#How To Choose A Spring Mattress

[jb5lover]

obsessed with jude being your brother’s best friend and you guys secretly hooking up behind his back 🤭 and even though your both scared of how he’ll react when he finds out, the thrill of getting caught just makes the whole thing more exciting

him and your brother would go way back, and throughout their entire friendship he had never felt the need to announce that you were off limits. he assumed jude was aware of this, and he was. he knew messing with his honorary brother’s sister would make violating all sorts of boundaries, and he never planned on doing it. but when you saw each other that night at the party, the two of you looking so impeccable and feeling so madly drunk, it was obvious that all plans had gone on the window. since that night, the two of you had been looking for any free moment to be together.

your brother thought nothing of it when you walked downstairs mid-fifa game to come get a drink from the kitchen. he paid no attention to what you were wearing, which was one of jude’s jerseys over your shorts. what he also didn’t know, was that as you headed back upstairs, you gave jude that look that only hinted one thing to him. with a sweet smile, you headed back up to your room knowing he’d be meeting you in a matter of moments.

“gimme a sec, i have to go to the bathroom,” he announced, as he dropped the controller and walked briskly upstairs, skipping every second step just to get there quicker. almost the moment he arrived into the hallway, you were yanking him into your room and pulling him in by his shirt. “wow, you’re needy,” he muttered into the kiss. “you’re slow, i’ve been waiting for like two minutes,” you whined as you worked to remove his sweatpants hastily, rubbing your hands on him through your underwear.

he wasn’t as delicate in undressing you, choosing to yank your shorts down aggressively, before pushing you down on the bed. “you know this is really, really wrong,” you whined as he pulled down his boxers, letting his dick spring out. “really wrong,” he agreed, removing your underwear and tossing them aside.

“we shouldn’t do this,” you told him before letting out as a gasp as he slipped into you with ease, considering how wet you were. “but i’m glad we are,” he told you nonchalantly, lifting your legs onto his shoulders. he gave no time to allow you to adjust to his size, instead deciding that this quickie has to be exceptionally fast.

“oh, you’re so good at this,” you cried, as he rubbed your clip roughly. “fuck, how are you always so tight?” he grunted, throwing his head back in ecstasy. you knew you were both being a bit loud, increasing the risk of getting caught. but somehow that only turned you on more, and you knew it did the same for jude. no less than five minutes later, you felt your own climax approaching. from the twitching of his cock, you knew he felt the same.

“i’m so close,” you told him, fondling your own breasts as he fucked you harder into the mattress. “me too, i need to pull out,” he warned you. “no, i have to cum,” you argued, refusing to let him deprive you of what you’ve been craving since he prematurely pulled out yesterday when he was taking you from behind on the couch yesterday evening. “y/n, i-”

“jude, either hold in or do what you have to do, either way, you cannot pull out right now,” you whined, feeling him hit deeper and deeper inside of you with every thrust. the sensation of you squeezing around him was beyond unbearable. he tried holding it in for as long as he could but he knew it was no use. “fuck, i’m gonna come inside you,” he grunted out. “oh, please fill me up, i’m gonna cum too!” you sighed, feeling his load spurt every last drop that he had to give.

after catching your breath, and allowing him to throw on his clothes, he prepared to head downstairs. “you’re on the pill, right? i can go to the pharmacy if you need me t-”

“yes, i am the pill. no need for the pharmacy. in fact, if you finish up your fifa game a little early, we can try this again maybe. my brother’s got a shift later tonight. you won’t need to cover my mouth this time,” you told him, sending him a suggestive wink.

[pasukiyo]

LEECH.

| a collection of one-shots. collection masterlist.

DISCLAIMER: this fic is simply a work of fiction and is in no way, shape, or form claiming to be a reflection of how leon kennedy is canonically portrayed as a character. this is an au, meaning it is an alternate reality written for fun, so please heed this warning and keep it in mind while you read.

— to join the taglist, follow the link here and choose “leon kennedy” in the character list.

collection songbook

leon kennedy x fem!reader word count; 1,656 warnings; leon is a stalker, leon's also a bit of a loser!, themes of dark!leon, allusions to smut, mentions of oral (m & f receiving) summary; letting her go was easily the biggest mistake leon has ever made, and he's made more than he can count. so when he finds her again, he vows she’ll be the one thing he clings to, like a leech in skin.

 Leon never had a place to call his own, but he did have a home, once. 

 Home was a girl, home was a medic who, by patching him up that first time in the training grounds, prompted a rumbling from deep within his belly for a hunger he’d never had before, making him yearn for something constant, something domestic, something normal. 

 Because Leon Kennedy’s life was far from it. Years of being in all the wrong places at all the wrong times made certain of that. There was nothing normal about him to begin with anyways, even before that shitshow of a first day on duty at R.P.D..

 Although not many tried, many failed to truly understand Leon Kennedy. Before there was a top secret government agent, there was a cop and before there was a cop, there was a teenager and before there was a teenager there was just a child, mourning the loss of parents he never got the chance to really know. 

 But that was all just the surface-level shit. 

 Everyone, at least on a business standpoint, knew about Leon’s past, why he was so eager to be an officer in the first place. But no one gave a shit about the in between. Nobody really cared for who Leon Kennedy was at his core, beneath all the blood, sweat, gore, and tears. 

 Nobody did— except for her. 

 Leon’s home once looked at him with a tenderness so devastating, it was like its own cataclysmic event. Every time she looked at him with eyes so warm like a crackling fire in the hearth on a cold, winter night, eyebrows pinched and brow furrowed, it was like the Earth was collapsing around him. The world was caving in and Leon didn’t care because all he could see was her: listening to him, eager to know more, wanting to help him. 

 He could still see her eyes every night when he closed his and he could still hear her voice, her breathing, the little sounds she made in those moments they shared when they burned the brightest. His skin still buzzed where her lips once touched him, although each day that passed by, the burn her kiss left upon his flesh gradually faded, so faint now, he was holding on to cinders. Leon would toss and turn in whatever bed he ended up in every night, willing the memory of their last night together back to the forefront of his brain, clinging on to the dying embers left in her lips’ wake. 

 Her kiss felt fainter tonight than it ever had before. 

 The feeling was nearly painful. 

 Leon ripped the thin duvet off of his body, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress that was more like a box spring than anything. The motel room he’d ended up in after the last mission was small, the walls were yellow with grime, the curtains over the window thin and ripped, allowing the orange light from the lamppost outside to spill in. There were small, dark ovals on the floor in the corner that were surely cockroaches, but Leon didn’t spare them a second glance as he zipped up his jeans— he’d slept in far worse places than this. 

 He tugged on the sheepskin leather jacket that had since been draped over the top of the withering dresser, stepping into his boots and bending at the waist from the edge of the mattress to lace them up. The alarm on the nightstand read 4:00 in big, red numbers that blinked after him as he stuffed his room key into his pocket, slipping out the door. 

 The air was cold and fog rolled in the low-lit parking lot, curls of smoky air visible in the lamplight. Leon could see his breath in misty clouds with each step he took and he stuffed his hands into his pockets, disappearing into the fog. 

 She haunted his reverie as if she were a parasite, a sickness he couldn’t heal from. He still saw her the day she told him she was leaving, still felt the bile that bubbled in his throat, still saw the tears that fell in droplets of rain down her cheeks. He still felt the weight of the words he’d said, still remembered her shaking her head, could still hear her voice curling around his ears like a ghostly whisper, saying “you have to let me go.”

 He watched her walk away, let her go as she asked then, and perhaps, Leon should’ve tried to move on. Perhaps he should’ve let her go as she had asked, should’ve pushed himself harder in training, pushed himself harder in his missions so that maybe he could have forgotten her. 

 But he was still right where she left him. 

 Ever since she left, he’d been stuck as if he were in a time loop, reliving the day he let her walk away from him over and over again like it was some form of punishment, his own personal hell. He’d spent damn near every second that passed after that day trying to claw his way back to her, hanging on tooth and nail. He had to ask through virtually the entire medical team until he finally, finally found her. 

 He told himself he wouldn’t do this, told himself he’d wait until the morning where he could show up at her door, properly knock and engage in conversation. He tried desperately to resist the ache he now yielded to. 

 The place was caught in between a shithole and adequacy. It was a hell of a lot better than a vast majority of the places Leon had slept, at least. His footsteps echoed through the hallway as he neared her door, Room 210. He fished for his pocket knife in the front pocket of his jeans, unsheathing the switchblade before glancing around the hall. 

 Empty. 

 He leaned down to the lock and slowly, as to not make any more noise than necessary, inserted the blade, inch by inch until the tip reached the end. He twisted the hilt until there was a click, steadily sliding the knife back out and switching it closed, tucking it safely away back in his pocket. 

 The knob was cool against his fingertips as he twisted it, carefully pushing open the door, grimacing when it squeaked. He stepped inside the dark apartment, the shadows embracing him as if he were an old friend. Once he’d managed to close the door, he crept his way through the apartment, between half unpacked moving boxes and furniture. 

 The walls were bare for the most part, save for a painting above the television in the living room. Leon couldn’t quite discern what it was in the darkness, but through the sliver in the door beside it, he could just make out the shape of a footboard. 

 His heart pounded against his chest as he inched towards the bedroom door, palms against the wood, cautiously pushing open just enough to allow his body to slither through. 

 And there she was. 

 Leon’s home was a woman buried beneath the covers, turned on her side with an arm folded beneath her pillow. Home was the woman deep in slumber, lashes flush to her cheeks, oblivious to the man standing at her bedside. 

 Leon drew in a deep breath as he kneeled beside her, his fingers just itching to wipe the loose strand of hair away from her face. It’d been so long since the last time he’d seen her in the flesh and he’d counted down those long, agonizing days that eventually led him to this moment. The days were long and hard but finally, he’d made his way back to her. 

 The lips that used to kiss his, that used to part when she gasped, that wrapped around his cock when his fingers were woven through her hair were now pressed together in a line. The chest he’d sometimes lay on at night, the chest he’d knead in either of his palms, the chest he’d leave his marks upon rose and fell with her every breath. He wondered if any of his marks still tainted her skin, or if the time they’d spent apart had been enough to fade them away. 

 The eyes that still haunted him, even in this moment, were closed but still, their hue was forever ingrained in his memory. Leon’s fingers twitched as he raised a hand towards her face, shivering as he brushed the backs of his knuckles delicately across her cheek, the pad of his thumb just barely soothing over one of her closed eyelids. He swiped the loose strand of hair away from his face gently, the tip of his forefinger delicately tracing the curve of her ear. 

 The skin he’d been craving and yearning to touch was warm, a stark contrast from the cool of his own. Memories of nights that had passed with his arms wrapped around her naked body, with her breasts against his chest, their legs intertwined flashed in his mind. Memories of his palms soothing up and down her waist, his hands between the soft flesh of her thighs, his lips against her center made his mouth part in a gasp. 

 How he longed to shake her awake, to look in her eyes, to feel her again. How he longed to tangle his fingers up in her hair and push her lips against his in a searing kiss that would forever scar him but feel so damn good all the while. 

 But he wouldn’t wake her, not now. 

 For tonight, he’d settle on the fact that he’d found her, that he could see her once again. Seeing her again set that old flame in the pit of his belly ablaze once more, fueling that craving he had for something constant, something domestic, something normal. 

 Normalcy was hard, his line of work made certain of that. Nobody normal had seen the amount of shit he had, nor had the amount of blood on his hands that tainted his. Normalcy was practically a myth, normalcy sounded more outrageous than the outrageous did to him. 

 Normalcy may have been out of reach before, yes, but now— now it felt closer than ever. If becoming a leech, a blood-sucking parasite with its teeth sunken deep into skin was what he had to do to achieve it, then so be it. He was so tired of letting everything he’d ever wanted slip out of his reach— so when he sunk down onto the floor with his back against the wall, gaze still fixed on the woman slumbering upon the bed, he vowed to let this be the one thing he cling to. 

a/n; SO... SURPRISE! i got the idea for this while driving to work this past tuesday morning and couldn't stop thinking about it my entire shift lol i'm really excited to write more for this collection, so stay tuned for further one-shots! i just ask for your patience-- i'm a college student with a job! :) anyways, i hope you all enjoyed this little introduction to the collection :)

❕❕the next fic in the collection will be posted april 14th at 3 pm cst

💿 if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or even leaving a reply to let me know! it means the entire world to me 🫶

TAGLIST

@corruptcoder @chaoticevilbakugo @luckypurins @glovesandhorror @xoxostarlet @illsksm @echo1200 @d3adp00ls @woahhajime @leonkennedygvrl

[erenqueef]

𝐧𝐚𝐨𝐲𝐚★𝐳𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧

warnings: mature content! - smut

𝒻ℯ𝓂 𝓇ℯ𝒶𝒹ℯ𝓇

title: good girl

you were a poor low class girl, your family had a huge debt towards the zenin clan and the only way they could save them selfs was to sell off their daughter, you.

it's been a rough 3 months being a maid for the family, your currently making your least favorite member naoya zenins bed. "your so slow it's embarrassing." he taunts.

you choose to ignore him, which makes him more irritated. "what are you deaf?" he grabs your arm and spins you to face him. "you'll listen to me when i speak you hear me women?"

"your annoying.. do you ever shut up?!" you raise your voice, flinching when he comes closer.

"oh so you do have some back bone in you. that's too bad. i like my women obedient." he smirks. "you know, your not so bad. look wise i mean. i bet you can give me a glorious son."

you shove him away, annoyed at not only him but yourself for feeling your stomach flip at his words. "fuck off."

he scoffs and pulls you closer. "your lucky your pretty, i would have slapped you already for that attitude you have. but i can't damage these precious cheeks now can i? not for your benefit but for mine. after all i want you to use this big mouth for something other then cursing at me." he grins.

"if you think im gonna give you anything then your out of your mind." you hadn't noticed how close your face was to his.

"im pretty self aware." his hands wrap over your waist. "now are you gonna give in?"

your knees buckle. "if i don't?"

"i think you already are."

you curse at yourself in your head, why did this douche bag have to be so.. hot? "maybe, it would be easier to admit it if your personality wasn't shit."

he chuckled under his breath, his eyes not leaving yours. "im the best you can ever get, admit it already."

you sarcastically laugh. "like i'd ever do that."

"i'll just have to make you admit it then." he pushes you back on his bed, you sit there confused yet exited before he puts one of his knees on the mattress. between your legs. you get pushed back so your laying flat on the bed, his knee pressed against your crotch.

you watch him as he intertwines his finders with yours on each of your hands, pinning you down. "what are you gonna do to me huh?"

"i'd hate to spoil you." he smirks, leaning closer to your face and repositioning his legs so yours are wrapped around his hips. now instead of his knee pressing against you it's his bulge. his warm breath hits your mouth, his breath has a cool peppermint scent.

your fingers squeeze his hands, your legs pulling his lap to push against your pussy, it having its own heart beat as you pulse it in and out the more you feel his thick cock twitch.

he smirks and lowers his face to the crook of your neck, breathing and inhaling your scent witch was surprisingly intoxicating him.

he licks his lips before pressing them against your neck, the cold moister of his saliva making you shiver.

he grinds his whole nobody against yours, starting with his lips that glide up your neck, his chest and hips moving in a waving motion as his tongue glides up and down your throat, you tilt your head to give him better access. your eyes feeling heavy.

his hands slowly un-grip yours before tucking one behind the nape of your neck and gripping it, using his elbow to hold himself up. the other slides down your chest giving you a surprise of a tight squeeze to your breast.

"say you want me." he whispers into your ear.

you let your pride down just this once, cause in your defense, you were soaking wet. "i want you." you whisper back, more like you want his cock.

he stands and unbuckles his belt and pants, his bulge now very noticeable as it twitches in his underwear. "come take these off me."

you sit up and immediately reach for his boxers, you slide them down as his 10-inch cock springs free.

you can already see the smirk on his lips when your eyes widen. you look up at him as he starts to hold your hair into a poly tail. "i want you to suck it." it's almost like he seen through your plan. like he knew you wanted his cock, but was he gonna give it to you?

your tongue flicks out and swirls over his tip, but he has other plans. he pushes your head down half way cause that's as far you were able to go. "more baby, take it all." he pushes in more, causing you to gag and nearly tear up. he pulls out and watches as you take a breath. he wasn't only long but he was thick.

it wasn't long before he tore your cloths off. he had no patience. "spread your legs."

(play: woo-rihanna)

"your so bossy. how about i show you who's in charge for once huh?" you stand and push him back on the bed, he surprisingly doesn't refuse, instead he pulls you down on top of him.

"im fine with you doing the work, what, you thought i'd pass up laying back and watch you struggle?" he grins. brushing his tip against your slick folds, you were so fucking wet. 

"i'll be the one giving you a struggle." you take his hands and pin them to the bed, you slowly slide down on his cock, your head falls limp and your moans are shaky. this was the biggest you've had.

"it's cute you think your strong enough to keep me like this." he pushes your hands back and pulls them behind your back and holds them there. "ride me."

your expression was both pained and full of pleasure as you started to slowly bounce, of corse not going all the way down, he was already all the way in while not even being all the way in.

"fuck," a pathetic whimper leaves your lips. your eyes squeezed shut as you take only half, thinking it was the whole thing.

"all the way down." he whispers, letting your hands free and grabbing your ass, pushing you to take more inches of his cock.

a high pitched moan escapes your mouth. you doubt you can take it all but he didn't care about your watery eyes and your pained expression, he squeezes your ass and thrusts up into you. basically tearing your walls up.

you continuously moan as tears fall from your cheeks, it felt so fucking good but terribly painful.

naoya continues to thrust into you. his eyes don't leave your face, he loves seeing you cry over his cock, he loves seeing you moan and whimper cause of him.

you were already so close to your climax, but naoya had other plans. he pulls out and throws you next to him. flipping you over so your laying flat on your stomach with your hands behind your back. he moves his tip past your thighs and back to your throbbing entrance. he slides back in till he's all 10 inches deep, you moan again and again once he starts pumping into you relentlessly.

"move to your hands and knees." he wraps his arm under your stomach and helps you get on all fours, his cock sliding out. he pushes your upper back down so your arching for him. "good girl." he slides his middle and index finger inside you before leaning down and swirling his tongue over your clit.

"naoya.." you look back at him. his free hand giving your ass a slap.

he stands and rubs his tip over your clit before sticking it back inside you. "you should have shaved so i can tongue fuck you better." you weren't expecting any less from him..

he don't even let you speak, he starts pounding you while his nails dig into your hips. he grabs your hair and pulls it back, causing you to moan even louder. "your.. mh, not shaved either."

he pulls you up by your hair so your back flushes against his chest. "it's not like it got in the way, you couldn't even fit it all down your throat." he whispers in your ear before moving your hair and biting down on your neck.

you reach behind you and hold his hips, you felt close again. you toss your head back and lay it on his shoulder. for some reason he took that as a sign to grab your neck and squeeze it, catching you slightly off guard but he pulls you so your basically bending back wards so when you open your eyes his face is hovering over yours, his lips crash into yours, his tongue almost choking you.

he pulls away and looks into your eyes. "open your mouth." you open your mouth slightly. "wider." he demands. you open wider, a smirk forming on his lips. "tongue." trying not to role your eyes you stick your tongue out. he then spits in your mouth and seals it by licking your tongue.

your eyes role back, he pounds you harder then before, you knew he was reaching his limit. you feel him groan against your mouth, he pulls away and pushes you back on the bed so your arching again.

his hands rub and feel up your back as he moves harder and harder. "im gonna fill you up," he breaths. becoming a moaning mess. he watched as you gripped the sheets, the way your walls tightened around his cock. he knew you were turned on from his words. he pounds you faster, hearing the moans that we're coming from your mouth sent him flying over the edge.

you look back at him with your face lazily laying on the mattress. you felt his pace get slower. and you felt your pussy practically overflowing with cum.

"keep looking at me like that and im gonna fuck you again." he pulls out, turning you over so your on your back.

you smirk, your hands wrapping over his shoulders as he climbs on top of you. "i could go again."

"oh you want to?" he grabs your face. "admit im the best you can get then, you remember our little deal."

rolling your eyes and huffing, you finally admit what's not true. "your the best i can get."

★

[nebulablakemurphy]

Moves & Countermoves (Prologue)

Haymitch x Fem!Reader

Summary: No one ever wins the games, even fourteen years later, Y/N is still playing.

The Sixtieth Hunger Games will begin in five, four, three, two, one.

“Mom.” The boy at his mother’s bedside whispers, “Mom.” He shakes her shoulder lightly. She’s dreaming again and now, at the age of nine, he understands why he must be careful when waking her.

Y/N gasps, springing from the mattress, prepared to fight. But then she sees him. Everest, her sweet boy, forged in his father’s image. There is no denying, he’s her husband’s child through and through. “Sorry, sweetheart.” She sighs, letting both hands drop to her sides.

“S’ok.” He shrugs, stuffing worried hands into his pockets. “Dad’s with Arista, she’s pretty upset…doesn’t want you to go.” I don’t want you to go.

“Well,” Y/N forces a smile. “We don’t want to go without you either.” It was just like President Snow to demand they have children and then drag them away each year to mentor the games. Everest and Arista have only been required to join them in the Capitol for fanfare. The games are not about them anymore.

