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sordidmusings · 8 months

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Give (in) and Take (me) - (Beckman x Reader)

Art by shibama_TK9

A/N: *Hasn’t completed a smut in weeks, comes back throwing a niche character at you to spread simpin for him like a virus* plz love him he’s great and while he ain’t my main I’d have nooooooo complaints in partaking 😩 tryin to give @fanaticsnail some morsels cuz the writing for this man is quite devastatingly scant. She also a whole sweetie and wrote me some perfect Buggy when she found out I was doing this. Obviously I am much slower 🥴🥴🥴

Word Count: ~8.7k

Warnings: fem!reader, NSFW, there’s some plot at the front and back, bratty reader, brat-tamer Beckman, he does the Nanami hair grab 👌��, semi-public, standing, against the wall, man-handling, clothed sex, p in v, creampie, praise, degredation, lots of teasing on both sides, age gap? (briefly mentioned, ~30 and late 40s), Beckman is a lil mean but don't worry he's Whipped, this some filth filth 🥴 whoops

Now please come enjoy prodding the big gruff man (who just wants to treat you right) until he snaps

(˵¯͒〰¯͒˵)

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You’ve had enough of the raucous jubilation in the bar, especially now that you noticed your awaited opening unfolding before you. The rest of the Red Hair Pirates were fully distracted in their jovial whirling, hooting, and playing, leaving a certain silver smoke cloud all by his lonesome. You’d been dancing through his whisps all night, enjoying how they’d wrap and curl around you as you went. It was in their nature to do so. Each brush of a hand got a shiver and a sigh and a trailing stare. Each floated conversation was leaned into, breathed in, savored. Each departure was followed with the turn and lean of his chest, pulled to follow from the sure grip on his thumping heart until his doubts rooted him down and resisted the tug.

You were plagued by your own doubts, mostly of what the “after” would look like, but you were certain of one thing: he was attracted. Along with his need to entwine with your presence, you’d noticed the tell-tale sign of his gaze drawn to lips, neck, breasts, hips, and thighs. You’d noticed the hunger growing his pupils so they could better suck in your image on each glance. You’d noticed how he had to keep flicking his tongue out to wet his lips, mouth dry from restrained need. Most importantly, you’d noticed the way he had to shift and shuffle while he watched you dance, fighting the need to pull you away for himself to join and trying to flush the heat from his body. Whatever it was that was holding him in his seat and keeping his hands and lips and tongue off of you, you were going to drag him right through it until he was fully in your grasp.

First thing’s first, you retook your spot on the stool next to him at the bar. Immediately the smoke tendrils embraced you; your drink was scooted back in front of you, his thigh slid sideways to seek the brush of yours, a lethargic smile took residence on his face to greet you. You responded with a coy smile of your own and then a hearty gulp of your drink. The steady burn and potent taste of liquorice cutting through the muddled mint and lemon centered you and heartened you for your plan of attack.

“Thanks, Becks, glad to have you as my cocktail guard dog,” you said with teasing humor. You gave his thigh a friendly pat that crossed the amicable boundary with a lingering hold and gentle squeeze, before you brought the hand back up to give you another sip of your drink. The taste of touch on his thick muscle had it twitch in delight. Your mouth watered at the feel, not quite sated with alcohol on your tongue when there should be skin.

“Any time, darlin’,” Beckman responded easily and honestly. “Though I don’t think there’s any here who would do much to it. Much more likely one of the fools will steal it to drink for themselves.”

You laughed at the statement, knowing how true it was. When the crew was drunk they got sticky fingers, and when it came to drinks they were the worst - none quite remembering whose was whose and caring even less to get it right. Knowing where you wanted to try and get this night to go, you’d kept yourself far behind them in intoxication. You kept yourself right in the sweet spot of inebriated enough for that coveted liquid courage but not so much that you were out of control of yourself. Besides, if you got your way you didn’t want any of the details to be foggy.

“Even so, it’s appreciated,” you reasserted, giving him a winning smile and stalling his heart. “Now can I ask another favor of you?”

“‘Course you can, darlin’,” he replied instantly. Another cheer rang out in the background, followed by the beginnings of a long and loud drinking song. Beckman used this as an excuse to lean into your space to better hear and see you. “What can I do for you?”

You centered yourself more forward towards the bar, just to force him to lean in even closer to chase you, and peeked at him from the corner of your eye. The look mixed with your mischievous smile had him ready and eager to agree to whatever you had in mind. Not that he’d let you see how easy it was for you to sway him.

“Well…” you trailed off, just to make him squirm, “I can think of lots of things you could do for me. I’m having trouble picking my favorite.”

Beckman’s brows rose at the blatant flirting. Sure, you’d both thrown some flirtatious comments at each other throughout your relationship, but they didn’t feel anything like this. They felt easy, friendly - like something to build rapport and have fun. This felt so much heavier - a gift offered to him that was pulling the possibility of closeness from cloudy dreams down to the ground with the weight of the warm cast of the bar lights, the dark desire in your eyes, and the sultry tone of your voice. He began to recount how many drinks he’d had to check if he was imagining the advances he’d long wished for. Maybe he should check for you too.

“Darlin’, how many drinks you got in you?” There was genuine concern in the question, mixing with a touch of incredulity. You scoffed at it all.

“Not enough to lose my sense, thank you very much,” you answered. To snub his misplaced worries, you downed the rest of your drink. “That was only the fifth of the night, we’ve been here hours, and you know it takes much more than that to take me down.”

“That it does,” Beckmann conceded. The bare affection in his voice and eyes while he said it had you flushing, finding care much more difficult to process than lust. “Now my task?”

Yet again, you took to keeping him in suspense. Instead of answering, you slowly drew your gaze over him, assessing him. He fought against the small shiver it put through him; he felt like you were staring straight through his clothes. He felt like he was getting the most important appraisal of his life and all he had to go on was the burning in your eyes and your cryptic smile. You were doing a better job of reading him; while his expression remained perfectly schooled, you were observant enough to see his tells. Just as when he watched you dance, he shifted in his seat, working through the flush of arousal poured on him from his nervousness and having your eyes glued to him. Between the curtains of his wavy silver hair, you saw his Adam's apple bob with a strong swallow. He started lightly drumming on the bartop with his fingers on the hand closest to you.

Using that to your advantage, you made your next move. Doing it slowly so he could layer each second with his anticipation, you trailed your fingertips across the knuckles of his fidgeting hand, halting the motion. You flicked your gaze up to check in on his eyes. They mostly held confusion, but so so much interest was also packed into his silver irises. Happy with the reaction, you proceeded to move your teasing touch further, traveling over the back of his hand and his wrist to play with the soft hair on his forearm in deliberate circles. Though he was nearly bursting with questions, Beckman kept his mouth shut and resolved to let you lead this at your own pace until you finally decided it was time to reveal your hand to him.

“I’ve decided,” you started, finally breaking the silence with an alluring whisper, “that I want more than one favor.” You stopped watching your fingers touch him to look at him through your lashes. “And I know where you can start.”

Beckman blew out a long breath, hoping to settle down his heart, which was still jumping and kicking. You’re not drunk, but this has to be the alcohol. You couldn’t be propositioning him. Him. Maybe he’s just a curiosity? Perhaps you were interested in trying out an experience with an older lover who’s had more years to learn his way around a woman? Maybe, even though you could have your choice of any of the patrons, you found him to be the easy target.

“And where is that?” he asked, making sure to keep his tone steady.

“You can take me home.” You noticed the real shock in his gaze, and for the first time in the encounter a bit of panic seeped into you. Thinking quickly to soften the blow, you explained, “Don’t wanna walk home alone with even a little alcohol in me, and I know you’ll take care of me.”

