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almostfoxglove · 4 months ago

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I'LL CARRY IT

written for my angst challenge

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Pairing: Javier x f!Reader

Word Count: 5.9k

you can read on ao3 too, if you like!

SUMMARY: Your childhood best friend returns to Laredo a celebrated hero. When he shows up at your bar shackled by grief, you drag him home for the night. CW: Heavy alcohol consumption and brief reference to the death of a parent. A fair bit of yearning.

Takes place somewhere in S3E1 after the wedding but before Javier returns to Colombia.

part II | series masterlist | masterlist

12:00 A.M.

At first you mistake it for a good thing. Last shift before your weekend, two hours to go, and the long-gone local hero back in his hometown smoking a cigarette at your bar. Your break over, you slink from the backroom into the riotous din of The Last Man Standing—one of Laredo’s many dives—to reclaim your post behind the bar. Place is a hellhole as often as it is crowded and tonight’s no different, and yet you’re halfway to a smirk. Pleased to see an old friend.

He hasn’t looked up, hasn’t seen you yet, so you busy yourself with the guy who flags you down to order the second he spots you. Fine by you, the guy tips well the later it gets and it’s already after midnight, and regardless, you don’t mind having an excuse to observe The Javier Peña, DEA agent extraordinaire, at a distance. Top button undone, cigarette vanishing in his hand, eyes glued to the ring-stained bartop as smoke shivers out between his lips. Quite the celebrity now. Been home three weeks if the rumors are true but you’ve yet to see him. You figured he’d call, but he didn’t—not that you’re surprised.

Eight years feels like nothing now. Maybe he’s a hero to everyone else, but to you Javier looks exactly the same as he has his whole life—all that’s changed is the depth of his misery. How he doesn’t look up for anything or anyone, except to shrug off the occasional shoulder clap from some drunk stranger.

When you’ve served the guy his drink and collected your tip—30%, thank you sir—you shake the nerves loose from your shoulders and slide up, glass in hand.

“Well shit,” you say when you’re in front of him, and Javier slowly lifts his eyes. You smile, all rogue. No shake to your voice at all as you pour a whiskey blind. “This the part when I ask for an autograph?”

Javier’s dark brow dips in the middle and you might as well be twenty-eight again. Twenty-one. Eighteen. Eleven. All the ages you’ve been with him in all the years you’ve known him. Because this, right here—that little furrow that looks like a frown if you’re not looking close enough—is exactly how he’s always been. How he’s always looked at you after time spent away.

Sure, there’s never been this much away . This much radio silence. The kind of parting that comes with getting older, getting further—something you once would’ve sworn only happens to everyone else. You’ve made your peace with it. Wished him well from the wrong side of the hemisphere. You’ve had lives of your own.

Seems he can still cut a tiny hole in your chest when he withholds a smile.

Javier spears smoke from the corner of his mouth as you slip his empty glass behind the bar and replace it with the fresh pour, watching as he nods in a tired, humorless way. “Not signing shit for you,” he gruffs, and snubs his filter into the crystal ashtray beside his glass.

One-two-three-four-five others sit beside it, ashed in their grave.

So he feels about as bad as he looks.

“Awful snappy for a man hoggin’ a barstool,” you reply.

The corner of his mouth flinches but doesn’t pull. He picks up his glass, eyes sagging away from you. “Nice to see you too,” Javier concedes.

1:00 A.M.

Friday means it’s crazy, means the rest of your shift slingshots by, and most of the night someone else is working Javier’s side of the bar so you lose track of his drinks. The windows of the bar have fogged, giving the world beyond a kind of eerie glow.

You do your best to watch him, holding in your stomach a knot of newborn worry, but there’s always someone shouting for another drink. Now and then you catch some guy in a cap lumbering up to him to boast loudly of his pride, and though it’s microscopic—invisible maybe to everyone else—you see the way Javier shrinks in on himself. Folds.

The smoking, too, goes on. You sweep past him on your way to a booth in the corner, tray of shots balanced in hand, and accidentally inhale a sour cloud as he blows it out. You try to stifle your cough as you reach the table, doling out the silver glasses slick with tequila. On your way back to the bar, Javier catches your eye and snuffs the spent cigarette with an apologetic look. Pendant lights sway in his eyes like fireflies. You shake your head like he’s being silly, squeeze his shoulder briefly as you pass, and the roar of his body beneath your palm blazes like a campfire. The kind of heat that blackens everything to char.

You think he’s had four drinks, maybe five, but not for sure.

2:00 A.M.

Only the drunks remain to kick out into the bog of late-summer, all that humidity that ruins your hair. You like most of ‘em. Most swagger out with a slurred night, sweetheart as you usher them safely into their cabs. Then all that’s left is your childhood sweetheart slumped over at the bar. Dated for two weeks in sixth grade—broke up over god knows what, probably him stealing your favorite gel pens—and were inseparable ever after. The second that kid sloped into your classroom, all gangly limbs attached loose as rubber bands and dark curls drifting vagrantly into his eyes, you just knew. Didn’t know how, didn’t know why—but you knew that boy would be home, and he was for years.

Look at him now. Passed out drunk, lips parted, cheek squished flat beside his empty glass. His cigarette flares from his limp hand beside his face. You shoo off your coworker with a friendly gnight before slipping the cigarette from Javier’s fingers to crush in the crystal tray with its brothers.

You go about cleaning up around him. He doesn’t wake for anything—not even when you have to count all the coins in the till for the night—which also, is new. Javier’s always slept like shit, even when you were kids and there wasn’t much to sweat over. Woke up if someone in the other room dared to breathe too deeply.

Guess a bathtub’s worth of whiskey will take anybody out.

When it’s time to go, you slip your hand up his spine to rest between his shoulder blades. “Alright, cariño,” you say softly. “Time to go home.”

Javier stirs, but only barely. A grunt, a shallow breath, a flutter in his lashes. You pat his back firmly, not harshly, but enough that he sniffs and grunts again, awake.

“Blue’s still up there,” he mumbles with his eyes closed.

Grinning, you lift your face to the ceiling fan overhead—one of two dozen in this place, none of which run and all of which droop with a rainbow of bras tossed into the rafters. Above you now sways the strap of a pale blue bra mildewed with dust. Would’ve been your twenty-first when you shot that up there, and it’s never fallen.

“I’m a decent shot,” you say.

Now he grins, just half his lips, but a real one all the same. “I remember.”

“Course you do, I was better than you.”

At your teasing, the grin snaps clean off his face and his real frown replaces it. “No’anymorre,” he slurs.

Your heart plummets. You can see, now, the bruised darkness beneath his closed eyes as you rub a small circle in the middle of his back. If you were already home you’d pull him into your arms, but he can’t rot on this stool all night. In your silence, Javier cracks one eye at you. “Can’t drive,” he groans.

“No shit,” you say, forcing a soft grin, and he mumbles some gibberish that sounds like it’s supposed to be Spanish. “Come on, work with me here.”

His eye shuts again as he grimaces, face still smushed against the bartop. His hair’s a mess so you comb it back, but the fucker still won’t budge. Rolling your eyes, you lift his arm and drape it over your shoulders to help him off the stool, his body warm and pliant. More solid than you remember him being before. Layers of slender muscle built up like the rings of a tree.

When he rises, gravity lurches and you stagger under his weight, catching yourself against the bar.

“Careful now,” you warn him playfully.

Javier turns his face towards yours, close enough in this awkward position that his nose presses against your cheek. He reeks of smoke and shitty whiskey. A little of sweat. You’d mock him for it if he were anywhere within a hundred miles of sober, but he’s a lost cause for now. Your arm fits snug around his waist. To his credit, he makes an effort to stay on his feet. Turns his head down to watch his boots as you walk him outside like he’s focusing intently on putting one foot in front of the other. You pinch his side and he hmphs at you.

“Could’a just called, you know,” you say as you walk him to your car. The street is all empty parking spots and shuddered windows and packs of thirsty mosquitos, cicada song chirping densely in the air. Your car sleeps down the block alone, black as the sky and in need of a wash, green-strung beads hanging in a loop from the rearview mirror inside.

“Wanted t’ seeyou,” Javier says.

You nudge your head against his cheek gently. “I missed you too,” you say.

