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heavenbarnes · 1 year ago

Text

I wanna make it (so badly)

Art Donaldson x Fem Reader

Warnings/Contains: reader is AFAB with she/her pronouns, swearing, inappropriate employer/employee relationship, dry-humping, a lot of heavy petting, implied age gap, effective-infidelity (reader tested, tashi approved), oral sex (f!receiving), art is a bit of a pervert and mega-pathetic (endearing), references to religion (worship).

Word Count: 5.8k

i white knuckled the steering wheel on the way home from this film thinking about art donaldson- this is, essentially, an ode to that

Youth tennis lessons, $20/h, call for details

Finding work was hard, keeping work was harder.

Cleaning, baby-sitting, pet-sitting, pet-walking. There was virtually nothing you hadn't tried.

Odd jobs, odd hours, and the occasional odd employer.

You'd played tennis for the last couple years of college. Nothing remotely competitive but you and your friends had looked cute in the skirts and they'd give you whole hours out of class to play.

You were above average with a good arm and better patience.

Another odd job to add to your growing list.

You'd been particular about where you'd posted the ads, the neighbourhoods you'd chosen. Only the ones with manicured lawns and white picket fences.

Tacking the paper to boards in upmarket cafes, fancy supermarkets, ladies-only gyms.

The kind of people that want their kids playing tennis and could find their way to increase your pay- if you did well.

You always did very well.

So your little car looked a little out of place in this neighbourhood, fingers holding the scribbled post-it note with the address. Your scrawling handwriting detailing the "Donaldson's" were enquiring within.

Pulling up outside the house, you had a quiet inkling that you might've been out of your depth. Whoever owned this house deserved more than an above-average-ex-college-student that only learnt the sport to spend time with friends.

But they'd requested you, you'd have to let them come to that conclusion on your own.

Your knuckles only hit the door once before it was being swung open by someone that looked destined to be a security guard, like he'd come out the womb with his future decided.

What the fuck had you gotten yourself into?

He'd left you in the "formal lounge" to sit smack-bang in the centre of a couch that wouldn't even fit in the lobby of your apartment building- let alone the apartment itself.

As you admired a painting on the wall that you'd only ever seen in books, high heels on the stone floors made you jump in your seat.

The most beautiful woman you might ever see in your life appeared before you and said your name in a way that had you standing from your seat.

Your face faltered just enough that you hoped she didn't notice. There was something about her that told you she noticed everything.

Fuck me, that's Tashi Duncan.

If you know a thing about tennis (or even just watched the news) you know exactly who this woman is. You remember her more from your childhood but you remember her all the same.

The woman that once held the world by the balls.

She apologised for her husband's absence, that he was busy. It wasn't lost on you that the "husband" she casually referred to was Art Donaldson, US Open champion.

The Donaldson's.

Ah fuck.

Tashi went on the explain that they were wanting to begin lessons for their daughter Lily. You assumed this was the one you could hear running circles around the informal lounge.

"With all due respect, am I not the least qualified person in this home for that?"

You watched a perfectly formed cheekbone lift in what was nearly a smile. Strangely enough, something in the pit of your chest was dying to make her do that again.

There was something about her that demanded to be impressed.

You were no exception to the rule.

"My husband and I have seen some of your matches, we liked what we saw."

How? Your 'matches'- if you can even call them that, were nothing of note. You don't even think faculty bothered to watch them. You weren't quite sure why they'd even recorded them.

A silly part of you began to wonder how they'd even got a hold of them- until you remembered who they were.

The Hermes and Peitho of tennis.

"You did? I always thought of myself as more of a casual player."

"And that's what we liked, we know better than anyone how brutal tennis can become. We want someone to help Lily enjoy the game."

Oh, okay then.

You'd made a quasi-college-career out of purely enjoying the game. You were sure you could foster the same spirit for the six-year-old performing the entire 'Encanto' soundtrack in the other room.

Tashi laid down a tight schedule, Monday to Friday, 3pm to 6pm. You would teach Lily the wonders of the game on the court behind their home.

Their home you'd come to find out was a luxury rental when you'd complemented Tashi on another of the art pieces that'd apparently come with the place.

You'd also come to find out they typically live in hotel rooms, but they'd settled in this area for the time being as Art had a good thing going with a regular playing schedule and a sporting-goods deal.

You nodded along like you could begin to understand a life like that.

As she showed you back to your car (the one you suddenly felt humiliated for her to see you own), she called your name one last time from the doorway.

"You undersell yourself, we'll give you eighty an hour."

She left you choking on your tongue with one foot in the car and the other on an Italian cobblestone.

You were never going to walk or sit another dog again.

Lily was going to win her first Grand Slam by ten if that's what they'd pay you.

As your peeled your car from their turn-around area, you watched a Jeep Wrangler slow as it passed you. You couldn't see through the tint but you just knew it was him.

And you knew he was watching you.

The minute you'd told your roommate the situation you'd come into, she'd called bullshit.

A few texts from Tashi's now saved icon and a weird little photo you'd taken from inside the guest bathroom, it'd been enough to convince her.

"Fucking hell, are you God's favourite or something?"

You'd argue you were quite the opposite, she of all people should know. She'd seen some of the states you'd come home in after your other random jobs.

Felt good to be the winner.

Even just once.

In the air of some girlish fascination, she brought up a Youtube video of "Tashi Duncan Career Highlights" courtesy of "tennisguy779."

You'd protested it, rolling your eyes while feigning disinterest. No use, the minute you caught her out the corner of your eye- you were captivated.

It was entirely possible to imagine she hovered above the court, like there was a greater force placing her exactly where she needed to be, exactly when she needed.

It was even easier to believe she was just that good.

As you watched her play, listened to the sounds the game could draw from her- you wondered if this was how she and Art had felt.

Had they curled up in their informal lounge like you were right now? Had Tashi studied your every move meticulously like you assume? Had Art passed comment on your form? Did he think you were any good?

Tennisguy779's lineup changed quickly to "Art Donaldson Career Highlights" and you felt your chest constrict. An inexplicable feeling washed over you.

Like you'd been caught with God's forbidden fruit.

Your roommate had tried to question why you'd effectively flown off the couch, only to be met with a muttered 'goodnight' as you shut the bedroom door behind you.

Thin walls meant you drifted off to sleep that night with the rhythmic sounds of Art, grunting his way through an ATP Challenger.

It was no surprise you dreamt of him.

The Donaldson's tennis court was down a steep set of stairs, set back into an oasis of lush greenery.

Perfect for a 6-year-old's first lessons.

You didn't know if it was the grand balcony that overlooked the court or the fact a well-manicured Tashi stood atop it, but you felt positively observed.

Lily was in the midst of showing you how she could do a cartwheel (she couldn't) when the voice in the back of your head started echoing a promise of $80/h.

"Alright, lets channel some of that into your elbow."

Give a six-year-old a racquet half the size of her and she's going to blow effective chunks, but at least she has the spirit. Maybe it's her energy, maybe it has been a while since you've been on the court-

The kid's running you ragged.

Coupled with her height, you're spending more time bent over than you are up straight and it's all going to your head. All you can hope is Tashi isn't up there watching you stumble after the ball.

But you're sure there are eyes on your back.

Lily is a quick learner and you work out a tradeoff of one tennis skill for one spinning heel kick (mandatory that you watch).

Roll on 6pm and she's dog-tired, however, she's managed to hit the ball at least twice. Surely that's earned your keep. She lays star-fished on the turf and murmurs something about a piggyback.

You know you're about to earn your keep.

By the top of the staircase, you're more than happy to hand over a Lily-shaped-sack-of-potatoes to Tashi's mother. As you emerge from behind an ornate gargoyle, your suspicions proved correct.

Art Donaldson had been watching your every move.

Left alone on the balcony with him, you're acutely aware of the fact he's standing between you and your exit, and he's just had a full show of you bent over and flitting about his tennis court.

That and you still haven't said so much as 'hello' to the man.

You dwell on it for a moment and then there's that feeling back in the pit of your stomach, like any minute you'll be caught with fruit in hand- in throat.

The Original Sin.

Luckily, Art made the decision for you, crossing the space to shake your hand. If he noticed the way your hand trembled, he didn't seem to mind.

"It's nice to finally meet you."

You wished you had more to say to him, or maybe something more intelligent. Something better than a quiet "and you."

He was the better conversationalist, thankfully. Head motioning to the court, he looked down his nose at you when he spoke.

It should've felt condescending. It didn't.

"How did she go out there?"

"Yeah, really good- not a Disney character I can't name now."

He laughed.

Really laughed, like the joke was better than it was.

Like there was a preening little flutter inside you that said "do it again!"

You shrugged your shoulders like making him happy came naturally as you squinted up at him, as if he was the sun.

"You were watching? You must've seen her picking it up?"

Because he was the expert. Because he is the champion.

He hummed as he nodded, eyes skywards like there might've been something more important behind the clouds.

"Must've been distracted."

Within an instant- his eyes flickered to your own and you were sure he watched them change. He must've seen something he liked, the corner of his lip quirked up before he spoke again.

"Come on, I'll sort your payment and then we'll let you get home."

And for whatever reason, his hand fit perfectly in the small of your back as he lead you inside.

And how quickly did you become a strange piece of furniture in the Donaldson's home- in their life?

An ottoman for Tashi to rest her tired feet on.

An abstract piece on the wall for Art to admire when he passes it.

A projection of constellations across the ceiling to keep Lily bright behind the eyes.

At least you belonged- there was no doubt that this was where you belonged.

That wasn't to say your tennis skill had improved any, lesson after lesson you still couldn't wrap your head around why they'd even signed you on, let alone kept you.

"Ok, don't watch that one either- maybe just do what I say and not what I do."

You hadn't nailed a single one, at this point you couldn't blame Lily for skipping around pretending her racquet was a horse.

Wasn't like she'd be learning anything if she was paying attention.

"Ok, here we go just- ok right, when your parents ask how today went, please be kind."

"Your elbow is too low."

It was a miracle you didn't scream.

Art entered the court with a swagger that you could only assume struck fear when he was your opponent.

Right now it struck pure embarrassment and Lily wasn't helping.

"Daddy, she didn't hit a single one!"

"Alright, I don't think daddy needs to know that-"

"Daddy knows, daddy's been watching."

Daddy really needs to stop calling himself that.

Lily and her racquet took off for another tour of The Grand National as Art approached you with quiet determination.

It was like waiting for impact, his eyes never wavered off his daughter as he made towards you. At the last moment, he snapped his attention in your direction- with a smile that should've felt condescending.

It wasn't.

"If your elbow is too low you lose topspin and power."

If you deserved the $80/h you were earning, you might've known that.

As Art stepped up to you, the turn of the planets on their axis slowed down and it could've been entirely possible to believe it was only you two.

And Lily upon her trusty steed.

The gallops of her tennis shoes thinned out as Art placed one hand around your elbow, lifting it higher. His other hand held your waist as he pulled your back flush to his chest.

"Lily, go find grandma."

Then it really was just you two.

Your heart hammered against the shell of your ribcage, blood rushing around your ears as you felt Art's chin perch at your shoulder.

"If your elbow is high enough," His hand lifted it up and you let it stay there. "And your hip is turned."

He didn't have to say it with the gravel in his voice, but he did. He didn't have to hold your hips as he moved them, but he did. He didn't have to stay without so much of an inch between the two of you, but he did.

With one hand in the curve of your waist, he tossed the ball into the air with the other- then he whistled.

Like the obedient thing you didn't know you were, you raised the racquet and sent the ball flying through the air without even blinking.

As the streak of green hit the court and rolled away, you found yourself lying in wait, as if you were waiting for something- your next command?

"Good girl."

There it was.

Under the all consuming effect that Art Donaldson just seemed to have on people, you'd entirely forgotten you were in a position you could be 'caught' in. By his all consuming wife, of all people.

So, you should've moved.

Quite honestly you should've straightened up and cleared your throat and thanked him and told him it was time for you to go home.

You should've moved.

But Art wasn't moving. If anything he was staying purposefully still at your backside.

Obedient thing you seem to be.

"Show me that again?"

So,

You teach Lily the bare basics of tennis for three hours and receive $80 on the hour.

Then Art spends three hours of his spare time teaching you to perfect your swing- in a way that couldn't ever vaguely resemble professional.

A simple transactional arrangement.

Your tennis improves on a slow but sure basis and he gets the most off-court action he's seen since college.

Even if it is just heavy petting on astro-turf.

A hand under the hem of a tennis skirt. A pressing hip against your own. A deep breath as your hair brushes past him.

You figure Art will take what he can get.

And it's never enough to raise alarm. Sure, there's that fluttering in your chest that warns you might get 'caught' but you're never quite sure what one might 'catch' if they found you out.

It's undoubted who that 'one' is though.

The one who holds the cards- holds the throat, maybe.

Tashi, who's presence precedes her perhaps more than her reputation. Even when she isn't there, she's there.

So, when Art's hand lingers too long on the outside of your thigh and you think you can feel it verging into the territory that'll change everything- it's Tashi on your mind.

You're beginning to think your conscience sounds a lot like Tashi.

Who are you if not obedient to the Donaldson's?

Chasing Lily around a court.

Adhering to Tashi's every request.

Being Art's fantasy.

Being Art's.

Most of the time, anyway. Three hours a week.

Something to keep him bright behind the eyes, maybe. Something to keep him happy. Something to keep him-

Winning?

He tells you he plays better with you around. The way he says it makes you giggle, a girlish little noise that sort of just slips out. He serves the ball with his eyes on you and, sure enough, it lands smack where he wanted it too.

Everything where he wants it. When he wants it.

Shy and inconsequential touches and glances shared just between you.

Until, well- until they weren't.

"Would you like a coffee?"

Tashi's mother had taken Lily off to bed, leaving you and Art separated by an island. Kitchen island.

He braced both palms against it as he watched you watch the door, wondering if you should cut and run, wondering if someone else might come through it.

Talking yourself out of it. Whatever it might be.

"Yes please."

Even he looked surprised, brows raising an inch as he turned to the Nespresso machine. You took the moment to watch his back, the muscles moving under the cool-dry fabric of his shirt.

You spent all your time pretending not to notice him that actually allowing yourself the chance to study him made you lightheaded.

Had he always looked this captivating?

He broke your focus with a coffee cup, sliding it towards you as he rounded the bench. His eyes didn't even waver off you as he took a sip of his own.

It wasn't lost on you that he managed to tongue foam off the tip of his nose.

This was the longest you'd stuck around after a tennis lesson, longest you'd allowed yourself to be in his presence. You weren't quite sure how big this thing could get.

Your mouth was opening before your brain had decided it was a good idea.

"Mr. Donaldson-"

"Art."

"Uh, Art- I really appreciate the help you've been giving me- uh, you know- with tennis."

He placed his coffee mug down, nodding as he did it. "My pleasure."

Naturally.

That brain of yours was still firing off at a mile a minute. There was a very tiny voice right at the back that said it was up to you how this night would end- you had a choice to make.

Placing your coffee mug beside his, you scanned his face to find him already looking at you. Perhaps the choice was already set.

Maybe it was fate.

All he said was your name, it could've been the way he said it- but your whole body was losing the rigidity it'd formed when he first asked you to stay longer. When he'd made the choice.

Crossing the small gap between you two, Art was careful to keep one hand on the kitchen bench as the other hovered beside you. Not touching you,

Yet.

One step closer and the tip of Art's nose was touching yours. You think you might've been able to smell the coffee off his breath.

It thinned out- leaving you with his sweat. Musk. Art.

A sudden surge of morals overcame you, your voice broke out as a gasp.

"What about Mrs. Donaldson?"

"Actually, it's still Duncan."

You screamed.

Right in his face.

Tashi's voice made you jump out of your skin.

However, Art didn't move. As you turned your head to gauge the way his wife stalked across the kitchen, you felt his nose brush against your cheek.

Tashi retrieved a tall bottle of Pellegrino from the fridge, taking a poignant sip as her eyes flitted between the two of you.

What a fucking sight.

Her husband, eyes shut and face pressed pathetically to their daughter's tennis instructor- his hands itching to close around your waist.

You, young and bleary eyed looking utterly caught. Staring up at her like she might decide your fate.

It took all your strength to find your words.

"I’m not here to teach tennis, am I?”

“No, of course not. You’re frankly terrible at tennis.”

There's the Tashi you were expecting.

Her words should've stung, but they didn't. They couldn't, not when her husband was laying his hands against your back and rubbing soothing circles down the length of your spine.

Not when his lips were mouthing wet kisses along your cheek.

Not when she was right. Spade's a spade.

"Why am I here?"

She snorted, a real dissatisfactory sound- like she hoped you were smarter than that. She was halfway to her bedroom before she cut you loose.

"Careful, he makes that sound before he cums."

And he had, just like she'd said.

Art had cum in his shorts, pressed up against your thigh with his face still smushed against your own.

And you'd taken it, obedience in spades.

You'd stood there and let him hump your leg like a bad dog and you'd even pat his head and whispered kind words in his ear after the mess he'd made.

Then you slipped out the front door to your car and you'd pretended not to notice that there were two bedroom lights on upstairs.

You hadn't even divulged the freaky details to your roommate when you got home.

But the showerhead knew all about them.

Visions of Art on the clouds of steam- replayed in your head the sounds he'd made right in your ear.

How he'd whimpered your name when he splashed his boxers like a fucking teenager.

It was no surprise you dreamt of him.

You even showed up next day, valiantly. You didn't run for the hills or even straight to a tabloid about how weird the Donaldson's really were.

And maybe that's why you hadn't told your roommate either.

Because telling someone what Tashi allowed? What Art liked?

That'd mean you'd have to admit your dirty little secret.

You loved it.

When you showed up, something was different. No usual chatter in the house, no shoes by the front door. You checked out the front window to see what you'd missed when you arrived.

Tashi's car was gone.

"She's taken her mom and Lily to the ballet."

At least you didn't scream this time.

You were lucky your back was to him, lest he see the self-righteous little smile that broke when the words settled.

"Oh, ok."

"I'll see you on the court."

Oh, ok.

Lest he see the disappointment that took over.

Following him close behind, you didn't know why you were effectively surprised that he still wanted to continue with your lessons. You'd half expected- hoped, he'd bend you over the kitchen island.

Tennis was fun too, you guess.

Thinking about it, something that bold didn't seem the style of the man who'd nearly blacked out rubbing up on you. Beckoning you onto the tennis court with two fingers and a wry smile did, however.

You fell into your usual position, hip turned and elbow curved on your side of the court. You waited for him to appear behind you, chest melding into the curve of your back.

It never came.

Art took long strides towards the net, vaulting it in one smooth motion. He ended up parallel to you, waiting with a ball and racquet in either hand.

The smile had left his face, a rather blank expression taking over as he sized you up. And there was that fear- knowing what it felt like to be on the wrong side of him.

This was going to hurt.

From the moment he pressed the ball to the neck of his racquet, it was all over. Your feet were never in one place for more than a second, your arms burned above you, your head permanently on a swivel.

Art didn't look like he'd broken more than a sweat.

You knew he had, you could see it in the neck of his shirt. But he didn't look it.

He looked calm, he looked in control, he looked-

Like he was enjoying himself.

For every rally that you managed, you thought you saw an inkling of pride set in his features.

For every serve that you missed, you knew you saw unbridled lust.

Not a point scored in your favour, you hit the ball towards him one last time before you collapsed to the turf. Flat on your back, reminiscent of your first lesson here.

You watched the clouds shift over your head, listening to your pulse thick and fast in your ears. Just underneath it, you could hear footfalls approaching.

No hurry, but impending.

Soon, the sun above you was eclipsed by Art Donaldson. His golden hair shone with the halo of light behind it.

Now this was God's favourite.

"You can't be giving up this easily?"

Forcing a laugh, you threw your arm up and over your eyes. "Wanna bet?"

Turns out he did- turns out Art struggled to do anything but win.

Somehow, you found it within yourself to stand back up. This time it was only a practice, you weren't brave enough to face off against him another round.

This was more your speed.

The hand that wasn't holding your elbow was curving around your front, the pleats of your tennis skirt lifting over his fingers. You felt a warm hand slowly moving across the front of your underwear.

Two fingers migrated south, pressing against the seam of you- he must've felt the pure heat radiating beneath his fingertips.

Turning your head even an inch, you found the curve of his nose pressing into your cheek.

"I didn't give up."

He hummed, the vibration rolled across your shoulders.

"Mmm, you didn't."

The hand sans-racquet dropped between your thighs to press his palm into your cunt. It was Art who flexed your fingers and cupped it.

"Where's my prize?"

There was no trophy, no podium, no medal.

But there was Art between your legs, slinging a knee over each shoulder like he might've been the real winner.

You'd never been inside the 'changing shed' behind the court, of course it was nicer than your actual home.

Your head made contact with the hard wood behind you, bench digging into your ass as you felt a hot mouth moving against the seat of your underwear.

Running your fingers through his hair, your gripped the ends of it- tugging him closer until you felt the flat of his tongue through the thin fabric.

Needy fingers tugged the ruined garment down your thighs, tucking him into the pocket of his shorts. You knew all too well that you'd never see them again.

You were sure Art would be seeing a lot of them.

His tongue ran up the split, one long stroke before you felt the curve of his nose press to your clit. The ridge of it moved as his tongue retreated back to your entrance.

With everything he had.

Your eyes had been rolling back in your head as you arched your back, the moment you were able to find a semblance of control- your gaze fell before you.

Naturally, Art was already looking up at you. Two hands splayed across each side of your hips as he pulled back to wrap his lips around your clit.

You couldn't help the hazy little smile on your face as you watched his eyes.

Utterly devotional.

The more you tugged on his hair, the hungrier he seemed. Pulling from the root seemed to spur him on, seemed to tell him 'good job' and he was responsive.

His tongue flicked beneath your clit, pressing it to his upper lip as he brought two fingers to your entrance. He stroked a couple times, making your hips twitch against him, before he sunk in to the last knuckle.

Turns out Art had a style about him. One he brought to the tennis court and, seemingly, to the floor of his changing shed.

The style was calculated.

Every move he made was engineered to get something out of you- a reaction, a whimper, a twitch. He was doing what he did best.

Playing a game.

Art struggled to do anything but win.

"Fuck- Mr. Donaldson."

"Art."

Even muffled against your cunt, you were good at following his orders. Even more so when he was the decider of your imminent orgasm.

You threaded your fingers in the sides of his hair, pulling his face flush against you so you could ride his mouth. Taking every last thing from him you could.

It drew the most pathetic moan you'd ever heard, straight out of his chest and hit you straight at your core. The burning coil tight within your stomach was unraveling quickly.

You heard the murmurings of words, among the blood rushing in your ears. Easing up just enough, you let him pull back to speak.

"Tell me this feels good, please."

Your chest thumped, the sight of Art helpless between your legs was one thing. Hearing him beg?

You might black out.

"Art- you feel so fucking good," Dragging him right back where you needed him, the tip of his tongue drove against your clit. "You're gonna' make me cum."

He whined.

A heady drawn-out sound that quite literally sent you over the edge. Your hips lifted off the bench, the heel of your foot digging into his back and making his whine turn into a whimper.

Your orgasm broke you apart until it felt like white-hot flame licking up your sides. Of course, Art never relented, drinking in everything you could give him- literally.

The moment you felt the peak begin to subside, the urge was ramping right back up. Like he knew what he was doing, his eyes locked back onto yours as he sucked at your clit.

He was going for gold.

A quick second orgasm hit, seemingly out of nowhere. Your thighs clenched around Art's head, his hands coming to each of them.

You relaxed yourself a bit, feeling like it might be too much- until you felt him pressing your thighs even harder to either of his ears.

Oh, ok.

Art Donaldson knew what he liked.

You physically had to push him off you, watching him fall back on his outstretched palms as you let yourself breathe for what felt like the first time.

Wet eyes, wet chin, chest rising and falling like he'd run a marathon- Art sat sprawled out before you like he'd stumbled upon an alter (he had).

Breathless, you gestured towards him. Your hand dropped a little as your eyes fell between his legs, wordlessly offering a deal.

A deuce.

His cheeks flushed, more so than they already were. His eyes fell an infinitesimal amount before he spoke up.

"Uh- I already have."

Of course he had. He makes that sound before he cums.

Instead, you heard him shuffle back onto his knees as he all but crawled towards you. He draped his upper half into your lap, head resting against the soft cotton of your skirt.

Coming off the other side of a high, the reality of your situation began to settle for you. Why they'd really called you here- what purpose you really served.

All you could do was gently stroke a hand across Art's head, feeling him go limp against you. Boneless, but not spineless.

He must've known you were going to speak, he must've heard the intake of breath or just felt you shift. He cut you to the chase- beat you to the punchline.

Art nuzzled his face further into your lap as you felt him mumble against your thigh.

"I can't lose- you."

#art donaldson smut #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson x reader fic #challengers fic #art donaldson fic #challengers smut #art donaldson x fem reader #art donaldson x fem!reader

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rexhya · 3 months ago

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thinking about katsuki doing the hot wings challenge, (pro-hero interview stuff) but he literally demolishes every wing when asked a question just a bit too personal (any questions about you)

"so dynamight, it's common knowledge you have a wife, any kids to tag along with her?"

and the ghost pepper flavor is gone. the host is dying by the end of the course, at the end of the interview he asks for a bottle of the spiciest flavor out of spite.

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pedroscurls · 5 months ago

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stranded (one-shot)

summary: your car breaks down on the side of the road and a stranger decides to help you out... and you have no choice but to accept his help.

pairing: no outbreak/dark!joel miller x fem!reader content warnings: EXPLICIT CONTENT (18+ ONLY MDNI), DUBCON - please read at own risk / heed warnings!, stockholm syndrome, unprotected p in v, rough sex, manhandling, oral sex (m receiving), orgasm denial, begging, creampie, joel ties you up, spanking, light choking, fingering, age gap (reader is in 30s, joel is in 50s), no use of y/n. word count: 5.1k a/n: and here's yet another story where i'm stepping out of my comfort zone. i've always wanted to write dark!joel, but felt like i couldn't do it justice... but then ali's (@pedgito) hosting a writing challenge (spring fever) and i figured... why not? i chose backwoods horror #1 STRANDED/SIDE OF THE ROAD. please heed the warnings, y'all. this is gonna be very dark and filthy, so if you're not into that sort of thing, that's ok!

You had no idea what you were thinking—taking a solo cross country road trip after quitting your job. Maybe you thought that you’d find yourself, find some kind of purpose that was lacking in your life, but instead, you’re stranded on the side of the road. Gas empty, no cell service, and phone already on its last battery.

This is where you’re going to die—you’re sure of it. It’s how all horror movies start and despite the sun still high in the sky, you’re increasingly getting worried about what could happen when night falls. You scream at the top of your lungs, the sound echoing through the vast empty void.

God, no one would hear you scream for help if you were in real danger and that thought simply frightens you. Your friends had all but praised you for this trip—this journey to self-discovery and reflection. Your parents, on the other hand, had already been concerned when you said you would be alone on this trip. A woman, traveling the world by herself? Well, that’s just asking for trouble, they said.

And now you understand their concern. You understand their fear about you traveling all alone because of where you are now—in the middle of fucking nowhere. You should have refilled your gas when you had the chance, should have charged your phone while you were driving. Should have, should have, should have.

10%—your phone reads. You try to send a text to your parents, to send them your location, but every attempted text just comes back with the message in red text and an exclamation point next to it: NOT DELIVERED! You raise your phone in the sky, hoping that maybe you’ll get one bar of service, but no luck.

The trip had been successful, up until this point. You were in Texas, that you were sure of. But where in Texas? You had no fucking clue.

You lean against the side of your car—the sun glaring down at you and you can feel a thin sheet of sweat on the side of your neck. Why did you think this was even a good idea? Traveling cross country without a plan—how fucking naive.

Your battery drains fast and your phone finally shuts off. You let out a quiet sigh of frustration and open the passenger door of your car to toss your useless phone inside. Just as you’re about to climb in, you hear a faint noise of a car engine. Suddenly, you feel hopeful—maybe you won’t die here after all.

The sudden excitement that you feel overpowers the possibility that what you’re doing is absolutely dangerous. You’re waving your arms in the air, trying to track down the person in the car who’s making their way in your direction. It’s possible that this person whose truck is slowing down as it nears you could very well be a serial killer, but what choice did you have?

The truck pulls up behind your car and quickly, you run over to your savior. Your hero.

“Hi. My car’s dead, my phone’s dead, and I just need a lift to the next gas station... Or any place where I can use a phone to give someone a call,” you blurt out, breathing heavily.

He turns his head slightly in your direction—eyes gazing at your face, then down to your shoulders and the rest of your body that he can see from the driver’s side. You’re leaning against the opened window of the passenger side of the truck. You don’t belong here, he knows that for sure.

“Next gas station is in the next town over,” he finally answers.

“Could you give me a lift there? I can pay you. Let me just grab my things and—”

“No need,” he interrupts, voice low. “I’m headin’ in that direction anyway. Get in.”