“Aye, darlin’, that I will.” The honesty in his words stoked your courage back into a steady burn even better than the one brought on by the hard drinks.

Using the hand that had been trailing over his forearm, you loosely held his wrist, slid smoothly from your seat, and began leading him out of the bar. Beckman followed you easily. You didn’t have to put any pressure behind your hold on him; he wouldn’t let you get more than a step ahead of him. Even with his close hover, you both ducked and weaved with practiced grace through the chaos of your crew and the rowdy celebration they’d whipped up with all the other patrons. By the time you’d reached the entrance, you’d ducked three swinging fists, five drunken “dances”, two frisbeed hats, one flung fork, and a pair of tossed shirts.

The door shutting behind you sealed away the cacophony of the crowd, melding it with the comforting ambience of late night bugsong and strangers distantly living their lives. The outside world felt pleasantly chill and calm, especially in contrast to the atmosphere of the bar. The slight bite to the air only made the small contact between the two of you feel that much sweeter in its skin-to-skin warmth. Both you and Beckman sucked in a deep breath of crisp evening air to savor the moment.

Throwing a cheeky (and, to his worry, slightly plotting) smile his way, you began to head in the direction of the docks. You only made it about eight steps. The moment the alley between buildings opened on your right, you yanked Beckman into the shadows with you. He stumbled after you with barely a fight, continuing his emotional flavors of the night: confused, intrigued, and happy to be here. Once you fell past the full streams of light from the street lamps, you spun around to him and pounced.

You began by rooting him in place, fisting your hands tight into his shirt by his waist and stepping so close that your chests and stomachs and hips and thighs touched. You leaned up to place a kiss right above the point in his v-neck, relishing the heat of his skin against your lips. You shivered at the feeling of a twitch of interest against your lower stomach. His hands quickly found your waist and gripped. He worried the flesh under his fingers, earning his first quiet moan from you. It only made his grip stiffen, warring with himself between his disbelief at your advances and the rabid need to pull you closer and make sure you never stopped.

Beckman began to use his hold on you to ease you back from him. You responded with a frustrated whine and greedy hands. Those hands massaged their way across the packed muscles of his sides and chest before twisting in the fabric over his large pecs and tugging him down to your height. Taking advantage of the untouched skin now within reach, you kissed and sucked your way over his collarbone and up his neck.

His plan of retreat crumbled under your advance, leaving him to paw his grip down to the meat of your hips and try not to succumb to the fierce instinct to grind his aching cock against you. Your head spun with your rushing blood and skipping breaths. The whirl was spurred on by finally getting to know the taste of his skin, the feeling of his coveting hands keeping you close, the sound of his stuttering breaths morphing into panting. Now you just needed to spur him from receiving into action.

“Beck, touch me,” you whispered against his ear. He shivered fully from your lips and breath ghosting over him and filling his skin with addictive tingles. Losing his concentration, Beckman guided your hips in one long, sturdy grind against his straining hardness. You nipped his earlobe in appreciation. “I want you to touch me.”

“You’re drunk,” he weakly protested.

“We both know I’m not,” you shot back. Switching your methods, you crawled your hands up his shoulders, his neck, and into his hair. You led him with sweet and teasing kisses against his cheek and jaw, playing with the way his head always tilted to follow your affections in a wanting daze.

“You should look for another man to share your body,” he tried again, this time managing to sound assertive through the breathiness of his voice.

“Do you really want another man touching me?” you bit back at him.

“No,” he instantly growled. The mere idea had always put a pang in his heart but feeling your touch and hearing the words from you made it more real, and he was no match for the spike of angry possessiveness that overtook him.

“Good,” you cooed coyly, lips back against his ear, “because I don’t want that either.” You took a long moment to tease your nails against his scalp and nip the skin next to his pulse. He succumbed to another torturous grind against you. Each press of him gave you a better idea of what he was hiding and had your mind running rampant trying to figure out how it would feel splitting you open.

“I want you,” you moaned, pushing all the genuine need into your voice that you could.

“Come on, pretty thing, you don’t mean that,” Beckman stubbornly argued. He’d sound much more convincing if he wasn’t moaning the words out with his strained rumble, turning the statement into a plea.

“I do though,” you whined back to him, right below his ear where you were working hard to leave another pretty mark. For all his propriety fueled hesitation, Beckman was still leaning down so you could reach his neck and tilting his stubbled jaw away, pleading for more of your attention. “I do mean it.”

Your own desperation and his unspoken pleas for your touch fueled your boldness. One of your hands left his tresses to wedge between your pressed hips and grab a hold of him. A groan shook through his ribs, only encouraging your hand to press and feel more. His cock twitched and jumped under your slow strokes and palming, begging for your touch when he wouldn’t. His cheek fell to your shoulder and his humid panting caressed your neck.

“Pretty girl, if you keep touching me like that,” his speech was interrupted by a poorly restrained moan, “I’m not gonna be able to keep my head.”

“Then don’t,” you encouraged, voice rushed and ravenous and pulling him to the depths of his urges in his new favorite siren song.

Having felt him in your palm, you became set on getting to feel him skin to skin. You wanted to feel the power of the radiant heat that poured from him so strongly you both felt like you were burning through your clothes. You wanted to see what’s been hidden from you, become privy to secrets that will let your fantasies forever hold more reality. You wanted to know he let you have this piece of him, let you take his body and take control of his pleasure. On top of all of that, you wanted to feel, see, and know the thick hardness that was going to stretch you wide open.

In your rush, you only gave yourself time to trail a few kisses down his chest on your way to your knees. Beckman leaned himself back on the wall of the bar, opening himself up to as much of your touch as you would give. He still attempted to keep his defense under the siege of temptation, taking to opening and closing his hands at his sides to keep them from manhandling you. He wasn’t strong enough, however, to push you away. Each touch of yours was teasing him with the heaven he’d been dreaming of finding under your hands and in your body. Now having had a taste of your touch, It’d take nothing short of a gun to the head for him to break from anything you were willing to give. Doesn’t mean he won’t try to steer it so you’re taken care of the way he wants you to be.

He looked down at you, hypnotized by the radiant image of you and your styled hair and your decorated lashes and your smudged lipstick actually kissing him, treating him with the desire he thought impossible. His eyes had long adjusted to the darkness of the alley, blessedly letting him take in this image to hoard forever.

As your knees hit the dirt path, it hit him - alley. You were getting yourself dirty to touch him, basically in public in your rush, stuck in a location with only hard ground and stone walls for comfort. The realization had his cock throb hard, getting an eager moan from you where you were kissing along his length while your fingers made their way under his sash to find the waistline of his trousers. Fuck, this was a dream. It was a dream, but not the one he wanted for you where he takes his time worshiping every inch of skin, treating you like royalty, going slow so when he makes you cum it shakes you from toes to fingertips to the crown of your head-

“Darlin’, you deserve better than some back alley fu-”

“What I deserve is you; now let me have you,” you grumbled back to him, nosing his sash up so you could leave kisses and nips right above the hem of his pants. You inched them lower and lower, following their descent with your hungry mouth and savoring every new speck of skin you could. You got past the ridge of his adonis belt when you realized he had nothing on underneath them, making your mouth water with ever more anticipation. You could tell from the tenseness in his muscles, the tremors in his thighs under your clawing grip, that he was at the end of his rope. Centering a kiss on his happy trail, you looked straight up into his eyes and ordered, “Now fuck me.”

You were just about to get his pants low enough to let his painfully hard cock out to greet with a kiss when an angry hand took hold of the hair at the back of your head. It clamped in a fist and turned, taking absolute control of you. White hot adrenaline poured through your body, bursting fresh with each hard pound of your heart and stuttering your every breath. That iron grip jerked back, forcing you to crane your head back with it and look up at the imposing bulk of Beckman looming over at you.

