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bytemee · 2 months ago

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· . BETTER THAN ME ⋆ you gon' figure out you lost one and that's me ⸝⸝

# in which— you and karina broke up, but neither of you really moved on... or moved out at that.

౨ৎ [ 𝙱𝙴𝚃𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙰𝙽 𝙼𝙴 ] ‘ — yu jimin x gp!reader. 3.1k words. exes to ? ⊹ 18+ smut, p in v (unprotected), sub!reader, dom!rina, nipple sucking, cowgirl, she really wants to slap u vro, and um cliffhanger kinda lol haha.

─── authors note. where’s all the angst requests. why is everything smut. i am not built for this. i hate my writing 💔 augh. sigh. k. bye.

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you could just hear it now.

"why on earth would you move in with a girl you dated for six months?"

fair question. really solid. probably the kind of thing your friends said behind your back. probably the kind of thing your mom would've said if you hadn't lied and told her you and karina were just roommates from the jump.

but when people were bold enough to ask you the question to your face. you gave them the same analogy every single time.

dating karina was like a rollercoaster. the excitement you got when everything was just starting, the stomach-dropping terror and exhilaration of the first drop, and the wild, out-of-control twists and turns. even the slow crawl and the pause at the top, the momentary reprieve. the end that came just a little too quickly.

then you had the aftermath, the afterglow, the dopamine rush, and the blissful comedown.

and like any good ride, the second it was over, you wanted to do it all over again—even if your head was spinning and your chest still hurt.

so when the lease came up and karina didn't move out… you didn't ask her to. you didn't think it was a problem… because the actual problem was that you still loved her.

you still notice how she folds her laundry with perfect corners and how her keys always jingle twice before she opens the door. how she hums when she washes her face. how she still wears that stupid oversized shirt you left in her room months ago, back when you were allowed to touch her.

you pretend not to notice.

you pretend a lot these days. like how it doesn't bother you when she comes home with her hair tousled and her lipstick smudged. like how your chest doesn't ache when you hear her laugh through the bathroom door, phone pressed to her ear, someone else on the other end.

you act like you're over it. because you should be. because you shouldn't have broken up with her. because it was your fault. because you should have let her go, you should have done a lot of things.

tonight was supposed to be nothing.

a girl with kind eyes and soft lips. someone to distract you. you didn't take her into your room. you didn't even kiss her for long. it didn't feel right. it never does.

you showered the second she left—hot water, hard scrub, hands on your face like you could rinse away the shame. then you threw on your old hoodie and dropped onto the couch because your body was too heavy to carry anymore.

you're not sure how long you sit there, staring at the tv screen, but eventually you hear her door creak open.

she doesn't say anything at first.

just walks into the living room like a ghost you summoned.

she's barefoot, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, legs bare under a shirt you haven't seen since—fuck, since before the breakup. one of your shirts, oversized and faded, hanging off one shoulder. her face is calm in that terrifying way only she can pull off.

she says nothing. just stares.

you don't move. again, you pretend. pretend as if her presence isn't affecting you.

then she walks over and stops right in front of you, blocking the glow from the screen. what a fucking ass.

"i smelled perfume earlier," she says. her mouth moved immediately afterwards. "was she pretty?"

you glance away.

"i didn't sleep with her."

karina hums. "did you want to?"

"no."

a beat. she takes another step closer.

"did you think it'd make me jealous?"

you're silent.

you truly don't have an answer. if you did make her jealous, it wasn't in an active, conscious way. a way to shove it into her face and say, "watch me move on," but you remember how you glanced at the door before it closed. how you stood a little taller walking back to your room, knowing karina was home.

karina scoffs under her breath. as if she's sifting through the bullshit in your silence and pulling the truth straight out of your thoughts.

"cute," she muttered. "real subtle, by the way. real mature."

you shift on the couch. "karina…"

she takes another step, standing between your legs; her knee brushes your thigh. her fingers lift, and then she's grabbing your jaw, just like she used to. fingertips pressing into your skin, forcing your face upward so she can look at you.

"do you miss me?" she asks. it's quiet… but the way her eyes dance around your face, they seem loud.

your throat tightens. you should lie. you always do. you've been doing it for weeks, months—hell, since the day you broke up.

you try to look away again, but her grip tightens just enough to keep you there.

"i asked you a question," she says, a little rougher this time.

your voice barely makes it out. "yeah."

karina doesn't react—not right away. she watches you, lips parted just slightly, her chest rising and falling.

"i miss you," you repeat, your hands slide up, gentle on her hips, and you rest your forehead on her stomach.

she exhales.

it sounds a lot like relief.

her fingers comb into your hair, and her other hand comes up, cupping the back of your head, keeping you close.

"you don't get to do that," she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. "you don't get to try to fuck someone else and then say you miss me."

you squeeze her waist gently, holding her like you're trying to keep her from slipping out of your grasp again.

her nails scrape lightly against your scalp.

the sound that slips past your lips is almost pitiful.

"i'm sorry." it comes out choked, your voice muffled against her. "i didn't mean to—"

you cut yourself off, unsure of what to say next.

karina hums, her fingers tighten, pulling your head back, forcing you to look at her.

she studies you for a moment, trying to figure out if this is worth it—if you're worth it. and god, the part of her that misses you is louder than the part of her that's angry. but just barely.

"i should slap you," she murmurs…but she's already moving, already climbing into your lap, considering it's second nature, this is her place, well it was at one point. and some twisted part of her still believes it is only hers.

your breath hitches when her thighs settle on either side of yours, her hands sliding to your shoulders, grounding herself. you shift slightly, letting her settle, your palms sliding up her back, memorizing the curve of her spine.

it feels a little like the first time.

back when your hands were nervous and shaky and she was too good to be true. back when she was this bright spot in your life that you didn't know how to handle.

fuck, you handled it so fucking wrong.

karina leans in—closer, closer—and you tilt your head up to meet her, lips parting, desperate for it, aching—

but she pulls back just barely. enough to make you chase it. enough to make you curse under your breath.

karina smirks.

there is nothing gentle about her. not like this.

her lips press to the corner of your mouth, and then her teeth are nipping at your bottom lip, tugging just enough to make you gasp, and her tongue is hot, sliding into your mouth, curling against yours.

karina kisses the way she fights. with her whole body. with her soul.

you hold onto her like a drowning man, like you need her, because you do. because the second she breaks away, you realize that no one can kiss you like her. no one can touch you like her.

her hips roll down, hard, and your moan is muffled by her mouth, the sound swallowed down, greedily consumed. she pulls back again, just to catch her breath, and her hands are in your hair, pushing the hood off, and her lips press to the spot under your ear, her nose brushing along the curve of your jaw.

you inhale sharply, your hands sliding down, groping at her ass, pulling her harder against you, desperate, desperate, desperate.

she groans, the sound low and soft, her hips rocking, her teeth nipping at your throat.

your brain knows this is bad. that this isn't real, that you're going to wake up tomorrow morning, and she's not going to be there. it'll be worse than any hangover you've ever had.

but the rest of your body couldn't care less.

it feels good. it feels right. like you're both exactly where you're supposed to be.

karina lifts her head, her forehead resting against yours, her breath fanning against your lips.

"i hate you," she whispers.

you swallow.

"i know."

her eyes flutter shut, and you kiss her again, trying to say everything you never could. trying to make up for all the things you said with words that aren't even half as pretty.

the angle is a little awkward, but karina doesn't seem to notice. her hands are cupping your jaw, holding you in place, kissing you like you're oxygen and she's dying. she pulls back, panting, and before she can speak, you're lifting her shirt—your shirt—over her head, throwing it somewhere behind the couch.

karina doesn't bother hiding the way she stares at you.

you try not to preen under her attention, but it's hard when she's looking at you like that. like you're everything she wants, everything she's ever wanted.