You grin and Joel’s jaw ticks briefly. God, you’re beautiful and it’s truly been a long time since he’s been with—

“Promise you won’t kill me?” you laugh, climbing into his truck and interrupting his thoughts.

Joel finally takes in the rest of your frame and can immediately feel his length stirring beneath his dark jeans. His hands grip the steering wheel to ease some pressure, but you’re still talking and you’re laughing and it shoots straight to the center of his pants. It must be his lucky day.

“If I were to kill you, I don’t think I’d be confessing that, darlin’,” he answers—the corners of his lips lift slightly. Oh, you had no idea what you just got into by climbing into his truck.

“Right,” you reply. “That’s a good point.” You look at him—taking note of his damp hair that’s slicked away from his face, his broad frame, salt and pepper patchy beard. You realize that he must be in his fifties, but you can’t help but notice how handsome he is. That’s a good sign, you think. He won’t hurt you. He’s going to drop you off in the next town and hopefully, you’ll be able to head back home in the morning.

“I’m guessing you live around here?” you ask, feeling the truck move back onto the main street. You glance out the window, watching your car become smaller and smaller as Joel drives further away from it.

“Yeah,” he answers. “Guessin’ you ain’t from around here.”

“That obvious?”

He just nods. Joel needs to focus on the road ahead of him. He has to make it seem like he’s not a threat, like he’s not just about to take you directly to his home. His secluded home.

You introduce yourself formally, telling him your name and turning your body to face him. “What’s your name?”

“Joel.”

“You’re a man of few words, aren’t you?” you smile in his direction and Joel glances at you from the corner of his eyes.

“Not much to say.”

“Well, how long is the drive to the next town? If you don’t have music, I’m gonna end up talking. I don’t usually like it when it’s too quiet on a drive and—”

“It’s about fifteen minutes,” he interrupts. “Radio is busted.”

“So talking it is then.”

“No use in talkin’ if we ain’t gonna be seein’ each other after this.”

“I guess you’re right,” you answer with a sigh. You try to remain quiet, fidgeting with your hands as you stare out the window. Every few seconds or so, you glance over at him and you can’t fully read his expression. He’s so stoic that there’s a part of you that feels like an inconvenience to him. Maybe he should have just kept on driving.

“How long were you stranded for?” Joel asks.

“About a couple of hours. Couldn’t get reception to call someone.”

“Yeah, phones don’t work out here.” Joel shrugs. “You eat anythin’ yet?”

You shake your head. “Skipped breakfast this morning to get on the road.”

“My place is just a couple of minutes away,” Joel says. “I need to grab a few things. Got some food and water for you,” he offers.

You smile and reach out to rest a hand on his forearm. It’s an innocent gesture, but it makes Joel shift in the driver’s seat. Your touch is so soft, so gentle and he flexes his arm underneath your fingertips. “You’re sweet, Joel. That sounds great. I am starving.”

Joel bites back a smirk. He’s got you right where he wants you.

Your hand drops from his arm and there’s a subtle frown that settles on his lips before he pulls off the main road. Within minutes, Joel pulls up to his secluded home. When he shuts off the car, he looks over at you and you’re still smiling.

“This is a cute place, Joel,” you tell him, climbing out of the truck.

He follows you and rounds the truck until he’s standing behind you. His fingers itch to reach out to touch you—especially when you raise your arms over your head to stretch, the ends of your shirt lifting just above the waistband of your denim shorts. He wants to touch every inch of you and he lets out a quiet grunt when you accidentally fall back against him.

“Sorry,” you say, looking over at him from over your shoulder.

“S’fine,” Joel mumbles and then walks past you to walk towards his front door. He unlocks it and opens it for you, watching you step across the threshold as you look around with curiosity.

“It’s very dark in here,” you point out, walking further into his home. You see a light switch on the wall and flip it on, illuminating his entire home. Surprisingly, Joel’s large hand encompasses your wrist in a tight grip. You let out a quiet gasp and turn around to look up at him—eyes wide, lips slightly parted.

“You always like to make yourself comfortable in a stranger’s home?” he asks with a threatening tone.

“S–sorry,” you whisper, trying to pull your wrist away from his grip but he doesn’t budge. His grip just tightens. “Joel, you’re hurting me.”

“Pretty little thing,” he mumbles, stepping closer to you. “It’s like you were waitin’ f’me out there,” Joel says quietly.

“Joel—”

“Shh.” Joel brings a finger up to your lips and his eyes drift down, moving his thumb to brush against you. “Shh, baby.”

“I think I want to leave now,” you answer. “I think I just want to head into town and—”

“Oh darlin’,” he grins. “Ain’t no town for at least another fifty or some miles.”

“B–But you said—”

“Guilty,” Joel interrupts, turning you so that your back presses against the wall. He cages you in, hand still gripping your wrist as the other comes up to rest gently over your throat. “M’sorry I lied to ya.”

Your eyes widen in horror, the realization finally hitting you like a freight train. You had spent most of the drive admiring him—his broad frame, his quiet and mysterious nature, his large hands that gripped the steering wheel, his husky southern accent—that you ignored the feeling in the pit of your stomach.

This was a bad idea.

Getting into his truck was a bad fucking idea.

“I just want to go home,” you whisper. “Please just let me go home and—”

“Shh,” he repeats. Joel steps closer to you, his nose brushing against your own. “Gonna keep you here all to myself. Been a while since I had a little plaything like yourself.”

You shake your head. “Please, I’ll give you all the money I have back in my car.”

“Don’t want your money. Want you.”

“Joel—”

“Love the way my name comes out of your mouth, darlin’. Say it again.”

You shake your head, closing your mouth shut. You know you’re in danger, but you’re not sure why you feel a familiar wetness pool between your legs. Your body is responding to him—to this stranger… this handsome fucking stranger who can easily strangle you if he wanted to.

“Say. It. Again,” he repeats.

“Joel,” you whisper.

“Good girl,” Joel grins proudly. He drops his hand from your throat and releases his grip around your wrist. He stares into your eyes, searching for any hesitation or any inclination that you’re going to run and leave. He sees your eyes flicker to the front door and he narrows his eyes—his large hand once more coming up to splay against your throat. Joel applies just a bit of pressure and he watches your eyes go wide again. “Wouldn’t think about it, if I were you.”

You beg with your eyes—apologetic and pleading for him to just let you go. “I’ll be good,” you mumble against his grip. “I promise. I–I’ll be good.”

“We’re gonna have a lot of fun,” Joel nods, releasing his grip around your throat. “And I bet if I were to reach between your legs, I’d feel just how fuckin’ wet you are f’me, won’t I?”

You shake your head in defiance. “N–No…”

Joel lets out a chuckle. “Mmm, that so?” He tugs on the waistband of your denim shorts and pulls you to him. He’s so rough and there’s an excitement that courses through your veins. He tugs down your shorts and panties down your legs, looking down at your white lacy thong with a grin. He can see a blotch of wetness and brings it to his nose, inhaling deeply as he lets out a contented sigh. “I bet you taste fuckin’ good too,” he whispers.

You suddenly feel self-conscious and your hands immediately move to try and tug down the end of your shirt to cover your lower half. Joel just shakes his head and grabs your wrists to pin them above your head against the wall. You squirm against his grip and he kicks your legs apart, stepping in front of you to keep them spread open. His free hand comes down and immediately runs the pads of his fingers across the length of your sex—your body betrays you because you let out a quiet whimper as you arch your back against his touch.

“Wet,” he points out. “You like this, don’t you?”

You shake your head.

“Liar,” he chuckles. Joel wastes no time in sliding two of his thick fingers past your folds—your warm, tight, and so fucking wet that a large grin spreads across his lips.

You squirm against him at the sudden and rough intrusion, eyes gazing up at him. His eyes are dark, filled with lust and more than likely sinister thoughts, but you can’t help but notice his grin and the cute fucking dimple that appears on his cheek. You shouldn’t like this, but your body is yearning for more. Yearning for him.

Joel’s thick fingers plunge into you repeatedly—his other hand gripping your wrists so tight above your head that you’re sure there’s going to be bruises. You shut your eyes tightly, keeping your lips in a thin line and forcing yourself to stay quiet because you know that if you make a sound, it’s only going to fuel him further.

His eyes stare deeply at you and you’re so wet that Joel’s fingers pump into you with ease. He can see you struggling against his grip and he leans closer, lips near your ear as he whispers huskily. “Lemme hear you, baby.”

You shake your head in defiance, pulling your lower lip between your teeth. You suck in a breath when his thumb brushes against your clit and a quiet—almost inaudible—moan escapes your lips.

“Ah, darlin’,” Joel grins, gently nipping at your earlobe. His grip around your wrists loosen just slightly and he’s distracted, yearning to pull more sounds out of you and it gives you just the right moment to push him away. You miss his fingers immediately, a loud squelch echoing the walls when his fingers slip out of you.

With as much strength as you can muster, you shove him so hard that he stumbles backwards with a grunt. You look around haphazardly, eyes wide, heart beating out of your chest. You’re very well aware that your lower half is bare, but you think maybe you can make a run for it—you just need to grab his keys, run out the door into his truck and drive away.

You glance over your shoulder and Joel chuckles. He fucking laughs at your poor attempt at running away because he takes three strides in your direction and takes a fistful of your hair. You let out a loud yelp and he’s already quick to bend you over the back of his couch—the edge of it digging into your lower abdomen.

You’re already trying to squirm away, but his grip in your hair tightens and pain rushes through you. You’re about to beg him to stop, to beg him to let you go, but you feel his free hand connect with your backside. The slap reverberates through your entire being and the sound of his hand coming in contact with your ass echoes through his quiet home.

“You just got here, baby,” he growls—he doesn’t let up, your skin already reddening with each spank. “You can’t leave me yet.”

“I–I–” you mumble and your body reacts automatically, pushing back into him. “Please!”

“M’gonna have to tie you up, I think,” Joel grins. “Just to make sure you don’t pull that shit again.”

Your ass is beginning to sting and you try to scramble away, but Joel pulls you upright against him. His large hands move to your hips, fingertips digging into you as he uses your body to rub his bulge against you.

“I think you’re gonna feel real good around me,” he whispers into your hair, hand sliding over your abdomen and down between your legs. “You’re actin’ like you ain’t enjoyin’ this, but you’re so fuckin’ wet f’me.”

He begins to circle your clit with the pads of his fingers and it causes your back to arch against him, hands darting out to rest on the edge of the couch. A loud moan finally escapes your lips and Joel lets out a low growl at the sound—he wants to hear more of it, craves more of it.

“From the way you’re squirmin’,” he continues, “Makes me wonder if you’ve been neglected.”

You shake your head—lying.

“Oh? Got a boyfriend back home, hm?”

You shake your head again.

“Poor little thing,” Joel mumbles, head dipping down to the side of your neck as he presses his soft lips against you. It causes a shiver to run through you—his soft lips and his rough beard. “Don’t worry, baby. I’m here now. I’ll take care of ya.”

You’re an absolute mess by the time Joel’s done with you. You’re lying on his mattress, hands bound by rope and attached to the headboard. You’re completely bare for him and he’s brought you to the edge of orgasm too many times to count that you’re practically begging for some release.

His hands are surprisingly gentle when he settles himself back between your legs and it causes you to flinch. His fingertips brush against your hardened nipples, dark bruises already forming around it from his love bites—he liked to call it.

“You’re soakin’ my sheets, honey,” he grins.

“Then let me fucking come!” you retaliate with a huff. Your eyes go wide the minute it leaves your mouth and you’re already trying to scramble away from him, despite being all tied up.

Joel laughs again. “You’re cute when you’re angry, baby… but let’s not forget who’s in charge here.”

He finally pulls the ends of his shirt over his head and you lift your own head off the pillow to get a good look at him. There’s no way this fucking man is in his fifties—you shake your head of the thoughts that begin to fill your mind. He has you here held captive and you’re sure that he’s going to kill you once he’s gotten what he needed.

But you can’t help it.

Joel’s fucking gorgeous.

Is this what Stockholm syndrome is? Attracted to your captor? Whatever the fuck it is, you’re squirming impatiently. There’s a dull throb between your legs, an ache, a need for him to give you what you need.

And he smiles. The same fucking dimple that appeared earlier that day is now in full display because Joel knows he’s got you right where he wants you.

“Gonna be a good girl f’me? No more fightin’ back?” Joel begins, reaching down to tug his boxers down his strong legs. Once the fabric is gone from his body, your eyes widen once more at the sheer size of him. Girthy. Leaking at the tip. You’re not sure if it’d fit inside of you and Joel notices a flicker of uncertainty flash across your features. “We’ll make it fit, baby. Don’t you worry.”

You whimper quietly in response, feeling him brush his rounded tip against your opening. You try to wiggle your hips down, yearning for more, but he just pulls back and shakes his head.

“Please,” you plead. You bat your eyes at him, gazing at him under the rim of your eyelashes. It’s a poor attempt at begging, at looking innocent because you look anything but that.

Joel just lets a small smile line his lips before he pulls away and mounts your upper half. You clear your throat—the size of him this close almost threatening.

“Don’t be gettin’ shy on me now,” he growls lowly. “Been pleasuring you for a while now, so it’s only fair that you return the favor.”

“I–I haven’t come yet. Please just let me come and I’ll do anything—”

Joel clicks his tongue and runs the tip of his manhood across your mouth, smirking at the sight of his precome now on your lips. “You ain’t the one in charge here.” He pushes his tip past your lips and lets out a low groan. One hand moves to grip the headboard ahead of him as his other hand keeps a steady grip around the base of his length. “Open wider f’me,” he whispers.

You have no choice but to obey—parting your lips wider and feeling more of his manhood slide into your mouth. You can feel the corners of your mouth stretch due to his girth. It isn’t long before he pushes further into your mouth, feeling him hit the back of your throat and you gag almost instantly. Tears sting your eyes and he only gives you a few seconds to breathe before he pushes back into you.

You squeeze your legs together, trying to alleviate some pressure that has been building and building between your legs and the pit of your stomach. You glance up in his direction only to see Joel with his head tilted back, chest and neck exposed, and his eyes completely shut. A quiet groan escapes his lips as he begins to move his hips forward and backward—you swirl your tongue around him, hollow your cheeks and it causes him to moan loudly.

And fuck, it’s a beautiful sound to come out of him.

He’s moaning. He’s deep in his own pleasure.

And it’s all because of you.

By the time he pulls out of your mouth, Joel’s eyes snap open to look down at you. Lips swollen, tears streaking down the corner of your eyes. You’re so distracted by your desire to come that you don’t realize what could possibly happen once he’s done with you.

You’re going to die.

Joel is going to fucking kill you.

And this cross country road trip you had originally planned was a stupid fucking idea.

Joel sees a look of fear flash across your features and it only makes him smile, makes his cock jerk at the sight of you. He moves down your body and settles himself between your legs again.

“Gonna fill you up now,” Joel nods. “And you’re gonna lie there and take it like a good girl.”

You nod.

His hand comes up to grip your chin roughly, staring into your eyes. “Say it.”

“I–I’ll be good. I’ll take it like a good girl and—”

Without warning, Joel pushes fully into you in one stroke. You feel your body jerk upwards at the sudden intrusion and you’re lucky that you’re so wet because while he slides in so easily, you can’t help but feel the painful stretch to give way to his size. Your hands try to wiggle out of the bondage, but the rope just digs further into your skin—it’s like he expertly tied you in a way that the more you struggle, the tighter it gets.

Joel’s hand moves from your chin to cup your breast, thumb brushing against your nipple as he remains still for a moment. “Feel so good,” he whispers, head dipping lower to brush his nose against yours. He can hear you panting heavily, lips parted slightly. “Like you were made f’me.”

Then, Joel pulls out to his tip only to slam himself back into you. He repeats this movement multiple times and your moans—the ones that you’ve tried so desperately to hold back—finally escape your lips and mix in with the sounds of his skin slapping against yours.

The bed rocks against the wall—his thrusts are so rough and you’re sure that your entire body is going to ache for the next few days.

That is if you’re still alive by then.

One hand moves to your hip as the other moves to wrap around your neck. He applies a bit of pressure to cut off your oxygen and you gasp, eyes wide as you stare up at him.

Begging.

Pleading.

Not for him to stop…

…but for more.

Joel grins at that and continues his thrusts, the sensation of your walls sliding along his length only urging him closer and closer to release. He can feel the tightness in the pit of his stomach begin to unravel and he pulls out, not yet wanting to be done with you.

When Joel does pull out of you, he releases his grip around your throat and hears you take one deep breath. You’re breathing heavily and he looks between your legs—so fucking wet, so swollen and he taps your clit gently with the tip of his manhood only to see you squirm.

You’re sensitive, he thinks to himself with a grin.

“Joel,” you whisper. At this rate, you don’t care if you die. Having him bring you on the edge of an orgasm only to stop is worse, you’re sure of it.

“Gonna keep you here forever,” Joel says with a dark gaze. “You’re mine now. You understand?”

You clear your throat and nod slowly—anything to get him to make you come. “Y–Yes, yours.”

“Doesn’t sound too convincing.”

“Fuck, Joel! Please,” you beg. “I don’t care what you do to me, please just let me come…”

Joel chuckles—dark, sinister. He leans down and lightly pecks your lips before he climbs off the bed to look at you from top to bottom. “Like I said, you ain’t the one in charge here.”

Your eyes stare at him and you notice the way his manhood stands fully erect, glistening with your arousal. He follows your gaze and smirks, reaching down to tug on it. “This what you want?”

You nod. “Please.”

“So if I untie you, you gonna be a good girl and obey?” Joel contemplates, still stroking the base of his length. His hand doesn’t feel as good as being inside of you and he almost loses his resolve.

But he doesn’t.

Joel’s patient.

“Y–Yes, please,” you plead once more.

“Love hearin’ you beg, darlin’,” he grins. Joel slowly reaches over and begins to untie the rope around your wrists but he makes sure that his attention is focused on you. He needs to make sure that you’re not going to run again.

Once the rope is finally undone, you roll your wrists and touch the bruises around it. You flinch and then look up at him—eyes still pleading.

“One wrong move and I’m tyin’ you up again. You hear me?” Joel growls, seeing you move to sit up. You nod in agreement and he tugs on your ankle, pulling you to the edge of the bed with such force that you let you a quiet yelp.

Joel flips you onto your abdomen and grabs your hips, lifting you up so that you’re now on all fours on his mattress. He comes up behind you and slides into you with warning—again.

A loud moan escapes your lips and you fall forwards—cheek resting against his mattress, eyes fully shut tight, and your hands gripping the sheets so tightly that your knuckles turn white.

“Feel even tighter this way,” Joel points out with a grunt.

Your toes curl at his rough assault against you. It’s like he’s possessed, so territorial and so animalistic that his thrusts drive you further into the mattress. You wanted this, but you can’t help the pain that shoots through you at his size. Joel’s by far the biggest you’ve ever had and it wasn’t like you had a healthy sex life before this.

“Fuck!” You scream, now trying to scramble away from him because it’s too much. He’s edged you for too long that you’re sure you can’t even get there—your body is humming and you can feel the familiar sensation in the pit of your stomach. You’re close and Joel knows.

He laughs and grips your hips, pulling back onto him with such force that you arch your back. Joel grabs your arms and pins them at your lower back as he pulls your body forward and backward against him. He glances down and sees just how wet you are—the hair at his base completely damp from your arousal.

“You wanted to come… then fuckin’ come,” Joel groans, pulling you up against his chest. He grunts into your ear as he keeps your arms pinned at your lower back. His other hand reaches around and dips lower to begin circling your clit against the pads of his fingertips.

You moan so loud that it echoes throughout his home. Your head tilts back against his shoulder and he drags his teeth across the side of your neck—both your bodies now covered in a thin sheet of sweat.

“J–Joel, I–,” a loud sob escapes your lips when you finally reach your orgasm. Your body shakes against his own and his thrusts don’t let up—still hammering into you from behind and using your slickness and tightened walls to bring himself closer to his own release.

“Fuck,” he groans against you, releasing your arms and pinning you back onto the mattress. His hips sling against your own—Joel is literally fucking you into the mattress and you’re already so fucking sensitive that you try to move away.

Fuck him. If he wanted to deny you of your orgasm, you can do the same to him.

But it’s no use. Joel’s so much stronger and his large hands grip your hips so tightly that you feel pain from it.

“S’cute,” he says in between thrusts. “Thinkin’ you can run away.” Joel grunts lowly, chasing his own orgasm. “Can promise you one thing, baby…” He slams into you once more and releases his warm seed into you—paints your tight and wet walls with his come. He leans forward, pushing further into you as his tip kisses your cervix. “You ain’t ever leavin’ me.”

He presses soft kisses along your shoulder before he pulls out, watching with a smirk to see his come trickle out of you and down your legs.

“You’re stranded, darlin’. Ain’t no one comin’ to save you,” Joel grins. “And I ain’t even done with you yet.”

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thatdammchickennugget · 5 months ago

Text

Just My Luck

pairing - james potter x fem!reader

summary - you get stuck in a shed with your quidditch captain

warnings - gryffindor!reader, quidditch player!reader, kinda grumpy x sunshine vibes

a/n - week one of hogmarch! using the dialogue prompt "if we're stuck here, we might as well make the best of it"

wordcount - 2.3k

The last thing you wanted was to be stuck alone with James bloody Potter.

And yet, here you were.

It had been a long, grueling practice, made worse by the fact that you were forced to take orders from James—James of all people—because he was Captain now, and you weren’t. You were still bitter about it, still fuming over the decision McGonagall had made at the start of the season.

Not that you had wanted to be Captain, necessarily. But if anyone deserved it, it was you. You had been on the team since second year, worked your ass off every season, knew how to run drills better than anyone. And yet, somehow, James—show-off, golden boy, bloody Potter—had been the one to get the title.

And of course, he was obnoxiously good at it.

You huffed under your breath, gripping the heavy crate of practice Bludgers tighter as you trudged toward the equipment shed.

James was beside you, carrying the other half, his usual, infuriating grin still plastered across his face despite having spent the last two hours barking orders at the team.

“Y’know,” he said, effortlessly adjusting his grip like the crate weighed nothing, “if you weren’t so busy glaring at me during practice, maybe you’d actually manage to listen to the strategy I was explaining.”

You shot him a glare that could have set his broom on fire. “Oh, sorry, Captain. Next time I’ll be sure to hang onto every brilliant word that comes out of your mouth.”

James just laughed, completely unaffected, his hazel eyes bright with amusement. “That’s all I ask.”

You groaned, shaking your head as you reached the shed. He had this way of getting under your skin—like an annoying little itch you couldn’t scratch. It wasn’t just the fact that he was a talented player or a natural leader or that he made Quidditch look so damn easy.

No. It was the fact that he knew all of this, and he enjoyed pushing your buttons about it.

The two of you set the crate down inside the shed, the worn wood creaking under the weight. You turned to grab the last few Quaffles, and James, ever the show-off, tossed his into the storage bin without even looking.

“That was luck,” you muttered.

James smirked. “That was skill, darling.”

You rolled your eyes, about to retort, when—

Click.

The sound was so quiet that it almost didn’t register. It wasn’t until you turned back toward the door, reaching to grab another broom, that you realized it had swung shut behind you.

You frowned.

James frowned too, as if the same realization was dawning on him at the exact same moment.

Slowly, you reached for the handle and twisted it.

It didn’t budge.

You twisted harder.

Still nothing.

There was a beat of silence.

James blinked. “Did you just—?”

“It’s locked,” you said flatly.

James let out a nervous chuckle. “That’s funny.”

You turned to face him, arms crossed. “Yeah. Hilarious.”

Another pause.

Then—like the absolute idiot that he was—James reached for the door handle himself, as if that would make a difference. He twisted. Pushed. Pulled.

Nothing.

He let out a sheepish cough. “Okay. So it’s… properly locked.”

You stared at him, unamused. “Brilliant deduction, Potter.”

“Well, no need to panic. Just grab your wand and—”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

James stopped.

You saw it—the exact second he realized.

“No,” he said, his voice dropping into something close to horror. “No, no, no—tell me you have your wand.”

You didn’t answer.

“Tell me one of us brought their wand.”

Silence.

His face fell.

“Oh, bloody hell,” he groaned, running a hand through his already-messy hair.

You let out a slow breath, pinching the bridge of your nose. “We left them in the locker room.”

“Because Quidditch robes don’t have pockets,” he finished, nodding grimly.

More silence.

Then, James turned to you, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “I mean… at least we have each other?”

You deadpanned. “I’m going to kill you.”

His grin widened. “That would be counterproductive.”

You groaned, slumping against the wall of the shed. “This is your fault.”

James raised his eyebrows. “My fault?”

“You’re the Captain. That makes everything automatically your fault.”

He scoffed. “That’s not how it works.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know, because I’m not Captain.”

James let out a dramatic sigh. “Are you still salty about that?”

You glared at him. “I hope someone finds us in here tomorrow.”

James just laughed.

And, Merlin help you, you hated how much you liked the sound of it.

Because for all your irritation, for all your sharp words and glares and gritted teeth… you didn’t actually hate James Potter. Not even a little.

And that was the real problem.

James stretched his arms behind his head, utterly unconcerned about the fact that you were well and truly stuck. You, on the other hand, were pacing a tight line along the cramped space of the shed, trying to think of a way out.

“Maybe if we both threw our weight against the door at the same time, we could—”

“Shatter the entire thing?” James cut in, amused. “Brilliant idea. McGonagall would love that one.”

You whirled on him, scowling. “You got a better plan, Captain?”

James, to his credit, pretended to think about it. “Not really. But if we are stuck here, we might as well make the most of it.”

You gave him a deeply unimpressed look. “And how exactly do you suggest we do that?”

James smirked, leaning lazily against the wall like this was all just a minor inconvenience, like you weren’t actually trapped inside a tiny wooden shed with only old broomsticks and deflated Quaffles for company. “Well,” he said, voice infuriatingly casual, “we could always sit and have a nice chat.”

You let out an exaggerated groan. “I’d rather take my chances with the door.”

“Come on,” James said, tilting his head at you. “I’m trying to be civil.”

You shot him a glare but begrudgingly slumped against the opposite wall, arms crossed.

“Alright, since you’re so interested in chatting,” you said, voice thick with sarcasm, “why don’t you enlighten me? What is it, exactly, that makes you so insufferable?”

James laughed, bright and easy. “Dunno. It’s a talent, I suppose.”

You rolled your eyes. “You would think that.”

He grinned, looking far too pleased with himself. But then, to your surprise, the amusement in his expression softened just a fraction.

“Alright,” he said, a little more serious now. “Your turn. What is it, exactly, that makes you so mad at me?”

You scoffed. “Oh, where to begin?”

James just raised his eyebrows, waiting.

You hesitated.

Because, really—what was it?

What was it that made your blood boil every time he smirked at you? What was it that made you grind your teeth when he swooped past you on his broom, looking like some Quidditch poster boy? What was it that made you so incredibly bitter about him being Captain, when, deep down, you knew he was actually pretty damn good at it?

You cleared your throat, shifting uncomfortably. “You’re just… you,” you said finally, though even you knew it was a weak answer.

James hummed. “Right. And that means…?”

“You’re arrogant. You’re annoying. You think you’re the greatest thing to ever happen to Quidditch.”

He grinned. “I am the greatest thing to ever happen to Quidditch.”

You gave him a look. “See? That. That right there.”

James laughed, but his hazel eyes stayed fixed on you, sharp and searching, like he was seeing something beyond your words. Like he knew there was more to it.

And the worst part? He wasn’t wrong.

James leaned in slightly, his grin never faltering. “You know, I think you secretly like it.”

You snorted. “Like what?”

“The way I get under your skin.” He tilted his head, watching you closely, like he was trying to read you. “The way I push your buttons.”

Your stomach did an annoying little flip. You ignored it. “Oh, please.”

James smirked. “You wouldn’t glare at me so much if you didn’t care.”

A silence stretched between you, not quite tense but not entirely comfortable either. The shed was small—too small—and now that you weren’t moving around, you were painfully aware of how close the two of you were.

James must have noticed it too, because his smirk softened, something flickering in his hazel eyes. “Listen,” he said, a little quieter, “if this is about Quidditch—about me being Captain—I didn’t take it to spite you.”

You frowned. “I never said you did.”

James gave you a knowing look. “You didn’t have to.”

You looked away. Because, maybe he had a point.

Maybe it wasn’t just about the title. Maybe it was the fact that when McGonagall had announced James as Captain, your heart had twisted in a way you hadn’t expected. Because you had worked so hard, and yet—James had gotten it without even breaking a sweat. Like everything else.

And maybe it stung because James—golden, charming, ridiculously talented James—had always been just one step ahead of you.

You exhaled, crossing your arms tightly. “I know you didn’t take it to spite me,” you admitted, voice quieter than before. “It’s just… frustrating.”

James watched you, something unreadable in his gaze. Then, after a beat, his mouth curved into a slow, lopsided smile.

“Y’know,” he said, voice teasing but warm, “for what it’s worth? You’d make a bloody brilliant Captain.”

Your breath hitched slightly, but you masked it with a scoff. “Yeah, yeah. Flattery’s not gonna get us out of here, Potter.”

