that he’d succeeded in persuading you to come.

‘c’mon.. it won’t be so bad once you’re in there,’ smoothing down his fresh shirt as he begins to walk up the winding path, dragging you along behind him.

he’s wrong. it’s so much worse inside. the place was huge, extravagantly decorated and full of people you’d once regarded as your best friends, all too busy in their own conversations to notice you and steve walk in.

it wasn’t like you hadn’t heard from them, it had just been through occasional letters and christmas cards rather than seeing them face to face. robin would call sometimes, fill you in on whatever she had been up to and beg to speak to ella who absolutely loved it. you were sure they were on the same wavelength.

you look to steve with wary eyes, digging your fingertips into his hand, ‘we could just leave right now.. no one would even know,’ tugging gently on his arm.

‘hey,’ he whispers, ‘it’s okay.. look, robin’s coming over, we’ll say hi and see how you feel,’ using his spare hand to wave at the bubbly girl, dropping your hand to give her a hug.

‘oh my god,’ she rushes, ‘how are you? you look so good.. and i don’t mean you,’ pulling away from steve to throw her arms around you, her gentle hands rubbing on your back.

‘hah, it’s nice to see you too,’ steve rolls his eyes, grabbing two of the champagne flutes being ferried around by fancy waiters.

she pulls back, ‘i didn’t think you were coming.. how are you doing? how’s ella?’ the words falling out of her mouth at super speed, it was as if her mouth moved before her brain did.

‘i wasn’t gonna but i wanted to see you guys,’ you nod, taking the glass from steve’s outstretched hand and taking a lengthy sip, ‘i’m okay.. ella’s okay.. you’ll have to come and see her before you leave.’

‘i will i will! i literally landed like two hours ago and had to rush but i’m back until friday,’ her hands flying around as she spoke, ‘come and say hello..’ her arm intertwines with yours as she leans in closer to your ear, ‘he’s staring y’know..’

your eyes roll back on their own, not even wanting to search the room for him, ‘i’m not speaking to him so he can stare all he likes,’ straightening up as you approach the group robin had left.

nancy’s talking to max about something in incredible detail but is quite to stop when you approach, mouth in a small ‘o’ as she hugs you, ‘you came? i thought we were gonna miss you,’ grinning wide when she pulls back.

you give an overdramatic sigh, ‘of course i had to come.. you’d all miss me too much,’ waving to the rest of the group.

there are a lot of small pleasantries swapped, asking about their journey’s here and how they’d been.. standard small talk. but then el asks to see a picture of ella, ecstatic that their names were so similar. you’d come prepared, pulling the creased picture out of your bag.

they all gush and coo over her, it was a picture you’d snapped from her first day of kindergarten, cheesing with her pigtails and pink hair bobbles. passing it around the gathered group, still steadily sipping on the bitter champagne.

‘who’s that?’ eddie asks, you hadn’t noticed him sidle over to the crowd, stood peering over lucas’ shoulder at the photograph.

your eyes meet his, seeing his face for the first time in what felt like centuries. he looked older, obviously, still sporting the same long curls except now it actually looked as if it’d been styled. he’s in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, forearms now littered with tattoos and a nice looking watch. your heart just about stops beating when you realise you’ll now have to explain exactly who that is.

‘uh.. that’s ella,’ you nod, not quite meeting his eyes, ‘..my daughter,’ taking the photo from lucas’ hand, the atmosphere had quite suddenly shifted and people begin to scatter, starting their own conversations so they don’t have to bare witness to this one.

‘oh.. oh, right.. well, congratulations then,’ the shadow of a smile on his lips, could he feel how fucking awkward this was?

‘thank you,’ giving him a half nod, startled as steve’s hand brushes the small of your back. he’d seen that you were in conversation and had left dustin to fulfil his security guard promise.

‘it’s nice that you two found each other.. you have a beautiful daughter,’ still not fully committed to smiling but he was getting there.

your face contorts, immediately looking to steve before letting out a god awful cackle, ‘oh no.. she’s not steve’s,’ covering your mouth before another taunting laugh comes out.

steve is trying to stifle his grin but fails, reaching his hand out to shake eddie’s hand, ‘ah man, no ella’s not mine but she is beautiful, isn’t she? how are you?’

you’re eternally grateful that he he’s managed to sway the conversation and you aren’t forced to explain why or how you’d had a child with jason fucking carver. turning back to robin as you hear steve ramble on about work and corroded coffin’s new album, something you had absolutely no care about.

‘shall we get another drink?’ robin asks, eyeing the open bar and your empty glass.

‘please.’

the rest of the night is going.. relatively well. it’s kinda unsettling to watch the younger kids drink legally, getting more boisterous and loud as the night progresses. it’s nice, if not a little sad just thinking about how you weren’t really able to enjoy yourself at their age because you had a newborn.

you must’ve been deep in thought as you don’t even notice eddie creep up to the empty table, standing awkwardly besides your chair, ‘can we talk?’

your eyes shoot up to meet his, baffled by his presence, ‘what could we possibly have to talk about?’

he exhales through his nose, ‘uh.. a lot? we don’t have to do it here.. i have a room upstairs or.. outside?’

‘no,’ gripping onto your glass of wine, desperately trying to grab the attention of someone behind eddie to come and save you, ‘i don’t want to speak to you.’

he’s exasperated, clutching onto his beer with strained white knuckles. how were you ever supposed to move past this when you wouldn’t even give him the opportunity to explain himself. but that was exactly it. you didn’t care about any of the silly excuses you’re sure he’d conjured up, he did what he did and that was that.

‘i’m trying here..’ sounding exasperated, ‘how ‘bout dinner? sometime this week, on me,’ his voice is deeper now, raspier. you figure as a result of constant partying and chain smoking while on tour.

‘i have a child and a job.. i don’t have time for dinner with you on top of that,’ swallowing the rest of the sweet white wine, putting the empty glass back on the table with a forceful slam.

you make brief eye contact with will who was passing behind eddie and decide to take the opportunity to pounce, standing from your chair and rushing over the second he nears your table.

‘will.. hey,’ speeding to catch him up, mouthing a small save me, clinging to his arm as you move away from eddie who was stood deflated at the table.

will thankfully catches your drift, steering you towards the bar, ‘you okay? i was just about to leave..’ placing his empty glass onto the bar with a soft sigh.

‘what? no.. if i can’t go then you’re not allowed either,’ talking sternly to the boy even though he now towered above you and just about everybody else in here.

he screws up his face, looking over to the dance floor, ‘it’s just..’ sighing once again, ‘awful, isn’t it?’ following his gaze to an intoxicated mike performing an elaborate air guitar routine in the middle of the floor.

it wasn’t exactly the same, but you could empathise with the difficult situation and that foul feeling in your stomach that you were sure he could feel too. you could imagine that it wasn’t easy to see the man you’d once, or perhaps still loved after so long. in fact, you didn’t really need to imagine at all.

deciding it was better to change the subject, distract him from the unraveling scene on the dance floor, ‘d’you smoke?’

he looks around quickly, watching out for a listening jonathan, you assume before he nods quickly, ‘but no one can know,’ a hint of a smile creeping onto his face.

you return the devilish grin before hooking your arm in his, pulling him towards the door where you could get the hell away from annoying men and their long black hair.

it’s gone three by the time you get back to steve’s, genuinely having to coax him from the party and into the cab you’d shared with a belligerent dustin, making sure he had got home safely.

‘i wasn’t too mean, was i?’ snuggled up in steve’s blankets, facing each other in the low light of his room.

‘nooo, no you were on fire,’ he laughs, he was still tipsy and slightly reeking of booze as he lay next to you.

‘really? you’re sure?’ he was definitely just drunk and blabbing on but you’d take it.

‘yes.. it was perfect,’ he hiccups, interrupting his sentence, ‘buuut.. and i’m not the only one who said this so don’t kill me..’ kissing the back of his teeth, ‘you’re not gonna like what i have to say.’

‘what? what is it?’ prodding his shoulder with a quick jab. knowing eddie, he’d probably gone round the party whispering some bullshit about the two of you.

‘well..’ holding his hands in the air, ‘there’s still chemistry there.. y’know i could see it,’ raising his eyebrows, hands collapsing onto the blanket.

‘right, i’m going to sleep.. you’re drunk and just saying stupid shit now,’ rolling your eyes as you settle into the soft pillow, closing your eyes so you no longer had to entertain his idiotic nonsense.

he chortles, hiccuping mid-laugh which makes a horrid choking noise, ‘i’m not that drunk.. robin said it too,’ the lamp clicks off, darkening the room, ‘and dustin..’

‘go to sleep steve,’ unamused and tired.

‘okay okay.. goodnight,’ he calls, you can hear the smile in his voice as he turns to face the other way, taking that as your opportunity to rest your head on his back, nuzzling into the soft cotton t-shirt.

monday is particularly awful and you’re reminded exactly why you don’t drink often. two days on and you’re still exhausted, half-heartedly filling the shelves and just trying to make it to two o’clock.

in your tired state, one of the bottles of shampoo you were putting out, falls out of your hand and rolls off somewhere down the aisle. you sigh, a deep, fed-up, exhaustive sigh and get up to go and fetch it when the bottle appears before your face, a tattooed, ring-filled hand latched onto it.

‘carver? really?’ eddie frowns, watching you from above, eyebrows furrowed together.

you place the bottle onto it’s rightful spot on the shelf and choose to ignore him. if he’d come all the way down here just to piss you off about your poor life choices then he could get fucked.

‘when’d that happen?’

blanking him again as you continue to put stuff onto the shelves. this was the easiest way to guarantee that you weren’t going to get yourself fired for being rude to him.

‘you gonna ignore me? i just wanna know,’ still poking and prodding, he clearly wasn’t very good at picking up on context clues.

nothing.

‘fuck, can you just talk to me for five minutes?’ your silence was driving him crazy, aggravating him to no end.

‘i’m at work, so no,’ hurriedly trying to finish the stock you had so you had an excuse to rush out the back and away from him.

he was fortunate that it was a quiet monday, the store full of mostly older ladies who had no idea who he was. you sorta hoped that he’d get mobbed and would have to hurry off and leave you alone.

‘why jason? out of literally everyone else in this shithole you choose jason?’ screwing his face up in disgust.

you slam the box cutter down with a loud clatter, causing a few turned heads and raised eyebrows. fuck ‘em. if you had done what you’d really wanted to do, you’d be locked up forever.

‘i don’t know if you remember this but my boyfriend of like, two years ran away and never came home so yeah.. that kinda fucked with me a little and lucky for me, jason carver was there and also hated my ex’s guts.. so it was perfect, you know?’ staring flatly at him, you were not dealing with his shit today.

eddie scoffs, ‘so you had a kid with him? and now.. what? you play happy families just to spite me? is that it?’

‘yes eddie, i had a whole child just to piss you off.’

he gawps back at you, clearly also did not possess the ability to sense sarcasm.

‘no,’ scowling at him, ‘it was an accident and now he’s.. i dunno, coaching basketball at some school in ohio or some shit.. why don’t you go and bother him?’

‘so you’re not together?’

you can only roll your eyes in response, in sheer disbelief that he’d made such a fuss because he couldn’t just outright ask if you were single.

un-fucking-believable.

you’ve had just about enough of this conversation, pulling your little trolley back towards the swing doors that lead to the warehouse. at least he wasn’t allowed in there.

‘wait! wait..’ he grabs onto the other side of the trolley, stopping you from walking off, ‘have dinner with me tonight or.. tomorrow?’ eyes big and pleading.

‘now why would i do that?’

‘because i want to explain myself.. i need to.’

one of the younger shoppers notices who he is and begins trying to talk to him, coming over to where you two stood rather excitedly. eddie is kind enough to smile and give her a few polite words, eyes still latched onto yours despite the ecstatic woman beside him.

‘okay,’ honestly just wanting to get away from all this commotion, ‘tomorrow.’

his scowl subsides, replaced by a gleaming grin, ‘six o’clock.. pino’s, i’ll sort it, okay?’ already starting to walk away from the crazy woman.

‘right,’ you nod, pulling your trolley away and into the back warehouse, leaning against the concrete wall. the whole exchange was tiring, knocking whatever tiny bit of energy out of you.

were you actually gonna go?

absolutely fucking not.

by the time six rolls around the next night, you really had forgotten all about it. rushing to get ella her dinner after swimming lessons, already worrying about paying for yet another field trip she’d sprung on you earlier. you’d begun to wonder if they even taught in the classrooms anymore with the amount of permission slips she brought home.

she’s finally settled into bed, after much protesting and a lot of coaxing. you’re just about to finally relax on the couch when someone hammers on your front door. and if you weren’t already pissed off with ella’s whining, you were most definitely about to be with whichever mindless prick was banging on your door.

‘what do you want?’ you hiss, jerking the door open to reveal a pathetic looking eddie on the other side, face forlorn and dejected.

he’s in that white shirt again. it makes you sick to your stomach to admit that it really does look good on him. his arms now more defined, the cotton sticking to his muscles, briefly showcasing the new tattoos underneath. maybe he’d actually got off of his ass and did something other than smoke weed all day.

‘oh so you are alive, d’you forget about something?’ he’s snarling now, having conjured up some elaborate excuse in his head as to why you hadn’t showed, only to find you at home, seemingly with no care in the world.

‘oops,’ the corners of your mouth twitching into a smile, you hadn’t even actually meant to stand him up, you were just gonna call his hotel and cancel but the thought had just completely slipped your mind.

and even if it shouldn’t, it really did feel good. knowing he was the one sat waiting for you for once.

‘oops? i sat there for an hour waiting for you and then spent the last hour trying to convince dustin to give me your fucking address.. and all you can say is oops?’

you shrug, ‘feels pretty shitty to be forgotten about, doesn’t it?’ tilting your head, watching as his face falls. he’d been got.

‘okay.. okay, i get it, and i’m sorry.. there’s not a day that goes by that i don’t feel like shit for how i treated you,’ his head dips low, looking particularly sorry for himself.

and for a second you do too. not that he deserved it. quickly having to remind yourself exactly what he had done to you, which was not at all helped by the fact that he now had everything he’d ever wanted in life.

and you couldn’t fault your life. truly. but fuck did it sting sometimes, to know that your life had stagnated, stuck in the same shitty town you’d grown up in while he was on the other side of the country, more money than sense and a hoard of doting fans that would do absolutely anything he’d ask of them.

‘good,’ you bark, going to slam the door shut only for it to bang against his black boot wedged in the door, ‘if you don’t move your foot i’ll- i’ll call the police.’

‘no you won’t,’ his hand reaches out to grab onto the other side of the handle, he could’ve easily pushed his way in if he’d really wanted, ‘let’s talk.. like adults,’ begging you now, ‘please.’

you huff, this would end with you either letting him in or being forced to wake ella after you bashed his head into the doorframe. it was easier to just accept the first option and you’d find some bullshit to get him to leave later on.

opening the door wider to let him in, keeping your eyes square on the ground as he walks through, peering around at your home. probably comparing it to his mansion in the hollywood hills the pretentious fuck.

‘nice..’ he nods, leaning in to look at the photo of you and ella a few christmas’ ago, she was tiny then, sporting a miniature santa hat.