"i need you," you breathe out, hands on her waist, her hips, squeezing just enough to feel the way her skin dimples under your fingers.

"then have me," she says, leaning in, her mouth hot against your neck.

the sound that slips out is downright filthy—you tilt your head to the side, giving her better access. karina's nails scrape against your scalp before they slide down, dragging hard down your back. your breath stutters, your back arches slightly, and your teeth sink into your lip hard enough to draw blood.

"rina—" your voice cracks. "i—please, i need…"

her laugh is low. it's wicked.

"you're lucky i missed you." her words are hot against your throat, punctuated by the sharp nip of her teeth. "because this doesn't mean shit."

"okay." you try to catch your breath. "yeah—whatever, okay. you—you can slap me, okay, i fucking deserve it, okay, i know—fuck…"

karina lifts her head. "shh," she murmurs. "i'll slap you later. but put that pretty mouth to a better use, yeah?"

you nod. you think you nod. you can't be sure. her hands find yours, trailing them from the bottom of her rib cage up to her chest. she hums softly. "do you want me to show you, baby? want me to walk you through it?"

"no—no, i remember, i can… fuck, i can do it…"

she presses her lips against yours. it's more gentle than the kiss from earlier. a soft reminder to breathe, a reminder that she's still there.

her hand moves to the back of your head, leading you, guiding you, and then your hand pushes up your shirt—yours—her back arching, her head dropping back as your mouth moves, teeth scraping, tongue swirling.

"that's good," karina says, her voice quiet. "fuck… you were always so good…"

her other hand rests on the back of your neck, and it's a comforting weight—but also a reminder that you're doing this because she's allowing you to, not because you're entitled to it.

you take your time—kissing and biting and sucking, red blooming under your tongue. karina's hips move against you, seeking out pressure, her body remembering every place to rock against yours, especially over the tent in your sweats. she gasps softly when you pull away, eyes meeting hers, a question in the way you stare.

she nods, just slightly, and your tongue flicks against her nipple, your hand squeezing the other one gently, just enough pressure to make her shiver. she groans, fingers tangling into your hair, keeping you close, and her breath comes in sharp bursts when your lips close around it, teeth nipping, her chest pressed to yours as her head drops forward.

she doesn't say anything.

her words have always come through actions, anyway.

a sharp tug at your hair—more—another gentle press to the top of your head—enough—and her head falling forward, lips pressing to the top of yours, fingers gentle—perfect—

it's a silent exchange, a secret language only the two of you understand.

"baby." her voice is hoarse, fingers combing into your hair, pushing it back, trying to keep it out of your face.

your eyes lift up.

"need to feel you," she says, almost a demand, but there's an edge of desperation that betrays her.

she knows as well as you do that this is the last night. that the second the sun comes up, she'll be gone again. that tomorrow, things will be just as bad as they were before. that tomorrow, you'll both wake up and pretend none of this ever happened.

tomorrow, you won't remember how soft her thighs are. how good it feels to touch her.

tonight is a luxury that neither of you can afford.

but karina doesn't like waiting.

she slips her fingers under the hem of your sweatpants, and her breath is warm against your face, and her chest is red and splotchy, and her mouth is swollen—and you know you have no choice.

her fingers are hot, curled around your length, her hand stroking up and down—and you almost choke on your next breath.

karina watches you through her lashes. she knows how good she is. how she's ruined every single girl that came after her—that none of them could ever come close to the way she feels. how the only touch that makes you squirm anymore is her own.

but she never gloated about it. she never threw it in your face, either. it was just something the two of you both knew.

but now with her body straddling yours, her hair a dark curtain falling over you both as she smiled against your mouth, a smile that basically said, "remember how good i can make you feel?"

the reminder never hurt.

her thumb swirls against the tip of your cock, smearing the bead of pre-cum leaking from it.

your hands slide down to her ass, fingers squeezing. your hips jerk, your lips parting with a soft whimper.

"fuck."

she smirks.

"i think," she murmurs, pressing her lips against the corner of your mouth, her fingers squeezing just enough to make you twitch in her grip, "we can skip the condom tonight."

your throat tightens, and you nod.

she lifts her hips, obviously too far into it to remove her underwear, so she goes for the easier option, just shifting them to the side. her hips lower, her fingers wrapping around your cock, holding it steady as she slowly lowers herself.

and then—

"holy fuck."

karina hums in response, a quiet sound in the back of her throat that's just enough to tell you to shut the hell up.

you watch her closely, trying to memorize the look on her face, the way her eyes squeeze shut, the way her bottom lip is tucked between her teeth, the way her nose scrunches, and the way her eyebrows furrow. the soft groan that slips out.

"shit," she says, her head dropping forward. "you're…"

she trails off, not bothering to finish the thought.

her eyes open, and she glances up, catching you staring. you look away, and her hand is on your jaw, forcing you to look at her.

"watch me," she murmurs. "be good."

"yeah—yes, okay, i will. i'll be good, promise."

she rolls her hips slowly, adjusting, and then she's leaning forward, pressing her mouth against yours. your hand rests on her hip, and the other slips behind her neck, holding her close, kissing her like it's the last time you'll get to do it.

she starts moving.

she rides you slow, taking her time, and her moans are quiet, her breathing soft, and her hips are grinding down, chasing the pressure. her hands rest on your shoulders, and she moves, her thighs flexing with each movement.

"look at me," she breathes out, her hand cupping your cheek.

you blink, your eyes focusing.

"i want you to watch," she says, her words barely making it out as she moves faster. "wanna you to see when i cum. you're gonna make me cum first, right? because you're good for me, aren't you?"

your throat tightens.

"i can… yes, okay, i can do that, i'll be good, please—fuck, let me touch you…"

"go ahead." her lips brush against yours.

your hand slides between her legs, and she moans, her head falling forward, lips parted, eyes squeezed shut, and the sound that comes out of her throat is something that's barely human.

you press your thumb against her clit, and she curses.

"faster," she orders, her hips rocking. "more, baby, c'mon…"

you obey, and then she's moving faster and harder, and the hand on your shoulder is gripping onto you like you're a life raft, like if she lets go, she'll fall overboard. her body arches against yours, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she reaches the edge. you feel her muscles tense, her nails digging into your skin so hard it'll probably leave marks.

who were you to complain?

"fuck, baby, i'm so close," she whispers.

"good," you murmur, pressing a kiss to her temple, and then her forehead, and then her cheeks.

it doesn't take much more.

a few circles of your thumb, and her eyes roll back, her voice breaking, a cry slipping past her lips, and her body tensing, and her walls clamping around you, and her chest pressed to yours.

"oh, oh, god, holy shit, fuck."

her eyes soon lock onto yours, her gaze not leaving you, watching the way you react to her. how you bite your lip, the soft grunts, the way the tendons in your neck stand out, the way your brows knit together, and the way your arms wrap around her waist and pull her closer, and the way your hips jerk upwards, and the way the moan rumbles in your chest, and the way the warmth spreads through her, and the way her name slips off your tongue.

her arms wrap around your neck, her head resting on your shoulder. her hips roll, riding out the last waves, and you can feel her pulse against your tongue, beating just as fast as yours. your hand rubs her back gently; you don't want her to leave the circle of your arms.

not yet.

"did you…?"

