#still crawling into his head and his voice! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

em1i2a3 · 2 days ago

Text

Driver

Pairing: Rhett Abbott x Fem!Reader!

Summary: Rhett has been having fantasies about you in only his cowboy hat.

Warning: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut smut smut, and fluff, Rhett and reader are in an established relationship

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up cowboys and cowgirls, yeehaaw), Oral Sex (fem receiving!), Teasing, Dirty Talk (with that ol’ southern twang), Praise Kink, Grinding.

Authors Note: RAF (RHETT ABBOTT FRIDAYS!!!) Yall I frickin love Rhett Fucking Abbott, writing for this man is so fun! I enjoy it so much. Love me a doe eyed cowboy 😭 hope yall enjoy! And thank you for the request @totaldystopiannerd It was so frickin fun to write! Oh my lord! (That gif definitely has the hat in question lol)

Word Count: 6,360

Side Note: thank you to @receedingdawn for the fucking banging banner

It was a lazy Friday night at your place.

Rhett didn’t have any rides tonight, thankfully–no rodeo, no arena lights, no crowds, no eight-second countdowns buzzing in his ears. It was just you and the quietness of your trailer. This was the kind of night he never used to have until you showed up in his life and brought him into the peacefulness of yours.

He was stretched out on your bed in an old t-shirt and a pair of plaid pyjama bottoms he kept in the bottom drawer of your dresser–his drawer now. It had happened quietly, somewhere between all the overnights and the morning coffees and the laundry folded with a little too much care. Now, without thinking, he reached for that drawer like it was always his. Like he belonged here, which was the most precious thing you could ask for.

His hair was still damp from the shower you’d made him take when he showed up smelling like sunbaked pasture and motor oil, a smear of dirt on his cheek and a boyish grin on his lips. You could still smell the cedar soap he liked–the one you bought special just for him–lingering warm on his skin. It wrapped around him like a bubble, and radiated off him like a diffuser.

You were across the room, barefoot in your sleep shorts, standing by your record shelf with a glass of red wine balanced in one hand. A loose tank hung from your shoulders, low in the back, swinging gently with every step as you flipped through vinyl sleeves. And every so often–on purpose–you let your hips sway a little more than intended. Just to hear Rhett breathe funny, because you knew he was watching you, it was easy to feel those beautiful blue eyes burning into your backside.

“Somethin’ on your mind, cowboy?” You asked, glancing over your shoulder with a sly grin teasing the corners of your mouth. You didn’t have to see him to feel the way his breath hitched. That subtle ripple of tension that crawled up his chest like he was trying to swallow it down.

Rhett didn’t answer back right away, he just let his head fall back against the wooden headboard with a quiet thud, lips parting, jaw slack. The bedside lamp cast golden shadows over the side of his face–over the curve of his cheekbone, the bridge of his nose, the faint creases near the corners of his eyes. His light brown hair curled damply over his forehead, still messy from the towel-dry you’d done yourself when he leaned into you after his shower to nuzzle into your neck. And his five o’clock shadow had deepened into something darker since dinner–smudging along his jaw like something you wanted to run your tongue across.

He looked too good in this light.

Too warm, too comfortable, too yours.

And yet there was something unreadable in his face–just enough restraint to tell you he was sitting on something. So you turned fully toward him, wine glass loose between your fingers, and arched a brow.

“Well?” Rhett’s gaze lingered on your bare thighs before he finally spoke.

“I ever tell you ‘bout a dream I had…Week or two ago?” He asked, voice gravel-soft. You took a slow sip of your wine, letting the sweetness linger on your tongue. One droplet slid down the curve of your up, and you licked it away lazily, making sure Rhett’s eyes were on your mouth when you did.

”Mmm…” You swallowed, head tilting playfully, “You’ve told me several, hun. You tell me about every single one, so you’re going to have to be more specific.” He looked flustered now. That rare, almost sweet kind of flustered that only came out when he was too far in his own head–when the words he was holding back were heavier than he wanted to admit.

You weren’t wrong to ask for more detail.

Over the course of your entire relationship–nearly a year to the day–Rhett had made it a habit of telling you his dreams. Always in the mornings. Half-awake, head buried in your chest, voice still raspy from sleep. Sometimes they were abstract and bizarre–running through water, being chased by something without a face. Sometimes they were so vividly sexual they left a flush on his chest all morning.

And he always told you.

Which meant this one? This one had been kept.

Either on purpose…Or because he hadn’t known what to do with it.

You watched him now as his hands raked back through his still-damp hair, messing it up even worse than before. He was blushing a little, too–high along his cheekbones, just under the eyes. Like he was embarrassed for the first time in months.

”Might be seen as stupid…” He muttered, looking off toward the window like maybe the night air could somehow bail him out of this conversation. Your brow arched, slow and sharp.

”Rhett Abbott calling one of his dreams stupid? That was not on my bingo card for tonight.” That pulled a soft laugh out of him–real and low and a little sheepish. The kind of laugh he gave you when he was flustered and trying to hide it behind charm.

God, he was so bad at hiding anything from you.

You set your wine glass down gently on the nightstand. The lamp cast your shadow long across the bed sheets as you walked toward him, slow and teasingly. He didn’t even try to look away.

Your eyes locked as you climbed onto the bed.

The mattress dipped slightly under your weight as you moved to straddle him, knees framing his hips, and the second you settled in his lap, his hands came to rest on your waist like muscle memory. Like he didn’t even think–he just reached for you.

His grip was gentle but possessive. Like you were the thing that steadied him when his mind got too loud. You brushed your fingertips across his chest, feeling the thump of his heartbeat under your palm, and leaned in close.

His eyes met yours. That clear blue–brighter up close. Long lashes. A tiny freckle just under the corner of his left one. His pupils were already wide, already blown a little from watching you all night. But there was something soft in them too. Something unguarded. A quiet vulnerability that had taken you nearly the entire year to fully earn. You tilted your head.

”C’mon now…Enlighten me with this ‘stupid’ dream.” Rhett let out a breath like he’d been holding it the whole damn time. His thumbs stroked slowly along your hips, eyes darting from your mouth to your collarbone and back again, like the memory alone had his body running warm.

“Wasn’t much…” He started, “Not like the usual ones…” You quirked a brow at him.

”The usual ones usually involve you in a barn and me in a sundress with no underwear, so I’d say the bar is high.” That pulled another laugh from him, and it made his whole chest shake beneath your hands. His head tilted forward, resting briefly against your shoulder as he exhaled.

You kissed his temple gently.

When he looked back up at you, his voice dropped–gravel-thick and shy in the way that always hit you deep.

“You were wearin’ my hat.” Your lips parted, but you didn’t interrupt or say anything. His eyes dropped to your mouth, and lingered there.

”You had nothin’ else on.” He rasped, “Just that old brown hat hangin’ by your front door. And you were on top of me…Ridin’ me so slow…” His hands tightened on your hips, voice faltering as he looked at you, like he was picturing it right then and there.

”Like this,” He murmured.

And then–his hands moved.

He pulled your hips forward against his with a slow, deliberate roll, dragging you across the hard line of his erection through the flannel pyjama pants that fit him just right. The friction was deep and unhurried–more suggestion than thrust–but the way he did it…The way his thumbs pressed into your skin, his pupils dilating even further, like they were going to break through the small rim of blue, as he felt the shape of your body align with his–made your breath catch.

A low hum spilled from your throat, and you let your weight sink into his lap, grinding back softly. Rhett’s breath hitched. His fingers dug into you a little harder.

“I dreamt it and woke up so turned on I damn near hurt myself,” He whispered, ducking his head to your neck. His lips pressed there–warm, soft, wanting, and craving–then his teeth scraped the skin just below your ear.

“And ever since then…” He muttered, voice breaking as his hips dragged you against him again, “It’s been stuck in my head. Just can’t seem to get it out…” His mouth traced your jawline slowly, nipping you once–just enough to make your breath hitch. His erection was now straining against the fabric of his pyjama pants, begging for attention and release.

The pressure made you shiver.

One of your hands came up to his cheek. His stubble scratched faintly against your palm, rough and familiar, and you tilted his head gently until your eyes met again.

You kissed him.

And not quick–not teasing.

Slow.

You kissed him like the whole room had melted away. Like it was just the two of you and the flickering shadows and the low hum of the record player turning behind you. His lips parted instantly, mouth soft and eager beneath yours. His hands stayed tight on your hips, but he didn’t move, didn’t grind you against him–he let you kiss him. Let you taste him, guide him, own him for a moment.

It was heady, how easily he gave himself to you.

When you finally pulled back, lips brushing his as you breathed out, your voice was soft but sharp with intent.

“You wanna see me in your hat,” You whispered, “Riding you like you deserve?”

Rhett looked dazed. Eyes blown wide. Cheeks flushed. His erection twitching beneath you.

“‘Course I do,” He breathed. “Baby… I want it so bad it hurts.”

You leaned in again, kissed him once more–just a soft, lingering press of your mouth to his–and then drew back with a grin.

“Then go get it, cowboy.” His eyes widened, almost comically so.

“Really?” He asked, voice thick, stunned, hopeful. You nodded once, slow and deliberate, your thighs still bracketing his, your fingers dragging lightly along the sides of his neck.

“Go on,” You said, a teasing glint in your eyes. “Earn it.” You shifted off of him gently, settling beside him on the bed with one leg tucked beneath you, and Rhett was up like a man on fire–rising too fast, adjusting himself with a sharp inhale as his erection strained visibly against the front of his pyjama pants.

He stumbled a bit with his words, already halfway out the door. “Don’t–don’t you go disappearin’ on me now,” He called back over his shoulder. “I’ll be back in two seconds.” You giggled, unable to help yourself, hearing the way he was half-running barefoot through the narrow hall of the trailer. The floor creaked under his weight, then came the familiar soft clatter of the coat rack by the door as he snatched it down.

His hat…The one he never let anyone touch.

You finished the last of your wine slowly as you waited, letting the heat in your body spread lazily across your chest. A light flush had crept up your neck. Your legs still tingled from how tightly he’d held you just a moment ago.

When Rhett returned, you looked up–and your breath caught just a little.

There it was in his hand: his rodeo hat.

That dusty brown Stetson you’d seen him wear to every meet, every arena, every time he’d stepped into a chute with fire in his veins. Wide-brimmed, sun-bleached around the edges, a little worn on the crown from where he’d fidgeted with it before each ride. You had seen him toss it off before a fight, and cling to it when he prayed. You’d seen how the light hit his jaw just right beneath its brim–and every time, you thought: damn, he was made for it.

But the way he was holding it now?

Like it was an offering. Like it meant something more than a uniform.

Rhett placed the hat at the foot of the bed, eyes locked on you the whole time, breath a little ragged.

And then–he reached for your ankle.

“Before we get to fulfillin’ that dream of mine…” He murmured, his voice dipping low, soft but rough with intent, “I want to get my daily dose of you in my system.”

You swallowed audibly.

Because you knew what he meant by that.

Rhett loved going down on you.

Loved the way you tasted, how you fell apart for him. Loved when your thighs trembled around his shoulders and your voice cracked on his name. Sometimes he’d spend entire evenings between your legs without ever asking for a damn thing in return–mumbling against your skin that it was his favorite way to end the day.

And you felt that now, in the way his fingers gently curled around your ankle.

“Rhett–” You started, but the words caught in your throat when he pulled.

It wasn’t harsh. Just a firm, coaxing tug as he guided you down the mattress, one hand sliding up your calf, slow and careful.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about it all day,” he murmured. “Thinkin’ about comin’over to you, layin’ you out like this. Gettin’ you all wet and shakin’ before I ever even touch myself.” His voice, with that lazy drawl and that mix of devotion and filth made your stomach twist into knots. His mouth found the inside of your knee first, pressing a kiss there–then higher, then higher–until you could feel his breath against the hem of your shorts. You barely had time to breathe before he hooked his thumbs into the waistband.

“Let me…” He whispered, “Let me taste my girl before she puts on my hat and ruins me…” You looked down at him.

And he looked at you like you were his last prayer and first sin rolled into one.

That hunger in his eyes–the ache behind his pupils–it was nearly feral, but somehow still soft. Steady. Like he knew what he was about to do to you and was savoring it in slow motion.

You didn’t speak.

You just nodded–small, slow, sure.

Your hand came down to gently brush his hair back, fingers sliding through damp strands to keep them out of his face. His breath hitched at your touch, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment, like that simple gesture wrecked him more than anything else could.

Then–with that same quiet gentleness–he slid your sleep shorts down your hips. His hands were slow, careful, almost ceremonial, hooking into the waistband with his thumbs and dragging them down over your thighs, your knees, your calves. When they hit the floor, he didn’t look away from your center for a second. His palms smoothed up the outsides of your thighs as he pulled you down the mattress, coaxing you toward the edge with practiced ease. You let him, with your shallow breaths and your heart thudding against your ribs.

And then–he dropped to his knees.

Right there on the floor, between your legs, with his bare chest rising and falling under the thin cotton of his t-shirt, and his jaw slack like he was already drunk on the sight of you. He slid his arms under your thighs and over them again–cradling, anchoring–until the backs of your knees rested over his broad shoulders. His hands gripped the outer curves of your thighs, holding you open, thumbs stroking small circles into your skin like he couldn’t stop touching you even if he tried.

And when his eyes met yours–

God. That look alone made you ache.

Rhett always looked up at you when he did this.

Never shy and certainly never avoiding.

Like he wanted you to see what he was doing to you. Like he needed you to know how much he loved it.

“You’re already shakin’,” He murmured, voice low and rough with heat. “You that worked up for me, sweetheart?” His breath hit your core, and your hips gave a soft jolt in response.

Rhett grinned.

“Thought so.”

Then his mouth was on you.

And not just on you–devouring you and everything you had.

His lips parted around your folds, tongue sliding out slow and wide, dragging upward in one long, unhurried lick that made your spine arch and your toes curl. The heat of his mouth, the scratch of that stubble brushing your thighs–it all rushed through you like lightning.

He groaned against you–like the taste of you filled his mouth too good, too thick–and the vibration of that sound pulsed right through your core.

“Fuck,” you gasped, your head tipping back, one hand fisting the sheets beside you, the other reaching for him–searching for his hair, his shoulder, anything to ground yourself.

He kept going. Lapping and kissing and sucking gently at your clit, alternating pressure, drawing tiny sounds out of you one after the other like he was memorizing every response.

And still–he kept looking up.

Every few seconds, his gaze would flick up your body, pupils dark and blown, and meet yours with this desperate, tender intensity that had your stomach fluttering uncontrollably.

“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever tasted,” He rasped, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips already slick with you. “Always so warm… always so wet for me…”

Your breath hitched. Your thighs squeezed slightly around his head, and he groaned at that too–loved when you did that–before ducking his mouth right back down and closing it over your clit.

He sucked.

Not hard–but deep. Pulling it into his mouth and curling his tongue around it until your whole body trembled. Then he licked again–quick, focused strokes right where you needed them most–and you could already feel that pressure building fast and thick in your lower belly.

“Rhett–” you gasped, barely able to speak. “Rhett holy shit–”

He gripped your thighs tighter, holding you still as he sucked again, then slowed–drawing a long, slick stroke down your slit before groaning again, low and needy.

“I could stay down here forever,” He mumbled against you, and that sound–the low timbre of his voice reverberating through your center–made your legs tremble even harder. “This–this is the best damn thing I’ve ever had.”

He flicked his tongue just beneath your clit again, then flattened it, slow and firm, circling that sensitive bundle of nerves until your mouth fell open in a silent moan.

“Look at you,” He whispered, glancing up through his lashes. “So fuckin’ pretty when you come apart for me…”

And you did—nearly right then.

Your back arched as the tension snapped. A sharp, desperate cry tore from your throat as your orgasm rolled through you in wave after wave. Rhett didn’t stop. He never stopped. He kept his mouth on you, licking and sucking and moaning like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

Your fingers found his hair and tugged hard as you came, and he groaned like it drove him wild, like your pleasure was the only thing tethering him to earth.

When you finally started to come down–shaking, gasping, your chest rising and falling hard–he pressed one last, soft kiss to your center before pulling back slightly, lips slick, chin wet, eyes wrecked.

“You good, darlin’?” he asked, his voice still hoarse, his hands still warm and steady on your thighs.

You blinked down at him, dazed.

“Barely,” you whispered, your body still twitching from aftershocks.

He smirked, running a hand slowly up the inside of your thigh.

“You still got enough in you to make that dream come true?” He asked, thumb brushing gentle circles into your thigh, lips slick and pink from everything he’d just done to you.

You let out a breathless laugh, voice still trembling. Your gaze flicked toward the foot of the bed–where his hat sat in all its quiet glory–and then back to him.

“I always have enough in me to please my cowboy.”

That made his smile flicker wider, that dimple creasing his cheek just before he surged up from the floor, bracing one palm on the mattress and leaning in to kiss you–messy this time. No hesitation. Just hunger and heat and a mouth slick with your arousal pressing against yours like he couldn’t get close enough. It was wet and open-mouthed and a little uncoordinated, noses bumping, teeth catching on swollen lips, and when you both pulled back to catch your breath, there was a thin trail of spit still clinging between your tongues before it broke and smeared against the corner of his mouth.

You swiped your thumb over it.

He licked it from your skin without shame.

Then his fingers found the hem of your tank top and lifted.

You raised your arms without a word, letting him pull it up and off and toss it aside. His eyes swept down over your now fully bare chest like he was trying to memorize every freckle and curve, every little mark he already knew by heart.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he muttered, a little dazed. “Don’t know what I ever did to deserve this.”

You kissed the edge of his jaw, warm and reverent. “Shut up and take your shirt off.”

He did.

The thin cotton clung a little to his stomach from the heat of his skin, but he peeled it over his head and dropped it behind him, revealing the warm flush across his chest, and the super light trail of hair down his navel that disappeared beneath his waistband.

You leaned in and kissed the base of his throat, then lower–tracing the center of his chest, lips dragging over the rise and fall of each breath.

“God, I want you,” You whispered.

He swallowed hard. “I’m yours.”

And then he was shoving his pajama bottoms down–quickly, too worked up now to be careful. His cock sprung free, flushed red and hard, the tip already glistening.

Rhett had barely finished kicking his flannel bottoms to the floor when he climbed back into bed, propping himself against the pillows, chest heaving with anticipation. His hands twitched slightly at his sides, like he didn’t know whether to grab you or just sit back and let you ruin him.

You stayed on your knees at first, watching him settle. The lamplight painted him in golden hues–his chest flushed and rising with ragged breaths, his thighs taut, cock heavy and twitching where it rested against his stomach. His eyes never left you, like you were the only thing anchoring him to this earth.

Then, with that quiet confidence you knew he loved, you shifted up onto his thighs and slowly climbed into his lap.

You made sure your knees bracketed his hips perfectly. Making sure the skin of your inner thighs brushed against his, and then, still holding his gaze, you reached for the hat.

Your fingers slid under the brim, lifting it from where it lay beside you. The moment the crown settled in your hands, Rhett’s breath caught–audibly. His eyes went wide again, not just with heat, but with something deeper. Worship. Wonder. Like watching you hold it turned a fantasy into something sacred.

Then slowly you brought it to your head, and you slipped it on.

The wide-brimmed Stetson sat low over your brow, casting your eyes in shadow and making your mouth the brightest thing on your face. Your lips curved into a slow, deliberate smirk, and Rhett visibly shuddered.

“Jesus Christ,” He whispered, voice barely there. “You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me.”You smiled wider. He reached up like he couldn’t help himself, and with the gentlest touch—like it was second nature—he flicked the brim of the hat once with his knuckle.

“Looks better on you than it ever did on me,” he murmured, a soft laugh catching in his throat. You giggled back, the brim tipping forward slightly with the motion, and that light, giddy sound made something in Rhett’s chest physically stutter.

Then you leaned forward, just enough for your bare chest to press against his, the heat between your bodies rising, coiling, fusing into one steady burn.

Your hand slid between your bodies.

Rhett inhaled sharply as your fingers wrapped around him–hot, thick, hard, already slick at the tip. You stroked once. Twice. Slow, deliberate movements that had him tipping his head back against the pillows with a guttural groan. His hands flew to your hips like instinct, gripping them firmly, grounding himself in the feel of your skin.

You teased him, letting your slick gather at his head as you guided him through your folds, rubbing the crown against your entrance, but not quite letting him in.

“Jesus,” He hissed, his hips twitching up slightly, fighting the urge to thrust. “Baby… please…”

You didn’t give in right away.

Instead, you leaned in, letting your chest brush his again, your breath ghosting over his jaw as you murmured–

“You dreamed about this, didn’t you?”

His hands gripped tighter.

“Yeah,” He rasped. “Every goddamn night since.”

You held his gaze as you tilted your hips–slow, careful–until his tip nudged your entrance. You paused there, savoring the moment. Savoring the heat, the stretch, the way his lips parted as if to beg, but he held back.

Then, with a steady exhale, you started to sink down.

He was big. You both knew it. Every time you took him it was a stretch–deep and toe-curling, your body adjusting to every thick inch of him.

But this time? It felt even more intense.

Maybe it was the hat. Maybe it was the fuel of the dream behind everything. Maybe it was the way Rhett looked up at you like you were some kind of goddess kneeling above him, his mouth open, his brows drawn, like the sight of you riding him like this might actually break him.

You sank down inch by inch, slow and steady, your jaw dropping open as the burn turned to fullness, and then to pleasure. Rhett groaned like a man possessed, his fingers flexing hard on your hips, his knuckles white.

“Fuck, baby,” he gasped, his voice hoarse and shaking. “You feel so good–so fuckin’ good–”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You were too focused on the way he filled you, stretched you, your hands bracing against his chest as you slid down until he was seated completely inside you. Your walls fluttered around him involuntarily, and he let out a choked sound, his hips jerking up once with a desperate need to move. You let out a shaky breath, lifting your gaze.

You started slow. Just the barest roll of your hips, your thighs trembling slightly as you adjusted to the weight of him inside you. Every inch of him pressed deep, dragging against your walls in that way that made your breath hitch and your belly clench. Your palms flattened over his chest, steadying yourself against the tremble that spread through your limbs.

Rhett’s hands stayed tight on your hips, not forcing, not guiding–just holding.

His eyes locked to where you were joined, and he let out a choked, reverent sound. One of his hands slid up, tracing the curve of your waist, the slope of your ribs, until his thumb brushed reverently beneath the underside of your breast. His other hand reached for the brim of the hat.

He tilted it back slightly on your head so he could see your face better.

“Look at you…” He whispered, voice low and ruined. “My girl…ridin’ me like a goddamn dream.”

You rocked your hips again–slow, dragging friction that had you both gasping. Your folds were slick, soaked, stretched wide around him, and the wet sound of your bodies moving together filled the room, lewd and obscene. His cock pulsed inside you, thick and throbbing, and your walls squeezed around him reflexively.

The brim of the hat shaded your eyes, and Rhett looked absolutely wrecked by it.

You leaned forward, your hair falling in soft strands around your face, and you kissed him again–sloppy, wet, desperate. Your tongue licked into his mouth as your hips picked up a slow, grinding rhythm, your clit dragging over the soft patch of hair above his base with each rock of your hips.

He moaned into your mouth, teeth catching your bottom lip before pulling back slightly. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse–like it had been scraped raw from how badly he needed you.

“You’re killin’ me,” he groaned. “Feelin’ you like this–watchin’ you on top of me, wearin’ my hat–fuck, baby, it’s too much.”

You rolled your hips again and leaned back slightly so he could see the way your body moved above him, the way he disappeared inside you, the way your stomach fluttered with every rise and fall. His hands slid to your thighs, then your ass, gripping tight, holding you open, watching every slick, filthy grind.

“You want me to stop?” You teased, breathless.

His head shot back against the pillow, eyes squeezing shut as he let out a guttural, almost-pained sound.

“Don’t you dare,” he choked. “I swear to God, I’ll lose my mind.”

You smiled, slow and wicked, and began to ride him in earnest.

Not fast. Not yet.

Just deep.

Grinding circles, pulling nearly all the way off his cock before sinking back down with a slick, breathy moan. Your hands slid down his chest, dragging over his stomach, and Rhett watched with glassy eyes as your body moved in perfect rhythm over his.

Every stroke was a worship. Every roll of your hips drew a cry from him–half groan, half prayer.

“Look at you,” He panted, hands sliding up your waist, thumbs stroking your ribs. “Takin’ me so good…So goddamn deep…”

He sat up, slowly, arms wrapping around you as he buried his face against your chest, mouth hot and open over the swell of your breast. He pressed kisses there–wet, messy, dragging his lips across your skin like he couldn’t get enough. His stubble scraped your sensitive flesh, and you gasped, your hands finding his hair, holding him close.

“You’re all I think about,” He whispered, voice trembling. “You in this hat…ridin’ me like you were made for it…You feel so good, baby–so warm, so wet–I could die right here…”

You rocked harder, your breath catching with every grind, every drag of his cock against that aching spot inside you. His tongue flicked your nipple, then sucked it into his mouth, and your head tipped back as you moaned.

“Rhett–fuck–Rhett, you’re gonna make me–”

“Come on, darlin’,” He rasped against your breast. “Come for me. Wanna feel you all over me. Want you to make a mess. Let me feel you clench around me while you wear my fuckin’ hat.”

You whimpered–high, needy–and rolled your hips faster now, chasing it. Your slick dripped down between your thighs, coating him, sticking to his skin in hot, wet strands. The bed creaked under you, and Rhett’s hands clutched your ass, helping you ride, pushing up into you as you rocked down onto him again and again.

The hat stayed perfectly perched on your head.

And Rhett looked up at you like he’d gone and seen heaven.

“Come on,” He begged, “Show me how good it feels. Come on, baby–I need it–fuck, I need it–”

You came with a cry.

Your hips jerked, thighs trembling as your orgasm tore through you, slick flooding around him. You clamped down on his cock, pulsing hard, your moans broken and raw. Rhett groaned and held you there, grinding his hips up once, twice—and then he followed.

“Fuck–fuck–oh Jesus–” His head tipped back, mouth open, eyes glassy, and he came inside you in thick, hot spurts that you could feel dripping down between your thighs.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you panting, sweating, your skin sticking where it touched.

He wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight.

And then he reached up, breathless, and tipped the hat off your head just enough to press a kiss to your forehead, before he removed it completely and put it on the nightstand.

“You just ruined me for every other fantasy,” He whispered. Rhett’s breath was still coming in soft, uneven waves beneath you, his chest rising and falling in sync with yours.

The afterglow wrapped around you both like a weighted blanket, warm and heavy, laced with sweat and the slow pulse of satisfaction. His arms were still locked around your waist, one hand splayed across your back like he didn’t want to let you go, not even to breathe.

He tilted his head just enough to look at you, still dazed, still flushed–and smiled. That slow, crooked, post-orgasm grin that only came out when he was taken care of, and truly spent.

Then he let out a lazy exhale and murmured, “Now whenever I wear that hat, I’m gonna be so goddamn distracted thinkin’ about this moment right here.”

You bit back your smile, leaning in close, your nose brushing his. “Wasn’t that the whole point?” you whispered, and kissed him.

It was soft at first–just a brush of lips, a sigh passed between mouths–but then his hand curled around the back of your neck, and he deepened it, just enough to let the warmth spread again. A hint of tongue. A little groan. He kissed you like a man still savoring dessert.