‘yeah well, she’s asleep upstairs so.. make it quick,’ you frown, closing the door behind him, watching as his eyes take in the cluttered room, smile fading when he catches sight of the singular picture you have up of jason and ella.

‘i can’t believe you chose to fuck jason of all people.. i mean, i’ve made some shitty decisions in my life but..’ he stops himself from going any further when he sees your face, if looks could kill, he’d be long gone by now.

‘did you come here for a reason? or are you here to talk about my life decisions.. because i really don’t want to hear it from you,’ crossing your arms over your chest, wanting him out of your house.

‘no.. no, shit- i’m sorry,’ he shuffles on his feet, banging his head, ‘i wanna talk.. properly.’

you roll your hand to motion for him to continue, ‘go on..’

he inhales, chewing on the inside of his cheek, trying to psyche himself up to actually say what he wanted to say. it wasn’t that he didn’t know what to say, he just couldn’t string it together to make sense.

‘i’m sorry for the way i treated you.. it wasn’t right and i know that now,’ his hand coming to rub the back of his clammy next, why was your house so fucking hot?

‘okay.. apology accepted, was that everything?’ you say flatly, glancing up the stairs to make sure ella wasn’t awake and out of her room.

his face falls, ‘can you just.. just let me explain,’ his adam apple bobbing as he swallows, ‘why don’t you sit down..’ motioning towards your ratty couch.

you relent your stern stature, hesitantly going to sit on the couch, trying to ensure that he couldn’t possibly sit next to you by sprawling your legs out onto the empty cushion. so he takes the seat furthest away, running his hands down his tight jeans. designer, no less.. the only person you knew stupid enough to spend thousands on designer jeans just to tear holes in them.

‘when i ended things with you, i wasn’t.. well, it was me, but i had my manager screaming in my ear that it’d never work and he could hook me up with some fuckin’ model.. it’d help the band.. so that’s what i did,’ and for once, he looked genuinely remorseful, fiddling with the loose threads on his expensive jeans.

‘so you sold out? that’s your excuse?’

his head shoots up, mouth hung open with absolute disgust all over his face, ‘i am not a sell out.’

which is incredibly refutable, you’d heard a snippet of one of their recent songs on the radio at work and it had sounded exactly like the commercial shit he used to rag on when you were together. not a touch on the corroded coffin you sat and watched practice for hours on end.

‘oh? so you didn’t break up with me to further your career? you just wanted to fuck hot models? which one is it ‘cause i’m a little confused here,’ completely losing it, springing up from your slouched position.

‘okay, yeah.. yeah i did, i broke up with you because i wanted to fuckin’ make something of my life.. and look at where i am and look at-,’

‘-don’t you dare finish that sentence,’ you snap, gritting your teeth together as you near his face, positively shaking with rage.

‘what’re you gonna do? you gonna hit me? do it,’ his chin tilted to match your elevated position, eyes glued to yours.

‘i should.’

his lips twitch into a smirk, ‘you won’t.’

and before your brain has the time to really process your next movements, he balls his fist into your t-shirt, causing your chest to collide into his as his lips smash into yours, knocking the air out of your lungs.

scrambling to find his shoulders for balance, sliding one hand onto his stubbly cheek. it’s all teeth and tongues, he’s ravenous and unrelenting, letting go of his grip on your shirt to place his hands on your hips, ‘move,’ mumbling against your lips as he attempts to manoeuvre you onto his lap while twisting around.

he slides down the couch, keeping a solid hold of your body as you find the right position. your legs are either side of his waist, sliding into the gap between his body and the couch sitting right on his crotch. wasting absolutely zero time in connecting your lips against, honestly not wanting to run the risk of him opening his mouth and ruining this.

his large hands find solace on your ass, creeping up to remove the oversized shirt you’d thrown on. you place your hand above his, restricting him from moving any further. it’s not that you were embarrassed- okay, maybe you were a little. but your body had changed since becoming a mom and eddie had become accustomed to gorgeous models and perfect women that he’d certainly not want to see your boring, frumpy mom body.

he groans in protest, trying again to lift the shirt further only for your fingernails to dig into his hand, ‘no,’ speaking into the filthy kiss.

eddie pulls away from the kiss, fingers coming to gently brush the hair from your face, ‘you can’t be serious? i’ve seen it all before,’ he grumbles, fingers itching to try lift it again.

‘not like this you haven’t.. i just.. want it on, okay?’

‘no- why won’t you let me take this off?’ fingers curling around the hem, already trying his luck with getting it up again.

you sigh, meeting his blown out eyes with your glossy ones, ‘i don’t even know what i’m doing.. fuck,’ attempting to climb off of his lap while the spare hand he has on your ass clamps you down, keeping you pressed to him.

‘hey.. hey, keep it on.. i don’t care,’ already trying to chase your lips, ‘i’m just saying, you don’t need to,’ the denim covering his growing erection starting to rub against your throbbing clit, the sparse material of your pajama shorts were not leaving much to the imagination.

‘jesus christ, just take it off,’ giving up in your protest, it was useless against eddie’s persistence.

you press your lips to his the second your shirt is off, there was no time to judge your body if he couldn’t see it. pulling at his jacket to get it off, the metal buttons digging into your now bare skin.

‘i didn’t.. i didn’t mean.. what i said..’ babbling through the kiss as he shimmies out of the jacket, landing on the floor with a soft thud.

‘shut up,’ you whine, running your hand along the length of his chest until you reach the hem of his black shirt, gripping your fingers around the fabric and lifting it slightly, exposing his midriff, the soft trail of hair ascending the skin.

his head jerks backwards, allowing you to tug the shirt off, finally allowing his eyes to wander to your chest. ‘holy shit,’ he remarks like he’d never seen a pair of tits before. it’s futile for him to pretend that he hadn’t seen some amazing boobs in his time so you scoff, rolling your eyes.

working your hand at his belt buckle, fiddling with the metal until it pops undone. he’s hard already and it makes you groan, brushing your hand over the raised denim. this week seriously must’ve been difficult if he was getting hard so easily over you.

it doesn’t ever occur to you how much of a mistake this was. and even if it did, you didn’t have much time to ponder on it as his hands are grabbing at your breasts, palming them as his lips suck at your jaw and down onto your neck softly. guaranteed to leave a lovely violet mark that the old ladies at work would certainly gasp at.

he’s helping you with his jeans, one hand gripping onto your waist to keep you steady as he lifts his hips from the couch and the other hurriedly yanking them down just enough to reveal his boxers. that’s the next port of call, fingers grabbing at the thin black cotton, pulling them down his thighs as his cock springs into action.

eddie’s lips are still on your neck while you mindlessly wrap your hand around his cock, pumping your fist as you shuffle upwards. his breath hitches in his throat, still peppering sloppy kisses to the sensitive skin.

‘oh god,’ he whines into your collarbone, feeling his eyelashes flutter against your jaw. for a man who had been painted as womaniser in the media, he sure was still just as pathetic as he used to be underneath you.

you’re a little annoyed that it’s you who’s taking control right now. after so many years of disrespect from his end, you think he at least owed it to you to take charge.

your hand grabs onto his shoulder, pulling his face from your neck, ‘be quiet, okay?’ sitting taller to position yourself comfortably, the harsh fabric of the couch grazing your knees.

he nods, sliding his hand up your waist and back to your hip, taking in the sight of you. you wouldn’t ever admit it aloud, but truthfully, you really did miss him sometimes. missed the way his pretty pink lips looked after being glued to yours or the way he gazed at you doing the most mundane tasks.

you cant your hips, sinking down onto his length slowly, biting down onto your bottom lip as his cock fills you to the hilt. his eyelids flicker, fingernails digging into your doughy hips. it’s been a little while since you’d done this so you have to take a second to become accustomed to the slight stretch. it’s good, in the most masochistic way.

your hands cling onto his shoulders, watching his slack jaw, tiny breaths escaping from his mouth as you attempt to move. painstakingly slow at first, knees beginning to shake as you try to remember what you should even be doing. your cheeks flushing, feeling so incredibly embarrassed. the man was fucking models and then you’re here, pitifully trying to ride him. it’s awful, you know it’s awful.

his arm comes to snake around your waist, taking matters into his own hands and flipping the two of you around, your back suddenly pressed into the couch. holy shit. you appreciate the initiative, wrapping your legs around his waist, readjusting your grip on his shoulders.

‘need you a little faster than that darling,’ large hands digging into the couch either side of your head. you’d feel utterly mortified if you weren’t thoroughly enjoying the sight of him looming over you, his hair falling beautifully into your face.

eddie starts slow at first, moving his hips slowly, obviously well versed. your mouth opens but no noise escapes, well aware that you weren’t the only ones in your house. instead you pant softly, desperate for his lips to grace yours again.

it’s not long before he’s quickening his pace, unable to contain himself when you feel so perfect around him. ‘i missed you- fuck, i’ve missed you so much,’ he groans, keeping his voice low despite wanting to start screaming.

you don’t reply, too fucked-out to even think about words. eyes drooping as his cock nudges against the soft spongy spot no one other than him had been able to reach.

the couch creaks beneath you, the old thing unable to keep up with his rutting hips, the top of your head knocking into the arm rest every time his hips collided with yours. your living room had never bore witness to such filth and as quiet as you were trying to be, the sounds are indistinguishable.

having to bite down onto your lip when his thumb meets your clit, legs tightening around his waist with every soft circle he draws around the sensitive bud. eddie was never bad in bed but holy shit, maybe money had done something right for him.

he sits up, soft sighs falling out of his lips as his hand disconnects from your clit, sliding toward your knee and positioning your leg onto his shoulder. your nails press into his forearm, willing yourself to stay quiet even now he’s seemingly trying to kill you.

and through it all, he’s smirking. relishing the way you’re writhing around, trying not to cum when he nudges against that sweet, spongy spot this position allowed.

his thumb finds your clit again, ‘holy shit sweetheart.. you gonna cum?’ grunting softly with every thrust.

you’re positively wrecked beneath him, face pressed into the couch cushion as your stomach flips. panting into the fabric, incoherent ramblings of eddie’s name and a bunch of curse words fill the room.

‘cum for me baby.. shit,’ struggling to keep his own pace as you tighten around him, leg trembling around his neck as your orgasm takes over. pleasure overtaking your limbs as your hips buck instinctively, thankfully muffled by the couch.

‘oh my god,’ you breathe, struggling to see straight when your eyes eventually reopen, gazing up at eddie above, certain he’s about to draw blood from his teeth digging in to his lip.

‘where.. where shall i- shit,’ he squeezes out, feeling his hips begin to stutter, eyes rolling to the back of his head. he’s just about quick enough to pull out, thick ropes of cum paint your thighs. narrowly avoiding the couch.

if you had the energy to get annoyed, you would’ve snapped, but in all honesty, your brain was still reeling and anger was the last thing you felt.

eddie reaches over, ever the gentleman and grabs his shirt to clean his mess. didn’t matter to him obviously, he had more than enough money to buy another.

and there it is. the bitterness filling your body again the second he’s no longer on top of you, or inside of you rather. you attempt to bite it down.

‘you wanna talk now?’ he asks, pulling his boxers back up to a more respectable position.

‘i’m tired eddie,’ and you are, on a school night like tonight you’d have been fast asleep by now.

he sighs, shoulders slumping over. even after you’d just had the most mind-altering sex, you couldn’t speak to him. ‘please,’ pleading with you almost, desperate for one more chance.

maybe it’s the exhaustion or maybe the dopamine still pumping through your brain but you concede, pulling your shirt back over your head before motioning for him to speak.

‘i don’t have any excuses, i’m just-,’ he sighs, turning on the couch to face you fully, ‘i’m sorry for hurting you, i was wrong and i know that,’ his eyes are dipped, peering at you from underneath his spindly lashes, ‘why d’you think i’ve avoided this place for so long?’

‘i don’t know? because you’re a pussy? because you’re too scared to face me?’ letting the words rattle off your tongue without much thought.

‘because i’m embarrassed,’ he corrects, without much offence, ‘because i’m ashamed and feel like i owe you more than some dick and a shitty apology.. i just didn’t know how i could ever make it up to you,’ half-moon eyes glossy in the low light.

your heart thumps in your chest, blood echoing through your ears. eddie munson, world renowned rockstar was sat on your couch, apologising for something you should’ve forgotten about a long time ago.

the years of hatred and avoidance come tumbling down in a millisecond. all you’d ever wanted was to hear him say sorry. to admit that he’d fucked you over for a life of fame and now you had it, you weren’t exactly sure what to even do with it.

‘okay.. now what? are you gonna make it up to me? because i want to believe you eddie, i do.. but you can’t just traipse in here and expect me to forgive you like that,’ the tears roll over, sliding down your warm cheeks.

he nods, grabbing onto your hands in a last ditch gesture to show his sincerity, ‘i’m going to.. i-i want to,’ he’s still nodding, bringing his face closer to yours, ‘tell me how, i’ll do anything,’ adam’s apple bobbing with every word.

‘stay here,’ your eyes are trained on him, ignoring the blurred vision, ‘not forever, just for now,’ lips pursed, ready to be broken once more.

you half-expect him to come out with some sorry excuse, tell you he had to get back to his hotel so he couldn’t possible stay here.

but he doesn’t.

eddie takes your hand, tugging it gently and with words you don’t register, babbles something about bed. so you follow him, allowing him to guide you to your room and slide in between the sheets next to you.

everything is so gentle, soft and pure. something you hadn’t felt in a long time.

‘hey.. sweetheart,’ eddie’s hand gently shakes your arm, whispering into your ear, ‘you awake?’

you squint in the dim light, feeling his hand descend onto your waist, chest pressed against your back, ‘i am now,’ you grumble, it was early.. early even by ella’s standards.

‘i gotta go.. you got work today?’ he asks, making no effort to actually get up and leave your bed though.

you nod into the pillow, rubbing your sleep heavy eyes. in your sleep hazed state, you shuffle, moving backwards against him.

‘okay.. shit- don’t do that,’ strained as you shift against him, unknowingly brushing against his cock, ‘i’ll be back.. after you..’ he’s losing it a little now, ‘after you finish..’ lips pressed to your ear.

you were moving deliberately now, just ever-so-slightly rocking your hips back and forth, you could feel him growing against your ass.

‘i can’t..’ he groans, grip tightening on your hip,

‘please,’ you breathe, reaching backwards to find his mop of curls, taking a fistful for leverage as his own hip’s thrust into your backside, his low growls only spurring you on.

you had been on your own for so long now, could he really blame you?

eddie doesn’t leave for another hour, creeping out of your house with his head low and a shit eating grin plastered on his face.

the key turns in your door as you’re loading the dishwasher. you’d given steve a spare for emergencies but it seemed to get used for anything but.

he slinks into the kitchen where you stand with your back to him, ‘hey,’ already knowing who it was.

‘well hello,’ announcing his presence, something about his tone of voice already seemed off, he sounded short, annoyed almost, ‘how have you been?’

‘i’m good..’ you spin to face him, puzzled by his strange demeanour, ‘how are you?’

he’s holding onto something behind his back but you can’t quite catch a glimpse, ‘actually.. i’m a little pissed off,’ you can tell he’s not completely serious by the hint of a smile on his face.