“You want me to fuck you?” he growled dangerously, leering down at you with a growing scowl. Steadily he curled himself down until his nose bumped yours and you were sure you could see how the lighting and lust had turned his eyes from shining silver to dark stone. The light pulsing in your scalp was no match for the shadowed face and piercing eyes of Beckman taking over your every thought and dragging your heartbeat low to drum between your legs. “Fine. I’ll fuck you like the slut you’re set on being.”

“I’ll happily be a slut if it's for you,” you breathed out before you could think, sounding nearly in a trance from his sudden dominant behavior.

The declaration had his cock jumping and his knees weak.

“Darlin’,” he moaned, voice stretched thin by his taut, straining need. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

He surged down, stealing your lips in a bruising kiss, using his hold on your hair to control every tilt and press. Right away, you opened to each other, exploring the flavor of each other’s tongues and indulging in the tingles brought on by sliding the slick muscles over each other. You shivered and moaned when he flicked the point of his tongue on the roof of your mouth and he swallowed the sound down greedily. Never breaking his claim on your lips, Beckman hauled you up to your feet. The action set a pleasant burn on your scalp as you chase the pull of his grip. Your hands went back to work on getting his cock free, but he snatched them up.

“No,” he rumbled against your lips. “You’re just going to take what I give you.”

“Beckman,” you whined back to him between your continued fervent kisses, “let me touch you.”

“Sluts don’t make demands,” he snapped in a bitter taunt. Using his height to his advantage, he pulled out of the reach of your lips. He was still able to lean down over you and keep distance, forcing you to keep your head craned back with his fist in your hair and his gaze holding you hostage. “I thought this was what you wanted.”

“I want you,” you moaned in complaint. Though your voice was warbly with want, your tone was way too petulant to be considered begging. Even so, it was testing his resolve.

“You’ll have me,” he answered gruffly.

Before you could realize what was happening, you were flipped around and swapped, now facing the rough wall of the bar with Beckman right behind you. He had released your hair so he could trap each of your wrists to your sides. He kicked your feet to spread with heavy boots and settled eagerly against your ass. He anchored you against him by pulling on your wrists, keeping you trapped against his grinding hips. The height difference had him centered at the level of your tailbone. The feeling of having you against his cock was overwhelming, especially with the plush of your ass massaging at his sensitive balls. Quiet grunts accompanied each circle of his hips, always carried with the erotic sound of his heavy breaths.

You tilted forward and arched your hips up, seeking attention against your weeping entrance and swollen clit. The change had his dick nestle between your cheeks, the base of his cock and his tense balls giving you a small piece of the pleasure you were seeking. He stood just barely too tall for them to give any attention to your clit, causing you to shift and shimmy back into him in search of more. Despite the lack of direct stimulation, your body was still in a pleasant buzz; he felt large and heavy and hot against you and your mind was swimming in joy at how hard you made him. The open-mouthed groan you earned from him with your squirming shot enough pleasure through you to have your clit pulsing.

“On your toes, slut,” he ordered.

You listened without thinking about it and were rewarded with the new height lining him up much better to grind against everywhere you wanted him. Well - almost everywhere. Most of all you ached for him to massage you inside out, rub and dig into every slick plush space you could offer. Despite the burn already entering your calves, you tilted your ass up even higher to feel any extra speck of friction you could get from him.

Beckman’s grip on your hips was commanding, he owned your every sway and grind of your clothed cunt and ass against him. The skirt you were wearing was beginning to ride up with each thrust, exposing inch after inch of fresh skin to his hungry eyes. Both of you thanked your choice of garment as he used one hand to shove it up and over your perked ass to hang limply around your waist. It swayed and brushed your legs with each continued motion, hypnotizing Beckman for a moment.

That moment was broken when he instead looked at your ass, smooshed high and round with each grind, your underwear cutting sinful lines across the muscle, making your skin pop around the tension in the most mouth-watering way. It had Beckman moaning from deep in his chest again and thanking whatever lucky stars he had that let him have you in front of him like this. The sight mixed with the new heat from being just that much closer to getting to your bare cunt had a flurry of possessiveness and need overcome him. He nearly bowed forward to the strength of it, but fought the call so he could keep watching your body writhe against him.

You had no doubt you were sopping wet, more than enough to make his slide in slick. Each grind of him against you had your soaked panties dragging with him, causing sharp friction that was just on the right side of too much. You wondered faintly if you were getting his pants wet too, wishing you could easily turn and see to find out. You wouldn’t have been disappointed; a steady dark spot had built on his crotch from a mix of your leaking pussy and his weeping cock. You had gotten him dripping pre-cum the moment you began kissing down his chest. It had only gotten worse with each touch, his body desperate and ready to be inside you.

Suddenly, one of his hands and his hips disappeared from you, leaving you feeling lost. Before you could stop yourself, you let out a whining moan at the loss, sounding fucked out and pathetic without either of you truly being touched yet. The small coherent part of yourself marveled at the number he had done on you.

“Don’t you worry, pretty thing,” Beckman grumbled, half placating and half condescending. The sound of shuffling fabric clued you in to his missing hand’s task. “I’ll give you just what you need.”

His large fingers hooked into the sides of your underwear, guiding them over your ass until they fell down. Your slightly spread legs had them catch on your thighs and Beckman huffed at the inconvenience.

“Stay right there,” he rumbled in warning as he crouched down. He dragged the soaked cloth the rest of the way off, guiding you with gentle cues. The slide of his fingertips down your legs sent tingles across your skin, but the delicate hold he put on each ankle to ease them out of the garment had your heart thumping. In this process his touch switched from tyrannical to reverent, making your mind sing with hope. That song only hit a great crescendo when he peppered the backs of your thighs with sweet and slow kisses.

As he rose back up and shoved the ruined cloth in his pocket, Beckman broke you both out of his worshiping trance by giving a playful and slightly mean nip to your left hip. You let out a little yelp despite yourself and he chuckled at the reaction, finding it absurdly cute. You shivered again at the throaty sound, nerves too easily tweaked from your potent anticipation. It only got worse when his hips found yours again.

Both of you moaned at the feeling of finally meeting skin to skin, immediately addicted to the wet heat and heady throb of each other. You sent your hips high with renewed vigor, spurred on by the need to chase more of the feeling of his thick cock against you. You were right about him being thick and long; his grinds spread your folds wide, exposing your entrance and clit to the sweet friction, and he laid across the length of your pelvis. It let him see the leaking red head of his cock peeking out from between your cheeks, the filthy image making his eyes roll back and an involuntary moan of “fuck, darlin’” growl out of him.

Beckman hooked his right arm around your front, nestling it as close to the tops of your thighs as he could get. It let him use your hip bones for stability in his hold, saving you from your weight crushing the limb into your stomach. The anticipation of feeling your legs bounce against his arm while he fucks you had him salivating.

He curled his arm, pulling your lower back flush to his abs. It made him take your weight, the toes of your shoes just barely scuffing the ground when you pointed them. You’d seen his insane strength before, but feeling it used on you had your body lighting on fire along with your cheering mind. Beckman’s other hand slid from your hip down and in on your thigh, spreading and lifting your leg until he was holding the inside of your knee out to the side. It left your cunt exposed to him, each grind of his further mixing your arousal with the pre-cum spreading down his cock.

“Hold that wall and keep your voice down,” Beckman instructed, “Unless you’re such a whore you need an audience.”

You let out a complaining moan at the harsh words but still writhed eagerly against him, unable to deny how they had you fluttering in anticipation. Your hands found purchase on the stone wall in front of you, giving you a sense of balance and security in your barely supported upper body. You were close to it so your arms were bent, allowing you strength and leverage. The force behind his grinds had you sure you’d need it.