As you drive, streetlamps stripe past the windows. Brick buildings sit squat and lightless, bodegas shackled for the night, and a wilful trash bag balloons with a passing breeze, blowing across the road with a quiet, swimming grace. In the passenger seat, Javier slumps against the door, temple pressed to the half-open window. You think he’s asleep until he licks his bottom lip.

“Saw Lorraine,” he mumbles, those dark eyes closed away, like he can hardly keep himself awake.

You turn back to watch the empty road. Stop at the stop signs just for show. No one’s out here but you at this hour—Laredo is a ghost town.

“Heard Danny was gettin’ married,” you reply.

Javier exhales profoundly: slow, labored, loud. He’s always been a pouty drunk, but this is something else. “You weren’t there,” he says.

“Had to work.”

“Liar.”

You roll your eyes even though he isn’t looking at you to see. He’ll feel it. Always does. Drumming your fingertips against the steering wheel, you fight back a smirk. “Fucked one of the groomsmen last year,” you admit. “Didn’t feel like havin’ a reunion.”

When you glance at him again, Javier has opened his eyes a sliver to smirk at you, the corner of his mouth pulled into his dimpled cheek. “Julien?”

You frown at the road. “Mateo.”

“Shit,” mumbles Javier, still smirking.

“Somethin’ like that,” you agree.

At the next red light his eyes are closed again and despite the fact that he’s, what, thirty six now? Javier looks like a child to you. Spine hunched, torso sunken. Shoulders broader than ever but curled in on themselves, like if he only had the room he’d be small as a seed. Fetal and miserable. A thousand years older on the inside than anyone should ever have to be.

“Starin’ a’me,” he scolds, his words slumping into each other.

You huff quietly, caught. “Shut up,” you say. “Just remindin’ myself what you look like. Think you got uglier.”

He growls darkly, unamused.

As you turn at the next light, the green-beaded rosary sways from the rearview mirror. If he had his eyes open Javier would recognize it. His mother’s—passed to you before she died. You aren’t one for praying but you’ll die with it in your hands, you think. That’s the kind of person she was to you. Eternal.

Beside you, Javier mutters something unintelligible, his breath fogging the window.

“Hm?”

“Seein’ anyone yet?” he repeats, and shifts to loll his head back against the seatrest.

You gasp softly, feigning offense. “Yet? Ouch, baby,” you tease.

“Didn’t mean it like that,” he grumbles.

“I know,” you say, as you turn into the suburbs. Quiet starter homes lurk in the dark, kids’ bicycles lying like skeletons in their yellowing lawns. “I’m being mean.”

“I like y’mean,” Javier replies, and finally opens his eyes as if he can sense you’re getting close to home, even though he’s never seen this place. He stares through the windshield glazed and distant, and you try not to stare like you’re concerned. He looks destroyed, you think. Obliterated. Sure, you’ve kept up with the news. Devoured everything you could about the quest to tackle Escobar, terrified Javier’s name would appear in the black ink that stained your fingers, reporting he was dead. That he’d be another casualty, and you’d not have said goodbye.

You know you’ve got no clue what really happened down there. That you never will. But you can see it choking him, hanging from his neck like a noose that’s just biding its time before it pulls.

“Nah, it’s just me,” you say, dragging your eyes off him again. “Think the two weeks we dated was about the closest I ever came to love.”

You’re joking, all foxish grin, but Javier doesn’t laugh. He just stares into the middle distance looking like a ghost. “Sixteen,” he mumbles.

“What?” you say.

He sighs. “Was sixteen days,” he annunciates, and your heart sputters.

Then his face folds in on itself suddenly; he pales, then greens. “Gonna b’sick,” he says.

3:00 A.M.

“Christ, you got heavy,” you groan, hobbling slanted up your porch steps. Though more alert, Javier is no less useless in walking, and though he mumbles shame-riddled sorrys he can’t much help you here. You hold him tightly to you, fingers pinching into his hip as he leans, hot as a furnace against your side in the worst of summer. You don’t care.

It doesn’t matter that it’s been eight years. It could be forty, and if Javier showed up on your doorstep ready to fall, your response would only ever be give it to me. I’ll carry it.

He grunts as you prop him against the side of your house to fish out your keys. “All muscle,” he teases, voice deep and coarse.

“Glad you haven’t shed your ego,” you snark.

You give the door a shove as the lock turns. Javier tips his face up to look at the sliver of moon left out to wink from the sky as if he’s saying a prayer. He reeks of sick—his shirt stained in one spot on his chest where he failed to aim away from himself—and while he stares up at the dark rash of night you work open the buttons of his shirt to take it off. Despite puking in your car, he’s still too lost to the world to notice your hands until you’re halfway down. Maybe in another life you’d be staring at his chest as you uncover it. The broad slopes of muscle, his stomach, the dark path of hair trailing towards his jeans. But in this life, you aren’t that to each other. You don’t get to be.

“Cariño,” Javier says, and one of his hands covers yours as you pinch the last button. Looking down at you now, concerned through hazy eyes. Summer hangs wetly in the air; his curls lay damp against his skin, licking his temples, the nape of his neck.

You shrug his hand off yours, offering a small grin. “Gotta get this in the wash, Javi,” you tell him. “Not allowed to get in my bed smelling like puke.”

Cicadas sing from their trees. Your house, small as it may be, is a welcoming place. All red bricks and white shutters. The swing on the porch sways behind Javier, giving the occasional squeak. You shuck his button-up off his shoulders and ball it in your hands before catching his eye. “Can I trust you to stay upright while I put this in the wash?” you ask, one eyebrow arched.

He scowls, all pouty bottom lip—trying to make you laugh, even now. You huff as if exhausted, sarcastic and a little pleased. He’s in there, the person you’ve loved. Somewhere buried.

When the laundry is running you find him on your porch swing, horizontal. One bare arm dangling off the seat, his eyes closed again. Skin that’s usually golden washed silver by moonlight. In this heat there’s no reason for you to cover him but still you feel the nagging urge. Even with you here with him, you hate the thought of anyone coming out onto their porches or lawns to see him like this—out of control. You rouse him just enough to lift his head so you can sit at the end of the swing, then lay his head in your lap. He hums. A low, gravelly sound of pleasure. Glad to feel you beneath him in this small way.

“M’sorry, baby,” Javier murmurs groggily, nuzzling his cheek against your leg as you stroke the hair away from his face again. He’s flushed, damp and sweaty, and even with the shirt gone could use a shower but you’d never say so. At this point, you’ve seen him in every state—sunny and terrible and everything in between—and don’t fear any of them. Don’t hate any of them. Never could, because all of them are him, so how could you.

“Cleaned up your puke before,” you reply. “Nothin’ I haven’t seen.”

He sighs, and with no small effort rolls himself onto his back with a grunt—the swing sways with the movement, rocking you both. Then once more, this time to his other side to face you. You chuckle softly as he settles, one of his arms reaching behind you to wrap around your hips, and for a while you drift back and forth with the porch light off and the moon’s claw cutting through the dark.

It’d be something close to heaven if it weren’t for his pain.

“Wanted to call you,” Javier sighs, after a long while of cricketing quiet. “After—”

Nothing.

You wait.

The rest of whatever he was going to say dissolves, never follows. Never becomes something for you to hold, to know, to carry. He keeps all the weight.

“Could’ve,” you say, hand in his hair again, how he always used to like. Even when you were kids he always wanted to be touched. His head in your lap, your hand in his hair to scare off his bad dreams. You could never tell a soul without destroying him—and you never wanted to. The way you were for each other was just that: for each other. Everyone knew you were close, inseparable at school. But the depth of that bond was a secret no one had to know. How his body needed to be close to yours to settle, to breathe, sometimes to sleep.

Javier’s nose scrunches as he fights off some stabbing thought. You stroke your thumb across his temple, trying to get him to look at you, but he won’t.

“Tell me,” you whisper.

Two words you never say. A question you never ask. He’s so far past drunk he’s practically a child—maybe it’s wrong to ask him like this—but you’d do anything to relieve even one ounce of this suffering.

Eventually, he exhales deeply, breath warm against your hip. Behind you, you feel his hand stroke your back, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. “Thought you’d hate me,” he mumbles.

Your heart splinters. Every cell in your body wants to pull him against you, pull him into you, swallow the ache. “Should know better than that by now,” you say.

The shoulder he isn’t laying on bobs with what must be a shrug. “Been a while.”

