#musingsofheaven writings ♡

[musingsofheaven]

FRENCH 75.

summary: wherein your girlfriends say “one more drink, baby,” and next thing you know, you’re being held open and fucked by both of them.

pairings: mtf!art donaldson x afab!reader x tashi duncan

warnings: 5.7k words. mature themes. strap-on use. oral sex (cunnilingus, face-sitting, throatfucking). threesome (f/f/f). rough sex. nipple/tit play. choking kink. degradation kink. praise kink. brat-taming. somnophilia-adjacent tones. manhandling. overstimulation. double stimulation (pussy, mouth). objectification. ownership kink. age gap. throat training. alcohol consumption. intoxicated sex. dubious consent. free use dynamics. read & consume responsibly.

note: this might be one of the horniest things i’ve ever written and kicking my feet like a little pervert. tbh i might’ve wrote this in my notes app while half-humping a pillow but you will literally never know that for sure ;) like i’m actually so jealous of reader. why do i wanna be sandwiched between two hot older women like a little slutty capri sun. like i don’t wanna be the writer anymore. i wanna be the drunk little cum toy they carry out of the bar and ruin til she cries. anyway thank you for reading 🥰 i love women

You never planned to be blackout drunk this weekend. “No way in hell. I won’t get drunk, promise,” you said - especially to them, especially when they told you the three of you were going to a jazz bar. Tashi said she needed to destress from work, and Art agreed too, saying the mood would be nice. They looked at you quickly when you sounded like you were against it. Just a little sound, not even real disagreement, but still, they raised their eyebrows at you. Not that it’s bad. You are not just used to a calm mood… chilling vibes when you drink. Maybe that’s where it shows - the difference in age between you and them.

Art didn’t stop trying to convince you, but not in an annoying way. She was like, “Come on, baby. It’ll be fun, okay?” You just shook your head. Said you weren’t in the mood. What made you say yes in the end was when Tashi said, “If she doesn’t want to come, let her. Go ahead. Stay in this house and act miserable.” Like she was trying to use reverse psychology on you. Or maybe not even trying. Maybe she just meant it.

So now here you are. Sandwiched up between the two of them in a booth. One of Art’s hands on your right thigh, and Tashi’s hand on your left - stroking your lace stockings, casually playing with the hem of your skirt. They just keep you between them with a French 75 that Tashi ordered for you and you’re sipping it while they talk about something you don’t even know. You nod along, hum like you’re following, even though your head’s a little fuzzy already and all you really feel is their hands.

You’re not even sure when you finished the drink. One second the glass was cold in your hand, the next your fingers were empty, and your head felt floaty - you’re giggly now. But not the embarrassing kind. They keep you in your place, hands always somewhere on your body. You never order anything yourself. It’s always Art or Tashi who stands up from the booth and tells the bartender what you’ll be drinking next. Their fingers feel like heat, steady and grounding, and you let your lashes flutter low, not quite ready to admit how drunk you are.

And the hem of your skirt keeps riding up, and no one’s fixing it while the three of you keep drinking. But maybe that’s because it can’t be seen - your legs are tucked under the table, half in shadow, half hidden by their bodies. You think maybe you should fix it yourself, tug it back down, cover the lace. But your hands feel slow. So you don’t. And when you shift a little in your seat, you realize your thighs are damp. You know they can feel it too. Their hands are already there, resting on your inner thighs, so close to your panties - too close not to notice.

You don’t say anything when they don’t move their hands. Your body hums- warm, slow, too tired to resist. You lean in without meaning to, cheek brushing Tashi’s collarbone, lips grazing her throat. She doesn’t stop you. Just exhale, hand heavier across your thigh. The booth feels too warm. Their voices are slow. You close your eyes- just for a second. Long enough to miss the way Art glances at Tashi. Long enough that when Tashi tilts your chin, your body doesn’t respond.

You don’t say anything when they don’t move their hands. Too comfortable with them. They're your girlfriends so you let them. Your body pliant- warm, slow, too tired to resist. You lean in without meaning to, cheek brushing Tashi’s collarbone, lips grazing her throat. She doesn’t stop you. Just exhale, hand heavier across your thigh, and squeeze the flesh. The booth feels too warm, too crowded for you even though it's just the three of you there. Their voices are slow. You close your eyes- just for a second. Long enough to miss the way Art glances at Tashi like she's saying something to her. It's long enough when Tashi tilts your chin, but your body doesn’t respond.

You don’t stir when they leave the bar and carry your body. Don’t feel Tashi adjust your skirt, or Art curl her arm beneath your knees. You sleep through the keys, purse, and the way to the stairs. But you know when you’re home. Softer sheets. Your shoes are gone. Your head sinks heavier than usual. Their voices drift nearby. Like you know they're talking but it's gibberish and just whispers to you. The room is dark. You should open your eyes. You don’t. You can't.

Art is the one who touches you first. Just a brush to your calf to test the waters. When you don’t move, she keeps going- fingers tracing lace, breath shaky. Her sweater slips down her arms. She rolls the lace down from your hips until it's off. Kisses your knees. Behind her, a zipper slides. A belt unbuckles and a tug on the floor when it drops there. Tashi moves in silence- shirt on, rings flashing. She pulls the strap from the drawer like a ritual. Art doesn’t look. She doesn’t need to.

Tashi walks towards the bed and steps in. Art is kneeling between your thighs, her hands more certain now. She parts you gently and yanks your skirt up. Stare at it before her breath hitches. Still wet. She hums. Then bends low to lick- once, slow, carefully before her lips touch the bud. A kiss to the altar before he slides a finger inside. Tashi undresses while staring at the both of you. Shirt lifted, strap now buckled, panties on, chest bare. Art doesn’t look. She already knows. When Tashi walks past, thumb grazing her jaw, Art shudders. “You’re not putting her to sleep,” Tashi murmurs. “You’re waking her up.” Art’s fingers still- then curl deeper. Your hips twitch. Your body remembers.

Art stays knelt-bent low at the bed’s edge, arm hooked under your thigh, mouth buried like scripture. She licks slowly, steadily. Her fingers curl patiently and wet. She doesn’t hear Tashi move- only feels her hand in her dress, tugging gently until she arches. Her panties slide down by Tashi. Feels the coldness of the air. Then Tashi’s warm hand. Then the strap- warm, thick, pressed between her folds but not in. Just grinding. Slow. Cruel. Art moans into you but doesn’t stop. She gives even as she’s taken. “Keep her open for me,” Tashi murmurs. “Or I’ll make you watch.” Art whimpers, kisses your clit goodbye, and leans in again- cheek to your thigh, back arched, ass offered, slick dripping down her legs. Tashi grinds against her, measuring. “You’re dripping,” she says, smiling. “Already?” Art bites your thigh to muffle her moan. Her fingers never stop. Then Tashi enters her- no thrust, no force. Just reading. Steady. Deep. Art shudders, forehead to your skin, mouth whispering sweet girl like a prayer. Still, her fingers curl inside you. Always. Still preparing you for Tashi.

Every motion is restrained. Calculated. Tashi moves slowly, deep- each thrust a drag meant to be felt. Her hands grip Art’s hips, using her like leverage, and Art takes it silently- moaning into your thigh, not the air. Mouth open. Breath caught. Your head turns in sleep. A soft breath escapes. Tashi stills. Art freezes. Then- softly- your body relaxes again, and Art resumes. Gentler. Softer. Like she’s thanking you. Tashi fucks her harder- when you go back to slumber but still quiet. Still careful. Art’s fingers move in tune with your breath. But Tashi’s hips threaten to undo her. The strap pushes deep, claiming her inch by inch. She bites your thigh... more like teething and grazing to the skin when it builds. Tashi knows. Of course she does. The tremble in Art’s knees. The arch of her spine. The grind of her clit. Every breath. Every tell.

Tashi fucks her just a little deeper. “Don’t stop,” she murmurs- not to Art, but to the rhythm of her finger between your thighs. Art comes like it hurts. No sound. No cry. Just a sharp shiver against your thigh, lips parted around a moan she never lets go. Her fingers don’t leave you, even as she jerks- slick pouring down her thighs. Her breath stutters. Her eyes flutter shut. She holds still. Tashi doesn’t move either- not yet. She just breathes with her. One palm gliding up her back. “You’re okay,” she says, rough and low. “You did good.” No pressure. Just a pause. Then they move- not to fuck. Not yet. But to touch. To see.

Art lifts her head. Kisses your thigh. Her hand slides out, fingers trembling, stroking once more like an apology. She rises, standing in front of the bed- undressing slowly. Her sweater dress. Her panties. Her bra. Stays in her thigh highs. Always does, like feeling fuzzy. Tashi kneels, tugging your skirt down. Art unbuttons your blouse after she undresses. Quiet. Careful. Her hands still shake. She kisses your ribs. Pushes your top aside. Your bra. Her thumbs trace under your breasts, lifting them free. You’re bare- except for the flush on your skin, the previous marks they left by their mouth, the glisten between your thighs.

Tashi exhales- clearly turned on by the sight. Her palms stroke your thighs- rougher than Art’s. More certain. She holds them open. Just to look. But she's dying to touch them. To open those lips. “She’s so wet already,” Art nods, humming before whispering. “She’s ready,” Tashi answers.

You are. Even in sleep. Blacked out drunk. Open. Soft in the way only trust allows. Tashi lifts your leg over her shoulder. Her thumb drags lazy circles through your slick slit. Not pressing in. Just spreading the line. Watching you twitch faintly, even now. “You’re soaking, baby,” she murmurs- not to wake you. It's more than just for herself. Art kneels beside you, naked. She kisses your breast- then the other. Soft. Careful. You stir. Barely. A shift. A breath. A furrow. Then stillness. She sucks gently at your nipple, tongue flicking slow, while Tashi slides the strap along your slit- gathering slick to make it wetter despite it just came from Art's cunt. Not in. Not yet. Just rocking. Your lips part. A sigh. Then, groggy, slurred: “…‘m not in the mood…”

Art stills, gasping. Her nose brushes your sternum. Her hands hesitate. But Tashi doesn’t pause. She only hums- low and amused. “You don’t want to help me and Art?” she murmurs, voice velveted and pitying. Like she knows how to get you. The strap drags again, pressing between your folds- a statement. “That doesn’t sound like our girl.” Art says nothing, but her grip tightens. Want. Agreement. Hunger.

“You’re so warm for us,” Tashi adds, lower now. “So wet, baby. I think you do want to help.” You whimper- maybe protest, maybe not. But your hips tilt. Reflex. Memory. Like your body remembering who you belong to. Tashi smiles. “That’s better.” Then she slides in. Still moving. Still inside you. Tashi watches her. Slow, like a hush. Her eyes flick down to your face- flushed, lips parted. Then back to Art who's already looking at her with those adorable eyes like she's begging for something. Something like... can I sit in her face? Yes, your face. Tashi smiles. Not kind. Not cruel. Just knowing. Then nods.

That’s all Art needs. She rises, wiping her mouth. Her sweater’s long gone- only the thigh highs remain. Her skin is flushed. Her breath was ragged. She climbs up and her hands are placed on the headboard. One hand slides under your head, tilting your face. Your hand that was placed on the headboard is now on your cheek just to steady herself. Then she swings her knee over and settles. Her cunt hovers above your lips- slick, flushed, needy. Tashi’s pace never falters. Hips rolling, strap dragging deep. “Go on,” she says, voice like velvet on smoke. “Sit on her mouth, sweetheart.” Art shudders. Then obeys.

You finally become conscious of the taste of Art. Not fully- just enough to whimper, a soft, muffled sound caught between her thighs as your lashes flutter open. Shock at the sudden weight and slickness on your lips and cheeks, basically on your face. Everything’s hazy. Wet. Warm. Your mouth parts instinctively beneath her, tongue twitching, and Art exhales- shaky, stunned- fingers tangling in your hair like she’s clinging to a dream. Behind you, Tashi doesn’t stop. Her grip on your hips is steady, strap rolling deep in that same punishing rhythm your body already knows. The rhythm that hits back on your walls. “There you are…” Art breathes, hips stuttering forward. “Hi, baby.” You whine again- more reflex than language- and Tashi laughs low behind you, a sound like silk splitting at the seams. “See?” she murmurs, snapping her hips hard enough to make your thighs jolt. “Didn’t even need to ask.”

Art rocks against you, gentle but desperate, her slick cunt grinding against your mouth as if it’s instinct, not choice. You lick like it’s the only thing you’ve ever been taught- slow, soft, open- and Art moans, broken and breathless, hips stammering forward in gratitude. Your eyes can't even fully open but you just lick, suck, and kiss her cunt. “She’s so good like this,” she gasps, her thighs trembling. “So soft. So- fuck- eager.” Tashi leans in, cock driving deeper as her voice spills low and cruel into your ear. “She’s ours. Even half-asleep, she knows what to do.” And you do. God, you do. Because your mouth stays open. Your tongue keeps working. You let them use you, take from you, fill you- because you’re theirs. You always have been.

The room hums with it, this rhythm, this reverence- slick sounds and shaky breath, the holy weight of bodies shifting above yours. You’re barely awake, but your mouth knows better than your mind, moving with that aching, learned hunger. Art trembles as your tongue curls, her breath catching in her chest. Her thighs tighten. It almost suffocated her and she crashed her head into those thighs. Her hips rock. She grinds like she can’t help it, seeking more. Tashi doesn’t let up- she drives into you steady, cock slick, hands firm as she spreads you open like something sacred. “That’s it,” she breathes, her mouth brushing your ear. “Taking cock like you’re supposed to. Don’t lie to me about being ‘not in the mood’ when your pussy’s this wet.”

You whimper into Art and she gasps, fingers flexing hard in your hair. “She’s right,” she pants, cunt grinding low and slick over your lips. “You woke up dripping, baby. You were dreaming about it, weren’t you?” Tashi grins- sharp, mean, proud- and thrusts again, harder now. “Dreaming about this cock splitting you open. Filling you up so good you forgot how to think.” You try to protest- moaning something soft and muffled- but your body gives you away. You’re wet. Open. Needy. They’re everywhere- inside you, around you, above you- and all you can do is take it.

“That’s it,” Art moans, voice cracking. “Tongue out, sweetheart. Keep it soft. She’s so good- Tash, fuck- she’s so good- ” Tashi’s eyes stay fixed on where she disappears inside you, voice rough with pride. “She’s our little pillow princess. Always ready. Always willing. Look at her- fucked dumb and still trying to please.” Art shudders above you, her thighs twitching as her hips chase the pleasure. “She’s licking me like she means it. Like she wants to be good for us.”

“She is,” Tashi growls. “She’s ours. She always will be.” She says it again, quieter this time- almost to herself. “Ours.” Art gasps, cunt grinding harder against your mouth as she starts to lose control. “Feel her tongue- she’s so soft- God, she’s licking like she’s starving- ” Art’s voice cracks, thighs shaking, caught on the edge of it. “She likes it messy,” Tashi says, thrusting deeper like a reward. “Don’t you, sweetheart?” You can’t answer. You just moan against Art’s cunt, licking harder, sloppier, like devotion made flesh. Like prayer. Tashi groans behind you, fucking you harder, cock dragging wet through your cunt as she claims every inch of you. “This pussy’s mine,” she says- not to Art, not to you, just to the room. A truth.

Art nods, breath ragged. “I know it is. Just look at her- she’s not even thinking. Just taking you. Sucking me.” Tashi leans in and spits between your shoulder blades- slow, deliberate- and you cry out against Art. Her thighs jump at the sound. “She’s not gonna come until I say,” Tashi says, drawing out until only the tip remains, then slamming back in. “But you can. Go on, baby. Use her. I know you want to.” Art gasps, stunned- but her hips move like instinct, like she’s waited for permission. “Can’t help it,” she whispers. “She’s so soft. I want to come all over her mouth, I want- ” “Then do it,” Tashi growls. “While I fuck her. She’s full and quiet and obedient. Let her feel how good she is.” And you do. You feel all of it- the heat, the weight, the praise. Their voices wrap around you like silk. Their bodies are like chains. You’re owned. You’re used. And you don’t say a word. You don’t need to.

It happens slowly. Not all at once- but in waves. A soft unraveling. Like your body already knows how to come for them. Like you’ve already given everything. Art breaks first. You feel it in the tremble of her thighs, the flutter of her breath, the sharp gasp that punches out when your tongue catches her just right. She doesn’t even mean to, maybe- doesn’t mean to grind so hard, to moan that loud- but she’s losing it, right above you, and there’s no hiding it now. “Oh- fuck,” she chokes, hips jerking. “I’m gonna- I’m- ” You moan into her, helpless, to give her more, just to feel her ear from the sound. Her body seizes; she clutches your head, rocks once more, then goes still, panting through her teeth as she gushes across your tongue.

“God,” she breathes, wrecked. “She made me come. Tash- fuck- she licked me until I came- ” It makes you ache, the way she says it like a confession, like she’s been made holy in your mouth. “I know, baby,” Tashi murmurs behind you, smug and fond in equal measure. “She’s perfect.” Her thrusts never falter- still steady and cruel, cock dragging through your soaked cunt with humiliating ease. You can’t move, can’t breathe; limp, boneless, fucked open and wet with everything. Your face still buried between Art’s thighs. Still licking- slow now, weak and sloppy, like it’s all you’ve got left. Tashi strokes your hair once. “You can come now,” she says. “Go on, sweetheart. Show her how good it feels to be used.”

You come like it’s been stolen from you. Not loud, not wild- just a breathless shudder that empties you out. Your breath stutters against Art’s cunt. Your thighs seize around Tashi’s waist. Everything goes white, hot, slick. You don’t cry out- you just whimper, soft and slurred, as your cunt flutters around the strap, dripping like you’re trying to prove you need it. “There she is,” Tashi groans, hips stuttering. “There’s our good girl.” Art’s shivering above you, fingers feathering your cheek. “She’s still licking,” she whispers. “She’s still trying.” And that- God, that- breaks something in you, or maybe builds something new, something sweetly wrong. You don’t know. You just know this: you’d die like this. Like a mouth that won’t close. A body broken open and shared. Something they both decided to keep. “She’s always trying,” Tashi says, slow and proud. “Even when she’s full. Even when she’s spent. That’s why she’s ours.”

They don’t move. Not yet. Just stay close, curled around you like you’re precious, like they’ve earned you. You lie there, dazed and leaking, lips slack against Art’s cunt, Tashi’s cock still buried deep. For a long, golden second, no one speaks. Just breathe. Just heat. Just that holy quiet in the space between three people undone. They let you have it- just a moment- before they begin again.

Your legs are trembling when Tashi pulls out. She does it slowly. Too slow. Her cock drags against your walls like it knows you’ll miss it, like it wants to leave an echo behind. Your cunt clenches on nothing, fluttering, aching open. You make a noise- soft and wounded- and Tashi watches the spill drip from you with a pleased groan. Her hand sweeps your back like she’s proud of the mess. “Aw, I know,” she murmurs, mock-sweet. “Empty now, huh?”

You can’t answer. Chest heaving. Jaw slack. Too far gone to think. But you feel it when she shifts- arms sliding under you, lifting you onto your back like you’re made of glass. You go pliant. Boneless. And then Art leans in to kiss you. Soft. Sweet. Devastating. Her mouth brushes yours even though she knows what’s coming. Even though your lips are already parting around the phantom shape of a cock. Her kiss tastes like her. Like you. Like hunger and ruin. “Good girl,” she breathes, just as your lashes flutter, just as Tashi kneels beside your head and brings the strap back to your mouth.

You see it- still slick from your cunt- swinging heavy above your chest as she spreads her knees and claims the pillow on either side of your head. That same lazy confidence she fucks with, like your body’s hers to perch on. It looms, flushed and thick, your throat tightening before it even touches you. Tashi strokes herself once, slowly, then angles it toward your lips. You’re still glossy with spit. Still parted from before. But when the cock presses close, your face flinches, breath hitching. Your eyes flicker up pleading, wary- and your voice barely crawls out. “…N-no,” you whisper. “Don’t want that.”

Tashi just stares. And smiles. “Mmm,” she hums. “Funny. You liked it inside you a second ago.” Her hand cups your cheek, unbearably tender, fingers cradling your jaw like something fragile. Her thumb strokes your mouth once- then presses in, slow and firm, easing the tip just barely past your lips. You whimper, turn away, and try to resist. She sighs, disappointed. “Stop pretending,” she murmurs. “I just fucked your cunt open with it. Don’t act shy now that it’s your mouth.” You shake your head, breath stuttering- but your body gives you away. Your hips twitch. Your thighs flex. That needy heat still pulses in your gut. And that’s when Art moves.

She’s already sliding between your legs, one thigh slotting between yours as she straddles you, palm braced flat on your stomach, grounding you while the other dips low to guide her hips into place. She starts slow- grinding down in a smooth, heavy roll- and moans softly when the slick of your pussy kisses hers. Her cunt catches on your own, your folds messy and warm where they slide together. “She’s doing that thing again,” Art murmurs, voice velvet and mean. “You know. Where she pretends she doesn’t want it. Just to see if you’ll make her.” Tashi growls. Her hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back into place. “Oh, I’m gonna make her,” she mutters darkly. You gasp, body arching, hands reaching weakly for her thighs like you’re trying to stop her, but it’s already too late- her cock is back at your lips, smeared with your own come, nudging insistently like it belongs there.

“Open,” she says, low and commanding. “Or I’ll make Art do it for me.” You whimper- fragile, desperate- lashes fluttering, lips trembling. But then you feel it: Art’s cunt grinding into yours, her clit dragging in slick circles as her hips start to move. Her moan breaks softly above you, the sound curling around your ears like silk. “Go on, sweetheart,” she purrs, teasing and cruel. “Be good. Or we’ll both get mean.” Your head shakes. But your mouth opens anyway- just enough, just for the tip- and Tashi groans, deep and low, when she feels it. “There it is,” she mutters, sliding in a little further, cock thick and steady. “Always so mouthy until there’s cock in it.”

She feeds it to you slowly. Not rough- not yet. Her hips roll gently, just enough to push deeper into your throat inch by inch, your lips stretching pink and wet around her, spit already starting to leak down your chin. Your throat flutters helplessly, instinctively. Art moans again- louder this time- grinding harder, her clit catching on yours as the friction builds. “God,” she gasps, voice trembling. “She’s fucking soaking.” Tashi stays slow, controlled, savoring every reaction. Her eyes flick down, sharp and hungry, as she watches your face twist around her cock. “You hear that, brat?” she murmurs, sliding in just a little deeper. “She’s using you. Just like I’m about to.”

Tashi doesn’t fuck your mouth. Not yet. She owns it. Train it. Makes it hers. The cock that ruined your cunt- still swollen, still slick- presses past your lips in a slow, deliberate stretch. Not thrusting. Not plunging. Just… resting. Like it belongs there. You gag. And she still doesn’t move. Just holds you there- deep, weighted, far too thick- anchoring you by your throat. Your breath stutters. Your nose flares. Your body goes rigid, desperate for air, for mercy. Your palms twitch, flail, press weakly against her thighs, trying to push, maybe hold, maybe just survive- but she doesn’t budge.

Her thighs are solid, caging your head, muscles flexing as she sinks a little deeper into the pillow beneath her. Her cock stays rooted. You slap at her- but it’s pitiful, barely even lands. “Don’t fight it,” she murmurs, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw, her voice cruel and calm. “You’re gonna learn to live with it in your throat.” You sob around her. Eyes wet. Spine locked. One wild kick shoots out sloppy, desperate- and hits something soft. Art hisses, laughing. “Oh, she’s pissed,” she says breathlessly. “Baby kicked me.” Tashi smiles. She pulls out just far enough to let you breathe- a gasp of spit-slicked air- before sliding right back in, deeper, slower, crueler. Not fast. Just… corrective. Another warning. You gag again. She rests it there. Again.

And that’s how it goes. Pull out. Breathe. Push in. Gag. Rest. It’s a rhythm. A ritual. Your body stops resisting the way it once did- your fists still slap, still twitch, but there’s no force left in them. You’re stretched wide, gasping between thrusts, spit trailing from your chin to her cock to your chest. Every inch of you trembles. And then you try to kick again- worse this time, weaker- and Art catches your leg easily, pins it back down. “Don’t get bratty now,” she murmurs, mouth warm against your belly. “We’re being so gentle.” You don’t believe her. Not with your throat choked full and your cunt rubbed raw. But then she shifts- lower, hotter, wetter- and you feel the heat of her sex kiss yours again.

She grinds down slowly. Hungry. Her slick folds catch and drag on yours, her clit locking with yours in a perfect, filthy kiss. You whine. You can’t stop it. You’re gagging on cock and whining into it at the same time, the noise a wet, garbled mess in your throat. Your hips twitch- trying to pull back, trying to chase the friction- and Art just keeps going. Her hips roll with slow, steady intent, fucking you with obscene, velvet pressure. “She’s soaked,” Art moans, voice cracked. “Her clit’s throbbing. She’s kicking, but she’s loving it.” Tashi laughs low. Her hand tightens in your hair, angling your face better so she can watch every little twitch.

“Let her kick,” she says softly. “She always gives in.” Then she slides deeper, hips flexing with steady control. Your throat stretches. Your lips go glossy and red. You try to cry out, but it’s only a broken little choke, bubbling past the thick girth stuffed in your mouth. Your fists beat weakly at her thighs. Nothing changes. Her cock stays buried, heavy and pulsing against your tongue, coated in slick and spit and helplessness. Art moans again- louder, needier- her cunt grinding into yours, her clit dragging over yours in sloppy, filthy friction. Her nails bite your thigh. “God, she’s perfect like this,” she gasps. “All full and fucked and flailing.”

You twitch again- leg jerking, throat clenching- and grunt helplessly around the cock choking you. Even your protests sound like praise. Tashi groans low and starts the cycle over: pull out, gasp, push in, gag, rest. Your throat adjusts. Your cunt throbs. The fight drains from your limbs, replaced by tears streaking hot down your cheeks. “Good girl,” she murmurs, watching your lips stretch around her. “You’ll take it all. You always do.” Below, Art kisses your clit with hers- soft, sweet, merciless. And then suddenly, everything shifts. Tashi stills. Her cock stays buried. She growls- not playful. Not amused. Pissed.

She moves- fast, brutal. Her hips snap back, spit-webbed cock sliding wet from your throat, and before you can breathe, she slams back in. No warning. No mercy. You gag hard, whole body jolting. One hand clamps your jaw wide, the other grabs your breast, rough and possessive. “Oh, now you’re crying?” she snaps. “You had your chance to behave.” Her rhythm turns punishing- cock battering the back of your throat like your resistance is something to break. Each time you choke, her grip tightens on your tit.

Art doesn’t stop either. Her cunt stays pressed to yours, slick and frantic, rubbing harder now. Your clit screams, raw and twitching, but she keeps going, hips grinding like she’s chasing something she needs. “Fuck,” she pants, “she’s still soaking. She’s fucking dripping, Tash.” Tashi groans and drives deeper. Your eyes roll. A pitiful gurgle bubbles up, helpless. Art leans in, breath hot on your stomach. “You gonna come like this, sweetheart?” she whispers. “All full and crying?”

You can’t answer. Your body’s strung out, aching, soaked. Tashi pulls back only to slam deep again, nails digging into your breast as she growls, “You’ll fucking learn. You begged for this.” You twitch. Try to kick. But Art moans and grinds harder, her clit catching against yours with every roll. “She’s gonna break,” she gasps. Tashi doesn’t stop- fucking your throat with cruel rhythm, her hand mauling your chest like she wants bruises blooming there. You choke. You cry. You come.

It’s sudden. Violent. Like a snapped wire. Your hips jolt off the bed, thrashing under Art’s weight. Your throat tightens around Tashi’s cock as you try to scream- but nothing comes. Just broken gags and spit. Tashi groans, pulls out fast and wet. You collapse. Mouth open, sobbing, trembling. Spent. But Art keeps going, grinding her cunt against yours, clits dragging, friction brutal. “Can’t- fuck, can’t- ” you sob. “You can,” Tashi breathes, suddenly soft. “You will.” She leans in not to soothe, but to play. Her mouth closes over your tit, teeth sinking deep. Her hand grabs the other, thumb pinching until it peaks in her palm- and the cycle begins again.

You sob, shuddering beneath her. Art moans low- then she comes, folded tight against you, mouth to your belly, her cunt trembling where it grinds yours to ruin. Her nails dig into your thigh. Her whole body locks and shakes. “Fuck,” she gasps, rutting through it, “fuck, baby- ” but she doesn’t stop. She rides it out, clit throbbing, slick soaking into yours until the heat between you turns feverish, endless. Tashi hums against your breast, then sucks- slow, deep- like she’s drinking you in. Her other hand rolls your nipple between her fingers, soothing and claiming at once. You twitch. Cry out.

You don’t know if it’s a second orgasm or the first still cresting. It blooms again, sickly and sweet, like rot taking root. Your hips jerk, pussy spasming under Art’s grind, your body alight. Tashi pulls off with a pop and smiles, all teeth. “You’re twitching,” she says. “Such a good little mess.” Art slumps against you, her breath hot and ragged. You’re soaked. Wrecked. Still coming- or caught in it, helpless. You sob again, hoarse and shaking. Tashi leans in, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your face to hers. Her eyes glint. “Good girl.”

Art stays pressed close, her thigh draped over yours, cunt still warm on your skin. The desperation has faded, replaced with something slower, hungrier. She lifts her head, finds your breast, and licks- not greedy, not rough. Reverent. Her tongue follows the bruises Tashi left- bite marks, flushed skin, fading indents. Like she’s jealous. Like she wants to taste what isn’t hers. Tashi watches, hand resting easily on your stomach. “Didn’t think you’d be the clingy one,” she murmurs. Art doesn’t answer. Just flicks her tongue over your nipple, slow and possessive.

“Oh, I see,” Tashi says, tilting her head. “Still catching your breath, but your mouth’s on my tit.” Art looks up, lips wet. “Yours?” she echoes, biting lightly. Tashi smiles, smug. “I fucked her mouth,” she says. “Seems fair.” Art glares. “Yeah? I fucked her too. So share.” You groan, breath thin and shaking. “Hello?” you rasp. “It’s my body. I just got fucked. And now you’re fighting over my tits?” Neither replies. They glance at you- briefly. Dismissively.

Then Tashi brushes your nipple again, slow and teasing, while Art sucks another mark into your chest. You sigh- loud, exhausted- but don’t stop them. Not really. You let your head fall back. Let them claim you again. This time it’s quieter. Slower. Not lust but aftermath. Not fucking but keeping. Tashi palms your other breast, thumbing it idly while Art traces what’s left. Her gaze stays on your face- tracking each flutter of your lashes like you might fall asleep beneath them. “She’ll knock out if we keep petting her,” Art murmurs. “Good,” Tashi replies. “She earned it.” Then softer- like a secret, like a prayer: “She’s perfect when she’s quiet.”

Your lip twitches. “Fuck both of you,” you whisper. Tashi smirks. Art licks again. And you stay there- naked, aching, soft beneath their mouths- as they settle in to touch what they just destroyed. Not to start again. Just to keep.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[musingsofheaven]

MILK AND PEACHES.

best friend!tashi duncan x roomate afab!Reader

nsfw. clothing kink. power dynamics. ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀overstimulation. somatic focus. praise & degradation.⠀ lactation kink (fantasy). dubcon-adjacent. oral fixation. ♡

When Tashi is in the mood, you won’t get any rest. That’s how it is. Like right now, you’re walking back from the bathroom barefoot, hair damp and warm against your back, and she’s right there, leaning lazily in the doorway of your shared dorm like she was waiting. Like she heard your steps and got bored, or maybe just needy for you, and wants to play.

“Took your time,” she says, voice all slow honey and mean affection. You smile, soft, sheepish- only for her hand to slide under the hem of your big shirt. You raise your hand at her action before you feel her hook two fingers into the waistband of your panties. You freeze. And then- yank.

The fabric pulls tight between your legs, wedging up between your folds. You let out a soft noise, more surprised than hurt. Biting your lips quickly and closing your eyes briefly. But she doesn’t let go.

She pulls again.

Yank.

The cotton sinks higher, dragging over your clit now, slicing between your pussy lips like a wedge. Your thighs twitch, and you feel yourself getting wetter.

“Tashi,” you whisper, but she hums, not listening to you since she has already made up her mind about what she will do to you, and gives one more sharp tug.

You stagger half a step back- into her. She catches you by the waist, laughter warm against your neck as she walks back with you to her bed and sits you down on her lap like you’re weightless. Your shirt rides up in the process. The underwear’s practically almost transparent at this point, and she just keeps doing it.

Pull.

Rub.

Snap.

The fabric goes stretches, and each time it moves. God, it’s such a soft material and it’s new and… it presses right to your clit, soaked through with your slick. You whimper. She grins.

“I missed your pussy,” she murmurs, mouthing slow kisses up your neck now. Breathing hard and inhaling your fresh bathed body. One hand snakes around your hip, down to your belly. The other is still pulling, now from the front- teasing, so deliberately slow it hurts.

“Feel that?” she whispers against your ear, licking your earlobe.

Her hand at your front gives the tiniest little rock, dragging the fabric- wet, sticky, hot- right over the center of you. You twitch. She laughs. “God, this pussy loves being teased.”

You squirm in her lap, hips shifting without meaning to, trying to chase more friction- but her other arm locks around your waist, pinning you back to her chest. She’s stronger than she looks considering all of that tennis training she has.

“Ah-ah. Don’t grind on me like some desperate little thing. I’m not even touching you yet.” Another slow tug. Just to prove a point to you. You can feel the fabric dragging sticky against your slit, each side of your pussy wrapping around it like it belongs there.

And then- her mouth again, lazy and mocking against your neck, “She’s so fucking cute like this. Look at her- stuffed full of cotton and still leaking.”

She starts rocking her fingers, then tiny back-and-forth pulls from the front. Fuck. You already told her before not to do that because it messes up the garters of your panties, but she still does it. Each pull of it sending the soaked cloth rubbing directly against your clit. You whimper. It’s too much and not enough.

“She missed me, didn’t she?” she coos, like she’s speaking to your cunt now, not you. She does that. Talk to her. Talk to your pussy. “You poor thing. I leave for one weekend and you’re dripping for me through your panties like a slut.”

You nod. You can’t speak. But you hum and whine for it. Her teeth scrape lightly against your neck. Her fingers still haven’t moved the fabric aside.

“Maybe I’ll let her come like this,” she murmurs. “Maybe I won’t even touch her properly tonight.”

But her fingers already slip under the waistband to contradict that statement. And she doesn’t yank this time. No sharp tug. No teasing pull. She peels them down. Just to your thighs.

The cotton drags wet over your cunt as it lowers, catching for a moment on the shape of your clit before it slips beneath- leaving your pussy bare and messy in the cool air.

Tashi moans under her breath like she’s the one getting touched. “God,” she whispers, one hand cupping your hip, the other hand spreading you open so casually it’s obscene. “Look what you did to yourself.”

She parts your lips with her fingers, she looks at it while she rubs gently each lip while she’s showing it open, slick stringing between them, everything throbbing from how long she teased. Her thumb strokes once, lightly, over your swollen clit and you jerk- a breathy whine slipping out before you can stop it.

“You’re twitching,” she says, voice like velvet. “Poor thing. You needed this so bad, didn’t you?” And then her hand moves- really moves.

Left hand slipping between your legs to rub tight little circles on your clit, slow but with pressure. Not teasing anymore. Just mean. Like how she usually is when she’s in the mood. Right hand slides lower- two fingers pressing at your entrance, already soaked, already fluttering open for her. “Tashi- ” you gasp.

“Shhh.” She kisses your neck again, sweet and mocking, like you’re not gushing all over her fingers. “Let me make it up to her. She waited so patiently.”

You gasp as her hand shifts, not pushing in like you thought- just letting her fingers hover at your soaked little entrance. Feeling how hot you are, how your pussy flutters open for her on instinct. She could feel it beating. You try to push your hips forward, but she doesn’t give you the satisfaction.

“Not here,” she says quietly. “She deserves better than my lap.” And before you can ask, she’s lifting you again- strong arms under your thighs, the wet crotch of your panties still stretched around them, clinging like a brand. She lays you down. Onto her bed. Onto her pillow. Onto the softest place she knows.

Your legs part on reflex. Wide and open for her. Panties stretch when you open your legs. She stays kneeling between them. Tashi’s eyes drag over you- shirt bunched, panties caught at mid-thigh, pussy swollen and soaked from all her teasing. Her voice dips lower.

“Look at her,” she murmurs, like she’s talking to your cunt again, not to you. “Such a good girl for me. She waited so long.” And finally- finally- her fingers hook into the panties and drag them down.

Not rough. Not playful now. Just slow. Careful. She pulls them all the way off this time, tossing them aside. And you’re bare… but you already are bare down there and now just no more panties on your body or on your thighs. Your cunt’s glistening. Puffed up. Needy.

Tashi exhales like it’s the first breath she’s taken all night. She slides her hands up your thighs, settles low between them. Her face inches from your heat. But she doesn’t go there first. She goes up. Hands glide beneath your shirt again, pushing the fabric up, up, and up until your breasts show to her and trembling in the air.

Her mouth is on you before you can even cover yourself. She sucks. Deep, open-mouthed, wet. No hesitation. She latches like she believes you’re full of milk and she’s starved for it.

“Fuck, they’re heavy,” she breathes, moaning against your skin. “So full for me.”

You shake your head, panting, “They’re not, they’re not- ”

“They are,” she insists, taking the other into her mouth now. Tongue swirling around the nipple before she suckles again, hard. Tongue flickering, playing with it. “You just don’t know how much you make.”

One hand comes down. Trails between your legs. Her fingers slide through your folds, warm and wet and finally real. “You’re dripping,” she says softly. “Everywhere. Bet you’re full here, too.”

You whine. Her mouth never leaves your tit, sucking with soft desperation now, as her fingers press down on your clit- just enough to make your hips jump. She doesn’t stop.

Even after your hips jerk, even after you gasp her name like a warning, like a plea, she keeps her mouth on your tit- sucking slow, steady, like there’s something sweet in you she won’t go without. Your back arches off the bed.

Her fingers fuck you deeper, curl up inside you so perfectly, and her palm grinds where you’re dripping- slippery circles that make your thighs twitch and your stomach tighten. You’re going to come. You need to. You have to. You want to. It’s too much. Too hot. Too good. But she won’t let you fall apart just yet.

“Say it,” Tashi murmurs, lips brushing your nipple. “Tell me what you’re feeding me. Tell me what she’s so full of.”

You shake your head, breath hitching. Too embarrassed by it. “No, it’s- it’s not real- ”

She groans against your chest, suckles harder. Two fingers fuck up into you, slow and deep, and you feel it- your cunt tightening around them, messy and hot and pulsing. You can’t stop crying.

“Yes, it is. You’re leaking for me. Just for me.”

“I- ” you choke on a breath, whimpering. “I don’t have- ”

“Don’t lie,” she hisses, biting on your nipple. “Your tits are aching for me. You need me to drink from you.”

She sucks again, loud, her tongue flicking your nipple until your hands fly up to clutch her hair, tug her closer, like it’s true. Like she’s pulling something out of you, slow and needed. Like she wants it to spurt in her mouth and make it full. “Say it,” she commands again. “Say you’re full for me.”

Your pussy flutters around her fingers. She feels it. Smiles. “S-say it,” you echo, voice breaking- then gasp, moan, collapse into her mouth when her fingers press up and stay “…’m full,” you whimper. Eyes closed. Legs shaking. “I’m full of milk, Tashi- please- ”

“Fuck,” she growls. You don’t get a chance to breathe. She sucks harder now, drinks from you, greedy and wet and groaning against your skin like it’s her first meal in weeks. Her fingers don’t let up- fucking you through it, her palm slick and filthy where it rubs your clit.

You break. Come with her mouth still wrapped around your tit and her fingers deep inside you, sobbing into her hair as your thighs shake and your pussy spills all over her hand. And she doesn’t stop. She drinks you down like she believes every word you said.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[musingsofheaven]

SUGAR RUSH.

peter parker x afab!reader

fluff. heavy kissing. implied intimacy. teens being ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ teens. light suggestive vibes but nothing explicit. ♡

You're on your stomach on Peter's bed, your legs stretched out while wearing the hoodie you stole from his closet a week ago. The sleeves are too long, covering half your hands, but you like it that way. It smells like him, like detergent and that cologne he pretends he doesn't use. You've been living in it like a raccoon in a stolen nest. You're not doing anything right now, just waiting for your boyfriend to finish studying, with your mouth full of Pop Rocks that won't shut up.

Crack. Pop. Crack. It's funny, honestly. It sounds like a neck getting cracked in half—well, it can sound like fireworks too. It's annoyingly loud because your mouth looks like it's trying to pick a fight with physics.

Peter groans from his desk and doesn't even look at you. "You're so annoying." The words come out flat like he's already said them three times today. You know he doesn't mean it. Not really. He's just complaining. As always. It's his nature.

You chuckle, candy still fizzing. "You said I could have them." You roll onto your side just to get a better look at him, your lips pouting as if you're using them against him. His pen is tapping against his notebook while listening to the popping of the Pop Rocks.

"Didn't say I wanted to hear them every five seconds, baby." He pinches the bridge of his nose. Sometimes you wonder how he can even manage you. Maybe he's praying for patience and not getting any divine assistance.

You shift a little, cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his bed. "You can't even hear me over there," you say before scoffing and chewing deliberately, just to make a point.

"I can. It's like... background music. In my head." He spins slightly in his chair, just enough to throw a look at you over his shoulder.

You snort. "Dramatic." You drag the word out, milk it, trying to piss him off. Then you toss another handful of candy into your mouth like a kid.

He finally turns around the chair creaking. His hair's a mess, and there's a pencil tucked behind his ear like he forgot it was there. He crosses his arms and damn... those muscles are flexing. "I'm trying to study, and you're over here sounding like... I don't even know what to call it." His expression is all annoyed, but his eyes are warm. Tired, but warm. Not angry. Honestly? You love it when he gets like this, grumpy and soft around the edges.

You open your mouth real wide and go "Aaahhh," just to make the fizz louder. It's obnoxious. Truly. The kind of noise that would make people glare at you, and you're so proud of it.

Peter squints at you like he's in pain. "Why is my girlfriend like this?" He says it like a curse, like a prayer, like a man at the end of his rope who still wouldn't let go.

"Aw, come on, you love me." You say it too easily. It's not a question—something settled and obvious and unchangeable.

He exhales through his nose and walks over to you anyway, flops down next to you on the bed, elbow bumping yours. You hold out the package of candy. It rustles between you like a peace offering. Or a trap. He hasn't decided which yet.

He eyes it before looking back at you and your lips. "You're gonna shut up if I take some?" There's no heat in it, like the everyday tone he uses when you're being like this. Just a tired sort of fondness, like he's resigned himself to your antics and this weird little life you two have built. Annoyingly lovable, what he always says when you're asking for assurance if he still loves you even though you're playful.

You shrug. "Probably not." And you mean it. You're indecisive, and impulsive, with tendencies to be pushy. He knew that when he let you steal his hoodie the first time, and when you did things just to get his attention.

He sighs but takes a few and tilts his head back to chew. The sound bursts in the quiet like tiny firecrackers, and he physically winces, like he didn't think they'd be that loud. Hates the sounds. Obviously.

He looks at you like you just committed a crime. "Why does it... feel weird?" His face scrunches, and he's trying not to like it but also can't deny that it's kind of hilarious.

"It's fun-weird, not bad-weird." You roll onto your back beside him, shoulder brushing his, voice smug. "It tastes good though!"

Peter turns his head toward you and looks at your mouth. "You're ridiculous," he says softly, barely louder than the crackle. But he's still watching you, still close before he takes the Pop Rocks from your hand, gets enough from inside, and puts it in his mouth.

Then he kisses you.

Like... no warning. One second he's staring at your mouth like it's got all the answers to his questions, and the next, he's leaning in, slow but sure, like he already decided and you just didn't catch up yet. It's not aggressive, not rushed- it's soft, warm, and easy.

Your mouths meet soft at first. Just lips brushing lips, a little sticky from the candy's effect. But then the Pop Rocks crackle between you, loud and sudden, like someone just started a time bomb under your tongues, and everything jumps.

You giggle against him, nose bumping his, but he doesn't pull back. He just tilts his head and pushes in a little deeper. And, well, yeah, maybe that's when it changes.

Because now it's not soft. It's something else.

His mouth opens just enough for your tongue to catch him, and he tastes like cherry- you're sure it's from the candy. The candy's still popping, still snapping under your tongues, and it's a funny feeling. Literally. Your lips part wider, let it get messy, let it get loud. You lick into his mouth a little and feel him suck in a breath right through his nose.

And God, that's all it takes before he's kissing you back harder now, licking the taste of candy right out of your mouth like he's trying to shut it off. His hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, gently and soft the way he knows you like. It's steady; he's holding you in place. His teeth graze your bottom lip, yearningly, just barely, just enough to feel it, and you groan, soft and surprised and too into it.

It's clumsy, yeah. Of course, it is. You're both grinning too much, breathing too hard, lips swollen already, and the candy still going off like a fucking broken record. But you don't stop. Neither of you. Because it's fun and silly. Because it's stupid. Because it's so much better than it should be.

Peter pulls back eventually, breathing hard, his lips pink and wet, a little sugar stuck at the corner of his mouth again. He licks it away automatically, and your stomach flips.

"Okay," he says, voice low and just barely wrecked. "That was..."

He doesn't even finish the sentence.

You're already grabbing more Pop Rocks.

"Again," you say, out of breath but grinning. "C'monnn."

He laughs, but it's a little shaky now. "I'm gonna die."

"Mhm," you hum and press your mouth to his before he can say another word.

This time, it's not that gentle. It's full of tongues and teeth and stupid little moans pressed into each other's mouths, sugar and spit and heat all tangled up in a kiss that has no business feeling this good.

You taste like candy, and he kisses you like he’s starving for it.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[musingsofheaven]

Omg I’d die if you wrote something on Joel miller x younger bratty reader who he think sis a bad influence on Ellie!! Then they end up fucking really rough and angry but it’s so filthy and delicious?!?! Maybe he’s choking her to keep her quiet but she also wants to ride him and not give in!!! Like I love the switch up

RAISED WRONG.

summary: You’re younger, loud-mouthed, and definitely a bad influence on Ellie. Joel knows it. Won’t stop showing off, getting under his skin, acting like you’ve got nothing to lose. Then he drags you into the dark and finally does what he’s been dying to shuts you up with his hands and fucks you until you so deep.

pairings: joel miller x afab bratty!reader

warnings: 9k words. mature themes. unprotected p in v. age gap. rough sex. choking kink. manhandling. degradation kink. oral fixation. tit play / nipple play. breeding kink. smoking. read & consume responsibly.

note: first time writing joel hehe… i stayed up all night like a little vamp <3 like actually 2am to 8am. i don’t know what happened but it felt important. i’m really sleepy now and kind of stupid about it and now i’m so tired i could cry 🧍‍♀️ reblog or like if u did !! follow + send an ask if u want more (but i write so slow bc i have 1 braincell and it’s scared of me sorryyy) ok love u byeeee uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh 🫀 (As of 11 am on my time i noticed the fic was cut (the first half) so i edited it again and pasted it… i am sorry!)