With Y/N aged twenty-nine and Haymitch forty, the novelty of their winnings has worn off. The most fascinating thing about them now is this, their love story and the family created from it. The anomaly that is Y/N Abernathy, Mayor Undersee’s eldest daughter, plucked from the reaping bowl at age fifteen. The girl who once hated her drunk of a mentor and grew to love him as the years passed.

The Capitol adores her, she is their darling. People hang off the edge of their seats, feasting on crumbs, anticipating her next move. What will she be wearing? Which victors sit within her inner circle?

Haymitch allows this, encourages it even. Because it keeps her safe. There is no cost too great. Y/N is everything Haymitch conditioned himself not to want. Snow knows exactly how deep his hooks are in. Killed Haymitch’s family because he didn’t appreciate the way he won the games; with an axe to the force field. Gave him a new family to dangle over his head years later.

Unfortunately for Haymitch, the cost of these theatrics means allowing Y/N’s former stylist to preen over her on reaping day.

Y/N can hear Vanity being ‘warmly’ welcomed by Haymitch on the first floor.

“Come on,” Y/N pats her son’s cheek. “Let’s go.”

Everest grins, racing toward the stairs. They do love their mother’s stylist and they only get to see her twice a year, if they’re lucky.

“You sure that headpiece is getting through the door, V?” Haymitch remarks, watching as the chandelier like dome attached to her skull pushes its way into their home.

Vanity scoffs, “good to see you too, Haymitch. What did you do to my darling?” The blue haired woman gasps at the sight of his five year old daughter, all but hysterical.

“I’m leaving her,” Haymitch sighs, shifting the little girl lightly in his arms.

“Tut, tut, my love.” Vanity coos, “Daddy will be back soon.”

“I want my Mommy to stay.” Arista sniffles, “you can’t take both.”

Everest reaches the bottom stair, saving Vanity from having to respond when he launches himself at the Capitol woman.

“Now this is a welcome,” Vanity ruffles his hair. “Look how big you are, my goodness.”

“I’ll be ten soon.”

“How the time flies.” Vanity catches sight of her victor. The first and only. “Y/N.”

“Hi.” Y/N smiles, wrapping both arms around herself. She is wearing a long sleep shirt with mismatched bottoms. The other woman is surely appalled at the sight.

“Let us…” Vanity’s eyes, unnaturally colored by contacts, flit about her, “get to work.”

————————————————————————

This year there is a bit of excitement at the reaping. Their female tribute actually volunteered, not something people really do in twelve. But it was for her sister and when it comes down to it, if Y/N was put in a position to choose between her little sister, Madge and herself facing the games, she would’ve done the same.

Y/N’s family will tend the children until they return, same as they have every year since the kids were born. Leaving them never gets any easier, especially if one or both is crying when they go. Y/N steps onto the train to the Capitol, still in her ridiculous mirror ball of a gown. Waving their children goodbye.

Haymitch is there, tense hands resting at her shoulders. “They’ll be alright.”

“I know,” Y/N nods.

“We’ll be alright.”

“I know.”

Part 1

[notjustjavierpena]

Hate had me in a puddle.

… is there more??

Hurt

A/N: Oh, there’s always more if you ask nicely. This is a follow-up to Hate! Ravenous mean!Joel returns!

Summary: Joel accidentally makes you come after making it his mission for a month to not let you.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Reader/You (No y/n)

Tags: +18 Smut (MDNI!), dub-con, dirty talk, painful and rough piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, choking, possessive joel, fingering

Word count: 1.4k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48179338/chapters/122332696#workskin

Hurt

Joel comes back a few times that month after leaving you breathless and pathetically masturbating on the wooden floor of your home. He still takes and takes; fills you up, smacks your face if you get too close and leaves you with an unsatisfied throbbing cunt. It’s beginning to drive you up the wall, because you find yourself touching your cunt more often lately at the thought of him finally letting you squeeze around his cock during climax. You’d even had a day where your clit hurt in the end from your relentless pursuit of coming and coming and coming until your head swam and you could fall asleep without dreaming about his face. 

Which makes it ironic that the next time that you see him is when he is hovering above you and disturbing your sleep. The ambush is going to happen in your bedroom this time, and you curse him for somehow already knowing that you are trying to make him stop haunting your dreams. Why else would he choose here and now?

It’s the middle of the night, so your pulse spikes as he wakes you, but before you can scream, he has a hand over your mouth and is ripping the covers off of you. He smiles devilishly as he realizes that you sleep naked, and you don’t want to think about how many scenarios that has just unlocked in his head. 

“Hey pretty thing,” he growls whilst already undoing his belt and zipper to shove his jeans and underwear down to free his cock. You look down to see that it’s already hard and throbbing, wondering briefly if he has been debating with himself whether to break and enter or take care of it himself. He seems in a hurry so you guess that he has indeed been touching himself, much to your satisfaction, but his expression reveals that he is also angry. You like him angry. 

By instinct, you let your legs fall to the side until your knees almost hit the mattress. Carefully, you reach up to peel the hand away from your mouth so you can let out a soft gasp as he enters you. His size hurts like always and causes your eyes to sting with tears. He is stretching your unprepared cunt out around every bump of the veins along his length. 

You can feel yourself start to get wet as you take him in further, putting a hand on his chest to slow him down, but bracing yourself for his loss of patience that’ll eventually come. 

“You’re gonna stop crying about this like you didn’t know it was coming,” he spits harshly as he bottoms out with a rough thrust of his hips. New tears spring to your eyes, but you rapidly blink them away, “That’s it, don’t let me see a single fucking tear on that face like you’re sorry.”

He brutally fucks you into the mattress with frustration in his moans. You get used to the pain quickly as your slick starts dripping from you, running out of you onto the bed with each pound of his cock. There’s no way of slowing him down anyway, each of his hands finding a knee and pinning your legs down so roughly that you think he might dislocate your hip joints. 

“Fuck. What have I done now?” You rile him up, reaching down to hold his wrists and, hopefully, loosen his grip just a little by pulling. It doesn’t loosen whatsoever.

Something in his eyes go darker, one of them twitching slightly at the snarky comment that you’ve thrown his way. You gasp in relief as the hands move up, the left one on your hip to hold you down and his right one wrapping firmly around your neck. He squeezes, and that is certainly not what you had expected. Both of your hands come up to try and pull it away. 

“You and your smart mouth,” he pushes his palm into your windpipe, watching your mouth fall open in a silent moan as he still drills into you, “The girls told me that you are going on patrol with that new guy. They were all stupid and giggly. Thinking of letting him fuck you in one of the safe houses, huh? That it, you little bitch?”

You shake your head with heavy lids, head swimming as the amount of oxygen going to your head has decreased significantly. He leans down further to intimidatingly get in your face, and suddenly his pelvis grinds against your mound, stimulating your clit. You cannot tell him due to actually choking slightly, but you have no intention of letting him know either way.

“Fuck you for even thinking in that stupid little brain of yours that you’re allowed to do that,” he flexes his hand on your throat to grip harder, causing you to moan loudly for just a second before it’s cut off again. He is spurred on by that, grinning maniacally into your face whilst moaning too. 

The headboard starts slamming against the wall then, his pace dropping to something slower, but his thrusts are rougher, “Look at me… We are never gonna be wedding bells and domestic bliss, but you don’t ever let anyone else but me screw this pretty and fucking infuriating cunt.”

So that’s his deal; he doesn’t want you, but he doesn’t want anyone else to have and fuck you either. It makes you want to tell him that since he is the one coming each time you are the one screwing him. 

Joel Miller is a fucking psycho. 

A psycho that’s about to make you come with the desperate rhythm that he is keeping up, chasing something you guess is proof that he owns your body. He is panting above you, losing himself in the moment with you and not noticing the way that your body is climbing to a high - a thing that he has never allowed you. 

If he doesn’t let go of your throat soon, you think you might pass out, but there’s no way that you are going to distract him from using you and hopefully, accidentally, making you see stars for once. You cannot bear the thought of finishing the night off by making yourself come and letting him leave like he was just a dream. 

Then it happens, your face and chest going red as you feel yourself tip over the edge with him slamming into you. His hand lets go as the first signs of your orgasm hits him, and the sudden rush of adrenaline and oxygen to your brain has you sobbing out of pleasure to the point where people should come running to see if you’re in danger. You squeeze rhythmically and rapidly around his length, causing his eyes to widen as he realizes that he has made you climax and before he knows it, he is coming as well.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he says to himself as he settles inside of you and fills you up like all the previous times. Though this time, you don’t feel like an object to use but rather a human being that he has melted together with. You wish you could read his mind in this moment. He looks taken aback by himself. 

You try to catch your breath, whimpering as he quickly pulls out and frantically tucks himself away, so he can get dressed again. He doesn’t look at you before you reach down to hold a hand over your spent cunt, all red and puffy for him, pushing a finger inside yourself with a tiny gasp as you play with his come. God, you want a reaction. 

“Stop,” he snaps. There’s conflict behind his eyes.

“What?” You continue fingering yourself, “Don’t you like me like this?” 

“I’ll make it hurt,” he warns, “Don’t fucking try me.”

Hurt? You furrow your brow in confusion but Joel just settles between your spread legs again, batting your hand away. He shoves two fingers inside of you without mercy and causes you to moan with the over sensitivity that still has a hold of your body. 

“I can’t stop now,” he says, expertly pressing the pads of his fingers up against your g-spot, “Gonna make it hurt real good now that I know how that look in your eye changes when you come.”

“Please, yes,” you lift your hips up from the bed slightly and his come seeps past his fingers and down onto the mattress. 

“You won’t be saying yes forever,” he notes, setting up a rhythm that has you arching off the bed immediately, “You don’t have a clue what you’ve started. Now try to keep quiet or I’ll stuff my fist in your dumb mouth.”

[lilacxoz]

Princess - Gojo Satoru X Reader

F!reader

Warnings!: non protected sex, choking, darcryphilia, love bombing, Princess X Royal Guard trope.

I am not responsible for people under 18 who read this. minors or ageless bloggers please dni!

“Please Prue, I cannot stomach anything for the work I must complete before sunrise,” you bit your bottom lip, looking over the written up budget for the kingdoms church. You hadn’t realized just how rich they’d become from your fathers rein. You weren’t much of a religious folk, so you were afraid to cut their income by half.

“Your highness, you are not to eat then I must call your personal guard, for he will make you,” he warned, knowing what kind of bond you and your guard had. He’d been your guard for ten years now, since your sixteenth birthday. He was a foolish boy who wasn’t good at his job in leaving your alone and protecting you from afar. But you’d grown a connection to him, sharing secrets and thoughts in your tower many times. You’d shared things that not even your reflection had heard.

“Call Satoru if you dare, I shall simply give him the same response as you,” you told her, offering a fake smile. Your maid, Prue, was a nice women yet you couldn’t appreciate her kindness due to the stress. She sighed, placing the tray on your desk before leaving your chambers.

As You embraced the silence, your wooden walls homing the orange flicker of your candles. Your desk was covered in papers and folders, painted by the light and some even your tears. You were almost done though, almost free to sink deep into your mattress and let the night whisper a story.

After around three revolutions of the clocks long hand, you heard soft footsteps grow closer outside the door. Your ears perked up, recognizing who held such confidence strides. The wood creaked outside your door as he unlocked the wooden door. He stepped inside, not earning a glance from you. He clicked his tongue through a grin, unstrapping his sword from his waist.

“Princess,” he called to you, setting his sword against your desk as he pulled over a stool next to you. You glanced over at him, being met with his beautiful eyes of the sea. That’s what drew you to keeping him as your guard, his eyes reminded you of salty air and the sound of waves crashing against large rock formations.

“Princess,” he called to you again, this time a little more demanding, “tell me why you choose to be defiant.” You didn’t spare a glance this time, focused on writing down a couple numbers down on the budget for the local taverns. You chose to be a little generous since you yourself liked to relax in one of the local taverns at night before curfew.

You were pulled by Satoru’s soft hand holding your chin between his fingers, making you look up at him. He always had a way of making you flutter like the butterflies you loved to watch with him in the spring. He knew the kind of effect he had on you, and you knew he knew as well. It was almost unspoken, woven between the threads of the stares you share that your relationship had grown far from princess and guard. It was just a matter of time before someone drew further over the line.

“You must eat the soup Chef Dee has prepared for you. It would be a waste and an insult to his craft if you were to leave his food untouched.” He handed you the bowl of soup in a cherry oak bowl. “Eat.”

You stared from him to the bowl, grabbing the silver spoon off the tray and and complying with his request. Prue was right, you cannot defy him. He was persuasive with his words and actions, it was addictive to see just how far you could push him.

“Thank you Princess. After you eat, please slip into your night gown before you grown marks from your corset,” he asked if you, poking your side. You wore your day dress: a soft pink ankle dress with a white lace corset that wasn’t as harsh as your evening dress. It was comfortable, made of silk with lace trim and an off-the-shoulder touch. Your hair was let down, your mothers hair pins holding back your face framing pieces to help you see the papers better. You could admit, it was a little embarrassing for him to see you this way. But then again, he’d seen you down to your undergarments so you had nothing to worry when it came to presentation.

“Why you care so much about my health is up for debate in my head, it cannot just be because of your guardian duties or the fact we are close,” you pointed out. He shined you he boyish smile, his white hair covering some of his eyes. He was truly an amazement at how gorgeous yet masculine Satoru was. His sharp jaw and plush lips were enough to leave a girl melted at the knees. He was every girls fantasy, yet every man’s threat. Satoru was the chief of royal guards, quickly moving up the ranks from when he was placed as your personal guard. He had better opportunities presented to him to change roles, yet he stuck with you. Now he was chief, yet always made time to be with you most of the day.

“Can a guard not care for his princess without reason? The way you doubt me hurts, princess,” he faked pain in his chest, earning a few giggles from you. You laugh was contagious yet a beautiful hymn to him.

His face suddenly dropped, as if lost in his own mind. You nudged him with your foot on his ankle, asking him why he was distancing himself. “My Princess,” he looked down at you with something strange, “shall your coronation come by spring, I cannot promise I will stay your guard. I-“

You watched him break, his jaw hard as he stared at you distantly. You knew the rules, you knew you had to switch to your fathers guard due to tradition. But you hated tradition, it was all a bunch of horse play. You placed your hand on his knee, the other following as you set your bowl of soup down. The candlelight danced across his face, making him appear even more beautiful than before.

“Shall the day come Satoru, I will fight my ancestors and the kingdoms expectations of queen if it is what I must do to keep you. You aren’t leaving my side, I will stand between the lines of the people and royalty just to be with you,” your breath was gone, telling a breathless, “for I love you.”

His hands slid to your shoulders, his eyes clearing of his brain clouds. He knew what he wanted now, and he didn’t care if it was forbidden. He didn’t care if he had to bite the apple as Eve did, as long as he had you by his side.

His lips drew closer, your breaths mixing together in a concoction that left your knees weak. You took the apple, connecting your lips to his. He tasted of the forbidden apple, whimpering out from the sweet taste. You hadn’t realized how much you needed him until his hands trailed down to your waist. You took the initiative, crawling into his lap and letting him lead the kiss.

He was your Romeo, your Shakespeare tragedy that led you astray. You didn’t care of the consequences that would fall over you both for doing this, you were going to be queen and you’d fight for him. He knew that, falling down the same path as you. He’d quit his title as a royal guard just to hold you to sleep every night. Just to taste your lips, just to touch you…just to feel you. He was lovesick, and so where you.

He pulled away from the kiss, watching you breath heavily. He slid his finger tips against your cheek, watching the redness form from your embarrassment and lust. “I cannot kiss you any further when you deserve a bed,” Satoru whispered, leaving the only sound to occupy the room being your breaths and the wind blowing against the windows.

You smirked down at him, combing your fingers thorough his soft snowy hair. It was late winter, his hair reflecting the thick snow coating the once green ground. “As your Queen,” you stated in an authoritative tone, “I command you show me what you think about doing to me on this desk.”

Your body was on fire, his lips all over your neck as you sat on your desk, legs cradling his torso. You could feel him through his trousers, wanting so bad to remove the articles of clothing that were blocking your connection. You needed him so bad, so bad it physically hurt. The fire between your legs grew stronger than the candle flame, and he could feel it.

He reached a hand down between your legs, slipping it down into your undergarments. He could feel how wet you were from a simple touch, only fueling his body more. His hips were magnetic to yours, so much so that he couldn’t control himself from grinding up against the hand he was slowly slipping inside you. His other hand was wrapped around your neck, your eyes rolling back through each small squeeze of his fingertips. You had to be quiet, for anyone could walk up your tower and ask for your assistance. But in some strange way, that made you just a little less quiet. It was almost thrilling, heightening your endless pleasure.

“Tell me Princess, does it feel good to be in such a vulnerable state at the hands of your royal guard?” He asked in a sinister manner, eliciting a small whimper and a nod. He smirked at the response, looking down at you. “Tell me how good.”

He curled his fingers, making your body jerk forward as your eyes squeezed shut. You’d had many late night with guys from the tavern looking for something quick and fulfilling. Even princes had come and made you feel like you were floating. But nobody compared to the way he knew how to play you perfectly, like a bard with his lyre. It was mesmerizing, freeing. Your body melting deep into the earth and coming out in heaven.

You whispered his name in a chant, like the nuns at the cathedral. You were close to that heaven, sinking deeper and deeper until you were finally at the gates. Your body exploded in pleasure, eyes tearing up as Satoru watched you unravel in his hand. Your high lasted longer than any other you’d experienced, opening your watery eyes to be met with his flushed face and a smirk. He was full of lust, and you wanted him to feel what you felt.

You helped him get you out of your undergarments, as well as freeing him of his work belt and unbuttoning his work pants. He cock was large and thick, oozing with precum. You both watched eachothers movemnts, looking for any discomfort; but there was none to be found. You both wanted this, needed this. You both spent long nights, from sunset to sunrise, dreaming and pretending this moment right now was real. Now it was, and you weren’t wasting any time in indulging in it.

You let out a gasp as he slid himself inside you, the skirt of your dress bunched at your hips. The desk below you moaned from the weight of his small thrust, but you both couldn’t fathom anything around you. All you both could focus on was your connection. “Satoru…” you whispered, his hands planted down on the desk by your hips. You wrapped your arms around his neck, crashing your lips to his in a kiss of need. He complied, slowly rocking his hips against yours. You could feel him, all of him, and it was nothing compared to anything you’ve ever experienced before.

His thrusts grew a bit faster as his lips devoured yours, as if a kiss of death. Your body had succumbed to his, moving your body to try and keep up with his thrusts. The desk below was creaking with each fast movement, loud enough for anyone in the stairway to hear. But you didn’t care anymore, especially with the loud moan of his name you let slip. He loved the noice, pulling away from your lips to only attack your neck with bites that caused more.

You moaned, but you were missing something. He pulled away, watching you grab on of his hands and slip his thumb over a specific part of your body. He felt the bundle of nerves, watching you face contort into one of pure blissful pleasure. He loved the reaction, rubbing the small nub faster and pressing down on it. His thrusts grew faster, feeling you tighten around him. He felt it, that feeling of heaven. He ran to it with his pace, your head bobbling with each thrust. You let go of his neck, laying down over the papers as you let him take control.

You were just as close to your orgasm as he was, crying out his name as tears fell down the side of your face. His head leaned back as he gave a few more brutal thrusts before letting himself go inside you. You came just as he did, your bodies connected along with your souls. This was more than just sex, and that was now known between the two of you. This was a soul connection, one that ran deeper than anything you’ve ever felt with anyone.

“I love you, princess,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his head in your neck. He wanted another round, and you were ready to comply to his unspoken request.

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

thank you to @xxluckystrike for her prompts - it's certainly been a while, but here's my response to the other one, since I couldn't choose between the two! (the first prompt is here)

sick -> gwen dastrup x john brady

Sweat-slicked hair plastered itself to John's forehead as he left interrogation, life jacket and parachute harness still hanging limply from his shoulders as he emerged into the afternoon sunlight, revelling in the feeling of warmth on his cheeks, savouring the feeling of simply being alive. The smell of fresh coffee hung thick in the air, meeting his nose with a welcoming inhale, anxious not only for the drink but the hand that delivered it.

The Red Cross women had set up their table as usual, handing out coffee and doughnuts to the returning aircrews. Always the same - always coffee and doughnuts, day in, day out. Brady could imagine one growing tired of the taste, but with Gwen handing them out, he knew he never would. He could always tell when she'd made the doughnuts that morning - he couldn't quite pin what was different about them, they just tasted better. But today was to prove disappointing.

Helen and Tatty stood alone, a marked gap in their ranks as he approached, brow furrowed. He could picture exactly where Gwen was meant to be, standing between the others, whisking up a fresh batch of coffee or stirring in the milk as requested. But she was nowhere to be seen. As John approached, Helen caught his eye, smirking slightly as she noticed his growing frown.

"She's out today. Sick."

"How did you-?... Is she okay?"

The two women stared at him for a moment, visibly suppressing their smiles.

"She'll be fine," Tatty shook her head, resuming her work as she handed out doughnuts to passing pilots. "When I saw her this mornin' she was hopped up on cough syrup and rambling about how she'd finally have time to read Beowulf," She chuckled, and even in spite of his concern, Brady couldn't help but crack a smile. That certainly sounded like Gwen.