When you finally broke apart, Rhett gave a breathless, quiet laugh. His eyes crinkled at the corners in that way that made your chest flutter–genuine, drowsy, gorgeous.

“Well…” He murmured, eyes half-lidded and glowing gold in the lamplight, “In theory, I didn’t really think past the idea of you ridin’ me with my hat on.” He gave your bare thigh a soft squeeze, his thumb drawing lazy circles against your skin. “Or the long-lastin’ effects it’d have on me.”

You couldn’t help but laugh too, your head dropping briefly to his shoulder as your body relaxed against him. You felt him chuckle beneath you, his whole body shaking gently. The sound of it, warm and boyish and sleepy, was your favorite thing in the world.

“You good?” You asked softly, your fingers brushing through his hair again.

“Darlin’, I’m ruined,” he sighed dramatically, but there was nothing but affection in the way he looked at you–like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

You let the silence stretch a beat, then whispered, “We should probably wash off before we pass out like this.”

“Yeah,” He said, groaning a little as he shifted beneath you. “Before I end up glued to you for life.”

You kissed him once more, then slowly rolled off, muscles still trembling as you carefully stood on wobbly legs. Rhett watched every movement, his eyes roaming with unabashed hunger and satisfaction, like he was committing the sight to memory.

As you padded toward the bathroom, trying not to trip over your own feet, you felt the air on your slick thighs and winced at the mess between them.

Rhett caught that little shuffle in your step and gave your ass a light, playful smack.

You gasped in mock outrage, laughing as you glanced back at him over your shoulder.

“Hey!” You teased, swatting at the air.

He just grinned up at you from the bed, completely unrepentant.

Then, without missing a beat, you turned and picked up his hat from the nightstand. You gave it a little twirl between your fingers and then tossed it gently toward him. He caught it one-handed, eyes still glued to you, slipping it on his head as a joke, messing with the brim a bit.

“Maybe next time,” You said, voice sweet and slow, “I wanna see you wear this in the bedroom, cowboy. We can make some more memories that’ll ruin you.”

Rhett blinked.

Then his grin went from lazy to wicked.

“Yes, ma’am,” He said, tipping the hat toward you with that glint in his eyes.

You raised a brow at him, lingering in the bathroom doorway with one hand on the frame, your silhouette soft in the dim light. Steam had just begun to curl from the faucet, misting up the mirror. You leaned your weight on one hip, letting your fingers brush your thigh, voice light and teasing.

“You just gonna sit there lookin’ smug,” You asked, “Or are you actually gonna join me?”

Rhett blinked once, then twice–like your words hadn’t fully registered at first–and then his expression shifted into something downright wolfish.

“Hell yes, I’m joinin’ you,” He said, practically throwing the hat onto the nearest pillow as he stood, bare and flushed and beautifully wrecked. “Can’t miss an opportunity to get you all soapy and wet, now can I?”

You laughed, and so did he–both of you loose and glowing in the afterglow haze, your bodies still humming from everything that had just happened. He was already halfway across the room before you could turn, catching your hand as you disappeared into the bathroom, tugging you back toward him for one more lingering kiss. Hot, slow, and full of promise, that the night was far from over.

#rhett abbott x y/n #rhett abbott fic #rhett abbott smut #rhett abbott fanfiction #rhett abbott x reader #rhett abbott #rhett abbott fluff #lewis pullman the man you are #lewis pullman characters #lewis pullman #sweet Lordy lord we love cowboys lol #give me the strength #Spotify #x reader smut #x reader

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pandapetals · 2 days ago

Text

Need You Now

Summary: Months of lingering touches, long looks, and unspoken words finally come to a head when you can’t hold back anymore.

Pairing: joel miller x fem!reader

Word count: 8k

Content warnings: established relationship, a bit of a shy reader?, reader is down bad for joel, soft joel, sexual tension, build up to smut, body worship, thigh riding, voyeurism, fingering, cowgirl/riding, p in v, praise kink, good girl used, dirty talk, endearments, tenderness

A/N: divider by @/saradika-graphics. Since I've been writing a lot more smut, I want to try writing different stuff. P.S. This has been in the drafts for like two weeks now.

Your gaze lingered on Joel like it always did these days, tracing the broad line of his shoulders as he hefted a bale of hay into the stables. The sleeves of his shirt clung to his arms, the fabric darkened in spots with sweat. He moved with an unhurried strength, and that was part of what drew you in.

You leaned against the fence post, half-listening to Nathan talk about a busted post, but your attention kept drifting back to Joel.

How he’d tilt his head when Tommy said something, the rough scrape of his palm across his jaw as he wiped at the sweat there. Little things. Ordinary things. But to you, they landed sharp and heavy, gathering in your stomach like storm clouds.

It wasn’t new. You’d been dating Joel for months, falling into something you both refused to name. Boyfriend felt too simple, too sweet. What you had with Joel wasn’t delicate. It was quiet, careful, and lately, it was growing teeth.

You’d started noticing how often he stood just a little too close. His fingers would brush the line of your jaw when you kissed him quickly and breathlessly before pulling away, and his gaze would linger as you walked off.

It built in small moments, like the weight of a hand resting just above your knee or the rough timbre of his voice dropping when no one else was around. You hadn’t slept with him yet. Not because you didn’t want to. Hell, you thought about it more than you cared to admit, but because nervousness was curling inside you. Shy wasn’t quite the right word either. It was more… the sharp ache of wanting something you weren’t sure you deserved.

And now, watching him, his back muscles flexing beneath that worn shirt, the heat of the afternoon clinging to his skin, it was getting harder to push it aside. The ache settled low like an insistent pull. You crossed your arms tight over your chest, as if it might hold something back.

Joel turned then, catching your gaze across the yard. His brow quirked, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, like he could feel how you were looking at him. Like he’d known for days.

Heat bloomed beneath your skin, crawling up your neck as you tore your gaze away, fixing your eyes on Nathan, though his words barely registered. Something about fence repairs, or the weather turning — you couldn’t hold onto it.

Still, your eyes betrayed you, flickering back toward him before you could stop yourself. He was bent to his work again, hauling another bale onto his shoulder. It shouldn’t have felt like a punch to the ribs, but it did.

You swallowed hard, your pulse tapping insistently against the hollow of your throat. The world's edges seemed to dull, the chatter of the others, the scrape of boots against dirt. All of it fading beneath the weight of your restless thoughts.

Was this what he wanted?

For you to unravel like this, so wound up with want that it pressed heavily between your legs, that you could barely think straight when he was near? Or was he oblivious to what he was doing to you and how every careless brush of his hand and lingering glance set something alight under your skin?

It gnawed at you, the not-knowing.

And yet, the truth you didn’t want to name was this — he wasn’t going to make the move. Not unless you did. Joel was a man of long silences, sidelong glances, and letting things come when they came. He wouldn’t push. Wouldn’t ask.

Which meant it had to be you.

You’d have to find the nerve to tell him what you wanted. To ask for what kept your body restless in the dark, your fingers brushing over your skin, and pretending they were his.

“Hey. You alright, darlin’?”

Joel’s voice startled you, and you jumped like he’d caught you doing something you weren’t supposed to. Your gaze snapped up, and he stood closer than you’d realized, brow knit, a bead of sweat trailing down the side of his temple.

Your throat worked around a swallow, words catching somewhere between your chest and your tongue. He watched you, eyes narrowing just a little, like he could see straight through whatever half-assed answer you might give.

“I—” you started, but then he reached for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up to wipe the sweat from his temple.

And you looked. God help you, you looked.

Your gaze dropped before you could stop it, catching on the flash of tanned skin, the curve of his stomach, and the faint trail of dark hair beneath his waistband. It was a brief, careless motion on his part, but it landed like a spark in a dry field.

Heat flooded your face so fast that it made you dizzy. You could feel your pulse thudding hard behind your ears, your skin prickling beneath his shadow.

You shouldn’t be staring, but your eyes clung to the sight a second too long, hunger stirring low and sharp in your belly before you wrenched your gaze away, pretending to focus on the ground, the fence, anything else.

Joel’s voice came again, softer this time, a little amused. “You sure you’re alright?”

You nodded, a weak, mortified thing, still refusing to meet his eyes. “Mhm. Fine,” you mumbled, though your voice sounded thin and unconvincing even to your ears.

Joel let out a quiet hum, the corner of his mouth ticking up in the faintest ghost of a smirk. He didn’t call you on it. Didn’t tease. Just stood there a beat longer than necessary, letting the moment's weight hang between you.

“Was gonna head to the mess hall,” Joel said, his voice a low rumble as he looked down at you. “You hungry?”

You almost choked on the answer you wanted to give — yeah, hungry for you — but managed to bite it back at the last possible second. A wild, half-panicked thought crossed your mind: Jesus, did I say that out loud?

Your stomach twisted, your face heating under the weight of his gaze. God, you probably looked like a wide-eyed, needy, half-feral stray cat someone left out in the rain.

“Sure,” you murmured, the word barely scraping past your throat.

You turned quickly, eager to put a little space between you and your humiliating thoughts, when his hand caught your wrist.

“Hold on a second,” Joel said.

You swallowed hard, your eyes darting up to his, searching for a hint of his thoughts. The sun caught in the flecks of green in his irises, and something about how he looked at you made your knees go loose.

His hand slid from your wrist, brushing a piece of hair from your forehead, tucking it gently behind your ear. It was a simple thing. Innocent, probably. But it made your heart race. Your skin flushed hot, a shiver chasing down your spine. Every inch of you prickled, hypersensitive to the warmth of his fingertips and the low hum of his nearness.

“Joel?” you managed, breath catching with confusion.

He smiled, small and easy, like none of this meant anything to him. Like he didn’t know what it was doing to you.

“Had a ladybug in your hair,” he murmured, holding his palm to show you.

A tiny red dot crawled along the callused skin of his hand. He glanced at it, then back at you, eyes crinkling at the corners.

You let out a breathless laugh, though it came a little shaky, your heart still hammering in your chest. “Oh,” you said weakly, cursing yourself for sounding like you’d forgotten how to speak.

Then, as casually as if he hadn’t just unraveled you with a touch, he flicked the ladybug off his hand and nodded toward the mess hall. “C’mon, let’s eat.”

You followed, your skin still tingling, the ache between your legs a quiet, insistent thing you pretended wasn’t there.

The mess hall was half-full when you and Joel walked in, the scent of something savory and sweet hanging in the air. Conversation buzzed low around you, the scrape of utensils against plates, the distant clatter of a pan in the kitchen. You trailed behind him, still feeling the ghost of his touch at your wrist, the warmth of his hand brushing your hair, as if your skin hadn’t quite recovered.

Joel snagged a tray for you both, and you followed him down the line, not trusting your voice enough to speak. He didn’t say much either, just handed you a cup, grabbed two bowls of stew, and steered you both toward an empty table near the window.

He slid into the bench seat, and you sat across from him, putting what you thought was a safe amount of space between you. But the benches were narrow, the table not much broader, and you felt a jolt of awareness at how close his knee was to yours beneath the wood.

You kept your gaze fixed on your bowl, shoving a spoonful of broth into your mouth without tasting it.

The conversation started easily. Something about the weather turning colder, and a fence that needed fixing on the east side: his voice was low and easy, and you found yourself relaxing in it, sinking into the warmth of his presence like slipping into a hot bath.

And then it happened.

A brush. The softest, accidental sweep of his leg against yours under the table. A spark of contact. Barely there, but enough.

Your breath stuttered. You glanced up sharply, but Joel was looking down at his stew, like nothing had happened. No flicker of acknowledgment on his face.

So maybe it really was nothing. Except it happened again—a shift in his seat, the press of his knee to yours, lingering this time.

You swallowed hard, your pulse skipping. Your hand tightened around the spoon, and you hated how flustered you felt over a small, easily brushed off touch.

Joel’s gaze finally lifted to yours, and the corners of his mouth tugged up, just enough to make your stomach swoop.

“You sure you’re alright, darlin’?” he asked softly, voice dipping below the steady hum of the room.

“I’m fine,” you managed, though the words scraped out a little rough, your throat drier than it had any right to be. “Just hot today. Stew isn’t helping.”

Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your tray as you said it, gaze flickering anywhere but his face: the window, the bowl, the half-empty room. But you could still feel the heat of his knee against yours.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat, his voice low, a little rough. “Hot as hell today.”.

Your pulse kicked up, a flush creeping higher along your neck, prickling at the back of your scalp. You bit the inside of your cheek, willing yourself to pull it together, to stop reading into every damn thing he said, every glance, every touch.

But then his boot nudged against yours.

You glanced up, and there it was — that look. The one that made your stomach dip, like stepping off a ledge. His eyes were steady on yours, his mouth soft at the edges, like he wasn’t in a hurry for anything but wasn’t about to stop, either.

Your breath caught, words dying on your tongue.

Joel’s gaze lingered another beat before he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod and went back to his stew like nothing had happened.

Leaving you burning alive in a room full of people, your skin too tight, the air too thick, and the taste of something dangerous hanging heavy on your tongue.

By the time you both stepped out of the mess hall, the sun had slipped low, painting the sky in streaks of pink and amber. The air had cooled, but your skin still felt too hot, prickling beneath your shirt like it hadn’t quite forgotten the way Joel’s knee had pressed against yours.

You shoved your hands into your pockets, trying not to fidget as you fell into step beside him.

Joel didn’t say much, and you weren’t surprised. He never did during these walks. Just let the quiet stretch long and easy between you, the steady crunch of boots on gravel the only sound for a while.

The streets of Jackson were mainly empty now, with folks settling in for the night. Porch lights glowed warm in the dusk, and the faint hum of voices and the distant bark of a dog carried on the cool evening air.

Your heart tripped a little when Joel’s hand brushed against yours.

It was light, barely a touch, just the back of his knuckles grazing yours as he shifted something in his pocket. You didn’t pull away.

Didn’t move closer either. Just let your hand linger where it was, close enough for that accidental contact to happen again. And it did. Once, twice, each time a little longer, like the space between you had started to shrink on its own.

Your pulse tapped steadily at your throat, words thick behind your teeth. You wanted to say something about the stars coming out, the stupid ladybug earlier, and how you weren’t just hot from the weather.

“Y’been quiet,” he said, his voice soft. “Somethin’ on your mind?”

You swallowed hard, your gaze flicking to him in the dim light. How he looked at you — steady, unhurried, like he had all the time to wait for you to speak — made your chest ache.

“I’m fine,” you lied, a half-smile tugging at your lips, though your voice felt thin.

He didn’t push; he just let his hand brush yours again, slower this time, his fingers grazing along the side of your pinky before drifting away.

When you reached your front porch, the ache between your ribs felt sharp enough to cut.

“Thanks for walkin’ me home,” you managed, turning toward him, fingers itching at your side to reach for him, to hold him there a little longer.

Joel gave a small nod. “Always, sweetheart.”

He lingered a beat, like he might say something else. Might lean in. Might close that inch between you, but then he tipped his head, a flicker of warmth in his eyes, and turned away, heading back down the path.

You gasped, the sound catching sharp in your throat as Joel turned away, his broad shoulders fading into the dark. He always kissed you goodnight. A soft, lingering thing that left your stomach flipping and your skin buzzing for hours after. But not tonight.

He was leaving you like this — strung out, aching, every nerve stretched thin.

A flicker of heat shot through your chest, chased by something sharp and restless. This had all been some way to rile you up. Hadn’t it? The way his hand brushed yours, the weight of his knee against yours, those long, quiet looks that said everything without saying a damn word.

Your head spun, heart racing so hard you could hear it pounding in your ears.

Before your mind could catch up to your body, your feet were already moving, gravel crunching under your boots as you crossed the space between you in a few quick steps. Your hand shot out, fingers curling around the firm line of his bicep.

“Don’t you dare,” you blurted breathlessly, voice rougher than you meant it to be.

Joel froze. He turned slowly, his brow ticking up, and the look on his face made your stomach dip, like maybe this was exactly what he’d been waiting for.

“Don’t I dare what?” His voice was soft with a gravelly edge. Your fingers tightened on his arm, and your skin buzzed against his warm skin.

“Leave me like that,” you blurted, your voice sharp, a rough edge of breathlessness clinging to the words. “You did all this on purpose because you’re too scared to ask for more.”

It came out in a rush, heat flushing your skin, your chest rising and falling like you’d just sprinted a mile. You scoffed, glaring up at him, though your hand still hadn’t let go of his arm.

Joel’s face changed. The steady calm he wore like armor cracked, his brow furrowing, mouth parting like he was searching for something to say.

“No,” he said, voice low and uneven. “It—it ain’t like that.”

Your heart kicked against your ribs, throat tight. “Then what’s it like, huh?” you fired back, your words tumbling over each other. “You flexing those stupid muscles in the sun, pulling that thing with the ladybug, then the—the knee thing—”

Your voice faltered, heat creeping higher up your neck.

And then you saw it.

The way Joel’s expression shifted — not guilt, not smugness, but realization. His eyes widened, something dawning behind them that made your stomach drop. The kind of look that made you realize he hadn’t been playing a game at all.

At least, not on purpose.

His hand came up, rough fingers scratching at the back of his neck, eyes dropping for a beat before finding yours again.

“I thought…” he started, voice soft now, a little raw around the edges. “I thought you were bein’ quiet ‘cause you didn’t want more. I figured… maybe you weren’t ready. Or maybe you didn’t see me that way. Hell, I’ve been holdin’ back, darlin’. Tryin’ not to scare you off.”

“Yeah, well,” you muttered, looking down, your voice quieter now, almost a whisper. “Turns out you scare me more by not doing anything.”

Joel let out a breath, his hand brushing your jaw, tilting your face up so you’d look at him. “Didn’t mean to leave you hangin’,” he murmured, thumb tracing the edge of your cheekbone. “Was just waitin’ on you.”

You exhaled, chest tight, your eyes searching Joel’s face like you might find courage there. The night pressed in around you, thick and heavy, and your throat felt too tight to swallow.

“Go on,” Joel coaxed, his voice low with the faintest rasp. “Tell me what you want.”

The words made your stomach clench, your pulse skipping. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out immediately—just a stammer, a shaky breath that made your cheeks flush hot.

“I— I want…” you stumbled, the words catching like burrs in your throat. It felt impossible to say it out loud, though every inch of you screamed for it.

Joel’s thumb brushed along your cheekbone again, his touch making your skin prickle. His hand tilted your face, his eyes steady, soft but dark around the edges.

“It’s alright,” he murmured, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Ain’t no need to get shy on me now, sweetheart.”

You bit your lip, your gaze flickering to his mouth for half a second before dropping back to his eyes, heart hammering so hard you swore he could hear it.

“I want you,” you whispered, trembling but sure. Your hand found the fabric of his shirt, twisting it in your fingers. “All of you, Joel.”

Something flickered in his eyes, and he nodded, leaning down to press his lips to your forehead, his breath warm against your skin.

“Atta girl,” he said, and the sound of it, low and thick, made your stomach swoop. “We can do that soon. I promise.” When he started to pull back, you shook your head, catching his shirt tighter in your grip.

“No—no, Joel,” you breathed, the words slipping out without permission, a boldness breaking loose from the tight coil in your chest. “I don’t wanna wait. I want you now.”

Your voice cracked on the last word, all raw want and aching honesty.

Joel stilled, his thumb retracing your cheek, his other hand resting against your waist. The air between you felt electric, every inch of space charged with what you’d both been too careful to say.

His gaze locked on yours, unreadable for a long, heavy second. Then he clicked his tongue softly, head tilting just a little.

“You sure about this?”

You nodded, probably too fast, heat blooming under your skin. Your hand slid down from his bicep, lingering over the steady rise and fall of his chest, feeling the warmth of him through the worn fabric.

“I’m sure, Joel,” you said, softer this time, but with a steadiness that surprised even you.

His jaw flexed, something unreadable passing over his face, and you took the chance to grab his hand, threading your fingers through his calloused ones as you tugged him toward your house.

The walk felt unreal, like the air had thickened, every step a little heavier. Time stretched and slowed, your pulse thrumming in your ears. When you reached your front door, your stomach was full of nerves and anticipation, your skin tingling.

Inside, the house felt too quiet. You took your boots off without looking at him, suddenly hyperaware of every movement. The air between you crackled with so much unspoken want that it made your hands shake.

Joel stood just inside the doorway, his fingers grazing the back of his neck as he glanced around, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

“We… uh… we should get comfortable,” he said, voice low and rough.

You laughed, breathy and nervous, the sound spilling out before you could stop. “Like… on the bed?”

It wasn’t that you hadn’t done this before. You had, but never with him; somehow, it felt different.

Joel’s gaze flicked back to you, and that tiny, crooked grin you’d grown addicted to tugged at his mouth. “Yeah,” he replied, like he knew exactly what you felt. “Like on the bed.”

Your stomach swooped, heat curling low in your belly as your fingers found his hand again, threading through the rough warmth of his calloused palm. You tugged him gently down the hall, your pulse thudding hard in your throat.

You half-expected Joel to stop you, to push you against the wall, to kiss you stupid before you even made it to your room, but he didn’t. He followed, his thumb rubbing lazy circles against the back of your hand.

No rushed kisses. No frantic tugging of clothes. Just the sound of your breath, shallow and quick, and his heavy footsteps at your back.

The air felt thick inside your room, and the only light came from the lamp on your nightstand. You turned, half breathless, your heart pounding so hard it made your fingertips tremble.

And still, Joel didn’t make a move.

“Uh… Joel?” you asked, voice soft, your brows pinching together. “Do… you not want me?”

His face changed instantly. Whatever restraint he’d been holding flickered into something raw and painfully tender. He stepped closer, his hands cradling your face like you were something breakable, his thumbs brushing beneath your cheekbones.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured. “Of course, I want you. Been wantin’ you for a while now.”

“I just… I can tell you’re nervous,” he went on, one thumb tracing the corner of your mouth. “And I don’t ever wanna do somethin’ you ain’t ready for. I’ll wait as long as you need.”

A rush of warmth spread through your chest, relief crashing into something hotter beneath your skin. “Oh,” you whispered, a little breathless now, your voice unsteady for a different reason entirely.

Joel’s gaze searched yours, and then, finally, his mouth brushed yours—a slow, careful kiss.

You sighed into it, your fingers sliding up to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, the heat of his body seeping into yours. His lips moved against yours, coaxing, unhurried, and you melted into the steadiness of him.

When he finally pulled back, it was only enough to press a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, his smile grazing your skin.

“Let’s get comfortable,” he murmured, voice warm.

You nodded, cheeks flushed, and after awkward shuffling and nervous laughter, you both stripped down to your underwear. Joel’s broad, tanned chest made your stomach flip — the thick lines of muscle, the smattering of hair, the faint scar along his stomach you hadn’t seen before.

You bit your lip, your eyes tracing over him as you memorized every inch.

Joel sat back against the headboard, reaching a hand out toward you. “C’mere.”

And without thinking, you settled in his lap, straddling him, your knees bracketing his hips. The feel of his hands on your thighs, his thumbs stroking along your skin, made your breath hitch.

You just sat there, hearts pounding, eyes searching as your hands explored tentative, lingering touches like it was the first time you’d ever been allowed to want someone like this.

Joel’s gaze darkened, pupils blown wide as his fingers traced a deliberate path up your sides, the rough drag of his calloused thumbs brushing the soft swell of your ribs. His touch made your skin prickle, a hot shiver rolling down your spine.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” he muttered.

You leaned in, catching his mouth with yours in newfound hunger. The kiss was deeper, your tongue slipping against his, tasting him, pulling a deep, guttural groan from his chest. It vibrated against you, making your thighs clench.

His hands tightened at your waist, and when you shifted — chasing the ache building between your legs — the heat of your clothed pussy dragging against the firm muscle of his thigh made you gasp. Your hips stuttered, a soft, needy whimper spilling into his mouth.

Joel pulled back just enough to watch you, a brow arching, his lips slick and parted, his expression downright sinful.

“Hm?” he rumbled, one corner of his mouth curling. “You like that?”

You bit your lip, your face hot but too far gone to pretend otherwise. Another tiny roll of your hips, and your breath hitched again, the friction sending sparks through you.

Joel let out a low, rough chuckle. “Go on, sweetheart,” he coaxed, his voice molten in the dark. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you as he positioned you just right over one of his thick thighs. “Take what you need.”

You braced your hands against his shoulders, feeling the hard muscle flex beneath your palms as you rocked your hips, the pressure sharp and perfect. The soft fabric of his boxers against your soaked underwear made you gasp, your head tipping back.

“Good girl,” Joel murmured, a dark edge curling around the words as his hands guided your hips. “Look how fuckin’ pretty you look, all needy for me.”

The rough praise hit you low in your belly, a sharp jolt of heat rushing through your veins. You pressed down harder against his thigh, chasing that friction, your hips finding a desperate rhythm as your eyes fluttered shut.

“Joel,” you whined, the sound slipping out raw and breathless.

“Atta girl,” he rumbled, his hands tightening at your waist before one slid up, fingers teasing over your breast through the thin fabric of your bra. The contact made your breath hitch, a sharp gasp catching in your throat. “Just like that,” he coaxed, his thumb brushing over your nipple, making it pebble beneath the lace.

Then his hand cupped you fully, kneading, squeezing, and his mouth brushed your ear, the scrape of his stubble making you shiver.

“I wanna see you,” he murmured, voice filthy sweet. “Can I, darlin’?”

You nodded frantically, your eyes flickering open to meet his. The hunger in his gaze made your pulse stutter.

“Yeah,” you breathed, already arching into his touch.

Joel wasted no time, his fingers working the clasp at your back with practiced ease. The straps slid down your arms, and then your bra was gone, leaving you bare before him.

For a split second, your hands twitched, like instinct wanted to cover yourself — nerves mingling with the ache inside you. But Joel caught your wrists and shook his head, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Don’t hide from me, pretty girl,” he rasped, his thumbs brushing slowly over your skin. “Let me see you.” How he said it with want, like you were the only thing he’d ever cared to look at, made your heart flutter.

You let your arms fall to your sides, your pulse thundering, and Joel let out a low, appreciative groan, his gaze dragging down to your bare chest.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he whispered, leaning in to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the swell of your breast, his tongue flicking over your nipple before he sucked it into his mouth.

A broken moan tore from your throat as your hips rocked harder against his thigh, the steady pressure sending sharp, electric heat through your core. Every nerve in your body felt stretched thin, your skin flushed and tight, slick with sweat. The rough drag of your soaked panties against the thick muscle of his leg had you trembling, chasing the edge without shame now.

“Oh—Joel…” you gasped, your voice cracking as you buried your face against his neck, breath hot against his skin. “I’m so close. Didn’t—didn’t think I could… come like this.”

Your words sounded wrecked, desperate, and it only made Joel groan, his thigh flexing beneath you, giving you something firmer to grind down on.

“You can, darlin’,” he rasped against your ear. “You will. Look at you—makin’ a mess on me, fuckin’ beautiful.”

His hands were everywhere, broad palms skating up your back, cradling the nape of your neck, guiding the roll of your hips, holding you together even as you started to come apart.

You felt it crest fast and hot, a sharp, aching coil deep in your belly snapping loose as a strangled, broken whimper slipped from your lips. Your entire body went tight, thighs quivering as you pressed down hard against his thigh, riding the wave as it crashed through you.

Your orgasm hit in pulses, slick soaking through your underwear and onto the soft fabric of his boxers, and you clung to him, gasping his name like a prayer.