Slowly and deliberately, Beckman slid his cock from root to tip between your slick folds, threatening you with his impressive length while he made sure he was properly coated. He only stalled the movement when his thick tip found its way down to your entrance. Unable to help himself, he ground a tight circle around it, groaning out a deep “fuck” at the feeling of your cunt trying its best to suck him in. You let out another keening moan, sounding vaguely like “please”, at the realization that his head was the perfect width to stretch you out right to the edge of your limits.

Angling his hips just right, Beckman followed the catch of your entrance to start forcing his way into you. You were right about the size of him; only his mushroomed tip was in and you already felt like your hips were being pressed wider. His achingly slow sink into you let you both feel every overwhelming bit of contact, every delicious rub of soaked skin on skin. Your mouth hung open, letting out appreciative moans, even though your attempts to hold them back left them clipped and jumbled.

Beckman had to shut his eyes and scrunch his brow to handle all the sensations flooding him. You felt so goddamn perfect wrapped around him. He felt somewhere in his being that you were made to be here with each other and force bliss from your pounding hearts and bodies. He finally fell to the call to curl as close to you as possible, his temple rested on yours, his stubble teasing your cheek, and stray gray hairs sweeping down to tickle your skin.

“So, so good, darlin’,” he praised breathlessly. He made it another inch into you, offering your cunt more firm flesh to clamp down on. “You feel better than a dream -nnngh- got the perfect pussy for me.”

An unrestrained moan tumbled past your lips at his praise, brain too empty and body too happy to care about anything anymore other than him and the feelings he brought out in you. The cheering and music from the bar was loud enough to lightly leak through the walls, so you wouldn’t have worried too much about attracting attention anyway.

He hadn’t prepped you any, but the abundant arousal sitting in your body so long loosened you up and made sure there was more than enough lubrication for him, especially with the addition of his own. His torturously slow press into you helped your body make room for him too. In fact, your pussy was so eager to open for him he felt like your walls were trying to suck him in quicker as they quaked and trembled around him. It made it near impossible to resist the urge to shove as deep into you as he could go, needing the hot grip of you around his aching cock and the pleasure of your plush ass and thighs pressed tight against his hips.

When he finally got there, you were both shaking and gasping. Your head felt light with the amount of bliss swimming through you at finally having him like this, held tightly in you while you shared your bodies. It also helped that he had you feeling so deliciously full; the press of him was potent enough to spread through your sides and up through your chest. It was the biggest stretch you’d taken but his size was just perfect, like he was built just to fit you and you him. The weight of his thick cock rested down towards your stomach, primed to massage your every favorite nerve.

“Just like that, darlin’,” Beckman groaned, starting his first pull back out of you. He continued with his slow speed to make you feel every ridge and vein in detail. Your favorite was the rim of his head dragging across your swollen walls. He sat that head just within your entrance and paused. “Bein’ such a good little slut.”

Right at the end of his praise, he shoved forward to fully sheathe himself back in you. The force of the thrust pressed the air from your lungs, creating a breathy moan, and gave you a taste of pleasure that had you certain that no matter how long he fucked you, you’d always want more of this potent bliss. You could live like this, fucked the rest of your life, just so long as he never stopped taking and touching you. He continued the strong and steady pace, needing to savor every second in your cunt, memorize every twitch and flutter. It had you whining, mind fraying under the threat of how much more he could give you.

“Beckman,” you moaned in frustration. “Give me more, I -ahhh- I need it.”

A punishing thrust had you feel him in your throat and your eyes rolled back in time with your high pitched moan. That moan turned into a rough whine when he stayed sat fully inside you instead of continuing. To tease you further, he began tight circles against you, making his pulsing cock play with every inch of your cunt, earning him a tight clench from you. This tantalizing rub continued as he moved to nip at your ear lobe.

“What did I say about making demands,” he warned, rumbling the words right against your ear. The puffs of his breaths shot goose bumps up your neck. He tilted his head down to tease his teeth over the flesh and continued his maddening little circles against you. With one leg trapped in his grip and the other barely reaching the ground, you had almost no leverage to work yourself back against him. Your abs burned with the effort as you tried to use your grip on the wall to stabilize yourself and grind back, but his iron grip was much stronger than any of your attempts.

You sobbed out a few needy moans at his continued meticulous playing with your body. Though you wanted so much more right away, that steady press of him waking up every inch of your insides was starting to build a pit deeper in your stomach than the one you were used to. Your mouth watered at the thought of what a full body high it could bring you but it felt so far away and you wanted to be smothered in pleasure now.

“Beckman,” you whined out, catching the way it made his breath hitch over your skin. “More, harder.”

Nothing changed and you were stuck spread open and suspended and at the mercy of his whims. It was the most deliciously frustrating thing you’d ever experienced, being forced to take the slow treatment. It made your body and mind agonize over every little sensation, every pulse and throb, every inch of you he reached that you’d never felt before. It made your ears take in the obscene sound of the little motions of his cock pushing drop after drop of your arousal out of your entrance to drip down his balls and your thigh. You flushed at how graphic it sounded, ears, face, and neck burning, especially with your combined heavy breaths and mixed moans and groans.

“You’re gonna have to try much harder than that, pretty little thing,” he goaded. You could hear the taunting condescension in his voice and you cursed the fact that it made your pussy spasm around him. The twitch of his cock that it earned inside you swelled your desperation to feel more from him until it swallowed your pride whole.

“Please,” you gasped, near truly sobbing in need. “Pleeeeease, fuck me harder, Beck, fuck me faster, please, just -hhhah- just need more.”

Beckman sucked harshly on your neck and set about answering your pleas. He changed right to fucking you fast and hard, making you yelp at the immediate flood of sensation. Your thigh and hips jumped in his grasp as you tried to take the onslaught. Every nerve in your pussy burned in the most beautiful way, emptying your head of any thoughts other than Beckman working your body into a quick frenzy. His teeth, lips, and tongue were decorating the sensitive skin of your neck; his hands and arm were clamped, making you feel blessedly trapped; his torso hovered on the back of yours, giving you brushes of his hard working muscles in motion; and his cock - his perfect cock - was bullying you open over and over and lighting every quaking inch of you ablaze.

Through your panting breaths and scattered moans, you could hear the wet slap of his hips against you, each impact making a little more arousal gush out of you. Being spread as you were also let his heavy balls tap against your clit with each hard thrust, ensuring every wired part of your pussy was seen to. You could barely form words but you were sure he caught the slurred praises you sent his way from how he echoed them back and kept adding more and more heat, pressure, grind, suck, and drag on you at your breathless moaning.

Stuck on the start of the encounter, he kept repeating a favored phrase to you - “So good, darlin’, such a good fucking slut”.

“Your slut,” you panted, “only -hnngh- yours.”

The pledge of ownership had his eyes rolling back and his mouth more ravenous against your skin. He needed to keep you locked to him forever, be on your skin forever, brand you as his, and have you mark him as yours.

“That’s right, darlin’,” he rasped, “only mine.”

He dropped your suspended thigh in favor of sinking a bruising grip into your hip. Your thighs clapped together with a wet smack, forcing a yelp from you as it jolted your clit. He placed an apologetic kiss on your shoulder and got right back to his tempo. The deep pressure he’d built with his deliberate grinding was now added to by every thrust, creating a shaking warning of the orgasm to come that sat from hip to hip and up to your ribs. It felt like he was fucking you just as deep, each drive of his cock seeming to replace the beating of your heart in your chest.

