#remember when we couldn’t take the heat

[tanjamikaelson]

MEDDLE ABOUT - CHAPTER 3

MASTERLIST

His body tensed for a split second, his breath catching in his throat. Then, instinct kicked in. His hand tangled in your hair, deepening the kiss with a hunger that’s been simmering under the surface all night. It was not soft—it was rough, desperate, fueled by too much whiskey, too much weed, and pent-up frustration.

You kissed him back just as hungrily, your body shifting without thought as you moved to straddle his lap.

Rafe groaned into your mouth as you settled on top of him, his hands gripped your hips like he couldn’t believe this was actually happening. When he finally pulled back, his forehead brushed against yours, his breathing uneven. His pupils were blown wide, his voice husky. "What the fuck, Pogue?" He exhaled a breathless laugh, still in disbelief.

You smirked slightly, lips brushing against his. "We’re so gonna regret this in the morning," you whispered before crashing your mouth back onto his.

Rafe smirked against your lips, his hands slipped beneath your shirt, fingertips dragging along the bare skin of your lower back. He pulled you closer, letting you feel the undeniable evidence of his arousal pressing against you through his jeans. "Probably," he breathed, "But fuck it. We’re high and drunk and…"

You hummed against his lips, feeling the heat between your bodies. Your hands roamed over his bare chest, tracing the definition of his muscles.

Rafe broke the kiss to rest his forehead against yours, his grip on you tightening. "Fuck, Pogue…" he muttered, his voice strained. "You’re making it really hard for me to remember why we shouldn’t do this."

"Then don’t remember…" you whispered, your lips brushing his again.

A low sound escaped him, something between a groan and a curse before he captured your lips in another heated kiss. His hands slid lower, gripping your thighs as he lifted you slightly, grinding himself against you. He was too far gone now—his body running on instinct, not logic. His hands shoved your sleep shorts down slightly, palming your bare bottom. "Condom?" He asked, his voice rough.

Your breathing was already uneven as you lifted your hips slightly, enough for him to slide your shorts down your thighs. Without breaking eye contact, you reached toward the nightstand, pulling out the last condom.

Rafe watched you grab the condom, his heart pounding in his chest. He was so fucking turned on right now, he could barely think straight. "Good," he rasped. "Now put it on me before I lose my fucking mind."

You bit your lip as you unbuttoned his jeans, helping him tug them down along with his boxers. He lifted his hips to make it easier, and when he finally kicked them off, you swallowed hard. He groaned softly as he sprang free, already hard, the tip glistening.

You stood briefly, sliding your shorts and panties off completely before climbing back onto his lap. Taking the condom from his fingers, you rolled it down over him, feeling just how thick he was beneath your touch. The fit is snug, almost too tight.

Rafe inhaled sharply, his jaw clenching as he watched your hands move. His grip on your thighs tightened. "Fuck me," he groaned, his voice strained, his head tilted back slightly. "Before I explode just from this."

You bit your lip, aligning yourself before sinking down slowly, taking him in inch by inch.

"Ah—!" Your moan escaped before you could stop it, your head tilted back as pleasure surged through you.

Rafe’s eyes rolled back, his fingers dug into your skin. "Shit, Pogue…" His head fell back against the headboard as he struggled to breathe. "You’re so fucking tight… fuck."

"Fuck, Kook," you whimpered, dragging your nails down his chest.

Rafe let out a low hiss at the feeling of your nails. His hips buckled slightly beneath you, testing just how deep he could go. Watching your body, the way you reacted, the way you threw your head back in pleasure—it was almost too much. His thumb moved between your legs, finding your most sensitive spot. "Damn…" His voice was softer, almost mesmerized. "Do you always feel like this?"

You nodded breathlessly, your hips rolled as you started to move.

Rafe’s breath caught as he watched you, completely lost in the sight of you. Your shirt rode up slightly, exposing your stomach as you moved, your hair falling messily around your face. His fingers dug into your thighs, guiding your movements, his teeth grazing against his lower lip as he let out a gravelly groan. "Fuck, Pogue…" His voice was raw, wrecked, full of something neither of you was ready to name.

"Ah— yeah…" Your head tilted back, pleasure heightening everything, the mix of alcohol and weed making you bolder, looser.

In the dimly lit bedroom, Rafe's fingers, bold and urgent, grazed the hem of your shirt, his breath caught in his throat as he realized there was nothing underneath. His touch became deliberate, his fingers teasing, exploring the soft curves of your skin. "Holy shit… you weren't wearing a bra?" escaped his lips, a mixture of surprise and arousal thick in his voice. His hands moved with growing intensity, gliding over your bare skin, his moan a low, rumbling sound, "Fucking gorgeous…"

Rafe leaned forward, lips latching onto your skin with a hunger that sent shivers down your spine. His kisses were a blend of tender sucking and playful nipping, his other hand kneaded your breast roughly, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. His own body was already fighting to hold back, "Mmm… these fucking tits..." he groaned, the words laced with primal hunger.

"Fuckkk, ahhh!" Your gasp was a testament to the pleasure surging through you, your hips instinctively arching against him, seeking more.

A deep groan ripped through him as you began to move slowly atop him, the rhythm deliberate and sensual. He could feel every ridge inside you. His thumbs spread your thighs wider, his eyes fixated on the sight of himself disappearing within you. A soft slap to your ass punctuated the moment, his teeth gently sinking into your breast. "Goddamn…you're so slow…" he breathed.

"Want me to speed up?" you asked, your voice laced with a playful challenge.

Rafe nodded, his head resting against your chest, his hand possessively encircling your throat. "Fuck yeah… and to see these tits bounce while you fuck me." The light squeeze on your neck was a thrill, his eyes darkening with a possessive desire that sent shivers down your spine.

Your moan was a fluid sound as he tightened his grip, and you responded by bouncing faster, your rhythm mirroring the growing intensity of his passion.

A loud, harsh groan tore from him, a sound born of pure pleasure and the need for release. His hand tightened slightly around your throat, the other hand slapping your ass in a steady, rhythmic beat. "Fuck yeah…fuck…fuck…oh fuck!" he choked out, his eyes rolling back in his head, lost in the ecstasy of the moment.

"Aaahh fuck yea…aaahh!" Your own pleasure was unrestrained. Your breasts bounced provocatively in his face as you rode him.

Rafe buried his face in your bouncing tits, his tongue lashing out to taste your skin. He left hickeys across your chest, his hand sliding from your throat to your hip, his fingers digging into your flesh, guiding your movements, urging you faster. "Holy shit…holy shit…"

"You like it?" you asked, your voice a breathy, high-pitched whisper.

He smirked, his eyes glued to the intoxicating sight of your bouncing breasts. "Jesus Christ yes…" he mumbled, his hands rising to cup your breasts, bringing them together. His face was pressed between your breasts, muffling his groans as his hips began to meet yours—a brutal, rhythmic pounding that intensified the pleasure. "Fuck…fuck…fuck…"

"Aahhh!" You squeezed your breasts against his face, your rhythm intensifying, a frantic pace that matched the growing urgency.

He inhaled sharply, his nose nestled between your soft flesh. He tried to lick your skin, but his tongue was squished between your breasts. He felt you tightening around him, your movements becoming wilder, faster. "Dammit…"

"Aaahh fuck, you feel so fucking good!" you cried, your hips slamming down on him with hard, relentless force.

Rafe's eyes rolled back as you slammed down on him. His hands flew to your hips, his grip firm as he held you in place. He began thrusting, his cock hitting your deepest spots with a primal force. "Fuck…fuck…fuck…you're gonna make me cum…"

"Aahh! Yes, like that," you leaned forward, grabbing the headboard for support, your body arching provocatively.

He watched you with hooded eyes as you assumed the new position, the angle allowing him to slide even deeper inside you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you down onto him as he thrust up hard. "Goddamn.”

"Aahhh!" You moaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure, as he slammed into you repeatedly.

He grunted with each thrust, his abs clenching as he pulled you down onto him again and again. He could feel you tightening around him, your inner walls squeezing him like a vice. "You're so loud…" he groaned, his face contorting with pleasure.

"Fuck…fuckk…" you cried out, moving your hand between your legs.

Rafe's eyes widened, understanding instantly what you were doing. He watched, mesmerized, as your fingers found your clit, your pussy clenching even tighter around him. "Holy shit…"

You rubbed your clit furiously as he slammed upwards into you, your breasts buried against his face.

He inhaled deeply, the soft warmth of your breasts muffling his groans. He felt you tightening, your sensitive flesh pulsing, his release building rapidly, his hips bucking up with brutal force.

"Aaahh I will—" you moaned, the word cut short by the onset of your orgasm. You shook violently, pleasure radiating through your entire body, squirting onto his stomach and dick.

As you shook and squirted, Rafe's eyes rolled back. A deep, primal roar erupted from his throat. His hips jerked one last time, burying himself deep within you as his cock pulsed, shooting load after load of thick, hot cum inside the condom—a wish fleeting through his mind about not needing to wear one.

"Mm…ah!" You panted, your body relaxing atop him, your pleasure spent.

His hands found your back, rubbing soothing circles. He loved the way your body went limp after your orgasm. He could feel his still-hard cock inside you, your inner walls milking him gently. "Damn…" he muttered softly, gently stroking your hair. "You squirted."

"Yeah," you said, catching your breath, your forehead resting on his chest.

Rafe chuckled softly, his hand gently stroking your hair. "You're so fucking adorable when you're high and horny." He kissed the top of your head, his other arm wrapping around you, pulling you close. "Stay like this for a bit, okay?"

"I can't move anyway," you said, breathless.

He smiled at your lazy, sated tone, one hand continuing to stroke your hair while the other traces delicate patterns on your bare back. His fingertips glided over your skin, leaving a trail of warmth that made you shiver slightly. “Good. Stay put.” His voice was low, almost a purr, as he shifted his hips just enough to keep himself inside you. “Your pussy feels way too good around my dick to pull out yet.” His semi-hard length twitched inside you, and you let out a soft, involuntary sound. He could feel your breasts pressed against his chest, your legs thrown carelessly over his hips, the weight of your body grounding him in the moment.

“You get horny often when you smoke?” he asked, his tone curious but playful. He knew how weed could heighten sensations, how it could strip away inhibitions and leave you craving touch. His fingers splay out on your back, possessive and warm.

“Hell yeah”, you breathed out, your voice husky and lazy. The sound of it made him chuckle, his chest shaking with quiet laughter.

“So like, every time we smoke together, you’d be down to have high sex like this?” His mind was already wandering, imagining the next time you’d be stoned and tangled up in each other like this. The idea of it sent a jolt of anticipation through him.

“Shit, now that I know your dick game is this good, yeah.” You nodded against his chest, and he couldn't help but grin.

“Damn... I’ll have to keep a steady weed supply just so I can fuck you like this regularly.” His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles near your entrance, where he was still buried inside you. The proximity made you shiver, and he felt it, the way your body responded to him.

“Mmhm”, you murmured, your voice barely more than a whisper. His thumb pressed more insistently now, and you arched slightly into his touch. He could feel the way your body tensed, the way you were already craving more.

Rafe chuckled darkly, his voice dropping lower, rougher. “Now I kinda want to fuck you until you can’t walk straight for days.” His words send a shiver down your spine, and you felt it, the way your body reacted to him, the way he seemed to know exactly what to say to unravel you.

You placed your chin on his chest and looked up at him, your eyes hazy and half-lidded. “I don’t have any more condoms.”

His thumb froze mid-circle, and he looked down at you, his expression shifting slightly. “You mean... unprotected?” he asked slowly, his voice careful. His mind races, piecing together the details—he knew you’re on birth control, he saw your pills in your bathroom. “No diseases, right?”

“Yeah, I don’t have it. You?” you asked, your voice steady though your heart is pounding.

“No, I’m clean too.” He said it reassuringly, his thumb pressing against your entrance more insistently now. “So, you’re saying if I wanted to, I could slide inside your little pussy raw?” He swallowed hard, the idea of it sending a jolt of heat through him.

You nodded, your eyes locked on his. “Yeah, you could.”

“Fuck... okay.” Rafe breathed out, his mind made up. He removed his thumb from your entrance and looked down at you with hooded eyes. “Turn over. I’m gonna stretch you out and fill you up with my cum.”

You climbed off him, his dick slipped out, and you laid on the bed on your stomach, your body splayed out for him. He stood up and removed the condom, tossing it to the floor. He looked down at your small, round ass and smirked. “You have such a cute little butt.”

You looked over your shoulder at him and smiled, your cheeks flushed. He climbed back onto the bed, kneeling between your legs, and ran his large hands over your curves, spreading your cheeks apart. “Damn, it’s so cute…” He murmured, his fingers digging into your flesh, possessive and firm.

He pressed one thick finger against your entrance, slowly pushing inside. “So tight…” He groaned, beginning to pump his finger in and out. He added a second, stretching you open, and his other hand wrapped around his dick, stroking himself as he watched you.

You moaned as he scissored his fingers inside you, stretching you wider, preparing you for him again. He pulled his fingers out and gripped the base of his dick, positioning it at your entrance. He pressed the head of his thick dick against you, gradually pushing forward. “Fuck…” He hissed, watching as your tiny hole slowly stretched to accommodate his size. “You’re killing me here…” He kept pushing slowly, and the head popped in just slightly. “Shit…”

You cried out in pleasure, your fingers gripped the sheets tightly. His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he started to push deeper. “Damn, you’re so tight, I can feel every inch of you squeezing around the head of my dick.” He panted, his voice rough with need.

“Fuck…” You breathed out, your voice trembling. “Just push more…”

Rafe looked down at your back, smirking as he tightened his grip on your hips. “You sure?” he asked, his voice teasing. “Spread your legs wider”, he added, his tone firm. “And arch your back.”

“Mmhm.” You nodded, doing as he said, spreading your legs and arching your back, offering yourself to him completely. With your legs spread wider and your back arched, he gripped your hips tighter and started pushing forward again, his thick dick slowly entering you inch by inch. “Fuck... Fuck... FUCK!” He hissed, his face contorting in concentration. Finally, with a loud grunt, the last inch of his dick disappeared into your pussy, burying himself to the hilt.

You moaned loudly into the sheets, your face pressed down, your body trembling with the sensation of him inside you. Your moan made his body go rigid. “Damn…” He muttered, realizing how sensitive you were. He could feel your pussy contracting tightly around his length. He pulled back slightly, almost slipping out, then slowly pushed back in. “Jesus…”

“Aaahh, clit—” you whimpered, your voice breaking.

He got the hint. One hand left your hip to snake around and find your clit. He rubbed tight circles around it while slowly picking up his pace, sliding his big dick in and out. He started fucking you harder, his fingers working your clit in rhythm with his thrusts. “Your pussy is fucking heaven…”

“Oohh god…” You cried out loudly, your body writhing beneath him.

He chuckled breathlessly, slamming into you harder. “Fuck yeah, take this dick…” His fingers were slick with your juices, smearing them all over your clit as he rubbed in firm circles. He leaned over your back, nibbling at your shoulder, his teeth grazing your skin.

“Aahh! ahh! Mmm!” You moaned, your voice rising with every thrust.

“You like getting your pussy pounded like this, don’t you? Fuck, you’re so goddamn tight…” He adjusted his angle slightly, hitting the spot deep inside you that made you scream even louder. His wet fingers continued their assault on your clit. “y/n…”

“Oohh fuck yea…” You cried out, your body arching into the sensation.

He smirked. "You're making those noises again.." He pulled out almost all the way, then slammed back in hard, making your body jerk forward. He spread your cheeks wider apart and watched his length disappear inside you again and again. He couldn’t believe how loud you were, how your body responded to him. He growled softly, "You take this dick so well…God…" He pulled out slightly again, then shoved back in hard.

“Aah yeaa!” You moaned, gripping and biting the sheets as your body trembled with pleasure.

He chuckled darkly, watching you writhe and scream. “Fuck, look at you... So pretty, so loud, so fucking mine.” He reached around with his free hand and started squeezing your throat gently, cutting off your air supply slightly as he fucked you even harder.

He groaned as he felt your tight pussy clench around his dick when he squeezed your throat. “Fuck, you are so tight... I’m not gonna last much longer, baby.” He started thrusting faster, his pace erratic and desperate. His hips slammed into you with a rhythm that felt almost primal, each thrust pushing you deeper into the mattress. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, mingling with your muffled cries.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop”, you begged, your voice ragged and desperate as you clutched the sheets for dear life. Your body trembled beneath him, every nerve alight with the intensity of his movements.

He let out a low, guttural growl, his hand tightening around your throat just a fraction more. “Fuck, I’m gonna fill this slutty pussy up”, he rasped, his voice thick with desire. His thrusts become relentless, each one driving you closer to the edge. The sensation was overwhelming—his thickness stretching you, the heat of his body pressing into yours, the way his hand on your throat made you feel completely at his mercy.

“Aahh fuckk-” you screamed, your voice cracking as another wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your pussy clenched around him, milking his cock as if begging for more.

He leaned over you, his breath hot against your ear. “You like that?” he growled, his voice dripping with dominance. “My big dick splitting your little pussy apart? Answer me.” His hand tightened around your throat again, cutting off your air just enough to make you gasp.

“Yesss!” you choked out, your body writhing beneath him. Your answer seemed to fuel him, and he picked up the pace even more, his hips slammed into you with a ferocity that left you breathless.

“Mmm, such a good little whore for me”, he murmured, his voice low and dark. His thrusts become erratic, his rhythm faltering as he neared his own climax. “I’m gonna come, baby…”

“YESS!” you screamed, your body convulsing as a powerful orgasm ripped through you. The pleasure was all-consuming, your vision blurred as your pussy clenched and spasmed around him.

He let out a deep, guttural moan, his cock pulsing inside you as he reached his own peak. “Goddamn… such a slut for my cock”, he growled, his hand squeezing your throat one final time as he emptied himself deep inside you.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The only sounds in the room were your heavy breathing and the faint wet squelch of his cock still buried deep inside you. Slowly, he released your throat, allowing you to take a deep, shuddering breath. His other hand was still on your pussy, his fingers gently stroking your soaked folds as he came down from his high.