Joel’s mouth was at your ear, murmuring through it, his voice low and steady as your body trembled. “That’s it, sweetheart… atta girl…perfect.”

When you finally sagged against him, breath ragged, your face buried against his shoulder, Joel’s hand stroked soothingly up and down your back, one arm tight around your waist.

“Damn,” he said, a grin in his voice. “Been wantin’ to see you like that for so long.”

You exhaled, a breathless, dizzy smile pulling at your lips as you looked at him. Your cheeks were flushed, skin still buzzing. “Never done something like that before,” you admitted, your voice shy, words soft around the edges.

Joel’s hand cupped your cheek, rough thumb brushing tenderly along your jaw. “Me either,” he whispered.

Your gaze dropped, and there it was — the thick, straining outline of his cock pressing hard against his boxers. Your pulse skipped, heat flooding low in your belly as your hand instinctively reached down, fingertips brushing over the bulge, eager to touch him.

But Joel caught your wrist, his grip firm but gentle.

“Not yet,” he rasped, eyes dark, pupils blown. “I know you can take it, but I wanna make sure you’re good and ready for me first.”

You blinked up at him, your breath hitching, and your body was already throbbing and aching to be filled. Confusion flickered across your face, but before you could speak, Joel moved, guiding you off his lap with a firm hand at your waist.

You barely had time to process before he was behind you, broad chest against your back, his legs bracketing yours on either side.

Joel’s mouth brushed the shell of your ear, his voice a dark, sin-soaked murmur. “I want you to touch yourself for me.”

Your stomach flipped, breath catching sharply in your throat. “W-what?” you gasped, turning your head to glance at him over your shoulder.

He smirked, his eyes gleaming in the low light, and leaned in to graze his stubble along your jaw. “Like you do when you’re alone,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Wanna watch you fall apart for me, sweetheart.”

“But, Joel—”

“Be a good girl,” he murmured, one hand slipping down to rest between your thighs, cupping the heat of you through the soaked fabric of your underwear. “Show me.”

Your protest died on your tongue, replaced by a soft, broken moan as your hips rolled into his palm.

Your hands moved on instinct, slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear, tugging the drenched fabric down your trembling thighs. Joel helped, his hands spreading your legs open over his, leaving you bare and exposed against him.

“Goddamn,” he growled, his lips trailing down your neck as he dragged one hand up to knead your breast, the other stroking slow, possessive lines along your thigh. “Go on, pretty girl… show me how you touch that sweet little pussy.”

The room felt too hot, the air thick with the scent of sweat and skin. Your hand dipped between your legs, and Joel’s voice was right there, rough and ragged in your ear.

“That’s it, good girl. Just like that.”

When your fingers brushed your slick folds, a soft, wrecked whimper tumbled from your lips, your body already so strung tight that the edges of your vision went hazy. The heat between your thighs was unbearable, the ache sharp and insistent.

“Joel… please,” you gasped, your fingers circling your clit in tight, desperate little motions. “Want your fingers, need you—”

“Not yet,” he murmured, lips grazing your ear, the words sinking into your skin like warm honey.

A needy, broken sound escaped you as your hips rolled into your touch, your body arching against the hard line of his chest. Your eyes squeezed shut, your thighs starting to press together, chasing friction.

“Uh-uh,” Joel’s voice came rough, command thick in his tone. “Keep ‘em open for me, sweetheart.”

His hands slid down, thumbs skimming up the sensitive, trembling skin of your inner thighs, coaxing them apart. The cool air against your soaked skin made you shudder.

“Let me see how fuckin’ wet you are for me,” he whispered, and the sound of it, low and filthy, made your pulse stutter.

Your fingers worked faster, slick sounds filling the space between your ragged breaths, your head falling back against Joel’s shoulder.

His hand reached down, closing around your wrist. You whimpered at the loss of contact, your body protesting the sudden emptiness. Before you could beg again, Joel brought your fingers to his mouth, those dark eyes holding yours. His lips closed around them, tongue curling, sucking your slick-coated fingers into his mouth with a groan.

“Christ,” he rasped, releasing them with a soft, wet pop. “Taste so goddamn sweet.”

The heat between your legs pulsed harder, your thighs trembling.

“Can I have you now?” you whispered, voice trembling with need, your whole body aching for him.

Joel’s teeth grazed your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “Yeah,” he growled. “You’ve been such a good girl for me, darlin’.”

Joel’s hand released your wrist, his fingers trailing down your thigh in a possessive glide that left a shiver in their wake. Your skin prickled, heat rolling through you in waves as his touch dipped lower, teasing over the sensitive skin at the crease of your thigh.

Then, finally, one thick finger slid between your slick folds, gathering your wetness in a lazy, unhurried stroke. The contact was almost too much, your hips jerking against his hand, a soft gasp slipping from your lips.

“Fuck…” Joel groaned, his voice a dark, reverent thing against your neck. His lips pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses along your throat, stubble scraping deliciously over your flushed skin. “You’re drippin’ for me. Look at this,” he rasped, his finger teasing at your entrance, circling but not pressing in.

Your whole body arched, chasing him without thinking, a whimper clawing up from your chest.

“Please,” you breathed, your head lolling back against his shoulder, legs falling open wider.

Joel chuckled softly, his free hand tightening around your thigh to keep you spread for him.

“Such a good girl,” he murmured, his finger finally slipping inside you, the thick stretch making you moan. “Knew you’d feel this perfect.”

Your walls fluttered around him, greedy and desperate, and he groaned again, his teeth grazing the curve of your jaw.

“You’re gonna take every fuckin’ inch of me. But not yet,” he warned, teasing you with the slow thrust of his finger.

“Oh, please, Joel,” you moaned, the words breaking apart on a gasp, your hips rolling down into his hand, greedy for more.

“You sound so pretty like this,” he rasped, his voice thick with hunger.

His single finger pumped into you, the slick slide of it making your skin burn, every drag against your walls sending sparks through your core. The way he worked, you open with patience like he was savoring every twitch and whimper, made you dizzy.

Your hands clutched at his thighs, your head tipping back against his shoulder, a broken whine slipping from you as the ache inside sharpened.

“More,” you breathed.

He groaned and, without pulling back, slid a second thick finger inside you. The stretch made your breath catch, your thighs trembling as your walls fluttered around him.

“Goddamn, sweetheart,” Joel growled against your throat, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your neck. “Squeezin’ my fingers like that.”

His fingers moved in a steady rhythm, scissoring slightly, working you open, coaxing moans from your lips. Your hips couldn’t stay still, grinding down against his hand, chasing every stroke, every curl of his fingers as your body tightened around him.

“You feel that?” he said, his voice a slow, dangerous drawl against your ear. “How good you’re takin’ my fingers?”

You whimpered, your body so close to unraveling, you could barely form words.

“Joel… I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he coaxed, his other hand cupping your breast, thumb teasing over your nipple. “Gonna fall apart on my hand first… then I’ll fill you up like you fuckin’ need.”

Your hips moved of their own accord now, grinding down against Joel’s hand, every thrust of his fingers making you moan, your whole body drawn tight like a bowstring. The heat building low in your belly threatened to snap, sharp, hot, and overwhelming.

Joel’s mouth stayed at your ear, lips brushing your skin as he spoke, “That’s it, darlin’… just like that,” he murmured, his fingers curling deep, hitting a spot inside you that made you cry out. “I can feel you clenchin’ around me. You’re close, ain’t you?”

A broken, breathless whimper was all you could manage, your head tipping back against his shoulder, eyes squeezing shut as the tension in your body coiled tighter and tighter.

Joel’s free hand gripped your thigh, keeping you spread wide for him as his fingers worked you open, the wet sounds of his hand moving between your thighs mingling with your ragged breathing.

“Gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he rasped, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “Wanna feel you fall apart on my fingers. C’mon, sweetheart, be good and give it to me.”

Your body shuddered around him, a sharp, blinding pleasure tearing through you as your orgasm crashed down. A cry ripped from your throat, your hips bucking helplessly against his hand. The wave of it pulsed through you in hard, aching bursts, wetness spilling over his fingers as you came, trembling and wrecked in his arms.

Joel groaned against your skin, his hand slowing just enough to drag it out, milking every last shudder from your overstimulated body.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he growled, kissing the curve of your neck, savoring the way you fell limp against him, breathless and shaking.

You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. Your head lolled to the side, cheek pressed to his shoulder, heart pounding so hard it echoed in your ears.

Joel’s hand left you, and you whimpered at the loss, already missing how his fingers filled you. He brought his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean with a soft, satisfied groan. “Sweetest goddamn thing I’ve ever tasted,” he muttered.

You exhaled a shaky breath, your body still humming with aftershocks. Your eyes fluttered shut as you pressed a weak, lingering kiss to the curve of his neck, your lips brushing over the rough stubble and salt-slick skin.

Joel sighed softly and leaned down to kiss your temple. “Need a minute, darlin’?” he murmured against your skin.

You gave a slight nod, the last of your strength pooling in the simple motion. Your body felt boneless, and your chest rose and fell in slow, uneven breaths.

Joel shifted behind you, pulling you close until you were tucked against him, your back to his chest. His arm wrapped around your waist, holding you there.

“S’okay,” he murmured, his hand tracing lazy, soothing patterns along the bare skin of your back. “You did so good.”

The praise made your heart flutter, emotion catching you off guard in the quiet. You turned your head slightly, your cheek resting against his bicep.

“But… what about—” you started, voice small, the words snagging as guilt and tenderness tangled in your chest.

Joel’s fingers stroked through your hair, tucking a damp strand behind your ear. “Nah,” he rumbled, brushing another kiss to your hairline. “Don’t you worry about me, sweetheart. Tonight was all about you.”

And it wasn’t just the words, but how he said them, like nothing mattered more than seeing you like this, wrecked, held, and cared for.

You let out a soft, contented sigh, your hand finding his and lacing your fingers over your stomach. “I like it when you take care of me,” you admitted quietly, a shy smile tugging at your lips.

Joel’s chest rumbled behind you, a low, rough sound somewhere between a chuckle and a pleased groan. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you in closer, until there wasn’t an inch of space left between your bodies.

“Yeah?” he murmured, the warmth in his voice like a slow drag of heat along your skin. “Well… why don’t we get cleaned up—”

“No,” you blurted, cutting him off so quickly it made him pause. “Joel, I want you.”

His breath caught, the shift in your voice — the ache there — pulling his gaze down to you.

“I meant it,” you whispered, your fingers tightening around his, a boldness rising beneath your skin, fueled by how he touched you. “And besides… you didn’t even get off.”

Joel let out a rough sigh, his thumb stroking over your knuckles. “Told you, baby… tonight was about you.”

You pulled away just enough to turn toward him, your thigh sliding over his. The air seemed to thicken around you again, the ache sparking right back to life beneath your skin.

“Joel,” you said, firmer this time, your hand finding the back of his neck, your fingers threading through the damp hair. You met his gaze, heart pounding, a raw, desperate honesty in your voice. “Please. I need you. Need to feel you.”

He cursed under his breath, his jaw flexing tight, the last of his restraint hanging by a thread. His hand was already sliding down your side, his fingers rough and warm against your overheated skin.

“You sure about this?” Joel rasped, though his voice was low, strained, like he already knew your answer. “Ain’t lookin’ to overdo it. Don’t wanna hurt you.”

You brushed your lips against the sharp line of his jaw, your breath hot against his stubble, and how his chest rumbled beneath you made your stomach clench.

“I need you,” you whispered, soft but sure, the ache in your voice pulling a low, guttural sound from deep in his throat.

Joel surged forward, catching your mouth in a rough, hungry kiss that left no room for hesitation. His hand slipped between your thighs, fingers finding your slick heat, teasing the sensitive, swollen flesh there. You moaned into his mouth, hips bucking into his hand, the heat between you reigniting like a match to dry kindling.

“Jesus,” he groaned, his forehead pressed to yours as his fingers circled your clit, his voice frayed and thick.

Your breathing stuttered as you cupped his face, your thumb brushing along his beard-rough cheek.

“How do you want me?” he rasped, voice rough against your lips, the question loaded and reverent all at once.

You bit your bottom lip, a breathless grin tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Wanna ride you,” you panted, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. “Don’t want your back hurting you.”

Joel huffed a soft, wrecked chuckle, its fondness unmistakable even through the thick heat of the moment. “Look at you,” he murmured, leaning back against the headboard. “Always thinkin’ about me.”

You smirked, sliding down his body, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his boxers. His cock strained against the fabric, thick and flushed, and your pulse skipped at the sight of him.

“Been wanting this all night,” you admitted, your voice rough with want.

Joel’s gaze stayed fixed on your face, like he didn’t wanna miss a second of how you looked touching him for the first time. You pushed his boxers down, his cock springing free, thick and heavy against his stomach.

You took him in your hand, relishing the heat, the weight of him. Joel hissed a sharp breath through his teeth, his hips lifting slightly into your touch.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, his hand tangling in your hair. “Look so good with your hand on me.”

Your thumb dragged over the bead of precum at his tip, and his jaw clenched, a muscle ticking there as he fought to stay still.

“You keep doing that,” he warned, voice a wrecked rasp, “and I’m not gonna last long.”

A wave of heady confidence surged through you, the kind that came from how Joel looked at you. Without overthinking it, you climbed into his lap, straddling his thick thighs, your knees bracketing his hips. His hands immediately settled on your waist, squeezing, his thumbs stroking over your skin.

You reached between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around his cock. Joel groaned, his head tipping back against the headboard as you guided his tip to your entrance, teasing yourself with the slick, aching slide of him against your folds.

“Sweetheart,” he rasped. “You tryin’ to kill me?”

You bit your lip, shivering at the feel of his blunt head nudging against your clit, dragging slick over your pussy.

“Been thinkin’ about this all night,” you whispered, watching his face as you shifted your hips, letting just the tip slip inside. The stretch made your breath hitch, your body clenching down instinctively.

Joel’s hands shot up to your breasts, kneading the soft flesh, his thumbs teasing your nipples as a guttural groan broke from his chest. “Fuck—look at you,” he murmured. “So goddamn perfect.”

You whimpered his name, a shaky, desperate sound, and slowly started to sink, inch by inch, the thick stretch of him making your thighs tremble. Every time you took a little more, Joel’s hands gripped tighter — one sliding down to your hip, the other still toying with your breast, his thumb circling your nipple as he cursed under his breath.

“Good girl… that’s it,” he praised. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ good.”

Your head tipped back, a moan spilling from your lips as you finally bottomed out, the fullness of him stealing your breath.

“God, Joel,” you gasped, your hands bracing against his chest, feeling the flex of muscle beneath your palms. “So big—feels so good.”

He groaned, his mouth catching yours in a messy, desperate kiss, teeth scraping your bottom lip as he held you there, his hips giving the slightest, needy thrust up into you.

“Move for me, baby,” he rasped against your lips. “Show me how you ride me.”

You nodded, lips parted, a breathless moan slipping free as you started to move — slow at first, lifting your hips and then sinking back down, feeling every inch of him drag against your walls. Every thick vein, every stretch of him filling you so deep it made your vision blur.

It was better than you’d imagined in those restless nights, than the fevered dreams that left you aching. Nothing compared to the heat of him inside you, the way his hands gripped your hips like he couldn’t bear to let go.

“Oh, Joel,” you panted, your fingernails digging into the hard line of his shoulders as you rode him, your pace quickening with every wet, desperate slap of skin against skin.

A ragged groan tore from his chest, his head dropping back against the headboard as his eyes squeezed shut.

“I ain’t gonna last,” Joel growled, his voice frayed, the muscles in his arms flexing as he fought to keep his hands steady on you, to let you have this.

“Me either,” you gasped, your head tipping back, hair sticking to your damp skin, every roll of your hips sending sharp, perfect sparks of pleasure through you.

Joel’s hand slipped up your back, threading into your hair, tugging gently to pull your mouth back to his. His kiss was all tongue and teeth, messy and greedy, swallowing your cries as your pace stuttered, chasing that edge neither of you could hold off much longer.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he groaned against your lips, his hips starting to thrust up into you, matching your rhythm, rough and deep. “Give it to me. Wanna feel you come all over my cock.”

You were so close, teetering on the edge, every nerve in your body strung tight and ready to snap.

“Joel, I—”

“Yeah, I got you,” he said, his voice breaking as his control unraveled with you.

Your body tightened, a sharp, desperate clench around Joel’s cock that made your entire frame tremble. The pleasure hit suddenly and blinding, your orgasm crashing over you in hard, pulsing waves. A broken, wrecked whimper slipped from your lips as you buried your face against his neck, your nails digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders, clinging to him.

Joel groaned, deep and raw, his grip on your hips tightening as your body spasmed around him.

“That’s it,” he rasped against your ear. “Such a good girl. Doin’ so fuckin’ good for me.”

His control slipped as you came, his hips thrusting up into you as he chased the tight, wet grip of you clenching around him. The slick sound of it, the heat of your release coating him, only made his breathing rougher, his jaw clenched tight.

You felt him tense beneath you, his body shuddering, and then he was pulling out, a ragged groan tearing from his chest.

“Fuck, darlin’,” Joel panted, one hand wrapping tight around his cock, the other steadying you against his chest.

You slid off his lap, legs weak and trembling, sinking beside him on the bed. Your eyes locked on the sight of him, fist working over his thick, slick length, his stomach tight, sweat-slick skin flushed. The way he looked at you—wrecked, desperate, the last of his restraint burning away—made heat pool low in your belly all over again.

“Wanna see you,” you whispered, your voice rough and needy, watching how his hand moved over his cock.

Joel’s eyes darkened, a low curse falling from his lips as he stroked faster. “Keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’,” he growled, his voice breaking, “and I’m gonna fuckin’ lose it.”

With a deep, guttural moan, his hips jerked, thick ropes of heat spilling into his hand, across his stomach. His head fell back, chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven breaths as he worked himself through it.

You watched every second of it, a small, satisfied smile tugging at your lips as you reached out, your fingers brushing his thigh.

“Give me a second,” Joel muttered, his voice rough and wrecked, a breathless, half-laugh slipping out as he glanced at you. “I’ll get you cleaned up in a minute,” he added, dragging a hand down his face, his lips quirking in a crooked, spent grin.

You smiled, your pulse still unsteady, and scooted closer, closing the last bit of space between you. Without a word, you curled into his side, your head tucked beneath his chin, one hand splayed over his chest's steady rise and fall. His skin was still hot, his heartbeat thudding under your palm.

Joel let out a low, contented sound and slipped his arm around you, pulling you in tighter. His hand rubbed slow, absent circles along your bare back.

You smiled against his chest, pressing a small, lingering kiss to his skin before your fingers brushed along the line of a faint scar on his stomach, tracing it without thinking.

Joel’s hand stilled briefly, then resumed its gentle path along your back. He tilted his head, kissing the top of your hair.

“You’re trouble,” he murmured, a grin in his voice now. “But I like it.”

A quiet laugh slipped from you as you snuggled closer, your limbs heavy, the ache between your legs a pleasant, distant throb.

Eventually, Joel kissed your temple again, his voice a soft promise against your hair. “Still gonna clean you up… just need a minute, sweetheart. Might not ever wanna let you go.”

You smiled because right then, neither did you.

taglist: @starmurdock

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heavenlybodies333 · 3 days ago

Text

Goddamn, Baby, you drink like Hemingway -S.R

Spencer Reid x bsf coworker!reader

You slam your second shot down and wince. “God. That tastes like jet fuel.”

Spencer nudges his drink with two fingers, grimacing. “You know this place is objectively disgusting, right?”

“Which is why it’s perfect,” you grin, tossing him a look over your shoulder. “Also, you’re welcome. If it weren’t for me, you’d be at home alphabetizing your books by language root.”

He snorts. “They’re already alphabetized by language root.”

“Jesus, Spence.”

“Don’t act shocked. You know I’m like this.”

You do. You know every weird little habit, every nervous tic, every tangent he slips into when he’s rambling his way out of a trauma spiral. You know how he likes his coffee. How he prefers to be touched—sparingly, and only by people he trusts.

And you know that despite his body being planted on that cracked vinyl stool, Spencer Reid does not want to be here.

“Come on, just one more drink. You promised.”

He narrows his eyes playfully, leaning toward you. “I said I’d come. I didn’t say I’d drink enough to forget what you make me do when I come.”

You blink. He blinks. A hot flush crawls up your neck. “Okay,” you mutter, lips twitching. “I walked into that one.”

“You dove,” he deadpans, sipping his watered-down whiskey like it’s a crime scene sample.

The bar is a dive—the kind of place that serves beer in cracked mugs and smells like spilled tequila and missed rent payments—but it’s cheap, and anonymous, and just a few blocks from Quantico. After the week you’ve had—case in rural Pennsylvania, two hostages dead, one minor kidnapped and rescued by the skin of your team’s teeth—you needed a reset. And Spence, bless his cardigan-wrapped soul, needed it even more.

“I think you’d be better off alphabetizing drinks by how much they destroy your liver,” he says dryly.

You lean in with a lazy smile, propping your elbow on the table and resting your chin in your palm. “That’s funny coming from the guy who just sipped a watered-down Old Fashioned like it was poison.”

He looks down at his glass. “It is poison. Chemically.”

“You’re no fun.”

He looks back up at you, eyes warm, unreadable. “I think I’m having fun.”

“Yeah?” you murmur. “You only say that when I make you.”

“That’s not true.” His voice is quieter now, head tilting slightly toward yours. “Sometimes I like it.”

Your stomach does a lazy, drunken somersault. “Yeah, but you’re cute when you’re like this,” you say, poking his cheek. “All logical and judgmental. Like a drunk little owl.”

He blinks. “Owls aren’t judgmental.”

“They are. They have very judgey faces. You do the same thing when I suggest karaoke.”

Spencer tilts his head. “That’s because last time you sang Beyoncé’s ‘Partition’ in front of two Quantico instructors and a guy who once testified in a Senate subcommittee on organized crime.”

“Yeah and I killed it.”

“You also fell off the stage.”

“Dramatic exit.” You down the rest of your drink and motion for another. Spencer watches you, biting back a smile.

“You know,” he starts, tone going into that signature Reid fact-voice, “alcohol affects women differently than men. Lower water content in the body means higher blood alcohol concentration. Technically speaking, you’re probably at .12 right now.”

You stare at him. “Technically speaking, you’re hot when you talk statistics.”

He sputters. “That wasn’t—that wasn’t meant to be sexy.”

“It’s sexy because it’s not meant to be. You’re, like, drunk and still trying to teach me things. It’s adorable. Like if Bill Nye and a golden retriever had a baby.”

“That’s horrifying. That’s genetically improbable.”

“And yet—” you pause, sliding off your stool to press a palm to his chest, “here you are. My own drunk, genetically improbable nerd.”

Spencer’s breath catches, and you swear his pupils dilate a little. He grabs your wrist lightly, eyes locked on yours.

He steadies you with one hand at your waist, the other gripping his drink with the intense focus of a man pretending not to panic.

“Did you know,” he says, like a last-ditch effort to distract himself, “that Hemingway once said you should write drunk and edit sober?”

“God, I love when you spit literature at me.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk.”

“You’re quoting Hemingway and grabbing my waist, Spence.”

It wasn’t supposed to go like this. You were best friends. You’d been there for each other through the worst of it—loss, fear, heartbreak, cases that left you both shaking. He held your hand after your first shooting. You bandaged his wrist after a suspect almost broke it. You crashed on his bed more times than you could count. You knew his favorite tea, he knew your bad dreams.

By the time you make it back to his apartment—stumbling back, actually, with you laughing into his chest as he fumbles with the key—your cheeks are flushed and your stomach aches from the buzz and the banter.

“Okay,” you say as the door shuts behind you. “Rate the night.”

Spencer kicks his shoes off. “Four out of ten.”

You shove his arm, fake-offended. “Four?!”

“Sticky floor. Terrible lighting. Music was objectively bad.”

“You are so annoying.”

“You did fall off your bar stool.”

“Okay, technically, I slid off it,” you correct, poking his chest.

He catches your finger. Holds it. Doesn’t let go. “Also,” he says, voice quieter now, “you told the bartender I cried during a Pixar movie.”

“You did!”

“I was seven.”

You’re both laughing now—until you realize he hasn’t let go of your hand. And that you’re still pressed against him, in his entryway, breathless, a little drunk, and way too aware of the heat between you.

Your smile falters just enough for him to notice.

His brows draw together. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Just… thinking.”

“About?”

You look up at him, flushed and buzzing and full of so many buried things. You didn’t sleep with your best friend. But god, he looked at you like he wanted to. And tonight, you couldn’t stop yourself from admitting the things you’d shoved down for too long.

“Spence,” you laughed, standing in his living room, clutching his hand to your chest, swaying. “I think I’ve been in love with you since that case in Boston. The one where we almost got shot in the stairwell and you said I was your favorite person.”

His head shot up from staring at his feet. “That was three years ago.”

“Exactly.”

“I—You’re drunk.”

“You are too,” you counter. “But that’s not why I’m saying it.”

Spencer’s gaze drops to your lips. And for once, he doesn’t try to hide it. You reach up. Touch his cheek. Let your fingers linger. “I think about you a lot, Spence.”

His voice is hoarse. “You’re my best friend.”

“I know.”

“And if we do this—”

“We are doing this,” you whisper, stepping closer. “Unless you want me to stop.”

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he whispers into your neck, even as he’s guiding himself into you, slow and reverent.

“You won’t,” you breathe, cupping his face. “It’s us, Spence.” you close the space between you, your lips moving slow against his soft ones.

You moan into his mouth, wrapping your arms around him as he walks you backward, blindly, into the bedroom.

You’re both giggling and breathless between kisses, bumping elbows and fumbling with buttons.

“Oh my god,” you laugh, pulling his shirt over his head. “This is the least coordinated I’ve ever seen you.”

“I’m nervous,” he huffs, tugging your dress down your thighs.

You arch a brow. “Spence. You’ve disarmed bombs while quoting Latin. You’re not nervous.”

“I’ve also never had my best friend naked in my bed before,” he says pointedly, hands spreading across your thighs. “So yeah. I am.”

Spencer’s hand slides between your thighs, and you gasp when his fingers find you wet.

“Oh,” he breathes. “God, I didn’t think—”

“You make me this way,” you pant, biting your lip. “I get handsy when I’m drunk, yeah. But you? You make me needy.”

His whole body shudders. “Jesus.”

“I’ve thought about this,” you whisper. “So many nights. What you’d be like. If you’d talk dirty or be all clinical about it. If you’d—”

“I’d what?” he interrupts, pushing two fingers into you with a sharp breath.

Your back arches. “Fuck.”

“Tell me,” he urges, kissing your jaw, your neck, your shoulder. “Tell me what you thought.”

You reach between you and stroke him through his boxers. He gasps, grabbing the edge of the dresser for balance.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Okay, I’m not gonna last if you keep—”

You smirk, dropping to your knees in front of him. “That’s okay. I’ve got all night.”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, head falling back.

Spencer’s normally so in control—you’ve seen him talk down terrorists and survive torture—but right now, he’s all hands and lips and want. He strips you down carefully but quickly, like he’s afraid he’ll wake up and this will have all been a dream.

“You’re so soft,” he murmurs, lips brushing the swell of your breasts. “So perfect. I don’t deserve this.”

“Shut up,” you whisper, pulling him back up to kiss you. “You deserve everything.”

And when he pushes into you—slow, inch by inch, eyes locked to yours like he’s memorizing your face—it’s like something clicks. Like your body was made to fit his. Like this was always supposed to happen.