"mhm."

"okay, good, that's good, perfect, thank you, thank you, rina, thank you."

"stop babbling," she mumbles.

but her hand is still on the back of your head, and her lips are brushing your ear, and her body is warm against yours.

then her hand wraps around your length, and her hips rise, and the loss of her makes you whimper.

"shh," she says, her lips finding yours. "did you think i'd forget about you?"

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vapekingg · 11 months ago

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accidental i love you’s during sex is sooo steve harrington it’s unbelievable…..

Oh fuck yeah. I'm stoned as shit right now so I got you.

MDNI Steve HarringtonxFem!Reader FWB/Friends to Lovers CW: recreational drug use, choking, unprotected sex, p in v sex, creampie

Banner by @inklore

It started as a drunken mistake — hooking up with your best friend.

You and Steve had one too many beers in the parking lot of Family Video after work and ended up in the back seat of his car, windows fogged up and messy handprints leaving evidence of your tryst.

It wasn't a mistake the second time though, or the third.

You and Steve are one too many joints deep after your closing shift together now, the race back to your house was a near bloodbath as you tore at each other’s clothes and gnashed at each other’s flesh. He’s pressed against your back, moving fluidly against you. His breath hot on your ear but chilling your spine, his hips snapping forward to bury you deeper into the mattress.

Steve gets pissed off at work. He needs an outlet, and you’re happy to be just that.

With another rut of his hips, his palm ricochets off of your ass.

“Fuck!” He curses.

His other hand is hooked around your front, fingers lodged deep in your throat. You’ve been drooling around his digits, mouth wide open so that you don’t accidentally scrape him with your teeth.

“Oh my g-fuck…” Steve grinds into you, pushing the swollen head of his cock against the back of your needy cunt.

It’s hours of this. This give and take. This violent brutality pushing you to the edge and then his soothing ministrations tugging you back.

“I fucking love this,” he accentuates his words with a kiss to your shoulder, another stroke of his cock against your walls. “Fucking love it-mmf..”

He tugs his hips backwards just to slam into you again.

“Love this pussy,” he continues, hand creeping over your hip to stroke between your thighs.

“I love this fucking voice,” Steve’s fingers slip out of your mouth and a gush of saliva follows, then you’re gasping for air.

His hand travels down your throat and squeezes the columns gently. You can tell by the twitch of his hips that he’s edging on delirium.

“Love fucking you. Oh my god," His knee shifts, and suddenly his weight is pressing into you. Burying you against sweat-soaked sheets. His teeth scrape against your shoulder and dig into anywhere they can fit: your bicep, your shoulder blade, your neck. He's sinking into you as if you'll never see each other again, as if the world is ending just outside.

"I love you.”

You hear the words, but grenades are detonating in your ears. Steve's precise fingers work frantically between your thighs, toying with your overstimulated clit as you squirm and writhe beneath him.

His hips jerk, he's swelling inside of you, and then you hear it again.

"Fuck, I love you..."

You hear it in the far off corner of your mind as your release hits, and those words carry something with them. Something warm and safe that hadn't been included in this arrangement before. It cradles you during your comedown, provides that cushion between Steve's heavy body and yours and his breath begins to quicken in your ear.

A moment later, it's over. Steve stills inside of you, his length beginning to soften and then slip out, followed by the gush of his release. He's getting heavier, it's getting harder to breathe, and there's a laugh stored in your chest that you can't hold for much longer.

Steve presses a tender kiss to the shell of your right ear and you smile.

"Should we talk about—" You begin.

A breath finally enters your lungs as Steve rolls off of you.

"Nope!" He answers while falling onto his back.

Sweat clings to his chest hair and shimmers in the yellow light provided by the lamp that illuminates the room from the corner. He doesn't ask for permission, this is all routine by now. Steve closes his eyes and throws out his arm, waiting for you to join him at the rib for a post-coital cuddle.

"Well, yes. Tomorrow." He continues.

Finally, that laugh escapes you.

#stranger things #steve harrington #stranger things fic #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #best friend steve harrington #steve harrington fluff

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actuallybean · 2 months ago

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Holy Virgin* | Part One

You've shared everything with Sam but one thing—your faith. It’s never been a problem… until Heaven turns its gaze on you, and suddenly, devotion takes on a darker meaning. *Contains sexual material, pregnancy, thoughts of suicide/attempted suicide, virginity and has some religious themes: Minors DNI Pairing: Sam Winchester x Reader, Dean Winchester x Reader (Platonic), Castiel x Reader (Platonic) Tag list: @mostlymarvelgirl @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing Part Two Supernatural Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The motel was quiet. Not silent—never truly silent—but quiet enough that the hum of the overhead fan and the occasional rumble of a passing car felt like lullabies. You lay still on the scratchy motel sheets, your body clean, warm, and worn to the bone in that way only a successful hunt could leave you. You could still smell the smoke faintly on your skin—bonfire and salt and something ancient turned to ash—but it was fading now beneath motel soap and Sam’s shampoo.

You’d showered first, standing under the weak spray of lukewarm water until the last of the blood spiraled down the drain. When you stepped out, the mirror was fogged and your hands were shaking—not from fear anymore, just the comedown. The adrenaline. The ache of being alive when something else wasn’t.

Sam had followed after, quiet and steady, his eyes brushing over you with a tenderness he didn’t speak aloud. And when he emerged from the bathroom—hair damp, shirtless, low-slung sweats clinging to his hips—you were already curled beneath the motel comforter, your body tucked on your side, facing the wall. But you hadn’t closed your eyes yet.

Instead, you laced your fingers together, nestled them against your chest, and whispered into the stillness of the dark.

A soft prayer falls from yours lips, as you thank Him for always protecting you and those you love during hunts.

You didn’t speak it loudly. You didn’t even mouth it fully. But it was there—the syllables slipped into the hush like incense, warm and ancient. You never tell Sam or Dean what you pray for. Maybe it was habit. Maybe hope. Maybe just the stars. But after every hunt, after every night you made it back, you prayed.

You weren’t sure when Sam crawled into bed behind you—just that you felt the shift of the mattress, the tug of the sheets, the familiar creak of old springs adjusting to his weight.

And then…

You smelled him.

The faint, clean scent of motel soap clung to his skin—cheap and floral, a little too strong in places, like he hadn’t rinsed it all out. It was a smell you were learning to associate with safety. With aftermaths. With him.

And then his arm came around you, slow and heavy, anchoring you like driftwood in a storm. His chest pressed to your back, warm and solid and real, and that’s when you let yourself exhale.

You were home.

Well, not a real home. Not the kind with picture frames or dinner tables or front doors that stayed locked at night. But the kind of home that showed up in fleeting ways—two queen beds, a flickering lamp with a peeling floral shade, a half-empty mini bottle of whiskey on the nightstand, and Sam’s body wrapped around yours like a shield.

The hunt had ended hours ago. The creature was dead—bones burned, salt lines scattered, incantations spoken. Blood had dried under your fingernails before it was scrubbed away. The job was done. But your heart hadn’t stopped thudding.

You hadn’t quite come down.

Sam’s breathing was slow and deep behind you, the steady rise and fall of his chest a lullaby against your spine. You turned slightly, burrowing closer until your back pressed fully against him, your legs curling around his. You tucked your face into the pillow, whispered again under your breath: “Thank You.”

This time, it wasn’t just to the stars or to whatever god had their eye on you.

This time, it was for him.

You didn’t expect an answer. You didn’t need one.