“Fuck… look at you”, he murmured, his voice hoarse. He smacked your ass cheek softly, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “You’re so loud and sensitive.” He gave your ass another smack, watching as a red handprint began to form on your skin. “Spread your legs wider”, he ordered, his voice soft but commanding.

You obeyed without hesitation, spreading your thighs further apart for him. He chuckled darkly as he noticed your pussy leaking onto the sheets, a mixture of your juices and his cum. “Damn”, he muttered, his gaze fixed on the mess he made of you.

“I need-” you started, but he cut you off before you could finish.

“You need what, baby?” he asked, his voice teasing as he looked down at your dripping pussy. “Tell me what you need.” His gaze was intense, almost predatory, as he waited for your response. “Maybe I’ll give it to you. Maybe I won’t.”

“I need to come again…” you whimpered, your voice trembling as you feel his cum and your own juices sliding down your thighs. The idea of another orgasm felt both impossible and necessary, your body still thrumming with pleasure.

He smiled, clearly amused by your desperation. “You’re so fucking wet because of me, aren’t you?” he asked, his tone smug as he reached down to spread your pussy lips apart. He stared at your glistening hole, his thumb brushing over your clit teasingly. “Look at this mess you’re making… so much fucking juice.”

“Please, I need to…” you begged, your voice breaking as another wave of need rolled through you. Your body felt like it was on fire, every nerve ending begging for release.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he murmured huskily, “Aw, poor baby. So desperate to come, huh?” Without warning, he plunged two thick fingers deep into your soaked pussy, curling them just right to hit your G-spot.

“AAHH!” you screamed, your body arching off the bed as he started pumping his fingers in and out of you. The sensation was overwhelming, his fingers working you ruthlessly as he rubbed tight circles on your clit with his thumb.

“Is this what you needed, slut?” he growled, his voice rough with desire as he watched your body writhe beneath him. The wet squelching sounds filled the room, mingling with your loud moans. “Fuck, your pussy is grasping so needily…”

“YES YES YEAAA!” you cried out, your voice hoarse as your body trembled with pleasure. The intensity of his touch was too much, your pussy clenching around his fingers as you felt another orgasm building.

“Such a greedy cunt…” he muttered, his voice thick with lust as he added a third finger, stretching you wide. His thumb pressed firmly on your clit, the pressure just enough to push you over the edge. “Come all over my fingers, you filthy fucking whore.”

The moment he said it, you lost control. Your body convulsed as another orgasm ripped through you, your pussy clamped down hard on his fingers as you squirted your juices all over his hand and the sheets below. He kept finger-fucking you through your orgasm, drawing it out until you were trembling and gasping for air.

He chuckled darkly as he watched your legs give out, leaving you sprawled helplessly on the bed. “Goddamn, that was hot”, he muttered, pulling his soaked fingers out of your pussy with a wet pop. He brought them to his mouth, licking them clean while maintaining eye contact with you. “Fuck, you taste so good…”

You lay there, completely spent and boneless, your body twitching with aftershocks.

He watched you panting and twitching on the bed, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Look at you… completely fucked out, lying there like a messy little whore who just took the best pounding of her life”, he murmured, his voice dark and possessive. He reached out to softly trace your lips, his touch almost tender.

Then he reached over to grab his phone, unlocking it to snap a picture of you in your post-orgasmic state, looking disheveled and satisfied beyond belief.

“Mmmh…” you murmured softly, your eyes still closed as you tried to catch your breath.

His body tensed as you murmur, completely unguarded and sated. He realized that you were completely unaware that he just took a dirty picture of your spread out and twitching after coming hard. His fingers spread out on your inner thigh possessively. “You’re like a cat when you purr like that…” he laughed softly. “So loud and needy when we fuck.” He swallowed hard, watching you again.

You weren’t able to form words after he wrecked you, laying on your stomach and coming down from your highs—sex, drugs, and alcohol all melding together into a hazy euphoria. He smirked at your lack of words, knowing he completely destroyed you with his touch, his words, and his dick. “You’re so fucking out of it right now…” he murmured, his voice almost amused as he watched you.

You felt him as he moved to lay beside you, positioning himself against the headboard. He propped up a pillow behind his back, getting comfortable to enjoy the view of you in your post-coital bliss. He ran his fingertips along your spine, making you shiver. “Do you even know what state you’re in right now?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.

“Mmhm…” you whimpered, your voice barely audible as you tried to muster the energy to respond.

“That’s not an answer”, he chuckled darkly at your inability to speak coherently. “Look at you. High as fuck, drunk as hell, and completely fucked out.” He traced small shapes on your back, enjoying how your skin pebbled under his touch.

“You fucked me so… good…” you managed to breathe out, your voice barely a whisper as you tried to convey just how wrecked you felt.

A smug grin spread across his face as he heard your breathy words of praise. “Mmm, that’s right. I wrecked this pretty little pussy”, he murmured, tapping your ass almost teasingly. “You came SO fucking hard, didn’t you?”

“I don’t remember the last time I came like this…” you admitted, your voice still trembling from the intensity of your orgasms.

He let out a bark of laughter, clearly amused by your drunken admission. “Damn right you don’t. I fucked you into oblivion”, he growled, leaning down to murmur in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “Your cunt was squeezing me so tight like she never wanted to let go.”

“Mmmhhm…” you shivered, your body still sensitive to his touch as he traced patterns on your back.

He bit down on your earlobe, tugging gently before releasing it. “You’re so goddamn responsive, even like this”, he murmured, his hand moving down to grip your hip possessively. “I could keep you like this all night, fucked out and high as a kite.”

You slowly turned on your back after a few moments, your body still trembling with aftershocks. You looked over at him sitting against the headboard, a lazy smile spreading across your face as you met his gaze. “Mmhm…” you murmured softly, your voice still thick with pleasure as you tried to find the words to express just how good he made you feel.

He watched you roll onto your back, his eyes roaming over your naked body appreciatively. The soft glow of the room caught every curve, every subtle shift of your skin as you breathed. When you smiled up at him, a flicker of something strange passed through his chest—a warmth that had nothing to do with the drugs or alcohol. He pushed it aside, not wanting to examine it too closely. Instead, he focused on the way your lips curved, the way your eyes held his for a moment too long.

You moved to lean against the headboard, your body shifting lazily as you reached for the glass of whiskey on the nightstand. The liquid sloshed slightly as you brought it to your lips, draining the last of it in one smooth motion. The burn slid down your throat, and you let out a soft sigh, the taste lingering on your tongue.

Rafe watched intently, his gaze locked on the way your throat worked as you swallowed. He grabbed the empty glass from your hand, setting it aside with a soft clink. His eyes never left yours, and there was a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Thirsty little thing, aren’t you? Drinking like that after getting fucked stupid.”

“Fuck yeah, I’m thirsty,” you sighed deeply, your body sinking further into the mattress. The warmth of the whiskey spread through you, mingling with the afterglow of what just happened.

A husky chuckle escaped him as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your skin. “That’s what happens when you scream as loud as you did. Probably dried out your whole fucking throat.” His voice was low, teasing, but there was a spark in his eyes that said he was not just joking.

You breathed deeply, closing your eyes as a chuckle escaped you. “I wish this happened earlier…”

He traced a finger down your chest, between your breasts, his touch light but deliberate. His eyebrow arched skeptically, a smirk tugging at his lips as he looked at you. “Oh yeah? Wish you got fucked stupid sooner, huh?” His fingers drummed lightly against your forearm, amusement dancing in his eyes.

You nodded, a soft laugh escaping you. “Yeah, but we’ll probably go back to hating each other after we sober up.”

Rafe let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head. His hand stilled on your arm, and his smirk softened just a bit. “Probably fucking will.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “But right now, I can’t seem to remember why the hell I disliked you so much in the first place.”

You laughed as well, the sound light and carefree. “Oh, your dick made me forget why I hated you too.”

He chuckled, his breath warm against your lips. “Looks like we’re both forgetting a lot of shit tonight.” His hand moved up to tangle in your hair, giving it a gentle tug. The action was possessive but tender, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

As he tugged your hair, your head tilted back, and your eyes fluttered closed. His lips found yours in the darkness, kissing you deeply as he pulled your hair gently. The kiss was slow, almost lazy, but there was an undercurrent of hunger that neither of you could ignore. He broke away briefly, panting softly. “Damn it… We’re gonna hate each other again in the morning, aren’t we?” His lips brushed against yours as he spoke, his voice a low murmur.

“Mmhmm,” you murmured as you kissed him back, your hands moving to his chest. The warmth of his skin beneath your palms was intoxicating, and you couldn’t help but want more.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours in the dim light. The hazy mix of weed and whiskey still lingered in his gaze, but there was something else there—something deeper. “Fuck it,” he muttered before kissing you again, harder this time. His hand gripped your hair tightly as he lost himself in the kiss. “We’ll worry about hating each other tomorrow,” he murmured against your lips.

You kissed him back just as hard, your hands gripping his face with a desperation that surprised even you. He groaned into the kiss, his hands roaming over your body possessively. His touch was electric, sending sparks of pleasure through you with every movement. He broke the kiss only to start trailing his lips down your bare chest, his teeth grazing your skin as he moved lower.

“I’m gonna hate you so much in the morning…” he muttered, his voice muffled against your skin.

“I’m gonna hate you too…” you whispered breathlessly, your hands tangling in his hair as he continued his exploration.

He chuckled darkly, his hands slipping lower to trace the curve of your hips. His touch was firm, almost possessive as if he was trying to memorize every inch of you. He leaned in to suck a bruise onto your neck, his teeth grazing your skin before he pulled away. “But right now, I don’t give a fuck.”

“Rafe,” you whined, your voice trembling as his hands moved lower still.

“Yeah?” His voice was low and husky, his lips moving to your ear. “You gonna miss this dick tomorrow, sweetheart?” His hands slipped lower, tracing the lines on your stomach before moving even further down. “Gonna regret all these noises you’re making?” He nipped at your earlobe, the sharp sensation making you gasp.

“Probably both,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckled softly, his fingers splaying out over your stomach possessively. “Good, because I’m gonna remember every little detail of this when I’m ignoring you tomorrow.” He nuzzled into your neck, inhaling your scent before pulling back to look at you. His gaze was intense, his eyes dark with something you couldn’t quite name.

You didn’t have time to think about it though, because his lips were on yours again, kissing you with a desperation that made your head spin. His hands moved to your hips, gripping you tightly as he pulled you closer. The heat between your bodies was almost unbearable, and you couldn’t help but grind against him, seeking more friction.

“Fuck, Pogue,” he groaned against your lips, his hands moving to your ass. He squeezed roughly, his fingers digging into your skin as he pulled you closer still.

TAGS: @hannieskzzz @rafeslvttygirl

CHAPTER 4 (soon)

[lostintransist]

Peace Finding The Dead

@demothers-empty-blog 😘 remember you asked for this. @cafekitsune thanks for the dividers!

This is the companion to The Dead Finding Peace, this is Simon's POV.

CW:DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT Canon Johnny death, suicidal ideation (If you wonder about letting go and something bad ending it all for you or a car accident just taking you out? that does count as ideation I was shook when my therapist pointed out that I was suicidal as a teen because of that), canon style violance, Simon dies in the end.

Simon didn’t see Johnny go down. He would regret that loss. The spreading pool, swallowing up dust, and small cracks stained his dreams. He couldn’t, but Simon swore that he could feel Johnny’s heat leeching into the concrete below his glove.

The abject emptiness startled him. He hadn’t known this level of loss since his mother passed, the secret of her alcoholism stealing her away from the pain found in her husband’s fists.

He should move. He should help. Should, should, shouldn’t, couldn’t. Did it make him a bad soldier to hope that Gaz and Price failed to disarm the bomb? If it blew it would remove the choices of moving forward or laying down to die next to him. These thoughts linger below. All he can concentrate on is that Johnny needs to move.

Johnny. Johnny, wake up. Johnny, you can’t stay there; we need to go.

They are counting. Fuck. It didn’t blow. Tears peek over the edge of Simon’s lashes, soaking the fabric.

The man, body, below the weight of his hand should be moving. Johnny never stayed still; face shifting, voice humming, toe-tapping, his presence always found in the shift of the air around him.

The space between them grew as Price called in the bomb being disarmed, and one KIA. Every breath Simon forced up and out his windpipe took him further from the one person who had wormed beneath his mask and into his heart.

He would kill and die for his team. He would have nuked the moon for Johnny.

Simon offered to go with John to deliver the news to Johnny’s family. He didn’t want to be anywhere near Captain John Price at the moment. There existed in Simon a deep well of anger that sometimes blamed him for Johnny’s death. That blame flowed from Simon’s shoulders to Price’s to Makarov’s and sometimes blanketed all three in its sour scent.

Somewhere in his soul sickness, he knew he would take comfort in the sister’s weeping. Simon thought Johnny had one sister but the sheer number of them spoke to the Catholic birth control his parents had used.

The oldest, Aila, held the paperwork to her chest, a trapdoor to the shared pain choking through the room. She sniffed, eyes distant before she settled them on Simon.

“He talked about you, Lieutenant.”

Simon hadn’t introduced himself, looming behind his captain as a steward of pain.

“He put in his will that if he died in service that you were to be given his ashes. Our mum wanted him buried with her, but the plot is full. A couple of our aunts and uncles went after Mum and we haven’t been able to buy another one yet.” Aila wiped at the tears that dripped off her chin in the small sitting room where John and Simon stood. “All I ask is a scoop of his ashes to bury at her headstone to keep my promise, but then…”

The moment stretched as Aila, eyes as blue as the sky before a storm, so similar to Johnny’s fought to focus past the welling of tears.

“Do what would be best for him and for you. His team was as much his family as we are, were.”

Price sniffed once, hard and Simon’s gloves creaked with the pressure of holding back his own tears. They both nodded and turned to leave the ladies left of the MacTavish clan to their wake preparations.

Aila touched Simon’s elbow before he ducked below the frame of the door.

“For what it’s worth he talked about you a lot. Said to give you all his sketchbooks, said you would appreciate what you found there. Thank you, for keeping him safe as long as you did.”

“Jesus Ghost, your guardian angel must be working overtime to get you out of those hairy situations time and again with only scratches,” Farah patted him on the shoulder as she passed him walking down the ramp of the plane.

I wish they wouldn’t.

He wasn’t suicidal. After Johnny’s blood colored his nightmares Simon had started drinking off jobs to cope and being reckless on them. But he didn’t dream of harming himself or drinking to the point where he turned into his father. He had no plans to end his pain, only a fleeting hope that the ground would swallow him whole and deliver him to the man he yearned for.

Simon limped from the plane, back stiff as he aimed his body to the armory to return his guns. Someone must have called his captain because Price blew into the hanger with all the downward force of a helicopter touching down.

“Simon.”

His name falling from John’s lips hit like a stray spark finding a burrow of nesting material, kindling to his rage. He kept limping forward.

The hand landed on his shoulder with a harsh ‘lieutenant’.

Simon turned, brushing the attempt at connection away with a shake of his head.

“No.”

“You don’t get to argue. This is an order, follow me to medical or I will be writing you up.” John’s eyes were ice chip blue, cold and sharp.

The lines blurred sometimes of when they were teammates, friends, or when John felt it necessary to pull rank. This line stood in sharp contrast— denials would not be tolerated.

John did not lead, bracing doorways as he cleared hallways like he might in buildings they cleared together before. No, John walked at Simon’s elbow, the hobbling gait not deterring him.

They let the footfalls fill the chilled air between them. Simon burned in his soul, the sour hate fixed firmly on John. A study of contrasts they entered medical.

Doc took one look at Simon before directing him to drop trou and lay on the table.

“I know you SAS folks make the big bucks because you can survive anything beyond brain death but damn, don’t any of you practice field medicine?” She huffed as she prodded in and around the wound before sighing. “Stay there, I’ve got to go get some supplies.”

The doctor left with nothing more than a swish of the curtain behind her.

John reclined in one of the hard chairs that came standard in any office inhabited by medical for too long. Arms folded across his chest, muscles bunched against the fabric. His mustache bristled as his lips pursed, eyes pointed at the floor.

“I know you blame me for his death.”

When Simon had been small he wished that he could disappear with Tommy into the darkness between his thin blanket and the flimsy mattress. It never worked. That desire crept up his side now, starting somewhere around his knee and settling in his throat, choking him.

“I blame myself too,” John continued, unaware of Simon the six-year-old watching him from the grown man’s eyes. “I expect John to deliver me to hell for my failure. Until then I need you with me. If you can’t do that I will submit paperwork to transfer you to another unit.”

Silence scented the air like smoke, cloying and acrid.

“I blame us both,” Simon whispered to miasma.

John’s eyes snapped up, tears brightening the shades of his irises.

“You with me then son?”

For the lack of years that separated them, John had been a better father to him than any other man. Settling an elbow over his nose to hide his own tears Simon answered, a covenant binding him to the godless wars he waged.

Weeks passed. Slowing down his alcohol consumption Simon fought the mattress below him as if he found the correct spinal alignment his mind could slip into rest.

He dreamed of Johnny that night when he finally succumbed to the yawning chasm that stretched between them. A blessing laced in grief, anthrax to his healing.

“Live a long life for me, Simon. Keep me waiting until white has stolen all the color from your hair.”

The impression of Johnny’s lips on his and words in his accent, sad and pleading, rose to the surface as Simon’s lids lifted.

Heaving sobs took him to a fetal state, knees tucked as close as his body would allow. He sobbed for eternities, succumbing to dreamlessness when his energy flagged and failed.

Waking weary Simon scrubbed the salt from his face.

“You’ve asked too hard a thing from me, Johnny,” he whispered to the room even knowing that he lost love couldn’t hear him.

