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dearchalamett · 7 days ago

Text

pairing(s): lee x reader

cw: smut, period sex, f!receiving oral, reader is implied not to be an eater, mentions of unsafe driving.

“i need pads.”

the words fill the quiet space of his truck—not an uncomfortable silence, never with lee. the kind of hush that followed soon after a long, wheezing laugh. one that made your stomach ache from clenching, made the skin around your eyes tighten and crinkle until tears came for no reason but joy.

his hand still rested on the steering wheel. the other hung out the window, fingers catching the night air in lazy flickers. when you spoke, he turned to you, one eye completely off the road. you should’ve said something about that. about keeping his eyes ahead. about not killing both of you on some empty stretch of back road in the middle of nowhere. but you didn’t.

you just watched the sharp bob of his adam’s apple, the slight stutter in his breath, the way his chest rose a little too quick and too obvious beneath his sun-faded t-shirt. his jaw clenched. you could tell he was working so hard to keep his mind still, to shove whatever gnawing thing was pressing against his ribs down into his gut where it couldn’t get out.

he was worried. of course he was. that he wouldn’t be able to control himself. that the sharp, isolating ache—the hunger—would claw up his throat and take the wheel from him. that it would win this time, and he’d ruin everything.

but he didn’t say all that. lee never did.

“alright,” he murmured, barely a word, more like a breath pushed into sound. he gave you a single, faint nod. a promise sealed in its smallness.

later, the two of you lay in the bed of his truck. ratty old blankets and a cracked thermos of something neither of you drank anymore sitting forgotten by your hips. you watched the sky swallow itself, stars blinking out one by one behind the slow crawl of clouds. it was cold in a way you could only feel on your skin, not in your bones. a hush had settled over the world, the kind that only came when you were too far out for anyone to find you.

you turned your head toward him. he looked too pretty like this. that wasted kind of beautiful that only boys like him could be—tired eyes catching what little starlight was left, sharp lines of his face softened by the dark. you could really study him like this, really drink him in.

“can you smell it?” you asked, and your voice wasn’t nervous. just… there. a fact hanging in the air with the scent of damp earth and rusted metal and old sweat.

he didn’t answer at first. you saw the way his mouth twitched, how his tongue darted out to wet his lips like it made them any less chapped. then that familiar, nervous tug at his lips, a hint of teeth. he turned to you.

“yeah,” he whispered, almost ashamed, almost grateful.

you could’ve left it at that. could’ve laughed it off, made some joke about him being a bloodhound. but instead, you said the thing that really mattered.

“i trust you,”

you didn’t need to be specific. the truth of it was so thick it hung over both of you, like the humidity after a storm. heavy and clinging. he swallowed hard, eyes shining too bright in the dark.

“you can if you want.”

it came out so quiet you weren’t sure you’d even spoken. but he heard you. you knew because he didn’t ask what?, didn’t make you repeat it. the words hit him like a blow, made something flicker deep behind his ribs.

you let your legs part, just a little. enough.

lee’s breath hitched, and then he was moving, slow like he was afraid the spell would break. his hand ghosted over your hip, fingers rough with callouses, thumb brushing over the waistband of your underwear. he nosed along the inside of your thigh, his stubble catching against the tender skin there, and you shivered even though it wasn’t cold.

he smelled you, up close now. that copper-sweet, raw scent. animal. human. the thing no one else ever let him have like this. his lips pressed against your skin, a reverent kind of kiss, and then another, and another, trailing down until he was mouthing at the slick, dark patch between your legs.

the blood was thick and warm, metallic on his tongue. not fresh, not old—alive in that in-between way, tasting of you, of your insides, of life itself. he groaned low in his throat, a sound that was half hunger, half prayer.

it should’ve been grotesque, the way his tongue worked at you, lapping and sucking, pulling the blood and slick from you like it was the only thing he’d ever needed. but it wasn’t. it was slow, careful. worshipful. he moved your underwear aside with his teeth, his mouth hot and insistent against you.

your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging a little, and he moaned into you, the vibration making your stomach knot and your hips buck. the blood painted his lips, his chin, and when he pulled back for just a second, you saw it there, smeared like war paint. his eyes were blown wide, pupils devouring the color, and you could see the boy he was in there. the scared, lonely thing, desperate to be close to someone without it ending in horror.

“i—” he started, voice cracking like a branch underfoot.