The new dancing on your toes had your calves, thighs, and abs working in sporadic clenches and twitches, the jerks and shifts causing pulses around your clit and into your trembling cunt. The new position made him feel all the wider as it let your labia relax around him and light up with delicious friction on each thrust in and pull out. The squeeze of your legs and muscles also put constant pressure on your clit, which Beckman would jostle with each forceful fuck into you.

All of it was getting to be too much and you were happily drowning under the rising tide of that threatening orgasm. It was swimming through your body so thoroughly you were sure you could feel each strong thrust pull pleasure from your very bones. Every piece of you that lived between your hips felt blinding white hot and pulsing and alive and so so very good.

The cherry on top of your euphoria were the pieces of the feeling you could hear echoed in Beckman. His voice was deep and groaning but also strained and fucked out as it whispered dark praises against your neck and shoulder. His breath was ragged and just as desperate as his touch, which was trying its best to permanently attach to your skin. His aching cock was just as responsive as your trembling pussy, dripping and twitching and jumping with each move and touch of your body.

Responding to the telling grip of your cunt clamping down constantly around him, Beckman slowed his pace slightly, focusing instead on the strength of each thrust and keeping his angle just right to drag you to your end. It accented the sound of each strong clap of his hips into yours and brought back clarity to the feeling of his thick cock spearing you. Your mouth hung open, panting and watering from the change of pace and unending pound and pull of him fucking your cunt into the shape of him.

“Beckman, Beckman, Beckman -ahh!- so cloooose,” you cried, voice thin and desperate. He cursed and moaned in response, the sound of you nearly making him lose himself and cum before you. He kept his pace pounding into you, each firm fuck lighting up your tightening walls and bouncing through your swollen folds and thighs to drum on your clit. Your head was swimming; despite your fast and canting breaths, you felt like you couldn't breathe, the air escaping you with each thrust beating a needy moan from your open mouth. The burn for oxygen only added to the tightly wound pleasure gripping you from throat to cunt, clawing tightest from your hips in, held steady between his sturdy hands.

Your toes and fingers tingled numbly in anticipation and shook just like the rest of you. Instinct tilted your hips just a degree higher, letting the tip of his dick tap just so against your cervix, ramping the overwhelming build even higher than you thought possible. Your moans yelped out sharper and higher amid sobs of “don’t stop, don’t stop, pleeeeease”, making Beckman groan and curse in his own mind-numbing arousal and frantic fight not to cum first.

A few more thrusts blazing across your cunt and shaking deep in your gut had the tension finally burst. You felt it first in the shot of electricity from your clit down to your toes and up to your buzzing head, before the tight pulse of your muscles took over everything. You writhed and shook against Beckman as he held you like a lifeline, trying desperately to fuck you through every second of heaven you could feel instead of following you over the edge. Each jerk and clench of your body gave you more and more bliss, the squeeze of you so tight and sure that it felt like there was only room for Beckman’s large cock in your body.

He couldn’t manage to pull even an inch out of your cunt, too weak to deny himself the bliss of feeling you cum, so he guided you through with shallow but heavy thrusts. Each tap on your cervix swelled you more and more until you weren’t sure if you had already cum or there was something else building on the other side of this endless screaming song in your nerves. Your answer came with the feeling of a snap that switched your cunt from long pulses into frantic milking down on Beckman’s jolting cock. Each squeeze was powerful enough to cause a full jerk and shudder of your hips, having you slip and grind in Beckman’s clawing hold on your hips.

“Fuck, darlin’, sweetheart, fu-uuuck, you’re too good, too much -ngah!- so goddamn perfect,” Beckman moaned out a stream of mindless praises while he shoved his forehead into the side of your neck, your only anchor in the torrent of sensation ripping through your body. After an eternity, your muscles and nerves began to relax, leaving your body feeling limp and heavy in the wake of your pleasure. You were positive nothing worked anymore except for your clit and cunt, both still drooling and twitching over Beckman’s shallow thrusts. You were thankful your closed legs kept the attention from overstimulating you fully. Beckam felt your body relax, getting an addicting sense of pride from fucking you into a limp puddle, and finally took to chasing his own pleasure.

“Need to see you,” he gasped, flipping you around and desperately pressing his twitching cock back into you. He shuddered at the relief, feeling ravenous and untethered every second he couldn’t be inside you. All his sanity was now held in the taste of your skin, the pleasure in your voice, and the sweet clench of your plush cunt. Pressing your foreheads together, he made it impossible to look anywhere but at each other. Even in the low light that managed to sneak between the buildings with you, Beckman’s silver eyes glowed while taking you in. The color looked sharper pressed thin by his lust-blown pupils and you were hypnotized as his gaze swallowed you whole.

Seeing the needy scrunch of his brows and the way he switched back and forth between clenching his jaw and hanging his mouth open to moan freely sent fresh sparks straight down to your clit. Having your legs spread around him had his racing thrusts teetering you on the edge of overstimulation, but it was well worth the sight and feeling of him rabidly chasing down his pleasure in your cunt. He was mindless and rutting in his need, enjoying your sopping heat contrasting with your nails scrabbling for purchase on his broad shoulders. The hug of your thighs around his waist kept him close and added to the wondrously tight clench of you that seemed to spread over his whole body. He was so, so close he just needed one little nudge.

“Beckman, please, need you -hahhn- need you to cum in me,” you begged, tone broken from all your moaning.

He was kicked right over the edge, barking out a deep “fuck” at the power of the orgasm shredding through him. He jerked his lips down to yours, holding you in an open mouthed kiss full of tongue and teeth and groans. He shoved himself as close as he could get to you, trapping you near painfully tight against the stone wall with his pressing bulk, demanding lips, and throbbing cock. His dick jumped hard with each pump of hot sticky cum deep in your cunt. It warmed you inside out and mixed with the heady knowledge that you’d completely unraveled this imposing man to unexpectedly drag you into a milder orgasm of your own. Each heavy jerk of him helped guide you through your own bliss, bodies working in perfect synch to have every pump answered with a coaxing squeeze. It kept you both suspended in your mindless heaven until you’d wrung every bit of pleasure from each other that your bodies could possibly give.

Beckman was certain that you’d sucked his very soul from him if the numb and clumsy feeling of his body was anything to go by. It wasn’t ready to listen to him, acting like it belonged to someone else and he supposed that was true; it was yours now. You’d held his heart a long time and his mind even longer, so it was only fitting that you owned his body too.

You didn’t seem to be doing much better with being in charge of your body, eyes half-lidded and lashes fluttering against the need to close. You were a vision - your foggy and affectionate gaze glued to him from under dark lashes, the flush tinting your sweat-damp skin, your lips parted and kiss-swollen, hair a wild crown around your head, decorating your face with stray strands. He studied and admired the image of you fucked-out and languid with eagerness and reverence. You were doing much the same, enjoying his mussed silver waves of soft locks, his gently shining eyes, the hints of red on the apples of his cheeks and his chest, the heavy rise and fall of his sculpted shoulders as he tried to catch his breath.

The sound of a drinking song spiking high in volume snuck through the wall and shattered your illusion of privacy. You were both suddenly back against the side of the bar instead of whatever pocket world you had carved out for just yourselves. Beckman continued to hold you steady as he slowly let your tired legs down, your skirt following after to hang back in place. Your legs shook under you like it was your first time standing and you laughed at their clumsiness. Beckman cracked a loving smile at you, stealing your breath and halting your chuckles. Again the melody within the bar seeped out to you clearly and you laughed even louder this time when you recognized one of Shanks’ favorite tunes. While he tucked himself away, Beckman raised a brow at your cackling until he recognized the song too and added his own gentle laughter to yours.

Looking him straight in the eyes, you fought to sing along properly through your bubbling giggles.