With an appreciative uttering of thanks and an extra stolen doughnut for the road, he left the women to their work, striding purposefully towards the long rows of Nissen huts with a singular goal in mind.

Brow furrowed, Gwen sat hunched forward atop her mattress, eyes narrowed as she pored over the words filling the pages in front of her. Unbrushed hair scraped back into a loose plait, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, the foot of her bed was littered with half a dozen books, each open to pages of interest. A faint, steady ache throbbed somewhere behind her eyes, the waste basket on the floor beside her almost filled with used tissues as she attempted to blink away the bleariness that muffled her thoughts.

A sudden knock at the door surprised her, flinching so hard that she nearly knocked the medicine bottle from her bedside table. Scrambling to her feet, the floor cold through her socks, she padded to the end of the hut, fumbling with the lock for a moment before she tugged the door open, taking in the sight before her.

"Oh, thank God," She sighed. John was grinning slightly nervously, paper bag clutched tightly in one hand.

"You expecting someone else?" He chuckled.

"No, no - just glad you're alright," Gwen shook her head, too addled to notice the faint pink tint that coloured his cheeks at this.

"You look pretty."

"I look thirty seconds away from death. You wanna sit down? It's a plague house, but you're welcome to come in."

John smiled, following her inside as she wandered back towards her bed, the edge of her blanket dragging across the floor as she went. He pulled up a chair, maintaining a somewhat cautious distance but still reaching across to hand Gwen a doughnut as she sat down, the mattress springs creaking beneath her as she nestled in among the pile of books she had accumulated. Taking a bite, he craned forward, trying his best to read upside down.

"What the hell is a... Carthaginian?"

"Someone from Carthage. Duh," She teased, speaking around the chunk of doughnut in her mouth as she tugged the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

"Oh, yeah, I'm the weirdo in this situation. So, like... what happened?"

Gwen shrugged. "Went out with Michael over the weekend - walked around some old castle ruins and then got a drink. Must've picked something up."

Brady felt his jaw clench, his shoulders tense. Captain Michael Fenton of the Royal Air Force. From the moment he'd first met Gwen, the pilot had been smitten, much to John's annoyance. He was rich and influential and could afford to get the time off to take Gwen to fucking castles. It had been a while since he had declared the man a personal enemy, but she continued to indulge his kindnesses, seemingly ignorant of his intentions.

"Sounds... good," He said tersely. Reaching for a tissue, Gwen was just in time to raise it to her face before she let out a sneeze, grabbing the bottle of cold medicine as she tossed the tissue into the bin. "How much of that have you had?"

"Oh, I don't know."

"Gwen," John scolded, prying it from her grip before she could take a sip. "You're not gonna get better if you're off your head on this stuff. I need you back in action."

"D'aww, you miss me?" She joked.

"Absolutely."

"Well, I do make the best doughnuts."

"Exactly." He grinned as she let out a laugh, a little colour returning to the pallor of her cheeks. Even when she was exhausted and fogged from sickness, John Brady would've been damned to try and find anyone more beautiful. She sniffed, pausing for a moment before her expression contorted in distaste.

"You smell. By the way."

Bouncing up from his chair, Brady leant forward, their noses momentarily only inches from each other, the sheen of sweat covering her skin visible from up close.

"So do you," He spoke sweetly, bounding off towards the showers at the other end of the room. The other girls wouldn't be back for hours. It would be a shame to waste the opportunity. Gwen frowned in indignation.

"Hey!"

[absurdthirst]

Kinktober 2022: October 17th

Day 17: Hate Fucking // Pussy Slapping // Medical Play

Frankie Morales x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: Mentions of spitting, hate fucking, pussy slapping, mildly dub-con, hair pulling, face slapping

|| Kinktober List || MasterList ||

Click Keep Reading only if you have read the Rating and Warnings and understand the warnings may not be complete to avoid listing spoilers. As AO3 says 'creator chooses not to use warnings'. You also agree that you're the right age to be consuming anything here.

You’ve ignored him for seven days, five hours and twenty-three minutes. Not that you are counting, you wouldn’t let Francisco Morales know that you would give him the time of day or a passing thought again after the last time you had actually looked him in the eyes. 

Maybe you shouldn’t have spit at him, but you stand by your decision that you would never, never, let that man touch you again. Especially when you had seen him leaning in and giggling with that Air Force twit with the huge tits. 

It doesn’t affect your job. You don’t have to talk to the pilot in order to be able to carry out your missions. For the rest of the team, they don’t even notice a difference. There has always been a chilly report between the two of you. Neither one of you particularly cared for the other in social settings - more that you were polite acquaintances - pretending the other didn’t exist until you were required to interact. 

None of the team knew about the sex. The blowing off steam and using each other because it was convenient. Not that was over and Catfish could spend the rest of this deployment fuckign his hand or chasing whatever pussy he could around the base. You hope he catches the clap. 

“Are you done pouting?” Suppressing the urge to jump, your shoulders turn towards the voice in the dark, watching as Frankie steps out from the side of one of the builds. Obviously waiting for you. 

Narrowing your eyes, you scoff. “It’s a good way to get shot, Morales.” You tap the thigh holster that your beretta is clipped into. Your constant companion on the FOB unless you are showering or in PT gear. 

“Please.” Frankie rolls his eyes and steps closer to you. “You’re a shit shot, especially with the pistol.” 

“Night.” Your flat tone signals that you are done with the conversation, turning on your heel to walk the half dozen steps to the conex box that has been converted into a room for you to live in while you are here. 

“You’re jealous.” His crowing is the only thing that could possibly stop you from walking up the steps into the room, closing the door firmly and locking him out for another day. As it is, the timer would have to restart on how long it has been since you’ve spoken to him. 

“You can go fuck yourself, I’m not jealous.” You hiss. “I just came to my fucking senses.” Shooting him a smirk that you know will grate on his nerves. “Thank God.” 

When your door is closed, your smirk drops and you grit your teeth. Hating yourself for fucking giving him anything. You should have pretended he wasn’t there at all. From now on, he doesn’t exist. 

****

“PUT ME DOWN, MORALES!” You could get out of this hold. It would take one - well placed kick to the solar plex and he would drop you to the dirt and allow you to kick his ass like you are itching to. But it would create an even larger spectacle and you won’t give him the satisfaction. You go limp, smirking happily when the sudden shifting of your weight causes him to curse. You hope his back fucking aches. 

“If you hadn’t been such a spoiled little bitch, I wouldn’t have to carry your ass off.” He hisses, reaching up and smacking your ass sharp enough to make you gasp and he chuckles while you imagine the hundred different ways you are going to kill and dismember him when he puts you down. 

He doesn’t put you down, not until he closes your door and tosses you on your bed hard enough to make you bounce on the very firm mattress. “I’m going to fucking kill you.” You are springing back up, ready to throw hands when he pushes you back down a second time, fingers dragging down the shorts you wear when you work out. 

He knows you are bare underneath, bucking and fighting him as he yanks them down and pins your legs spread with those broad fucking shoulders of his that you hate. “Are you really?” He sneers, smirking up at you with the most condescending look he can muster. “Are you really going to kill me? Looks like you’re wet.” 

“It’s sweat.” You try to close your thighs, knocking your right knee against that shoulder that gives him fits sometimes and getting a jolt of pleasure when he hisses. “Last thing I’m going to do is be wet for you.” 

Frankie shakes his head, his expression challenging, and you see where his cock is already hard under his own shorts. “We’ll see.” 

“I not fucking you.” You hips buck up again and you swat at his head, a swing that both of you know you could have made connect if you really want to. “So get off. Go fuck your hand, fuck someone else.” 

“But you’re right here.” Frankie draws, pushing up your ARMY t-shirt and sports bra. “Why go somewhere else when I fuck the attitude out of you?” 

You snort, bucking your hips up again and shaking your head. “Over my dead body.” 

The sharp sting of pain on your clit makes you cry out, eye wide and shocked - flying to meet his dark orbs when you realize this motherfucker just slapped your pussy. And is fucking smirking about it.

It hurt and felt amazing at the same time. A sharp jolt to your clit that makes it throb. The part of you that doesn’t hate him with every fiber of your being wants to beg him to do it again, while he’s buried to the hilt inside you. 

The first time the two of you fucked, you were bent over, unable to see his cock before he pushed inside you. He was a fucking asshole and you despise him, but you can’t deny the prick has a big fucking cock. You had ached for days, not that you would admit that to him. Internalizing the winces and pretending you weren’t affected at all when in reality, your pussy was on fire just sitting still. You understood why when you got a look at him, the damn thing was as thick as your wrist and he still had the length to feel like he was pushing up into your throat. 

Anger, frustration and something else mix in his eyes and instead of fighting it, fighting him, you decide to turn the tables. 

Your legs move from his shoulder to his head, closing around it and locking together while you push up off the bed. Twisting and using your weight to throw him off balance and roll him under your, your cunt inches from his mouth and for a split second you want to sit on it. To bury his face in your sweaty, wet cunt. 

Instead you slap away his hands harshly, untangling your legs and moving down, your own hands pulling at his shorts, you don’t give a shit that you are still in running shoes and your sports bra digs into your skin and pushes your tits down. If you’re going to fuck, you are going to be in charge. 

“Th-thought you were weren’t going to fuck me?” He challenges reaching out to swat at your tit and he catches your nipple, 

“Shut the fuck up.” You hiss, glaring up at him, your grip around his cock probably tighter than you should have on it, but it doesn’t stop you from squeezing to make his breath hitch. “You fucking started this.” 

It’s just fucking, you tell yourself as you straddle him and start to sink down on his thick fucking cock. It’s only because he won’t leave and this is where it was going from the second that you had told him you weren’t fucking him again. It was a challenge and Frankie hates to lose. Instead of being defeated, you are changing the rules. You are using him for your pleasure. 

“God, you are never fucking happy.” Frankie huffs, fingers digging into your hips and biting his lip when you bottom out, taking him to the very root and squeezing him in your tight walls. “Always pissed about something.” 

“Hate you.” You practically moan the words, not giving yourself a moment to adjust to the way his cock stretches your lips wide. Immediately starting to bounce on his lap in order to get off as quickly as possible, the sting of it adding to the pleasure of having a cock inside you. You close your eyes, refusing to look at him while you set a frantic pace. 

Another sharp thwack against your cunt has your eyes springing open, shocked again that he is doing that. You don’t hate it, not the way your cunt flutters around him. 

“I hate you.” He snarls, trying to take back some control. Reaching up and squeezing a tit harshly and making you smother a cry when he pinches your nipple harshly. “Hate how you fucking act. Like a spoiled brat.” He huffs. “Pouting and pitching a fit.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Are you sitting on my cock?” He demands with a chuckle. “I am, sweetheart.” 

Growling, you curl his hair in your fist and yank it. Enjoying the way that he hisses in pain and his cock jolts inside you. Fucker likes it but he’s scowling so you do it again. 

“Never doing this again.” You hiss, rolling your hips a little fast as the heat and pressure curl in your core and you start to feel that sweet ache building. Chasing the whisper of it every time you slam back down on him. 

“Never.” Frankie agrees, pissing you off even more, letting go of his hair and slapping his cheek far harder than you had meant to when the sharp crack sounds out. 

You freeze for a split second, horrified at what you had actually done. Despite everything you had never slapped him. Not even able to open your mouth to apologize before Frankie is snarling. 

You are on your back in a second, the force of it pushing the air out of your lung, along with a much more quiet yelp than you would normally give when Frankie lunges forward and drives his cock back inside you. 

“Tired of your shit.” He grunts harshly, reaching up and taking hold of your throat. “Tired of you fucking pushing- bitching, lashing out at me.” 

You would comment, you’ve got a lot to say to him, but every swing of his hips pushes the ability to speak out of you. Leaving nothing but tiny gasps all you can muster as he huffs another chuckle. 

“Not-thing to say now?” He taunts, fingers flexing and your thighs start to shake around his hips. The pressure and angle is just what you need and yet you are trying to fight the oncoming wave of pleasure with everything you've got. 

You glare up at him, opening your mouth and all that comes out is a moan. Making Frankie grunt and nod, still driving his hips forward and pounding into you with zero regard for how you are going to walk tomorrow. Seemingly determined to completely rearrange your guts while he bares his gritted teeth and hisses through them, the look on his face feral. 

“F-fuck y-y-you.” You finally manage, huffing it out as your entire body rocks forward and back from the way that he hammers into you. Again those fingers around your throat tighten and your eyes close, back bowing up as you silently cry out. 

It’s explosive, almost nuclear as the force of it rips through you. Making your entire body contort and contract in pleasure and the hot rush of your release shoots out, soaking him and the material of his shorts bunched up at his knees. 

Making him groan, loud and his body lunges forward, lips pressing to yours while he drives so deep into your cunt that you swear he is touching your tonsils. Teeth biting and this his tongue soothing your lip before his tongue sweeps inside your mouth. Pouring his sounds into you while his cock steadily pulses, ropes of cum painting your walls while he rocks his hips slower than before. 

Your eyes close, panting and boneless under him, both of you softening for just a moment as you come down together. You might not be able to stand him - at least not that you can admit -  but the hate fucking is amazing. 

[spitefulwriters]

JJ Maybank x Kiara Carrera (2.6K) all the times they could have kissed, but didn’t. (a series, maybe)

JJ slept like the dead, usually.

Normally half dressed, when he could be bothered, stripped down to jeans, sometimes less when it got too hot. Most of the time he didn’t make it under the sheets, bone tired from surfing, from fighting waves or fighting his father, passed out on the mattress at a weird angle to avoid that one broken spring.

Face down on a pillow, salt still in his hair, an old fan aimed at his naked back, a silly amount of lukewarm air blowing onto his sunburnt skin.

He’d sleep through the TV, the angry blare of it, the smash of an empty beer bottle, all too used to the sounds that became a fucked up kind of lullaby. Alarms didn’t budge him, not really, not anymore. He would have never made it to school if it weren’t for his dad’s foot against the door, an offbeat drum, angry and shattering.

So JJ had absolutely no idea how the tiny rocks against his window pane stirred him from sleep.

One hit, two hit, three; the sound almost like the beginning of a rain shower and then it stopped. JJ groaned, nose rubbing at the pillowcase, brow wrinkling.

Something told him to get up.

Fists found the mattress, another groan, a stifled yawn and then he was pushing himself off of the bed, sheets tangled around his knees and he tripped on one abandoned boot before he made it to the window. Eyes half closed, heavy with sleep, he cracked it open, looking out into the dark, the marshes still alive, buzzing under the moon. He couldn’t see anything, not at first, not when the sky bled into the water and the greenery became inky black, shadows on shadows with nothing in between.

Then, from the treeline, a girl appeared. Just ten feet away, too scared to get too close, wary of the glow from the television bleeding from the living room blinds, slants of blue light between broken slats. JJ thought he might’ve been dreaming.

Maybe he was.

Kiara.

Half dressed in pyjama shorts and an old sweatshirt that had some kind of fishing logo on the front. It was too dark to see, but the boy thought it might’ve been his, maybe once.

JJ blinked and dragged a hand through his hair, wincing when his fingers got caught in the ends, salt and sand falling onto his shoulders and he stared at the girl in her unlaced sneakers, no car, no bike, no nothing around her.

“What’re you doing?” He hissed, voice rough with sleep, cracking with anticipation. He could hear the western movie that was playing from the other room, but he couldn’t hear his dad snoring. Not yet. “What the fuck, Kie?”

Kiara edged forward, eyes wary, stare flickering from JJ’s face and back to the front door of the trailer. When nothing moved, when no one appeared, she walked through the grown grass and curled her fingers around the window edge. She was close enough now that JJ could see the heaviness on her face, the tired looking bruises under her lash line, the weight on her shoulders.

Kie’s chin jumped the sill and her fingers were so close to the boy’s, close enough that her pinky almost grazed his thumb and it wasn’t cold outside, not in the slightest, but the boy seemed to hold the sun under his skin and Kiara wanted to run to it.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she whispered, her voice too awake, too alert for two in the morning.

JJ waited, knowing there was more. He could see it in her face, the bitten skin at her bottom lip, the pulled out curl that fell into her eyes, the one that held more frizz than the rest.

“Parents are fighting again,” Kie continued, staring past JJ, into his room, gaze studying the posters and photos on his wall as if she could hide her feelings amongst them all. “It’s stupid. I just— I wanted to get out of the house.”

Maybe before - years ago, maybe only months ago - JJ would’ve teased her. Made some kind of comment, something less than sensitive, something crude about seeking him out in the middle of the night, something destructive about not choosing John B or Pope over him.

But now— now?

JJ pressed his lips together and nodded. His thumb shifted, just once, grazing the back of Kie’s hand before pulling away and searching his floor for a shirt. He yanked one on, buttoned up his jeans, grabbed a cap to cover his bed mussed hair, shoved bare feet into shoes and ushered her backwards without looking at his bedroom door or thinking about what lay behind it. Kie moved, watching as the boy slid open the window a little wider, throwing one leg out before the other and dropping almost silently to the ground, like he’d done it before.

Of course he had. He’d done it plenty of times.

Just not for her.

They didn’t speak as JJ straightened up, boots crunching in the grass. Eyes locked, the boy lifted a finger to his lips and offered Kiara his other hand. She took it like she always did, with no hesitation at all, and JJ led her across the marshes, through the buzz of the insects, away from the man in the living room. They walked until overgrown grass and reeds turned into a dirt path, forged by night time walks just like this.

Neither thought to take JJ’s bike, neither thought about a car, or the Twinkie. They just walked, heading out of the marshes until the fisherman shacks were left behind, until they couldn’t hear the drone of cicadas as loudly, until they were crossing the road that took them out of The Cut and under streetlights.

They walked until tarmac turned to sand and the empty beach lay before them and like it had already been agreed, they both stopped to toe off their shoes, digging the soles of their feet into the sand just to see if it had kept any of the afternoon heat. Kiara walked and JJ followed, not speaking, not yet, not until he knew the time was right.

He’d once been a stupid kid, a teenage boy without much common sense when it came to girls and feelings - and shit, maybe he still was - but JJ Maybank was a grade A student when it came to Kiara Carrera. So he watched and he waited, following the girl in the sand, his footprints covering up her much smaller ones as she led them to the shoreline, where the waves lapped at the beach and created the best kind of white noise. A rush of water, the most pretty kind of itch that scratched at his brain and he thought Kie felt the same, because when she stopped and he chanced a look at her profile, her eyes were closed, the corners of her mouths lifting every time the ocean caught her toes.

“It was too loud,” Kie finally said as a way of explanation. The water rushed, a shell hit a rock and silence fell over them again. “They’d been arguing all night, all through dinner. I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Doesn’t sound fun,” JJ agreed. He kept his eyes on the water, searching the horizon like he was trying to find something to focus on other than the warmth of the girl standing beside him. “What’re they yellin’ ‘bout now?”

Kiara’s sneakers hit the sand with a wet smack. She sighed before sitting, knees tucked to her chest and JJ wondered once more if the sweater was his before it had become hers, maybe John B’s for a week or two, maybe Pope’s. He joined her, feet planted half in the sea and his arms on his knees, waiting for her reply, even if he knew what was coming.

“Everything,” Kiara stated flatly. She let out a huff of laughter, no humour to the sound. “Me, mostly.”

JJ smiled at her bluntness and touched the brim of his hat, for lack of something to do. He was itching to reach out, to brush away the grains of wet sand that stuck to her shins. “Doesn’t sound like anythin’ new.”

Kiara shrugged. “Not really, s’all a broken record now though. Sick of the same shit every day. All they do is act like I’m some sort of broken kid, like they have to fix me.”

JJ wanted to nod and say he understood, that he knew the feeling. He’d been treated like a problem his whole life, like he’d been born less than perfect, like he was the root cause of all his fathers shortcomings. But he didn’t know what it was like to have someone care enough to wanna try and solve it. To maybe try and put his broken pieces back together. So he just pressed his lips together and stared at the sand, waiting for the moment the ocean would brush back over his bare feet again, soaking at the hem of his jeans.

“Ever wanna do something stupid? Just ‘cause?”

JJ snorted at the question, chin turning up and eyes searching for Kiara’s. She was already looking at him, more start curls escaping her hair tie, a smile on her face that JJ thought could maybe fix some of his problems, at least.

“You realise who you’re talkin’ to, right?” He replied, grinning right back. The sun that was left of his cheeks stung when he did it, nose wrinkled and a little too red because he never listened when Kiara and Pope told him he needed more sunblock. “What kinda stupid are we talkin’ about?”

Kie shrugged, stretched out her legs and let the sand coat the back of them, wet, golden grains against dark bronzed skin and JJ wondered if she’d take them to bed with her, if she’d manage to wash them off and hide the evidence of their night from her parents before she got back home. The boy wondered if she cared.

“I don’t know,” kie let her head tilt to the side, pondering. She held up one hand and started counting on each finger. “We’ve already covered running away, robbery—”

JJ snorted. “Don’t forget grand theft auto.”

“—does grand larceny count?” Kie smiled.

The boy smirked. “Gold was always ours, Kie, don’t forget it.”

Silence fell over them again, smiles never fading. If they waited long enough, they’d see the stars turn to sunlight and the sky change to cotton candy pink, creeping over the edge of the ocean.