“Been a long time,” you agree. Not angry, not bitter, not blaming—it’s been a long time. It’s nothing to you now but a fact. Seeing him again has erased the nag of your neglected longing.

With a gruff, Javier’s arm tightens around your back and he pulls himself closer, his forehead nuzzling your hip bone. “Feels like a’undred years,” he says, his voice hoarse and broken.

There isn’t anything you can do but card your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp with featherlight nails. You let your head fall back against the brick of your house. Exhausted, but you won’t sleep. You’ll stay awake with him all night if he needs it, if he asks you. Even if he doesn’t.

4:00 A.M.

“No more water,” he begs. “Please.”

In your kitchen, just the stove light on, he’s sobering. Not sober —but he can stand up on his own. Leaning back against your counter, both hands outstretched to rest upon the laminate. Cool light splits his face in half—one bright and weary, one lost to shadow. You roll your eyes and hold one hand out to accept his water glass which he passes you with a grateful sigh.

You listen to the harsh rush of water draining into the kitchen sink—a stark disruption to the eerie quiet of the middle of the night in which it feels like you and Javier are the only people left on earth.

Behind you, Javier groans, watching the glass fill again.

“It’s for the nightstand, baby,” you assure him as you pass it back.

He pouts at it, arms drooping at his sides. Trying again. Digging for your laugh. With expectant eyes you pick up his hand and cup it around the glass, and when you let go and he doesn’t drop it you let a smile creep slowly across your face. Satisfied, he straightens a little, swaying slightly, and nods. He looks down at the floor, his bare feet, and his face blues. Darkens like he’s remembering.

You lay the palm of your hand over the center of his chest and beneath it Javier’s heart throbs steadily. His lungs expand. His blood moves. Alive—whether he feels it or not—and a comfort to you.

Though you’ve lived in this house only three years and Javier’s never once seen or stepped foot in it, he trails through the narrow halls to your bedroom like he knows it well. Sloppy footsteps, yes, and always with you behind him braced to catch any sudden fall, but he makes it in the end. Water sloshes over the lip of his glass as he sets it down. Then—still in his jeans, which hug his thighs so tightly you’re surprised he doesn’t try to peel them off—he crawls into your bed, on top of the duvet. In the doorway you pause to watch him and get a vision of another life in which he does this every night, at ease in your home because it’s his home too.

It is a terrible thought, weak and troubling. It’ll burrow if you let it, so you kick it away. While you strip free of your work clothes, you watch him in the small mirror above your dresser; his head flops into your pillows, cheek smushed, eyes sliding closed. Those dark lashes, those parted lips. Always exactly the same. He doesn’t even glance in your direction—he doesn’t need to peek at your body. He’s seen you before. You him.

“Was Mateo worse than me,” he asks from the bed, like he’s read your mind. No surprise. For years, you would’ve sworn he could.

You blush, though he’s not looking. “Javi,” you say softly.

“Sorry,” he sighs.

In a t-shirt, you pad around the other side of the bed to crawl over the covers and curl onto your side to face him, one hand beneath your cheek. “Sex in college is supposed to be bad,” you tell him, grinning.

His brows pinch together, bracketing his forehead. “Shouldn’t've been with you,” he mumbles.

Yes, he’s how you remember. Ever chasing some rabbit hole to plummet down to avoid the cavern to which he’ll give no name. He’s got one hand buried under his pillow—how easy it is to think of your things as his—and the other lies between you, limp. You take it in your own, pull it to your lips, and press them to his knuckles. “We were kids,” you say, sure to smile against the back of his hand so he’ll feel it.

He huffs. “Drunk.”

“That too.”

“Better now, I swear.”

You laugh. Can’t help it. Silver light from the moon puddles over you, illuminating half his face, the curve of his shoulder, the slope of his arm. Even miserable, probably in a blackout, one foot hanging sadly off the edge of the mattress, Javier is someone who draws laughter out of you with ease, same as when you were kids. You kiss the back of his hand again, still grinning, and watch the frown dissolve from his face. He’s always been beautiful in a way that never seemed fair, but you think it might be getting worse with age. No one should look so good in this state, but there he is.

“Sure hope so, baby,” you tease.

Now he cracks one dark eye to squint at you, the corner of his mouth loosening, curling into his cheek. Then there’s that dimple. Your heart patters. You’ve missed him. “Could show you,” Javier smirks.

You roll your eyes. “You aren’t showin’ me shit right now.”

His bottom pink pops again, pouting as he broods, yanking another chuckle from you while he murmurs something you miss. Something that ends with good though.

“Hm?” you say.

“You smell good though,” Javier murmurs, and though soft you hear it this time. That almost whine.

“Well, when you put it that way,” you tease, and like magic, he laughs. Smile lines crinkle beside his eyes, nose scrunching. Beautiful. It is, you think, the best of him—how he looks when he actually laughs. It takes over his face.

As you both settle, he scooches closer on the bed, squeaking the mattress. You feel the warm plume of his breath whisper over your face as he sighs. He has, it seems, only a match of levity at a time. It sparkles, flares, and smokes out too quickly.

It isn’t a frown that replaces it, but despair. “Gonna feel like shit tomorrow,” he mutters, no louder than a whisper. No need to speak any louder when you’re lying this close. Your lips press to his knuckles again and this time he squeezes your hand, the muscles in his forearm briefly tensing. Freckles dot his bicep like stars.

“You feel like shit right now,” you whisper in reply.

Javier nods, face folding like he wants to cry. But he almost never does, not even in front of you.

5:00 A.M.

You drift into brief tides of sleep with the warmth of him around you, his face in the crook of your neck. For most of your life, you’ve chalked up the ease with which you touch each other to an echo of your childhoods—a time in which touch is given often and without judgment. There has never been hesitation between you, not in this way. Even now, eight years since the last time you saw him, Javier slots against you in a way that just feels right—new, broader shoulders and all.

His slow, deep breaths warm your neck, your collarbone. You couldn’t wiggle out of his arms if you tried, and though it’s warm even with the window open, even with both of you on top of the covers, you don’t want to. Eight years is a long time to go without this.

When he stirs with a tortured groan, you nudge your lips against his forehead. “S’okay,” you mumble, and the whine that snakes out of him rattles your chest and slices clean through your heart. Wrapping a hand around the back of his head, fingers threading through curls, you pull him closer, and his arms tighten around your waist.

Maybe it should feel wrong when Javier nuzzles into your neck to kiss you softly beneath the jaw, but it doesn’t.

“Baby—” he croaks, and you hush him, petting his hair.

You don’t want him to say it. You never say it. If he says it now, it’ll ruin you.

“I know, Javi,” you whisper, squeezing your eyes closed so tight you see a rain of stars. “I know.”

“Y’ never let me say it,” he mumbles against your throat, his breath fogging your skin.

“You don’t need to,” you say.

“Wanted to, you know,” he replies, his voice so gentle you feel it pass from his chest to yours in a shallow tremor.

You chuckle softly from the darkness behind your eyes, like opening them will break the spell. “Oh yeah? When?”

He shrugs, his body loose and boneless. The heat of him is making you sweat.

“The whole time,” Javier mumbles, and you wish suddenly that he weren’t so close because he must hear the sudden racing of your heart. “Pensé que me casaría contigo.”

If he didn’t hear its racing, you think, there’s no way he misses when it stops. Your Spanish is mediocre at best but you catch fragments, piece it together. I thought I’d marry you.

Your forehead wrinkles as a sudden urge to cry slams into you, shattering your bones. At least you manage to pat his back teasingly, feigning coolness, steadiness. Pretending he hasn’t toppled you.

“Think you’re confusing me and Lorraine, cariño,” you tease quietly, hopeful that the wetness in your eyes doesn’t taint your voice.

Silence stretches like an elastic threatening a snap, a sting, a burn. But Javier exhales in a way that feels like he’s asleep again, like all of this is just nonsense cooked up in some drunken dream. Soon sleep is dragging at you sweetly, loosening your limbs again. You grow heavy, face slack, your limbs indistinguishable from his. When he whispers again you hardly hear it and the words don’t stick. You’ll forget them when you next wake for real. But he says them all the same.

“Not confusin’ you with anybody.”

Then you’re gone, sucked away. Asleep.

6:00 A.M.