Spencer stills, buried deep inside you, eyes blown wide and reverent, like he's trying not to fall apart.

Your hands cup his face, thumbs stroking the sharp bones of his cheeks. “You okay?” you whisper, heart racing under your ribs.

He nods, once, shakily. “You feel like... everything I’ve ever wanted.”

You kiss him then—deep and unhurried, full of every soft, aching thing you've never had the courage to say. His hips start to move, gentle at first, like he’s learning you all over again. Like he wants to remember every breath you take, every sound you make just for him.

"Faster," you murmur against his mouth. "Don't be careful."

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you promise, gasping as he thrusts harder, deeper. “God, Spence—feels so good.”

His lips trail down your throat as he sets a rhythm, murmuring against your skin like he’s still trying to process that this is real. "I used to dream about this. About you." A sharp thrust. “Thought I was going crazy.”

You cling to him, fingers digging into his back. “You’re not. We’re here. I’m yours.”

He groans, burying his face in your shoulder. “Say that again.”

“I’m yours,” you whisper, trembling as he rolls his hips just right. “Only yours.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, hips stuttering. “I’m not gonna last—shit—I want to make you come first—”

“You already are,” you gasp. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You clench around him and he shudders, lips parted, totally gone for you. You rake your nails down his spine and his control finally snaps. He thrusts harder, deeper, desperate now, chasing the edge.

“I can feel you,” he groans. “So tight, so warm—god, I love you—”

You crash over the edge with his name on your lips, back arching as pleasure wracks through you like lightning. He follows with a low moan, spilling into you with a trembling cry, burying himself to the hilt.

For a while, neither of you speaks. You just lie there tangled in each other, breath syncing, fingers stroking sweat-damp skin.

Eventually, Spencer shifts, brushing your hair from your face. “Was that… okay?”

You huff a laugh, chest still heaving. “Okay? Spence. That was the best sex of my entire life.”

His mouth twitches. “Even better than the bartender you flirted with in Atlanta?”

You smack his chest. “Shut up. I was trying to get us free drinks.”

“Well,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “I’ll get the next round. No flirting required.”

You curl into him, cheek on his chest. The silence between you now isn’t awkward—it’s safe. Warm. Full.

“Spence?”

“Yeah?”

“I meant it. I love you.”

He wraps his arms around you tighter, pulling the sheets over your naked bodies.

“I love you too,” he whispers. “Always have.”

a/n: im graduating so soon im so sad i literally cant

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

#spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid smut #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fan fiction #spencer reid criminal minds #doctor spencer reid #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fic #criminal minds #criminal minds x you #criminal minds smut #spencer reid x you smut #spencer reid x fem reader

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xoxolaw · 3 days ago

Text

+ I'M HERE

in which he finds his girlfriend all beaten up in an alley.

YEON SI EUN X READER

hurt/comfort

The alley was quiet except for the soft dripping of leftover rain, water trailing from gutters like veins down the brick walls. The sky was bruised purple with the fading of daylight, the city already pulling on its night cloak.

Yeon Si Eun didn’t mean to walk down this way.

He was heading home, earbuds in, half-listening to a lecture he’d already memorized. His mind was elsewhere—maybe on the pop quiz scheduled for next week, maybe on the way her voice had sounded this morning when she told him she'd be fine walking alone. Dismissive. But kind.

He hadn’t liked it.

He should’ve insisted. Should’ve gone with her.

It wasn’t guilt that made him look down the alley. It was instinct. A flicker of movement at the edge of his vision—like something out of place. His feet stopped before his mind caught up.

There was someone curled near the dumpster. Slumped. A shape far too still. Then he saw the flash of a white sneaker—one he knew.

Then the hoodie.

Then the hair.

Then—her.

His body moved before his thoughts. The world narrowed into sharp lines and cold metal panic.

“Y/N?” he breathed.

No response.

The moment he knelt beside her, everything inside him sank. Her skin was scraped raw, one side of her face swollen, a thin trail of dried blood lining her lip. Her knuckles were cut, knees scuffed like she’d tried to run or fight or crawl away. Her hands were trembling.

Her breath caught. She flinched.

And Si Eun? He froze.

“It’s me,” he said, gentler now. “Si Eun. You’re okay. You’re not alone.”

Her head turned slightly. “Si… Eun…?”

The second her eyes found his, he couldn’t breathe. Not because she looked hurt. But because she looked so small. So unlike her usual self—bright, sharp, confident in ways he could never put into words.

Someone had taken that from her. And they were still walking around.

He blinked, and his hand reached out carefully, brushing damp strands from her forehead. She was cold. Shaking.

“Come here,” he whispered.

---

He wasn’t sure how he got her home. He remembered carrying her out of the alley, flagging a cab with a voice he barely recognized as his own. He remembered her weight pressed into his side, her grip tight around his sleeve like she thought he’d disappear. He remembered promising the driver money he didn’t even have if he just drove faster.

And now—

Now she was in his room.

She sat hunched in his desk chair, hoodie still clinging to her shoulders, legs drawn in. Her breathing was shallow, and her eyes were distant—like she was still back there.

Si Eun stared at her for a beat too long before forcing himself to move.

The first-aid kit felt heavier than usual in his hands.

When he knelt in front of her again, she looked startled. “You don’t have to—”

“I do,” he interrupted. Quiet. Steady. Deadly calm. “Because I should’ve been there.”

Her lip trembled. “It’s not your fault—”

“I told you I’d protect you,” he said, unwrapping an alcohol pad. “And I didn’t.”

The pad hit the scrape on her cheek. She winced. His hand instantly slowed.

“I wasn’t strong enough,” he murmured, not looking at her.

She stared down at him, voice barely a whisper. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

“That doesn’t matter if I’m not there when it counts.”

He said it too fast. Too bitter. It wasn’t about guilt—it was about the fear. The kind that creeps in only after the worst has already happened.

His hands were shaking. Just a little. Just enough for her to see it.

She reached up, fingers brushing his wrist—gingerly, because everything hurt.

“You’re here now.”

The bandage slipped from his fingers.

He looked up. Into her eyes. And for a second—just a second—he let it show.

The fear.

The helplessness.

The anger.

The love.

He stood up without a word, then wrapped his arms around her—tightly, protectively, like a shield made of trembling limbs and silent apologies.

Her arms wrapped around his waist. She tucked her face into his chest and cried, and Si Eun just held her. Not as the top student. Not as the unbreakable boy everyone feared.

Just as her boyfriend.

Just as someone who failed, and wanted to fix it.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered into her hair. “No one’s going to touch you again.”

And he meant it.

Later That Night

She fell asleep on his bed. Curled up in a hoodie three sizes too big. The bandages on her wrist looked too white in the dim lamplight.

Si Eun sat at his desk, phone in hand.

The girls hadn’t been careful. They thought no one would care. They’d laughed as they walked away, one of them even snapping a photo to brag to her friend group.

He found their socials in under twenty minutes.

Their names, their classes, their addresses.

He wasn’t impulsive.

He was precise.

The next day, he disappeared during lunch. Didn’t say a word. He didn’t need fists to make a point—but he used them anyway. Just once. Just enough.

One had a dislocated shoulder. Another couldn’t open her right eye. The last one—who’d kicked Y/N while she was down—would need stitches in her lip. She cried when Si Eun let go of her collar and walked away.

He said nothing.

Didn’t threaten them.

Didn’t tell them why.

Because they knew.

And that was the punishment: knowing it was him. Knowing he’d watched. Known. Calculated. And chosen.

---

She found the bruises on his knuckles that night.

“You did it, didn’t you?”

Si Eun looked up from where he was folding a clean towel. “What?”

“You don’t lie very well,” she said softly.

He hesitated. Then: “I didn’t kill them.”

Her lips curved up slightly. It hurt, but she smiled anyway.

“Good.”

“You’re not mad?”

“No,” she whispered. “I just wish you didn’t have to.”

He paused. Set the towel down.

Then walked over and sank to the floor in front of her again. Just like the night before.

“I was so scared,” he said. Finally. “When I found you. I didn’t know if you’d wake up. I thought—I thought I’d have to carry you back in pieces.”

She reached for his hand. Took it in hers. Pressed it to her heart.

“I woke up because you found me.”

He exhaled like something inside him had loosened for the first time in hours.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

“You are now.”

Silence.

Then she leaned forward and kissed the corner of his mouth. Gentle. Grateful. Painful in the way quiet love always is.

“I’m here too,” she whispered.

And this time, Si Eun didn’t pull away.

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE + MASTERLIST

I hope you enjoyed it <33

TAGLIST

@yeon103 @hikaerys @mizxuqii @jihooneyluv @l5byrinth @inom17 @sunnyophelia @dna-black-and-blue @cayrelyra @maxinehufflepuffprincess @intoanothermind @mariii-0001 @eijizwrld @mishh2728 @coffee-ii

#fanfic #weak hero class two #weak hero x reader #yeon sieun x reader #yeon sieun

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science-hoes · 2 days ago

Note

Congrats!!! 🥳🥳🥳

Perhaps 8&10 with Abbot?

#8 "don't be shy now, sit on my face."

#10 "good girl—that's a good fucking girl."

—

Jack loves to eat you out. Your taste, your anatomy, your pretty sounds. It’s his favorite pastime. So when he says, “Want you to come on my mouth first” while you straddle his hips, grinding your bare pussy hard against his scrub pants as you kiss him after a long night shift, you expect him to crawl to the edge of the bed, ready to throw your thighs over his shoulders.

But he stays put, head on the pillow, still underneath you. His large hands are grasping at your hips, pulling towards his chest. Your hips stop rolling against his, and you freeze.

“What are you doing?” You question, afraid you already know the answer.

Jack is staring at you with the most love and adoration that a person can give. “Don’t be shy now, sit on my face.” He whispers, nearly dragging you farther up his chest.

Your knees inch forward, digging into the mattress as you hover above his throat. “I-I don’t know. What if you can’t breathe? What if I smother you or something?” Your brain is running a hundred miles an hour.

But when he answers, “Then I’ll die the happiest man in the world,” well, that was enough to build your confidence, covering his smug grin with the folds of your pussy.

Without missing a beat, he’s moaning against your wetness, lapping up every single drop that he can. His nose pushes gently at your clit, nodding his head as he suckles at your lower set of lips, giving you just the right amount of stimulation to send you reeling.

“Oh, fuck, Jack.” Your voice raises an octave as you root your fingers in his silvered curls, using your other hand to clutch the headboard of the bed.

He hums in contentment as he continues to devour your pussy, pushing you closer and closer to your release with each flick of his tongue, with each deep vibration escaping his chest, with each tug of his mouth.

When your orgasm rushes over your body in record time, every single one of your senses is numbed, but just barely, you can hear his praises. “"Good girl—that's a good fucking girl."

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #jack abbot #shawn hatosy #Jack abbot x reader

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filthyjoelslvr · 2 days ago

Text

The Other Woman

part 2 (coming soon)

Content: Jackson!Joel x reader; Jackson!Tommy x reader (not a threesome sorryyyyy)

Synop: Joel Miller only comes around at night. After the sun sets. After the stars have already flooded the sky. After all of Jackson is already asleep — including his wife.

But you're tired of being his dirty secret. Of being the other woman. You didn't think you'd hurt this much. That is until Tommy. Tommy who wants you openly. Tommy who wants you and only you.

You thought you were healing... until Joel comes along.

Warnings: age gap (unspecified reader of age), cheating (joel has a wife), reader gets heartbroken, mean joel, pinv, oral (f! receive), no ellie, praise kink (tommy), pet names, face riding (kinda), torn between both millers (me too)

Word Count: 9k?

(dividers by: @cafekitsune)

a/n: this did not turn out the way i originally planned but that's okay because i just let my fingers write whatever they desire. truly i am torn between both miller brothers and don't know who to have y'all end up with so let me knowwwwwww. SPOILER tho you will have sex with Joel next chapter. sorry not sorry.

The coffee's gone cold. It always does when you pour it too early, thinking he might stay longer than he does.

But he never does.

The sun bleeds gold across the warped floorboards, crawling in through the broken slats of the blinds you never fix. It’s quiet in that cruel kind of way — not peace, but pause. Like the world’s holding its breath before it moves without you.

Your place still smells like him. Leather and old sweat. Tobacco and pine soap. Faded traces of campfire smoke clinging to the flannel he left draped over the back of the chair. Like he’ll be back any minute.

But you know better.

He comes on the wind, always at dusk or after — carrying the weight of something he won’t name, eyes heavy with history and hands that shake until they’re on you. And when he touches you, he’s not gentle, not rough either. Just hungry. Like he’s trying to remember what it feels like to want something he’s allowed to take.

You let him. Every time.

Because the thing about being the other woman is that you learn how to live in the in-betweens. In the dark hours and unfinished sentences. In the jacket he forgot to take and the warmth in your bed that isn’t yours to keep.

And on Sundays — you never expect him.

Sundays are for her.

The one who gets his name whispered soft across pillowcases and gets to ask where he’s been without flinching. The one who gets to admire his features in the daylight. You don’t want her to exist anymore. But you know she always will.

Because Joel Miller never comes around on Sundays. Sundays are for her.

And if he ever did — you think maybe you’d ask him to stay.

But he doesn’t. He won’t.

And so you sit in the quiet with your cold coffee and that old flannel, pretending this room is a church and you’re the only sinner left praying for a man already spoken for.

It was Thursday. Or maybe Wednesday.

The days blur when you don’t ask for promises.

He came in like he always does — shoulders slouched, boots heavy, voice low. Said your name like it hurt. Like it was the first word he’d spoken all day and it tasted unfamiliar in his mouth.

You didn’t ask him where he’d been.

You never do.

You just moved aside, let him in, closed the door behind him like you were sealing something in. Or keeping something out. You’re still not sure which.

The lights stayed off. That’s how he likes it.

He sat on the edge of your bed like he didn’t mean to stay long, like this was a mistake halfway made. But then his hands found your hips, and his head found the crook of your neck, and suddenly you were both breathing like you’d been underwater.

It’s never urgent, with Joel.

It’s not tender either.

It’s quiet. Tense. Like a storm held behind his ribs.

You feel it in the way he touches you — slow, searching, like maybe if he just holds you long enough, he’ll forget what he’s running from.

You let him leave fingerprints. Bruises, sometimes. He always kisses them after, though. Mouth soft where his hands weren’t. As if to say I’m sorry, without giving it a voice.

You didn’t say anything when he traced his fingers along your spine. Didn’t move when he stared too long at the ceiling after.

You just watched him — that profile you’ve memorized a hundred different ways — and counted the beats of silence between breaths.

Then he spoke. Just one word.

“Laura.”

You turned your head away. He didn’t notice.

Or maybe he did. And didn’t care.

He left before the sun rose. No kiss. No goodbye. Just the groan of boots on old floorboards, the soft thud of the door closing, and the echo of her name still floating in the stale air you shared.

You buried your face in the pillow he used, pretending it didn’t smell like regret.

You don’t cry anymore.

That part of you dried up months ago — somewhere between the first time he left without looking back, and the fifteenth time you let him in anyway. Grief got old. Tears started to feel theatrical. And anyway, there’s no one left to see them but the walls, and even they’ve stopped listening.

Now it’s just the quiet. The long hours. The weight of being something he uses to feel human, but never stays human for.

You clean the sheets. Wash the pillowcase he used. Light a candle to burn the smell of him off your skin.

And still, it lingers.

That feeling. That film.

Like you’ve been dipped in something thick and invisible. Not blood, not dirt — worse. Something that clings behind the ears, between the thighs, under your tongue. Shame, maybe. Or the slow realization that you’re not a secret because you’re special — you’re a secret because you’re nothing.

Because love is something he gives to her.

And you’re just flesh.

You sit at the edge of the bed, half-dressed, your back to the mirror. You don't like to look anymore. You used to — used to try, anyway. Lip gloss. Liner. A hand in your hair, brushing it just so in case he noticed. In case he saw you.

But now, you don’t even try. What would be the point?

She gets him clean. You get him hollow.

You wonder what she’s doing right now. Maybe she’s making eggs. Maybe she’s wrapping her robe around herself while he kisses the top of her head and asks her what she dreamed. Maybe he makes her coffee without being asked.

Maybe he says good morning to her without needing to borrow a body first.

You’ve never heard him say it to you. You’ve never seen him like that in the light. You wonder if he looks different. Softer, maybe. Or maybe just real. You only ever get him in shadow — in pieces, in fragments, in the kind of silence that bruises.

He gives her Sundays. And you?

You get Thursdays, Mondays, Wednesdays — Fridays and Saturdays if you’re lucky.

Maybe. If he’s not too tired.

Never Sundays. Never.

You want to tell yourself you don’t care. That it’s just something you do — like a habit, or a drug, or a sin you haven’t gotten tired of yet. But that’d be a lie, wouldn’t it? Because it’s not just your body that aches when he leaves. It’s all the parts of you that no one’s ever wanted.

The parts you buried hoping he might dig them up.

But he never does.

He doesn’t ask.

It didn’t start with a look. It started with a sound — the scrape of boots on concrete behind you, the rustle of old canvas, the low murmur of someone asking for rifle rounds two stalls down.

Joel Miller.

Everyone in town knew his name. Not because he wanted them to — he kept to himself, like a man who learned long ago that silence is safer than kindness — but because in a place like this, everything echoes. Rumors. History. Grief.

You’d seen him before. Always moving, always grim. Eyes that didn’t linger. Hands that looked like they’d broken more than they held.

You didn’t speak. Not at first.

Just noticed.

He lived near the edge of town, in that crumbling house with the boarded windows and the overgrown porch. You passed it sometimes on supply runs and wondered what the inside looked like. If it smelled like cedar. Or smoke. If he ever lit candles, or just sat in the dark like you imagined he would.

The first time you actually spoke, it was raining. Hard. You were struggling with a crate of dry goods outside the community hall, your hands going numb, your patience gone.

He didn’t offer to help. He just picked up the other side of the crate and said, “Where you want it?”

And that was it.

No small talk. No smile. Just effort. Quiet and necessary.

After that, he started nodding when he saw you. A tilt of the head, sometimes a gruff “Hey.”

Then he started staying longer at the trade stalls when you were there. Asking about things he already knew.

One day, he brought you jerky from his last hunt. Said it was extra. You knew it wasn’t.

You didn’t know what to make of it, but you started brushing your hair before heading into town. Started wearing that jacket he once glanced at.

You told yourself it was nothing.

Then one night, he showed up at your door. Said nothing.

Just looked at you like the day had been long, and the world had been unkind, and you were the only soft thing left in it.

You didn’t ask questions. You just stepped aside.

That first night was clumsy. Not in a bad way — just in that way that two broken people collide. Careful and unsure, like neither of you had done this in a while. He didn’t kiss you. Not really. Just pressed his mouth to your collarbone like he was afraid it would vanish.

He left before dawn. No goodbye. Just the faint scent of sweat and regret on your sheets.

It kept happening.

Not often, not predictably. Just… when he needed.

He never made promises. Never brought flowers or touched your face like you were precious. But he came back. And for a while, that felt like something.

You started marking time by him. How long since he last came. How long until he might again.

You'd hear about him from others — how he helped reinforce the south gate, how he traded for ammo, how he didn’t speak much but always delivered.

He existed in your world like a shadow moving through the same air. A man near enough to haunt you, but never close enough to claim.

And slowly, what began as a flicker — something small and thrilling — dulled into routine.

Now, when you hear the knock at your door, you don’t smile.

You just open it.

Let him in. And let him leave.

He’s not a mystery anymore. He’s just a fact.

Like the cold. Like the curfew bell. Like the ache in your chest that never goes away.

You knew about her from the beginning. Before the first touch. Before the first knock.

Before the first night he let his body speak in place of his mouth.

People talk in towns like this. They whisper in market lines and at water pumps, over stitched-up coats and shared cigarettes.

"Joel Miller’s wife’s a good woman," they’d say. "She’s patient, still sets a place for him at dinner even when he’s late."

"She keeps the old world alive — bakes bread, tends a garden, teaches the little ones to read."

And you nodded, pretending you didn’t care.

Pretending your stomach didn’t twist when you heard the word wife.

You should have closed the door when he first came to you. But you didn’t.

Because no one ever taught you how to say no to something that feels like almost-love.

And he never mentioned her. Not once.

Not in words, at least.

But you saw it anyway — in the way he never stayed too long, in how he always kept one boot near the door. In the look in his eyes when he pulled away from you, like the sin had already been committed and there was nothing left but clean-up.

You don’t feel guilty.

Not really.

You’ve tried. God, have you tried.

But guilt implies you didn’t want it. And you did.

You still do.

You wanted the way he looked at you like maybe you were something warm in a world that had gone cold. You wanted his hands on your hips, heavy and sure. You wanted to feel wanted, even if it was only in the dark, even if it was only when he couldn’t carry whatever lived in his chest back home.

And maybe that makes you cruel.

Maybe that makes you hollow.

But it also makes you his, if only for the hour it takes to forget the life he chose before you.

She walks through town in the mornings — strong-legged and soft-eyed, with silver just starting to streak her dark hair. She looks like she’s earned her peace. Like she’s carried something heavy and learned how to set it down without screaming.

She’s his age. Maybe even older.

And you — you’re old enough to remember the world before it ended, but young enough to have gone through the hardships of puberty with infected hidden in every corner.

You hate that you envy her. But you do.

You envy the way people smile at her. The way her name is said with respect. The way Joel lets her hold his arm in public.

You envy that she gets all of him.

His mornings. His coffee breath. The sound of his voice when he isn’t worn thin.

You only get what’s left.

The part that’s too tired to speak. The part that hurts.

And still — you open the door.

Every time.

Even knowing he’ll leave smelling like you and crawl into her bed like nothing’s out of place.

Even knowing you’ll wake up in your empty sheets and try to remember what your name sounds like in someone else’s mouth.

He gave her the world. He gave you his ruin.

And somehow — somehow — you keep calling it love.

He comes late.

Later than usual. Boots caked with dirt, knuckles raw, a cut on his cheek that’s already scabbing. He doesn’t say a word when you open the door. Just walks past you like this is his house, like your body is furniture he knows by memory.

He sits on the edge of your bed. Elbows on his knees. Head bowed.

You don’t move to touch him. Not tonight.

You close the door slowly, lean against it like maybe it’ll hold you up. For a moment, neither of you speak — just the sound of the wind outside, and your heart thudding like it knows what’s coming before you do.

You ask quietly, almost gently, “Why do you treat me like this?”

He looks up, eyes narrowing like you’ve broken some unspoken rule. “Like what?”

You step toward him. Not angry. Not pleading. Just tired. “Like I’m no one. Like I don’t deserve to know anything about you. You come here, and you take what you need, and you leave. You don’t talk to me. You don’t even look at me, half the time.”

His jaw tightens. “I never made you any promises.”

And that hurts. Because it’s true.

You sit down across from him, knees almost touching, voice barely a whisper. “Is she different?”

His face hardens, but you press on.

“Are you nice to her? Do you talk to her? Does she get the real you?”

He looks away.

You keep going, each word slicing your own throat as much as his. “Does she know what you’ve lost? What you’ve done? Does she get to hold you when the guilt comes? Because I don’t even know what you’re guilty of. I just know you crawl into my bed like a ghost trying to forget who he used to be.”

He stands abruptly. Paces. Hands clenched at his sides. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about.”

“Because you won’t let me.”It explodes out of you. “You won’t let me see you. You come here and hide. And I take it. I’ve taken it for years. But I can’t do this anymore if you won’t even give me the truth.”

He turns back to you, angry now. “I never asked you to love me.”

You blink. Swallow the sting. “You didn’t have to. I did it anyway.”

Silence. Thick and final.

He stares at you, breathing hard — a man made of walls, panicking at the thought of tearing one down.

You think maybe he’ll say something. That maybe the dam will break. That maybe he’ll finally tell you who Sarah was, or what it’s like to lose the world twice, or why he looks so tired all the time.

But he doesn’t.

He just grabs his coat and walks toward the door.

Your voice trembles, but it’s steady where it counts.

“If you leave now, don’t come back.”

He hesitates. For half a second. Then he leaves.

Just like that.

No slamming door. No final word. Just the sound of boots fading into the night.

You stand there in the stillness, your whole body humming with what’s just been torn out of it.

You should feel strong. Empowered. But all you feel is empty.

Still, this is the first time in a long time you’ve chosen yourself. Even if it hurts like hell.

Even if the bed feels colder than ever. Even if tomorrow, you’ll still look at the door and wonder if he might come back anyway.

But tonight — You finally said what needed to be said. And that has to count for something.

You cry yourself to sleep most nights now. Not loudly. Not in that wild, breaking kind of way.

No — it’s quiet. The kind of crying that lives in your throat all day and only spills when your head touches the pillow, when the dark closes in and there’s no one left to pretend for.

You face the wall. Bite your knuckles to keep the sound in. Tears soaking the same side of the bed he used to lie on.

You don’t even know why it hurts this much.

You ended it. You told him to go.

But you never expected him to vanish like you meant nothing. Like you never mattered at all.

And now he walks past you like you don’t exist.

You see him sometimes. Out in town. At the gates, helping unload supplies. At the trade stalls, his voice low and rough, asking for nails or ammo or salt.

But he never looks at you. Never nods. Never glances. Never gives you even that old, familiar ache of almost-contact.

And that? That hurts worse than the nights he left your bed cold.

He let you go too easily. As if you were just another wound he’d gotten used to ignoring.

You tell yourself this is for the best. That every night you spend crying into the silence is one step closer to being free of him.

But healing doesn’t feel like healing. It feels like rotting in place.

Then one day, while you're working behind the mess hall, someone calls your name.

You turn, expecting a trader.

But it’s him. Not Joel — his brother.

Tommy.

You freeze. Something cold crawls up your spine. Not fear. Just... shock.

Because for a second, you think Joel sent him. Think maybe this is the moment everything comes crashing back.

But no. Tommy doesn’t look angry. Or suspicious. He looks... relaxed.

“Hey,” he says, hands in his pockets, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You nod, throat dry. “You didn’t.”

He steps closer, gestures toward the crates you’re moving. “You always this tough, or just showin’ off?”

You almost laugh. Almost. Your voice comes out hoarse. “You offering to help or just standing there with compliments?”

And he smiles — not like Joel. Not guarded. Not hiding something behind his teeth.

It’s easy, unpracticed, genuine.

“I could be talked into both,” he says. And something in you lifts.

It’s small. Fleeting. But real.

For the first time in weeks, your chest doesn’t feel like it’s caving in. For one strange, stupid, golden second, you forget.

You forget how Joel looked when he left. Forget the way he never fought for you. Forget the sound of your own muffled crying into an empty pillow.

Tommy asks how you’re doing. He talks about the weather. The crops. A dumb story about some guy falling in the river trying to catch a chicken.

And you laugh. You actually laugh.

And when he looks at you — really looks — it feels like he’s seeing a whole person, not just a warm body in the dark.

He flirts a little, too.

Not hard. Not heavy. Just enough to remind you that you are still wanted. Still worth looking at.

And when he leaves — when he tips his hat and says he’ll see you around — you stand a little straighter. Breathe a little deeper.

You remember Joel again, of course. That night. That argument. The way he left without even asking if you’d meant it.

But for a single, flickering moment... You weren’t thinking of him.

And it’s the first moment in a long time that didn’t hurt.