“I took that lass and smacked her ass

Said darlin you’re comin’ with me”

He took your hips and pulled you to him, guiding you in the closest to a swaying dance that your uncooperative legs would allow. He quietly joined you on the next lines, treating you to the deep and raspy parts of his voice that lived in his chest.

“Ain’t got a hall but we’ll use the wall

Just give me an hour or three”

“What do you say, darlin’?” Beckman asked with humor dancing in the light reflections in his eyes. There was a seriousness underlying his tone in his next question, however. “Willing to give me a few more hours?”

You gave him a sweet smile but turned it coy, your attitude sneaking back as your mind stabilized. “You’ve got one to convince me to keep you.”

Beckman huffed out a laugh at your bite coming back and leaned down to kiss your forehead affectionately. He took a moment to rest his cheek atop your head, breathing in the smell of your shampoo, delicately tinged with a touch of sweat and sex. It had him shiver and start to twitch back to life. Slowly, he trailed kisses from the top of your head to the tip of your ear. His warm breath made you shiver and begin to heat again as well.

“Sweet darlin’,” Beckman mumbled, lips tickling the rim of your ear, “I’ll have you back to begging for me in half the time. Gotta show you that I don’t just know how to fuck; I can worship.”

#beckman x reader #benn beckman #one piece #thirst hours #benn beckman x reader #beckman x you #beckman x y/n #x reader #fem reader #one piece smut #benn beckman smut #x reader smut #my writing

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leclsrc · 1 year

Text

decent incentives ✴︎ cl16, mv1

genre: this is. Smut, porn W plot, threesome, driver reader

word count: 6.9k

Max can’t even feel his feet on the hardwood floors because you’re on your bed, spread out, wearing one of Charles’ sweaters, two fingers at the apex of your thighs. Or: You’ve been a brat, and only two people know how to mellow you out. title from this

auds here… hi hi hi! scanned my reqs last week, found a max/charles threesome one, and wrote this out in half a day after a friend showed me the challengers trailer (i love tennis and it drove me to write abt a sport that was not, in fact, tennis) also i truly cannot explain the phenomenon behind me finding smut/these kinds of works easier to suss out these days (long form fic i talked abt in the last drabble is not this one fyi) but it’s just ???? like i don’t… i’ve no clue. i hope u enjoy this anyway!!!! love auds :)

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... penetrative sex, double penetration, sexual tension, masturbation (f), teasing, praise central, reader is a MASSIVE brat, size kink, dirty talk, i don’t want to say brat taming but kinda kinda

Your first time in Max Verstappen’s hotel room happened after a tiring night of media and press, where you spent hours together smoking to calm yourselves down. You’d almost been caught by a manager, stepping on your sticks as soon as the back door swung open and your names were called out to do another interview. This was with ESPN, if you remember right. There’d been a muddled chaos of journalism in the venue, all the jumbled mess of the same questions. As young as you both are, do you feel intimidated by success?

It didn’t—and still doesn’t—help, you suppose, that both you and Max had stared, tight-lipped and deflated brows, and stated, with finality: no.

The afternoon stretched into an entire night, and by the time the clock ticked nine and everything had formally wrapped up, Max mustered up the courage and a half it took to invite you to his hotel room for a cig and half a Cuervo divided into three shots each. The conversation had progressed as he drove, the continuation of an otherwise unorthodox friendship between a Red Bull and Mercedes driver—a fact you’d both acknowledged but opted to ignore.

Drivers are friends all the time, you figure—you’re close with few drivers—but none of them are Max. You had made the lousy small talk, commented on how different the pre- and post-race processes have become since your entrance in 2018, which, back then, had seemed like forever ago. “It would seem like forever to a world champion,” he’d said, and his voice is all teasing and raspy and scruffed up. You had laughed, a scoffy little noise, and told him to shut up.

He obeyed, for two seconds, then added, “Do you mind if we meet someone there?”

The hotel room was what you might expect a high-level athlete to be bestowed with, wide and huge but not as wide and not as huge as yours a few streets over. There’d been a thing of cologne left uncapped on the table by the door, Adidas shoes on the floor next to Nikes, and then a low table housing a still smoking joint that left the entire living room smelling like grass.

Somehow, Max had managed to turn a neutral, sterile hotel room into a boy’s room. The scent of weed mixed with Tom Ford cologne. The rap music blending into the open balcony’s traffic noise. The socks on the floor, two pairs, both white. It’s a strenuous effort, you’d thought—and you were beginning to think this wasn’t the work of Max alone. “We have a guest,” he’d hollered when he managed to fiddle with the key card properly enough to leave the door alone.

No one had answered, or surfaced from the hallway leading to the bedroom and bathroom, so you followed Max into the bar area. Bottles of booze in varying states of empty, lemon slices and salt now cold—“Do you not call housekeeping?” You’d asked, amusement concealing curiosity as you accepted a poured-out shot. He said they do—they—and sometimes hotel staff are just a bunch of pricks. He asked more questions. How it felt to win at twenty-one, how it felt to be driving, to be the youngest winner, the first female driver.

Ask me something I don’t hear fucking journalists say all the time, you’d replied back, half-jokingly. The August air nipped at your cheeks, chilling your warm face. He’d laughed, and explained that he re-asked the questions in case you have a more honest answer to give him. The most honesty you could offer is that you’d grown to hate your reputation because it precedes your skill. It’d been silent for a bit then, just the scent of the unclaimed weed. Then Max went, We have a new friend.

You turned to see who he was talking to. Charles was at the doorway, eyes on you already, raising a hand to say a silent hello. “H…” He trailed off. “Hey.”

He was shirtless, Calvins tight on his legs, his free hand scratching absently at his abs. Behind you, you had faintly picked up on Max introducing you and Charles rolled his eyes before replying, clipped, I know who she is, wiseass. He’d taken the weed and almost left, but you spoke next.

“Want to come sit?”

He paused, turned, and blinked. “I’m alright,” he rejected. “We have a meeting tomorrow, don’t forget.”

Then he was back in the bedroom area, leaving behind him a trail of grassy smoke. He was clearly rugged and fresh from sleep, the delicious sleep athletes have all grown familiar with: post-race, overcome with a terrible exhaustion. You’d only ever exchanged a few words with either of these two, and the fact that you were alone with them sent a warm, drawling thrill up your spine.

You were two and a half shots in when Charles reappeared, sans weed. “Any left for me?”

—

If you grouped the grid into years, you would be with Max and Charles—on the younger end, still at the ripe years of your careers. You entered first, though, then Max, thenCharles, which meant you were connected to, and friends with, relatively different people on the paddock. But the 2020 season and your many close calls with Max began the media and manager tirade of constantly lumping you and Max into the same interviews, press conferences, and media days, to maybe somehow elicit a bit of drama out (a tireless and unrelenting effort).

That’s how the rumors started. The rumor that permeates you most is one that asks about you, Max, and Charles. Some say you dated one then the other (a homie hopper, they’d branded you in 2021), others say they dated each other and you butted in. All of them were woefully untrue, in the same way all had some ring of truth to them.

And you suppose that’s what hotwired the beginning of your nights spent at Max’s hotel room, where Charles would nearly always be camped out, then eventually vice versa (Charles’ room, Max camping out; your room, solo, housing them for one night), drinking and/or smoking and/or playing some form of cards. And you suppose again that it was all this that radiated into everything else, all your wins and successes and bad days and near crashes, that just caused the entire universe to topple over, into itself, and creep up onto the three of you in Bahrain that year.

But that year is three years ago, and if you try to detail every last divot of it, you’re going to wind up rubbing a migraine out of your head. And you’re not interested in developing a headache—not when you’re celebrating the fifth race of the 2023 season.