If he jumped a tad harder from the plane, waited an extra second to deploy his chute, or stepped from the shadows a breath too early no one who could piece it together saw him do it.

The sucking wound in his chest, a quagmire of grief, would hide him if he paused longer than three blinks. Simon wondered if he buried his grief in a bog if a thousand years from now some farmer would find it, mummified in the peat they harvested for warmth.

Johnny colored every thought, fingers caressed over every joke before it breached his lips. Simon found himself drawn to the sketchbooks time and again—finding himself tucked in every crevice.

Shades of charcoal and smudges that still sat ridged with Johnny’s fingerprints captured Simon, ghost mask on, as someone ethereal. Gaz, Price, Laswell, Nikolai, the random woman who had given them shelter as they waited for exfil among her goats, all appeared in various places. Only Simon, smile puckering up under his mask, eyes staring deeper than the soul, scarred hands he had to remove his gloves to confirm as his, appeared on every page.

He wondered, staring at himself through Johnny’s eyes, if love had been possible. Simon held back, so deeply, desperately afraid to open up and watch the whole of him ebb away; nothing more than a tributary reaching the sea.

His breath warmed the air beyond his mask; a small puff of frozen particles marking him as living. The mountain stretched up before him, they needed to clear it of the enemy and then remove all traces of the lab that was producing a substance that would wipe out half the population.

Budget cuts meant they had to split up. Simon wondered why budget cuts only seemed to affect them and never the ship budget.

The rifle strapped to his chest bumped against him with every step. He was ready to grab and use it, but something sinister covered the mountain face like fog. His instincts screamed that this place demanded silence, and the explosion of a bullet being fired would mark him for death.

As much as he still longed for Johnny, Simon wouldn’t knowingly take that risk.

The dry snow below his boots hissed with each step, none of the satisfying crunch of wet snow that would mark his passage clearer. From the left, a man in white camo stepped from the boughs tugging his zipper into place. He caught this one in the neck with a blade, red blood steaming as it hit the snow.

Knowing there would be no use in trying to hide the loss Simon moved on. Three more soldiers fell to his skills. He continued on.

The only warning of his demise came too late.

A sharp stabbing pain split between the ribs that curled around his back.

He went down, accepting death with the relief of Atlas dooming the earth to smother with him.

The snow stole away Simon’s gasps.

“You were supposed to live!”

A voice he hadn’t heard in far too long washed over him, baptizing his wounds in a healing balm. It didn’t matter that Johnny roared at him, Simon could weep for the harsh accent in his ears.

Wrenched from his body Simon stumbled to his feet, Johnny continued to roar at him.

“How could you not check that he was dead?!”

Johnny flung his soul? It couldn’t be his body because Simon stared at the back of his head and the snow absorbing his lifeblood as it soaked the hungry mountain dirt below him. Simon’s back hit a tree; no snow fell from the branches to cover him.

“I needed you to live Simon! If you lived then my death wasn’t the reason you got careless.”

Johnny swung, fist connecting with Simon’s jaw. As Simon fell he noted the pain radiating from his face, but couldn’t drag his eyes away from the man stomping to him, on him, like an embodiment of the wrath of god. His hand drifted without thought to the place where he last felt his love.

Simon didn’t flinch when Johnny slammed a boot into his breastbone, breathing around the pressure. Johnny’s body started shaking, sobs wracking through him. He fell, knees around Simon’s waist— Simon felt more real than he had since Makarov had stolen everything from him.

“Why Simon? Why?”

“I missed you, Johnny.”

Reaching up Simon ran his hand along Johnny’s face, stubble catching on the scars on his palms. Never in life had Simon taken the opportunity to reach for love, always fearing it would be stolen from him.

Death could not steal his peace now.

Johnny crashed into him, sobs tearing new holes in Simon’s soul even as he wept as well. Rubbing Johnny’s back they wept until all the pain that had built up between them had been washed away in the flood of tears.

“I didn’t want you to die, Simon. I wanted to guard you from this side until you were old and your joints ached with the weather.” Johnny’s broken whisper pressed against Simon’s neck.

Moving his hand from Johnny’s back to his neck Simon placed light pressure, an invitation to sit up.

Blotchy red skin marked the depth of Johnny’s emotions when he rose.

“I am old Johnny, and my joints already ache with the weather.” He gave a watery smile as he continued, “I don’t know where we go from here but I know I would suffer in hell a coward if I didn’t tell you that I love you. I have loved you for longer than I think I realized.”

Johnny’s face crumpled and Simon’s heart shook, worried that he might not feel the same. Johnny slapped his hands onto Simon’s shoulders, shaking him viciously.

“Bastard, we could have been happy! I never knew! I loved you but held it back for fear of losing you!”

Simon took the abuse, letting himself be the shore Johnny’s emotions beat against. He deserved it, the anger.

When Johnny lifted his hand from Simon’s shoulders to sob into his hands Simon settled hands on his love’s thighs, rubbing soothing circles into the expanse of them.

“Do you still love me?” Simon’s voice broke on do, but he forced the words out anyway.

Johnny’s hands whipped away from his face.

“What kind of fucking question is that Si? I was your guardian angel. I missed seeing my mum to keep you safe, I wouldn’t have done that if I didn’t love you.”

Simon sat up, ignoring the angry words still being spat at him. When he sat nose to nose Simon snaked one hand up to the back of Johnny’s head and the other around his waist. He cut off the rant, pressing their lips together.

They kissed for a long time, exploring the fit of their mouths and bodies against the other.

When Simon pulled back he whispered to the half-lidded gaze he found.

“Whether it be hell, high water, or heaven that comes, I’m not letting you go without me this time.”

Johnny laughed, fingers diving into Simon’s hair.

“We have the skill to kill god if the fucker says we can’t stay together. I’m never leaving you again Simon.”

Sometimes, peace finding the dead is only found in death.

[itspileofgoodthings]

remember when you hit the brakes too soon! twenty stitches in a hospital room! when you started crying baby I did too! but when the sun came up I was looking at you!

[drivemysoul]

out of the woods is so titania and oberon coded. can anyone hear me.

[kbwrites]

Heated Waters

synopsis: being married is hard, being married without seeing each other is even harder.

⚝ content: Hiromi Higuruma x F! Reader, nsfw, bathtub sex, fingering, Hiromi neglects his wife, but boy does he make up for it

⚝ wc: 1.9k

“Yeah we do it pretty much every day.”

Satoru said, taking a leisurely sip of his water. His pale face alight with mischief, a shit-eating grin across his lips. His three coworkers stared at him in (jealousy) disbelief.

Suguru was the first to break the silence, wanting to save face “Everyday is a bit much, isn’t it, Satoru?”

Satoru chuckled, his blue eyes glinting with amusement as he watched his friend squirm. "What about you guys? How often do our married friends get it in?" His gaze flickered to Nanami, who cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses, his eyes fixed on the steam rising from his coffee cup.

“Twice a week, I suppose…”

Satoru's smile widened, clearly entertained by the responses he was drawing out. He then turned his attention to the oldest among them, Hiromi Higuruma, who was carefully straightening his tie, a subtle attempt to avoid eye contact.

“What about you, Higuruma?”

“Your wife, (Y/N) is a little younger than you, right? C’mon Higuruma-San…She a total freak?” Satoru teased.

Hiromi's jaw tightened, a flicker of irritation crossing his features as his grip on his coffee cup tightened. He took a slow, measured breath, his voice strained but controlled when he finally spoke.

“Please don’t talk about my wife like that.”

But Satoru, ever the instigator, didn’t back down. “It’s just us guys riiggght? And I can’t lie Higuruma, you’re one lucky guy. (Y/N) is a catch.”

Nanami nodded in agreement, as did Suguru, though both seemed to sense the discomfort growing in Hiromi. The older man could only sigh, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the conversation.

It was true—you were everything he could have ever wanted in a partner. Beautiful, intelligent, kind-hearted—his perfect match. If heaven existed, Hiromi was certain you’d be the only one worthy of it.

But long nights in the office, and early mornings preparing for court would take a toll on any relationship. The truth was… Hiromi hadn’t touched you in over a month. By the time he came home—you were fast asleep, and weekends were spent running the mountain of errands you couldn’t get to during the week. You loved each other of course, but it was hard. A month without feeling the warmth of your husband's hands all over your skin was starting to weigh heavily on both of you.

“You don’t have to answer Higuruma-san..” Nanami chimed in, sensing his elder colleague’s discomfort.

“Over a month.” Hiromi exhaled, the truth slipping out before he could stop it.

The room fell silent, the weight of his words sinking in.

“WHAT?” Gojo audibly gasps. “Your wife looks like THAT and you haven’t f—”

Suguru swiftly cut him off with a well-placed elbow to the chest. “Satoru… leave Higuruma alone.” The long-haired male warns. “Still, that is surprising.”

“I know I know..” Higuruma pinches his bridge. He wanted nothing more than to have his wife under him… on top of him. But the endless stream of work kept him trapped in a cycle of exhaustion. “I’ve been so busy I can’t even remember the last time I actually spoke to her properly.”

Suguru offered an apologetic smile. “Sounds like you need a break.”

“Sounds like you need some puss—” Nanami quickly elbowed Satoru in the chest before he could finish his sentence.

Hiromi shook his head, letting out a dry chuckle as he ran a hand through his dark locks, clearly frustrated with himself. “I appreciate your concern, guys, but I don’t see how I can take a break right now. I have so much work to do, and I’m the only one who knows how to handle all of it.”

“Higuruma-San. Satoru will take care of the paperwork for you.” Nanami suggested with a deadpan expression.

“HUH?” Satoru blurted out, clearly caught off guard by the sudden assignment.

“Yeah,” Nanami continued, ignoring Satoru’s protest. “It’s not like he actually does any work around here anyway.”

Suguru smirked, nodding in agreement. “That’s true. You might as well make yourself useful, Satoru.”

Before Hiromi could protest, the trio moved in unison—Suguru grabbing Hiromi’s briefcase, Nanami steering him toward the door, and Satoru sighing dramatically as he resigned himself to the task.

“Are… are you boys sure about this? I don’t want to burden you–”

“Nonsense! Go home and take care of your wife!”

Hiromi placed his briefcase by the door, his tie feeling suddenly too tight around his neck. He loosened it with a sigh, running a hand through his hair as he glanced around. The familiar scent of home greeted him. It was comforting yet bittersweet, a reminder of all the moments he had missed. The living room was tidy, the soft hum of the dishwasher running in the kitchen. You had clearly been busy, taking care of the house as you always did, even when he wasn’t around.

“Honey?” Hiromi calls out to you, his voice echoing slightly in the stillness.

Frowning, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair before making his way down the hall. As he approached the bathroom, he noticed a faint light seeping out from under the door, accompanied by the sound of water gently lapping against the tub.

He hesitated for a moment, then slowly opened the door.

The sight that greeted him made his breath catch in his throat. There you were, reclining in the bathtub, your eyes closed, head resting on the edge as steam rose around you. The soft glow of candles illuminated the room, casting a warm, serene light over your features.

You looked so peaceful, so beautiful—that it almost hurt to look at you. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly as he took in the sight, but the guilt and longing only deepened. How long had it been since he’d taken the time to appreciate you like this? Since he’d been able to just… be with you?

You opened your eyes, gaze meeting your husband as he leaned against the door frame.

“Hiromi?” you murmured, your voice soft, almost questioning, as if unsure whether he was really there or just a figment of your imagination.

“Hey Honey…” his voice equally soft, as he took a tentative step closer. The warmth of the room seemed to wrap around him, melting away some of the day’s stress.

“You’re home early.” You muse, looking at him as you rested your arms on the tub. He doesn’t respond, just walks towards you with purposeful steps.

Hiromi stares down at you with half-lidded eyes.“The guys decided I need a break.” He paused, his breath hitching slightly as he continued, “Can I join you?” A playful smirk tugged at the corner of your lips.

“Only if you take off your clothes this time.”

A dry chuckle escaped his lips as he unbuttons his dress shirt, letting each article of clothing fall to the tile floor. As he finally sheds his boxers before settling behind you. You exhaled softly, the tension you’d been holding onto for weeks dissipating as you sank into your husband’s embrace.

Hiromi didn’t waste a moment, his lips finding the sensitive skin of your neck, placing lazy, lingering kisses along the curve where your shoulder met your throat. His breath was warm against your skin, his kisses slow and unhurried, as if savoring every second, every inch of you.

His hands weren’t idle either, tracing gentle patterns along your stomach, moving upwards to cup your breasts with a tenderness that made your breath hitch. He nipped lightly at your earlobe, his voice a husky murmur, “I’ve missed you… more than you know.”

“Missed you too ‘Romi..” Your voice trembling as the almost foreign heat began to pool in your core.

Deft fingers teased your nipples, rolling and pinching—eliciting a soft moan from your lips as your body arched into his touch. Your hand reached back, tangling in his dark locks, pulling him closer as his lips traveled down to your shoulder, his other hand snaking under the water to your aching cunt.

“ahhhh… s-shitt..” You cry out as Hiromi’s fingers slowly circle your swollen bud. His touch light, teasing.

“Thirty-two days… I’m so sorry m’love.” He mumbles into your shoulder as he slips a slender digit into your entrance. Your walls flutter immediately around the intrusion, as he gently pumped into you.

He adds another finger, curling up to the spot he had neglected all those weeks. He extended his thumb to rub your clit. You arch your back against him, feeling his cock twitch against your ass.

“Hiro…” you moan, reaching behind for him, but he bites down lightly on your shoulder.

“Not yet, pretty girl, want you t’cum first okay?”

He whispers as he feels your gummy walls clench around him.

He speeds up his ministrations, digits stuffing your cunt as your pussy throbs and squelches. Your whimpers echo around the tiled walls, water lapping around your bodies.

You feel the pressure building as each thrust of his long fingers brush against your g-spot.

“g-gonna cum!”

“Cum f’me sweetheart please—god… need it so bad.” Hiromi mumbles as he pumps even faster.

“a-ahh!” you cry as you reach your high, walls clenching as you cum on your husband’s hand. He removes his fingers from you, moving to gently circle your clit as you come down from your orgasm.

You both stay there for a moment, your heavy breathing the only sound occupying the space, mingling with the gentle slosh of water against the porcelain tub. Hiromi’s arms wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you closer.

Slowly, he lifted you, the warm water swirling around you both as he maneuvered you to face him, settling you on his lap. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, your knees pressing against the cool sides of the tub.

You straddled Hiromi, your bodies now fully aligned, chest to chest. Your husband's dark, half-lidded eyes bore into yours, his expression a mixture of raw need and unspoken tenderness. He let his hands rest on your waist for a moment, thumbs tracing gentle circles against your damp skin as he took in the sight of you.

“I don’t know how I’ve stayed away from you for so long…” his voice breaking slightly as if the admission pained him.

Your breath hitched as you shifted slightly in his lap, feeling the tension between you intensify. Hiromi’s hands slid up your sides, his touch deliberate and slow, leaving a trail of heat in their wake as his lips finally found yours. The kiss was deep, full of hunger that had been simmering between you both for far too long.

His grip on your waist tightened as he deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a dance that left you dizzy with need.

Breaking the kiss, Hiromi leaned his forehead against yours, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

“I won’t make that mistake again.”

Without a word, he rose from the tub, lifting you effortlessly into his arms. Water cascaded down your bodies, pooling at your feet as he carried you toward the bedroom, his lips trailing wet kisses down the side of your neck.

He laid you gently onto the bed, your back sinking into the soft silken sheets, but Hiromi didn’t waste any time. His gaze darkening as he climbed over you, his body hovering just above yours, his eyes drinking you in like a man starved.

“I’m going to make up for every second I’ve missed.”

[misaamoure]

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭:

𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝…!

⋅ ˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬:

“Yes,” Sylus threw his head back, exposing his adam’s apple. “Just like that.”

Things had gotten a little heated on the couch in the living room.

You two had been watching this old ass movie tied to a soundtrack in Sylus’s vinyl collection as a pastime, and had clearly gotten distracted.

He had been very periodic and methodical with his caresses and touched, before finally leaning over and whispering in your ear, “instead of watching a movie, why don’t we make one?”

Stupid. How predictable.

Sylus was beyond hot though, so you let it slide.

Turning away for a moment to roll your eyes, you swing your leg over his lap to straddle him.

And that’s how you two ended up here.

You’d never had a makeout session so intense.

You felt his hands all over you… you felt like you were on fire.

You were also more than positive that your wetness had leaked all the way through your panties and pants.

“Oh!”

Your train of thought was interrupted when Sylus thrusted right up into you.

It felt so good… you could feel his hard dick pressing right into your clit.

“You shouldn’t give away what you like so easily, sweetie,” He gave one last squeeze to your tits before moving his hands down to grip your waist. “You’re giving me such a large advantage.”

Jesus Christ he talks too damn much.

You didn’t particularly feel like arguing with him today. Sure, it could be fun, but what you really wanted was to shut him up.

Deciding to take the initiative, you repositioned yourself to sit right on his hard dick, and started to roll your hips back and forth.

Sylus inhaled sharply, something you didn’t miss.

Grinding on him slowly and sensually, you feel his hands twitch on your waist as you kissed down his jawline to give his neck a sharp bite.

The sound of Sylus’s heavy breathing and moaning only egged you on further.

“Fuck, kitten,” He shut his eyes tightly, throwing his head back. “Wait…”

Sylus was going fucking crazy.

Why did it feel so good? It was just a little kissing and grinding.

He suddenly felt like a horny teenager all over again.

But it felt so fucking good… you felt so fucking good. Rarely did you ever have the chance to get on top like this.

Maybe he should let you do it more often.

It was so out of character for him, to be moaning and panting like this. His head was a mess.

His boxers were a mess too, all the precum he had been leaking.

The electrifying feeling of your wet cunt dragging over his cock was driving him over the edge quicker than he’d like to admit.