James grinned. “No, but it might make you like me a little more.”

You rolled your eyes. But this time, it was harder to fight the smile tugging at your lips.

James must have noticed the way your mouth twitched because his grin widened. “Was that a smile?”

You scowled on instinct. “No.”

His eyes sparkled. “It was.”

“It was not.”

James hummed, looking insufferably pleased with himself. “It’s alright, you know. You can admit it. You like me.”

You scoffed, leaning your head back against the wooden wall with a dramatic sigh. “Being trapped in a storage shed with you has made me delirious, that’s all.”

James chuckled, and for once, it wasn’t the teasing, self-satisfied kind of laugh that usually made you want to throw a Bludger at his head. It was softer. Warmer.

And that was almost worse.

Because James Potter was supposed to be arrogant and annoying and completely, utterly insufferable. He wasn’t supposed to look at you like that—like he actually wanted to understand you. Like he wasn’t just playing a game.

You exhaled, shifting slightly where you sat. “I do take Quidditch seriously, you know.”

James tilted his head. “I know you do.”

“I don’t just get annoyed at you for the sake of it.”

“Well,” James said, smirking, “maybe a little.”

You rolled your eyes. “I just—Quidditch is the one thing I’ve always been really good at. And then you come along, and you’re just… better.” You hadn’t meant to say that last part out loud.

James blinked. “Wait—do you actually think that?”

Heat rose to your cheeks. “I—shut up.”

James stared at you like you had just told him the sky was green. “You think I’m better than you?”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Forget I said anything.”

“Not a chance,” James said, still looking mildly offended. “You’re one of the best players I’ve ever seen. I mean it.”

You peeked at him through your fingers, skeptical. “Even better than you?”

James grinned. “Obviously not.”

You let out a strangled laugh, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Git.”

James just laughed, but then his expression softened. “You know I admire you, right?”

You blinked. “What?”

James shrugged, like he hadn’t just casually thrown that out there. “You work harder than anyone. You make plays even I wouldn’t think of. And you never back down from a challenge. It’s kind of impressive.”

Your throat felt oddly tight. “Oh.”

James smiled. “And a little terrifying.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Good.”

A comfortable silence settled between you. The shed was still small, still cold, still locked. But somehow, it didn’t feel quite as unbearable anymore.

James shifted, bumping his knee against yours. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think McGonagall gave me Captain because I’m better. I think she gave it to me because I’m loud and she wanted me to yell at people so she wouldn’t have to.”

You laughed. “That does sound like her.”

James grinned. “And you would’ve been a nightmare. Can you imagine? You’d have us all doing drills in our sleep.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And you don’t?”

“Fair point.”

Another pause. Then James nudged you again, his voice quieter this time. “Hey.”

You glanced at him.

His hazel eyes were even softer now, searching. “I really don’t want you to hate me.”

You swallowed. “I don’t.”

He held your gaze, like he was waiting for you to take it back. But you didn’t.

And then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you leaned your head against his shoulder. Just for a second.

James stilled. You could hear his breath catch, just slightly, before he let it out. Then, slowly—hesitantly—he leaned his head against yours.

You sighed, closing your eyes. “If you tell anyone about this, I will deny it.”

James chuckled, quiet and warm. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And for some odd reason, you almost didn’t mind being stuck with him.

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ohyouluckysaint · 8 days ago

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⠀ʚ𓈒⌒⠀ ｡⠀ perv!boyfriend!art who can’t rid of his habit of sniffing your panties! ⠀⊹⠀˚ ◌ ⃘ 𓈒 and you’re so mean once you find out…

𖬺 CONTENT WARNINGS .ᐣ .ೃ❜ ˖ ׁ ˚ EIGHTEEN+ ⒅ ╱ art being an obsessed weirdo, mutual masturbation, multiple instances of oral (fem!r), bodily fluids (spit, cum), real NASTY fem!reader.

perv!boyfriend!art who’s nervous around you. You sit on his lap and straddle him, his big hands hesitate before resting on your hips and gripping. He looks as if he’s about to have a comical bead of sweat roll down his temple and his adam’s apple bobs with a harsh swallow when you practically purr every word while maintaining eye contact before kissing him. He swoons and whimpers as if he were a love struck puppy. It’s not like he was listening to a word anyway. If he had a tail, it’d be a blur behind him. You’re his first real girlfriend! Guys get like this when they’re with the woman they’ve introduced their grandma to and get their first apartment with. He believes you’re sexy even when you’re wearing no makeup, hair tousled and messy from sleep, and a hint of morning breath on your plump lips. Just the thought makes his smile lines cut into his cheeks as he grins boyishly. Cute, right? No telltale signs yet.

perv!boyfriend!art who’s not a virgin, but hasn’t done anything with you yet. His tip is dribbling with pre at the memory of you walking around in your panties and a fitted crop top with no bra earlier. When you’re off to the nail shop for the day with his wallet, he claims he’s too exhausted to tag along to keep you company while palming himself underneath the sheets as discreetly as possible. You pout and leave him behind when your convincing doesn’t get through to him.

perv!boyfriend!art who’s rushing to the en suite the moment the front door clicks shut to reach his hand into the dirty clothes hamper to pull out a pair of your most recently worn panties he’d bought from Victoria’s Secret. A lace red thong and hiphugger panties in the shade fresh jam. He inhales both deeply right in the crotch area and can’t help the groan that filters through his lips. It’s obvious you had just slipped off the thong. It still smells like you.

perv!boyfriend!art who’s getting himself off with the other pair wrapped around his dick beneath his tightened fist while burying his nose in the lace panties. His loose shorts and boxers are barely tugged down from how impatient he’d been. He instantly cums hard when he hears your voice. His skin prickled with heat and his eyes nearly rolled to the back of his skull like he’s finished experiencing heaven itself.

“Art, I forgot my phone. Is it in there?” You called out and your face contorted with confusion when you hear him elicit one last pathetic moan and sniff. “Are you okay?” You sounded so worried. It almost makes him feel guilty for what he’s doing behind the locked door.

“Mmfh– not in here. But…I’ll help you look.” He said before placing both back into the hamper and fixing his clothes accordingly.

You don’t miss how he smells like he’s been touching himself. But, you don’t breathe a teasing word about it because you’re busy.

perv!boyfriend!art who pouts and claims he isn’t when you didn’t take his advice of riding his face—using him as a home remedy when you’re stressed out. Can he be blamed for wanting your pussy in his face? His nose nudging your clit everytime you rock your hips while he’s burying his tongue deep inside, drunk off the taste and huffing through his nose so he won’t have to come up for air. The one time you do take him up on his offer is when you’re playing a video game and you’d been losing back to back an embarrassing amount. He doesn’t waste time crawling underneath the desk of your computer setup and disappearing face first between your spread thighs.

He tucks your panties away into the pocket of his adidas shorts. Your head cants rearward as your eyes flutter shut, a sharp intake of breath when he wraps his lips around the pearl before pulling back with a soft smack of his lips. He spits with precision before rubbing it on your clit with his thumb, his dick throbs in his boxers when he sees your cunt flutter around nothing and his eyes flicker up to catch your expression through his strawberry blond lashes.

His tongue is fucking you and working like he’s making out with it while you roll your hips greedily to take what he has to offer. The thought of you cumming on his tongue and you moaning is all the motivation he needs to get you there. His tongue licks a strip up to your clit, swirling on it, then sucking it into his mouth, flicking his tongue over and over. Even when your thighs begin to tremble and your abdomen clenches he won’t spare you. Your breath hitches, moans getting even louder til’ you’re over the edge and he moans while you make a mess on his face. It could be delirium burning through you but you swear it sounds thankful and it has your brain feeling fuzzier while his mouth pushes you through your orgasm.

perv!boyfriend!art who goes weeks without you noticing he’s using your panties to masturbate until his luck runs out by not doing laundry when it was his turn since he had tennis practice abruptly.

Art crosses the threshold of your shared bedroom, you’re walking out of the adjoining bathroom to meet him halfway with one of the panties he used (now washed and dried) in your hand. Another piece he’s gotten you. The moment his blue eyes widen, it’s crystal he realizes he’s been caught and can’t deny it. You’re physically holding his nasty little secret in the palm of your hand. He doesn’t want to seem sick to you of all people, but frankly, this situation he’s found himself in is bad. He sets his tennis bag down, taking a hesitant step forward and attempts to speak only for nothing to come out.

“How long have you been using my panties to jerk off?”

“I’m sorry,” Art says almost instantaneously.

His stomach flips thinking you’re going to laugh at him, that he’d be scarred and would have to take this entire situation with him to the grave and pray you would too. Then you bite your lower lip and cover the distance in three strides and he realizes you’re not mad. Especially now that he registers your blown pupils and hooded eyes. Any trace of malaise leaves him quicker than he can process.

perv!boyfriend!art who’s parting his lips for you without asking why when you say “open” while holding his jaw between your fingers.

You spit into his mouth, right on his tongue, while some rolls down his chin as he stares up at you, and then you finally settle down on his mouth. Your pussy spread right on his flattened tongue.

perv!boyfriend!art who’s surprised when you say you want to try something new and it ends up with your freshly tugged off panties stuffed in his mouth while you stroke his dick agonizingly slow.

“Fuck. You like that, don’t you?” You say in between soft gasps and a stuttered moan, his middle and ring finger pushing in and out of your pussy rhythmically trying to keep up with the pace you’ve set on him. He wants to go faster, make you cum before he does. He’s using every bit of effort to be patient and hold back since it’s your call. He nods, maintaining eye contact while your fingers are pushing the panties a little further into his mouth. You grin before it faltered for your expression morphed into pleasure and your lips are forming into a soft oh. His head slumps back and he lets out a muffled groan because you both can’t help but push each other’s limits.

♥︎ ꒰ ❝ֹ ֹ⠀𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬! ꒱⠀ ౿ ݁ . ︵ @mitchesmoon @222col @musingsofheaven ╱ to be added. 𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

#·˚͙͘͡★ 𑣲saint’s writing .ᐣ we cheered .ᐟ #I wrote this while sleepy asf there’s probably so much repetition so sorry in advance if it’s not readable </3 #art donaldson #challengers fic #challengers smut #challengers blurb #challengers #challengersblr #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson x you #art donaldson x female reader #challengers movie #mike faist #art donaldson x afab!reader #art donaldson x fem!reader

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selfcarecap · 10 months ago

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Lip Gloss [A.D.]

Art Donaldson x reader (x Patrick Zweig)

summary: Art loves when you kiss him while wearing lip gloss and it gets all over his own lips. What he loves even more is when you get on your knees for him and he ends up with lip gloss stains all over another certain body part of his.

warnings: smut 18+ (oral m receiving, fingering f receiving, handjob, reader and Art have sex next to Patrick who is asleep but they have permission, submissive-ish!Art, a bit of voyeurism from Patrick – he doesn’t ask but for the sake of this fic we’re assuming consent bc it’s fictional, m masturbation, spitting, cum eating, pet names: good boy, baby, reader says Art is ‘wet like a girl’), feminine Art (so dare I say canon Art🙂‍↕️) or at least he likes lip gloss lol, Art and Patrick are college roommates – attraction heavily implied between all three of them but only Art and reader are in a relationship, this was supposed to just be a drabble lol there’s no plot just porn, also i’m kinda intimidated by the challengers fandom lol idk but anyway here's my first challengers fic sddslkh <3

word count: 3.4k | gorgeous divider by @dollywons

When you first start dating Art, you always apologise for wearing lipgloss when you’re kissing him. You always wipe it off his lips after a kiss, pulling your sleeves over your hands to get it off his mouth. You’ve heard that guys don’t like it, but you like wearing lipgloss and Art has never complained.

When you get more comfortable around him, you don’t always wipe the gloss off his lips, letting him do it himself. But he only does it because he feels like it’s what he’s supposed to do. Guys aren’t supposed to like the feeling of lip gloss. He’s probably supposed to tell you it’s annoying and ask you to stop wearing lip gloss, at least when you’re with him.

But he doesn’t want to control you, and he doesn’t want you to stop wearing lip gloss. He just wants you to stop apologising for it.

“You don’t have to say sorry,” he tells you every time with a smile, but you still do it.

“I know it’s sticky. I won’t put any more on tonight, don’t worry.” Art stops himself from pouting at your words.

And yes, Art once applied the lip gloss that you left on his nightstand. He was missing you and the lip gloss was the closest thing to you that he had. He ran into the bathroom when Patrick came home, wiping it off furiously before his best friend could see.

He likes keeping a shirt of yours at his place so that he can smell you even when you’re not there, but what he likes even more is to apply your lip gloss. It’s just a thin layer, but it makes him feel like he’s been freshly kissed by you. There’s nothing wrong with that, and there’s definitely no reason he does it other than to feel closer to you.

You’re getting ready for the birthday of a friend one night. You’ll be going to a bar for a bit, nothing big. But you’re doing your make-up on Art’s bed with him sitting behind you, hands on your hips.

“You look so pretty.”

He says those words for every step of your routine. He wants you to know how beautiful you are no matter how much or how little make-up you’re wearing, even if it’s cheesy. Art grins when you show him the finished look, and his eyes stay stuck on your glossy lips, tinted a dark pink, almost red colour.

He knows you can’t resist it when he looks at you like that, he never can when it’s the other way around either, so you press a kiss to his lips. Art knows that you’ll be wiping the sticky gloss off as soon as the kiss is over, so he deepens it to keep the feeling of lip gloss on him, even though Patrick is sitting in the bed right next to you.

Knowing him, he’s probably staring and enjoying it; Art wouldn’t be surprised if he heard the sound of Patrick’s phone camera going off.

You smile against Art as you part your lips for him, trying but not quite managing to bring yourself to stop kissing him yet. You have to physically take Art’s chin between your fingers and push his face away from you to stop. And yet, you give in again immediately, peppering his face in kisses before you pull away for good.

You give Patrick an apologetic smile, even though you both know he doesn’t mind you and Art making out next to him. By the time you look back at Art, he’s already wiping at the lip gloss stains all over his face. Your cheeks heat up when you realise how many marks you’ve made on him. You forgot you put on a darker and more pigmented lip gloss than normal.

“Wait,” you giggle, pulling away Art’s hand that’s already trying to wipe the sticky gloss away, “I’ll bring you a wipe.”

“Doesn’t he look pretty like that?” Patrick comments before you have a chance to get up. Art throws a pillow at him.

You look between them, at Art’s face littered with shiny, sticky stains. His lips are especially dark and shiny, as if you just put some lip gloss right on there, albeit a bit messily.

“Of course he’s pretty like this,” you say, not looking away from Art.

“Then just leave him like that, he likes it.”

“I don’t,” Art defends much too fast, and Patrick laughs. Art reaches for his pillow to throw at Patrick but remembers he already did. He’s about to stand up to go to the bathroom and get a stupid wipe himself, but you grip his t-shirt and he sits back down.

“It’s okay if you like it, baby. It’s hot that you do,” you try to whisper the last part, and pull him in by his t-shirt to kiss him again, “Let me clean you up, and I’ll put some lip gloss on you properly.”

“Only cause you think it’s hot,” Art calls after you weakly.

Patrick laughs again.

“Shut up.”

Art shyly tries to catch a glimpse of his face in the mirror.

You sit back down in front of him, gently cleaning his face. You hold out the lip gloss afterwards, placing a hand on his face to apply it, the wet pop sounding when you undo the lid.

“Wait,” Art leans back abruptly, as if you’re about to hurt him, “I want it from your lips.”

You huff, smiling at him. You apply some more lipgloss to your own lips, taking your boyfriend’s face to give him a kiss to his pursed lips. You apply more and kiss him again. You both smile at the oddly innocent kiss – pursed lips against pursed lips.

You wipe away the excess over Art’s cupid’s bow, grinning at his shiny, sticky lips.

“You look so pretty, baby,” you tell your boyfriend, and he blushes.

“Show me,” Patrick says, leaning forward to see Art from the front. Art turns his head away from his best friend, red up to the tips of his ears now.

“Show him, baby,” you coax, reaching out for his chin to turn his head. You know Patrick likes to make jokes, but not when his best friend is like this – eyes like those of a puppy, genuinely embarrassed.

It doesn’t have to mean anything, but Art has made it such a big deal in his head that he can’t like having your lipgloss on his lips that Patrick knows he needs encouragement right now. Patrick moves to sit at the edge of the bed to look at Art better. “Look at you, Artie, all pretty. Looks almost as good as on your girlfriend.”

You roll your eyes – you should’ve known he can’t be fully serious.

“You have to leave now, you’re already late,” Art reminds you, and you let him press another kiss to your lips. You’ll have to clean up the mess he’s made on your mouth on the way, but you don’t mind. You watch him enjoy the feeling of the sticky gloss on his lips a few more seconds before he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

You and Patrick share a look, rolling your eyes, and you blow a kiss to Art before you close the door.

You come back home early, before midnight. The birthday girl left to go see her boyfriend halfway through her own birthday party, so you’re back at Art and Patrick’s dorm. You’d be annoyed at your friend if you didn’t have your own boyfriend to go visit.

Patrick is already lightly snoring when Art opens the door for you – he’s in nothing but boxers – and you know what that means.

Patrick has given you two permission to do whatever you want while he’s asleep, as long as you’re quiet. You’ve always wondered if it’s a tactic to secretly listen in on you and Art having sex, knowing that you would’ve otherwise never done it with him in the room.

Art has a small light on next to his bed, and you join him on his mattress. A few leftover glitter particles sparkle on his lips, and you pull his face closer to yours.

“Suits you so well, Artie. So pretty.” You swipe your finger over his bottom lip. He kisses it, stopping himself from smiling. He’s already looking at your lips, and you mentally pat yourself on the back for remembering to reapply your gloss just before you got here.

You kiss him then, and Art licks into your mouth as if he’s been starved and waiting to eat you up since you left. You adjust your position to sit on top of him, and your knee grazes his lap. He’s already fully hard.

“Sorry.. couldn’ help myself. Pat fell asleep and I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“It’s okay, baby,” you grin, holding his jaw, “You want me to make it better? Want me to go down on you?”

Art nods distractedly, mumbling out, “please, baby. Need you”. Your thumb brushes the gloss on his lip, and Art opens his mouth. You pull your hand away before he can wrap his lips around your thumb, and you kiss him as a whine escapes his mouth, muffling his voice.

You press your lips against his until they’re coated in your shiny gloss, and then you slide a finger into his mouth. He sucks on it – pink, sparkly lips around your finger.

“You look so pretty. Should wear my lipgloss more often,” you tell him, and he turns his head away in fake-annoyance, your finger slipping out. You feel his hard cock against your leg again as he moves, and you pull at his chin to open his mouth.

Art moans as you messily push three of your fingers into his mouth to get them wet against his tongue. You pull them out and slide them down into the waistband of his boxers, and down the length of his cock.

You put your hand over his mouth before he has a chance to moan, and you nod towards Patrick. He’s asleep, his back to you, but it’s not going to take long for Art to wake him if he keeps being this loud.

You get up, and Art pulls his legs to the side of the bed as you sit down between them. He’s straining against his boxers, a tall tent pulling the fabric taut. You release Art’s cock, and it slaps against his abs. He’s glistening down his length from where you spread his spit on him, a small puddle of precum already at the tip.

You giggle quietly, “So wet, baby. You’re wet like a girl.”

“Shut up,” he whispers back weakly, biting his lip to stop a smile from spreading over his face.

You kiss the wet tip, licking the precum, and begin to leave lip gloss stains all down his length.

“Feels so good, baby. You’re so good at this,” Art says not nearly quietly enough.

“Shh, baby. Don’t wanna wake Patrick up.”

Your boyfriend nods, but you don’t think he’s listening.

You take his dick into your mouth properly now, wet heat enveloping him as you take him deeper, and you look up to see how he bites his lip and lets nothing but a breath slip past his lips as he watches you.

“Good boy,” you whisper to him. He intertwines his fingers with yours by the side of his hip, and you look up to smile at him. You ignore how, when you look past Art for a split second, you can see Patrick clearly jerking his cock under the blanket, the movement of his arm making it obvious.

You shake your head slightly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes at Art’s best friend, and you take your boyfriend deeper down your throat as your spit drips to his balls. Art looks down at you with such restraint on his face, it almost looks like he’s about to cry.

He manages not to make a sound when you suck his dick more eagerly, your lip gloss smeared over his cock as you jerk off what you can’t take past your lips. The only sound in the room is the wetness of your mouth and your spit around your boyfriend’s cock.

Art lets out a shaky breath as his abs contract, his hand squeezing yours, and you softly nod up at him, taking his cock as deep as you can. He whimpers pathetically when he spills his load down your throat, and you swallow it all as he keeps cumming and cumming in your mouth.

When you pull away, out of breath and with your lips wet, you take in the picture you created. Art’s cock is full of your lip gloss, his face shiny with a thin layer of sweat, his cheeks as red as the gloss you left on his lips earlier. You’re about to stand up and get a wipe to clean Art up, but he pulls his boxers back on.

He likes the glossy stains on his cock even more than the ones you leave on his lips.

He pulls you up on the bed, lying you on your back. “Please can I go down on you?” he whispers, mouthing at your neck and down your chest, pulling your top down as much as the tight fabric allows, whining when he doesn’t get all the way down to your nipples.

As much as you want Art to eat your pussy, you won’t let him. He always gets messy and loud, moaning almost uncontrollably as he makes out with your wet pussy, and there is no way Patrick could pretend to sleep through that.

If you thought Art was going to cry earlier from how good he felt, he reaches a new level of teariness now when you tell him no, eyes almost glassy.

“Tomorrow, okay? You can still use your fingers now.” Art looks at least somewhat assuaged at your offer, and lies down on his side next to you, unknowingly shielding you from Patrick. You don’t know if he came along with Art, or if he’s still jerking off, and that makes it even more exciting.

You know Art would never cheat on you, but if you gave him permission to, and if he admitted his attraction, you’re sure he’d jump at the first opportunity to invite Patrick into bed with you two. You know Patrick feels the same. You like the thought of him listening in, making himself cum to the sound of his best friend and his girlfriend having sex.

“Here,” Art urges, holding a hand to your mouth, even though he knows you’ll be more than wet enough from giving him head. You spit into his open palm, and Art spits in too, the way he always does, liking the feeling of your combined warm wetness against his skin.

Art reaches down your body and into your underwear, adding to the wetness. He rubs your clit in messy circles, kissing you even messier. You spread your legs for him more, but Art lets out a frustrated huff.

“Can I… want you naked,” he mumbles against your skin. Art watches with puppy eyes as you get up, taking off your tight top and grabbing your favourite oversized shirt of his instead, sliding off your trousers and panties only once you’ve put the shirt on.

“This is all you get.”

Art looks happy enough as you get back into bed with him, sliding a hand up your shirt now that he can comfortably get under the hem, and cups one of your tits.

“Can’t believe you’re mine,” Art says against your lips, hand moving back between your legs to play with your pussy, “So pretty.”

He circles your clit for a few moments before he pushes a finger inside while making out with you, remnants of his own cum still in your mouth, spit and gloss between you two as he continues to rub your clit.

“You’re the prettiest woman in the world,” he says, voice almost strained, and you realise he’s hard again, humping the mattress as well as he can while lying on his side, “Wish I was inside your pussy right now.”

You have to resist giving in to him – he’ll be insatiable the rest of the night if you let him fuck you even just for a few seconds – but you reach down to pull his cock free from his boxers, wrapping your hand around him.

“Can you focus if I’m doing this?” you ask pointedly, and Art nods eagerly.

“I’ll be good, I’ll be a good boy. I’ll make you cum,” he promises, slurring his words as your thumb swipes over the tip. But he’s not lying, he’s still fucking your pussy with his fingers. You’ve trained him well, so he knows what to do.

You can’t deny that you’re both getting loud now, if it’s not the moans you don’t quite manage to swallow down, then it’s the sound of your wet pussy and your slicked hand around Art’s cock.

You cum almost at the same time, Art rubbing your clit at just the right, albeit messy, intensity, and your thighs squeeze around his forearm when the orgasm flows through you, your own hand not stopping around Art’s cock. He’s breathing hard, reaching for the tissues on his headboard, but the tissue box topples over and falls against his shoulder and to the floor as he tries and fails to rip out a tissue.

“Here, I got you, baby,” you angle his cock to his abs, so that he won’t be spilling all over his own sheets, and you only have to jerk Art’s dick for a few more seconds before he’s shooting ropes of cum over his own skin. His abs glisten as his breath stutters, and he has to wrap his hand around yours to stop when he gets too sensitive.

“I love you so much,” Art huffs with a smile, and you kiss him briefly.

“I love you too.” You gather his cum off his abs, wiping it over your palm and holding it over his mouth. It drips and falls between Art’s parted lips. Art hums when you slip your fingers into his mouth, and he sucks the last drops of his load off them.

“Such a good boy,” you rub your thumb over his cheek, gazing at him in awe.

“I love you so much,” he tells you again, a soft smile on his face.

When you’re done and you look over, Patrick is back to quietly snoring, a freshly crumpled tissue by the side of his bed. You kiss Art before you can begin to smirk, and you briefly consider telling him. You decide it’s a conversation for another day. Art would definitely get hard again if he knew that Patrick was jerking off to you two doing it, and he’s already squeezed out two orgasms just now. You don’t need him that overstimulated tonight.

You remove your makeup and get one of the fresh pairs of panties Art bought for you to keep at his place. You walk back into the bedroom and find Art on his back, smiling at you all fucked out.

You lie down with him, letting him cup one of your tits for comfort so that he can sleep better. You kiss his cheek and see that his lips are still shiny with glittery gloss. You decide not to offer to clean him up, now that you know he likes it like that.

P.S. Thank you for reading <3 Reblog and comment for Art to come and kiss the gloss off your lips 🤭

#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson smut #challengers fic #Patrick Zweig x reader #challengers smut #art Donaldson x reader x Patrick zweig #challengers #art donaldson x patrick zweig #(i hate when people put the wrong tags but I feel like these do apply to some degree so don't hate me)#fem!reader #selfcarecap

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limerlove · 11 months ago

Text

≛ THE APPLE'S ROTTEN STRAIGHT TO THE CORE!

❝ ABBY!CENTRIC ONE SHOT ❞

♪ ˚. THE BRAT CHALLENGE ♱ ⋆.˚

feat. drummer!abby x fem!reader x footballplayer!ellie

warnings. eighteen+, nsfw content: switch!abby (kinda), jealousy, cheating, abby’s pierced nipples, reader desc. feminine, fingering, munch activities, toxicity ensuing, voyerisum, strap sex.

THE APPLE'S ROTTEN STRAIGHT TO THE CORE, ellie williams, sporting 88’ on the back of her jersey, the world renowned football player from the united states. the overly competitive blood runs through her veins, passed down from her father, just as well as an overpowering ego the size of texas. she has the girl of her dreams, the most important game of her life in sight, but what happens when one drummer threatens to wreck it all?

wc. 10k

It’s easy to feel safe and comfortable with her, slipping into a simple life. Traveling the world with your favorite soccer player, the auburn-haired five-foot-five of pure talent, as soon as her custom cleats step foot on the field.

When the crowd echoes chants of her name, the rumbling of the rowdy fans, aggressive shouts cursing the other team. With crushed beer cans, sunflower seeds are spat on the ground, and they are begging for a goal. The 88’ jersey was littered across the stands. Every fan in the arena went to see her, yet you aren’t here.

It was one of the biggest games of her career, and you would not be seen anywhere, especially after the past week. She doesn’t blame you; Ellie could only blame herself but needs her good luck charm. The events replaying in her mind, haunting her while she tries to get one wink of sleep, but the look of horror in your eyes, the shoulder check you left her with, green eyes pleading to reason with her, but you refused.

Let me know when you want to grow the fuck up and tell me what’s wrong with you.

The words running in her mind, haunting her as she sleeps at night, wondering if today is the day the stone will be unturned or if she’ll actually tell you everything bothering her. But she doesn’t. Never had she seen you like it; rage carries higher than the waves of a tsunami, and all of it, every drop of water, seems to be crashing over her.

Every drop of it suffocates her until there is no oxygen left to breathe.

When she gets home, she scours the apartment for a trace of you, yet half of your belongings are absent. Ellie starts to wonder if she’s pushed you too far this time. Always, she’s betted on you sticking around through thick and thin but maybe you finally had enough.

Has she pushed you too far? Are you too far out of reach? She has no choice but to let you drown with the devil itself, succumbing to your own needs for once, not hers.

The side of the closet holding your belongings was in disarray. Ellie could see that your favorite belongings were absent. All the sweaters, hoodies, hell, even the flannels you would steal from her were meticulously folded and placed in the corner.

Ellie thought you would give her the benefit of the doubt. She thought you would let her explain why she had taken the job offer without consoling you. Now, considering what she seems to be losing, there’s nothing she wishes for more than to take it all back.

Any success is so trivial if she has no one to celebrate it with, not without you.

From the very start, you’ve been right there by her side. From the very beginning, it wasn’t as picture-perfect as she imagined. The fairytale began with what she thought would be a never-ending love story.