It’s your fourth win this season. It’s all anybody ever talks about, how you had gone and secured a third championship for yourself last year, and how you’re gunning for four, the greatest the sport has seen in years. It’s all anyone can repeat and echo—you’re a fucking legend!—and you know from experience that praise does more than the most dangerous cocktail of drugs to get you high.

The afterparty is full and obnoxiously loud, dark and smoky and low-visibility. You’re wearing a flimsy dress and running a hand through your hair while you nurse a drink, feeling drunk on compliments and confused with certain absences. You can feel the bass through the tiled floor, heels clicking on it as you search, search, and come up short. Neither Max nor Charles have sent you a text, a play they always perform to break a routine you’ve become familiar with. You frown. Hey, somebody says next to you, you’re better than anyone else on the grid right now! You thank them, thinking to yourself—where the fuck is anyone else on the grid anyway? The relevant people, at least?

Half an hour later, you’ve ditched the party and are pounding with your fists at Max’s hotel room door in an effort to get them to open it quicker, after your knuckles didn’t seem to do the work well enough. You half—no, mostly—expect Charles to be the one who pulls it open. He’s more prudent. He gives in easier. He’s nicer and he can spare a thought for the other people on this floor (but the price of this room means there barely are).

“What.” His voice is gritty.

“You told me you would come tonight.” Your voice is steady—you’d chosen not to drink much, and what little you consumed wore off on the ride here. Even with your heels on and even in sleepiness, you notice his presence towers over yours. “You both said.”

“We were tired.”

You scoff and gently push past him into the room, where evidence of their existence rags the furniture. “Every hotel room you ever stay in is turned into a fucking frat house.” Beer bottles, cigs, gifts from fans stored with precarious care but peeking out from suitcases.

“We were sleeping. I am sleepy,” he says behind you, unamused by your sudden appearance. He shuts the door and stands still, looking as disappointed as he can. It’s unlike him. You’re buying time to find out what the problem is.

“Okay, I’ll go,” you say, relenting, running a few fingers over the mess of clothes strewn atop the armrest of the couch. “My driver’s downstairs, anyway. I wanted you there tonight, though.” You look up, meet his eyes. Tired and green and fed up. “Both of you. We could’ve celebrated.”

He pulls his lips tight and stands straighter. “I know, I know.” He softens a little. “I’m sorry, okay? Desolé. Just… tired.” You know he’s tired because his team is shit, and you know it has nothing to do with you, but you’re so wrapped up with everything that your irritance fails to quell.

“Where’s Max?” You ask roughly instead, thumbing at the strap of your minidress. He gestures to the bedroom. You’re quiet but stormy when you walk in, finding him, messy hair and tired eyes notwithstanding, fully awake, unlike what his roomie has been telling you since you arrived; you scoff out loud again. Des-fucking-picable. You sit yourself on the couch, crossing your legs petulantly.

They both stare. They’re mad, it occurs to you, which is weird because they had you in between them on that same bed less than forty-eight hours ago. You’d come thrice and begged for more, but they laughed and said you all needed sleep to get up for race prep. Race prep. Race prep.

“Okay, then.” You throw two hands up in a semi-shrug. “Let’s have it. What’s the matter? No use lying.”

They both look irritated. “Nothing,” Max says.

“Fuck nothing.” You trail a hand over the hem of your dress. “You’re pissed with me, but I didn’t do shit.” You try to rerack the race, but you hadn’t so much as collided with them in the slightest, apart from overtaking them a few times, but they weren’t man children to whine over that. You’d shared the podium with Charles, for Chrissake.

“You’re right. You just went and…” Charles blows a raspberry and makes an explosion gesture, opening his clenched fist. “Shat on us in your post-race interview.”

And there it is.

You huff out a laugh, momentarily losing control over speech, and it’s caught in between itself and a sigh, a breathy noise that makes waves in the quiet room. Okay, you think. I get it. Your eyes flit in-between the two men across you, your shoulders straight and eyebrows raised, posing a challenge. “What, are you jealous?”

They’re silent. And you know silence always means—

Your eyes relax, smug and a little teasing as you elaborate. “Because you know I’m better than both of you?”

—Yes.

Their silence is redeeming and rewarding and permissive and it speaks volumes louder than if they’d actually admitted to it. You stare back at them, eyes narrowed, amused, coy. You’d been joking around in your Sky Sports interview. Sure, you’re a bit of a tease, especially on the high of a win. But they should know that by now.

You know it annoys them more to leave the door wide open as you leave, than to slam it closed.

—

“Will you draw me a tattoo?!”

“I’d love to, but you are going to regret it,” Charles laughs, signing his name off with a heart on the frenzied fan’s outstretched cap. The busy, busy practice day had now worn into night, though nothing seems to be taking his mind off the fact that you’ve been giving him and Max the cold shoulder since last week. And he knows it’s stupid, he knows he and Max were being irrational and pissy—him especially—but now he just finds himself needing to apologize before anything becomes worse.

But his priority is getting to your hotel, which now seems like the journey of his lifetime. His bodyguard is a bulldozer and grips his elbow to traverse them through the sea of people who cheer him on, go Charles have faith in Ferrari and yeah, that’s been getting more and more difficult as the races pass without much good progress. There are flashes all around, noise and laughing and whoops and gifts he tries to receive, but he just—he needs to get to your hotel. Preoccupied, he remembers where he’d seen Max last, just seconds before leaving the paddock for the evening.

You spend a lot of time with a certain pair Ferrari and Mercedes drivers, says the interviewer in Dutch. Charles squints at the subtitles and waits for Max’s reaction.

He’s in the passenger seat, being driven around for a change, and maybe he’s a pessimist and he misses you and Max, or maybe the city he’s in is just. Dreary, so he opts to stare at his phone like every other person. The clip’s been posted by a fan on Twitter, and the caption is something jokey—something about a dream threesome. He can’t help but laugh as he watches. We are close, us three, Max says, nodding. In fact I will be meeting them later.

The media’s always speculated, rumors born out of a few close calls outside clubs where you’re tipsy and giggly and getting into one car. The fans, funny as ever, also make some fun of it—posting pictures of you three captioned with something like polyamory is real or her and the guys she told you not to worry about, but God if any of them knew the real picture, the whole three years of it, all the sex and hickeys and rumors.

He scrolls a bit more. There are a few photos of you leaving the paddock, hand poised atop your face to shield it from the paps. You get loads more of them wherever you are, loads morecompared to anybody else on the grid. You always attract the media, the press. He finds a picture with your face in it, smiling at your result during FP2. Fuck. You’re pretty, hair damp with sweat, lips stretched into a proud grin, suited hand raising a thumbs up.

“Where to?” The driver beside him asks suddenly.

—

“Fairmont,” Max says to his assistant as he pulls out of parking. “I’m hanging up, doei.” He presses the red button and sighs, shutting his eyes and driving the steady, increasingly familiar routes of the city. He’d called you this morning but you didn’t pick up. Last night he’d slept restlessly, which was no different from the nights before, anyway.

He gets to the valet parking of your hotel when purple is just settling into blackness in the sky, the beginnings of a civil discussion at the tip of his tongue as he exits the elevator and finds your room, opening it and finding it unlocked already. Charles must have done the brunt of it, or maybe you’d gotten an assistant of an assistant to pass an extra keycard to him. You always plan around them, thinking ahead. Both on and off track.

Like the hotel rooms he and Charles share or camp out at, your existence is terribly visible. Unlike them, though, it manifests differently.

It smells like your perfume, the pink bottle he’d found you spritzing on once, and everything is neat and tidy and gorgeous. A vase of white peonies on the low table, lipstick on the table by the mirror, even the pack of cigarettes you barely smoke is pretty and unassuming on the sofa. The only thing amiss—a pair of men’s shoes, those ones with stars on them that you bought Charles on a spur-of-the-moment shopping trip. He toes off his own beside them, eyes the alignment, and fixes it lest you scold them for it later.