“Wait, please,” Sylus felt fucking neurotic, begging like this. “Y/N… wait…”

It wasn’t long after that Sylus felt himself cum in his pants. Hard.

Holding you tightly by the waist and panting up a storm.

Oh my god… there’s no way he…?

You quickly sat up on your knees, lifting yourself off of his lap to see with your own two eyes.

And he did! There was an unmistakable wet spot right where his dick was.

Fuck… it was so erotic.

𝐙𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞:

Unintentional dry spells. It was common between you and Zayne.

He was always busy at the hospital and you were constantly running around to kick wanderer ass.

But you two always made that lost time up.

In fact; you can say with full confidence that you preferred the sex after the build up.

There was a particular intensity that came with it that simply couldn’t be replicated.

Nobody else saw Zayne with this level of passion but you.

It was his day off and he had invited you over.

While you two had been once sitting on his couch, things had began to get heated after Zayne initiated a kiss with you, stating how much he missed you.

It was rare for him to verbalize exactly what he felt so boldly.

Oh he was so sweet. The sweetest man you’d ever met.

Cut to you being on top of him with him laying on the couch below you.

You don’t even remember when you got on top of him. Well… not that it mattered.

Not when he was making you feel this good. He was the only thing on your mind at the moment.

“Y/N… please,” You felt his grip on your waist tighten as he squeezed his eyes shut. “Wait…”

Hearing him beg and plead with you was making you unbelievably wet.

You didn’t want to stop. You couldn’t stop. It was too good. And you’d been waiting for him for hours.

With every pass of Zayne’s hard cock over your clothed clit you became more and more aggressive.

“I’m not going to last like this,” He said breathlessly. “Please, my love, enough…!”

Oh my god was it your birthday?

Making Zayne cum in his pants sounded maddening.

He was under you losing his mind.

Zayne could feel how wet you were through all the layers you two were wearing.

The delicious friction of how perfectly you were grinding on him was bringing him to his climax all too quickly.

“Y/N… I’m-”

Digging his fingers into your hips, Zayne came all into his boxers.

Shit… you drove him crazy.

[suguann]

Ex-husband!Gojo who doesn’t understand that the parents (mostly the moms who try to hide behind their giant sunglasses) at Mio’s soccer games talk, and he chooses today to pull you into his lap. Several sideways glances cast your way at how cozy you both must look as you watch your four-year-old daughter run in the wrong direction across the field because she got distracted by a butterfly.

He doesn’t hear what they talk about—aren’t they divorced? I’ve never seen anyone divorced act like that—or (worse) when they try to be subtle about their probing into Satoru’s dating life while you stand there with a stilted smile plastered onto your face. 

(More than likely, he’s listened to every word and doesn’t give it the same amount of thought or care as you do.)

“Gojo,” you hiss, trying to move off his lap to no avail. “I have my own chair.”

“Can you still call me that if it’s your name too?”

A huff. “Go bother somebody else—”

“Shh,” he tells you, tugging you further against his chest. “You’re missing the game. Mio’s finally found her way back onto the field again.”

“But everyone’s staring at us.” You catch the eye of a mother tearing into a pack of fruit snacks.

“So? Let them stare.”

Everyone starts cheering, and you both watch Mio chase the ball down the field, her little body ducking between the taller kids. 

“That’s my girl!” Gojo shouts over the other parents.    

And then Mio kicks the ball into— 

The wrong goal.

“Maybe we should have let her join t-ball,” you whisper, though you both clap as your daughter starts doing not-quite cartwheels in the middle of the field.

Ex-husband!Gojo who still does work around the house every Friday, and to your dismay, shirtless now that the weather is warmer.

The plate in your hands has a few scuffs, half of a cartoon character’s face scrubbed off to oblivion that Mio will have something to say about later. Doing everything to stop from staring out into the yard where he’s mowing the lawn because the window is right there, above the sink, to tempt you.

It’s difficult when his chest glistens with sweat from the early-summer heat and how those stupid gray cotton shorts (that you know he picked out with the sole purpose of torturing you) sit dangerously low on his hips— 

He looks towards the kitchen window, a crooked smile stretching across his lips. The blood rushing to your brain, that must be what makes you give a sudsy wave and cause heat to creep into your middle.

Ex-husband!Gojo who strolls into your room while you’re putting away laundry one afternoon, and unsurprisingly shirtless as he crowds you against the dresser. Front to back. His mouth at your ear.

That steady resolve you pride yourself in crumbles at your feet, and you swallow the tiny, helpless sound working its way up your throat. A slippery thing that slips out. “Satoru…”

“You know, these little shorts were always my favorite,” he tells you, his fingers playing with the elastic waistband.

“Were they?”

“Don’t you remember? Couldn’t get them out of the way fast enough.”

Your mouth is dry, something playing in a loop in the back of your brain. Early morning, breakfast cooling on the stove, crumbs stuck to your cheek, these shorts dangling off the leg propped up on the counter—

“Where’s Mio?”

A kiss to your nape, a knowing smile. “Taking a nap.”

Ex-husband!Gojo who works your shorts and underwear off your legs before pulling you to the edge of the bed. 

“Satoru, we—we can’t keep doing this—”

Your words trail off into a moan when he slaps your clit with the leaky tip of his cock, and wet sounds echo in the room.

“Yeah? Go on, baby,” he tells you, slowly splitting you open, stuffing you full, two puzzle pieces slotting perfectly into place like it should be (how it’s always been). “Tell me some more why we can’t keep doing this.” 

You can’t, not with how he’s filling you up in the way only he knows how. Not when he hooks two thick fingers into your mouth because you’re getting too loud, pinning you against the bed with your cheek buried into your pillow, every sound choking into nothing.

You wriggle underneath him, fingers clawing at the comforter and your back arching.

“Christ, look at you,” he growls, leaning over you, teeth bared. “Fucking look at you. You needed this, didn’t you?”

Ex-husband!Gojo who presses what leaks out back inside you with his thumb after he pulls out, wet and sticky circles between your legs until you fall apart again with a soft cry. His thumb is there again, at your entrance, pushing and stopping like a plug, muttering something under his breath that sounds like, “Can’t waste it.” 

And quieter, “Maybe it’ll take.”

(Who knows?

Maybe it will. Worse things have happened.)

Ex-husband!Gojo who stays for dinner for the fourth time that week, and none of the reasons have been because Mio asked if he could. It’s more about the fact that you’ve enjoyed how whole your family feels again, that you can pretend for a moment this is what you do every night.

(How it was probably always going to come back to this.) 

That your wedding ring doesn’t sit in the back of your sock drawer, and his isn’t tucked away in his wallet. That you don’t feel guilty when you think about saying I love you or wishing he’d stay longer—

“Daddy, you gonna lose,” Mio tells Satoru as Mario Kart appears on the screen.

“We’ll see,” he laughs, tugging on one of her pigtails until she’s giggling and swatting his hand away.

You lean back against the couch, watching them with a small smile you share with Satoru over your daughter’s head.

[jenniferhills]

WHEN THE SUN CAME UP I WAS LOOKIN AT YOU

[evie-sturns]

first date - Matt Sturniolo

summary: after a perfect first date with matt, the last thing you expected is for him to make such a big move after he drives you home, you definitely aren't complaining after though,

contains: fluff, an intense makeout session, shy!matt (to an extent) swearing.

------------------------------------------------------------

tonight had just been perfect,

i met matt at a party last week, and i couldn’t say no to his somewhat amusingly awkward self as he asked for my number.

he was just my type, his loose brown waves draped over his forehead, his earrings catching the light from the party and sparkling, and his shy demeanour.

he messaged me a day ago, asking if i wanted to go out for dinner with him, which i obviously agreed to.

10:21pm

i shivered in the cool air of the night, smiling up at matt as he ordered you both an ice-cream cone,

“you cold?” matt asks softly, i nod as i sink my top teeth into my bottom lip as a weak attempt to stop the chattering of my teeth.

“a little bit,” i laugh,

matt instantly takes off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders,

“why didn’t you bring a coat? it’s like the middle of december.” he scoffs, nudging my elbow slightly.

“shuuush, i didn’t know you’d take me out for icecream at like- midnight!” i throw my hands up defensively,

“righhttt.” he grins down at me.

-

the night was coming to a close as you jumped into the passenger seat of matt’s car, clutching an icecream cone in your hand as you fiddled with the seatbelt.

“you okay?” he asks, starting up the car.

“yeah- i’m still cold though.” i roll my eyes playfully, matt instantly reaches out and fiddles with the heating, cranking it up.

“wait what the fuck- since when did i have the option to have heated seats!” he exclaims, his jaw slack as he pushes the button.

“ew matt! my butts warm now.” i groan, instantly turning off the button.

matt laughs loudly as he pulls out of the parking lot, staring the drive home.

i look over at him a couple times, his ringed fingers gripping the steering wheel catching my eye.

i’m definitely staring now.

his hands were perfect, he was perfect. i genuinely did not catch one wrong thing about him from the date.

he was shy, but the right amount of shy, i could tell he was starting to get more comfortable around me, which i liked.

matt pulls onto the highway, the car roaring as he accelerates.

i continue to work at my icecream cone, trying to stop the massive staring problem i’ve picked up.

matt’s playlist plays through the car, his knee bobbing up and down as he listens to it.

“you live down here right?” matt asks, pulling off the highway into a small neighbourhood.

“you remembered!” i grin,

“of course i did.” he speaks back, his tone light hearted.

“i’m just down here.” i say, pointing to a street sign.

he pulls into the street, his car slowing down as he scans the row of houses.

he parks the car in front of my house. swallowing lightly as he turns off the car.

“thank you- so much for tonight matt.” i say, my tongue darting out to lick my lips,

“yeah- yeah no problem..” he whispers,

“we should do it again soon.” i speak, matt nods.

“i’ll text you, okay?” he says, a nervous smile on his face.

“okay- yeah.” i grin, a undeniable tension building in the car…

i grab my purse and reach for the door, but matt clears his throat.

i look over my shoulder at him, he looks nervous as shit.

he reaches up and cups my jaw, the cold metal of his rings pressing against my flushed cheek.

he leans over the centre console and presses a kiss to my lips.

he pulls away pretty quickly, knowing this is the first date and we shouldn’t do any more… right?

but for some reason, the feeling of his lips on mine linger.

i stare at his lips, not moving.

i need more.

i know i’m going to have to initiate something, knowing he’s to shy to make a lot of moves.

“can- can we do that again?” i speak, my voice hoarse as i break the silence.

he nods instantly, his hands clenching by his sides.

i lean back over the centre console, grabbing his chin as i press my lips to his again.

my face heats up instantly, pure ecstasy flooding through my body.

he deepens the kiss, his head tilting to the side as our noses brush.

goosebumps cover my arms as his tongue slides over my lip, practically begging for entry.

i don’t know what comes over me, but in a matter of seconds i’m climbing over the seats,

i sit down on matt’s lap, straddling him as i break the kiss.

he stares up at me, his eyes wide and full of need.

he grabs the back of my head, instantly reconnecting our lips.

“fuck..” he whimpers against my lips,

i feel a familiar heat growing between my thighs, my skirt riding up my legs as i practically devour him with my lips.

he just tastes so, so good.

his hands paw at my waist, grabbing the fabric of my thin shirt as he holds me.

i subconsciously rock my hips against his thigh.

he gasps against my lips as i grind against his clothed thigh.

“oh my god..” i whisper against his lips as i pathetically rub myself against his leg.

i feel myself getting too into it, not wanting to rush him on the first date.

i break the kiss, the windows now foggy.

he looks up at me with pure desperation.

god he looks hot.

his lips are smeared with my red lipstick, the pigment messily coating his chin. his eyes are narrow and hungry, and his hands are gripping my waist, tight.

i reach up and wipe his lips, trying to remove the lipstick stains.

“i’ll- i’ll uh- okay- um-“ matt stammers,

“i’ll- i’ll text you.” he croaks out, his hands sinking into my waist.

“okay- okay.” i breathe,

i quickly crawl back over the centre console and grab my purse.

i look back at matt over my shoulder, his lips are puffy and red.

his hair is dishevelled, and as my eyes travel down his body.

he is most definitely hard.

i grin at him before swinging open the car door,

“b-bye- bye!” he calls out shakily,

“bye matt-!” i smile as i step out onto the footpath, shutting the car door behind me.

i jog up to my house, my heels clicking on the driveway.

i swing open my front door and suck in a well needed deep breath.

i walk over to my couch, and before i even have the time to sit down my phone vibrates frantically in my pocket.

5 new messages from - Matt

my eyes scan over the messages, which read.

“come back to the car��

“i seriously need you right now this isn’t funny”

“please”

“i’m still parked outside please”

“i’ll literally do anything.”

and before i know it, i’m rushing for my front door and running down the driveway towards matt’s car.

——-

@sturnsdoll @obvisturns @stupid4sturniolo @meerkatzthings @witchofthehour @rosalierenee43 @gabrielle-brun1 @ilovemymannnnnnnn @sturnioloxlver @buckys-goodgirl @sturniol0s @ilovemymannnnnnn n @chr1sgirl4life @luanetaluenta @sturnsssbow w @mattfangirl girl @luvr4miya @luvtay111 @lolasturniolo @freshloveforthefit @ruedowney @lovingchrissposts @333michelle e @h3arts4harry @jamiesturniolo o @chrisstopherfilmed @ @daddyslilchickenfingers2 @ev3rgreenxtrees @certifiednatelover er @solarsturniolo larsturniolo lo @mattsenthusiast t @yomamaslays4lyfe @peachmels @alinaa131 @pepsiluvr0209 @creamoncreamoncream2 @szobofc @mattscoquette e @blahbell668 @sturniolo04 @bitchydragonparadise @sturni0l0tripletzz @ratatioulle @sturnsfav @mattsonlybitch @justalittle47 @sunsetsturniolos @sturniolo04 @similartokayyz @sturnsintrouble @ilovemattsturn @raysmayhem-72 @75sturn @sturniol0s @secret-sturniolo @hfkeclnendmwodne @sturniolosass @gxldenlush @stonermattsgf @101saroona a @beccaluvschris @oliviasturniolo21 1 @imwetforyourmom @tylerstacobell @sunsetsturniolos @aliceloveschris @jayz4dayz 4 @sassysturniolo2008 @nyktoxs-lover r @nathandoesgf @starsturns234 @chrissturnsss s @joemamaaa42069 @sturnthepot @zayyluvz @realuvrrr @livialifesblog @sturnioloblogs @riowritesitall john @raysmayhem-72

[chronically-ghosted]

i'm empty without you, so come grow within me

AO3 Link | main masterlist | Joel Miller Masterlist

rating: explicit (18+)

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

word count: 9K

summary: with winter approaching, joel takes stock of what he wants and what he has in his life. he wants you, but he's not quite sure he has you, not in a way that only a life in Jackson can afford. joel's an old-fashioned guy, so he's looking for an old-fashioned love . . . if he can only remember how to do it right.

inspired by the songs 'why don't we just dance' by Josh Turner and 'the kind of love we make' by Luke Combs, this fulfills a request from @handsomehelmet for my 1k celebration (creativity struck and now i'm going to make it everyone's problem)

warnings: the nastiest thing i can possibly imagine which is romance and sincerity, some willie nelson lyrics, established situationship, no age of reader specified, body insecurity, feelings of unworthiness/shame, survivor's guilt, blatant disregard for old man knees by eating pussy on the floor, unprotected piv, a teenager bullying fully grown adult to quit being stupid.

a/n: i know everyone gets into a tizzy when Joel doesn’t name what Tess is to him in front of Bill and while there probably was a heaping amount of guilt that accompanied that omission, i wonder if it might be a bit more complicated: he simply couldn’t name one thing because she was all things to him. A friend, a lover, a guide, a support system, a protector, a partner. So he says it the best way he can: “she’s mine.”

come see what else we've done to celebrate 1K followers

By the fourth bag, all you can think about is a warm shower. 

A chance to scrub away the dirt smeared on your arms, your neck, probably your face. You’d brought your own work gloves to bag fresh dirt for the greenhouse, but the longer you work, more sprinkles of dirt find their way down the lip of your gloves. You can feel it against your palms, under your nails. The cold winter air lurks beneath the crack of the door, stifled from invading by the artificial heat provided by the generator just outside, and it stifles you too with its oppressive weight. You’re fairly sure the dirt on your forehead has turned to mud, sweat and damp earth encrusted on your dry skin. 

By the sixth, you doubt your shoulders will ever move again without popping. 

You know Joel’s already do. 

Never a particularly chatty man even in his best moods, the greenhouse had become stuffy with heat and silence, both you and Joel too lost in the work to find the energy to even fake idle chatter. But, knowing this about Joel and a certain degree yourself, silences with him were never a bad thing. That was one of the things you enjoyed most about being with him; you two could do your own things together. Many snowy days were spent with him stretched out on the couch, reading, and you working on writing your sheet music on the floor, his knee hovering over your shoulder with your back to the cushions – spent in total silence, and they are some of the fondest memories you had since coming to Jackson and falling into the third and final piece of the Miller-Williams household. 

Like with the end of the world, you weren’t sure how you got there until everything had fallen into place around you; Joel and his adoptive daughter had been just another group who were taken in by the town of Jackson . . . until they weren’t. Ellie was just another foul-mouthed kid who had seen too much and had too much taken from her . . . until she wasn’t. Joel was your occasional patrol partner and a fellow Willie Nelson fan. . . until he wasn’t.

Until that unmistakable line, one that seemed to be lost on a global scale beneath the blood and the gore and the grief, had been crossed when he asked you out for drinks and the both of you knew the evening wasn’t going to end in a nightcap. 

And then you were partners, even outside of patrol. Partners in re-enforcing a weakened part of Jackson’s outer walls. Partners in cooking, attempting to recreate an enchilada recipe Joel only vaguely remembered from a Tex-Mex hole-in-the-wall fifteen minutes from where he used to live in Austin. Partners when it’s snowing heavily outside and there’s not much to do except to read and, well . . . Joel was a fantastic partner in that.