Something so pure, it could never turn rotten.

—

Growing up on the outskirts of New York had its perks. The small town was busy, yet the countryside tucked an hour away gave you a sense of solitude. Entirely predictable suburbs, the cul-de-sac tucked in the back of the neighborhood reeks of disturbed suburbia.

Everyone knew everyone, and you knew Ellie.

You were ten the day the two of you became friends, and you’ll never forget it. Clumsily, you had just fallen off your bike, knees skidding by the concrete as the skin had been peeled, the wound viciously open.

“Did you fall—” the girl shakes her head at herself, curses flying into the wind. “Of course you did. God, so stupid.”

She continues talking to herself as you weep slightly in a pathetic manner. Affectionately, the mysterious girl who also happens to be riding her bike past the park in your neighborhood pats you gently on the shoulder.

“I'll be right back. Stay there. I'll be back. Promise.”

She disappears on her blue and red bike, red hair flying in any direction the wind takes, but returns just like she said — a girl of her word.

“Here, let me fix you.” She grabs the first-aid kid from the bucket on her bike. Ellie kneels on the ground. You notice her bright blue Converse with red laces, which match her bicycle perfectly.

“Yeah, okay—” you sniffle, wiping away your tears as the nice girl tends to your knee. “Thanks.”

She grabs the needed tools, “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. Well, I used to fix my dad all the time. He's a soccer player and gets hurt a lot.

You stay silent as she rambles on.

“One day, going to be just like him, but better. My old man got too old before he decided to be good. I'm going to be the best player ever.”

“I bet you will be.” your eyes find hers, the sun making them shine like an emerald diamond, just like the one your mom wears on her ring finger.

“My coach says I'm good already but tells me not to get my hopes up.”

You realize Ellie has already cleaned your wound; her small hand applies pressure with the gauze as he wraps it away. She's so concentrated but simultaneously rambles away about her dad, the last soccer game she played in, and jokes to get your mind off the pain.

“How does it feel?” Ellie asks, the corner of her lip upturns, a soft smile gracing her freckled, full cheeks.

“Better,” you thank her, smiling shyly. She observes you as you hop back on your bike, ensuring you aren't in pain. Curiously, her mind drifts to how cute you are, and she wonders why her stomach is in complete knots.

She confuses it for sickness.

“You’re welcome.” Ellie stretches the nape of her neck, and her short hair sticks to her skin from the heat. “I'm Ellie, by the way.”

“I know.” You offer your name as Ellie blushes, her cheeks tinted pink. The love you feel is etched right into her heart, and she feels it from the first moment your name is said.

In a cliche, obvious way, the rest was history.

The two of you were best friends until college, bringing out the best in you—platonic love blossoming into something sweet, a one-in-a-million love you can only hope to find in someone else.

The tricky thing? It works. The two of you fit better than you could have ever dreamed of. The incredible bliss of youth leaves your faith blinded, corrupted by the true love you have for Ellie. Oblivious to flaws, all you see is her. Assuring you follow her around like a lost puppy; anything she wants, she gets. The skeletons in the closet are no match for the two of you, each being dragged out one by one.

But not by either of you.

—

One Week earlier…

“Would you stop so we can talk about this?” Ellie nearly shouts at you, granting her another eye roll, she’s lost count on how many you’ve thrown at her since the two of you left the club. The longing looks, her wandering olive eyes on someone else all night, gawking at the muscles, making you feel envious of someone you couldn’t have.

Your girlfriend’s attention.

But this is all your fault, right?

“Talk about what? How you, Ellie, made a decision to make a life altering decision without me? Yeah, okay, let’s fucking talk.” You have a bite in your voice, one Ellie has rarely heard, the sweetness diluted with her consistent need to keep you in the dark. “Fucking talk, please. I’d love to hear the bullshit excuse you’re gonna give me.”

“Why are you making this a big deal? It’s my career, not yours.” You bite your tongue as the words leave your mouth. Instantly, you feel burned by the person who thought loved you more than anything. Even in the heat of the moment, you figured she would give you the benefit of the doubt, even when you’ve been blind sided by her teammates. All because she was too much of a coward to tell what she’s already done. “Right. Foolish of me to think we’re a team.”

Spitefully, you throw your belongings in your tote, ignoring when she tries to grab your wrist, dodging her quickly. She tries again but stops when you tell her to. The only boundary she leaves untouched it seems.

“We are a team.” Ellie tries to convince you, but you don’t budge. Not an inch of you believes the shit she’s spewing at you.

“Oh! Well, that’s a surprise to me. If we’re such a team, why don’t you tell me why you won’t have sex with me….for eight months?” You raise your eyebrows at her, giving her an opportunity to speak but she stays silent like she always does. “If we’re such a team, why did you accept a job offer on another continent without even giving me the respect to tell me about it before you accepted the offer?”

Ellie stays silent, finding the hardwood beneath her feet more interesting.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

You change into something more comfortable, slamming the bathroom door shut as you do, gathering other toiletries, different necessities you would need for the next few weeks.

You find her sitting on the edge of the bed in tears, as much as you want to hug her and give her the comfort she probably needs, there’s no good will in your heart. As much as you love her, only the boiling anger can be found. Blistering frustration, the one someone has when their girlfriend won’t touch them, kiss them, or even warrant them the truth.

“I love you, okay? I just need to figure some things out.” Ellie pouts, eyebrows furrowed as she says enough to get you to look at her. She sees the tears threatening to spill over, but you won’t let them fall in front of her. Never have you liked crying in front of others. Just as if she was anyone else, you would wait until you were in private to lick your wounds. “I just need some time, I just don’t know what’s happening to me.”

But all sincerity is lost, all you see in front of you is lies and deceit. Someone backed in the corner with no way to manipulate their way out.

“Well…figure your shit out, Els. Right now? It doesn’t seem like you do.” You grab your bags, slipping your shoes on, “I’ve had enough for now. Let me know when you grow the fuck up and let me know what’s wrong with you.”

—

Still, your blood boiled from last week’s exchange, the venomous words crawling up your throat like bile, as if this wasn’t what she wanted, what she started. All of this had been her idea.

Time and time again, dismissive words found their way into your heart, making a home before you had enough time to catch them. Sure, committed and faithful, she says. Then, she does this, makes your decisions without consulting you, and scolds you for getting upset about it. You craved space, so you did what any rational person would.

Swiftly packed your bags and flew to the other side of the country.

The fresh feeling is still swarming through your head, and the lingering words are aimed at your heart with more impact than you could stand. When they were told, Ellie regretted them the second they left her heart-shaped lips. Yet she stands there as she analyzes your tense frame, avoiding her at all costs.

You leave her with a soft murmur: staying at a friend’s. What you neglect to mention is that your friend lives on the other side of the country, tucked away in the safety of New York. Luckily, the nightlife is an easy distraction and does its job.

Intentionally, the first few nights are spent drowning yourself in liquor, letting yourself be grinded on by other drunk girls until they buy you shots, walking up back in your hotel room alone — then the cycle repeats.

The tranquility of a life forgotten, the gift of Don Julio, so like anyone else, you chase it. The drinks are free, the girls flirting with you are prettier than you’d ever seen but maybe that’s just the loneliness eating you up from the inside out. Yet, you find yourself itching to venture beneath, allow yourself to drown in someone else. Was there black lace? Possibly white or navy green boxers underneath? But you couldn’t, and you won’t. The guilt would eat you alive.

You told yourself it was just a fight, but was it? It’s when the second thought seeped in, invading the pessimistic part of your brain and feeding into malicious tendencies. Maybe you do want this? Something new?

Someone who wasn’t Ellie.

The thought alone sends shivers down your spine; an agonizing dread fills you. Never had you ever been provoked to leave, but the longer the silence welcomes you with open arms, the more the affliction lingers.

No text. No calls. No voicemails. Nothing.

Part of you ached for resolution. Even if it meant a means to an end, you could somehow soothe the aching in your chest. On the seventh day, she reached out.

A lazy effort of a text — couldn’t even be bothered to call.

elsbaby: can we talk, baby? please.

Perhaps if it had been the day after, two, three, even four — you would have the compassion to empathize. When she comes crying a week later after she spewed the most severe insults you’ve ever heard come out of her mouth? Any need to reconnect has dissipated at the drop of a hat.

this is what you wanted.

It shouldn’t make you spiral, but it does. You end up at a show; a rock band takes center stage at The Wolfhouse, and upcoming musicians try to make a name for themselves. Sitting at the bar, letting the vibrations of the base and the thumping of the snare drum infiltrate

Solemnly tapping the beat of your healed boot to the beat of the drum, you take in the singer on the stage. Black raven-haired beauty with a prominent nose and beautiful lips. She made the stage her own as she worked every angle known to man.

A firm belief is settled in your heart and everyone in there. She was born to be up there. You were too entranced, enjoying the music too much along with the cocktail in your hand, and you didn’t even notice the blonde making her way up to you.

As soon as you felt someone next to you, the first thought in your mind was how hellbent you were to be left alone. Even if it physically put you in distress, fuck, you couldn’t even remember the last time Ellie and you went on a date. The last time she touched you, kissed you, fucked you within an inch of your life.

It’s a pathetic, good for nothing excuse.

The line of morality blurs whenever your eyes latch onto eyes so gray the blue almost fades into them. Gorgeous freckles scattered across her smooth cheeks like twinkling stars in the galaxy.

Slowly, she takes your figure in, examining you up and down before smirking. She says nothing to you as she orders a neat whiskey. She hands her silver credit card to the bartender, “and whatever she wants for the rest of the night.”

You think for a moment she’ll talk to you, but she winks before settling into a booth with four others who look oddly familiar. The rest of the night, you’re met with tranquility and the steady and skilled bump of the bass guitar. It reminded me of when you were young, ambitions were the only thing on your mind, and you were lost in the never-ending need to be someone. It’s when you still believe something is worth living for, more than beating your drum to someone else’s tune.

You sipped on three Mexican martinis throughout the night and got lost when you walked up to the bar. The beefy, muscular blonde was there to greet you. This time, you got a clear look at her. Her rugged and toned frame shows off her commitment to the gym.

Yet, her deep blue pools are more charming than you would like to admit. A delicate edge to her jawline pulls you in as you admire the septum ring decorating her freckled nose, the bump in her nose making you smile softly.

You’ve always loved a girl with an intense nose for many reasons.

Mouth-watering, luscious, bliss - are all the words coming into mind when you’re looking at her. She’s wearing as little clothing as you would expect someone who leans masculine to wear, but fuck does she know it works for her. Black leather vest worn in, eating you up from the inside out, the musky scent filled with mahogany and a dash of vanilla.

The mysterious blonde's lack of undershirt adorns her body and steals the show. Immediately, she commands attention in every conceivable way. As mesmerizing as the raven-haired beauty appears, you would pay a lot to see her front and center on that stage. The shape of her small breasts is the real show in your mind, and the broad and toned torso gives you much to gawk at.

Nearly, you salivate at the defined four-pack she’s sporting. A pretty enticing deep v disappears delectably into her black leather pants as if she’s a modern-day adonis but with divine feminine written all over her. Without one doubt in the world, she knows she’s the hottest piece of ass in this bar, and for some unknown reason, she’s made you her target for the night. Wined and dined you all night without saying more than a sentence to you, and it seems she’s here to collect.

In the forefront of your mind, you believe it’s to serve some self-serving action to get off from what’s between your thighs, the sweet treat every girl has chased in this long week, but your long-term commitment tying you down like handcuffs to the post of your bed Ellie has kept you in.

Petrifying you to your bones, you aren’t sure what to make of the thrill building up; you can’t deny the longer you look at her, the more your thighs rub together in sync with the other.

“So—” With her tall stature, decisively, she steps forward, lips pressing against your ear with her hot breath seeping under your skin, “Are you wet because you know who I am or because you can’t stop looking at my tits?”

“Who are you?” Your eyebrows quirked up, and you wondered why it was a factor. Was she someone you were supposed to know? Now that she said something, there was something familiar, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it. “Why would I have any idea who you are?”

Though your pussy has a heartbeat and seems to have a mind of its own. You forget about everything else when the woman gives you a toothy grin, which is too perfect.

“That’s cute, but see, everyone knows who I am—” Abby takes matters into her own hands and begins to nibble on the side of your neck, harshly biting and sucking lightly, taking in the taste of your skin as if she’s trying to find the perfect vein to puncture with her pointy canines. If it were the case, you’d let her suck the life out of you if you got to keep her to yourself for the night. “Don’t worry pretty girl, you’ll know by the end of the night.”

She’s passionately driven when her skilled lips and velvet tongue continue to make a mark on you as if you are hers to own, hers to please as she sees fit. You don’t even know her name, but the raging storm of lust isolates you within her honey trap. All of it feels too finite, everlasting, even if it’s just solid concrete to stand on for the night.

Then, you remember Ellie. The longing text sent to you, not even a call. The love of your life, or so you’d always hoped, couldn’t be bothered to call you this entire week. The fallout of an inconceivable aftermath only now did she try to reach out.

“Tell me why you’re soaking wet, baby girl.”

You try to push her back, but she doesn’t even move; her frame is too strong. Now, your warm, firm hand places itself on her defined abdomen, pressing against the clearly defined muscles.

You can’t deny how flushed you’ve become.

This time you are drooling; her thumb wipes away the liquid before she sucks it back into her mouth. Her grin is even more wicked, knowing she has you right where she wants to be.

It’s when you notice the mirrored scorpions, one on either side, her muscular biceps littered with tattoos, and the front of her neck — practically having fuck me written all over her.

You should leave.

You fucking should.

She has an appetite for something else, pulling you by the waistband of your pants, her finger securely wrapped around the belt buckle. Pelvis to pelvis, grinding against you swiftly to see how much you move, and the smile she’s wearing is satisfying enough.

She’s always liked them needy, messy, and so damn right horny they’re putty in her extensive and capable hands.

“I’m waiting.” Her hunger is evident in her tone. She is ready to relish her sudden craving, at least to you.

“I-I don’t even know your name,” you confess, hoping it will steer her away from you, but it’s a pathetic attempt.

“Abby. What else is your concern, babygirl?” Her knee sneaks between your legs, applying pressure to your cunt.

“I—” Almost with a soft thrust of her knee, Abby pushes against your cunt, damping her leather with a fucking desirable slick she’s dying to taste. Although it’s clear you like the chase, she gives it.

Had you had sex in the past eight months, you might have pushed away the overly cocky specimen, but it has been that long. Only making the patch in your panties grow as she teases your pussy.

Abby’s frame blocks anyone from seeing what she’s doing to you, your skirt riding up so much she can see the rounded cheeks slipping out, the black fabric slightly exposed under the bar's dim light. The more she presses, the faster your hips move against her.

Without a care in the world, you slid so far back, and you’re on her thigh, strong arms wrapped around you, whispering filthy nothings in your ear as you get yourself off on the stranger’s muscular body. If the bartender notices, she doesn’t mind. Pretends like you’re not even there. You’re not sure which is more embarrassing.

“Fuck, move those hips. Just like that, yeah.”

The high, the one you’ve wanted from your girlfriend who doesn’t even want to touch you, is so close. There’s a burn in your throat infused by sheer guilt that someone else will bring you to head. Some stranger you don’t know, one handsome stranger, yet when she pushes your panties to the side and thumbs your clit it’s so challenging to care about anyone but yourself.

You moan her name as she touches you, a skilled touch as she lightly pinches and soothes the sensitive bud. She completely enraptured you with the light touch she had to offer. Terrifyingly so, it shouldn’t affect you the way it does.

The look in her eyes would have sent you reeling. Her musky scent is already doing enough for you. You find yourself tangled in the webs of honeydew, suckling until you’ve had enough of the sweet sensation.

You’re just not sure how long it’ll be until you do.

“God, acting like you haven’t been fucked, baby. Such a dirty slut letting me do….well, whatever I want.”

Abby uses her free, dominant hand to guide your hips at a pace she sees fit. A thrill shoots down her spine as your incessant need grows like a flower at the dawn of spring—a tiny seed that is useless unless it bears root flourishing from where it’s planted.

“So, what’s it going to be?” Abby questions. A glimmer of assurance fills her ocean eyes. She was playfully biting your exposed shoulder blade.

“I can get you off right here, or you can come home with me.” the incredible sensation of her pierced muscling punching your skin with a chill, the stainless-steel ball adds a new sensation you weren’t expecting. She suckles and bites, marking you the more bruises as if she’s decorative for her enjoyment. “Or both. I think someone is close. I bet you’re ready to spill on my thigh. Wanna give me every last drop like the whore you are.”

“Your home?” you manage to spit out, trying to ignore the filth she spits, but it only brings you closer to your much-needed euphoric bliss. Abby’s efforts double over as if she’s fucked you before, bouncing her leg as as you ride her thigh, knowing exactly what you need to cum all over her.

Typically, the thread of your orgasm wouldn’t have been so easy to pull, but it seems she’s the one who placed it there in the first place. Months of not being touched left you in the hands of this Greek god who could make you feel whatever you wished for.

She’s cocky, confident, and the sexiest woman you’ve ever seen. Yet, the answer is still hard to find.

“Yeah, angel, my place.” You nod, unable to make a verbal confirmation.

“Gotta hear you say it.” Just then, the feeling that was bubbling spills over and all over her hand as she cups your cunt, thumb continuing to rub at your puffy clit.

“Yes, Yes, Yes.” you curse, chants of ecstasy fumble from your loose lips. Carelessly, you’re focused on the intense heartbeat between your legs, your body convulsing against her.

“What's that? M’not sure if I can wear you over your weeping cunt.” Repeatedly, Abby slaps your cunt as punishment.

“I-I want to, fuck, shit. Oh god, yes. I want to go home with you.” Your body slumps against her as she holds up your weight, and your high fades. Still, you feel blissful against her touch. Any other worry plaguing your mind dissipates, and all you think is her and strong muscles keeping you upright.

“Good girl,” she whispers before paying off the tab and putting the lace material pack in place. You feel the white liquid stick to you, filthy, resting against you—the once taintless fabric coated with the pleasures of your sin. Dizzy, unsteady, breathless — it’s everything you feel.

She thrives on knowing you need her. Even if it’s for tonight, the purpose will be served. Regardless of what she needs, this will be even more of a thrill, and the only thing she uses is her hand—not even her dominant one.

Abby moves your skirt down so your ass is covered again. “C’mon, pretty girl. let’s see how much of a slut you are." She leads you outside while she makes quick work of her phone, and suddenly, there’s a sleek black car, a Cadillac, you assume, with a driver in tow. The windows are tinted enough for you to wonder if it’s even legal. Silver rims, with a diamond emblem in the center shining so bright under the moonlight that it nearly takes your attention from the woman who has you in her grip.

“Last chance? I can have her drive you home.” She smirks, knowing you won’t take the out that’s being so generously given. Perfect, beautiful, she thinks, eyes still dilated from you getting off on her thing and the continuous swipe of the pad of her thumb.

It’s there. The smidge of penance you feel you’re obligated to ask for. Regardless of how amazing it feels, there’s something about the ending. This will be the end of all fuck ups; maybe, there’s still hope for the two of you if you go home. Call Ellie in the morning before the need to suppress the shame.

But don’t you deserve this one thing for yourself?

Everything under the sun has been for the auburn-haired beauty who has held your heart from the moment she patched up your bleeding knee. The moment a total stranger managed to win your heart, an adolescent love that knew nothing of the lesson of heartbreak or the years you chased after Ellie while she was chasing others.

How she let her feelings hover over the friendship of years with no consequence, especially after her long-term high school girlfriend, the one whose heart she broke into a tiny million pieces. Tragically, there still stood an existing fear for you. She was just a kid, but would she move on as quickly now as she did back then? It was as if they meant nothing to her, moving from the next one as if the time spent together had been insignificant, meaningless, just an ease to pass the misery of time.

You feared you would be the same.

Falling under the same umbrella, but you hope you are different. There were talks of marriage and settling into the countryside once she could retire. A shared dream, you thought. Perhaps it was a foolish sin to keep close to your heart.

Then there was Abby, a heavenly distraction from all the dread waiting for you. Everything you must pick back up eventually if you want to stay tucked into the nightlife of New York is just your dreams hanging up on the shelf, totting away with the relationship. An expiration date was labeled on the two of you, and an impending doom you could only fall through.

Everything was always for her.

Ellie. Ellie. Ellie.

“What’s it going to be, princess?” She pulled you towards as she spun you around with ease, back pulled to her chest, her lips kissing your ear. All you could focus on was how strong she felt. Her strong hold bending you to her will wouldn’t be a challenge. If she wanted to, she could do whatever she liked. You are sure no isn’t a word she’s used to hearing.

But it went further than just how she looks.

It’s in the way she doesn’t even have to lift a finger to have you hooked on her. It entices you, thinking about how long she’d been staring at you all night. The curve of your ass in your tight, little skirt — was she staring at it? Did she think about all the ways she could fuck your perfect little hole if you would let her do everything she’d been thinking of? The way your hardened nipples poked through your mesh top. If she said anything, you could blame it on the draft, not just her sheer presence making them protrude through the fabric.

She did no work whatsoever to make you cum, letting you use her to get yourself off. There was an ease to it. One you hadn’t experienced before.

Here she is, using it against you again.

“Am I coming in the car with you, or will you rub your clit, alone, wishing you’d let me fuck you in all the ways I’ve been dreaming?” Her hands sneak under the lace, pinching your nipples between her thumb and forefinger, enjoying the way your hips buck up, aching to be touched by her again.

“Just give in, baby. I know you want to.” Her dominant hand abandons your nipple, leaving the other to tease it. While she escapes underneath your skirt once again, “So wet for me already, huh?” Harshly, she grips your cunt, a finger sliding up your slit, but she’s intentional about not letting it slip in.

“I-I shouldn’t, shit, oh my g—” You try to think of an excuse, one good enough to convince yourself you should not go through with this. “I really shouldn’t.”

“And?” Abby’s canines dig into the side of your neck as she teasingly bites the flesh, soothing it with a velvet tongue, making more marks on the side she hadn’t touched tonight. “Are you taken?”

“That’s a complicated question.” Abby grins at your response with a sinister smirk.

“Well, if she’s not making you happy, let me do it for her.” Abby tilts your jaw, forcing you to gaze at her.

“Let me guess, no one has touched this perfect pussy in a long time. So, fucking neglected, huh?”

“I didn’t say I had a—”

“It doesn’t matter to me.” Your pussy dripping with shame at her words.

“Yeah, it’s been a while.” You admit. Abby continues to torture you with the split of your slit, the two of you starting to draw attention, but you think it just excites her even more. “I haven’t felt—”

The moment you say the words, Abby spins you around. You whine at her touch leaving your pussy, but she makes up for it slightly when her hands palm your ass. “Tell me. Look me in my eyes, baby, and tell me what you need. I’ll give you whatever the fuck you want.”

Your hands weave themselves into her golden locks. You are intertwined with the waves that disguise themselves as shimmering waterfalls. But you look down as you try to think of some excuse to leave and make yourself leave with dignity.

Big mistake.

The happy trail, the blonde hair travels inside her pants, leaving you in awe underneath the moonlight. Abby’s leather vest pushed off slightly, her tits still covered with black pasties.

“Why don’t you take them off? Wanna see my pretty tits, baby?” You nod with too much eagerness. Abby chuckles.

She watches with a smirk as you take them off. The silver, shining barbell has you moan at the sight of them—the sight of her. Smudged black eyeliner makes her appear even more irresistible, hooded eyes gazing at you; a gentle hand finds your throat, applying pressure with her thumb, constraining your breathing slightly.

“Fuck, they are perfect.” You confess, your eyes gleaming at her pink nipples exposed before meeting with her eyes once again.

“Yeah, they are, but they would look even better with your pretty lips around them.”

She will not give up.

“This is such a bad idea.” Abby knows your mind is made up, and you’ll come home with her. Even if the guilt swarms like a bee to a honey hive, it’s all the same to her. “But, God, you’re so fucking hot.”

Your hands roam her toned, tattooed torso, the scorpions so delicious you want to outline every detail with your tongue. The thought of being strong has worn off—only the woman before you is on your mind.

“Well, to me, it seems you can’t keep your hands to yourself.” Fingertips grazing her tits, her nipple hardening underneath you touch. “I’ll let you do whatever you want after I’m done with you. Well, if you still have the energy.”

A grumbling of frustration leaves your lips — you aren’t sure if it’s a desperate plea, a sigh of relief, or something else entirely.

“Like what?” You can’t stop touching her breasts, continuing to tease her pink nipple, but you meet her eyes. Abby’s positive you’ve never seen a smirk so wide.

“What do you like?” Abby pushes your hair back, fuck me eyes looking up at her. The ones that hadn’t left from the moment you laid eyes on her. She leans down just a little so her lips are pressed against your ear, “Do you wanna fuck my ass? Want me to sit on your gorgeous face while you eat me out? Fuck me in front of the mirror and watch my face when I cum?”

Grabbing your hair, she yanks it. Exposing the expanse of your neck. She’s grown so fond of marking. The slick between her thighs continued to blossom as you let her do whatever the hell she wanted. Like a whimpering bitch in heat, you took everything she had to offer.

Fuck it.

You cradle her face with her palms, smashing her lips to yours. It’s all tongue and teeth. Rough palms squeezing your ass, making you grind into her again. Your force casually lets her stumble into the car but you don’t let up. Whimpering and moaning into her mouth like there’s no tomorrow, as if this moment will slip right through your fingers.

Her breath smells of fresh mint, her tongue casually dominates yours, staking claim to what she already believes to be hers. It’s then you realize your forever doomed because you feel the fluttering in your stomach as she growls in your mouth, animalistic — your pelvis grinding against her much more defined one.

You pull apart for one moment, unable to take one more moment away from her.

If you don’t get it, her tongue, her cunt, those pretty fingers decorated in silver jewelry, hell, you would settle for her pierced nipples rubbing against your clit.

“Abby?” She stops, opening her eyes to see you. You’re even more fucked out than she is. “Yes, baby?” She hums into your mouth, the sweet sensation vibrating your entire body.

“Let’s stop giving everyone a show and give me one.” Abby nods, the first sign of her eagerness as she opens the door for you, unable to keep her hands off you.

“We better go before you soak my car then, hm?” She slaps your ass as she leads you in.

—

As she has you in tow, hand in yours leading you towards the elevator in her building, the most luxurious one you’ve seen, one so high you’re sure it’s the highest in the skyline of New York City.

It isn’t surprising she has her own driver, or she lives in the penthouse of the building, even the plaques decorating the wall — a shrine to her evident success. Everything just…makes sense. Yet there’s a pit in your stomach, crawling and feasting. It's swarming within you, a nagging incessant fly buzzing around warning you to run. You don’t have much time to think about how horrible of an idea this is.

Alone with someone who could easily overpower you, at the mercy of a complete stranger yet when she puts her arms around your waist, all of it seems to melt away. She’s given you no reason not to trust her. You’re just thinking too much.

That’s all it is.

The little voice chants in your head, trying to make excuses for yourself as to not go through with this but they dissipate when her calloused palms find home on your waist. Soothing over your delicate skin, enticing you into her impenetrable web. Everything about her intoxicates you. Making every thought vacant your head, even more so when she starts playing with the hem of your skirt.

“Let me get you a drink.” She kisses your temple before going behind the makeshift bar in the dining room. An assortment of every liquor component known behind her. Part of you thinks she’s doing it for show, the way her biceps flex as she shakes the drink in the silver canister, pointingly making the drink you’d been ordering all night long.

So, she had been watching you all night. You knew if she wasn’t as hot as she is, you’d be creeped out. But it’s hard to be creeped out when she’s still shirtless, the black leather vest doing very little to cover her. Any time she moves you see her pink pierced nipples, nearly making you salivate.

With the Mexican martini in her grip, with her own in the other, you’re stuck. You didn’t think she’d actually want to have a conversation with you. Leading you out to the balcony, almost the entire view of the city before your very eyes, practically causing you to freeze in your footsteps.

“Wow.” Unable to conceal it, you voice your immediate awe. Abby chuckles, the first sign of sincerity you’ve seen all night. Everything else only seemed as a woman trying to get a needed fuck but right now but she hasn’t even tried to even so much as kiss you. Taking small sips of her whiskey, hip touching yours as the moonlight reflects from the water to her blue eyes, nearly as vivid as the moon itself.

“Yeah, it’s quite a view, think it’s the only thing keeping me coming back here. I’m on the road so much, it’s nice to have some stability.” Abby smiles softly, the confession tumbling from her lips before she can catch it. ”A pretty penny for me to keep it but it’s worth it.”

“Is this your move then?” You know the martini is doing the talking for you, if not you’d be a mumbling mess unable to form one sentence that even sounds remotely coherent. Abby quirks one of her blonde eyebrows upwards but keeps her mouth shut, waiting for you to continue. “Is this what you do with everyone?”

Abby takes a step closer to you, giving you all her attention. She plays with the chain on your neck, pulling it lightly to bring you closer to her. Carefully eyeing you up and down, smirking as she does, “Do you want the truth or do you want me to lie like I do with everyone else?”