They see you before you see them.

You’re half-crouched in a blown-out gas station, dragging one boot behind you as you sift through a collapsed aisle, rifling through broken shelves like you’re expecting a candy bar to fall into your hand. You’re just looking for something edible. Or shiny. Or stupid enough to add to your collection.

You don’t even clock the footsteps at first-maybe you do, but you’ve gotten good at ignoring shit. A click, a shuffle, the low weight of suspicion pressing into your spine. You only look up when a voice barks behind you, rough and already tired: “Turn around. Real slow.”

You sigh like someone just asked you to do something boring. Then you roll your eyes, glance back just enough for the smirk to rise.

“You lost or somethin’?”

The man doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t say anything either. Salt-and-pepper beard, jaw locked tight like he’s halfway to shooting. The kid next to him squints at you.

“She doesn’t look infected,” the girl says.

You raise your brows at that, scoffing as you turn, hands half-raised.

“Gee, thanks.”

“Where’s your group?” the man asks, voice sharp.

“Not here,” you reply, flat.

“That’s not an answer.”

You sigh again, this time more annoyed. “I came from that way,” you say, nodding vaguely over your shoulder. “It’s gone now. Fireflies, Fedra, raiders-take your fuckin’ pick.”

The woman beside him stiffens. “You see who did it?”

You snort. “Do I look like I stuck around to get names?”

The girl tugs on his arm. “Let her come. If she turns, I’ll stab her first.”

You laugh-sharp, surprised. “You’re fun.” She’s easy. You clock that immediately. Could probably talk her into anything.

“I’m right here,” the man mutters like it’s personal.

You take a slow step forward. He doesn’t flinch, but his jaw ticks hard.

“I’m not sick.” You lift your shirt just enough to show skin-clean, unbitten. “You can check. Or shoot me. Your call, old man.”

He glares.

The girl grins. “She could be useful.”

“She’s gonna be a pain in my ass.”

“Same thing,” you say, already walking like it’s settled.

You fall into step somewhere in the middle-not in front, not behind. Just out of reach. Feels like they’re circling you, but what can you do?

You walk for hours before the man-Joel, you overheard-finally says what’s clearly been stuck in his throat:

“You were with them?”

You glance sideways. “With whom?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

You smirk. “I’m not playing.”

He chews on the silence. Doesn’t push. Not yet.

Ellie-she never stops talking. She keeps throwing you glances, like she’s still figuring out what kind of weird you are. At one point, she asks if you’ve ever stayed in a hotel like the one you just passed.

“Does sleeping under one count?” you ask. “With a hole in the roof?”

She snorts. “You’re weird.”

“You’re loud.”

Joel clears his throat behind you. You grin.

That night, you crash in a half-flooded warehouse. Tess posts up by the doors. Joel plants himself between you and Ellie, arms crossed like a bouncer who never clocks out.

“You don’t trust me,” you say eventually.

“I don’t know you.”

Fair enough. You don’t trust him either. That’s just how it is out here-everyone’s a threat until they’re not.

“You could ask better questions.”

He doesn’t look at you. “You ever kill a man?”

You smile in the dark. “That’s the first thing you wanna know?”

Silence.

You shift slightly, one arm folded behind your head. “Do you think anyone out here hasn’t?”

Another pause. The air gets heavier.

“I didn’t shoot first,” you add. “Not the first time.”

He doesn’t respond. You can feel his eyes though-tracking, imagining, dissecting. The kind of man who chews on suspicion like it feeds him.

“Where’d you learn to shoot?” he asks, finally.

“Boyfriend,” you lie.

“Dead now?”

You grin up at the ceiling. “Aren’t they all?”

He doesn’t say anything else. And you fall asleep with that little echo in your head-you want people to think you’re dangerous. Not a warning. A memory.

The days start blurring after that. Joel watches you like you’re a bomb no one bothered to defuse. Like you might sprout claws or snap someone’s neck just to prove a point. Ellie’s warmer-she shares a busted pack of crackers with you that Joel clearly gave her, even if she pretends it was her idea. You blow a gum bubble in her face and she nearly chokes laughing. Joel glares.

You sneak into a warehouse on a dare and come back with rusted junk and a chain of dog tags you tuck into your shirt like they matter. Ellie finds fuckass nail polish in a med kit and paints your nails at camp. Joel mutters something under his breath about softness and being a bad influence.

“You’re just pissed ‘cause you forgot how to have fun.”

He storms off. You don’t know if it hit a nerve. You hope it did.

The next day, you teach Ellie how to flip her knife. How to spot tripwires. How to curse in a language she doesn’t know. She says it to Joel and he looks like he aged ten years in one second.

That night, you sneak her a cigarette. Okay. Maybe that one’s on you. She gags, calls it gross, then takes another drag just to prove she’s cool. You tell her she’s not. She flips you off.

Then Joel comes stomping back from patrol-and freezes the second he sees smoke curling from her lips. “You wanna tell me what the fuck this is?”

Ellie drops the cigarette like it’s radioactive.

You don’t even blink. Blow the last of the smoke toward the trees. “It was one drag.”

“She’s a teen.”

“And? You think the apocalypse waits for birthdays?”

He steps toward you, slow and sharp. Each step feels like a warning.

“You’re a bad fuckin’ influence.”

You smile. All teeth. Like you’re proud of it.

“Guess it’s a good thing you’re around to balance me out.”

He finds you ten minutes later, footsteps heavy, pissed off. Doesn’t say a word at first-just stares at you, jaw tight, like he still hasn’t decided whether to drag you back inside or leave you there to rot.

“Y’know,” he mutters finally, voice low like gravel, “you act like you wanna get left.”

You don’t look at him. Just tap the ash off your cigarette and watch it drift. “And you act like you still wear a badge.”

He scoffs. Doesn’t move. Just leans against the opposite wall with that arms-crossed stance like he’s about to book you for resisting arrest.

“You keep pushin’ her like that, she’s gonna get cocky. Gonna get hurt.”

“She’s smart,” you snap back, too fast, too sharp. “She’s not gonna break just ‘cause I taught her how to hold a knife.”

“She’s a kid.”

“She’s surviving.”

He glares. “You think you’re funny.”

You drag slowly. Blow smoke right past him into the dark. “No,” you say. “I think you’re scared.”

That shuts him up.

For a second, it’s just the buzz of bugs and the soft hiss of your cigarette burning down. You catch it, though-the way his jaw ticks. Like you hit something that shouldn’t be touched. Like fear’s the only thing he hasn’t figured out how to bury.

“Finish your smoke,” he says finally. “You’re takin’ second watch.”

Then he turns and disappears through the window again like you’re not worth the rest of the argument.

You wait until the cherry burns too close to your fingers. Let it sear, just a little. Something to bite down on.

When you crawl back inside, Ellie’s curled up against Tess, dead asleep. Joel’s posted by the door, arms folded, head tilted like maybe he’s dozing. He’s not.

You sit by the window. Pretend to keep watch. Try not to count the seconds.

Then you get bored.

His bag’s right there, half-zipped, practically asking for it. Sloppy.

You inch closer. Quiet as a shadow. Fingers ghost over the zipper, slow and deliberate. You feel it first-canvas, frayed at the edges. A roll of gauze. A folded-up map. Then something else. Thin. Glossy. Familiar weight. A photo. You start to pull.

And then, too fast, his hand clamps around your wrist like a trap snapping shut.

Your breath catches. Not from the pain, but from the heat of him suddenly there-his body close, his voice like a cut.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

You don’t answer. Don’t move.

“Get up.”

Still frozen.

“Now.”

He doesn’t yank you or shout. He doesn’t have to. He knows he can't-not when people are sleeping and he doesn’t want to waste any energy on it. He just moves you, dragging you by the arm through the far doorway into the next room-what used to be an office, maybe, or a supply closet. But it looks fucked up now. The door creaks closed behind you. He presses you back against it, not rough, but firm. Angry. His jaw locked so tight it looks like it hurts. “You goin’ through my shit now?” he mutters. “You that fuckin’ stupid?”

Your lips part, words half-formed, but he leans in close before you can say a thing. It's making you feel claustrophobic, a little, because he's so close you can smell the smoke still clinging to your shirt, the sweat on his collar.

“You don’t touch my things,” he started. “You don’t go near that bag. You don’t-fuckin’... poke around like you're some kind of thief or a fucking spy.”

You stare up at him, eyes sharp despite the dark. You almost melt by his voice but you're more stubborn than him so you reason out. “You were asleep.”

“No, I wasn’t.” He’s still holding your wrist. His thumb presses into the bone just enough to remind you who’s stronger. Like he's trying to make a fucking point.

Too bad you're younger and more smug and have that false confidence in you. You smile, breathless. “Little jumpy for someone with nothing to hide.”

He lets go of you like it burns. Then steps back. Runs a hand through his hair, pacing once like he’s biting back every word he wants to scream. Like he wants to throw shit. When he turns back, the look in his eyes is wildfire barely leashed.

“You try that shit again,” he mutters, voice low and trembling with restraint, “and I swear to god, I’ll leave you behind.”

You just look at him. Head tilted to the side. That same bored, half-lidded stare that’s been pissing him off since the day he met you. And it’s not that you don’t take it seriously. It’s that he can’t tell if you do or not. If you’re bluffing. If you’re always bluffing. You don’t respond like he’s the one wasting time.

Joel steps closer. His boots scrape against broken tile and dirt and something in him snaps. Not loudly-nothing about this is loud. He looks at you in the eye. It’s something small, tight, and final. He's like trying to see something through it. A pressure point breaking. “You’re like a fuckin’ splinter,” he says, slow and seething. “Can’t pull you out. Can’t ignore you. Just-there. Every goddamn second. Buried so deep it’s driving me insane.”

You raise your brows, you hum like you acknowledge it but fear not, you are mocking the shit out of him. Still no smile, not this time. “So yank me out, old man. Or stop whining.”

Swear to god, he almost did something just because of that filthy mouth of yours. There’s something wild in his eyes now, something unspoken and filthy and so close to the edge it hums in the silence. One wrong move and he’s either going to drag you outside and leave you in the dirt or maybe finally pull the trigger.

But he slams his hand against the wall beside your head instead. Just once. Flat-palmed. Not like he's planning to punch it or you. Looks like he's trying to ground himself. It makes the drywall crack and rain dust down your shoulder, but you don’t flinch.

His face is close. His voice is rougher now, lower, cracked and hushed but absolutely fucking furious. “You think you’re tough. Think you’re smart. You don’t even know what you’re playing at.”

You lean in just slightly. Mouth near his ear. You almost want to lick it up just to push him more but you didn't, instead you say, “You’re the one playing.”

His hand closes around your throat. Not hard. Not fully. Not in the way he's going to kill you. Just there-pressing. Cautionary. Not enough to choke, but enough to warn. And fuck if your breath doesn’t hitch anyway. Not out of fear. Something hotter. Lower. He sees it. Feels it. That pulse kicking under his palm.

And you-so smug, so sick in the head, so you-you grin. Just a little. Like a fucking sick fuck. Like you are enjoying it. Just to piss him off more. Or maybe you really like it. Maybe.

Joel swears under his breath. It’s not anger anymore-it’s wrecked. Like he knows better but he’s already lost. “You wanna push me?” he asks. “Wanna see how far?”

You nod once. Calculated but teasing him. “Been trying. Is it working?”

His grip tightens. Your head hits the wall behind you-lightly, but it jolts. You smile again like you are just rage baiting him because you know he will it up. And then his mouth is right there, hovering, like he could bite or kiss or breathe fire. You don’t move. You don’t blink.

And then-nothing. He yanks his hand away. It almost makes you protest and whine. He turns. Paces once, twice, jaw clenched so hard it looks painful. His back’s to you now, like he can’t even look at you without-“Get some rest,” he says through his teeth. “Before I do something fucking stupid.”

You don’t move. Don’t speak. Just stare at the tight set of his shoulders, the twitch in his jaw, the way his fists flex like he’s picturing your throat in his palms. And then softly, you mutter, “You already do.”

That lands. His head tilts-not enough to look at you, just enough to make you feel it. The crack in his control. The split is right down the middle. But he's curious what you’re going to say.

“Taking me with you? Stupid,” you go on, voice lazy, thick with sleep and smoke. “Letting me stay? Again, stupid. Letting me close? Real fuckin’ stupid.” You take a step forward, slow as anything. “But you haven’t stopped me, have you? Haven’t thrown me out. Haven’t told me to go.”

He doesn’t move.

“Almost like you want me here,” you say, mouth twitching. You lick your lips and chuckle.

That’s when he turns. And it’s slow, heavy, deliberate. Like every inch of movement is a loaded threat. His eyes meet yours, hot and blazing. He doesn’t look tired anymore-he looks starving. “I should knock your teeth in,” he says.

You grin. “You’d miss ‘em.”

His hand fists your collar and yanks you forward so hard your back slams the wall, breath catching in your throat. You feel it made you out of character for a second. His thigh wedges between yours, keeping you pinned like he wants to hurt you with it. “Say another word,” he growls, “and I’ll make you swallow it.”

You exhale like a moan, all wide-eyed and wicked. Like the little brat you are, you say, “Please.”

His mouth crashes into yours, rough and clumsy and furious. You kiss him back like you’re trying to win. Hopefully him, but you already know that you already won him. He groans. You drag your nails down his side. You made sure your nails go dug and make him feel those little moon shapes. He hisses and bites your lip. He palms the back of your neck, presses his forehead to yours like he wants to drive you through the wall. You rock your hips against him, just enough to test the waters and he grabs your jaw so hard it aches.

“Keep quiet,” he mutters. “Or I’ll shut you up myself.”

You giggle. “Try me.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t move for a second, either. Just there and holding you. Just stares at you like he’s trying to see past your skin, past the grin curling your mouth, past every smartass thing you’ve said since the moment he met you. And then he does something worse than yelling. Something quieter.

He presses more, but it’s all weight and intention, jaw set tight, hands flexing like he’s deciding whether to grab you or walk away again. His hands are back on your throat before you can blink. Not tight, just like a moment ago. Not yet. Just resting there, rough palm to your pulse point, like he's about to tweak. “Still feel like giggling?” he says low, thumb brushing your jaw.

You grin wider. Because, of course, you do. You just have to keep running your mouth. “Yeah,” you whisper. “You gonna do something about it, or just keep standing there like you’re scared of me?”

He exhales through his nose. Frustrated. Starving. Like he hates that you’re getting to him again. Like he's been trying to control himself since the moment he saw you. Then his grip tightens- just enough to shut you up like he promised, just enough to feel the way your breath skips under his fingers.

His other hand catches your hip, walks you back from the wall close to the door till your ass hits the edge of the half-collapsed table behind you. It creaks under your weight, but he doesn’t let go.

You’re both quiet now. Breathing hard. Heat knotting thick between your bodies like it’s been waiting. Like it's boiling and ready to put in a coffee.

“You always this much of a pain in the ass?” he growls. His hand drops from your throat only to catch the flannel tied loose around your waist, yanking it like it personally offended him. Like he hates this little flannel always covering your waist or arms, depending on your mood. “What is this, huh?” he mutters, twisting the fabric in his fist like it’s just another excuse to keep you close. “Somethin’ to hide behind? Or you just like dressing like trouble?”

You smirk, lips swollen, eyes heavy. “Maybe I just like being grabbed.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like it hurts coming out of him. And then he pulls- hard enough to undo the knot and let the shirt fall open. He stared for a moment to see your body. The shape. His hands remain skimming your hips where your shorts ride up high, rough fingers brushing the waistband like he’s debating how far he’s willing to go. Spoiler: too far. Way too fucking far.

“You don’t listen,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, like he’s trying to justify the way his mouth finds your neck again, his hand already sliding low. Jesus, you can see the way he tried to control himself. To don't do shit, but you just keep pushing him.

You gasp, grip curling in the fabric of his shirt as your back hits the table harder this time. “You want me to stop?” you whisper, teeth grazing his ear, giving it a peck.

He chuckles darkly, low and bitter and close. Before his hand slips beneath your shirt slowly, unforgiving. Rough palm skimming over your ribs like he’s checking for something- damage, weakness, regret- but all he finds is heat.

You arch into it, just a little, just enough to be obvious, and the growl he lets out sounds like it got dragged out of his chest by force. So you tilt your head, mouth brushing his jaw. “What’s the matter?” you murmur, syrup-sweet and smug. “Been a long time, old man?” You almost laugh when you say that because you feel like it's accurate.

His hand freezes. Just for a second. Then he laughs- cold and low and not nice at all. “You got a death wish,” he says, dragging his fingers higher, over your bare stomach, up under your bra. Just staying there for a moment to see your reaction. “Or you think this is how you stay useful.”

You hum. “Is it working?”

He answers by biting the side of your neck. Hard. Just shy of bruising. He doesn't even care if it will mark. If people will see. If it will have an implication or a blunt message.

Your jacket’s still on, bunched around your shoulders, half-pinned beneath you. His other hand shoves it up roughly, exposing the top that’s clinging damp to your skin. You see him staring, especially at your chest, and smirking.

You make a soft, teasing noise- half moan, half mockery. “You gonna say thank you after?” you whisper, breath hitching as his thumb grazes your nipple through the fabric which made you hold your breath. “Or you just gonna grunt and roll off?” But he doesn’t answer. He just pushes your thighs apart like he’s done talking. You laugh, breathless. “No, please? No foreplay?”

His hands grip your hips like he’s about to rip you down the middle. “You want me to beg?” As if he's seriously going to consider it, going to beg for you.

You open your mouth- don’t even get the smartass comeback out before he lifts you. Hands under your thighs, dragging you up from the table. You gasp, startled. Arms clinging to his shoulders, legs locking around his waist on instinct. Like it's on the default settings.

And then he drops- not hard, not rough, just fast. He carries you down to the floor like he’s wrestled with the idea for too long and finally gave in. Like you weigh nothing. Like he doesn’t give a shit who hears anymore. Like he doesn't even give a shit if this will bring you to death. But he just settles between your legs, knees pressed into cold tile, your body open for him and still so fucking clothed.

Your jacket’s still on. Shirt too. So he shoves it up- not gently. Rucks the fabric under your arms, hand dragging up your stomach before he slips his fingers under the bra and pops it loose. You both know you can't not really hot naked in this fucked up building. The cups of your bra fall forward. Your nipples catch the cold air, already reacting and sensitive.

He groans. Low. Gutted. Like he’s actually mad it looks that good. Like it's the best feature on you. Like he's so fucking turned on. (He is, you can feel his hard on through his pants because he's so close to you.) Then his mouth is on you- hot and punishing. He sucks hard, open-mouthed and desperate, tongue dragging over one nipple, tongue swirling to it while his thumb teases the other. His stubble burns. You arch into it, gasping, and that only makes him rougher.

His hand moves to your shorts. Not yanked- unfastened. Careful, but still not slow. He undoes the button, lowers the zipper slowly like he wants to hear every inch of it give. Then he grabs both the denim and your panties and pulls, drags them in one go, halfway down your thighs with one bruising tug that knocks the breath out of you.

You feel the air hit between your legs. Feel him pause. He pulls back just long enough to look. Still can't get off from the way your chest look, eyes locked to yours- like he wants to see the second you realize how fucked you are. Then his hand is on his belt. Unbuckling fast. Jeans shoved down just enough to free himself, nothing more. Just his cock standing tall and proud.

He doesn’t even take them off. He just gets his hand under your thigh again, pushes your knee up, and presses into you. Guiding himself where he wants it. It's slow, thick, and unrelenting when he's testing it outside of your hole. He doesn’t kiss you. Doesn’t speak. Just shoves in one sharp, angry thrust that knocks the wind out of you when he finds the right moment to do so.

Your back arches clean off the floor. Almost freezes when you take him whole. Your body is adjusting to him. Your jacket twisted beneath you, thighs spread wide under the weight of him. You cry out before you can stop it, your hand flying up to grab at his shirt, and your hand holds it tightly.

He can't really blame you for reacting that way. He knows people aren't really active in doing this kind of activity considering what's happening around the world. He can even feel it. You're tight. God. “Shh,” he growls, already driving into you again, harder this time. “You wanna wake ‘em up?”

You bite your lip. Shakes your head. Try not to scream. He’s not giving you time, not giving you anything but the full, merciless length of him, over and over like he wants it to hurt. And it does. You feel it everywhere. Your spine, your ribs, and your jaw are from clenching so hard. “F-fuck,” you gasp. “This you bein’ careful? D-damn you.”

He slams deeper. Doesn’t answer. Making you feel more of him.

Your nails scrape down his stomach- just under his shirt, not gently- and he snaps. You just need to feel him. One hand flies to your throat, not choking hard, just enough to still you. Just enough to own you. “You keep runnin’ that fuckin’ mouth,” he mutters, “I’ll shut it for you.”

You giggle- wrecked and breathless, because even now you want to push him. You don't even know why it made you giggle, maybe it's the fact that he's hot? God. Maybe because you're just sick and enjoying it.

So he does squeeze a little harder. Makes your head spin just enough. Keeps fucking you through it, rough and fast and filthy like he’s mad he likes it this much. Like every thrust is another reason he should’ve left you behind. And god, you love it. You’re still half-dressed, your bra pushed up, shirt bunched at your collarbones, jacket riding your arms. You look like a fucking slut at this moment, the kind the looking for a quick fuck. While he got his jeans shoved down just enough and he doesn’t care about the rest- just fists the fabric of your shirt and keeps going, fucking you into the cold floor like it owes him something.

“You- fuck- you’re not gonna last,” you rasp, choking on your own grin. “Been too long for you, huh?” You tease him. You know that it's been too long. For you too. That's why it's making things better. You're tighter. He's eager. What a good combo. Surely it will be more enjoyable for him.

He growls- low in his chest, animal and mean- and suddenly his mouth is on you again, teeth dragging along the underside of your breast like it pisses him off how good you taste. He doesn’t ease up either- still thrusting, still punishing, grinding into you like it’s the last fuck he’ll ever get and he wants it etched into your bones.

His tongue flicks over your nipple, wet and hot, then he sucks hard- mouth working like he’s angry about it. Like he's getting something that's not there. Like he wants to ruin the way it makes you gasp. One hand braces beside your head again, the other gripping your hip, dragging you back into every brutal thrust. “You’re so fuckin’ stubborn,” he mutters against your skin. “Drives me goddamn insane.”

You laugh, breath hitching when he bites- hard enough to leave the shape of his teeth. “Yeah? Then shoot me, old man.”

He lifts his head, stares down at you, jaw clenched and eyes wild. The sweat on his brow is starting to drip. You’re both half-undressed, panting like animals, his hand tightening on your hip hard enough to bruise. “You think I won’t?” he grits out. “You make me wanna do all kinds of stupid shit.” Then he fucks into you even rougher. Like punishment. Like proof.

You moan- loud this time- and he slaps his palm over your mouth without thinking, silencing you with a glare. “Keep quiet,” he said. But you’re smiling under it. Smiling like you won. And he knows it. So he keeps going. Fucks you through the smile. Through the hand over your mouth. Through the anger in both your bodies like it’s all either of you has left.

Your teeth sink into his palm- hard. Not enough to break skin, but close. He jerks like he’s been shot, hips stuttering just enough to loosen his grip. You take your chance. Wrists snap up. Knees shift. And then with a grunt and a twist of your hips, you push him off, flipping him onto his back so fast it knocks the breath out of both of you. You have the strength to do it after all those survival skills you have.

He grunts as his spine hits the cracked floorboards, hands already catching your hips out of instinct- just as his cock slips free, thick and wet and twitching between you. “Jesus Christ,” he snarls, already half-rising like he’s gonna pin you again.

But you’re faster. You straddle him before he can do shit, jacket still on, tits out, sweat slick between your ribs. You drop your weight down just enough to let your slick cunt press against his length- not taking him in, not yet. Just grinding your slit to him slow, lazy, torturous, your ruined shorts halfway down your thighs. “Aw, what’s wrong?” you murmur, mocking sweetness. “Thought you said I was gonna make you do something stupid.”

He grabs your waist like he’s going to break it. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t buck up. Just breathes- harsh and heavy, nostrils flaring, eyes locked on yours like he’s never hated anyone more in his life. Or wanted them this much. “You like bein’ a brat, huh?” he growls.

You rock your hips once. Just enough to drag your slick over his tip. Enough to feel him twitching. A whimper escapes him before he can swallow it. “Not a brat,” you whisper, grinning now. “Just figured you needed help finishing the job, old man.”

That does it. In one breathless move, he raises your hips before lining himself to you and he yanks you down, sheathing himself deep again- all the way, no warning, no grace. You gasp, head thrown back, spine bowing as he fills you. “Shut the fuck up,” he hisses, hands bruising on your hips. “And ride me.”

You brace your hands on his chest- hot and hard and heaving- and start moving. Slow. Torturous. Rolling your hips like it’s a fucking lap dance, like you’re not even really doing it for him. Just chasing your orgasm, dragging your wet cunt along his cock until he’s twitching inside you again, jaw clenched so tight it could crack.

He doesn’t speak. Not at first. Just watches you with that blown-out, murderous glare like he wants to kill you for making it feel this good. And that’s when you really start to talk. “Y’know,” you murmur, voice syrup-sweet, “I think you were full of shit. Back there. When you said you’d leave me behind.”

His hands tighten. Fingers digging into the soft of your waist like he’s warning you. But you just ride slower, deeper, grinding your clit against the base of him until your lashes flutter. He's so deep, you might think he's kissing your inside with his tip.

“I think you like the trouble,” you whisper, grinning now. “You like the mouth. The attitude. The fact I don’t listen.” You lean in, press your palms to the floor beside his head, and fuck down just right- his head thumps the wall behind him.

“I think you wake up pissed every morning ‘cause I’m still around. But you don’t send me away.” Your breath ghosts over his cheek. “You let me talk to her. You let me sit at your fire. You watch me all the fucking time.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just pants, breath flaring hot against your throat as his hands start to move again- one trailing up your side, the other gripping your ass hard enough to bruise.

“And now you’re letting me fuck you,” you laugh, breath catching as you rock your hips a little faster. “Face it, Joel. You’re gone. You’re fucking- ”

His hand clamps over your mouth again. Not rough this time. Just firm. Possessive. His other hand snakes into your hair, pulling your head back so you have to look him in the eyes. “Don’t say another word,” he growls. “Or I swear- ”

Your teeth graze his palm again. Not biting this time- just testing. You're licking it like you're making out with him while you're grinding and looking at his eyes.

He shudders. Then thrusts up into you hard enough to split you open again, growling through his teeth like he hates you for every word you’ve ever said.

Your tongue darts out, slow, shameless, as you lick a stripe across the center of his palm.

His whole body jerks. So you do it again. Sloppier this time, your eyes locked on his like you know exactly what you’re doing. You press few pecks before licking again. Like you want to see how much filth he can take before it breaks him. You drag your tongue up to the base of his fingers, then you move your hand from his palm and close your lips around two of them and suck. Like you're showing him how you'll suck him off. You licks the tip of his fingers before circling your tongue on it.

He groans- low and guttural, almost like pain- and drives up into you harder, faster, both hands flying to your hips now like he’s done letting you have any control at all.

“Jesus- fuckin’- Christ,” he grits, his thrusts turning brutal. “You’re- fuckin’- insane.”

You laugh, or try to, but it gets knocked right out of you with the next thrust. He’s fucking you now like it’s punishment, like it’s the only way to shut you up, to get even for every time you ran your mouth or disobeyed or looked him in the eye like he wasn’t the one holding the goddamn gun.

“Can’t stand you,” he snarls, but it’s hoarse, ruined. His eyes flick to your tits bouncing with every snap of his hips, to your mouth slick with spit and spitfire, to the soft bite-marks he left on your throat. “Goddamn- you feel like this?”

You moan into his shoulder, teeth sinking into the fabric of his shirt, barely able to breathe with the way he’s slamming up into you now, fucking through the grind of your hips until all you can do is take it. And you do. You take it like a fucking champ.

He palms your ass, pulls you down as he thrusts up, deeper than before, cruel and so fucking good it aches. “You think you can mouth off like that and still get away with it?” he growls into your neck. “Still ride me like you own it?”

Your voice is a whimper now, breaking under the rhythm. “M-maybe.” You whimpers and blush like his words make you feel shy.

“Yeah?” he spits, grabbing your throat- not choking, just holding. Just enough to make your eyes widen. “Then let’s see how long you last.” His hips don’t stop- not even for a second. He keeps fucking up into you from below, relentless, brutal, like he’s trying to mark you from the inside out. Maybe you like it. Maybe you feel something you shouldn't. Belonging. Claim. Butterflies. But his hand- his other hand- slides between your bodies, palm dragging up your belly until it finds your chest.

You gasp.

He grins. Mean. Doesn’t break pace. Just squeezes- rough, greedy- thumb swiping over your nipple like he wants to feel how raw it gets. You’re still in your shirt, still in your bra, both shoved up and out of the way, and he palms your tit like it’s something he earned. Like he’s entitled to it now. “Fuckin’ knew you’d feel good,” he mutters, voice dark and ragged. “Knew you’d break like this.”

You shudder, hips twitching from the overstimulation, but he grabs you- keeps you flush against his chest, keeps you there. He rolls your nipple between his fingers just as he thrusts up again, and the sound you make is more than a moan- it’s wrecked, wrecking, the kind of noise that feels dangerous to let slip. He likes that.

You can feel it in the way his mouth drags hot and heavy over your jaw, his teeth grazing your skin like he might bite again if you don’t behave. But he doesn’t stop touching you, doesn’t stop fucking into you, chest to chest like he wants to melt you down into him. You feel it first in his hands- tightening on your hips like he’s about to do something reckless. And he does.

He stops. Just for a second. Just long enough to let you feel it- his cock twitching inside you, your muscles clenching down in anticipation. He lets you sit there, suspended in heat and want, then thrusts up once- deep and sharp. Another, harder. And one more, just to watch your mouth fall open, your body jolt helplessly against him. “You think you’re in charge?” he breathes, smirking now. “Cute.”

And then he moves. Fast, brutal, smooth- his grip shifts, his weight rolls, and suddenly you’re on your back. Your shoulders hit the floor, thighs still wrapped around him, and he doesn’t waste a second. Slides right back into you, rough and steady, fucking you like he’s reclaiming something that was never yours to take. “Thought you had me, didn’t you?” he mutters, panting against your throat. “Fuckin’ brat.”

And then he’s pressing into you, hand splayed on your stomach like he wants to feel how deep he is. On the other hand, curling under your knee, pushing it higher to fold you open for him- give him more room to ruin you with every relentless, punishing thrust. He’s pounding into you now, no rhythm- just force. Like he’s trying to fuck the attitude out of you, like it’s the only language he knows. Like every thrust is another shut the fuck up he didn’t say out loud.

You whimper. Moan. Claw at his back like you’re trying to hold yourself together. And still- your mouth runs. “F-fuck- this is why you’re so uptight?” you gasp, voice cracking as he grinds in deeper, your words hitching on every thrust. “Could’ve just- ngh- jerked off like a normal person, Joel- ”

He grabs your thigh and slams into you hard enough to knock the breath out of you. “That's what you want?” he snarls, voice hot and fraying against your cheek. “Want me to shut you up with something down your throat next time?”

You shudder. Cry out. Legs jerking around his waist, holding him in without thinking. But you’re still grinning. Lip split. Teeth glinting. All nerve. “Y-you say that like- fuck- like there’s gonna be a next time.” That gets him. He groans, low and guttural, almost helpless, because you’re squeezing around him now- tight and soaked and fucking taunting him.

You’re breathless. Back arching off the floor. Body bouncing with every thrust- and still, somehow, your mouth won’t quit. “Y-you like this, huh?” you pant, half-laughing, half-moaning. “All that talk and you still can’t stop fucking me- ” Joel growls- deep and vicious- and his hand flies to your throat. Not choking. Just holding, just enough to pin you there, make you look at him.

“You don’t know when to stop,” he mutters, breath ragged. “Goddamn mouth on you…”

His hips grind in deeper, harder, meaner because he's most likely talking about himself when he said you don't know how fo stop. His other hand cups your chest, thumb dragging roughly over your nipple, and you gasp, arching up into it like you can’t help it.

But then you laugh again- wrecked and gleeful and cruel. “This is why you’re mad all the time?” you whisper. “Cause no one lets you fuck the fight outta them?”

That nearly breaks him. His jaw clenches. His thrusts stutter- hips grinding deep, punishing. And when you tilt your chin up like a dare, voice trembling but still sharp, he snaps. “God, you’re a fucking brat,” he growls.

Then he grabs your tits- both, rough and greedy, thumbs flicking over your nipples until your back bows clean off the floor. He pinches- hard- and watches your mouth drop open on a sound you try to swallow. “Uh-uh,” he mutters, dragging one palm up to your throat again, not squeezing, just holding- steady pressure that makes everything tighter, makes you throb. “No shutting up now. You wanted to talk? Talk.”

You whimper. One of those high, broken ones you didn’t mean to let out. He rolls your nipple between two fingers and fucks up into you again- slow this time, deep, cock dragging right over that spot that makes your thighs twitch. You gasp like it’s your first breath in minutes. “Thought so,” he says, low and mean and fucked-out. “All that mouth and now you can’t even finish a sentence.”

You’re blinking up at him, wrecked and twitching, your hands scrabbling uselessly at his wrists, not to stop him- just to touch something. His hands are everywhere- tits, throat, waist, like he can’t pick which part of you he needs to ruin more.

He leans in. Breath hot against your ear. “Look at you,” he mutters. “Fucked dumb already and I’m not even close.”

Then he thrusts, hard- one palm sliding back down to your chest, thumb circling one swollen nipple again just to watch your face twist. You bite your lip. You try so hard to be quiet. But it slips out anyway. The broken, breathy, please- like your body said it before your brain could.

And Joel just grins. Dark and awful and proud. You don’t even realize you’re shaking until his thumb brushes over your nipple again- slow this time, like he’s testing you, watching the way your hips buck just from that. “Sensitive, huh?” he mutters, dragging the pad of his finger over it again. “Figures. Got a mouth like yours, gotta be soft somewhere.”

Your lip trembles. You shake your head, try to glare- but it’s ruined by the way your breath hitches when he pinches.

He watches your reaction, eyes flicking down to your chest like he can’t help it, like it’s the only thing in the room worth looking at. His cock still deep inside you, barely moving, like he’s savoring the way you pulse around him every time he tweaks one of those pretty nipples.

“God, look at ‘em,” he breathes, thumb dragging across again. “Bouncing every time I move. Can’t even touch you without you fuckin’ whimpering.” You grit your teeth. Bite your lip. Anything not to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg. So he pulls back. Slams in again. You sob. Just a little. “Yeah,” he grits. “Thought so. Not so smart now, huh?” He leans down- licks a stripe up your chest, then bites one nipple, hard enough to make you cry out, back arching straight into his mouth.

Your hands fly to his hair- grabbing, tugging, anything to ground yourself.

Your legs are trembling now, wrapped tight around his hips, your body working against you. You’re close. You can feel it.

And he knows. “Fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, mouth still wet against your skin. “These tits… Christ. Could spend all night right here- just keep you pinned and pretty like this.”

You moan. Loud. Desperate. “Joel- ”

His mouth is still on you- sloppy, greedy, obsessed. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your tits with his tongue, dragging it in circles around your nipple until you’re twitching beneath him. His teeth graze again. Bite. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make you feel it. “Fuck,” he mutters, low and guttural, more to himself than you. “Soft little thing. Gonna ruin me.”

You whimper when he licks a stripe back up your breast, mouth settling over your nipple again like he can’t stop. His hand squeezes the other one, big palm rough over your skin, like he wants to know how heavy it feels, how full. “Gonna get even bigger, ain’t they?” he grits, voice hot against your chest. “One day. Round and heavy. Shit- dripping.”

Your whole body jolts. “W-what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps sucking, deeper this time- harder- like he’s trying to coax something from you that’s not even there. Like it’s the end of the world and you’re his only vice left. “Bet you’d be so fuckin’ full,” he breathes, half-mad. “God, just the thought- ”

You whine. Head lolling back. Your thighs twitch, clenching around him without meaning to. “You like that?” he growls, rolling your nipple between two fingers while his cock grinds in deep. “Bet you’d keep me fed, huh? Tits all swollen, dripping warm down my fuckin’ throat…”

Your stomach flips. Heat rolls through your gut like molten honey. “Joel- shit- ”

“Yeah,” he rasps, finally dragging his mouth off your chest just to look at you- really look. “Wanna see you like that. All used up. Full for me. My girl.” You shiver. Clench down on him so tight his jaw locks.

And then he’s slamming back into you like he wants to fuck that whole idea into existence. Anchoring himself, as if he lets go, you’ll disappear. And he can’t have that. Not now. Not when you’re beneath him like this, fucked open and whimpering, tits flushed from his mouth, body made to take him. “Shit- gonna fill you up,” he rasps, voice shredded with heat. “Fuckin’- gonna take it, huh? Gonna keep it?”

You choke on your moan. He doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t even give you time to think. Just keeps rutting into you, filthy and deep, his hips snapping like it’s instinct.

“You don’t even fuckin’ know,” he mutters- half-laugh, half-growl- as he presses you down harder into the floor. “You mouth off and push and act like you don’t need anyone, but this-this is what you’re made for.”

You whimper- legs twitching, heels digging into his back. He grabs your thigh again, pins it open, and spreads you wider.

“Bet you’d be perfect with my kid in you,” he grits. “Fuckin’ perfect. Swollen and sore and full- mine.” Your mouth falls open. No sound comes out just air, broken and helpless, because you feel it now. His weight of him. The size. The claim.

“You feel that?” he pants, grinding in deep, hips flush with yours. “That’s what you get for runnin’ your mouth. You want me this bad? You take it. You fuckin’ take all of it.”

You’re close. So close it aches. But he doesn’t let you tip over. Not yet.

His mouth returns to your chest, tongue dragging across your nipple like he owns it. He groans like a man half-feral. “Gonna watch ‘em get big. Heavy. Gonna fuck you slow when you’re full. Keep you wet all the time so it’s easy to slip in again.”

“Joel- p-please- ”

“Yeah, baby.” His voice is a growl, all pride and possession. “Gonna breed you right. Gonna fill you ‘til it sticks.” And then he fucks up hard, deep enough to bruise, and you break- eyes rolling back, body pulsing around him like your cunt knows exactly what he’s giving it.

He grits out a breath, baring his teeth like he’s proud of what he’s done to you. Like this is what he’s been waiting for. You twitch under him, clinging, whining, and he just smirks. “Yeah,” he mutters against your jaw, voice shredded and dark, “this is how you like it, huh? Can’t even fuck you unless everyone’s asleep- unless it’s fuckin’ nighttime and no one’s watching.”

You whimper, half-gone, still gasping as he grinds in slow, brutal, mean. He chuckles- mean. “Guess that’s when you’re the most behaved, huh? Quiet and needy. All that mouth, but only when the sun’s out.”

You bite your lip. He presses deeper. “Gonna start fuckin’ you every night. Every fuckin’ night I get to watch. When they’re sleepin’. When you’re already soft and tired and so fuckin’ wet for me you can’t talk back.” He drags his palm down your stomach- grips your thigh again, fingers bruising. “Bet you’ll start begging for it. Pretend like you hate it, but you’ll be waiting. Stayin’ up late just to get ruined.”

You’re shaking. Boneless. Fucked half-dumb. But your voice still works- barely. “Y-you always this chatty… after rawdogging someone into the floor?”

Joel just growls- laughs sharp through his teeth- and fucks into you again like punishment. He fucks into you harder- mean now, chest heaving, voice cracked open with heat. “Fuckin’ made for this,” he hisses. “Smart mouth, dumb fuckin’ body.”

You try to answer but can’t- you’re too full, too fucked out, just clinging to his shoulders while your back scrapes against the dirty floor. And he loves that. Loves that you’re quiet now. “So much attitude,” he pants, thrusts getting shorter, sharper, messier. “And for what? Huh? You talk all that shit, and here you are- takin’ me so deep I could fuckin’ mark your stomach.”

He palms it, broad hand splayed low over your belly, like he’s imagining it- imagining leaving something in you. “Bet you’d like that. Keepin’ it in all night. Walkin’ around full of it like it means somethin’.” You whimper. He grunts. “I’ll do it,” he breathes. “Next fuckin’ time. Not pullin’ out. Gonna leave it in make you sleep with it.”

Your body jerks under his, legs locking around his hips, and that does it- he snarls, pulls out fast, and fists himself hard, just once, twice, until he’s spilling across your stomach in hot, messy streaks.

He pants above you, jaw clenched, chest rising like he could still keep going if he wanted to. His cum drips down your skin, sticky and hot, glinting in the low light. And still- still- his voice doesn’t soften. “Next time,” he mutters darkly, thumb dragging through the mess on your belly, smearing it slowly. “You’re gonna keep it.”

You’re still panting when he touches your stomach- fingers dragging through the mess he left there like it means something. Like it should’ve gone deeper. He stares at it for a beat, jaw tight. Then wraps his hand around his cock again, still half-hard and twitching, and starts stroking- slow, rough pulls, using his own cum as slick.

You can feel him watching you. Watching the way you’re still shaking, legs parted, flushed and ruined, and not even trying to hide how much you want more. “Would’ve bred you if I fuckin’ could,” he mutters, voice low and bitter. “Would’ve filled you up for real.”

He sounds angry about it. Not at you- at himself. Like it kills him that he can’t. That's all he can do is make it look like it. And then he’s pushing back in. One filthy, forceful thrust- shoving all that comes back inside you like he’s trying to fake what he can’t have. Like he needs it to look real. Feel real.

You gasp, eyes going wide, body jolting under him. He groans into your neck, hips grinding with each deep, punishing thrust. “You feel that?” he breathes. “Messy and full- like you should’ve been. Like I should’ve done it.”

You whimper. Moan. Your whole body pulses like it believes him. But he just fucks you through it- slower now, meaner, desperate in a different way. Like he’s chasing the illusion of something permanent. Something that might’ve belonged to him, in another life.

You’re both still catching your breath. His cock’s still half-hard inside you, your thighs still trembling, your shirt pushed up and bra hanging off one arm like a war trophy. There’s sweat on your stomach, spit on your tits, and his come smeared in a messy stripe just under your navel like a goddamn signature.

And yet somehow- your brain resurfaces just enough to deliver one extremely cursed, extremely rational thought. “…We should probably find condoms,” you mumble.

Joel lifts his head- barely. Just enough to narrow his eyes at you like you’re the crazy one in this scenario, not the man who just rage-fucked you raw in a building full of sleeping people.

“I mean it,” you say, breath hitching when he shifts slightly, cock twitching inside you. “Like- I don’t think I’m trying to be someone’s mom in the apocalypse.”

He blinks at you. Still panting. Still buried inside. You keep going, because you’re annoying. Because you’re you.

“Couldn’t even get prenatal vitamins. Just a can of expired shits.”

“I’m serious,” you whisper, brushing your fingers through the come on your belly like you’re testing the viscosity of regret. “Next run- we’re raiding the pharmacy.”

Joel drags a hand down his face, mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

You tilt your head. “What? You don’t wanna be a daddy again?”

His only response is a grunt- and then he pulls out with a groan, wiping his hand roughly down your stomach like he’s trying to erase the evidence, except all it does is smear it worse. You sigh.

You both lie there for a second. Staring at the ceiling. Panting. Degrading in silence.

Then, finally, Joel mutters: “…We’ll look for condoms.”

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[musingsofheaven]

THAT QUIET THING.

dilf!art donaldson x afab!reader

nsfw. age gap. vibrator use. voyeurism-adjacent. ♡

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep right after he finishes. Of course not. Not every time. He’s not that kind of asshole. But he still does it.

But it’s not because he’s not interested, because he is very much so, it’s also not because he doesn’t care about your pleasure! He’s just… just because he’s exhausted. Between flights, matches, press, rehab, sponsors, events, and other things come with being a player, and the fact that his body doesn’t bounce back as it used to. So he gives you what he can. And most nights, that’s a few minutes of messy make-out, one hand between your thighs, a low groan against your neck, and the quiet relief of coming deep inside you before his body gives out.

He tells you it’s good, because it is. You feel good. You do. He enjoys it. So much. He says that you’re perfect. That he needs you.

And maybe he thinks that’s enough.

But you’re younger than him. You don’t say it, but you are. You are young enough to keep your hands busy when he feels still from tennis and everything he did for the day. Young enough that your body keeps hot long after his breathing evens out beside you. Young enough to start hiding a vibrator in your pouch when you realize this is just how it’s going to be… a quick, quiet, and over before you get close.

It’s not bitterness. Not at first. You are not mad at him. You understand it. You are aware of his career and his age. It just needs. Quiet and embarrassing and yours alone. So when he gets comfortable in wonderland each night, breathing deep and heavy with sleep, you slip out of bed, cross the hotel carpet barefoot and tiptoeing so you won’t wake him, and lock yourself in the bathroom with your face pressed to your forearm and your hips grinding into the tile.

The toy is small. Quiet. Sleek. Something you can bite your lip around. Something that doesn’t need electricity or heavy batteries. Something that is not heavy. Something that won’t get confiscated at airports. Something he doesn’t need to know about.

You don’t use it every night. Just the ones where it’s worse. Not worse worse. Maybe when you're really there, something is missing. Clue: your orgasm. Where you can still feel the ache of being full without the part where you fall apart. Where your panties stick wet to your thighs after he’s already asleep.

Tonight, it’s like that.

He came fast. Kissed your neck. Fell asleep face down with one arm slung over your waist and his breath slow against your shoulder. You lay there long enough to count it. Long enough to feel the minutes tick by while your body stayed bothered, and feel the itch that needs to be scratched. Long enough to know he wasn’t waking up anytime soon. Where you can be comfortable and get up from the bed.

So you left. Just like you always do.

Face down on the bathroom floor. Phone screen dim. Porn on low volume. Toy between your thighs, buzzing soft against your clit. One hand is placed on your mouth to shut you up. One hand wrapped around the end of the toy. Breathing hard into your arm like that might make it quieter. And then-

You hear the floorboard creak. Then the knock. It’s not even a knock- it’s just the click of the handle turning. The door opening.

The bathroom light spills into the hall as he opens the door. You look up too slowly. You feel your cheeks burning up. You can’t even hide it.

Art stands there, in nothing but his boxers, hair mussed, brow furrowed. His hand was still wrapped around the neck of a water bottle he didn’t even get to drink.

His eyes drop to the floor. The phone is still playing. To the tiny pink vibe glistening between your legs. To you. To your body. How ridiculous it looked how you are positioned. Frozen. Red-faced. Dripping.

His mouth doesn’t move. Not at first. He’s just quiet, calculated. He’s always like that. You couldn’t even figure him out sometimes. He just exhales slowly through his nose and leans against the doorframe like his body’s figuring out how to hold back every single thing he’s thinking.

Then, without looking away: “That for me, or for someone else?”

Your breath catches. You don’t answer. You can’t. The toy’s still on, though. It’s still buzzing between your clit. You’re still shaking.