‘hmm? why’s that?’

he looks around the room expectedly, ‘oh i don’t know.. you don’t have anything to tell me, do you?’ shaking his head, still gripping onto this mystery object.

‘no..’ narrowing your eyes, determining whether he knew what you thought he knew.

he did, he one hundred percent did. holy fuck. he’d figured you out already. eddie had opened his big, stupid mouth and told dustin, who would’ve told steve and god knows who else. fucking moron.

‘no? soo..’ his pulls the magazine from behind his back, flipping it to the page he’d already saved, ‘this isn’t real then?’ shoving the glossy pages into your face, ‘because to me.. this looks an awful lot like eddie.. at this very house,’ he jabs his finger at the pixelated image, ‘and this little blob here.. that’s you, no?’

you’re utterly gobsmacked. mouth hung open in pure shock. because that most definitely was eddie.. and your house.. and you. you hadn’t seen anyone with a camera, hell, you hadn’t seen anyone on the street at all.

‘and correct me if i’m wrong, but is this not our friend eddie leaving your house the next morning?’ showing the next image of him leaving your house the day after, hair unruly and messed up, holding his denim jacket in his arms as he climbs into his car.

your mouth moves but no words come out, croaking as you struggle to meet steve’s eyes. completely speechless, there was no feasible excuse. you had been caught with your pants down. literally.

‘i can explain,’ waving your hands around while steve stands smug against the kitchen counter. ‘..no i can’t,’ shoulders slumped as you blink at your best friend, no you really couldn’t. suppose you could’ve come up with some lie about a look-a-like you’d been seeing but that would’ve made you look particularly strange.

‘were you ever gonna tell me?’ he’s almost hurt that you hadn’t ran to him to tell him immediately. this was true best friend gossip and you’d kept him from it.

‘i was! steve.. i don’t even know what happened- he came over to apologise and then we were arguing and then.. then we had sex and it’s not my fault..’ you’re trying, and failing, to contain your smile, flashing your cheeky grin to your best friend in the hopes he would let this slide.

‘i can’t believe you didn’t tell me!’ jutting his bottom lip out, ‘so, you’re getting back together?’ his eyes sceptical yet sparkling with a sense of hope. you’re grateful that all he seems to care about is the fact you lied. or actually, withheld the truth as you preferred it.

‘no.. well.. no, we had dinner together yesterday and he might’ve stayed over but no..’ shaking your head, ‘he’s leaving again soon and we both know what happened last time..’ you shrug, leaning back against the counter, ‘i guess i don’t hate him now, that’s good isn’t it?’

steve looks perplexed, ‘wait wait wait.. so you’re just.. screwing around? and then he leaves again, that’s it? what’s the point?’ taking a seat at the small kitchen table, fully engrossed in the conversation.

‘i dunno.. i guess that’s it?’ you hadn’t really thought about the fact that he’d be leaving again, in fact, you hadn’t really had time to think much at all about what was happening.

you’d just sort of acknowledged that at some point he’d go back to california and you’d stay here and whatever was happening would.. end? it wasn’t as if you were going to be super upset about it like you once were. lots of people fuck their ex’s.. this was fine.

because that’s what this is, right?

just sex with an ex?

‘that’s it?’ steve reiterates, looking completely flabbergasted that the woman who once left the room whenever eddie munson’s name was mentioned was now being so casual about this.

‘yeah,’ you shrug, not wanting to make a massive deal out of it though you could always rely on steve to be over dramatic on your behalf.

‘no,’ he straightens up in the chair, ‘all of this can’t be for nothing,’ sounding utterly exasperated, ‘you two obviously belong together so why don’t you go for it? i could see you living it up out in la.. big house, big car-,’

you cut him off before he can divulge into his delusions any further, ‘i think you’re getting ahead of yourself steve,’ shaking your head at his ludicrous attitude.

you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about it once or twice but it seemed silly to start imagining this crazy life together after all these years. he’d barely just made it into your good graces again, you were hardly going to run off to california with him. it was utter delusion.

‘okay okay..’ he scoffs, ‘but i still think you need to talk to him. i don’t want you getting hurt again, okay? just make sure that you’re both on the same page,’ nodding as he stands from his seat and begins to rummage through your cupboards for something to eat.

he was probably right and you knew it deep down. you weren’t keen on being the one to bring the conversation up, not after that first night. after you had sobbed in his arms in bed, letting him soothe you to sleep with a bunch of probable empty promises.

when eddie lets himself into your house a few hours later, steve’s eyebrows fly up his forehead but he doesn’t say a word. instead, he nods at the man, keeping his opinions to himself.

the pair of you resemble an old married couple, except you’re the grumpy old man with your wife cuddled into your side. your wife being steve that is.

‘oh.. is this uh, something that happens often?’ eddie asks, settling into the empty chair across from you. slightly miffed that steve was nestled into your side.

‘yup,’ you nod, smiling at him your chin resting on steve’s head. he hadn’t a reason to be jealous, you’d really rather poke your eyeballs out with a fork than do anything remotely sexual with steve.

‘right.. yeah okay,’ eddie says, looking perplexed but sitting back in the chair. if he was going to stick around then this would have to be something that he got used to. because you sure as hell weren’t going to stop being so close with steve for the guy that broke your heart at eighteen.

‘you want a drink?’ you ask, realising that you should probably be a good host even if it was only eddie.

‘yeah sure.’

you untangle yourself from steve and trundle off into the kitchen. steve takes this as the perfect opportunity to grill eddie on his intentions, sitting up straight and making sure that you were really gone before beginning his interrogation.

‘so.. you two?’

eddie shrugs, not wanting to get into it with steve after such a long day.

steve sighs, leaning toward eddie, ‘i’m gonna say this once.. but if you hurt her again, i will kill you,’ staring the other man down. contempt in his eyes. he was dead serious too.

‘i’m not- i’m not gonna hurt her,’ eddie sits up, praying that you’d hurry back with this damn drink.

‘i mean it eddie,’ raising his eyebrows, ‘you didn’t see how she was after you left.. i’m not going through that again, i’m not letting her go through that again.’

‘steve-,’ eddie blinks, stopping himself as you re-enter the room. hoping that you hadn’t heard their conversation, he’d only just got you to stop hating him. he wasn’t prepared to go back to that like, ever.

‘what’re you talking about?’ placing the bottle of beer in front of eddie and collapsing back into your spot on the couch.

‘football,’ steve answers quickly, groaning as he pushes himself off of the sofa, ‘i’m gonna head home, got work in the morning but i’ll see you tomorrow,’ he smiles, winking at you from above.

‘okay,’ you utter, sounding more like a question than a statement, watching carefully as he gathers his things without so much as a glance at eddie. you can only imagine what was actually said but that was truly none of your business.

you’d just grill eddie later to make sure steve hasn’t been too much of an asshole.

‘byee,’ you call out behind him, already eyeing a sheepish eddie. this’d probably be it. you’d known it was coming at some point, you just weren’t sure of when.

if steve’s sudden departure was anything to go off, you were probably right.

the door clicks shut and you turn your attention to eddie who was still sat on the solemn chair. oh god. maybe you had got a little used to having him around again and now to know that it’d all be coming to an abrupt end once again.. yeah you felt a tad shit.

‘what’d you say?’ you ask outright, it made zero sense to beat around the bush.

‘me?’ he looks almost offended, ‘i didn’t say shit.. didn’t get the chance to,’ but he’s smiling ever so slightly and your heart relaxes.

christ you were so stupid. letting him back into your life just to let him walk away a second time. perhaps you’d done something horrific in a past life to deserve this same fate twice.

‘so what did he say?’ you press, unsure of if your even wanted the answer.

eddie sighs before coming to collapse on the couch next to you, ‘it wasn’t important.. look, i wanna be honest with you,’ his hand comes to grab yours and you freeze, bracing yourself for what was inevitably going to come next. ‘you mean a lot to me and.. and i don’t want you to think that i don’t care or that i’m just leaving you again,’ his eyes are focussed on yours, full of what you hope is sincerity.

you don’t reply, instead you nod slightly and urge him to continue. this was it. the kicker.

‘i’ve gotta go back to la next week,’ his grip tightens around your hand, ‘but i’m coming back as soon as i can, okay?’ he’s serious too and you’d like to believe him but if the past was anything to go by, you weren’t eager.

you nod silently. fuck this. once again, you were sat before eddie munson, listening to his plans to jet off to la. it felt like the cruelest case of deja-vu. if anything, you want to kick yourself for even allowing him to wiggle his way back into your heart. most people know better after the first time.

‘it’s three weeks.. maybe a month, but i’m coming back, i promise,’ he pleads, hanging his head low. he knows there’s absolutely nothing he could say to you that would make you believe him but he had to try.

you hum, frowning just a little before finally replying, ‘i’ve heard that before,’ not meaning to sound as snarky as you did, but it was true.

‘i’m serious, i’m not.. not gonna lose you again, i’ve learnt my lesson,’ his eyes are big and pleading and you’re thrown right back to being eighteen, listening to him convince you how going to la would be the best decision.

‘so.. what? you’re gonna come back to hawkins just to see me? i don’t-,’ you sigh, as much as you wanted to believe him, it just wasn’t plausible in your mind, ‘i just don’t understand, are we together or are you just coming back to fuck? you don’t have to, you know? i’ve made peace with it all and i’m fine.. you don’t have to lie to me anymore.’

if anyone was going to fuck this up, it would be you. that’s for certain.

‘what the fuck?’ he exclaims, genuinely flabbergasted, ‘this is me telling you that i’m serious about this.. about you,’ he takes your hand into his properly, scooting around to face you fully, ‘i love being here with you, and ella and there is nothing out in la worth more than this,’ you think he might just start crying, or you might. or perhaps both of you.

you sniff, not wanting to speak in fear of bursting into hysterics. it was all just so confusing and weird. you’d grown accustomed to eddie being on the other side of the country and now suddenly he was back in your life with what seemed like a a declaration of love. it was just too much to handle. and maybe you blame yourself a little, for not truly thinking about the implications of fucking your ex that had abandoned you years prior. but now it all just seemed to be hurtling in the most intense direction.

you were the one that had told him to stay after all. because really, you could’ve kicked him out, refused to ever even acknowledge him again. but you hadn’t.

‘are you telling me the truth?’ is all that you manage to squeak out. baring resemblance to a small child.

you really must’ve looked pathetic, eyes brimming with tears, bottom lip quivering as you hold in the implosion of emotions. it’s always scary being vulnerable with someone, let alone someone that once meant so much to you.

he still did. as much as you’re absolutely petrified to admit it, he’d weaselled his way back into your heart and now here you are, a mess of emotions and perplexing feelings that are too complicated to handle.

‘i promise you,’ he sighs, clearly fed up of your whining, ‘i’m coming back this time.’

and maybe you’re stupid. maybe you’re still hung up on some high school relationship that ended long ago but you can’t help it, you nod.

idiotically believing him because what else can you do after letting him into your home and your heart again.

#eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson stranger things #eddie munson x female reader

2K notes · View notes

bloodibambiidoll · 4 months ago

Text

Weird!girl finally blows Rafe after getting her tongue ring… Somnophilia, blow job, face fucking, spit kink, degradation, cum eating 18+MDNI

You swirl your tongue around Rafe's semi hard shaft, savoring his taste. God you missed this, the heavy weight of his cock in your mouth. Your tongue circles his head, making sure the new jewelry you just put in runs along his slit. It pulls a groan from his sleeping body and his cock twitches in your mouth as it fully hardens. He doesn’t wake up though, not yet. So you keep at it, languidly bobbing your head up and down, worshiping every inch of him with your tongue. You cup his balls, gently squeezing them with your hand and it causes him to stir. You kick it up a notch and take his cock fully down your throat and that has his eyes shooting open.

“Oh fuck, baby. Wakin’ me up with that pretty little mouth?” Rafe’s large hand reaches out to caress your hair as he smirks down at you. It takes him a second to register that his cock is in your mouth for the first time in weeks and the feeling of that metal nestled into your tongue has him fully waking up.

“You like it?” You pull off of him and return his smirk before sticking your tongue out at him, revealing your new tongue ring. Rafe groans at the sight of the cute little paw print resting on top of your tongue, especially when you wiggle it around in a licking motion, it has him practically aching to feel your mouth again.

“Do I fuckin’ like it? I love it. Now put it to good use.” Rafe’s fingers lace through your and he shoves your face back onto his cock, all the way to the base. You swirl your tongue around, caressing his smooth skin with your piercing. “Yeah, that’s my good girl.”

Rafe’s hips raise off the bed as he starts to fuck your throat without mercy, making you gag and drool all over him. He thrusts into you until you can hardly breathe before using his grip on you to pull your head back. His free hand grips onto your face, squeezing your cheeks together until your tongue sticks out again. He leans up and runs his tongue along yours and when he pulls back he spits in your mouth.

“It gets better…” Rafe raises an eyebrow at you as you reach into your mouth, he watches as you mess around with the tongue ring until he hears a slight buzzing sound. You lick across his hand that’s still gripping onto your face and Rafe’s eyes widen in realization. “It fucking vibrates.”

“Oh, you’re fuckin’ in for it.” Rafe manhandles you off the bed and onto your knees before sitting on the edge in front of you with his legs spread. His cock is rock hard and his abs look absolutely delicious as he towers over you like the cat that caught the mouse. He grips your throat, leaning down to kiss you hungrily before shoving you back down on his dick. “I’m gonna fuckin’ use this mouth like a little cock sleeve.”

Rafe’s large hands grip onto either side of your head as he bobs it up and down on his cock with vigor. Filthy sounds leave his mouth and the ring in your tongue vibrates his shaft as you gag on his dick like the good girl you are. “I’m gonna cum down your goddamn throat and you’re going to swallow every” thrust “fuckin” thrust “drop.”

He pushes your head all the way down until your nose is flush against him and holds you there as he unloads down your throat. There’s so much cum it fills your mouth and when he pulls out it starts to drip down your chin. Rafe’s thumb swipes across your face, gathering his spend before shoving it back between your lips.

“Mmm. My favorite lipgloss.” You lick your lips before smacking them as if you just ate something delicious. You lean your head on his knee and look up at him adoringly. “I love your cum Rafey.”

“I love you, bats.” Rafe snorts and pulls you up into his lap so he can kiss you hungrily. “Now we both have some of your lil’ lipgloss. My perfect lil freak.”

All things Rafe and his weird!girl here

Taglist: @nemesyaaa @babygorewhore @strawberrydolly333 @sturnioloshacker @rafesthroatbaby @loserboysandlithium @gri959 @rafeinterlude

#weird!girl reader #Dolly writes #rafe Cameron #rafe #rafe cameron smut #rafe cameron blurb #rafe blurb #rafe smut #rafe cameron x reader #rafe x reader #rafe concepts #rafe cameron concepts

442 notes · View notes

buckets-and-trees · 1 year ago

Note

Sweet, sweet Aspen. You have been a very bad girl. This soft!dark guy, your boss, caught you doing something wrong—something that could easily get you fired—but he decided maybe, jussst maybe, he should keep your indiscretion, and your resulting punishment, between the two of you. After all, he’s been dreaming about filling you with his cock for ages 😏

(I picked this GIF because it looks like he’s saying, “On your knees.” lolll)

well, dearly beloved sister ho, you know we were thirsting over a particularly ... inspiring gif.