Tommy keeps showing up. Not in the way Joel did — heavy-footed and silent, like a storm pushing through your door — but light. Curious.

Warm.

He comes by the stalls, where he was never one to linger before. Sometimes with a bundle of old books to trade, sometimes with nothing but a lopsided grin.

Most days, he doesn’t even bother pretending he’s there for supplies.

“You again,” you tease, brushing your hands on your thighs, trying not to look like you were waiting.

And he’ll just shrug. “What can I say? I like the company.”

At first, you keep your guard up. Not out of suspicion, just… self-preservation. You’re still stitched together with thin thread, and Joel tore through you like a blade.

But Tommy never asks for anything. He talks. He listens.

Sometimes he flirts — softly, the way sunlight warms your neck through a windowpane. It’s never the kind of heat that burns.

He compliments your laugh. Says you’re funny. Smart. That your eyes catch the light in a way that makes it hard to think.

And you blush. Actually blush. You forgot you could.

It’s been weeks since the last time you cried into your pillow. Now, you fall asleep thinking of Tommy — the things he said, the way he smiled like he wanted you to see it.

The way his hand brushed yours when you passed him a tin of tea.

You think about him more than you think about Joel. Not entirely.

There are still scars. Still moments when you catch sight of that same worn flannel in the crowd and your lungs seize.

But the ache has dulled. Like a wound that finally started healing the right way — not clean, not pretty, but real.

And then, one late afternoon as you’re closing up shop, Tommy leans against the frame of the stall, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

He scratches the back of his neck, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“I was thinkin’,” he starts, voice low, “I know a spot. Just outside the north ridge. We cleared it a few months back — safe, quiet. Stars are real clear out there.”

You blink. Heart thudding somewhere deep in your ribs.

He keeps going. “Thought maybe we could make a fire. Got a stash of chocolate, too. Even found marshmallows that ain’t gone stale yet.” A small grin. “Could roast a few, talk some more. Maybe... count constellations, if you’re into that kinda thing.”

You stare at him, wide-eyed. Not because you’re shocked he likes you. But because no one’s ever asked you for something gentle before.

A date.

Not a favor. Not a secret. Not a body to bury pain in.

A real, sweet, silly date. With s’mores and stars and firelight on skin.

Your voice is soft when you answer, but it doesn’t tremble. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And in that moment — with his eyes crinkling in that way Joel’s never did, with your heart fluttering like it used to before it knew better — you almost forget what it felt like to be someone’s ghost.

Because for the first time in too long… you feel wanted in the light.

You take your time getting ready.

Not because you're trying to be perfect — but because, for once, you actually want to be seen.

Your tiny denim shorts hug your hips just right, cinched with an old brown belt you found in a forgotten drawer last spring. They're worn, soft, fraying a little at the edges, but they feel like you.

You button up a maroon and white plaid shirt — short sleeves, tight at the waist. It fits snug across your ribs, flattering but not loud. Something about the colors makes your skin glow in the low light.

And then the necklace.

A tarnished gold chain with a little amber stone at the center — simple, but lovely.

Your mother gave it to you before she died. Before Jackson. Before Joel.

You don’t wear it often. It’s too easy to forget who you were before she died. But tonight, it feels right.

You glance in the mirror once before stepping away. Your cheeks are flushed from anticipation, your lips soft and parted like they’re waiting for something sweet.

You feel... pretty. Not just presentable. Pretty.

You hadn’t expected that to feel so strange.

And then — a knock at the door.

Not heavy. Not impatient. Just soft. Measured. Hopeful.

For the first time in forever, a knock at night doesn’t make your stomach drop.

You smile before you even open the door.

Tommy stands there, a little breathless, a little awkward — and handsome as hell.

He’s dressed up. For you.

Clean button-down, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his forearms. Jeans without a single stain or rip. Boots polished like it actually mattered what you thought when you looked at him.

And in his hand — a bundle of wildflowers. Pink and yellow, petals already wilting a little from the heat of his palm. Still, they’re beautiful. Vibrant and crooked and real.

Your breath catches.

“For me?” you ask, voice light, teasing.

He scratches the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. “Yeah. Spent way too long lookin’ for ’em, honestly. Think I held up patrol more than once. Heard a lotta sighing behind me.”

Your smile falters — just a flicker — at the word patrol. Because you know who he rides with.

You picture Joel somewhere behind him, arms crossed, eyes dark, unknowingly watching Tommy pick wildflowers for you.

And your heart stutters. But you shove it down.

Not tonight.

You reach for the flowers, let your fingers graze his as you take them. They smell faintly of grass and sunshine and effort.

They smell like someone tried.

“They’re beautiful,” you say softly.

He’s looking at you like you’re something out of a dream. Like he can’t quite believe this is real.

“You look...” He swallows. Laughs under his breath. “Hell, I don’t even got the right word. You look dangerous, maybe.”

You arch a brow. “Dangerous?”

“Yeah. Like someone I might fall for if I’m not careful.”

Your stomach flips — not in fear. In fluttering. And you haven’t felt that in a long, long time.

He offers his arm, old-fashioned. “Ready?”

And you nod, tucking the flowers close to your chest. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

And just like that, you leave the door behind. Leave the bed where you cried yourself to sleep. Leave the ghost who never knocked again.

Tonight is for you. And for the man who actually came when he said he would.

The forest hums low with night.

You walk side by side, not touching yet, but close enough that your arm brushes his every now and then. The air smells like pine and dry leaves, the dusk settling slow and golden around the tree trunks. The path winds quietly, moonlight creeping between branches like silver veins.

When you reach the clearing, your breath catches.

It's simple — a little fire pit circled with stones, a folded blanket resting nearby, and a tin box of supplies tucked neatly beside it — but it feels like something meant. Not thrown together, not rushed.

Chosen. Prepared.

Tommy sets the blanket down first, spreading it carefully over the soft grass. Then, without a word, he gestures for you to sit.

You do. And he moves around you with practiced ease, stacking logs, striking a match, coaxing a slow, crackling flame to life.

The fire’s warmth kisses your skin in waves. You pull your knees to your chest, resting your cheek against your arm, and just watch him.

He notices. Smirks a little. “You keep starin’. I got somethin’ on my face?”

You grin. “Just wondering if you’ve always been this good at this.”

“At makin’ fires?”

“At... this.” You gesture vaguely. “Being nice. Making people feel safe.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just opens the tin and pulls out a bag of marshmallows, a broken bar of chocolate, and some skewers made of smooth, whittled sticks.

“I had a lot of years to practice,” he says finally, voice soft.

You nod. Don’t press. Not yet.

Over sticky, melting s’mores, you talk about small things. Silly things. Like his worst jobs back in the old world.

He tells you he once got kicked by a horse trying to impress a girl. You nearly choke on your marshmallow.

“Did it work?” you ask between laughs.

He grins. “She married my best friend a year later.”

You lean back, satisfied and full, the sugar warm in your blood. The stars have come out, pinpricks in the ink of the sky, sharp and endless.

Tommy glances at you, eyes lit with something boyish. “Got one more thing for you.”

You turn, brows raised, as he reaches into the bag beside him and pulls out—

A bottle.

Dark. Dusty. Long-necked, with a cracked label that’s mostly peeled away.

He sets it in front of you like it’s treasure. “I know, I know — real fancy, right?”

Your eyes widen. “Is that... wine?”

He nods proudly. “Found it on a run, buried behind a collapsed liquor store. Figured it was fate.”

You run your fingers over the dusty glass. “You were saving it?”

He shrugs, suddenly a little shy. “Didn’t know what for. Just felt like... I shouldn’t open it ‘til the moment was right.”

He pulls out two mismatched but real wine glasses — one chipped, one cloudy — and you laugh, breathless.

“You came prepared.”

He pours carefully. Red-gold liquid, thick and rich, filling the glasses with a quiet glug.

You stare at yours, then admit, “I’ve never had wine before.”

Tommy raises a brow, smiling gently. “Well, that just makes this better.”

You hold the glass, heart thudding. His eyes are on you — not greedy, not expectant. Just... warm.

You take a sip. It’s bitter. Complex. Sour, sweet, strange.

But it’s good.

You close your eyes, swallow slowly. “That’s... that’s really nice.”

He tips his glass toward you. “Told ya. Wine’s better when it’s old. Kinda like me.”

You giggle. You giggle, and you don’t even feel stupid about it.

And then — without even noticing when it started — you’re both lying back on the blanket, shoulders pressed, gazes tangled in the stars.

He points upward, totally confident. “That one there’s Orion. Or, uh… maybe it’s a frying pan.”

You snort. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Course I do,” he says, deadpan. “Look at it. Big ol’ dipper-lookin’ guy with a sword.”

You elbow him lightly, and he grabs your hand playfully, holding it between both of his. And suddenly your fingers are laced together, and the stars don’t seem half as interesting anymore.

The wine makes your skin buzz. Not dizzy. Not dull.

Just soft. Open.

You shift closer, your head finding his shoulder. His arm curves around you without hesitation, pulling you in. You tuck your legs beneath you, curl into him like you’ve always known the shape of him.

Neither of you say anything for a long while.

The fire pops quietly nearby. The stars blink, distant and watching.

And you? You don’t care about constellations anymore.

Because here — in this sliver of night, on a blanket in the woods with wine in your blood and kindness wrapped around you — you feel like maybe you’re allowed to be happy.

Like maybe you’re not ruined after all. Like maybe you’ve found something worth holding on to.

The stars have faded from your focus.

All you can feel now is him — warm against your side, arm curved around your shoulder, his chest rising slow and steady beneath your cheek. The wine has made everything glow softly at the edges. You feel buzzed in your fingertips, in your knees, in the flush climbing your neck.

You haven't spoken in a while.

Just quiet breaths. Little shared glances. His thumb brushing over your shoulder in slow, absent arcs, like he’s tracing the thought of you into memory.

And then you feel it shift.

The stillness between you grows thicker — charged and certain — and when you turn your head to look at him, he's already watching you.

His expression is soft. Not hungry. Not fast. Just… hopeful.

His hand lifts to your cheek — callused, rough, gentle — and he leans in slowly, giving you every second to pull away.

You don’t.

Your eyes close just as his lips meet yours.

The kiss is light at first. Testing. Tender. Like a secret being told mouth to mouth.

Your breath catches. Your heart stammers wildly.

His lips part slightly — warm and careful — and he kisses you again, deeper now.

Not demanding. Just there. Real. Present in a way you didn’t think anyone could be anymore.

You feel your cheeks bloom with heat. It’s ridiculous, really. You’ve been touched before.

You’ve been kissed in the dark like a secret, like a sin.

But this — this — makes you blush. Makes you feel like something delicate in good hands.

Your fingers find his shirt, holding lightly at the edge. His hand slips to your waist, grounding you

He kisses you again, and again — unhurried, sweet — until the rhythm feels like something you were meant to know.

And then—

He deepens it.

Just a little. Just enough for his tongue to brush yours.

And your stomach flips. Not in the good way.

Because suddenly, uninvited and cruel, he is there.

Not Tommy. But Joel.

Joel — with his rough, bitter mouth. Joel, who never kissed you soft. Joel, who made you feel wanted and worthless in the same breath. Joel, who touched you like a man burying a memory, not holding a person.

And now here you are — tongue tangled with his brother, and something sour rises in your throat.

You pull back gently, your hand moving to Tommy’s chest.

He looks at you immediately, worry flickering behind his eyes.

You force a smile. Light. Airy. You hope it doesn’t shake.

“Hey,” you whisper, trying to soften the moment, “slow down, cowboy. I’m still new to wine and stars and, you know... you.”

He laughs under his breath — not hurt, not defensive. Just sweet.

“Yeah. Of course,” he says, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Sorry. Got a little carried away. You're just...” He looks at you like you hung the moon. “You’re kind of impossible not to kiss.”

You look down, smiling for real now, even if there's still a tremble in it.

He pulls you back into his arms without hesitation, without pressure, like he doesn’t need anything else from you tonight except your closeness.

And so you lay there again, your head on his shoulder, his arm around your back.

And maybe the magic of the moment is cracked now. But it’s not broken.

Later, when the fire’s embers are nothing but soft orange breath, he stands and offers you a hand. Packs everything up without asking you to lift a finger. Tucks the wine glasses back into his bag like something delicate.

He walks you home in the moonlight.

You don’t speak much, and you’re afraid — quietly, deeply — that maybe you ruined something. That the kiss that faltered might leave behind too much silence.

But when you reach your door, he turns to face you.

And just before he leaves, he kisses your forehead.

“Sleep good,” he says. “I’ll see you soon.”

And he walks away. Not lingering. Not asking to stay.

Just… leaving you with the feeling that someone actually cared enough to be gentle.

You stand in the doorway, watching him disappear down the path.

And for the first time in a long time, the ache in your chest doesn’t feel like loss. It feels like hope.

It’s your day off.

The sun’s warm on your skin, not hot, just gentle — like it’s blessing you for once.

A quiet breeze hums through the trees around the Jackson square. Someone’s hammering in the distance. Chickens cluck lazily across the yard near the fence. Children’s laughter spills from the schoolhouse down the road.

You sit on a bench just outside the mess hall, a book in your lap — one Tommy lent you, something about a girl lost in the woods. Your legs are crossed loosely, your thumb tucked between the pages.

You’re not really reading, though.

Every so often, your gaze lifts toward the path, expecting him. Tommy. He’s supposed to stop by later.

You don’t know if you’ll kiss again, or just talk, or just sit close and laugh about nothing. But whatever it is, you want it. You want him.

And for the first time in what feels like years, you’re not waiting to be needed. You’re waiting to be chosen.

So when a shadow falls over your page, your heart skips.

You smile before you even look up. “Hey—”

But it’s not Tommy. Your smile falls.

It’s Joel.

He’s towering over you, arms crossed, eyes storm-dark and narrowed. His jaw’s clenched so tight you see the muscle twitch.

“Joel,” you murmur, instinctively closing your book. “I—”

“What the hell’s goin’ on?” His voice is low, sharp, not yelling — but it slices all the same.

You blink. “What?”

He stares down at you like he’s holding back a thousand things and losing grip on all of them. “You care to explain why my brother spent half our patrol this morning blushin’ like a goddamn schoolboy? Talkin’ about your little date. Your outfit. How pretty you looked under the stars.”

Your cheeks go hot instantly — part pride, part confusion, part fear.

Tommy talked about you like that? Like you were precious?

But Joel’s not looking at you like you're precious. He looks furious.

He looks hurt.

“I didn’t know he was talking about it,” you say, your voice quiet. “I didn’t tell him to.”

He steps closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to pull the air from your lungs.

“I know what this is,” he says, voice thick. “You’re usin’ him to get back at me.”

You freeze.

“What?”

His gaze burns through you. “You think I don’t see it? You’re tryna make me jealous. Parade around town lettin’ him hold your hand, kiss your face, pretend like I didn’t mean anything to you.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” he cuts in. “And I’m not gonna let you drag him into your mess.”

Your breath stumbles. “My mess?”

His face twists. “You think he knows what you let me do to you? You think he knows you let me in your bed, night after night, cryin’ and clingin’ to me like I was the only thing keepin’ you from breakin’?”

Your whole body goes still.

He’s too close. Too loud. Too angry to care about who might hear.

Your voice shakes now, but not from fear. From something deeper — betrayal, maybe. Heartbreak.

“I’m not using Tommy,” you whisper. “I care about him. He makes me feel safe. And wanted. And happy. Things you never let me feel.”

Joel’s chest rises and falls like he’s been running. His arms are still crossed tight, but his eyes betray him — flickering, pained, like he can’t believe you’re not just laying down and belonging to him anymore.

“Do you know how fuckin’ jealous that makes me?” he growls suddenly, voice raw. “Is that what you’re tryin’ to do? Watch me fall apart over this?”

You blink hard, throat tightening.

And in the silence that follows, a single thought hits you like a stone dropped in still water:

He feels it. Joel Miller is jealous.

He feels something.

But it’s too late. Too twisted.

Your voice steadies. “You don’t get to feel jealous, Joel. Not after what you did. Not after how you treated me.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you.

“I think…” you say slowly, your voice trembling with something that tastes like both terror and freedom, “I think I could actually love Tommy. And I think he could love me too. We could have a life. A real one. Not a secret. Not some... dirty, bleeding shadow in the dark.”

You see it hit him.

Right in the gut.

Joel stares at you for a long, long time. His face is red, jaw clenched, arms like steel across his chest.

And then — without a word — he turns.

And walks away.

No apology. No threat. No parting shot.

Just leaves you sitting there with your book unopened in your lap, and your breath caught between heartbreak and release.

You don’t know what that silence means. But for the first time, you don’t chase it.

You try not to think about Joel. You try.

But his voice keeps echoing in your head, even hours later — low, bitter, possessive. That damn question clinging to the walls of your mind like smoke you can’t scrub out.

Do you know how fuckin' jealous that makes me?

You don’t know what it means. You don’t know how it made you feel. All you know is it shouldn’t matter — not anymore.

Not when Tommy’s the one coming to meet you.

You’re back on the same bench, pretending to read again. The sun’s slid down the sky, casting long gold shadows across the street. Your fingers twist nervously in the hem of your shirt, heart beating a little too loud for comfort.

You hear his boots before you see him.

Then, warm as always, his voice: “You alright?”

You look up. Tommy’s there — handsome in a plain tee and clean jeans, a flannel tied around his waist, eyes squinting slightly against the sun. His expression is soft, but worried.

You freeze.

It hits you all at once — how different this feels.

How he doesn’t demand answers, just asks because he cares.

And for a moment, you want to tell him. Want to say: Joel showed up. Joel said things. Joel looked like he might break in two and I don’t know why it still hurts.

But you can’t.

You can’t.

Joel doesn’t get to take this from you.

So you force it all down, deep into that box where you’ve stuffed the ache, the guilt, the heat of his eyes.

You smile. Not the biggest smile. But real enough.

“I’m fine,” you say gently. And before he can ask more, you lean up and press a kiss to his lips.

That does it.

He relaxes instantly, grinning as he kisses you back. “Okay then,” he says softly. “Let’s go.”

He takes your hand and leads you down the lane, fingers laced through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And for a little while, you let yourself forget the shadow that passed over your day.

Tommy’s house surprises you.

It’s nicer than you imagined. Country style, tucked just off the main path, with big windows and a porch strung with old Christmas lights that still work somehow. Inside, it smells like cedar and soap, warm and lived-in. There’s a leather couch with a throw blanket, a bookshelf brimming with paperbacks and dusty mugs, and a framed photo of him and Joel by the door — a reminder of another life.

The kitchen is small but tidy, and a bowl of fresh tomatoes sits proudly on the counter.

“Spaghetti night,” he announces like it’s a sacred ritual. “Told you I was cookin’.”

You grin, shrugging off your shoes. “And I told you I’m helping.”

Tommy mock-groans but doesn’t argue. “Alright, alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. I take my sauce real serious.”

He shows you how to cut and peel the tomatoes, how to sauté garlic in olive oil, how to add salt “with love, not fear.” You’re clumsy with the measurements, splash sauce across the counter, drop a spoon in the sink with a loud clang.

He doesn’t get annoyed.

He just watches you with amusement, shaking his head fondly. “You’re a menace in the kitchen,” he says, chuckling.

“And yet,” you shoot back, “you invited me.”

When the sauce is finally simmering in the pot, you wipe your hands on a towel, only to feel something wet smear across your cheek.

“What the—?”

You turn. Tommy stands beside you, licking sauce off his thumb with a devilish grin.

“Punishment,” he says. “For makin’ a mess of my counter.”

You gasp, scandalized. “Oh, it’s on.”

Before he can move, you grab a glob of sauce with your fingers and slap it onto his cheek.

He freezes. Then breaks into a grin.

The next few moments are chaos. Sauce flung. Laughter echoing. You chase each other in lazy circles around the tiny kitchen until you collapse against the counter, breathless and sticky.

And then—

His hands find your waist. Yours find his collar.

And you kiss.

It’s playful at first — wine-sweet and garlic-touched — but it deepens quickly, hunger turning slow and sweet. He pulls back only to gently wipe the mess from your face with a soft cloth, fingers lingering along your jawline.

“I could get used to this,” he murmurs. “We could have nights like this every damn week.”

You look at him. At the sauce on his shirt, the light in his eyes, the way his voice dips when he says we.

Dinner is simple — pasta, bread, and the rest of that dusty old wine he saved. But he lights two stubby candles between you, their soft flames dancing as the sky darkens through the window.

And when you go to sit across from him, you change your mind. You slide into the seat beside him, hip to hip, thigh to thigh.

“Hi,” you say with a little smile.

He kisses your cheek in reply.

You play footsie under the table like kids. You compliment the meal.

“Tommy, this is actually amazing.”

He beams. “Told you. Serious about my sauce.”

You talk about small things — who you saw around town, someone’s busted gate, a child’s chalk drawing of a horse that looked more like a rabbit.

Then he asks: “How was your day?”

And you freeze.

Your smile falters for just a second too long.

He notices — you feel him notice — the way his hand slows as it traces your leg under the table, the way his eyes search your face like he’s trying to read between the words you haven’t said yet.

You lift your glass of wine, buy time with a sip. Force your voice to stay light.

“It was good,” you lie. “Quiet. Peaceful. Spent most of it with my book.”

He watches you for a beat. Then smiles, brushing your hair behind your ear.

You don’t know if he believes you. You’re not sure if it matters.

You lean into him, rest your head on his shoulder.

And somewhere in your chest, the ghost of another man gnaws quietly at your ribs.

But tonight, you are warm. You are safe. And you are not alone.

Before you know it, the night has gone quiet.

Just the soft murmur of the radio playing in the background — some old love song, dreamy and distant — and the faint hum of wind against the window glass. You’re curled up on Tommy’s couch now, head resting in his lap, your body curled sideways like a cat soaking up warmth. His fingers glide gently through your hair, slow and steady, like he’s memorizing each strand.

You’ve never been touched like this. Not like you’re fragile, or precious — but like you’re known.

Your eyes flutter closed. His palm rests on your temple now, warm and grounding.

You think, I could get used to this.

And just as the thought settles sweetly in your chest, Tommy breaks the silence:

“So… are you gonna tell me what really happened today?”

Your eyes open slowly. Your breath stills.

“I already did,” you murmur, keeping your voice soft, lazy.

But his fingers pause. You feel his gaze on you.

“No, you didn’t,” he says gently. “You said it was a quiet day. Peaceful. But you weren’t peaceful when I showed up. You looked… shaken. Scared, even. And you’ve been smiling all night, but not really. Not the way you did before.”

You shift, sit up a little. Your pulse picks up.

“Tommy—”

“Look,” he says, his voice firm but not unkind. “I know we haven’t known each other long. Not like that. But I’m not just doin’ this for fun. I’m into you. Really into you. And I’m not the kinda guy who can build something real if it starts off with secrets.”

He leans down, brushing your hair behind your ear, eyes locked with yours now — earnest and unflinching.

“I want someone honest. I want you. And maybe that’s stupid, but…” He huffs a soft laugh. “…you make me nervous as hell. I go to sleep thinkin’ about you, and I wake up with your face in my head. I don’t even know what to do with it sometimes. But I know one thing — if I’m gonna fall for you, I gotta know you’re not hidin’ somethin’ that’s gonna break me.”

Your heart drops.

Because God, you want to tell him.

You want to cry right here in his arms and tell him everything — how you let his brother crawl into your bed for over a year, how you loved him, how he broke you, and how today, he showed up and lit a fuse in your heart you thought had burned out.

But you can’t.

If you tell him, you lose this. Lose him.

And you’re not sure who you’d be with both Millers carved out of your chest.

So instead, you look down. Swallow the ache.

“…Some guy said something to me this morning,” you say softly. “Not someone you know. Just some asshole. Said I was easy. That I didn’t belong here. It just… threw me off, I guess.”

It’s not even a good lie. But it’s enough.

Tommy’s face hardens instantly. His arms go around you, pulling you up into his lap like you’re weightless. One hand cups the back of your head, the other gently strokes your cheek.

“Hey. Look at me.”

You do.

“You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen,” he says, firm and slow, like he needs you to believe it. “And I don’t give a shit what anyone else says. You’re strong. You’re kind. You belong exactly where you are. With me.”

Your throat tightens.

He studies your face for a moment, then adds, quieter now, “I’ll find him if you want me to. I swear.”

You laugh softly — more guilt than amusement. “No, it’s fine. Really. I just needed to shake it off. I didn’t want it to ruin tonight.”

Tommy’s brows relax. His expression softens like candlewax.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he whispers. “You being here? You… lettin’ me hold you like this?”

His hand touches your chin, tips it up gently.

“I think I’m fallin’ for you.”

And then he kisses you.

Not careful this time. Not shy.

It’s deep, and romantic, and hungry in a way that makes your chest ache. His hands grip your waist, your back, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

And for a moment, you let yourself believe this could work.

That maybe you can love him clean. That maybe one day, the lie will fade, and all that will remain is this. The way his mouth tastes like wine. The way he makes you feel safe. The way he chose you.

And maybe, just maybe — that can be enough.

Tommy’s kiss deepens, his mouth parts and his tongue slips between your lips. This time you’re not scared. This time you take it, entangling your tongue with his.

His hands wander, tentative at first — down the curve of your back, brushing along your waist, slowly tracing the line of your thigh. Like he’s unsure if he’s allowed, or maybe like he knows exactly what he wants but doesn’t quite have the nerve to ask for it. Every touch feels like a question, and every answer is in the way you lean closer.

So you decide to make the first real move. Your fingers drift down the planes of his chest, slow and deliberate, until they find the hem of his worn black shirt. For a second, you hesitate — then slip your hands beneath the fabric.

His skin is warm and impossibly soft beneath your palms, the kind of heat that seeps into your bones and makes you forget the cold ever existed. Your fingers explore the shape of him — the lean muscle, the faint scars, the way a trail of coarse hair starts just below his navel and disappears beneath the waistband of his jeans.

You feel him shiver. Not pull away — just breathe, sharp and shallow, like he’s been waiting for you to touch him like this, but didn’t think you ever would. His hands still for a moment, caught somewhere between restraint and want, before resting on your hips — not guiding, just grounding. Letting you lead.

It’s quiet, except for the soft rustle of clothing and the heartbeat echoing in your ears. And in that silence, you realize: he’s letting you in. Not just into his space — but into something deeper, something softer. Something real.

You pull away from the kiss, breath mingling in the small space between you. In one slow motion, you tug his shirt up and over his head, revealing skin kissed by sun and time — warm, golden, and solid beneath the soft glow of the low light.

He’s strong, that much is obvious — a man shaped by years of labor and living — but there’s a gentleness in the way he carries it. No fresh bruises. No jagged edges. His chest rises and falls with steady breath, his body unguarded in your presence.

Joel was always different. Built like a wall, all grit and sharpness — the kind of body that told a story just in scars. There was never a moment with him that didn’t feel like it might end in ache. But Tommy…

Tommy feels like safety. Like home.

There’s something soft about him, even in his strength — in the slope of his shoulder, the dip of his collarbone, the way his eyes search your face for permission, for want. Not taking, just waiting.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like something to be used. You feel wanted. Cared for.

Tommy’s hands slip beneath your shirt, the warmth of his touch blooming across your skin like a slow-burning fire. His fingers move with purpose, but not haste — exploring the soft terrain of your waist, the gentle curve of your ribs, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his hands if he isn’t careful.