It’s more than you expected her to offer. A careless lie would have suited her more. If there is one thing you know for sure, Abby could get anyone she wants and she wouldn’t have brought you here if she didn’t want you to be here.

“Are you capable of the truth? M’not sure you are.” For once, Abby is a bit silent. Carefully, she contemplates on what to say next. She isn’t sure what she should say. Usually she’s the one laying the honey traps for the swarming bees but right now? Abby feels like the control is slipping from her grip.

She can’t have that.

“Which one is going to make that guilt easier on your conscience?” Abby smirks as the shame fills your eyes. “It’s a girlfriend, isn’t it? It always is.” Anyone else would take two steps back, maybe even see themselves out but you want to prove a point.

“I don’t have a girlfriend.” The immediate rejection of your very real girlfriend fills you with even more shame than you know what to do with. Abby chuckles at the omission, the way your voice shrieks out the statement with a sense of urgency. A desperate action to cover the truth. “Sure you don’t.”

“I’m telling the truth!” Your voice raises as you lean into Abby, her firm hands on your waist as you both face each other. Abby nods, tongue poking through her cheek, pulling at your necklace once again. Admiring the curve in the E, the gold chain shining. It’s a pretty necklace, probably one your girlfriend gave you but Abby makes no comment of it.

“Yeah, okay, and I hate pussy.” Abby giggles. You think it’s so cute, it shouldn’t even be funny, but it is. Just like earlier in the night, you’re so close to her, nothing as slim as a sheet of paper could fit in between the two of you. Without even thinking about it, you rest your hand on her abdomen again, her strength tangible as you feel her up once again. Truly, you’re unable to stop touching her. Every part of you wants this to happen, even if it comes back to bite you in the ass, the curiosity and your fluttering cunt can’t really think of anything else.

“You can still walk out that door. Just say the word and my driver will take you home.” Abby whispers into the busy street beneath you, it’s so faint from the distance but the two of you can hear it. “Or you can let me slide your pretty little skirt up and let me make a slut of you, babygirl.”

Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it’s your throbbing clit, maybe it’s the lack of contact in months, most of all maybe it’s the fact Ellie took so long to reach out, but you give in. Throwing your arms around her neck, pulling her lips to yours, regardless of the possible consequence looming after you, threatening to tear apart the picture perfect life you thought you’re living.

All of it happens in a blink of an eye. Abby’s tongue staking claim, dominating in ways you didn’t know were possible before she’s pushing your front against the balcony, placing your hand on the railing. With ease, she maneuvers your body in just the way she wants. “Gotta tell me yes pretty girl, that’s the only way this is going to start.”

Facing the view, the buzzing city filled with nightlife and wonder, endless possibilities on your fingertips but you’re thinking about her hands. How much you want them inside you, fucking you full, or the strap in her pants you’d be rubbing against earlier. The thoughts of her slipping her cock inside you, claiming you in a way no one has in awhile. Making you feel wanted, needed, even if it was a fleeting feeling just for the night. You deserve it. Just one, stupid, decision — you were owed at least one.

“Yes, s’what I want. You.” That’s all it takes before Abby pushes your skirt to your waist, sliding off your panties as she allows you to step out of them.

“Are you sure?” Abby questions you. She pushes off from you, you hear her zipper being brought down as you look back at her, her vest being chucked to the lawn chair by the pool.

Fuck.

If she’s even half as good as she’s claiming to be, you are so fucked.

“I’m sure.”

Abby wraps her hands around your waist again, hands dipping under your shirt as she squeezes your breasts, teasing your hard nipples with her fingers. You sigh instantly, loving the stimulation she’s providing. You feel the barrel of her tongue piercing as she lightly sucks behind the sweet spot behind your ear, as if Abby's the one to place it there in the first place.

“Good.” Abby teases your entrance with her cock, your body shuddering as it slides over your folds, using your slick as lubricant. Already, you’re grinding against her, just like before as she guides your hips in the pace she likes. “Do you like getting off on my cock, baby?”

“Mhm, yeah, I do.” It’s all but a whisper. Abby still hears you speak, slapping your ass playfully, blunt fingers digging into the skin. She can’t believe anyone not wanting to touch you, not wanting to make you feel good. You’re the hottest person she’s ever fucking seen. Your ass, your tits, the moans spilling from your mouth, it’s been in her filthiest dreams.

“What about now?” Abby lets her cock slip inside you, stretching out your walls as you take everything she has to offer. It’s been so long since you’ve been filled like this, your cunt greedily taking every inch has she slides in further and further. With a tight grip, you hold onto the railing as she thrust with her strong hips forward, your back arching so deep as she places her hand on your lower back, forcing the bend.

“Oh…” Abby grins at your desperate moans, “You really do know how to be a good girl and take it.” Her name falls from your lips like a stuttering prayer, as if she’s the god you’re praising at the altar. With each thrust, Abby back more of her strength into, packing a powerful punch to your cunt. Pulling at the strings, already making you see stars as you take from the angle.

“Fuck!” With no warning, Abby pulls at your hair, your body conforming to her will. She could do as she pleased and you would let her. You wonder if you even had a chance or if this is what was meant to be. Her speed grows rapidly, your stomach doing flips as she penetrates you, fucking you until you’re irrevocably spent.

“See? You’re just a whore. My whore. Got you cock drunk for me. Don’t I?” Abby thumbs with your clit, making you see stars. Lost in the effortlessness of her actions, calloused fingers playing you like her drums set. With ease, from memory she pulled out a performance, just like she did at every show, aiming to please her audience.

“Do you—” Abby draws circles on your puffy clit, your growl as you attempt to push through your words. “Shit, I’m—”

“Hm?” You hear it, the sound of your cunt being fucked blending into the busy street, her hands pulling you on her cock over and over. “Didn’t think I’d take it easy on you now, did you?”

“I just didn’t think you’d actually feel this good.” With one particular hard thrust, Abby has your eyes rolling into the back of your head. Your body begins to shake at her ministrations.

“We’re just getting started but I wanna see that gorgeous face.” She pulls out of you as she sits on the nearest lawn chair, “Hop back on, babygirl, s’all yours to use.” You remove the rest of your clothes, the E chain the only thing adorning your body.

Messily, Abby spits on her large palm, mixing your slick coating her cock making sure she’d be nice and ready for you to slide right back on. You grip her soft, freckled shoulders as she helps guide you, her blue eyes darkening as she sees the bliss written all over your face. Sinking on her cock is a sight Abby wants to replay in her mind, the high pitched moan that releases from your body is food for her soul.

“Fuck yourself on me, babygirl. Mhm, show me how much you need it.” You lean her forehead against yours, look in her beautiful blues, feeling a strange sense of intimacy as she fucks hours brains out. Abby likes the fact you have no idea who she is but you’re riding her like no tomorrow.

When you start bouncing on her cock, Abby loses all coherent thought. Your not so subtle bounce of your tits, she loves them so much she cranes her neck to suck on your nipples, her tongue piercing adding a new sensation, unable to stop your pussy from gushing around her.

“Does your girlfriend fuck you like this? Mhm, I don’t think so. My sweet babygirl, so frustrated, and all you need is some good fucking cock, huh?”

“All I need is you.” Abby thrusts her hips into you, her heavily ring hand slips her pinky ring off, the shimmering gold is placed on your clit, your body jerking from someone so cold on your throbbing bundle of nerves.

“Since you can’t feel the little ball on my tongue right now, I suppose this will have to do.”

“Is that so, baby? Need me?” Abby glances over your shoulder before looking back at you, before she continuously meets the roll of your hips with her thrusts. “Dirty fucking slut, so horny for your cunt to be fucked properly. It’s why you came out tonight, why you got off on my thigh at the bar, why you couldn’t stop looking at me, s’why your hands have been over me all fucking night.”

“Abby, shit, keep talking like that.”

“Hm, you like when I call you my dirty slut? When I tell you how needy you are for me? Bet you would have let me bend you over the bar and fucked you right there.” You’re groaning, you scream her name so loudly, Abby can’t help but grin with a sinister smirk.

“Yes, would let you do anything.” Abby hums approvingly, the cool sensation of her diamond encrusted ring doing wonders to bring you over the edge, “Please, don’t stop. Don’t ever—”

One particular hard thrust has Abby wrapping an arm around your waist, holding you up as your body nearly becomes deadweight, her head making home on your shoulder. It’s when she steps into the light, met with Abby’s darkness. The night she had perfectly curated to fully benefit her, the strategic planning of a rotten apple, split right down the middle when push came to shove.

—

Three Months Prior…

“You said you would tell her.” The frustration written all over Abby’s face, her voice only raising an octave higher. Abby has never been so disgusted with herself, stopping so low, thinking she would get chosen over the long term girlfriend.

Stupid.

“I know what I said. I’m telling you, I can’t.” Ellie pinches the bridge of her button nose, trying to concentrate as Abby makes no move to do anything else but continue to fuck Ellie’s cunt.

“Oh no?” Abby slips a third finger in her pussy as she shoves her face between her slender thighs. “You don’t wanna tell her why you won’t fuck her anymore? All the light night calls with your manager are flights to come to my penthouse and get your pussy fucked out?”

Her tongue dips into Ellie’s pussy, she flattens her pierced tongue, the cool golden ball adding stimulation to the weeping woman’s clit, her body jerking at the action. “She’s too fucking good for you.” The speed of the bigger girl’s fingers send Ellie into godspeed, flirting with another dimension as she allows Abby to play tricks on her pussy.

The reason she comes back, no one makes her cum like she does, not even you. Abby wants more but Ellie refuses to give it, not willing to leave you even if you know what she’s been doing, all the lies she’s told in order to fuck Abby, you’d never look her way again. “She can't do this though? It’s why you keep coming back, you need my fingers stuffed in your pussy.” Abby’s fingers are reaching so deep, kissing Ellie’s cervix as she grips onto her wrist, bucking her hips up into the rockstar’s fingers.

“Maybe I should give them to her instead. I’m sure she would be more grateful.” Abby spits sloppily on Ellie’s pussy, kitten licking her clit until she sucks it in her mouth, tongue rapidly flicking over her bundle of nerves. Abby tsks, “Selfish slut, cum on daddy’s tongue like you fucking mean it.”

Like the greedy whore she is, Ellie squirts into Abby’s mouth and the blonde doesn’t waste a single moment, she slurps obnoxiously on Ellie’s cunt. “Fucking whore.” Her tongue flattens as he licks from her puckered hole to her clit, every drop dispersing into mouth.

Ellie’s entire body shakes, barely registering when Ellie throws on a robe, leaving it open and she lights up a cigarette on the balcony of her bedroom. Ellie whines for Abby.

“This was the last time.” With a flip of a switch, Abby’s tone changes, her cunt with her blonde pubes making her pussy appear even more irresistible, all she wanted was to get on her knees for Abby, repay the favor but the stoic look on her face tells her she won’t be getting anywhere near her tonight.

She exhales a puff of smoke, her sun kissed skin reflecting off the moonlight, every defined line of muscle making her even more beautiful. “But why? Did you suddenly grow a conscience?”

“No but I’m not interested in being someone’s side piece. I’m the main fucking show.” Abby shrugs her shoulders matter of factly, “Show yourself out, Williams.”

—

The memory flashes before Abby’s eyes, she’s sure it’s crossing Ellie’s mind, her worst nightmare playing in front of her. Her girlfriend, screaming her mistress’s name, as she clings onto Abby like a second life line. The look of horror in her emerald eyes, she would know your body everywhere, it’s you.

“All mine, my pretty pussy baby, m’babygirl gonna cum soon? yeah? can you do that for me?” Every word spoken was salt in the wound, smearing in as Ellie stood frozen still. The text was deliberately sent tonight for her own demise. Using Ellie’s needy nature against her, but it seems someone else was quite needy, but fuck was she prettier.

Ellie is a fucking idiot, Abby thought.

Knowing how much she loved it, Abby brought her finger to her mouth, sucking on the digit, then she teases your puckered hole and you’re begging to convulse. Letting yourself be held by Abby, but your hips don’t stop moving.

No.

You’re fucking yourself even harder on her.

“Mommy, please? Make me cum, fuck, need to cum all over your cock. Gonna dump her for you, please. I’ll do anything you want, just don’t stop, don’t ever stop.” With her finger only slightly slipping into your ass, you see pull on her golden waves, allowing yourself to slip into the hold of rotten intentions. Ellie has seen enough as she slams the door on her way out but you’re too fucked out to even clock it.

“Good girl. Let it go. Mommy’s got you. Mhm, give it all to me, baby.” When she’s don’t fucking you into another dimension, Abby lays back on the chair, feeling quite satisfied with her successful plot of revenge.

Even better, she has you.

You fall on top of her, still stuffed full, when she finds sucking on her nipples. Your tongue toying with the barbell, pushing and pulling as Abby takes a sharp intake of breath.

“Sorry, I've been wanting to do that all night.” You giggle lightly, Abby drawing random patterns on your exposed back. She doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt as she lets you suck on her tits, marking her porcelain skin. You’re already more of a giver than Ellie, she smiles at the thought.

“Don’t have to apologize. Never going to say no to a beautiful girl sucking my tits.”

She’s entirely mesmerized by you, in ways she hasn’t been before. Truthfully, she almost came from seeing you cum. Never in her life has someone brought her so close without having her pussy in their mouth. “Do you want the driver to take you home or do you want to go for round two? I’d like to fuck you on my bed, feel your dripping cunt on mine, make you forget about that pathetic girlfriend of yours.”

You forget she’s still inside you because you sit up fully and you’re moaning, again.

“I’d like that but let me give you another ride, yeah?”

Unbeknownst to you, the rotten apple lays beneath you, the same E chain hidden beneath the countless chains adorning her neck but sometimes they can taste just as divine as the sweet one. Sour or sweet? That’s for you to decide.

Bloody, intentional, reckless — Abby Anderson has brought it all.

Showing Ellie just how sweet something rotten could really be if preserved for someone else.

reblogs and extra thots are appreciated! hope you enjoyed ♡

taglist: @plutolovesyou @brackishkittie @only4theweeknd @tlouloser @marvelwomenarehot0 @grey-jedi12 @r3starttt @bittersu1te @pxgeturner @maxinephobia @marsworldd @aouiaa @mytwoseater @cherrybunny @twopeoplee @i-lov3-w0men @lvlymicha @half-of-a-gay @pa-co @rkivedpages @lucidfairies @vxqen @liizzygrant @ivka165-blog @yourfriendlyneighboorhoodeden @lluvme9 @wifeoftish @wildcatsgs @skzhoiic c @sheadoreshannah @angelynn-nicole @dizzy-dyke @crackhead237 @fairydxll @ellieusedtampon @bottom4butches @slxtcity

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#(ᝰ.ᐟ) tlou works.#tumblr put my stuff in the tags challenge!#abby anderson #abby anderson x fem!reader #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson smut #abby x you #abby anderson angst #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams x you #ellie williams angst #ellie williams smut #ellabs smut #ellabs x reader

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musingsofheaven · 3 months ago

Text

GREW UP PRETTY. p1

summary: She’s your mother’s best friend. Apparently she's always around, and everywhere. She shouldn’t be here. Not this late, not this drunk, not in the silk nightgown her ex-husband use to fuck her with.

pairings: milf!tashi duncan x family friend!reader

warnings: 17.7k words. mature themes. graphic cunnilingus (f/f). spit-heavy oral sex. oral fixation. clothed face grinding/humping. age gap. power imbalance. dubcon-adjacent tone. d/s undertones. overstimulation. cheating mentioned (not between the main characters). read responsibly.

notes: this was supposed to be one big 31k word fic but i got overwhelmed and shy so i’m posting it in two parts… :( here’s part one!! i know…. i know this is still long but… 🥺 i’ve been staring at this fic for like forever with my face in my hands because I am rethinking what I am doing. thank you so much for reading… i’m so grateful and shy and sparkly about it… part two is coming soon i pinky swear!!! thank you for being here ily forever ok ok ok < 3

You weren’t looking for it. Swear to god. You weren’t doom scrolling for drama or stalking her name in search bars or anything pathetic like that. You were just… on your phone like a normal human being. That’s it. You are laying half-splayed across your bed like a damn baby, one leg cocked over a pillow you should’ve replaced a long time ago. The screen brightness is so bright that it can burn your eyes. Reruns are flickering on the background television, but it’s on mute. Bra strap slipping down your shoulder. Brain activity hovers somewhere between static and sludge.

It was a nothing night. You hadn’t eaten since 4 p.m. Your tongue felt like it had fuzz on it. You were sure you could still taste the food your mom poured earlier. And maybe that’s why you didn’t move; you just lay there like a lazy animal in the low light, refreshing the same three apps in a loop, thumbs twitching over notifications that weren’t even for you. No texts. No calls.

Until you saw it.

It’s a big white font with a black background. It’s so sleek and serious. That little blue checkmark is like a cherry on top of a shit sundae, meaning it’s credible.

TASHI DUNCAN AND ART DONALDSON, HUSBAND OF 14 YEARS, OFFICIALLY DIVORCED, SOURCE CONFIRMS.

You froze.

It’s not dramatically frozen. Not gasp and clutch your necklace frozen. Just slow and still. The kind of still where your eyes read it once, then twice, then again, but your brain didn’t catch up until the fourth loop. It’s more like a shock.

Because yeah. Okay. People had been speculating. You weren’t blind. You’d seen the posts from other people. The shade. The way her ring stopped showing up in press shots. The way her tone changes, and there’s an edge in her voice when she says his name in interviews. How she looked at the court sometimes was like it was the only thing she still had left. You noticed.

But still. Divorce.

The word just sat there. Heavy. Echoing. Like it was trying to rearrange your memory. You stared at the headline until the letters blurred. Until they stopped looking like real words and started feeling static. Tashi Duncan. Divorced. You blinked once. Twice. Let it settle in your chest like it had the right to live there.

And maybe that’s what hit the hardest. It’s not a surprise because, deep down, you weren’t. Not really. You’d heard things. Seen things. Her name is trending for the wrong reasons. Her interviews were getting shorter and meaner, and she was clipped at the edges like she was bleeding patience in private. You’d noticed the ring vanish from her finger. Noticed how she smiled with her mouth but never her eyes anymore. You saw everything when it came to her.

You always had because you’d always been there.

Ever since you were little, you have been around whenever your mom was quiet in the background of wine nights, club fundraisers, and tennis galas that smelled like perfume and ambition. You’d trail after her like a shadow with a juice box while she laughed at something Tashi said, all effortless posture and that sharp, dry smile that made adults lean in. And then there was Lily… tiny, pink, squirmy Lily, who Tashi brought around for the first time when you were seven. Your brain clicked instantly into older-sister mode even though no one asked. You didn’t care. Lily was a baby, and she was hers, and you watched her like she might float away. You were good at that. At watching. You always watched Tashi.

She was your mom’s friend, sure. But she was also… Tashi. The Tashi. Women with posture like a weapon and a voice that could make grown men straighten up. She’d ruffle your hair like a joke, glance over your swing at one backyard match, and go, “Better, but your follow-through’s lazy,” and walk off before you could even be embarrassed. She wasn’t like the other women. She wasn’t soft. She didn’t coo. She didn’t coddle. She saw you, said things that made your stomach flip, then looked away like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t cling to them for weeks.

So, yeah. When the headline said “confirmed,” your gut didn’t twist from shock- it twisted from something worse. Something like inevitability. Fourteen years. A kid. A house full of trophies and a history stretched longer than your adult life. But you knew. You fucking knew it. No PR phrase could patch over the truth. Not “mutual decision.” Not a “joint statement.” Not even “good co-parenting.” It wasn’t mutual. You could read between the lines.

You sat there in bed, barely breathing, phone screen lighting up your face like a goddamn omen. One leg is thrown over a pillow, and your other foot is half-hanging off the edge of the mattress, cold and cramping. You hadn’t moved in maybe an hour, but your brain still felt like it hadn’t caught up with your body. Like you were still suspended between sleep and that blinking headline on your screen.

The article was still open. It was a clickbait article with all caps, clean font, and no-nonsense layout- the design that makes bad news feel worse. It had been waiting in draft form for someone to hit publish. You hadn’t even realized how tight you were holding your phone until your thumb cramped.

And that’s when it rang.

You didn’t move. Just stared at the screen like it had betrayed you. One name. No contact photo. No cute nicknames or emoji. Just her- Tashi Duncan. Plain and centered and suddenly taking up the entire world.

Which was weird. Because she didn’t call you. Not really.

You’d gotten calls from her before, yes, but they were always in the morning for one reason: your mother. Or Lily. Or both. Sometimes it was “Is she home?” Sometimes, it was, “Hey, are you free for a few hours?” Tashi was always running around, juggling matches, coaching, or flying out last minute for the press. You got used to hearing from her at 9 a.m. on a Saturday, voice brisk and polite and too awake. Sometimes, she’d ask if you could swing by and watch Lily. Sometimes, she just wanted to double-check that your mom hadn’t forgotten brunch plans. You were the in-between. The helper. The kid who never said no.

But this was different.

It was 12:41 a.m. on a Thursday.

And Tashi Duncan was calling you.

And that made no fucking sense.

You didn’t touch the screen. Just sat there blinking, your heart thudding way too loud for how still everything was. Reruns are still murmuring in the background. The taste of sleep still stuck to the back of your throat. And that damn article still glowing beneath her name like it was taunting you.

Because you knew her. Not well, but long. Long enough, you think. You were seven when Lily was born and have been around ever since. Your mom and Tashi met at Stanford when everything felt sharp, fast, and impossible. They bonded over late-night cram sessions, early morning practices, and the shared mess of being too bright, too ambitious, and alone in rooms full of men. But then your mom got pregnant. Dropped out. Moved back. Never quite circled back to the dreams she once had. Tashi didn’t say much about it. Just stuck around. Sent baby clothes. Stayed in touch. Their friendship got quieter, but it never broke.

Which meant Tashi was always around. And so were you.

Your mom would bring you along, and Tashi would ruffle your hair, ask about school, or pass you a cupcake when you thought no one was watching. When she had Lily, you were already old enough to babysit. Old enough to know where the emergency numbers were, how to heat milk, and how not to let a toddler fall off the couch. Tashi trusted you. Your mom did, too. You’d spent entire weekends in her guest room, with Lily snoring in a crib next to you and a baby monitor buzzing like static on the dresser.

You knew her.

Not like a second mom. But close.

Close enough that this late-night call, this out-of-nowhere ring against the backdrop of a fresh divorce headline, felt like a door creaking open. You didn’t know what the fuck it was about- but it felt big. Heavy.

You let it ring once. Twice.

Then, breath shallow, fingers stiff, you hit accept.

And you didn’t know what she would say when you picked up.

But your chest was already tight. And you already knew it wasn’t going to be about Lily.

And it sure as hell wasn’t about your mom.

You don’t say anything at first. Just press the phone to your ear and wait, heartbeat tripping into something nervous and twitchy, like it knows more than your brain’s willing to admit. There’s a pause- not dead air, not silence, just that heavy sort of in-between sound you only hear when someone dials before fully deciding if they should. That held my breath. That weight. That question mark. You think about saying something. You almost do. Her name’s right there, soft in your throat like a dare, but you don’t push it out yet. You just… wait. Wait like the pause might stretch long enough to cancel itself. If you stay still enough, maybe she’ll hang up, and you won’t have to hear whatever this is.

And then, “Hey.”

Low. Casual. It’s way too casual, as if you didn’t just catch her in the middle of unraveling like this was normal. Like this was fine. You blink up at your ceiling and squint at the shadows there, your thumb rubbing the curve of your phone without realizing it, your other hand fisted in the sheets like that might ground you somehow. Your throat is dry, and your pulse feels like a misplaced metronome.

“…Hey.”

Another pause. Tighter now. Shorter. But heavy, like it’s hanging off the edge of something that could tip either way.

“She around?”

She doesn’t say who. She doesn’t need to. You know exactly who she’s asking about. There’s only one she Tashi has ever called to check in on. The same woman who once tried to mail her homemade ginger drink when she had strep throat. The same woman who’d leave Tashi voicemails that were basically wine-fueled TED talks. The same woman currently passed out in the bedroom down the hall, dead asleep with a headache and half a bottle of chardonnay in her system and absolutely no idea that her old friend just dropped a divorce headline like a live grenade across your phone screen. She’s the one who still uses scented lotion like it’s 2003, who has a favorite wine glass and a vendetta against oat milk, who keeps old voicemails from Tashi saved on her phone and doesn’t even realize you know that.

You shift onto your side, pillow warm beneath your cheek, voice soft but steady. “She’s knocked out.”

There’s a sound on the other end. Barely there. Just breath, maybe. Or the quiet exhale of someone leaning on something, the kitchen sink, a doorframe she hasn’t moved from since she hung up on the last reporter call. Something solid. Something that holds her up when her knees won’t. You can almost picture her in the half-dark, staring down at her own feet like they might give her an answer, like she’s still waiting for someone to come home and tell her this wasn’t real.

“She had a headache,” you murmur. “Long day.”

Tashi hums. Not in agreement, not in dismissal-just a noise that lives in the middle. “Yeah,” she says, quieter now. “Mine too.”

You glance at your phone, still propped on the blanket beside you. The article’s still open. The headline is bold. Obnoxious. Weirdly clinical for something so personal. You want to ask her about it. You really do. Want to crack a joke, maybe. Make it normal. Make her laugh. Or perhaps say nothing and let her know you read it. You’re not pretending this is just a check-in when you see her. But you don’t. She called to ask about your mom because she didn’t bring it up.

Except… maybe she didn’t.

“She asleep-asleep?” she asks, voice low, smooth, but with an edge now. “Or could I still come by for a second?”

You blink at the ceiling. Your tongue presses flat to the roof of your mouth. “It’s past midnight.”

“I know.”

Her voice doesn’t waver. But it doesn’t settle, either. It’s still too even, too precise. Like she’s rehearsing each word, measuring how much she’s letting you hear. There’s something behind something raw, something cracked- but she’s holding it close like she’s afraid of spilling more than she means to if she lets one more word slip.

You sit up a little, back against the headboard now, the pillow falling to your lap. “Did something happen?”

“No,” she says too fast. Too tight. Then quieter, more real-“Not really. I just… I was thinking I might ask her to drink.”

A beat. Two. Three. You let the silence hang just long enough to wrap around you like static. Your fingertips twitch against the sheet.

“You wanna get wine-drunk with my mom?” you ask, half-laughing, but not like it’s funny, just like it’s surreal. This version of your life you hadn’t fully considered until now is making the floor tilt under your feet.

She breathes out. Short. Half amusement, half surprise. “Maybe.”

You settle deeper into the pillows, the weight of this whole conversation finally sinking in. “She’s really out, Tash.”

“Yeah.” There’s a rustle. Something clinks. You picture her standing in the kitchen, barefoot, in some old hoodie that doesn’t belong to her anymore. “I figured. I don’t know. I wasn’t really planning. I just…”

She trails off. You can hear her breathing. That’s all.

You wait again.

“I just didn’t wanna drink alone.”

It’s quiet. Honest. It lands in your chest like a rock. Not dramatic, not needy-just simple. It’s sad, in that sharp, quiet way, that you only hear from people who’ve been holding it together too long. You chew the inside of your cheek.

“…You could drink with me,” you offer. Easy. Light. Like it’s nothing. Like your heart didn’t skip when you said it.

A pause.

“What?”

You smile a little. “If it’s just about not being alone. I’m awake.”

Another long silence. But this one doesn’t feel awkward. It feels loaded. Like she’s thinking. Like she’s standing in the middle of her kitchen staring at the wall, trying to figure out what you said that means. Trying to decide if this is pathetic or fucked or maybe just the most human thing she’s done all week. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what scares her most.

“Are you sure?” she asks eventually, her voice thinner now, like she’s asking for something bigger than you think.

You glance at the clock. 12:59 a.m. “Yeah.”

There’s a breath on the other end. Deep. Real. The kind of breath people only take when they’re finally exhaling something they didn’t know they were holding in.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll be there in ten.”

You don’t say anything at first. Let the silence stretch between you, quiet and strange, like the kind that only happens when someone doesn’t hang up or want to. Your room’s still dark, lit only by the lazy flicker of some rerun still muttering to no one. The kind of show that’s supposed to make silence feel less heavy. But it doesn’t help much now. The phone’s still warm against your cheek. She hasn’t said anything since “ten minutes” and hasn’t asked if you’re still there, but she knows. You both know. And that’s the strangest part: the silence, but how easy it is to stay in it.

There’s sound on her end- soft things, background things, the kind of things you only notice when you’re trying not to breathe too loud. Movement. A door creaked open, the low drag of something across the wood. A drawer sliding shut. The faint clink of something glass hitting the glass, or maybe keys dropped into a bowl. You can’t tell. It’s domestic and messy and real. It feels too personal, somehow, hearing all that while lying in bed like this. Like you’re eavesdropping on a life you’re not supposed to be part of. Like you stumbled into a crack in the wall and didn’t look away fast enough, if you say anything now, you’ll break whatever strange thread is holding this together.