The yellow morning leaks through your bedroom. You wake to a glint in your eyes: sunlight reflecting off a picture frame on your dresser. You and Javier twenty years ago dressed for junior prom, hidden now by the blinding. Squinting, you groan a soft mph sound as you wake, desperate to bury yourself in sleep again.

In your brief slumber the two of you have remained braided—two strands of clinging ivy. Against you, Javier groans, humming tiredly against your throat, and you feel his hand slip up the hem of your shirt again, his palm flat over your spine.

Half asleep, you let him.

Half asleep, you let yourself remember.

You’re twenty five again. Just a few years out of college, both of you home for the summer. Out in the long grass in Chucho’s yard, you stretch yourselves out to sunbathe in the Texas summer, watching bumblebees laze drowsily between blooming thistles. Beside you, Javier lies on his back with both hands cradled beneath his head while you read, those yellow aviators over his eyes.

“Could get a place together,” he says. So casual, so simply.

Looking up from your book, you see the pink collar of sunburn around his neck and grin to yourself. “We’d get sick of each other,” you lie.

Javier only shrugs, unaware, you think, that you spent all of college in love with him. In freshman year, you’d stumbled home together after a party and he’d kissed you against your front door, waking you from what you realized then had been a lifetime of slumber. You’d never considered kissing him before, but all of a sudden it was obvious. You thought this is what your lips should have been doing all this time.

But it never happened again. The sex was awkward, clumsy—you’d only done it once before—and you told yourself that’s why he never tried again. You never tried either. Now it’s a joke you tell each other, trying to make the other person blush.

The thought of sharing an apartment with him sends a river of panic through your veins. It would kill you to watch him bring girls home. To watch him date someone else. It was bad enough watching Lorraine, and he left her.

“If you say so,” he says, looking not one bit disappointed.

Half asleep, you let yourself dream you said yes.

7:00 A.M.

You don’t know who leans in—if you tilt your head down or if Javier tilts his up, if it starts in your sleep—only that when you next stir the morning is darkening to gold and orange. Panels of windowed sunlight crawl slowly across your legs, and you are kissing.

Javier’s lips melt against yours. It’s nothing like when you were kids. Eighteen and nervous wrecks, your teeth always getting in the way.

It’s different now. You know how to kiss each other like you’ve had the practice, like it hasn’t been almost two decades since last you tried. Pliant and sleepy, his tongue licking gently into your mouth. His mustache scratches sweetly against your skin. When a breathy sound whimpers from you, he cups your jaw, his other arm locking snug around your waist. There’s no rush to it, no progression. You don’t strip down and fuck—both of you content with only this: the soft murmurs you breathe into each other. The lifetime of wanting in every kiss.

Because you have wanted him, you realize. Not just in college, but before then and every day since. Maybe from the first day he walked into your sixth grade class and felt like home. Even these last eight years when you’d accepted that he was gone from your life for good, your friendship having reached the end of its life, you wanted him.

He grunts when you nibble gently at his bottom lip, and you smile. Then he moans. And it’s perfect, somehow, like he’s dug around in the cabinets of your mind to know exactly how you want to be kissed. Deeply, patiently. All tongue and breath and yielding lips, your hands in his hair, the fire of him enveloping you.

You say nothing; you talk with your touch.

He stripes his tongue along your bottom lip: I’m sorry.

You tug at his curls: I’m sorry.

He kisses the corners of your mouth: I’m sorry.

You lick the hinge of his jaw: I’m sorry.

His thumb strokes the apple of your cheek: I’m sorry. I’m falling asleep.

You tilt your head to better taste him: I don’t want to fall asleep.

But you do. The tide drags you out, your body molten, exhausted, hypnotized. Your lips still touching as you fall into a dream.

8:00 A.M.

When next you open your eyes, you’ve rolled towards the window and the weight and warmth of his arms is gone. You don’t bother turning over. Don’t bother reaching for him.

You know the bed will be empty on his side, cold.

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hazbinshusk · 5 months ago

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husk x afab!reader. you're a kept pet in the casino, making your way as husk's personal assistant. you've got a good working relationship, but unfortunately he's finding it harder and harder to concentrate around you. the solution is simple if he doesn't want to send you away: he needs to fuck you and those sexy little stockings of yours out of his system. 1.8k

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He doesn’t know how much more he can take of this.

Husk has been distracted. For days now. And an Overlord distracted, in or out of a gamble… it’s far too dangerous for Husk to let it keep happening. He knows better, he really does. And he’s usually far better at keeping control of any given situation. So, why can’t he stop watching you?

It’s not his fault… it’s yours.

Yours, and those fucking stockings you’re wearing.

You’ve been his personal assistant for the last six months – an owned soul tied to his casino and earning your keep running his day-to-day business. Most of the staff here are owned by him, and they ensure that they don’t end up among the chips on the table by doing a good job. And really, he’s had no complaints about you – you’ve done your job well, even seemed to enjoy it. But still, every damn day you’ve come dressed in a short skirt and a button-down and those motherfucking stockings. They shouldn’t be so distracting… nothing about your clothing is overly sinful, especially by Hell’s standards. Occasionally he’ll see a flash of cleavage as you bend over, a sliver of skin above the waistband of the skirt if it comes untucked… nothing more.

But the stockings… they always seem so professional, but when you sit down, he can see the hem of your skirt ride up on your thighs and the lace lining the top of them will be exposed. And despite the fact that Husker can confidently say that he’s just about seen and done it all since he’s arrived in Pentagram City, he hasn’t been able to stop fixating on you since he’s realized you wear thigh-highs.

“Shit,” he mutters to himself as he realizes he’s misplayed another hand, a low growl playing through the back of his throat. You’d just passed the table to set a drink in front of him, and his eyes had turned to that brief glimpse of the swell of your breasts as he’d caught the scent of your perfume. He tosses his cards on the table, tossing back his drink and slumping back in his chair.

He sits like that for a moment, claws circling the rim of the heavy crystal tumbler, his tail twitching back and forth. The other players have sensed the shift in his mood, and even the ones benefitting from his bad luck know better than to comment.

Husk stubs out his cigar in the nearest ashtray, turning his gaze towards you.

“Doll.”

You look up from where you’re standing obediently against the wall.

“I need a word.”

You nod, training your face into a well-practiced mask of professionalism despite your confusion at the sudden request. He stands, waving a hand towards the elevator to his penthouse, and you follow after him without a word. Husk doesn’t say anything until he has you upstairs, and every moment in the ride up has you burning with unspoken tension. You twist your hands together behind your back as your only outward show of nerves. It isn’t often that your Overlord is displeased with you, and even then, he’s never pulled himself away from the table to reprimand you. Hell, you’d started to think that he might even be growing fond of you, but perhaps that was wishful thinking. You were just a pet, after all.

Husk set himself down in a plush, velvet armchair the color of merlot, and you move automatically to the bar in the corner to fix him a drink. He takes it from you with a gruff hum, his claws brushing against your fingers. Husk nods, indicating for you to stand in front of him, and you do so immediately.

His tail is still twitching back and forth by his feet.

Husk watches you over the rim of his glass for a long moment, and something in his gaze makes your insides burn. You swallow, squeezing your thighs together. He notices, and embarrassment floods through you as his gaze drops to your skirt.

“You’re a distraction.”

You blink, surprised. “I’m… sorry, sir?”

He blinks, slowly, taking another sip of his drink. He sets the glass aside. “Do you like your job here, doll?”

“Yes,” you nod, and mean it. You like… spending time with him, even if only to fetch him a drink and manage his schedule with the other Overlords and potential new contracts. And as far as soul contracts go, you'd heard of much worse treatment.

“Good,” he tells you, holding out a paw. You hesitate, confused, before taking it, breath catching as he tugs you closer to him. Your knees are caged in by his own, your shins meeting the edge of the armchair. “I guess that means you’re not distractin’ me durin’ my business on purpose, hm?”

You shake your head. “I didn’t—”

“I didn’t think so,” he continues in that velvet voice of his. You can feel the power of it between your thighs, send a tickle down your spine. “Because you’re a good girl, aren’t you, doll?”

You nod, a soft whine slipping past your lips despite yourself.

Husk smiles, huffing a quiet, amused breath. “So, does that mean you’ll do something for me, pet?”