He touches you like he’s trying to understand you — not just your body, but the quiet ache beneath your skin, the places where longing lives.

His hands roam higher, slow and steady, until they hover just beneath where you want him most. There’s a hesitation there — delicate, almost reverent — as if he’s waiting for a signal, a breath, a whisper of permission.

And that pause says everything: that he wants you, but won’t take more than you’re willing to give. That he sees you, not just your body, but your need — the kind that’s laced with history, with heartbreak, with the hope that maybe this time, it won’t end in ruin.

“For fucks sake, Tommy, just touch me.” A slow, heavy breath escapes you, desire coursing like wildfire beneath your skin.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m just nervous.” He admits. Embarrassment fading across his face.

“That’s cute.” You say as you grab his wrists, pushing his hands beneath your bra.

His fingers finally graze across your hard nipple. His mouth parts slightly as he feels every tender inch of your breast. Feels how badly you're aching for him. He quickly pulls your shirt to your shoulders, dragging your bra with it. Your breasts bounce freely in front of him. His gaze lingers before his touch follows, admiring every curve.

He eases your shirt off now, slow and careful, like he’s unwrapping something fragile. There’s no urgency in the way his fingers move, only patience. Intention. When the fabric slips from your shoulders and over your head, he sees you — all of you. Or at least, the part of you you usually try to hide.

Scars trail across your skin like ghosted memories, remnants of a life you survived — one lived shoulder to shoulder with danger, where the infected were never more than a heartbeat away and safety was something you only dreamed about.

They’ve always made you feel exposed. Marked. Like the past would never quite let go. But Tommy doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.

His eyes move over you slowly, tracing each line like they tell a story worth knowing — not something ugly, but something earned. You brace for judgment, for pity, but what you see in his expression is softer. Something closer to awe.

And in that silence, that gentle stillness, you begin to believe that maybe you're not something to be hidden after all.

You move freely in front of him — unguarded, unhidden, unashamed. There’s no need to tuck your insecurities away, no fear of being too much or not enough. In his gaze, you are seen, fully and without judgment. Every soft curve, every silent scar, every secret wish — they all exist in the open, and he looks at them like they’re sacred.

You’ve never been like this with anyone. Not even Joel. With him, there were always shadows — things you kept quiet, parts of yourself folded away, unsure if they were welcome. But with Tommy, there’s space. Space to breathe. To want. To be.

And so you let yourself unfold — slowly, delicately, like something once bruised that’s finally learning how to bloom again.

“So pretty.” Tommy whispers amongst his admiration. He makes you blush in a way you never thought you could, for reasons you never thought you’d experience.

He wraps his arms around your back, pulling you in closer, bare chest to bare chest. Your tender nipples scrape against the dark coiled hairs lining along his chest. His lips find yours in a kiss that’s slow and tender, his mouth moving with quiet worship. He kisses you like he’s savoring it — like he’s learning it — his lips molding gently to yours, warm and sure. When his tongue slips forward, it’s soft, exploratory, tracing the edge of your teeth with the lightest touch, like a question he’s too careful to speak aloud.

Then he plants soft kisses along your cheek, jaw, neck — meeting the soft skin below your ear, sucking enough to leave faded marks. Marks no one would notice but you. No one would notice unless they were looking for it.

“Tommy..” You breath, rocking your hips into his, feeling the growing curve beneath his jeans. His breath hitches — hands grasping your hips tighter.

“Fuck. Already makin’ me lose myself.” He groans, pulling his lips from the growing red marks he’s left.

“I need you.” You plead, his hands pulling you roughly into him — closing the space between his jeans and your shorts. The denim rubbing against your clit — that’s rubbing against his budlge — almost becomes too much to handle. You can feel the dampness between your legs. You can see the way his jeans darken with every movement.

His head dips to your chest, taking your hard nub between his lips — sucking harshly, flicking and circling his tongue around your nipple. Your grab your free breast with your hand, squeezing and palming yourself, causing electric shocks to travel down your spine.

Your back arches into his mouth, his touch. Chasing every movement. He shares his attention with your other breast now, removing your hand, letting him take care of you.

You’ve never been this way with Joel. Never sat in his lap, thrusting into his clothed cock, chasing his mouth with your arching back. Joels never shown you this kind of attention, made sure the pleasure was all about you. With Joel, it was always how he wanted it.

Tommy’s hands slid around the small of your back, holding you with a gentle strength as he eased you down onto the soft cushions of the couch. Without thinking, your legs curled around him instinctively, pulling him closer. He leans in, his lips brushing yours in a tender, slow kiss. The world seemed to hush around you as he captured your bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling softly, a sweet and intimate gesture that sent a shiver down your spine.

One hand pressed gently to the cushion beside your head, his weight resting on his elbow as he leaned in, anchoring himself in the intimate space where your breaths tangled and the world fell away. The other reached hesitantly between your legs, looking you in the eyes — asking for permission. Your begging pants were all he needed to hear before he rubbed slow circles on the ache hidden beneath your shorts.

“More…” You ask in a whispered hush. Wrapping your arms around his neck.

He whispered softly, his breath warm against your skin, “I want to take you to bed… to do this right, with you.” Carefully, he lifted you from the couch, his touch gentle, his eyes full of quiet devotion as he held you close.

Tommy’s arms wrapped securely around you as he carried you through the dimly lit hallway, your body fitting naturally against his. Every step was steady and sure. The world outside seemed to fade, replaced by the quiet rhythm of your breaths.

When he reached his bedroom door, it creaked softly as he pushed it open—an intimate sound that felt like the start of something sacred. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, casting warm shadows that danced across the walls.

Slowly, carefully, he lowered you onto the bed, his hands never losing their gentle hold. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, and for a moment, he just stayed there—watching you, his eyes full of something tender and protective. The quiet hum of the night wrapped around you both, and all that mattered was this soft, suspended moment between you.

He left a trail of gentle kisses down your body — stopping at the silver button clasping your shorts. He pulls them down — underwear including, his patience worn. Met with the sight of your glistening, begging pussy.

He drags his thumb between your folds, capturing your slick, and rubbing gently at your throbbing clit. Before you know it, his head dips between your legs — lips planting kisses on the inner soft skin of your thighs.

“You're dripping.” He groans. The eye contact with him becomes too much, to fierce. It sends a pulsing fire right to your lower stomach.

His tongue licks a long stripe, swirling and sucking right where you need him. Your moans fill the air and you can feel yourself become wetter and wetter. You’d be embarrassed with how loud you were being if it weren’t with Tommy. But Tommy eats up every bit of it.

Your legs curl tightly around his shoulders, drawing him deeper, while Tommy’s hands explore the soft, heated flesh of your thighs with slow, deliberate pressure — anchoring himself in the intoxicating pull of your body pressed close.

He digs his tongue inside of you, the sight of his face fully buried, nose pressed tightly on your clit, has your legs shaking. Once he enters two fingers, thrusting deeply and curling into the spongey part of you, you’re sent over the edge.

Your hands tangle fiercely in his hair, gripping tightly as you struggle to steady the rush of your trembling body. He thrusts his fingers into you faster, harder, as you try to chase his touch — griding against his face.

“Oh- oh god, Tommy.” You moan, the heat curled deep in you threatening to spill over.

His muffled moan vibrates against you in response. Enough to send shivers down your spines. Enough to finish you. Before you know it, you’re spilling your hot liquids on his fingers. On his tongue that’s still licking circles around your ache.

Tommy lifts himself from between your thighs, showing his fingers covered in your slick. He slowly brings the two to his mouth, licking them clean. The sight nasty, perverted, but turning you on once again.

“Tastes so good.” He claims, dragging his fingers out of his mouth with a pop. “Ready for me, babygirl?”

You nod your head desperately. “Yes..”

His hands move deliberately down, undoing the button of his jeans with practiced ease, unveiling more of the dark, tangled hair that lay beneath. He pulls them down, past his thighs, his boxers following quickly behind.

You weren’t expecting how big he is. His length slapping against his belly button, tip already dripping with wet precum. Your legs spread instinctively wider, inviting him in. He gives you a knowing smirk as he leans down, hovering over you and balancing himself on one hand as he guides himself to your entrance with the other.

He moves into you gently, as if savoring every second of closeness. You’re already so open to him, your bodies drawn together by something deeper than desire. His hands come to rest tenderly around you head, thumbs brushing your temples like a silent promise. A deep, almost trembling groan slips from his lips, and his eyes flutter closed — not just from pleasure, but from the overwhelming truth of how much he feels for you. It’s not rushed. It’s not just passion. It’s raw and quiet, spoken in the way he holds you.

His touch is slow, like he’s discovering something sacred. When he moves inside you, it’s not with haste but with intention — like very inch is a silent confession. You’re already so ready for him, your bodies fitting together with an ease that feels fated, walls accepting him deeper inside of you.

Tommy’s breath shutters as he presses his forehead to yours, hands gently cupping the sides of your face like you’re something fragile he’s afraid to break. His voice is low and warm, roughened by need. Thrusts a steady rhythms — the sound of skin slapping skin filling the air.

“You feel so fuckin’ good.” He whispers, bottoming out — a feeling that almost has you screaming. “Feel like I’ve been waitin’ my whole damn life for this.”

He moves slowly, savoring the way your body tightens around him every time he pulls out. Quiet sounds escape your lips — sounds he drinks in like they’re meant only for him. His hands slide back through your hair, then trail down your breasts, your sides, worshiping the lines of your body with a quiet awe, till his hands grasp your ass, spreading you wider.

“So damn beautiful,” he breathes against your skin. “You don’t even know, do you?”

And he’s right. You don’t. You haven’t in a long time. Not since whatever you had with Joel started. But your Tommy’s now.

His lips find yours again — slow, deep, and lingering — then trail to your jaw, your neck, pressing soft kisses between each whimpered word. His voice stays low, intimate, like a secret he’s trying to keep.

“Been dreamin’ of this… of you. The way you feel. The way you look at me. The way you make me feel like I ain’t carryin’ the weight of this while damn town on my shoulders.”

You feel Tommy in every part of you. The way his fingers lace with yours above your head, grounding you. The he pauses to look at you, chest rising and falling with every breath like he’s afraid he’ll miss something.

“You’re safe, darlin’,” he murmurs. “With me. Always.”

His rhythm deepens slowly, never rushed — every movement purposeful, guided by the overwhelming need to make this mean something. He leans in, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his pace builds.

"Fuck- takin' me like such a goodgirl." He whispers.

And when the tension finally builds too high to hold back, your legs wrap around his, pulling him closer — legs shaking. Tommy’s thrusts falter as he collapses into you, hot strands of him shooting deep inside of you. His pace slows as he releases every last drop, beads of sweat lining his forehead and chest.

Afterward, he stays wrapped around you, his hand resting in the strands of your hair. He presses a kiss to your temple, then your shoulder, and finally your lips — slow and lingering.

And when you wake the next morning, The light is soft when you stir — that gentle, early morning glow slipping through the curtains like a secret. Your body is warm, heavy with the kind of peace that only comes after something real… something that meant more than just a night.

At first, you're not fully awake — just aware of warmth beside you, the steady rise and fall of someone's chest, the brush of a hand loosely resting at your waist. And then your eyes flutter open.

He’s still here.

Tommy.

His face is so close, peaceful in sleep. One arm is slung around your waist, holding you gently but securely, like even in his dreams, he wants to keep you near. His breath is slow, even, ruffling your hair every so often as he exhales. You can feel the warmth of his naked skin where it touches yours, where your legs are tangled together beneath the sheets.

Your chest tightens.

You’re used to waking up alone. Used to the hollow stillness after Joel would slip out sometime before dawn — not cruel, not cold, just… distant. Detached. He never stayed. Never really let himself.

So now, lying here with Tommy still wrapped around you, the weight of his presence is almost too much. Too tender. Too safe. Like your heart doesn’t quite know what to do with it.

Your instinct is to freeze, not out of fear, but disbelief. You wait for him to move, to get up, to pull away.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he shifts closer in his sleep, nuzzles his face against your shoulder with a soft hum, and tightens his arm just slightly around your waist.

A tiny sound catches in your throat. It’s not quite a sob, but it’s something close — quiet and raw and full of all the things you’ve never let yourself hope for. You press your forehead into the pillow, breathing slow, trying to make sense of the ache in your chest.

Tommy stirs then, as if your silence reached him even in sleep. His eyes blink open, still heavy with rest, and they find yours almost immediately.

“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rasped with sleep. “You okay?”

You nod before you even think about it, eyes wet, lips parting to speak — but no words come.

He sees it, though. He always does.

His hand moves up, fingers brushing gently through your hair as he leans in and presses a soft kiss to your temple.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “You don’t gotta look so surprised.”

It had been a quiet kind of day — the good kind.

Tommy was busy with town duties, something about a supply run meeting and wall repairs, so you'd kept to yourself. The house was calm, filled with the soft rustle of pages as you read by the window, curled under a blanket. The book had long since been forgotten, though — set aside on your lap while your thoughts drifted to Tommy.

It was late now — past midnight — and the fire had burned low in the hearth. Outside, Jackson had settled into that peaceful silence it only ever got on cold, still nights.

Then came the knock.

Three soft taps. Hesitant. Almost... unsure.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

Your heart gave a strange little lurch — hopeful, for just a second, that maybe Tommy had found his way to your doorstep anyway. That maybe he couldn't sleep either, missing you the way you missed him.

But when you opened the door, your breath caught.

It wasn’t Tommy.

It was Joel.

And not the hardened, guarded version you’d grown used to. He looked different. Raw. Torn. Eyes shadowed. Like he hadn’t meant to come here, but his feet brought him anyway.

And then it hit you — the weight of the moment.

It was Sunday.

You stood there frozen in the doorway, one hand on the frame, the other wrapped tightly around yourself, as if your body instinctively knew this moment would hurt.

“Can I come in?” he asked, voice low, rough. Like gravel underfoot.

You stared at him for a beat too long. “It’s late.”

“I know.”

His eyes searched yours. There was something behind them — not just guilt, not just longing. Something more desperate. Something that made your chest tighten.

You hesitated, then stepped back wordlessly, letting the door swing open just enough for him to step inside.

Joel walked in slowly, glancing around your little living room like it had changed since he last saw it — and maybe it had. Maybe it felt different now, because you were different.

You didn’t offer him tea. Didn’t make excuses for the silence. You just crossed your arms and waited.

He stood by the edge of the fireplace, not looking at you. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“No,” you said quietly. “You really shouldn’t.”

His jaw clenched. “Tommy told me. ‘bout you and him… how he fucked you.”

Your heart thudded.

“So what?” you asked. You tried to keep your voice steady, but it cracked — not from weakness, but from everything he’d never let you have.

Joel finally looked at you. And you hated that your heart still flipped at the way his eyes softened, even now.

“You happy?” he asked.

You blinked. “Why does it matter?”

“Because I—I never meant to hurt you.”

You let out a short, bitter breath. “You didn’t have to mean it. You just did.”

He flinched like the words hit harder than you’d intended.

“You never stayed,” you whispered. “You never looked at me the way he does. And now you show up? On a Sunday?”

Silence.

“I left her,” Joel said suddenly. The words dropped like a stone in still water.

You stared. Shocked. “What?”

“Couple nights ago. I couldn’t—” he ran a hand down his face. “I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“I kept tryin’ to tell myself it wasn’t real, what we had,” he continued. “That I didn’t feel nothin’. But it was a lie. And then the way Tommy said he…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

You stepped back slightly, unsure whether you wanted to laugh, cry, or scream. “You only came because you saw someone else loving me. Not because you were ready. Not because I mattered before.”

Joel looked down, silent again.

And then you spoke the truth you’d been holding in your chest for too long.

“I needed someone who didn’t just want me when they were lonely. I needed someone who chose me even when it wasn’t convenient.”

Joel looked up. Eyes full of something broken.

“You were never an inconvenience." He mutters. You swear you hear his voice crack. "I always wanted you."

"Stop, Joel. That's not fucking fair." Your eyes burn as you beg them to hold back your tears. "I'm with Tommy now."

"I bet you thought about me while he was deep inside you, huh?"

"Joel stop."

He's close now, leaning in centimeters from your face. "Did he do it right?"

"Joel, please." You beg. But yet you don't find yourself leaning away from him, from the way his hands slip under your sweater — grazing your bare hips.

He stutters for a moment. Eyes searching your face for any sort of excuse to stop himself. But he leans in, lips grazing softly against yours, mouth parting to say: "Stop me."

You don't. You collide your lips into his, tasting the familiarity. Hands wrapping instinctively around his neck, pulling him in closer. Like you've done this a million times before.

Well... you have.

But, it's only when his hand slips beneath you leggings, traveling down to the front of your underwear, that you push him away. That you push him off of you.

"We can't do this anymore. Seriously. I really am with Tommy." You inform, wiping away his drool from your lips. You feel filthy.

"You want me. Admit it." He fights back. The fear and anguish now returning to his face. The hurt as well.

"Get the fuck out, Joel." You yell, pushing him harshly towards you door, the tears finally escaping.

He didn’t fight. He didn’t beg. Maybe he finally understood.

And when you opened the door again, he walked out without another word — not angry, not cold.

Just hollow.

You closed the door behind him, leaned your back against the wood, and let yourself breathe. Slow. Deep.

And when your eyes drifted to the small clock on the mantel… it had just passed midnight.

It wasn’t Sunday anymore.

291 notes · View notes

p1astr81 · 20 hours ago

Note

pt.2 to the smut you jst posted??????

I usually do my reqs in order but I made an exception here😭

warnings: smut 18+, threesome (Eiffel tower), degradation & praise, dom!oscar, sub!lando, sub!reader, fingering, unprotected piv, oral (m!receiving), handjob, overstimulation, aftercare

You got to your knees in front of Lando, looking up at him with nothing but lust. “Can I take these off?”

He tried to act like he had the power, but when he saw how you looked at him he knew it was a lost cause. “Please,”

The black fabric was sticky as you peeled them down his legs. His cock sprang, needy and impossibly hard.

“Do you want my mouth or Oscar’s?” You blinked up at him. An enticing sight. But when he looked up as Oscar and caught sight of his toned arms.

“Oscar. I want him to- to-“

“Say it, Lando.” Oscar ordered.

“I don’t want your mouth. I want you to use your hand.” He frowned, puppy eyes begging the younger man.

Oscar gestured for you to sit next to Lando. You didn’t hesitate to join him on the comfy sofa. “Thought you wanted her?” He asked, his voice cruel. His thumb ghosted Lando’s tip, earning a whimper. “So eager.” Oscar smiled, closing his fist around Lando’s cock. One pump of his hand had him a mess. The squelching was obscene. “Why’d you want my hand? You could do this yourself, couldn’t you?”

Lando never thought of Oscar as anything more than a friend, never felt the heat in his stomach when he saw him. But this Oscar. He was so cruel. And Lando was loving it.

“You’re- ngh hot, so hot.” He reasoned, throwing his head back in bliss as Oscar’s movements sped up. “So much bigger.” He mumbled.

That shot to Oscar’s ego quick.

Lando was a greedy fucker, loving the kisses you were placing on his neck and face. But he wanted more of you, wanted to hear you moan for him. His hand slid from its place on your thigh, under your skirt. No panties. He would’ve laughed if Oscar wasn’t drawing moans out of his mouth with every flex of his wrist.

Fingers penetrated your cunt, two at one. “Ah! Lan,” you whined, slumping against him as you feel the lazy thrusts of his fingers.

Oscar worked him faster, even sucked the tip into his mouth. “Osc-ah, ngh, don’t stop,” he panted, slamming his fingers into you as he got closer to release. He felt him twitch. Once. Twice. Right before he spilled, he pulled away.

The response was an immediate whine. “I was so close!” He cried.

He ignored his teammates protests and turned to you, who was still getting stuffed by Lando’s fingers. “On the floor, baby. All fours.” He gestured.

You crawled from the couch, juices dripping down your thighs. “So good for me.” He muttered, already removing your shirt and your bra.

“You can take her mouth.” Oscar turned to the older man as he dropped his shorts. He wasn’t going to turn it down, so he got to his knees and readied himself, waiting for the go ahead by Oscar.

When Oscar’s boxers fell to the ground, so did Lando’s jaw. So long and thick, he couldn’t help but wonder how deep it reached in you, how good the stretch felt, how deep it would reach in him.

Oscar chuckled when he noticed Lando’s staring. “You can start.” He waved.

They both pushed into you at the same time, filling you from both ends. Lando was more brutal with it, desperately fucking into your mouth.

Oscar took it slow this time, relishing how your warm walls sucked him in. How tight you felt, how he could feel all of you. “Look at him.” He told you. “Acting like he hasn’t been sucked off in years.”

You squeezed around him, moaning on Lando’s length. “Osc- I’m- cumming- gonna cum!”

“Don’t.” Oscar ordered quickly. “You’ll wait for her.”

Despite how close he felt and his desperate panting, Lando nodded.

The older man faded into the background of Oscar’s mind. He was consumed by you. “So tight around me. Perfect fuckin pussy was made just for me, huh?” You couldn’t even hear what he said, too far gone, but you nodded anyway.

Tears started to color Lando’s face. “Osc, I can’t. I can’t hold it.” He cried, panting, overstimulated, but still fucking your addictive mouth.

“Hold it.” He said through gritted teeth, quickening his thrusts. You started wiggling your ass, moans increased in pitch. Signs Oscar could read well, just as you knew he was close when his cock started twitching.

You came first, eyes flickering shut while you moaned around Lando’s dick. He came right after you, crying yours and Oscar’s names, spilling in your mouth while you struggled to swallow through a lust-filled haze. Oscar was last, spilling inside of you for the second time that night. Again, his words only reached his own ears—hardly at that. They pulled out of you, all three of you sensitive and hissing.

You and Lando slumped against each other. Oscar went and ran the bath. You were already asleep in Lando’s chest when he got back. Lando had fully come-to, but was noticeably tired.

Oscar took you in his arms, tapping your cheek. “Wake up, hon. Gotta get you cleaned up.” You mumbled nonsense in response, not really awake. “Don’t want you to get any infections, okay?” His laugh was light-hearted. “Just a bath, and then you can sleep for as long as you want.”

You tried to blink awake, but your eyelids were too heavy. “While asleep,” you muttered, cuddling into his chest, seeking his comfort.

He laughed again. “You wanna get started and we’ll meet you in there?” He asked Lando, who nodded and went off. He picked your head up from its home in his chest. Your cheek was molded for the palm of his hand. He shook your shoulder. More blinking awake like you’re fighting off the exhaustion. “Just five minutes. I promise.”

You forced your eyes open. Even then, you could only get them halfway. “Carry me?” You requested, your body feeling too heavy to even attempt such a feat.

He carried you bridal style to the tub where lando was already sat. He placed you beside him. Oscar took on the responsibility of getting you both cleaned up.

After that, the three of you all climbed into Lando’s bed. You in the middle while both men held onto you.

261 notes · View notes

mylovesstuffs · 1 day ago

Text

birthday afterglow 🚿 joshua hong × fem!reader.

✩ ! includes :: smut-adjacent | MDNI!. husband!joshua x dead-tired!wife!reader. established relationship. heavy post-coital fluff, consensual use kink (??), one-sided physical effort (consensual ofc), implied 4+ rounds, sleepy dialogue, mildly cracky. soft birthday sex aftermath. 629 words. notes :: ig my first actual drabble? indulgent, sleepy, feral domesticity. unproofed, but powered by delulu strength. I think I was very sleepy too when this prompt popped up in my head.

You were boneless, and not in the sexy, flexible way, but in the, if you ask me to lift a single toe, I’ll pass out and see God, kind of way.

Four rounds. Four.

Joshua lies beside you, chest still heaving. Skin slick with sweat, his warmth pressed along the length of your spine, trying to sink back inside you by proximity alone. The room smells like vanilla-sweet infused by sweat and skin; remnants of what you both have done to each other. He’s been all smiles earlier when you surprised him with a low-lit dinner and a ribbon-tied ‘gift’ only he can unwrap.

But now? Now, he was hovering above you, eyes dark and still so goddamn hungry.

“Babe,” you mumble, face half-buried in the pillow. “Please. I can’t feel my legs.”

Joshua chuckles low in his throat, sound stitched from both affection and pride. “I know,” finger brushes sweaty strands of hair from your cheek. “You did so good for me.”

You let out a half-pained, half-mocking groan, wriggling slightly where you lie, skin sticking to the sheets. “You’re still hard, aren’t you?” He doesn't answer, but the press of his cock against your thigh gives him away. You can feel it. A beat of silence passes before you sigh, voice hoarse and completely serious, “Use me if you still need to. I’m not moving again.”

There is a literal pause for a good five seconds before the reaction you expect from him finally comes. He moans—like actually, moans. Soft and almost whiny, “God,” he breathes out, nuzzling against your shoulder like he is trying to restrain himself from trying to crawl inside you without actually doing it. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I do mean it,” you mutter sleepily. “Just... don’t expect eye contact. Or movement. Or words.”

You feel his lips ghost over the top of your spine. “You sure?”

“I’m your wife. This is part of the job,” you deadpan as if that is the entire argument in itself. Dry delivery, with no frills, the tone makes it impossible to tell if you are serious or just playing for the effect. “Happy birthday.”

Joshua lets out a fond breathless laugh that rumbles from deep in his chest but doesn't bother making a show of itself. His lips brush your shoulder again like a muscle memory he doesn't have to think about anymore. “I love you,” he says into your skin, not because he expects an answer, but because it is true in that moment and every other one too.

You hum, not even a full word but just enough to say, heard you. Say, me too. “Love you too,” already half-melted into the pillow. “Now go ahead. I’m just gonna nap while you commit a felony on my body.”

He groans, burying his face in the curve of your neck.

He dives in, and when he moves, it is slow. Every shift of his hips, every inch of contact, carries an edge of desperation; like he knows the moment will end and can't stop chasing it anyway. He whispers your name into your skin, clutches you like it matters, like letting go would split something wide open.

You don't move even when he breathes hard against your back. Not even when he says things that aren't full sentences but still get the meaning across. You just stay there, your body heavy and warm and unmoving, since you have poured every last drop of energy into him already—as your husband makes love to you one last time for the night.

Later, he lifts you gently, arms looping under you like it isn't the first time he’s carried you this way [it wasn't the first time]. Your legs don't argue; they’ve already given up.

⌦ 🚿 © mylovesstuffs | est. 2025. thank you for reading—your reblog means everything. until we meet again, stay cozy and keep dreaming! ◜ᴗ◝

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chrissssssmut · 11 hours ago

Note

I wanna request a five some scenario based on this TikTok

https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSryxcfbe/

SLEEPOVER TROUBLE

Yunjin, Winter, Giselle & Somi x Male Reader

Tags: Anal, Oral, Vaginal, hole switching, dirty talk, reverse harem, fivesome, cumplay, wet noises, dominant girls, cock worship, absolute filth

AN: My mind's not working properly so forgive for any mistakes here. Male Reader def had the time of his life here! I also changed some of the stuff here so it won't be as accurate like the pics XD.

It started off innocent enough.

Or so you thought.

When Somi had messaged the group chat, saying, “Sleepover at [Your Name]’s place. I’m bringing snacks. And wine. And… mischief 😘,” you assumed it was just her usual chaotic teasing. You had no clue that an hour later, your apartment would be filled with four of the hottest girls you knew—all in the kind of pajamas that made you question whether you were dreaming.