You clear your throat. Barely. “Do you want me to hang up?”

There’s a beat as if she’s considering it not seriously but enough to pretend she has a choice. And then her voice comes, low and even, laced with something unreadable: “That’s up to you.”

You exhale softly and carefully as if your breath might push too hard against the moment and knock it over. She didn’t say yes, and you didn’t say no, either. You fidget with the hem of your tank top, your thumb sliding under the fabric, the phone still pressed close. “It just feels weird.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s past midnight. You’re driving over. We’re still on the phone. It’s like…” You trail off, staring at the ceiling like it might finish your thought. “Never mind.”

She makes a slight sound, quite a laugh, but not quite a sigh. Just something breathed through her nose, soft and tired. “It’s only weird if you make it weird.”

You blink. Try not to read into it. Try not to let your mind spin-off in too many directions. But it’s Tashi. And she called you. And it’s not nothing.

Then she sighs, quieter this time. “I don’t even know what I’m wearing.”

You blink again. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t change,” she says, like it’s something to be ashamed of. “Still in that nightgown.”

You swallow slowly like the word is stuck somewhere in your throat. “What kind of nightgown are we talking about?”

There’s another pause, the kind that stretches like fabric pulled too tight. The kind that sounds like she’s not looking at anything thinking. Then, quieter, “Silk. Green. The one Art gave me.”

And just like that, your brain pulls it forward. The memory. You were younger- iway younger. Staying over for some reason, you barely remember now. Your mom was out of town. Their house felt too clean. Too still. You remember her sitting by the window, wine glass in hand, the city lights bouncing off that same green silk silk. You remember thinking she didn’t look like anyone’s mom. Didn’t look like someone who had to tell people what to do. She looked like a painting. Like someone expensive and complicated.

Your voice is softer now. “You’re still wearing it?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” she says. “I just… I don’t know. It’s soft. I like it.”

Another pause. Then sharper: “God, I should probably throw on something else.”

You hesitate, heart skipping. “You don’t have to.”

“Well, I’m not showing up to your porch in lingerie.”

You laugh, but it’s quiet. “It’s not lingerie.”

“It’s silk.”

You bite your lip. “Bring a coat.”

“I was going to.”

“I know. Just… it’s cold tonight.”

She doesn’t answer right away. And when she does, her voice is soft. Almost fond. “You’re sweet.”

You shift under the blanket. Your heart’s doing something it shouldn’t be doing. “I’m not.”

She hums again. The kind that doesn’t argue but also doesn’t agree.

Then the sound of her front door, the way it clicks shut behind her, the breath she lets out, her footsteps on the porch, the soft beep of her car unlocking, her keys jingling, muted like she’s trying not to wake the world.

And still, neither of you hangs up.

You put the phone down on your nightstand, a soft clack muffled in the quiet room, the screen’s glow painting your ceiling like an old movie. Your fingers drift to the mess on your floor- clothes half-tossed, notebooks stacked like they might topple any second. Without thinking, you start picking things up, folding a shirt that’s been wrinkled for days, nudging a pile of papers into some order. The rustle sounds loud, alive, and impossible to ignore.

From the other end, her voice cuts in, smooth but teasing: “Hey, what’s that noise? You cleaning?”

You freeze, fingers halfway through folding a T-shirt. You laugh softly, trying to sound casual like it’s nothing. “No. Definitely not.”

She hums, amused. “Mhm, sure.”

You sigh, shoving the shirt aside. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m tidying a little.”

Her laugh is soft, knowing. “A little?”

You shake your head, voice light but defensive. “I’m not cleaning. I don’t need to clean.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, voice thick with a smile you can’t see. “Because what, you think I’m coming over? No reason to make your room look nice?”

You hesitate, shirt still bunched in your hands, the fabric soft and warm from your palms. Her voice lingers in the air, half-teasing, half-knowing, like she’s watching you even through the quiet hum of your speaker. You don’t answer right away. The silence breathes.

“I’m not cleaning,” you say, finally, sharper than you meant it. Defensive. A little too fast. “Why would I be cleaning?”

The clock on your nightstand reads 1:12 a.m. It’s the time when everything feels too honest, the walls go soft, and your skin feels a little too aware of itself.

Tashi hums. You can hear the clink of her glass-ice against crystal, that rich little sound that tells you she’s poured herself more. Settling in. Comfortable. Like this is normal. She does this when her best friend’s daughter can’t sleep and texts her at midnight, asking if she still wants that drink.

“Mm. No reason,” she says. “Just sounded like you were getting ready for something.”

You roll your eyes. She can’t see you, but it still feels like a tell. You toss the shirt aside and land crooked on the half-folded bed like a half-lie.

“I’m not,” you say again. “It’s just… the floor was a mess.”

Which is true. But that mess didn’t bother you earlier. It didn’t bother you at dinner or when your mom said goodnight and disappeared upstairs at half past ten with that familiar yawn and a reminder to lock up. Twenty minutes ago, it didn’t bother you when you were still lying in your sleep shirt, scrolling through your camera roll with that low buzz in your stomach.

But then Tashi said yes.

You told yourself that she was just being polite wasn't a big deal. It wasn’t weird, but now, as you shift a tangled hoodie off your chair and tuck it into the laundry basket, you can feel how aware you are of the space. Of the way, the lamp glows with the vague scent of your lotion still clinging to your wrists.

It’s not for her. You’re not fixing your room because your mom’s friend, who’s been in your life since you were eleven and always smelled like expensive perfume and wine-dark lipstick, said she’d come by for a nightcap.

You’re just… tidying.

“Uh-huh,” she murmurs, with that soft, crooked smile you can hear more than see. “So this isn’t you trying to make things look nice before I come over.”

You lie back against your pillows, your heart thudding stupidly and slowly. The fan clicks softly overhead. You can feel your skin, the bare curve of your thighs under the hem of your shorts, and the heat in your cheeks that isn’t from the blanket.

“I didn’t ask you to come over,” you mutter.

“No,” she says sweetly. “You just asked if I wanted to drink with you. Since your mom’s already asleep.”

And it sounded harmless at the time. But now it’s 1:15 in the morning, and your room smells like clean sheets, and the idea of Tashi Duncan in your doorway feels less like a hypothetical and more like a pulse beneath your skin.

“I’m not cleaning,” you say again, more firm this time. If you say it with enough conviction, it’ll be true. “I’m not… prepping or whatever. It’s not that serious.”

There’s a pause, and you can hear her sip. Another ice clink. The sound of her lips parting just slightly before she lets the drink settle on her tongue. She doesn’t answer, but you can feel her disbelief stretching through the silence. Warm. Heavy. Like her eyes would be if she were standing just inside the doorway.

You sit up straighter, your legs folding beneath you and your blanket slipping to your hips. “I’m not trying to make it look nice before you come over,” you add, your voice lower now. More careful. It won’t feel like a lie if you say it slowly enough.

Still, the room is too quiet. Still, you feel that twitch in your chest, right beneath your collarbone-guilt or anticipation, you can’t tell. Your phone is hot against your ear. You imagine how she’s sitting: one leg tucked under the other, glass in hand, that look she gets when she’s humoring you when she knows more than she lets on.

You run a hand through your hair, catching slightly on a tangle near the back. Your fingers pause there for a second, hooked in the knot like they’re stuck on something else entirely. You untangle it without thinking, nails grazing your scalp, the motion slow and absentminded, like if you’re gentle enough, it won’t pull. Perhaps tonight, nothing has to be drawn. “Do you… still have the key?” you ask, as casually as you can manage. “The one my mom gave you for emergencies.” You toss it out like it’s just a detail. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you’re not already picturing her standing on your porch, hand hovering near the lock.

A pause stretches out on the line. Not long, not suspicious- just long enough to make you wonder if the question landed too soft. If maybe the air between you swallowed it. If she’s pretending not to hear it. But then-

“I do,” she says. Her voice is steady and straightforward, as if this isn’t a question with history inside it. “Your mom never asked for it back,” she says.

You nod automatically, even though she can’t see you. You glance toward the door without meaning to. “Right,” you say, but it sounds far away in your mouth. Your gaze lingers in the hallway like you’re already expecting movement. Like the air’s already shifted around her ghost.

There’s another pause- thicker this time, not uncomfortable but full. You can hear the engine hum gently behind her, maybe the soft tick of her turn signal. And then her voice again, softened like worn cotton: “Do you want me to use it?”

The question is careful. Not shy, not uncertain, but balanced-weighted with something she’s trying not to push too hard. You let out a breath you didn’t even realize you’d been holding, chest loosening around the ribs in a way that makes you dizzy. It’s not relief. Not really. But it’s not dread either. Just something fluttery and uncertain. Something suspended between maybe and yes.

You chew the inside of your cheek, eyes skimming your room without seeing it. The mess is still there, still obnoxious. Piles of clothes clean, some not. A pair of jeans draped over your chair like a corpse. You hadn’t even touched your vanity. Your mirror is still smudged with fingerprints, moisturizer thumbprints, and maybe a little dust. You pull the blanket tighter around your waist like that’ll cover more than just your legs. Like that’ll somehow shield you from being seen too much. You feel suddenly thirteen again, like she caught you playing dress-up in her heels, and she didn’t say anything; she just smiled.

“…Yeah,” you say finally, the word landing soft and full. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

Your voice slips out smaller than you thought it would. Not shy. Not timid. But raw in that way things are when you don’t bother to hide them. Like you’re done pretending it’s just a friendly drop-in. Like you’re letting her hear the truth hanging around the edges. That kind of openness that only leaks out after midnight, when the house is quiet, and your skin feels like it doesn’t quite belong to you.

“But,” you add, your voice flickering a little brighter, trying to steady itself. “Just- can you let me know when you’re already at the door? Like, say it. On the phone.”

You don’t know why you say that. Or you do. You just don’t want to admit it. You want a warning. You want time. You want to hear her voice in your ear when she’s standing on the other side. Not a knock. Not a surprise. Just her voice, letting you know I’m here. Get me.

There’s a pause again. A beat of silence thick enough to feel in your throat. And then you hear it. No words yet, just the shape of a smile curling behind the line.

“You want me to announce myself?”

You roll your eyes toward the ceiling, exhaling through a grin you try to smother. “Yes, Tashi. Just don’t sneak in. I’ll come down.”

And she laughs.

God- it’s so quiet. But it hits you like a wave. That breathy, honest kind of laugh she never gives to cameras. The kind that sneaks out sideways when she’s caught a little off guard. You hear it, and your stomach flips. It’s like warmth under your ribs, like someone lit a candle in your chest, burning slowly.

“Alright,” she murmurs, and there’s something close to fondness in it. Something that makes your throat feel tight. “I’ll announce myself.”

You close your eyes, just for a second. The line hums between you. Not silent. Not full of words. Just alive. And you sit there, curled into the quiet, heart knocking once against your ribs as it knows like it heard something in her voice that your brain hasn’t caught up with yet.

You didn’t hear anything.

Not the low rumble of her car easing up the curb, not the gravel crunching under tires, not even the click of the gate- if she’d even bothered to close it behind her. Nothing. No cue. No build-up. No warning. Just the television murmuring some rerun in the background of your room, the volume turned too low to follow the plot but too high to feel like silence. That soft, useless kind of noise you’d left on without thinking, the kind that fills a space but doesn’t keep you company.

And her. Still on the phone. Still breathing on the other end. She’s always had that quiet, steady presence, even when not saying anything. You’d almost forgotten she was still there, still driving, still on her way-until she wasn’t.

You’re in bed. On your side, one arm curled under your pillow, the other holding the phone too close to your face. Your tank top’s wrinkled from how you’d been rolling around, pressing your knees together and not doing anything else. Just waiting. Without saying that’s what you were doing.

And then, like she’d dropped the match right into the middle of it, “I’m here.”

Two words. Soft, maybe even gentle. But they slice clean through the room like they’d been waiting for the silence to land in.

You freeze.

Because of something about how she says it low and a little too close to the mic, her voice never really sounds unless she’s in a smaller space.

And then your whole body’s moving.

You’re already halfway up before your brain gives permission. You don’t stop to think. You don’t ask if she meant it literally. You know she did. Your body knows it before your mouth can shape a reaction. You’re out of bed in a blur, your sockless feet thudding down the hallway, the phone still clutched in your hand like it might explain something if someone saw you like this. It could justify how you’re dressed, how fast your heart’s beating, or that you’re not even trying to play it cool.

And you don’t hear the key at first.

You’re already on the stairs, halfway down, adrenaline rushing so loud in your ears you could’ve sworn you were alone in the moment you had time. You still had a beat before she’d be right there before you.

But then it happens.

That slow, practiced turn of the lock. The deadbolt gives in like it’s always been hers to open. Then, the door shifted against its frame with the softest kind of surrender. The way only people you trust too much come through.

And then her voice again, this time not from your phone.

Not filtered through distance or speaker static or the safety of conversation. Real. In your house. From the hall.

“I figured you didn’t hear me.”

Like she’s always had a key. Like this wasn’t a big deal. Like you weren’t already standing in the middle of the stairs, barefoot, heartbeat in your mouth, wearing the kind of tank top you never meant for her to see you in like this.

She doesn’t even look up at first. Just kicks the door shut behind her with the heel of one boot, her coat still half-buttoned, hair a little windblown, like maybe she’d been driving with the window cracked. One hand was still wrapped around her phone. She’s not wearing makeup. Or perhaps she wiped it off in the car. Her lips look clean and soft. Tired, maybe.

You don’t say anything. Can’t. You just stand there on the stairs, still halfway between levels, your shoulder pressed to the banister like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. You haven’t hung up. Neither has she. Her voice still hums through the line clutched in your hand, an echo or a memory that hasn’t caught up yet.

She looks at you.

And for a second second, there’s something raw in her face. Some flicker she doesn’t cover fast enough. Not softness, exactly. Not relief. Just something that sees you.

“Hi,” she says, and it’s quieter in person than it ever was on the phone.

You’re not sure if you answer or even breathe.

She walks toward the stairs, slowly, like she’s giving you a second to move, to meet her halfway, to stop her if this was all a mistake. But you don’t. You stay exactly where you are. And so does she when she gets to the bottom step. Looking up at you.

Neither of you is high enough to have the advantage. Not really. You’re still in your tank top. She’s still in her coat. The heat hasn’t even settled into her clothes yet. She looks out of place here, standing in your hallway, close enough that you can smell her perfume. The same one you always recognize but never name.

Her fingers twitch like maybe she wants to say something to them. Maybe reach out.

But she doesn’t.

And then soft, measured, like she’s testing the weight of it:

“Were you going to come down?”

You swallow, but your throat’s too dry to make a sound of it. Just a blink. A breath. A half-step forward that doesn’t register until you feel the wood under your foot instead of the carpet. Like your body moving on instinct and the rest of you lagging.

She doesn’t move. She doesn’t have to. She’s already in the middle of the hallway, with the door softly shut behind her. Her hand is still half-curled around her phone like it’s the only thing tethering her to the version of this where she’s not breaking a line.

You say, “Yeah.” And it’s the smallest thing. Practically a whisper. But she hears it because, of course, she does. She always hears you when you don’t mean to be heard.

Her mouth twitches at the corner, not quite a smile. More like she’s relieved you spoke at all.

“You were still on the line,” she says, holding up the phone like proof. “Didn’t wanna scare you.”

“You didn’t.”

A lie. Or something close. You’re still trying to catch up to your heartbeat, still figuring out what part of you bolted for the stairs without a plan. But you don’t walk it back. You don’t explain. You just make it down the last two steps and stop short in front of her, close enough that the heat trapped inside her coat is starting to bleed into the air between you.

She looks at you for a second longer. Not just a glance- she looks. Like she’s cataloging the tank top, the way your hair’s a mess from your pillow, the grip you haven’t loosened on your phone. Her eyes fall to it, then back up, slower this time. Like she’s making a decision she already made ten minutes ago but wants to make it again right here.

You ask quietly, “So you used the key to come in?”

She doesn’t blink.

“I didn’t want to wait.”

You stare at her, and something in your chest shifts- just slightly, just enough to feel. You don’t say anything, but you don’t have to. The silence does it for you, humming heavily between your bodies like something just shy of a yes.

Your phone’s still in your hand. Still warm from the call. You glance down at it, the screen lighting up uselessly beneath your fingers, still clinging to the line. Still holding her voice like it hasn’t already moved past the speakers and into your hallway.

You press the red circle. End it like it matters. Like she’s not standing right here.

The screen goes black, and the phone’s weight suddenly feels stupid in your hand. You’d been holding it out of habit, not purpose. Without thinking, you set it on the edge of the stair rail and hear it make the softest clack against the wood. Her eyes follow the sound, then flick back to you.

“Kitchen?” you offer, voice low.

She doesn’t answer. She follows.

You move first, not looking to see if she’s right behind you, but knowing. You can feel her presence tugging at your back like static, like tension. The kind that builds slowly gets into your blood and makes your fingers clumsy when you open the fridge just to do something.

Light spills out in a dull glow, too cold against your flushed skin. You lean your hip into the counter and stare blankly at the shelves like you’re looking for something you already know you won’t find. Maybe pretending you don’t see what you’re looking for feels safer than naming it out loud.

She doesn’t say anything. She’s in the doorway, watching you like it’s not the kitchen she came here for.

Not really. Not tonight.

You pretend not to notice. Open a cabinet too loudly. Let the glass knock against the counter like you’re thinking about something else- like you’re still playing it cool, even though nothing about your heartbeat is. You feel her eyes on you, heavier than the quiet, steady in a way that makes your neck warm.

Then she speaks softly like she’s easing the question out of herself.

“What do you and your mom drink… when you go out together?”

You blink.

It’s not what you expected. Not quite. You look over your shoulder, and she’s still there crossed, mouth unsure like the words came out before she could check if they were dumb. Like, she’s not sure if that counted as prying.

You take a beat, glass still in hand, then let the edge of your mouth twitch up. “Depends. Wine, if she’s trying to be classy. Margaritas if she’s trying to get me to gossip. Tequila if we’re both trying to forget shit.”

That makes her smile a little. Not all the way, but enough. Enough to soften her mouth. Enough to make you wonder what she really wants to know.

You turn and lean back against the counter now, your hip finding the spot it always does like this is any other night. She’s not dressed like that, and the air isn’t thick with whatever she hasn’t said yet.

You turn and lean back against the counter now, your hip finding the spot it always does like this is just any other night. She’s not standing there in silk silk and a coat like she didn’t drive here in the dark just to see you.

Your eyes flick toward her carefully. She’s still by the doorway. Not moving. Not saying anything. Just looking at you like she does when she’s about to say something that’ll stay in your head for weeks. Months, maybe.

You clear your throat just a little. Then, casual, too casual, you ask, “So… what do you want to drink with me?”

Not what do you usually drink. Not what do you want. Just that small, specific weight at the end of it with me.

She doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers brush the table’s edge like she’s thinking it over. This is more serious than you meant it to sound.

Then she finally says, “What do we have?”

And when she says, “Not you, not your mom, not this house,” your stomach tightens just enough to feel it.

You shrug, glancing toward the cabinets, then back at her. “I don’t really drink at home,” you admit, voice low. “So… just pick whatever you want. Whatever looks good.”

You try to sound breezy, unaffected. But it comes out quieter than you meant, like you’re afraid of breaking whatever this is. You’re not sure what’ll happen if she picks something too firm or soft or walks all the way in instead of standing there like she hasn’t already crossed a line just by being here.

Tashi doesn’t say anything. Just steps into the room like she owns the silence between you, her coat slipping more off one shoulder as she moves toward the cabinet. Her hand grazes your arm when she passes, light, deliberate, and completely unnecessary. Your skin sparks like it’s been waiting for that exact kind of contact, like it’s been rehearsing it in dreams you don’t admit to having.

She opens the door and browses like it’s a bookstore, like she’s looking for something familiar. “You used to have that peach liqueur,” she says after a moment, half to herself. “Your mom swore it tasted better over ice, but I always liked it neat.”

You blink. “She still has it.” Like it’s some little secret you’re sharing, like a fact that settles something between you.

Her mouth quirks up, that half-smile she’s been saving for moments like this when she’s unsure if she’s amused or just trying to look calm. “Good. Then that’s what I want.”

You reach for the bottle, that peach schnapps your mom and Tashi always drink when they’re here together, the one that tastes like syrup and sunburn and afternoons that stretch too long. You hold it like it’s a clue you’re handing her, like maybe it’ll say something you both haven’t dared to say out loud yet.

“But I don’t really drink that at home,” you say, your voice folding around the words like you’re telling her some new fact she didn’t know about you. “Too sweet. Too fake. Like it’s trying too hard to be fun or something, I don’t do that. That’s not me.”

You set two glasses down for her, one for yourself. How your hand brushes the counter feels like you’re waiting for the room to catch up, waiting for her to catch the weight of what you just said.

“I’m more the hard stuff kind of person,” you add, and you can’t help the smirk that pulls at the corner of your mouth. “Tequila, gin, things that hit you where it hurts, and don’t apologize for it.”

You watch her, eyes steady, daring her to say something or maybe just daring her to meet you where the sweet meets the sharp, and nothing’s quite what it seems.

She shifts like she’s weighing whether to step closer or retreat into the doorway she claimed moments ago. The silence hums between you- thick but fragile like a secret waiting to spill.

“You always do this,” you say finally, voice casual but low. “You show up out of nowhere, asking for a drink with my mom. I don’t know if I should be grateful she’s already asleep or annoyed she’s missing all the fun.”

She swallows, and you catch that flicker - that small crack in her calm. Because yeah, you both know the history here. The lines that were never crossed but always hovered just beneath the surface. The way she’s always been careful not to stay too long, not to look too hard, not to linger when your eyes caught hers across a too-quiet room.

“So,” you say, your voice just a little rougher now, a little lower, “what’s really going on tonight?”

She’s still standing there like she hasn’t decided whether to come all the way in. If she does, something shifts. Something tips.

Like her being here becomes something else that becomes real. Becomes a choice.

Her coat’s slipping further down her shoulder now, satin catching the soft yellow light of the kitchen like it’s staged, like the universe is lighting her from some impossible angle just for you. But she doesn’t fix it. Doesn’t notice, or maybe does and leaves it anyway. The curve of her collarbone is bare. Clean. Unbothered. She didn’t drive here with a headache, heartache, and no idea what she’d say once she got to your door.

You don’t press. Not yet. You just look at her and let her decide how far she wants to take it.

But she doesn’t say anything.

So you do.

“…Is it about the divorce?”

You don’t say it is cruel. You don’t say it curious, either. You just say it straight. Maybe you’re tired of pretending she came here for the peach schnapps and not something bleeding under her skin. Something that brought her here in the dark, wearing perfume and silence and that expression she always puts on when she doesn’t want anyone to know she’s hurting.

Her mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not a frown. Just something caught in between, like she’s been holding her breath since she parked the car and doesn’t know how to let it out.

Her gaze drops to your hand, one still holding the bottle, and she steps closer.

The sound of her heels on the tile is soft but final, like a clock ticking over to the next hour. Her fingers wrap slowly around the neck of it, brushing yours, warm, present, and a little too firm to pretend it didn’t happen.

She takes it from you like you offered it, like you didn’t mean to, but maybe you did.

She pours carefully. Steady. Like the quiet between you hasn’t thickened into something close to guilt.

Or want.

Or both, messy and knotted up, sitting in your throat like something sweet you’re trying not to choke on.

Two glasses. There’s no rush. There are no excuses. She doesn’t look at you while she does it; she just watches the syrupy liquid rise in both. That seems safer, as if it gives her time.

Once they’re full, she slides one across to you without speaking. Then she picks hers up, turning it once between her fingers like she’s still deciding what to say or if she should say anything at all. The glass catches the light. Her nail clinks against it, absentminded.

You don’t touch yours yet.

You watch her.

You wait.

She exhales. “I didn’t think I’d say anything.”

Her voice is lower now. Not soft, exactly, but undone in a way you’ve never really heard before. Like she’s halfway through the thought and hasn’t decided if she trusts it enough to finish it.

You glance up. “You didn’t have to come here to talk.”

“I didn’t,” she says, a little too quick. A little too automatic.

You nod slowly. “Okay.”

But you both know that’s not true.

You don’t even have to say it. It just sits there between you, evident as the drinks and the hour and the way her eyes won’t quite meet yours.

And when you finally reach for your glass, her eyes follow your hand like she wants to stop you. Maybe you’ve already heard too much. Perhaps this is already more intimate than it should be.

You take a sip anyway. Let it burn.

Then, after a beat that lasts longer than it should: “You’re allowed to fall apart, you know.”

She stiffens-not all the way, not enough for anyone else to notice. But you do. You feel it in how she adjusts her weight and her thumb stills on the glass.

She stares down into her drink. “Not in front of just anyone.”

Her voice is quieter now. Not hushed, but stripped.

You swallow. Quiet. Slow.

“Good thing I’m not just anyone.”

Her eyes flick up at that fast, sharp, like a reflex she didn’t mean to show.

And for a second, she doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. Just watches you in the way she does when her mouth wants to be clever, but her chest is too tight for it.

Then she says it quietly, flat, almost defensive:

“No. You’re not.”

Her voice isn’t cold. It’s careful like she’s trying to hold something back that has already slipped out.

“You’re my friend’s daughter.”

It’s not a joke. Not a tease. It’s a warning. A reminder. A fucking line in the sand that she’s already ankle-deep in.

And she knows it.

You just blink at her. Not mocking. Not flinching. Just standing there, looking back at her like you already knew she’d say it, and you don’t care.

And that makes it worse.

Because god, you shouldn’t be looking at her like that. Not with your lip caught between your teeth. Not with your neck bare in that tank top. It’s not like she’s the one who made you this bold.

Tashi breathes in slowly and steadily like she’s trying to cool something off inside her ribs.

Fucking hell, she thinks, you could be my daughter.

Not biologically. Not legally. But emotionally? Practically?

She watched you grow up. Ate birthday cake in this kitchen. Drove you to volleyball practice once when your mom was sick. You had braces the first time she ever heard you cry in this house. You used to beg to stay up late just to listen to her and your mother talk shit over wine.

And now you’re standing across from her, grown, calm, a little offering her a drink like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like the rules never applied.

And maybe they didn’t.

Because she called you tonight, not your mother.

She knew what she was doing. Somewhere, under all the grief and mess, she knew.

You tilt your head a little, watching her unravel one inch at a time, and then say soft, amused:

“So, why did you call me instead of her?”

Her eyes drop before you even finish the question.

Not in guilt, exactly. More like avoidance. She already knows what you’re asking and is not ready to answer it out loud. Or maybe she’s just tired of lying to herself about it.

She presses her palm against the counter, fingers splayed like bracing herself against something heavier than gravity. You watch her shoulders settle- not relaxed, not tense, but somewhere in between, like she’s practiced this exact posture in a mirror. A long pause. Then:

“She’s usually asleep by now.”

You hum, dry. A quiet scoff under your breath, not cruel-just real.

“Still not an answer.”

That gets you a glance. Quick. Sharp at the edges. Like she’s weighing whether to snap or shrug.

And you let the silence stretch, just for a second. You know her well enough by now. She’s not the type to spill unless it starts to burn. And something about tonight smells like smoke.

She exhales, barely. A breath that folds her in on herself, slow and reluctant, like it costs her something to keep talking. Her hand lifts to her temple, thumb dragging across her forehead like she’s trying to rub something out, a headache, a memory, the echo of your voice.

And then, quieter, almost like it’s for herself:

“I didn’t want to have that kind of conversation tonight.”

Your brow arches just slightly. You don’t lean in, but your gaze sharpens and narrows.

“What kind of conversation?”

You know the answer already. You just want her to say it. You want to see if she’ll be honest when it’s just the two of you, the lights are dim, and the house feels like a different version of itself.

She doesn’t look at you. Not right away. Just reaches for the bottle in silence, fingers curling around her neck like she’s done this before. This is muscle memory, not a choice. Her movements are smooth and practiced but not casual. You catch the subtle tremor in her wrist as she unscrews the cap. The quick, tight inhale she pulls through her nose before she tips the bottle.

“The kind where I have to pretend I’m okay.”

The words hit the counter like a dropped spoon-soft but loud enough in a room this quiet.

It lands between you like heat. A private admission dressed as a throwaway line. You don’t flinch, but it sinks into you anyway.

She pours your glass first, then her own, steady now. Doesn’t meet your eyes until both are filled. When she finally does, there’s no apology in it. Just a kind of fatigue. And underneath it, something sharp. Something still alive.

You let your hand close around the glass, fingers tracing the rim without lifting it. The peach smell hits your nose- syrupy and familiar. It smells like summer nights you weren’t invited to. Like how your mom would giggle after three sips, and Tashi would just smile without explaining why.

But this isn’t then. And she isn’t smiling.

“And I’m the easier option?”

You say it like you’re teasing, but your voice is low, unreadable.

Tashi’s mouth presses into a line. Not a flinch, exactly, but close. You can see it in how her jaw shifts; it is like she swallowed something bitter.

Then, deadpan:

“You’re not easy.”

A pause.