Kie didn’t want to wait that long.

She let her head fall back, her neck on its hinge, staring up above, lights winking down at her, telling her she should be asleep.

“Maybe we’ve been going too big.” She blew out a breath, let her eyes close. “Maybe we need to start from the beginning, throw a rager, get drunk. Like kids are supposed to. That kind of stupid.”

JJ hummed, nodding even though Kiara could see. Her hands were in the sand, fingertips buried in the grains. If he moved a little closer, their pinkies could touch.

“Sounds lame in comparison,” the boy teased lightly. “Where’s the fun if we don’t got no guns?”

Kie didn’t laugh but JJ watched her smile, head shaking, eyes opening so she could flick her gaze over to him, mirth dancing in them. She looked like she was unsure of what to say next, if she should say anything at all but then she sat up a little straighter, turning so her body was facing him.

“What about something stupid like—” Kiara picked at a broken shell, a barely there piece of pearl. “—like kissing someone you’re not supposed to.”

It was like the air had been sucked off of the island, like it had up and left, leaving them with only the sound of the sea. Whilst everyone else on Kildare slept, JJ felt like his heart had exploded. Surely the sonic boom could be heard across the beach, reaching Charleston and further, surely Kiara heard it too.

But the girl was just watching him, waiting, wary and quiet.

JJ felt like he’d swallowed his tongue, but still he moved, shifted in the sand until his knee knocked Kiara’s bare one and he felt the entire night swallow him whole. He didn’t know where to look, didn’t know how to act. ‘Causal’ wasn’t in JJ Maybank’s vocabulary. He stared at the shell in the girls hand, watched the pink and green oil slick shine glint in the moonlight.

“Like— like Gary at the restaurant? Or—?”

Kie wrinkled her nose at the mention of the older boy who worked for her parents. Twenty-something and harbouring a habit from cheap whisky and younger girls, he wasn’t Kiara’s favourite person.

“What?” Kie pulled a face. “Ew, no. No— like a friend.” She swallowed a little too harshly, her fingers suddenly clumsy and dropping her shell. “Someone who people would get mad about.”

A friend a friend a friend.

JJ felt his cheeks flush, a rosy warmth across his nose that he could only hope the darkness would hide. It felt like the middle of the day, a heatwave creeping in, a tropical storm with the name of a girl, making the air too hot, ready to sweep him up and rattle him from the inside out.

He licked his lips, tried to stay neutral, hoped his voice wouldn’t crack, prayed he didn’t act a fool. “Who’d get mad at you for something like that?”

When JJ finally looked up, waiting for the girl’s answer with a breath held in his chest, he realised Kiara was already looking at him. Her lashes lowered, gaze trained in his lips, watching the way his mouth parted ever so slightly when he sucked in a burning breath.

“Everyone,” Kie whispered.

The world would have fell into the ocean then, houses and cliffs crumbling, JJ wouldn’t have noticed. Not at all.

“Because it would be a mistake?” His voice cracked, too husky. He didn’t care, not one bit. “Or ‘cause you’d regret it…?”

Kie was still watching him, eyes flicking from his mouth as he spoke, to the slant of his cheek bones, the blue of his eyes. He felt so exposed under her gaze, laid bare, even in the middle of the night, sitting on the beach in the dark. JJ marvelled over the realisation that he didn’t really mind. He’d sit like this for days on end for Kiara, if it meant getting her attention in this way.

Kie shrugged, gave a sad sort of smile and found her broken shell again, tapping her nail against the side. “Not necessarily,” was all she said.

He could’ve kissed her then, JJ was almost sure of it. He could’ve leant in, tested the waters, watched to see if her eyes followed his mouth even when it moved to her own, if she’d let him put his hand on her knee, if she’d let him pull her in by the back of her neck like he was used to doing with the girls he met at parties.

But JJ didn’t have that kind of confidence, not then. Not with Kiara Carrera. He thought about what she’d said, about the people who’d be mad at her— at them. He wondered if Kie was even talking about him in the first place.

She couldn’t be. Of course not, right?

Right?

So JJ waited until the surf was dragged back out and Kie brushed the sand off her calves. He stood, tugged off his cap to drag a hand through his hair before shoving it back on, pulling the brim down to hide his eyes, the disappointment in them. Then, the boy held a hand out to the girl and he tried to keep his heart inside his chest when she took it.

Dragging Kie up from the sand, he smiled at her, just like he normally would. “Lemme walk you home,” was all he had to say.

-Bellamy (SW#1)

[vynnytypesstuff]

Hello! Im here for a request if you dont mind, i loved the platonic stuff you wrote for lmk and wanted to request a platonic drabble with Sun Wukong and Macaque. If you don’t do that then can i get some headcanons? Enjoy your vacation!!

꒰୨୧﹒Lego Monkie Kid - Platonic Drabbles for Sun Wukong and Macaque

Ngl I had fun writing this request. I think I favor writing platonic stuff lmao

Thanks for your patience and here you go <33

Warnings: None

Sun Wukong

(Word Count: 430)

[Name] yawned, stretching their arms outwards as they laid on their back against the firm mattress of Wukong's couch. With the long week they've had to deal with, a lazy Sunday was the exact crowning jewel they needed to kick back and unwind, and what better way to spend them than with one of your closest friends?

Resisting the urge to let their exhaustion coax them into slumber, [Name] turned over onto their side, curious to see what Wukong had been up to during the time they had been staring at the ceiling. The Monkey King had been seated on the floor, surprisingly too focused on whatever task he was trying to complete to respond to [Name]'s movements. Upon closer inspection, in front of him was a piece of paper with art supplies scattered around him.

[Name] blinked, "since when do you draw?"

That seemed to be enough to grab Wukong's attention. "Uh, since always? Didn't I tell you this before?"

"Yeah, but… I kind of figured you were bluffing."

Wukong looked at them with false offense, sputtering in exaggeration, as if he were actually upset by that comment. "Wha- I'm shocked! Offended, even! I have my hidden talents you know. See for yourself!"

Reluctantly, [Name] rolled off the couch to get a look at Wukong's supposed masterpiece. A lingering part of them still expected to see a humorous assortment of scribbles, yet they were completely blown away once they witnessed his scarily realistic and accurate depiction of Flower Fruit Mountain, fully sketched down to it's finest details. It even had Wukong's little monkeys companions, who's sketched counterparts were scurrying around the mountain.

"How is your work not on display in a museum?!" [Name] exclaimed questioningly. They felt a little guilty about underestimating Wukong's artistic talents. They just weren't expecting him to be insanely good.

"Stage fright, or something," Wukong nonchalantly shrugged.

"Or maybe being the Monkey King is just a cover for your true identity as an artist," They mused. "I can't believe you've had a secret identity all this time and you didn't tell me."

He laughed, deciding to play along with the joke. "Caught me red-handed! And if I told you, it wouldn't be a secret."

Their exchange of friendly banter went on for quite some time before [Name] finally decided to abandon their original Sunday plans of having an intense ceiling-staring session, choosing to watch Wukong color his work before grabbing a piece of paper for themself and joining him in his makeshift "art studio." Overall, it was the perfect close to a weekend of relaxation.

Macaque

(Word Count: 446)

"'Come hiking with me' you said. 'It'll be worth it' you said," a muttered complaint spilled into the air, courtesy of [Name]. Macaque and [Name] had been hiking the same mountain for a little over an hour. The rugged terrain combined with the narrow twists and turns of the trail wasn't helping with [Name]'s growing exhaustion. "It feels like we've been at this for ages! How much further until we're there?"

Macaque's voice rumbled in a soft, fond chuckle, clearly finding amusement in his friend's whining. "Relax, we're almost there. Besides, I meant what I said. You'll be thanking me once we've reached the top. Would I lie to you?"

[Name] opened their mouth to respond, but Macaque beat them to the punch with a quick "don't answer that."

Thankfully, Macaque had been truthful. A mere ten minutes after that small exchange, they had finally reached their final destination. It was the height of the Spring season, so despite the gentle chill of the flowing breeze hitting their skin, the weather was warm and comfortable. The view itself was breathtaking. The natural assortment of flora below them shone vibrantly against the sunlight, resembling the picturesque nature of a meticulously painted landscape.

The awed look on [Name]'s face didn't escape Macaque's gaze. "Told you it would be worth it." He grinned, finding a spot near the mountain's edge to sit down. "Honestly, even I forgot how beautiful the view was from up here."

"You haven't been here recently?"

Macaque shook his head in answer. "I used to come up here all the time with an old friend, so it just brings up a lot of memories, you know?" Perhaps [Name] was imagining it, but it almost sounded like there was a hint of sadness in his voice. They chose not to question it, instead letting him continue. "I wasn't sure how I'd feel about coming up here again."

'It's part of the reason I invited you,' a sudden thought that went unspoken. That was a little too vulnerable for his tastes.

[Name] walked over to where he was sat and settled next to him. They didn't speak after that, instead choosing to take in the view in comfortable silence. There was nothing awkward about it. Believe it or not, Macaque wasn't always the most talkative, so having someone he could sit with in silence was a pleasant change of pace.

Time passed, with [Name] being the one to break the silence. "Thanks for inviting me, this was actually pretty nice."

"Glad you like it. Does that mean you'll stop bugging me by asking 'are we there yet' every time we climb up here?"

"Don't count on it."

[korpuskat]

hello! ^^

I recently finished your rftw series with michael! the story is so good (/gen) and I’m so excited to see what the last part of cadence has in store! if you don’t mind me asking, are there any hope for it to be released? @-@

Cadence has been a thorn in my side ever since I started writing it. It's painfully close to being done, but I can never coax it into wrapping up. On the chance I never do finish it, here's my WIP (remember this is in context of Cadence's 15K part 1 before anyone comes at me for characterizaton lol):

(NSFW, vaginal sex, somnophilia, choking)

Cold. That’s the first thing you notice. Cold- and droning like white noise. Warmth still clings to your chest, but a chill creeps over-- Your eyes snap open, arms shooting out, searching the dark because <i>fingers</i> touched your side. What you find, of course, is broad shoulders and wobbly latex. Michael. But what you find is also <i>wet.</i>

You recoil first- hands disengaging as he continues what he’s doing: flipping the blankets over, which you must’ve crawled under in your sleep, and pulling harshly at your pants. A seam pops- and you mumble in frustration, undoing the buttons with half-asleep hands. As soon as it’s open, he rips them down your legs. You hiss, the fabric stinging like carpet burn down your thighs. He’s keyed up, too excited from a fresh kill to even care- your underwear is shredded before you can even lift your hips to pull it off. 

Fuck, it’s going to be one of those nights. 

One massive hand keeps you still, holds you hips in place while the other unzips his coveralls with a <i>zzzzt</i>. Electricity sparks in your belly; he’s going to fuck you. The thought of his cock alone makes your thighs press together, the sweet promise of release so tempting after the last two days. His knees press into the mattress, your whole body shifting as it dips under his weight- and he doesn’t even wait for you to get resettled. The hot head of his cock rubs blindly between your legs; you don’t bother concealing your gasp as he brushes your clit. 

In the darkness, it’s only you and him. Time and space fall away, nothing left in existence but his body moving against yours, the raw physical sensation of heat and pressure and each of his exhales echoing in the mask. Your fingers grab at his shoulders, just for an anchor, twist into the coveralls- and it’s wet. You shudder, imagine how he must look, coated head to toe in viscera, tracked blood straight to your suite and- 

You don’t smell iron. 

His clothes are wet, but they are also <i>cold</i>. The mask is just visible with the low moonlight that sneaks in through the curtains- and it’s clean. Cleaner than you remember ever seeing it, almost starkly white. One flop of synthetic hair hangs darkly, solidly, over his latex forehead. You trace your fingers up over the slightly melted edge, over rubbery ears. 

Michael forces himself inside you with one stroke; your cunt <i>burns</i> with the stretch, all limbs closing around him in desperation to keep him still. Tears spring to your eyes once more, teeth scraping open your bitten lip- and all you can do is tell yourself to breathe, to focus on the coming pleasure, because it will, it always does, no matter how cruel Michael chooses to be. 

So your snap your thighs closed around his waist, locking him deep inside while you clench and shiver in pain and shock and the first trembling whispers of <i>good</i> because <i>fuck</i>, he’s so <i>big.</i> Your walls flutter around him, body struggling to stretch to accommodate him. Warmth replaces the cool, radiates out from between your legs and- and something isn’t right. 

Michael should be drawing back, forcing your legs apart and pounding away until the fuel of his bloodlust has burned off, more animal than man- but he’s not. Rain water drips onto your chest, runs off the shape of his false face, the heavy noise of his breathing masked by the soft rumble of rain and thunder. Bent over you, he’s not quite <i>on</i> you like he normally is- no, he’s leaned away, enough for you to stare into the pitch black holes where his eyes should be. There’s no light to see the gray or white beneath, but they must be fixated on you. 

“Michael?” You murmur, too sleepy to mask the concern there. He doesn’t even tip his head. It’s not panic, not yet- if he thought he was in danger he wouldn’t be still like this, if it was some new type of sadism, there’d still be an air of it on him. This is… something new, something you haven’t yet been able to pick up the little signs of. 

Your hands unwind from his soaked coveralls, the joints creaking from the effort. The fabric is rough and even more abrasive still soaked with water, but you stroke his arms as best you can and seek out his face in the darkness. Without any reaction you skate higher, one hand dancing up his chest, just past the drooping collar, to the thin strip of skin visible between the rough cotton and smooth latex. 

“Michael…?” His name hangs on your lips- and he answers with his hips. 

The animal drive has disappeared entirely. It’s a smooth roll, shallow- cautious. Where you had expected force and pain is softness; you gasp, part shock and part pleasure- and Michael must take it as a good sign. He keeps this strange pace and you dig your fingers into the shoulders of his suit, squeezing more rainwater out with each thrust. Your body isn’t sure what to do- so used to producing quick, efficient lubrication, you’re nearly gushing for him now. This sort of kindness from Michael is foreign, saved for when he’s injured or sick or- or particularly cruel. But this <i>isn’t</i> that- it’s new. 

You can’t even begin to understand his motives- why he needs <i>this</i>- but you can still give it to him. When you wrap your arms behind his neck and pull him closer, he only resists for a moment. Closer- closer until you can hear his soft pants from behind the mask, feel the heat of his breath with each puff through the nose holes. 

When he shifts his weight, he slides deeper- stroking so gently along places that have only known his brutal paces. You gasp, pull his hips closer with your legs- and the tilt of his head towards your mouth is not at all lost on you. Without prompting, he expands upon the motion: sliding nearly all the way back out until you’re whimpering, aching for his return- and pushing in so slow, finding his way so deep within you until tears gather at your eyes. 

<i>”Michael,”</i> It’s a prayer, an acknowledgement, a <i>thank you</i>- 

His breath catches; if your hands were not on him you wouldn’t have even felt it. He keeps pace, betrays no other hints of his reaction- fucks you deep and slow, rolls his hips with each thrust, grinds against your clit so sweetly- but you felt it, that sharp little inhale. 

With his head tipped towards you, it’s hardly a stretch to reach the latex. Cool and as clean as you’ve ever known- you kiss blindly in the dark. It’s too smooth to be the lips, slightly puckered with melting- must be his cheek. It isn’t for long, because Michael turns, meets you halfway. The rubber lips taste like rain water, not at all like the cruel mouth that lies just beyond- the taste of blood on his tongue as sweet as vanilla frosting. You kiss him and all the while tension settles between his shoulders, radiates down his arms.

<i>”Michael,”</i> You repeat, this time with <i>purpose,</i> you scrape your nails against the harsh cotton of his coveralls to emphasize it. This time, it’s his hips- a thrust just too harsh to be completely controlled. It’s a spark to kindling; the kind of treatment your body’s been waiting for- and the “Yes!” that follows is not intentional at all. 

And still- in the darkness you <i>feel</i> his resolve, the decision he’s made- whatever game he’s playing. He doesn’t give in, as much as his fingers are threatening to tear the sheets, he slows- keeps his pace even. 

There is one thing, however, you’re sure he can’t resist. Delicately- as much as you can be while being fucked- you wrap one hand around his left wrist. He doesn’t react at all, hardly seems to notice- except with you tug at it, urge it away from its death grip on the sheets. This he tips his head at. “Michael,” You whine, tug again for emphasis. The mask tips the other way, his pace slowing with curiosity. He gives in, shifts his weight to his other arm, lets you move his hand- 

The seams <i>pop</i> to the left of your head, his grasp shearing through them as you guide his three-fingered hand to your throat. The weight of it alone has your pussy tingling, every nerve woken, waiting for him to deliver. You think, perhaps, you might be crazy to taunt him like this, to get this wet at the thought of him choking you. 

It’s not a thought for long.

The muscles in his palm twitch once before he adjusts the grip. His hand rises up, forces you head backwards and <i>squeezes</i>. Not a single moan escapes his grasp, but he must know- because the mask tips again, the empty back eyeholes boring straight into you, watching every reaction. And like that, his interest in being soft has evaporated. 

He fucks you- the same fervor you’d expected after a hunt finally manifesting with each thrust, his cock ricocheting inside you, gives no room for hesitation. It doesn’t matter- darkness is buzzing at the corners of your vision, eyes growing heavy and tired, barely able to keep awake if it weren’t for the force of Michael’s hips. You’re fading, head lolling with each impact- 

Michael’s grip loosens. Air floods your burning lungs- and you’d been so oxygen deprived you didn’t know how close you were. He doesn’t even let you moan; his hand closes around you again before any noise slips out. Your throat vibrates under his palm and you wonder if he knows you’re screaming his name as you tip over. With no air every feeling is amplified, your adrenaline-fried brain bringing every stimulus up and up until it’s unbearable. 

Clamping down on him as hard as you can doesn’t deter him at all; he fucks you without pause even as your mind frays. Heat pulses out from your pussy, radiates down your legs, up into your chest- and you arch your back up, press more of your skin to the cold cloth of his suit. Your nails rip at the sheets, at his back, at anything you can reach- you don’t even realize you’d been digging your knees into his sides until he grabs one and <i>forces</i> your legs apart, all his weight held on your femur. 

[searchingforserendipity25]

More precious was the light in your eyes. ao3.

Many thanks to @welcomingdisaster and @outofangband for inspiration on how to tackle the 'dusk' prompt!

The first woman of the Edain Daeron loved was a milkmaid and cow herder late in her years, all wispy age-streaked braids and fat arms

He sought out her shadow rustling in the aldar leaves, in the laughing of a hidden brook. Running, leaping, whenever he thought he caught her scent of starlight on mossy ground - like a hound sniffing for its mistress, like a madman gathering thorn-scratches and losing the course of the years.

It was not madness, though it sounded mad, and foolish, and pitiful. 

There were tales told of him. Because even the oldest forest and the darkest waters were no longer unpopulated, and mortals bred fast and grew covetous, there were made old trees thorn down; it happened at times that he would leave a meadow for a time, and find it turned into a hamlet on his return, or a town.

His heart grew hard as stone, inside him. In the worst winters, when there was much cold to be fought in Mannish homes, and fallen elms and firs and birches were too many to name, Daeron thought only bitterly of Lúthien's escape. Lúthien's Choice, a choosing of cruelty, a renouncing of the true face of the world.

He withheld his songs from her, as if she heard him in truth; and gathering himself in a cold cave or hollow stump, his sleep was thin and unhappy, with no memory of spring.

Regret came with the first thaw; but then, like always, it was too late to find any solace, any satisfaction. Lúthien was in the forests, at times; but she never did turn to look back, to see if he kept to her tracks.

The first woman of the Edain Daeron loved was a milkmaid and cow herder late in her years, all wispy age-streaked braids and fat arms, pail carried steadily on her head even as she let out her loud graceless laugh.

Before her narrow cabin she set a basin, and a handful of seeds; in this way she had small wood birds near her house often, and some of their pretty singing.

It was a kindly trade; that it had brought her an elf as skittish and fond of fennel seeds as any sparrow did not daunt her in the least. In the evenings he came, sometimes, by her door; she played a flute, a small and ugly thing, not well and not badly.

Daeron had forgotten. The songs of others were lovely still, in their way; even the ones Lúthien had never heard.

Soon enough she she set him to fixing the thatch roof and mending the crane mechanism in the water pump- also gathering new rushes for the floor.

"As thou art a wood-sprite, and stands sense that rushes are sweeter for thee," which was true enough; he brought new smells into the damp shelter of her house, a little green wildness.

He did as he was told out of bemusement, and surprised himself in accepting her bowls of gruel, her warm blankets, her warm legs wrapped around him upon a straw mattress, a grass mound, the shade under the tall chestnuts where the cows grazed. 

"Look at this mad thing," she said, tripping rough fingers up his ribs to test if he would quiver, running them through his hair - picking off bits of dead grass, shreds of ivy. "I knew there were birds that turned into spirits in the woods, but most birds are much neater than this!"

She laughed at his indignation, and pressed him down, and laughed further at how he did quiver, nose against her bosom, mouth opening with kisses.

Reluctantly, in fits and starts and incidents, he came to know their ways.

The first winter he spent in a human village was an error; the second there was a plague, the sixth it was razed by the neighboring kingdom - or might have been. If not for Daeron singing terrors out of the mists; if not for the growing of briars sharp as daggers, and wild barking in the wild.