I don't think you anticipated your ask to spawn THIS, but... here we are! THANKS FOR POPPING MY ANDY CHERRY!

Title: I'm Your Man Characters/Pairings: soft dark!Mafia!Andy Barber x female!reader Word Count: 3k Summary: You've spent weeks working to pull off the perfect night for Andy Barber's big charity event. A rush job, but you worked meticulously and diligently over six weeks to coordinate the biggest event of your career to date. You weren't the only one with a plan for the night.

Content Warnings: extortion, explicit smut, DUBIOUS CONSENT, spitting, oral - male receiving, spanking, vaginal intercourse, breeding kink, unprotected sex

Logistical Notes: A NAUGHTY submission @the-slumberparty's Naughty or Nice challenge. Prompts incorporated are in bold.

Additional Notes: I didn't want to write a summary. There's only enough plot here to smut you up. Dividers by @rookthornesartistry and @firefly-graphics.

You sit up straight when you hear the door to Andy’s home office open behind you.

“Thank you for waiting for me,” he says as he strides across the room and takes a seat in the leather executive desk chair.

“Yes, of course, Mr. Barber,” you reply. Every part of your body is tired – tired in a good way from the long day of work – so you were eager to get home, soak in your tiny tub, and crawl into bed for the rest of the weekend, but it hadn’t been an incredible inconvenience when he’d asked if he could speak with you before you left.

“Tonight was exquisite, you did well,” he doles out the praise, and you try to quell the blooming in your chest. In the six weeks working with Andy Barber to plan the charity event you’d just executed for his foundation you had seen that he wasn’t one to casually compliment, hard to impress. You had taken more and more satisfaction out of each meeting, email, or text exchange as you consulted and then presented him with options for the event when he had fewer and fewer notes, knowing you had cracked his taste and gained his approval. He’d been your toughest client to date, but by far one of the most rewarding as he had excellent taste.

“Nearly perfect,” he adds.

Your smile falters ever so slightly, and suddenly your chest floods with a chill. “Nearly perfect? I’m sorry, sir, what didn’t live up to your expectations?”

This was far from your first event, you had built an incredible portfolio over the years, and you knew you were finally ascending to be one of the best event coordinators on the eastern seaboard – you had received an email request from a goddamn Vanderbilt to plan a wedding for them in a year and a half that you were going to respond to and accept in the morning. You weren’t arrogant, but you’d worked damn hard and knew you were good.

“You.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “I – what?”

“Only one misstep tonight.”

Your brain flies back through the evening, reviewing every moment, raking through trying to determine what you could have possibly missed.

“I’m very particular about what belongs to me, and I cannot abide theft.”

Your jaw drops.

“Empty your bag.”

Now your whole body is buzzing with incredulity. You shake your head.

“I know what’s in there.”

You almost didn’t take this job when it landed in your lap. He was the reason you knew you should have said no. There were whispers about his reputation, his real businesses. But you took the initial consultation because the pitch was more money than you’d made over the last three years. Then when you’d met him, he’d been so normal, so nice, maybe a little charming, and up until this moment you had convinced yourself there was no way any of those rumors had been right.

But before you even put your hand in your bag, you knew you were wrong to have thought he wasn't all those awful things.

Not one, not two, but three Rolex watches nestled in the bottom of the main pocket. Watches you'd never seen - wouldn't even have known where to find them.

You scoop them out and drop them on his desk, eyes burning with tears. “Why?”

“Yes, why? I was already giving you a fat paycheck. What a shame when I had just given your name to the Vanderbilts’ social secretary for their son’s wedding a few days ago, I’ll have to reach out and let them know.”

“No,” you breathe.

“I’ll have to discreetly let everyone in my network know it’s better not to invite someone in their home with such light fingers.”

Your breath hitches and your hand flies to your mouth to stifle an almost sob, trying to hold back the onset of tears. “Andy, no, please.”

His smile softens. “There we are,” he coos, “you finally called me Andy like I’ve told you to so many times.”

He leans forward resting his arms on his desk.

“Now, if you go upstairs, be a good girl, put on what I left for you in my room, and wait for me, maybe I can make all of this little misunderstanding go away.”

His steel blue eyes are hard, they demand an answer.

You cock your chin up wishing you could say no, wishing you could even scowl at him, but aside from the heat and hurt in your eyes, you know you can’t do anything more without risking further ruin, so ultimately you let your chin drop and nod, resigned to the impossible power this man wields.

“Now we’re back on track for a perfect night, sweetheart. I’ll be up soon.”

You don’t know how long he makes you wait, using the promise of soon as another show of his power, but long enough that your knees hurt from sitting back on your heels in a submissive, kneeling position with your head lowered, hands folded in your lap, and back to the door as the card in the white box left for you had instructed.

Also in the box had been a set of exquisite black lace and silk balconette bra and cheeky underwear. That they fit you like a glove had been both humiliating and alluring.

Even though Andy was the reason you almost said no to the job, even though he was the humiliating reason you were in this position – extorted into a nearly naked state, no question of what was to come – he was also the reason you took the job.

Dread pooled in your stomach, but along with the dread and humiliation, there were rivulets of shameful desire.

You had taken the job for the money and for how quietly charming he had been. He had never outright flirted with you, but he always left you with the question of whether he was. You worked hard for him because it felt good to win his approval. He praised you and you had preened under his intense blue eyes every time. You had forced yourself to keep everything professional.

All for nothing since you were in the farthest position of professional now.

When you finally hear him enter the room, your sit up straight again.

He tsks and says, “Head down, sweetheart.”

Andy comes around to stand in front of you. You see his perfectly polished shoes, the perfectly tailored trousers. His hand moves to your jaw, tilting your head up to look at him. He runs his thumb over your lips, circling them.

“Open your mouth,” he says.

You do.

He leans closer, then spits in your mouth, and you blink in surprise, a surge of humiliation running through you, but his grip on your jaw is powerful, so you don’t move away.

“Close your mouth but don’t swallow.”

He moves back from you then, and he begins to silently undress. He had already taken off his jacket, but he doesn’t hurry as he unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt, the buttons down his chest, and then shrugs it off his shoulders. He places it nicely on a plush armchair on the side of the room. Next he sits on the edge of the bed and removes his shoes and socks.

The way he doesn’t watch you but does all of this in your line of vision, knowing you have to watch, is another move meant to communicate who is in control of this situation. Still holding his saliva on your tongue is starting to become uncomfortable. Your instinct is to swallow, but you don’t know what disobedience may mean with Andy, so you fight the urge, not wanting to tempt any more of his darkness.

He stands and takes the shoes and socks to a large closet off to the side of the room, and when he returns, he stands directly in front of you again, takes your jaw in his hands again.

“Show me,” he says.

Your eyes watch his face you open your mouth, showing him the pool of saliva.

“Good fucking girl,” he murmurs. You hate the small bloom in your chest those words immediately invoke again. He spits into your mouth for a second time, then with a caress that is too tender he urges you to close your mouth. “Swallow.”

You do.

Andy unbuckles his belt, unbuttons the top of his fly, then unzips and pushes down the waist of his trousers with his briefs, and reveals his hard cock for you.

He’s big.

You had gotten yourself off to the thought of him a few of times late at night alone in your bed, most recently a few days ago, and you hated that you had since you were now here like this, forced on your knees in front of him.

Your core is pulsing with heat at the sight of him though – bigger than you had fantasized, and bigger than any man you’ve been with previously. You know he’ll fill you in a way that will ruin you for other men. You want and dread it.

“Take me in your mouth, sweetheart,” he commands.

Instead of forcing his cock into your mouth, this is more possessive, having you submit yourself to pleasing him of your own accord. You know every way he’s manipulating you.

“If I have to tell you one more time,” he trails off, leaving the end open for your imagination.

You plant one hand softly on his hip and wrap your other hand around his shaft, leaning forward to take him in your mouth. As you push forward, he groans. He won’t hold back when he’s pleased with you – he never has, he knows it affects you. His hands go to either side of your head. “Eyes on me, sweetheart.”

You do as he says, sucking him, bobbing up and down his length, and for a while he lets you control the speed and the depth, but his hands let you know he can and will control this when he wants to. After the first couple of minutes, he makes this clear when you push back to take a breath and wipe the mix of your spit and his pre-cum dripping out of your mouth and his hands firmly prevent you from moving off him. Instead, he pushes you down slowly – more slowly than you had been pumping – and doesn’t stop until your nose hits his lower abdomen. You try to push against his hips, and he pushes his hips forward with you still anchored on his dick. Your eyes well up.

“So pretty,” he says, “imagined you like this, but you’re more gorgeous than I thought you would be.”

Something in your chest melts. You wish he wouldn’t say things like that. It makes you weaker – weaker for him. He pulls back just an inch or two, then pushes his length into your throat again.

“That’s it, sweetheart, my perfect fucking girl.”

You whimper, and the tears spill over.

His right hand moves away from your face and around behind him. He’s quick, and when you can see his hand again, it’s to discover he’s taken his phone out of his back pocket. He takes photos of you, angling the phone a few different ways. Then he tosses the phone onto the chair where he’d laid his shirt.

Then he resumes his small, concentrated rutting, only easing out just enough to make the thrust back in worth it for him. As he does, he groans, swears, wipes tears from your cheeks, and the moment before it’s too much, he finally pulls you off him.

You fall forward, gasping for deep lungfuls of air, but he’s already putting a hand under your arm and hauling you up.

“Get on the bed,” he instructs, man handling you with surprising ease, doing most of the work your weak and aching legs can’t do to hoist you up onto his Alaskan king bed.

He’s immediately up as well and behind you, the last of his clothing stripped off. His fingers quickly undo the clasp of your bra and pull it off your shoulders and toss it away. He pushes you forward, toppling you down to the mattress. He slaps your ass, and you gasp and jerk. He brings his hand down on your round flesh again, with another sting, but the second one has you moan, and he lets out a satisfied, “Yes,” before giving you a third slap, the hardest, and you moan again, but this one more guttural, and you’d be mortified if you weren’t shocked over the way it translated to pleasure so quickly to your brain.

Then he yanks the lacy underwear roughly down and off your legs, tossing it away as well. He pushes between your legs behind you, splitting your legs open, and his fingers seek your cunt.

He hums in approval, “So wet for me. Ready for me.”

You huff and pant.

He leans over your back, pressing you down into the mattress. “Are you eager for me?”

“Andy,” you whine.

“Say it and I’ll fuck you good, sweetheart.”

You don’t want to. You bury your face in the covers.

He slaps your ass again, and you yelp.

“Admit you want me to fuck you.”

Another slap.

Another.

“Yes,” you finally concede.

“To breed you.”

You gasp, but he’s already hauling you further up the bed, and he drapes himself over your back, arms caging you in on either side of your body. His legs push yours apart as he leans down to press kisses over your shoulder blades, at the base of your neck, along your spine. He uses one hand to guide the thick head of his cock to your leaking entrance. He doesn’t care to stretch you. “Take me in your cunt, sweetheart, it’s mine.”

The only mercy is that he slots himself in slowly.

You press your hands up against the headboard and concentrate on taking deep breaths, on trying to relax your walls completely, because he’s entering you, in you, filling you, unrelenting invasion and it’s pleasure and pain and too much and not enough because every moment of more fullness is exquisite and you can’t even think about holding back the sound he’s pushing out from your diaphragm, up your throat, and out of your mouth, because that’s how it feels as he's filling you.

Once’s he’s fully inside of you, he presses his mouth right next to your ear. “I’m going to fill this pussy with my seed.” He anchors one hand on your hips, then begins pull out, only so he can start thrusting back in. “I want everyone to know who you belong to.”

You’ve never had an orgasm only from vaginal penetration, but the way he fills you as he fucks you, and at this angle, making you almost forget to keep breathing, you wonder if this is how you’ll go, strung out as his cock punishes you with the pleasure, but then his hand works around beneath you and his fingers quickly find your swollen and aching clit. You cry out, and one of your hands reaches back to cling to him, fingers clutching into his hair. He nips at your neck, chuckling darkly.

“My pretty girl, my good girl, taking my cock so well, you close?”

An immediate, “Uh huh,” is all you can manage.

“Then let go,” he commands, pinching your clit harshly.

You see stars, and you cry out for him.

Hearing you scream his name and feeling you clench around him is all he needs, and he pumps his cum into you, saying more dirty, filthy, possessive things, but you don’t know what the words are, because you’re completely lost to coherency.

He sinks his full weight on top of you when he’s completely spent.

Both of you are silent while you come down, heartrates returning to normal.

You wait for him to say whatever he’s going to torment you with next, but he doesn’t speak.

After more long moments, he finally pushes up enough to turn you from your front to your back. He cups your jaw again and strokes his thumb over your cheek. Your breath hitches at the intimate gesture in the aftermath.

“Aw, why are you crying now, sweetheart?”

No, you didn’t want more tears, and not these - the soft tears. You try to look away, but he forces your face back to look at him.

“I would have slept with you if you’d asked, Andy, why did you have to do it like this?”

“Because this is so much more than that, sweetheart. I didn’t want to just sleep with you, and I needed you to know from here on out that you’re mine. I own you. I’m very particular about what belongs to me. I didn’t want you to have any illusion that there’s a choice here.”

He brushes the tears off your cheek.

“I’ll have my men move your things here in the morning, and we’ll elope in a few weeks. I’m closing the deal on a resort in Lake Como, doesn’t that sound perfect? We’ll tie the knot and then spend our honeymoon there – we can stay all summer if you want.”

You hesitate.

“No one else is gonna take care of you like I do. Now I asked you, ‘doesn’t that sound perfect?’”

“Yes, Andy,” you whisper.

“Of course, it does.” He finally kisses you – and it’s dangerously soft. Warm lips engulfing yours, insistent, sucking your bottom lip between his. You whimper, and he licks his tongue into your mouth, lapping you up. He rolls over with you, putting him back on the mattress with you on his chest. He holds you pressed to him with one hand, the other hand securing your head so you can’t escape his kiss until he’s done kissing you.

It isn’t until you think you might pass out from how breathless you are that he finally breaks off the kiss. He shifts his pelvis up against you, his cock hardening again. “And I was serious about you carrying my child. But first you’ll ride my face until I’ve made you cry for a good reason, and then I’ll fill you up with more of my seed. You’re not leaving this bed the rest of the weekend.”

ARE YOU OKAY? AM I? DO WE EVEN CARE IF WE'RE OKAY?

read: -> THE MORNING AFTER

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

#andy barber x female reader #andy barber smut #soft dark andy barber #andy barber x reader #andy barber x you #tw: dubcon #aspen wrote something #navy and roo's sleepover #i'm your man collection

2K notes · View notes

alchemistc · 2 months ago

Text

Tommy slumps further into the couch cushions, and the looks Eddie gives him is - dire, really. Tommy sort of wants to get shit faced and cry a little while cradling this throw pillow - the same one Evan had smacked him with a week ago while they crowded Eddie's too-small couch and Tommy had made fun of Evan for not knowing a single player on the Dodgers.