Her eyes hold yours, steady now. No smile. Just heat.

“You’re just… not her.”

There’s a beat of silence that doesn’t rush to fill itself. She looks down into her glass for a moment, like it might tell her something.

And then she says it. Half under her breath, almost careless but not quite:

“And that’s not nothing.”

You don’t smile. You don’t joke. You let the weight of it hang.

The thing is, she’s known your mother for decades. Long enough that most people forget to filter around each other. Long enough that she saw your mother fall in love, felt the weight of those early, fragile promises, and witnessed the slow unraveling that came later. She’s been there through the celebrations and the silences, through moments in grander homes and quieter nights.

She knows the exact shape of your mother’s laugh, her wrist bends when she pours a drink, and her silence when she fears being seen.

And yet, somehow, you’re the one she called tonight.

Not your mom.

You lean against the counter again, slow and deliberate, letting the space between you shrink-not with steps, but with a shared understanding that neither of you is pretending anymore.

“Is it about the divorce?” You asks again.

The question slices through the quiet like a blade-clean, unavoidable. No fluff. No circumnavigation. Just the raw truth hovering between you.

She doesn’t answer right away.

Her fingers tap lightly on the side of the glass. Once. Twice.

Her mouth twitches like she’s about to deflect, joke, or change the subject. The words catch in her throat.

Then, quietly- just above a whisper, but firm, certain, “Everything is, lately.”

She doesn’t look away when she says it. Hold your gaze instead, steady and real.

And that- more than anything- makes you still.

Because she doesn’t deny it.

Don’t try to redirect or hide behind worn excuses.

She just stands there in the kitchen of her best friend’s house, across from the one person she probably shouldn’t be drinking with, eyes too clear, glass full of something sweeter than she probably wants.

When she takes a sip, you follow.

You don’t even think about it, really. Your hand moves. Like your body’s already whatever she does, you do. Like some part of you’s still following her lead, even now, even here, when she shouldn’t be leading anything at all.

The drink is sweeter than you expected. Syrupy. It coats your throat, lingers on your tongue, and tastes like something people drink on porches in towns where nothing ever happens. It’s not like this kitchen, not like this night. It’s the kind of sweetness that tries to pass itself off as innocent, like fruit punch at a church picnic, but there’s nothing pure about it. It stays too long. Sticks to the back of your teeth. Refuses to let go.

You swallow and watch her over the rim of your glass.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t flinch or twitch or shift. She just sets hers down like that’s the end of it. Like she’s done now. Like that one line- everything is, lately- is supposed to be enough. Like it should land and stick and explain away the years. That’s an answer and not a deflection dressed up like closure.

You let a beat pass. Just one. A silent exhale between the two of you, a space she could fill if she wanted, but she doesn’t. So you set your glass down, too. A soft clink, perfectly timed. Not dramatic. Just… placed. Like punctuation. Like you’re drawing a line in the sand with glass and liquor.

“So.” You tilt your head a little. Let the pause hang between syllables. Let it linger just long enough to press, not prod. “Why’d you really split?”

It comes out calm. Easy. Like you’re asking about the weather. Or about how long she plans to stay. But your eyes don’t leave her face. Not once. You want to see the first crack, the first tell, the first little shift that says you’ve touched a nerve.

She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink. Just shifts her weight like her shoes don’t fit right. She might just turn and walk out, take the bottle with her, leave you to drink in her absence, and sit in the echo of the things she didn’t say.

You give her a second. Maybe two. Long enough to take them out if she wants it. Long enough to walk away. She doesn’t.

Then, casual as anything: “I mean… ‘mutual’?” You lift your brows and sip your sarcasm. “Sure. That’s believable.”

She glances at you once, quickly like a flick of light off the glass. Like she’s just checking if you’re serious or if this is some kind of joke. But nothing in her expression moves.

So you smile. Not nice. Just sharp enough to scratch.

“What was it?” you ask like you’re playing a party game. “Too many nights apart? Too many cameras in your face? Was it one of those situations where you both wanted ‘different things’ but didn’t actually say what they were?”

Nothing. No reaction.

You keep going.

“Maybe he got tired of you telling him what to do.” You lean on the counter, chin propped on your knuckles. “Or maybe you got tired of pretending like he ever listened.”

She exhales slowly. Measured. But her fingers flex against the edge of the counter as she braces herself for a gust of wind that hasn’t yet come. She knows what’s coming next and is already doing the math to determine whether it’s worth staying for.

And you-it only fuels you. That stillness she hides behind. That constant calculation. If she stays perfectly quiet, none of this will count. Like silence is a shield.

You tilt your head the other way. Smile smaller now. Meaner, maybe.

“Could’ve been the retirement,” you say, offhand, eyes on your glass as it might explain her. “He brought it up, right? Not you.”

You don’t have to look up to know it lands. The quiet gives it away - not stiff, just still, like she’s trying not to react.

“He was the one who said it out loud first. Said he was done. Wanted out. Wanted to stop playing before it got uglier.”

You pause and swirl what’s left in your glass.

“Didn’t even fight you on it, I bet. Just… said it. Like it was nothing.”

You lift your eyes to her, slow. “But I don’t think you liked that.”

Still no answer, but something shifts - a faint breath through her nose, a muscle tightening in her cheek.

“Not because you wanted him to keep playing,” you add, voice light now, almost amused. “Let’s be real. He was barely holding it together. He could’ve thrown his back out tying his shoes.”

You smirk into your sip.

“No, I think you hated it because you weren’t saying it.”

Now she looks at you. Finally, it’s that look - not angry, not defensive, just… exposed. Like you pulled a thread she didn’t think you’d find.

“You were supposed to end it,” you say. “When you were ready. When you were done. Not him.”

A slow blink from her. Nothing else.

“You spent half your life turning him into something bigger than he was,” you continue. “Managing him, building him. Cleaning up his losses, stacking his wins. And he just… took that and handed it back to you. Said he didn’t want it anymore.”

Another pause. You set your glass down, soft.

“Bet that pissed you off more than anything else.”

You don’t smile now. You look at her. Quiet. Direct.

“Not because he quit,” you say. “But because he got to be the one who let you go first.”

Still nothing. Not really. But you can feel her silence now. It’s active. Charged. Like the pause before thunder. Like she’s daring you to say more because she won’t.

“God,” you say, dragging it out, light and cruel and just a little amused, “I can only imagine the arguments.”

You lift your glass again and swirl the liquid, looking for something to do or touch that isn’t her.

“But I mean… you were better than him.”

You shrug casually. “That’s not even opinion. Everyone said it. You were supposed to be the one who went the distance.”

She looks away, toward the stove, like it might rescue her. Like she wants to ask you to stop but won’t.

You keep going.

“But then your knee blew out, and he got a golden ticket, and you pivoted like the pro you are. Coach. Wife. Brand manager. Career midwife. You pretty much rebuilt him from the ground up.”

A pause. You lower your glass.

So you lean in a little. Eyes on her mouth.

“Or maybe you cheated on him?”

That does it.

Her head turns slowly like she’s already exhausted by you, but she can’t not look. Can’t hear what you’re really asking.

“Was it someone you knew already? Fucked someone he knows?” you ask, half-curious, half-slicing. “Or just a stranger?”

Still nothing.

You click your tongue, teeth catching your bottom lip like you’re trying not to laugh.

“Guess that’s a yes.” Yes, to the cheating. Clocked it.

You don’t flinch when she sets the glass down like that. Not quite a slam, but sharp enough to echo against the counter, against your ribs. Loud enough to mean something, even if it’s not clear what. A line in the sand. A flare is going up. A warning, maybe, though you don’t need it.

You just watch her. Her head was tilted slightly, her hip was against the counter, and her posture was loose, as if you were not reading every flick of her eyes. Like you’re not cataloging every breath. You wait because you think she’ll give you something, but because silence, lately, is the only thing that feels like power.

And when she doesn’t speak and move, doesn’t deny, doesn’t defend, laugh again. This time quieter. Smaller. Less venom, more disbelief. Not even for her benefit. If you don’t laugh, you’ll fall into that old habit of softening things for her. And you’re too fucking tired for that.

Then: “You know,” you say, almost thoughtful, voice a little breezy, a little too casual for the weight of the room, “for someone who can talk circles around a loss, you got real quiet when I said the word cheating.”

That’s the thing that does it.

Her head snaps toward you so fast it cuts the air sharply, and suddenly, she seems to have forgotten how to hold still. She also appears to have forgotten that you aren’t that kid anymore.

“Oh, fuck you.”

It’s not loud. It’s not even harsh. But it lands hard. Loaded. Raw. The filter finally slipped, and her authentic voice came out underneath. The one she’s been biting back since she walked in the door.

You blink, slow. Then, you’re slight, smug, and mean because you’re not trying to be fair. Not tonight. Not after everything.

“There it is.”

“No,” she says, jaw tight, shoulders squared like she’s gearing up for a serve. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like you caught something. Like you know something.”

“Didn’t I?”

She scoffs, breath sharp and bitter. “You threw a grenade and waited to see if I flinched. Congratulations. You’re exhausting.”

You laugh through your nose. Short. Sharp. Then step back like the moment doesn’t weigh a damn thing-leaning into the counter like it’s all just a joke now, like you’re watching it unfold from somewhere else.

“You could’ve said no.”

“I don’t owe you an answer,” she spits, a little more venom now like she’s only just realizing you’re not going to back off.

“But you gave me one anyway.”

“No,” she says again, her voice rising steadier. “You decided what it was. You always do that. Fill in the blanks. Make it fit whatever story you want to believe.”

You lift your brows, unimpressed. Your glass sweats in your hand, still half full. Still ignored. “It wouldn’t have hit so hard if it weren’t true.”

Her hands brace the counter like it’s the only thing tethering her to the floor. She’s leaning forward now, with weight in her arms and tight across the shoulders, like she wants to run, hit something, or both. Like she’s burning from the inside out and trying not to show it.

“You think I came here to be accused?” she snaps, eyes cutting toward you like a blade.

And you, you almost laugh. Not because it’s funny. But because she still thinks that works. She can raise her voice, pull rank, and pretend she doesn’t know precisely what she walked into. Like she didn’t sit in her car for ten minutes outside before ringing the bell.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, all mock-innocent, your glass still in your hand, fingers loose around it like you’re trying hard not to throw it. “Is that not what this is?”

She flinches barely, but you catch it. A twitch. A stutter in her breath. And it’s enough. You step in a little closer. Not touching. Just pushing the space like it’s a boundary she forgot she gave you. Like you’re letting her remember who you are now.

“What the fuck did you expect me to think?” you ask, low, steady, almost nice. Like you’re not ripping into her. Like you’re not waiting for her to bleed.

She doesn’t answer. Of course, she doesn’t. The silence between you stretches, pulled taut like a wire about to snap.

You tilt your head and let your eyes sweep her slow neck to shoulder, mouth to jaw. She’s too close for this to be nothing. Not casual. Not innocent. Not even remotely smart.

“So what, then?” you ask, your voice soft now, too soft like you’re already bored with this game. “You called looking for my mom. She was asleep, and I offered. Now we’re here. Drinking. Like, that’s not weird. You didn’t just get divorced and think this would feel the same.”

Still nothing. But her mouth’s a little tighter now. Her throat works around a swallow, and she won’t let you hear. You can practically see the war she’s fighting behind her eyes.

“Is that the vibe you were going for?” you press, smiling like it’s a dare. “Little kitchen reunion with your friend’s daughter?”

Her eyes flick just once. Like she didn’t think you’d go there. Like she thought you would stay polite. Like she still thought you were someone she could manage.

But you don’t let up.

“You know how old I am, right?” you ask, raising your brows. “Or were you counting on the fact that I still look sweet enough to get carded?”

She still hasn’t answered, which only makes it worse, more pathetic, and more damning.

“Jesus,” you mutter, laughing a little now because you’ll scream if you don’t laugh. “Did you come here to drink with someone who could literally be your daughter, or were you just hoping I wouldn’t call it what it is?”

You let the question hang. Nasty and pointed and a little too honest. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But her jaw sets like she’s chewing something down-grief, guilt, or a comeback she can’t land.

“So what now, Aunt Tashi?” you add, voice dripping with mock the way you used to say it when you were a kid, back when your mom told you to call her that like it meant something. Like she was just some benevolent presence in your life instead of a woman who’d later show up drunk at your door at midnight. “You come crying to me now that it’s all falling apart?”

That gets her. A flicker. A tightening around the eyes. As the words hit somewhere soft, she forgot she was still sore.

But she doesn’t break.

So you go for the throat.

“Yeah, sure. You just happened to end up here, with me, of all people. Just a little nostalgic drive, right? Nothing to do with guilt or needing someone to say it out loud.”

You pause, glass hovering near your mouth. Her eyes are on it. You know she’s watching your hands now.

“And maybe you came because you wanted someone to make you feel like shit for it.”

You sip, slow. Unbothered. Let her sit in it. Let it thicken the air between you.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. But the silence tells you everything. It hangs there like a guilty verdict, waiting to be read aloud.

So you give it voice.

“Bet he still defends you. Even now. Isn’t that pathetic?”

She blinks slowly. Her jaw twitches. But she doesn’t speak, and that only feeds you.

“Man’s out here playing loyal husband, and you couldn’t even keep your legs closed.”

Her head tilts, barely like she’s trying not to react like she’s calculating the exact amount of rage she can swallow without choking on it. But you’re not done. Not when she still thinks she can wear that calm- like armor.

“You had a man who worshipped the ground you walked on.” You lean in just enough to make it hurt, voice soft like cruelty in a whisper. “You pissed on it instead.”

That’s when she breaks.

Not loud. Not dramatic. But her hand clenches on the counter, and her breath stutters out of her nose in a way that makes your chest go hot like you hit something deeper than anger. Maybe, for just a second thought, she could still keep her dignity intact.

Too fucking late for that.

Her knuckles go white on the counter. She stares at it like it might offer her a way out. For example, if she doesn’t look at you, she won’t have to admit how much that landed.

But then-

“I swear to God,” she says, voice quiet, ragged at the edges, “if you say one more fucking thing like that-”

You raise your brows slowly. “You’ll what?”

That gets her. Her head snaps toward you, eyes sharp enough to gut.

“I didn’t come here to be judged by some- some little girl who doesn’t know shit about what it means to be lonely.”

Ouch.

But she doesn’t stop. Can’t.

“You think I came here to be judged?” she says, low now lower than before but harder, like the edge of a blade pressed to skin. “By you?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

Her eyes flick up, meet yours, and for the first time tonight, she actually looks. Not away. Not through you. At you.

“You think you know something because you’re angry? Because you got a few bitter lines and a front-row seat to a marriage you didn’t understand?” She laughs, bitter and breathless. “You’ve been dying to use it on me, right? All this time, waiting for the chance.”

You flinch, barely. Her smile twitches. She saw it. She steps in. Just slightly. Just enough to feel the shift in the air like pressure drops before a storm.

“You think calling me pathetic makes you grown?”

You hold her stare, breath caught somewhere in your chest. You should say something. You should push back. You don’t. “Been waiting for this moment since the first time your eyes landed somewhere they weren’t supposed to.”

Her voice is a curl of smoke now, hot and venom- sweet, too close to your mouth.

“Don’t act like I didn’t notice. Don’t pretend you didn’t look at me like I was the one who’d done something wrong like you weren’t the one coming downstairs in shorts that barely passed your ass and trying not to stare at my legs.”

You swallow. You shouldn’t be hard.

“You think I missed how your voice always dropped when you said my name? The way you’d linger in the doorway when I said goodnight?” She scoffs, mouth curling around every word like it tastes filthy. “You’ve been soaking in it for years. Desperate. Quiet. Acting like you didn’t want me to catch you.”

She steps in close- closer than she ever has. Her coat brushes your chest. The silk underneath whispers when she moves.

And her mouth is right there.

“Pathetic little thing. You don’t want to judge me,” she breathes. “You want to be the reason I never stop being a fucking mess.”

You can’t move. You don’t want to.

“And now that I am,” she says, dark eyes burning into yours, “you don’t know what to do with it, do you? You thought I’d come here crying. You thought I’d fall apart.”

Her fingers graze your wrist. Barely. But it scorches.

“Poor thing,” she purrs. “You wanted to play grown-up? Show me your teeth? Then come on.”

The coat parts just slightly as she moves, the silk underneath catching the light like something obscene. You know that fabric. You see that nightgown. You’ve imagined it, dreamed it, ruined yourself over it, even back when you had no idea what to do with the ache.

And she knows that, too.

She sees your eyes catch on it. Linger.

You don’t even ask.

You just drop.

It’s not polite. It’s not romantic. It’s not anything you could explain without choking on your filth. You drop to your knees as they owe her something like they’ve been aching to hit the floor since the second she walked in with that coat slung over her shoulders and her mouth already parted as she knew.

That goddamn nightgown. Looks too good and too soft, the kind of silk that should be worn in candlelight, not under kitchen fluorescents, while someone half her age rubs their face against it like a dog in heat.

Her voice is poison- sweet when she says, “You recognize it?”

Your lips part. Nothing comes out.

She hums. “He bought it for me,” she adds, soft and vicious. “And said this makes him want another Lily.”

Then she leans in, faces leveling before you, breath hot and foul with something ugly.

“Guess that’s why you couldn’t stop staring.”

When she stands properly again like a god… you nose along the hem like you’ve lost your mind. You have. You must have. Because it smells like her- her skin, her perfume, her pussy, barely shielded by layers that feel like paper when your mouth’s this hot, this hungry. You mouth at her like it’ll save you. Like getting her wet through her nightgown might buy you absolution.

It won’t. But fuck, it feels close.

“Tashi,” you groan, already pressing open-mouthed kisses where the silk clings damp to her. “You smell so- fuck- so good, oh my god-”

She should push you off. Say your name like a warning. Say stop.

But her hand finds your head instead.

Not gently.

Fingers in your hair, scalp- tight grip, and her hips fucking jerk forward like she doesn’t care if you bite. Like she wants the teeth. Wants the desperation. Wants the tongue that’s dragging slow and heavy up the curve of her through that ruined silk, like it’s not even in your way.

“Jesus,” she breathes out. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

She’s not even saying it to you. She’s saying it like a confession. Like an apology.

But you don’t care. You’re gone. You’re lapping at her like you can taste the years of bad decisions soaked into her skin. Like if you’re disgusting enough if you worship her hard enough through the layers, she’ll let you do worse.

You grind your nose up where the fabric clings darkest. Your tongue presses. Her thighs shake.

“Bet no one’s ever been this fucking desperate for it, huh?” you mutter, voice wrecked and breathless. “Bet Art never got on his knees. Not like this. Not for this. Didn’t know what the fuck he had.”

“Shut up,” she gasps, but it’s not angry.

It’s desperate.

You know that tone. You’ve heard it behind doors years ago, room over, pressed up against drywall, breath caught in your throat. At the same time, her voice broke, and you didn’t know why you were wet just hearing her beg him in another room when you slept over her place before.

Now she’s the one soaked.

And you’re the one making her.

You grab her ass and drag her forward against your mouth as if it belongs to you like she should’ve been letting you do this the whole damn time. Her knees nearly buckle. Her hand tightens in your hair like she wants to tear your scalp open.

“Tashi,” you whisper, breath hot enough to melt silk. “You’re shaking.”

“Fuck you,” she chokes out.

But her hips say thank you.

You lick a stripe straight up the center of her cunt through her nightgown and panties- obscene, slow, heavy with spit. She lets out a noise that’s half a sob, half a growl. Like this is killing her. Like she wants it to.

And you?

You’d stay here forever.

On your knees, face soaked with her, mouth pressed against the place no one else gets to see her break. She’s older. She’s been loved. She’s been ruined. But not like this.

You’re the one making her fall apart now.

And you’re not even under the silk yet.

She doesn’t even try to stop you now. Her fingers are knotted so tight in your hair they’re shaking, and the coat slips off her shoulders like even fabric can’t stand between you anymore. It hits the floor with a whisper.

But the silk stays.

Because that’s the thing, you don’t move it. You don’t even try. You just drag your tongue up the soaked center of her cunt, slow, like the silk’s not a barrier but a sacrament. It sticks to her wet, sheer, clinging to every curve, every ridge, every swollen beat of her pussy like it wants to be ruined.

And god, do you ruin it.

You nose up into the seam, breathing hot against it, and the heat makes it cling tighter. Her taste is leaking through, already sweet, sour, and sharp, like sweat, skin, and something even deeper. You lick again. Broad. Firm. Right up the center, letting your tongue flatten against the thin slip of fabric and press.

She chokes on her breath. Her whole body twitches.

“Oh fuck-”

You don’t stop. You double down. You wrap both arms around her thighs, fingertips digging into the soft give of her ass, holding her steady as your tongue works her over. The silk is a second skin now, and you’re devouring it. Lapping at it. Mouthing at the swollen, slick outline of her pussy like it’s a puzzle you’ve been dying to solve for years.

And it’s not just the silk.

She’s still got panties underneath- thin, soaked through, clinging to her just as tight. You can feel them under your tongue when you press harder. A soft layer of lace or cotton, maybe both, bunched under the silk like a final line of defense that gave up hours ago. They’re drenched- darker than the nightgown now, twisted into the shape of her cunt like she came into them days ago and never stopped leaking. You lick right through all of it. You feel the texture shift under your mouth- wet silk dragging across soaked cotton, your tongue pushing the fabric harder into her clit with every pass, and she’s shaking. You want her to cum through it. You want to taste her as she breaks apart in layers.

She moans- harsh, guttural, trying to swallow it down and failing. She buckles. Grabs the countertop. Her knees wobble, and her hips roll, seeking, grinding against your mouth like she can’t help it. Like the friction’s not enough and too much all at once.

And fuck, she’s wet.

The silk’s drenched now dark, clinging, and practically transparent with how soaked she is. You can see everything. The way her folds push up against the fabric, plump and flushed. The outline of her clit, straining, begging. The soft dip where her hole flexes, twitching under the heat of your tongue. You lick it all. Slowly. Obscenely. Over and over, soaking your face with her.

She shudders violently. Her thighs clamped around your head, not enough to stop you- just sufficient to make it filthy. She’s rocking now, breathing hard, trying not to say your name, but it keeps slipping out anyway-half-formed, like a prayer.

And still, you don’t pull the silk aside.

You want her like this- wrapped, soaked, too far gone to care. You want her cunt to pulse against fabric you’ve defiled with your mouth, want her to feel you even through layers. The pressure. The heat. The drag of your tongue as you circle her clit through the silk again and again until her whole body jerks.

“Fuck-” she gasps, voice cracking.

You hum into her, filthy and satisfied, and the vibration makes her whimper.

“Tashi,” you pant, spit-slick and raw. “You taste so fucking good- this pussy- god, you’re soaked. You’re fucking dripping.” Your mouth is already glossy with her, chin sticky, upper lip burning where her slick is drying fast in the kitchen air, and still, you keep licking like you’re trying to get drunk on her, like it isn’t enough to just taste- like you want her leaking down your throat until she lives inside you.

You nose hard into the mess of it, grind your tongue right up into the soaked seam, and that breaks her. Her whole body lurches, stutters, hips pushing forward like she’s chasing the pressure, thighs clenching around your head so tight it makes your ears ring. You moan into her in response, tongue dragging firm and slow right up the seam again, and her whimper curls into the air like a scream that’s been swallowed too many times. You swear you feel her clit twitch just from the heat of your breath.

She arches. Moans like her whole body’s unraveling. And you don’t even flinch- you push into it, greedy, worshipful, kissing her cunt as you mean it like it’s her mouth and you’ve been starved for it. You’re not just licking- you’re making out with her through silk and lace, lips pressing soft and hard in turns, tongue slipping across the soaked fabric like you’re begging to crawl inside. Your jaw aches, your mouth is raw, but you don’t care- you’d live like this forever if it meant she’d keep gasping your name like that.

Because that’s what this feels like. Like making out with her pussy through silk and soaked lace, mouth dragging slow, reverent licks over the heat of her, tongue pressing up against the wet fabric while your fingers come up and start rubbing her clit in tight, focused circles- firm and hungry and filthy. You groan against her, the vibration of it rolling through her clit, your fingertips catching the swell of it through the fabric, grinding it down. At the same time, your lips suck against the shape like you’re kissing it open. Every touch is soaked. Every stroke drenches your hand more.

“T-Tashi,” you murmur again, hot breath fogging the sheer fabric, mouth sliding against her like you’re trying to devour her through it. “Let me kiss you. Let me fucking kiss this pussy until you cry.” Your voice breaks on it, all husk and reverence like you can’t believe you get to worship her like this like she’s holy and ruined and still letting you kneel between her legs like a girl who’s never wanted anything else.

She whimpers. And you do. You lick and suck and rub and press, tongue dragging slow and deep along the line of her slit, nose nudging the base, lips locking around the outline of her clit while your fingers work it from the outside. You grind your face into her like you’re kissing her hard, sloppy, hot- and every time your mouth seals against the fabric, she gasps like she’s feeling your mouth inside her. Her thighs twitch around your head, and her hands scramble for the edge of the counter like she doesn’t trust her legs to hold her up.

You moan into it. Let her feel the sound. Let her feel the vibration all the way through the soaked silk and her pulsing cunt and the nerves firing off like sparks. It’s not just heat anymore- it’s friction and desperation and the way she’s grinding into your face like she’s trying to fuse with you. Like the silk isn’t a barrier, anymore- it’s the thing holding her together.

She’s trembling. Her hips roll forward like she’s trying to kiss you back, grinding herself into your face and your hand, as she needs it deeper, more complicated, wetter. You’re rutting your tongue up through the fabric, sliding it just right while your fingers rub fast, relentless, slippery circles into her clit until she’s soaking both of you. Her panties are still on under the silk, pressed in and tight, and everything- everything- is slick.

You suck hard through the fabric- groaning against it-then slow it down, flick your tongue over her like you’re tracing the seam of her lips. Tongue to silk to lace to skin. One thin layer away from the flesh and still somehow inside her. You can feel her clenching, feel the tremble beneath your lips, the way her clit twitches under the fabric as your fingers tease and tongue works in time.

She gasps, jerks- ruts forward on instinct- and you meet her, kisses her clit like it’s her mouth, open-mouthed and wet and filthy, dragging your fingers faster now in time with your tongue, like the rhythm of a kiss that’s turned violent. She cries out. Her knees buckle. Her body’s trying to fold, but your grip won’t let her- you. You’re holding her up, feeding off her, moaning into the silk as she pulses against your face.

“W-wait,” she pants, voice sharp and useless. One of her hands fists in your hair, the other scrambling behind her for the counter’s edge. “What if your mom- fuck, what if she comes down and sees me like this-?”

You don’t answer.

You just keep licking her through everything. The thin, clinging silk of her nightgown, the soaked panties underneath. You press your tongue hard against the heat of her, mouthing at her like you could suck her off through the fabric if you just tried hard enough. And maybe you can. The way she’s twitching, gasping, and whining now is like she’s trying to stay quiet and failing, like her body’s giving you away whether she wants it to or not.

Her hips stutter forward, grinding into your mouth on reflex. Your fingers don’t stop either- rubbing messy little circles right over where you know she’s aching, where the fabric’s glued to her cunt and getting wetter by the second. You’re soaked in it. Your chin, your lips, your fucking soul-drenched with her.

And she’s trying to fight it. She is. She’s still mumbling about your mom, looking toward the stairs like she will pull back. You’ve got her trapped. You’ve got your hands gripping the backs of her thighs, your face buried where no one can save her, and she’s so close now it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter if your mom’s upstairs. Doesn’t matter if god’s watching. Doesn’t matter that she’s still fully dressed because you’ve got her coming apart anyway.

You moan into her like you’re fucking starved- like you’ve been waiting years for this like you’d crawl through the glass just to taste her through those panties again. You’re not even pretending to be good anymore. You’re sloppy with it now, tongue everywhere, mouth wide and messy, soaking the silk with spit until the fabric’s clinging to your lips like a second skin. She’s drenched. You’re drenched. It’s fucking sick how wet she is through all this, how your chin’s slick and your jaw aches, and you still won’t stop.

“Fuck, you’re-” she chokes, one hand in your hair, the other gripping the countertop like it’s the only thing tethering her to this dimension. “You’re not even under.” She can’t finish it. She doesn’t have the breath. She just whines instead, sobs almost, her thighs trembling where they’re locked around your shoulders.

You palm her ass with both hands now, greedy and possessive, dragging her hips forward until she’s got no choice but to grind on your face. And she does. God, she fucking does. She ruts against you like it’s wrong, and it is her best friend’s daughter on her knees with a mouthful of silk and pussy and history-and. Still, she pushes harder, grinds filthier, rocks into your face like she’s trying to fuck you through the fabric.

Her voice cracks. “We shouldn’t- we shouldn’t- what if she-”

And you don’t. Even. blink.

You groan into her, deep and filthy, like you want her to feel your refusal all the way up her spine. Your fingers speed up faster, tighter, cruel little circles over the soaked lace of her panties, the pressure too good to think through. Her whole body jolts like she’s been shocked, and you suck at her through the silk-like you can punish her for thinking about anything else but this.