Melian's teachings were in him still, half-dormant; and if he told none whom it was that kept danger away, still his lover teased him while plucking briars from his hair, and grew even more shameless about sending him off to scare away wolves and bears and annoying tax-riders with his mighty powers.

Lúthien's choice grew less repellent to him, in time. But he would not have chosen as Lúthien might have, after all. 

He could only be himself, one of the Quendi; the last of them, he thought, perhaps.

He stood by the mounds where roses grew from his lover's bones. Her laughter, gone thick with age and then silent, was a biting grief, a cutting thing; and he had to be glad for it, too, for he had not thought to grieve a thing besides Lúthien, and it was good to love, after all, even a thing that died.

O, but it was bitter! A long winter of the heart, and a winter that always came back.

That much Lúthien had taught him, and his cow-herder; and the forests, too, where saplings grew in the place of old giants, and shrubs ate away even the roots of Ents.

This relinquishing come no more easily, not more easily was he at peace with it. Still he knew then it would happen again; many times, perhaps.

He swept the house, brought in new rushes, and left the cows grazing, and filled the basin, where sparrows and jays and plain nightingales came to sate their thirst. Some winters he went onward, deeper into the forests, to scare the wolves, the bold mountain lions, the king's riders.

But the house was his now, and the roses were not as stout as niphredil, and wanted tending.

-

It was not madness. Daeron saw her in every flower that bloomed at dusk, the sweet haze that rose over the world in the first days of spring. Lúthien was there.

He saw her, now. Not at first, when he was younger, and caught in grief and regret such that no consolation could be found.

He saw her in the small pale flowers that were not niphredil. He saw her in the lined faces of old women weaving by the hearth during the long winters, and in the maids dancing round the summer bonfires. In all things mortal, in all blue twilights; and he loved Lúthien the better for it, in time, with a love that was an aching sweetness, not the last of its kind.

[remyfire]

For the kinkfic thing. power imbalance and breeding for uh. Charbeej plz. :-D

(prompts now closed) (Okay so this is a lot of breeding kink, a little power imbalance, and though it is charbeej on the page, both beejhawk and charbeejhawk wiggled their way into it, and I really hope that's okay!! It's also 6.4k I'm very sorry—)

"Aaaaaaall right, Winchester," BJ trills as he sweeps into the Swamp and sets the lock behind him. Now that necessary arrangements have been made for privacy, he's got a certain spring in his step, a song in both his heart and his dick. "Here we go. You ready?"

Charles looks up suspiciously from his desk where he's cross-referencing something in a book to the notes he's taking. "I haven't the faintest idea what you mean."

BJ drops the tent flaps in one quick rush, then strides over to slap his hands on Charles's shoulders. "That's never stopped you from offering your opinion before, so why start now?" When Charles tries to look back at his work, BJ cradles his cheek and steers him right back around. "You can do that later."

"For heaven's sake." Along with a particularly overexaggerated roll of his eyes, Charles's lips rise up in a snarl that does nothing more than bring tingles of anticipation down BJ's spine. "Hunnicutt, are you sure you haven't taken a tumble recently? Banged your forehead on something? It's quite a large target." He makes a show of shrewdly considering it, all the while ignoring how BJ's beginning to smirk. "Can't imagine any other reason why you appear to be mistaking me with Pierce."

"I'm not making a mistake," BJ murmurs in a low, sweetly rotten tone.

"He's the one you, ah, sully around with, you know." Charles goes on as though he didn't hear BJ say a word. "Little whimsical pet practically slobbering for the chance to do your bidding."

As BJ tightens his grip around Charles's soft jaw until he feels the bones stabbing into his fingertips, Charles finally goes silent and flicks his gaze back up. "Charles," BJ breathes. "Put your pen down. And take your pants off."

Clack. The pen's rolling across the desk before BJ even realizes that Charles opened his hand. They share a long, silent stare where he gets to watch how Charles's brow furrows, the quick analyses occurring behind his eyes.

Honestly, BJ gets it. He wasn't wrong, bringing up Hawkeye like that. Usually BJ and Hawk are rolling around together in a cot, trying to get a rise out of Charles across the room, and in the few circumstances where they've actually seen a response—the heat on the back of his neck or the faint wiggling of his restless leg—they've slipped off the mattress like sirens, finding their way to him, meeting his sharp-edged banter with teasing words of their own. It's just an extension of the rhythm they've all ended up in, the games they like to play. Inevitably they all end with Hawkeye as a ruined mess of some kind while BJ and Charles study each other, still panting as they recover from their own release.

This is the way of things nowadays. Since BJ and Hawk are finally over the first nervous hurdles of trying not to fuck things up, BJ gets to take what he wants from an extremely enthusiastic Hawkeye practically whenever he chooses to do so. Charles, meanwhile, has to be all but forcibly dragged in on a casual basis regardless of the fact that he so clearly desires their time. There are times when BJ doesn't think it's even the sex that Charles craves, though the man's certainly never complained about an orgasm. Maybe it's the easy possession. Hawk will drop into BJ's lap, or BJ will pet through Hawk's hair and scratch his scalp during a normal conversation, or Hawk will mold himself around BJ's back and grope him with a hungry groan without so much as a hello. They're open to each other. They're always around to offer support, love, comfort, and passion. Charles seems to need to wait until he's about to burst before he so much as asks if one of them will have a serious conversation with him.

BJ doesn't know if he'd call it jealousy. Just a longing that appears to humiliate Charles. No wonder he needs to be surrounded and caught before he'll let all of his muscles unclench.

Charles finally takes a deep breath. "Should I presume Pierce will be arriving shortly?"

"No," BJ murmurs. "I don't see you going for your pants."

"I don't see a reason why I should," Charles counters.

"How about because I'm gonna fuck you?" BJ leans close and bumps their noses together. "Or how about because I said so?"

No matter what Charles tries to hide from them, he can't conceal that flush of his. His clean, pure, pretty blue blood does so love to betray him in moments like this.

Despite himself, BJ feels heat rush straight into his cock.

"Y'know, I've noticed something about you," BJ murmurs. He shrugs on a warmer tone like a robe, watches how Charles instantly goes for his belt. "You're really not a joiner, huh?"

"Difficult to find one's way into anything when there's not an inch of room," Charles counters. He doesn't sound hurt, exactly, or even sullen, but there's an edge in his voice all the same, and BJ files it away.

BJ shrugs, pursing his lips. "I mean, you could ask for somebody to move over, couldn't you?"

Charles finally breaks free from his grasp. He pushes his chair back with a loud scrape as he takes care of his trousers, then folds them perfectly with not a wrinkle to be seen. With his attention so focused on the task, he either doesn't think to or chooses not to reply.

"I don't know. It's just interesting. Sometimes I'll look over and you're holding yourself back by a thread." BJ chuckles like this is a meaningless conversation. Charles doesn't have to see the keen, smug expression he wants to wear. Not yet. "Like last week, y'know? Hawk and I are in my bunk. I've practically got his ankles behind his ears. He's ready to cry, he wants it so bad. Begging for it. Begging to be bred." Just like that, BJ flicks his gaze up, watches how Charles freezes. Yeah. There you are. BJ finds Charles's hip with one broad hand. As he slips his fingertips under the hem of his shirt, Charles drapes his trousers over the back of his desk chair, then grabs on tightly. "You don't have to be shy about it. I know you've got your thing. You need a son and all that, don't you?"

"I don't see why that's any of your business," Charles mutters, but unfortunately for him, he's starting to tap his foot rapidly on the ground.

"Aw, simmer down, Chuck." BJ moves into him, rests his chin on his shoulder, and lets his fingers continue to wander around to his front. "It's just some fun, yeah? Not that serious."

"Maybe not t—" Charles cuts off in a shiver as BJ shapes his palm right over his round belly. This is where it gets interesting. Hawkeye's easy by his own admission. He'll drop to his knees with little more than a look. But Charles turns his head, face so close that it's blurry, and speaks quite softly, one even tone. "Are you making a mockery of my duty?"

BJ chews on his bottom lip and considers the game here. "No," he finally says with a spreading smile. "C'mon, I wouldn't do that. I'm fetishizing it."

"Y— Excuse me?" Charles's brows shoot toward the sky. He gapes for a few moments before he scoffs. "Only you would take such a noble act as continuing one's bloodline and turn it into nothing but fodder for your perverse entertainment," he snaps.

Uh-huh. BJ takes in how red the apples of his cheeks are. "Not only me. Hawkeye too."

"Of course," he drawls, flicking his gaze away.

"So here's what I figure. You and me both know what kind of guy Hawkeye is." BJ considers further still. He could demean their bunkie, call him a slut—nine times out of ten, that gets Hawk dripping, so it's not like he'd be insulting him—but Hawkeye's not at the middle of this. The only thing he's doing is making sure nobody's gonna come bother the Swamp. No, right now he's just a segue, and one that BJ's happy to deploy. "So if there's a quiet little sector of your brain that gets turned on thinking about getting somebody in the family way, you already understand that all you've gotta do is walk across the tent and tell me to scooch, and I'll be happy to let you breed him. Joining of forces, right? With two of us at it, it's gotta take."

Charles inhales deeply, only just barely audible. He hasn't tried to move away. And when BJ begins thumbing a slow circle through the coarse hairs on his belly, all he does is breathe a touch faster.

"But yeah, no, you're right, you wouldn't do that. Not since the mumps. It stresses you out too much to think you might not be able to get the job done anymore."

"Hunnicutt, I'm warning you," Charles mutters.

When BJ rocks his hips forward, Charles freezes, fingers kneading the back of the chair. BJ grinds just the once more, simply making absolutely sure that Charles can feel how hard he is. That he knows this isn't a dig. Only a game. One that he's very enthusiastic about participating in.

He likes doing things like this, shifting into almost a variant of himself. BJ Hunnicutt—intensely devoted father, holding himself together by braided strings of hope that he'll make it home before Erin's childhood has passed him by—everyone knows who that is. But this is like shrugging on a coat, or perhaps shrugging it off instead. He can feel his voice getting a little more musical, a touch sharper, can find the sincere ache inside of himself and coax out its shadow. For him, it's a harmless perversion that lets him take a step backward when the walls are closing in. But he rather wonders if there's subversion that's about to rise from under his fingertips.

"Then I realized that it doesn't relax that stress at all, playing at getting Hawk pregnant." As he touches his lips to Charles's ear, he pulls him back so there's not a millimeter between them. "You'd rather somebody else do all the work of making sure the Winchester heir takes."

BJ can practically hear Charles's brain explode into a million simultaneous thoughts. He gets it. He knows a little something about shoving shit down so it can't even bleed through the cracks. There's something massive under all that noise that's aching to get out. BJ's just enough of a curious bastard to wonder what might happen if it does.

"Get these off too." BJ drags his hand down and tugs at the waistband of Charles's underwear. "Then lie in the bed."

He doesn't wait to see if Charles is going to argue or obey, just walks back to his side of the Swamp to unlock his truck and shove it open. He finds the tub of lubricant right away; as long as the trunk's locked, it's not as though he needs to hide it any more than that. In fact, he needs it easily accessible for those nights when Hawkeye has him ripping his own clothes off to have him as soon as possible. But BJ takes his time, moving items here and there, making noise, then stalling further still by unlacing his boots, acting as though his own blood's not boiling with a certain hunger of his own. It's tender with Hawk, playing this game. Charles is different.

Behind him, a cot creaks, and BJ takes a long, deep breath to steady himself. He snatches up the tub and impulsively snags a condom packet, practically slams the trunk shut, and stands before he kicks his boots off. When he turns back around, he drinks in the sight of Charles in his cot, under his blanket, up on his elbows so the impersonal fabric is at rest around his waist. His trousers may be neatly draped over the back of his chair, but both his boxers and, unrequested, his shirt are in a pile on the floor right where BJ had left him. He's waiting. Waiting for BJ. Wanting him to call the shots.

It's enough to make a man want to tip away from his logical mind, find himself somewhere feral instead.

BJ's made the particulars of how he inhabits his body into an art form. He shot up too tall too fast, filled out his shoulders before any of the other kids in his class. It was vital that he learn to move like water, fluid and flowing, never threatening. It softens him. But right now he thinks about some of the other jocks in his fraternity house, how they would cut through a room in such a way to have people scrambling to give them space. The tough guys. He centers his mind on it, and only then does he saunter toward Charles's cot. He doesn't have to look at Charles's face to know he's suddenly rougher at the edges, maybe even a little intimidating, but it's gratifying all the same, watching him takes in BJ from head to toe while the slight lift beneath the blanket becomes more and more prominent with each passing second.

BJ comes to a stop right by him, and as much as he wants to dive in headfirst, Hawkeye has goaded and begged for just enough things that BJ had never even conceptualized could arouse a person to a point where he speaks quietly all the same. "Is there anything you wanna talk about?"

Charles opens his mouth, closes it, then shifts his gaze to the back corner. "Hunnicutt, I-I realize this might strain you to the point of throwing out your back, but I would prefer..." He digs up fistfuls of his blanket. "You may say whatever it is that you'd like—as long as you don't laugh at me."

BJ notes it. He's not sure what exactly compels him to reach for one of Charles's hands, coax it to open, then lift it to his lips, but as BJ leaves a kiss on his knuckles, goosebumps lift all the way down his bunkie's bare arm. "Anything at all, huh?"

After one brief moment of thought, Charles nods.

He smiles. "Well. Lucky for you, I have a lot to say."

"Ahaha," Charles drawls out. "Will wonders never cease?" Unfortunately for him, his mockery nowadays is as sweet as a caress.

BJ's far better at reading the things Hawkeye craves without a lot of explanation, but though he has a good line of clues to follow here, he still takes his steps more carefully than he would through a minefield. He backs away, holds up the condom between two fingers, waits for Charles's eyes to focus on it, then tosses it carelessly behind his desk. Charles's punched-out, ragged huff shifts to a groan at the last possible moment and leaves a checkmark by the next item on BJ's mental list. He turns to hide his smirk as he snags the pillow from the spare cot. It's lumpy, which is why none of them have replaced their own pillow with it, but it'll serve a decent enough purpose tonight.

For a man who craves silence, Charles seems antsy now that BJ isn't talking. He shifts and wiggles, adjusting his weight, while BJ crosses back to his side, then glances along the blanket. He considers. Decides to pull it away himself rather than make a request. Charles's thick cock is slick at the tip, flushed all over, and it gently curves toward his belly while BJ shoves the rough cover into a pile at the foot of the cot.

"Lift your hips." Though BJ says the words as quietly as he can, they still sound as loud as a gunshot to him. They even make Charles flinch. But all the same, Charles obeys, and BJ tucks the pillow under them, then rests his hand on one of his thick thighs with a low hum. At first, he simply rubs as though to soothe him. But then he rises higher and higher with each pass until he's feeling the breadth of Charles's ample hips. It seems to settle in what he's doing just then, given how the cock near his hand twitches.

He can't make either of them wait anymore.

He leaves the tub on Charles's end table as he comes to his feet, then strips down as quickly as he can. Though he half-expects Charles to tease him for this too, he doesn't. Maybe he's just as relieved to see BJ overwhelmed by the need to fuck him. BJ keeps his eyes on Charles's face, catches how he stares at his arms, his stomach, and finally resting on his long, hard cock. Fascinated, BJ reaches high overhead, coming up on his tiptoes in a full-body stretch, and Charles whips his head around so quickly that he's shocked it doesn't fall off.

Somehow that kind of response is just as gratifying, flustering him like that. Usually it's Hawk who ends up in Charles's lap or on his knees for him while BJ sits behind, murmurs filth in his ear or coaxes Hawk to take him faster, deeper. He rarely gets his hands on Charles and he's never on display. Not unless Charles is watching them from his side of the room while they lose themselves in one another.

He needs to get started. It's not bragging to say that he's a lot to take. BJ pops open the tub so he can slather his fingers in lubricant, then gets to work.

For a couple of minutes, he's silent, studying how Charles's body responds—if he's moving too slowly, too quickly. There's a moment where Charles digs his nails into his own thighs and BJ thinks it might be time to start distracting him. "You're tight," he observes. "Don't usually do it this way around?"

"Don't usually do it," Charles corrects him in a rough voice. "Before you two, at least. You make it...rather difficult to resist."

"Mm. Any particular reason why not?" BJ thumbs over the back of one of his hands, silently coaxing him to loosen up.

"Well, it certainly wouldn't be appropriate to risk..."

As he trails off, BJ slowly smirks, focusing simply on how his fingers stretch him out little by little. It really does all come back to this, huh? The pressure to produce an heir, the pressure to make sure he doesn't produce the wrong one, the forced isolation such a thing causes. "But there were always other boys, right? C'mon, Charles, I went to an Ivy League too. I know how you prep school fellas are."

Charles's muscles flutter around his fingers, one moment clenching almost painfully tight, the next relaxing so suddenly that he sinks in to the next knuckle before he planned to. "Hunnicutt, this is yet another piece of information that I don't owe you." The however hovers in the air. BJ skims his gaze up and locks eyes with him while he pulls back, works in another finger. "Fo-ooooo-or the record..." The word warbles when BJ scissors his digits open, but he admirably avoids laughing at him, if he does say so himself. "...Mother and Father were...concerned about Honoria and me from the beginning. I should say we did not in-spiiire confidence—do you know how thick your fingers are?" Charles demands.

BJ tips his head to the side, not blinking. "Are you complaining?"

Charles wrinkles his nose, then flops back on his pillow and stares at the ceiling as he speaks in a rush. "I cannot say for sure regarding Honoria's own schooling, but I had reason to believe that my parents asked for the administration to keep a close watch on my relationships with my fellow students."

After a thoughtful moment, BJ nods. There are two paths he could take with this. One would coax Charles into a deeper vulnerability, maybe even open up an extremely strange heart-to-heart between two of the most unlikely men to experience such a thing. The other, though... BJ licks his lips. "Not much chance to experiment, then."

"Decidedly not," Charles murmurs.

The moment BJ rests his other hand on Charles's belly, he feels him stop breathing. "Dodged a bullet there too, then. Or a bun."

Charles doesn't reply. But he relaxes a little more, and BJ is confident that he's ready for him, experienced or not. He slips his fingers out slowly, and when Charles clenches around the emptiness, he fights not to push his cock inside of him right that instant.

BJ turns his attention to gathering just a touch more lube on his clean fingers so he can slick himself up, moving at a glacial pace, silently inviting Charles to watch. "Well. It's a good thing I'm here now, huh?" He drops his voice to that melodic tone with sharper edges. As he puts one knee between Charles's thighs, it lets him be far, far above him, casting a shadow from the nearest light. "Clever of you, really. You got all the way to the other side of the ocean where they don't have a clue what you're getting up to. Who you're getting up to it with. No one's watching, not tonight. There's just Hawkeye somewhere out there, keeping people entertained, making sure they won't come anywhere near the Swamp."

Charles clears his throat. "I suppose that is rather fortuitous, isn't it?" he asks unsteadily, still not looking away from how BJ's teasing himself.

"It really is. That's the beauty of it, huh?" BJ asks. "You don't have to worry about if these work anymore." He palms Charles's balls, gently massaging them just to watch how he shudders and fights to hold back his sounds. "'Cuz you're not gonna be the one knocking somebody up. At the end of the day, you're still a Winchester. And that means you're fucking great breeding stock."

There it is. Charles's eyes widen so far, they've gotta hurt. It's rare that he lets himself be this visibly stunned, especially in front of BJ, of all people, and it tastes sweet and spiced on his tongue, fuels him to push onward.

"Not what your parents planned for, I figure." BJ shrugs and pulls a caricature of sympathy on like a mask, dripping just the edge of condescension into his tone. "I mean, they've got you in line to play husband for, what, a Vanderbilt? A Rockefeller? And here you are with your legs spread for a Hunnicutt from California. But they've got it all wrong." As BJ looms over him, he takes Charles by the jaw again and watches with a thrill as his mouth falls open. "You rich types, you're lucky to get an heir at all. You never mix it up, you know? Never bring in any new blood. It's just the same tired gene pool, the same old story, and it's gonna make all your fancy names die out one day.

"See..." BJ leans closer, thumbs over his bottom lip, watches a rare sheen begin to form on Charles's distinguished brow. "...it's guys like me who make it happen. Filthy little rats with names nobody'll ever remember." And as he carefully shifts his hips, he aligns their cocks—lets his own obscure Charles's more modest length—but he makes very sure to let the weight of his sack drag along Charles's sensitive base, and when the man beneath him sucks in a shaky breath, BJ knows he has him, hook, line, and sinker. "I'm not even gonna have to try to breed you. The second I'm filling you up, it's a done deal, darling. Yeah, you'll get your baby. But there's not a ballroom in all of Boston that'll let her debut. So the way I see it, you're about to be the luckiest girl around." BJ can feel his smirk go toothy, his eyes sparking, as he settles the full weight of his broad body over Charles's soft and round figure. "I'm about to give you your ticket out of there."

It must hit like a truck with the way that Charles suddenly groans and writhes under him, his mouth closing around BJ's thumb so he can press his teeth into it just at the edge of pain. Yeah, no, that's exactly what BJ thought. Maybe he likes the money, the staff, all those perks, but they both know that high society's got more rules tacked on than the whole goddamn Army. From what BJ's heard, one Winchester has already found her a few doorways out of the hellscape. Maybe Charles needs a little more time to make his own—but maybe helping him burn off a little of that tension won't hurt either.