Swallowing, you nod again, just once. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” he replies, shifting back against the chair more comfortably. “Then come here, and stand over me.”

The instruction stuns you for a moment, but he doesn’t repeat himself; he just arches a brow expectantly. You do as he asks, toeing off your shoes before letting him retake your hand and help you up onto the armchair. You stand with a foot on either side of him, flushing as you stand with his face set only a few inches lower than your crotch.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and your breath hitches as he runs his paws up over the back of your legs, sweeping them from ankle all the way up to your thighs. They settle there, squeezing at them. He watches the way your flesh bulges ever so slightly over the edge of the lace. “Now, lift up your skirt.”

Your hands shake as you do as he commands, eyes squeezing closed as you hear him hum his approval. You feel the cold shock of his nose brush against your inner thigh before his mouth is suddenly against your clothed cunt, and you moan, almost collapsing on top of him.

“Fuck…” he mutters, his tongue tasting you through your underwear. Even dulled by the fabric, the rough texture of it makes your eyes roll back, your hands curling into fists around the skirt you have bunched up by your sides.

Husk’s claws dig into your flesh, an arm banded around each thigh to hold you in place over him, his fangs tear at your panties and he tastes you in earnest, tongue lapping at your clit before dipping into your already dripping hole. He groans against you at the flavor of it, the threads of your stockings popping under his claws. You find yourself rocking your hips against his mouth, the alternating sensations of his cold nose and his rough tongue against your clit making you see stars.

“Fuck, sir,” you moan as you feel one hand move up to clutch at your ass beneath your skirt, and you’re rewarded for the sound by him sucking on your clit. “Fuck!”

“Taste so good,” his voice is muffled against your cunt, the heat of his breath teasing at the slick skin of your inner thighs, and your knees shake. He lets you lean them against his shoulders, and when you dare to curl your fingers in the fur by his ears Husk groans aloud, claws digging into your skin hard enough to draw blood. “Such a good girl for daddy.”

“God…” you whimper, and when he purrs your legs shake beneath you, threatening to collapse out from beneath you. “Please…”

“Hmm…” he sounds, pressing a biting kiss to the inside of your thigh, just above the lace of your stockings. “‘Please’ what, baby?”

“I need… I need…” you whine as he returns his mouth to your cunt, eyes rolling back. “Please can I…”

“Need to say it, pet.” he tells you, the claws on your ass rising further to untuck your shirt and stroke almost absently at the small of your back. It makes you shiver. It drops away then, and you hear the sound of a zipper lowering, the steady sound of his fist stroking at his cock.

“Need to hear you say it,” he continues after a moment, his voice more uneven than before as his own pleasure builds quickly now that he’s finally taken mercy on himself. “Ask your daddy for what you want.”

“Please can I cum, sir?” you choke out, and you swear you can feel him grin against your flesh. “Please, sir, I need…”

Your whole body seizes as you feel a vibration roll from his mouth up into your clit, his dusky voice now layered over the steady thrum of his purring. “Soon, baby… you’re doin’ so good for me. Don’ wanna disappoint me, do you?”

You shake your head, humming a ‘no’, and he rewards you with a deep, rumbling. “That’s my good pet.”

You can barely breathe by the time Husk finally gives you permission to cum, his tongue on your clit as your whole body curls forward above him. You clutch at the back of the chair behind him, white-knuckled, and when you thank him in a shaking, high-pitched whine he cums too, cursing as his head falls back and his hips rise off the cushion. You can feel the warm threads of his cum land on your calf, and the Overlord catches hold of your waist before you can collapse on top of him.

Husk helps you down from the chair onto shaky legs, and he exhales slowly, the mask of detached, professional Overlord returning. He picks up his abandoned drink, raising an eyebrow at you and nodding pointedly down towards his lap. Still, his voice is softer than he intends. “I’ve got a game to get back to, pet.”

You move forward obediently, color flooding your cheeks as you drop to a kneel in front of him and tuck his softening cock back into his pants. He groans lightly at your touch, tossing back the rest of his whiskey as he watches you through heavy-lidded eyes.

He sets the glass aside without looking away, letting himself enjoy the view of you kneeling between his thighs. Your fingers linger against his zipper for a long moment before you remember to pull them away.

“Get yourself cleaned up, doll. You’ve got twenty minutes before you’re expected back downstairs.”

“Yes, sir.”

Husk watches you rise and pull your skirt back down over the lace of your stockings. His eyes never leave you as you do as he ordered and exit the room, and he heaves a long sigh once you’re gone. He closes his eyes tight, raising a hand to squeeze the bridge of his nose.

“…Fuck.”

#husk #husk x reader #husk posting #my fic #hazbin hotel husk #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel fanfic #hazbin husk #hazbin husk x reader #husk fic

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fayes-fics · 9 months ago

Text

Reunited

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: When Benedict returns from a few days away, he has some very specific demands...

Gif credit: @captainbucky-yt (used with permission)

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, dom/sub dynamics, DD/LG play, daddydom!Benedict, blindfolds, hairpulling, dirty talk, smidges of nipple play and spanking, vaginal sex, restraint (wrist binding).

Word Count: 2.9k

Authors Note: Another smut roulette sprint that grew legs. I ended up writing it over 5 separate half-hour sprints. The roulette wheel gave me the writing prompt: "Spread your legs for Daddy; I want to see you." This is a married couple playing together. Unbetaed filth. Enjoy? <3

“Stay, little one,” he commands, a rich chuckle in his voice as you whine.

At least the crackling fire warms your flank, the thick rug under your knees plush, sitting on your haunches submissively, blindfolded, naked, awaiting instruction.

He is sitting in his wingback chair, not far away. Or at least you think he is based on the sounds you hear: the clink of the stopper on his crystal decanter, the pour of liquor into a heavy tumbler, the strike of a match and the earthy scent of cigar smoke tendrils snaking in the air.

“Daddy, please touch me,” you pout.

He has been away for five days, and you have missed him terribly. When he swept into the house fifteen minutes ago, he dismissed the household staff for the evening, stalked into the drawing room where you were happily reading, kissed you and gave you your codeword with a challenging glint in his eye. Instantly, you were stripping and obeying, only too keen to play your special game. Panting as he tied a blindfold carefully over your face. But now he hasn't touched you since. You squirm, feeling yourself already so aroused.

“Hmm, no, I think I will enjoy the view a while longer….” his counterpoint echoing into his drink as he takes another sip - his voice a velvet tease, knowing you can feel his stare on your skin, watching your body as you flex, breasts tingling, pussy wet.

“I have been a good little girl,” you are trying to entice him. Goad him into getting up and coming to you. Even if it’s only to drag you by your hair to sit in his lap.

He huffs bemused. “Have you now? What does that entail?”

“I have not touched myself since you left,” you sigh, feeling your pussy clench at the mere mention. It's not true, but you think he’ll appreciate the sentiment.

“That's a complete lie,” he barks a laugh, and the leather chair creaks as he seems to stand. “Do you know how I know?” he adds, the thud of his riding boots seeming so loud on the rug as he approaches.

“No,” you breathe, tilting your head naturally to where you think he towers over you even though you can't see him.

There is a scent of woodsy cologne, cigars and something that is all Benedict as he bends down, breath gusting hot in your ear. “Because you would have made a mess of my rug by now,” he whispers hotly, “just dripping at the sound of my voice, would you not?” A large hand clamps around the back of your neck, and you gasp. “I asked a question…” he adds pointedly.

“Yes, Daddy,” you answer instantly, attempting to pitch forward and nuzzle against his thigh, but he holds you in place firmly near the base of your scalp. “I am sorry I lied.”

“That is alright,” he mollifies. “I did not instruct you to refrain from touching yourself this time, so you are forgiven, little girl. But you do need to do one thing in recompense.”

“Anything….” you exhale shakily as he releases his grip, pouting as he seems to return to his chair.

“Lay on your back and spread your legs for Daddy; I want to see you. All of you,” he orders, hearing him take another drag on the cigar, tapping it upon his ashtray.

Scrambling to obey as best you can without sight, the wool rug tickles your shoulder blades as you recline. Pulling your feet up close to your bottom, shoulder-width apart, taking a deep breath, trying to ignore the throb in your clit, the need to touch it so great.

“Wider!”

You instantly shuffle your ankles further apart, allowing your knees to fall to either side, spread obscenely wide now, feeling the stretch in your inner thighs.

