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stillandorsdoll · 15 days ago

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River; James Kelly x Reader

You've got years of history neither of you talk about and a thousand ways you still love eachother without saying it.

It's always been him. And it's always hurt like this.

warnings & tags: female reader, angst, eventual smut, cursing, he's kinda possesive here.. but also rly sweet.. oops, vaguely toxic relationship, smoking, alcohol, arguing, some crying during sex, car sex, fingering, oral [f recieving], unprotected p-in-v, creampie, etc!!

word count: 2.7k

note: hi im mainly just a star wars writer but i cant stop listening to certain songs and thinking about james kelly. so.. uh yeah made a whole seperate blog for this.. yeah. #rabid

The porch light flickers like its bulb might give out any moment now. You're already halfway up the driveway after slinking out of the passenger seat while your heels are in one hand as you drunkly giggle at whatever stupid thing the idiot dropping you off said.

Then, there's just the sound of a car door slamming behind you—the random guy from the club who drove you home in a Mustang. He doesn’t say goodbye, doesn’t wait. Just peels off down the street like he’s late for something that doesn’t even exist.

You're wobbling on the porch steps when your toe catches on the lip of the concrete, causing you to stumble.

“Fuck,” you mutter, regaining balance, barely. You try and dig through your purse. Lip gloss. Lighter. Compact mirror. No keys.

That’s when the door across the street creaks open.

“You’re gonna wake the whole fucking street up,” James Kelly mutters, crossing the street like it's nothing. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he didn’t once fuck you in the backseat of his mom's car years ago.

Like he doesn't think about you every waking moment.

You look up at him. Your mascara is smudged, lips swollen from kissing the wrong mouth all night

“Thought you weren't speaking to me," you slur out.

He doesn’t say much at first. Just leans against your porch. One shoulder against the frame, a matchstick between his teeth.

“I wasn’t,” he shrugs. “Or I hadn't planned on it. Then I saw that dumbass peel out like he owned the street.” His voice is all gravel and resentment, and god, you’ve missed it. You missed it when he stopped coming around and stopped making up bullshit car excuses just to have a reason to see you.

And especially when he just up and vanished for a while.

James is closer to you on the porch now. His hands on your arms, holding you steady. His touch is rough yet weirdly tender, like he’s mad that it still means something.

Your keys jingle as he fishes them out of your purse, unlocking the door like it’s his house, like you’re his. Even after all this time.

“Thought you were mad at me,” you hiccup, half-teasing.

“Still am,” he says at first. And then he continues, his voice so soft now it makes your heart flutter, “but I don’t want you getting hurt out here.”

You blink up at him.

He's always like this.

“And you're drunk” he adds, unamused.

You whine and he fondly rolls his eyes.

He helps steady you like you're something delicate and breakable. Keeping his eyes on you as he quietly says: “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you inside.”

“I don’t need you taking care of me,” you try to say, but it comes out soft. Tired. Like maybe you do.

He doesn’t respond. Just presses the keys into your palm and helps you inside, guiding you gently.

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

When you wake up the next day, it's just past noon and the sunlight pours through your bedroom window. Your mouth is vaguely dry, your head is pounding, and your heart is still beating too fast from a dream you don't even remember anymore.

When you step out onto the porch, James is already in your driveway. He's under your car hood, just like he always used to be back then.

He doesn’t look up when you pad down the porch steps, wearing one of his old flannels that you stole three summers ago. He just shifts a wrench in his palm and mutters something about needing some other tool.

“You sure you’re not just breaking it worse to keep coming over?” you tease, voice light.

He quietly chuckles but doesn't say anything.

You lean against the car, arms crossed under your chest. The shirt you’re wearing dips low, the hem brushing your bare thighs.

You know he notices—he’s always does. And not once has he ever been subtle about it. But he doesn’t say anything yet. Just pulls a cigarette from behind his ear, balancing it between his lips.

You linger beside him and watch his clenched jaw. The way sweat gathers on his temples. Stepping in between his legs, you reach around him and pull the lighter out from his back pocket.

“Don’t burn me,” he mumbles.

You roll your eyes, smirking. “Shut up.”

You strike the lighter and gently place it against the end of his cigarette, cupping your hand to block the wind. The tip flares and his eyes meet yours over the flame.

You both adore and despise the fact that if you hold eye contact with James Kelly for enough time, the memories start flooding back to you.