Joel Miller was a great partner for a lot of things. He worked diligently, quickly and, unless the conversation was started by someone else, silently. 

He, in short, was not someone who was easily distracted.

Which, in combination with your own exhaustion and a desire to scrub the first layer of your skin off with a loofah, is why you feel a flare of annoyance when you look up and see him staring off into the distance. His fingers loosely grip the handle of the shovel, his palm resting over the curved point, Joel’s expression is nearly unreadable, except for the small crevice between his eyebrows. He stands, fixated on the greenhouse wall, as if watching the blurry Christmas lights from the town square, suddenly oblivious to the work you two have been doing for the past hour and a half. 

“Joel.” Nothing. “Joel!” 

You raise your hand to smack him on the leg when, without looking down, he asks:

“When was the last time I took you out?” 

“What?”

His weight shifts, holds the shovel by one hand now. You catch a sliver of frustration in those deep brown eyes as he looks at you. He wears what you and Ellie secretly refer to as his “pouty-mouth”, a classic expression when he isn’t getting his way about something but won’t draw attention to the fact that it annoys him.

“Tell me about the last date I took you on.”

You huff, standing up with a pop in your hips. Your knees are aching from kneeling on the cold winter ground and your skin fluxes between overheating under your jacket and stiffly frozen on your extremities. 

“Joel, c’mon, be serious. We’ve got three more –,”

“I am being serious.” Dumb-founded, you watch as he digs the tip of the shovel into the ground with a hollow chunk. Crosses his arms and continues to frown at you like you just suggested doing away with the Christmas holiday entirely. “We’ll get to this, but I want you to tell me right now what we did on our last date.”

You roll your eyes, humoring him. “Fine, I don’t know what crawled up your ass, but okay. On our last date, we . . . we did . . . you took me to . . .”

It’s your turn to frown. He raises a petulant eyebrow and it’s eerie how many times you’ve seen that exact expression on Ellie. 

“Okay, fine, so it’s been a while. We’ve been busy – we’ve all been busy with the winter season coming. All of Jackson has been out battening down the hatches. What does it matter if we’ve let things slide a bit?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, quiet in his Joel way. He glances out through the blurred greenhouse glass and maybe he was actually staring at the string lights hung over Jackson’s square. Normally, you didn’t mind being unable to dissect his every expression, every sigh, every carefully wielded silence, but when it came to you and his feelings about you – feelings that were always implied in those silences – you wished you had a little window, some hint, as to what rumbled on behind those earth-dark eyes. 

Joel drums his fingers on the handle of the shovel, unease rolling through his body as he shifts his weight. 

“Matters some,” he tells the ground. “With the holidays comin’ around . . . matters for Ellie – her first winter here in Jackson. Matters for Tommy, with that new baby of his . . .”

“Your nephew,” you supply as much as prod. Sometimes the only way to get an honest answer out of him was when he was just a bit pissed off and less guarded. Instead he just nods, gloved hand on his hip, thick jacket widening his already confounding broadness.

“It matters because it’s important. To me. It’s important to me.”

He meets your gaze and you’re struck full force again with that feeling like you drank too much of the Tipsy Bison’s shitty whiskey too fast. Same feeling that couldn’t be drowned even with the Tipsy Bison’s shitty whiskey when you shared a drink with him for the first time. When you managed to laugh when he bet you a whole day of stable cleaning duties that Willie Nelson and Chris Stapleton survived the apocalypse somewhere in a shack in Tennessee. Joel Miller was disarmingly funny when he wanted to be.

And even worse, disarmingly sincere.

You take his gloved hand in yours. You feel the sensation of his fingers threading through yours but not the heat you’ve grown so accustomed to. 

“Alright, then. What do you want to do about it?” You ask quietly, to the upturned collar around his neck, his green flannel peeking out from behind the zipper of his jacket. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but there’s a lot of snow on the ground so that makes our options for date night kinda limited.” You scrunch your nose at him because you like to see the light in his eyes bloom when you do.

He chuckles, a rumbling sound, and he drops his forehead against yours, fingers tightening their grip around yours. Suddenly in your throat, your heart pounds. He’s never this affectionate in public. Maybe it’s those miraculously blurred greenhouse glass walls. 

His breath smells like that peppermint toothpaste that came in last week, infused with the warming-coil smell from the greenhouse. 

“Dunno yet.” He admits. “I’ll think of somethin’.”

“No ideas yet?” You raise your eyebrows against his forehead and he grins, shaking his head.

“Not yet.” 

“Then can I make a suggestion?”

“‘Course.”

“We finish bagging this dirt, then head home for a shower. In a really sexy way, obviously.” 

He huffs, smothering a laugh, and quick as lightning he kisses you on the cheek. But in the same movement, steps away and grabs the shovel again. You don’t have time to react to the fact he just kissed you for the first time outside of the four walls of his house before he’s scooping up dirt. You drop to your knees to pick up the bag again, your legs already weak.

“We both know you’re going to pass out on the couch the second we’re home.”

Your voice is steadier than you feel, as you look up at him. His face is flushed and that worry line between his eyes is gone. 

“You got me pegged, Miller. You got me pegged.”

Two days later, he stands in the middle of his living room, hands on his hips, surveying his handiwork. All of the furniture has been pushed to the far ends of the room, up against the walls or against the staircase out in the hallway. He’s kept the overhead lights off and put the standing lamps in the corners, bathing the room in a despondent glow. He thinks, after a quarter of a century never even entertaining something like this, it might be interpreted as romantic. He hopes you’ll see it that way at least. 

He hears it now, in his head, even though she’s out in the disconnected garage, snug and warm as he could have possibly made it – you worry too much, old man. 

Ellie knows there’s something going on between you two. Hell, the entire town has cottoned onto whatever this is; you’re often seen leaving his house early in the morning, and he’s been seen on occasion strolling up to your house with flowers. It’s not new, it’s not a secret, but it is . . . it just is and that’s about as far as he’s gotten. 

He hasn’t had you over for dinner with Ellie in that very specific way that very much needs to happen, as it often does when there is a new presence added to an established dynamic – as Maria often reminds him. But that almost feels like presenting your head on a silver plate to Ellie to either sniff with disinterest or tear into – both terrifying scenarios, even though they seem unlikely. Ellie does in fact seem to like you very much, as her riding teacher and occasional greenhouse buddy. But would she continue to like you in the context of you being one half of “You and Him” as a pair? Together. As a couple . . . of people who are seeing each other, whatever that means in a world filled with the most aggressive form of fungus imaginable. 

This life in Jackson, this fragile second chance to remember and rekindle his own natural instincts, is too precious to bet on a question like that. 

So he doesn’t ask it. At least not out loud. 

That’s one of the things he likes so much about you: his silences aren’t entirely indecipherable and often are encouraged by your own. Except this silence about this particular thing doesn’t feel like one of your shared, comfortable moments and instead it’s encroaching rapidly into avoidance. 

Standing in that greenhouse and seeing the string lights over the town square reminded him of a long ago Christmas, dancing with his favorite person under a Christmas tree, and how good it made him feel. How special it made him feel. All these years later, safe in a way his body has almost forgotten, there’s an urge he has to share that feeling, to recreate it under entirely different circumstances, with someone new. Someone else. To not try and fight the smile that constantly threatens to buoy up every time he’s around you. 

It’s foreign, that feeling in his chest, but it’s not entirely alien, at least not of late. 

He knows he’s white-knuckling it because he knows firsthand how painfully quick it can all be gone. Taken away. Left and buried by a black river while the world burns.

But he’s worried he’ll crush it with how tightly he holds on. How hard he begs a silent universe for it to last just a little bit longer. 

His knees ache, his left shoulder goes tight when it rains, his body is not what it once was, but his mind is still there, still clear, and he remembers how romance used to feel, where it used to reside in his younger body, and as he stares out at the cleared room, listening to your footsteps overhead as you attempt to follow his vague instructions to “make yourself feel pretty” (because you already were to him, even covered in dirt and sawdust), he thinks this feels like the old world. An old world romance. It’s foreign, that feeling, but for the first time in a long time he doesn’t want to hold it at arm’s length.

“Joel?” You call from the top of the stairs, your voice tentative and cautious. But not cautious like you peeking around a corner to look for clickers. But cautious as in unsure, doubtful. You are a woman made up of a lot of things, with foundations unlike he’d ever seen before, but doubt is not a part of you. You never doubt him. 

“Yeah, baby?” Your nerves make him nervous and he futzes with a lampshade while waiting for you.

“Are you done down there?” 

He has to breathe slowly through the fluttering beneath his breastbone before he can answer. “Yeah, baby, all finished. You can come down now.”

“Okay . . . but you can’t laugh.” Him, laugh at you? There’s the instinct to smother the faint grin that spreads out across his mouth, but he told himself he wasn’t going to fight whatever came across his face tonight. If you see it, then you see it and he’s come to accept that. 

(Maybe even want that.)

He shakes his head, his only pair of nice boots (a thank you from a former rancher when Joel fixed his family’s heater) clicking on the hardwood floor as he stands at the bottom of the stairs. You must be hiding behind the wall because he can’t see you. 

“I’m not gonna laugh, sweetheart. Why d’ya think I’d laugh?” 

Silence faces him at the top of the stairs, and then:

“Because quite frankly I forgot my tits could look like this and I don’t know how to feel about it.” 

The snort that comes out of him is a poor attempt to muffle the chuckle. He thumbs the wood finial at the top of the bannister. 

“Can’t remember ever having any complaints before and I don’t think I’ll have ‘em now, no matter how they look.” 

“Whatever, Miller, you’re just a horn dog.” 

He rolls his eyes, fingers rubbing anxiously together at his side, as if he could tug the fluttering out of his chest. He leans on the other foot, the one with the bad knee, to adjust the slightly uncomfortable tightness in his jeans. A dark swirl in the second step of the stairs has become wildly interesting.

“Baby, just come down here. I’m not gonna laugh. Promise.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” you grumble, still out of sight. “I know where you keep your feral child and I will not hesitate to let her loose on you.”

Joel nods, grinning faintly, still focused resolutely on the whorl in the floor. “That’s a real big threat from someone who –,”

The words die in his throat.

In fact, he’s quite sure he won’t be capable of speech for a very long time. 

That foreign feeling – that feeling he’s worked for twenty years to suppress – is ignited in his chest. 

You walk, no, maybe you float down the stairs in the most stunning red dress he’s ever seen. It’s definitely not yours – he knows every inch of your closet because he had inspected it studiously when you offered to keep some of his clothes at your place and he was trying very hard to delay putting a handful of his belongings beside a woman’s things in a move that felt heart-stoppingly domestic. 

No, he has never, ever seen you in this dress. 

Come to think of it, he’s never seen you in any dress and you were entirely correct that your tits look wildly different. Fantastically different, but –

“Maria didn’t have any heels that fit me to go with the dress,” you announce airily, your chin up. But your eyes dart over his face as if looking for something you need to find. “But it’s fourteen degrees outside, Joel, and I’m not doing whatever this is in just socks because that’s ridiculous so you’re just going to have to deal with the boots.”

The Boots. The ones you wear while crushing clicker skulls and tending the stables. They still bear damp spots from where you tried to clean the blood and dirt from the leather.

It’s rather incapacitating how arousing he finds this particular combination.

So much so, he doesn’t realize he hasn’t said anything in a full minute until you bark at him, a cold tinge of panic in your voice.

“Joel!” His eyes snap to yours. Of course, you’re fucking beautiful – your eyes seem bigger, cheeks pinker, mouth wet – fucking Christ, where did you get make up? 

“Say something!” Those rosy lips drop down and to his horror, you’re upset. “Please!”

“B-baby, you look . . .” He doesn’t mean to grab your entire ass in one hand; he just wants to feel as much of that velvet on your skin as possible. You stumble into his arms, another something that is so unlike you, as he tugs you forward. Bends his lips to your ear to discover how fast you’re breathing. How fast your pulse races in your neck. The shudder that breaks the rigidity of your body when he brushes his mouth, the short bristles of his beard, against your skin is no surprise; you told him exactly what that sensation does to you in no uncertain terms the first night he ate you out on the table of your kitchen. “You look incredible.”

Your fingers bite into his biceps. Push back out of his arms, despite the obvious warmth in your cheeks. You level his arousal in a single glare. “Joel, I asked you not to tease.” 

Tommy once told him he was a pain in the ass to be around sometimes because he displays every negative emotion as anger and so it’s damn near impossible to figure out whatever it was he was so bent out of shape about.

Sadness as anger.

Shame as anger.

Guilt as anger.

Fear as anger.

With your fingers balled up, it's the tremor in your fists that gives you away. 

He had genuinely intended this to be a quiet night away from the cafeteria, away from the Tipsy Bison, away from anyone else. He wanted you all to himself and in his greed, he didn’t see it until he saw it in your eyes. 

How vulnerable being pretty made you. How vulnerable privacy made you. 

How being vulnerable made you so deeply, deeply afraid. 

Almost as afraid as he was. 

Without a word, he turns to the record player, strategically hidden behind the couch and puts on the carefully selected record. The silent scratches for a moment before –

Your eyes widen as Nelson begins to sing his most beautiful love song (in Joel’s humble opinion). Your shoulders slacken, hands lose their grip, you blink up at him in total bewilderment. You aren’t an indecisive person, you’re quick as a whip, rarely confused – so this befuddled look on your face is kinda cute. 

Tucking that rare look on your face away for another time, Joel wanders to the center of the room, in the heat of the light from the fireplace, his good boots clicking over the wood. He opens his arms, hand out to you.

“Let’s try something new tonight.”

I'll always be with you for as long as you please

For I am the forest but you are the trees

The decision you make is a visible one. 

Your palm is warm, weighted as it slides over his. This time his hand respectably settles on your waist, then on your low back when (to his surprise) you come closer. He’s delighted to watch you smile at him, distantly aware of the stretch of his own on his face. 

Willie strums on his guitar, crooning softly, the sound warm and deep. With the weight of you against his chest, that feeling crackles like the flames over the wood logs in the fireplace. You drop your head, turn your cheek, and just before you come to rest on his shoulder, he sees your smile slide into a smirk.

“New, huh? What’s new look like for a sixty-five-year-old man at the end of the world?” Even with teasing, your voice is soft and sweet, the soft powder of cinnamon. Slowly, as if not to startle either one of you, he leans his chin against your forehead.

“You n’ I’ve been burning both ends, keepin’ the lights on. New to us is having a goddamn break.” His voice is low, meant only for you, and in the tremble of his deep bass, the words elongate in his mouth. He brings your intertwined hands just under his chin and when that goes well, he tightens his grip around your back, drawing you flush against him. It reduces the dancing to more of a sway but Joel can’t find a single thing to complain about. You gently tap the pad of your middle finger in the hollow of his collarbone to the beat of the song.

I'm empty without you so come grow within me

For I am the forest and you are the trees

And the heavens need romance so love never dies

“‘N ‘m only fifty-six, jackass.” 

You grin, twisting in his grasp, rub your nose on his chest to wrap your arms around his neck. He clutches to your back like a key finding its lock. 

You'll be the stars dear and I'll be the sky

And should any of this find us let them all be forewarned

That you are the thunder and I am the storm

“This is nice, Joel,” you murmur in his ear. The backs of his arms are growing warm by the fire. He presses his lips to your exposed shoulder, unsure of what to say, or what not to say, only nodding. He closes his eyes, trying to hold this moment forever in his memory. The soft flare of your waist, the winged-spread of your ribs, beneath his hands brings him back into your arms.

"Yeah?" Quiet, into your skin as if to muffle the question entirely, to muffle the unsure wobble in his voice. "It's good?"

He feels you nod beneath his chin, the smell of fresh soap escaping from the back of your neck, and the clamp around his throat loosens. He breathes, unimpeded for the first time all night, a low exhale taking the tension from his body as the air leaves his lungs.

Relief. A sinking down into the moment, into your arms.

You chuckle with your cheek against his chest and he feels the vibrations down to his stomach.

"Yeah, Joel, you did good. Really good." With the hand he holds in the air, you rub your thumb over the knuckle of his thumb, soothing. It used to bother him you could read the lines of his emotions as well as you read a book, as well as you write your own name, effortlessly, as if you had been given a guide no one ever thought to show him. But now, now that you understand how much this means to him, that you know he needs to be told he made you happy, it's more than relief. It's an unburying – a resuscitation of pieces of himself (seed-like bone fragments) that he thought had long since died in the soil of his ribs. "Thank you. I needed this."

He wants you to see the whole of him. Lift up an antiquated silver plate and show you the dents and scratches in his reflection. When you kiss his cheek gently, the hope floating in his chest flares, a solar explosion with tendrils that reach into the blackness of space and it asks him, what would you do to keep her?

Everything. Anything.

He shuffles closer, feels the warmth of your body lined up against his, the clean scent beneath the edge of your jaw blooming in his nose and throat. The hope hums, pitches dark like the forest floor in the rain, and grows teeth. His want for you digs into his skin and evolves into a needy, unsatisfied thing.

“Where’d you get this dress, hm?” He asks, lips half an inch from your shoulder. It falls and rises, never catching on your skin as he plays with the fabric. He runs his palm up your spine, the velvet coming with him, and watches as the swell of your thighs and the tease of your ass is revealed. Dirty old man. “‘N who do I have to kill to get you to keep it?”

You laugh into his neck. He wonders if you’re intentionally twisting his curls at the base of his neck to send sparks of arousal down his spine or if you are completely unaware of the cause of his insanity. Your hands are littered with scars and calluses and every time you touch him, he could melt through the floorboards.

“They found it in some strip mall and were actually going to strip it down for material. But Aaron at the sewing center owed me a favor and you said wear something nice, so . . .” You thumb the lip of his collar, your fingertips brushing the knot of his spine every time you drag your fingers back and forth. 