And he doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t ask again. Just watches you for another beat- eyes trailing from your bitten wrist to the slick mess under you- and then says, “You do this every time I fall asleep?”

You shake your head, fast. Too nervous. “No- I mean, not- Art, I didn’t- ”

“You finish like this?” he cuts in. Calm. Flat. Too calm. Curious. Not mad. Just want to hear from you. “Face down on the floor while I’m sleeping ten feet away?” It’s worse because his words have a bite, but it’s not even mean.

You shut your eyes. You want to disappear. You want him to touch you. You want him to leave. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t shout. Doesn’t even blink.

He steps forward slowly and kneels beside you. His hand reaches down, curls around your wrist, and presses the toy deeper- not fast, not cruel, just firm. He moves it up and down slowly and precisely, just to earn your reaction.

“Show me,” he says, voice low. “How do you do it?”

You blink up at him, stunned. He’s hard. You can see it now, through the thin fabric of his boxers, the way he breathes like he’s not proud of it, like it hurts him to be turned on by this.

But he doesn’t stop. “Continue until you come for me,” he says, voice rough. “Or for the fucking screen. I don’t care which. I just want to see.”

Your stomach flips. You nod once. And you grind down again- slow, shaky, face hot, mouth open as you start to unravel. You do it like the way you always do it. The difference this time is you are wetter because he’s here.

He holds the toy there, tight, watching every twitch, every sound, every breath you tried to bury for weeks.

And he's still staring when you finally fall apart- shaking, soaked, tears caught in your lashes. Still hard. Still mad. Still calm.

“Next time,” he says, letting go, “you don’t sneak around to get off.”

You nod again. “You wake me up and tell me about it.”

And then, after a long pause, one more: “You’re mine. That means I finish you, too.”

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[musingsofheaven]

DREAMSTATE TRAP.

summary: You don’t know what’s wrong with you and don’t even remember how it started. You just know you sleep better when he’s near. That your body wants him close, that you need him there, pressed up against you. You said you’d leave him. More than once. But you didn’t, not when he made sure you will always come back to his arms.

pairings: divorced dilf!art donaldson x afab!reader

warnings: 2k words. mature themes. somnophilia. nonconsensual undertones. obsession. manipulation. covert drug use (nicotine patches / chemical dependency). emotional dependency. breeding kink. free use referenced. sleep sex. dubcon-adjacent tone. power imbalance. dumbification (sleep-drunk, emotionally conditioned, mentally pliant state). read & consume responsibly.

notes: actually scared to post this. :( but hi! this is post-divorce art donaldson and yeah… he’s rich. lonely. washed. pushing 40. still hot. still got those sad little eyes. i just know he’d lose his mind if a pretty lil thing started sleeping in his bed. so soft. so warm. he didn’t want to be left ever again. he’d do anything to keep you close. even if it’s twisted. even if it’s wrong. this is manipulative dilf art dick. he’s emotionally unavailable and physically unavoidable. yes it’s wrong. yes he’s crazy. ANYWAYYYYYYY enjoy and if u want more fics or have requests or want to throw something unhinged at me pls do. i’m taking requests. thanks love u 💗

You sleep like you trust him.

You do. That’s the case. You sleep like you will be comfortable in your dreams because he’s just beside you to hug you. Like your body’s never been hurt. He doesn’t hurt you. Never. He will kill himself first before he lands a hand on you. (Unless it’s for sex and you asked it, or not, maybe) Like no one’s ever lied to you or walked away. You know he’s not lying to you. At least in front of your face, no. Like you don’t know what he is. You don’t, honestly.

He likes staying up late than you. You never knew why. He just said he’s not tired. Or he can’t sleep. Insomnia, sometimes, is what he’s saying to you. But in reality? He likes watching you. Like tonight is the same as the others, he watches you wide-eyed in the dark.

The sheets are already wrapped around you from the movements. You are not a mover, but don’t stay in the same place. Your cotton sleep shirt riding high over your ass, too big for you, too comfy, the collar pulled half off your shoulder like it always ends up that way. You didn’t even wear panties tonight. You never do when you fall asleep in his bed. It’s comfortable, you say. More air or your cunt can breathe, or whatever bullshit you say. Art doesn’t mind. It’s a raging go signal for him. Well, that’s what he thinks. He could lift your shirt, nightgown, or whatever loose or comfortable you are wearing, and he’ll cup you over it, sometimes rub his fingers if he’s aiming for tame, or slide in if he’s so horny. You don’t complain. Said that it helps him sleep by touching you or fucking you. And you like to help him.

That used to scare him. That sweetness. That trust. Especially when you’re just letting him take it. He even joked about you being his free use doll when he was inside of you. You whine and giggle. It scared and excited him. The idea that maybe you didn’t think he was capable of anything ugly.

Well, at first, he’s like that. But now? It doesn’t scare him anymore.

His fingers gently run into the back of your hair, and he watches you shift. He makes those little expressions when you sleep. You look soft. You look like you are at peace. Your skin’s so warm there. Your pulse flutters when he presses. It’s slow, steady, alive.

Sometimes, he’s praying to God because you’re so alive. So young than him. He prayed that others wouldn’t take you away from him. The thing is, he won’t even let them do that. You’ve got no idea what kind of things a man like him can do, do you?

He slips the drawer open quietly while his other hand is still touching you like he’s scared to slip his hand away from you.

Finds the little box. Peels one patch from the back.

Your thigh shifts when he touches it. He gently caresses the flesh. Feels hot beneath his palm, your skin soft and bare. He sticks the nicotine patch just under the curve of your ass, just below your cheek, where the hem of your shirt won’t hide it, but you won’t notice it.

You don’t even move.

Art smooths a hand down your leg. Feeling its smoothness under his palm. Just once. Then, back up again, where his thumb grazes the patch, which warms under your skin. His heart thuds in his chest like he’s done something filthy. Maybe he has.

Because fuck it. Every time he puts one on you, especially when it’s your thighs, or your ass, or the soft dip of your hip... he gets hard from it like clockwork. Like some part of his brain associates the feel of your unconscious body under his hands.

He shouldn’t want it this much. He shouldn’t. This is fucked up, even for him.

But he does. He’s willing to bend his morals just for you. You’re his girl, after all.

Your breath is soft and slow. Your chest rises and falls like you’re dreaming something sweet. Maybe you are. Perhaps it’s about him. Maybe you’re dreaming something filthy. Maybe your cunt is as warm as your mouth gets when you’re half-asleep and draped over him, murmuring his name like it’s instinct.

His cock throbs.

He palms himself through his boxers.

God, he thinks. He could slide right in like this. (It’s not like he didn’t try it already)

You wouldn’t wake up. Maybe you’d shift a little and let out one of those broken sighs, legs parting out of habit. And he’d be so gentle with you. He’s not even going to be full-on fucking you. He’ll just thrust slowly and deep. Just a little. Just enough. Feel you clench around him in your sleep like your body knows who you belong to.

He’d never forgive himself.

But he might still do it.

He strokes himself slowly, silently, teeth sinking into his lip.

It’s not just the patch. It’s the trust. It’s the faith you are giving him. You are devoted. The way your body gives without knowing. The way you turn into him when he touches you is like instinct. Like your body knows it’s bim. Like your whole system has rewired around him.

You always crawl to him. Literally. Or figuratively. Always coming back into his arms when you try to leave. Do you even dare to do that?

It makes him dizzy.

You’ve tried. Three times now. Bags packed, the door slammed, voice shaking. When he tries to text you, you’ll say that he should delete your number. He never really replied after that. He’s so comfortable with the idea of you coming back. Because you always do, every time, within days, you’re back. Pale and trembling. Clingy. Teary. Like you need him.

Like something inside you can’t bear the idea of being without him.

You don’t know why. But Art does.

You will bury and nuzzle your face into his chest. You will sob, your cries shake. Your shoulders are shaking, your fingers are holding tight to his clothes like you are apologizing for thinking about leaving, and you have it hard like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered. His palm slides up and down your spine, slow and calming, while you try to speak through the hiccuping wreck of your voice.

“I don’t know why...” your breath hitches and breaks. “But I- I can’t-” you inhale sharply, nearly gagging. Stuttering as always. “I can’t sleep without you. It’s like my skin itches. I feel vomiting every time. My skin feels scrawling. I feel sick. My head hurts all the time. I-” You clutch into him tighter. “I need you. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

You sound so scared when you say it. You’re ashamed. It’s as if she’s the only one who wants to return, and he will continue to accept you as he does in a charity case.

But he’s not. He’s not ashamed.

Art hushes you, presses a kiss to your hair, and murmurs something like “Shh, I’ve got you, baby,” while his thumb circles just under the swell of your ass, right over where the patch had been the night before the day you left. He continuously removes them before you realize it’s there.

You don’t know what’s wrong with you.

But Art does.

He watches your breathing slow again. Thumb trailing down the back of your thigh, the spot just beneath the patch. His other hand is palming your ass, just gently, not groping it. You murmur something in your sleep, lashes fluttering, body arching slightly toward the touch.

His heart squeezes.

God, he wants to ruin you.

Wants to keep you this soft forever. He wants to be able to watch you sleep for hours. Keep you warm and drugged and fucked out and barely thinking, brain all mushy and just needing him, wrapped up in him like a koala that doesn’t know better. He wants to get you pregnant by accident. Watch you cry about it. Then he’ll comfort you into accepting it. Watch you stay.

You shift again, thighs pressing together. He watches the ripple of muscle, the heat in your skin, the spot where the shirt rides high enough to show the curve of your hip.

You’re not even awake, but he knows you’d let him.

If he touched you now, eased a hand between your legs, thumb soft against your clit, you’d whine for him. Quietly. Just enough to let out a sound. Maybe spread without waking. Let him finger you through your dream and wake up sore, aching, and full. God. He knows how easily you get wet.

Jesus.

He strokes his cock harder now. But not sloppy. Not the one who will make a sound. It’s just slow, desperate pulls, his other hand pressed to your hip like he’s steadying himself.

He comes quietly. Barely breathing. Fingers tight. Come sticky on his stomach, hips twitching. Your body shifts, barely, like it knows. His name almost falls from your mouth in your sleep. He quickly cleans it up, always having tissue beside the bed.

He watches you for a while longer.

You don’t wake.

You never do.

And he’s already up by the time the sun rises, turning the curtains lighter. Already cleaned up. But you’re still curled on your side. One leg is hooked over the blankets, patch warm, and pulsing on the soft meat of your thigh.

He peels it off gently.

Always before you wake. Always with a breath caught low in his throat.

God, you never notice how deep you sleep. That’s what he likes about you. The way you sleep early but even wake up later than him. Like you are enjoying your sleep, he loves how much warmer your body has run lately, how you turn into his touch before you’re even conscious of it. He knows your body better than you do now, how it reacts, clings and practically melts into the mattress when he moves behind you in the mornings.

He likes the morning the most. Sometimes, you’re still half-asleep when he fucks you. Sometimes, you sleep right through the first few strokes and mewling softly, legs parting, clit twitching under his fingers without thought. He’s not even rubbing it aggressively. Just slow flicks to make you more wet. To make you more slippery around him.

And sometimes you wake up in the middle of it. You are hazy and dazed and clingy as hell. Fuck he loves it. Already have you whimpering “Don’t stop,” like you’re the one who begged for it. Like it’s your idea. Like he’s not fucking you while you’re sleeping before you’re a whimpering mess. Like your cunt isn’t already dripping around him, greedy and fluttering and open for more.

It makes him crazy. The way you arch into him instinctively. You whine when he tries to slow down, like you’ll break apart if he leaves you empty. The way you cry into his neck with your face buried and say things like...

“Mmph… dunno why…” you breathes into his chest, lips barely moving, voice sticky with sleep. “Sleep so good when you’re here…”

A soft “ah-” slips out when he shifts, cock still half-hard, still pressed against the mess between your thighs. “Feels good… don’t go yet… don’t-” you mumbles, clinging tighter, legs tangled with his while he’s thrusting his cock slowly, just how you like.

A choked little “mmph, fuck-” when he moves again, just enough to press deeper. To find your spot.

“Hurts when you’re not- when you’re not touching me…” you sniffles hiccups. “You make it go away… I don’t know how… I just need-”

You trail off in a breathy whine like your words are too much. Like you’re overwhelmed just being near him. Your face always buries in his neck, damp and hot, tears cooling your cheeks. Your hips shift without meaning to. It made you whine.

You don’t even know what you’re saying. Doesn’t realize how deep it’s sunk. How wrecked you already are. How utterly, unconsciously, you’re his.

You don’t know what’s keeping you here.

But Art does.

And every morning, he gives her body another reason to stay.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[musingsofheaven]

SO, ASL? p1

summary: You logged on for fun. Maybe a dumb convo because you fantasized sleep. Definitely not to let some stranger talk you to get wet. But here you are. Logged in. It’s fine. You’re fine. Just casually rubbing one out over a guy you don’t know while whispering “fuck me” into your own hand. But you are just a girl!

pairings: rafe cameron x afab!reader

warnings: 3.6k words. mature themes. sexting format. masturbation (f solo, m implied). orgasm denial/control. explicit sexual language. intense dirty talk. exhibitionism-adjacent. anonymous chat. overstimulation. voice kink (implied). read responsibly.

notes: so this was supposed to be a tiny thing… like a silly idea that maybe stayed under 1k?? like just a little blurb to get out of my system. and then i started writing. and um. yeah. 😵‍💫 i wrote this while ovulating. which explains a lot. like… a lot a lot. and i know it’s kinda cringe (okay like really cringe) but listen… i literally couldn’t stop thinking about touching yourself to someone you’ve never even seen??? like??? that’s so unhinged. and so hot. and so girlcore™. 🥵🫣 anyway this is disgusting and i should be locked in a box but i hope u enjoy 🫶😻

You don’t usually do this.

Maybe you do that when you’re so fucked up, meaning too bored, too awake, too alone, or yeah. P.S. You’re not even really into anonymous chat stuff. But it’s 2:21 a.m., and you’ve been rolling around your bed, taking some melatonin, and even listening to asmr bullshit. Your bed feels shit right now, and your phone is useless because it’s not helping you to fall asleep. Your brain is spinning in that useless, itchy way when you’re overtired but still too wired to sleep.

You have also been scrolling for too long now. Friends are asleep. You don’t have someone to annoy while you’re awake. You’re not ready to read, watch, or do things. Now that you’re on the home page, type in one of those chat sites.

There’s a video chat option, but you chose the anonymous chat instead. Because... why not? Text only. No usernames. No cameras. Just with the thrill of matching with a stranger. Either you’ll match with someone good, or it’ll be mediocre, so skip it. Hit or pass, really.

You’ve just welcomed the typical page stating that you must be 18 or older, etc., rules that people won’t follow. Ultimately, a start button will be available, allowing you to click it.

Connecting you to someone…

You wait for it to load.

Then... there’s this classic: “You are now chatting with a random stranger.”

Stranger is typing...

Stranger: Hey, stupid question but

Stranger: If you have a flavor, what would it be

You blink. Yeah, it’s a fucking stupid question.

Then smiles.

You: That’s what you say to the conversation?

You: Not some typical age and gender?

Stranger: Yeah. But don’t say vanilla. I’ll block u

You: Wow, okay.

You: Hm... mine’s probably like matcha and cherry chapstick

Stranger: Okay slut

You snort. That will likely offend you greatly if you come here in a bad mood or with a bad attitude. But fine, since you’re bored, you’ll try to entertain yourself with this.

You: U?

Stranger: Probably Coke and whiskey

That makes perfect sense because Coke and whiskey are a good combination. It’s not Coke-like drugs, but Coca-Cola.

You: You mean the drink, right...?

Stranger: Right, right.

The conversation flows smoothly and unfolds quickly. It’s really funny and chaotic, honestly.

You talked about random things, mostly stupid things. We even had a fake fight about which pasta was the best. Your answer is carbonara. His is spaghetti. He admits to getting banned from Tinder for making his bio say, “just here to fuck and psychoanalysis how you after sex,” and people thought he was a poser or catfish too. Probably implying to you he looks good. It’s messy, stupid, and weirdly comfortable for two people who don’t know each other’s names.

You check the time. 3:37 a.m.

You: Damn, how are u still here?

Stranger: Insomnia. Boredom. Maybe because you make the conversation interesting

You: Wow. Smooth.

Stranger: I try

Stranger: Can I say something?

You: What something?

You: Do I wanna know?

Stranger: Depends on how lonely you are tonight

Your breath catches. Confused about what he meant. Ah, yes, you also exchanged information, but not in a too-personal manner. There’s a pause. You stare at the message. Like it knows something you don’t.

You: …say it

Stranger: I keep wondering what you taste like when you’re half-asleep and lazy about it

You freeze. It’s not some overreacting freeze; it’s more like staring dumbly at your screen.

You: Wow

Stranger: Too far?

You: A little bit

Stranger: If you wanna end the chat, it’s okay

You stare at the message. Like, really stare at it.

You could close the tab or end it intentionally. Perhaps you can thank me for the weird conversation and return to the part where you try (and fail) to sleep. You could reason out that you’ll do something. Or shut off your phone so you won’t get disconnected. You don’t even know what this guy looks like. You’ve never heard his voice. He could be a serial killer or what.

But you don’t close it.

You type instead.

You: Nah

You: Didn’t expect that ...://

Stranger: What did u expect

Stranger: U typed cherry chapstick like u weren’t tryna start shit earlier

You: Hey, I am genuine with that one

You: And maybe I was bored

Stranger: And now?

You: Still bored. just… warmer

Your heart skips a little after sending it. You don’t know why you admitted that. You know it’s true. You’re not really uncomfortable in the conversation. Honestly, you want to explore it more.

Stranger: Mmm

Stranger: Good

Stranger: Bored and warm’s a nice combo

Stranger: Makes people honest

You type and delete it. On his end, it keeps showing the stranger is typing. You don’t respond right away. You’re biting your lip. Tugging at your shirt. Your thighs press together without meaning to.

Stranger: Hey, cherry chopsticks

Stranger: Still there?

You: Yeah

Stranger: Wanna do something stupid with me?

God. You swallow. Okay, okay, that’s where you will draw the line! You will end it now. You swear. But it’s anonymous. It’s nothing. You’re never gonna meet this guy. You’re just killing time until sleep comes to you.

That’s all it is.

You: Okay

You: How stupid

Stranger: Tell me what you’re wearing

You stare at that message like it’s a trap. If you answer it, something irreversible will happen.

Because you could lie. Maybe lies about some information about what he’s asking. It’s not like he’s going to know. Say you’re wearing something sexy or perhaps lingerie. Just go thirst him more.

You could close the tab.

But you don’t.

You: Ugh

You: Shirt

Stranger: And?

You: Just a shirt and shorts, okay

Stranger: Nothing underneath?

You bite the inside of your cheek. You hate that he guessed that. Maybe it’s too obvious. Most women don’t prefer not to sleep with a bra on.

You: I didn’t plan on chatting with strangers tonight, lol

Stranger: I didn’t plan on jerking off with strangers tonight either, but here we are

You feel your stomach flip. Not in a gross way. Not in a warning way. Just… dizzy. It feels buzzing and hot, that kind.

You: You’re really doing that? haha

Stranger: My hand’s been in my sweats for like 10 mins now

Stranger: You’re hot

Stranger: Even without a face

You don’t know what to say to that. It’s unhinged. It’s... fuck, you never get to that point before when you’re on this site. When they start saying things like this, you’ll end the chat. No one’s ever said it like that. Maybe there is. But not precisely, you encountered it.

You: You’re crazy

Stranger: A little

Stranger: Wanna help me?

You feel your legs shift again, shut them close, rubbing them together a little more. Feel your skin heated. You shouldn’t want this. You shouldn’t be doing this.

But god, you’re so bored. And tired. And warm. And trembling already.

You: Okay

Stranger: Yeah?

You: Yeah

You: Tell me what to do

Stranger: Take the shirt off

You: What if I’m cold lol

Stranger: Bet your nipples are already hard anyway, so it doesn’t matter

Stranger: I wanna picture it

You: You’re fucked up

You: That’s... ugh

Stranger: Yeah

Stranger: So, take it off

You do. Fuck. You could just say in the chat that you did it even though you didn’t. But your fingers shake a little. You followed what he said and threw your shirt somewhere in your bed. Your screen lights your bare skin faintly, shadows moving across your chest when you shift. You know he can’t see you. That’s what makes it worse. Or better.

You: Okay, it’s off

Stranger: Fuck

Stranger: You are touching yet?

You: No

You: I was waiting for you to say it

Stranger: Good girl

Stranger: Put your fingers in your mouth first

You: ?

Stranger: Wanna imagine how wet you are before you even touch

Stranger: And bet your mouth’s drooling just thinking about it

Your thighs press together again, just trying to get pressure from the tiny movement. You don’t even realize you’re doing it until you read that again and go still.

You: I hate you

Stranger: Do it

You: Did

You: Uhm, fingers...

You: Wet

Stranger: Fuck

Stranger: Now rub

You insert your hand underneath your shorts and panties. You did what he instructed you, slowly and lazily, as if your body was being controlled by him. Just barely tracing your clit. It’s not even good yet. You’re just testing the water at this point.

You: Mmm

Stranger: Yeah?

Stranger: Fuck yourself a little

You: 2 fingers

You: Ugh

Stranger: Bet it’s tight

Stranger: Fuck, I wanna ruin you

Stranger: Throat, pussy, whatever you’ll give me

Stranger: I wanna keep you fucked out and dumb all night

Stranger: Ruin you till you forget your own name

Your breath stutters. You press your palm down and try not to moan even though there’s no one around to hear.

You: Say more

You: Pls

You’re hardly able to type. You’re already breathless, hand sliding wetly between your thighs again, screen dimmed just enough to feel this is wrong, like a secret, like you’re not totally exposed. Your pulse jumps as his typing bubble appears.

Stranger: Wanna pin you down

Stranger: Make you gag on my cock while you finger yourself

Stranger: Fuck your throat till you cry

Stranger: And then stuff your cunt so full you can’t even think

Stranger: Going to fuck you raw

Stranger: I’d spit on you and make you say thank you

Stranger: I’d keep going even when you say you can’t

You just stare at his multiple messages as if he knows it’s turning you on reading them. You are probably imagining it already with some faceless man in your head. Your stomach flips. Your legs are already shaking, two fingers deep and dripping. You whimper as you type, back arching off the bed.

You: Fuuuck

Stranger: Yeah?

Stranger: How deep are your fingers right now

Stranger: Tell me

Your eyes move from the phone to your hand as your knuckles and palms glisten. Your inner thighs are sticky, messy, and flushed.

You: Knuckles

You: Palm, maybe

You: I’m fucking wet

You: Pls

You: It’s so messy rn

Your hand’s already so soaked. Your fingers are curled tight inside you, clenching each time you thrust it smoothly and to your liking. You’re making a mess of the sheets, thighs sticky, flushed everywhere. You don’t even want to look down because it’s humiliating how wet you are. How much you need him to keep talking. Humiliating because you're being spoken to in such a manner by a stranger.

Stranger: God, I’d bury my face in it

Stranger: Tongue all over your clit

Stranger: Going to suck your clit and kiss your slit

Stranger: Fuck you with it until you scream

Stranger: Eat you til you sob for it

Stranger: Like it’s the last meal I’ll ever have

You whine, thighs closing together. Trapping your hand between it. You’re already beating and twitching around your fingers just from reading it. You imagine it.  His mouth is hot and open against you, messy and greedy, his grip bruising your hips as he eats you while you’re grinding into his mouth.

Your legs are trembling. Your clit is throbbing, aching, begging for touch.

And your fingers are still knuckle deep inside your cunt and still thrusting lazily, just enough to get pleasure. So yeah, you’re completely fucked because words shouldn’t do this to you, but you’re so horny, and he needs to scratch the itch.

You: You’re disgusting

Stranger: You like it tho

Stranger: Your pussy’s dripping all over your fingers, rn.

You: No

You: Shut up

You: You’re not even real

You don’t know why you said that. That he’s not real. Maybe because you know after this, you’ll end the chat. Forget him. That this is just one wild bored moment, and you just got horny. But he is. He’s real in your phone and the cause of the slick between your legs. He’s real in how you’re grinding into your hand and trying to get off.

Stranger: I’m hard as fuck rn

Stranger: Stroking slow

Stranger: Rubbing the pre to the tip

Stranger: Thinking about your cunt choking my fingers

Your breath hitch. You’re clenching down around nothing now because you pull out your fingers before sliding wetly back in with your wrist trembling, whole body hot, and legs shaking a little.

You want him here in your bed so bad it fucking makes you almost type if he wants to meet up right now. You don’t even know if you’re in the same state or even the same country. You want his fingers inside you instead. You know it’s longer, thicker, and rougher. You want his knuckles brushing against your clit as he thrusts it in, fuck, how will he sound when he whispers in your ear? His hand is holding your wrist down when you twitch, from how much it’s all too much.

You: I can’t stop

You: It’s so warm

Stranger: Rub your clit

Stranger: Just one finger

Stranger: Go slow

One finger on your clit. Just like he said.

You do. You listen and switch from fingers inside to rubbing your clit. That stupid little part of you that never listens to men like this fuck, you never liked to be told what to do, never talks to men like this. That part of you? She’s gone. She drowned in slick, in the low beating of your own pulse pounding between your thighs.

You whimper, actually whimper out loud while you follow him, legs twitching. Your soaked fingers are still on your clit, and when you circle it over and over, your eyes roll. Your back arches just a little. You’re so far gone, and it’s actually embarrassing and disgusting. Thighs jerking every time his messages pop up. He’s just words on a screen, but fuck... making you get off. It’s so dumb how good it feels. How this stranger, this faceless, nameless boy, has you folding like this.

You’re soaked. You’re dripping. And you’re still not close to done.

Stranger: Still holding it?

Stranger: Be good for me

Shit. Be good for him? Why he’s talking like that. Why he’s praising you. You don’t even answer. You are nod like he can see you. You know he didn’t. You know he’s not here. You bite the edge of your blanket and rub tighter circles, trying to keep your hips from lifting and grinding at it.

You type with one hand, fingers almost slipping, and the phone nearly falling to your face. You can’t even type properly

You: Mmm i cant take jt

You: Pleaseplease csn i cum

You: So vlose

Stranger: Fuck

Stranger: Okay

Stranger: Cum for me, baby

Fuck. Then after his permission you come. So hard you choke on it. A sob in your throat, your body folding, shuddering. Your legs are kicking out under the blanket. Hitting it left to right. You can’t even manage to stay still. Your toes are curling, too.

You: Fucfkkk

Your hand’s still between your legs. You’re soaked, your thighs, your fingers still twitching like they still want something. Your chest is panting a little while your eyes are closed and open; you don’t know what to do.

Stranger: That was so hot

Stranger: You still there?

You didn’t reply for a moment and let yourself catch your breath. Thank fuck for your good connection because you’re not disconnecting from this chat while you’re not replying. Your hand’s still gone, but you haven’t moved it yet. There’s heat trapped everywhere, in your neck, in your hips, curling lazy and slick between your thighs like you’re still trembling from it.

Your legs are like a bent spring. Your chest’s rising too fast. The screen’s glowing beside you, still waiting.

You: Did u cum too ...?

You typed out. I didn’t know why you were even concerned about it. For fuck all you know, he’s not really doing anything. But you can’t help but get curious. You imagine him leaning back, spent, his lips parted just a tiny bit, probably still holding his phone in one hand while the other one is sticky, especially in his pal.

Stranger: Yeah

Stranger: It got on my screen, lol

You cover your cheek with your blanket, feeling embarrassed by his message. Maybe you’re blushing, not that you notice it. You’ll just disguise it as your body’s reaction to your orgasm.

You: Gross

But you’re smiling, biting the corner of your bottom lip. It’s that dumb smile, even though your fingers are damp and you haven’t moved an inch. There’s something about the fact that he came, too. Perhaps you feel reassured knowing that he enjoyed it too. Somehow. Like, wow, you really did that. From just chatting with him, or probably he’s already too horny, so it’s inevitable. Not that you care much about it.

You: You’re disgusting

Stranger: You liked it

Stranger: Admit it

You: Maybe

You: Shut up

Your thighs flutter again. You roll onto your side, toes tracing the sheets as if they’ll do anything to cool you down.

Stranger: Can’t stop picturing you

Stranger: Bet you looked so fucking pretty cumming

You take a deep breath. You let your fingers away from your cunt and from the slick of your inner thighs. There’s a burning in your ears like it depends on how he messages you, and it’s not even yours anymore. It’s him, somehow. It depends on every line he types and how he describes it.

Fuck. That was disgusting. Do you literally think about that? Boredom will lead you to do things you will not return for. Like this one. Particularly this one, yeah.

You: You’re actually gross

Stranger: And you still didn’t skip

Stranger: An hour ago, you said you were bored

Stranger: Still bored?

You: No lol

You: Kinda feel like I need sleep now

You: Maybe I need to touch myself to fall asleep

He doesn’t reply. Well, at least not quickly, as he always does throughout your conversation. You almost think he left, that it’s over, that he got what he wanted, he cummed, got dirty, and satisfied his horniness like most guys on here do. However, the bubble then pops back up.

Stranger: Hey

Stranger: This is gonna sound dumb, but

Stranger: Wanna exchange socials?

Oh. You blink. Once. Twice. Then again. You just stared at it for a while. Your body’s still high from earlier, flushed and naked under the sheets, and now your heart and stomach are doing that stupid flip thing. Nervous. Overthinking. Fuck.

Stranger: You don’t have to btw

Stranger: But I liked talking to you

Stranger: Not just the… yk

You are still not replying; you are just still biting your lip. Shit. You should end the chat now. You swear that this was it. That’s it. Yeah. Never exchange social media with them, as you always do. The part swears it’s just for fun, just for the night, that gets off and signs out. She’s quiet now. Real quiet. Like she’s mute.

You: Maybe

You: Depends on what ur profile looks like

You: If we’re ugly, I’m blocking u on everything

Stranger: Bold of you to assume I’m not hot

Stranger: I’ll send mine first

You: …fine

You: But if you catfish me, I’m calling the FBI

Stranger: Deal

Stranger: Here’s my IG

Stranger: @rafe.cameron

He drops the username without hesitation. He’s so sure of himself that women will enjoy what they see. They will het flutter if they talk to a stranger who looks like that.

You stare at it. Just wondering if it’s really his or if he just randomly drops someone’s handle. Your fingers hover. You haven’t even typed yours yet.

You: Oh

You: You are so unserious

Stranger: Dead serious, actually

Stranger: Go look

Stranger: I’ll wait

Curiosity wins.

It always does.

Curiosity kills the cat, they say.

You can quickly switch tabs and open Instagram from there. Your brain is still dumb and high off him, of how he talked to you like you were his, like your noises were made for him.

Paste his handle in the search, wait for it to load, and then view his profile. And then...

“Oh fuck,” you whisper to yourself like anyone’s here to hear it. Like anyone could possibly believe this shit. Like you are talking to him.

Jesus. Is this really him?

Like, him him. Tan lines and dark hair. A jaw looks too good, which makes you want to lick it. One too many shirtless mirror pics in his highlights and a follower count that makes your stomach drop.

Rafe Cameron.

You: What the fuck

You: What the actual fuck

You: Ur famous

You: You have many followers

That is him. Right? But you still doubt it, kinda. The guy who made you cum with just his chat. Who called you baby. Who told you how pretty you sounded when you begged.

You scroll. Just once. To check the preview of what his feed will look like. Just enough to feel your thighs press tighter together before you go back to the site to check his profile.

Stranger: Follow me

Stranger: I’ll follow back

Stranger: Don’t act shy now

Stranger: You literally came just talking to me

Stranger: And now you’re embarrassed?

Your cheeks heated. You move under the covers as if it will do shit, like you’re not already wet again, just reading his tone.

You: I didn’t think you were real

You: Like a normal person

You: Not some…

You stop. Don’t even finish the thought. He’s enough to ruin you. Smug enough to know it.

You: I hate you

Stranger: No, you don’t

Stranger: I’ll be in your head for days

He already is. And this shit makes you want to actually talk to him. Maybe you’re more attracted to him now.

You pause. Hesitant for a moment. Then you follow him.

Three seconds later:

@rafe.cameron followed you back

Oh. That’s really him. Shit. That’s really him. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.  Your stomach flips. Your skin crawls on your body.

Stranger: There we go

Stranger: Night baby

You: Fuck off

You managed to say that before “Stranger has disconnected” shows the screen. You left the site and went to Instagram to stalk him again. You’re smiling. Well, not really. You’re more likely grinning. You’re still heated and wet. Your panties are soaked around one ankle like some whorey medal you are showing. You’re too busy staring at his name.

Rafe fucking Cameron.

It sounded too sexy. His name will probably sound more sexy when you moan it. Your pussy spasms like it remembers every second since his words slid into your head, every word typed out by some cocky stranger that was too full of himself.

You open his profile again.

It’s worse the second time. This time. The tagged photos, the stories, every new picture sends a fresh jolt to your cunt like you’re putting it on an electric socket. Thirst traps on yachts. It’s a beach pic with his hand in some girl’s waist, but it’s just a back photo. Jesus fuck, that mirror selfie. He’s in the bathroom. The towel is so low that it’s showing his v line. Fuck... The body is well-defined but not excessively muscular. Just enough to catch women’s attention.The caption?

@rafe.cameron: Just showered. Missed a spot?

You choke on your spit in your mouth. Literally choke. Your pussy flutters like it knows he meant you.

Your finger twitches, and you tap through the highlights like it’s some boudoir folder, and every image makes your pussy clench harder. His jawline. That golden skin. His hands hang low near his hips like he knows exactly where you want them.

God. You hate him. Hate that he made you come to chat. Hate that he’s so attractive. Hate him. That is concerning to feminists because you want him to fuck you like some whore. Hate that your cunt’s still greedy, still wanting for more, that your hand is already creeping back to your tits as it belongs there.

But it doesn’t stay long there; your hand moves lower in a slow, familiar feeling taking over. Your fingers dip between your legs, tracing the mess he left behind. You’re so wet it’s embarrassing. It’s slippery, soaked, and obscene.

Your thumb circles your clit once. You shiver, and you press harder before rubbing faster. Then, because you’re disgusting and already past the part where you will pretend you’re not sexually attracted,, and horny again, your fingers slide inside like they’ve been waiting forever.

You moan. Soft, shaky, breathless right into the empty room. The stretch around your pussy is perfect, especially since you haven’t touched yourself recently. It feels like you’ve been aching for it. You imagine it’s him. His fingers, long and rough and thick, whispering... Already dripping? Jesus, baby. What’d I do to you?

You grind up into your own hand like a bitch in heat. From the first grind, it’s already slick and more filthier. Your fingers work in the push and pull, in and out, while your thumb rubs your clit just enough, maybe just some flicks. Your phone still glows in your other hand, his face watching you fall apart from that one Instagram post. Smiling, all sun-bleached confidence and a hot body.

It’s like you’re stalking him because of something. Maybe the idea of his picture staring at you excites you. Want him to see this. It is to know how fast you get worked up. That he made you finger yourself with just one sentence and a username.

Your legs start shaking. You’re so fucking close.

That made you zoom in on his pictures. Zooming is the area where you get turned on the most. And shit, every new image makes your pussy clench harder. Made you pump your fingers harder, faster. Made you panting quietly and try to stay quiet.

And when you come? It’s something. Sloppy. A wet rush that makes your fingers slip, and your hips shake and thrust forward repeatedly. You moan into the pillow, biting it, praying no one hears. It’s loud. Ugly. The kind of orgasm that leaves you twitching, gasping, some post-nut clarity.

When you finally stop, you’re limp. A little. Your thighs managed to get tired this time. And your wrist, too. You lie there, still flushed and soaked, panties bunched around your ankle like a trophy. Tits out. Hair matted to your forehead.  Your body slacks with leftover heat. Your fingers are still slick and sticky. Your phone is still open to his account, a disgusting mess of slick thighs and a shameful self.

You don’t chat with him like he expected you to. Well, it’s not that you are expecting him to think that. No. Well, maybe a little.

If you close the app like that, it will help you erase what happened. Like whoever god there didn’t already see you finger yourself hard over some pictures of a stranger you met from that shitty site.

Jesus fucking Christ.

What was that?

Seriously. What the actual fuck was that.

And you stare at the ceiling, half sleepy, flushed, pussy still quivering like it’s got a mind of its own. Chest rising like you just got hit by a truck full of shame.

Your clit’s still throbbing.

“Jesus Christ,” you whisper, like maybe God’s taking calls tonight.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[musingsofheaven]

Hello!! I adore your Art fics and was wondering if you’d do one with top/dom!Art x Sub!reader and she has a really bad oral fixation throughout her normal day buts it’s especially bad when she’s upset, and she is, also if possible if you could somehow fit in NSFW themes I’d really appreciate it! Once again love love love your work!💕

Sorry if this is gibberish I suck at requesting stuff

SLURRED, SLIPPY, SHINY.

summary: It’s not new. You’ve always had a thing for using your mouth when your feelings get too big and you go quiet. And Art knows that silence, knows exactly what you need when it hits. He never makes you explain. Just cups the back of your head and tells you, “Breathe through it, baby.”

pairings: ceo!art donaldson x young girlfriend!reader

warning: 4.2k words. mature themes. oral fixation. age gap. power imbalance. oral sex (m!receiving). gagging / light choking. spit / drool / mess. aftercare. read responsibly.

note: this request has been sitting in my inbox since june 7 and i swear i wasn’t ignoring it :(! sorry … sighs. anyway, i saw “oral fixation when she’s upset” and i immediately felt exposed. why would you call me out like that. do you know how many things i’ve put in my mouth just to not cry?? like it was a coping mechanism. and surprise!!! it was!!! 🤪 and yep… we’re here now. she’s soft. she’s messy. she’s gagging a little. and she’s regulated by one (1) emotionally available dom named art donaldson. (I WANT SOFT DOM ART) To anon, i’m sorry it took me long. i love you. thank you for requesting this. 💗

You should’ve grown out of it. That’s what everyone said- quietly, politely, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it’s just a phase. Just something you’d stop doing once your brain settled, but it’s not. As much as you want it to stop, it didn’t. It started when you’re young, with your thumb, then your shirt collar that you’re subtly putting between your mouth when you’re alone, hoodie strings chewed until they frayed. Note: Each one of your hoodies.

Teachers, doctors, and relatives offered solutions: rubber sticks, bracelets, soft pens. You tried. But nothing worked like having something in your mouth. It doesn’t work. You almost broke down when someone asked what it was when you left your bag open. It wasn’t just a habit. You know that. It was need- pressure, focus, quiet. It’s something. It’s yours. Something to help you feel safe. A comfort.

You learned to hide it as you got older. No more thumb sucking (when you’re at public), but your pens still had bite marks. You went through straws too fast. Got flattened and looks like it has been murdered. You pressed your fingers to your lips, mouthed your sleeves, and gnawed your cheeks. You thought it would fade. It didn’t. There’s a time you think it’s fading, not until it happened again, when something triggered you.

It’s worse when you are upset, more than the normal things you do. You didn’t cry or yell. You just went quiet. You bit down. Sucked your fingers raw. Let your sleeves stay wet. Full of drool. You hated how it looked. How did it make you feel small. It can be disgusting, but a good feeling at the same time. You tried to be better. Find solutions on your own when you get older. Therapy, coping tools, breathing tricks- you did it all. But your mouth always ended up full again. Again. And again.

It got harder to ignore around people, especially during sex. When your mouth was busy, your head was quiet. Not because you wanted to be good. Just because it helped. But it got messy- too much drool, too fast, too desperate. You look like you’re eager to suck them off or get fucked. You could always tell when they felt weird about it. They’d pull away. Wipe your chin as if it’s giving them problems. Give you a break you never asked for.

So you stopped letting anyone see it. Bit your cheek. Sometimes it’s too hard you can taste the metallic flavor from your blood. Swallowed the need. Tried to act normal. Masking it in front of other people. Tried to stay quiet without help. You didn’t want to explain. It’s too hard to do it anyway. You didn’t want to see that look- confused, a little uneasy, like they didn’t know what you were doing, or why it mattered.

And then you met him. A quiet gala. A borrowed bracelet. A drink you didn’t finish. He noticed you- not because you were young or pretty, but because you stirred your glass too long, because your fingers kept brushing your mouth like they didn’t know where else to go. The way you lick your lips too much to the point it’s making them dry. You didn’t even realize. But he did.

And for once, someone didn’t look confused. He just watched you more than he spoke. Noticed your jaw, your hands, the way your voice caught when your mouth was empty. But he never pointed it out. Never asked. He just made space. Let you sit closer. Let you speak less. Let you handle yourself. Let you do your mannerisms. Let you know it. And for the first time, you didn’t feel like you had to hide.

Now- now that you’re here, curled up on the floor of his penthouse, sleeves damp, fingers trembling, mouth aching for something to hold- he still doesn’t ask questions. Just let you stay there. Not really get you up because he knows your habits by now. And he’s in the middle of a meeting. Remote. Earbud in, laptop open, voice low. Even as he talks about projections and timelines and things you don’t understand but his other hand- his free hand- is resting gently on your face, two fingers pressed into your mouth like it’s second nature.

You keep his fingers warm inside your mouth. You’re curled against his thigh, knees tucked under you, breathing soft and shallow as you suck on them. Slow. Steady. Sloopy. Like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart. You’ve already soaked his skin. Spit clings to the knuckle and to your chin. Your jaw aches. Your lashes are wet. You don’t even know how long it’s been.

You haven’t spoken since you crawled across the floor and tugged on his sleeve. Soft and with the purpose of disturbing him in the middle of his meeting. Your chest is tight and your eyes are glassy, too full to say a word. You didn’t ask. You didn’t have to. He looked down once, watched your lip tremble, and slipped his fingers past your mouth like he was giving you medicine. Like he knows what you need. Like it’s your fix.

You’ve been like this ever since- mouthing and whimpering, drooling quietly while he keeps talking like there’s nothing unusual happening. Nothing at all. Just you. You’re on the floor. His fingers dig deep into you. “…no, we’ll review it again on Thursday,” he says, thumb brushing under your chin.

“I’ll send over the final numbers after this call.” You whine around his fingers- quiet, desperate- and he doesn’t even blink, just looking straight at this damn meeting. “Shh,” he quietly murmurs, barely audible. His pinky strokes your cheek. “You’re fine, baby. Just keep going.”

You try to behave. You really do. Keep going, he said. But the second he pulls his fingers free- spit, wet, and warm- your mouth feels too empty to breathe right. So you whimper again unintentionally, lips still parted, breath catching in your throat like you’re falling.

He doesn’t look down. Just wipes his hand on the thigh of his sweats and lifts the edge of the desk with his knee so you can crawl more between him. You do- immediately, silently, settling between his legs like you’ve done this before. (You do. Multiple times. Like you already trained for it.)

He’s seated in his office chair, laptop balanced in front of him, camera on. Framed from the chest up. Mic hot. Voice calm. Authoritative. Composed. “… No, we need to revise the it if the acquisition falls through. We can’t afford a delay.” You kneel more comfortably under the desk, hands light on his thighs, cheek pressed to his lap. Like a lap dog. But you didn’t do anything much, you just pressed it, just for closeness, just to feel him- but the second you catch the heat of him through the fabric, your lips part again. You mouthed at him through the cotton. Lips moving with intent. Soft. Unthinking. Your body leads before your brain can follow. A soft noise escapes your throat- barely anything- but enough to be heard.

There’s a pause. “…everything alright over there?” He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift. Doesn’t glance down. His voice doesn’t change. He’s acting like you’re not below him. Like you’re not needy. Like you don’t want more of him in your mouth.

“Yeah,” he says. Just a beat. “All good.”

His hand slips under the desk again, finds the back of your head, and presses down gently against his thigh. Then, without pausing the call or breaking eye contact with the screen, he pulls his cock out- slowly, one-handed- just tugging the waistband of his sweats low enough to let it rest heavy and flushed against his thigh.

“Come on,” he whispers to you, too quiet for the mic to catch. “Since you’re already shaking.” You lean in automatically, lips parted, spit already pooling, and wrap your mouth around the head with a soft sigh. You lick the tip like a lollipop. Tasting his pre cum under your tongue. He exhales through his nose, doesn’t react. “…we’ll circle back on Friday,” he says into the call, calm and smooth, while you suck him quietly under the desk.

He doesn’t know what upset you. Not yet. Not ever since you crawled underneath, since he’s already in the meeting when you did that. But he knew something was wrong the moment you knelt beside him- sleeves tugged over your hands, mouth trembling, silent. You hadn’t said anything. You didn’t need to. You just looked up with your glossy eyes, like you just came from crying and your mouth shining with spit. You touched his wrist, and he gave you his fingers like it was instinct.

Now your mouth is stretched around something thicker, deeper, and you’re curled between his legs, hands braced on his thighs, jaw working slowly. Your spit drips down your chin and onto your hands, but his voice doesn’t change. “…that’s fine. Just update them before it goes to legal,” he says evenly. You hum around him like you’re agreeing. Like you’re part of his little meeting. His hand flexes at the back of your head after you hum, must the vibrations of it have affected him. He holds it not for praise, not control. Just contact. You always need contact.

He glances down once. Just to see you like this- lips soaked, brows furrowed, throat working hard to take more than you should. He almost thrust so deep that you could be stuffed, but he didn’t. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t slow you down. He knows you’ll talk later, after your jaw stops aching and your head clears. Right now, this is the only way you know how to speak. But you’re struggling now- your lips stretched wide, eyes burning, spit messier by the second.

The harder you try to stay quiet, the worse it gets. The more noise threatening to escape your mouth. A whimper escapes, soft and broken, and he feels it. He’s aware of how you are acting below him. Still, he doesn’t pause the meeting. He just lifts one hand off the desk and presses his thumb into the corner of your mouth- not rough, not gentle, just there. Steady. Firm. Guiding.

He eases you off with slow pressure, lets your lips fall from his cock with a gasp. Then pushes his thumb over your tongue, wetting it, quieting you. Grounding you from breaking from it. He knows sometimes you can get overstimulated even if you've already stuffed your mouth.

He lets his cock rests hot against while his thumb plugs into mouth beside it like a stopper, keeping the sound in. “…yes, I’ll review the contract tonight,” he says calmly to the meeting. “No changes on my end.” You blink up at him, glassy-eyed, his thumb still resting against your tongue. You suck on it too, softly, rhythmically, just to keep yourself grounded. To stay in your body. To not cry.

And he lets you. Keeps you there- knees sore, chin sticky, heart pounding, mouth full of him- because this isn’t about making you feel better right now. It’s about keeping you still. Quiet. Held. Just content until the meeting concludes. He doesn’t stroke your hair. Doesn’t tell you you’re good. He just finished his work. Lets you stay where you are, sucking on him like it’s the only thing tethering you to the ground. When the meeting finally winds down- just wrap-up and sign-offs- he clicks once, flatly: “I’ll review everything by tomorrow. Thanks, everyone.” And then he ends the call.