("You're actively rooting against them, why do you care if I know who they are?"

"Know thy enemy, Buckley," was Eddie's immediate response, and Evan had swung the pillow when he caught Tommy and Eddie fist bumping out of the corner of his eye.)

"Pretty sure it's actually cheating to come to me," Eddie intones, but he's already up and moving towards the cabinet where he keeps the good whiskey.

He settles into the recliner and gestures with the bottle, a very clear 'go on' in his expression.

Tommy thinks about maybe just - drowning himself in spirits and hiding under a rock for the rest of his life.

"I asked Evan to move in with me."

Eddie's brow kicks up. He purses his lip. Nods. His eyes do something that tells Tommy he is actively biting down on whatever it is he's thinking.

"And...you...fought. You fought about Buck ... moving in."

(Six months is such a short time, really. They've just leapt every other milestone like it's their damn job, and - Christ, they'd had keys to each other's places in weeks.)

Tommy narrows his eyes. "You know something."

"Yeah, and that's why this," he gestures vaguely in the direction of Tommy, fully pouting on his couch and commandeering too large a surface area for Eddie to actually join him there, "is cheating."

Tommy would love to point out that he just doesn't have a shit ton of friends willing to listen to him bitch about an argument he's trying to figure out without fucking imploding the whole goddamn thing. He'd love to point out that he and Eddie have already set these boundaries and Tommy is aware he's pushing it.

Tommy tilts his head against the back of the couch and stares at the ceiling. "Well if we can't talk about it, at least get me drunk."

Eddie hands him a shot glass and stands to go grab them both beers.

---

"So the thing is," Tommy says, slumped against Eddie's side and gesturing in front of himself. His hands are - they're a little blurry. Thank God he isn't on call. "The thing is."

He's got a hangnail that's been driving him nuts for weeks. He's already got a layout in his head for how to make Evan's wardrobe fit in his closet. Half of Evan's kitchen lives in Tommy's already, and he'd - he'd been sure they were in the same page.

"The thing?" Eddie asks, and - Christ, it's not like Eddie's having an easy time with any of the - anything. He's definitely overindulged right along with Tommy. Thank fuck they're not maudlin drunks, just what they need is two PTSD riddled idiots filled up with liquor and bemoaning their lives.

"What thing?"

"The thing, Tommy."

Right. The thing. "I love him," Tommy says, and Eddie's eyes go wide like he doesn't already know this. But Tommy - Tommy's said it in range of Eddie's hearing, right? He's - he's said it.

(The lone braincell shared between them whispers that Tommy has said it, once, to the curls atop Evan's sweaty head while Evan was still passed out on his chest. Fuck braincells.)

"Uhuh."

"What uhuh?"

You don't ask someone to move in with you when you still haven't worked up the courage to say I love you to someone's face, is the thing. And Evan's said it - happy and carefree and open even when Tommy just kissed him to distract him from Tommy not saying it back. He has to know, right? Tommy's said it in every other way he knows how.

"Listen, bro code broken, man, Buck's fucking terrified to mess this up with you and the whole 'you haven't said the words' has been, like, messing with his head for weeks, dude. And now outta the blue, hey move in with me? He's trying desperately not to assume you did something terrible and are using this to cover it up."

"He told you that?"

Eddie scoffs. He actually says 'pshhh', and rolls his head towards Tommy. "No." He enunciates too much. The 'o' is way too long in that word. It's a two letter word, how did he make it sound like seven syllables?

Tommy wants another shot, but Eddie had clearly not meant for that whiskey to be shared and it'd already been more than half gone when he pulled it out. There's...maybe half an ounce left. Fuck.

"Then how...?"

"I already broke bro code for you, dumbass. Can't you read between the lines?"

"Is this like the couch thing?"

The mindfuck of trying to decipher Eddie and Evan's little shared looks while Evan announced that Tommy's couch was his favorite couch had been -

He's getting off track.

He hasn't said the fucking words. He's in love with the sweetest, kindest, most beautiful, filthiest fucking man he's ever known and he hasn't said the words.

"Hamster wheel," Eddie says sagely, like that means a damn fucking thing, but Tommy's already fumbling for his phone. Texting that is out of the question, and he doesn't want to call while he's... more drunk than he'd care to admit.

Tommy shoves Eddie off his shoulder, and only gets a little spinny when he stands. He's a forty year old man, he can absolutely ask his boyfriend to pick him up from... his boyfriends best friends house and help him sober up so he can have a conversation.

"Water," Tommy says, and Eddie snorts.

"Toooo late."

Tommy feels about five years old when he shoves at Eddie's face before retreating to the kitchen.

---

"Tommy," Evan says, bent low over the couch, and Tommy blinks himself awake, regretting every drop of whiskey he'd drunk last night. He'd - there'd been water. An attempt at typing out a message. A slap fight in Eddie's kitchen when he decided to chow down on the last of the casserole Evan had left behind three days ago. More water.

This couch is way too fucking small for him. He's - he's still got one shoe on, and a blanket crumpled haphazardly over one leg. His head is pounding.

Evan looks - concerned. Maybe still a little annoyed. Fond.

"Ev," he manages, moving to sit up and regretting it when five million bees make a home right there against his frontal lobe. Smoke clears that out, right? He remembers Evan being super fucking proud that that had worked.

Evan holds up a glass of water that Tommy takes gratefully. He doesn't drink it nearly as slowly as he should.

When he's done, Evan stands, and - God his legs are long. Tommy loves those fucking legs - loves the hair that catches against his calluses on his way up towards the promised land, loves the strength behind them when he snaps his hips forward, loves the way they feel all wrapped around him when they're -

"We are not anywhere close to the sort of resolution necessary for that look," Evan says, and Tommy sighs. Because they haven't talked about it. Because they'd yelled and smacked their hands against counters and the explosion had sent them careening off in different directions and Tommy hasn't told him.

"Angry sex can be fun," Tommy wheedles, a little unnecessarily because he doesn't actually want - and on Eddie's couch to boot, which is absolutely not what he's angling for.

"I'm not mad at you," Evan says, and Tommy gives him an unimpressed look. "Okay, I'm mostly just - confused."

Fair enough. Tommy's been confusing. Tommy's been -

Tommy curls a hand around the meat of Evan's calf and tips his head against Evan's thigh. "Can we not do this in Eddie's living room?"

---

He doesn't want to admit that it took Eddie breaking all sorts of friendship rules for Tommy to even grasp the point of Evan freezing the fuck up when Tommy had mentioned his lease. He doesn't want to admit that he's fucking terrified, all the time, about the feelings in his chest that never quite settle, that bubble up at the strangest times because every-fucking-thing reminds him of Evan. He doesn't want to admit that he'd just leapt that hurdle in his mind even though Evan has been very clearly marking every other step with metaphorical (and sometimes literal) sticky notes.

Evan hands him his tea and immediately starts picking at the paper sleeve on his cup of coffee.

"I'm not afraid of losing you," Tommy starts, which is - the opposite of the point he's trying to make, and Evan's grimace tells him it's a bad place to start. "I mean that's not why I asked."

Evan is still grimacing. And that's - Christ, he hadn't even planned it, it was just - he'd been there, digging through Tommy's sock drawer, his shit tumbling out of his overnight bag at the end of the bed and his book on the history of perfume in the bedside table and his crock pot stewing something that smelled heavenly, thirty feet away, and he wanted that always, wanted that forever, wanted more than anything to enjoy all the little moments that came before he spent the money in savings hed been setting aside since successful date number five when he'd wondered if Evan had ever thought about getting married.

"You think I asked out of convenience, right? Your stuff's already there, might as well?"

"I'm not leaving things there on purpose."

"I want you to leave things there on purpose. I want all your things there, on purpose. Even when you move my milk to the fridge door and my sugar stash to the wrong pantry shelf and even when you replace my toothpaste because it doesn't have the right enamel protection."

His lip quirks. That had been a near argument too. Tommy was particular. Tommy didn't do great with change. Evan's changed damn near fucking everything, for Tommy, and he's never been more grateful for a single thing in his fucking life.

Tommy curls a finger around Evan's wrist, and his gaze darts up through his lashes. They're long, and distracting, and Tommy wouldn't mind shoving this disagreement to the side so he can brush his lips across the paper thin lids of his eyes, but -

"I missed some steps, getting there," Tommy admits, and Evan bites his lip like he's trying to hide a smile.

"My fault, a bit. I - I could see why you might have just assumed we were scaling 'em two at a time."

"Evan," he says, and breathes a sigh of relief when his free hand darts out to smooth the veins on the back of Tommy's hand.

"Next week is six months," he says, like Tommy doesn't fucking know that, and his thumb sweeps over Tommy's knuckles. "So, i -if you have anything you wanna say before then, you got a week before you can ask me again."

(Six months is the blink of an eye, actually, but Tommy hates every blink that doesn't include Evan in it.)

"You got plans?" Tommy asks, and Evan's face pinkens.

"If you're lucky I'll even tell you them."

"It's a date."

#bucktommy #eddie&tommy #bucktommy fic

456 notes · View notes

pearlessance · 5 months ago

Text

Watch Duty - Idle Threats [i]

Series Summary — Joel has watch duty with Jackson’s twenty-year old, smart-mouthed brat and gets more than he bargained for.

Pairing — Joel Miller/Reader

Warnings — Explicit sexual content MDNI, brat taming, age gap, mean!Joel

SERIES MASTERLIST

[cross posted to AO3]

There are certain, non-negotiable ways of post-apocalyptic life. For instance, food must be rationed, and in most cases water, too. Energy is to be conserved for necessary things. Looting is for food, water, medicine, and weapons first—then for things that improve the way of life. Everyone must be willing and able to shoot to kill. And in a commune like Jackson, someone must always be on watch.

Joel Miller knows these things. He’s been living in the end of the world for years now, has grown accustomed to this cutthroat way of life. Sometimes he even convinces himself he was meant to live in a world just like this one.

When he settled in at Jackson a few short weeks ago with Ellie and was assigned his job, he was grateful to be a watcher in the homemade tree blinds. Simple, easy, to the point. And, most importantly—quiet.

There’s always two people on the south side of the commune and two people on the north side. Joel is thrilled to learn he’s been paired with Mike, a middle-aged man with a penchant for crossbows. Mike is a man of few words, which just so happens to be Joel’s favorite thing about him.

Every night, they’d relieve the daytime watchers, nod to each other once, and start their shift. Mike brings a large thermos filled with hot water, and Joel smuggles in a plastic bag of instant coffee in his pocket. A rare commodity these days—but he’s willing to share it with Mike in appreciation of his silence.

Joel enjoys his nights of quiet. Especially after he and Mike make an agreement to allow one another to sleep in rotating shifts. It’s a blessed routine. Simple, easy, to the point.

So, when Tommy lets him know that Mike will be going out on a run for a few weeks, Joel isn’t exactly happy to hear it. He tries to convince his brother to let him be on watch alone—but Maria puts a stop to that before Joel even finishes getting the words out.

It’s too dangerous. What happens if you're ambushed?

Joel is capable of handling himself. They know it, he knows it, but Tommy agrees with his wife. And once the two of them decided on something, there was no use arguing.

His dread escalates when Tommy tells him you will be taking Mike’s place. Joel’s hardly ever spoken to you—has gone out of his way to avoid you, in fact—and anxiety spikes in his chest at the idea of being in that tree blind, stuck with you, completely alone.

The third day he spends in Jackson is the first time he sees you. He and Ellie are sitting at a table in the dining hall, eating a peaceful breakfast, and you waltz right up to the table where Tommy and Maria sit. Flakes of snow cling to the ends of your hair and your long lashes, making you look a little ethereal, like some vengeful snow goddess. You’re wearing tight jeans that leave little to the imagination and a white, low-cut, long-sleeve shirt that’s drenched and left completely transparent.

Joel has to force his eyes away from the sight of the black lace you wear beneath because the feelings it evokes are so wrong.

There’s something clutched tightly in your hand. Joel can’t see what it is, even as you slam it on the table in front of Maria. You lower your head to look her right in the eye, hands braced on the wood between the two of you. “The next time you have a craving for bullshit, go and get it your goddamn self. I’m not your fucking errand boy.”

Tommy raises a hand. “Hey, now,” he reasons. “Everyone’s got a job to do—”

“I almost died! I almost died for this!” If your near nakedness didn’t command the attention in the room, your shouting certainly does.

Joel tries to ignore the fury lashing at him from the inside. You’re just a girl��a young girl, and you might as well be naked for all that wet shirt covers. Was everyone in this town so fucking nosy? They should be turning away from you, not toward you.

Never mind the fact that Joel, it seems, is incapable of doing just that.

You pick up the item and throw it at Tommy’s chest. It’s only as his brother catches it and sets it back on the table that Joel recognizes the foil package of barbecue flavored chips.

“You’re a runner,” Tommy tries to reason. “That’s what you’re supposed to do; go on runs.”

But you don’t hear him and his calm logic. You point a finger at Maria, whose face has gone crimson in embarrassment, and bare those pretty white teeth in a snarl. “Go fuck yourself, Maria.”

She opens her mouth to respond, to offer an excuse. Only she never gets the chance before you turn away and storm back through the dining hall, slamming the door behind you so hard it rattles the windows.

When Joel asks his brother about it later that night, Tommy explains that that’s just how you are. Explosive, defiant, easily provoked. But you’re the best runner Jackson has, which was why you specifically were assigned to Maria’s task for her pregnancy craving.

But the run had gone south, and you’d narrowly escaped an encounter with a small group of men who’d happened across you on the way back to Jackson. Tommy doesn’t explain what exactly happened, but he mentions the jacket you returned wearing that was so soaked in blood you had to burn it.

The next time he sees you, Joel and Ellie are walking through the streets of Jackson. Ellie is poking fun at him, cracking some joke about Joel being old, when you come barreling out of one of the buildings in the middle of town.

Mike’s wife owns a bakery, Joel knows. And it looks like you’ve just done something that’s made her real mad—because she’s standing at the threshold, shaking her fist and yelling your name.

You’re running fast, sweet sounding laughter falling from your lips. You nearly run right into Ellie, but stop yourself a moment before you crash into her. “Hey, kid,” you say, a grin stretching wide across your pretty face. “You ever had a strawberry scone before?”

Joel snorts when her mouth hangs open as she shakes her head, eyes starry as she stares up at you. “Uh…no—no. Never.”

You pull a plastic-wrapped scone out of your pocket and peel off the cellophane packaging.

Joel watches eagerly as you carefully split the pastry in half. Your hands are small and smooth. They look soft, so soft , and he wonders what they’d feel like against his back, his hips, between his legs.

Ellie takes the halved scone with a smile, and it’s reflected back on your face as you watch her tear into it with her teeth. Her eyes widen as the sugar reaches her tongue.

You and Joel both laugh at her reaction, but all amusement leaves him as you take a bite of your half and let out the prettiest sounding moan he’s ever heard.