“Good girl,” he soothes.

The room feels so quiet again, just the hiss and crackle of the logs in the fireplace, the tick of the carriage clock on the mantle and the occasional sound of him taking a drink or puff. After what feels like an eternity, you plead quietly for him. He doesn't respond. Almost as if he is ignoring you, but you know he is not. Know he is watching you intently, likely a lopsided victorious smirk on his handsome face as he takes another sip, eyes raking your skin, taking in every minute detail of your arousal and revelling in your discomfort.

The waiting is the very worst part. Butterflies behind your ribs and a dull ache in your pelvis that needs him. You know how much he gets off on this - watching you, knowing how aroused you are but unable to do anything but whine and plead and beg. You feel your pussy clench around nothing as your mind floods with images of what you want him to be doing, and you squirm as you feel a drop of moisture leak from yourself and run down your bottom cheek.

“I knew you would make a mess of my rug eventually, little girl,” his clear voice ringing out almost startles you after being quiet for so long. “Such a wanton thing, aren’t you?’

“Only for my Daddy,” you assure.

There is a rash of movement, and you gasp again as he suddenly looms over you, likely on all fours, the ruffles of his shirt teasing your puffed nipples, the tickish wool of his britches rubbing your inner thighs, as his brandy-sweetened breath puffs over your face.

“Am I not just the luckiest man alive to have such a sinful, naughty little girl all to myself?” his ask is rhetorical, the flattery making your heart speed up, hopeful that he will take mercy and finally touch you.

“I am the lucky one, Daddy,” you fawn, lifting your hips off the carpet to rub yourself shamelessly into his crotch, delighted to feel a touch of heated bulge there before a large hand wraps around your hip and pushes you back down forcefully, pinning you flat again.

“Behave!” he warns.

“Or what, Dadddy? Will you spank me?” Unable to resist being insolent with him, knowing how much he loves you acting feisty.

“You would enjoy that far too much, you vixen,” tone affectionate, dryly amused.

The hand moves from your hip, and you pant as it travels upwards. It's a firm stroke that has your belly rippling and breath catching in your lungs. Trailing higher, you cry out as suddenly two strong knuckles wrap on either side of your left nipple and tug hard. You hiss as he squeezes tighter, that ache in your cunt growing stronger; he knows how much an edge of pain makes you even more heated.

“I hear there are decorative nipple clamps in Paris,” he recounts casually as you writhe and moan in his continued hold. “I think my little one would look so pretty dripping in jewels. Don't you?”

Your agreement is a hiss between ragged breaths, a zinging in your clit now from the ache in your breast. Just as the pain becomes a tart metallic taste in your mouth, he lets go, and you stutter and sink back into the carpet, a delicious throb in your pebbled nipple, knowing it is darkened and swollen from his treatment.

“And guess what else they do, little one?” he goads, the hand sweeping back down over your diaphragm, making a beeline for where you want him most.

“Tell me, Daddy….” you beseech, head following the sound of his voice as he seems to swing over your leg and settle on your left side, pressing his erection into your hip and rutting slightly.

You cry out as that hand grasps your labia and tugs on your clit hard. “They do a clamp for your pretty pearl down here, little girl,” he lectures, his thighs ensnaring around your left leg to hold you down and open to his slightly rough treatment.

“Please….” it’s a request for anything really: the jewelled clamps, his fingers to sink into you and assuage the ache you feel, his kiss… whatever he will allow.

He releases his hold, and you whimper, eyelashes fluttering hard against your blindfold, chest rising and falling rapidly, on tenterhooks for what he will do next.

“I so enjoy watching you like this,” he confesses, nuzzling your hairline. “My lustful little one just dripping nectar for me. You would do anything right now, would you not? Anything I told you,” his tone dripping with pride.

“I am yours, Daddy, to do as you wish,” you avow, a want to submit, please him, thrumming hard in your veins.

“That’s right,” he breathes, his lips hot on your temple. “Now be a good girl and roll over.”

Your stomach clenches as you flip over onto your belly, the rug abrading your hardened nipples as he rounds behind you and harshly pulls your hips up high, shuffling your knees forward so you are at a steep angle.

“Keep your head down, my girl,” he warns, your cheekbone catching on the wool fibres as you pant in anticipation, feeling the back of his hand brush your bottom, him fighting open the buttons on his britches.

You cry out as he spears into your body harshly, your walls stretching around his invading cock, fingers sinking into the deep pile beneath you, seeking purchase, as you revel in his hearty groan and curse.

“Fuck I have missed your ripe, tight, soaked cunt,” he exhales raggedly, his large hands clutching your hips as he withdraws slowly and then plunges forward, your calves raising from the floor with the force.

Then he is setting a punishing pace, his hipbones digging into your bottom with each thrust. Your eyes roll shut, letting your forehead sink into the rug, uncaring of the chafing there, his mounting harsh and unforgiving, precisely what you have been craving. A yen to be marked by this, by his actions.

“Who do you belong to?” he snaps, raising a hand and spanking possessively across your bottom as you moan loudly.

“You, Daddy,” you clamour, uncaring if any staff hear you. They could watch for all you care right now - stand in the doorway, seeing him almost fully clothed with you naked, hips high, face down, blindfolded and taking his cock deep as you drip down your thighs for him. In fact, just that illicit thought has you clenching around him, his cock feeling huge as he growls at the slick contraction, his movements becoming even rougher, another firm spank that makes you howl, his fingers digging into your cheek, prolonging the sting.

Then he stops, holding still buried so deep it almost aches, missing the drag of every contour when he moves, tilting your pelvis in a silent request for more.

“Don't move, my girl,” he warns, grasping your hipbones.

You stay still, moaning lightly, desperate for some friction on your pulsing clit to push you towards ecstasy.

“Please, Daddy…” you appeal mutely, muffled into the rug.

“I love it when you beg for me,” he admits, hands running covetously around the swell of your bottom and then sweeping up your back. He leans forward over your spine, those shirt ruffles tickling your shoulder blades this time.

You hiss as he grabs your hair, twisting it in his grip, a tingle on your scalp as he leverages you upright, teething the shell of your ear.

“I wish I could stay right here forever,” his voice a hot whisper. “Buried to the root inside my little girl as she cries for more. If I could die anywhere, this is where I want to be. You, your surrender, your tight slick cunt gripping me, your wanton breathy pleas. ‘Tis as if heaven is on earth.”

His filthy poetry has you panting as a hand slips from grasping your hair around to your throat. He pulls you both upright, you bowing back into him, wishing he was naked like you so you could feel the heat of his flesh on yours, leaning into that broad chest.

Then he starts to move again, thrusting slowly, the hand around your throat tightening so he can feel the vibration in your windpipe as you moan loudly for him. His other hand questing into your folds, catching your clit.

“Come on, my sweet little girl, give it to me,” he tutors, open-mouthed, teeth grazing your cheekbone.

Already wound so tight with arousal - since he walked in, really - it doesn’t take much to have you babbling mindlessly, spiralling that abyss, taking each thrust with a loud moan as his fingers rub in a brisk motion.

“That’s it,” his buttery voice a contract to the almost punishing grip on your throat as you start to fracture around him, rippling on his thrusting cock, a wave of ecstasy crashing inside, fanning out to every cell. Dimly, you hear him heaping praise upon you, groaning loudly, but it's quiet behind the rush of blood in your ears, going limp and pliant in his strong hold, your muscles tensing and releasing.

“Did I do well, Daddy?” You drawl, drowsy and sated.

“Yes, little girl,” he coos, kissing your ear. “That felt amazing, But I’m not done with you yet….”

It’s then you realise he has not come, still rock hard inside you as aftershocks quake your being. Without withdrawing, he bears you down onto the rug, arranging so you lay face down, placing his clothed knees on either side of your thighs and squeezing your legs together. A thump of clothing hits the carpet as he discards his jacket and waistcoat. You breathe heavily as he rocks gently into you, your mind resetting, realising this is just a reprieve.

“Hands behind your back, little girl,” a clipped decree.

Without thought, you heed the order, feeling a soft, silky material wrap around your wrists, knowing instinctually it's the cravat from his neck. It is one of his favourite ways to restrain you, you being bound in his clothing, his scent, something primal. He places your bound hands in the small of your back, and then his shirt sails to the floor. He is left in his woollen britches and boots as he leans over you again; you sigh contentedly as his bare skin brushes your spine, a radiating warmth you want to burrow into.