But then you felt it—the soft brush of his nose against your shoulder, the whisper-warm press of his lips against your skin. He didn’t fully wake, but he shifted closer, his voice gravel-rough and dipped in dreams. “You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded slowly, your lips barely moving. “Just… grateful.”

He didn’t say anything more, but he didn’t have to. His arm tightened around your waist, slow and sure, until there was no space left between you. Just heat and heartbeat and breathing.

And then the world went quiet again.

Not silent.

But safe.

✦

The next morning, Dean was already halfway through a plate stacked with bacon, eggs, and something that might’ve once been hash browns, all glistening with grease, when you and Sam finally walked into the diner.

The little bell above the door jingled half-heartedly as you stepped inside, squinting against the pale sunlight streaming through the windows. You looked rumpled in the best kind of way—like someone who hadn’t planned on being out in public this early. One of Sam’s oversized flannels hung off your frame, the sleeves rolled sloppily to your elbows. It was unbuttoned, just barely covering the hem of your tee and shorts. Your hair was tied up in a loose, lopsided bun, like it had been gathered in the dark and forgotten. There were faint pillow lines creased into your cheek, and a slow, sleepy softness behind your eyes.

Dean looked up mid-chew, his mouth curling into a grin. “Well, well, look who finally decided to roll out of bed.”

You let out a quiet, tired groan and muttered something under your breath about coffee.

“Morning,” Sam said simply, placing a gentle hand on your lower back as he guided you toward the booth across from Dean.

Dean’s smirk widened as he leaned back, one arm slung casually over the back of the booth. “You kids have fun last night?”

Sam paused before sliding in beside you, giving his brother a pointed look. “We slept.”

Dean barked out a dry laugh, stabbing his fork into a sausage. “Yeah, sure. That why you were practically carrying her outta the motel? She looked like she could barely stand.”

You squinted at him, eyes narrowing as you slid into the booth beside Sam and grabbed a sticky laminated menu. “I was tired,” you said flatly.

Dean took a long sip of his coffee, eyes dancing with amusement. “Tired or blissfully exhausted?”

You raised the menu higher, hiding your face behind it. “Dead. On. My. Feet.”

Sam chuckled softly beside you, and you felt the subtle shift of the booth as his leg bumped gently into yours under the table. “Let it go, Dean.”

Dean wasn’t done. “Hey, no judgment. Just saying, you two strolled in like the end of a romance movie. All slow motion and heavy breathing.”

You dropped the menu just low enough to glare at him. “That’s rich coming from someone who once got kicked out of a diner for flirting with a waitress during her grandma’s funeral.”

Dean pointed his fork at you, impressed. “Touché.”

Sam cleared his throat, clearly trying not to laugh, and opened his own menu. “Can we please just order breakfast before this turns into a very awkward therapy session?”

You leaned your head on Sam’s shoulder, stifling a yawn. “Only if someone gets me a gallon of coffee.”

Dean raised a hand and flagged the waitress. “Pot of coffee for the lovebirds. Make it strong enough to revive the dead.”

You groaned again. “I hate you.”

Dean grinned wide, tossing a wink your way. “No you don’t.”

Sam shook his head, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth as he leaned in and murmured, just for you, “You know he’s not gonna let this go all day, right?”

You didn’t bother to answer. You just nudged his thigh under the table, sighed against his shoulder, and decided—if you had to endure Dean’s teasing—you might as well do it while stealing all of Sam’s pancakes.

✦

Back at the Bunker, it was like exhaling after holding your breath for days.

The iron door groaned shut behind you, the sound echoing through the halls like a sigh. The hunt was behind you now—another salt-and-burn, another corpse that shouldn’t have been walking around in the first place. Your muscles ached in that deep, good way, the kind of exhaustion that only came after surviving. Your body was bruised, bloodied, and sore. But your soul? That was something else. That was quieter now. Lighter.

You peeled off your jacket and kicked off your boots at the threshold like you always did, letting them fall in a clumsy heap beside the door. The stone floor beneath your socked feet was cold, the kind of cold that shot straight up your bones—but you didn’t mind. The Bunker was always cold. Even in the middle of summer. It clung to the air like memory. Like old ghosts still whispering in the vents. But it was the kind of cold you’d learned to love.

Predictable. Familiar. The kind of chill that said you’re home now. The kind of stillness you didn’t flinch at anymore.

Dean dropped his duffel by the war table with a huff and rolled his shoulders like he was trying to shake the weight of the week off. “Shower first or food first?” he asked without turning around, already toeing off his boots.

“Shower,” you and Sam said at the same time.

You turned toward each other, a small surprised laugh shared between you. Not like it was the first time. You always answered in sync.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Jesus. You two are worse than an old married couple.”

You smirked. “Then you’re the crotchety brother-in-law who eats all our snacks.”

“Damn right,” he muttered. “Fine. You two go steam it out. I’ll make grilled cheese or something.”

“Use actual butter this time,” Sam called after him, already tugging you gently by the hand toward the hall that led to your rooms.

“I did use butter last time,” Dean shouted from the kitchen.

“No, you used mayonnaise,” you called back, voice fading as Sam pulled you around the corner. “There’s a difference!”

There was no rush to the shower. No frantic energy. No giggles or teasing touches. You both just… needed it. Needed the quiet. Needed the warmth. Needed the space to come back into yourselves.

The bathroom was softly lit, steam beginning to cloud the mirror as you stripped out of your layers—your tee, his flannel, the jeans stiff with salt and sweat. Sam moved behind you in silence, fingers brushing your spine as he unhooked your bra, careful and gentle like always. When he undressed, he didn’t make a show of it. There was nothing sexual in the way you stood bare before each other. It never was.

Tonight, it was about washing the blood off your hands.

The water was hot—just shy of too much—but you leaned into it anyway. You let it sting your sore muscles, let it run over your shoulders and down your back as if it could carry the weight of the hunt with it.

You stood under the spray while Sam reached for the little bottle of lavender soap you always packed. It was nearly empty now, the cap cracked, the label faded from years of use. You’d had it since your first solo hunt. It smelled like the laundry detergent your mom used when you were a kid. Like sun-dried sheets. Like nights falling asleep in freshly folded blankets and being carried to bed.

It smelled like safety.

Sam poured a little into his hand and stepped close. He worked it through your hair slowly, reverently, his fingers rubbing gentle circles into your scalp. He didn’t ask if you wanted him to. He never did. He just knew.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

The shower didn’t last long. Just enough to feel clean. To feel new again. Like maybe you weren’t just a killer with a rosary in her drawer, trying to make peace with ghosts and God alike.

Wrapped in a towel, you padded barefoot down the hallway with water still clinging to the ends of your hair. Sam was a few steps a head, shirtless, a towel slung low around his hips as he disappeared into his closet in your shared room to get dressed.

You stepped into the room.

It smelled faintly of dust, lavender soap, and old paper. The bed was still rumpled from the last time you both had slept there, sheets half-kicked to the floor. You sat at the edge and reached for the drawer of your nightstand.

There it was.

The rosary.

Black beads, worn smooth in places from years of nervous fingers. The cross was small, cool to the touch, and a little bent at the tips where it had caught on jackets or belts or the lip of your duffel more than once. But you always kept it close. Not because you believed in everything the Church told you. Not anymore. Not after everything you’d seen.

But because it was yours. Because it reminded you of before.

You sat on the bed, the towel tucked tight around your chest, your damp hair curling slowly against the nape of your neck. You held the rosary in both hands, carefully, reverently, like it might break under the weight of your guilt. Or maybe your hope.