No, Joel suddenly doesn’t think anything is funny anymore. He clenches his jaw and says, “I hope you paid for that.”

When you roll your eyes, Joel resists the urge to take your face in his hands and squeeze. “Oh, please,” you say, voice filled with sarcasm. “I’ve brought that woman so much sugarcane this last week, there wouldn’t be a bakery without me. I think I’m owed a little scone now and again.”

Joel is inclined to agree, but the blatant arrogance in your tone stops him. Don't you have any civility? Any manners?

You turn back to Ellie and say, “If you want another one, go on and give Stella some puppy dog eyes. She’s a real sucker for the kids.”

“No, Ellie,” Joel says, fixing a scowl on his face. “If you want another scone, we’ll pay for it. We don’t steal from our own people.”

You roll your eyes again and start to walk away. Joel wants to watch you, wants to turn one hundred and eighty degrees to get a full glimpse of the back of those jeans. But he knows he shouldn’t.

Ellie distracts him, an awestruck look on her face as she chews another bite of pastry. She looks up at Joel and says, “I think I just fell in love.” And then she’s clutching at her jacket like she’s having a heart attack. “Oh god—is that what this feels like? Holy shit.”

Joel just grunts in annoyance at her dramatics, but he ends up thinking about you for the remainder of the day.

It’s wrong, he knows, to find you so appealing. You’re half his age, so full of life you’re bursting at the seams with it. And Joel is nothing but a grumpy, old man. Your polar opposite, really.

He has to refrain from asking Tommy about you during dinner that night. But there’s so much he doesn’t know, so much he wants to unearth. How did you end up in Jackson? Why are you the only runner they allow out alone? What happened to you?

There’s something that happens to everyone these days. Joel’s is Sarah—and then Ellie. He wants to know what your something is. He wants to know why you’re so explosive, defiant, so easily provoked.

When he crawls into bed that night, he tells himself he’ll stop thinking of you tomorrow. He’ll put his curiosity to bed and allow you to continue wreaking havoc in the commune without any interference from him.

Except Joel dreams of you. He dreams about that white shirt, about those skin tight jeans. He dreams about the black lace. He dreams about what’s beneath even that. About your softness, about that gritty fight he sees in you. Joel dreams about taking you over his knee and showing you what discipline feels like, and he wakes up the next morning with sticky sheets like he’s some pillow-rutting teenage boy.

It’s embarrassing. Even though no one else knows, even though he’ll never, ever tell another soul, Joel feels shame at the realization that a mouthy, twenty year old girl is what does it for him.

Joel pushes his dreams and filthy thoughts far, far away as he makes his way to the tree blind that night. He’s running a little behind, and he can’t deny that the sole reason for his tardiness is you.

You make him nervous. Uneasy, on edge. He never knows what to expect from you, and it drives Joel just a little bit insane.

He expects you to arrive before him. But when he sees that both Bonnie and Greg remain and you’re nowhere to be found his jaw ticks. “She didn’t show up?”

When Bonnie shakes her head, Greg says with a shrug, “We thought she’d show up with you.”

The answer leaves Joel’s blood boiling. How could you be so inconsiderate? The two of them have been on watch for hours—likely counting down the minutes until they could be home with their families. It’s rude, Joel thinks. And he has a few choice words to say to you. He holds up a hand and says, “Give me five minutes.”

Jackson is small, and Joel is…observant. He knows you live at that little white house down on the corner. And he takes the steps of the porch two at a time, banging a fist on the door. You don’t answer, and so he’s hitting it harder, well and truly furious now.

“What the fuck?” You rip the door open, brows pinched together. You’re wearing nothing but a pair of flannel pajama shorts and a sweater that’s two sizes too big, and Joel’s hands shake at the sight of you.

“What are you doing?”

There’s a light in your eyes, he notices—excitement maybe, or mischief. Either way, it sends off warning bells in his head, loud and demanding. “I was trying to sleep, asshole.”

The curse word on your lips sends him into a blind rage. Joel grabs you around your bicep, hard enough to bruise. “You have a job to do. We all do. Your little attitude doesn’t make you exempt.”

You snort incredulously. “You’re talking about my watch duty,” you infer, seething. “That’s such bullshit. It’s just Maria’s way of trying to get back at me for that day in the dining hall. I’m not doing that shit.”

“Yes, you are,” Joel states. He’s not sure why, exactly, it’s so important to him all of a sudden. Hadn’t he nearly begged Tommy yesterday to let him be on watch alone? “Even if I have to drag you down there myself.”

With a hand on your hip you say, “Then drag away, because I’m not mov—jesus christ!”

Joel’s got his hand tangled in your hair, pulling you out of the house and onto the porch. It feels like silk between his fingers, and he wants to wrap it around his fist. But, more than that, Joel wants you to take this seriously, to take him seriously. He pushes you towards the steps just enough that you stumble. When you look up at him, there’s surprise, anger, and something a little more heated in your eyes. “Go,” he orders, leaving no room for negotiation.

Much to his delight, you actually listen. You turn away from him and lead the way through Jackson, toward the edge of the commune. Joel realizes you don’t have shoes on, either, and the smallest bit of guilt weeds itself into his chest as he watches snow melt beneath your fuzzy pink socks.

When you dismiss Bonnie, she offers you her coat. But you mutter under your breath, “No, thanks.” And the words themselves aren’t rude, but the tone you use is, and Joel wonders where the fuck your parents are. You’re not old enough for them to be gone, but even if they are, they’ve done a real shit job at teaching you to be respectful.

As Bonnie and Greg walk away with apologetic looks on their faces for Joel and what he’ll have to endure for the remainder of the night, he holds the rope ladder to the tree blind steady. “Ladies first,” he says.

A wicked smirk tugs at your full lips. You take a step back and sweep an arm out in front of you. “By all means, ma’am.”

Joel doesn’t laugh, but it looks like you might. And your childish stab only serves to rub him raw. “You’ve got about five more seconds before I force you up there myself. And, believe me, little girl, I don’t make idle threats.”

You raise your brows in astonishment. “Fuck you, dude. Seriously.”

“Four,” he says sternly, eyes fixed on yours. He enjoys the way your mouth parts just slightly. “Three.” And the way your sweet, pink tongue darts out to wet your lips.

“You think that’s gonna make a difference? You’re not—!”

“Two.”

“Okay! Jesus,” you huff, shoving him out of the way hard and starting up the ladder.

Joel holds it steady for you, ensuring you make it up nice and safe. And, yeah, maybe he does it for his own benefit, allowing himself to marvel at your thighs, at the swell of your ass poking out of the bottom of your shorts, the sight of all that bare skin.

He climbs up after you, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. The tree blind isn’t spacious, and Joel finds himself wishing that it had a little more room because you and your sweet-smelling skin take up too much of it. You’re sitting in one of the wooden chairs, arms crossed firmly over your chest and a glower on your face.

Instead of taking the seat beside you, Joel walks the perimeter slowly, trying to find any disturbance outside. It looks quiet tonight, though, the only movement born from the two patrolmen walking the outer walls and the song provided by the wind in the trees.

Twenty minutes in, you let out a frustrated sigh that’s a little too loud for his liking. “How many times are you going to check before you realize that nothing is happening out there?”

It’s true, but he can’t bring himself to sit that close to you. “I’m just being cautious,” he says. He’s worried about wandering thoughts, about wandering hands. Joel’s sure you hate him, and if you didn’t before tonight you most certainly do now. But that look you’d given him after he’d pulled you by your hair is what keeps him standing. Because Joel Miller has morals, but at the end of the day he’s still a man. And he’s self aware enough to know that all it would take is one look—one fucking look that gives the smallest bit of permission and he’ll be throwing caution to the wind.

“Cautious,” you mock. “Of what, the wind?” His brows pinch together, a little unnerved at how parallel your words are to his inner thoughts. “Better be careful. The universe might huff and puff and blow this blind right down, huh? Fuckin’ stupid.”

“You watch your mouth,” he snaps. He’s tired of the disrespect, of the attitude. You’re a goddamn brat, Joel thinks.

You turn in your chair, facing him with your shoulders squared in challenge. “Fuck-ing,” you repeat, annunciating every letter. “Stu-pid.”

Joel can’t help himself, morality be damned. He crosses the small space in one step and wraps a calloused hand around your neck. You try to pull him away, clawing at his wrist, hissing in pain at the force. But Joel holds firm, leaning over to look you in the eye. “Let’s get one thing straight,” he says lowly. “You might be able to pull this shit with Tommy and Maria, but it’s not gonna work on me. It’s in your best interest if you just keep silent. You understand?”

There’s something on your face that gives him pause; something more than amusement, more than gratification. It’s hot and heavy and needy. And as you stare up at him through those long lashes, your grip on his wrist loosens in submission.

He leans down, lips inches from your ear. Joel feels you shiver in his hands as he repeats, “Do you…understand?”

Your breath gets caught in your throat. He can hear it stutter, can hear you swallow nervously. Good, Joel thinks. He likes that he makes you nervous, edgy, restless. He feels you lean slightly to the side, pressing your cheek against his greying stubble. “Yes,” you whisper, and the submission is so sweet sounding in his ears that he feels himself growing hard.

It’s that particular realization that has him pulling away from you, nearly outed by his own body. Joel finally takes the seat next to you and stares pointedly forward, out at the far end of the perimeter. He’s thankful when you slowly turn back around and remain quiet.

This he can handle, Joel thinks. As long as he doesn’t look at you, as long as you’re not spouting off at the mouth…he’ll be just fine. He’ll remain a man with his morals intact.

You pull your legs up to your chest, holding them against your body. Even though the tree blind provides a fair bit of shelter, it’s still the middle of winter in Wyoming. And Joel suddenly feels guilty about dragging you out here like this with nothing but shorts and fuzzy socks on.

He shrugs off his coat and lays it across your legs without a word.

But you have something to say about it, of course, suddenly forgetting your agreement of silence. “You’re real chivalrous for a brooding asshole.”

“What did I just say about that goddamn mouth of yours?”

Your eyes round and your mouth hangs open in hilarity. “Do you hear yourself? I mean, really, Joel. Seriously?”

It’s the first time you’ve ever said his name, and it sends a shock of delight down his spine. Even if you do say it in annoyance, it’s still his name in your mouth, and fuck, his resistance falters. “C’mere.”

“You can’t just tell me what to do,” you say, defiant. But you stand to your feet and set his coat on your chair. “I’m not just some little girl you can boss around.”

Joel spreads his legs wide, allowing you to stand between them. Even though he’s sitting and you’re standing over him, you look so small. Joel smirks up at you and asks, “Liked that, did you?”

“No,” you answer, too quickly for it to be true. “I didn’t like it. Not…not even a little. I don’t know how you got it in your head that you’re the boss of me but…but you’re not.”

He doesn’t speak. Instead, Joel takes a selfish minute. He lets himself drink you in real slow, raking his eyes over your face, down the smooth curve of your shoulder. Your sweater is too big, but Joel can tell you’re not wearing a bra beneath, can see the hardened peaks of your nipples through the material. Your hands hang loosely at your sides, but they tremble just a little. Joel thinks it’s real cute, how you’re pretending not to be afraid. Your legs are smooth, thighs thick and delicious.

Joel raises his hand, letting his fingertips ghost across the soft skin. He waits a couple of seconds, staring up at you, giving you the opportunity to run far, far away from him.

But you don’t. Of course you don’t. You stay firmly planted between his legs, chest heaving with each ragged breath.

He searches your face for any apprehension as his hand begins to move, knuckles running along the top of your thigh. He finds nothing but heat in your eyes, and Joel ventures a little further. When he presses his hand between your legs, he watches as your eyes flutter closed and you take your bottom lip between your teeth.

Your skin is searing, so hot he wonders how plumes of smoke don’t emit from you in the cold night air. He squeezes your flesh, delighting in the peaceful little sigh you give in response. He does it again, a little higher this time. And then the side of his index finger is pressing hard against the seam of your shorts, and you raise a hand to cover your mouth.

“Joel,” you breathe. “Joel, you—”

He stops, hand freezing between your legs. He expects you to shake your head, to take that opportunity of fleeing once and for all. He’d allow it. Encourage it, even. He was no good, proved even further by the fact that he’d touched you even knowing he shouldn’t.

But you do none of these things. You only press your fingers against your mouth and squeeze your eyes closed real tight.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

Defiant as ever, you keep your mouth sealed firmly shut for once. Instead, you use your free hand and reach for his wrist, turning it so his hand is cupping the warmth between your thighs. Your hips shift forward slowly, experimentally.

It’s the hottest thing Joel Miller has ever fucking seen. You’re so needy, so desperate that this little bit of friction has you moaning.

The sound is so much sweeter when it’s him making you feel good instead of some pastry, Joel thinks.

And as much as he wants to let you use him for your own benefit, as much as he wants to see you fall apart just like this, rutting against his hand, right here, right now—Joel wants to teach you even more.

He pulls his hand away, grabbing your hips and pulling you close. You stumble towards him with a gasp, eyes snapping open. You put your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself as Joel pulls you down, forcing you to straddle his thigh. He places one hand on the small of your back and tangles the other in the hair at the base of your skull, gripping just tight enough that it hurts.

“Gonna listen real good now, aren’t you, little girl? Hm?”

You’re nodding frantically, and Joel can feel how wet you are even through his jeans. When you start to move your hips, grinding against his thigh, Joel pulls your hair hard.

“Did I say you could move?”

You stop moving, even though you spit through gritted teeth, “I didn’t ask.”

That fucking mouth on you. He has half a mind to fill it up to quiet you once and for all. But Joel’s a patient man, and he wants to see you squirm, wants to hear you beg. He tilts his head menacingly and orders, “Apologize.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” he answers. “You said you’d be good. Now, go on.”

The glare you give him in response brings a depraved smile to his lips. But then you lean forward, pressing a kiss to his neck. The touch sends a shiver down Joel’s spine, and his cock throbs in his jeans, begging to feel your wet mouth. You kiss him again, just below his ear, and then run your tongue along his pulse. “I’m sorry, Joel,” you whisper.

And then the hand on the small of your back is pushing you forward, forcing you to grind against his thigh again. You let out a moan at the friction, nails digging into his shoulders through his flannel. He’s weak, so fucking weak. Completely at your goddamn mercy, desperate to hear the sounds you make.

He lets you move a little faster, lets you grind yourself against his leg at whatever pace feels best. A dark spot forms on the denim spread over his thigh, and it’s the most beautiful sight he’s ever seen.

You nestle your head against the crook of his neck, your breath warm and wet against his collarbone.

“That’s it, baby,” he says. “See how good it feels when you behave? See that?” You’re so soft, so pliable in his hands. It’s such a stark contrast to the unruly girl you were just moments ago. Joel could tell, even before he ever set his hands on you, that you were capable of being good. It just took a little discipline, that’s all.

The hand he has on your back drifts down, over the curve of your ass, even lower. When he snakes his hand below you and you drag your hips backward, his fingertips brush up against your entrance. “Oh, god,” you whimper, grinding against him even faster now, more desperate. “I’m close, please don’t stop.”

He almost listens. You sound so fucking pretty when you beg, and Joel thinks he’d be perfectly content to listen to you for the rest of his life.