And I'll always be with you for as long as you please

For I am the forest and you are the trees

He knows you well enough to know that something lingers in your mind, but even after all this time, even after what he’s seen with you, been through with you, the things he’s done to you – he isn’t quite sure if he has the right to ask. 

Instead, he squeezes you. He means to do it just with his hands, but ends up swallowing you in his arms. 

Your mouth is pressed up against his chest when you finally go on. 

“It just seems silly to keep, Joel.” 

The high he’s been riding on all night falters, since you first walked down those stairs to him. Your eyes are wet when he pulls back and cups you by your cheek. He stops swaying with you.

“Why’s that?” 

There it is, that all too familiar flicker of fear. You can’t look at him, despite his every touch, his every glance pulling you into him, to be near him. 

“Because other people should have it. They should have a chance to . . .” 

You withdraw your head from his hands, his thumb brushing your jaw as you retreat. He might actually lose a piece of himself if you let go now, but instead you clasp his wrists in your fingers. You stare at your hands and his between you, as if this whole thing between you could solidify at your feet, finally real. 

Willie has stopped singing, only that musky drone on an empty track.

“Someone else should have a chance to feel pretty, to feel this way, because it shouldn’t be wasted and I’m afraid – I wonder if –,”

He knows he’s being a bit too rough when he takes your jaw and straightens your gaze to him, but his heart might fly out of his chest before he has a chance to say anything. His stomach turns, not knowing he’s not at the peak of a roller coaster drop, that he’s standing on solid ground, even if it swims under his feet.

“What you feel is not wasted.” A murmur, stern, as steadily and as serious as he possibly can be.

That feeling aches in his chest and you haven’t even gone anywhere. You haven’t left . . . yet. “What this is, is not wasted time. I spent twenty years wasting time, looking for something that wasn’t there, and with you . . . I can’t say I’ve found it –,”

“Why? Why can’t you say you’ve found it?” Your grip around his wrists tightens, eyes hard. “Why can’t you name it, Joel?”

“Can you?” He pulls his hands out of your grip and you let him go. “How can you ask for what you want when you can’t even ask to keep this dress?” 

“Because I don’t deserve it!” It’s not silence that follows; it’s emptiness. You face away from him, pressing the heel of your hand into your brow bone, teeth slightly bared. Your arm bars across your stomach like you are literally holding in your guts. Finally, you lift your head, the few scant tears on your face sparkling in the firelight. “I don’t deserve you, Joel. I don’t deserve any of this. Ellie, the way she . . . I’m here, warm and happy, acting like the fucking world hasn’t ended. Playing house, playing pretend. Pretending like I’m your –,”

You swallow the words caught in your throat, gaze leaping away from him. At your side, your hand trembles again. 

Oh, honey, the shit I’ve done . . . 

With wide, wet eyes, you watch him approach. He doesn’t look at you, instead seeing exactly where he’d like to put his lips on your stomach beneath the fabric. 

“Then what do you want, hm?” There’s a fold in the front of the dress and he runs his fingers along the edge of it. “We can’t fix it. Can’t go back ‘cause there’s nothin' to go back to. I don’t care what you had to do to get here, right here, with me because I’m so fuckin’ glad you are. I’m not pretending, not wasting my time, never was. ‘Cause you’re right.” 

Your hand over his stills his endless roving and then it stays, scarred hand over scarred hand. Your gesture says something to him, something so meaningful he has no idea how to put it into words. He swallows his attempt and instead, slowly, drags both hands over your hips, where they stay. Heavy against the velvet. 

You rest your own against his forearms, neither pulling him in or pushing him back. 

“I was right about what?”

His eyes flick to yours and maybe it’s presumptuous, maybe he really is an old man afraid of his feelings, or maybe living this long – despite everything that ever tried to make it otherwise – living this long has granted him the privilege of knowing with perfect clarity what you’re thinking when you look at him like that. How he wants to whisper it back to you and he decides he will the next time your skin is warm and tacky, body helpless beneath his. 

Your eyes shamelessly track the brush of his tongue against his bottom lip.

“That you’re mine. Just like I’m yours.” 

The hands at his forearms glide up to his chest. The rims of your irises have gone a bit blurred, a bit unstable, and you can’t decide whether to look at his mouth or his eyes.

“Joel?” Suddenly breathy, all begging, pleading.

“Hm?”

“Get me out of this fucking dress.” 

When your lips crash into his, his entire world narrows down to where on his body, yours touches: 

your rough hand cradling his cheek, the other fisting the collar of his shirt. His fingers digging into your skirt, the heat from your thigh nearly driving him to tear straight through the fabric to get to you. Your sweet, perfect mouth smeared against his, lips puffed pink, nose to your cheek. 

That warm, wet cunt he thinks he can feel through his boxers, jeans, the dress and your underwear. 

It’s not enough. 

The cry you let out is some mangled mix of a moan and his name when he licks the soft supple skin behind your ear and nips your earlobe.

“Baby, please – please – bedroom, we have to–,”

He grunts his disapproval at your words, overwhelmed by the scent that makes his mouth water as he stains the column of your throat with wet, humid kisses. 

“Joel, c’mon, honey, just upstairs –,” 

The last flickering tiny speckle of logic in his brain fights with itself; take your right here or haul you over his shoulder – which isn’t great for his back and, quite frankly, he intends to spend most of the night on his knees. 

First option it is. 

You mumble in confusion, eyes shut, chin brushing the thread of gray curls on the top of his head as he purposefully sucks a bright hickey into your collarbone, one hand cupping your breast, the other pushing you backwards. You go willingly, of course. 

Until the backs of your legs hit the couch and there’s nowhere else to go. In the stumble, your dress rides up even higher and those thighs he’s actually lost sleep over appear to him. He drops to his knees, hands like meat hooks as they squeeze your waist, pulling that warm cunt even closer to him over the edge of the couch. You groan when he pushes the skirt up even higher, practically to your tits, as he explores your outer, then inner thighs with soft strokes of the back of his hands. He presses his nose to the crevice between your thigh and hip and inhales. 

“B-baby, the windows,” you swallow thickly, slurring like you’re drunk, grabbing at his shoulders like you’re trying to steady yourself, or turn him towards the windows. “I mean – the curtains, baby, the curtains are –,”

“It’s a fucking blizzard outside,” he explains tersely with his eyes still closed, as if irritated to have a conversation instead of focusing every ounce of concentration he has to the heat and smell beneath your black panties. He drags his teeth over the elastic band around your hips and makes you whine his name for an entirely different reason. 

You don’t make him stop or wait when he tugs those panties down your hips. In fact, you help, lifting your hips, the irises of your eyes so wide and black, you look halfway out of your mind.

Good.

He gathers the skirt he was once so fond of and stuffs it into the cushions behind you. You watch him as he moves, eyes half-lidded, finger scraping your bottom lip. Around his ribs, your knees dip back and forth, moving targets, like he’s forgotten why he’s here and needs reminding. 

His big paw, the size of which makes you feel indescribably small, catches your knee and stills it, gaze dark and heavy. Do not test me right now. You try not to moan. 

“Can’t believe I’m going to let you fuck me with my boots on,” you whisper airly, watching with delirious fascination as he puts one of your slender legs over his shoulder. His mouth is actually watering at the sight of your damp curls. 

“Not gonna fuck you. Just gonna eat your pussy. You’ll know the difference.”

“Semantically, it’s the sa-a-me thi-ng, Jo-e – ah, Joel!” 

His tongue up inside you turns you into a whiny, high-pitched, feminine mess. He eats like he does everything else: diligently, quickly, and silently. 

Until you bury your fingers in his ash-flecked curls and tug. 

That first deep, loud moan ripples through his body, rolling him up just off his heels, his crotch seeking some kind – any kind – of friction. 

The feel of his mouth humming against your cunt has your eyes rolling back in your head. “Please, oh fuck, please –” 

You are a grown woman. You should not be making these noises. 

You also shouldn’t be using a man’s face to get off . . . but you do it anyway.

“Tha’s it, baby,” he mutters when your hips grind against his face. His nose catches your clit and around him, your thighs wobble. “Use me, fuckin’ use me.” 

His grip around your calf over his shoulder turns rough and he knows he’ll bruise you, but fuck, the thought of you walking around town with a mark in the shape of his hand where everyone can see —

He briefly lifts his grip from your thigh to adjust his iron-hot cock in his jeans. From his view over your cunt, it doesn't seem like you noticed, or even saw him leave your skin. He watches you writhe, try to capture your breath, eyes crammed shut as your hips rock almost without your control. He takes a chance to lick the musky dampness from his upper lip when your cunt rolls back from his face a fraction of an inch — and then he sinks in again.

Call it age or the fact that you both are here at the end of the world, but the first night he ate you out, you told him exactly how and where you like it, unabashed and in control and honestly it’s the hottest thing he can think of in recent memory. 

He would have written it down on the backs of his eyelids if he could. 

He follows it to the letter.

“Joel – Joel, baby, please don’t stop –,” You buck and moan beneath him as he spells out your instructions with his tongue along your cunt. He dots the i’s with a tap of his tongue or a lick on your clit. Just inches above his head, your chest heaves, your fingers locked into his curls, gently pushing him closer to your puffy pussy as if he’d ever waste a drop of what leaks out of you. 

With a flat-tongued brush against your suffering clit, you arch off the couch, your sighs now verging on desperate, high and whinging, because it’s just not fair how good he makes you feel. He can feel your foot curl against the planes of his back, the rubber heel heavy, your mouth open and wet, with your eyes locked on the ceiling as you try to ride out your humming orgasm with a semblance of control.

“Look at me.” 

No other man has ever been able to make you come with just his mouth, you told him once.

And no other man ever will. 

It’s sweet, the way your eyes soften briefly when you lock eyes with him, crouched between your thighs — before your head tips back, lips wrenched apart in a silent scream, and you come, as hard as he has worked for the flush of slick down his chin.

There’s goosebumps on your thighs, he notes. He rubs his thumb against your raised skin and you shudder, head rolling against the back of the couch.

He’s already feeling a slight twinge of shame at the noise his knees will inevitably make when he stands, but for now he’s content watching you glide down from your high, his head against your knee, shoulders still stretching your legs open wide. 

To his delight, you manage to laugh, your hand draping over your eyes. You can see the shine of the dull light all across his lips, his chin, his nose and you have to close your eyes. He should make you lick it off him, but not tonight.

“Top marks, Miller, as usual,” you mumble, “but the threat of voyeurism really deserves the extra credit.” 

He grins. Still waiting for your breath to slow, he wipes his mouth with his palm and slides the leg over his shoulder down in between his own thighs. Propped up on one knee, he begins to unlace your boot. He holds your calf like it’s delicate as he gently drags the boot over your heel. 

He’s just as reverent with the other side. 

And then your boots, the pair, sit at the end of his couch, like they were always meant to be there. 

His heart, easing down from its own thunderous beat, squeezes and that feeling, that strange-not-so-strange feeling, the one that dictates practically every action with you, dribbles into his veins. 

You open one eye. A flutter of lashes, coy and playful, the curve of your mouth guarding a hoard of secrets.

“Now, Joel Miller . . . will you take me to bed?” 

It’s a question. A request. Your eyes, as dark as ever, on his warm his chest, all the way down his spine. You’re asking, politely, for a thing you both know he would never, ever deny you. 

He cannot lose you, he just can’t. 

He stands and, yes, his knees crack and pop, but he regains stability when he toes off his only good pair of cowboy boots. He nods, grinning, and offers you his hand.

The walk, half-run up to his bedroom is something his brain designates as not important enough to store away. 

Instead, it languishes in the way you stretch out on his mattress before him, ass in the air, knees spread over his blankets and arms sliding through crumpled sheets towards the headboard. 

The room is dark, the only light fighting its way through the downpour of snow comes from the lamp posts that dot the street outside. But the veil of snow warps the light and everything in the half-darkness is doused in blue. 

The shadowy, blurred curve of your shoulder, blue. 

The spread of your fingers on his mattress, blue.

The swollen bottom of lip of your mouth —

“Joel.” 

The snow falls so fast and hard, it patters against the windows and the sides of the house. It’s the only thing he can hear over the pounding of his heart and the short breath in his lungs. He stares at you, soaking his blankets in your scent and slick, and you stare right back in utter and total silence. 

You sit in the center of his bed, bare for him beneath the velvet dress that is red like blood, your patchy white socks at complete odds with your smeared make up and the fucked-out look in your eyes. But there’s something else there too. 

Something softer. Gentler. 

You reach out a hand to him and he goes to you, like always. The instant your skin touches his the instinct to fuck you hard until you’re bruised and crying evaporates. He doesn’t think you want that anymore either. 

No, you need — 

“Joel, please come here. I need you.” 

You need him.

The mattress squeaks when he settles one knee and then the other on top of it, his fingers stroking your ear, brushing the tips of your hair, while he kisses you with an ache that is not physically manifested. Instead, it resides —

“I love you,” you whisper. 

You pull back infinitesimally, just enough that your eyes are all he sees. 

A patient silence hangs from the ceiling. The sound of snow falling. Of baited breath. The scratch of your fingers against at his beard —

“I love you too.” You smile and his body is no longer big enough to contain his heart. “I feel like I’ve always loved you. Is that strange?” 

Your gaze traces the same path your fingers take when you think he’s sleeping; it runs over his nose, his forehead, his eyebrows, the plush curve of his lips. Like you can’t believe he’s there with you. Like you can’t believe he’s real. 

That feeling — that feeling he had been fighting because it always was the only thing that would ever really do him in — is love. He loves you. 

He loves you.

And you love him. 

Didn’t think they told stories like this anymore, not in a world like this. So maybe, for once, Joel Miller just got lucky. 

“No. It’s not. Just be sure you mean it.”

He can't tell if the glow in your eyes comes from within you or it beams out of him. “Every word.”

Eventually, he sheds you of his favorite dress of yours, your only dress, and he lays you back, fully bare in the nest of his blankets. In the corner of his bedroom, the heater hisses like the wind from a purple storm, the static crackle of warmth hovering in the air. You watch, with eyes that shine like stars, as he pops apart the pearl-snaps holding his shirt together. 

And then his white undershirt goes next. He used to worry what he looked like, until he found someone else who had done exactly what was necessary to survive. 

When he goes to unzip his pants, you sit up, hair mussed and the hickey he gave you earlier throbbing like a dream. 

“I wanna do it.” 

He lets you unbutton his jeans, slide the zipper down, at the edge of the bed, but your hands are shaking, your breath stunted.

“I’m fumbling like a teenager,” you huff, a small, flustered smile on your face. “It’s like I’m nervous, but what is there to be nervous about —,”

His mouth pressed up against yours creates the most beautiful silence of all. 

How do you want me, you ask him and he thinks, all the time. But he takes you both under the covers and settles in next to you. He positions one leg over his hip and immediately you know exactly what he’s asking for. Quick as a whip, you are. 

There’s a rustle of covers, the bed slats squeaking, and then he’s nearly nose-to-nose with you. You kiss him again, maybe nervous still. 

He disconnects, when you slip between his legs and take his thick, leaking cock in your hand. 

“Baby, wait, do you need — I know it’s a lot — I’m a lot –,”

He can’t fathom why he’s so nervous either. But you chuckle, shake your head, smile at him. 

“Don’t need anything but you.” 

Your leg wraps tighter over his hip, knee up to his ribs, as he sinks inside you. The palm wrapped around the back of your knee grips roughly only once.

This is true silence. The instant where the world goes muted, everything distant and muffled, when he’s first buried deep in your heat. 

Your fingers thread through his curls and suddenly all sound is cranked up to an eleven. Your rapid, stilted breathing, the groan of the bed, your soft smothered moans, or are those his? —

“Fuck me, Joel.” 

Eyes never leaving yours, he does. 

Your fingers dig into his skull, nails biting, hand wrapped around his neck to hold yourself steady as he thrusts up into you. He thumbs your stiff nipple, half of his hand still grasping your ribs. 

You meet him thrust for thrust, a slow steady pace that draws sweat to his hairline and endless gasps from his mouth. But your gaze stays strong, never falters. Your hand slips to his shoulder, to stabilize just a bit more, but then it's on his chest, twisting his chest hair and he thinks he feels that sparkle of sanity, of rationality, any restraint to hold back crack and shatter between the clench of his teeth. 

“Goddamn–,” 

He rolls, taking you under him and demanding a faster pace. You push your hand against the headboard, the bed knocking against the wall in rhythmic, hypnotic thuds. 

He thinks you hiss his name before you bite down his shoulder. 

The sharp shock of pain lights up his brain, channeling the sudden awareness that he liked that so fucking much all the way down his spinal cord where it presses hot against his groin. 

He lifts up onto one elbow, skin sweat hot and sticky as it splits from yours. 

“Tell me what you need to come,” he pants.  

You whine again, your throat dripping sweat, but that’s not an answer. Knowing he has about a half-a-dozen to a dozen good grinds before it puts too much strain on his back, he uses every single one of them to drag you to the knife’s edge. 

“What–,” grind, “do you need –,” grind, “to come?”

The wail you let out nearly makes him come on the spot. Your eyes have that same, out-of-this-world, off-this-planet unfocused gaze, any sort of language impossible. You plead with him in the silence. A silence loaded with damp moans, grit teeth, and skin against skin against skin against skin against skin. Best sound in the world, as far as he was concerned.

You arch until he lifts above you and, taking the hand that was by your head, tuck it down between your legs. You let him grasp around with spread fingers where you are wet, where his cock rocks into your body, watch as that pulls him apart faster with dark eyes, before pressing his thumb against your clit. 

There, you say without words. There is where I need you.

Once, twice, he circles – he can feel the tightness in his back already settling in, his jaw fixed and locked, his body battling the two overwhelming sensations of dull pain and fierce, wild pleasure – and you hit your release and you soak him in it. 

He falls then too, falls just as hard and as fast as you, the chronic pain he holds in his shoulders, his neck, his back, his knee fleetingly gone in the rush of heat that branches out of his body from his groin and it feels divine.