Like looking at him now. You’re sixteen again, sneaking beers in the shed behind his place. You’re seventeen, lighting a joint off the same cigarette. You’re eighteen, riding shotgun in his shitty car —the one from before the Camaro— bare legs up on the dash.

Execpt now.. you're older. And this feels softer. Sadder.

He exhales smoke.

You take the cigarette from his lips and take a drag yourself before asking, "You ever think about how many times we’ve done this?”

He furrows his eyebrow. “Smokin’ in the driveway?”

You shake your head. “This. You. Me. Summer. Pretending we’re just neighbors.”

His hand, though hesitant for a beat, lands on your hip. “Not pretendin’,” he says low. “I always knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That it was never gonna be just that.”

Your throat tightens. His thumb strokes absent circles through the flannel. You can see it in his gaze and creased brow, he's holding back from his emotions again.

“You’re still mad about last night,” you whisper, looking up at him.

“No,” he says. “I’m mad someone else got to hold you when I couldn't.”

You don’t reply. Just look at him. Really look at him. The way his eyes have always held too much. The sweat clinging to the back of his neck. The little nick on his knuckle.

All of him.

You pull the cigarette from his hand again, and blow the smoke right past his lips. There's a brief moment in the silence then where he just presses his forehead to yours.

“Stop smoking,” he grumbles finally, taking the cigarette from your hand.

You grin, too bright and too broken, “Says you.”

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

It’s too hot inside the bar.

The A/C’s busted, the fans are lazy, and your drink is mostly melted ice now. You’re flushed from the heat, lips glossed over. The short dress you dug out from your closet earlier clings to the curve of your spine. Your hair sticks to where his hand used to rest back when he still touched you in public.

But you didn’t come here with James.

Though you knew he’d show up anyway.

You’re halfway through another drink, laughing at something dumb another guy just said. Some man who feels too tall, too charming, with his hands brushing the small of your back like he’s got permission. You don’t stop him.

Across the room, James sees it. He's standing near the bar with his arms crossed and jaw taut. He hasn't looked away since you walked in.

But he hasn’t moved, either.

So you let the guy’s hand linger and you laugh a little too hard at his stupid jokes. You make sure not to flinch when his fingers brush your bare thigh.

James still doesn't do anything.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

Later on, when you're two and a half drinks in and feeling suffocated by the noise, you swiftly excuse yourself and head outside.

The night air hits you like a slap, it's thick with humidity and regret.

Trying to breathe, you lean against the brick wall, picking out a stray cigarette sticking out from your bag. You try digging for your lighter out of your purse with shaking fingers but it's all so overwhelming.

Trembling still, you try to light your shaky cigarette but miss.

You try another time, you miss again.

By the third time you're cursing under your breath.

Then—

“Didn't I tell you to quit this shit already?” James' voice is low, but sharp. Cutting.

You don’t even look at him. “Why? You got something to say?”

He takes the lighter and cigarette from your hand, sticking it between his lips. “You looked real cozy in there,” he growls under his breath.

You scoff. “Don't act like you still care"

He laughs once, short and bitter. “You really want to do this right now?”

You round on him. “Do what? Talk? Communicate? Like normal fuckin’ people?”

“You let him touch you.”

“You let him!” you yell. “You stood there and let him!”

He steps in closer. “You think I didn’t want to fucking kill him?”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because you’re not mine anymore!” he spits back.

That shuts you up.

Your chest heaves. His fists are clenched but he's still trying keep his temper. There's just piercing silence and crickets ringing out around you two for a while.

“You were,” he says, quieter now. “You were mine. I lost that.”

You shake your head. “You left! You got caught up in stupid shit. Again. You gave it up.”

He looks at you with those sad eyes he's constantly trying to hide behind his stoicism. Then, low and trembling, he says: "You’re still the only thing I ever think about... to get through everything.”

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

You don’t make it far from the bar.

James' hand is on your wrist, the other already fumbling for the handle of the car. He shoves the back door open like it’s muscle memory.

James drags into the backseat like he’s forgotten how to be gentle, but then he lays you down like you're something fragile and breakable anyway.

You fall back first onto the sticky leather seats, breath caught in your throat, dress bunched up around your hips. The door slams shut behind him, muffling the world outside.

The windows are already fogging.

He’s on top of you before either of you speak. Mouth on your neck, one hand pushing your thigh aside like he can’t even wait to ask. His fingers find your panties, already damp, already clinging to you.

“I hate you,” you gasp, fingers tangled in his hair, voice breaking already.

He groans against your skin, breath hot and uneven. “I know.”