Click. Silence. Like he’s so eager. The shift is instant. He exhales once, slow, and reaches under the desk to grab your wrist- not rough, just firm enough to say: you’re not staying down there. You don’t have time to react and you barely get your hands beneath you before he’s pulling, slow and steady, making you crawl out with your knees catching on the floor. You pout at him because it made you remove your mouth from him.

Your lips are swollen, eyes stinging, his spit and slick cock brushing your cheek as you move. You end up kneeling between his thighs, half slumped in his lap, fingers clutching at his sweats like you’re afraid he’ll take it all away again. But really? In this state? You’re afraid he’ll do it. His thumb shoved back inside your mouth, lazy and wet, soaking from how long you’ve had it before he pulled it out for a moment to get you underneath the desk.

He brushes your chin, glances at your face- pink, glossy, ruined... and pretty. “You gonna tell me what that was about?” he asks, voice low. You shake your head. Just enough. Too shy to say it. Not ready to talk about it. “No?” he repeats, brow twitching.

You pull off his thumb slowly, spit stretching from your lips, then whisper, “Don’t wanna talk...” It cracks your voice. He knows what it means. He knows what he needs to do. You sound shameful. Quiet. Like it hurts to admit. He looks at you for a long second, blank, unreadable- then leans back in his chair and spreads his thighs. “Alright,” he says. “Come get it.”

You’re already moving the moment he said that, dragging your palms up his legs, mouth open before he finishes speaking. You open your mouth wide enough to cater it. You take the head in first- soft, slow, then deeper. Just enough. Maybe the tip is almost kissing your throat. He doesn’t guide you. Doesn’t hold your head. Just watches. Admiring the way you take what you need. The way your lips wrap around it. The way you look.

When you moan around him, eyes slipping shut, he finally lets one hand drop into your hair. “There you go,” he murmurs. “Take what you need.” You press your palms to his knees and sink until your lips meet the base, breath catching, tears stinging your lashes. But you don’t gag, you move slowly, adjusting to it even though you’ve done it many times now. He doesn’t move. Just lets you fuck yourself on him- slow, sloppy, desperate- until your spit coats his thighs, dripping in strings from your chin. Your whole body trembles from the stretch, from how full you are, from how long you’ve been holding everything in.

Then he shifts. Just a little. He put his hand on your hair and grips your hair tightly, not in a way that hurts. He tilts his hips forward once, deep, slow, and the sound you make around him shudders straight up his spine. God, you sound so good, so he does it again. Then again. Three soft thrusts, lazy and controlled, just enough to hear you choke. Just enough to test you to see if you can take it much today. You flinch, but don’t pull away.

You moan- weak, ruined- and he groans softly. “Fuck. You’re really not gonna stop, huh?” Another push, deeper now, hitting your throat. “Not even gonna try.” You look up at him through wet lashes, mouth stretched, eyes pleading. He holds you halfway down, barely letting you breathe, cock throbbing on your tongue like it’s trying to get something out of you you haven’t said yet.

“You needed this bad, didn’t you?” he murmurs, brushing your cheek, wiping spit from your lip. “What happened, sweetheart? Hm? Who made you like this?” He asks. So filthy, making you squirm. Making you feel the tingling through your body because of the sound of his voice. And then, just to feel your throat a little panic, he thrusts again, rougher now, and you gag, tears spilling free.

He doesn’t stop. Just sighs, voice soft. “There you go. That’s better.” Even when your throat clamps, even when your nose presses tight to his skin and your jaw starts to shake, you don’t stop. You learn to love this, giving a head, because he makes it enjoyable. You make a noise- high, wet, almost hurt- but you take it, nails digging into his thighs, spit dripping down his cock like it’s what keeps you breathing.

He exhales again, heavier this time, brushing your hair back from your face. His thumb wipes your chin clean, then strokes your cheek, down to the corner of your mouth where you’re still twitching, still open, still aching. You let him caress your face while you rest there, and your mouth is still full, but he’s not moving yet. “You still with me?” he asks, voice quiet. You nod, slow at first, then again, more sure-eager, already needy.

“You want more?” he asks, voice warm, cock still heavy on your tongue. You whimper around it. He smiles. “Yeah? You want me to fuck your throat, baby?” Your eyes widen- shiny, breathless- and you pause like the weight of it just hit you. You know he’s asking for a consent, knowing that it can be overwhelming for you to do it... especially when he fucks your throat, considering he’s above average and thick too. Then you pull off with a wet gasp, gaze locked on his, and say it like a confession: “Yes. Please.” That’s all he needs. “Good girl.”

He gathers your hair in one hand, lifts your chin with the other, and slides back in with no resistance- just heat, just hunger, just you opening for him like it’s instinct. “Breathe through your nose,” he murmurs, guiding you like always. Reminding you of the same things even though you already know what to do.

“Tap my leg if you need me to stop.” And then he starts- slow, careful, one deep push forward until he meets the back of your throat. He holds there, steady. Not teasing. Just giving you time. Like he’s training you. His hand stays in your hair, grounding you while your body adjusts, while your breath learns to shape around him.

You’re already trembling. Not from fear- just from fullness. From the weight. From the leak. From quiet. Your lips tremble around the base, your fingers curl into the arms of his chair, and your eyes flutter shut as he begins again- a slow drag out, then deeper on the next thrust. His thumb strokes your cheek. “That’s it,” he says, calmly.

“Don’t rush.” You hum before you feel the gag, soft and shallow, then swallow around him, and he groans- not from need, but from how good you are. How willing. He moves again, never too deep, never rough- just enough to feel your throat clench. “You feel that?” he murmurs. “That’s your limit. We’re not going past it yet.”

Your jaw aches. Spit spills freely now. He lets you sit there, face pressed to the root of him, mouth stretched and wet, like you’re trying to breathe through need alone. “You’re doing so good,” he says, like it’s just the truth. “Making space.” Then he slides out, dragging slick along your tongue, and pushes back in deeper this time- firm, measured, until your nose brushes his stomach and your whole body gives out. You’re crying again- he can feel it in the way your throat tightens, then relaxes. In the shift of your breath, the way your hands go soft. The way you go quiet.

“That’s my girl,” he breathes, and this time he means it. He rocks forward again, deeper, surer now- committing. You don’t gag. Don’t flinch. Your lips are red and swollen, your throat open and warm, and you’re wrapped around him like you were made for it. He feels the moment you surrender- when your tongue goes lax, when your breath slows, when your whole body holds still like you’ve given up everything but him. And it hits him all at once- not restraint, but awe. The way you fall apart just to feel full. Just to be good for him.

He lets you breathe there a moment, thick in your mouth, thumb brushing under your jaw while your lashes flutter and your body twitches. Then he leans forward, voice low and too gentle for how he’s looking at you. “Can I go a little faster now?” he murmurs, thumb swiping your spit-slick bottom lip. “Only if you want it.” You blink up at him, tearful and eager, nodding before your brain even catches up. You try to say yes, but it comes out muffled around his cock- your throat flexing like your body’s already answering for you. He groans quietly, settling back in the chair with both hands in your hair, still gentle, still grounding. “That’s my girl,” he says softly. “You’re sure?” Another desperate hum from you. That’s all it takes.

He starts slow again, but this time there’s rhythm, pace, weight, and pressure. His hips roll deeper, steadier, his grip guiding you only slightly as your lips stretch around him. Not forced. Not rushed. Just deliberate. Just enough. You gag once, shallow and quick, then breathe through it, moaning as your spit runs down your chin. You’re making a mess, and he loves you like this- loves how badly you want it, how completely you give yourself up to stay full. “So fucking good for me,” he murmurs, breath catching. “Look at you.”

And then he starts fucking your throat- slow and controlled, rocking into you with more force now, just enough to give you what you asked for. Something to keep your mouth too full to cry. “You’re okay,” he says through gritted teeth. “You’re doing so good.” And you are. You take it all, steady, obedient, dripping, and let him use your throat like it’s the only thing you were built for. You fall apart quietly, trembling with each deep push, your whole world narrowed down to the pressure, the stretch, the weight of him keeping you still. You’re safe. You’re here. And your mouth is where it belongs.

He’s getting close. You feel it in the way his hips start to stutter, the way his breath catches, how his cock throbs a little harder with each thrust. He slows down, lets you breathe around it, and rests heavily on your tongue. “Gonna come soon,” he murmurs, voice low. “Can I do it in your mouth, baby?” You nod right away- messy, needy, already whimpering for it. You don’t pull back. You don’t even think. Just press closer, mouth slick and stretched and shaking, and he groans when he sees how much you want it. “Good girl. Don’t move.”

He doesn’t thrust. Just holds you there- deep, swollen around the base- as he comes in slow, warm pulses, filling your throat while you take it, tear-streaked and open and perfect. You don’t stop. You swallow around him like it’s all you’ve ever known how to do. His hand stays in your hair, thumb stroking your temple, like he’s holding you together while you shake. You stay like that even after he’s finished, mouth still parted like you’re not ready to let go.

He slides out slowly, wet and sensitive, and your breath hitches at the loss. His thumb catches what’s leaking from your mouth and tilts your face up, not rough, just enough to see you. Your eyes are red, your jaw still twitching, your lips parted like you don’t know how to close them yet. He says nothing. Just breathes out quietly and reaches for your wrist.

You’re still trembling when he pulls you into his lap, steady but gentle, guiding you into place like he’s done it before. The office chair isn’t built for this- not wide enough, not soft- but you climb in anyway, folding messy and small. One leg drapes across his, the other hanging off the edge, and you curl into him instinctively, arms around his neck, face buried against his shoulder like you’re trying to disappear.

He holds you close. One arm across your back, one hand in your hair, thumb stroking slow circles through your sweater. You don’t speak. You just breathe, quiet and uneven, body limp but safe. The crying hasn’t stopped completely- it’s softer now, more like the aftershock than the storm. Your knees shake. Your mouth aches. Your fingers curl into his shirt like you’re holding onto gravity.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, voice low against your temple. “Shh. You did so good,” he whispers. “It’s over now.” You nod faintly. He asks if it hurt. You shake your head. “Good,” he says again, lips brushing your hair. “That’s all I care about.”

He doesn’t ask what upset you. Doesn’t press. Just holds you tighter, arms wrapped around your back like you’re something worth keeping still. You’ll tell him later- when your throat doesn’t burn and your heart isn’t stuck in your chest. Right now, he lets you stay soft.

You melt into him slowly. Floaty. Boneless. Barely blinking. Your hands relax in his shirt, breath slow against his neck, and when you nuzzle closer, he tilts his head, letting you burrow. Then the kisses start- quiet and light, scattered across his jaw, below his ear, the curve of his throat. Sleepy little thank yous. Not for effect. Just instinct. He smiles softly and curls his hand around your head. “You’re really sweet when you’re like this, baby.”

You hum in response, kissing his pulse once more. You don’t move. You don’t need to.

Then, quieter than anything: “Love you.”

It just slips out- muzzy and honest.

He stills. Just a beat.

Then sighs into your hair, arms holding you closer.

“I know,” he murmurs. “Love you too.”

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[musingsofheaven]

GREW UP PRETTY. p1

summary: She’s your mother’s best friend. Apparently she's always around, and everywhere. She shouldn’t be here. Not this late, not this drunk, not in the silk nightgown her ex-husband use to fuck her with.

pairings: milf!tashi duncan x family friend!reader

warnings: 17.7k words. mature themes. graphic cunnilingus (f/f). spit-heavy oral sex. oral fixation. clothed face grinding/humping. age gap. power imbalance. dubcon-adjacent tone. d/s undertones. overstimulation. cheating mentioned (not between the main characters). read responsibly.

notes: this was supposed to be one big 31k word fic but i got overwhelmed and shy so i’m posting it in two parts… :( here’s part one!! i know…. i know this is still long but… 🥺 i’ve been staring at this fic for like forever with my face in my hands because I am rethinking what I am doing. thank you so much for reading… i’m so grateful and shy and sparkly about it… part two is coming soon i pinky swear!!! thank you for being here ily forever ok ok ok < 3

You weren’t looking for it. Swear to god. You weren’t doom scrolling for drama or stalking her name in search bars or anything pathetic like that. You were just… on your phone like a normal human being. That’s it. You are laying half-splayed across your bed like a damn baby, one leg cocked over a pillow you should’ve replaced a long time ago. The screen brightness is so bright that it can burn your eyes. Reruns are flickering on the background television, but it’s on mute. Bra strap slipping down your shoulder. Brain activity hovers somewhere between static and sludge.

It was a nothing night. You hadn’t eaten since 4 p.m. Your tongue felt like it had fuzz on it. You were sure you could still taste the food your mom poured earlier. And maybe that’s why you didn’t move; you just lay there like a lazy animal in the low light, refreshing the same three apps in a loop, thumbs twitching over notifications that weren’t even for you. No texts. No calls.

Until you saw it.

It’s a big white font with a black background. It’s so sleek and serious. That little blue checkmark is like a cherry on top of a shit sundae, meaning it’s credible.

TASHI DUNCAN AND ART DONALDSON, HUSBAND OF 14 YEARS, OFFICIALLY DIVORCED, SOURCE CONFIRMS.

You froze.

It’s not dramatically frozen. Not gasp and clutch your necklace frozen. Just slow and still. The kind of still where your eyes read it once, then twice, then again, but your brain didn’t catch up until the fourth loop. It’s more like a shock.

Because yeah. Okay. People had been speculating. You weren’t blind. You’d seen the posts from other people. The shade. The way her ring stopped showing up in press shots. The way her tone changes, and there’s an edge in her voice when she says his name in interviews. How she looked at the court sometimes was like it was the only thing she still had left. You noticed.

But still. Divorce.

The word just sat there. Heavy. Echoing. Like it was trying to rearrange your memory. You stared at the headline until the letters blurred. Until they stopped looking like real words and started feeling static. Tashi Duncan. Divorced. You blinked once. Twice. Let it settle in your chest like it had the right to live there.

And maybe that’s what hit the hardest. It’s not a surprise because, deep down, you weren’t. Not really. You’d heard things. Seen things. Her name is trending for the wrong reasons. Her interviews were getting shorter and meaner, and she was clipped at the edges like she was bleeding patience in private. You’d noticed the ring vanish from her finger. Noticed how she smiled with her mouth but never her eyes anymore. You saw everything when it came to her.

You always had because you’d always been there.

Ever since you were little, you have been around whenever your mom was quiet in the background of wine nights, club fundraisers, and tennis galas that smelled like perfume and ambition. You’d trail after her like a shadow with a juice box while she laughed at something Tashi said, all effortless posture and that sharp, dry smile that made adults lean in. And then there was Lily… tiny, pink, squirmy Lily, who Tashi brought around for the first time when you were seven. Your brain clicked instantly into older-sister mode even though no one asked. You didn’t care. Lily was a baby, and she was hers, and you watched her like she might float away. You were good at that. At watching. You always watched Tashi.

She was your mom’s friend, sure. But she was also… Tashi. The Tashi. Women with posture like a weapon and a voice that could make grown men straighten up. She’d ruffle your hair like a joke, glance over your swing at one backyard match, and go, “Better, but your follow-through’s lazy,” and walk off before you could even be embarrassed. She wasn’t like the other women. She wasn’t soft. She didn’t coo. She didn’t coddle. She saw you, said things that made your stomach flip, then looked away like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t cling to them for weeks.

So, yeah. When the headline said “confirmed,” your gut didn’t twist from shock- it twisted from something worse. Something like inevitability. Fourteen years. A kid. A house full of trophies and a history stretched longer than your adult life. But you knew. You fucking knew it. No PR phrase could patch over the truth. Not “mutual decision.” Not a “joint statement.” Not even “good co-parenting.” It wasn’t mutual. You could read between the lines.

You sat there in bed, barely breathing, phone screen lighting up your face like a goddamn omen. One leg is thrown over a pillow, and your other foot is half-hanging off the edge of the mattress, cold and cramping. You hadn’t moved in maybe an hour, but your brain still felt like it hadn’t caught up with your body. Like you were still suspended between sleep and that blinking headline on your screen.

The article was still open. It was a clickbait article with all caps, clean font, and no-nonsense layout- the design that makes bad news feel worse. It had been waiting in draft form for someone to hit publish. You hadn’t even realized how tight you were holding your phone until your thumb cramped.

And that’s when it rang.

You didn’t move. Just stared at the screen like it had betrayed you. One name. No contact photo. No cute nicknames or emoji. Just her- Tashi Duncan. Plain and centered and suddenly taking up the entire world.

Which was weird. Because she didn’t call you. Not really.

You’d gotten calls from her before, yes, but they were always in the morning for one reason: your mother. Or Lily. Or both. Sometimes it was “Is she home?” Sometimes, it was, “Hey, are you free for a few hours?” Tashi was always running around, juggling matches, coaching, or flying out last minute for the press. You got used to hearing from her at 9 a.m. on a Saturday, voice brisk and polite and too awake. Sometimes, she’d ask if you could swing by and watch Lily. Sometimes, she just wanted to double-check that your mom hadn’t forgotten brunch plans. You were the in-between. The helper. The kid who never said no.

But this was different.

It was 12:41 a.m. on a Thursday.

And Tashi Duncan was calling you.

And that made no fucking sense.

You didn’t touch the screen. Just sat there blinking, your heart thudding way too loud for how still everything was. Reruns are still murmuring in the background. The taste of sleep still stuck to the back of your throat. And that damn article still glowing beneath her name like it was taunting you.

Because you knew her. Not well, but long. Long enough, you think. You were seven when Lily was born and have been around ever since. Your mom and Tashi met at Stanford when everything felt sharp, fast, and impossible. They bonded over late-night cram sessions, early morning practices, and the shared mess of being too bright, too ambitious, and alone in rooms full of men. But then your mom got pregnant. Dropped out. Moved back. Never quite circled back to the dreams she once had. Tashi didn’t say much about it. Just stuck around. Sent baby clothes. Stayed in touch. Their friendship got quieter, but it never broke.

Which meant Tashi was always around. And so were you.

Your mom would bring you along, and Tashi would ruffle your hair, ask about school, or pass you a cupcake when you thought no one was watching. When she had Lily, you were already old enough to babysit. Old enough to know where the emergency numbers were, how to heat milk, and how not to let a toddler fall off the couch. Tashi trusted you. Your mom did, too. You’d spent entire weekends in her guest room, with Lily snoring in a crib next to you and a baby monitor buzzing like static on the dresser.

You knew her.

Not like a second mom. But close.

Close enough that this late-night call, this out-of-nowhere ring against the backdrop of a fresh divorce headline, felt like a door creaking open. You didn’t know what the fuck it was about- but it felt big. Heavy.

You let it ring once. Twice.

Then, breath shallow, fingers stiff, you hit accept.

And you didn’t know what she would say when you picked up.

But your chest was already tight. And you already knew it wasn’t going to be about Lily.

And it sure as hell wasn’t about your mom.

You don’t say anything at first. Just press the phone to your ear and wait, heartbeat tripping into something nervous and twitchy, like it knows more than your brain’s willing to admit. There’s a pause- not dead air, not silence, just that heavy sort of in-between sound you only hear when someone dials before fully deciding if they should. That held my breath. That weight. That question mark. You think about saying something. You almost do. Her name’s right there, soft in your throat like a dare, but you don’t push it out yet. You just… wait. Wait like the pause might stretch long enough to cancel itself. If you stay still enough, maybe she’ll hang up, and you won’t have to hear whatever this is.

And then, “Hey.”

Low. Casual. It’s way too casual, as if you didn’t just catch her in the middle of unraveling like this was normal. Like this was fine. You blink up at your ceiling and squint at the shadows there, your thumb rubbing the curve of your phone without realizing it, your other hand fisted in the sheets like that might ground you somehow. Your throat is dry, and your pulse feels like a misplaced metronome.

“…Hey.”

Another pause. Tighter now. Shorter. But heavy, like it’s hanging off the edge of something that could tip either way.

“She around?”

She doesn’t say who. She doesn’t need to. You know exactly who she’s asking about. There’s only one she Tashi has ever called to check in on. The same woman who once tried to mail her homemade ginger drink when she had strep throat. The same woman who’d leave Tashi voicemails that were basically wine-fueled TED talks. The same woman currently passed out in the bedroom down the hall, dead asleep with a headache and half a bottle of chardonnay in her system and absolutely no idea that her old friend just dropped a divorce headline like a live grenade across your phone screen. She’s the one who still uses scented lotion like it’s 2003, who has a favorite wine glass and a vendetta against oat milk, who keeps old voicemails from Tashi saved on her phone and doesn’t even realize you know that.

You shift onto your side, pillow warm beneath your cheek, voice soft but steady. “She’s knocked out.”

There’s a sound on the other end. Barely there. Just breath, maybe. Or the quiet exhale of someone leaning on something, the kitchen sink, a doorframe she hasn’t moved from since she hung up on the last reporter call. Something solid. Something that holds her up when her knees won’t. You can almost picture her in the half-dark, staring down at her own feet like they might give her an answer, like she’s still waiting for someone to come home and tell her this wasn’t real.

“She had a headache,” you murmur. “Long day.”

Tashi hums. Not in agreement, not in dismissal-just a noise that lives in the middle. “Yeah,” she says, quieter now. “Mine too.”

You glance at your phone, still propped on the blanket beside you. The article’s still open. The headline is bold. Obnoxious. Weirdly clinical for something so personal. You want to ask her about it. You really do. Want to crack a joke, maybe. Make it normal. Make her laugh. Or perhaps say nothing and let her know you read it. You’re not pretending this is just a check-in when you see her. But you don’t. She called to ask about your mom because she didn’t bring it up.

Except… maybe she didn’t.

“She asleep-asleep?” she asks, voice low, smooth, but with an edge now. “Or could I still come by for a second?”

You blink at the ceiling. Your tongue presses flat to the roof of your mouth. “It’s past midnight.”

“I know.”

Her voice doesn’t waver. But it doesn’t settle, either. It’s still too even, too precise. Like she’s rehearsing each word, measuring how much she’s letting you hear. There’s something behind something raw, something cracked- but she’s holding it close like she’s afraid of spilling more than she means to if she lets one more word slip.

You sit up a little, back against the headboard now, the pillow falling to your lap. “Did something happen?”

“No,” she says too fast. Too tight. Then quieter, more real-“Not really. I just… I was thinking I might ask her to drink.”

A beat. Two. Three. You let the silence hang just long enough to wrap around you like static. Your fingertips twitch against the sheet.

“You wanna get wine-drunk with my mom?” you ask, half-laughing, but not like it’s funny, just like it’s surreal. This version of your life you hadn’t fully considered until now is making the floor tilt under your feet.

She breathes out. Short. Half amusement, half surprise. “Maybe.”

You settle deeper into the pillows, the weight of this whole conversation finally sinking in. “She’s really out, Tash.”

“Yeah.” There’s a rustle. Something clinks. You picture her standing in the kitchen, barefoot, in some old hoodie that doesn’t belong to her anymore. “I figured. I don’t know. I wasn’t really planning. I just…”

She trails off. You can hear her breathing. That’s all.

You wait again.

“I just didn’t wanna drink alone.”

It’s quiet. Honest. It lands in your chest like a rock. Not dramatic, not needy-just simple. It’s sad, in that sharp, quiet way, that you only hear from people who’ve been holding it together too long. You chew the inside of your cheek.

“…You could drink with me,” you offer. Easy. Light. Like it’s nothing. Like your heart didn’t skip when you said it.

A pause.

“What?”

You smile a little. “If it’s just about not being alone. I’m awake.”

Another long silence. But this one doesn’t feel awkward. It feels loaded. Like she’s thinking. Like she’s standing in the middle of her kitchen staring at the wall, trying to figure out what you said that means. Trying to decide if this is pathetic or fucked or maybe just the most human thing she’s done all week. And maybe, just maybe, that’s what scares her most.

“Are you sure?” she asks eventually, her voice thinner now, like she’s asking for something bigger than you think.

You glance at the clock. 12:59 a.m. “Yeah.”

There’s a breath on the other end. Deep. Real. The kind of breath people only take when they’re finally exhaling something they didn’t know they were holding in.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll be there in ten.”

You don’t say anything at first. Let the silence stretch between you, quiet and strange, like the kind that only happens when someone doesn’t hang up or want to. Your room’s still dark, lit only by the lazy flicker of some rerun still muttering to no one. The kind of show that’s supposed to make silence feel less heavy. But it doesn’t help much now. The phone’s still warm against your cheek. She hasn’t said anything since “ten minutes” and hasn’t asked if you’re still there, but she knows. You both know. And that’s the strangest part: the silence, but how easy it is to stay in it.

There’s sound on her end- soft things, background things, the kind of things you only notice when you’re trying not to breathe too loud. Movement. A door creaked open, the low drag of something across the wood. A drawer sliding shut. The faint clink of something glass hitting the glass, or maybe keys dropped into a bowl. You can’t tell. It’s domestic and messy and real. It feels too personal, somehow, hearing all that while lying in bed like this. Like you’re eavesdropping on a life you’re not supposed to be part of. Like you stumbled into a crack in the wall and didn’t look away fast enough, if you say anything now, you’ll break whatever strange thread is holding this together.

You clear your throat. Barely. “Do you want me to hang up?”

There’s a beat as if she’s considering it not seriously but enough to pretend she has a choice. And then her voice comes, low and even, laced with something unreadable: “That’s up to you.”

You exhale softly and carefully as if your breath might push too hard against the moment and knock it over. She didn’t say yes, and you didn’t say no, either. You fidget with the hem of your tank top, your thumb sliding under the fabric, the phone still pressed close. “It just feels weird.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s past midnight. You’re driving over. We’re still on the phone. It’s like…” You trail off, staring at the ceiling like it might finish your thought. “Never mind.”

She makes a slight sound, quite a laugh, but not quite a sigh. Just something breathed through her nose, soft and tired. “It’s only weird if you make it weird.”

You blink. Try not to read into it. Try not to let your mind spin-off in too many directions. But it’s Tashi. And she called you. And it’s not nothing.

Then she sighs, quieter this time. “I don’t even know what I’m wearing.”

You blink again. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t change,” she says, like it’s something to be ashamed of. “Still in that nightgown.”

You swallow slowly like the word is stuck somewhere in your throat. “What kind of nightgown are we talking about?”

There’s another pause, the kind that stretches like fabric pulled too tight. The kind that sounds like she’s not looking at anything thinking. Then, quieter, “Silk. Green. The one Art gave me.”

And just like that, your brain pulls it forward. The memory. You were younger- iway younger. Staying over for some reason, you barely remember now. Your mom was out of town. Their house felt too clean. Too still. You remember her sitting by the window, wine glass in hand, the city lights bouncing off that same green silk silk. You remember thinking she didn’t look like anyone’s mom. Didn’t look like someone who had to tell people what to do. She looked like a painting. Like someone expensive and complicated.

Your voice is softer now. “You’re still wearing it?”

“I wasn’t thinking,” she says. “I just… I don’t know. It’s soft. I like it.”

Another pause. Then sharper: “God, I should probably throw on something else.”

You hesitate, heart skipping. “You don’t have to.”

“Well, I’m not showing up to your porch in lingerie.”

You laugh, but it’s quiet. “It’s not lingerie.”

“It’s silk.”

You bite your lip. “Bring a coat.”

“I was going to.”

“I know. Just… it’s cold tonight.”

She doesn’t answer right away. And when she does, her voice is soft. Almost fond. “You’re sweet.”

You shift under the blanket. Your heart’s doing something it shouldn’t be doing. “I’m not.”

She hums again. The kind that doesn’t argue but also doesn’t agree.

Then the sound of her front door, the way it clicks shut behind her, the breath she lets out, her footsteps on the porch, the soft beep of her car unlocking, her keys jingling, muted like she’s trying not to wake the world.

And still, neither of you hangs up.

You put the phone down on your nightstand, a soft clack muffled in the quiet room, the screen’s glow painting your ceiling like an old movie. Your fingers drift to the mess on your floor- clothes half-tossed, notebooks stacked like they might topple any second. Without thinking, you start picking things up, folding a shirt that’s been wrinkled for days, nudging a pile of papers into some order. The rustle sounds loud, alive, and impossible to ignore.

From the other end, her voice cuts in, smooth but teasing: “Hey, what’s that noise? You cleaning?”

You freeze, fingers halfway through folding a T-shirt. You laugh softly, trying to sound casual like it’s nothing. “No. Definitely not.”

She hums, amused. “Mhm, sure.”

You sigh, shoving the shirt aside. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m tidying a little.”

Her laugh is soft, knowing. “A little?”

You shake your head, voice light but defensive. “I’m not cleaning. I don’t need to clean.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, voice thick with a smile you can’t see. “Because what, you think I’m coming over? No reason to make your room look nice?”

You hesitate, shirt still bunched in your hands, the fabric soft and warm from your palms. Her voice lingers in the air, half-teasing, half-knowing, like she’s watching you even through the quiet hum of your speaker. You don’t answer right away. The silence breathes.

“I’m not cleaning,” you say, finally, sharper than you meant it. Defensive. A little too fast. “Why would I be cleaning?”

The clock on your nightstand reads 1:12 a.m. It’s the time when everything feels too honest, the walls go soft, and your skin feels a little too aware of itself.

Tashi hums. You can hear the clink of her glass-ice against crystal, that rich little sound that tells you she’s poured herself more. Settling in. Comfortable. Like this is normal. She does this when her best friend’s daughter can’t sleep and texts her at midnight, asking if she still wants that drink.

“Mm. No reason,” she says. “Just sounded like you were getting ready for something.”

You roll your eyes. She can’t see you, but it still feels like a tell. You toss the shirt aside and land crooked on the half-folded bed like a half-lie.

“I’m not,” you say again. “It’s just… the floor was a mess.”

Which is true. But that mess didn’t bother you earlier. It didn’t bother you at dinner or when your mom said goodnight and disappeared upstairs at half past ten with that familiar yawn and a reminder to lock up. Twenty minutes ago, it didn’t bother you when you were still lying in your sleep shirt, scrolling through your camera roll with that low buzz in your stomach.

But then Tashi said yes.

You told yourself that she was just being polite wasn't a big deal. It wasn’t weird, but now, as you shift a tangled hoodie off your chair and tuck it into the laundry basket, you can feel how aware you are of the space. Of the way, the lamp glows with the vague scent of your lotion still clinging to your wrists.

It’s not for her. You’re not fixing your room because your mom’s friend, who’s been in your life since you were eleven and always smelled like expensive perfume and wine-dark lipstick, said she’d come by for a nightcap.

You’re just… tidying.

“Uh-huh,” she murmurs, with that soft, crooked smile you can hear more than see. “So this isn’t you trying to make things look nice before I come over.”

You lie back against your pillows, your heart thudding stupidly and slowly. The fan clicks softly overhead. You can feel your skin, the bare curve of your thighs under the hem of your shorts, and the heat in your cheeks that isn’t from the blanket.

“I didn’t ask you to come over,” you mutter.

“No,” she says sweetly. “You just asked if I wanted to drink with you. Since your mom’s already asleep.”

And it sounded harmless at the time. But now it’s 1:15 in the morning, and your room smells like clean sheets, and the idea of Tashi Duncan in your doorway feels less like a hypothetical and more like a pulse beneath your skin.

“I’m not cleaning,” you say again, more firm this time. If you say it with enough conviction, it’ll be true. “I’m not… prepping or whatever. It’s not that serious.”

There’s a pause, and you can hear her sip. Another ice clink. The sound of her lips parting just slightly before she lets the drink settle on her tongue. She doesn’t answer, but you can feel her disbelief stretching through the silence. Warm. Heavy. Like her eyes would be if she were standing just inside the doorway.

You sit up straighter, your legs folding beneath you and your blanket slipping to your hips. “I’m not trying to make it look nice before you come over,” you add, your voice lower now. More careful. It won’t feel like a lie if you say it slowly enough.

Still, the room is too quiet. Still, you feel that twitch in your chest, right beneath your collarbone-guilt or anticipation, you can’t tell. Your phone is hot against your ear. You imagine how she’s sitting: one leg tucked under the other, glass in hand, that look she gets when she’s humoring you when she knows more than she lets on.

You run a hand through your hair, catching slightly on a tangle near the back. Your fingers pause there for a second, hooked in the knot like they’re stuck on something else entirely. You untangle it without thinking, nails grazing your scalp, the motion slow and absentminded, like if you’re gentle enough, it won’t pull. Perhaps tonight, nothing has to be drawn. “Do you… still have the key?” you ask, as casually as you can manage. “The one my mom gave you for emergencies.” You toss it out like it’s just a detail. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you’re not already picturing her standing on your porch, hand hovering near the lock.

A pause stretches out on the line. Not long, not suspicious- just long enough to make you wonder if the question landed too soft. If maybe the air between you swallowed it. If she’s pretending not to hear it. But then-

“I do,” she says. Her voice is steady and straightforward, as if this isn’t a question with history inside it. “Your mom never asked for it back,” she says.

You nod automatically, even though she can’t see you. You glance toward the door without meaning to. “Right,” you say, but it sounds far away in your mouth. Your gaze lingers in the hallway like you’re already expecting movement. Like the air’s already shifted around her ghost.

There’s another pause- thicker this time, not uncomfortable but full. You can hear the engine hum gently behind her, maybe the soft tick of her turn signal. And then her voice again, softened like worn cotton: “Do you want me to use it?”

The question is careful. Not shy, not uncertain, but balanced-weighted with something she’s trying not to push too hard. You let out a breath you didn’t even realize you’d been holding, chest loosening around the ribs in a way that makes you dizzy. It’s not relief. Not really. But it’s not dread either. Just something fluttery and uncertain. Something suspended between maybe and yes.

You chew the inside of your cheek, eyes skimming your room without seeing it. The mess is still there, still obnoxious. Piles of clothes clean, some not. A pair of jeans draped over your chair like a corpse. You hadn’t even touched your vanity. Your mirror is still smudged with fingerprints, moisturizer thumbprints, and maybe a little dust. You pull the blanket tighter around your waist like that’ll cover more than just your legs. Like that’ll somehow shield you from being seen too much. You feel suddenly thirteen again, like she caught you playing dress-up in her heels, and she didn’t say anything; she just smiled.

“…Yeah,” you say finally, the word landing soft and full. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

Your voice slips out smaller than you thought it would. Not shy. Not timid. But raw in that way things are when you don’t bother to hide them. Like you’re done pretending it’s just a friendly drop-in. Like you’re letting her hear the truth hanging around the edges. That kind of openness that only leaks out after midnight, when the house is quiet, and your skin feels like it doesn’t quite belong to you.

“But,” you add, your voice flickering a little brighter, trying to steady itself. “Just- can you let me know when you’re already at the door? Like, say it. On the phone.”

You don’t know why you say that. Or you do. You just don’t want to admit it. You want a warning. You want time. You want to hear her voice in your ear when she’s standing on the other side. Not a knock. Not a surprise. Just her voice, letting you know I’m here. Get me.

There’s a pause again. A beat of silence thick enough to feel in your throat. And then you hear it. No words yet, just the shape of a smile curling behind the line.

“You want me to announce myself?”

You roll your eyes toward the ceiling, exhaling through a grin you try to smother. “Yes, Tashi. Just don’t sneak in. I’ll come down.”

And she laughs.

God- it’s so quiet. But it hits you like a wave. That breathy, honest kind of laugh she never gives to cameras. The kind that sneaks out sideways when she’s caught a little off guard. You hear it, and your stomach flips. It’s like warmth under your ribs, like someone lit a candle in your chest, burning slowly.

“Alright,” she murmurs, and there’s something close to fondness in it. Something that makes your throat feel tight. “I’ll announce myself.”

You close your eyes, just for a second. The line hums between you. Not silent. Not full of words. Just alive. And you sit there, curled into the quiet, heart knocking once against your ribs as it knows like it heard something in her voice that your brain hasn’t caught up with yet.

You didn’t hear anything.

Not the low rumble of her car easing up the curb, not the gravel crunching under tires, not even the click of the gate- if she’d even bothered to close it behind her. Nothing. No cue. No build-up. No warning. Just the television murmuring some rerun in the background of your room, the volume turned too low to follow the plot but too high to feel like silence. That soft, useless kind of noise you’d left on without thinking, the kind that fills a space but doesn’t keep you company.

And her. Still on the phone. Still breathing on the other end. She’s always had that quiet, steady presence, even when not saying anything. You’d almost forgotten she was still there, still driving, still on her way-until she wasn’t.

You’re in bed. On your side, one arm curled under your pillow, the other holding the phone too close to your face. Your tank top’s wrinkled from how you’d been rolling around, pressing your knees together and not doing anything else. Just waiting. Without saying that’s what you were doing.

And then, like she’d dropped the match right into the middle of it, “I’m here.”

Two words. Soft, maybe even gentle. But they slice clean through the room like they’d been waiting for the silence to land in.

You freeze.

Because of something about how she says it low and a little too close to the mic, her voice never really sounds unless she’s in a smaller space.

And then your whole body’s moving.

You’re already halfway up before your brain gives permission. You don’t stop to think. You don’t ask if she meant it literally. You know she did. Your body knows it before your mouth can shape a reaction. You’re out of bed in a blur, your sockless feet thudding down the hallway, the phone still clutched in your hand like it might explain something if someone saw you like this. It could justify how you’re dressed, how fast your heart’s beating, or that you’re not even trying to play it cool.

And you don’t hear the key at first.

You’re already on the stairs, halfway down, adrenaline rushing so loud in your ears you could’ve sworn you were alone in the moment you had time. You still had a beat before she’d be right there before you.

But then it happens.

That slow, practiced turn of the lock. The deadbolt gives in like it’s always been hers to open. Then, the door shifted against its frame with the softest kind of surrender. The way only people you trust too much come through.

And then her voice again, this time not from your phone.

Not filtered through distance or speaker static or the safety of conversation. Real. In your house. From the hall.

“I figured you didn’t hear me.”

Like she’s always had a key. Like this wasn’t a big deal. Like you weren’t already standing in the middle of the stairs, barefoot, heartbeat in your mouth, wearing the kind of tank top you never meant for her to see you in like this.

She doesn’t even look up at first. Just kicks the door shut behind her with the heel of one boot, her coat still half-buttoned, hair a little windblown, like maybe she’d been driving with the window cracked. One hand was still wrapped around her phone. She’s not wearing makeup. Or perhaps she wiped it off in the car. Her lips look clean and soft. Tired, maybe.

You don’t say anything. Can’t. You just stand there on the stairs, still halfway between levels, your shoulder pressed to the banister like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. You haven’t hung up. Neither has she. Her voice still hums through the line clutched in your hand, an echo or a memory that hasn’t caught up yet.

She looks at you.

And for a second second, there’s something raw in her face. Some flicker she doesn’t cover fast enough. Not softness, exactly. Not relief. Just something that sees you.

“Hi,” she says, and it’s quieter in person than it ever was on the phone.

You’re not sure if you answer or even breathe.

She walks toward the stairs, slowly, like she’s giving you a second to move, to meet her halfway, to stop her if this was all a mistake. But you don’t. You stay exactly where you are. And so does she when she gets to the bottom step. Looking up at you.

Neither of you is high enough to have the advantage. Not really. You’re still in your tank top. She’s still in her coat. The heat hasn’t even settled into her clothes yet. She looks out of place here, standing in your hallway, close enough that you can smell her perfume. The same one you always recognize but never name.

Her fingers twitch like maybe she wants to say something to them. Maybe reach out.

But she doesn’t.

And then soft, measured, like she’s testing the weight of it:

“Were you going to come down?”

You swallow, but your throat’s too dry to make a sound of it. Just a blink. A breath. A half-step forward that doesn’t register until you feel the wood under your foot instead of the carpet. Like your body moving on instinct and the rest of you lagging.

She doesn’t move. She doesn’t have to. She’s already in the middle of the hallway, with the door softly shut behind her. Her hand is still half-curled around her phone like it’s the only thing tethering her to the version of this where she’s not breaking a line.

You say, “Yeah.” And it’s the smallest thing. Practically a whisper. But she hears it because, of course, she does. She always hears you when you don’t mean to be heard.

Her mouth twitches at the corner, not quite a smile. More like she’s relieved you spoke at all.

“You were still on the line,” she says, holding up the phone like proof. “Didn’t wanna scare you.”

“You didn’t.”

A lie. Or something close. You’re still trying to catch up to your heartbeat, still figuring out what part of you bolted for the stairs without a plan. But you don’t walk it back. You don’t explain. You just make it down the last two steps and stop short in front of her, close enough that the heat trapped inside her coat is starting to bleed into the air between you.

She looks at you for a second longer. Not just a glance- she looks. Like she’s cataloging the tank top, the way your hair’s a mess from your pillow, the grip you haven’t loosened on your phone. Her eyes fall to it, then back up, slower this time. Like she’s making a decision she already made ten minutes ago but wants to make it again right here.

You ask quietly, “So you used the key to come in?”

She doesn’t blink.

“I didn’t want to wait.”

You stare at her, and something in your chest shifts- just slightly, just enough to feel. You don’t say anything, but you don’t have to. The silence does it for you, humming heavily between your bodies like something just shy of a yes.

Your phone’s still in your hand. Still warm from the call. You glance down at it, the screen lighting up uselessly beneath your fingers, still clinging to the line. Still holding her voice like it hasn’t already moved past the speakers and into your hallway.

You press the red circle. End it like it matters. Like she’s not standing right here.

The screen goes black, and the phone’s weight suddenly feels stupid in your hand. You’d been holding it out of habit, not purpose. Without thinking, you set it on the edge of the stair rail and hear it make the softest clack against the wood. Her eyes follow the sound, then flick back to you.

“Kitchen?” you offer, voice low.

She doesn’t answer. She follows.

You move first, not looking to see if she’s right behind you, but knowing. You can feel her presence tugging at your back like static, like tension. The kind that builds slowly gets into your blood and makes your fingers clumsy when you open the fridge just to do something.

Light spills out in a dull glow, too cold against your flushed skin. You lean your hip into the counter and stare blankly at the shelves like you’re looking for something you already know you won’t find. Maybe pretending you don’t see what you’re looking for feels safer than naming it out loud.

She doesn’t say anything. She’s in the doorway, watching you like it’s not the kitchen she came here for.

She doesn’t say anything. She’s in the doorway, watching you like it’s not the kitchen she came here for.

Not really. Not tonight.

You pretend not to notice. Open a cabinet too loudly. Let the glass knock against the counter like you’re thinking about something else- like you’re still playing it cool, even though nothing about your heartbeat is. You feel her eyes on you, heavier than the quiet, steady in a way that makes your neck warm.

Then she speaks softly like she’s easing the question out of herself.

“What do you and your mom drink… when you go out together?”

You blink.

It’s not what you expected. Not quite. You look over your shoulder, and she’s still there crossed, mouth unsure like the words came out before she could check if they were dumb. Like, she’s not sure if that counted as prying.

You take a beat, glass still in hand, then let the edge of your mouth twitch up. “Depends. Wine, if she’s trying to be classy. Margaritas if she’s trying to get me to gossip. Tequila if we’re both trying to forget shit.”

That makes her smile a little. Not all the way, but enough. Enough to soften her mouth. Enough to make you wonder what she really wants to know.

You turn and lean back against the counter now, your hip finding the spot it always does like this is any other night. She’s not dressed like that, and the air isn’t thick with whatever she hasn’t said yet.

You turn and lean back against the counter now, your hip finding the spot it always does like this is just any other night. She’s not standing there in silk silk and a coat like she didn’t drive here in the dark just to see you.

Your eyes flick toward her carefully. She’s still by the doorway. Not moving. Not saying anything. Just looking at you like she does when she’s about to say something that’ll stay in your head for weeks. Months, maybe.

You clear your throat just a little. Then, casual, too casual, you ask, “So… what do you want to drink with me?”

Not what do you usually drink. Not what do you want. Just that small, specific weight at the end of it with me.

She doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers brush the table’s edge like she’s thinking it over. This is more serious than you meant it to sound.

Then she finally says, “What do we have?”

And when she says, “Not you, not your mom, not this house,” your stomach tightens just enough to feel it.

You shrug, glancing toward the cabinets, then back at her. “I don’t really drink at home,” you admit, voice low. “So… just pick whatever you want. Whatever looks good.”

You try to sound breezy, unaffected. But it comes out quieter than you meant, like you’re afraid of breaking whatever this is. You’re not sure what’ll happen if she picks something too firm or soft or walks all the way in instead of standing there like she hasn’t already crossed a line just by being here.

Tashi doesn’t say anything. Just steps into the room like she owns the silence between you, her coat slipping more off one shoulder as she moves toward the cabinet. Her hand grazes your arm when she passes, light, deliberate, and completely unnecessary. Your skin sparks like it’s been waiting for that exact kind of contact, like it’s been rehearsing it in dreams you don’t admit to having.

She opens the door and browses like it’s a bookstore, like she’s looking for something familiar. “You used to have that peach liqueur,” she says after a moment, half to herself. “Your mom swore it tasted better over ice, but I always liked it neat.”

You blink. “She still has it.” Like it’s some little secret you’re sharing, like a fact that settles something between you.

Her mouth quirks up, that half-smile she’s been saving for moments like this when she’s unsure if she’s amused or just trying to look calm. “Good. Then that’s what I want.”

You reach for the bottle, that peach schnapps your mom and Tashi always drink when they’re here together, the one that tastes like syrup and sunburn and afternoons that stretch too long. You hold it like it’s a clue you’re handing her, like maybe it’ll say something you both haven’t dared to say out loud yet.

“But I don’t really drink that at home,” you say, your voice folding around the words like you’re telling her some new fact she didn’t know about you. “Too sweet. Too fake. Like it’s trying too hard to be fun or something, I don’t do that. That’s not me.”

You set two glasses down for her, one for yourself. How your hand brushes the counter feels like you’re waiting for the room to catch up, waiting for her to catch the weight of what you just said.

“I’m more the hard stuff kind of person,” you add, and you can’t help the smirk that pulls at the corner of your mouth. “Tequila, gin, things that hit you where it hurts, and don’t apologize for it.”

You watch her, eyes steady, daring her to say something or maybe just daring her to meet you where the sweet meets the sharp, and nothing’s quite what it seems.

She shifts like she’s weighing whether to step closer or retreat into the doorway she claimed moments ago. The silence hums between you- thick but fragile like a secret waiting to spill.

“You always do this,” you say finally, voice casual but low. “You show up out of nowhere, asking for a drink with my mom. I don’t know if I should be grateful she’s already asleep or annoyed she’s missing all the fun.”

She swallows, and you catch that flicker - that small crack in her calm. Because yeah, you both know the history here. The lines that were never crossed but always hovered just beneath the surface. The way she’s always been careful not to stay too long, not to look too hard, not to linger when your eyes caught hers across a too-quiet room.

“So,” you say, your voice just a little rougher now, a little lower, “what’s really going on tonight?”

She’s still standing there like she hasn’t decided whether to come all the way in. If she does, something shifts. Something tips.

Like her being here becomes something else that becomes real. Becomes a choice.

Her coat’s slipping further down her shoulder now, satin catching the soft yellow light of the kitchen like it’s staged, like the universe is lighting her from some impossible angle just for you. But she doesn’t fix it. Doesn’t notice, or maybe does and leaves it anyway. The curve of her collarbone is bare. Clean. Unbothered. She didn’t drive here with a headache, heartache, and no idea what she’d say once she got to your door.