When he lies on top of you, face buried in the curve of your neck, the heat from your humid skin warming up the breath in his lungs, the throb of your body matching his, his mind wiped clean, the thought occurs to him:

It’s not silence he’s found with you, it’s quiet. 

It’s peace.

Eventually, some awareness seeps back into his trembling body and he rolls off of you, but takes the curve of your jaw in his hand as he goes. He can’t settle into the pillows because he can’t stop kissing you, love bites occasionally against your lip, as if where his body fails, he proves his love for you won’t end so easily.

Eventually, you press your fingers into the base of his skull and, like a reset button, he groans and drops onto his back. 

Eventually, the quiet returns. Only soft noises, murmurs of existence outside of this perfect little room, fill the space. 

Eventually, he falls asleep with you curled up next to him. 

He knows you love waking up in bed together, but he also knows you love fresh coffee even more. 

Which is where Ellie finds him the next morning. 

He nearly adds too much ground coffee to the pot because he’s distracted, lost in thought about the way your curves looked in the bright morning light, when the back door slams open and a little creature made of entirely scarves, mittens, and an oversized purple jacket stomps into his kitchen and clomps its snowy shoes on the rug. 

“Joel, we gotta go!” She’s a little breathless, red-cheeked too as she unwinds the scarf around her head and her face is revealed. “We don’t wanna miss it!”

“Miss what?” Joel asks, this time carefully measuring how much water the pot needs. 

His question is not met with her usually buzzy chatter. Instead, she’s stopped undoing her scarf and just stares at him like he’s been beamed down from another planet. 

He realizes all too late that he’s still in PJs at 9AM (basically a sign of another apocalypse), he’s making more coffee than just for himself, and he’s smiling. 

Shit.

“Ellie, um, I –,”

She rolls her eyes. Her scarf is flung off her neck and she starts yanking off her gloves, her plucky attitude back, if not a bit smug.

“Get your girlfriend up too. They’re lighting the big tree in town square in an hour. I know she’d be pissed if she missed it.” 

So definitely caught. Time to be “The Adult” here and put it out on the table. 

“Don’t call her that.” Joel eyes her. Coffee percolating, he grabs a slice of bread and Ellie’s favorite jam. “Makes it sound like we’re fourteen.” 

She frowns at him, classic “pouty-mouth”. 

“I’m fourteen — rude. But seriously, and I say this because I care, get over yourself. Call a spade a spade. You’re dating her, fucking her–,”

“Ellie!” 

"– and you make gross ga-ga eyes at each other when you think I’m not looking."

She slides into the seat at the island in front of him as he pushes the toasted bread with jam across the marble to her. She takes a bite, chews with her mouth open, and shrugs. “That’s a girlfriend, dude.” 

Joel turns back to the eggs that might be burning, his shoulders hunched and fist tight around the spatula. Hate it when the kid is right. 

He salvages what he can of the eggs, plates them along with two strips of bacon on two plates, and balances a mug of coffee on each. He tries to salvage some of his dignity with a glare. 

“When you’re older, you’ll see some things just don’t need labels.” 

At that, she rolls her eyes again and snatches up the last strip of bacon from the folded, greasy napkins. “Whatever, you dork.”

Argument soundly lost, he gathers up the plates and heads back up stairs. She’s still mumbling to herself as he goes. 

“'Girlfriend', pfft . . . much better than fuck bunny!” She yells to no one in particular.

You hear the entire conversation from bed, the door cracked open enough for the sound to travel. Muffling a giggle, you snag his white shirt from the floor and draw it over your head. You should probably be more embarrassed that Joel got caught in his Walk of Shame, even if it was to his own kitchen to make breakfast. But . . . you’re just not. 

The smile is still on your face when his footfalls approach the door and he sticks his head into the room.

“Sounds like we’re busted,” you smirk. 

Joel almost chuckles. “'Bout as busted as you can be.” He hands you one plate and sits on the end of the bed with his own. He takes a low, slow sip of coffee and you follow him. The eggs are nibbled at and the bacon is perfectly crunchy.

“So . . . girlfriend?” 

He rolls his eyes. “Not you too.” 

“I mean," you slip the plate and coffee onto the bedside table, then hug the sheets around your knees, "I agree with you on the bit about labels. It seems silly. And not wasteful silly. Just . . .”

“Silly.” Joel’s eyes are as dark as his coffee, warmer than it too. “Doesn’t really capture the whole thing, does it?”

An apocalypse and a half later, and a boy’s sweet eyes on you can still make your stomach swoop. 

“No, it doesn’t.” 

“Then what do you wanna say, if people start askin’?”

You bite your lip, eyes up in faux-thought. “Truth be told, I'm kinda partial to fuck bunny. Cute like with a little tail and ears —,"

The groan from Joel and subsequent head shake makes you laugh enough for you to take pity on the old guy. You crawl closer and his eyes slip from your face to where the sheet tucks under your knees. But a hand on his cheek returns his gaze.

"I like what you said last night." Your smile is soft, pleased. "That I’m yours. Like you’re mine.” 

Joel’s warmth bleeds from his whole frame as he leans in close to put his mug on the bedside table, then leans in closer still to you. He drags his nose over your bare, exposed shoulder, in a way that is sweet and sensual all at once. He stops with a kiss on the hinge of your jaw. 

“I like that too. I like saying that you’re mine.”

Ignoring the shiver that rockets up your spine at the low hum of his voice, the flutter of his lips barely against your cheek, you tuck an errant curl around his ear and it immediately springs back up again. You smile and he smiles back, a youthful shine in his eyes.

“Wherever you are, I am too.”  

Listen to: I am the forest by Willie Nelson

[burreauxsworld]

Can we please get dad Joe where the children snitch to him that someone’s flirting with mom.