Sam stepped out of the closet, now dressed in sweats and a faded tee that clung to his chest, hair still damp. He paused when he saw you, hand braced against the frame.

He stilled.

But he didn’t say anything. He never did.

You didn’t hide it from him. You never had.

You lowered your head and closed your eyes, your fingers finding the crucifix as the rhythm slipped easily from your lips, soft and sure, like breath.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee..

The words were old. Older than the monsters you fought. Older than the salt circles and hex bags. And in a world where nothing stayed sacred for long, they still felt like a kind of armor.

You could feel Sam watching you. Not in judgment. Not even curiosity. Just… presence.

You’d felt it since the first time he caught you praying years ago. You thought it might scare him off, the girl who slept with a knife under her pillow and a prayer on her lips. But it hadn’t. He never asked you to stop. Never interrupted. He just watched. Quiet. Steady.

Like now.

You finished slowly, your voice a whisper swallowed by the walls.

…now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

When you looked up, Sam hadn’t moved. He stepped in a moment later, knelt in front of you where you sat on the edge of the bed. His hands came up gently, resting on your knees.

“Do you feel better when you do that?” he asked softly, eyes never leaving yours.

You nodded, fingers curling the rosary back into your palm. “It helps me remember who I was. Who I’m trying to be.”

Sam’s brow furrowed just slightly, the way it always did when he got emotional and didn’t know what to do with it. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your knee. Then another, just above it. His hands were warm.

“You’re good,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to earn that.”

Your throat went tight.

“I know,” you whispered. “But sometimes I forget.”

Sam stood and climbed onto the bed beside you, tugging the blanket around your shoulders. You curled into him without thinking, head resting on his chest, the rosary still clutched in your hand.

Outside your room, the Bunker stayed cold. Still. Waiting.

But in here?

You were warm.

✦

Dean made grilled cheese, and it was good. Greasy, extra crispy, slightly burnt at the edges like always—just the way he liked it, and just the way you’d grown to expect. He used the cast iron skillet because he swore it made a difference, and despite the years of wear, it still hissed like a living thing when butter hit its surface. The kitchen smelled like comfort: toasted bread, sharp cheddar, and salted butter sizzling into golden brown perfection.

You ate curled up on the couch in the library, legs tucked under a throw blanket that had more holes than thread. The bunker’s overhead lights were dimmed to their warmest glow, and the cold concrete walls didn’t feel so stark tonight. Sam sat nearby, a thick old book on Norse mythology propped open on his lap, one foot resting on the coffee table, the other bouncing gently in rhythm with the jazz record Dean had forgotten to turn off. He read with his brow furrowed, thumb tracing lines of faded runes, but he wasn’t really reading. You could feel it in the way his eyes kept flicking toward you—soft, sidelong glances that landed like quiet prayers.

The day passed like that—lazy, low-lit, thick with the kind of silence that only ever came when everyone was safe. You dozed once, head heavy in Sam’s lap, your breathing slow and mouth parted slightly in sleep. At some point, Dean wandered in, smirked, and snapped a photo with a muttered, “New contact photo.” You didn’t stir. Sam just shook his head with a fond smile, brushing your hair back from your face like it was something sacred.

“She looks peaceful,” he murmured.

“She looks like she got hit with a tranq dart,” Dean said, grinning. But even he said it softly.

Later, the record changed. Sam switched it out for a crackling old blues LP, the kind you’d imagine playing in a smoky bar just after last call. You’d pulled out a dog-eared copy of Mere Christianity from the shelf—one of your oldest companions on long, wandering nights—and curled back up in the crook of the couch, flipping the fragile pages with slow reverence. Sam didn’t tease. He never did. Not when you read books full of saints and martyrs and metaphysical longing. Not when you underlined phrases like hope is one of the theological virtues or if I find in myself desires nothing in this world can satisfy, the only logical explanation is that I was made for another world.

He watched you sometimes, like he was trying to decipher you—not to fix you, not to challenge you, just to understand. To see what you saw. Like maybe if he looked long enough, he could feel it too—the stillness, the pull, the God you believed in even after all the things you’d seen.

When you got up before dinner to kneel quietly in the corner of the room, he didn’t say a word. He never did. He just turned the music down and kept reading.

✦

That night, after the dishes were done and Dean retreated to his room with a beer and some noir movie humming faintly through the wall, you climbed into bed beside Sam. The covers were heavy, warm with residual body heat, and smelled faintly of cedar soap and clean cotton. As soon as you slid beneath them, you turned toward him out of instinct, curling close. His arm slid around your waist without needing to be asked. You fit there like you'd always belonged.

For a long moment, there was only the soft hum of the Bunker—the buzz of distant fluorescents, the hum of old pipes, the whisper of breath against skin.

“You prayed a long time tonight,” Sam said, his voice just above a whisper, as though to break the quiet too sharply would undo it.

You nodded, head resting beneath his chin. “Felt like I needed to.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you murmured, though the pause that followed was full of something heavier. “Just… thinking about my friend. The one who got possessed when we were sixteen.”

Sam didn’t speak. Just waited. You loved that about him—his patience. His ability to leave the silence untouched until you were ready.

“She used to say awful things,” you said quietly. “When the demon was in her. Twisted stuff. Bible verses, but warped. And after we exorcised it… she wouldn’t go near a church again. Couldn’t even look at a crucifix without flinching.”

You swallowed.

“But I did. I kept going. Not because I wasn’t scared, but because I had to believe there was something stronger than that kind of evil. Something bigger. Holier. Something good.”

Sam's hand moved slowly along your arm, not to comfort, but to remind you he was there. Listening.

“You found it?” he asked, after a moment.

You turned your face into his chest, voice muffled. “I thought I did. Still do, most days. But it’s quieter now. Harder to feel.”

Sam pressed a kiss to your forehead—gentle, grounding. “You’re the most faithful person I’ve ever met.”

You smiled faintly, eyes already slipping closed. “You never tease me for it.”

“I admire it,” he said. “Your faith. The way it holds. Like a spine.”

“I wish I could share it with you.”

“You do,” he whispered, tucking his chin against your hair. “More than you know.”

You drifted off wrapped in his arms, the weight of the world falling away with every breath. Warm, anchored. Your prayers still lingered like incense behind your ribs—half-spoken, half-remembered, all holy in their quiet ache.

And in the farthest corner of Heaven, something stirred. Something ancient, something watching.

And something listening.

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deathblacksmoke · 6 months ago

Text

dying to get you dizzy

pairing: matt dierkes x f!reader x davis rider

word count: 2.8K

cw: partner sharing, poor communication, the boys are dummies, oral sex (m receiving), fingering (f receiving), protected p in v sex, voyeurism, ~matty in the cuck chair~, m masturbation, a bit of jealousy & possessiveness, a dynamic that won't stop switching, boys kissing <3 (if you noticed i missed any warnings, please lmk!!!)

author's note: i don't remember how i got this idea — a little too much thc maybe? — but then an anon requested it and here we are. i hope it lives up to the expectations i set for it!

title from "dizzy on the comedown" by turnover

banner by @darksigns-exe 🩷

You couldn’t say with any sort of confidence how you got here.

It started with a glance, you think — an innocent look that lingered a little long. You know Matt caught it, judging by the way he had you pressed against the wall the moment Davis left, littering your neck and chest with possessive kisses and sucking bruises into your skin.

You vaguely remember his whisper in your ear before you came for the second time on his fingers, could barely make it out over the whooshing in your ears. Your legs had given out beneath you, kept from collapsing only by his hand wrapped gently around your neck and his leg between your thighs.