“don’t stop,” you whispered, and he didn’t.

he buried his face in you again, hungrier now, but still gentle, like he knew the difference between devouring and loving. and maybe this was both. the warm spill of blood and slick against his tongue, your thighs trembling around his head, the salt-stung tears in his eyes as he mouthed at you like he could drink your whole body down and still come up empty.

the stars disappeared. the world shrank to the bed of that truck, to the heat of your skin and the taste of you in his mouth. and it wasn’t gross. it was sacred. it was what people wrote songs about and called madness. the proof of life in blood and salt and sweat.

and neither of you spoke for a long time after.

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dearchalamett · 9 days ago

Text

pairing(s): elio perlman x reader

cw: smut, oral—f!receving, outdoor sex, reader is faintly implied to not understand italian.

your skin feels clammy, like somehow you’re drowning from above water.

the book you and elio had been reading together, something by stephen king—you couldn’t remember, not even if you tried your hardest to clog the memory. because in truth, all you could think about was how hot elio’s breath was against your already warm skin, how soft his lips were as he kissed your neck—his tongue peeking out every so often to lick the small beads of water, from the swim you’d taken not too long ago, off the skin—as if he was trying to hydrate himself purely off your body.

the cicadas sang overhead like they always did in this town, a shrill, hot sound that came in waves. it made the air feel heavier, like you could drink it if you opened your mouth wide enough. elio’s hand ghosted over your hip as he adjusted your body so you were leaning against the ground, the near-by tree rough and flaking behind your back, your swimsuit still damp and sticking uncomfortably to your skin. he whispered something in your ear then, something too quiet and too foreign for you to catch. he, of course, knew this. that smile of his—the one that wasn’t really a smile, just the corners of his lips tugging like he was trying to keep a secret and failing—flashed for a second before he laid flat on his stomach, his skin dusted with stray blades of grass and fine dirt, nestling himself between your legs.

there was a kind of hush then, a pause where everything slowed to the thick beat of your own pulse. the orchard felt endless, the heat warping the air into something liquid. elio didn’t look away from you. he kissed along the inner seam of your thigh, lips dragging against damp, sensitive skin, leaving behind the faintest trace of teeth sometimes, as if testing the thin line between pleasure and sting. he smelled like sun-warmed salt and lake water, like peaches bruising in the heat.

when he reached the edge of your bikini, you expected him to pull it aside. maybe even peel it off completely, the way boys in old movies did when they got too greedy, too fast. but elio didn’t. instead, he leaned in and pressed his mouth over the thin, wet fabric. the sudden pressure made your hips jerk just slightly, the rough bark of the tree scraping your back in a way that hurt but felt good in the strange, half-painful way of summer things.

his tongue pushed against you through the fabric, hot and deliberate, the shape of his mouth imprinting itself in the damp cotton. he sucked your clit in through the swimsuit, a soft, obscene sound escaping when the fabric gave way under the pull of his mouth. it wasn’t precise. it was messy, a little desperate. his nose bumped against the crease of your thigh as he kept at it, eyes fluttering shut for a second, lashes damp and clumped together from the swim.

it was strange, the way your body felt both heavy and light at once. your skin slick with sweat and water, elio’s hair sticking to his forehead, the sun falling in sharp, broken lines through the leaves above. the wet sound of his mouth against you through the fabric filled the space between the cicadas’ song. it was gross in the way nature was sometimes gross—fruit going soft and sticky under the trees, flies circling lazily, the scent of sweat and lake algae thick in the air. but it felt symbolic, somehow, sacred. like every bodily thing was beautiful if you looked at it long enough.

elio pulled back just enough to speak, his voice raw and boyish and a little hoarse from the swim, from the sun.

“you taste like the river,” he murmured. “i wanna drink you ‘til i’m sick.”

you made a noise then, a half-sob, half-laugh, because only elio could say something like that and make it feel both filthy and poetic. his eyes, when they found yours again, were glassy and fever-warm, and you thought he might cry, or you might. the afternoon felt endless, like time was something soft you could hold in your palm and squeeze.

elio’s hands slid up your thighs, fingers digging in, leaving marks you wouldn’t see ‘til later, when the sun was gone and the cool of the evening made you shiver. he buried his face in you again, shameless, almost greedy, and you let him. the branches above creaked, cicadas screamed, and somewhere in the distance, you thought you heard the bells from the villa—but it didn’t matter.

nothing did. nothing ever did with elio.

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