In this position, your thighs squeezed together, hips tilted, laying facedown on the rug, hands bound, you are entirely at his mercy. And you know he is not going to be slow or gentle. He is going to be rough and carnal, chasing his pleasure as you have had yours. Bated breath as you await his next move, reigniting the molten fire, clit throbbing.

Warm hands wrap around your shoulders for leverage as he settles over you, and then you stutter as he withdraws and drives in hard, your whole body rolling, this position allowing him the deepest penetration.

“Oh my god, Daddy…” you splutter, feeling a pressure behind your ribs from his weight pinioning you.

“Take it, little one…” he counsels, his breath hot in your hair.

Pleasure grows with the harsh snap of his hips, your hands pinned into the small of your back, his abdominals pressing into your thumbs with each stroke. He moves faster, pounding now, your skin blooming darker where the rug chafes your body, but it is secondary to the onslaught, feeling yourself notching higher as he steadfastly pursues his pleasure.

“Touch me please, Daddy,” you mewl, knowing you can come again with a modicum of stimulation.

“Is my greedy little girl ready again?” he gusts, panting hard.

“Yes, please,” you appeal, trying to twist your head to meet his eye pleadingly.

With a gruff noise, a hand roughly worms its way under your left hip and ploughs into your slit again. It's like a lightning bolt through you; instantly, you are screaming. His other hand suddenly clamps over your mouth, his hips never wavering in their rhythm.

“Shhh, little one”, he chastises, even as you can hear the pride behind his words that he can do this to you. “You do not wish to alarm the neighbours, surely?”

You shake your head as you whimper, muffled into his palm, unable to keep silent as you spiral so high so fast, almost dizzying. Take heaving breaths through your nose as his nose is pressed into your scalp, huffing hard, taking you so hard now he grunts with every thrust.

Then you are freefalling again, crying out and drooling against his fingers as this time you pull him with you, the constriction on his cock milking him of every drop as he cries your name and stills, that trademark warmth blooming deep inside. Spasms cause him to rut into you a few more times before he collapses to one side, considerate not to crush you.

The room echoes with your panted breaths as you both recover. Benedict pulls you into his arms, arranging you in an enveloping hug, his hands swirling delicate, intricate patterns on your dewy skin as the fire roars beside you.

“Welcome home, husband,” you sigh contentedly after a restful beat, nuzzling into his neck, tasting the salty tang of his exertions.

“Thank you, darling wife, I have missed you so very, very much. Thank you for this,” his tone is heartfelt, holding your face and planting a chaste kiss on your lips, his kind eyes dancing in the flamelight.

“Anytime, my love, anytime.” Your offer is sincere, revelling in the fulfilment and peace your playtime brings. "We should always be reunited thus.”

He chuckles and shoots you a look of pure devotion. “Indeed we should…”

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lowlights · 4 months ago

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Three things on each Pedro boy's nightstand (excluding weapons):

Marcus Moreno - photo of Missy, chapstick, fancy Heroics alarm clock

Ezra - paper and pen to write down weird dreams, crystal from a far away planet, sunrise lamp

Javi G - remote that opens the blinds, stack of books, $200 candle

Javi P - ashtray, well-worn book, last night's whiskey

Pero (modern) - massage gun, lube, altoids

Jack - engraved watch that was a gift from you, sleep mask, framed picture of childhood home

Marcus Pike - daily multivitamins, tv remote, FBI water bottle

Dave - family photo, glasses, trinket dish for wedding ring

Din - fan, helmet, cool rock that grogu handed him

Joel - painkillers, watch, reading glasses

Dieter - bottles of expensive water, fidget toy, pipe

Max Lord - clock radio, reading lamp, excedrin

#pedro boys #just some silly thoughts

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doumadono · 10 months ago

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Warnings: smut, rough p in v, fingering, some handjob, f!reader, spanking, semi-public sex Synopsis: you and Dabi snag an invite to a party Shigaraki's throwing. Realizing your wardrobe lacks the glam, you strong-arm your boyfriend Dabi into a shopping spree. Despite initial reluctance, he tackles things in his own, cocky style A/N: this little fic was written in honor of the birthday of my incredibly gifted mutual - @dabismoon - I hope you'll enjoy this petite one shot ♥

MY HERO ACADEMIA MASTERLIST

The heap of garments had amassed on the bed, growing steadily as you sifted through the wardrobe, discarding outfit after outfit. The frustration bubbled within you, reaching its peak as you bellowed to Dabi in the adjacent room.

"I can't find a single thing to wear for the party tonight!" you exclaimed, your voice carrying the tone of exasperation.

A mumbled response reached your ears, prompting you to traverse the distance and find Dabi, your villainous boyfriend, lounging indifferently with a beer in hand, fixated on the television screen. His nonchalant demeanor was evident as he puffed on a cigarette, seemingly uninterested in your sartorial predicament.

Without much enthusiasm, he nodded in acknowledgment of your complaint, casually remarking that he was sure you could surely find something suitable to adorn yourself for the fucking party Shigaraki had coerced every League member into attending.

Determined, you declared, "Ok. I've decided that you're taking me shopping... no arguments!"

Dabi attempted to dissuade you, gesturing towards the television where news about Endeavor played, as if it held greater significance. "Babe, seriously?"

Disregarding his protests, you seized his lengthy coat, your car keys, and his hand, urging him towards the door despite his low growls, not bothering yourself to turn the TV off.

"Doll, you've got a plethora of clothes, and you still claim to have nothing to choose from? That's utterly ridiculous," Dabi groaned, wresting his hand free, swiftly disposing of his cigarette in a crystal ashtray. With an unhappy grimace etched across his face, he begrudgingly adorned his coat. "I won't be dressing up like a fucking fool just to mingle with those lunatics," he grumbled, his discontent palpable.

After three hours of aimless meandering through a plethora of shops, the details of each one eluding your memory, you stumbled upon a dress that tickled your fancy. Amidst the sea of countless dresses tried on in pursuit of the perfect ensemble, you finally discovered one that resonated with your taste. Eager to see how it would adorn you, you headed for the changing rooms. En route to the fitting room, you deftly accumulated a selection of lingerie as well.

Thoughts of acquiring alluring lingerie danced in your mind, contemplating the ways you could model them for Dabi — whether in person or through the lens - to keep him company during those prolonged missions with the League. A stack of lingerie, featuring neon shades, delicate baby pinks, and enticing black lace, awaited your scrutiny.

As you boldly pulled back the curtain, Dabi made a move to follow you inside. A quick about-face, a dismissive shake of your head, and a pointed indication toward a chair stationed just beyond the dressing area thwarted his entry.

Dabi complained, "So I don't even get the fun bit of watching you change to brighten up this fucking unnecessary trip?"

However, it was futile - you insisted he wait over there. With the realization that he couldn't join in the fashion spectacle, you swiftly snapped pictures of each lingerie piece as you were trying them on. Seeking Dabi's discerning opinion, you bombarded him with inquiries regarding your sartorial choices. After the final snapshot found its way to your boyfriend's inbox, an air of suspense hung in the digital ether. Yet, as the seconds ticked away, there was no immediate response from Dabi, leaving you with a frown crossing your forehead.

As you cautiously peeked outside to ensure he hadn't ventured too far, the thick curtain was unceremoniously thrust aside. And there he stood – Dabi, eyeing you with a hunger akin to a starving predator, meticulously taking in the alluring contours of your body adorned in a provocative lingerie set. The fabric, a blend of black sheer lace with a hint of hot pink trimming, clung enticingly to your form.

The bra, designed with a daring split in the cups, left your nipples exposed, proudly making their presence known in response to the sight before you as they instantly stiffened. An instinctive reaction led you to subtly rub your thighs together, a silent attempt to quell the burgeoning heat within you. Your boyfriend, tall and commanding, exuding an air of nonchalance, leaned casually against the changing room wall, his gaze fixed on you.

Without uttering a single word, Dabi seized the moment, propelling you further into the confines of the changing room. With a deft motion, he drew the curtain close, creating an intimate space.

Dabi deftly took hold of your left nipple, his slender forefinger and thumb teasingly tweaking it.