You want him, huh?

You didn’t know how to answer. You weren’t quite sure if you knew the answer yourself, but found yourself dizzied by the thought of it. His gaze seared through you, and you couldn’t help it. His words gave you no other option.

Don’t be shy, honey. You can tell me. You want him, don’t you?

With a desperate nod and a whine and an unintelligible plea, your vision blacked, your muscles failing you.

Everything between that and this — perched on the floor between Davis’ thighs while Matt kisses over your bare neck and shoulders — was a blur.

Matt’s big hands on your skin ground you, while one glance up at the man above you makes you feel like you’re floating. The push and pull between the safety of Matt’s presence and the watchful eyes of his friend is enough to make your head swim.

“Are you gonna be a good girl for him?” Matt asks, his warm breath beneath your ear goose pimpling your skin. You nod — there’s no other choice — you want to be good for them both. “Why don’t you ask him what he wants, honey?”

When you look up at Davis, he isn’t meeting your eye. Suddenly, you feel so very small — you almost want to shy away, but Matt was right, you did want this.

“Davis, can I—?” your voice comes out more as a croak than anything. You place a hand on his thigh, not too high, not trying to push any boundaries. He looks down at you with wide eyes, and you’re not quite sure what to do. “How do you want me?”

His gaze flits away from you, to where Matt is knelt behind you, and for the first time it occurs to you that maybe they didn’t discuss this at all before Davis came here. You turn around in Matt’s arms, looking at him in disbelief. He has the nerve to look confused.

“What, baby?” he asks. You can’t help but roll your eyes.

“What exactly did you discuss when you invited him?” you ask him, and he looks at you a little stupid. His silence tells you all there is to know, and as exasperated as it makes you, you’re sadly not shocked. You and Matt haven’t done anything like this before, and it had surprised you how quickly the arrangement had been set up. Looking back, you probably should have expected that the plans were made without any sort of discussion on rules or boundaries or expectations.

You excuse yourself from Davis and take Matt to another corner of the room.

“What is he expecting to happen here today?” you ask Matt, and you think there ought to be a bit of shame painted on his face, but his expression betrays nothing. He has no idea what he’s done wrong. You often feel a dull urge to shake him — never stronger than in this moment. “Did you just ask him if he wanted to fuck me, and he said yeah, and now we’re all here?”

You were prepared for his answer, but it infuriates you anyway. “I mean, more or less.”

You’d like to tell him how lucky he is that you love him.

“What are you expecting to happen here today?” you ask, and you can see as he almost shrugs, but thinks better of it. You decide to file that away. “What are the rules? What’s off limits?”

“Nothing, as far as I’m concerned,” he responds, and the buzzing is back, a warmth erupting beneath your skin and coursing through you. “You’ll have to ask him. But you can do whatever you feel like, baby. This is for you.”

“How involved do you want to be?” you ask him, just to clarify, not wanting to leave him out. He shrugs, like you’re deciding on dinner and he couldn’t care less, not making belated negotiations on a three-way. You let him have his indecision. “So I’m in charge. That’s fun.”

“Told you it’s for you,” he replies, as simple as ever.

You press a kiss to his cheek, another to the corner of his mouth. You can never stay mad at him for long — a blessing and a curse.

“You should have had this talk with him, you know,” you add for good measure. He nods, and you’re still not sure he gets it, but you’ll let it go for now. Turning away from him, you’re a little too eager to get back to Davis.

You perch yourself on the bed next to him, your knee pressing into his thigh, but not yet daring to get closer. Not until you ask.

“I hear Matty didn’t really talk much with you about what was going to happen here,” you start. He shakes his head — a bit obvious. “He asked you if you wanted to fuck me, though?” you continue. He gives you a shy little nod, so quiet and nervous today. You can’t help the way it has you squirming a little, especially as you notice him getting a little brave, the knuckles of his index and middle finger grazing gently over your bare thigh. “And you do, right?”

“Can you come a little closer?” he asks, finally speaking up. He sounds so sure, just like always, not timid in the way that you’d expected him to be, judging by his behavior today. You start slowly scooting closer before he gets a gentle grip on your leg, prompting you to swing it over him. With his thigh between your legs, you feel so shy again, your skin hot all over. You throw your arms over his shoulders, burying your face in his neck. The smell of his cologne floods your senses.

“What do you want?” you ask, your skin goose-pimpling as his hands toy with the edges of your panties, sliding under to feel the bare skin of your ass. Your skin goes hot-cold-hot and it dizzies you. You swallow thickly, and your words come out barely louder than a whisper. “You have to tell me what you want.”

“I want you,” he says, the fingers of one of his hands running through your hair, gently directing your gaze up to meet his. “Anything you want. If I want you to stop, I’ll say,” he assures you, his lips meeting yours, but just barely. “I don’t think that’ll happen, though.”

Your head feels so fuzzy with the permission, with the free-reign you’ve been given. You find your way back between his spread legs again, just barely catching his soft gasp as you go. As you run a hand over his sweats, you feel him hard under your palm, and it’s without a second thought that you pull his waistband down, freeing his cock and marveling at the size.

When you hear a rustling behind you, you chance one last look over your shoulder at Matt — in the armchair next to your dresser, his gaze intently focused on the two of you, his hand already down the front of his sweats. His expression doesn’t change as you study him.

When you turn back around, his watchful eye bores through you. You remind yourself of the explicit permission, the enthusiastic consent, the free-reign to be in charge that they both gave you, as you take Davis’ cock between your lips.

The overwhelm is so immediate, a whooshing in your ears as everything consumes your senses, your mind racing and empty all at once. His cock is heavy on your tongue, and you make a conscious effort to ignore all the sounds going on around you, the twitch in your mouth as you slide your tongue through his slit, his soft gasps, the unmistakable sounds of Matt’s low groans and the distinctive spit-slicked noises. Davis runs a hand through your hair again and tugs — you choke, needing a moment to pull away and catch your breath. You keep your hand stroking him, admiring the way the tip is already red and angry and leaking pre-cum.

You look up at Davis to find his gaze trained just past you again. If he notices that the movement of your hand has slowed, he doesn’t show it. When you peer over your shoulder at Matt, it’s almost as if you’re not in the room at all.

A spark of mischief keeps your feelings from hurting.

“Matty,” you interrupt his thoughts, directing his gaze to you. “Are you guys having a staring contest?”

He looks at you a little dumb. You remind yourself you have the upper hand here, despite what Matt may like to tell himself.

“Why don’t you give him a little kiss?” you ask, your attention back on Davis, delighting in the widening of his eyes as his cock twitches unmistakably in your grasp.

Matt doesn’t react for a few long moments. You consider pivoting away from the topic before you hear a shuffling behind you, but you don’t dare a look backwards.

The bed dips beneath his weight as he kneels beside his friend, and he looks down at you, his expression calm. You reach for him, yearning for the contact, and his hand twines with yours before his attention returns to Davis.

You can’t tell who leans in first. They gaze at each other for a beat before the subtlest shift, their lips meeting softly. Davis places a hand on Matt’s jaw and the grip on your hand tightens, just slightly. Matt’s eyes flicker closed a moment later, his eyelashes fluttering prettily against the tops of his cheeks. You can see the beginnings of a small smile.

You watch Davis treat him gently and a buzzing erupts beneath your skin.

You’ve felt it countless times but have never seen it like this — the way his muscles relax, the slow unclenching of his jaw as a thumb soothes over his skin, the flutter of his eyelashes as he lets out the pretty sigh. You’ll never lose sight of how gorgeous he looks, always but especially so under the spell of being treated with a delicate hand.