"Shh, shh, it's all right." He pushes his thumb in further and doesn't try to hide his deep moan when Charles gives it the tiniest suck. It seems like it might've been instinctive—Charles freezes and blinks—but as BJ gives another quick thrust, he flushes and sucks harder. "I'll take care of everything. You've got one job: just lay back and take my cock." As Charles thrashes again with a small, pitiful sound, BJ sits back so he can align himself with his target. "No, c'mon, sweetheart, spread them like I know you want to." He's a little rougher than he means to be when he sinks his fingers into Charles's thighs and pushes them open, but the sight of Charles dripping arousal onto his stomach only kicks up his excitement another notch. "You don't need to play cute with me. You've been waiting for some no-good fella to knock you up for years now."

"H-Hunnicutt, y-you..." Though he tries his best, Charles only stammers wordlessly after that, the reverberations alternating between pinched and trembling.

He tracks it, then, how Charles is stabbing his nails back into his body. That won't do at all. This is a game, not a punishment. Before he can second guess the urge, BJ redirects Charles's legs toward his chest instead. "Here, gimme your hands. Need you to hold your legs out of the way for me, all right?" Though he's not sure Charles is even tracking specifically what he's saying, those soft and lovely fingers are offered to him all the same, and BJ leans down, kisses both palms, then guides him to pull his knees back as far as they can comfortably go. It's the doctor in BJ that makes him skim down his hamstrings, just a quick feel to make sure he isn't straining his biceps femoris or semitendinosus on either side. Only when he's satisfied does he cup the base of his own cock.

"That's it," he coos. Honestly, he expects Charles to clamp down when he feels BJ's tip rubbing against his hole—rejecting his body one last time before giving in—but he doesn't. No, he relaxes further, like he's trying to suck him inside. "God..." Charles wants him. Really wants him.

He has to take a breath and shake the shock out of his head before he's too overwhelmed by the fresh surge of desire.

With a groan, BJ begins to ease carefully in. "C'mon, let me in... Juuuust like that... Fuck, Winchester." The surname comes first, tastes filthy on his tongue. There isn't a universe in existence where this should be happening, yet here they are, Charles gasping and staring up at him with wild eyes, BJ fighting not to bite a hole through his lip as he represses the urge to sheath himself with one thrust. "Oh, you needed this, didn't you? You just need somebody...to take it all away."

Confusion drifts across Charles's face like a cloud. BJ watches it carefully, prepared to pull back. But miraculously it passes by, and in its wake, Charles furrows his brow and arches experimentally, taking him in deeper. He groans and squeezes around BJ's length for the first time, a fiery pulse of ecstasy that has BJ doubling over and catching himself on Charles's shoulders. "Hunnicutt, I-I want..." They lock eyes, searing blue on blue. "Don't... Don't take it easy on me. Do you understand?"

He's hit with such a spike of arousal that he curls tighter with a long, shivering groan. "You don't wanna be a delicate flower, Winchester?" BJ teases breathily.

"Not on your life," Charles grits out.

BJ grins as he catches his gaze one more time. "You're right. I haven't forgotten. You're good..." He bucks a little deeper. "...hardy..." Another thrust, further still. "...breeding stock." One last push crushes his pelvis against Charles's ass, and BJ hums in appreciation as he cups his cheeks in both hands and gives them a squeeze. He's stretched obscenely around BJ's cock, but all the same, he fits him just right. No straining, no swelling that's suggesting any kind of damage from rough treatment.

He makes a mental note to check him over again once he's finished fucking the hell out of him.

Since he needs to make sure they both have a moment to really adjust, BJ looks over the rest of his body, the gorgeous shape of him, soft folds here, a more solid swell there. When he gets caught on Charles's pectorals, he figures why not, then grabs one none too gently. "Mm, these are gonna be so fucking pretty. Nice and big. They get more sensitive as they start filling up, you know that?" As he thumbs over his nipple, an almost startled whine come out of Charles as it hardens, and BJ grins. "Maybe I'll come by and check on them every day. See how they're growing. And don't worry if they start feeling sore." It's curiosity that has BJ pinching and rolling it between his fingers, but the way Charles white-knuckles the edge of his cot while he gasps tells a beautifully evocative story all the same. "A nice, hot mouth'll take care of that. And I'll make plenty of time for you."

"If you don't...fuck me..." The words sound as though Charles is fighting against God himself to find them. "Hunnicutt, I-I will not appreciate it if you draw this out much longer."

For the first time, BJ's taken aback. Has he misread all of this? Sure, the man underneath him is hard enough that he's dripping yet another bead onto the slick pool on his stomach, but that doesn't mean a damn thing, does it? Just physiological. BJ plants a hand right by Charles's head and leans down. "You done playing, Charles?" he asks softly as though there's an audience to hear and make Charles feel humiliated.

Charles wrinkles his brow one more time. "Not on your life, Beej." But try as he might, the way he murmurs that nickname only makes BJ want to kiss him. "If you—" He cuts off abruptly as he glances over the shape of BJ. There's a clear appreciative gleam in his eyes as he skims over his shoulders, his arms, and BJ bites his bottom lip with a smile and fights not to flex for him. He fought hard to find a little humility while he was in medical school, but his jock side never lost it. "I am merely suggesting...that I'd rather you have me while I am still able to enjoy it."

BJ blinks a few times. Glances between them. Charles's cock is curved far enough that it is, in fact, sticking to his own stomach now.

"You did need it," BJ murmurs with a certain degree of stunned delight. When he meets his gaze now, he feels like a scamp, like he's getting away with breaking all the rules somehow, having everything he was never supposed to. "Okay. Okay, yeah, Winchester. You want me to make it good for you before I knock you up?" He sits tall on his knees to the sound of Charles's first murmuring moan, pulls out and pushes back inside with experimental force to charm out the second one. "I guess I can do that."

It doesn't take long for BJ to realize that Charles, whether he's taken it in the ass before or not, is in fact not kidding when he said that he doesn't want to be treated gently. Only a few thrusts later, Charles is reaching for BJ's hips and yanking at him. It's enthralling. He can't remember the last time someone this unexpected needed BJ to ruin them.

"Mmm..." BJ lets his eyes fall shut and his lips part as he gets a little lost in the rawness of this kind of sex. With Hawk, sure, they get a little primal sometimes, but it's always tinged with a startling amount of intimacy as though they're trading souls for a short while, trusting the other to put them back where they started rather than letting them be lost at sea. But this is different. It's not casual, exactly—Charles is far more than a colleague, most certainly a friend, and ultimately is someone who BJ can't really imagine a future away from forever. But it's less overwhelming than it ever has been with Peggy, with Hawkeye. Somehow there's less to worry about here.

It's a vital moment of connection. He wouldn't want to play like this with anyone in camp but the two people who live in this very tent. But it's also just...oddly reaffirming of their friendship. A little fun that's a lot closer to the chest than it would be if it didn't mean anything.

As BJ brings himself back into the present, out of the lush waves of physical pleasure and the sparking playfulness that overlays it, he puts his hands on Charles's thighs and lets his bunkie's fall away. "You feel so fucking good, you know that?" BJ purrs. "You were made for this. Made to take cock and be bred. No wonder you're such a pampered thing."

"Ohh..." Charles's flush has spread all the way down his neck and into his chest, a lovely bloom to match the heat right under BJ's skin.

He gets lost just then in watching how Charles's body moves under him. "Gorgeous," he breathes. He's so—

"For God's sake, Hunnicutt," Charles gasps out, stabilizing himself with a hand on the bar above his pillow, rolling his hips down to meet him in the middle with a sense of desperation. "Harder, harder, don't let up now."

The commands are the closest thing he thinks he'll ever get to begging from Charles, and that fact undoes him, practically blisters his brain. "Fuck, Winchester..." He quickly renegotiates the space, shoving the pillow a little further up with his knee, then opening him up as wide as he can with that firm grip on his thighs. His jaw clenches. As he rises to the call with a punishing pace, his muscles begin to burn in a pain that's sweeter than any sprint has ever given him. "You're taking me so deep." When he flicks his eyes up, he zeroes in on how Charles is bouncing with the force of his thrusts, the way that his mouth's gone slack. "You feel it, doncha?" BJ bites his bottom lip, pounds him so his balls are slapping against his skin. "Feel how much I've got, mmnh, to pump you full of? Think you've got room inside you for every fucking drop?"

Charles lets out an almost frantic whine, his hand snapping between them to find his cock and strip it, matching BJ's rhythm.

"Yeah, that's it, that's it," BJ coos. "Oh, you can't wait for it, huh? No, you've gotta milk me dry when you come, is that it?"

Charles's noises border on overwhelm, and if this was any other person, any other situation, BJ would pull back and check in, but this is what he needs, it's what both of them need, practically ripping the skin off their bones with how hard they take this.

BJ stares unblinkingly, painfully, right at Charles's hand, finding growls breaking free from his own chest as a visceral way to stay focused, not slow down. It pays off. The moment he thinks his body's about to cramp up, Charles gasps, throws his head back, and comes with a shocked cry.

"Fuck, that's it. Fuck, Charles." It's intoxicating somehow, watching this man make himself absolutely filthy, jet after jet streaking his body. He's not even sure where the words that bubble up are coming from. "That's right, waste it, you don't need it, I'll take care of everything, darling, you just... Nnh, fuck!" He didn't plan it, not even for the illusion of what they're playing at, but as he explodes inside of him, BJ buries his cock as deep as he can go, even grabs his hips in a bruising hold so he can push him into the tightest ball possible. He's absolutely shameless, grunting out raw, animalistic sounds as he ruts against his ass.

And then he does feel the twinge in his leg, and just like that, down he collapses.

"Hunnicutt!" Charles bellows at the top of his lungs. "You—" He tries to push BJ away, then trembles from head to toe and goes limp instead.

"Just gimme a sec." BJ fights to catch his breath. While he fumbles behind himself to find the back of his thigh and massage his hamstrings, it takes him a moment to realize Charles is still shivering. He's buried his face in BJ's neck and, what's more, he's the one rutting right there against BJ's abdomen. He chuckles. But when Charles stiffens, BJ's quick to murmur. "Y'know, that's a hell of a compliment, what you're doing right now. That was really something, wasn't it?"

Little by little, the tension in Charles's body melts away one last time. "It was...quite educational."

BJ rolls his eyes. A ringing endorsement.

"Perhaps we might..."

It feels like he might've gotten away with not cramping up. BJ hums contently as he comes up on his elbows and looks down at Charles with a sated smile. "Might what?"

Charles clears his throat. He tentatively meets BJ's eyes, then looks away immediately. "You did say that Pierce is...nearby, did you not?"

Realization comes in like a fresh, spring breeze. BJ's eyebrows raise as he reaches between them and rests his palm on Charles's sticky belly. "Y'know, I haven't fucked him yet today. He hasn't come in at least twenty-four hours." When Charles trembles once more, BJ's grin spreads wide enough to hurt. "Mmm, Winchester...you're right. It really would be a shame to leave a job half-done."

[everythingpresley]

Don't You Kiss Me Once or Twice - Chapter 21

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Prompt: Jessica Anderson is Elvis Presley's assistant and after months of working together, slowly something sparks between them. Friendship? Or is it more? [ Fem!Reader ]

Rating: Explicit/Mature (NSFW, 18+), Slowburn

    ||     Word Count: 5,251

Masterlist

Don't You Kiss Me Once or Twice - Chapter 21

Two months later

I pour some coffee into my work mug as I stood in the little break room of our office. I had my hair in a little half up half down style dressed in my pencil skirt, blouse and blazer. Two months ago it felt odd to go back to wearing corporate clothes, it seemed slightly foreign after two years of not wearing them. I had some of my old ones but chose to buy new suits for my new job. I thankfully got the job and didn’t have to move back in with my parents. I had to cut down on some of the things since I blew my money on the apartment lease and furniture. My apartment was fine and it wasn’t in the best neighborhood but it was good enough. I had a pretty good kitchen and in house washer and dryer, it was a compromise I was willing to take. Also, it was a fifteen minute walk to work. So… good enough. Actually it wasn’t just good enough, it was great! 

Did I miss Graceland? Yes. Did I miss going out for a walk around the huge acres of land? Of course. I really missed the horses too. 

My parents and siblings were very happy to see me put my bachelor’s degree back in use that they all pitched in and bought me a TV. I was sick and tired of having only books and magazines as my source for entertainment that when it was finally delivered to my apartment I ordered McDonalds. I chose to go for the McChicken rather than the cheeseburger, I wasn’t ready to have that just yet. I turned on the TV and just watched movies all night while stuffing my mouth with fries.

I was thankful that I always kept a little of my money on the side as savings. Working for the man who shall not be named had it’s perks since I barely spent a dime living under his roof. The money that wasn’t going into my savings account went to Ella’s school. However, after signing the lease and getting cheap second hand furniture except for the mattress of course I had barely anything left in my bank account. Thankfully the first month of work flew by and I got my first paycheck. I made some friends at work but I couldn't bring myself to go out sometimes. 

The first two months in New York were filled with excitement of getting the job I’ve always dreamed off and tears because of a certain someone. 

After two months I realized this is what I worked for my entire life and now that I was here it wasn’t what I was expecting. Especially after making my mind up and choosing to be with him. To stay with him. I realized he was my dream. But now that was shattered. I still wanted him even after the words he threw at me. He killed my soul. I don’t think I’ll be okay for a long time. It will take some time to get over him. Elvis. 

Just thinking of his name instantly brought tears to my eyes in the break room. Fuck him. I blinked back the tears and walked back to my desk. I clicked on my keyboard, springing the computer back to life and typed in my password. 

I still talked to Grace, Janice and Jerry a lot. Those three were a constant in my life. I cried to Grace a lot the first night I got here. She was mad, I could tell from the tone of her voice but she let me vent, she let me speak the entire time. I was sobbing hysterically into the phone and she stayed with me for hours on the phone. 

The next time we talked, when I had actually calmed down, she told me what she thought. She cussed him out and did not believe a single word he told me.  I made it a point to not ask about him even though my heart pounded in my chest whenever we were about to end a call, I wanted to ask about him. I wanted to ask how he was doing. But why do I care so much? He only broke my heart and destroyed me. He left me in pieces. The last two months have been so painful, I hated him. But I still love him. 

I didn’t want to think about the possibility of him having a new girl now or a new assistant. He probably had no care in the world and was sleeping with a different girl each night since I left. Do I even cross his mind? After everything we’ve gone through together I sure hope so. He crosses my mind every second. I have to fight my brain to not think about him. Instead I try thinking about garbage, beer, medium rare steaks, soft boiled eggs, all of the things he hates but I end up thinking about him anyway. 

“Hi Jess.” Ben, my coworker said as he leaned against my desk. He was handsome, blue eyes but more ice-y than Elvis’ and sandy blond hair.

“Hey Ben.” I smiled back.

“A bunch of us are going to the bar a few blocks from here after work. Will you join us?” He asked.

I gulped, this would take time from my going home to my apartment, turning on a romcom and sobbing hysterically at the cute little moments. Do I want to sit at home and cry the night away or drink and make friends with my new coworkers? 

“Sure!” I smiled brightly “Would love to join.”

“Great, see you at 5.” He winked and left to go back to his desk. 

Grace was really trying to push me to go out and get back into the dating scene. I couldn’t. Not for a very long time. 

Our first conversation after I cried my eyes out went like this:

“Screw that asshole! I’m gonna give him a piece of my mind! I’m gonna punch his stupid face in! God!” She yelled over the phone.

“Relax Grace, he’s your husband’s friend and boss. You can’t do anything.” I reminded her.

“Yeah I know! That’s why I’ve been avoiding going to Graceland or else I’ll do something really bad!” She growled. 

She refused for a while to go to Graceland but I told her it was fine. She should go and bond with the other wives and have fun. When she started going to Graceland again, it made me want to ask about Elvis even more especially since she wasn’t talking about him at all.

She never told me if she did end up giving him a piece of her mind. When it came to Grace I knew she probably said something because she can’t keep her mouth shut even if she tried. Bless her. I love Grace. 

I was thriving in my new job I loved it but I realized it wasn’t my dream anymore. But it’s okay, I’m still young and dreams can change. I hated that I allowed my mind to wander to Elvis. Him being my husband, the father of my kids, us growing old together. I realized during the four months we were together my dreams had shifted to that. It made the hole in my heart feel even bigger than it already was. I can’t believe my dream had shifted from being a career driven woman to a wife, a mother. I wanted that. But only with him. Never with any other guy. My career always came first.

I looked out of our floor to celling windows, looking out at the city. This city. I love New York, I love being in the city. This view was everything. Every romcom was filmed in this city, it made me fall in love with New York even more. 

Still even after two months, whenever I was alone I would retrace everything that happened that night. What led Elvis to say those words, to end things. I never expected it. Was my head so up in the clouds that my brain refused to realize that Elvis wasn’t on the same level as me? 

Love clouded my judgment. 

At 5 PM sharp Ben walked over to the elevators with his work bag slung over his shoulder. He turned and made eye contact with me before smiling and nodding his head towards the elevator. I nodded and packed my things before following him into the elevator.

We met up with the rest down stairs. Haley from legal, Sara, another consultant (one of us) and Nate also from legal. I hadn’t met Haley nor Nate before so I was excited to be making more friends in the city. It was kind of lonely in the beginning. They seemed nice. Usually people from legal were boring but these two were very funny and sweet. 

We went for some drinks, my drink of choice of course being a virgin Pina Colada. Everything reminds me of him. However, I didn’t let that put a damper on my mood. I got to know everyone a little better and I actually had fun. They didn’t know about my pervious relationship, my heartbreak  and they didn't have to. I got to pretend to be the old Jess. The one before Elvis.

“So..” Haley wiggled her brows at me as we all sat around the booth in this fairly empty bar. It was a weekday at 6PM so of course the bar was filled with corporate people “Any boyfriends? Or girlfriends?” She looked at me.

My heart clenched in my chest but I smiled regardless “Nope. No boyfriends or girlfriends and not anytime soon anyway.” 

“Ohhh fresh off the boat?” Sara asked.

“You could say that.” I chuckled “I’m in a new place, a new job, meeting new people. I need to enjoy this time of my life without being in a relationship… or a situation-ship.” 

They all chuckled, getting my drift. I didn't want to talk about it. 

“Hey I’ll cheers to that!” Nate cheered “I just got out of a 5 year relationship, she cheated on me!”

We all cheered but when we heard the last sentence we all went “Oh.” mid cheers, our drinks in the air.

“No, it’s okay! I’m totally fine.” Nate said trying to give us a bright smile.

“I’m sorry Nate.” I said and squeezed his shoulder. 

“Thank you.” He gave me a small smile. 

Cheating really grinds my gears. I don’t understand it and I never will. Why destroy a person you claim to love? Why keep them on the back burner when you’re out messing with someone else. Just end the relationship or work on it if you’re feeling distant. 

I know Elvis was the cheating type so I had my restrictions at the beginning when it came to him. But he showed me time and time again that he only wanted me. Only for that to explode in my face a few months later. He truly made me believe every word he whispered in my ear late at night. All those little kisses and cuddles. The way his eyes would shine brightly when he’d look down at me with such adoration and earnest. He didn’t cheat on me but he made me feel like I was nothing. 

I wanted to give Nate a hug but I don’t really know the guy and he’s a colleague so that would be weird and awkward. He seemed like a genuinely nice guy. I wanted to hug him because I wish someone was there to hug me when everything unraveled with Elvis. I didn’t have anyone in New York to cry on, yes I cried to Grace on the phone but I wanted (needed actually) someone to just hold me while I cried. And I hoped Nate had someone to cry on. 

I invited them over on Saturday because I really liked them, they seemed like genuinely nice people. 

“Just an FYI my apartment is tiny.” I informed them. I had a small open living room / kitchen area and a small bedroom and bathroom. 

“It’s okay, we all live in shoebox apartments.” Sara waved me off. 

“It’s New York! People who don’t live in shoebox apartments either have rich parents or are old rich people.” Ben joked. 

I got back to my apartment just in time to hear my landline ringing.

“Hello.” I answered. 

“Hey! You sound happy!” Grace said cheerfully. 

“I am. I made some new friends at work and they’re really nice!” I grinned, leaning against the kitchen counter since my landline was on the kitchen counter. 

“That’s great Jess.” She said softly. I could imagine her with little smile on her face “Are you feeling like you’ll stay there for a while?”

“Um.” I sighed “I don’t know. Maybe this wasn’t meant to be but hey I’m trying it out.”

“After getting to know you for the past two years I don’t see you as a city girl.” She chuckled.

“Yeah I also realized this. I’d rather live in the country side and every once in a while come to visit the city because at the same time I love New York.” 

“Sorry to say but you’re one of us now!” Grace giggled.

After a beat, I asked the dreaded question. I didn’t know anything about him for the past 2 months. 

“How is he?” I asked, my voice barely above whisper. Like it was a forbidden question to be asked. 

“Honestly?” She asked.

“Yes. Don’t give me a bullshit answer how he misses me or whatever the hell.”

“Jess.” She sighed “He does miss you.”

“Grace.” I shook my head, looking out at my living room “Please. If he’s happy and he’s seeing some new girl, just tell me.”