“Damn, this place is still as messy as last time,” Yunjin muttered, tossing her overnight bag on your couch as she slipped off her fuzzy slippers. Her oversized shirt rode up just enough to show the curve of her thighs, and the way she arched her back when stretching didn’t help.

Winter followed, hair tied up, wearing a cropped baby tee that barely contained her chest, and loose sleep shorts that hung dangerously low on her hips. “Could use a woman's touch,” she smirked, stepping past you close enough that your shoulders brushed. Her perfume clung to your hoodie.

“Yah, he’s trying his best,” Giselle giggled, arms looping around your neck from behind. You felt her chest press into your back, warm and firm. “Aren’t you, babe?” she whispered low by your ear, breath hot.

Somi shut the door last, dropping a huge tote bag full of junk food and alcohol with a smug grin. “He’s gonna need more than his best tonight,” she said, eyes locked on you like she already knew exactly how this night was ending.

Your throat went dry.

They sprawled on your couch, laughing, talking, eating chips and sipping drinks. The movie was playing—some dumb romcom—but no one was paying attention.

Especially not you.

Because every time you looked up, someone was touching you.

Yunjin’s hand on your thigh.

Winter’s head resting on your shoulder, breath slow, soft.

Giselle’s fingers playing with the hem of your shorts like it was casual.

Somi lying across your lap like it was her spot, stretching so her tank top rode up her ribs.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Yunjin finally said, voice low, sultry, as she leaned closer. Her lips brushed your ear. “Something wrong, baby?”

“I—uh…” You swallowed. “You guys are… kinda handsy tonight.”

“Oh?” Winter sat up, crawling across the couch like a cat. “And you don’t like it?”

Somi looked up from your lap. “Or do you like it too much?”

You could feel your heartbeat pounding in your ears as Giselle snatched the remote and shut off the movie.

“Let’s stop pretending,” she said, turning to straddle your lap while Somi moved beside you. “You know we didn’t come here just to watch movies.”

“Not with you looking like that,” Somi added, tugging your shirt up just a little, revealing your abs.

Yunjin was already lifting her top off, slow and deliberate. “I’ve been thinking about this since last week. You wore those grey sweats on campus and didn’t even realize how hard you were making it for us.”

Winter leaned in, pushing her lips to your jaw. “We talked about it after you left. Every. Single. One of us.”

“And we decided,” Somi whispered, her hand creeping down your waistband, “we’re done waiting.”

Clothes disappeared quickly.

One moment, they were four flirty girls on your couch. The next, they were devouring you with eyes and hands and mouths.

Yunjin kissed you first—hard, deep, dominant. She tasted like wine and need, her tongue sliding against yours as her fingers wrapped around you, stroking slow and intentional.

Winter moved to your chest, kissing down your collarbone, teeth lightly grazing your skin. “So sensitive,” she whispered, lips ghosting lower.

Somi straddled your thighs, looking up at you as she pulled your cock free. Her smile was filthy. “I call first taste,” she said—and then her mouth was on you, warm and slick and greedy.

You groaned, hand tangling in her hair, but she batted your hand away.

“Don’t rush me,” she pouted. “I want to savor this.”

Meanwhile, Giselle knelt beside her, lips pressed to your stomach, murmuring, “We’re going to ruin you tonight.”

And they did.

Somi sucked you with the enthusiasm of someone starving, tongue swirling, moaning like it got her off to feel you twitch on her tongue. When she finally pulled off, spit dripped from her lips, and she wiped it with the back of her hand.

“My turn,” Winter said simply, crawling between your legs. She took you deep in one go, gagging just slightly, eyes rolling up like she loved the stretch. The sounds were obscene—wet, messy, lewd.

Giselle kissed you while Winter sucked. Her hips ground against your thigh, clearly getting off just from watching you fall apart.

Yunjin whispered, “Don’t cum yet. We’re just getting started,” as she climbed onto your lap, lowering herself onto you without warning.

“Y-Yunjin—!”

“Shh,” she moaned, sinking fully down with a delicious whimper. “You feel even better than I imagined…”

The pace was brutal.

They took turns riding you—Winter moaning breathlessly every time she bounced, her voice high and sweet; Giselle dragging her nails down your chest as she fucked herself on your cock like she owned it; Somi grinding until you were begging to come, only to stop and edge you with a smug, cruel pout.

Yunjin whispered filth in your ear the whole time, kissing your throat, nails digging into your back.

“You’re gonna come for us, baby?”

“Fuck look how stretching our pussy baby”

“You want us to milk you dry?”

“Look at how desperate you are…”

“We could keep you tied to this couch all night.”

You were overstimulated—every nerve on fire—but you didn’t want it to stop.

Then Somi bent over on all fours on your coffee table. “One more round,” she said, looking back at you with flushed cheeks. “Use me however you want.”

Giselle bit her lip. “Let’s all watch.”

And they did.

As you fucked Somi hard, her cries echoing off the walls, the other three touched themselves, moaning softly, telling you how hot you looked, how good you made her sound, how lucky they all were.

You came hard—groaning her name, shaking, hips snapping as Somi gasped and pushed back, needing every last drop.

But they didn’t let you rest.

You barely had time to catch your breath.

After Somi collapsed onto your chest—sweaty, panting, and completely blissed out—the other three girls weren’t satisfied. Not even close.

“Up,” Yunjin said, standing at the doorway to your bedroom in nothing but your oversized shirt, which hung off one shoulder and covered just the very tops of her thighs. “You’re not done. Not until we all have you to ourselves.”

Giselle leaned in, voice purring. “One-on-one. No interruptions. You’re ours tonight.”

Winter dragged her nails down your back. “You’ll give us everything, baby.”

You looked at the four of them—flushed, soaked, insatiable—and realized something terrifying and arousing at once:

You were so screwed.

She led you into the room first, locking the door behind her with a smug click.

Yunjin didn’t pounce. She sat on the bed like a queen waiting to be worshipped, legs crossed, lips curled in a knowing smirk.

You stood there, hard again somehow, eyes wide.

She crooked a finger. “On your knees.”

You obeyed.

Her thighs parted slowly, revealing her soaked center. Her voice was thick with want. “You’re gonna use that mouth properly now, baby. Prove you’re worth the mess I’m about to make.”

You leaned in, tongue pressing to her clit, slow and deliberate.

She shuddered. “Fuck—yes… just like that.”

Her thighs locked around your head, hips grinding against your face as she started to lose composure. She tugged your hair, guiding your rhythm.

“You taste so good—you know that? You’re gonna eat until I say stop. And then I’m gonna ride you so hard you’ll forget the others even exist.”

You groaned into her, drunk on the way she moaned, on how wet she was.

And then, just like she promised—Yunjin pushed you down, mounted you, and rode you with a hunger that felt almost feral.

Every bounce of her hips was torture and bliss. She leaned forward, breath hot on your lips.

“You love it when I take control, don’t you?” she moaned. “You’re gonna cum inside me. I want you deep, filling me up, begging me to stop—”

You did.

Hard.

And she made you stay inside until you were soft.

Then hard again.

And came again.

You barely made it to the bathroom to splash water on your face before Winter appeared in the doorway.

“Your turn’s over,” she told Yunjin. “I’m next.”

Yunjin laughed breathlessly and kissed your jaw on the way out. “He’s all yours.”

Winter said nothing else. She just took your hand and led you to the bed.

Then she pushed you down and climbed on top of you in one smooth motion.

Her eyes were sharp, dangerous, but her voice was a whisper. “No teasing. I want you deep. Now.”

She didn’t ride like Yunjin.

Winter sank onto you with a sigh, leaned down to kiss your neck, and whispered filthy, desperate things against your skin.

“You make me so wet,” she breathed. “I’ve wanted this for months… fantasized about how you’d feel inside me…”

Her rhythm was slow but intense. Each grind hit deep, her body trembling with every thrust.

“I’m gonna cum like this,” she gasped, nails scratching lightly down your sides. “With you underneath me, helpless, mine—fuck, you feel so good…”

Her orgasm ripped through her with a strangled moan, legs shaking, lips crushed to yours.

But she didn’t stop.

“I need more,” she whined, moving again. “Don’t you dare hold back on me.”

She milked you—twice.

By the end, you were gripping her thighs, babbling her name, while she smiled, pleased and sweaty, collapsing against your chest.

“Still with us?” Giselle smirked, slipping into the room wearing her pajamas and nothing else.

You nodded weakly from the bed, body wrecked, but cock twitching back to life.

“God, you’re so hot like this,” she laughed, crawling over you. “All fucked out and still so eager.”

She pulled the hoodie off slowly, dramatically. “But with me? You’re not allowed to come unless I say so.”

You groaned, but she kissed it away.

Then she straddled your face.

“You know the rules. Make me cum first.”

You obeyed.

Giselle moaned—high-pitched, breathy, head thrown back. “Shit, fuck, you’re too good at this.”

She rocked against your tongue, grinding until her thighs trembled and her voice cracked.

Then she finally moved down, lined you up, and lowered herself with a moan so lewd it echoed.

She rode you like she wanted to destroy you—fast, relentless, teasing you right to the edge.

“Close?” she whispered, breath shaky.

You nodded.

She stopped.

“Beg.”

“Giselle, please—I can’t—please let me—”

“Say you’re my good boy.”

“…I’m your good boy.”

She smirked, started riding again. “Cum.”

And you did. Hard.

So hard you blacked out for a second.

She chuckled. “One more for good measure.”

She didn’t stop until you gave her two.

You thought you couldn’t go anymore.

You thought you were done.

Then Somi walked in with a bottle of water and a wicked glint in her eyes.

“Drink,” she said, sitting beside you on the bed. “We’re not finished until I say so.”

You sipped, panting.

She took the bottle away, then pushed you flat on your back.

“You remember earlier? When you fucked me on the coffee table?” she whispered, straddling you. “I was just getting started.”

She kissed you—wet, needy, tongues tangling—and then she lowered herself onto you, slowly, moaning.

“Oh my god… you’re still so big,” she gasped.

You grabbed her hips, tried to keep up—but Somi was ruthless. She fucked you like a pornstar—bouncing, grinding, slapping her ass against your thighs with each thrust.

“Give it to me,” she whined, sweat dripping down her neck. “Fill me up—all of it.”

You didn’t know how you had anything left. But her voice, her body, her expression—it forced it out of you.

You spilled inside her as she cried out, her body shaking around you.

But even as you trembled beneath her, she leaned down and whispered:

“One more.”

She made you go again.

And again.

Until you were twitching, panting, empty, wrecked.

When the door finally opened and all four girls re-entered the room, they looked pleased.

You, naked, sprawled across the sheets, sweat-soaked and dazed, could barely lift your head.

Yunjin laughed. “He survived.”

Winter smirked. “Barely.”

Giselle winked. “Better prepare yourself before round three.”

Somi leaned in close and kissed your cheek. “Rest up, baby. You’ve got four girlfriends now.”

You closed your eyes and whispered:

“…I’m never surviving another sleepover.”

Morning.

The sun barely lit the room. Birds chirped. But your body ached like you'd fought off a demon.

Your legs? Weak. Your cock? Surprisingly... hard.

The reason?

Four gorgeous girls, all sprawled across your bed in various states of undress.

Yunjin was on her side, her hand possessively gripping your thigh.

Winter had her head on your chest, soft breath ghosting over your skin.

Giselle slept with one arm draped around your waist.

And Somi? She stirred first, eyes sleepy—but shining with mischief.

“Mmm… morning wood?” she whispered, biting her lip.

You blinked. “…Somehow.”

She grinned. “Guess it’s time for round three.”

Ten minutes later, the girls were awake and eager.

“Let’s make it fun,” Giselle smirked, crawling onto the bed on all fours.

Somi followed, slapping her own ass. “Asses up, faces down. Let him pick.”

Yunjin and Winter looked at each other… then joined in.

Soon, all four of them were on the bed—lined up like sinful dolls, each arching their backs, presenting soaked pussies and tight asses with shameless pride.

Yunjin looked over her shoulder, licking her lips. “You’re gonna fuck every one of us. But here’s the twist.”

Winter smirked. “Switch holes. Every thrust.”

Your cock twitched violently.

“Start with me,” Giselle said, winking.

You walked up behind her, heart pounding.

One thrust. Deep into her slick pussy.

She moaned. Loud.

You pulled out, moved to Somi.

Slid right into her tight little ass.

“Fuck!” she yelped, gripping the sheets. “Oh my god yes—keep going—”

Next, you were inside Yunjin’s dripping cunt.

Then into Winter’s ass.

Then Giselle’s ass.

Somi’s pussy.

Yunjin’s ass.

Back and forth.

Every girl.

Every hole.

Each time you slammed in, they cried out in unison. Gasps. Moans. Wet sounds echoing through the room like music.

You grabbed hips. Spanked them. Heard the slap of skin-on-skin every time you rammed forward.

“Fucking switch again,” Somi whined. “Don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—”

Yunjin looked back, sweat on her brow. “Cum in whichever hole you want. But you better use us all.”

Winter was the loudest when you pushed into her ass again.

Her back arched, hands clenched into the sheets. “Oh my god—I’m gonna cum from just this—your cock feels so thick—”

You grabbed her hair, pounded harder.

She screamed, her orgasm gushing down her thighs as you pulled out and moved to Giselle again.

Giselle was panting, tongue out. “In my pussy—fuck me deep this time—”

You obeyed.

She was tighter now, wetter than ever.

You alternated between her ass and her pussy like it was nothing. Each time made her twitch, shake, cry out.

Somi kept reaching back to spread herself for you. “Right here, baby—come on—slam it in—fuck yes—!”

Yunjin?

She looked over her shoulder and begged, “In my ass. I want it rough.”

You delivered.

You felt it building—heat in your spine, balls tightening, everything overstimulated and raw.

But they wanted it.

All of them.

“Inside,” Giselle panted.

“Don’t hold back,” Winter gasped.

“Fill one of us,” Somi moaned.

Yunjin was the last. She turned her face just enough to say, “Come on, baby. Let us have it. Drain those pretty balls and let us feel it leak out of us.”

You slammed into her, into her ass, and came hard.

Your cum spilled down her thighs, thick, hot, messy.

And then—still twitching—you moved to Somi and pushed inside again.

You came again, right into her pussy.

Winter opened her mouth under you, desperate. You knelt over her, jerked, and gave her the third load across her tongue and cheeks.

Giselle?

She sucked the rest from your tip with a filthy slurp and swallowed everything.

All four girls collapsed onto the bed.

Your legs? Shaking.

Your cock? Finally soft.

Their asses? Dripping.

Your room?

Wrecked.

And you?

Dead.

Somi giggled as she curled up beside you. “Same time tomorrow?”

272 notes · View notes

selunefae · 1 day ago

Text

Like a vintage wine (+18) - Sylus x Reader (Love and Deepspace)

After weeks of trying to convince you to sit on his face, Sylus gets his way. And let's just say, you've never felt so thoroughly tasted

masterlist

rating: +18, MDNI

word count: 1,281

tags: sylus (lads) x reader, smut, fem!reader, afab!reader

cw: PwP, shameless smut, fingering (female receiving), oral sex (female receiving), pet names (kitten, sweetheart), slight spanking, face-sitting, sylus is a professional muncher, he'd love for you to sit on his face

notes: This is my first time writing for Sylus with an idea I couldn't get out of my head. I wrote it in the span of a few hours, so I'm quite proud of myself. xD I'm not main Sylus, so I hope I captured his personality correctly. I won't be doing a second part for this exact same oneshot, but I'm open to requests. :) Hope you enjoy it! This is not proofread, no betareader and English is not my first language, sorry for any mistakes.

“Sylus… I’m not sure about this.”

Your voice cracks in the middle of the sentence, because how the fuck are you supposed to remain calm with his naked body just beneath you?

You're straddling his torso, palms splayed across the hard plane of his chest, and legs tense on either side. He’s sprawled out shirtless, his golden skin stretched tight over lean muscles, chest falling with each slow breath. He looks like one of those ancient statues, carefully sculpted. His white hair’s a mess against the velvet pillow, red eyes half-lidded, and mouth twisted in that same grin that invites you to surrender - arrogant, infuriating, and stupidly sexy.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific, sweetheart,” he says, voice low, lazy and far too fucking smug for your already shaky nerves. “Not sure about what?”

You hesitate, fingers twitching against his skin. He talks like he’s not the one who made you be in this situation in the first place.

You try to look down at him without losing what’s left of your dignity.

“I just…” You swallow. “What if I hurt you?”

That earns you a real laugh. The kind of laugh that makes your stomach twist into a thousand goddam butterflies.

His warm hands slide up and settle on your hips, not helping your case. One of his thumbs strokes slow circles into your thigh, as if that’s going to calm you down instead of driving you even more insane.

“I’ve taken bullets round through my lungs and walked it off,” he states. “And you think your pretty little cunt sitting on my face is what’s gonna kill me?”

Your mouth opens and closes again. You look away.

“It’s just not that,” you mutter. Your face burns. “It’s… kind of embarrassing.”

He hums, tilting his head like he’s studying you. “Embarrassing is me begging you to sit on my face for the third time this week.” His grin widens. “Which I’m not above doing again, by the way.”

Your cheeks now go nuclear. You try to get off him, but his grip changes before you even move. He grabs your thighs, fingers sinking in, and pulls you right back down, your nude core flush against his abs. He doesn’t let you squirm away.

“Hey,” he says, his voice is not mocking this time. “Look at me.”

You blink down at him, caught between mortified and melting.

“Sylus -”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“You think I’d ask you to do something I didn’t want?” He reassures you, drawing gentle circles across your skin. “I want this. You. On me. Letting go. Not worrying about how you look, or what you sound like, or what I can handle.”

He leans up just enough to press a kiss to your inner thigh. His hot breath against your flesh sends shivers up your spine. Your pulse skips. His gaze is locked on yours, and he seems genuine. "Ok..."

He settles back down against the pillow, eyes still tracking your every twitch, and that fucking smirk crawling back across his face as if he’s already won.

Buzzing with nerves, you hunch forward until you’re hovering over his face. You ease your hands onto the headboard for support. Your thighs tremble with the effort to keep yourself lifted, because you’re still too afraid to let yourself go and actually sit on him, full weight and all. The last of your hesitation hangs heavy in the air, stretched between his mouth and your dripping cunt.

Sylus laughs.

A low, warm sound from deep in his chest - and gods, you feel it. The heat of it flares against your core, hot and direct. You're so close it’s almost contact, and the tease of it nearly makes you give in.

“Kitten,” he drawls, eyes dragging up from between your thighs back to your face, “you’re shaking like I’m about to bite.”

You might, you think.

Then one of his hands leaves your thigh, and you barely register it before the pad of his finger brushes up your folds. The contact rips a sound from your throat. A choked moan. Your hips jolt forward before you can stop yourself.

He hums low, brings the finger to his mouth, and sucks it clean without breaking eye contact.

“You’re already dripping,” he murmurs, voice gone darker and rougher. “And yet you’re still hovering?”

You try to protest, but no words come out, and Sylus doesn’t wait. He takes advantage of your reluctance, lifting his head to get closer. Both hands slide around and grip your ass, fingers sinking into the soft flesh with a rough, appreciative squeeze. Then, one hand moves around you. You jolt when he trails his fingers between your folds again. He does it once, twice, and the second time he tweaks your clit.

You jerk your body away from the sudden intensity.

He laughs again and yanks you down until your cunt is pressed directly to his mouth, his tongue already dragging through yout slit in a single, hungry stripe.

“Sylus!” You gasp in shock, trying to push back, but he tightens his grip and pulls you back into his mouth. He holds you in place as he flattens his tongue against your lips, before licking another stripe from your entrance to your clit. You tremble and finally give in. You let your weight fall onto him completely, finally sitting on his face. You feel him smile and he doesn’t wait another second to devour you.

His mouth opens wider, tongue working with more force, sipping you like a vintage wine. He groans into you, the vibration sending a fresh wave of heat up your spine. He grabs your rear harder, kneading handfuls of you and spreading you open for more access. You can’t help the moans that start spilling out of you. Your fingers find the headboard and clutch onto it like it’s the only thing holding you to earth. Your hips start to move on their own, rocking forward and back with desperation. Sylus groans again and spanks your ass. You cry out, more in surprise than pain, and grind down harder.

“That’s a good girl,” he growls, voice muffled by your thighs. The vibration makes your hips roll harder, chasing the pressure.

Sylus keeps licking, slurping, devouring you. One of his hands shifts, pushing into the tight space between his mouth and your dripping pussy, and without warning, he slides a finger inside you. It sinks so easily - a sloppy, slick glide from all the fluids already pouring out of you. He curls it just right, finding that spot that makes your vision blur and your spine arch. Your entire body convulses, thighs trembling violently around his head. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream as your legs clamp down around him, trapping his head between them while you cream all over his face.

Your vision blurs. You clutch the headboard with white-knuckled desperation in an attempt to ground yourself as pleasure tears through you. When it finally crests and crashes, you collapse -

but Sylus isn’t done.

His tongue keeps moving in slow, messy licks through your soaked hole while his finger stays inside, coaxing out every last shudder from your overstimulated body. And when you’ve finally stopped shaking, he eases you off him. You sink beside him, spent and panting with a thin layer of sweat covering your body.

When you manage to lift your head to look at him, you find his lips are slick with your fluids, and a damn smirk craved across them.

“See? “ his voice is husky and sounds far too pleased with himself. “It wasn’t that bad.”

And gods, he’s right. You’ve never felt so thoroughly tasted.

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lay-z · 2 days ago

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Thank you @raspberryandechinacea for putting this thought in my head. Love ya, berrybabe 🤭🩷

cw: mention of eating disorder; tummy issues (totally not projecting); established relationship; fluff — john 'soap' mactavish x gn!reader

Groaning as you roll onto your left side again, you try to ease the throbbing pain in your gut while clutching the soft koala bear-shaped heating bottle to your upper stomach—a recent gift from your boyfriend for ‘when ah’m not there ta rub yer belly’.

You love it dearly, but it’s not enough tonight. Not after the devastating results you’ve received today. You could’ve handled some lactose intolerance, really, but being allergic to fructose? Now that’s just ridiculous.

“Got ye somethin’,” he announces as he saunters into your shared bedroom before showing off the bowl of strawberries in your favorite little bowl; pinkish-red skin still glistening with water and neatly cut in halves. “Did ma research. They’re still safe for ye ta eat in moderation, bunny.”

In this moment, you very well feel like crying―utterly overwhelmed with a cocktail of emotions. Fear of your ED getting out of control now that you have the perfect excuse not to eat, love for the man who has been nothing but loving and supportive since you two met, helplessness and frustration that come with the pain you’re currently experiencing again.

“You’re so sweet,” you say meekly, struggling to sit up in bed. When you let out another breathy groan, Johnny is at your side, setting the bowl down on your bedside table before helping you up by sneaking one arm around your back. “Thank you–”

“Nah, shhh, ‘s alright, bunny.” He brushes your hair behind your ear once you’re settled, places a lingering kiss on your temple while you gaze up at him with big, wet puppy eyes. It’s always heartbreaking for him to see you in such pain.

“I uh... I did more research and actually found sum’ safe foods f’ye ta try,” he announces eventually, standing up from the edge of the mattress. “Oh? Like... what?” you ask almost innocently, brows drawing together when he goes on to pull off his hoodie.

“Ah, y’know–” His voice is muffled, covered by the fabric momentarily before it drops to the floor.

And you can’t help but burst out laughing as soon as he exposes his bulky torso to you; golden skin covered in tufts of coarse, dark hair on his chest while SAFE FOOD is scribbled in large, wonky letters above his pecs with red sharpie; little smiley faces drawn around his nipples.

His face beams with a wide grin as he makes his chest muscles jump. “Aye? Wanna give ‘em a lick?” That only makes you laugh harder.

“Or–wait, wait–” He snickers, hooking a thumb into the waistband of his sweats to tug them down. “Perhaps ye’d prefer this?”

There, around his thick happy trail, little hearts litter his skin with arrows pointing down towards his junk. He’s laughing along with you at this point, tugging his sweats down just a bit more to expose his trimmed pubes with SAFE FOOD scribbled right next to the root of his cock.

“You’re mental!” You giggle, feet kicking under the blanket, pain nearly forgotten for a moment. “Oh, am I, aye?”

He snorts, braces his knee on the edge of the mattress and hovers above you while you scoot onto your back again, gazing up at him while his baby blues twinkle with mischief before he pulls his bottom lip down to reveal the pinkish, glistening flesh of his mouth―and SAFE FOOD scribbled on the inside of his lip in smaller and smudged black letters.

“Yeah,” you retort with another soft huff through your nose as you shake your head with a smile full of adoration. “Absolutely mental, MacTavish.”

He hums deep in his chest as he crawls on top of you. “Mhm, c’mere. Lemme try to kiss it better, luv.”

#john soap mactavish #johnny mactavish x reader #call of duty #cod x reader #soap x reader #john mactavish x reader #cod fluff #johnny mactavish x you #soap fluff

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delilahsturniolo · 2 days ago

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⟡ ݁₊ ᥫ᭡ ceo!matt finally getting to taste you after a long day of work

.ᐟ oral, (fem!recieving) fingering, kissing, dirty talk, pet names.

(credits to @sturnslutz for ceo!matt)

matt comes home after a grueling day at the office, his mind filled with thoughts of nothing but you. as he walks through the door, his eyes immediately find you, sitting there on the sofa in the lingerie you know he loves. the lacy fabric clings to your curves, showcasing the body he's been dreaming about all day.

“hey, how was work?” you looked up at him, watching as his eyes scanned your body. he sets his briefcase down. “long.” he huffs, all he wanted was you in that moment. “yeah?” you tease. he crosses the room in a few long strides, not able to contain himself, sweeping you into his arms. his lips crash into yours, urgent and demanding. he kisses you deeply, his tongue delving into your mouth, claiming you as his own. you melt against him, your body molding to his as the kiss deepens.

"i've been thinking about you all day," he growls, his voice low and thick with desire. "about how much i want to taste you." your breath hitches. "i need you," you whisper against his lips, your voice breathy with desire. "i need to feel your mouth on me."

matt doesn't need any more encouragement. he lifts you easily, his strong arms carrying you to the bedroom. he lays you down on the bed, his eyes dark with lust as he takes in the sight of you, spread out before him like a feast. "you're so beautiful," he murmurs, his hands running over your body, caressing every curve. "been waitin’ all day for this pretty pussy..”

he starts at your neck, kissing and nibbling his way down. he lingers at your breasts, sucking and licking your nipples until you're writhing beneath him, your hips bucking up to meet his. but he doesn't stop there. he continues downward, trailing kisses over your stomach, your hips, until he reaches the juncture between your thighs.

"please," you beg, your body aching for his touch. "please, matt." he looks up at you, a wicked grin on his face. "i love hearing you beg f’me pretty girl..” he says, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. "but i'm going to make you scream."

with that, he lowers his head and licks you, one long, slow stroke that has you crying out in pleasure. he licks and sucks, his tongue delving into you, tasting you deeply. he laps at you like you're the sweetest thing he's ever tasted, like he can't get enough.

"fuck—taste so good," he growls, his voice muffled and vibrating against you. he focuses on your clit, sucking it into his mouth, his tongue flicking over it. you're panting, your hips bucking, as he drives you closer and closer to the edge. your hands fist in his hair, holding him against you as you rock against his mouth.