You almost can’t help the little piece of you that feels impatient, jealous. You don’t notice yourself tugging on him until Matt pulls away from Davis, lips swollen and smirking.

“Are you feeling left out?” he teases.

When Davis drifts a finger over your cheek and looks down at you curiously, you feel subtly embarrassed that he can feel just how red hot your skin is, can see you squirming.

It’s completely without his beckoning that you find yourself rising from the floor and crawling into his lap. Matt’s hand finds the small of your back, a gentle guidance, as Davis curls a hand around your exposed hip. You’ve never felt so surrounded.

When your lips finally meet his in a kiss, you can taste Matt on his tongue. A gasp escapes as you shift yourself closer, burying your fingers in his hair. Behind you, Matt snickers at your desperation, crowding into your space and pressing his lips to your ear.

“Your turn?” he asks, getting a handle on the situation, no trace of teasing left in his tone. You nod frantically.

He’s so solid beneath you, but soft and pliable in a way you’ve grown unaccustomed to with Matt. There’s no playful push and pull as he responds to your every move and lets you lead the way. He shifts beneath you, his cock pressing hard against your inner thigh, and your vision goes fuzzy.

Upon turning back to Matt, you’re greeted with his pretty smile — all knowing, steps ahead, as always — and you can’t help the way you melt.

“I want him,” you confess, as if it wasn’t already clear. He just nods, presses a kiss to the side of your mouth before lending you space again.

You find your gaze still trained on him, eyes wide. Matt nudges you, pointing a finger towards Davis. “You have my permission. You need to ask him, my love.”

You curl your fingers through the soft hair at the base of his skull, cradling the back of his head in your hand. He’s so warm, so solid beneath you, and you want him so badly. He stretches up to place a delicate kiss on your mouth, then another, and another. Butterflies fill your tummy.

“Do you want me?” you breathe into his mouth. He smiles against your lips.

“You know I do,” Davis responds, pulling you as close as he can get you, his strong hands kneading the plush skin of your ass, your thighs, every available inch of you.

You don’t need to ask him how he wants you. The moment you climb off of him, he quickly strips himself of his clothes. You take in the long lines of his body, his pretty tattooed skin, as you take off your bra and panties. You feel more exposed than ever, more eager than before.

Davis reaches into the bedside table for a condom — lucky guess — and props himself against the pillows. Matt has made his way back to the chair, happy to watch, nodding towards the bed when you take a final look back at him.

When you crawl back into his lap, Davis’ fingers find their way to your center, running gently through your folds. It’s so subtle, but your eyes roll into the back of your head nonetheless.

“You’re so wet,” he marvels, making you blush. “You’re gonna feel so nice. Are you ready for me?”

In place of an answer, you just scoot yourself forward, taking him in your hand and letting yourself sink down. You immediately feel so full of him, overwhelmed in a way you weren’t expecting. You lay your palms rest flat against his tummy, his warm and soft skin beneath your fingers grounding you as you set a languid pace, a slow grind over his lap.

He lets you stay in control, his hands not on your hips but toying with your nipples — a brush here, a light pinch there, making your skin tingle with pleasure, an involuntary gasp, and then another. You use the leverage of your hands on his torso to begin lifting yourself up, closing your eyes, sinking back down, quicker. The build-up has made you feel a little out of your head, and you feel so nice, you’re not quite sure how long you’ll be able to make yourself last.

You hear a movement behind you before you feel the bed sink under a weight, a hand on your knee, a touch that’s become unmistakable to you. You lift your head and open your eyes, grateful to see Matt there in front of you, next to Davis. The contrast of Matt’s expanse of soft skin and Davis’ tattoos — you can’t deny they look pretty together. The hand Matt doesn’t have around himself moves from your knee between your folds, swiping over your clit, a light pressure, making your skin buzz.

Their hands working in tandem to make you feel good, Matt’s between your legs and Davis’ on your breasts, completely overcomes you. You watch in awe as they kiss again, a peek of tongue dancing between their open mouths, whispers between kisses that you can’t make out, their fingers still bringing you ever closer to your climax. You fight against your eyes fluttering closed, needing to keep sight on them before you.

Matt groans into the other’s mouth and you know that sound, redirect your glance just in time to watch as his cum spills onto Davis’ tummy. Davis doesn’t follow far behind him, for the first time getting a tight grip on your hip and thrusting up into you, spilling into the condom.

With a final whine, you collapse forward, letting your orgasm overwhelm you. You feel two distinct hands on you, lips pressing into your hair, whispers of good girl and good job, baby as your senses fade out.

Rolling off of Davis and collapsing between them, sandwiched between them as they both curl themselves around you, you hope they miss the mischievous little twinkle in your eye as an idea pops into your head — a plan for part two.

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#dividers by saradika #bad omens fic #matt dierkes fic #davis rider fic #bad omens rpf #deathblacksmoke works

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millerscoffee · 2 years ago

Note

Congrats on your 500 😎

I was thinking...“Touch me there. Right there.” with Jonathan Levy

boy, can i ever - thank you nonnie! hope you enjoy ♡

late night

770 words | jonathan levy x f!reader (professor x student)

rating: 18+ MDNI

warning: professor x student, cock warming, creampie, pet name (honey mostly), praise kink, no use of y/n

A/N: this is part of my 500 followers celebration running until 9/9 ♡

You’ll keep my cock warm, won’t you, honey?

That was an hour ago. You’d been fooling around with Professor Levy for a couple months at this point – Jonathan in the middle of his divorce, and you thought every time you saw him you discovered something new about him, but nothing quite topped this evening in his office: the door locked, the blinds shut, your thighs quaking.

He promises you no one is around, his hands teasing your skirt up, bending you over the desk. Sits down behind you to peel your underwear to your ankles before working you up just enough to sit you down on his length.

“P-Professor,” your voice is shaky, your skirt hiked up to your low back, his slacks at his thighs, you could tell how wet you were around him. The collection of your sex makes things slicker as the minutes ticked. You felt his palm warm over your shoulder and that alone made your insides flutter around him, “Just a minute, honey. Alright? I’m grading papers, you know that.” his dominant hand held a red marker, and the warmth moves from your shoulder to your hip on the opposite side. You gasp at his greedy touch, the way his fingers dig into the skin and curvature there. You can’t help it, you shift enough to make his cock hit your cervix. “Ooh,” you squeak, perspiration making its appearance at the nape of your neck. Everything felt sticky.

Your eyes wander to the paper just to the side of you, focus on his hand critiquing and it’s all blurry. Your brain is useless like this, and you need movement. “Please,” beginning to beg, you wonder if that would be of any use, but you can practically feel him ignore you leaving you to whimper, burying your face in your arms.

“You’re being so good for me, you know,” his words are distant, like he’s speaking at you rather than to you, but the praise lifts your head, fingernails clawing at the desk you bite the plush of your bottom lip. You can’t help but gasp when he puts his pen down.

“How can I help?” He's so attentive, even when he’s busy, and it makes you appreciate him more than Mira ever could.

“N-need to move. Need you to touch me.”

“Lean back up, honey.”

So you do as you told, head rests back against his shoulder and he ghosts his hands over your body until you’re trembling with need.