But no. No. You could apologize and beg all you wanted. That doesn’t mean the lesson is learned. Joel pulls his hand away and forces you off him, back onto stumbling feet.

“What the fuck, Joel?!” Your hands are clenched into fists at your side, but your fury only proves his point.

“What did I say about that mouth? Hm?”

Your lips part, and Joel has no doubt there’s another insult on the tip of your tongue. But the threat in his eyes must be enough to dissuade you because you’re rendered silent, deciding to close your sweet mouth and clench your teeth instead.

“Not so hard, was it?” Joel shifts in his seat, settling lower, very much enjoying the glower on your face. “Don’t worry, little girl. You won’t forget your manners anymore when I’m done with you. Take off your shorts.”

The muscle in your jaw feathers, but you do as told. And Joel is proud of you, really. So, so proud of you. He watches as you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and pull them down, kicking them away with your feet.

Seeing you bare before him is magnificent, so beautiful it hurts him. Your face turns a sweet shade of pink as he takes you in; memorizing the way your pussy looks. Joel adjusts himself through his jeans, cock aching painfully. You don’t deserve an ounce of praise, not right now. Not after all the attitude you’ve given him. But the words escape him anyway. “You’re so pretty, baby,” he says. “The prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

Joel leans forward, presses his mouth to your belly. And again, lower this time. His kisses are slow and soft, his stubble tickling your skin. Your fingers thread themselves through his peppery curls, tugging softly, and Joel can’t hold back his moan at the sensation.

You feel so good, and Joel knows you’ll taste even better. He convinces himself that it’s for him, not for you, as he runs his tongue along the seam of your pussy. He does it again, licking desperately, wondering if he’ll ever get his fill of you. It’s just for him, he reminds himself.

You’re so wet that every soft stroke of his tongue makes an obscene sound, but it’s the sounds you’re making that keep his mouth between your legs.

“God, Joel, yes—mmm. That feels so good,” you moan, pressing his face against you harder. You start to tilt your hips against his face, spreading your legs wider. Joel glances up to see your head thrown back, goosebumps rising over your throat. He can’t tell if it’s the cold or him that creates them, but he selfishly hopes for the latter.

He sucks your clit into his mouth, circling it with the tip of his tongue, and he feels your legs begin to shake, hears your breathing slow. And then he pulls away, and the sight of your eyes as they turn glassy in desperation makes every bit of his own suffering worth it.

You know well enough by now not to scream in protest like last time, but he can see that you want to. You’re learning. Good, Joel thinks.

“Turn around,” he says. And you do, but he can feel the rage radiating off your skin. He pulls you back into his lap, laying your legs over his, spreading you real wide.

When you finally realize his intention, your whole body melts against his chest. And it’s trust he senses then, a warm feeling that cuts through him like a razor. You’re trusting him to make you feel good, Joel knows—and he has every intention of doing just that.

His hands are cold as they drift up the inside of your thighs. He drags them back down, and then back up even slower this time. He does this again and again, feeling you, tracing patterns into your skin, savoring the feel of you in his hands. By the time his fingertips ghost across your pussy, you’re trembling in anticipation. “Please,” you beg.

Joel presses one hand to your belly, just below your navel, and uses the other to slide his middle and index fingers through your wetness. He moves easily, gliding them over your clit, down to your entrance, circling it with the pads of his fingers but never sinking in. You tilt your hips towards them, desperate to feel them inside of you.

You’re so beautiful like this, Joel thinks. All needy whimpers and frantic movements. He swipes his fingers over your clit, back and forth, picking up speed as your moans grow louder.

“This all for me, little girl? You’re so wet. Look at you, makin’ a big mess in my lap.” He presses a kiss to the side of your neck.

Your knuckles turn white as you grip the arms of his chair. “Joel,” you cry out. “Joel, please, I’m gonna—!”

He stops, pulling his hand away completely. He winds it around your trembling thigh instead, spreading you so wide your muscles burn. He clicks his tongue right next to your ear, and you can feel him smiling into your hair. “ Nuh uh, baby,” he says. “Not yet. Not until I say so.”

You raise your hands to the back of his head, pulling on his hair, writhing in his lap like a woman possessed, grinding against nothing. Your slick drips down your legs, and even though you’re near to tears, Joel knows you’re enjoying this. Knows you need this. “Please,” you beg. “Please, please, just—!”

“Shh, s’alright,” he says. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head. I’m gonna take real good care of ya as long as you behave.” His words seem to relax you a little. Joel works the tension from your muscles, massaging slowly. He doesn’t touch you again until your breathing evens out.

Joel slips his hand beneath your sweater, palming your breast, squeezing the supple flesh between his rough hands. His thumb smooths across your nipple, hardens it into a perfect little point.

It feels so good that you close your eyes and lean your head back against him, so focused on the feeling of his calloused hands that it takes you by surprise when his fingers find your pussy again.

This time, he circles your clit once, twice, and then he’s pushing two fingers inside of you. He slides in easily, your body so worked up and desperate for him that it pulls him in. His fingers are thick, stretching you, pressing in deep. He hooks them upwards, searching, searching— there. “Ohh, yes —yes, please, Joel, fuck.”

He begins to slide his fingers out of you, but you grasp his wrist and push them right back in.

“Wait, no! No, no, please, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it, god, just touch me, please, please, please, ” you rush out, all in a single breath.

Joel thinks you look like damnation as you fuck yourself with his hand, moving it of your own accord, whining when you can’t get enough pressure. “Oh, baby,” he says, wiping away the tear that’s spilling down your cheek. “That’s alright, hm? I know you don’t mean it. I can see what a good girl you are. S’okay.” He presses his thumb against your clit and begins moving his hand again, thrusting his fingers inside you, caressing that sweet spot you can never reach on your own.

Silently, Joel begins to panic. Because you’re so tight, so wet, so perfect. His perfect little girl. And he knows this is wrong, knows that while, yeah, technically, you’re an adult, Joel fucking knows better than to touch someone like you. He knows what other people will think of him, what they’ll say behind his back, what they’ll whisper about in the dining hall. He should stop it right here, right now, while there’s still a sliver of redemption to be had for him.

But he can’t. He can’t. Not now, and he worries he’ll never be able to. Because no one, fucking no one has ever felt like this.

He picks up his pace, trying to push the thoughts from his mind. He feels you clamp down around his fingers, feels your walls tighten so much it makes a deep groan rumble through his chest. You’re close, he knows. He can see it, can feel it.

“ Joel,” you plead when he pulls his fingers out of you. Your tears are falling freely now. Big, fat, alligator tears on your flushed cheeks. You let out a ragged moan as he pinches your nipple beneath your sweater and for a split second, he thinks he’s fucked up. Thinks he’s strung you so tight that the little bit of pain and pleasure has you tumbling over the edge.

Thankfully, though, you’re only shaking in blissful agony.

“Oh my god,” you cry, hands trembling as you scratch at his arms. Every small movement of your hips has your ass rubbing against his erection, and it’s almost enough. Watching you shake, hearing you beg for him. It’s almost enough to do him in entirely. Almost. “Please, Joel, I’ll be good, I’ll be so good, I promise.”

He presses a kiss to your jaw, licking the salt from your sweat-slick skin. “I know you will be, baby,” he says gently. “I told you, didn’t I? Told you you’d remember your manners by the time I was done. And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

You’re whimpering, so desperate for his hands, his mouth, for anything, that you don’t even notice what he’s doing as he reaches beneath you. No, you’re too busy grinding against his hand to notice as Joel unzips his jeans and pulls his cock out until he’s holding it against you.

He’s got his cock between your pussy and the palm of his hand, pushing it against you hard. You feel so good against him, so warm and wet, and Joel’s moaning right along with you. Your clit is so swollen he can feel it as you grind it against the head of his cock, delicate fingers wrapped around his bicep. “Ohh, yeah. Feels real good, don’t it, pretty girl? Jus’ like that.”

“I want it, Joel,” you say, voice sweet and whiny and angelic. “Put it in, please, please.”

“Gotta get you right on the edge first,” he says, palming your breast. “Gotta make it hurt. Haven’t you learned by now, little girl?”

“But it does! It hurts, Joel, please!”

Joel leans his head back and chuckles lowly. “I know it does, I know, baby. You can take a little more though, hm? Just a little more so you remember this lesson.” So you remember me.

The thought comes wicked and unwanted. But it’s there, it’s there, embedded in his brain. Joel swallows, can feel your exhaustion as the tremble in your legs returns. And then he stops. He pulls his cock away from your warm heat and taps it against your clit as you cry out for him.

“Shh, I know, sweetheart,” he coos in your ear. He wants to wait until your body calms back down, until you’re loose and pliable again. But he can’t wait another minute, not one more goddamn second. “Don’t worry, I’ve got ya,” he says. Joel lines himself up against your entrance, so wet it’s already dripping down over him.

You’re panting as he pushes in slow, stretching you wide. You’re so tight that Joel’s not sure it’ll fit despite how soaked you are. But he works himself in inch by inch, and once he’s fully seated inside you he’s met with a wave of pride so intense he wraps his arms around your middle and rests his head against your shoulder. “Yes,” you cry, breathing a sigh of relief. “It’s so big, Joel. God.”

“You take me s’good, baby.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder, your cheek, your temple. “Gonna fuck you now, hm? Gonna fuck this little pussy real good, promise.” Joel pulls out almost completely and thrusts himself back in, slamming his hips up against yours. You let out a whine so loud he chuckles and uses a hand to cover your mouth. “Shh, quiet now,” he tells you. “Don’t want anyone getting any ideas about what we’re doing up here.”

When you stick out your tongue and suck his middle finger into your mouth, Joel’s cock twitches inside of you. Your mouth is so soft, so fucking soft he thinks he might die. Might have a heart attack right here, still inside you. You meet each of his thrusts by grinding down against him, moaning around his fingers, the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

Joel reaches his free hand down and rubs your clit, and two seconds later your pussy grips him like a vice. “Hold it,” he orders.

With a shake of your head, you bounce in his lap harder. “I can’t, I can’t, I—!”

“Yes you can. You can. Not till I say so, little girl. Hold it,” he says. And just because he’s decided he likes you, Joel grants you a little relief and lessens the pressure on your clit. Your walls flutter around him, and it nearly does him in. He wants to hear you, wants to fucking see you.

He straightens in his seat, allowing for a better view. He leans over your shoulder and watches where he disappears inside you, fucks into you a little harder.

With one last kiss against your forehead, Joel says, “Go ahead, baby. Come for me.”

That’s all it takes. You go silent for a moment, breath held in your lungs, And then you’re shaking in his hands, a whimpering mess, flooding his lap. You say his name over and over, a prayer, or perhaps a curse.

“That’s it, little girl. Ohh, it’s so good, hm? Feel so good when you earn it. Good girl, baby. Good fuckin’ girl. My good little girl. Yeah, there you go.” He’s talking you through it, watching it all unfold, watching you tighten around him so hard you’re nearly pushing his cock out. But Joel keeps it buried inside you, forcing it right up against that sweet spot.

It’s right then that he knows.

Joel will never, ever be free of you. Not now. Not knowing how it feels to be inside you, knowing how it feels when you lose yourself because of him. Whatever redemption there was for him is gone now, evaporated into thin air, never to be found again.

He pulls out with just enough time to spill his come onto your thighs, fisting his cock in his hand. It’s almost a painful end, not being able to finish inside of you.

But then you reach between your legs and run your hand through the stickiness. You bring it to your mouth and suck your fingers clean.

Joel watches every movement, hard again at the sight.

As you stare up at him, he knows you feel it, too. That energy shift, intense and wicked and damning.

Wisps of your hair stick to your forehead, the back of your neck. You pull your fingers out of your mouth, and your swollen lips curve into a grin. You look so beautiful that it pains him. You stand back up on wobbly legs, using his thigh as support while you pull your shorts back on.

Joel thinks you look even better as you slip your arms through his coat. It swallows you up, but it’s his and it’s on you and the sight feels like a kick to the gut. He stuffs himself back into his jeans before he can ravage you again, before he makes the situation even worse.

You pick up his rifle from the floor and settle back into his lap. Joel has half a mind to push you away, to get some much-needed distance, to give you your last chance at freedom.

But he’s a selfish man. So he doesn’t. He lets you lean back against him, even wraps his arms around your waist. You lay the weapon across your legs carefully. “If watch duty is always this good, tell Maria to sign me up.”

[part two]

420 notes · View notes

ceoofyearning · 6 months ago

Text

I only pray, don’t fall away from me

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: The world feels like it’s falling apart around you, but Azriel finally comes home and helps you hold all the pieces together.

Tags/Warnings: Hurt and Comfort, depressive themes & thoughts, anxiety, nightmares, mentions of a minor character death (not the mc/reader) || please mind the tags.

Word Count: 3.5k

A/N: this week was though so here’s a bit of a hurt & comfort fic; hope your days are kind to you guys xoxo

Links: Fic Masterlist | My Art

You’re so damn tired.

The last few weeks have been difficult, to say the least. The healing house has been filled to the brim with the wounded and sick. Altercations with Beron’s soldiers by the border have been increasing at an alarming rate, while countless spies from the continent have been winnowed in after being caught by Koschei’s contingent forces. You can’t even begin to imagine the state of the civilians that might’ve been caught in the crossfire.

There is tension in the air with the threat of the inevitable war looming on the horizon. It doesn’t help that the winter chill, in all of its foreboding fury, has come to ravage the lands and its people. You love your work as a healer, you really do. Some days, the thought of the good you do, the people you help, is enough to keep you going. But too often, it feels like a thankless job that leaves you drained to the core.

In your free time, you’ve been parsing through ancient texts in search of information on Death Gods and anything that could be used against Koschei. His looming threat is a cloud of dread that hangs over everyone, especially Rhys. The least you could do is to help carry the burden. It’s not like you could sleep, anyway. These days it is as though your mind adamantly refuses to let you rest. At the very least, the task keeps you distracted when you’re stuck alone in your apartment.

Ever since Azriel had been sent to the continent for a reconnaissance mission nearly a month ago, the apartment you share has started to feel a little too big, too desolate. Before you knew it, the white walls had been transmuted from your home into what felt like the bars of a cage.

The two of you haven't been apart for so long since the mating bond snapped. You didn’t think you'd feel his absence as acutely as you did, but it felt like the loss of a limb where the wound refused to heal and you were already bleeding out. His part of the bond is blacked out completely, a devouring void where Azriel’s comforting presence should have been. It’s for your own safety, he said. But you can’t help it. You’re plagued with worry, with imagined hurts and tragedies, amplifying the brewing conflict in your mind.

It is easier to catch yourself when Azriel is near. When the thoughts begin to swirl like a hurricane around you - winds whipping, oceans rising - it feels like Azriel’s arms are the only safe harbor you can rely on. But Azriel isn’t here now.

What frustrates you most is that you’ve been better recently. You’ve been good. You ate your meals, slept reasonably, even had a goddamned routine set up. You guzzled down your tonics in hopes of smoothing out the edges of your frayed mind, that perhaps it could lend you some semblance of normalcy. But no. Weeks of being haunted by nightmares, of overextending yourself, of loss and suffering seeping under your skin day by day have taken its toll.