Your back lifts off the seat when his two fingers slip inside you, slow and deliberate. His palm presses against your clit, just enough pressure to make you cry out.

“Still so fuckin’ tight,” he mutters, dragging his mouth back to yours. “You let anyone else have you like this?”

You can’t even speak. Just shake your head, glassy-eyed, whining against his lips. “No. Only you. It’s always been you.”

He freezes for a second.

And because you're embarassed at the sudden confession, you reach for his jeans to undress him, but he stops you. He nudges your hand away and drops to his knees on the floorboard between your legs.

“Wait,” he says roughly, eyes locked on where your panties are already soaked through. “Let me taste you first. Please.”

You blink down at him, lips parted. “Ja—”

His fingers hook the lace of your underwear down to your ankles, slow and deliberate. His breath brushes your inner thigh, and then he groans at the first sight of you bare like that.

“Fuck,” he growls. “You’re dripping.”

You try to say something back. You really do. But then his tongue is on you. And you can’t think at all.

He starts slow, teasing—long licks up your slit, soft flicks over your clit. He's already gripping your thighs, keeping you down to meet his mouth.

He groans like this is the part of making love with you he missed the most.

Your hands shoot to his hair, hips jerking, breath coming in ragged gasps. He keeps eating you out like he knows you. Like he remembers everything. That spot right by your clit, the angle you like. His tongue circles you once, twice, then seals his mouth over you and sucks.

Your thighs clamp around his head.

Your voice breaks.

And he fucking smiles into you.

James keeps licking, kissing, dragging his tongue through your pussy like he’s starving, like this is punishment and worship in equal measure.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he pants between strokes. “You let anyone else eat this pussy?”

You can’t even answer. Can’t form words. You’re grinding down on his face, thighs trembling, moaning his name like it’s the only thing you remember.

He pulls back just enough to look up at you for a moment, his lips covered in your slick. His eyes drink you in like this, the way you always come undone under him.

He dives back in and this time, he doesn’t stop until you come hard. Until you're crying, shaking, and sobbing his name over and over like a prayer. He groans into your pussy like he’s coming too, like getting you off did something to his soul.

When he finally pulls back, his chin is damp and glistening. His lips are red. He looks wrecked. He drags two fingers through your slick, still watching you unravel, before he slips them into his mouth and sucks them clean.

“Mine,” he whispers.

Then he unzips his jeans and his pants are shoved down in one frantic motion. He barely gives you time to blink before he’s lining himself up, sliding the blunt head of his cock against your entrance.

You claw down at his shoulder blade, arching into him. "P-Please." you whine.

With that, James pushes in slowly, inch by inch. Until he bottoms out and you swear you can't breathe.

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel like fuckin’ home.”

You’re already shaking and clenching around him.

“Why does this feel so good,” you whimper, your nails biting into his skin, “when everything else about this.. us.. hurts?”

He starts to move in long, slow thrusts that drag against your walls and make your vision blur.

“‘Cause you’re mine,” he breathes. “I know I fucked up. But no matter how long we're apart or who touched you, no matter what I said before.. you’re mine.”

You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him in deeper and harder. He keeps fucking into you like he never stopped being yours.

Your bodies slide together with the heat and sweat of summer, the car rocking steadily. He braces one hand beside your head while the other tangles in your hair, kissing you like he wants to crawl inside your lungs and stay there.

Your eyes start to brim with tears and James says your name like it's something holy. He softly kisses your tears when they start falling down your cheeks.

“I missed you,” you sniffle, lips brushing his. “I missed you every fuckin’ day.”

“I know, baby. I know. I’m sorry—god, I’m so fuckin’ sorry—”

His thrusts get rougher and deeper. You clench around him with every slam into you, gasping, crying, shaking.

“I don’t wanna do this with anyone else,” he breathes, voice gone and desperate.

And when you come, it’s devastating. You're choking on a sob while the shockwaves wrack your whole body. His cock is buried in you while your mouth falls open and you sob against his shoulder, arms wrapped tight around his neck like if you let go, you’d fall apart.

He follows right after and comes deep and hot inside of you. Spilling into you like he means it, like he wants to stay there forever.

James' breath against your neck is heavy and erratic while one hand holds the back of your head like a promise he’s never kept before.

Afterwards, you don’t really say anything. Just run your hand through his hair and kiss his face all over.

He whispers, too quiet to mean anything but too honest to mean nothing:

“I love you. I just never know how to do it right.”

♡ (end) ♡