“Touch me,” your pathetic pleas fall into his mouth, his tongue lapping and exploring past your lips – his hand reaching for your split clit. “Here?” Professor Levy teases, his middle finger flicking at the nub teasingly before rolling it under the pads of his fingers, and you’re gone – panting and clawing at anything you can. “There, there – right fucking there!” Jonathan’s mouth stops you from making too much noise, his hips only shifting up for a handful of thrusts before you’re clenching and it sends you to your orgasm as the rush of heat pools from your core out to your extremities. It’s floaty, blissful as you make sweet noises into his mouth, and he’s eager to hum against the current.

“Fuck,” he gruffs, not slowing down the movement of his now eager hips work doubletime, pawing at your tits through your blouse. “You’re so beautiful, I’m so lucky,” his praises leave you blushing, nails curl into his naked thighs and you nod hopelessly, “Give it to me, J,” you bite your lip in the desperation and that sends him over the edge, spilling hot ropes inside of you to feel so complete.

Moments pass, and you feel the twitching of his inevitable comedown. You’re both breathless, fighting for oxygen as you see the side of his lip twitch in a charming smile. “Don’t think you’re leaving.” you swallow hard, pulling back to get a good look at him and you shake your head, laughing without the proper oxygen – head dizzy.

“Death of me, Professor Levy.”

“I don’t hear you complaining,” Jonathan hums, swiping his fingers over his tongue from where they once landed on your middle.

Your eyelids are heavy when you adjust yourself – still inside, to curl your legs into your lap, the side of you now nestled into his chest.

“Wouldn’t dare do such a thing,” you muse, lips painting over the side of his neck, the slightest of him spills from your entrance.

He pets your hair back, leaving you to a comfortable silence as he goes back to finishing his work, and it feels so good at this moment. Perfect.

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theloveoffootball10 · 10 months ago

Text

sᴛɪᴄᴋᴡɪᴛᴜ : s ᴇ ᴠ ᴇ ɴ

s e r i e s m a s t e r l i s t / c o m p l e t e m a s t e r l i s t

s ᴇ ᴠ ᴇ ɴ

Arriving back home on the Tuesday night I slump back on the sofa with a huff. The whole weekend has been incredible and now I have to prepare myself to go back into the office tomorrow. After I left Lando at the hotel on Monday morning I spent the rest of my time with my dad.

We went for breakfast before I met him back at home in Oxfordshire for the night. Being at my dad's home has always been one of my biggest security blankets and getting to spend the time there with him always reminds me of being a kid. Although I grew up with my parents not being together my mum would always drive the near 6 hour round trip from Cheshire to Oxfordshire and back again if I wanted to see my dad and he was home. We'd never tell him, we'd just jump in the car and be welcomed with open arms at the end of the journey.

"Hello to you as well, talk about moody Margaret walking through the door" my mum says from her spot in the corner of the sofa.

"I don't want to go back to work tomorrow" I feel like I'm on the biggest comedown of my life after spending so much time with Lando.

"Right who is he?" My mum asks as she pauses whatever she has playing in the background "come on tell me. You're never this depressed when you come home from your dads and you've been in the house less than 10 minutes"

"Mum do we have to" I say with a groan. I don't mind telling my mum what happened, I tell her literally everything I just don't know if I'm ready to have this conversation out loud.

"Yes we have to, you're not having a pity party for one over this. Which driver is it?" Turning my head to my mum I nearly give myself whiplash as I frown "don't give me that look. I've been there. Only a formula one driver can turn a girl to this"

"Lando Norris. Fucking hell I can't believe I'm saying it out loud to you"

"Ooh he's a good looking lad Lucía! He had a good weekend and now I think I know why" I can't believe my mum has just said that! "Look, I've been there Lucía and you've grown up in that world so I'm not surprised you've met someone working in formula one, if Lando Norris makes you happy then I'm made up for you"

"Muuuum nothing has happened other than sex" I say with a groan knowing in her head my mum has my wedding planned and is thinking of names for her future grandchildren "he wants to take me out in Miami for an actual date though"

"And I'm guessing you said yes? I'm sure he's got something insane up his sleeve if it's in Miami but after that date you had with that Jake lad even going to Starbucks for a brew is an improvement"

"Don't ever mention that date again! It was traumatic, I think I'm mentally scarred from that experience! Who tells a girl they're taking her out, tells her to dress to impress then takes her fishing! I won't ever be over that mum" I cringe at the thought of the worst date I've ever been taken on, sitting in the rain at the side of a lake surrounded by fishing gear absolutely freezing was never my idea of a good time.

"To be completely serious for a minute though Lucía, if you think you could have feelings for Lando give him a chance. If you don't that's fine, you're an adult and I trust that you're sensible enough to make the best decision for you. As always this stays between us until you're ready for your dad to know anything"

"Thanks mum. I appreciate it. We both have completely different lives but I'll see how it goes in Miami and then go from there" I can always count on my mum to make me feel better about a situation "did the stuff I need for Tomorrowland come?"

"You've got a load of parcels that came over the last few days so I'm guessing so. When is it you go?"

"Just under two weeks time, so this weekend I don't have plans then I have Tomorrowland, I'm home for like a week then fly to Miami" when it comes to summer I'm always back to back with plans. Since I was old enough to do my own thing I've always made the most of my anual leave throughout the summer. It would be easy for me to not work and live off my dad forever but I actually really like my job.

"I won't see you until you're back from Miami. I fly to Ibiza with the girls on Sunday when you're in Belgium. I'll make sure I leave your birthday present for you to open before you go or for when you're in Miami" my mum may be in her forties but I love that she still has girls party holidays to places like Ibiza. Me and some of my friends have been on holiday with my mum and her friends one of the most memorable being a long weekend in Magaluf.

"Mum don't worry about it. I can get it when we're both home. I'm going to shower and get sorted for work tomorrow" making my way to my bedroom I throw myself on the bed. I need to shower but I can't get Lando out of my head. Checking instagram I notice I don't have any messages from him which makes me wonder if this was just a Silverstone thing. I suppose I'll have to see what happens between now and Miami. I'm not saying I want scheduled phone calls from him but a few messages would be nice especially if he is serious about taking me out in Miami.

Nine days later I arrive in Belgium with some of my closest friends for Tomorrowland, the sun is shining and we're staying in a mansion rather than camping this year so the ten of us can stay together. As a group we do this trip every year, kind of like a ritual but we've grown up together and since we were all old enough it became our thing. Posting a photo of the girls to my instagram story I pour the first of many drinks I'll be consuming this weekend.

As we're all getting settled in our home from home for the weekend I sit on my bed when I see a notification pop up on my phone. Lando Norris replied to your story. I've spoken to Lando a few times since we left Silverstone and still it's always a dm. Neither of us has asked for the other's number but I always feel like I have a heard of elephants in my stomach when I see his name on my phone screen.

landonorris

I guess I'll see you Sunday and won't have to wait until Miami x

emselucia

You're coming to Tomorrowland?

Aren't you in Hungary?

landonorris

I'm flying straight over after the race and when I'm done with media x

I might just sack off the media now I know you're at Tomorrowland x

emselucia

That wouldn't be a good idea would it Mr Norris. I can only imagine how much the media and your PR manager would disapprove. However I would appreciate seeing your face x

landonorris

Mr Norris is my dad plz don't ever say that again 🤢 you can see my face as much as you like. Enjoy the weekend as much as you can, I'm jealous I can only be there Sunday x

emselucia

we both know your weekend will be even better when you see me though so it doesn't matter if you're not here for the full weekend 😜

See you Sunday Lando x

I'm fucked. Lando Norris has well and truly got me under his spell and I'm hanging on his every word. I might love Tomorrowland but I'm wishing the next three days away until it's Sunday and I get to see him again. The fact I get to see him before Miami has made my weekend.

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