The heat rapidly ascended along your neck, and your breaths quickened as he leaned in, delivering a fierce kiss and an ardent suck on your pulse point. Lowering his head, his warm mouth enveloped the other nipple with a determination, unleashing a sweet yet sharp sensation at its base. The overwhelming pleasure threatened to elicit sounds of ecstasy, but you fought to maintain composure as delicious waves of sensation cascaded over you. "Handsome," you whispered, barely moving your lips as you slipped one hand into his soft, black hair.

Dabi's free hand, not content with just teasing, boldly tugged aside the lacy panties you had on, inspecting how wet you were getting. His verdict: dripping wet. With a forceful motion, the elastic was yanked down your legs, severing all of his contact from your eager nipples as his attention fell on the panties. In one swift move, they were stripped from your hips and deftly retrieved from the floor.

As though it were the most ordinary sequence of events, Dabi casually unzipped the fly of his black, fitted jeans, revealing a semi-hardened cock. Nonchalantly, he wiped the pre-cum off its reddened tip with the lacy panties, and thrust the fabric into your partially opened mouth. The mingling taste of both yourself and him on the fabric elicited a lascivious moan that escaped your lips.

Dabi's gaze lingered on you for a moment before he smoothly retrieved his own phone, swiftly capturing an image of your aroused state. "Sorry, doll, but you look adorable, all fired up like a cheap whore you secretly are," he remarked, seamlessly sliding his phone back into the rear pocket of his pants. With a sly grin, he pulled the panties out of your mouth, raising them to his nose and inhaling deeply. "Mmmm, absolutely perfect," he growled, stashing the intoxicating garment into the same back pocket. "Guess we're gonna take 'em."

Dabi slipped his hand between your thighs, and you willingly parted them further in anticipation. A dark giggle escaped him at your eagerness. "Look at you, princess, so eager to help me touch that pretty little pussy. What? Is my doll all needy? Moments ago, you didn't want to let me watch you, but look at ya now, eager as never before."

Staring intensely into your captivating eyes, Dabi smoothly slid his long middle finger deep inside your slick pussy, eliciting an immediate moan and causing you to instinctively shut your eyes in response.

"No, no, princess, we ain't gonna play like that. Look at me, I want your eyes on me, now," he commanded, leaning forward to place a tender peck on your forehead.

Complying with his directive, you followed his lead, biting down on your lower lip with enough force to draw a bead of blood after opening your eyes again, looking into his turquoise ones.

For a span of a good minute or two, Dabi expertly fingered you, exploring every millimeter of your pussy until your spongy walls began to clench rhythmically around his finger, a clear indication of your impending climax.

"You ain't gonna get off so easily, doll," he declared, withdrawing his digit and lifting it to your lips. With a deliberate motion, he parted your lips with his thumb, prompting you to accept his finger into your mouth.

You sucked your own juices off his digit, moaning quietly without breaking the eye contact.

Dabi seized a generous handful of your supple ass, drawing you closer to him in a forceful manner, engaging in a passionate make-out session with you, pushing his pierced tongue down your throat.

Unabashedly, you dared to extend your hand, wrapping it around his now fully-erect cock, expertly jerking it while rising onto your tiptoes for a more comfortable angle.

Your actions proved successful as Dabi moaned into your mouth, punctuating the moment with a couple of spanks on your ass before tenderly squeezing the supple flesh, indulging in a thorough massage.

In the next instant, he decisively detached your hand from his throbbing cock and pivoted you around, urging you forward until you were facing a lengthy mirror.

Dabi positioned your hands high on either side of the mirror, granting you a comprehensive view of your entire form and his presence looming behind you in the reflective surface.

In a hushed tone, he murmured, "Now, we don't have much time, baby. You wasted too much time already wandering throughout all those stupid stores and teasing me like a bitch you are. I'm going to fuck you hard and cum deep inside you. Do you understand?"

Meeting his gaze in the mirror's reflection, you nodded in affirmation.

"Good," he declared, punctuating his words with another firm spank on your ass. His hand deftly secured your left cheek, spreading it as he gripped his throbbing member. With the tip of his cock, Dabi traced an enticing path up and down your exposed entrance, your juices already glistening and trickling down your thigh.

Without delay, he forced your cunt open with his rigid shaft, delivering a single, powerful thrust that brought him to the hilt inside you. "Fffuuuuccckkk," Dabi breathed out through gritted teeth.

Any potential scream was mercifully muffled by his hand wrapping around your neck, applying a tight squeeze that momentarily restricted your airflow. "Don't you dare moan like you do back home. Our neighbors are accustomed to your bitchy moans and whines, but here people are not, yeah? And the last thing I need today is getting caught with my dick stuffed in your tight cunt," he warned, nibbling your earlobe.

You were relentlessly slammed into, the force akin to a piston driving into your pussy again and again and again.

Dabi's hands greedily explored your soft flesh - your breasts, hips, belly, occasionally slipping between your thighs to playfully tease your swollen clitoris.

Little moans escaped your lips as you pressed your cheek against the cold glass, the surface already fogging up from the intensity of your heavy breathing.

Dabi, panting with an intensity akin to a dog in heat, delivered hard spanks to your ass and the back of your thighs. "You enjoy it when I take you rough like this, don't ya, doll? Hmm? Oh yeah, ya love it. You're quite the dirty whore," he chuckled into your ear. "Don't worry, daddy will fuck you the way you crave the most, princess."

Dabi intensified his rhythm, a firm grip on your hips as he relentlessly thrust into your slippery cunt.

The only sounds resonating within the confines of the changing room were a harmonious blend of your mixed gasps and moans, accompanied by the resonating slap of flesh against flesh, each time his weighty balls hit the curve of your supple ass.

"Dabi..." you whined, already breathless.

Smack, smack, smack! A sequence of forceful spanks landed on your ass. "Address me properly, princess, or I'll have to think of a punishment, and trust me, you won't want that," Dabi growled, sinking his teeth into the column of your neck.

"Daddy," you whispered, your mouth parched from moans and panting, the act of swallowing causing a sweet ache. "Harder," you pleaded. "Harder."

"Mmmm," Dabi slowed his thrusts, his cock reaching deep within you, the tip delicately grazing your cervix as he came to a complete stop. "I knew you had a wild side, little whore, but now you've surprised me. Daddy's going to fulfill your wish," he declared with a sultry promise.

And thus, it commenced. Without delay, he placed a hand on your head, pressing you more firmly against the mirror. The intensity escalated, his hips snapping with relentless determination.

"Oh my God," you managed to utter as you slid a hand between your legs, tracing delicate circles over your slick-covered folds.

Slap, slap, slap! Each thrust felt harder and deeper than the last. His strong hand seized a handful of your hair, pulling you further onto his pulsating dick as he forewarned, "Princess, I'm gonna cum. Daddy's going to coat your sweet cunt with his seed."

Bracing yourself, you endured a final series of sloppy thrusts as Dabi's grunts reverberated down your ear. Rising on your tiptoes, you attempted to accommodate the force emanating from his groin. "Cumming, cumming, fuck," Dabi aggressively grunted, and came deep inside of you, his warm, thick semen spurting from the slit of his tip, painting your spongy walls until they were all adorned in a coating of white.

After withdrawing, Dabi took a moment to appreciate his job, observing the mix of his cum and your juices as they dribbled from your well-used hole.

Depleted and breathless, you whimpered, "I need to drink something, my mouth's dry, Dabi…"

"I'll get you water," he responded casually, extracting panties from his back pocket to once again clean himself off. "You were such a filthy whore, doll. Just the way I like ya the most," he added, punctuating his words with a playful spank that made you yelp as he seemingly heated up his palm, leaving a vivid red mark on your ass cheek. "Get fucking dressed now, we only have an hour to get back home and get ready for that fucking party."

Dabi gathered a few bras and panties before leaving you in the changing room.

As you slid your knickers back on, you smeared the cream of your mixed fluids between your puffy cunt lips. You bit down on your knuckle to stifle a reaction to coldness brought forth by the slick wetness.

You haven't cum so hard such in a good two days, you thought to yourself.

Once dressed, you exited the fitting room only to spot Dabi at the checkout, purchasing every item you had tried on. A self-satisfied grin played on your lips, met with a nod from him. Ah, you already had a plan in mind for how you'd repay him.

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