Jealous!Joe , suggestive

~~~

Joe had a tiring practice today. All he wanted to do was come home to his girls, eat dinner, and relax. But when he arrived home, you and Charlotte were nowhere to be found. He sighed, remembering that you had to grocery shop today.

He took the unusual alone time to take a nice, long, hot shower. The steam and hot water helping relax his muscles. He wasn’t in the middle of getting dressed when he heard the garage open. After throwing on a hoodie over his shirtless torso, he jogged down the stairs.

Little Charlotte Burrow ran in through the kitchen door, smiling bright, looking for her favorite person, her daddy.

“Daddy!” She squealed as Joe rounded the corner into the kitchen. “Hi Princess!” Joe picks up his daughter and walks toward the garage, where his beautiful wife was, getting groceries out of her car. “Let me help,” Joe says, setting Charlotte back on her feet and grabbing the bags from you. You smile at him, and he plants a kiss on your lips.

“Hi baby”

“I really have to pee. I’ll be right back I promise” you assure your husband, before running into the house. Joe feels a gentle tap on his thigh. He looks down at his daughter. “What’s up princess?”

“I have to tell you a secret” she whispers, lifting her arms so that he’d pick her up. “Oh yeah? What’s the secret?” Joe asks, his curiosity spiking. Charlotte giggled a little bit before leaning toward his ear. “Someone told mommy she was pretty at the store”

Joe’s eyebrows shot up. “Really now?”

Charlotte nodded. “He also asked for her phone number, but mommy told him she was married” Charlotte continues. “He walked around with us for a little bit” Charlotte says. Joe knew he had nothing to worry about. You’ve been his since college, and you’re obsessed with him.

But he couldn’t shake the jealous feeling that bubbled in his stomach. You were his, and someone tried to swoop in on that? He wasn’t gonna let this go.

He carried the rest of the groceries in, and Charlotte ran off to play in her room. He walked toward the bathroom, and knocked on the door. “I’m almost done, I promise!” You call through the door.

“It’s me. I just wanna ask you something”

You open the door with a big smile, but gasp as you’re manhandled back into the bathroom, and pressed against the wall. Joe’s eyes a darker blue.

“Charlie ratted you out.” Joe says, and you roll your eyes. “She didn’t rat me out. It wasn’t a secret, I was going to tell you as soon as I was done in here” you explain, with a small laugh. “It wasn’t nothing, Joey, I promise. I have everything I could ever want right here” you assure him, but his jaw remains clenched.

“You’re mine.” He states. “All yours. Completely 100%” you agree. Joe’s lips capture yours in a heated kiss. “When she goes to bed, I’m gonna show you who you belong to, mama”

[kurooh]

dom choso has me DROOLING I NEED HIMMMM

choso doesn’t usually get so rough, but after a particularly hard day, he’s throwing you around and eating you out in a rush of anticipation.

you’re nowhere close to coming down from your high, cunt twitching from the aftershocks as your chest heaves. choso wordlessly tosses your leg over his shoulder and guides his cock towards your slit — your back arches off the bed and you lean forward when he spits onto your clit.

his free hand lands on your sternum, and before you can register what’s going on, he’s pushing you back down and pushing into you simultaneously.

“choso!” you choke as he snaps his hips forward and buries his entire length inside you. “w-wait, go slow, i just—”

“fuck no,” choso grunts, teeth sinking into his lower lip as he pulls his hips back, leaving just his tip inside you. “remember all that teasing today? couldn’t keep your hands to yourself either. baby, you deserve to get fucked this hard.”

he punctuates his point by rushing forward, thick tip hitting the deepest parts of you effortlessly. choso develops a rough pace, tsking as your free leg moves in the way.

“no need to run, baby,” choso groans, lifting your leg onto his shoulder before gripping onto your hips and moving you closer to him. “wan’ you to take all of it.”

“b-but cho,” the pathetic whimper slips past wobbling lips, “it’s too much, i-i can’t take it!”

“you can and you will,” he hushes you, pushing deep and leaning in for a kiss. choso’s lips are soft as he kisses you, pillowy and plush as they absorb all your needy whimpers.

“choso, i’m so close,” you break the kiss and his lips drag along your cheek as you turn your head, breaths growing frantic. “ah, shit, i’m gonna cum, ‘m gonna—”

choso groans deeply as he fucks you through it, your pussy milking his orgasm from him. heat races through his veins and gathers in his cock, spurting hot and sticky in your awaiting cunt.

“shit, i—” he cuts himself off with a hushed whine as he pulls out of you, cock sensitive. “i forgot about the dinner with our friends.”

“of course you did,” you sit up and shoot him a glare, “we should’ve left ten minutes ago.”

“we’ll leave now, but before we do—” choso gently lowers your ankles from his shoulders and picks up your panties from the side of the couch. he slips them on, tugs them up your legs, presses them against your swollen pussy. “wear these till we get back home, baby.”

[obsesssedblerd]

HI BBY HRU MAKE SURE TO DRINK WATER TODAY AND GET A GOOD NIGHTS REST YOU DESERFE IT XOXO

if there’s too many asks going on feel free to skip over mine but I was thinking 5 + Nanami? Xoxo

prompt #5: “Your ex never got you off?” 

pairing: kento nanami x f! reader

[18+ content below, MDNI]

contains: smut, cunninglingus, vaginal fingering, reader receiving oral for the first time

wc: 2k

likes, reblogs and comments appreciated <3 

a/n: seven of you requested this pairing omg.

— — — — — — 

Kento Nanami stares at you incredulously, and it reminds you of the way he looks at Satoru Gojo and Yuuji Itadori whenever they say something that’s a bit more on the sillier side. You look away, but you feel his fingers angle your jaw so your eyes are meeting his honey brown ones once more. 

“Your ex… never got you off.” He repeats your words back to you slowly. 

“I know it sounds crazy, since we dated for a while, but yeah.” You laugh nervously. You bring the champagne glass to your lips, then tip your head back, allowing the chilly liquid to slide down your throat. “He tried, and it couldn’t work. He mentioned something about how some women just can’t cum, so we both assumed that it’s the case for me. I remember—” 

Kento puts a finger to your lips, and you stop talking. He’s still staring, but this time, you can see the calculating—the plotting in his eyes. “Respectfully,” he says, his voice low. “Your ex is an idiot. I’m confident that he hardly tried at all.” 

You raise an eyebrow, and you shift yourself in the couch cushions to sit straighter. “I don’t think he’s an idiot, he was just…” You sigh as you trail off, unable to find anything polite to say about your ex-boyfriend. It was impossible, since he cheated on you. “I don’t know. Anyway, he definitely tried. Numerous positions, but nothing. It’s just something I’m unable to do.” 

He finishes the rest of his champagne before placing the empty glass on the living room table. He props an arm up on the back of the couch, then uses it to support his head. He’s still staring, still thinking. With his glasses and tie off, and the first few buttons of his blue dress shirt undone, your coworker looks even more handsome in this comfortable state. 

Kento inhales, then releases his breath. Slowly, he unclasps the expensive watch from his wrist and looks down at it. He remains like that for about fifteen seconds before you ask him, “What are you doing?” 

“Going to test something.”

“Test something like…?” You urge him to finish. 

He gently places the watch on the table next to the empty glass, then offers to take your empty glass as well. He leans towards you, and your heart pounds when his hand delicately strokes your cheek. The faint scent of his cologne fills your nose. His face nears yours, your eyes flicker to his mouth before fluttering shut. 

“Do you trust me?” He whispers against your lips, and you nod once before you feel his lips on yours. The kiss is gentle at first, but after wanting him for so long, you immediately grow hungry for more. You find yourself climbing on top of his lap, and he guides you there without breaking the passionate kiss, his large hands settling comfortably on your hips. 

You sigh blissfully into his mouth, and you feel your body heat up. Your arms wrap around his neck, and you savor every second and every feeling that this moment brings you. Months of keeping each other safe on missions, soft stares as you trade students for training and quiet conversations over coffee in the breakroom before meetings have all led to this. 

When he gently breaks away from you, both of you are slightly out of breath. His gaze settles hungrily on your low-cut top, and his fingers skim the hem of it. “May I?” He asks quietly. 

“Yes.” 

Kento isn’t fast; no, after craving you for many months, he has zero desire to rush any of this. His thumb brushes against the skin underneath your shirt briefly, then he grasps the hem of it, and pulls upward until it’s completely off of you, leaving you in your bra. Suddenly shy, you look away. You don’t know why you’re nervous; you’ve had sex before. You know what happens during sex. 

However, you don’t know how Kento Nanami operates. His kisses alone tell you that he’s nothing like your ex-boyfriend in the bedroom. 

“Hey.” 

His voice pulls you out of your mind, and you look back at him. He gives you a dizzyingly charming smile, his cheeks slightly flushed from champagne and want. “You’re beautiful.” He brings you closer and pecks your lips a few more times, then moves to your neck. “I’d like to taste you,” he whispers, and your breath hitches as he kisses the delicate skin beneath your ear. “Is that alright?”

You swallow thickly, and you manage to find some of your words. “Taste? I-I’ve never- No one has ever done that.” 

Kento hums as he pulls away, the corner of his mouth slightly lifting. “Your ex never went down on you?” 

You gently shake your head, and he exhales. “Disappointing, but not surprising.” One of his fingers fidget with one of the belt loops on your jeans, seeking permission. When you grant it with a single nod, he whispers to you once more. “Lie back for me.” 

He waits for you to lay down on the couch, and then climbs above you, caging you between his strong arms. He kisses you again, then begins to move lower, allowing his lips to explore your body, goosebumps on your flesh as they do. He carefully pushes your bra upward, and your head spins slightly when you feel his mouth wrap around one of your nipples. Large hands cup your tits as he sucks, massaging and gently squeezing. You release a sound that is something between a moan and a sigh, and Kento loves it. 

He takes his time, sliding lower and lower until he’s finally on his knees before you, fingers unbuttoning your jeans and pulling them down your legs. Heat rises to your face, and you look towards the couch cushion, too shy to see his reaction when he finds out just how wet you are. You know that there’s a damp spot on your panties. Your knees are pushed apart, revealing the most sensitive part of you. His fingers hook your lacy panties, then peels them down your thighs and calves, leaving you bare for him. “God,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. You look down at him again, and arousal pools in your stomach at the utter hunger in his eyes. “You’re beautiful,” he sighs again, and you exhale shakily when he kisses a particularly sensitive part of your inner thigh. “So, so beautiful.” 

Over the next few minutes, you learn that Kento Nanami is a teaser. His lips are everywhere except your aching pussy, which you’re certain is dripping messily onto the couch. You’ve never felt this wet, so needy to the point you’re whining out his name, spreading your legs just a bit more for him. “Please,” you whisper. 

His thumb slides around the outer lips of your pussy, applying just enough pressure to tease your clit—where he knows you’re aching the most. So soft, he thinks to himself. Soft and very wet. There’s no way her ex is so stupid—so selfish that he’d pass up the opportunity to taste her. 

“Patience, sweetheart,” he quietly tells you, like a teacher softly instructing his student. “There’s no need to rush this. I promise, I’ll give you what you need.”

Once he’s certain that no parts of your delicate thighs are unkissed, his lips inch towards your core. His tongue licks slow, vertical stripes. “Ohhhhh,” you gasp, every thought draining from your mind as your head falls back against the cushions. “Oh, my g-god, Kento…” He’d just begun, but you easily decide that his firm tongue against your pussy is the most incredible thing you’ve ever felt in your life. 

Kento releases a deep groan, obsessed with the way you taste and the sounds you make. His tongue expertly swipes across your folds, teasing you for just a little while longer before he finally gives your clit some attention. You jolt when you feel his lips wrap around your clit and suck a few times, and his hands firmly hold your thighs open so you don’t squirm away from him. 

“You can grab my hair if you need to,” he says when he notices your hands palming at the couch cushions. Once your hands grasp his blonde strands, Kento goes back to eating your pussy like a man starved. Your moans are far louder now, any nervousness you felt earlier now completely faded away. You buck your hips when he slides two fingers into your sopping wet core, his tongue still rolling against your clit. 

When he sees how your breath is beginning to shorten, how your abdomen gently clenches and how your thighs twitch, he pulls away for a moment to look up at you. “Where my thumb is now,” he starts, using a thumb to rub your swollen clit, “did he spend enough time touching here until you’re trembling like this?” 

You meet his eyes, then shake your head. “No.” 

“Then he didn’t try.”

Inside of your pussy, his fingers curl upward and you nearly shriek when he begins to massage a weak spot within you, pleasure zipping through you with every movement. “And here?” He asks you again, his fingers unrelenting. “Did he ever find this spot of yours and touch it the way I am now? Even when he fucked you?” 

When you struggle to answer, he adds a bit more pressure, and your back arches off of the cushion. “Ahh! N-No, he didn’t!” 

“Then he didn’t try.” He reiterates a bit sharper. “Still believe he’s not an idiot?” 

You shake your head, and his rough palms spread you open a bit wider. “I want you to relax for me. When you feel it, and you’ll know what it feels like, don’t tense up. Breathe through it,” he tells you, the bass in his voice vibrating against your thigh before he tenderly kisses it.

You nod, and his mouth is on you once more, licking, sucking, devouring you. His fingers continuously stroke that weak spot, and the combination has you breathing hard. Your hands grip his hair tighter, and you buck your hips against his face, instinctively chasing something you’ve never had before—a release of the pressure building in your body.

Nearly there, Kento thinks to himself. 

You gasp and attempt to slither away, suddenly nervous about the intensity about the impending orgasm, but he grips you tight to keep you still. “Oh my goddd,” you whine, and he feels you begin to tighten on his fingers.

That’s it. 

Your eyes squeeze shut, and you try to do what he told you earlier and focus on your breathing. “Oh god, oh god, oh god, K-Kento…!” You cry out his name in warning, and he hums against your clit, encouraging you. 

Cum for me. 

When you climax, you feel like you drown in pleasure. You sob in relief as you grind against Kento’s face, and he licks and fingerfucks you all the way through it, savoring the sweetness of the juices that flow from your pussy. Once you’re finished and your body relaxes, he lifts his head from between your legs, his chin glistening with the evidence of your orgasm. 

He reaches for his watch that he placed on the table, his eyes glimmering with approval as he checks the time. “Twenty-two minutes.” 

“H-Huh?” You ask, trying to focus even though your mind still spins. 

“From the first time I kissed you until now, it took twenty-two minutes to make you cum,” he says, leaning forward to place a kiss on your navel. “Your ex spent so much time in your presence and in your bed, but he couldn’t put aside twenty-two minutes to make you feel good. Truly a selfish idiot. As you can see, you can orgasm,” he says quietly, then brings himself back up to you, your faces nearly touching. “You just needed a competent partner.” 

He kisses you again, and you moan as you taste yourself on his lips. Your hands begin fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, eager to have and feel more of him. “Want more,” you sigh in between kisses. “Want you.” 

“Good,” Kento smiles as he assists you in unbuttoning his shirt. “Because I’m dying to see how fast I can get you to cum on my cock.” 

[pochaccoups]

cheol has been so hot recently i need his kids

cw — nsfw, talk of kids & pregnancy, breeding, reader referred to as ‘girl’

“Four, Seungcheol?”

“Huh?” your fiancé perks up from his phone at the sound of your voice.

“Four kids? Three boys and one girl?”

He raises one of his thick brows at you and a smirk appears on his lips. “Is that what you want?”

“No, apparently that’s what eighteen year-old Seungcheol wanted,” you say, waving your phone screen at his face. “Seungkwan sent me a video of you asking Dino how many kids he wants when he’s older. First of all, he looks like a newborn, so I don’t know why you would ask him that. Second of all, four?!”

He stretches his palm out towards you, a curious frown wracking his features as you hand your phone to him so he can watch said video.

He watches it through, and it appears you’re right—it’s his younger self telling his members that he wants three sons and a youngest daughter.

It’s not like you haven’t talked kids with him before. In fact, it’s come up a few times before, and he’s always been considerate of you only. It’s however many you want, and if you don’t want any, that’s fine too. That’s why it’s a little comical seeing a younger Seungcheol fantasise about having so many kids when you’re almost certain he had never even been in the same room with a girl yet.

For a moment he worries that you’re genuinely mad at him over this, until you throw yourself onto the couch next to him with the cutest fake pouty frown on your face.

“Your poor future wife’s womb,” you say, shaking your head at him like you’re disappointed. “You’re so inconsiderate of her.”

“We’re talking in third person now?” he laughs, reaching over to massage your thighs.

“Well, no, because I won’t be carrying four of your gremlins.”

He gives a half-scoff, half-laugh. “I’m not asking you to, honey,” he says, growing serious for a moment. The next moment he’s grinning again, eyes twinkling with mischief. “But I remember what one of your friends told me you said to her when me and you met for the first time.”

Sweat starts pouring down your face immediately.

“You said I was so hot that you’d give me a football team of kids if I wanted.”

“I was drunk!”

“You were tipsy at most,” he corrects.

“Whatever,” you say with a roll of your eyes and the heat of the sun in your cheeks. “I didn’t lie.”

“Oh, yeah? I thought you refuse to ‘carry my gremlins’ though. Now you want a whole football team?”

“Seungcheol!” you exclaim, smacking at his arm for his audacity. “Why don’t we worry about just one for now?”

“Wait… really?” Seungcheol asks, his eyes shining. “I thought you wanted to wait until after the wedding.”

“It’s in two months, so it’s not like I’ll be showing. Also, it can take a couple of weeks of trying to even get pregnant in the first place.”

Okay, maybe there are a few more logistical issues with being pregnant on your wedding day, but truth be told, right now, all Seungcheol can think about is fucking you into another dimension.

“Honey, I promise that I will put a baby in you by morning.”

He wasn’t lying.

The clock nears three a.m. and Seungcheol still pounds away at you like a feral dog. Every inch of your skin is sticky with either spit, sweat, or cum. Your muscles burn from exertion, not yet aching but by the time day comes they will be.

It started off soft—kisses that were bursting with love and excitement because you wanted to have a baby. A family. Seungcheol’s touches dripped with appreciation for you, and you couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be like this but a thousand times more when you’re actually pregnant.

Then he’d fucked you full the first time, and in the blink of an eye, the tenderness in his eyes was gone. He’d filled you up, yet suddenly, it wasn’t enough. It didn’t help that you begged so sweetly for his cum, with your pretty eyes gazing up at him, glimmering.

He’s never been immune to your eyes.

From then on his grasp had turned bruising. Now he’s got you pressed into the mattress, pouring every ounce of his weight into fucking you.

“Feels so fucking good, Cheol,” you whimper, throat dry and raspy from all the moaning you’ve been doing. Your fingers are weak as they curl into the sheets below, but you need something to cling to or else you might pass out.

“Yeah, look at you still taking it. My fucking girl,” he grunts, digging his fingers into your hips as he arches your back further down, burying his cock impossibly deeper inside you until you swear he’s in your womb. His cum from previous rounds slips out of your hole with every time he punches into you, but Seungcheol makes no effort to push it back inside—it means he’d have to pull out, and, right now, he’d probably rather die than leave the warmth of your walls that clench down on him so tight that they keep him nestled inside.

“Made for me, you know that? You and this pussy were made for me,” he rambles, leaning down until his hard, sweat-slicked chest is pressed to your back. His hot, jagged breaths nip at your ear. “Made to take my cum, to carry my kids.”

“All yours, Cheol,” you manage in a whisper. His rough hands leave your hips, only to cover your own hands as they claw at the sheets, and lace your fingers together. A reminder that he’s still your Seungcheol, your future husband, who loves and cares for you more than anything and would never do anything to hurt you. It makes your heart and your pussy clench.

“Gonna cum again, baby? Can you take one more?” he asks, with a punched out chuckle.

“Fuck- yes, I can take it,” you mewl, voice cracking, mustering up any last remaining strength in you to push back against his hips, shamelessly desperate for cock. “Wanna cum again. Want your cum too.”

It takes everything in Seungcheol not to lose his mind. He wonders how he got so lucky with you, because he’s convinced the gods made you for him and put you in this world. The fact that he also managed to find you is a miracle.

He peels himself off of you, straightens back up, and fucks into you with such vigour that you start to see stars. Or maybe it’s your orgasm, because it’s almost immediate the way your abdomen erupts with a soft glow of pleasure—he’s wrung all the energy out of you so that it’s no longer crashing waves but a gentle pulse. Still, it leaves you breathless and teary-eyed, your pussy clamping down on Seungcheol’s cock, desperate for his seed.

“There it is, good girl,” he coos, watching tenderly as you gasp and shudder from the pleasure subsiding. “I’m right there too, baby, gonna stuff you full again, just how you like it, hm?”

Gentle fingers push strands of hair out of your face, his thumb wiping away the stray tears that roll down your cheek.

“Please, want your baby in me, Cheollie,” you sob.

“I’ll give you a baby. I promised, didn’t I?”

Inside your walls, his cock throbs and pulses with his promise, begging to coat your womb.

“Yes, yes, please! Want it so bad.”

You’re not sure how Seungcheol even has anything left in him, but a moment later and he’s spilling his seed inside you in spurts again, filling you up for the nth time tonight. You smile at the warmth, at the feeling of fullness that nobody but him could give you.

“Baby? Are you okay? Is it too much?” he asks, pulling out of you all too quickly after he’d come back down from his high. Your ‘perfect, doting fiancé’ Seungcheol replaces the ‘rabid animal’ Seungcheol in an instant when his head clears and he takes in the sight of you, covered in fluids and bruises and marks from his mouth and his hands.

“‘m good, just… so tired,” you say, falling to your side with a yawn, grimacing at the feeling of dried cum and spit on your skin as you move.

“Fuck, I shouldn’t have kept going, I’m sorry for pushing you that hard,” he says, voice heavy. He lays next to you, stroking your cheek, his eyes glazed over with guilt.

“I would have asked to stop, I promise. You know I can take it,” you tell him, smiling assuredly at him.

“I definitely know that now.” He laughs, albeit nervously.

“Besides, you promised you’d put a baby in me by morning and there’s no way I’m not pregnant after that.”

He watches you pat your tummy and the guilt in his features vanishes then, and in its place comes smug, utterly shameless pride. He has a feeling, just an inkling, that none of this went to waste, that it stuck, that you’re right.

As a sweet slumber takes over you, the last thing you hear is your fiancé’s hushed words of “I love you,” and the feel of his lips against your forehead.

[jihoonjuseyo]

Woozi Boyfriend Headcanons (NSFW)

pic creds not mine !

c.w.: fem!reader, mild exhibitionism, fingering, slapping, hair pulling, biting, strength play, jihoon moans yw, cumming inside (warninggg), etc

⊹༝̩̩̥͙ ༓༝̩̩̥͙

mdni <-

• we all know, woozi loves to fuck in the studio.

when you come knocking on his door at 7pm while he’s leaned over his guitar, adjusting sounds on his mixing board, he doesn’t even have to say anything before you’re coming in. you’d take a seat next to him like usual, and with barely ten minutes flying by you find yourself perched in his lap.

that’s how it always happened, his slender fingers digging into your waist, pushing down a bit to feel your heated core grind against the growing buldge in his grey sweats. tongues entangled, hands dragging through his hair - it’s a scene you’d both replayed multiple times. sometimes it ended with you gasping against the empty spot on his desk, breath fogging the surface while his hips roll into you, a gentle slap hitting your hips before he’d squeeze and pull you back against him.

• woozi likes to start by touching your hair; if it’s short he’d run his fingers through it, if it’s long he’d pull and twirl it around his finger.

he’s the type to stroke your hair and whisper something sweet into your ear. “such a pretty girl… pretty hair…” he’d hum, before grabbing your locks and pulling it - not enough to hurt, but enough to make a point. it would be then he’d smile cheekily, lips puckering to smooch you almost innocently with your head pulled back.

• he has a thing for showing off his strength.

expect for a triggered jihoon to come home from the gym and search his area for you. when you come rushing to greet him, his sweaty form bulked and dick obviously hard from the sweet picture you sent him, his arms looped your waist and lifted you. you’d note how he pushed you against his waist as you dropped to wrap your legs around him. he’d hum, turning to have you against the wall, lips molded against yours. “hey, pretty girl..” he’d purr into your mouth, hands squeezing your ass from how he’s holding you.

• he’s weak for lip biting.

you could be at an outting with seventeen, or simply resting at his studio dorm, and he’d go in for a soft and subtle kiss, only to be met with a soft pull of his bottom lip. he’d groan to himself, eyes catching yours with a warning. it wasn’t just lip biting - no, he loves his mouth, tongue and teeth on your skin. he’s so affectionate sometimes, feeling like the best way to be close to you is with a blunt bite to your collarbone.

• woozi is an ass man.

does he love tits? of course, who doesn’t. but he’s got ass appreciation for days. it doesn’t matter if it’s big or small, his hands will make sure that whatever the size, it’ll have his handprint permanently on it one day. he audibly hisses when you come out wearing something particularly short or tight. he’d never tell you to change, but you’d be lucky to even make it out of the dorm. even walking through a hangout with seventeen, he’s not even shy about tapping your ass a few times as you walk past him.

• woozi can’t help but to moan.

and it’s always those “aaahhh…. yeah…” type of moans, the ones with the most praise in the simplest form? remember the hair pulling? yeah, his hand doesn’t leave your head when he’s balls-deep in your wet mouth, pulling and pushing to satisfy himself loosely - at your own pace.

but even with him on you, or you on him, he’s often seen shuddering or closing his eyes to try and help his volume. but you can break him, even without trying. when he leans his head back, his adam’s apple bobbing with each beautiful moan leaving his lips, you couldn’t help but to lean down and bite his soft spot, causing him to drive his hips up wilder into you.

• woozi loves to eat pussy.

face buried between your legs, he’s able to test his strength at keeping your legs open. he’d suck, lick, tease, and run his tongue from your entrance to your clit, pausing to encase it between his lips as he sucked. then, he’d go back to licking, moaning into your pussy as he devours your sweet juices. it was addicting, and sometimes he’d get messy with it, smearing his spit and your juices over your cunt and pressing it to your clit with his thumb, while his pointer and middle were buried in you, squelching and being squeezed around your entrance.

• prefers top to look down.

i understand he’d like to be laid back, but thinking about him on top, with his hands on your knees, spreading you wide so he could watch his dick slide in and out of you. and you bet he has a hard time trying to focus on your eyes and tight cunt at the same time. he’d grind into you, watching your face contort to one of surprise as he reached uncharted territory in your cunt.

• he loves to cum on your stomach, sometimes his load reaching your breasts.

he’d be in one of those moods, where he’s feeling a little selfish but you’re willing to give. he’d have your ass on his thighs, your own encased in his strong arms as he drilled into you. finally, as soon as he felt your orgasms wash over you, his cum was spurting out onto your tummy while he grinded the underside of his cock against your clit, helping you both through the aftershocks of the orgasms.

• he also loves kissing while cumming, tongues tangled and bodies pressed entirely together. it’s usually an emotional type of intimacy, where you both are moaning into each others mouths with what sounded more like sobs, his hips stuttering inside of you as he reached down, spreading your ass cheeks to grip something while you both came. woozi fucks.

[lilaccmilk]

so....hi and I love your work, amazing btw

so i had this idea yesterday and well what about like a lioness! hybrid reader and a hare! hybrid bf, like I remember reading somewhere that lionesses try to mate with a male around 100 times a day and i was like shocked, but them i remember that hares basically the same so....

kinda matching energy hahaha

but yeah, everything else is up to you

thank you

“I am just a dumb bunny, but we are good at multiplying.”

content warning: hare! male hybrid x lioness!fem reader, mentions of heat/rut and mating season, uhh that’s it i think?

giggling at this ask as we’re speaking.

Alright so, the hare always thought that he would never find someone who matches has libido. I mean, sure he had other females of his kind, but they weren’t the same. That was until he met you— the most sweetest person despite being a predator. You were so kind and so pretty and your skin felt so soft. The hare couldn’t help but find you in his darkest desires. He didn’t really think you’d be able to match his libido, primarily because of the fact that he knew nothing about lioness hybrids.

The start of your relationship was cute and slow. But when the mating season hit— and god it was like a switch had been flipped in you. The hare had been keeping distance from you because he thought he’d tire you out in his own rut. But staying away from your boyfriend became too much, so here you were standing in front of his apartment door, soaked from head to toe because of the rain, 11 in the night.

He quickly got concerned, leading you into his apartment, he went to get you some towels but when he came back— he was hit with the scent of your arousal, and your eyes, god your eyes got so predatory.

You stared at him like he was prey— and he was. You went to him almost ripping his clothes off, not that he minded. Your touch felt like fire on his skin, blazing the flames of his own rut. Without wasting time, you pushed him onto the couch and asked him to take off your clothes. And he obeyed, the sweet scent of his submission hitting your nose.

You had always called him ‘bunny’ to playfully tease him, but now as you growled out “fuck bunny, so pretty f’me yeah?” the nickname would never be the same.

You slowly sank down his length, he was so huge and just filling you up in all the right places. He let out a little whimper as you clenched around him. “Should’ve- hah- should’ve done this sooner.” he mumbles out already pussy drunk. You hadn’t even started and he was already looking like he was fucked dumb. You start moving your hips in a frantic rhythm because you couldn’t think about anything but him. Your mate, your bunny.

The soft plap! plap! plap! fueling your heat on and on. You both reached your climax soon him filling you up full. But no, not enough for you, not enough for you both. You felt your boyfriend flipping you both over, his body moving on pure instinct. You were under him, pinned down.

He started drilling his cock into your pussy. Pace relentless. He wanted to mate you, mark you, breed you. All you could do was let out soft moans and whimpers. His cock was hitting that spot inside of you brutally again and again. Your back arched into him, your pussy clenching deliciously around him, you came with a shudder, and he filled you up again.

You both fell into each other’s embrace, eyes half lidded. He continued kissing your neck, scenting you, his cock still inside you. “5 minutes break?” he asked and you couldn’t help but laugh, “Needy, aren’t we?” but you couldn’t be the one to talk.