You are just too damn tired.

A child died, barely over thirteen years old. She was bastard-born, which meant she had nothing to her name other than the rags on her back and her birthright to suffer generational oppression and cruelty. This is the worst winter the Night Court has had in centuries, and she didn’t even have a decent roof over her head. Needless to say, she hadn’t been in the best health. But despite that, the moment her cycle had come, the men forced her to go through the clipping. In her struggle, the imbeciles accidentally nicked a vital artery. Normally, her Illyrian healing would’ve granted her a strong chance for survival, but she had been so sick, her body weakened by hours spent in the frigid cold.

By the time you had been summoned to heal her, she no longer had the strength to recover. Numbness washed over you at the image of her unseeing eyes, the same shade as Azriel’s in the right light, trained toward the vast empty sky. You have a feeling it isn’t a sight you’d forget any time soon.

You don’t know how long it’s been. The room is shrouded with a thick blanket of darkness, the only respite coming from the dwindling candlelight by your bedside. Only silence exists within these four walls, interrupted by the occasional patter of water leaking from the kitchen sink. You burrow deeper into the sheets, inhaling the trace of Azriel’s scent that still lingered like it would somehow quell this ache inside you.

Despite spending most of the day bedbound, you’ve barely had any sleep. There is no respite to be found in the dreaming, only nightmares lying in wait. It seems your mind has a knack of bringing your worst fears. Azriel bruised, bloodied and utterly alone, lost, somewhere in the vastness of the continent, hazel eyes - his, then hers, then his again - glazing over, crimson seeping into the arid ground below.

For the last few weeks, you’ve gathered your grief and worry like rocks to wear around your neck. Your body is heavy, the phantom weight sinking and settling within the marrow of your bones, refusing to leave. It feels like you could stay in this bed forever until you dissipate into nothing but sand, smoke and thought.

You managed to send out a request for the texts Rhys needed translated, but not much else. You’re thankful he directly portalled them on your worktable because you don’t think you could brave the journey to the library today. You don’t think you could do much of anything today, in all honesty.

So there you lay, bundled up in a collection of blankets, at least three inches of cotton and down that never seem enough to warm you. A book rests in your hands, yet your eyes remain unfocused, not truly seeing the words.

You run your thumb over the crisp paper, knowledge older than you, older than this city and yet you couldn't even bring yourself to focus long enough to dissect their true meaning. Your will is liquid in your hands, slipping through the cracks in between your fingers. Accidentally, you tug too hard on a page and it tears easily beneath your touch. If you had your wits about you, you would’ve been horrified by what you’ve just done. But as you are now, it is difficult to care.

That’s what you feel like at this moment, you realize. These past few weeks have left you feeling spent, worn out, paper thin. Absently, you stretch out your hand towards the candlelight, close enough to feel the warmth lick against your cool skin. The flame casts a brilliant silhouette around your shadowed hand. It’s a wonder why golden light doesn’t seep right through.

That’s how Azriel finds you.

The front door of your apartment creeks open, letting in a flood of muted morning light. Your first instinct is to retreat beneath the covers to shield yourself. Azriel calls your name in the silence, worry permeating each syllable. No doubt, he is cataloging the mess your shared space had become in your unintentional neglect.

You say nothing, wondering if you could just close your eyes and pretend to be asleep, anything to escape his scrutiny. A breath of relief escapes him when he finds you in bed. The mattress dips beneath his weight as he sits beside you.

The urge to curl tighter around yourself is strong. But he repeats your name and, as though he had cast a spell, you unspool before him, your muscles unwinding, one fiber at a time.

“Can I touch you?” He asks, voice painfully soft.

“Okay,” you croak out from beneath the blankets.

Azriel gradually draws the sheets away from your body, giving you ample time to protest if you’d like. Then, he rests his hand on your shoulder. Unbidden, a shiver runs down your spine, followed by a stuttered breath. You don’t realize how much you missed his touch until his textured hand begins its soothing path up and down your back, his heat sinking into your skin.

Shame washes over you despite the bone-deep comfort you find upon his gentle ministrations. You don’t want him to see you this way. Azriel deserves better, the voices in your head insist. He deserves a mate whose mind does not devour itself at every given opportunity, a mate who does not quake beneath the weight of the world and the idea of their own immortal existence.

As though detecting your train of thought, his shadows leave their preferred perch on his shoulders to pool around you instead. Tendrils of darkness brush away the tears on your face, while some thread through your hair like a gentle breeze.

On the other hand, Azriel urges you to rest your head on his lap. He begins to run his hand through your hair, uncaring of how greasy and tangled it has become. Eventually, his voice pierces the silence, injecting warmth into the distance between you. He hums a tune you do not recognize, but you can't help but cling to each winding note like a lifeline. Azriel has always had a beautiful voice - depthless, silken and soothing. It feels like a privilege to hear the song that he normally reserves for his shadows.

You must’ve been a pitiful sight to behold, and yet Azriel never looks at you like you are. He always treats you like something to cherish, something to love, like you’re someone he’s spent lifetimes desperately waiting for and you’ve been entirely worth the wait. A traitorous part of you feels like you’ll never deserve it, this love.

Azriel must sense the hurricane of emotions waging a one-sided war in your head, despite the mental shields you adamantly keep up. But he doesn’t tell you to stop, doesn’t brush off your worry with empty words and false promises. Instead, he simply says, “I love you.”

He speaks it as though it is a fact like one would say that the sky is blue, and the grass is green, and the world would keep on turning in peteruity, orbiting the sun the same way you’ll continue to orbit around each other. His chapped lips ghost over your temple, murmuring your name like a plea, a prayer.

“More than anything in this world,” he adds as he pulls you into his embrace.

Your body is pliant for him, arms winding around his neck like that is where they’re meant to be. His arms wrap around your waist to hold you impossibly closer. Webbed wings stretch to curl around the two of you, creating a cocoon of darkness that keeps the rest of the world at bay. With your head resting on his chest, you could hear his heartbeat thudding in chorus with yours.

“I love you too,” you reply after a long stretch of silence. “But sometimes I wish you could’ve had a better mate.”

“There is no one better,” Azriel insists. “There is only you, my love; through light, through darkness, through whichever end. Only you.” And you feel the truth of his words as surely as the twinned beating of your hearts. Sometimes it’s hard to convince your traitorous mind that you could have this, that someone could love you so deeply despite having seen you at your worst. Azriel presses another kiss against your cheek, and despite yourself, you begin to believe his words.

You don’t know how long Azriel holds you like that, but it finally feels like a stretch of eternity you could bear.

“What can I do to help, love?” Azriel prompts, cupping your face in the cradle of his scarred palms - their texture, a familiar comfort.

You turn over his question in your head for a few moments, savoring his scent, the sensation of his skin against your own. A part of you is tempted to ask him to lay beside you for the rest of the day, for a week, for an entire lifetime. You know Azriel would if you asked it of him. But beyond this room, the world continues its elliptical path around the sun and time still ticks on regardless of how disconnected you feel from your own reality.

“A bath,” is all you manage to say.

Azriel nods, before reluctantly peeling himself from you. “Have you eaten?”

“‘M not hungry,” you mumble as you sink back into the sheets, sighing as the comforter swallows you up. In truth, you can’t remember when your last meal had been. Hunger didn’t seem so pressing in the last few days.

“That’s not what I asked.” Azriel’s tone leaves no room for argument or negotiation.

“No,” you finally answer, although with much trepidation. “Not yet.”

He hums, clearly displeased, but says nothing else. You can already imagine the frown that must be stretching across his face. But it seems Azriel’s presence alone is enough to quieten your mind, at least for now. You must’ve been dead tired because it doesn’t take long for the rhythmic sound of Azriel's familiar footfalls to lull you into dreamless sleep.

"Love," Azriel whispers, his hand hovering over your shoulder, rousing you from your shallow slumber. You blink languidly until molten eyes come into focus. The candlelight flickers, and shadows dance across his face. Azriel’s normally sharp features are softened by the tenderness in his expression. You’ll never tire of waking to the sight of him.

With a groan, you half-roll half-stumble out of bed. Azriel stays an arm’s length away in case you need him, but he’s careful not to crowd you. His shadows have no such reservations, however. The dark tendrils fretfully twine around your arms, making you smile. You thank them quietly, and for a moment, they seem to dance with delight. Regardless of your initial unsteadiness, you manage to pad all the way to the bathroom.

Upon crossing the threshold, the sweet scent of jasmine immediately overtakes your senses. The tub has already been filled up, steam rising from the sun-covered surface. You begin to unbutton your tunic, clumsy fingers tumbling through your first few attempts. Azriel steadies your hands with his firm grip, his shadows gently circling your wrists.

“May I?” He asks, gesturing to your tunic, and you nod, not wanting to think anymore. His movements are precise, almost clinical, while he undoes the first five buttons, before bunching the garment in his hands and pulling it over your head entirely. Your skin breaks out in gooseflesh once exposed to the cold air. Azriel is careful to keep his gaze on your face, even as you step out of your undergarments.

Azriel only betrays his composure when he traces your cheekbone, like he can’t quite help himself. From this distance, you have to crane your neck to look up at him. For a moment, the two of you only stare at each other. The bond glows bright between you, the golden thread gleaming as though it hadn't spent the last few weeks completely stretched thin.

But then, Azriel withdraws, tilting his head to the steaming tub. Obediently, you step into the water’s warm embrace, the heat nearly stinging your skin. Logically, however, you know it’s only because you’ve allowed yourself to stay in the cold for too long.

A relieved sigh escapes you as you sink further into the tub. One of his shadows rushes to pillow your heavy head as it rests on the tub’s rim. You thank the sweet little thing, and swirls of black sway back and forth like a dog wagging its tail. Meanwhile, Azriel takes his place by the head of the tub, sitting back on his heels.

“I’d like to wash your hair,” he says and you're touched by the earnest quality his voice takes.

“Okay,” you breathe. You’ve never been good at denying Azriel anything, nor did you want to. The more the ice beneath your skin thaws, the more you find that you want him near.

Azriel begins by running his fingers through your hair, massaging your scalp as he pours warm water over your head. With a pop of a bottle, the floral scent of shampoo fills the air. He lathers the substance on your head, his touch tender even as his fingers work through the knots in the strands, untangling them with care.

After a while, he rinses off the suds and coats his hands with oil. He begins combing his fingers through your hair, starting from the ends and working his way up. The rhythmic motion of his fingers is calming as he draws circles against your scalp. You find yourself melting into the moment, feeling utterly content for the first time in what feels like a very long time.

Once done, Azriel grabs a small towel and asks, “Do you want help washing?”

You shake your head, wanting to do this for yourself, at least. Understanding flashes in his eyes, and he spares you a soft smile. With that, Azriel leaves the towel by the tub and politely excuses himself from the room. With the door left slightly ajar, you could still hear him move around the apartment followed by the lyrical clinking of silverware against ceramic.

It takes you a few minutes to gather the energy to lather yourself with soap, and a few more to finally rise from the bath. But once the grime is off your skin, you feel a bit of the weight wash off with it too. You feel a bit more like yourself.

After drying off, you tug on the silk robe Azriel has left for you, securing it loosely around your waist. Upon exiting, you spy him by the dining table, scooping a generous serving of soup into a bowl. The mouthwatering aroma of rich broth wafts through the room, and you realize just how hungry you are when your stomach growls in protest. You approach him from behind, making sure that each step is audible.

Azriel continues to set up the table, but you can tell he’s aware of your presence from the way his shoulders seem to relax. The sudden urge to have him close is palpable, an instinct so deeply ingrained into your being. So, gradually, you wrap your arms around his waist, burying your face on his back. You take a deep inhale, breathing him in - a lungful of moontime mist and cedarwood smoke.

“I’m glad you’re home,” you murmur against Azriel’s back, your voice muffled by his shirt.

“I’m glad to be home,” he whispers. His hands abandon their task in favor of twining his fingers with your own.

Azriel turns to face you and holds your face in his hands. Beneath the swathes of sunlight, his eyes are alight with golden flame, flecks of green scattered over his irises like an afterthought. There is nothing but love in his gaze, nothing but acceptance.

“Thank you,” you say, tilting your head so the words could kiss his lips, not quite touching but close. “For being here, for loving me, for choosing me, everyday.”

“I will always choose you,” he vows, before planting a kiss on your forehead.

“Today,” another peck on the tip of your nose; “Tomorrow,” one more on your cheek; “And all the days after,” he finishes with a chaste caress on your lips.

Then, he rests his forehead on yours, your bodies slotted against each other like a lock and its predestined key. In Azriel’s presence, you find it easier to breathe, easier to simply be. For the first time in a long time, your mind is clear and your heart beats in a calm, languid pace that matches his own.

“I’d like to kiss you,” you request, looking up at him from beneath your lashes. Azriel’s gaze is searching, scouring for any hint of anything short of absolute certainty. Perhaps you should tell him that in this world of constant change and chaos, he’s the only one you’re certain of.

Azriel must be satisfied with what he finds written across your features because he replies, “So kiss me then,” the ghost of a smirk playing across his lips.

You’re surprised to find that it’s easy to return the playful expression. Your rise to the tips of your toes while your fingers thread through his raven black hair. When your lips touch, it is as though the world breathes a sigh of relief. Reality realigns and everything outside the two of you and your shared breaths turns inconsequential. He moves against you with practiced ease, like the natural ebb and flow of the tide.

An eternity of this, you think, doesn’t seem so daunting after all.

AN: i’m not sure if that was too much but thank you for reading 💙 As always, i’d love to hear everyone’s thoughts

English isn’t my first language, so if you see any mistakes, please lmk thru dm! 💙

Also, I just wanted to yap about the Az fics im in the process of writing:

1. Vampire!Azriel x Reader (Working tittle: Ashes in my wake)

I just love the idea of cannibalism (or yk, blood drinking) as a metaphor for love in literature so here we are. ( @/annikin-im-panicin this is ur influence) This one is a bit of a dark fic (nothing too crazy tho, I think), so i’m not sure how it’ll be received. But the idea has been haunting me for yonks so I just had to write it.

2. Tattoo Artist!Azriel x Lucien’s Best Friend!Reader (Working tittle: Drink dry the river Lethe)

This one is a multichapter fic (maybe 4-7 chapters, we’ll see) so it might take me a while before I start posting, but i’ve mostly finished writing the first (very smutty) and second (very angsty) chapter. I ‘m not entirely sure what direction to bring this yet but maybe you guys can help me decide?

Unrelated to Az, but i’ve been brainworming a poly dark-ish innocent!reader x Feysand fic, and a slightly less dark and more sappy(?) poly warrior!reader x royal!nessian fic. I’m so excited to start these but my pile of wips is giving me the stink eye 😂

#my fic #azriel #azriel fic #azriel fanfic #queued because posting gives me sm anxiety #acotar fic #azriel fluff #acotar x reader #azriel acotar #acotar azriel #acotar fanfic #azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel x female!reader #a court of thorns and roses #acotar x you #azriel angst #mind the warnings my loves

542 notes · View notes