You don’t press. Not yet. You just look at her and let her decide how far she wants to take it.

But she doesn’t say anything.

So you do.

“…Is it about the divorce?”

You don’t say it is cruel. You don’t say it curious, either. You just say it straight. Maybe you’re tired of pretending she came here for the peach schnapps and not something bleeding under her skin. Something that brought her here in the dark, wearing perfume and silence and that expression she always puts on when she doesn’t want anyone to know she’s hurting.

Her mouth twitches. Not a smile. Not a frown. Just something caught in between, like she’s been holding her breath since she parked the car and doesn’t know how to let it out.

Her gaze drops to your hand, one still holding the bottle, and she steps closer.

The sound of her heels on the tile is soft but final, like a clock ticking over to the next hour. Her fingers wrap slowly around the neck of it, brushing yours, warm, present, and a little too firm to pretend it didn’t happen.

She takes it from you like you offered it, like you didn’t mean to, but maybe you did.

She pours carefully. Steady. Like the quiet between you hasn’t thickened into something close to guilt.

Or want.

Or both, messy and knotted up, sitting in your throat like something sweet you’re trying not to choke on.

Two glasses. There’s no rush. There are no excuses. She doesn’t look at you while she does it; she just watches the syrupy liquid rise in both. That seems safer, as if it gives her time.

Once they’re full, she slides one across to you without speaking. Then she picks hers up, turning it once between her fingers like she’s still deciding what to say or if she should say anything at all. The glass catches the light. Her nail clinks against it, absentminded.

You don’t touch yours yet.

You watch her.

You wait.

She exhales. “I didn’t think I’d say anything.”

Her voice is lower now. Not soft, exactly, but undone in a way you’ve never really heard before. Like she’s halfway through the thought and hasn’t decided if she trusts it enough to finish it.

You glance up. “You didn’t have to come here to talk.”

“I didn’t,” she says, a little too quick. A little too automatic.

You nod slowly. “Okay.”

But you both know that’s not true.

You don’t even have to say it. It just sits there between you, evident as the drinks and the hour and the way her eyes won’t quite meet yours.

And when you finally reach for your glass, her eyes follow your hand like she wants to stop you. Maybe you’ve already heard too much. Perhaps this is already more intimate than it should be.

You take a sip anyway. Let it burn.

Then, after a beat that lasts longer than it should: “You’re allowed to fall apart, you know.”

She stiffens-not all the way, not enough for anyone else to notice. But you do. You feel it in how she adjusts her weight and her thumb stills on the glass.

She stares down into her drink. “Not in front of just anyone.”

Her voice is quieter now. Not hushed, but stripped.

You swallow. Quiet. Slow.

“Good thing I’m not just anyone.”

Her eyes flick up at that fast, sharp, like a reflex she didn’t mean to show.

And for a second, she doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. Just watches you in the way she does when her mouth wants to be clever, but her chest is too tight for it.

Then she says it quietly, flat, almost defensive:

“No. You’re not.”

Her voice isn’t cold. It’s careful like she’s trying to hold something back that has already slipped out.

“You’re my friend’s daughter.”

It’s not a joke. Not a tease. It’s a warning. A reminder. A fucking line in the sand that she’s already ankle-deep in.

And she knows it.

You just blink at her. Not mocking. Not flinching. Just standing there, looking back at her like you already knew she’d say it, and you don’t care.

And that makes it worse.

Because god, you shouldn’t be looking at her like that. Not with your lip caught between your teeth. Not with your neck bare in that tank top. It’s not like she’s the one who made you this bold.

Tashi breathes in slowly and steadily like she’s trying to cool something off inside her ribs.

Fucking hell, she thinks, you could be my daughter.

Not biologically. Not legally. But emotionally? Practically?

She watched you grow up. Ate birthday cake in this kitchen. Drove you to volleyball practice once when your mom was sick. You had braces the first time she ever heard you cry in this house. You used to beg to stay up late just to listen to her and your mother talk shit over wine.

And now you’re standing across from her, grown, calm, a little offering her a drink like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like the rules never applied.

And maybe they didn’t.

Because she called you tonight, not your mother.

She knew what she was doing. Somewhere, under all the grief and mess, she knew.

You tilt your head a little, watching her unravel one inch at a time, and then say soft, amused:

“So, why did you call me instead of her?”

Her eyes drop before you even finish the question.

Not in guilt, exactly. More like avoidance. She already knows what you’re asking and is not ready to answer it out loud. Or maybe she’s just tired of lying to herself about it.

She presses her palm against the counter, fingers splayed like bracing herself against something heavier than gravity. You watch her shoulders settle- not relaxed, not tense, but somewhere in between, like she’s practiced this exact posture in a mirror. A long pause. Then:

“She’s usually asleep by now.”

You hum, dry. A quiet scoff under your breath, not cruel-just real.

“Still not an answer.”

That gets you a glance. Quick. Sharp at the edges. Like she’s weighing whether to snap or shrug.

And you let the silence stretch, just for a second. You know her well enough by now. She’s not the type to spill unless it starts to burn. And something about tonight smells like smoke.

She exhales, barely. A breath that folds her in on herself, slow and reluctant, like it costs her something to keep talking. Her hand lifts to her temple, thumb dragging across her forehead like she’s trying to rub something out, a headache, a memory, the echo of your voice.

And then, quieter, almost like it’s for herself:

“I didn’t want to have that kind of conversation tonight.”

Your brow arches just slightly. You don’t lean in, but your gaze sharpens and narrows.

“What kind of conversation?”

You know the answer already. You just want her to say it. You want to see if she’ll be honest when it’s just the two of you, the lights are dim, and the house feels like a different version of itself.

She doesn’t look at you. Not right away. Just reaches for the bottle in silence, fingers curling around her neck like she’s done this before. This is muscle memory, not a choice. Her movements are smooth and practiced but not casual. You catch the subtle tremor in her wrist as she unscrews the cap. The quick, tight inhale she pulls through her nose before she tips the bottle.

“The kind where I have to pretend I’m okay.”

The words hit the counter like a dropped spoon-soft but loud enough in a room this quiet.

It lands between you like heat. A private admission dressed as a throwaway line. You don’t flinch, but it sinks into you anyway.

She pours your glass first, then her own, steady now. Doesn’t meet your eyes until both are filled. When she finally does, there’s no apology in it. Just a kind of fatigue. And underneath it, something sharp. Something still alive.

You let your hand close around the glass, fingers tracing the rim without lifting it. The peach smell hits your nose- syrupy and familiar. It smells like summer nights you weren’t invited to. Like how your mom would giggle after three sips, and Tashi would just smile without explaining why.

But this isn’t then. And she isn’t smiling.

“And I’m the easier option?”

You say it like you’re teasing, but your voice is low, unreadable.

Tashi’s mouth presses into a line. Not a flinch, exactly, but close. You can see it in how her jaw shifts; it is like she swallowed something bitter.

Then, deadpan:

“You’re not easy.”

A pause.

Her eyes hold yours, steady now. No smile. Just heat.

“You’re just… not her.”

There’s a beat of silence that doesn’t rush to fill itself. She looks down into her glass for a moment, like it might tell her something.

And then she says it. Half under her breath, almost careless but not quite:

“And that’s not nothing.”

You don’t smile. You don’t joke. You let the weight of it hang.

The thing is, she’s known your mother for decades. Long enough that most people forget to filter around each other. Long enough that she saw your mother fall in love, felt the weight of those early, fragile promises, and witnessed the slow unraveling that came later. She’s been there through the celebrations and the silences, through moments in grander homes and quieter nights.

She knows the exact shape of your mother’s laugh, her wrist bends when she pours a drink, and her silence when she fears being seen.

And yet, somehow, you’re the one she called tonight.

Not your mom.

You lean against the counter again, slow and deliberate, letting the space between you shrink-not with steps, but with a shared understanding that neither of you is pretending anymore.

“Is it about the divorce?” You asks again.

The question slices through the quiet like a blade-clean, unavoidable. No fluff. No circumnavigation. Just the raw truth hovering between you.

She doesn’t answer right away.

Her fingers tap lightly on the side of the glass. Once. Twice.

Her mouth twitches like she’s about to deflect, joke, or change the subject. The words catch in her throat.

Then, quietly- just above a whisper, but firm, certain, “Everything is, lately.”

She doesn’t look away when she says it. Hold your gaze instead, steady and real.

And that- more than anything- makes you still.

Because she doesn’t deny it.

Don’t try to redirect or hide behind worn excuses.

She just stands there in the kitchen of her best friend’s house, across from the one person she probably shouldn’t be drinking with, eyes too clear, glass full of something sweeter than she probably wants.

When she takes a sip, you follow.

You don’t even think about it, really. Your hand moves. Like your body’s already whatever she does, you do. Like some part of you’s still following her lead, even now, even here, when she shouldn’t be leading anything at all.

The drink is sweeter than you expected. Syrupy. It coats your throat, lingers on your tongue, and tastes like something people drink on porches in towns where nothing ever happens. It’s not like this kitchen, not like this night. It’s the kind of sweetness that tries to pass itself off as innocent, like fruit punch at a church picnic, but there’s nothing pure about it. It stays too long. Sticks to the back of your teeth. Refuses to let go.

You swallow and watch her over the rim of your glass.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t flinch or twitch or shift. She just sets hers down like that’s the end of it. Like she’s done now. Like that one line- everything is, lately- is supposed to be enough. Like it should land and stick and explain away the years. That’s an answer and not a deflection dressed up like closure.

You let a beat pass. Just one. A silent exhale between the two of you, a space she could fill if she wanted, but she doesn’t. So you set your glass down, too. A soft clink, perfectly timed. Not dramatic. Just… placed. Like punctuation. Like you’re drawing a line in the sand with glass and liquor.

“So.” You tilt your head a little. Let the pause hang between syllables. Let it linger just long enough to press, not prod. “Why’d you really split?”

It comes out calm. Easy. Like you’re asking about the weather. Or about how long she plans to stay. But your eyes don’t leave her face. Not once. You want to see the first crack, the first tell, the first little shift that says you’ve touched a nerve.

She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink. Just shifts her weight like her shoes don’t fit right. She might just turn and walk out, take the bottle with her, leave you to drink in her absence, and sit in the echo of the things she didn’t say.

You give her a second. Maybe two. Long enough to take them out if she wants it. Long enough to walk away. She doesn’t.

Then, casual as anything: “I mean… ‘mutual’?” You lift your brows and sip your sarcasm. ���Sure. That’s believable.”

She glances at you once, quickly like a flick of light off the glass. Like she’s just checking if you’re serious or if this is some kind of joke. But nothing in her expression moves.

So you smile. Not nice. Just sharp enough to scratch.

“What was it?” you ask like you’re playing a party game. “Too many nights apart? Too many cameras in your face? Was it one of those situations where you both wanted ‘different things’ but didn’t actually say what they were?”

Nothing. No reaction.

You keep going.

“Maybe he got tired of you telling him what to do.” You lean on the counter, chin propped on your knuckles. “Or maybe you got tired of pretending like he ever listened.”

She exhales slowly. Measured. But her fingers flex against the edge of the counter as she braces herself for a gust of wind that hasn’t yet come. She knows what’s coming next and is already doing the math to determine whether it’s worth staying for.

And you-it only fuels you. That stillness she hides behind. That constant calculation. If she stays perfectly quiet, none of this will count. Like silence is a shield.

You tilt your head the other way. Smile smaller now. Meaner, maybe.

“Could’ve been the retirement,” you say, offhand, eyes on your glass as it might explain her. “He brought it up, right? Not you.”

You don’t have to look up to know it lands. The quiet gives it away - not stiff, just still, like she’s trying not to react.

“He was the one who said it out loud first. Said he was done. Wanted out. Wanted to stop playing before it got uglier.”

You pause and swirl what’s left in your glass.

“Didn’t even fight you on it, I bet. Just… said it. Like it was nothing.”

You lift your eyes to her, slow. “But I don’t think you liked that.”

Still no answer, but something shifts - a faint breath through her nose, a muscle tightening in her cheek.

“Not because you wanted him to keep playing,” you add, voice light now, almost amused. “Let’s be real. He was barely holding it together. He could’ve thrown his back out tying his shoes.”

You smirk into your sip.

“No, I think you hated it because you weren’t saying it.”

Now she looks at you. Finally, it’s that look - not angry, not defensive, just… exposed. Like you pulled a thread she didn’t think you’d find.

“You were supposed to end it,” you say. “When you were ready. When you were done. Not him.”

A slow blink from her. Nothing else.

“You spent half your life turning him into something bigger than he was,” you continue. “Managing him, building him. Cleaning up his losses, stacking his wins. And he just… took that and handed it back to you. Said he didn’t want it anymore.”

Another pause. You set your glass down, soft.

“Bet that pissed you off more than anything else.”

You don’t smile now. You look at her. Quiet. Direct.

“Not because he quit,” you say. “But because he got to be the one who let you go first.”

Still nothing. Not really. But you can feel her silence now. It’s active. Charged. Like the pause before thunder. Like she’s daring you to say more because she won’t.

“God,” you say, dragging it out, light and cruel and just a little amused, “I can only imagine the arguments.”

You lift your glass again and swirl the liquid, looking for something to do or touch that isn’t her.

“But I mean… you were better than him.”

You shrug casually. “That’s not even opinion. Everyone said it. You were supposed to be the one who went the distance.”

She looks away, toward the stove, like it might rescue her. Like she wants to ask you to stop but won’t.

You keep going.

“But then your knee blew out, and he got a golden ticket, and you pivoted like the pro you are. Coach. Wife. Brand manager. Career midwife. You pretty much rebuilt him from the ground up.”

A pause. You lower your glass.

So you lean in a little. Eyes on her mouth.

“Or maybe you cheated on him?”

That does it.

Her head turns slowly like she’s already exhausted by you, but she can’t not look. Can’t hear what you’re really asking.

“Was it someone you knew already? Fucked someone he knows?” you ask, half-curious, half-slicing. “Or just a stranger?”

Still nothing.

You click your tongue, teeth catching your bottom lip like you’re trying not to laugh.

“Guess that’s a yes.” Yes, to the cheating. Clocked it.

You don’t flinch when she sets the glass down like that. Not quite a slam, but sharp enough to echo against the counter, against your ribs. Loud enough to mean something, even if it’s not clear what. A line in the sand. A flare is going up. A warning, maybe, though you don’t need it.

You just watch her. Her head was tilted slightly, her hip was against the counter, and her posture was loose, as if you were not reading every flick of her eyes. Like you’re not cataloging every breath. You wait because you think she’ll give you something, but because silence, lately, is the only thing that feels like power.

And when she doesn’t speak and move, doesn’t deny, doesn’t defend, laugh again. This time quieter. Smaller. Less venom, more disbelief. Not even for her benefit. If you don’t laugh, you’ll fall into that old habit of softening things for her. And you’re too fucking tired for that.

Then: “You know,” you say, almost thoughtful, voice a little breezy, a little too casual for the weight of the room, “for someone who can talk circles around a loss, you got real quiet when I said the word cheating.”

That’s the thing that does it.

Her head snaps toward you so fast it cuts the air sharply, and suddenly, she seems to have forgotten how to hold still. She also appears to have forgotten that you aren’t that kid anymore.

“Oh, fuck you.”

It’s not loud. It’s not even harsh. But it lands hard. Loaded. Raw. The filter finally slipped, and her authentic voice came out underneath. The one she’s been biting back since she walked in the door.

You blink, slow. Then, you’re slight, smug, and mean because you’re not trying to be fair. Not tonight. Not after everything.

“There it is.”

“No,” she says, jaw tight, shoulders squared like she’s gearing up for a serve. “Don’t do that. Don’t act like you caught something. Like you know something.”

“Didn’t I?”

She scoffs, breath sharp and bitter. “You threw a grenade and waited to see if I flinched. Congratulations. You’re exhausting.”

You laugh through your nose. Short. Sharp. Then step back like the moment doesn’t weigh a damn thing-leaning into the counter like it’s all just a joke now, like you’re watching it unfold from somewhere else.

“You could’ve said no.”

“I don’t owe you an answer,” she spits, a little more venom now like she’s only just realizing you’re not going to back off.

“But you gave me one anyway.”

“No,” she says again, her voice rising steadier. “You decided what it was. You always do that. Fill in the blanks. Make it fit whatever story you want to believe.”

You lift your brows, unimpressed. Your glass sweats in your hand, still half full. Still ignored. “It wouldn’t have hit so hard if it weren’t true.”

Her hands brace the counter like it’s the only thing tethering her to the floor. She’s leaning forward now, with weight in her arms and tight across the shoulders, like she wants to run, hit something, or both. Like she’s burning from the inside out and trying not to show it.

“You think I came here to be accused?” she snaps, eyes cutting toward you like a blade.

And you, you almost laugh. Not because it’s funny. But because she still thinks that works. She can raise her voice, pull rank, and pretend she doesn’t know precisely what she walked into. Like she didn’t sit in her car for ten minutes outside before ringing the bell.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, all mock-innocent, your glass still in your hand, fingers loose around it like you’re trying hard not to throw it. “Is that not what this is?”

She flinches barely, but you catch it. A twitch. A stutter in her breath. And it’s enough. You step in a little closer. Not touching. Just pushing the space like it’s a boundary she forgot she gave you. Like you’re letting her remember who you are now.

“What the fuck did you expect me to think?” you ask, low, steady, almost nice. Like you’re not ripping into her. Like you’re not waiting for her to bleed.

She doesn’t answer. Of course, she doesn’t. The silence between you stretches, pulled taut like a wire about to snap.

You tilt your head and let your eyes sweep her slow neck to shoulder, mouth to jaw. She’s too close for this to be nothing. Not casual. Not innocent. Not even remotely smart.

“So what, then?” you ask, your voice soft now, too soft like you’re already bored with this game. “You called looking for my mom. She was asleep, and I offered. Now we’re here. Drinking. Like, that’s not weird. You didn’t just get divorced and think this would feel the same.”

Still nothing. But her mouth’s a little tighter now. Her throat works around a swallow, and she won’t let you hear. You can practically see the war she’s fighting behind her eyes.

“Is that the vibe you were going for?” you press, smiling like it’s a dare. “Little kitchen reunion with your friend’s daughter?”

Her eyes flick just once. Like she didn’t think you’d go there. Like she thought you would stay polite. Like she still thought you were someone she could manage.

But you don’t let up.

“You know how old I am, right?” you ask, raising your brows. “Or were you counting on the fact that I still look sweet enough to get carded?”

She still hasn’t answered, which only makes it worse, more pathetic, and more damning.

“Jesus,” you mutter, laughing a little now because you’ll scream if you don’t laugh. “Did you come here to drink with someone who could literally be your daughter, or were you just hoping I wouldn’t call it what it is?”

You let the question hang. Nasty and pointed and a little too honest. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But her jaw sets like she’s chewing something down-grief, guilt, or a comeback she can’t land.

“So what now, Aunt Tashi?” you add, voice dripping with mock the way you used to say it when you were a kid, back when your mom told you to call her that like it meant something. Like she was just some benevolent presence in your life instead of a woman who’d later show up drunk at your door at midnight. “You come crying to me now that it’s all falling apart?”

That gets her. A flicker. A tightening around the eyes. As the words hit somewhere soft, she forgot she was still sore.

But she doesn’t break.

So you go for the throat.

“Yeah, sure. You just happened to end up here, with me, of all people. Just a little nostalgic drive, right? Nothing to do with guilt or needing someone to say it out loud.”

You pause, glass hovering near your mouth. Her eyes are on it. You know she’s watching your hands now.

“And maybe you came because you wanted someone to make you feel like shit for it.”

You sip, slow. Unbothered. Let her sit in it. Let it thicken the air between you.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. But the silence tells you everything. It hangs there like a guilty verdict, waiting to be read aloud.

So you give it voice.

“Bet he still defends you. Even now. Isn’t that pathetic?”

She blinks slowly. Her jaw twitches. But she doesn’t speak, and that only feeds you.

“Man’s out here playing loyal husband, and you couldn’t even keep your legs closed.”

Her head tilts, barely like she’s trying not to react like she’s calculating the exact amount of rage she can swallow without choking on it. But you’re not done. Not when she still thinks she can wear that calm- like armor.

“You had a man who worshipped the ground you walked on.” You lean in just enough to make it hurt, voice soft like cruelty in a whisper. “You pissed on it instead.”

That’s when she breaks.

Not loud. Not dramatic. But her hand clenches on the counter, and her breath stutters out of her nose in a way that makes your chest go hot like you hit something deeper than anger. Maybe, for just a second thought, she could still keep her dignity intact.

Too fucking late for that.

Her knuckles go white on the counter. She stares at it like it might offer her a way out. For example, if she doesn’t look at you, she won’t have to admit how much that landed.

But then-

“I swear to God,” she says, voice quiet, ragged at the edges, “if you say one more fucking thing like that-”

You raise your brows slowly. “You’ll what?”

That gets her. Her head snaps toward you, eyes sharp enough to gut.

“I didn’t come here to be judged by some- some little girl who doesn’t know shit about what it means to be lonely.”

Ouch.

But she doesn’t stop. Can’t.

“You think I came here to be judged?” she says, low now lower than before but harder, like the edge of a blade pressed to skin. “By you?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

Her eyes flick up, meet yours, and for the first time tonight, she actually looks. Not away. Not through you. At you.

“You think you know something because you’re angry? Because you got a few bitter lines and a front-row seat to a marriage you didn’t understand?” She laughs, bitter and breathless. “You’ve been dying to use it on me, right? All this time, waiting for the chance.”

You flinch, barely. Her smile twitches. She saw it. She steps in. Just slightly. Just enough to feel the shift in the air like pressure drops before a storm.

“You think calling me pathetic makes you grown?”

You hold her stare, breath caught somewhere in your chest. You should say something. You should push back. You don’t. “Been waiting for this moment since the first time your eyes landed somewhere they weren’t supposed to.”

Her voice is a curl of smoke now, hot and venom- sweet, too close to your mouth.

“Don’t act like I didn’t notice. Don’t pretend you didn’t look at me like I was the one who’d done something wrong like you weren’t the one coming downstairs in shorts that barely passed your ass and trying not to stare at my legs.”

You swallow. You shouldn’t be hard.

“You think I missed how your voice always dropped when you said my name? The way you’d linger in the doorway when I said goodnight?” She scoffs, mouth curling around every word like it tastes filthy. “You’ve been soaking in it for years. Desperate. Quiet. Acting like you didn’t want me to catch you.”

She steps in close- closer than she ever has. Her coat brushes your chest. The silk underneath whispers when she moves.

And her mouth is right there.

“Pathetic little thing. You don’t want to judge me,” she breathes. “You want to be the reason I never stop being a fucking mess.”

You can’t move. You don’t want to.

“And now that I am,” she says, dark eyes burning into yours, “you don’t know what to do with it, do you? You thought I’d come here crying. You thought I’d fall apart.”

Her fingers graze your wrist. Barely. But it scorches.

“Poor thing,” she purrs. “You wanted to play grown-up? Show me your teeth? Then come on.”

The coat parts just slightly as she moves, the silk underneath catching the light like something obscene. You know that fabric. You see that nightgown. You’ve imagined it, dreamed it, ruined yourself over it, even back when you had no idea what to do with the ache.

And she knows that, too.

She sees your eyes catch on it. Linger.

You don’t even ask.

You just drop.

It’s not polite. It’s not romantic. It’s not anything you could explain without choking on your filth. You drop to your knees as they owe her something like they’ve been aching to hit the floor since the second she walked in with that coat slung over her shoulders and her mouth already parted as she knew.

That goddamn nightgown. Looks too good and too soft, the kind of silk that should be worn in candlelight, not under kitchen fluorescents, while someone half her age rubs their face against it like a dog in heat.

Her voice is poison- sweet when she says, “You recognize it?”

Your lips part. Nothing comes out.

She hums. “He bought it for me,” she adds, soft and vicious. “And said this makes him want another Lily.”

Then she leans in, faces leveling before you, breath hot and foul with something ugly.

“Guess that’s why you couldn’t stop staring.”

When she stands properly again like a god… you nose along the hem like you’ve lost your mind. You have. You must have. Because it smells like her- her skin, her perfume, her pussy, barely shielded by layers that feel like paper when your mouth’s this hot, this hungry. You mouth at her like it’ll save you. Like getting her wet through her nightgown might buy you absolution.

It won’t. But fuck, it feels close.

“Tashi,” you groan, already pressing open-mouthed kisses where the silk clings damp to her. “You smell so- fuck- so good, oh my god-”

She should push you off. Say your name like a warning. Say stop.

But her hand finds your head instead.

Not gently.

Fingers in your hair, scalp- tight grip, and her hips fucking jerk forward like she doesn’t care if you bite. Like she wants the teeth. Wants the desperation. Wants the tongue that’s dragging slow and heavy up the curve of her through that ruined silk, like it’s not even in your way.

“Jesus,” she breathes out. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

She’s not even saying it to you. She’s saying it like a confession. Like an apology.

But you don’t care. You’re gone. You’re lapping at her like you can taste the years of bad decisions soaked into her skin. Like if you’re disgusting enough if you worship her hard enough through the layers, she’ll let you do worse.

You grind your nose up where the fabric clings darkest. Your tongue presses. Her thighs shake.

“Bet no one’s ever been this fucking desperate for it, huh?” you mutter, voice wrecked and breathless. “Bet Art never got on his knees. Not like this. Not for this. Didn’t know what the fuck he had.”

“Shut up,” she gasps, but it’s not angry.

It’s desperate.

You know that tone. You’ve heard it behind doors years ago, room over, pressed up against drywall, breath caught in your throat. At the same time, her voice broke, and you didn’t know why you were wet just hearing her beg him in another room when you slept over her place before.

Now she’s the one soaked.

And you’re the one making her.

You grab her ass and drag her forward against your mouth as if it belongs to you like she should’ve been letting you do this the whole damn time. Her knees nearly buckle. Her hand tightens in your hair like she wants to tear your scalp open.

“Tashi,” you whisper, breath hot enough to melt silk. “You’re shaking.”

“Fuck you,” she chokes out.

But her hips say thank you.

You lick a stripe straight up the center of her cunt through her nightgown and panties- obscene, slow, heavy with spit. She lets out a noise that’s half a sob, half a growl. Like this is killing her. Like she wants it to.

And you?

You’d stay here forever.

On your knees, face soaked with her, mouth pressed against the place no one else gets to see her break. She’s older. She’s been loved. She’s been ruined. But not like this.

You’re the one making her fall apart now.

And you’re not even under the silk yet.

She doesn’t even try to stop you now. Her fingers are knotted so tight in your hair they’re shaking, and the coat slips off her shoulders like even fabric can’t stand between you anymore. It hits the floor with a whisper.

But the silk stays.

Because that’s the thing, you don’t move it. You don’t even try. You just drag your tongue up the soaked center of her cunt, slow, like the silk’s not a barrier but a sacrament. It sticks to her wet, sheer, clinging to every curve, every ridge, every swollen beat of her pussy like it wants to be ruined.

And god, do you ruin it.

You nose up into the seam, breathing hot against it, and the heat makes it cling tighter. Her taste is leaking through, already sweet, sour, and sharp, like sweat, skin, and something even deeper. You lick again. Broad. Firm. Right up the center, letting your tongue flatten against the thin slip of fabric and press.

She chokes on her breath. Her whole body twitches.

“Oh fuck-”

You don’t stop. You double down. You wrap both arms around her thighs, fingertips digging into the soft give of her ass, holding her steady as your tongue works her over. The silk is a second skin now, and you’re devouring it. Lapping at it. Mouthing at the swollen, slick outline of her pussy like it’s a puzzle you’ve been dying to solve for years.

And it’s not just the silk.

She’s still got panties underneath- thin, soaked through, clinging to her just as tight. You can feel them under your tongue when you press harder. A soft layer of lace or cotton, maybe both, bunched under the silk like a final line of defense that gave up hours ago. They’re drenched- darker than the nightgown now, twisted into the shape of her cunt like she came into them days ago and never stopped leaking. You lick right through all of it. You feel the texture shift under your mouth- wet silk dragging across soaked cotton, your tongue pushing the fabric harder into her clit with every pass, and she’s shaking. You want her to cum through it. You want to taste her as she breaks apart in layers.

She moans- harsh, guttural, trying to swallow it down and failing. She buckles. Grabs the countertop. Her knees wobble, and her hips roll, seeking, grinding against your mouth like she can’t help it. Like the friction’s not enough and too much all at once.

And fuck, she’s wet.

The silk’s drenched now dark, clinging, and practically transparent with how soaked she is. You can see everything. The way her folds push up against the fabric, plump and flushed. The outline of her clit, straining, begging. The soft dip where her hole flexes, twitching under the heat of your tongue. You lick it all. Slowly. Obscenely. Over and over, soaking your face with her.

She shudders violently. Her thighs clamped around your head, not enough to stop you- just sufficient to make it filthy. She’s rocking now, breathing hard, trying not to say your name, but it keeps slipping out anyway-half-formed, like a prayer.

And still, you don’t pull the silk aside.

You want her like this- wrapped, soaked, too far gone to care. You want her cunt to pulse against fabric you’ve defiled with your mouth, want her to feel you even through layers. The pressure. The heat. The drag of your tongue as you circle her clit through the silk again and again until her whole body jerks.

“Fuck-” she gasps, voice cracking.

You hum into her, filthy and satisfied, and the vibration makes her whimper.

“Tashi,” you pant, spit-slick and raw. “You taste so fucking good- this pussy- god, you’re soaked. You’re fucking dripping.” Your mouth is already glossy with her, chin sticky, upper lip burning where her slick is drying fast in the kitchen air, and still, you keep licking like you’re trying to get drunk on her, like it isn’t enough to just taste- like you want her leaking down your throat until she lives inside you.

You nose hard into the mess of it, grind your tongue right up into the soaked seam, and that breaks her. Her whole body lurches, stutters, hips pushing forward like she’s chasing the pressure, thighs clenching around your head so tight it makes your ears ring. You moan into her in response, tongue dragging firm and slow right up the seam again, and her whimper curls into the air like a scream that’s been swallowed too many times. You swear you feel her clit twitch just from the heat of your breath.

She arches. Moans like her whole body’s unraveling. And you don’t even flinch- you push into it, greedy, worshipful, kissing her cunt as you mean it like it’s her mouth and you’ve been starved for it. You’re not just licking- you’re making out with her through silk and lace, lips pressing soft and hard in turns, tongue slipping across the soaked fabric like you’re begging to crawl inside. Your jaw aches, your mouth is raw, but you don’t care- you’d live like this forever if it meant she’d keep gasping your name like that.

Because that’s what this feels like. Like making out with her pussy through silk and soaked lace, mouth dragging slow, reverent licks over the heat of her, tongue pressing up against the wet fabric while your fingers come up and start rubbing her clit in tight, focused circles- firm and hungry and filthy. You groan against her, the vibration of it rolling through her clit, your fingertips catching the swell of it through the fabric, grinding it down. At the same time, your lips suck against the shape like you’re kissing it open. Every touch is soaked. Every stroke drenches your hand more.

“T-Tashi,” you murmur again, hot breath fogging the sheer fabric, mouth sliding against her like you’re trying to devour her through it. “Let me kiss you. Let me fucking kiss this pussy until you cry.” Your voice breaks on it, all husk and reverence like you can’t believe you get to worship her like this like she’s holy and ruined and still letting you kneel between her legs like a girl who’s never wanted anything else.

She whimpers. And you do. You lick and suck and rub and press, tongue dragging slow and deep along the line of her slit, nose nudging the base, lips locking around the outline of her clit while your fingers work it from the outside. You grind your face into her like you’re kissing her hard, sloppy, hot- and every time your mouth seals against the fabric, she gasps like she’s feeling your mouth inside her. Her thighs twitch around your head, and her hands scramble for the edge of the counter like she doesn’t trust her legs to hold her up.

You moan into it. Let her feel the sound. Let her feel the vibration all the way through the soaked silk and her pulsing cunt and the nerves firing off like sparks. It’s not just heat anymore- it’s friction and desperation and the way she’s grinding into your face like she’s trying to fuse with you. Like the silk isn’t a barrier, anymore- it’s the thing holding her together.

She’s trembling. Her hips roll forward like she’s trying to kiss you back, grinding herself into your face and your hand, as she needs it deeper, more complicated, wetter. You’re rutting your tongue up through the fabric, sliding it just right while your fingers rub fast, relentless, slippery circles into her clit until she’s soaking both of you. Her panties are still on under the silk, pressed in and tight, and everything- everything- is slick.

You suck hard through the fabric- groaning against it-then slow it down, flick your tongue over her like you’re tracing the seam of her lips. Tongue to silk to lace to skin. One thin layer away from the flesh and still somehow inside her. You can feel her clenching, feel the tremble beneath your lips, the way her clit twitches under the fabric as your fingers tease and tongue works in time.

She gasps, jerks- ruts forward on instinct- and you meet her, kisses her clit like it’s her mouth, open-mouthed and wet and filthy, dragging your fingers faster now in time with your tongue, like the rhythm of a kiss that’s turned violent. She cries out. Her knees buckle. Her body’s trying to fold, but your grip won’t let her- you. You’re holding her up, feeding off her, moaning into the silk as she pulses against your face.

“W-wait,” she pants, voice sharp and useless. One of her hands fists in your hair, the other scrambling behind her for the counter’s edge. “What if your mom- fuck, what if she comes down and sees me like this-?”

You don’t answer.

You just keep licking her through everything. The thin, clinging silk of her nightgown, the soaked panties underneath. You press your tongue hard against the heat of her, mouthing at her like you could suck her off through the fabric if you just tried hard enough. And maybe you can. The way she’s twitching, gasping, and whining now is like she’s trying to stay quiet and failing, like her body’s giving you away whether she wants it to or not.

Her hips stutter forward, grinding into your mouth on reflex. Your fingers don’t stop either- rubbing messy little circles right over where you know she’s aching, where the fabric’s glued to her cunt and getting wetter by the second. You’re soaked in it. Your chin, your lips, your fucking soul-drenched with her.

And she’s trying to fight it. She is. She’s still mumbling about your mom, looking toward the stairs like she will pull back. You’ve got her trapped. You’ve got your hands gripping the backs of her thighs, your face buried where no one can save her, and she’s so close now it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter if your mom’s upstairs. Doesn’t matter if god’s watching. Doesn’t matter that she’s still fully dressed because you’ve got her coming apart anyway.

You moan into her like you’re fucking starved- like you’ve been waiting years for this like you’d crawl through the glass just to taste her through those panties again. You’re not even pretending to be good anymore. You’re sloppy with it now, tongue everywhere, mouth wide and messy, soaking the silk with spit until the fabric’s clinging to your lips like a second skin. She’s drenched. You’re drenched. It’s fucking sick how wet she is through all this, how your chin’s slick and your jaw aches, and you still won’t stop.

“Fuck, you’re-” she chokes, one hand in your hair, the other gripping the countertop like it’s the only thing tethering her to this dimension. “You’re not even under.” She can’t finish it. She doesn’t have the breath. She just whines instead, sobs almost, her thighs trembling where they’re locked around your shoulders.

You palm her ass with both hands now, greedy and possessive, dragging her hips forward until she’s got no choice but to grind on your face. And she does. God, she fucking does. She ruts against you like it’s wrong, and it is her best friend’s daughter on her knees with a mouthful of silk and pussy and history-and. Still, she pushes harder, grinds filthier, rocks into your face like she’s trying to fuck you through the fabric.

Her voice cracks. “We shouldn’t- we shouldn’t- what if she-”

And you don’t. Even. blink.

You groan into her, deep and filthy, like you want her to feel your refusal all the way up her spine. Your fingers speed up faster, tighter, cruel little circles over the soaked lace of her panties, the pressure too good to think through. Her whole body jolts like she’s been shocked, and you suck at her through the silk-like you can punish her for thinking about anything else but this.

She’s gonna cum. She knows she is. And she starts shaking her head like that’ll stop it, like she can logic her way out of what you’re doing to her body she can’t. Not when you’re moaning like that, not when your fingers are grinding her down, and your tongue is pushing and pushing and fucking pulsing over her clit through the wet fabric like it belongs to you.

And the worst part? The most disgusting, humiliating part?

She’s gonna cum dressed like this. Half-covered in silk, panties soaked, nipples hard and visible through that ridiculous nightgown her ex-husband bought her. She’s gonna cum standing in your mom’s kitchen, trembling like a slut on the mouth of the girl she shouldn’t even be touching.

And she does.

She cums.

It slams through her like a train- fast, brutal, no mercy. Her whole body locks and then shudders violently. Her knees nearly give out, thighs quivering where they’re clamped tight around your head like a vice. A raw, broken sound tears from her chest-half a gasp, half a sob- and it punches straight into your mouth. You keep licking. Keep sucking. Keep grinding your tongue into her clit like you’re starving for it.

Because she’s soaking.

Everything between her legs is obscene now, filthy and soaked, a mess of spit and slick and come, sticky and hot and seeping through layers like it’s got nowhere else to go. The silk of her nightgown is utterly ruined, clinging to her skin like melted sugar, translucent and dark where your mouth’s been. Her panties-thin and utterly useless, now- are plastered to her cunt like a second skin, sodden with your spit and her slick. The crotch is slick and squelching every time your tongue presses in, and the fabric clings so tight you can see the outline of everything- her folds, her clit, the twitch of her pulsing hole.

She shakes, twitching like her body doesn’t know what to do. Her thighs squeeze around your head once-twice-then go loose, trembling violently. And she’s still coming. You can feel it. Taste it. The way her pussy keeps pulsing under your tongue, spasming helplessly, her whole cunt clenching through the fabric like it’s not sure what it wants-more pressure or to run.

“Fuh-fuck-” she chokes, hips jerking, one heel skidding on the floor.

Your mouth is soaked. Your chin is soaked. The whole bottom half of her nightgown is soaked, clinging wetly to her inner thighs and sticking in a twisted mess between her legs like you poured warm syrup down her body. Her panties are ruined- warped and stretched, glued to her from slick and spit, and come leaking through the seams.

You don’t stop. You keep licking like you’re chasing the final tremors of it, tongue wide and slow, lips dragging over the soaked swell of her cunt like you’ve gone mad for the taste.

Then-

“Sweetheart?”

Your mother’s voice.

Upstairs.

Tashi jolts. Her entire body stiffens. Her hands clutch your head like she’s going to shove you off, but she doesn’t. She’s still panting. Still dripping.

“Are you downstairs?”

You don’t move. Neither does she. You can hear her heartbeat can feel it pounding through her thighs against your cheeks. Her nightgown twitches with every hard breath she tries to swallow.

You breathe once, hard through your nose, and whisper against her, voice shredded raw:

“Don’t. Say. Anything.”

Her grip on your scalp is trembling. Not releasing. Not pulling.

“I thought I heard something,” your mom continues. “Are you okay?”

You sit back on your heels, a little face still slick, your mouth glistening, her mess smeared all over your lips.

“Yeah! Just getting water!” you call back, voice wrecked but pitched high- innocent. Harmless.

Like you weren’t on your knees seconds ago with your tongue buried against the soaked seam of Tashi Duncan’s panties. Like your mouth isn’t still slick with spit and her come. Like her pussy isn’t still twitching behind the fabric that’s clung to her for years and will never feel clean again.

You don’t move. You don’t even look up. You just keep your head bowed like she’s an altar, and you’re already in prayer, forehead brushing the inside of her thigh, mouth parted where her scent lives thick in the humid air between her legs. And she’s still shaking-legs loose, knees buckling, breath stuttering sharp and shallow where her chest heaves under silk that’s clung to her in places you ruined.

“Jesus,” she hisses, more breath than voice. It doesn’t even sound angry anymore. Just stunned. Shattered.

You look up. Her face is flushed. Her lips are parted. Her hair’s sticking to her temple in wet pieces like she’s been through a storm she pretended not to see coming. One hand is still tangled in your hair, and her grip is slack, like she forgot to let go.

You should get up.

You should stop.

You should wipe your mouth and pretend you were actually getting water.

But instead of pulling back, instead of catching your breath or wiping your mouth, you slide your hand under her nightgown.

Not fast. Not greedy.

Slow. Sure. Possessive. Like you have every right.

The silk lifts just slightly, but you don’t look yet- you don’t need to. Your head stays down. Your cheek is still pressed warm and reverent to the inside of her thigh as your hand climbs higher. You worship, like prayer, like you’ve been waiting for this exact moment longer than you’ve ever been alive.

And when your fingers find her panties again… underneath this time, your breath stutters.

They’re soaked.

Not just damp. Not just a wet patch. They’re ruined. Drenched all the way through with spit and slick and come, sticky and hot and clinging to her like a second skin. You can feel everything now. Everything. The heat of her. The mess. The way she twitches when your palm first cups her fully, right between her legs, like she wasn’t expecting that kind of contact even though she should’ve known you were never going to be gentle again.

You press your hand flat against her. Just hold her there. Let her feel the weight of it- your palm against her pulsing cunt, the pressure steady and low.

She exhales sharply as if it hurts a little.

You rub.

Slow at first. Just the heel of your palm rocking forward, dragging the wet fabric over her. It slides easily, slick enough to drown in, your fingers catching gently at the edges of her folds through the cotton. You feel her start to throb again. You feel it in your wrist and your fingertips, like her whole body is centered here now- right here, under your hand, under your control.

Then, you lower your fingers.

Trace the length of her down the whole curve of her slit, slow and unhurried. You can feel everything: every soft swell, every twitching ridge, every shiver that jolts through her thighs. You press in a little. Feel the way the fabric pulls tight over her folds, soaked and warm, clinging to the shape of her like it wants you to know what’s underneath.

And you do. God, you do.

Your fingers rub lower, then back up. Find the curve of her again. Let the tips dip gently along her lips, not quite slipping inside, just dragging enough to make her shudder. Then, higher- pressing into the swollen little bud at the top, the one pulsing like it’s begging to be touched.

You circle her clit through the panties- slow, dirty, deliberate.

She gasps.

It’s soft, but it punches straight through you. Her thighs twitch. Her hips roll just a little. Just enough to push herself harder against your hand.

And that’s when you look.

You lift the hem of the nightgown finally, slowly, reverently, and the sight that greets you is fucking obscene.

Her panties are plastered to her- dark with wetness, slick with spit and come and sweat, and everything you did to her. The center is stained so deep it looks painted on, the cotton sheer with how soaked it is, clinging to her lips like a fucking confession. You can see the shape of her through it- the puffed, flushed folds, the tremble of her clit twitching under the pressure of your hand. Her slick glistens where it’s bled through, still leaking, still hot.

Your hand’s still under her nightgown.

Palm pressed flat against her soaked panties. Your fingers slide low, dragging along the outline of her cunt, tracing the shape of her lips through the drenched material. Every inch of her is slick- wet from your mouth, from her come, from everything she spilled all over your tongue and into your hands. The fabric is sticky against your skin. Clings like it’s begging you not to leave. And you don’t.

You rub her slow, tentative, just to feel it again. The heat. The mess. The way she twitches when you catch her right fingertips grazing the swollen bump of her clit through layers too ruined to count as clothing anymore.

And fuck, she’s still wet.

Still dripping.

Still leaking through her fucking underwear like you haven’t already taken her apart in the middle of your mother’s kitchen.

You swallow hard, staring down.

You haven’t even moved the nightgown out of the way. Haven’t peeled anything back. You’re just holding her there- cupping her with one hand and staring like it’s something sacred. The silk is bunched up around your wrist, warm from her body heat, and her panties are so soaked they’re practically see-through. You can see everything. The puffed flush of her lips. The quiver at the tip of her clit. The wet spot is blooming darker where she’s still leaking, still ruined.

You drag your thumb over it again with a slow, reverent stroke.

“M-mommy,” you breathe.

It comes out so soft that you almost don’t hear it yourself, as if it wasn’t meant to be spoken at all, just thought, maybe. Dreamed. Whispered in some dark corner of your mind where names and boundaries blur.

But it hangs there. It lingers. Sweet and sticky and awful.

And her body goes still.

Not just still- tense. Like a wire pulled too tight, straining just before it snaps. Her fingers flex where they’re braced on the counter behind her, her jaw going slack. She doesn’t look down at you. Doesn’t move. She just stares straight ahead like she’s been frozen in time, like the word struck some nerve she forgot she even had.

You go breathless, weightless. The panic doesn’t hit right. First comes the awareness, the shame, thick and sick in your throat, your stomach flipping over like a dying thing. And still, somehow, you don’t take your hand away. You don’t move an inch.

Because she hasn’t moved either.

She hasn’t told you to stop.

Her chest rises slowly and shallow. Her lips part. And when she speaks, it sounds like it hurts. “What… did you just call me?”

You blink, stunned by your mouth. “I-I didn’t-”

She looks down at last, and fuck-her eyes are wild. Glossy, wide, full of something you can’t read. Not anger. Not quite. Not disgust. It’s closer to grief. Or lust. Or both tangled up in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“You said mommy,” she says, almost to herself. Not angry- just wrecked. Like she can’t believe it. Like she’s trying to scrub it out of her own ears with disbelief.

You want to backpedal. You want to undo it. But the moment’s too full. The air is too thick. There’s something between you now that wasn’t there before, and it won’t go away just because you pretend it didn’t happen.

You whisper, “I didn’t mean-”

“Yes, you did.” Her voice cracks at the edge- thin, glassy, like she’s not sure whether to break down or burn you alive for it.

There’s something brittle in it, something dangerous like she’s splintering from the inside out like your voice alone did that. Like the word you moaned cracked open a vault, she swore she’d never touch again. Now everything’s leaking out all at once: want guilt, that rotted sweetness you always thought she only used on other people. It’s in her now, and it’s in you. You see it flash behind her eyes like lightning. Then she moves.

And then her hand’s in your hair.

Not a caress. Not even close. Her fingers knot so deep it feels like she’s trying to pull memories out of your skull. If she grips hard enough, she can rip the name out of your mouth and strangle it in her fist before it gets a second chance to ruin her. Your scalp screams, and your spine locks, but you don’t pull away. You don’t even want to. You just gasp-and it’s wet, embarrassing like the pain is wired straight to the slick heat that’s already running down your thigh.

She yanks you up in one sharp, breathless motion. Fingers twisted deep at the roots like she wants to scalp you for what you said and punish herself for liking it.

It’s so fast it steals the air from your lungs and knocks the sense from your head. You stagger forward, bent at the waist, half-bent and breathless with the humiliating burn, your mouth slack and your eyes wide. She hasn’t even touched you properly, and you’re already dripping. Already aching. Already- fuck- already needing. And maybe she sees that. Perhaps that’s why she grins, just a little, without joy.

Your gasp barely makes it out. She’s already walking. Dragging you by the hair like she’s reclaiming some twisted territory like she doesn’t trust her mouth to speak, and this is the only language she has left.