She’s gonna cum. She knows she is. And she starts shaking her head like that’ll stop it, like she can logic her way out of what you’re doing to her body she can’t. Not when you’re moaning like that, not when your fingers are grinding her down, and your tongue is pushing and pushing and fucking pulsing over her clit through the wet fabric like it belongs to you.

And the worst part? The most disgusting, humiliating part?

She’s gonna cum dressed like this. Half-covered in silk, panties soaked, nipples hard and visible through that ridiculous nightgown her ex-husband bought her. She’s gonna cum standing in your mom’s kitchen, trembling like a slut on the mouth of the girl she shouldn’t even be touching.

And she does.

She cums.

It slams through her like a train- fast, brutal, no mercy. Her whole body locks and then shudders violently. Her knees nearly give out, thighs quivering where they’re clamped tight around your head like a vice. A raw, broken sound tears from her chest-half a gasp, half a sob- and it punches straight into your mouth. You keep licking. Keep sucking. Keep grinding your tongue into her clit like you’re starving for it.

Because she’s soaking.

Everything between her legs is obscene now, filthy and soaked, a mess of spit and slick and come, sticky and hot and seeping through layers like it’s got nowhere else to go. The silk of her nightgown is utterly ruined, clinging to her skin like melted sugar, translucent and dark where your mouth’s been. Her panties-thin and utterly useless, now- are plastered to her cunt like a second skin, sodden with your spit and her slick. The crotch is slick and squelching every time your tongue presses in, and the fabric clings so tight you can see the outline of everything- her folds, her clit, the twitch of her pulsing hole.

She shakes, twitching like her body doesn’t know what to do. Her thighs squeeze around your head once-twice-then go loose, trembling violently. And she’s still coming. You can feel it. Taste it. The way her pussy keeps pulsing under your tongue, spasming helplessly, her whole cunt clenching through the fabric like it’s not sure what it wants-more pressure or to run.

“Fuh-fuck-” she chokes, hips jerking, one heel skidding on the floor.

Your mouth is soaked. Your chin is soaked. The whole bottom half of her nightgown is soaked, clinging wetly to her inner thighs and sticking in a twisted mess between her legs like you poured warm syrup down her body. Her panties are ruined- warped and stretched, glued to her from slick and spit, and come leaking through the seams.

You don’t stop. You keep licking like you’re chasing the final tremors of it, tongue wide and slow, lips dragging over the soaked swell of her cunt like you’ve gone mad for the taste.

Then-

“Sweetheart?”

Your mother’s voice.

Upstairs.

Tashi jolts. Her entire body stiffens. Her hands clutch your head like she’s going to shove you off, but she doesn’t. She’s still panting. Still dripping.

“Are you downstairs?”

You don’t move. Neither does she. You can hear her heartbeat can feel it pounding through her thighs against your cheeks. Her nightgown twitches with every hard breath she tries to swallow.

You breathe once, hard through your nose, and whisper against her, voice shredded raw:

“Don’t. Say. Anything.”

Her grip on your scalp is trembling. Not releasing. Not pulling.

“I thought I heard something,” your mom continues. “Are you okay?”

You sit back on your heels, a little face still slick, your mouth glistening, her mess smeared all over your lips.

“Yeah! Just getting water!” you call back, voice wrecked but pitched high- innocent. Harmless.

Like you weren’t on your knees seconds ago with your tongue buried against the soaked seam of Tashi Duncan’s panties. Like your mouth isn’t still slick with spit and her come. Like her pussy isn’t still twitching behind the fabric that’s clung to her for years and will never feel clean again.

You don’t move. You don’t even look up. You just keep your head bowed like she’s an altar, and you’re already in prayer, forehead brushing the inside of her thigh, mouth parted where her scent lives thick in the humid air between her legs. And she’s still shaking-legs loose, knees buckling, breath stuttering sharp and shallow where her chest heaves under silk that’s clung to her in places you ruined.

“Jesus,” she hisses, more breath than voice. It doesn’t even sound angry anymore. Just stunned. Shattered.

You look up. Her face is flushed. Her lips are parted. Her hair’s sticking to her temple in wet pieces like she’s been through a storm she pretended not to see coming. One hand is still tangled in your hair, and her grip is slack, like she forgot to let go.

You should get up.

You should stop.

You should wipe your mouth and pretend you were actually getting water.

But instead of pulling back, instead of catching your breath or wiping your mouth, you slide your hand under her nightgown.

Not fast. Not greedy.

Slow. Sure. Possessive. Like you have every right.

The silk lifts just slightly, but you don’t look yet- you don’t need to. Your head stays down. Your cheek is still pressed warm and reverent to the inside of her thigh as your hand climbs higher. You worship, like prayer, like you’ve been waiting for this exact moment longer than you’ve ever been alive.

And when your fingers find her panties again… underneath this time, your breath stutters.

They’re soaked.

Not just damp. Not just a wet patch. They’re ruined. Drenched all the way through with spit and slick and come, sticky and hot and clinging to her like a second skin. You can feel everything now. Everything. The heat of her. The mess. The way she twitches when your palm first cups her fully, right between her legs, like she wasn’t expecting that kind of contact even though she should’ve known you were never going to be gentle again.

You press your hand flat against her. Just hold her there. Let her feel the weight of it- your palm against her pulsing cunt, the pressure steady and low.

She exhales sharply as if it hurts a little.

You rub.

Slow at first. Just the heel of your palm rocking forward, dragging the wet fabric over her. It slides easily, slick enough to drown in, your fingers catching gently at the edges of her folds through the cotton. You feel her start to throb again. You feel it in your wrist and your fingertips, like her whole body is centered here now- right here, under your hand, under your control.

Then, you lower your fingers.

Trace the length of her down the whole curve of her slit, slow and unhurried. You can feel everything: every soft swell, every twitching ridge, every shiver that jolts through her thighs. You press in a little. Feel the way the fabric pulls tight over her folds, soaked and warm, clinging to the shape of her like it wants you to know what’s underneath.

And you do. God, you do.

Your fingers rub lower, then back up. Find the curve of her again. Let the tips dip gently along her lips, not quite slipping inside, just dragging enough to make her shudder. Then, higher- pressing into the swollen little bud at the top, the one pulsing like it’s begging to be touched.

You circle her clit through the panties- slow, dirty, deliberate.

She gasps.

It’s soft, but it punches straight through you. Her thighs twitch. Her hips roll just a little. Just enough to push herself harder against your hand.

And that’s when you look.

You lift the hem of the nightgown finally, slowly, reverently, and the sight that greets you is fucking obscene.

Her panties are plastered to her- dark with wetness, slick with spit and come and sweat, and everything you did to her. The center is stained so deep it looks painted on, the cotton sheer with how soaked it is, clinging to her lips like a fucking confession. You can see the shape of her through it- the puffed, flushed folds, the tremble of her clit twitching under the pressure of your hand. Her slick glistens where it’s bled through, still leaking, still hot.

Your hand’s still under her nightgown.

Palm pressed flat against her soaked panties. Your fingers slide low, dragging along the outline of her cunt, tracing the shape of her lips through the drenched material. Every inch of her is slick- wet from your mouth, from her come, from everything she spilled all over your tongue and into your hands. The fabric is sticky against your skin. Clings like it’s begging you not to leave. And you don’t.

You rub her slow, tentative, just to feel it again. The heat. The mess. The way she twitches when you catch her right fingertips grazing the swollen bump of her clit through layers too ruined to count as clothing anymore.

And fuck, she’s still wet.

Still dripping.

Still leaking through her fucking underwear like you haven’t already taken her apart in the middle of your mother’s kitchen.

You swallow hard, staring down.

You haven’t even moved the nightgown out of the way. Haven’t peeled anything back. You’re just holding her there- cupping her with one hand and staring like it’s something sacred. The silk is bunched up around your wrist, warm from her body heat, and her panties are so soaked they’re practically see-through. You can see everything. The puffed flush of her lips. The quiver at the tip of her clit. The wet spot is blooming darker where she’s still leaking, still ruined.

You drag your thumb over it again with a slow, reverent stroke.

“M-mommy,” you breathe.

It comes out so soft that you almost don’t hear it yourself, as if it wasn’t meant to be spoken at all, just thought, maybe. Dreamed. Whispered in some dark corner of your mind where names and boundaries blur.

But it hangs there. It lingers. Sweet and sticky and awful.

And her body goes still.

Not just still- tense. Like a wire pulled too tight, straining just before it snaps. Her fingers flex where they’re braced on the counter behind her, her jaw going slack. She doesn’t look down at you. Doesn’t move. She just stares straight ahead like she’s been frozen in time, like the word struck some nerve she forgot she even had.

You go breathless, weightless. The panic doesn’t hit right. First comes the awareness, the shame, thick and sick in your throat, your stomach flipping over like a dying thing. And still, somehow, you don’t take your hand away. You don’t move an inch.

Because she hasn’t moved either.

She hasn’t told you to stop.

Her chest rises slowly and shallow. Her lips part. And when she speaks, it sounds like it hurts. “What… did you just call me?”

You blink, stunned by your mouth. “I-I didn’t-”

She looks down at last, and fuck-her eyes are wild. Glossy, wide, full of something you can’t read. Not anger. Not quite. Not disgust. It’s closer to grief. Or lust. Or both tangled up in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“You said mommy,” she says, almost to herself. Not angry- just wrecked. Like she can’t believe it. Like she’s trying to scrub it out of her own ears with disbelief.

You want to backpedal. You want to undo it. But the moment’s too full. The air is too thick. There’s something between you now that wasn’t there before, and it won’t go away just because you pretend it didn’t happen.

You whisper, “I didn’t mean-”

“Yes, you did.” Her voice cracks at the edge- thin, glassy, like she’s not sure whether to break down or burn you alive for it.

There’s something brittle in it, something dangerous like she’s splintering from the inside out like your voice alone did that. Like the word you moaned cracked open a vault, she swore she’d never touch again. Now everything’s leaking out all at once: want guilt, that rotted sweetness you always thought she only used on other people. It’s in her now, and it’s in you. You see it flash behind her eyes like lightning. Then she moves.

And then her hand’s in your hair.

Not a caress. Not even close. Her fingers knot so deep it feels like she’s trying to pull memories out of your skull. If she grips hard enough, she can rip the name out of your mouth and strangle it in her fist before it gets a second chance to ruin her. Your scalp screams, and your spine locks, but you don’t pull away. You don’t even want to. You just gasp-and it’s wet, embarrassing like the pain is wired straight to the slick heat that’s already running down your thigh.

She yanks you up in one sharp, breathless motion. Fingers twisted deep at the roots like she wants to scalp you for what you said and punish herself for liking it.

It’s so fast it steals the air from your lungs and knocks the sense from your head. You stagger forward, bent at the waist, half-bent and breathless with the humiliating burn, your mouth slack and your eyes wide. She hasn’t even touched you properly, and you’re already dripping. Already aching. Already- fuck- already needing. And maybe she sees that. Perhaps that’s why she grins, just a little, without joy.

Your gasp barely makes it out. She’s already walking. Dragging you by the hair like she’s reclaiming some twisted territory like she doesn’t trust her mouth to speak, and this is the only language she has left.

Every step is an accusation. Every tug is a curse. She walks like she owns the house, and you’re a stain, so she will scrub out upstairs. Her grip tightens when you hesitate, and the pain shoots hot and liquid down your spine. You swear you feel her breath behind you. Close. Measured. Like she’s counting the seconds it’ll take to get you into bed and ruin you properly.

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

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juicykvnture · 4 months ago

Text

SPRING BREAKERS

Jason Todd x fem!Reader x Roy Harper | Challengers AU

tags: AFAB reader, substance (alcohol & marijuana) use, mean!Reader, oral f!receiving (though clothes), hair pulling, like one smack?

a/n: yes. It’s inspired by that scene, thank you and goodnight.

wc: 3.7k

part 2 | masterlist

Dating is just a distraction, relationships have to take a backseat. Anyone who disagrees just doesn’t know what tennis is, tennis is a relationship. The most important one in your life.

You didn’t exert yourself to the point of passing out for no reason, all those scraped knees, all the sweat, the blood, the tears, it’s all part of your purpose. You were meant to be number one, no doubt about it.

It started on the court, like any sort of interaction you’ve ever had, and it wasn’t even your opponent.

Nope, just the two dolts standing in the corner staring at you. Two sets of eyes. One calculated, watching every swing of your arm and every single tilt of your head. The other? Flicking between you and the racket in his own hand with an almost dumbfounded grin.

On the left, is Jason Todd. His eyes narrowed with every single step you take. Ice they called him, his expression calculating, unwavering. How fucking cliche, huh? You’ve played against him before in practice matches, even though you two never really got conversational, you had a silent understanding of each other. No bullshit, no chitchat, just some good tennis. It’s not like you’ve got a high opinion of Jason or anything, sure he can play but he’s a goddamn Wayne at the end of the day, whether his Daddy’s money has anything to do with his place in Stanford or not.

On the right? The opposite. Roy Harper. He’s all dumb little grins and wandering eyes. Fire, cause of that stupid red mane of his, slightly swooped to the side behind his sunglasses. He’s quick though, you have to admit. Quick with his serves, quicker with his conquests, and a never-ending roster it seems. You don’t get it, truly. He can hardly have his head in the game if it’s constantly between someone’s legs.

“I’d let her fuck me with that racket.” Roy hums into his can of Coke, his eyes flickering from you on the court to Jason beside him.

“You’d let anyone fuck you with anything, Harper.” Is Jason’s only response, seemingly indifferent as his hand goes to snatch the can out of Roy’s hand, finishing what’s left of it in a quick swig.

“Hey,” Roy’s lips curl into the beginning of a stupid little pout, but he’s quickly distracted by the whistle blowing, Jason tossing the now crumpled-up can into his lap, already on his feet.

Wiping the sweat off of your forehead with the back of your hand, you’re crouched down on the court, staring at your laces as you catch your breath. You won again, of course you did. A wound to your own ego would bear greater pain than any physical injury you could ever imagine.

“You’re good,” Jason observes, his shadow blocking out the beating sun. Yeah, fork found in kitchen.

“I know.”

It’s been abundantly clear since you three started whatever the fuck this even is, there are no friends in your game. Sure, there’s nothing wrong with drinking socially to quell your loneliness, but this isn’t meant to mean anything, why would it? Tennis is your life, anything and everything else is secondary.

You blink, staring at the joint in Roy’s hand. You’re usually strict about this kind of shit, for your own good. You’d honestly rather tear every ligament in your shoulder before failing a fucking drug test before a game. But you’ve got all your stuff shoved into a suitcase anyway, tossed under your bed and ready for spring break. All of your practice games are done and dusted until the real thing this summer. You’ll be fine, it’s just one laid-back evening, besides Roy and his stupid puppy eyes kinda got you into it.

“Hey.” Jason sighs, unceremoniously tossing the case of beer he had to drag here from his own dorm onto the carpet, the bottles clinking against each other.

“Seriously, not an ounce of alcohol to your name, what’re ya, a nun?” -with a sigh he slumps himself down on the floor beside Roy, letting his head thump back against the dresser.

“No, it fucks with my focus.” You correct him, your eyes narrowing slightly as you reach for a bottle, cracking it open against your side table, leaving a small scratch in the wood.

“Do you shit diamonds or something? Loosen up a little.” Roy hums as he stares up at the ceiling, the joint hanging between his lips. You’re not uptight, really! You’re just committed, okay? There’s a difference.

Though still, in an effort to shut him up, you take a drag, sticking your tongue out as if to prove a point.

Jason just watches in silence, sipping at his beer until his gaze narrows just by a fraction, his eyes flickering down to your mouth until he receives a huff of smoke in his face, snapping him out of it.

“So,” you sigh, passing the joint over to Jason, your head tilting over to Roy, “How long have you two been-”

“Oh, we’re not really-” Roy begins with a sheepish chuckle before he’s swiftly cut off by Jason sweating like a sinner in a church,

“No, it’s uh, it’s not like that,” -his voice more than a half-dead drawl for what seems like the first time ever.

You’re in no position to be judging their homoerotic friendship by any means, but you have a functioning pair of pupils in your eyes and at least two brain cells to rub together, and judging by their reactions you aren’t that far from the truth.

“You don’t sound too sure there, Jay,” Roy mumbles into his bottle, chewing on his tongue piercing under the dim light of your dorm room. Within the last couple of seconds you’ve definitely felt a shift in the atmosphere, the air heavier and you swear it ain’t the weed. The glances shared aren’t so subtle anymore, especially with how Roy’s lying back with his head against your side table. He’s got that same grin on his face that he always wears but his eyes ain’t boyishly wide like usual, they’re half-lidded, his t-shirt riding up his torso just a little bit.

“We’re just close.” Jason clarifies as he clears his throat, downing another sip of beer. He hates how unsure he sounds, He’s Jason fucking Todd, he’s ice.

“We met when we were like ten at a tennis camp or something.. and he just stuck around like gum on my shoe.”

Roy shoots him a saccharine little pout at that, his tongue darting out to catch a stray droplet of beer that slowly drips down the neck of his bottle.

You almost feel like you’re walking in on something here, and honestly? Maybe you are.

“Redheads aren’t my type,” Jason grumbles, passing the joint over to you. He’s gripping that glass so hard that he’s got the condensation dripping down his fingers. He’s also sulking like a moody toddler, you’d laugh if you weren’t so weirdly intrigued. You’re not entirely sure just who he’s tying to convince here.

Roy just grins, tucking a stand of his messy hair out of his eyes before going for another drag, “You’re full of shit, Jay. What about-“

“Enough. C’mere.” You suddenly pipe up, rising to your feet, only to promptly slump back on your bed, your fingers drumming against the mattress.

Dumb and dumber just stare at you, Roy tilting his head to the side like a puppy seeing snow for the first time in his life, Jason’s expression faltering for just a moment before he washes the knot in his throat down with another swig of beer.

“Huh? Me or him-”

Before you even think to answer Jason’s question, both of them are perched on the edge of the mattress beside you, Jason still gripping onto his beer bottle for dear life, while the other offers a sheepish grin, dragging his blunt nails over the fabric of his shorts.

“Hi,” Roy breathes, slumping his head against your shoulder like one of those great danes who thinks it’s a lapdog. You can feel his eyes on you under his messy red bangs, unfortunately it’s almost cute.

“Hey,” Without thinking, your hand comes up to cup the side of his face, your thumb moving in little circles against his flushed cheeks. You can’t even laugh at him right now, his eyes as half lidded and teary as yours. He’s absolutely baked, all three of you are.

Tilting your head to your left, Jason isn’t much better at the moment, awkwardly drumming his fingers against the neck of the cold bottle, holding it to his face. He’s staring down at the floor mostly, but occasionally over at you two, how Roy leans into you like a plant chasing the sun. You can tell he’s a little tense, his chin on his knee as his free hand twirls the white streak at the front of his hairline around between his thumb and forefinger.

“S’all fuckin’ spinnin.’” He mutters, his voice oddly soft for once. The room, his brain, his feelings, everything.

Slowly, he feels a a hand tugging on his wrist, his fingers curling up slowly before his hand falls back down against the covers with a small thump. He’s not sure why your touch grounds him, truly. It’s like he’s smoked away all his pride, nudging at your palm with his head.

“Close your eyes.”

You’re not sure why you even said that, you’re not in the right state of mind either. Perhaps you’re subconsciously testing these two, seeing if they’ll actually listen to you.

Sure enough, they do. Of course they do.

You chew on your tongue, glancing between the two of them. Roy caved in first, but that’s only cause he’s barely able to focus on anything anyway, anything other than your thumb tracing under his jawline. After a blink, Jason followed, setting his bottle down on the floor with a small clink against the metal leg of your bed frame, his lashes fluttering shut until like Roy, his head lands against your shoulder, subconsciously nosing at your neck.

It’s spring 2006, you smell like weed, sun cream and that little perfume that lives on your bathroom counter, that pink one with little green diamonds. Jason isn’t sure what it’s called, he doesn’t particularly care. But every time he smells it, he just knows he’s going home with a busted up ego and an equally busted up racket.

You’re gnawing on the insides of your cheeks now, thinking. You were tempted to call bullshit on Jason’s defensiveness earlier, but that would’ve only ended in an earful and him not speaking a word to either you or Roy for the rest of the night.

You test them once more, tilting your head back to Roy, letting your lips brush against his. Despite his slow and sluggish movements otherwise, his hand finds your knee, crawling up your thigh and curling into the fabric of your shorts. His response is immediate, bumping his forehead against yours in a clumsy attempt to tilt his head and let his teeth drag over your bottom lip. He’d whine about it under any other circumstances but it’s just muffled by your own teeth tugging at the bar of his tongue piercing.

Jason barely has the chance to even let his eyes open before your hand moves to the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in the dark curls at his nape and giving them a firm yank, just to fuck with him, of course.

Roy being loud is a given, literally look at him.

But nothing could’ve prepared you for the sheer whine of filth to leave Jason like that, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as his hands move with urgency equal to the one of his lips against yours, he’s pawing at you at this point, pulling your shirt in every which way.

Roy is busy mouthing at your neck, biting at your skin and soothing it with the cold ball of his tongue piercing as if to apologise.

The second you pull your mouth off if Jason to as much as breathe, he looks like he’s about to sob, near going cross eyed when he sees that thin string of spit break.

“No, no, no, come back,” He’s shaking his head like you’ve denied him his one and salvation, tugging at your shirt, the fabric closed tightly in his fists.

You’re quick to shut him up once more, briefly brushing your mouth against his before you tilt your head back, letting him trail his kisses down the other side of your neck.

Shit, your heads spinning now. Like really spinning, staring between them both as you feel hands wandering up your shirt, tugging at the waistband of your shorts, everything, everywhere.

As you’re watching this all unfold, something hits you. You’re tempted to mess with them again, like you so often are. Maybe it’s your own inebriation talking right now, but you just wanna test them a little bit more.

Your grip on Roy’s jaw tightens by a fraction, crossing your legs as you lean back a little bit, your hand in Jason’s hair giving him another little yank upwards. You’re not entirely sure what possesses you in that moment, nor are you in any kind of rational headspace, but you can’t help it.

Slowly, you tilt your head back, either hand still on Jason and Roy, cradling their faces in your palms.

Just as Jason tilts his head down to press a kiss to your inner wrist, you yank Roy’s jaw forward, ultimately resulting in the two of them bumping teeth, then lips, then tongue, and then holy fuck, they’re just fully going at it in front of you, Roy lazily cracking one eye open to help you tug your shorts down your thighs, just enough so he can snap the waistband of your panties against your hip.

Bastard.

It’s like making your Barbie’s kiss, just in this case, it’s two grown ass men.

Roy’s been around the block, he knows what you’re doing, leaning back on your elbows like you’ve got front row seats. You’re shameless about it too, which is actually one of the very few things you two happen to have in common.

Jason well and truly cannot formulate a coherent thought other than the raging boner he’s shifting his legs to hide, his eyes shut tight, feeling the ball of a piercing drag against the corner of his mouth.

He knows you don’t have one, you don’t kiss like that.

But he knows exactly who does.

You were right earlier.

That feeling like you’re walking in on something here, and now? You definitely are.

Jason’s so unbothered normally, they call him Ice for a fucking reason. But right now? He couldn’t hold your gaze in a conversation for longer than about two seconds before he was ducking his head with reddened cheeks and staring down into his lap, trying to ignore the throb between his legs.

Though apparently, he’s warmed up to everyone in Stanford but you. He certainly gets on with your Roy just fine, better than just fine. You wouldn’t even bat an eye if you heard those two fucking in the changing rooms.

The weed is just fucking Jason up right now, he knows, but he can’t—he can’t even do anything about it, he’s got his hands clutching his knees so hard they’re almost shaky, It’s weird and embarrassing and he’s been doing so well trying to act like this means nothing, like this is just a causal smoke.

Only Roy knows about his dilemma, and his only wonderful advice all year long has been to get his head out of his ass and a whack to the back of his head, followed by a delighted snicker of, “Fuck, you need to get laid more,” to Jason’s inconsolable grumbles.

Roy is honestly finding this shit more amusing than he has any right to, his words coming in a drawn out pant as he reaches a hand up to ruffle Jason’s hair a little, his grin unwavering.

“You embarrassed, Jay?” Roy hums, all too proud as he glances between you and Jason, his pupils blown like saucers.

You’re not sure whether to speak or not.

“Off,” Jason shifts slightly, letting his fingers uncurl from a fist as he tugs lightly at your shirt.

Roy only scoffs at that, his chin resting atop your shoulder as he eyes his friend, bumping his head against yours with a small huff.

“C’mon, you’re gonna freak out n’forget your manners and everything?”

That makes Jason avert his eyes, though only briefly before he’s staring at you again, tugging at the cotton.

“Off,” he repeats, “Please, take it off.”

You’re not a fan of people telling you what to do, especially guys who think they’re the shit cause they’ve got a couple good matches under their belts. You try to convince yourself that it’s just out of curiosity, that it’s another one of your stupid little tests - just to see how they react.

Your shirt is soon pulled off over your head as you move to lean back against your headboard, staring at them with a slight arch of your brows.

Oh. You’re so dismissive of them almost, just like you would be on the court. Of course you are. God, Jason feels stupid even sitting here. He spends enough time trying to prove himself as a player against you, but this is incomparable.

Roy on the other hand, is well.. Roy, letting out an obnoxious whistle before he’s silenced by your balled up shirt hitting him square in the face, catching it in his teeth.

“I’ll pay you twenty dollars if you lemme keep that.” He mumbles, twirling it around on his finger. He’s staring at you. Yeah, he knows where your eyes are.. but why would he be looking there if you’ve got a perfectly fine pair of tits be could be staring at instead?

“And you call Jason the freak?”

You’re doing that thing with your voice, again. The one that makes his brain sort of go fuzzy, you talk to him like he’s an idiot. He is.

God, there’s something seriously wrong with him.

Jason isn’t distracted by your stupid chitchat, he doesn’t care if Roy pokes fun at him or not, all he cares about is the pretty girl laid out in front of him. His lips trail down your neck, kissing and biting but not too hard, he doesn’t wanna freak you out yet.

You keep staring at him, with those pretty eyes, with that unreadable expression, and he’s not going to survive this. God. He feels like he’s dying. Maybe from embarrassment, or lack of oxygen, or a hard-on; but he feels like he’s dying. Like he’ll pass away any moment, and then never have to live through this moment again.

Roy shifts quietly, thumbing over the drawstring of his shorts as he moves to sit up beside you, the bed creaking slightly under the weight of three people.

Jason glances up at you through his eyelashes, holding the silver pendant of your necklace in his teeth.

He looks sweet for once, the white streak in his tousled hair falling into his eyes as he shifts down the bed, the top of his nose dragging between between your tits, down to your stomach before he pauses, fingers lightly tracing the waistband of your underwear.

“Can I?”

When you nod, Jason’s other hand wanders up your thigh, tracing little circles over your skin before he lifts your leg over his shoulder, anything in an effort to be closer to you as he catches the little bow at the front of your panties between his teeth.

Roy finds it funny actually, how a bitch like you shatters people’s tennis careers with a drawer full of pretty, lacy things.

He definitely wasn’t snooping in your drawer while you were looking for a lighter earlier.

Roy raises an eyebrow for a moment, his lips curling up into another one of his stupid smirks when his eyes drift down to the slight wet patch in your panties, he noticed it earlier when he pulled at your shorts while him and Jason made out.

“And I’m the freak? I mean you’re literally-”

He’s very swiftly shut up by your hand smacking the underside of his jaw, your hot breath ghosting against his lips.

“Nobody’s talking to you, Harper.”

There you go again, treating him like an idiot. Fuck, he needs to get his brain checked out cause that shouldn’t make his dick throb the way it does.

In efforts to muffle another utterly embarrassing sound, Jason pushes his face further into the lacy fabric of your panties, his blunt nails digging into your thighs, hard enough to leave little crescents on your skin.

You’re having none of it though, unimpressed with how he’s trying to keep himself quiet for the sake of his fucking pride. Men and their egos, huh?

Your hand goes down to tangle in his hair, lightly tugging at the long dark strands at the base of his neck, the action that resulted in that precious little whine earlier.

This time, it’s paired with an unintelligible ramble into your clothed cunt about how pretty you are, his hips pushing into the mattress beneath him.

Jason doesn’t even care if Roy laughs at him for being whipped for you at this point. He’s mouthing at you through the fabric almost desperately. He’s all over the fucking place, one second he’s got his nose bumping against your clothed clit, and then his lips are at your thighs, your hips, anywhere he can reach, any way he can be close to you.

“Please,”

Kisses all over your thighs, shaky pants as he tries not to grind against the mattress too pathetically, his eyes half lidded as he uses the last of his common sense to try string together a sentence.

“Please let me fuck you.”

Roy can feel his heartbeat in his ears as he palms himself, unable to stop his hand sliding under his waistband.

You’re cradling Jason’s face again as he keeps mumbling into your thigh, tilting your head up to glance at Roy.

“You just gonna sit there and watch, freak?”