“I swear Jess. I-I don’t know how to explain it but I think he’s miserable.”

I gulped, tears springing to my eyes. I didn’t believe her. I wish it was true. I wish he’s crying regretting ever letting me go. Crying because he misses me just as much as I miss him. Crying like I cried the past two months, in absolute misery. 

Am I a bad person to want him to feel just as miserable as I do?

“He’s sad and very quiet.”

“He was sad before I left. I don’t think that has anything to do with me.” I reminded her. 

“No Jess. Even when I went off at him a few weeks ago he just… let me. He didn’t say anything and when Jerry tried to stop me, Elvis told him not to. I actually felt slightly terrible for saying the things I said to him.” Grace continued. 

I shook my head, looking up at the ceiling and blinking back my tears. 

“I-I don’t know.” I sighed “I shouldn't have asked about him.”

“Are you happy?” She asked me after a bit.

“Happy?” I chuckled, with no humor whatsoever “What’s happy?”

“Jess.” She said sadly.

“I’m okay Grace. Happy is too big of a word right now. Yes, I do have happy moments and I’m living for those right now. Overall? I don’t know.” 

“You deserve to be happy, Jess.”

I smiled and nodded “Thank you. And I will be.”

“I have to tell you something also.” Grace said.

“What?” I asked, panic bubbling in my stomach. 

“No, it’s good!” She laughed “I’m pregnant!”

“No way!” I yelled and jumped up “Grace! Oh my god! I’m so happy for you!” I was now crying happy tears, knowing that they’ve been trying to get pregnant for a while.

“Thank you. Don’t cry!” She scolded but I could tell she was also crying with me. 

“Okay, now I’m actually happy.” I chuckled “Oh Grace, please tell Jerry I say congratulations and that I’m gonna be the best Aunt to that little munchkin.”

“Will do.” She chuckled “Happy moment?” 

“Very happy moment, Grace.” I was grinning from ear to ear. 

I was so excited to be hosting people to my tiny apartment. I went shopping for snacks and drinks. I got a bottle of wine, chips, chocolate, cheese, crackers and meat for a cheeseboard and then we could order pizza for dinner. 

Early Saturday morning was filled with me bouncing around my apartment, clearing the kitchen from the different papers from work, books thrown haphazardly over my coffee table. 

I’d been so busy the entire day, cleaning and genuinely excited to be seeing them even though I saw them yesterday at work. I was so busy that Elvis only crossed my mind once. Only when I passed the drinks isle and saw Pepsi bottles. 

The conversation I had with Grace on Thursday still lingered in my mind though. Elvis being sad. I didn’t believe it but I know Grace and she wouldn’t lie to me just to tell me something I would like to hear. I felt so selfish to want him to hurt like I hurt. I wanted to be the more mature, bigger person who wishes the person they love is happy. Of course I want him to be happy. I will always care about him but he hurt me so bad, I wanted him to feel even 20% of what I felt when he broke my heart in pieces. 

Why would he be sad though? He ended it. He told me I was convenient and pathetic for wanting someone who didn't want me. 

I got dressed into some jeans, a white button down long sleeve, tucking it into my jeans and put a white headband on my dark hair. 

Slowly everyone trickled in, the girls showing up first and the guys later. They brought beer and more chips with them. Sara brought cookies. I was liking them more already. Food is really the way to my heart. 

We sat around the talked, getting to know each other more. 

“Am I getting old or what, because I prefer this over going to a bar.” I joked “Except if its a honky tonk.” I said without thinking, instantly causing my smile to falter. It reminded me of Elvis. Damn this man. 

“You like honky tonks?” Ben laughed.

“Love em!” I chuckled, trying not to put a damper on the mood. 

“Was it something you used to do with the ex?” Haley asked.

“Why do you ask?” I chuckled awkwardly.

“You got that look on your face.” Sara added.

“Yeah, it was something we used to do together. It was so much fun.” I said. 

“But yeah! I totally agree! We’re definitely getting old and loud places are just not as fun.” Haley replied. 

As the night went on, we decided to order pizza and watch a movie. I heard a knock on the door and I quickly jumped up from the couch, I was filling up on snacks so I couldn’t wait for the pizza to get here, chips and chocolate was making me sick and I couldn’t control myself. Although greasy pizza is bound to make me feel even more sick.

They continued talking as I dashed into my bedroom to get cash and then went over to the door. I don’t swing the door fully open just in case. I did live in a sketchy neighborhood and I always made some scenarios up in my mind of people dressing up as delivery guys before bursting into your house and murdering you. I kept the deadbolt on and pulled the door open. 

“Hi.” I smiled and then quickly shut the door. I placed a hand on my chest, my eyes wide. I felt like I was about to puke. I reached for the deadbolt and removed it quickly before opening the door and walking out into the hallway, shutting the door behind me.

“Elvis?” I asked quietly. My heart beating out of my chest. 

Was I dreaming? What the heck is Elvis Presley doing standing in the hallway of my apartment complex. Here he was, looking like a dream as usual. Screw him for being the most beautiful man on the planet. His dark hair was pushed back, he seemed paler than usual but he stood tall. He was dressed in black pants and dark green button down. My eyes were wide in confusion. 

His eyes were glassy “Hi.” He whispered. The corners of his mouth turning down slightly, his lower lip trembled slightly. It’s as if just seeing me brought instant tears to his eyes.

“What-” I let out an audible breath “What are you doing here?”

“I missed you.” He whispered, taking a step forward.

I scoffed and took a step back “No. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to show up here two months later claiming you miss me. Cut the crap, Elvis.”

“But I did. I do miss you.” He gulped.

I scoffed again, shaking my head, looking down the hall to make sure no one was just standing around watching us.

“Jess!” I heard Ben’s voice shout from inside the apartment “Are you okay? What’s taking so long?”

Shit. I quickly opened the door and peaked my head in “I’m fine, it’s not the pizza. Give me a second.” 

Ben gave me a thumbs up before I shut the door again and faced Elvis who now had a panicked look on his face, his eyes wide and his jaw slack. 

“Who-who was that?” He asked, his face morphing into something of heartbreak.

“No one.” I said with a clenched jaw.

“A-Are you seeing someone?” He whispered.

“None of your business.” I was getting really pissed off because who the heck does he think he is, showing up here and being upset that I could possibly be with someone else after he dumped me. 

“Oh my god.” He whispered, a placed a hand over his chest, his eyes getting even wider. He gulped and pulled on his collar as if it was suffocating him. He took a loud breath, turning away from me and leaning his head against the wall “I can’t breathe.” He choked out. 

Shit. I reached for his shoulder and pulled him to face me “What’s happening right now?” I asked, I cupped his cheek and looked into his eyes.

“I can’t-“ He was trying to take deep breaths but was failing. And I started to panic.

“Come on, let’s get you outside.” I said and quickly pulled him down the hallway and down the stairs, out onto the street. 

“Hey.” I cupped his cheeks with both of my hands. He placed his hands above mine “Breathe please. Follow my lead. In.” I took a deep breath, Elvis copying me “Out.” And we did that several times before he visibly relaxed.

“Are you okay?” I asked, rubbing my thumb over his cheek. I missed him so much. I missed holding him like this. 

“No.” He said quietly. His eyes looking directly into mine.

“I’m not seeing him. I’m not seeing anyone.” I told him. He leaned his forehead against mine and I let him for a second. I closed my eyes, I missed this closeness with him and only him. 

I let myself get lost in his touch before I remembered the words he had thrown at me two months ago, it doused me like ice cold water. I sighed and pulled away from him. He eyes snapped open and once again he gave me those puppy dog eyes when he was looking for forgiveness. 

“Why is he in your apartment?” He asked.

“You have no right to ask me that.” I reminded him before walking up the steps that lead to the small lobby of the apartment complex “And it’s not just him, it’s a group of colleagues. Girls are there too.” 

“Jess. Please don’t go.” Elvis said and grabbed my hand. 

I turned towards him and shook my head “You need to go Elvis. You’ve hurt me enough. Please leave me alone.” I whispered. 

“I’m so sorry.” He whispered, his eyes getting glassy once again. 

I pulled my hand out his grasp and continued walking before I turned around to face him “How did you know where I live?” 

“I can’t say.” He gulped, avoiding my eyes. 

Was it Grace or Jerry? They’re the only people in Elvis’ circle who knew where I lived. Grace wouldn’t say anything though, would she?

“Wait! You forgot these at the house.” He said and pulled an envelope from his back pocket.

“What’s that?” I asked, confused. I checked every drawer and nook and cranny a million times before I left, there's no way I forgot something.

“You left our photos in the drawer and I also got the pictures from Hawaii developed.” He said. 

I clenched my jaw, narrowing my eyes at him “I left them on purpose. I don’t want them.”

“Why?” He whispered “Do you want to forget we ever happened?” His voice wavering as he spoke.

“Yes, Elvis. I want to forget we ever happened.” I gulped, tears springing to my eyes. I wanted to forget that we ever happened because the pain of it all was too strong. 

His face was so hurt, as if I was the one that ended it. As if I was breaking his heart right now “Jess.” He said, his lower lip trembling, his eyes mimicked mine and filled with tears and sorrow.

”In fact I want to erase the past two years out of my memory.” I said, my voice cracking slightly “And you don’t get to come here like an injured little puppy, like I was the one that hurt you.”

It pissed me off that he would show up here and act like he didn’t break me, giving me those eyes when he knows he fucked up and is looking for forgiveness. I don't think I can ever forgive the words he said. Those words ran through my mind all the time. 

Pathetic. Convenient. Desperate. 

They haunted me before falling asleep and they haunted me in my dreams.

“Don’t come back here, Elvis. I don’t want to see you again.” I said as a tear slipped out of my eye and rolled down my cheek before I finally went back in. That was a complete lie, my heart did not want that but I let my brain take the wheel this time. My heart did enough damage to itself. 

I wanted to get into bed and cry. Instead I took a deep breath, leaning my head against the wall, closing my eyes for a second. Then I wiped my tears and forcibly plastered a smile on my face before walking back into my apartment and pretended I was fine until they left. That’s when I allowed myself to cry again over him, like I do almost every night. But this time it was different. It hurt seeing him. It still didn't register in my mind that I actually saw him today after two months, that I touched him, that my lips were a few inches away from his lips. It hurt to see him hurt. I thought I would feel better if I knew he was hurting like me. Why was he hurting? He had a full blown panic attack at the thought that I had moved on with someone else. 

I fell asleep while crying, I decided to stay at home on Sunday and just sit around my apartment. I know I should go out and go for a walk but I was scared that Elvis was outside and at the same time I was hoping he was still outside. I just chose to not find out if he’s still here or if he went back to Memphis. I had a day in, I baked some cookies and watched movies. Really just took a day for myself. Opened up the windows and sun bathed in my living room. Also a bonus of this apartment, I got direct sunlight. 

The next day I got up super early, made myself some breakfast and coffee. I put some music on and got ready for work. I hated Monday mornings but starting your day right definitely helped.

I swung my bag over my shoulder, dressed in a matching sage green pencil skirt and blazer and a white button down. I had my hair down and pushed back by a headband. I locked my door and headed down stairs and out onto the street.

“Good morning.” 

I turned, my face scrunched up in confusion “You’re still here?” I asked when I spotted Elvis leaning against a pole.

“Yeah and I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.” He said.

I scoffed and shook my head at him “What do you think you’re doing Elvis?”

“I got you coffee.” He said and moved towards me, he had two take away cups of coffee and handed me one. 

“I don’t want coffee.” I grumbled, hating my heart for beating faster and the butterflies that erupted in my stomach at the fact that he was still here. He didn’t leave. I hated myself right now. 

“Take it Jess.” He said.

I frowned and took it from him, turning to walk down the street towards my job. I heard his footsteps following along “What are you doing?” I asked turning my head to see him walking behind me.

“Walking you to work.” He replied. 

“Don’t bother.” I grumbled and as I passed a trash bin, I threw the coffee he gave me. 

Was I being petty? Yes. 100%. Did I care? Not really. 

The same thing happened when I got back from work 8 hours later. Elvis was still standing there. I rolled my eyes and passed him to get into my building, pretending like he wasn’t there leaning against the lamp post like he did earlier.

“I’m gonna stay here no matter how long it takes.” He said when I walked past him “If it takes weeks, months or years. I’ll be here.” 

I bit my lip and pushed the door open, walking into my building. He didn't follow me, he stayed outside. He was respecting my boundary at least. 

I unlocked my door and walked into my apartment to see a dozen bouquet of flowers in vases covering my floor. My jaw dropped at the amount of sunflowers that covered my living room and kitchen. My favorite flowers. How the heck did he put them inside? 

I frowned and opened the window, peeking my head through the window to look down at him. I was only two stories up.

“How the heck did you get into my apartment?” I called out with a frown on my face. Forget about respecting my boundaries. 

“I’m Elvis Presley.” He called out, grinning as he looked up at me. That damn shit eating grin on his face pissed me off.

I huffed through my nose, shaking my head at him “You’re an asshole.” I said and took one of the bouquets out of the vase and chucked it out of the window, aiming at him. 

“Hey! At least I didn’t stay in there!” He said, dodging the flowers. I kept the rest because they were too pretty to throw away “I could've stayed in there and surprised you!”

“Oh thank you so much for that consideration! I am so thankful!” I said sarcastically.

“At least you’re talking to me, I’m taking whatever I can get.” He shrugged.

I huffed again and slammed the window shut. 

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[joecooperzz]

dogtooth (joe cooper x jenna reed smut) (18+)

Content: Sub!Coop, oral (f! receiving), cumming untouched, hair pulling, praise kink

Word count: 1,938

Title from "Dogtooth" by Tyler the Creator because that's it, that's the fic.

-

The first thing on Coop's mind is how nice the sheets are. He's spent too many nights on the same flat, dumpy mattress, box springs digging into his back, old dingy sheets beneath him. 

But Jenna has a queen-sized mattress and silk sheets that smell vaguely like her perfume. It's all he can do not to bury his face in them and just inhale deeply, trying to breathe in every trace of her. 

She makes him so pathetic. 

He knows she's just on the other side of the bathroom door. She promised she'd return as soon as she freshened up. He hears the running of the faucet, her absentminded humming, the faint hiss of a hairspray bottle. He knows she'll join him in bed at any moment, and yet impatience still stirs deep within him. 

The way he feels about her is a physical hunger. He needs her, — intensely, urgently, immediately. Any bit of herself she might offer him, he will happily take, — though he knows that he will always want more afterwards. It's the strangest feeling, — some pleasurable purgatory, the most divine sensation, but never enough of it. 

The door cracks open with a waft of a sweet, crisp fragrance, and his head snaps up in some sort of fucked-up Pavlovian response. 

The smile she gives him as she approaches the bed melts his insides. 

She looks fucking ethereal. 

Long auburn hair, soft and freshly-washed, hanging down her back in waves. Her face, free of makeup and rosy from the warm water. A little black slip that leaves hardly anything to the imagination, revealing an endless, riveting expanse of soft, tan skin. The most breathtaking smile he's ever seen. 

He practically chokes as she settles into bed beside him. “Holy fucking shit,” he squeaks out inelegantly. 

Luckily for him, Jenna just laughs at his stupidity. She expects it by now. “Yeah?” she softly presses him to elaborate. 

“Yeah. I mean…” He clears his throat. Weak , he thinks to himself as he tries to gather his thoughts and spit out something coherent. 

“Look at you,” he finally breathes before his hand comes to rest gently on the back of her neck, pulling her down to meet his lips. 

Immediately, she moans into his mouth, eyes fluttering closed. She tastes minty, like toothpaste, with a faint hint of vanilla from her lip balm. It's so perfect, so her. Coop wants to drown in it. 

He pulls back, grabbing her by the hips. He pants as he looks up at her, pupils blown wide. 

She smiles down at him. A sharp edge rests beneath her usual gentleness as she reaches down to cup his face. 

“What do you want?” she purrs. 

Without hesitation, Coop gives a reply. “Whatever you do.”

Jenna audibly moans at this. He chooses to take that as a good sign. 

His hunch is confirmed as she leans down to kiss him again, harder and hungrier this time. One thing he never expected about her, but was pleased to learn: she can be rough. 

She pulls back, panting. “Fuck…” She straddles him, her aching core positioned just above his thigh.

“Need to sit on your face,” she breathes. 

Coop's eyes go wide, his breath hitching as his heart begins to hammer in his chest. “Okay, fuck, yeah,” he says before lifting her hips and pulling her up towards him. She gives a delighted yelp as he stops pulling, leaving her hovering just above his face. 

He huffs out a stuttering breath as he sees that she's bare beneath her slip. Not to mention dripping wet, — a condition he can hardly believe any woman is in because of him, much less one as beautiful as her. 

Denslow Cup winner or not, he really is the luckiest motherfucker alive. 

“Shit, Jen,” he murmurs incredulously, running his finger across her slit. 

She moans, shivering slightly above him. “Don't tease,” she warns him. 

He hums an agreement before tugging on her hips, pulling her down. She huffs out a gasping laugh as she makes contact with his face, — mostly his nose at first, but he quickly readjusts and brings her to his mouth instead. 

He moans against her, and it's totally genuine. If her mouth tastes good, her pussy is even better. He could devour her. 

And so he moves his tongue, — not too quickly, but greedily. She moans, returning his intensity by desperately grinding herself down onto his face. He just lets out another shaky moan at this, hands sliding down to grip her thighs as she moves against him. 

“Fuck, Joe…” she whines. “Your fucking mouth… God!” 

Her cries are high pitched, borderline whiny. Her desperation makes him achingly hard, but he won't even think of taking care of that until he makes her come a time or two. 

He groans again as her hands suddenly thread through his shaggy bleached hair. She gets a good two handfuls and tugs, moving faster against him. 

Holy shit, he thinks, not for the first time. 

“Yeah… yeah…” she whines desperately. “Just like that, baby…” She rolls her hips against his face, falling slightly out of rhythm. “Mmm…”

He does what she asks, loyal as always. He closes his eyes as his tongue circles her clit, over and over again. He can't get enough of her, — the sound of her voice, the feeling of her hands, the taste of her…

She lets out a choked moan and pulls his hair hard. He lets out a muffled groan himself, causing a definite vibration against her pussy. 

She gasps and shivers on top of him. “Fuck…” She runs her fingers through his hair, gentle, soothing, before beginning to rock her hips again. 

At this point, Coop's air supply is a bit scarce, but he really can't bring himself to care. This is kind of more important than breathing to him. 

“Mhm… Such a good boy for me,” she says breathily, hands still soothing over the strands she pulled. He moans against her again, a chill running down his spine as he twitches underneath her. 

Then he feels himself, leaking precome in his underwear. He gasps, though it's muffled by a mouthful of pussy. 

Just like he thought before. Totally pathetic. 

All it took was a little praise, mingling with the taste of her juices, the sound of her gasps and moans, the softness of her skin under his palms. He's throbbing in his boxers, trying and failing not to rut up against nothing. Trying, — and failing, — to keep himself composed. 

This is about her, yes. But he's only a man. He can't help that it's making him really fucking horny. 

Luckily, Jenna is too far gone to notice that his dick is much more selfish than his mouth. He imagines that she probably has her eyes closed as she gasps shakily and grinds down hard against his face.  

“ Good boy ,” she pants again, and Coop is dangerously close to losing himself. He tries to talk himself down mentally, — tell himself to think about it like he's trying to make a goal, that it's a methodical thing rather than a sexual one. But he just can't get himself in that headspace when she's all he can taste, feel, hear. This gorgeous, gorgeous woman, this fucking goddess. 

His girlfriend. 

God, she's his girlfriend. He can't believe it most days. 

But he's pretty sure he isn't dreaming, because she's pulling his hair again, and it hurts, though not enough to keep him from moaning against her again. She tugs him around like a ragdoll, guiding him to where she needs him, and he obliges her every whim. At the end of the day, that's the only thing he wants to do. 

Fuck sports, business meetings, beer, video games. He could do away with it all if it meant he would always have Jenna.  

He had never been in love before. He hopes he never has to do it again, because this is it. 

She's it. 

“Jenna…” He moans against her, but, of course, it's incoherent, and it occurs to him a little too late that it's impolite to talk with one's mouth full. But it doesn't matter, because she's still riding the everloving fuck out of his face, and that's the only thing that means anything to him at this point. 

Her hands unthread from his hair, and he whines against her at the loss. But the next thing he knows, they're sliding down to his chest, holding him down against the bed as she lets out an especially desperate moan, and he knows that sound. He knows it well. 

Anticipation spreads through his entire body, his heart hammering in his chest, his breathing falling even more out of rhythm, fingers digging a bit too hard into her thighs. 

“I'm gonna come,” she pants, though she really doesn't have to tell him, because he knows. He knows, and he's fucking delighted. 

“Mmm…” He speeds up the movements of his tongue, giving her no reprieve from the overwhelming sensation. 

It doesn't take long for her to cry out after that. God… her poor neighbors. She sounds like something out of the old softcore movies he used to rent out of the back of the video store, the ones Remer always managed to find and endlessly make fun of him for. Except she sounds better, and he's pretty sure she's being a little bit more genuine about it than those girls were. After all, he's pretty certain that she can't fake the way she's soaking his face, dripping onto his tongue. 