Every step is an accusation. Every tug is a curse. She walks like she owns the house, and you’re a stain, so she will scrub out upstairs. Her grip tightens when you hesitate, and the pain shoots hot and liquid down your spine. You swear you feel her breath behind you. Close. Measured. Like she’s counting the seconds it’ll take to get you into bed and ruin you properly.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[musingsofheaven]

NEEDLE AND SKIN.

piercer!dodge mason x bestfriend!reader

sfw. suggestive themes. slow burn. mutual tension. ♡

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… always walked you to class even when his wasn’t in the same direction. He will always be there. Sometimes, he even makes many possible reasons for walking you to class. He said he just needed the steps. You just accept that he'll always do that even though you know he was lying, especially when he matched your pace, even when you were dragging your feet. Of course, it has its perks. When your bag is heavy or when you have extra things that can't fit in your hands, he carries it for you without saying anything. You told him he was sweet. He shrugged like it was nothing since you’re his friend. But he smiled the whole rest of the day.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… let you wear his hoodie before he even knew it was an intimate thing. Sure, you could just lend people your hoodie, but they will hesitate. Dodge won’t. You'll just say “thanks” and wear it all day. Kept it overnight, too. Gave it back three days later, washed, folded, and smelling like your detergent. He buried his face in it when you weren’t looking and wore it many times after you returned it.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… always swore he’d never be a tattoo guy. Said he doesn’t like them because it looks messy on his skin. And then, in his senior year, he got a tiny one inside of his wrist. Minimalist tattoo, that’s what others call it. You were the first to see it because he excitedly lifted up his sweater to show you like a kid who just got a star. You touched it gently, thumb brushing the ink like a bruise. You didn’t even say anything; just smiled. And he thought: maybe he’d get more.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… swore he could do a piercing if you let him. You laughed at him at first. “You’re not even licensed yet.” He scoffed. “It’s just an ear. I watched, like, twelve videos.” You glare at him, but he keeps bugging you. Just an ear, he said repeatedly like a puppy begging his owner for something. You sat on the closed toilet lid in his bathroom while he opened a lighter and held a sewing needle over it like he knew what he was doing. Jesus, he’s not using the correct items like the professional ones. He’s just practicing on you, probably for precision or whatever he needs. You should’ve been nervous. But he looked so focused, serious like it mattered. His hands didn’t even shake. He said, “I’ll be gentle,” and you believed him.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… was weirdly quiet the whole time. Told you to sit still with his hand working on your ear. He even pulled your hair behind your ear and kept one hand on your jaw to steady you. His thumb brushed under your earlobe like he didn’t know where to rest it. The touch is so soft you could feel yourself shivering at it. You felt his breath near your cheek. “Okay,” he said. “Ready?” You nodded. He pierced it clean. No hesitation. Then, he swore under his breath when you bled more than he expected. You just laughed. He looked pale. “I didn’t kill you,” he muttered. “Not yet,” you smiled.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… gave you tiny silver stud earrings and said they looked good. Said it real quiet. Real quick. Like it embarrassed him, you looked in the mirror and tilted your head. You smile and just touch it, liking the gesture he just did. Like it’s something you should keep and treasure. “You did pretty good.” He leaned on the counter behind you, arms crossed, eyes on your reflection instead of the mirror. “‘Course I did,” he said, too cocky. “I don’t fuck around with you.” This is true, sometimes he’s too gentle and treating you like a goddamn glass.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… kept looking at your ear for weeks after that. Too concerned about it. Just casual glances. Sneaky ones. Pretended he was just checking if it healed okay. Like he’s scared, he fucked it up. Because what if it gets infected? Or you didn't take care of it properly? But every time you tucked your hair behind that side, his brain short-circuited a little. That was his. He did that. You let him do that.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… starts looking at you a little differently after that. It’s not sudden. It’s slow. Familiar. He starts noticing your perfume. The way your shirt rides up when you stretch. He notice what you like. Memorized it even. Starting to notice your ticks in your body. What make you shiver accidentally or where it tickles. How your breath catches when he stands too close. He doesn’t say anything. But it sits behind his eyes now- something unspoken, something warm.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… started apprenticing at a local shop straight out of high school. Said to himself that he needed the money for college. Didn’t even tell you at first. Just showed up one night smelling like antiseptic and ink. You raised a brow. “New cologne?” He rolled his eyes. “Shut up.” But he let you tease him. Let you ask questions. Let you check the piercings he’s studying for or learned that day. Let you visit the shop after hours just to see the equipment up close. You also notice how he has changed his style since he started apprenticing in the shop, and you tell yourself that maybe he’s just adapting to them.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… knows your order better than his own. He texts you, “u want anything?” every morning before he drives to work like it’s part of his routine. The shop already considers him a regular and also gives him the same orders. Always shows up with two drinks. Yours has the little smiley face he drew using a pen on the lid, even when the barista already wrote your name. He says it’s for good luck. Sometimes he’ll tell you because he has extra money for it. That’s no problem since it’s food, after all.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… lets you sit behind the counter when you visit. Sometimes, you pretend to help. You organize his jewelry cases and read out appointment times. The owner already knows you and has called you Dodge’s little friend. He says you’re his “cute little assistant,” and your stomach flips like it’s a real job title. He lets you pick the music that is really different from his. You make fun of his playlists. He just roll his eyes at you.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… still calls you “dude” but says it too soft now. Says it like a reflex, like muscle memory, but it always lands slower, warmer, heavier than it used to. Not the ones he used before that. It’s just something he used to call you. No… the tone changes. You didn’t notice it, but he has become more soft-spoken to you now. He’ll say, “Dude, you can’t just wear my hoodie without warning,” like it doesn’t make his stomach twist. Or, “Dude, stop looking at me like that,” like he’s not who started it. You will just roll your eyes at him when you heard it. Sometimes, it’s just “Dude-” and nothing else, the word hanging in the air before he runs a hand through his hair and laughs like it might burn the tension off before it sticks.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… calls you the second he gets certified. No warning, just a photo in your texts showing the certificate. You’re still typing when your phone rings; when you answer, he’s out of breath from smiling. “Dude,” he says, “I passed. I fucking passed.” You swear he’s blushing and smiling so big. Like it’s the best day in his life, probably it is. Of course, next to the time, you let him pierce you for the first time. You tease him- say something about all the illegal piercings- and he groans and tells you to shut up, still laughing. When you ask if you’re the first person he said, he doesn’t even pretend. “Obviously.”

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… makes you come to the shop to prove it as soon as possible. You’re on the counter with a drink you bought for him with some good to celebrate, and he’s holding the certificate like gold. You say you’re proud. He shrugs and says, “Took long enough,” but he can’t stop smiling. Then he looks at you, still grinning, and says, “You have to let me do the first legal one.” You raise a brow. He smirks. “Come on. Let me stab you the right way.”

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… won’t take your money. “I’m not charging you to pierce you,” he says, leaning back in his stool like he’s not tracking every shift of your thighs. He looks at you as if it’s the most dumb thing he heard, which is in his mind. Because what do you mean you’re paying when he loves doing it for free? You offer fries instead. He shrugs. “Deal.”

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… who lets you sit in the piercing chair to “test the height.” You swing your legs while he adjusts the stool and says something dumb about the new movie you saw, and it’s all hype but so fucking ugly. But he’s just looking at your legs. At the skin behind your knees. At the slope of your shoulder. He clears his throat. “Chair works.” You smirk. “Thought so.”

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… says “pretty” when he sees the new jewelry sitting on your skin. You look up at him. An eyebrow is already rising. “You mean the gem?” He doesn’t answer right away. Just shrugs. “Yeah. That too.” Then he turns away. Fast. Busying himself with gloves, cleaning, and anything but how you’re smiling now like you heard what he meant, but he’s occasionally glancing at you.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… memorizes how your skin feels under gloves. It’s not sexual. Not really. Not at first. He’s just good at his job. He knows which piercings you have given more sensory reactions to you. The ones that will make you shiver or goosebumps. He knows how to steady your face, clean the spot under your ear, and place the needle right where it needs to go. But still. Your skin is warm. You’re not shivering this time. Maybe it’s because you are getting used to the piercings and needles and his gloved hands. You look at him like you trust him. Like you expect him to take care of you. And he wants to. He always has.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… flirts like it’s a dare you won’t take. “You gonna let me do your tongue next?” he says. But in his mind, he wants to shoot himself by just saying it. Like what if you just shrug it off or laugh at it? Jesus. “You gonna kiss it better?” He smiles. Crooked. You roll your eyes, but your cheeks go warm. He notices. He always does.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who… got too quiet when you asked if he’s ever done nipple piercings. “On girls?” His jaw twitched. “Yeah.” You didn’t ask what they looked like. He didn’t offer. The next day, you texted: what if I let you do mine? He didn’t answer right away. His mind just goes to places. Like, the one you stayed over at his place and you borrowed his shirt and did not wear in a bra underneath. Your nipples are so hard against it. He can’t stop thinking about it, especially now. When he replied, it’s sound so serious, like he’s not fucking around: don’t joke like that.

Piercer!Dodge Mason who’ll… do it if you ask. He will do. He will even beg you to do it. Fuck. That made him fantasize about it. He’ll hold the clamp. He’ll talk you through the pain. He’ll let you curse at him while he sets the jewelry. He’ll probably flick at it gently just to see you close your eyes at the pleasure and pain. But his hands will be shaking the whole time. And he’s not forgotten how you sound when you exhale through your teeth, soft and bitten-off, your thighs pressing together just a little too tight.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[musingsofheaven]

I’M DRUNK, I LOVE YOU.

art donaldson x afab!reader

sfw. angst. unrequited love. confession. pining. ♡

You barely remember whose idea it was. You don‘t even have time to protest. It just happened, because that‘s what normal things are between you and him. It, like all things with Art, does. A birthday slash graduation trip that turned into a weekend at the beach. No plans, no budget, just a spontaneous one. So fucking reckless and irresponsible. YOLO, what he always says to you when he asks you to do something spontaneous with him. Trip. Movies. Resto. Everything. That was enough. That was always enough when it came to him. You said yes before he even finished the sentence. You always do. Don‘t need to ask twice. If he asks you to jump, you‘ll say how high. If he calls for an emergency, you‘ll come, even if his emergency is just picking which clothes he will wear for the match. And now you‘re here, crammed into the back of his car, half-sober, half-numb, trying not to think about how this might be the last time you see him like this without consequence.

Art is driving. One hand on the wheel, the other slung lazily out the window, sun catching the bones in his wrist. The wind keeps blowing his curls into his eyes, but he doesn‘t fix them. You want to reach out and do it for him, but you don‘t. He has that curly blonde hair you always want to run your fingers through. But well, you‘ve done enough of that, it‘s nothing new the fixing things he doesn‘t ask you to fix, offering pieces of yourself he never asked to keep. He glances in the rearview mirror once. Not at you. At her. Tashi. She‘s sitting in the passenger seat like she‘s always belonged there, and maybe she has. Maybe that‘s the part that hurts most.

Patrick‘s next to you, headphones on, mouthing along to some sad gay song like he‘s in a different movie entirely. Like he‘s annoying the fuck out of you about this situation. You‘re grateful for him, really, for his silence, for the way he doesn‘t ask you what‘s wrong. He already knows. He‘s the one who knows you and Art too closely. You tell him things, but he doesn‘t rat you out to Art. Sometimes you think everyone knows it already. Like it‘s not a secret anymore, well except for Art. It‘s just a punchline. Seven years in love with your best friend, and he still introduces you as his “bro” when he‘s drunk. You laugh too hard at his jokes. You always have. It‘s easier than saying you‘re scared he‘ll leave and forget you entirely.

By the time you arrive, the sun‘s too bright and the sand‘s too hot and you already feel like you‘re a mess. The air smells like salt and cheap alcohol. Art‘s shirt is off before the car even finishes parking. He runs straight toward the water, laughing, yelling something you can‘t hear. Tashi follows. You sit on the hood and watch them, beside Patrick who‘s ready to tease you already. To give you a reality check. You don‘t take a photo. The view is so beautiful, too bad you‘re not in the mood. You don‘t move. You feel like the only person on earth who knows they‘re living inside a memory. Patrick opens a beer beside you and offers one without a word. You take it. Drink half in one go. It doesn‘t help. You ask him something stupid like, “Do you think we‘ll remember this?” and he says, “Only if it hurts enough.” And god, you think maybe that‘s the truest thing you‘ve ever heard.

Later, when the sky turns heavy and violet, someone suggests karaoke like it‘s a joke. Like they don‘t know the kind of night they‘re summoning. But Art lights up, yeah, of course he does, and you‘re already nodding before you think better of it. Because you know he will ask. That‘s how it always is. One look from him and you forget your boundaries. You forgot to take. You forgot what you really are to him. You forget you ever wanted to have any. And the place is a patchwork of bad lighting and worn leather booths, and the mic smells like every feeling that‘s ever touched it. Art picks something old and loud, something to shout with his whole body, and Patrick howls through every line like he‘s exorcising something. You‘re on your second beer. Your third. You lose count by the time you‘re singing with Art, shoulder to shoulder, yelling lyrics you don‘t know into the same mic. He looks at you like a memory. You look at him like a prayer.

Then he says, “I love you,” in the middle of the chorus, smiling at you, but it‘s followed by “bro,” and that‘s the part that lodges in your throat. You don‘t even like that- that fucking term. It‘s a punch in your face. That one fucking word. That one stupid syllable that flattens everything you thought maybe tonight could be. Everyone claps. You do too. You smile like it‘s funny, like it doesn‘t hurt. But you feel it. In the pit of your stomach. You feel it wants to be cut out and thrown in the ocean. In your jaw, clenched around the scream you won‘t let out. Like you want to scream at him if he‘s blind.

Bottle after bottle, you find yourself sitting outside with a cigarette you don‘t finish and a heart that won‘t shut up. Art plops down beside you, drunk and golden, knees bumping yours. “You good?” he asks, voice slurred just enough to make him seem soft. You nod. Of course you do. What would you even say? That you‘re not sure you can keep doing this? That being his friend feels like bleeding in public and hoping no you can just hit him in the head to the point he‘ll have an amnesia and tell him you‘re his girlfriend?

Yeah, no, that won‘t work, so you just sit beside him. Let him talk about nothing. About surfing tomorrow. About how Tashi‘s good at it, apparently. It‘s not like you have anything against the woman, you don‘t. You can‘t just help to feel envious that will maybe, maybe make you say shitty things if you are just in front of Patrick. But you just nod again. You keep nodding. And when you finally speak, it‘s just to say, “Let‘s go back.” Not because you want to. Because if you stay here one second longer, you‘ll say the wrong thing - or worse, the truth.

You love the place you guys picked. But right now it just feels different. The room feels like it‘s breathing without you. The windows rattle slightly from the ocean wind outside, the curtains flutter like someone else‘s heartbeat. And Art is perched at the edge of the bed with his guitar in his lap, bare feet on the floor, hair damp from the shower. He looks golden in the lamplight. Familiar. Comfortable. You‘ve spent years memorizing this version of him. The quiet one, the one that only shows up at 1 a.m. when no one else is looking. The version that looks so peaceful. The one who loves music besides tennis. The one who- who gets your heart. He plays something without a name, just a slow set of chords, barely holding shape. Maybe it‘s something he‘s composing. It should soothe you. Instead, it burns.

He doesn‘t notice you watching him. Or maybe he does and doesn‘t care. You always have the chance to look at him because... because he lets you. Or probably he‘s just that oblivious. You‘re sitting on the floor with your back to the wall, knees pulled tight to your chest like that could keep it all in. The want, the ache, the exhaustion of waiting. The pining. He hums under his breath. You swallow around the lump in your throat.

“Seven years,” you say suddenly. It startles even you. He pauses, one hand still on the frets. You don‘t know why you bring it up but the following words you‘ll say will fuck you up, you just know that.

“What?” he questions, your words made him stop playing his guitar and look up at you.

You let out a shaky breath. “I‘ve been in love with you for seven years.” You quickly press your lips together. Feeling the environment. Feeling him how he‘ll react. Observing him. Overthinking many things.

It hangs there, heavy and soft, too real to take back. You watch his face. First confused, then careful. He blinks like he‘s trying to remember something important. You keep going, because if you stop now, you‘ll never start again. You will never say shit again if you are sober.

“I don‘t know when it started. Maybe when we were I don‘t know... seventeen? Eighteen? And you asked if I wanted to walk home instead of calling a cab. Or when you shared your fries and said you didn‘t want to eat alone. Or maybe it was every time you told me something that felt small to you, but I carried it around for days. I don‘t know. I just know that I‘ve loved you. Quietly. Constantly. For seven fucking years.”

He doesn‘t speak. He just stares with his mouth half-open, hands still resting on the guitar like he forgot they were there. You don‘t look away. Not this time.

“I don‘t want anything from you,” you say. “I just didn‘t want to leave without telling you. I wanted you to know that someone loved you that long. That hard. Even if you never noticed.”

And that‘s when he kisses you.

He kisses you like he‘s doing you a favor. Like it‘s the polite thing to do. You feel it instantly. The shape of it, the temperature, the lack. His mouth on yours is nothing like you imagined. It‘s soft, yes, and it‘s careful, but it isn‘t full. It isn‘t real. He doesn‘t touch you like someone who‘s been waiting seven years to feel your mouth. Like... like someone who will think like fuck I want her too despite of the friendship. He touches you like someone trying to soften a blow. Like someone stalling. You don‘t even close your eyes. You just wait for the part where it starts to matter and it never comes.

You pull away, slow and stunned, like your body already knew before your brain caught up. Your face is warm, but not from the kiss. Not from anything good. You feel numb. Like a robot or something. He‘s still looking at you like he doesn‘t understand what just happened. Like you kissed him. Like this is something you started. You wait for something, anything. A breath. A question. A fucking name. Or maybe something like, Are you drunk? Or let‘s do it better, maybe call you bro? But there‘s nothing. Just his face, blank and open, like maybe you should say thank you.

So you just pulled back before the kiss could become anything. Before you convince yourself to pretend it feels like love. His hand is still on your face when you say it, quiet, tired, done. “Don‘t do that.” Your voice doesn‘t shake. It‘s steady in the way grief is steady. “Don‘t kiss me just because you don‘t know what else to do.” You wait for his face to shift. To see his reaction. To read him like you always do. For guilt, for panic, for anything human. Maybe today is the day you won‘t be able to read what the situation is because he just looks at you like you‘ve made things difficult. Like you‘ve embarrassed him.

He just sits there, watching you like he‘s hoping you‘ll backpedal. Like you‘ll laugh and say it was a joke. Like you‘ll make it easy again. But you‘re drunk enough to do that anymore. You are too aware despite the drinks. You‘re not young anymore. You‘re not stupid. You‘re just tired. Tired of loving him the way he‘s always let you quietly, invisibly, as long as you never asked for anything back.

And what gets you, what really fucking gets you is that he didn‘t even say no. He didn‘t reject you. He didn‘t turn away, or flinch, or apologize. You keep thinking and thinking that all the things you say, he‘ll be just speechless. Stunned? But he can just kiss you? Kissed you like a Band-Aid. Like pity. Like he was trying to keep you from crying, not because he cared, but because it would be inconvenient if you did. He kissed you to shut you up, and you almost let him.

You nod. Not because you understand, but because you‘ve finally decided to stop waiting. You stand. You don‘t slam the door. You don‘t say anything else. There‘s no last word. You don‘t say anything after that. You don‘t need to, anyway. Just you, leaving with your mouth still tasting like him, and your heart still convinced you should‘ve waited five more seconds, just in case. Just in case he would‘ve said it. Just... just maybe he came to his senses and said anything. Something.

You don‘t cry in the hallway. Not yet. You don‘t have the dignity for that. You just press your back to the wall, close your eyes, and try to remember what it felt like to still believe he could love you back. So stupid. So dumb for someone who‘s always receiving compliments about being smart. And when the tears come, they don‘t come loud. They come like shame. Slow. Quiet. Familiar. You feel like you just stabbed yourself in the stomach way up to your chest. That‘s how it feels. Seven years.

You think about what you said. I love you. Three words you spent seven years swallowing, and when they finally left your mouth, they didn‘t sound brave. They sounded desperate. Like you said, it‘s because you are too tired to feel it anymore. Desperate that he will love you back. It was easy to mean them in the moment, easier than you thought it would be. But now they sit in your mouth like something spoiled. Bitter. Embarrassing. You thought saying it would free you, like maybe the weight would lift once it was real. But it didn‘t. It just made you feel stupid. Like you misunderstood the assignment. Like you ruined something that was never yours to begin with. You weren‘t brave. You were just drunk. And stupid. And still in love with someone who looked you in the face and offered you silence.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[musingsofheaven]

CONSOLATION PRIZE

summary: he loses a match. you push his buttons. one stop on the side of the road turns into something way dirtier than either of you meant. you talk too much. he shuts you up. it’s messy, mean, and you shouldn’t love it this much. but you do. and he knows it. but you’re both a little too into it.

pairings: patrick zweig x reader

warnings: 11.7k words. mature themes. graphic, unhinged smut. porn without plot. semi-public setting (car). foreplay (fingering, deepthroating/face-fucking). spit play. rough sex. unprotected piv. impact play (breast and ass slapping). light choking. degradation kink (verbal and physical). objectification. d/s undertones. misogynistic/sexist dirty talk. overstimulation. cum play. dubcon-adjacent tone. voyeurism mention. threesome fantasy mention. read responsibly.

note: omg hi. so this was supposed to be like… a quick 1-3k smut fic. like just a “he’s pissed bcs he lost + you’re pushy = sex in a car” situation. but then... i kept writing. and writing. and apparently faint out somewhere around the throatfucking and woke up 11.7k words later with absolutely no plot and the most disgusting shit possible. no thoughts just patrick losing a match and treating your body like a stress toy <3 so… sorry? you’re welcome? thank you? idk. enjoy. don’t look me in the eye. love u sm. 🫶🏻💌

He's cocky, sure, but he's also prideful. That's the Patrick you know. Sometimes (most of the time, honestly), it's so annoying. Today is one of those times. He storms off before the final point is even announced, the man doesn’t wait for the handshake (his ego is too big to do such a thing), doesn’t nod at the crowd, or even look back again at the crowd (too scared, maybe, at the disappointment), grabs his bag like he wants to rip the strap clean off, and disappears down the tunnel. No, you don’t call after him. Not right away. You know how this works. He’s doing that thing again as if he walks as if he’s untouchable. Hell, he's masking all that nonchalant bullshit like losing doesn’t touch him, but the way he’s chewing the inside of his cheek says otherwise.

Because he lost. Again.

The third tournament this month. Who fuck does that? This third time, coming off the court with his pride hanging out like an open wound. He feels embarrassed, of course. You can see the look he gave the net as it betrayed him. He's acting like the universe giving him this shitty career.

And it’s not just the match. It’s the headlines. Fucking news that always reached his parents regardless they distance themselves from him. Yet he feels they are so close to cutting him off. He always remembers the comparison. God. God. God. He feels pathetic. But of course, he remembers it. The name everyone keeps bringing up even when no one says it out loud to him. Art. Undefeated. Effortless. Golden-boy Art, who somehow wins everything without ever looking like he’s trying. The perfect one. Patrick has to cut himself for his wins. And when he loses? They call him second best with a fucking smile.

“Pat,” you call, jogging to catch up. “Hey. Wait up.”

He doesn’t. He doesn't stop. He just continues walking.

You're behind him and press harder to get something. A reaction. “Can you talk to me? Just say something.”

Nothing. He keeps walking, faster. Fucking asshole.

“Seriously? Are you gonna pretend I’m not here now?”

He stops. Suddenly, so you didn't expect that which caused you to nearly crash into his back.

And he stands there, still like a statue, shoulders square, like he’s deciding whether to say something or snap at you instead. His fists are clenched around the bag strap, knuckles white. Your guess? He's probably biting his cheek or his teeth grinding together.

“Don’t,” he mutters without turning around. His voice is low. Cold. “Not right now.”

And it’s not the volume that pisses you off. It’s the way he means it.

He moves again. Unlock the car. Throwing his bag into the trunk like it personally offended him. He doesn't even care if it will mess up his already fucked up of a racket. You hesitate at first but then get in too. Because fuck that, if he thinks you’re gonna leave him alone right now? Then he’s dumber than whoever just beat him in straight sets.

He drives like he’s chasing something. As if speeding tickets don’t exist. Like he doesn't care if he’ll get pulled up from that. Like he can escape from the part of his brain that keeps telling him he’s slipping, slipping, slipping.

You keep quiet. But you’re not going to let it go. She hates it when he's like this as much as she wants to understand him. Not when his jaw is that tight. Not when his hands look like they’re trying not to punch the steering wheel. Not when he looks like he wants to drive straight to a tree or building, just simply crash the car.

He pulls off somewhere random. Some lot. Trees. Nowhere. Not that you could recognize it, not really.

Puts the car in park. He's just quiet. You are quiet too, but you are thinking of the right time to poke at things because he doesn't even look at you. Doesn’t move.

And you say it anyway.

“Where are we even going?”

Nothing. Prick.

“Why won’t you talk to me? You can’t just...”

“You don’t get it,” he snaps, finally turning his head, but not all the way. You just look at him and your face softens. “Jesus, can you just not right now? Just shut up. Don't add, okay?”

His words hit like someone shoots your body. You freeze and your hand withdraws from hovering near his arm because you feel like you’re the one who crossed the line.

“I’m just trying to...” Your words didn't finish and you flinch while speaking. You're still not recovering from his words. He hears it. He regrets it, maybe. You won't just know that because he doesn’t say sorry.

You know what this is. You always do. You have known him for years already. The silence, the snapping, the way he can’t meet your eyes. It’s not about the match. Not the lost. (Okay, maybe it's about that)

But really? It's more about the weight. The pressure. The fact that Patrick Zweig used to mean something. Hell, he was too eager to make something. To be something. Just be. Now? Every time he loses, someone brings up him. And of course... you. You’re the only one who doesn’t want to see him like this.

“To what?” he snaps, finally looking at you. Just a flash, his jaw tight, something behind his eyes you couldn't figure out what he was feeling. “Fix it? Tell me it’s not that bad?”

You stare and almost glare at him, but you don't. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Exactly,” he bites. “You don’t have to. I can hear it in your voice.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you clap back, louder than you mean to. “I’m trying here, Patrick. I showed up. Supported you. I followed you. I gave a shit.”

He laughs as if he's mocking the words that just came out of your mouth. “Yeah? Thought maybe you just missed the drama. Yeah... yeah, that's it, right? Thought maybe it reminded you of him.”

And there it is.

You blink. Something burns low in your chest. God. He's so petty even though you didn't do anything wrong.

“Really?” you say, voice more sharp now. “That’s what you’re gonna do? Mention him in this conversation because you can’t handle losing?” Classic.

“I handle it fine,” he snapped, jaw flexing. He takes a deep breath. Tick, tick, tick. He's surely trying to calm himself... to avoid saying something he'll regret.

“You stormed off the court like a toddler and now you’re picking a fight with me because Art exists?”

His knuckles tighten on the wheel. Almost turning white.

“Maybe go ask him how he handles losing,” Patrick mutters, too casual to be casual. But that's him, always casual.

“Oh wait. He wouldn’t know.”

You feel it like a slap. Hard and accurate.

He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t need to. Why would he when he's bitching around and he only has you right now?

“Is that what this is about?” you say, voice laced with disbelief. “Art?”

The way his jaw clenches and eyebrow twitch is the answer for you.

“God, Pat.”

“You know what?” you started but not really saying anything yet, eyes locked on his face. “I am here with you but you are making me wish I did go to his matches instead of yours,” you say, arms crossed. “At least I know that he didn’t throw a tantrum every time things didn’t go his way.”

Patrick laughs, it's sharp and humorless. “Yeah? At least he didn’t fuck you either. Guess he saw through the act.”

You let out a laugh, bitter and loud. “Says the guy who only texts when his career is getting shitty. What’s the matter, Pat? Need a consolation trophy in my pussy to feel like a winner? To feel something?”

His mouth almost hung low but he didn't do it. “Right, because you’re just so hard to get. Yeah? But you are the one who showed up tonight like you were waiting for a consolation prize.”

You lean in, smiling with your teeth, almost gritting them together. “And you drove me here like you couldn’t stand the thought of going home alone without a trophy in your hands.”

His head turns toward you, slow, eyes hot and burning. “You think I brought you because I needed you?”

“I think you brought me,” you whisper, inching closer, just enough, “because I’m the only one who still pretends you’re not living in his shadow. That you are not just... An old double partner.”

He doesn’t flinch. But he doesn't know if he wants to throw you out of the car or strangle you. Just leans in, close enough that his mouth almost brushes yours. His voice drops low.

“Then why are you still here?”

You hold your breath.

His mouth curls into a smirk.

“Guess you like being with the loser, huh?”

You don’t even think at this point. Your head snaps toward him so fast the seatbelt almost chokes you.

“What?”

Patrick’s still staring straight ahead, mouth all tight like he’s chewing gum. His jaw flexes. Shrugs, like it’s not a loaded question. “That’s me, right? The loser. Second best. Hell, I’m not even the second-best at all. Not golden boy. Not the one winning trophies.”

You lean in slowly. Real slow before you chuckle at his statement. God. So pathetic. This isn't the Patrick you know. “You wanna cry about it, Pat?”

His head whips toward you. And then his mouth is on yours. Angry. Kissing you, and shutting you up. Like he’s trying to punish you for being there. For not forgetting about him. For being the proof he lost again.

It’s all teeth. It's not gentle. Not like the kiss you share with your partners. He kisses you like he wants to take your oxygen. His tongue forces into your mouth, so desperate. You grab his shirt and yank him closer until your seat belt cuts across and touches his neck.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn't want to. Doesn’t even flinch. Just pulls it off you, one-handed, yanks the buckle so hard the metal clicks and flies behind you. Then he’s holding your waist, dragging you across the console needily and he made it easy like the gear shift doesn’t exist. You’re in his lap now, back hitting the steering wheel, hips pressed down against the bulge in his shorts. Hard. So fucking hard. You don't even know what made him horny. You can feel it twitch, and it just makes you grind lower, pressing your ass more against him.

He groans close to your cheek, low, ragged, filthy. Then, he said... “Open your mouth.”

You do. You open it while looking at him, waiting for what he'll do. And he fucking spits in it. Thick and hot, tongue still pushing against yours, licking back into your mouth like he’s trying to taste your mouth while it's open.

You moan and squirm. Louder than you should.

And then he bites your lip. Not playful, he's being mean. You feel the sting, the wet pain, and it just makes you need more. You shove your fingers into his hair, wrap your fingers around the soft curls before you yank it hard, and kiss him like you want to split his mouth open and eat him whole.

His hands are everywhere, gripping your ass like he’s trying to make it open, fingers digging in the fabric of your skirt, grinding you down over his cock. Make sure the clothes rub against each other. The friction is fucking obscene. Cotton and sweat and heat. You’re already soaked (not that he knows that… but does he?) and he hasn’t even gotten under your clothes.

He pulls back, breath wrecked, lips shiny and red. “Is that how he kissed you?” he pants before brushing his thumb on your lower lip. “Does Art make you moan like that?”

You laugh. Spiteful. Sarcastic. Taunting him. “Art never fucking kissed me.”

Patrick grins. “Good.” Then he sucks your tongue into his mouth so deep you choke on it as if it’s a form of cannibalism, spit leaking down your chin as he grabs your jaw and tilts your head just to go deeper.

You bite his upper lip back. He groans into your mouth.

One of his hands slips under your shirt, dragging rough palms up your stomach and just feeling your skin. He’s grabbing your tit through your bra as he owns it. Palming it. Groping it. Squeezing it. The other’s already down the back of your waistband, squeezing bare skin, dragging you down onto his cock like he’s gonna fuck you through the fabric.

“Keep grinding like that,” he breathes, forehead against yours, eyes closed like he’s stopping himself. “And I’m gonna come in my shorts like a fucking teenager.” Yeah. Well… he doesn’t like cumming before you. He likes cumming deep inside you.

You smile before you giggle. “Maybe that’s all losers are good for, huh?”

He scoffs like he’s gonna kill you and yanks your shirt down. He doesn’t even bother taking it off, just stretches the collar until it’s stretched, until your bra’s on full display, and then pulls that down too. Don’t even hesitate. So graphic. So obscene. Your tits spill out like he’s been thinking about this since you opened your mouth and asked if he’s okay. You don’t get time to gloat before his mouth is on you. He’s sucking around the nipple, biting it before licking the flesh circularly, and tugging at your nipple like it said something smart.

“Fuck, you’re such an asshole,” you gasp, nails in his hair, but you don’t push him off. You tilt your chest up instead, wanting him to have more access. You’re a liar like that.

He drags his teeth over your tit, bites down, such a mean asshole, then pulls back to breathe against your slick skin. “You’d know.”

His hand slips under your skirt like it’s nothing. His whole palm is hot and rough on your bare ass, dragging you down on his lap hard enough that your thighs burn against him. His cock’s already thick under you, pressed up against your thong, and he grinds you down like he’s punishing you with it. The only barriers are your skirt and shorts.

“This is what you wanted, huh?” he mutters, forehead against yours, breath ragged. “You were dying for it.”

“You’re the one who pulled over like a fucking maniac,” you snap, grinding down on him with no messily, no rhythm like you are playing with him. His hands jerk on your waist like he’s about to shove you off, but he doesn’t. “Middle of fucking nowhere, throwing your little post-match tantrum like a fucking kid. What the fuck did you think was gonna happen?”

His jaw ticks. You can feel it with how close you are. “You wouldn’t shut the hell up,” he stated, squeezing your thighs hard enough to bruise. “Nagging me like it will change anything.”

You laugh in his face, mean and loud. He’s a fucking loser. “Oh, I’m so sorry for asking how it feels to get your ass handed to you. Again.”

“You were brooding like a little bitch,” you add, voice all fake sympathy, lips pouting, dragging your nails down his shoulder. “Like you wanted me to crawl on top of you and fix it.”

He glares at you, nostrils flaring. “You climbed on top of me like you were desperate.”

“No. You put me in your lap,” you snap back, eyes narrow. “You let me sit here. Didn’t even hesitate, pathetic.”

“You kissed me,” he says as if it will offend you. It doesn’t. His hands flexing like he’s ready to throw you through the fucking windshield.

You lean in close, lips brushing his jaw just to mess with him. “You bit me first. Like a goddamn dog.”

His mouth crashes into yours before he speaks again, biting your lower lip, pulling until you gasp. “You moaned.”

“And you fucking whimpered,” you spat, licking the blood off your lip like it’s his fault. “Little bitch noises, right into my mouth. Like a fucking virgin.”

His eyes glare at you, furious, and you’re smug enough to let it rile him. “You came to a full stop on a goddamn dirt road,” you whisper against his cheek before grazing your teeth against it, “tell me again who started this.”

Because if he wants to pretend this wasn’t inevitable. You’ll remind him that every inch of you pressed up against him says otherwise.

“You’re fucking impossible,” he hisses, the heel of his hand pressing bruisingly into your lower back as he rolls your hips down back and forth, harder against the thick bulge in his shorts. “Think you’re so smart, huh? Mouthy little brat in my lap.”

You smile. “And yet you’re still letting me grind all over you. Who’s pathetic here?”

He lets out a breath that sounds more like a growl. “Bet if someone drove by right now, you’d keep going. Wouldn’t even stop. You’d ride me just to prove a point.”

The words crack through you like a paper cut. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, clutching the fabric of his shirt like it might save you. His mouth finds your neck, hot and wet and disgusting. He’s leaving teeth marks and spit all over your skin.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he mutters into the crook of your jaw, sucking the skin enough to make you gasp. “Put on a show. Pretend you’re not fucking soaking while you grind that needy little pussy on my cock like you’re starving.”

You whimper before you can stop yourself, and he laughs like he’s just won something.

He grins. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

And then his hand moves with certainty. Under your skirt. Thong pulled to the side before you felt two fingers shoved inside you in one fluid thrust, knuckles deep like he was proving a point. No warning. Just the thick press of his fingers curling slow and deliberate inside you while his palm grinds against your clit, pressing it hard so you can feel it. Your hips jerk, grinding against his palm, and take a deep breath. He watches your reaction like it’s gospel.

“Fuck,” you whimper, already breaking.

He chuckles low in his chest, he sounds so smug. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You clutch at his shoulders like you’re pulling yourself together, but end up grinding helplessly down on his hand as your thighs tremble around his thighs, but he stays exactly where he is, fingers buried inside the velvet and smooth part of you.

“Not so mouthy now,” he murmurs, thumb stroking lazy circles in your clit just to hear you gasp. “All that attitude, and now look at you. Fucked up. Just from this.”

You twist, trying to move, to chase friction, the pleasure, but he tightens his grip on your hip, stilling you the way he likes.

“Nuh-uh.” His voice drops lower, hot against your ear. “You want more? Say it.” Prick. Brat. Asshole.

You glare at him through wet lashes, mouth shaking, but he’s already thrusting his fingers again. In a slow, steady rhythm, you are sure he’s playing with you with the way he’s curling up and dragging out like he’s trying to fuck the truth out of you.

“Say who started this,” he demands, ordering it. Not up for a discussion, each word punctuated by a deliberate pump of his fingers. “Say it was you.”

You shake your head, back arching against the steering wheel despite yourself. “No. F-fuck. You started this.”

He pulls his hand back just enough to make you whine (fingers still inside but only the tip. His nails still hidden inside. That deep only), eyes glinting. “You sure? ‘Cause it’s your cunt squeezing my fingers like it’s been waiting all day. Like you couldn’t fucking wait to get wrecked.”

“God, Patrick,” you pant, hips twitching.

He sinks them back in, rougher this time, adding pressure with his palm grinding against you until you cry out. “Yeah, that’s it. Be honest. Tell me who made you this wet. Who you were thinking about while you ran that smart little mouth.”

You try to twist away from the words, but he doesn’t let you. He’s so nasty with his words it makes you shy. He presses in closer, crowding your space, fucking you deeper with just his fingers until your head tips back and your jaw falls open.

“You started it,” he breathes, his voice ragged, the lie tasting sweeter every time he says it. “You’re gonna say it was you.”

“I-” You can’t even form a sentence. Not when he’s doing this to you. He’s playing you. You can’t do anything except take it. Well, it’s not like you are not enjoying this. You are very much so. His rhythm is sloppy now, just… he’s just pulling, pushing, in, out, just messy, just the goal to make you cum, relentless, every thrust landing with intention.

“Say it,” he growls again. “Or I stop.”

“Me,” you gasp, finally breaking. “Fuck- it was me.”

He laughs, breathless. “Yeah. That sounds more like you.”

But then he pulls his fingers out, completely. You almost sob at the loss, hips stuttering, so fucking close you’re shaking.

And he just stares at you while he licks them clean, slow, and taunting, eyes locked on yours the entire time. Showing how slick his fingers are.

“You’re fucking evil,” you gasp, wrecked and frustrated.

He grins, mouth slick with your juices. “And you still want it.”

You didn’t say anything else but your hand jerks at his waistband, breath heavy, but he leans forward instead, reaches down, and yanks the lever by his seat, slamming the backrest flat in one rough motion. The whole chair jolts down with a loud, mechanical thud. You flinch.

“Back,” he mutters, eyes on you, voice low and impatient. “Get in the fucking back.”

You don’t argue. You’re too far gone for that. You climb between the seats, knees scraping the leather, your thighs slick and flushed, your skirt bunched so high it barely covers your ass as you crawl. And he’s already looking at it. You stumble into the narrow backseat and drop into it, panting, legs sprawled.

He follows immediately, bracing one hand on the center console to launch himself after you, the other grabbing at the seat as he moves. His knee knocks into yours as he lands behind you.

Then, without fully sitting down, he reaches forward again, grabs the driver seat back, yanks it upright, and slams it all the way forward toward the steering wheel to make space. The footwell clears. His weight follows fast.

You’re crammed into the back together now, the whole car hot and unsteady, breath clouding the windows. It's all fog at this point. You can feel his chest brushing your legs, his fingers already digging into your thighs like he doesn’t care who sees. Like he’s about to tear you apart.

“Fuck y-” The words barely leave your mouth. You feel him grab you by the back of your neck and shove you down between his legs like muscle memory. This is just how things go. Him deciding what he wants. Like he’s done it so many times in this shitty, beat-up car that it still remembers the shape of your knees.

You don’t even fight it. Just hit the floorboards with your palms and breathe through your nose, your skirt already riding up, the air thick with sweat and engine heat, and the slick reminder of every other time he’s used you like this. Desperate and mean and barely pulling the car over in time. You scoff and glare at him.

“You like being a brat?” he asks, voice low, hand wrapped around your jaw as he owns it. He tilts it and makes you look up at him. “Brats get fucking punished.”

Then he pulls down his shorts and lets them hang open. One shove of his fist and his cock is out. It’s hard, flushed, leaking at the tip like he’s already halfway gone. Your eyes locked at it before you feel him slap it against your mouth once, twice… and you can’t count.

“Open.”

You hesitate but you do. Tentative at first, licking the head, tasting salt. You look up at him. He groans, all breathless and low, hand twitching against your jaw. You wrap your fingers around the base and trace the thick underside, just to feel him jump in your grip. That cocky fucking twitch.

He braces one arm against the window, the other tangling in your hair. When you take him in, slow and steady, he gasps like you’ve got your mouth wrapped around his nerves.

“God. Just like that. Pretty little slut.” His voice cracks as you ease down more. Your hand wrapped around at the end. He watches you with his mouth parted, sweat gathering on his brow. Lights through the window hit him just right: fucked up, beautiful, and too far gone to be careful now.

“Fuck, so warm,” he mutters like a prayer. Both hands dig into your scalp, gripping hard, holding you steady as he starts to thrust, which makes you let your hand that’s wrapped around him.

He moves slowly at first. Testing how far you’ll take him. But you manage to do it. Then faster, deeper, his hips snapping into your face as you fight to keep your throat relaxed. Trying to swallow him. But you gag a little (which is expected because he’s big) and he groans, head dropping back against the backrest. Doesn’t stop. He’s just fucking your throat, the tip touching and entering the spongy part of your mouth. Doesn’t fucking slow down. He knows you like it like this.

Tears spill from the corners of your eyes as spit drips from your lips, pooling down your chin. It’s so unhinged. You’re a mess. He’s a mess. His pace goes brutal and filthy, just how it usually is. Each thrust dragging out a choked whimper, all “glrk, guhk, slrp” and spit as your throat clenches helplessly around him

“That’s it. Fucking take it. Look at you.” His voice is wrecked. His hand wrapped around her hair while the other was on her cheek, caressing it. “Can’t even talk back with my cock in your mouth.”

You hum around him just to make him lose it with the vibrations of your mouth and you feel his hips stutter.

He fucks your throat like it's muscle memory. Like it’s the only thing his cock knows how to do. Maybe it’s the only thing he’s good at. The fucking. His hand’s a vice in your hair, the back of your skull shoved tight to his hips while your nose mashes into the sweaty skin of his pelvis, and he’s already breathing like he’s on the edge.

Your throat spasms when he buries himself too deep, and the sound that rips out of you is wet and brutal. A full gag that bubbles thickly in your mouth. “Ghhhkk- glk, glk, hhggghk- fuck- shhlck-”

It’s sloppy. Filthy. The kind of noise, the sound you hear when you are drowning someone and they are seeking air. Thick strands of drool hang from your chin to your chest.

“That fucking sound,” he mutters, hips jerking. “You’re so wet it’s disgusting. Listen to that shit- like your throat’s begging to be used.”

You try to look up through your lashes. It’s just a flicker at first, blurry and half-lidded with tears threatening to spill. Your mouth’s stuffed, lips stretched wide and shiny like it has lipgloss, spit dripping down to your chin and you’re still trying to look pretty for him. Yeah, you do. Your eyelashes batting as if you’re making beautiful eyes at the moment. Still keeping eye contact, even as you gag wetly around him that echoes like porn.

His fingers tighten in your hair.

“Holy fuck- look at you,” he growls. “You know what you look like right now?”

You blink up at him, lashes stuck together from tears. Lips almost pout around his cock. He slows his thrusts just a bit, enough to watch his cock disappear into your mouth, glazed in spit, then drag back out with a thick, stringy schlump that stretches between your lips and his tip.

“You look like you want this. Like you need to be gagged on cock just to think straight.”

You make another choked sound, not even sure if it’s a moan or a gasp, and he laughs under his breath.

“Fuck, don’t stop looking at me. Keep those eyes on mine.”

And you do. Even when the tears spill. Even when spitting floods your mouth and slides down your chest. Even when the only thing you can hear is that lewd, slick sound of his cock pumping in and out of your throat and the ragged, needy sounds coming from his mouth, right above you.

You’ve been here before. More than you like. Well, maybe you’ve been doing it for two years already. Your knees digging into the floor of his shitty car, mouth ruined, pride nonexistent. You should’ve known he’d drag you back the second you opened that mouth of yours and pissed him off. He hates it. He has these tendencies to fuck his frustrations out on you when you are with him. He always fucks you like this when you test him.

“Does he make you get on your knees like this?” Patrick grits out, his voice sharp with jealousy, hand tightening as he rocks his hips forward again. He’s shoving you straight back onto his cock so hard your nose slams into him. It made you gagged. Almost vomit. “Fucking Art. Huh? Does he grab your hair and use your throat till your eyes are watering?”

You nod your head just to piss him off. And then… you gag again, hard. It hurts. Your throat closes up around him and it just makes him groan. Your tears are falling freely now, stinging hot down your cheeks. He watches every twitch of your face, every sputter, every clench of your lips as you try to breathe around the thick weight of him.

“Didn’t think so,” he pants, almost close to the pleasure. “Bet he couldn’t even handle it. Probably too fucking soft. Probably apologizes when he cums in your throat.”

Patrick spits the words out as they offend him. Like the idea of anyone else even trying to take your mouth like this makes him insane. It’s not been a thing between him and Art. But it’s somehow always like this. They have almost similar tastes.

He pulls out just far enough to let you suck in a gasp, and then he slams back in deep.

He doesn’t give you a second to think or breathe or flinch. Just keeps your face glued to his cock like it’s some kind of religious fucking ritual like he’s offering communion and your mouth is the altar. Like both of you are trying to repent from your sins. He’s got one hand twisted in your hair so tight that made your scalp almost screams, the other braced hard against the fogged window for leverage, and he’s fucking your throat like he means to leave bruises. Which is possible. He’s the cause of your delayed dental appointments. Like he wants to make sure no one else ever even tries to put their cock in that mouth without thinking of him first.

“You looked at him like you wanted it,” Patrick grits out, jaw clenched, voice a rasp scraped raw with jealousy. “Like you’d let him touch you. Let him see this.”

He thrusts forward with that. Hard and shoving himself so deep you choke on instinct, and you do. The tip of his cock punching the back of your throat, your nose smushed into the heat of his pelvis, drowning in the sweat and musk of him. You gag, and gag again, eyes watering instantly, but he holds you there. Fucking holds you there. Because, of course, he does. You’re gagging like your body’s rejecting it and he’s moaning like it’s the best goddamn thing he’s ever felt.

“Bet he wouldn’t even know what to do with you,” Patrick mutters, half to himself, half to the swirl of hate in his brain that’s driving every thrust. “Bet he’d fall apart before your mouth even opened.”