"matt," you moan, your voice high and breathy. "i'm so close. please, don't stop." he doesn't. he keeps licking and sucking, his mouth working you until you're teetering on the brink. then he slides a finger inside you, then another, pumping them in and out as he sucks hard on your clit.

that's all it takes to send you flying over the edge. you come with a scream, your body shuddering, your hips bucking wildly as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. matt keeps licking you through it, his tongue gentle now, coaxing every last bit of pleasure from you.

when it's over, he crawls up your body, kissing his way back up. he kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips. "you're incredible," he whispers against your lips. you wrap your arms around him, pulling him close. "i love you," you whisper back, your voice still breathy from your orgasm. he smiles against your lips. "i love you too," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "you know what? my meetings can wait.”

with that, he starts all over again, kissing and caressing every inch of your body until you're lost in a haze of pleasure, his name a constant refrain on your lips, you grab his tie, pulling him closer and deeper into your lips, awaiting a long and special night between the both of you.

💌: oh this isn’t the last blurb by the way, there’s more to come 😉

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vinnyvamppp · 2 days ago

Note

I haven’t read the Invincible comics yet, but ever since I saw that part of Mohawk Mark on his throne, it did something to my brain 😵‍💫🔥🔥👀 with that, can I request Mohawk Mark x sub!male reader, fucking on his throne?🤭

Stay Seated

Note: I enjoyed writing this way more than I should have. I genuinely started tweaking when I ran out of ideas.

Synopsis: Mohawk Mark Grayson has conquered entire timelines — and from each one, he’s stolen a version of you. But only one of you holds his full, terrifying attention. In a throne room soaked with power, sweat, and jealousy, Mark breaks you open with his cock and his obsession, proving that in every universe, you are his favorite meal.

Warnings: Smut, Variants of Reader, Cockwarming, Overstimulation, Dom!Mohawk mark, Sub!Male Reader, Dirty Talk, Degradation, Praise, Posessiveness, Cumplay, Voyeurism, Orgy Teasing, Mild Humiliation, Power Imbalance, Breathplay, Brief Violence (NOT TOWARDS YOU BOOKIE), Creative Liberities Taken, Emotionally Obsessive Behaviors (he's lowkey in love with that cookie).

Invincible!Mohawk Mark x Male!Reader

WC: 2k

There’s twenty-five of you, technically. Twenty-five variants of you, scattered across the multiverse — same face, same voice, different trauma responses. Some cry when Mark chokes them. Others beg. One of them calls him “Master” without being told to, and he hates that one the most.

But you?

You don't crawl, you grin at him from your knees. You talk back. You bite when he tells you to open. That’s why you're the only one allowed to sit on his throne when he's not using it, the only one he pulls into his lap mid-meeting, while his generals pretend not to notice the slow grind of his hips behind your back.

Right now, he’s lounging, one leg thrown over the armrest, fingers dragging lazily along the seam of his costume's bottoms, watching the lesser versions of you try to charm him like desperate strays. His Mohawk’s still dripping from battle. There’s blood dried in the crease of his jaw. He hasn’t looked at you once, but you know he’s waiting for you to snap.

And when you do, when you push the others aside and strut barefoot across the obsidian floor like you own it, Mark’s mouth curls slow and cruel. “Finally. Took you long enough.” His voice rings out, skin practically taut with excitement. The throne room smells like ozone, iron, and sweat. The others are still lingering, some pressed to the obsidian pillars like sad little ornaments, others whispering to each other, desperate to be noticed. Mark ignores them, but you don’t.

Your smirk is slow and venomous, eyes flicking their way like you know he’s only seconds from snapping. That’s part of why you lean just a bit too far into his space, arms draped over the back of his throne, your breath ghosting along the edge of his jaw. He doesn't look at you. He looks at them. "Get out."

His voice isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. It rips through the air like a blade nonetheless. "But—" one of them starts, a variant with a softer voice and stars in his eyes. "I said—out. You know how I get when I’m eating. And this one's my fucking favorite." His very delivery and gaze sends him gasping. They vanish, one by one. Out of fear. Out of jealousy. Out of shame. But you're still there, smiling.

"Someone’s cranky," you say. Mark finally turns to you — eyes widening, teeth bared. "Someone’s starving." He grabs you by the back of your neck, rough but reverent, and drags you into his lap like you weigh nothing. Suddenly… you’re flipped.

Not to ride him. No. He bends you forward over the high armrest of the throne—back arched obscenely, chest pinned to the cold metal, legs dangling in the air—and holds you there with one hand braced at the base of your spine. "Look at that," he mutters, yanking your pants down just enough. "Hole’s already twitching. Like it knows who owns it."

You moan—breathless and undignified. Mark chuckles, rutting against your ass once, twice. He teases the head of his cock against you, just enough to make you clench and whine.

“Pathetic,” he hums, but there’s pride in it. “So much better than the rest of you. They beg. You behave.”

He thrusts, without much give as it pops through the ring of muscle.

You scream, half folded over, toes barely touching the floor. The throne groans under the impact, but Mark doesn’t stop. He fucks you like he’s marking his territory, grip locked around your waist like a vice, breath ragged and hot against your back. The stretch is obscene—your hole tight and quivering as Mark pushes in, inch by inch, until your breath catches in your throat and your thighs go numb. You feel every vein on his cock like it’s carved to fuck you specifically, pressure building in your gut like a coil snapping with every cruel grind. There’s no mercy in the way he sets the rhythm —brutal and addictive— each thrust punching the air from your lungs. Slick drips down your thighs, pooling beneath you as your body goes lax, surrendering to the drag and fill, the perfect press of him inside you, again and again and again.

"You feel that?" he growls. "That stretch? That’s your god breaking you open. Gonna keep you like this, pretty and wrecked, where you belong." He adjusts — lifts one leg, props your knee over the throne arm, spreading you wider, deeper. The new angle has you sobbing, stars bursting behind your eyes. You can’t stop the sounds falling from your mouth, open-mouthed moans slurred into nonsense, gasps that turn into high, keening whines every time he hits that devastating spot. You’re flushed all the way down your chest, trembling, vision swimming. Every muscle clenches helplessly, like your body’s trying to milk him dry. Your cock bounces untouched against your stomach, leaking in thick, messy strings, each drop smearing between you as your hips grind back instinctively, chasing more, always more.

Somewhere behind you, you hear a quiet gasp.

One of the variants, a version of you, still watching. You open your mouth to warn Mark—too late. Without even pausing his thrusts, he snaps his fingers. A brutal shockwave slams the man against the far wall.

“Didn’t I say I was eating?” Mark hisses. “If you’re gonna stay, you watch in silence. Or I make you hold his ankles and see how long you last.” You moan at that—and shamelessly so.

“Oh? You like the idea?” Mark laughs. “Of course you do. Fucking whore.” He flips you again—this time upside down across his lap, head dangling over one knee, legs still spread. Gravity makes you drip.

He shoves back in. You choke on a moan, eyes rolling, teeth bared against your wrist. And Mark? He just groans, low but reverent. “Goddamn. You take me so fucking good it should be illegal.”

He doesn’t stop. Even after he spills the first time—hips jerking, buried to the base with your name rasped like a warning—Mark keeps going, fucking you through it, chasing the ruin he lives for. You’re bent half off the throne’s edge now, face wet with drool, eyes glossy, hole fluttering like it’s starved.

His cock drags through you in deep, mean strokes, one hand tangled in your hair, the other smeared across your ass, fingertips spreading slick.

"Fuck," he groans. "Listen to yourself. Sloppy little hole won't even let me go. You gonna keep me locked in all night, baby?"

You try to answer—to say yes or please or anything, but all that comes out is a whimper.

"Yeah, that’s what I thought." He bites your shoulder hard enough to make your legs shake. “You like this. Being opened up like a prayer book. Every goddamn page soaked in me.”

Then he pulls out—slow, just to watch it stretch and leak.

But he doesn’t give you a break. Oh no. Mark shifts—scoots forward on the throne seat, spreading his legs wide, cock still glistening, pulls you back into his lap with your wrists pinned behind you, and starts bucking up into you with brutal precision.

You're straddling him now, fully seated, thighs shaking, his hands holding your wrists behind your back so your chest is thrust forward — vulnerable, trembling, owned.

"That's it," he hisses, mouth at your throat. "Ride it. C'mon. Show me how you make my cock disappear. Bounce on it like you need it."

You do. Desperately. The pace turns filthy, wet slaps, sharp thrusts, your breath broken into high, gasping moans as you move in sync, riding him like you were made for it. He pants praises into your neck, fisting his hand in your hair to keep your face tilted toward his.

“Look at you. So fucking perfect. My favorite hole in the multiverse. Every other version of you’s a pale, whining imitation—but you?” He sucks a mark onto your neck. “You were built to worship this cock.” You don’t even know where you end and he begins anymore—not with how deep he is, not with how your body’s locked onto his like gravity. His cum is still hot inside you, mixing with your own slick, your thighs shaking, hole spasming around the overstimulation and begging for more. Every time you try to lift your hips, he pulls you back down, impaling you with a snarl like he’s mad at you for even trying to let him go. You’re not riding him anymore—you’re being kept there, used, adored, ruined like a holy vessel meant only to be filled by him. When you come to, you’re in his lap, knuckles pale as you grip the thrones headrest. He licks sweat from your collarbone, hips stuttering against yours, and laughs into your neck when you sob. “You feel it? That stretch? That’s me rearranging your insides. Gonna pump you so full you drip for hours. Let the whole fucking empire see who this hole belongs to.”

You can feel him twitching inside you again, rhythm getting erratic—and you know he’s close, know it’s about to happen again. But you don’t notice the air shift. You don't hear the footsteps behind you, or the way the temperature dips, or the soft, unsteady breaths returning to the room. You only notice when hands begin to touch you.

One ghosting across your spine. Another dragging lazy circles along your sternum. Fingers thread through your hair from behind. Lips brush your temple, your shoulder, your mouth. Whispered moans and praises—your own voice, different, warmer, sadder, hungrier—fill your ears.

“Can’t stay away from him either, huh?” one voice says, breath hot against your cheek.

Mark stiffens, his eyes narrowing, yet he doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t stop them. He lets it happen and that’s how you know you own him too.

Even when hands are sliding down his chest, nails raking lightly across his thighs, tongues lapping at the sweat on his jaw, even when he’s being worshipped like a king by half a dozen other versions of you, his gaze never leaves yours.

"You feel that?" he whispers, voice raw, eyes locked on your face. "They want me. But I only come for you." And he does. Again.

With a groan so guttural it sounds like a mangled cry, he drags you down, burying himself to the root, and spills inside you with a loud, shaking, and claiming groan that seems to echo, almost pornographic, almost submissive itself.

You clench around him, helpless, ruined, as the other hands caress you both like a sacred offering. Fingers slide down your back—soft, trembling with need. Another pair trace your chest, teasing your nipples until you whimper, twitching in Mark’s lap. A third hand cups your throat with gentle pressure, tilting your head back so lips can press slow kisses along your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. You barely notice how many touches there are now��hands, mouths, heat and want surrounding you from every side, but none of it breaks the spell between you and Mark. He’s still inside you, buried deep, arms around your waist, gaze locked to yours like he’ll never blink again. “Let them worship,” he murmurs. “But this cock stays yours.”

~~~~ You’re boneless in his lap now, barely breathing right—head lolling against his shoulder, your thighs sticky with slick and sweat, chest rising slow and shallow. Mark’s arms are wrapped around you tight, one hand petting your hair, the other resting possessively across your stomach, thumb brushing idly across the mess he made inside you. He’s not hard anymore—but he’s still deep, cock resting soft and wet inside your twitching hole, refusing to pull out.

“You did so good,” he murmurs into your ear, tone turning sweet in that terrifying way only he can manage. “Took it like you wanted to be ruined in front of them. Like you liked showing off.”

Then, without even looking, he speaks louder, smug and deliberate. “Hope the rest of you had fun. All that moaning, all that tongue, all that desperate fucking effort—” he laughs, slow and mean, “—and guess what?” He tilts your face up, kisses your dazed mouth, and hums.

“Still not you.” He shifts slightly, and you let out a soft, spent whimper—too sensitive to move, too full to care. “This is the part you don’t get,” Mark says, his eyes flicking toward the others sprawled across the floor like discarded toys. “You can touch me. You can even make me come.”

He cups your jaw gently, all too fond of you, and whispers just for you: “But only he makes me stay.” A/N: DID WE EAT? (I was transcended to another reality over this request, thank you, anon.) I’m trying to make my male readers feel more inclusive, TRUST, every man in the universe wants you. 🪄

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

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itneverendshere · 2 days ago

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little miss perfect - r.c (+18) - pool day for us

pairing: siren!reader x rafe warnigns: suggestive; sexual act;

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

It’s been a rare, quiet day.

Rafe didn’t get that very often anymore, not with Ward breathing down his neck and his phone vibrating every two seconds with some bullshit from Barry, from Kelce, from the universe in general.

Today, the gods showed mercy.

The house is still, the sun is brutal, and the pool is cold and deep and only his. No voices, no drama.

For once, no one is clinging to him, especially not you.

He recalls dinner last week.

How you sat next to him, even though there were four other chairs available. How your hand happened to land on his thigh when you reached for the salt. How you didn’t acknowledge it, kept talking like your palm wasn’t resting half an inch from the tent he had to will into silence.

That night, he dreamed about you, not romantically or some repressed fantasy wrapped in guilt. It was disgusting.

In that dream, you were under the table, with your hand right where it had been before—but instead of resting, it slid higher. He’d jolted awake, hard as fuck and pissed about it.

Ashamed and angry, mostly at himself, but also at you.

You crawled into his head as if you lived there; his brain was your summer vacation home. You ruined everything with a fucking look, including the pool and the dinners.

Then he hears it: the click of the side gate. He freezes.

No one enters through that gate. No one except—

“Oh my God, is the pool bigger now?” Your voice calls out, completely unwelcome.

No. No, no, no.

He doesn’t open his eyes at first, because if he doesn’t see you, maybe you aren’t real. Perhaps it’s a demon summoned by chlorine fumes and the last vestige of his patience.

But then your feet pad across the concrete.

He opens his eyes, and there you are, looking like you just came up from hell on a string of lies and sunscreen. Hair up, bikini... barely a bikini, meant for a private beach in Ibiza rather than his backyard.

“Seriously, no one told me,” you go on, acting like you haven’t broken into his quiet moment on purpose. “I would’ve been here every day.”

You place your towel on a chair and extend your arms overhead, your body arching.

Rafe blinks in sheer disbelief.

“What are you doing here?” he asks finally.

He keeps the sunglasses on because he can't trust his face.

“I’m staying here, remember silly?” You chirp, standing up and approaching the pool's edge. "Ward said I could use the pool at any time.”

Rafe clamps his jaw.

Of course, Ward said that, of course, you have permission. Of course, the universe handed you the keys to every door he wants locked.

You step in without hesitation, one toe, then the entire leg, water lapping up your thigh, delighted to see you. You let out a fake gasp of surprise.

"Oh my god—it is cold," you chuckle, as if the pool hasn’t been the same temperature for the past three days. “That’s so crazy.”

Rafe watches you sink slow, putting on fucking show. Your shoulders dip beneath the surface, and the straps of your bikini barely hold on.

You wipe the water away from your face and beam at him.

You say "Hi," as if it’s cute.

Rafe scoffs, "I was here first.”

You swim closer. “Oh, I won’t bother you.”

That’s a big fat lie, and you both know it.

You stop at the shallow end, folding your arms over the ledge and resting your chin there, eyes dragging over him, bored and amused all at once.

“You’re really tan,” you comment. “It looks good.”

Rafe doesn’t respond, instead lifting his beer and taking a long sip, hoping it will drown his thoughts.

You then tip your head.

“Are you still upset with me?”

“For what?”

“I don’t know. Whatever I did.” You shrug coyly. “Looking too pretty, sitting close.”

You’re quoting him—mocking him. That thing he said last week, when he lost his cool at Topper's and told you to "stop acting like a fucking succubus every time we are in public." You’d said “wow, Rafe, big words,” and then called him a virgin under your breath.

Rafe had lasted about ten minutes at that get together. Ten minutes of Topper and Kelce laughing too loudly, leaning in too close, and brushing your arm as if they didn’t expect Rafe to shove their faces-first into the table.

And you—god, you—allowed it to happen. Twirled your hair. Bit your straw. Allowed Topper to talk about jet skis and the surf season.

Now here you are, in his pool, half-naked, glistening.

“You’re like a mosquito,” he mutters.

You grin. “I missed you, too.”

Then you push off the ledge and float toward him, serpentine, arms drifting lazily through the water. When you stop in front of him, far enough to not technically be in his space, Rafe feels his whole spine tense.

You lift one hand and flick a drop of water at him. He doesn’t react.

“C’mon,” you urge, pouting slightly. “Are you gonna be boring? On a day like this?”

He turns his head slightly. “I'm relaxing.”

“You can still relax. I’m very easy to ignore.”

You’re not, you’re like a fire alarm in a church.

You swim a slow circle around him, and he still doesn’t move, only tracking you like a shark. Then you come up behind him and splash water onto his shoulder.

“Oops,” You’re not sorry at all. “That was an accident.”

He turns around, sunglasses still on, and your reflection in them creates a perfect, smiling siren. You climb onto the pool ledge beside him, glowing, sitting down with a contented sigh, ankles still in the water, leaning back on your palms.

“I forgot how nice it is here,” you say dreamily. “So peaceful.”

Rafe’s hands are fists underwater. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do first—drown himself or you.

He isn’t going to look.

He wasn’t.

But you’re talking again—about what, he has no idea, something pointless and annoying like how your tan lines aren't even because someone made you sit in the shade at the beach yesterday. You do a stupid thing where your head falls back and leans too far into your hips, knowing your bikini doesn’t leave room for accidents.

Just like that, his resolve dies.

He looks. One second, okay, maybe two, sue him, he’s a man.

Your tits are ridiculous. All soft and high and plump, framed perfectly by that microscopic top you have no business wearing around other people. They bounce when you shift your weight, enough to punch the breath out of him. He looks away fast, his sunglasses his only defense now—maybe they can hide how his brain has short-circuited.

Worst case scenario: you noticed everything.

You reach your arms up to fix your hair mindlessly, the curve of your chest tightening against the strings of your bikini top, and he almost chokes.

“Fuck me,” Rafe hisses under his breath.

“Hm?” You prompt, all feign innocence.

"Nothing," he says abruptly.

But he’s sweating and not from the sun.

“You look warm. Want me to get you some ice?”

Rafe stares at you, deadpan.

“I think you’ve done enough, thanks.”

You shrug, sweet as sin, and flounce off toward the chairs, giving him a perfect view of your ass.

Five minutes.

Five fucking minutes of peace after you finally wandered off, probably to ruin some other piece of his afternoon. Rafe just started to feel his shoulders un-knot, face warming to the sun, letting the chlorine and silence rinse the memory of you from his system—

“Rafe?”

He doesn’t move, praying that if he doesn’t answer, you’ll combust like a vampire left out in daylight.

"Rafe," you call again, singing now. “Can you come here for a sec?”

He groans under his breath, eyes opening to glare at the sky. He turns, dragging his gaze toward the lounge chairs, and promptly forgets how to breathe.

You’re on your stomach, lying on a towel, sunglasses on, legs crossed casually in the air behind you. Your bikini top rests untied, hanging loose over your sides, bare skin stretched down your back, glinting with the sun.

“Are you serious?” He rolls his eyes, already fed up.

"I need sunscreen," you complain. "On my back. Obviously.”

“Get someone else do it.”

You smirk without moving your head. “No one’s home.”

“Too bad.”

You sigh dramatically. “Rafey. Come on. I’ll burn.”

“Good.”

“Rafe!"

“Hopefully.”

That earns a laugh from you—his least favorite sound in the world, because it means you're winning. Again.

“If I burn,” you warn lightly, “everyone’s gonna notice. They’ll ask who let me lay out like this. Shirtless. Unprotected.” You turn your head enough to aim a lethal grin at him. “They’ll blame the host.”

He can hear Ward's voice in his head right now.

Rafe, how could you let her get a burn like that? For Christ’s sake.

You’d play it up, too. Show up to dinner the next night in some backless sundress, wincing dramatically, telling his stepmom how bad the sting was. Flashing your sunburn at every cousin and in-law like a badge of neglect.

Oh, Rafe? No, he said he was too busy…

You’ll get him crucified.

You adjust your hips on the towel, giving him a new angle of suffering.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re delaying my protection. Tick-tock, sunshine.”

He swears one more time under his breath, standing like the act physically pains him, and it does. Every second closer to you feels like walking into a trap he knows is rigged, but his pride won’t let you think he’s backing down.

He grabs the sunscreen bottle from the deck with a snarl, twisting the cap open as if it had insulted him personally.

“You’re lucky I don’t drown you with this shit.”

The scent hits him instantly—coconut and vanilla and whatever sickly-sweet stuff you always wear that makes his brain turn sideways.

“Ooh. Romantic.”

“Shut up.”

You’re still grinning when he kneels beside you, squeezing the lotion into his palm, trying not to look. Failing. Because your back is soft, and the second his hand makes contact, you shiver.

Once his palm slides over your shoulder blades, you sigh. Not a normal sigh nor a human sound, something fucking suggestive, a whispery hum that goes straight to his swimming trucks.

“Can you get a little lower?”

He moves his hand accordingly, smearing sunscreen down your spine with clinical efficiency. He needs to think straight and act like he’s performing surgery — a surgery that requires him to fight the urge to look at your ass every two seconds.

You let out another noise; that one sounds like a proper moan.

Rafe’s hand stops its ministrations.

"Swear to God," he pinches your skin. “I’ll drop you in the pool.”

“Why? ‘Cause I’m enjoying the service?”

He presses his fingers harder, not enough to hurt, but to shut you up for half a second. You wiggle a little in response, and the towel moves along; your top slips further to the sides.

“Stop it,” he snaps, yanking his hands away. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

You peek up at him from over your sunglasses. “Doing what?”

“That noise. Those noises. What's wrong with you?”

“I’m being appreciative.”

“You sound like you’re faking an orgasm.”

“Aw,” you coo, tilting your head to look at him from over your shoulder, lashes low, mouth curved into something cruel and pretty. “You’d know what that sounds like?”

For a moment, the only thing he can do is stare at you, sprawled out, top loose, glistening with lotion and sin, the human equivalent of a nightmare in a hot pink bikini.

Rafe’s blue eyes are flat, mouth parted in stunned offense. You might as well have kicked him in the balls and then asked if he likes it.

“I wasn’t moaning,” You continue to bait him, blinking innocently. “Do you think I sound like that when I moan?”

He makes a sound as if he bit his tongue through.

“Shut up.”

He’s crouched there like an idiot, caught in the blast radius of your bullshit, hands useless at his sides while you wink at him like you haven’t just hit him with the most backhanded insult of the decade.

“Well?”

You giggle again — that laugh — and Rafe wants to throw something.

Preferably you. Into the pool. Off the roof.

But instead, he paces a few feet away, arms rigid at his sides. His heart is jackhammering, not that he’ll admit it. Not that he can do anything except replay the words in his head like a personal torture loop.

Here you are, lying in his backyard like a trap designed by Satan and Victoria’s Secret, tits barely contained, lethal, and acting like he’s the one being inappropriate.

“Next time,” he grinds out, voice sharp with the effort of restraint, “Use a spray bottle.”

He came out here with good intentions — sunbathe, maybe a swim, no yelling — and now he’s dangerously close to snapping a pool chair in half.

You act scandalized, “But that’s so impersonal.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re being so dramatic right now.”

Rafe whips around to glare at you, aiming a threatening, sunscreen-coated finger at you.

“I hope you get sun poisoning someday.”

“I’ll send you pictures.”

You sit up then, spine arching, towel falling with a whisper of fabric, bikini top falling off. One hand clutches the middle, while the other flutters to your chest like a prim southern belle, as if that makes things better.

It makes it worse.

“Thanks, Rafey,” you say sweetly, after you spent the last five straight minutes emotionally waterboarding him. Then you lean in and kiss his cheek as usual —sugary lips just shy of the corner of his mouth — while your fingers fumble to keep your top from slipping.

Rafe goes still, actually, stiller than still.

It’s like he’s been shot between the eyes and is waiting to drop.

“Stop kissing me."

You pull back. “Just saying thank you.”

His eyes drop to your chest and snap back up, the glance burning him more than the high IV.

“I should be institutionalized for putting up with you.”

You flash teeth, delighted.

“You say that, but you still rubbed sunscreen all over my back like a good boy.”

He glares, half-crazed.

“You’re lucky I didn’t write ‘Satan was here’ with it.”

“Why? Something’s wrong?”

Your legs stretch and your sunglasses slip down your nose, and that smile keeps reappearing like a loaded weapon. You're the embodiment of a fever dream, or a head injury.

Rafe scrubs both hands through his hair, borderline manic.

You’re a wide-eyed Bambi. “What is it? I didn’t even flash you.”

“Yeah, yet.”

“Would that be so bad?”

He makes a strangled noise, somewhere between a groan and a scream. His hands curling into fists at his sides.

“I need you to stand up,” he says through gritted teeth. “Right now.”

“Why?” You giggle again. That sound. That fucking sound.

He steps back like you’re radioactive.

“You’re done,” he declares. “You’re getting a t-shirt. You’re banned from the sun.”

“Rafe!”

“Sunscreen privilege revoked. You can burn.”

“But—”

“I hope you burn,” he snaps, already storming toward the house. “Blister. Peel. Suffer.”

You call after him, “You missed a spot on my lower back!”

He doesn’t turn around. If he does, he’ll kill you.

Rafe — poor, pissed-off, and painfully hard Rafe — is already halfway inside, planning how many cold showers it’s going to take to forget the way your bikini barely stayed up. He’s one step away from putting his own head through the drywall to knock the memory of your voice out of his skull.

He slams the sliding glass door shut behind him, muttering, genuinely unwell.

“Fucking bitch.”

You are the worst thing that’s ever happened to him.

That night, after dinner, he’s in the shower, water pelting down his back, and he’s braced against the tile wall, head bowed, chest heaving. His other hand is busy, and he hates that, too.

He squeezes harder, hissing in the process.

All he sees is the smirk on your face when you kissed his cheek, still clutching your top, pretending to be the picture of perfect modesty after flashing him. He pictures the exact slope of your back, the way the sunscreen made you shine, how you fucking moaned to drive him insane.

His head hits the tile with a dull thud.

“Fuck. Fuck you.”

Not even an insult, a desperate wish.

Because in his mind, you're there with him, dainty hands on his shoulders, body against his, voice in his ear whispering all those cruel, perfect things.

He strokes faster.

It's pathetic, shameful. And still, he can’t stop. He’s jerking off in the fucking shower like a teenager, hand furious, because you batted your lashes and said “Thank you.”

His breath stutters.

He imagines your legs wrapped around him, head thrown back, that look in your eyes —inviting. The way you’d giggle right after to ruin it. The way you’d whisper something so mean he'd want to muzzle you with his mouth.

He’s close.

Hand pumping, every muscle tense with it. The water’s freezing now, and he doesn't feel it. His eyes are shut tight, but in his head, you’re there—smiling that evil smile, licking the taste of him off your lips.

He comes with a ragged groan, forehead still pressed to the wall.

Water runs down his face, and he drags a hand through his hair, already mad at himself for every second of it.

He hates you. He hates you. But he’d do it again.

And he did so, for the next hour.

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