He laps up every last bit, because, as he decided previously, eating Jenna out ranks higher on his list of needs than actually getting an adequate amount of air. 

Maybe the oxygen deprivation is what prevents him from paying much attention to the knot tightening in the pit of his stomach, or maybe he's really just that good at tuning out any and all distractions when he's focused on the task at hand, — or mouth, as it stands. 

Whatever the case, he somehow doesn't recognize that he's right on the edge until he's tensing up beneath her. For a moment, he thinks he might pass out or something, — not out of character, sadly, — but instead, he shudders, gripping her legs and moaning against her as he comes in his boxers. 

It feels really fucking good. Of course it does. He just blew a huge load while eating out the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. Then he starts coming down, and he realizes that it's kind of embarrassing. 

Not to mention messy. And he hasn't gotten around to keeping extra clothes at her place yet. 

He hears her laugh breathily, slowly lifting herself off his face, wriggling out of his grip. “Did you just—” she pants.

“ Aww,” he groans abruptly, a hand coming to rest over his face. 

She laughs, shaking her head. “You're serious ?” And then she looks down at him and gasps. 

Again, some things just can't be faked. 

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Fuck. Gotta go clean up…”

He stands up, and she chuckles. “Most guys don't do that,” she comments, like that's not fucking obvious. “Like… I haven't even read about it in a book, or anything.” She hums. “You're special, Joe.”

He shakes his head. “Not special,” he huffs, heading for the bathroom. “Just… like you a lot.”

She laughs. “Think that's an understatement.”

It is. But if he expressed it to the full extent, he'd look like a total loser. 

So he shrugs and walks out of the room, hoping to reclaim a bit of his dignity. But just a little. 

[scullysexual]

A Jewel Beneath The Moonlight [Rewrite]

@today-in-fic | ao3

Summary: For Mulder, a wealthy English-bred socialite who’s had everything given to him since birth, the Titanic is shipping him off to a prison, a life he no longer wishes for or wants. For Scully, an Irish stranger from the lower class, it offers a new life, a future she can truly envision in America. What if the universe put them on the same path to achieve those dreams at the cost of life?

Chapter Seven.

The door to his first class suite opens and Mulder lets her in first. The air is awkward, the request still buzzing around but it’s happening, whether either of them can believe it or not.

He gives a glance into the hallway, to make sure there’s no family member making an inopportune visit to the room, before shutting the door and locking it.

“This is…”

Mulder turns to see Scully looking around the room. She turns back to him.

“Nice,” she finishes and Mulder’s not sure if he saw the glint of envy pass over her eyes or not.

“I like it,” he says, throwing the keys onto the table. “Bed could be better, though.”

Scully swivels to take a look at the bed. An unsure glance towards Mulder, she cautiously walks over to it. He watches as she sits down on the bedding, testing it out, before her eyes widen and she falls back.

Mulder lets out a chuckle.

“I could get used to this,” Scully says, snuggling into the bed.

A surge of boyish immaturity overcomes him. From where he stands, not that far away, he jumps, landing onto the bed just millimetres away from her as the mattress’ springs creak and groan to take on the added weight created by the force. The act itself startles Scully.

“Jesus, Mulder!” she cries. “What did you do that for?”

Mulder only laughs, leaning against his elbow. “What? Is my boyish agility turning you on or something?”

Her annoyance fades, the scowl transforming into a grin. It’s infectious, and Mulder finds himself grinning to. He likes this. The freedom and ability to just play around and be stupid. He tried it with Phoebe once and she just told him to grow up.

He leans down to kiss her but something in the room catches Scully’s eye and she’s up off the bed before Mulder even realises, interested in something over at the vanity.

“What are these?”

Climbing off the bed himself, Mulder, curious, heads towards her. He sees the vial that caught her attention.

“Phoebe’s perfumes.” He takes a bottle himself, tossing it between both hands. It’s the first time he’d really taken a look at one. “They cost a fair bit considering how tiny they are.” He puts the vial down while Scully untwists the cap of the one she holds and smells it, before sighing with what sounds like a hint of disappointment, and places the bottle back down.

“They all seem wasted on her,” Scully mutters just loud enough for Mulder to hear.

Mulder scans the vials looking for one Phoebe doesn’t wear often, one he won’t smell and immediately associate with her. He chooses the one labelled Sunset Ocean. He reaches for her wrist, bringing it towards him, uncapping the bottle. Scully watches and her eyes widen.

“Mulder, that’s Phoebe’s!”

“It’s fine, she doesn’t wear this one anyway, that’s why I picked it.”

He dabs the tinniest bit onto her pulse then brings her wrist up to his nose. His eyes close as he breathes her in, growing hard, wanting to bathe her in the smell, surround himself with the scent.

“I’m buying you a bottle,” he says matter-of-factly, a lingering promise.

Scully, in turn, gives him- what he can only perceive as a sceptical look- before something else catches her attention. She pulls her arm from his hands.

“You have a dog?” she asks, rushing over to the lead hanging up.

He’d forgotten about the dog. Again.

Heading over to the bathroom door, he opens it and out trots the mutt, tongue sticking out as it looks up expectantly at Mulder.

Scully gasps in awe, racing over to the dog. She’s there, kneeling on the floor, excitedly stroking her hand through its fur, completely taken with it.

“She’s Phoebe’s dog,” Mulder says, watching. “She got it after…” He stops, not sure if Scully was really interested in the story of why Phoebe has a dog. She’s not listening anyway, too enamoured with the dog. “I don’t like it, anyway.”

She looks up at him like she’d just heard him wrong.

“How can you not like dogs?” she asks, shocked.

“Because I’m not a dog person.”

She smiles, shaking her head and turning back to the dog that seems to love Scully as much as she loves it.

“You keep surprising me, Mulder.”

Yeah, I do that a lot.

Thinking that to himself, he picks the dog up, walking over to the adjoining door.

“Stay there,” he tells the thing. Then proceeds to shut the door on it.

“I hope that room belongs to someone you know,” Scully says, smiling.

“Yeah, my parents.” Mulder answers.

The smile falls from her face as she glances warily to the door then back to Mulder.

“They’re not due back any time soon, are they?”

Mulder looks to the clock then back to Scully.

“Dinner will keep them occupied.”

The awkwardness returns back to the room, the weight settling over them again.

“You definitely comfortable with this?” he asks. He asked it after she’d nodded when his request was first made. He’d asked again when they got to the front door, and now he was asking again.

Scully nods, fiddling with her hands. He’d rather verbal confirmation but he takes what he can get.

“Right then…”

An awkward pause once more.

“I guess I should go get…unready then…”

“Yeah,” Mulder agrees, bouncing nervously on his feet. What’s he got to be nervous about anyway, he’s not the one about to strip naked in front of a stranger. “Don’t forget to leave the cross on,” he says before she disappears behind the bedroom door.

“Aye.”

Once gone, Mulder lets out a nervous breath. He looks around the room, dissociating from the now well-known place and begins thinking about it from an artistic point-of-view.

He lights candles, turns down the glow of the lights, bathing the room in an orange hue. Moves the sofa to the middle of the room, adjusting it so the light will hit her best. Once happy with how the room looks, he swipes his sweaty hands on his pants and opens the safe, taking out the sketch-book.

She’s just like everyone else, he repeats as he flips through the pages, reminding himself that he’s done this countless times before.

He turns to a new page, rolls up his sleeves, and sharpens his charcoal briefly all the while repeating his mantra.

Lost in reverie, he doesn’t hear the bedroom door open or notice she’s standing there until she coughs.

He wills himself to look up and when he does, lets out a breath of awe at the sight.

Unsure of what she’s done- if she’s even done anything at all- she’s stands before him, a sheer black robe he knows is the only thing that covers her, her hair falls in soft curls around her shoulders. He sees her freckles more predominately here, too, and he doesn’t know whether it’s the lighting, or the mood, or her, or maybe he’s just been blind this entire time but she’s absolutely gorgeous.

“Scully…” he says, trying to form the words, tongue too fat.

She gives him a timid smile, a little move of the corners of her mouth, as her eyes skit everywhere.

His legs like lead, Mulder gets up from his seat, slowly approaching her.

He wants to reassure her. Grasping a hand from their linked position, he smooths his thumb over the knuckles. She looks away, and when she does, his other hand is right there ringing her head back up to look at him.

She regulates her breath as they stare at each other. Positive she now won’t look away, he moves his hand away from her chin, folding it around the one he holds as he brings it up to his mouth, catching a scent of the perfume that still lingers, never looking away from her.

“You’re safe,” he tells her, still kissing her knuckles. “I promise.”

A certainty flickers across her eyes.

“I trust you.”

It’s almost as good as an I love you.

He lets go of her hand, moving back towards the table and his seat. When he sits down, she’s moves back towards the sofa, stopping as the backs of her knees hit the furniture.

A synchronised inhale of air, she hooks her fingers into the robe and lets it fall to the floor.

Mulder is mesmerised, his eyes drinking up the sight before him. Gorgeous, he thinks once more, all soft curves and creamy skin. He feels his cock beginning to stir when his gaze falls to her breasts, nipples hardened thanks to the chill in the room.

“Gorgeous,” he says aloud, not able to get enough of her. His insides flutter with yearning at the little flirty smile she throws him.

Utterly distracted with the way the light catches her body, it’s only when she asks him how he wants her does he realise what they’re here to do.

Retaining some kind of professionalism, he instructs her to lie back against the cushions, turn her face towards him and then asks that she twist her body just a tiny bit so he can fully capture it.

He moves from his seat again when it becomes clear she doesn’t know what to do with her arms. Sitting in the space left over, he positions one arm to rest against the cushions and the other to lean against her temple. Happy with the positioning, he strokes a piece of hair out the way before kissing her forehead.

“Thank you for letting me do this,” he whispers against her, then he regains composure and walks back to the table, hand shaking as he picks up the charcoal.

“This isn’t an easy thing to do,” he says. “Lie as still as you can. Keep your eyes on me and look nowhere else.” She nods, locking her eyes onto his.

With a deep breath, Mulder stares at her, taking note of where the light lands on her skin and where the shadows conceal other parts. His eyes travel up her body before landing on the cross, the gold standing out against her pale skin. He’d believe in a God if her name was Dana Scully.

With time ticking away, he slowly puts his pencil against paper and begins to draw.

It’s been some time since he’s drawn life. This engagement, the loss of their child, this spontaneous trip across the sea has put it all on hold. It’s been two years since he’s drawn a human yet it doesn’t take long for his hand to re-discover the habit, like riding a bike, his hand translates what’s in front of him. There’s the brief concern that maybe he won’t be able to do Scully’s beauty justice but as her outline is drawn by his own hand, those fears and doubts begin to fade away. It’s just him, his paper, his charcoal, and his Scully. He bathes in the familiarity of capturing a life, surrenders to the calming sound of pencil scratching against paper, to Scully’s little sighs and moans that spur him on in more ways than one. He softens her elbow, adds shading to the insides of her arms. He looks up when it’s time to concentrate on attributes that are unique to her; freckles that dot her arms, little birth marks that cover various places on her skin.

A blush covers his cheeks when he begins to draw the swells of her breasts, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by Scully.

“I thought you’d be used to drawing body parts by now?” she taunts from afar.

Mulder smiles, he is, he’s drawn plenty but never with this much emotion behind it.

“Shh. You don’t realise it but you make little movements when you speak,” he gently chides.

“Sorry,” she apologies, settling down against the cushions and sighing as she relaxes.

As his fingers soften the lines of her breasts and torso, a flash of heat sparks in his stomach as he wonders what it would be like to touch the real-life form, would her skin feel as soft as it looks?

He moves back up to her neck, draws the cross and smudges out the area where the light hits it.

A bit more time is spent on adding a few touches, only shading and smudges the areas about her. He does not dare touch the masterpiece that sits in the middle, for fear of ruining it, but does as he likes with the surroundings all until it is complete. Finished.

She moves when she realises that he’s not drawing anymore and Mulder flips the book closed, eyes her hungrily and stalks towards her.

The way her eyes look up at him steals his breath away; so vulnerable and trusting, big and blue. Awestruck, he kneels before her, ready to worship at the alter of Dana Scully and she is none the wiser to the power that she holds by just being her.

Tentatively, he stretches out his hand, hovering just above her torso. “May I?” he asks and Scully nods.

He begins trailing his fingers up the side of her waist, touching the real life sculpture of his drawing, watching the path of Goosebumps form behind them. He goes slowly, concentrating on the feeling of soft flesh beneath his fingertips. There’s not much skin to cover and Mulder stops just inches beneath the swell of her breast. A glance above and he can see her nod ever so slightly, granting him permission.

Gently he moves his finger along her chest, thumb hovering in the air and watching as her breathing becomes quicker.

Mulder stops just when his thumb is above her nipple, waiting, teasing. He sneaks a look at her, sees the pleading in her eyes, and with one final wait, he quickly flicks his thumb across it. A small gasp falls from her mouth and Mulder smiles, does it again as his other hand joins in, forgoing all the caution and hesitance the first had. More gasps leave her mouth and Mulder finds he likes the sound, wants to hear it some more.

He gets up from his position on the floor, feeling her eyes on him the entire time and sits beside her on the sofa. Unable to resist keeping his hands of her, they move to her leg, stroking up and down.

He watches her eyes grow heavy, the lighting and continual movement of his hand making her tired. Mulder can feel it too, the warmth of the room and heat of her skin making him feel drowsy.

“You’re beautiful,” he speaks softly and is rewarded with a that small, shy smile he loves so much.

His hand stops, and he begins twisting on his seat. He feels rather than sees her dart awake, worried he was about to stop his ministrations. Mulder hushes her, telling her to relax as he bends over her, fully ready to appreciate the body laying before him.

He starts with her right ankle, dotting kisses on every inch of skin he can reach, trailing up to her calf and knee, keeping to the outside of her thigh and over her hip. Kisses her stomach and feels her fingers glide through his hair as she bucks against him, with his free hands he holds her down, continuing his journey up the middle of her torso, separating to plant a kiss against her nipples before meeting in the middle and continuing on. He kisses her cross, another barrier between them but one they’ve broken through together before finally landing on her lips.

His teasing has made her desperate, her mouth crashing against his, tongue trying to invade and Mulder lets her take control, lets her teeth scratch and suck and bite his lip.

He covers her completely, kneeling in the vee of her thighs, and Scully doesn’t wait to use this to her advantage, hooking her leg around him in an attempt to grind herself on him.

In his kiss-muddled haze he understands what she’s trying to do and he wants it to- if the semi in his pants is anything to go by- but…

“Are you sure?”

He pulls his mouth away from her and looks down at her; mussed hair, swollen lips, clouded eyes.

She nods.

He lets the information sink in, it is really that surprising that all this has led them here?

Scully laces their hands together, “Only if it’s what you want.”

A glance at the clock on top of the fireplace tells him it’s almost 7:00. Dinner can last anywhere between 5:00 and 9:00. A simple calculation tells him they have enough time before any unwanted interruptions.

“We’ll have to be quick,” he tells her anyway. Later he can dedicate hours and hours to discover every inch of her body, away from disapproving eyes.

“Best hurry up and get to where I am then,” she answers, pulling him back down and kissing him again.

He wastes no time tossing his shirt off, only breaking the kiss to throw it over his head and across the room. Scully quickens the process, hands working on undoing his belt and once she’s got it undone, he does the rest of the work, shucking down his pants and underwear and kicking them off.

They allow themselves this moment, just the feel of skin on skin and when Mulder looks at her again she smiles shyly.

The weight of what they’re moments away from doing bears down on him. With one last ounce of uncertainty Mulder asks, “Are you definitely sure you want to do this?” She can say no and he won’t think any less of her if she does. Won’t think any less of her if she doesn’t.

“I’m sure, Mulder. I promise,” she confirms.

Mulder smiles, assured that either one is about to regret this, he strokes a piece of hair back from her face. Just one last thing.

“I’ve gotta ask,” he begins, frowning. This is slightly awkward. “Have you done this before?”

“Once,” she admits, unsure as her eyes look away from his. Embarrassed or ashamed, Mulder doesn’t know. It makes no difference to him if she’s not a virgin, it’s not his place, she had a life before him anyway, it would be stupid to have expected otherwise.

Without another word, he lets his hand trail to her centre, letting them ghost her outer lips before slipping a finger inside.

She gasps at the feel against the sensitive flesh and Mulder instantly feels the wetness that’s gathered there. Another finger presses in, joining the first as he gently spreads her wetness.

“Mulder…” she whines against his ear and Mulder guesses this could probably come under teasing if he carries on. “I’m ready.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, muffled against her shoulder.

“You won’t.” She moves her hips to the movement of his fingers, trying to create friction. “Please…”

Certain she was ready enough, he removes his fingers instantly missing the warmth as he grips himself in his hand.

With one last look to be certain, he guides himself into her.

Fingers grip the short ends of his hair as she cries out but Mulder can think of nothing but how good she feels; warm and tight, a solid hold on him as he sinks all the way to the hilt.

He stops for a moment, giving her a second to adjust.

“Is this okay?” he asks. There’s a brief moment where he wonders if he’s being annoying, constantly asking her if she’s sure, if she’s alright, but her safety and concerns are paramount- he won’t have her thinking otherwise.

He feels rather than sees her nod.

“You can move now,” she says, breathily. “I think I’m okay.”

Thank god, Mulder thinks. A second longer and he doesn’t think he’d be able to resist any longer.

He starts off slow, gentle like the waves they ride on but eventually the thrusts quicken. Her cries and grasps spur him on, allowing him to move faster as she moves beneath, keeping up with the pace he’s set. She begins mewling when she gets closer, hands trying to gain a grip on everything from the cushions to his body. He’s so close but he’d be damned if he finishes before her- this hasn’t been the best in terms of devoting real time to her pleasure, usually he likes to give a lot more than he allows himself to get, and had things been different here, he’d gladly give that time to her as well. He drops his fingers to her clit, rubbing furiously against her to the speed of his thrusts and it seems to help, she climbs his body trying to move faster, build more friction until finally the dam breaks. She crumbles in a heap of pants below him as her orgasm washes through her. It’s enough for him too, a few more sporadic thrusts and he follows her, collapsing on top of her.

They lay there, softening inside her and it’s only then when Mulder becomes acutely aware that he may be crushing her. He goes to move, to lay to the side but he feels hands gripping him, keeping him to her.

“No,” Scully murmurs, holding him tight against her so he can’t move. “I like it.”

So he stays there, heart beating wildly in his chest as he lays against hers.

The afterglow washes over him, the glow from the lights and candles casting them in a calm orange. He’s warm and safe, everyone but Scully a million miles away.

Nails scratch against his scalp and his eyes fall shut up, lulled by the feel of them against his head, the scent of Scully and that Sunset Ocean perfume he sprayed, the comforting heat that radiates from her body.

Without a care in the world, he could fall sleep right now.

“Can I see it?” she asks against his chest.

They’d had sex again. Scully on top this time, his hands at her hips, guiding her, watching her, ever the voyeur. After she’d come, she leaned over him and whispered into his ear that he wanted him in her mouth. His eyes had widened, only the Dutch girls in featured in his sketch book had done that but her eyes were filled with want and so he had let her, come apart to the feel of her hands and her mouth, so much better than the Dutch girls.

He had wanted to repay the favour.

“Later,” she’d said, snuggling against his chest.

For hours it had felt like they had been laying here, his nails gently grazing her side in their up-and-down motion.

He eyes the book still sat upon the table, it’s black cover stark against the mahogany. Mulder shifts to get up, and Scully moves away from him, bending to pick up the robe still left on the floor from earlier and wraps it around her. He walks back to the sofa, book now in his hand, and sits up against the cushions, pulling Scully back towards him, using her heat to keep him warm.

She takes the book and Mulder watches as she turns the pages, cautious for what she might say, hoping she’s as happy with it as he was.

The page falls open and Mulder eyes her anxiously, trying to gauge her opinion from the way she looks at it.

“Do you like it?” he asks, needing her to say yes.

She’s quiet and Mulder instantly thinks the worst.

“I can try again. I can do better…”

She shuts him up when her mouth falls onto his, kissing him with the same vigour as before, and Mulder is too struck to do anything more than to catch up, to devour her lips as much as she devours his.

They break and her eyes float back down to the sketchbook again.

“I love it,” she says, her hand tracing the portrait. “Thank you.”

Mulder smiles, so happy and grateful and relieved that she likes it.

“It’s yours to keep if you want it,” he says but something changes in Scully’s eyes.

She quickly gets up from the sofa, and Mulder watches her with confusion and curiosity. She gently rips the page from the book, careful not to rip the drawing in the process. Ripping out a blank page, she grabs a pen and begins to scribble something down.

“What are you writing?” Mulder asks, bewildered.

Scully doesn’t answer, and instead moves away from the table and back to the sofa.

Sitting up again, Mulder asks, “What was that?”

“Just a little something for Phoebe and your father.”

Mulder nervously laughs, unsure if what she’s just done is really a good idea but he ignores it, the consequences don’t matter anyway, his mind is made up already.

Once this ship docks in New York, he’s getting off with Scully.

For now, though, he kisses her again, his arms wrapping around her legs to hoist her up. Everything about her is magical, and fun, and freeing. He carries her into the bedroom. They make love for the third time that night.