You whimper. It comes out strangled and wet, broken by how deep he is. Your throat’s fluttering, clenching, trying to accommodate him and failing, and it’s disgusting how good it must feel for him. Your mouth is a tight, twitching mess of spit and slick noises, strings of drool sliding down your chin and soaking your shirt. You’re on your knees in the backseat like you’re built for this. Like you never learned anything else.

And he’s fucking losing it.

You feel it. Every shudder in his thighs, every hitch in his breath, the way his cock jerks and twitches against your tongue like it’s already coming before he even says a word.

Your fingers pressed weakly at his thigh, tapping. Pleading for a second, for air, but he doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t even flinch. His grip on your hair just tightens, dragging you in closer until your nose touches his pelvis again.

“Fucking swallow,” he pants, voice shredded and shaking, and then he’s coming, spilling hot and sudden down your throat while you’re still choking on him, unable to breathe, spit and slick and cum all sliding into one unbearable mess.

He doesn’t let you pull back until he’s milked every last twitch of it until you’ve swallowed or drooled it all down your chin, and even then he stays in your mouth a second longer than he should. Just to feel your mouth get more hot and wet with his cum.

It’s hot and thick and there’s so fucking much of it, you don’t even have time to prep your throat. You choke on it, trying to breathe through your nose and failing, sputtering around the flood of it while he holds you down, and forces your face into him like he wants you drowned in him. You managed to swallow it slowly, and it still leaked out, smeared messily across your lips, and your chin.

When he finally let's go, you crumple back on your heels, dizzy and soaked, coughing around the taste of him. There’s spit and cum all over your mouth. On your cheeks. In your hair. You don’t even wipe it. Just blink up at him with your jaw slack and your throat raw, chest heaving like you’ve been fucking waterboarded.

Patrick stares. Still hard. Still panting. Not even pretending to be done.

He wipes your chin like it’s his fucking trophy, thumb dragging through spit and cum, and whatever else is glistening there like he’s about to frame it. You’re still kneeling on the backseat floor, mouth parted, lips shiny, his dick out and wet and heavy on his thigh like it’s not even close to being done.

“Get on your back,” he says, voice gone low and mean. “You think I’m letting you off with just that?”

You drag yourself up, sore knees creaking, brain fogged, makeup smudged to hell, tits still shoved up from where he yanked your shirt down. The bra’s hanging on for dear life, cups pushed under your boobs, straps sliding down your arms. You start crawling beside him, trying to lie back across the small seat like some desperate little porno angel, but when your hand tugs at your skirt, instinctively trying to pull it off, he stops you.

“Don’t even think about it,” he snaps. “Clothes stay on.”

And then he says it again, slower. Voice thick. “Clothes. Stay. On.”

He’s already hovering and grabbing for your back, unclasping your bra like it’s nothing, and your tits spill out now. Soft and flushed. He hasn't even touched it yet. Just stare at it. Patrick has always been a boob guy and he has no shame in staring at it. He always does, making sure that you know he’s looking. Watch the way they bounce a little as you shift, nipples hard from the cold, from the car’s shitty AC still running like a bitch, from the way you’re halfway naked but not really. It’s messy. It’s slutty. It’s perfect for him.

You start to lie back, just half. Not laying back. Almost sitting up, but not really. Vice versa. Just rest your back against the backrest and the door. Your chest falls open, and that’s when he just… freezes. His eyes flick from your face to your chest, as something clicks.

“Actually,” he mutters. “No.”

You pause, chest heaving, tits showing, skirt bunched, bra undone, and useless around your ribs.

“I want you to ride me,” he says, voice gone dark and almost annoyed, like he’s pissed he didn’t think of it sooner. “Get on top. Right fucking now.”

You blink. A beat. Then he grins.

“I wanna see those tits bounce while you fuck yourself on my cock.”

And that’s it. His shorts are already shoved much low, waistband tucked under his balls, dick still glossy from your mouth. He shifts back against the seat, spreading his legs wider, and watches you like he’s got all the time in the world.

You climb up to his lap with your skirt still hitched up, your panties soaked, and your tits hanging out, and you swear he groans the second you straddle him. He almost shoves his face between your cleavage. His hands grab your hips and you can feel the way his cock presses up against your soaked little thong, hot and twitchy and so ready.

You barely settle into his lap and he’s already got both hands under your skirt, thumbs hooking the thin band of your thong and yanking it to the side like it’s in his way. It’s so sticky and uncomfortable, but he doesn’t want it off. He continues holding it on the side as if it’s offensive that it’s even still there. But he doesn’t even take it off. Just pulls it, elastic digging into your thigh while his cock twitches under you, already rubbing against the mess you made of yourself.

He drags the tip through your slit like he’s lining up for a test drive, slow and deliberate, head sliding through your folds and parting you open like he’s opening a path just for his cock. He does it again. And again. His cock catches right at your entrance, then glides up through the slick until the head taps your clit. He rubs it there, tip keeps poking against your clit.

You’re breathing hard. Fucked out and needy and barely keeping your eyes open. He’s just letting your eyes close because he knows it’s a sign of pleasure. It’s a win for him to know you like it. He’s just watching. Watching the way your pussy splits around him, pussy lips swallowing his cock like it wants him inside but he won’t give it to you, yet. Just keeps sliding between them, and making a fucking mess of you. Your thighs are sticky, your cunt glossed up from how wet you are.

“Fuck,” he mutters, one hand holding your hip down, while the other is guiding his cock like he’s lining it up just to tease himself with it. “Look at that. You see this shit?”

And you do. You bite your lip. You glance down, dizzy, and there it is. His dick slides between your pussy lips like he’s trying to wedge himself inside but keeps pulling back last second, tip kissing your clit with every movement, your whole cunt flexing like it’s starving for it. He watches it like he’s hypnotized. Watches it sandwich between you, thick and shiny.

He’s not pretending anymore. Not even close. This isn’t about you, hasn’t been from the second he dragged you into the backseat with his tournament shirt still clinging to his sweaty body and his shorts shoved low, cock hard and leaking, twitching like it’s got a mind of its own. You’re just something warm and wet for him to rut against. Something to sink into. Something to fuck himself stupid with and forget the match he lost.

You’re straddling him like a perfect little pillow princess. Which you are most of the time. Your thong shoved to the side, skirt yanked down to your waist, tits bouncing right in his face, and he’s using you. Just treating you as something he can use to get off. One hand locked around your hip to keep you flush to his lap, the other gripping the base of his cock like he might fall apart if he lets go. He’s sliding it through your soaked folds, rutting between them like your pussy’s pocket just made to jerk him off. He’s doing it like he’s pillow-humping like what girls do. His tip catches your clit with every slow, deliberate thrust, painting you slick and pulsing.

“Jesus- fuck,” he groans, tilting his head back before leaning forward again like he has to look. Can’t help but look. It’s just satisfying to watch. “You feel that? That’s how desperate I am. Lost one fuckin’ match and now I’m using your sloppy cunt to jerk myself off like a goddamn perv.”

Then he spits on you. Don't warn you. Just pull back slightly and let a thick glob of spit fall right onto your cunt. It lands partially on your thong. Already soaked and sticking and the rest drips right onto your folds, sliding down and mixing with the mess you’re leaking all over him. It makes you gush more and you help to rut your hips for a few times. Just a few times.

“Fuck,” he hisses, rubbing his cockhead through the spit and slicked mess, pressing hard into your clit until your thighs twitch. “You see that? Shit’s everywhere. Look at your pussy.”

He does it again. Another string of spit-dropping. This one lands right on your clit and he laughs, mean and breathless, before smearing it in with the fat head of his cock like he’s painting with your body. Your pussy pulsing with every brush of his cockhead to brush his spit on your pussy.

“Could make myself cum just like this,” he mutters. Which is true. He could just watch it. Fuck it. Just rub and ruts his dick and he will squirm and cums on it. But right now he’s just fucking through your folds with lazy, greedy thrusts. “Don’t even have to put it in. Just need your pussy messy and open and dripping so I can hump it like a loser with a cumrag. Just like this. Just like- fuck- this.”

He grips your waist tighter, rutting harder, dirtier. Whole cock sliding between your lips, swollen and wet, clit getting bumped every time like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

Your thighs are shaking. You’re dizzy from how fucking gross it is. From how much he’s getting off on it. His breath is ragged, sweat slicking his chest, whole body tensed like he’s right there. Right on the edge.

And then he takes a deep breath.

He carries you up before he sinks you like he’s slotting a piece into place.

No warning. Just one drag of your cunt over the flushed head of his cock, and he’s inside. All the way. Buried. Stretched. Stuffed. The kind of full that should be illegal. You feel so stretched around his cock. You won’t lie and say it doesn’t because he has a big cock. He’s the biggest you had. It always made you crawl back to him.

Your gasp gets swallowed by the groan he lets out, head thrown back like it’s killing him not to move. His hands flex hard around your hips, holding you there like he’s scared to lift you because he might cum right on the spot.

He doesn’t move. Just stares at your tits bouncing, your shirt shoved down, bra mangled, your skirt hiked up, his spit dripping down your cunt like you’re the best mistake he’s ever made.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice gone distant and high. “You feel that? Feel how deep I am?”

You do. God, you do. You feel it everywhere. In your gut. Like he’s in you and through you. Like he’s marking you. Like you’ll never be the same again.

Then he grips your waist and lifts you like you weigh nothing. Like he needs you higher. Like he can’t take one more second of this not being enough. Your thighs fumble for balance, hands sliding over his shoulders, and you look at him. Your slick cunt hovering right above his cock again, and he’s looking up at you like you’re his favorite brand of drug and he’s about to OD.

“Gonna fuckin’ use you,” he mutters, low and reverent like it’s a promise or a prayer. “Like you’re my fleshlight. My sloppy little fucktoy. That's what you want, baby? Want me to wreck you after losing like a pathetic fuck?”

And then he sinks you again.

Just one filthy, desperate snap of his hips upward as he drags you down, slow like he wants to feel every inch of your walls give, how every clench, twitch, squeeze, and flutter. Like he wants to memorize it as if he never had been inside of your pussy before.

You choke on a gasp. Your thighs tremble. He moans. His head tipped back, throat showing like he’s high off it. Like he’s smoking weed.

“Jesus- fuck, look at that,” he breathes, keeping you halfway down, cock buried just enough to stretch you but not enough to satisfy. “Tight as fuck. Wet like you need this. Like you wanted me to lose so I’d fuck you stupid.”

He looks down at where you’re joined, where your cunt’s stretched around the thick of him, already dripping. Already fluttering. Then he groans again, and spits. Exactly where you’re connected. He watches it hit your folds and smear between the mess of slick precum and desperation.

“You see that? You’re dripping down my balls and you’re not even on. Just gonna keep you here, warm and stupid and drooling around me.”

You make a sound, somewhere between a whimper and begging, but he ignores it. Lifts you just an inch. Then slams you down the rest of the way. He’s ball deep of you.

Your cunt swallows him. Keeping him deeper. Doesn’t want to let him go. Your thighs twitch. Your back arches and your mouth opens and hangs. He groans, grinding up like he wants to stay there, buried to the hilt, cock pulsing like he’s right on the edge.

“Fuck. Fuck, yeah. That’s it. Gonna jerk off with your body ‘til I can’t see straight.”

He grabs your tits. Greedy, rough, thumbing your spit-glossed nipples and thrusts again. Sharp and hard while his thumb continues to move and trace the soft buds against him. Controlled only by the need to ruin you.

“You hear that?” he pants. “That wet squelch? That’s your pussy. That’s you making noise for me, baby. You fuckin’ love being used.”

His hips stutter. Getting off on how wet you sound, so he thrusts again. Then again. And again. Every drag of his cock against your walls knocked something loose in your brain. Your legs are shaking, your eyes unfocused, every nerve lit up and screaming for more.

You try to help. Try to move. With just one bounce, your thighs twitch like they’re gonna carry you, and you lift an inch off him like your body still thinks it has a say in this.

But he snaps.

“Uh-uh,” he bites, hands locking around your hips, dragging you back down with a slap on your ass. “No. I’m doing it. I’m putting you on my cock like a sleeve.”

You moan, loud, helpless, and filthy, and your pussy flutters around him like it’s begging for punishment. He feels it. Groans like it hit his spine.

“Ohhh. You like that, huh?” he stated with a smirk. “Gettin’ used like a fucktoy in your little skirt?”

Another groan. He pulls your hips down and fucks up even harder.

“Pussy like this,” he mutters, “was made to get ruined. To sit on dick and not think too hard. Just bounce like a good little toy.”

You try to breathe. Try to speak. You get out something like “Can’t- ” but he cuts you off.

“Yes, you can. You’re fucking perfect. You’re takin’ me like you want it to break you.”

Then he slaps your ass, loud, sharp, before grabbing it like he owns it. He grips it, opening your ass cheeks a little too. He grinds your ass backward and forward before he continues to thrust up to your pussy.

“You know what you are right now?” he pants. “You’re a fucking cumrag with a heartbeat. And I’m not gonna stop ‘til I fill you up so good it leaks down your thighs.”

Your cunt flutters again. It made your cunt beat. Your body is betraying you completely.

“Tell me you like it,” he growls his mouth by your ear, hips jackhammering now. “Tell me you like being my fuckdoll.”

You try. You do. But all you manage is a choked-out moan, trembling against him, gasping like he’s taking your voice too.

“Fucking perv,” you whimper, shaking.

He grins. Big and mean and hungry.

“Uh-huh. Keep callin’ me that while I ruin you.”

Then he tilts his head and spits again, right where your bodies meet. Watch it mix with the rest of your slick like it’s a masterpiece he made with his cock.

“You better milk me dry,” he pants. “I wanna be leaking out of you ‘til you can’t walk.”

He doesn’t even let you move anymore after the little stunt you pulled.

Just grabs your waist, hooks his fingers under your thigh, lifts you, and starts fucking you. Using you like he’d use his hand like your pussy’s just a better, wetter hole to jerk off into.

“Fuck,” he grits out, dragging you down onto him again. “You’re gonna let me come like this? Just stuffed full of my cock, not even touching yourself?”

You whimper. Helpless from the way he’s handling you, shoving you down onto his lap again and again. You could pull back. Could stop. But you don’t. Not when he’s fucking you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Not when his dick feels so good. Maybe that’s such a slut behavior, but he’s a good fuck. It’s a rare breed.

“Jesus,” you gasp, digging your nails into his shoulder. “You’re using me like a fleshlight, Patrick-”

He just laughs. It sounds low and bitter and lets you bounce once on your own before grabbing your hips again and slamming you back down. “Don’t flatter yourself. Fleshlight doesn’t talk back.”

Your tits are already out. The shirt is shoved down, bra unclasped, and caught somewhere under the fabric, so he doesn’t bother pretending anymore. Just grabs one in his hand and squeezes like it’s a stress ball, fingers digging into the soft flesh. His thumb circles your nipple once, then pinches it hard. Enjoying how sensitive it is.

You cry out, legs shaking.

“What? You didn’t think I’d play with these too?” he pants, leaning forward to mouth at the same one he just abused. “What are they here for, then?”

He sucks your nipple deep into his mouth. He sucks on it like he’s searching for milk. As if you’re his mommy. His tongue is wet and hot and insistent while his other hand slaps the opposite tit, not hard enough to bruise, but loud enough to make you jolt.

“You’re sick,” you breathe, half-moan, half-accusation.

He pulls back just to sneer, lips wet with spit. “You say that like your pussy’s not gripping me.”

Then he yanks your skirt all the way up and groans, audibly, when he sees it. How your slick cunt’s dragging up and down his cock, swallowing him in and leaking all over him. The side of his dick’s still brushing your thong, pulled to the side but useless, just clinging to him, soaked and riding the length every time he thrusts up.

“Fuck. Fuck, look at that,” he pants, shifting under you so he can shove you down harder. “That’s what you needed, huh? Skirt up, panties twisted, cock so deep you’re gonna feel it tomorrow.”

You shudder, half-ruined already, and let him use you. Let him take it out on you.

“What?” you manage, voice hoarse. “Worried I’d let Art do this to me?”

He snaps.

The next thrust knocks the breath out of you.

“Don’t,” he growls, grabbing both tits in his hands and dragging you forward, squeezing like he wants to bruise them. “Don’t say his name while I’m inside you. Not when your fucking cunt’s this wet for me.”

You smile, barely, just enough to piss him off.

“H-hit a nerve?”

He slaps your tit again, then grabs the same one and pulls your nipple between his fingers, stretching it until you gasp.

“Call me a sick fuck again,” he pants. “C’mon. I know you want to.”

“You are,” you choke, even as you grind down against him. “You’re a fucking freak, Patrick. You don’t even care if I come- you’re just jerking off inside me like some sick fuck,”

“Damn right, I am.”

He groans. He leans his head back and watches the way your pussy sucks him in, dripping around him and grinding against the edge of your thong like it’s part of the kink. He can’t stop touching you. His hands on your tits, your hips, your ass. One hand spreads you open so he can watch the mess he’s making.

“You don’t need to come,” he mutters, voice almost gone. “You just need to stay still and take it. That’s all I want.”

And he means it.

His cock is buried in your cunt like he’s trying to hollow you out and leave himself there.

Like he’s trying to win something.

Or prove that someone else never could.

Then slowly, obsessively, he spreads your folds apart with two fingers. Index and middle in a neat little V, right above where his cock’s already plunging into you, again and again and again. “Your pussy is just screaming to get bred,” he stated.

He’s not trying to open you more, you’re already stretched, already taking him, but he does it anyway. Just so he can watch. Like it’s some fantasy he has discovered from porn he watched. Or something.

Watch your clit pulse and twitch with every thrust. Watch how it swells, flushed, spit-slick, needy, even though he said you’re not allowed to come.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Look at her.”

His voice is cracked and too low, like he’s speaking directly to your cunt now instead of you. His fingers hold your lips apart like it’s instinct, just to keep the view unobstructed.

“You see that?” he pants, more to himself. “She’s beating. Fuck- every time I move.”

You gasp, half choked because it’s true. Your clit’s twitching like it has its pulse, every muscle in your lower body seizing up around the rhythm of his cock. You can feel the way it twitches too. Clear sign you are so horny. You can feel the friction of his skin brushing past it again and again, swollen and slippery, overstimulated and raw.

And then he says it.

“I should film this.”

Your eyes snap wide. Heart beating fast. You look at him as if he betrayed you. But somehow you are turned on. But his gaze stays down, trained between your thighs like he’s hypnotized.

“I won’t,” he adds, reassuring you. “But fuck, I should. Just to remember how you look right now. All red and messy and bouncing on my cock like this.”

His thrusts pick up again like the thought alone turned him on more.

“Bet Art’s never seen you like this.”

That name cuts sharp. You don't know if he's just saying his name is making him get off it or what. You breathe in too fast, chest jolting because of course he brings that up now, when you’re weak and wrecked and letting him drag your panties to the side just to fuck you through a skirt like it’s nothing.

But all he does is smile.

He keeps holding you open. Keep watching.

Keeps using you like he wants to memorize the exact sound you make when your clit twitches under his spit, and your walls flutter around him like they’re trying to keep him in forever.

Your eyes flutter, lashes wet from tears, mouth parted like you want to say something, but can't. Oh God, you want to say something sharp, maybe mean, but all that comes out is a wrecked little sound. Your legs twitch around his hips, hips shuddering every time his cock drags past your clit again.

And when he says it? The “I should film this,” it you almost flinch.

“You’re disgusting,” you gasp, voice half-broken, half-breathless. “Actually fucking sick.”

He just grins, fingers holding your folds apart, still watching like he’s trying to memorize every twitch.

“You love it,” he says simply. “Don’t lie.”

You shake your head, barely, but your cunt clenches, tight and involuntary, around the length of him still pumping in and out. It just feels so good. So good. The way your pussy reacts to him says otherwise.

His thumb smears spit against your clit again, rough and greedy. Not to tease. Not to make you come. Just to feel the way it jumps beneath him. Just want to watch the reaction of it to his spit.

“You’re twitching like a whore,” he mutters. “Like she’s the one begging me to record it.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you hiss, but your voice is a mess now, slurred with heat and wet and some fucked up part of you that likes being seen this way. Used this way. He's the only one who can do that to you. He's the only man you let do this to you.

Patrick groans, rolling his hips up harder, dragging the fabric of your thong against the base of his cock again just to feel it grind. Just to add pleasure you are giving to him. Just to make it better for him.

“You’d let me do it, wouldn’t you?” he whispers, nose brushing your cheek. “Let me send him a clip. Just a flash. Just enough to see how sweet you look when you’re getting fucked like a toy. Or maybe a voice record.”

Your body jerks, from the thrust, from the filth, from the idea of it, and you try to shake your head, but it’s weak. Feeble. Like your brain’s just steam now. He's putting this idea into your mind that you won't even consider before. Because making a film or video of it? It's just so porn behavior.

He smiles.

“Oh, you would,” he breathes, rutting up slow, deep, his cock dragging filthy inside you. “I could pull out right now, zoom in on that twitchy little hole all red and sloppy and gaping, and you’d let me send it.”

“N-No,” you whisper, but your hips twitch forward again, and your pussy clenches like it’s protesting the lie. You are clenching him hard just to punish him a little.

He groans, laughs, even. He lets go of your throat just to slap your tit again, harder, rougher, before palming it like he owns the weight of it. You always like the way he gropes you. So filthy. It's like he owns you. That you're just some toy for him.

“Say it,” he pants. “Tell me you’d let me. Tell me you’d let me show him what a real fuck looks like.”

You shake, nails digging into his shoulders, jaw trembling. You are refusing to say it because it feels so humiliating.

“Fuck… Pat, that’s-”

“Say it.”

Your voice breaks. Come out breathless and shame is nowhere to be found.

“I’d let you,” you whisper. “I’d let you show him how my pussy opens for you.”

He groans, so deep it sounds like pain.

“Fuck- fuck.”

He spreads your slit again with his fingers, holding your folds open like he’s staging a show. Just for him. His cock glistens, soaked, the side still brushing against your thong where it’s bunched and useless.

“You see that?” he rasps, voice shredded. “She’s trained. This slutty little hole’s learned to open up just for me.”

You can’t even talk anymore. You just gasp and jolt and soft, choked sounds as his cock ruts in deep and slow and mean. He's playing with you, teasing you knowing that you are so close.

“I don’t even have to prep you anymore,” he grits, rocking up harder now, watching your clit twitch like it’s got a heartbeat. (Well maybe it has) “Just shove it in and you take it. Like you were made for this.”

You moan. Wrecked, desperate, and he smiles, pulling out just enough to watch your cunt pulse around nothing. It clenches so quick at the emptiness and you almost protest as you look at him with disbelief.

“Could take a still of this,” he mutters, thumb swiping over your clit again. “Send it with a voice note. Just you moaning his name while I stretch you open.”

Your body jolts.

“Bet he’d cry,” Pat laughs, breathless and cruel. “Bet he’d nut in his hand and hate himself for it.”

“Pat- fuck-f-fuck,” you choke, shaking.

He kisses your throat. Peppering your neck with kisses and licking it. Before he drags his cock back in, all the way, til his hips slap your ass and your yelps.

“Say it again,” he growls. “Tell me what your pussy does when it sees me.”

“It- it opens,” you sob. “It opens up for you. O-only you.”

“Yeah, it does,” he hisses, rutting harder making sure he thrust in until it touches your ass. “Because I want it to be only mine. Not his. Never his.”

And he slaps your tit again, then your ass, driving his cock so deep it feels like he’s trying to rearrange you from the inside.

You feel so close.

The sound of slick skin. Of spit and ruin. Of a girl whose body was already chosen for her.

“I’d let you,” you whisper. “I’d let you show him how my pussy opens for you.”

Pat groans, loud and broken like the words physically hit him. It's something he doesn't know that will turn him on. Imagine: him showing how he fucks you to Art and the three of you are friends. Well. Kinda. But there's tension between the three of you. The only explored is what's between you and Patrick.

“Fuck,” he mutters, hips stuttering up into you. “Fuck- you don’t even know what that does to me.”

He slams in deep, balls-deep, mean, messy. He lets go of your tit just to grab your ass and spread you wider like he’s imagining it now. Like he’s seeing it.

“What if we fucked you together,” he pants. “Both of us… at once. His cock right next to mine, stretching this pussy wide open.” Fuck and he's talking about double penetration right now. Sick. Sick. Sick.

You whimper, cunt twitching violently around him. You look up at him as if you are begging him to do it.

“You’d let us ruin you, huh?” he growls, breath hot in your ear. “Let us fight over this hole. See who can split you deeper.”

You can barely breathe, let alone speak, your body trembling as his fantasy hits too close to the truth you don’t want to admit. Because it's always been like this. You think you might like both of them.

He laughs. Low, filthy.

He grins, sharp, dark, sick with your moans spilling into his mouth like confessions.

“You’d thank us, wouldn’t you?” he breathes, fucking up into you harder. Deeper. Thrusting as if he's proving some point. “On your knees, cock in your mouth, pussy drooling around mine- saying please like you need it.”

You let out a breathy, mocking laugh, even as your hips stutter from the force of him. You shake your head like you are telling him he's unbelievable.

“Wouldn’t even need to ask,” you pant, teeth bared. “Both of you will make me take it, right? Stretch me out like I’m just some hole to share.”

He groans. His thrusts falter for a beat like he didn’t expect you to say it back, but then he snarls, grabbing your hips and dragging you down onto him.

“Yeah,” he growls. “You want it. You wanna be fucked so full you can’t move. Wanna get pinned down and passed around like a little shared slut.”

You dig your nails into his shoulders, voice syrup-slick and mean.

“You think he’d moan louder than you?” you whisper, taunting him. “Think he’d last longer while I cry on your cocks?”

His hand snaps down to your thighs, spreading you wider. He watches his cock disappear inside you like he’s hypnotized. He flicks his thumb over your clit and rubs it.

“Look at that,” he hisses. “You’re fucking soaked. All it took was the thought of us using you together.”

You smirk, but it falters, just a bit.

“D-don’t stop,” you whisper, breath shaking. “Say it. Say how you’d split me open.” She's saying those words for encouragement. For him to tell her his sick fantasies.

And he does.

“Both of us,” he pants, his thrusts slowing. “Stretching this tight little hole till you can’t even close your legs. You wouldn’t be able to think.” Yeah. It sounds like something he'll do.

Your head drops against his neck. “Fuck- fuck. I’d feel everything,” you whisper. “Feel both of you inside, pushing up so deep I forget who’s who.” The thought makes you gush more. Imagine being so cock drunk that you can't remember who are the cock thrusting in or pulling back since they're working in rhythm.

He lets out a broken sound, almost feral.

“You like that?” he hisses. “Like getting filled till you’re leaking down your thighs? Filmed. Shared. Fucked till you can’t talk.”

You shudder.

“I’d… I’d let you,” you stammer, losing composure. You hold tightly against his shoulders and you take a deep breath and clench around him. “Let you send it to him. Let you ruin me together.”

He spits down, hot and wet, right onto your clit, then rubs it with fast, filthy circles. He looks at you as he does this like he doesn't need to look down to know he's touching it directly. He just knows. Like he already memorizes it.

“Gonna cum for me?” he says. “Gonna cum just thinking about two cocks splitting your pussy wide open?”

You try to hold it, jaw locked, but the words pour out of you: “Yes,” you cry. “Fuck- yes, I’m gonna- gonna cum, I’m gonna- ”

And it hits you like a brick wall, hard, wet. Your legs lock up around his waist, hips stuttering helplessly, as your body clenches tight around him.

“Pat- ” you gasp, high and wrecked. “Fuck, fuck, I’m cumming-”

“Fuck- that’s it,” he snarls, still grinding into you. Fucking you through it. “Cum on it. Squeeze me. Show me what this pussy does when it gets talked down to.”

You sob through it, whole body shaking, cunt pulsing around him, slick gushing messily down your thighs.

“God,” you whimper, dazed. “You’re so- fucking sick-”

“Yeah?” he pants, nuzzling your cheek, fingers still teasing your overstimulated clit. “And you’re fucking perfect like this.”

He doesn’t pull out right away.

Instead, with a hand still firm around your waist and the other sliding down to your thigh, he lifts you- just barely. Enough to feel the slow, obscene drag of his softening cock inside your fucked out cunt. Enough to watch your folds stretch and cling as he draws back.

Then he lowers you again, slow like he’s trying to sink you into him all over again.

You shiver, hips twitching from oversensitivity, voice caught in your throat as he does it again.

Up. Down. His eyes locked between your bodies the whole time.

“That’s it,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Look at that.”

And fuck- he’s right to look.

You’re leaking around him, thick and hot. The creamy ring near the base of his cock grows messier with every slow pump of your hips, your slick mixing with his cum and sliding down your thighs in fat, ruined drops.

He does it again. And again.

Just uses your weight like a toy in his hands, dragging you over his cock, letting your hole suck and squeeze him even though he’s already softening, already emptied inside you.

“Still so warm,” he murmurs. “Still fucking twitching. Can’t even hold it in.”

You whimper, dazed and overstimulated.

“Pat,” you breathe, not even sure what you’re asking. “Too much-”

“Just one more,” he says, lifting you again to watch his cum spill out in slow, gooey trails. “Let me see what I did to you.”

And then he moans, quiet, low, like the sight alone is enough to make him hard all over again.

Then, he slows. Pauses. And without warning, pulls out all the way.

You cry out, hips jolting from the sudden emptiness, but he’s not done admiring. Not yet.

He holds you open, one hand spreading your puffy folds, the other guiding your body back until your legs fall wider, and watches. Watch as their shared cum spills out of your hole in slow, glossy drips. Down your slit. Over your ruined panties. Sliding down the backs of your thighs until it starts to cool.

Patrick groans, eyes half-lidded, lips swollen and wet. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You’re still dazed, panting. Soaked. But you manage to breathe out a wrecked laugh. “You proud of yourself?”

He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, that familiar filth curling back into his tone. “Maybe next time,” he whispers, voice low and gleaming, “we really need to try it. Me and Art. Two cocks. One perfect little hole.”

You shiver. Your pussy clenches.

And all you can do is smile, drunk on him, on this, on the sick little fantasies he’s never gonna stop pulling out of you, and whisper back:

“… you are going to kill him.”

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[musingsofheaven]

MORE THAN ENOUGH.

girl dad!art donaldson

fluff. sfw. fatherhood. emotional vulnerability. gentle ⠀ ⠀ parenting. domestic moments. ♡

Dad!Art Donaldson who… nods and hugs Tashi quickly when she said she’s pregnant, and Art immediately kiss her forehead after he wrapped his arms around her. Tashi swears she heard him sniffing and tear up after she said the news.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… stares at the ultrasound picture like it’s some trophy he won at the Open. (It is probably one of his biggest achievements now.) He doesn’t say anything the whole car ride home, just holds the printout with both hands like it might fall apart.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… is nervous as hell even though he tries to act he’s not in front of his wife. He immediately reads three books on pregnancy and childbirth in two weeks. When Tashi makes fun of him, he just shrugs. “I like being prepared.” (He’s scared shitless.)

Dad!Art Donaldson who… goes to every appointment. He’s always present, making sure that Tashi won’t feel that she’s alone in this journey. Sits quietly in the waiting room. Reads the brochures she doesn’t look at. Nods through every conversation about options, bur quickly look at Tashi because it’s still up to her and he’s just there to mostly support her.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… doesn’t talk to her belly in front of other people, but alone? He’ll whisper “Hey, it’s Dad” like he’s afraid the baby won’t recognize his voice unless he starts now.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… doesn’t cry when Lily is born. Not really. He just stands there. He looks awkward. Quiet. Staring. Completely undone. He was in the processing state when he heard her cry. Someone hands her to him and he holds her like she’s not real. Like he has no idea how he got this lucky.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… loses full matches because he’s so sleep-deprived from taking care of Lily because he insists that Tashi should rest especially when she’s in postpartum stage. He forgets his own warmup but remembers which pacifier is her favorite.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… carries her on his hip like second nature. He likes holding her. Even though he have tennis bag on one shoulder, toddler hanging off the other, keys in his teeth, somehow balancing juice and a diaper bag without saying a word.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… lowers his voice even more when she’s upset - not louder, never that. He just sighs. Smile. Speak at her without anything changing. Just soft. He kneels. He waits. He says “Are you mad or scared, sweetheart?” and lets her point before she finds the words.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… ends up on the floor playing tea party with one knee up and a tiara around his neck. He let Lily dress him up, put things on his head or face while sipping invisible tea with absolute seriousness. He’s not pretending. He’s in it.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… plays “where’s your nose?” like a coach running drills. He’s smiling all the time when Lily get it right. “Where’s your elbow? Your foot? Your brave face? Show me your brave face.”

Dad!Art Donaldson who… baby proofs the corners of the coffee table but not the edges of his racquet bag because he thought it’s safe. One day finds her trying to climb into it, whispering, “Me play tennis too.” He has to sit down because he almost had a heard attack from that.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… reads the same book eight nights in a row (it’s her favorite) and voices all the animals differently each time. She starts correcting him. “No Daddy, the bear was sleepy voice!” and he laughs so softly it hurts.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… carries her to the car after she falls asleep in his lap. Lily’s whole body flopped across his chest, drooling on his shoulder. He can’t help to smile when he looks down at her like she’s the first good thing that ever happened to him.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… once had his whole life planned around courts and rankings and medals (which still is, but it ranked below from his priorities now) but now, the best part of his day is hearing her yell “DAAAADYYYYY” when he walks through the door.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… lets Lily crawl into his bed in the middle of the night, no questions asked. He’ll cuddle her when Lily hugs her. He doesn’t complain even when she kicks in her sleep or drools on his shirt. Who adjusts her stuffed animal without waking her, and place it between them while he sleeps half-on his side just so she has enough room to sprawl.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… never tells her no when she asks to paint his nails, and doesn’t bother to wipe it off before a press conference. He smiles when reporters ask. Says it’s lucky. People smile and loves the way he’s sharing this moment to them.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… eats the weird breakfast she makes for Father’s Day without blinking. Telling she’s the chef of the house even it’s runny eggs, burnt toast, lukewarm juice and speaks again after he finish it, saying it’s the best meal he’s had all year. And means it.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… still buys Tashi flowers on Mother’s Day and put the classic “from Lily,” no matter how things are between them.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… reads every bedtime story like it’s strategy review. With his steady voice, but somehow she falls asleep faster when it’s him. Like it brings her comfort. She doesn’t even care what book it is. It’s the way he smells like soap and laundry. The way his voice never gets loud. It’s gentle in a way he’s cooing her. The way he always pauses before turning the last page.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… lets her press stickers on his face during phone calls or when him and Tashi is watching the reply of his match. Who ends up with a glitter Hello Kitty on his cheekbone and doesn’t notice until she points it out. He keeps it on anyway before he laughs with Lily.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… speaks gently, even when she’s screaming. Just nods at her, listening to what she’s screaming about. Who squats down to her level when she’s upset, says “I need you to breathe with me,” and holds out his pinky until she wraps hers around it. He brings Lily’s hand in front of him and kiss her knuckles and thank her for talking to her even she’s upset. He never yells. Never raises a hand. But when he says “That wasn’t kind. Try again,” she listens.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… doesn’t make her say sorry first. Don’t let the heat between him and his daughter for too long. Who apologizes when he’s wrong. Who teaches her that strength looks like accountability.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… is not always perfect, but is always gentle. That’s what he’s proud of. He’s always steady. Always learning how to love her better than he was loved himself.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… tears up, genuinely, shamelessly when she tells him, “You’re the best at hugs.” He hums ⠀ and kiss her forehead when he tucks her in and whispers, “Happy to be your dad,” just loud enough that she might hear it in her dreams.

Dad!Art Donaldson who… watches his daughter sleep under those green projected stars and thinks, If this is all I am now, it’s enough.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[musingsofheaven]

SIT STILL, BE PRETTY.

Boyfriend!Bucky Barnes x Afab Girlfriend!Reader

fluff. sfw. kissing. flirtation. implied intimacy. ⠀ ⠀ suggestive dialogue. emotional intensity. ♡

You’d been sitting in front of the mirror for almost an hour now, too focused on what you’re doing. The light hit right through the blinds, warm and soft across your face. You also have your own light that will enhance the natural view of your face while you bend in closer, blending blush into your cheek. You were focused, quiet, and careful even. But most importantly, you are lost in your world of shimmer and pigment, dabbing on gloss with the tip of your pinky.

It’s not a new experience, actually. You’d done a hundred different looks before, always doing this before you shower. Pre-shower makeup, that’s what people call it. Now you’re practicing a new look that you’ll probably abuse until you want another look. It’s something clean. Dewy. Fresh, like you’d just come from sleep, but you still woke up like this vibes, not from three hours of swatching foundations on your forearm. Skin like glass, lashes barely curled. A soft, perfect pout, glossy and clear lips.

It’s funny how the palettes lay open like a battlefield behind you. Brushes crowded the edge of the table in neat little rows. You don’t really have the best clean table, but it’s not really worse. It’s actually tame this time since you are not doing the intense and full glam makeup.

While from the bed, there’s this menace. Half-wrapped in your sheets, that looks like he owns the bed. Tangled up in his shirt was the mood of a man who’d been very patient for a long time. Like it’s worse than every war he’s ever been to. Like he’d rather shoot heads than sit right through it like it’s bothering him.

And the menace is reacting now- Bucky groaned, which made you roll your eyes. He was sprawled across the middle of it, long and lazy. He’s been rolling around your bed with dog tags warm against his chest, resting into a navy shirt with the sleeves pushed just past his elbows. The collar stretched loose enough to show the edge of his collarbone. One arm was thrown behind his head, the other holding his phone, trying to get through your routine. The sunlight through the blinds hit him just right, striping down his jaw, making his lashes look darker, sharper. Made his boredom look expensive. He didn’t even try to hide it.

He didn’t say anything at first. Not really. But you can feel it by the sounds he’s making. Just sighed loud enough that you were supposed to hear it, like he’s guilt-tripping you into stopping. Maybe loud enough that he hoped you’d feel bad. Or maybe too desperate for your attention.

You didn’t. Not that you don’t care, you do. He just always do this shit. So here you are, reaching for your setting powder, puffing it in your hand, and pressing it gently beneath your eyes.

Another sigh, deeper this time. God. He’s insufferable. You caught the sound of the bed shifting- his feet dragging across the sheets, his elbow hitting the pillow with a soft thump. “You done yet?” He asked like a kid who was whining because he didn’t get candy.

“Nope,” you said, without turning around.

He grumbled something that sounded like betrayal, making you smile at your reflection before giggling.

He was quiet again for a moment. Then: “It’s taking so long, baby... You said it’s going to be fast.”

“I said it would be simple.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“It’s not.”

You shake your head before you move to your other cheek, tapping soft layers of translucent powder along the high points. He let out a dramatic groan behind you, like he was being tortured.

“This is worse than what I experienced, you know?” he muttered. “You’re holding me hostage.” Such a drama queen. He’s exaggerating everything that will make him look like a little boy who deserves attention.

“You’re in my bed.”

“Exactly.”

You laughed under your breath, reaching for your brow gel.

“This doesn’t even count as makeup,” he went on, now flipping onto his stomach, chin dug into the mattress while he watched. “You’re basically not wearing anything, baby. Why are you doing it? It’s skin voodoo.”

“It’s clean girl makeup.”

“There’s nothing there.”

“It’s minimal,” you corrected.

“You’re just proving that every man thinks that this is what a no make-up or what natural make-up looks like,” you stated, basically baiting him.

He scoffed. “No, no, fuck. It just feels like an excessive experience from where I’m lying.”

“Then maybe stop watching.”

“I’m not watching,” he lied.

You caught his reflection in the mirror.

“Buck- ”

“I’m waiting,” he corrected, shifting slightly on the bed. Again. Moving as always. “Like a boyfriend who loves his girl. Patiently. Selflessly.”

“Patiently,” you repeated. “While sighing every five minutes.”

“I didn’t even sigh that time.”

“That was your fourth sigh.”

“Third,” he argued.

“Fourth,” you said, turning your head just enough to glance over your shoulder. “And besides- you promised.”

That stopped him, making him raise his eyebrow at that. Did he promise anything that he can’t remember? Is he fucked again? Did he forget someone’s birthday? Did he forget any celebration? He’s basically panicking inside.

He blinked. “What?”

“You promised me,” you said again, like it was apparent. “Said if you become whiny and insufferable again, you’d let me do your makeup.” Well, basically, a promise you forced into him.

“I didn’t mean today.”

“I did.”

He rolled onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes. “That’s not what I said.”

“You said, and I quote- ‘Fine, I won’t bother you again. If I do that again, I’ll let you paint my damn face.’ That sounds like you,” You said while putting quotations in the air using your fingers.

“That was hypothetical.”

“It was binding.”

“Not legally.”

“I made you snacks,” you start listing things.

“Let you do anything while you let me do my makeup.”

“There’s basically the TV where you can watch movies.”

“You have your phone.”

He let out a long, martyred sigh before shaking his head. “God, you’re evil.”

You tapped gloss across your lips.

He sat up just enough to glare at the back of your head. “You’re not even gonna argue?”

You capped your gloss and started gathering your things, fixing it to the way it was while ignoring his ass.

He groaned. “You’re gonna pout, aren’t you?”

You didn’t answer because he already knew you would pout, so you just kept moving. The brushes were in their cases, the compact was closed, and the lip gloss was in the tray.

“Silent treatment,” he muttered. “Cool. Love that.” You can feel him rolling his eyes behind your back.

You gave him one look- flat, pouty, unimpressed.

He flopped back dramatically onto the bed. “Fine. Jesus. Come ruin my life.”

You raised a brow before lips forming into a smile. “Really?”

“C’mon, artist. Let’s make me hot.”

You smiled. Made your way over. Too eager, honestly. You almost run.

“But only,” he added, as you climbed onto the mattress, “if you do it from here.”

His hands caught your hips and guided you right into his lap. It made you yelp and jump a little. You straddled him, knees digging into the soft comforter, thighs bracketing his. He was warm beneath you, solid. You could feel his muscles in his body. His shirt bunched up against your calves.

You reached for the sponge again.

“This part wasn’t in the promise,” you said, a little argumentative.

“This is my condition,” he said, smug. He’s smirking with a glint of playfulness in his eyes. “It’s strategic. Don’t let them use you without getting something in return.”

“Strategic for what?”

He looked pointedly down at where you were sitting. “Morale.” Oh yeah, morale. Going to make him enjoy it instead of suffering, got it.

You rolled your eyes. Pressed the sponge against his cheek.

The primer was cold on his skin. He flinched slightly, but didn’t stop you, even though he’s not used to this feeling. You worked slowly, gently tapping across his cheekbones, forehead, and nose bridge. He was watching you again. His eyes were mostly focused on your face. Closely. Those little reactions. The way you scrunch your nose a little. The way you bite your lips. The way you pout. The way you stare at him.

“You’re really doing this,” he muttered.

“Mhm.”

“Even the eye stuff?” He asks, voice deep and annoyed, but letting you do your stuff.

“All of it.”

“You gonna make me pretty?”

“You already are.” Of course, you’ll say that, he’s a handsome, pretty man.

His mouth twitched. He looked away.

You smiled and chuckled.

The foundation went on light and smooth. You blended with practiced strokes, leaning in close every so often to angle your brush just right. You really like his skin. Surprisingly, it’s soft. His breathing slowed. Your chest brushed his more than once. His hands stayed on your hips.

You set everything in place. Added a flush of blush, just enough to make him look like he’s just naturally blushing. Highlighted his nose. Shimmer caught the light just beneath his eyes.

Then you reached for the gloss, and there was this reaction again. He narrowed his eyes before shaking his head.

“No.” He narrowed his eyes, shaking his head like the very idea was offensive, like he couldn’t believe you suggested that to him. To him. But his hands stayed firm on your hips like he’s not against from the idea you presented seconds ago.

“Yes.” You smiled, tilted your head, all innocent, sweet, twirling the gloss wand between your fingers like a weapon you knew he’d eventually surrender to. You pout while you wait for his answer.

“Don’t.” His voice dipped, quieter now, but not serious. Not angry. Just giving you the idea that he doesn’t like it. His thumb brushed your waist like he didn’t actually want you to stop.

“You’ll look good.” You leaned in, trying to persuade him. You were close enough that he could feel your breath, and your gloss-slick mouth tilted just enough to mock him.

“Please?” It slipped out like a tease, all soft and feels like a crocodile tears and unfair.

“I look good already.” He said it flat, smug, unbothered. Confident that he doesn’t need it, like it's not part of the look. But his gaze? His gaze lingered on your mouth when he said it, like he wanted you to prove it.

“Let me finish,” you whispered, and swiped it across his mouth- slow, gentle, sweet. Not too girly. Just enough to make it plumpy.

His lips parted slightly. Your breath caught.

He was soft. Warm. Glossy.

And then he kissed you.

Or tried to.

He leaned in with that slow, lazy confidence of someone who thought sitting still for long made him a winner like he earned that shit. It’s like a reward system for him. It made you lean back, eyes narrowing, finger pressed gently to his lips.

“Oh,” you murmured. “You think you earned that?” voice laced with playfulness.

He blinked. “I know I did.”

“You were groaning the whole time.”

“I was being emotionally supportive.”

You tilted your head, amused. “You said it was face voodoo.”

“And yet I endured it,” he said, catching your waist like he was about to speak. He’s caressing it a little, up and down, before squeezing each side. “For you. For beauty. For whatever the hell you did to my eyelids.”

“Shimmer.”

“Exactly. I shimmered. That deserves a prize.”

You smiled, letting your hand slide up, fingers toying with the chain around his neck until they closed over his dog tag. You tugged it, slowly, pulling it so he’ll be more closer to you, his chest pressing against you. Face inches close to your lips to touch. His breath hitched- not much, just enough.

“You want your prize,” you said.

“I do,” he murmured. His voice was low. Soft. Warm at the edges. “Something like kissing.”

You hummed, lips barely brushing his, not entirely kissing, more like a peck. But both of you know that it’s not a kiss in your vocabulary. “And what if it smudges the gloss?”

“Then you fix it,” he said. “While still in my lap.”

You laughed and kissed him.

It was soft, glossy, and a little breathless, like sugar, heat, and all the tension you pretended wasn’t there. His hands slid under the hem of your shirt, not high, not rushed- just enough to feel. Just enough to hold you there. His hands flatten there, and he’s feeling you like he’s been waiting for this the whole day.

When you finally pulled back, you were flushed. He was glowing.

“I hate you,” you whispered, a smile curling at your lips.

His eyes sparkled.

“You really love me,” he said.

And you do.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[musingsofheaven]

PAID IN FULL.

Coke User!Rafe Cameron x Broke Student!Reader

nsfw. oral (f). fake drug test. transactional dynamic. ♡

You weren't supposed to stay.

You were supposed to hand him the cup, take the cash, and leave. That's it. Something transactional. Quick and shameful. He gets what he came for, and you get your money. Clean piss for his drug test later- snuck into the facility in a warm plastic flask taped to his thigh. What fuck even is that? But that's his problem, not yours.

You weren't even supposed to agree, but you did. You said yes when he asked. Not because you liked him. God, no. You'll never do that if you don't get something. He caught you in the right place at the worst time, and you needed rent money more than dignity. Plus, you don't have enough allowance. You don't have a job. Just part-time. So basically you're fucked.

“You clean?” is the first thing he asks you. You don't even know why you entertained it, but you did.

You even blinked at first before raising your eyebrow at his ridiculous question and asking him back, “For what?”

He smiled, all lazy charm and swollen pupils. “Drug panel. I need a favor. I'll pay.”

You crossed your arms. “How much?”

You should've left. You didn't. You don't even know why. Many reasons circling in your mind. Maybe it was how he looked at you- low lashes, head tilted, lips already a little wet. Maybe it's because he seems too good. Maybe because it looks at you like you're not paid in full, maybe it was when he leaned back on the couch and said, “What, you're in a rush?”

That was 20 minutes ago. Now you're in his apartment, panties shoved into your pocket, thighs spread wide, and Rafe Cameron's mouth is buried in your cunt like it's the thing he actually paid for.

The cup's long gone. When you gave it to him, he tucked it away, warm and sealed, like it belonged to him now. Technically, it is his now. And when you held your hand out for cash, he gave it to you.

His tongue is working long, slow, obscene circles over your soaked slit, and you're trying not to moan because you know how smug he'll be if he hears it. You know it because every time you release a sound he'll chuckle again, you cunt.

He doesn't even look high. Not in the red eyes. Not the aggressive way. Not in the way you can smell it. Not in the usual way. His eyes are heavy, yes, but focused. Lashes low, mouth soaked, nose buried in your cunt like he needs the scent of you more than air.

One hand's pressing into your thigh like he owns it. The other's under your ass, flexing into the swell every time your hips twitch. He also squeezes them occasionally, like he needs to ground himself for something. Or maybe he just likes the feeling of your flesh on him.

He hasn't said anything since he got you out of your jeans. Just looked. Maybe some smug sounds. Like, he couldn't believe you'd actually let him. You didn't. Not really. You just didn't stop him. And that's enough.

Because he eats like he doesn't care if you finish, scream, or try to wriggle free. He's going to get it, whether you do or not. Lips sealed. Tongue dragging low and slow through your slit, every flick deliberate. He also occasionally sucks your clit to make it better. He groans when your thighs twitch, like he likes it when your body tells the truth before your mouth does.

“Jesus,” he says eventually, voice thick against you. “That the same pussy will make me look clean?”

You don't answer. You can't. Your breath is stuttering, knees locked, and eyes closed.

He chuckles before he licks your slit to make your eyes open. “What? Thought I wasn't gonna bring it up?” His tongue flicks again- cruel and hot, straight across your clit. You gasp.

“Paid for your piss,” he mutters. “Least you could do is let me eat you after.”

And he's eating you out like what he just said. You try to sit up. You really do. But his hands keep you pinned- grip tight, lips greedy. His mouth presses in again, even messier now, spit glistening, tongue sliding low and thick and hot. You shouldn't like it. You do.

Your fingers curl into the couch. You try to stay quiet. Lips tasting copper from the way you bite them. He notices. He always does.

“You're tryin' not to moan,” he says, voice muffled in your pussy. “That's so fuckin' cute.”

He flattens his tongue. Drags it slow. Noses into your clit and circles once, twice, again. You shudder.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, low and breathless. Then he pulls back.

Just enough to look at you. His mouth glistens. He licks his lips clean and watches the way you clench. His eyes are dark and glassy. His cheeks are flushed. “How're you not getting this every night?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

He grins. “Don't worry, baby. I got you.”

And he's back on you. Worse. Hungrier. He licks with purpose now- hands dragging your thighs wider, angling your hips so his tongue can get deeper. His breath is hot. His tongue is relentless. It's like he's splitting you in half with his tongue. He groans like he's fucking high on the way you taste.

You weren't supposed to be here. He doesn't say it, but you feel it in the way he grabs your hips and pulls you forward- lifts your ass just enough to lock you in, nose tucked under the hood of your clit, tongue slipping in lower, lower, dragging slick from your entrance up to your clit and back again.

He's not teasing. He's not even taking his time anymore. He's devouring.

You try to shift. He growls.

“Stay,” he mutters into your pussy. The first word he said in minutes after going back on you. You could feel the weight of his words. It's not sweet. It's not even kind. It's a command. Possessive. Hot. “Right fuckin' there.”

You freeze. And then you feel it- his tongue, low and deep, licking into you now, no fingers, just breath and spit and the awful awful stretch of his mouth flattening, dragging, sucking until your stomach coils tight and your throat goes dry.

Your fingers clench in the pillow under your head. You try to stay quiet. You fail.

He pulls back slightly, thumb swiping through your slick, watching the way it glistens on his skin.

“You always taste like that?” he murmurs. “Or am I just lucky tonight?”

You almost said something. But then he spits. Right on your cunt. Doesn't even blink. That feels disgusting and hot. Sloppy. Wet. Twitchy. Then dives back in. Sloppier now. No rhythm. Just heat, pressure, and obsession.

He sucks your clit hard. Tongue flicking. His hands are rough now, gripping your thighs like he wants to bruise you into place. Your legs twitch. He pins them.

“Ohhh, she likes that,” he says, cocky. “She likes when I'm fuckin' mean about it.”

You whimper. Your back arches. Yeah, you like it when he's sucking your clit hard. When he's thrusting his tongue in you and alternating it from sucking, licking, and pushing. Your thighs try to close. He drags you forward and buries his face like he's trying to crawl inside.

He groans again- loud, animal, reckless- and you feel it down your spine. You feel the slick slide of spit and cunt slick dripping between your ass cheeks, pooling beneath you.

You reach for his hair. He lets you pull, but he doesn't stop. He let you because you know you're just guiding his head more close to your pussy. He just looks up once- eyes wild, mouth soaked- and grins.

“You let me eat it,” he says. “You're not gettin' that back.”

You gasp.

“Not till I'm done,” he adds. “Not till I get every drop.”

Then he licks you again. And again. And again.

And when you finally cum- when your moan cracks, hips snap forward, hands claw at the cushion- he groans deep in his chest and sucks harder like he's cumming too. Like he knew he'd get you there. Like this is exactly what he paid for.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[musingsofheaven]

hiii! i would like to request a patrick x reader (reader is afab and patrick and her are together) — maybe the story starts with him losing a match so he’s like really upset, and during a party (late at night) while we talk to friends (including tashi and art maybe) the reader calls him a "friend"

i would like the fic to be angsty with tension (no smut!) maybe only some explicit scenes but mostly angst (and the story ends well obv)

tysm in advance <3

ALMOST SOMETHING.

summary: you're not together. not really. he never said he loved you. you never said you loved him. typical situationship shit. but he stayed the night. and the next. and the one after that. but it's fine. you're not together… you're just friends. right?

pairings: patrick zweig x afab!reader

warnings: 8.7k words. angst. emotional miscommunication. phone snooping / invasion of privacy. emotional hurt/comfort. mutual pining. 

notes: hi anon i don’t know if i manage to bring your req to your liking but i hope you like this! >_< i wrote this with “casual” by chappell roan on loop (because i need reliving this shit to get an inspiration). heavily inspired by my own past relationship (if you’re reading this, no you’re not). also yes, normal people had me in a chokehold again. unfortunately. if you’ve ever do relationship things with someone but still got introduced as “just a friend” like it didn’t kill you inside? yeah. this is your canon event. i’m so sorry. pls enjoy <3

It’s not really new for you to have Patrick here. It’s not weird, not really, when he’s always here or long enough to have his copy of the key to your place. Well, he’s on your couch, just being comfortable and lazy. His legs are open wide like he’s paying for the rent. What’s in your place? A bottle of half-finished Coca-Cola is already sweating on the coffee table beside a plate of leftover carbonara with both of your forks staying there, not even bothered to finish it, well, not yet, at least.

Look at you; you’re walking around your apartment with a sock and messy bun. You don’t even bother if your sock will be dirty from dragging it on the floor. You are even humming to yourself as if pretending not to wonder if he will stay for the night. Well, ask if he can stay or tell you at least, but maybe you’re assuming something, right? But deep inside, you already know the answer to your question. He will stay even if he doesn’t announce it. He will not wait for the invitation when he always invites himself in.

You like how he was acting that day. He was good earlier. Sweet, or maybe just too good. He kissed your shoulder as you mixed the sauce with the past, his arm sneaking underneath your shirt and tightly holding your waist. He even said something sweet about how he likes having you like this. Caring. Good. Sweet. Although he’s also very clingy, you can tell that he’s still clingy right now, like a goddamn baby.

He keeps getting closer and putting no space between you; he’s invading your personal space. He’s brushing your shoulders when passing by you; you think he’s just finding excuses to touch you like that’s not even a big deal. His touch is not tense. It’s soft and gentle. It was the kind of night that will leave you aching later. That kind of thing that will have you stay up so late to ask yourself about the nonstop thoughts about “What are we?”

And damn, he’s now on your bed. Moved out from your couch when you are walking around the apartment. As he knew from the start that where he would stay, his legs were stretched and comfortable in your sheets, and his boxers were so low in his hips. It showed the goddamn v line and his happy trail, with the damp curls sticking to the back of his neck. His shirt hangs loosely on his body. The TV is still on but muted. More like just a light effect now. He’s still scrolling on his phone like he’s already bored. Waiting for something. Maybe waiting for you. Yeah.

You are standing by the dresser with your towel hanging off your shoulder, revealing your bare legs and skin still warm from the temperature. “I’m going to shower,” you stated.

His eyes remain against the phone screen, and he doesn’t even look up. “Yeah, alright.”

When you start walking and pass the bed, with your barefoot and socks removed, you’re not rushing to the bathroom. He catches your wrist before you get away and out of reach.

“How about skipping it?” he stated, almost pouting, but his eyes dragged down your legs. “You smell like me.”

“I need to shower before going to bed, Patrick.”

“So?” He rolls his eyes at your words as you feel his thumb drawing circles on your wrist. “You smell good, though.”

You make that face. You always make that face when you hear words that make you cringe or maybe when you want to mask what you’re feeling. You try to pull your wrist away, but he tugs back. But it’s not harsh; it’s gentle and easy. It’s enough to make you stop.

“Stay a sec,” he says and sighs before he leans up to press his lips against your cheek. “Then you can wash me away from your body.”

“You’re not even on me,” you mutter innocently, and you don’t even know how it will sound to him.

He grins and rests his head, pressing another kiss against your shoulder. “Yet.”

That made you roll your eyes and finally get out of his grip. Walk away from him and go towards the bathroom. He doesn’t try to get a hold of you again or chase your wrist. He lets himself get comfortable again in your bed.

“You always take too long,” he adds. “That will give me enough time to go through your stuff.”

You scoff and say, “Touch anything, and I’ll lock you out next time.”

He doesn’t respond, but there’s a grin on his face, and it is loud enough already, even though he’s not saying anything.

You go inside the bathroom and push your foot behind you so it will close, which clicks shut behind you. You didn’t even bother to lock it. Why would you? It’s just Patrick inside your apartment. You get off your clothes before showering and turn the water on. The steam flickers around you; it’s slow and warm. When the water hits your body, you breathe easier. You let the water flow away the day, the feelings, and the nerves that you didn’t even realize it’s knotted in your system until he came to your apartment and became comfortable like he always does. Like he belongs here.

In the shower, you take your time. You always do when he’s here. It’s not because you’re relaxed and want to enjoy the water in your body. Because you’re not. It’s because every second he’s in your apartment, it feels like a test you’re about to take when you’re anxious and not even ready to take it yet. You always think. Just think. Think. Think. Like, will he still be in that goddamn bed that god knows what both of you already did there when you come out from this shower? Will he leave the second he thinks you won’t notice?

He’s not a liar. Not really. Maybe he does white lies over little things. But you don’t think he’s a liar. But you know that he just doesn’t know what the fuck he wants, and that is what scares you the most. Uncertainty.

He hasn’t even said he loves you. Trying to avoid the three words. Not once. Not even when he’s inside of you, but maybe some things can be counted. Like when he brought your comfort drink from the coffee shop near your apartment, he even knows you’re a regular there. He always says it’s on the way to your apartment, even though it’s technically not. Sure, it’s close. But not close close. Maybe it can take 15 minutes to walk from your place. You also remember when he replaced the batteries in your television’s remote without saying a word. When you asked him, he said it’s not working; how can he watch his favorite reality show from your Netflix account? He even uses the terminologies or words you use as if he’s already adapting to them. He quoted back the dumb joke you made last week as if it meant something and was funny to his ears. He doesn’t say he loves you, but sometimes you feel like he does. And that’s something scary about his actions. It never came with words and assurance. You are both together, but not together in the same way.

Your mind is lost in that thought while your fingers start to wrinkle under the water, the mirror is fogging up, and your chest is aching like someone stabbed you with an ice pick and pulled it so your blood is spurting out like a fountain, it’s always like this when you remember this isn’t anything. Not really. Not officially.

You think, maybe this could be love. Perhaps it is already, and you’re the only one who has noticed. Worse, the one who feels like it is love.

While you’re in the shower and overthinking what you and Patrick have, the steam of water hisses behind that door. The hum of your voice, like you’re so relaxed and enjoying it, he hears it. Maybe you didn’t realize that it’s loud. And your phone’s on the nightstand, shining and still open because you set the sleep option to 10 minutes, so it won’t take long to close automatically. So it’s unlocked right now. Just… open.

And it’s not like he meant to.

He’s still on your bed, stretched, shirt little lifted so his abdomen is showing, legs crossed at his ankle like he’s bored as if he’s not going to do something awful. Your phone keeps flashing and showing notifications. Messages. Of course, he saw the previews. It’s your friends being loud. Talking about random shit like memes, emojis, and someone’s ex, he presumes. And.. he doesn’t mean to touch it, to tap it. He doesn’t, he swears! But his thumb is already moving as if it has its own life.

And then he keeps looking at it. Of course, it remains open.

What was the first thing he did first? He opened the photos, and the camera rolled first. It’s safe. Easy. Innocent even if he squints.

Just a bunch of random pictures, mostly. A picture from your dinner. A blurry video you took when you’re out with your friends. One of your dumb mirror selfies, face hidden as if you’re shy, and the shirt that is not yours, it’s his shirt, fuck, of course, that’s his. You look good in it. Too good. Like you meant to send it to him, but you got shy. Like you knew he’d see it. Like maybe you wanted him to.

He scrolls a little. There’s one where you’re out, food around you, and it looks like a gathering or a big event. You’re laughing like your whole mouth is smiling. You look happy. Not the pretend satisfied; no, you look like you enjoyed it. You don’t look like you miss him in it. You don’t look like you’re thinking of him at all.

He swipes back to the messages.

Curiosity kills the cat, no? The group chat keeps showing at the top of the phone screen. Jesus, there are so many messages like it’s one of your weekly catch-ups, full of fucking terminologies you guys only know the meaning of, someone talking shit about a guy who ghosted. It’s just girls being girls. It’s nothing. Yeah, it is. He knows that. Right? He shouldn’t be bothered. Not really.

But still, his thumb drags up. Just a little. To see. He’s not snooping. He’s just checking.

He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for by opening your phone. The voices in his head tell him it’s nothing. Assuring himself that he’s just bored because you are taking long again at the show, that he’s just curious because why your phone keeps having notifications, and he’s just scrolling through your phone while you’re rinsing shampoo from your hair, trusting him not to be a dick.

He tells himself a lot of things.

He must be staring at your phone, catching himself looking at the chat and the search bar. He’s itching from typing his name.

He doesn’t.

Well, he doesn’t, not as of the moment, no.

And then, as if an angel had whispered in his ear, he clicked the phone, and it closed. He placed it back where it was earlier, right where your hand will find it when you return, smelling so good and with soft skin.

He pretends it doesn’t bother him, so he lies back on your bed, eyes on the ceiling, jaw tight like he didn’t just scratch something open inside him. Pretend he wasn’t looking for proof you still want him. That you ever did. That this is something.

You’re damp, and water’s still dripping from your hair when you come out from the shower. The shower is just wrapped around your chest. The man doesn’t have shame and pretend he’s not looking at your body. His gaze dragged slowly over your bare and glistening legs like he had any right to stare at you like that.

“Finally done?” he asks, but you wonder if he’s teasing you because you took too long or if he’s just tired of waiting.

But you don’t answer. You walk over to the dresser, remove your towel from your body, and let it fall on the floor like you don’t care he’s staring at your naked back. You rummage for shorts and a shirt; technically, it’s his shirt. The same one you always steal because it’s just so soft and fits you like a dress. You hear him shift behind you. The sheets rustle. When you glance, he’s propped on one elbow now, watching like TV’s gone out, and you’re the next best thing.

He whistles low under his breath. “Damn. You get prettier every time you shower or what?”

You roll your eyes, but your face feels warm. “You’re annoying.”

“Mm,” he hums, grinning. “And you’re not denying it.”

You pull the shirt over your head before turning off the lights in the bedroom, and the only source of light right now is the television. The next thing you do is to crawl into bed beside him. The light from your phone flickers between you. You’re scrolling through your phone to check the texts, something dumb your friend posted, and you feel him shift closer, his arm sneaking around your waist tightly like muscle memory. He nuzzles into your neck with warm breath and lazy affection like he didn’t snoop earlier. Like he’s the kind of man who deserves to hold you like this.

“You not tired yet?” he mumbles against your shoulder.

You shrug. “A little.”

“Then put that down.”

“In a sec.”

He doesn’t argue. He buries his face into the crook of your neck and presses his lips before closing his eyes like it’s his bed, too. He lives here, too.

Stay up for around 15 minutes or 20. With the phone in hand, attention is focused on checking and replying to messages before your body relaxes slowly. Your head falls to his chest. Your eyes are closing slowly. Your grip on the phone loosens. Eventually, you go soft and still.

You don’t mean to fall asleep like that. It just happens: slow, stupid, quiet. You’re not worried about falling asleep because he’s close to you.

It’s the kind of tiredness that creeps in while you’re still scrolling. It’s something you don’t want when you’re goddamn trying to enjoy your phone time! One minute, you’re flicking through texts, thumb mindlessly tapping through photos your friend sent earlier that day and the next, you’re just… still. Eyes half-lidded. Breathing softly. Your head nuzzled right up against his chest like it’s a habit. Like it’s yours to do.

Patrick doesn’t say anything at first. Just lets you stay there. His hand resting on your arm, thumb tracing nothing in particular, eyes still locked on whatever rerun’s flashing on the screen. No noise since it’s muted. His mind is just... floating with dim light. Soft breath against his ribs. He glances down eventually, eyes catching the phone in your hand, but the screen is shut close now.

You’re out.

And the worst part is… he’s about to do something. Again. Which made his heart clutch in his chest.

Because you look peaceful. Trusting. All curled up on him like you’re not afraid of where this goes. Like you’re not waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He shifts slightly, careful not to wake you, sliding the phone from your hand. The lock screen clicks on. He hesitates, thinking over what he’s about to do.

Then he taps it.

Of course, it’s locked now. Of course.

He stares at the screen like it might give him an excuse not to try.

And then he tries anyway.

Your birthday.

Four digits. The month. The day.

It works.

His thumb lingers for a second like he might change his mind. Maybe he’ll lock it again, roll over, and pretend he didn’t think about it.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he opens it. He scrolls past the lock screen and stares at the photo on the home screen. It’s a photo of you that he took. It’s in the open area. It’s a picnic- your idea. Why? Because he’s bitching about tennis, and you thought it would help him destress. Well, it did.

Notifications are quiet. It stings for some reason. He tells himself it’s nothing.

When he opens the messages, he taps them like muscle memory. He’s unsure what he’s looking for until he does it.

Group chat. Her girls. The one that always lights up when they’re together. It’s full of emoji reactions, drunk selfies, and screenshots. He scrolls a little. It’s fine. Normal shit. A meme she laughed at earlier. A TikTok link that they all can relate to. A picture of someone’s outfit.

He’s about to stop.

And then, he types his own name in the search bar.

It feels gross. Feels low. Feels like some insecure dude who doesn’t trust his girl. But he does it anyway.

And there it is.

A conversation from a few nights ago. Time-stamped around 1:23 a.m. You were in this same bed. Right next to him, and he’s sleeping already that time. Yeah, it was a day ago when you two fucked...

He just read many messages; he didn’t even read from the top, where it all started. His eyes locked to certain words like...

“why is he still staying over?”

“he doesn’t even call you his girl.”

“you’re letting him use you for.”

“babe. come on. you deserve someone who actually wants you.”

“are u settling for something casual when u know it’s not?”

You didn’t say much.

Didn’t argue.

Didn’t defend him.

You just sent a short, cold message saying, “idk, lol.”

That’s it.

That’s what offends him.

Not the shit they said, but that you let them. That you didn’t even try. You shrugged and let them call it what it was and didn’t bother pretending it was something else.

He stares at the screen for a long time. Doesn’t scroll. Doesn’t breathe.

It’s not like he expected a speech. But fuck. Something. Anything. A maybe. A not fair. It’s not like that.

Not a shrug and a laugh like he never mattered.

You shift in your sleep beside him. Head nudging against his chest. The phone was still warm in his hands.

He closes the app, removes it from the recently opened apps list, and locks the phone before placing it on his bedside table.

And for the first time in weeks, he doesn’t feel like he belongs here.

He feels stupid.

But in your part that time, you’re just tired of arguing with your friends. Of course, they don’t like him. She already defends him to them multiple times. It’s just... that night, she’s just tired, maybe. Her mind is full of overthinking shit that she doesn’t bother to listen to their words and just lets it slide by saying she doesn’t know.

Patrick is the first one who wakes up, and the sounds of dishes clinking from the dishes are the ones who snatch you from your slumber. You can feel the faint light from the sun that slips through the curtains, that are not enough to blind the whole room. But the sheets are still warm, the shape of his body still marked against the bed where he was, although it’s empty now. It doesn’t take long to realize that he didn’t wake you. He didn’t shake you to say he’s going to do something. Doesn’t kiss your cheek or your shoulder. That will make your body warm because he always does that. You didn’t wake up to see him lying beside you and staring at you. No soft “I’ll be back,” no “Sleep more.” Just gone.

You roll onto your back, staring back at the ceiling. You look to your side and see your phone there on the nightstand. You think he must have taken it from your hand when you fell asleep. Nothing feels wrong at first. It’s just… quiet.

When you leave the room to go to the kitchen, you see him already dressed for the day. Just pants, a shirt, and sneakers that are still untied. He’s holding the coffee maker and pouring one of your to-go cups like he’s so eager to leave you without saying anything or waking you up. Haor is still damp, probably from a quick shower he took, and he doesn’t even notice you’re standing close to him.

“Hey,” you say while walking close to him and rubbing at your eyes. “Didn’t know you were up.”

“Didn’t want to wake you.” Still no eye contact. What happened to him? He’s acting so cold... or maybe avoiding you. You feel it in your bones.

You lean over the counter and ask him a question, even if you’re unsure, “Did you already eat?”

“Nah. Not hungry.” He caps the coffee and reaches for his tennis bag.

Something’s off. You know that. How? You feel it in the way he doesn’t reach for you. Or get too clingy. He always wants his hands on you. Don’t tease. Doesn’t smile.

“Big day,” you say, trying to sound energetic and smile at him. “You ready?”

He nods. Still not looking at you. “Yeah.”

You step closer, reaching for his arm, just lightly. “Hey. You good?”

Finally, he looks at you just for a second, but he doesn’t swat his arm away from you. That’s good. “Yeah. I’m just focused.”

You smile, trying to believe it. “Well… win for me. Alright?”

His jaw twitches like he might say something else, something real, but he doesn’t. But you noticed the way the movement of his jaw before he leaned in and brushed his lips against your temple.

“I’ll see you later,” he murmurs.

“Mhm, yeah, at the after party,” you said, and then he was out the door.

And you’re just there. Still in the kitchen. Left standing there in his shirt, still sleepy, and wondering why your chest feels heavy.

He’s cold. He’s distant. He’s not like that. Sure, sometimes he might be, but not like that. And you don’t know it yet, but he’s already going to lose the match way long before he steps onto the court.

His first problem? His body appeared in the match alongside him. He’s not in a condition to do it.

The second problem is that no one notices this. Maybe he masks it so much that his coach doesn’t see it, not the staff, not even his friend Art, who’s across the court. Because that’s how he is. Patrick knows how to fake it. He always has. He always will. Head down, shoulders squared, hands twitching around the racket like they know what they’re doing like he’s still locked in. But he’s not. Not even close.

The truth is ugly, small, and stupid. He couldn’t sleep last night.

Not because he’s nervous. Not because he’s having second thoughts to get in the fucking court. Not because of his body. Not because of nerves. Because of what he saw. Because his hand got the itch and he opened it. Without your consent. He chose to snoop. He chose something that would bother him.

You said nothing. Just “idk, lol.” That’s it.

Now, he’s the one crashing out here. He’s staring at the sun like he’s wishing it blinds him. But only blinking again, it’s like it’s your spotlight and not his match. Like he’s walking around as if there’s a heavy baggage on his back that weighs more than it should. Like every breath hurts just enough to notice.

Of course, of course. He fucks up the first serve. Too fast. Too wide. Sloppy.

When will the second one land? It’s shit. It lands but barely. He returned it too late. He has no reaction time and moves slowly, like a snail. His feet drag. His arms tense.

And it spirals from there.

From there, every serve he gives is shitty. Every point feels so fucked by the system. His body drags him throughout the match, seeing if he will break. If he curses out to get a violation. Or smash his racket. He’s sweating too early. Breathing too fast, like he didn’t train the breathing exercise throughout his career. His coach says something from the sidelines, but he doesn’t even manage to hear it. Not really.

His head is somewhere else.

With you, maybe. Or not even with you. With your phone. That screen. That conversation. That group chat.

“why are you doing girlfriend things without the label?”

“you deserve better.”

He keeps hearing it. Over and over. Like it’s echoing inside his fucking skull. As if he’s losing his mind and starts hearing things he shouldn’t hear. Like he’s returning the ball to silence you from his mind.

He messes up again, double-faulting in the second set. He doesn’t even swear. He slumps his shoulders and hangs his head. The racket feels weird in his hand.

He knows he’s losing. And he knows it before the score shows it. He can feel how his body jerks too sharply on the backhand. On the way, the crowd is muttering instead of cheering. On the way, Art glances over at him, looking worried, like he’s never seen this version of Patrick before.

And he barely registers it when it’s all over- the handshake, the camera flashes, the reporters swarming him. He walks through the tunnel like he’s in a daze- a slow, suffocating one.

He doesn’t even bother checking his phone. He doesn’t need to.

Because the thing that’s eating at him isn’t what you said.

It’s what you didn’t say.

And that? That’s the real loss he’s feeling.

The after-party is not fancy, not even close. It’s not one of those after-parties sponsored by foundations or rich people. This one is the usual post-match bullshit or gathering in one place. The music is too loud. The lighting is so dim that you won’t clearly see the faces who are there. Bodies are so close and crammed onto booths, corners, and stairs that everyone doesn’t know where they should be. Someone said this was a casual, low-key, familiar face who would be inside this downtown bar. But now? There are thirty people here. You’re guessing there might be more. Teammates. Coaches. Friends of friends. Tennis people. Everyone knows how this goes.

Win or lose, there’s always a drink after.

You came because you always do. Well, maybe it’s because you are surrounded by tennis people like Patrick, Tashi, and Art. But it’s not about showing up would say something. Because Patrick didn’t text you, and you didn’t text him either, and now it’s like you’re walking on eggshells.

You spot him the second you walk in.

Of course, he’s already here. Jackass. Didn’t even manage to message you and ask if you’ll really come. He’s leaning against the wall near the exit like he’s avoiding people. Yeah, you heard that he lost. Badly. His hair is still damp from the shower, or perhaps from the sweat in this hot place. It’s sticking on his forehead and the back of his neck. He’s casually wearing a black, loose at the shoulders, collarbone half-visible, eyes on anything but you. The drink in his hand was probably not his first drink. You can tell by how he holds it; he is already loose, distracted, and lazy. Not drunk. Just… heavy. Like his hands forgot how to rest.

He hasn’t looked at you.

Not once.

You’re not surprised. You haven’t spoken since the morning. Since you told him, good luck. Since he kissed your forehead out of habit, he did not care. Since he left, the bed was too loud.

You thought maybe he’d text after. He didn’t. You didn’t either.

So now you’re here. And he’s here. And the space between you is full of people who don’t know anything.

Everyone else assumes you’re together. Of course, they do. You showed up to the tournament together. You’ve been seen in his circle. Always having people speculate if you’re his girlfriend, and you’re close enough to whisper, close sufficient to disappear together. That’s what they think this is.

When do they see you? They will smile as if they’re telling you something. Sometimes, they will ask you where he is. Ask you if you can tell him things. Tell you, he looked pissed after the match like maybe you’d know why.

And you don’t say anything. You hold your drink with both hands and nod at all the correct times. You laugh when you’re supposed to. Smile with your mouth but not your eyes. You don’t even know what you’re waiting for.

You catch glimpses of him across the room. Once, his eyes flick your way, but not fully. Not enough to call it a look. Just enough to hurt.

You know he’s mad. You don’t know how deep it went. You don’t know if he’s mad at you, at himself, or at how everything cracked, and neither of you had the guts to pick it up before it got worse.

You wonder if he’s gonna come over.

You wonder if he’s waiting for you to do it first.

Fine. You’ll try. Yeah, you, again.

You walk towards his direction and look at him up and down before you tap your foot against the floor as if you’re impatient and want him to look at you. “Heard about what happened in the match,” you said directly. Beating around the bush. Too comfortable to say that directly.

“Is that why you’re not talking to me?” you ask again. You look at his hand clutching his drink while he’s looking down at it.

“What?” he scoffs before finally meeting your gaze.

“I mean,” hesitated. Your lips closed, and take a deep breath.

“Talk to me?” softer this time. Waiting for him. Gauging him to break, maybe he will if you speak more softly.

But he didn’t. He licks his lips and twitches his jaw slightly, but you don’t catch that because they didn’t really show details. He’s in a bad mood because, yeah, partly because of the match. Most of it? Because of you. Not that you know that.

“Not right now, okay?”

Ah.

Yeah.

Ouch.

You nod before walking away from him, and your shoulders fall as you turn away and find other familiar faces.

You could feel the place being warm and loud but in a distant kind of way. The party is happening, but you’re just... there. There are just muted beats. Bowl of melting ice cream cake on a drinking table. Now you’re talking with Tashi and Art while sitting on this couch you managed to save. And yeah, with another girl, some mutual friend of Tashi, you think. She’s wearing her she’s already slipped off and holding her wine by the rim like she’s never drunk before in her life.

They’re laughing. You are just not sure about what, though. Tennis or not. You haven’t kept track of the topic they’re talking about anymore. You’re tired. You’ve been here too long. Art’s nursing a beer. Tashi has something clear, with ice melting into it too quickly. You don’t know what the person next to her is drinking, only that they keep swirling it too often and talking like they’ve been here longer than they have.

“Do you ever think about quitting?” the stranger asks suddenly, looking at Art, then Tashi. “Like… just walking away? From tennis, I mean.”

Art huffs a dry laugh. “I think about it all the time.”

“Never,” Tashi says, almost at the same time.

They glance at each other.

Art shrugs. “What? I’ve got a bad body. A couple more losses, and I’m one tournament away from teaching pickleball to retirees.”

“You’d hate retirement,” she says, sipping her drink. “You’d be one of those guys who paces the kitchen at 3 a.m. trying to relive a backhand volley.”

You smile a little. Tashi’s always like this. Blunt, lowkey cruel, but never wrong.

“I’d be a great coach,” Art mutters.

“You’d be insufferable.”

The stranger laughs, leaning toward you. “Do you play too?”

You shake your head. “God, no. I just watch.” You wish. Maybe you know how to play. But more like a hobby, not at a tournament level, like the three. Try to learn to hang out with them more. Or maybe because they keep insisting on teaching you.

“From the box seats, huh?” They gesture the shape and smirk. “You’re dating one of them?” she says, teasing, “who was the guy with you earlier?”

You blink. “What?”

She waves her hand like she’s trying to remember it. “The one with the curls. Brunette Tall. Real serious face.”

“Oh- Jesus. Patrick?” You laugh. Dumbly. Without even looking around. “No… He’s just a friend.”

That’s when it happens.

You don’t think.

You don’t hesitate.

You don’t even realize it.

You don’t think about it. Don’t even mean it. It just comes out. Your dumb, big mouth just let it out. The way anything does when your brain’s on autopilot and you’re still trying to track a conversation that’s three jokes ahead of you.

But Tashi doesn’t laugh.

Art doesn’t smile.

Even the girl who doesn’t even know you goes kind of quiet.

Of course, you feel the shift in the scene. That soft, silent ripple in energy. Tashi’s eyes lift. So does Art. The girls, too. Like something’s moved behind you.

You turn.

And he’s right there.

Patrick. Feet away. Standing still. Drink loose in his hand, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them. Their shoulders drew in like he was trying to stop himself from shattering right here.

He must’ve walked up behind you. Must have heard it just as a friend, like a punchline.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t need to.

Patrick hasn’t moved.

Not a step.

Not a sound.

When you finally look at him, he’s already looking at you.

And his face?

His face is nothing. Blank. Flat. That calm, unreadable quiet that says you really fucked this up, and I’m not going to make a scene, and this is precisely what I should’ve expected.

He looks away first before walking away.

Tashi lets a low breath through her nose and puts her glass down without looking at you.

Art frowns. “Damn.”

You feel your heart clench.

You open your mouth. Close it. Try again. “Patrick...”

But he’s already walking off.

Tashi sighs. Eyes looking at you as if she’s saying something, maybe, why are you this stupid? “Hey.”

Art lifts a brow, not unkind. “Might wanna run after that one.”

And you just… stand there.

Still. Ashamed. Like someone throws cold water in your body, and you’re freezing.

Then your legs start moving.

Fast.

Because that wasn’t nothing. That wasn’t a casual comment. That wasn’t the kind of thing you say when the person you love... What love? What the fuck. Okay, maybe the love of your life is standing right there behind you.

That was a lie.

And you don’t even know why you said it.

You wish you could return to that time, and don’t say that at all. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it wasn’t kind. Because you’re being dumb. You’re being insensitive. Because you could’ve said anything else. Could’ve smiled. Could’ve joked. Could’ve said “something like that” or “don’t worry about it” or literally anything that didn’t sound like you were scrubbing him off your name in public.

But you didn’t.

You said, “Just a friend.”

And there were you fucked up.

You catch up to him outside just past the

The exit, half a hallway away, steps echoing off cold tile. He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t turn. You grab his arm.

“Patrick,” you say, voice shaking.

He stops but doesn’t face you. His jaw is tight, and his body is like a rock; you can feel the tension.

You step in front of him. “Hey. Don’t do that. Don’t just walk away. Please”

He finally looks at you, and his eyes are not fully angry. It’s something worse. Quiet disappointment. That sick, sinking kind. The kind you feel in your teeth. It’s fucking worse than anger. Anger is something you can take. Disappointed is something you will dwell on for months.

“You really said that?” he mutters. “Just a friend?”

You open your mouth, but he keeps going.

“You couldn’t come up with anything else? Not even a maybe? Not even a laugh?” His voice cracks on the edge. “You said it like you meant it.”

You blink, stunned. “I didn’t... It wasn’t like that...”

“No? Then what was it like?” He swat his arm away from your hold. “What the fuck was it, huh? Just a reflex? Some automatic response to erase me in front of everybody else?”

“Why are you acting like I did it to hurt you?”

“Because it fucking hurt,” he snaps, but his voice is not raising. Still thinking you’re in public. “I was standing right there, and you said it like I was no one.”

You exhale hard. “So this is what we’re doing now? Picking apart throwaway comments?”

“That’s the thing,” he says, voice lower now, almost laughing. He shakes his head, as if what an absurd comment you just made has made him do that. “You throw me away all the time.”

That hits. Sharp and cold.

You almost glare at him, nearly too stubborn. “You never asked me to call it anything else.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault?” His laugh is bitter. “Of course.”

“I’m serious,” you spit. “You don’t get to act hurt when you’ve kept this undefined since day one.”

“And you’ve been just fine with it, haven’t you?”

You stare at him. “Don’t.” You bite your cheek and try to calm down a little.

“No, really,” he says, eyes narrowing. “You play this whole casual girl thing so well. Pretend it doesn’t bother you. Pretend you don’t care. You think I don’t notice?”

You cross your arms like you have something to prove. “Oh, I’m sorry. Should I have begged for a label? Would that have made you feel better?”

“I would’ve taken anything,” he says. “Literally anything but that.”

You go quiet.

Then you say, “You’re so fucking quick to make this about you.”

He scoffs. “It was about me.”

“No,” you snap. “This was about you seeing one moment and blowing it up so you don’t have to admit you’re scared. You are terrified of needing someone. Like you always have.”

“Don’t act like you’re not.”

“I’m not the one who left this morning without saying goodbye.”

“I was trying to protect myself.”

“From what?” your voice raising, but not enough to be loud through the loud music. “From being liked? From someone actually giving a shit about you?”

He says it quietly. “I saw your phone.”

You look at him as if he has just betrayed you. “What?”

“I saw what they said about me,” he continues. “Your friends. Calling me a waste of time. Saying I don’t treat you right.”

Your stomach drops. “Patrick...”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“It wasn’t,” You bite the inside of your cheek. “It wasn’t like that.”

“You didn’t defend me.”

“I didn’t think I had to,” you say quickly, but it sounds thin and brittle.

He scoffs under his breath. Looks away. “Of course you didn’t.”

You fold your arms, that sick weight settling in your chest. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like that. Cold. Nonchalant. Like I didn’t care.”

“You didn’t, though,” he says and snickers. “Or not in a way that counted. Not in a way that mattered when it actually fucking hurt.”

“I didn’t know it hurt,” you say, voice cracking. “You never say when things hurt.” Yeah, because that’s how he is. No one will know when he’s hurt.

“Because I don’t want to be fucking pitied,” he mutters. “Because I don’t want to come off like some clingy piece of shit begging for scraps of affection.”

“That’s what you think I’m doing?” you spit. You open your mouth and nod like he’s being a piece of shit, which he is. “I’m the one who has to guess how you feel all the time. You show up, leave, kiss me like I’m yours, and pretend nothing changes.”

He stares at you hard but doesn’t answer.

“You want to know why I didn’t say anything to them?” Your voice is shaking now. “Because I didn’t know where we stood. Because you never told me. Because I’m tired of being the only one who asks for things.”

His jaw clenches.

“I give you everything,” you say. “And you give me just enough to stay.”

“That’s not fair.”

You laugh. “Isn’t it? Then tell me what this is. Say something real for once.”

He’s quiet for a beat too long.

And that hurts worse than anything.

You whisper, “That’s what I thought.”

His eyes flash the pain, maybe anger, definitely fear. “You want real?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.” He breathes hard. “I didn’t ask you to be mine because I thought you’d say no. I wanted more because I figured you’d pull away the second.”

You freeze.

“Every time I felt close to you, I backed off,” he says. “Because I didn’t think I could keep you. You’re all in one second, then guarded the next. I never knew what the fuck to believe.”

Your throat tightens. “You never told me that.”

“And you never asked,” he fires back.

“I asked all the time!” you yell. “I asked with every look, every time I stayed up waiting for you, every time I fucking hoped you’d text me goodnight.”

He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I didn’t want to need you that much.”

“Well, congratulations,” you snap. “You didn’t act like it.”

“You made me feel like I was temporary.”

“And you made me feel like I was too much.”

Silence.

Painful. Petty. Loud.

Both of you are breathing hard.

Both of you think the other doesn’t get it when, really, neither of you does.

Finally, he shakes his head. “You should’ve defended me.”

“And you should’ve chosen me,” you whisper.

There it is. The deepest wound. The ugliest truth.

“I was in your bed,” he says softly. “And I still didn’t feel like I was yours.”

“I wanted you to be,” you say. “But I couldn’t be the only one who knew it.”

He doesn’t say anything. And that’s the worst part. The silence. The cowardice of it. Because silence is the loudest response.

So you look at him, as if trying to memorize this version of him. The one who almost loved you out loud. The one who nearly shows himself to you.

And he looks back like he wishes he knew how to say sorry without choking on it.

Then he walks past you.

And this time, you don’t stop him.

Because maybe the real pain isn’t that he walked away. You both think the other is the one who let go first.

Because every time you both fuck up, you both blame it on each other’s love. Both of you are scared. Full of misunderstanding. Work so well, but fucking cowards.

While you? You go back to the party, but you don’t even remember leaving after hours.

One second, you watched him walk away; the next, you were outside, keys shaking in your hand, trying to unlock your car without crying.

You don’t cry in the parking lot while opening the car. No. Maybe you did, but not until the door is closed. Not until the engine’s off and you’re parked back outside your apartment, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, breath caught somewhere in your ribs. That kind of ache. That stupid, helpless ache that only comes when someone doesn’t break your heart outright. They just don’t protect it. The type of pain you will beg a psychiatrist to give you painkillers or mood stabilizers just to make you don’t feel anything.

You sit there a while. Lights off. Face hot. Your phone buzzes once, then again. You don’t look. You already know it’s not him. He got too big of an ego to do that. Prideful even.

Upstairs, the apartment feels too quiet. His soda is still in the fridge, his hoodie’s on the chair, and the leftover pasta you didn’t finish is still on the coffee table, forks crossed like they’re waiting for someone to return.

You don’t throw anything.

You don’t scream.

You just… turn on the hallway light. Leave it glowing.

You don’t lock the door.

You never do when it’s him.

Instead, change your clothes, and you crawl into bed in his shirt. Try to scroll. Try to read. Try to not wonder where he is. If he’s thinking about you. If he’s just as sick about it as you are. But every thought echoes the same. You said he didn’t choose you. He thinks you never wanted him. You were both wrong. You were both right.

When you wake up hours later, the light in the hallway is still on.

And the door is still unlocked.

But no one’s come through it.

You can’t sleep. Not when you feel like that. Not when you’re in this shitty state. Not when you close your eyes. You just repeat what happened.

But what you didn’t know is Patrick hasn’t gone home either.

He’s just driving. Driving like he’s just wanting to dry his gas off his car. Driving on a loop through the neighborhood like he’s on some sort of movie who can’t escape the same route he doesn’t recognize, music low, headlights off when he parks. He sat outside your building twice. Lit a cigarette. Didn’t smoke it. Wrote out a text and erased it. Thought about calling. Thought about saying I didn’t mean it like that. I just don’t know how to do this without ruining it.

You’re in bed. His shirt is on your skin. No pants. Just in the fabric he left in your drawer and the hallow in your chest that hasn’t gone down since they both implied the, “You ruined it,” and “No, you did.”

The light is still on.

You didn’t bother turning it off when you went under the covers. You didn’t even lock the door. You’re such an easy target for someone who wants to break in.

You don’t know why. But part of you hope he’ll go to your place tonight. Apologize. To fix things. And maybe there’s always part of you that leaves the door unlocked when it’s him so he can access your life.

And when it finally happens, when the front door creaks open soft enough to sound like a dream, you don’t move. Not even when you hear his steps. Not even when he stops at the foot of the bed.

He doesn’t say a word, just quiet.

He just walks around to the other side, he’s unsure compared to his usual cocky self. He doesn’t climb to the bed or even reach for you.

He sinks to the floor beside your bed.

Sits there, back against the wall. Legs bent, arms hanging loose over his knees. Breathing like he ran here. Breathing like he’s still trying to come down from everything.

You stay still.

You don’t ask him what he’s doing. You don’t ask why he’s here.

Because you know.

Because this is how he says sorry.

Not with apologies. Not with speeches. But with silence. With presence.

With staying when it would be easier to leave.

So you let him.

You turn onto your side, eyes fixed on the corner of the room, tears burning but unshed, and whisper, so quiet you’re unsure if it’s for him or yourself.

“I left the door open,” you say.

He doesn’t answer.

But a minute later, his fingers brushed against the edge of the mattress.

Not asking. Not asking permission to touch you.

Just… there. It doesn’t go further.

You stay still, like maybe if you don’t move, this won’t have to become any harder than it already is. But then your hand slides down, hesitant, and your fingertips find his. You didn’t intertwine it with his hand, though.

Neither of you say anything for a while.

The silence is thick. Heavy with everything you screamed earlier. Everything you didn’t.

Then, softly, so softly it barely sounds like him, he says: “I don’t know how to love someone who might not stay.”

You blink up at the ceiling.

He swallows. “I keep waiting for it. For you to get tired. For you to wake up and realize I’m not what you want. That I never was.”

This time, you wrap your hand against his hand and tighten your fingers around his.

“I think about it all the time,” he says, voice cracking a little and lacing with doubt. “Every time you go quiet or pull away or don’t text back right away. I tell myself, ‘There it is. That’s her leaving.’ I’ve lived in that space my whole life. I don’t know how not to.”

You turn your head toward him. His face is barely visible in the dark.

“I don’t say the right things,” he adds. “I shut down. I act like I don’t care before you can prove that I was stupid for caring in the first place.” Because that’s not how he is. He just... he’s never really open with it.

You breathe in, breath shaky. “I don’t want to leave.”

He nods slowly, trying to acknowledge it. But his voice doesn’t believe it. “You said I was just a friend.”

“I didn’t mean it...”

“I know. That’s what hurts.”

You close your eyes. “I say the wrong thing when I panic. I ruin moments that mean something because I fear needing them too much.”

Silence.

“I didn’t defend you to my friends because…” You bite your lip. “Because part of me thought maybe they were right. Not about you. About me. That I wasn’t worth more than ‘almost’ because it’s always like that, always liked but not pursued.”

His breath catches.

“I didn’t think you’d choose me,” you whisper. “So I never asked you to. I’m scared to be the one always asking people, so I just let them give me what they can give.”

For a moment, there’s only breathing between you.

Then his hand moves up, slow, dragging along your wrist. He presses his forehead to the side of the bed.

“I don’t know how to be enough for someone who already thinks I’m not.”

Your voice trembles. “I don’t know how to believe someone will stay just because they say they will.”

He looks up at you, finally. And it’s all there. The pain. The shame. The hope.

“But I want to,” he says. “With you, I want to try.”

You nod. Barely. “Me too.”

He climbs into bed beside you, slow and uncertain. He’s afraid even this might be too much.

You don’t kiss. Don’t even touch. Just lay there, shoulders almost close, hearts close under the same ceiling. The air between you is still tight, with things unsaid but softer now. Worn down to the truth of it.

Then his fingers shift. Brush against yours like a question.

You don’t pull away.

You feel him next to you, breathing in slowly. It hurts. Like it matters. And then, gently, Patrick presses his forehead to your shoulder. Doesn’t say anything. Just rests there for a moment. Warm and quiet and close. His lips graze your skin once. A small kiss. Not in a way; he’s asking for sex. Not trying to heat up the moment. No. Just sorry. A, please. A still here.

You close your eyes.

You don’t say anything.

And then, “Are you staying?” you whisper.

He exhales like it’s the only thing he’s wanted to hear all night. Doesn’t look at you. Just nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m staying.”

It’s not fixed. Not even close.

But it’s something.

And for now, that’s enough.

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