Anyway. It smells like you. That’s the only thing he cares about right now. It hits him like a tidal wave, after being ignored the whole week and then some. Your perfume, your favorite linen spray—that black and white glass bottle you carry around like a rosary—your favorite lip balm, even. He swears he smells the vanilla, can recall the taste of it from kissing you ditzy.

It’s beginning to rain—it had been drizzling already, en route here—and the noise pelts the windows, an accompaniment to his footsteps down the hall. He’s familiar with the layout of a penthouse suite, but still he tries out the WC door, and then the closet with the ironing board, before finally he figures the bedroom should be at the end of the hall.

He’s reciting it. I’m sorry. Would you stop being a brat? No. No, just say you’re sorry and then he’s standing at the ajar door of your bedroom, pushing it open, and he can’t feel anything. The words have evaporated. So have his warm little sentimental feelings, and so the annoyance he’d come busting in with.

Max can’t even feel his feet on the hardwood floors because you’re on your bed, spread out, wearing one of Charles’ sweaters, two fingers at the apex of your thighs.

He opens his mouth but nothing leaves. His eyes find Charles, standing by the door, propped against the desk, arms crossed and fingers digging into his biceps. Max looks at you again. You have a pretty flush high on your cheeks, a slight sheen of sweat on your exposed collar. He blinks and realizes you’ve been talking.

“I said, you can sit the fuck down.” There’s a couch to his left.

He pulls himself together and stays beside Charles. “I’m good here, thanks.”

You eye the two of them. They look like stupid twins in the same way they look like Republican husbands. You roll your eyes and allow it; anyway, you’re not in the mood to order either of them around too much.

Charles has been watching you for a while now, watched you fake moans and exaggerate whines, feigning pleasure over two of your fingers. It’s almost laughable—he’d allowed a smile, in fact, because he knows better. Once, he’d pulled your hair so hard you teared up, nodding, hand at his wrist, whimpering more, harder, do it. Another time, he and Max had gotten you all riled up and edged for half an hour, so riled that all you could mutter out were please and their names when they finally stuffed you full. You’re evidently playing your games again. You love to play around with them. It’s almost—you could almost call it a hobby.

“I’m not going to stop just ‘cause you’re both here.” Your hand moves, two fingers fucking into yourself, pink lace pushed aside. Your cunt is so pretty, they’re both thinking. “Did you think I would?” When silence greets you, you decide to address them directly. “Max. Did you?”

His voice is thin and tight when he responds, “Yeah, actually—so we could suss this out, at least.”

Your laugh is patronizing. “I prefer it this way. And you know what?”

Max stares. Charles has already been told this, several minutes ago when he found you in the exact same position. It’s not any easier for him to hear it again, chaste and sweet out of your lips. You can’t touch me.

See, they would’ve been content without touching you, if they sit and think about it. Max didn’t walk in here thinking he’d even be kissing you, and he knows Charles thinks the same thing. Maybe touch you—innocently, that kind of way. Sure, they’d been pent up, heady with arousal, but that came second to talking things out. But now you’ve told them they can’t touch, and that’s worsened them to their limit. Charles imagines touching you, the same touch he gives when it’s post-race and he gets you alone, to himself, nobody else’s, quick fucks in a dim closet, whispering some dirty shit in your ear and getting you like putty in his hands.

Max thinks of nearly the same thing. Imagines running his hand over your hair, gentle but firm, the same way he does when he knocks at your hotel room after hours and gets you from high-strung and bratty to begging for more. You notice their eyes, darkened; you realize their minds have wandered. So, they watch hopelessly as the smirk spreads prettily across your flushed face, and they remember the events of a week prior, when childishly, they’d acted out, and think, for a second, that maybe they deserve this.

You all know what it’s like to keep them from touching you.

It was both easier and worse then, in 2020 when everything started—when everything was brand new and thrilling and exciting. Easier, because they were satisfied as soon as they got you to come, maybe kiss them both, and they were content with slow exploration. Worse, because you were all insatiable. It felt like none of you could go minutes without some form of touch, during, in-between, after practice, quali, fuck—it was worse, much worse.

As you all grew older and got accustomed to the drivel of racing, you all got better. It didn’t get much easier.

Charles recalls how insatiable he was—and thinks, with amusement almost, that if he was insatiable then, he’s worse now. Now he knows where, how, for how long to touch you to get you wide-eyed and warm in the face even in the most serious of moments. Max, too. He knows how you taste, bend, tease. They love touching you. Just skin to skin. And you’ve gone and put a great big X mark over that.

“So,” Max says, voice flat, the way it is when he’s unamused with a reporter, “we’re in a time out.”

“You can call it that,” you giggle, and it segues into a huffy whimper when you angle your hand just right. “You were acting childish, anyway.”

Charles sighs, long and deep. “We—fuck.” His eyes can’t unglue themselves from your fingers. He knows he could make you feel so much better, fuck real moans out of you until you’re crying. “We were being childish, oui, and it was—we were just tense. I was unhappy with strategy. I could’ve been P2 but they pitted me at the worst time, putain. I took it out on you, and I’m… I was… I was worn out, and you called us childish in your interview.”

Ever the minx, you only smile. You’d been joking, you clarified that a day later; it was crass, spurred on by team radios of the two of them complaining in the latter half of the race. “It was a joke, Charles.”

“I know, baby, I know.” His lip curls and he breathes steadily, controlling himself. “It was unprompted though. You weren’t even asked about us. And yeah, a joke—but it felt shitty, love. I don’t mind it—we don’t mind it, but—” He needs to think about the phrasing, think about his intentions.

Your eyes are on fire, clearly still angry, but steadily softening.

“But in moderation,” comes Max’s raspy voice. “You’re running your mouth a lot in the media.”

“You’re one to—ah—talk,” you huff back, a futile argument.

“You need to understand that—that when you’re giddy, or angry, you can’t keep turning to interviews to express all that out. You need to sit with it. Just because we’re not…” your boyfriends, Max almost says, “…yours, doesn’t mean you can shit on us then expect us to be okay with it a few hours later. It’s a thing you do. A game you play. And it’s nice, it was nice then, but it’s annoying now, and it’s almost, like, do you even want this to keep going? To work—?”

You recoil. “You seriously think I don’t want th—”

Charles cuts in. “Well, when you play at us like this, yeah. Put in the work. If you’re high off a win, or mad for some other reason, just let it happen. Don’t fucking.” He exhales. “Call us names, then show up at our hotel acting like an angel.”

They’ve always looked out for you like this, known when to scold you or put you in your place for doing too much or not doing enough. They’ve never let personal things cross too much with business, which is a blessing of an ability when you’re three people having regular sex while balancing a ludicrous athletic career. It’s all sussed down to stupid ‘I care for you’ stuff that, frankly, they’re both too horny and angry to get into the grit of right now.

They don’t realize how quiet the room has grown until you eke out a noise, a thoughtful sound of agreement. You’ve pulled your fingers out, both hands playing with a loose thread on the hem of the sweater, rolling it into a ball. Your hair falls in waves. There’s a crease in it from the ponytail you wear when driving.

Your expression is still murderous, but much softer now; you cough, “I—I get what you’re saying. And I know I play… I have these games, or—but, honestly, I could say the same to you both.” You stutter through your totally shit explanation.

“How do you… mean,” deadpans Max.

“I mean, when I’m acting out, you two just take it.” Having them at your mercy like that is satisfying in its own right, but pragmatically, it’s unhealthy. “You don’t ever tell me off. Even now. I need you to tell me… to fucking,” you’re warm and spluttery now. “Fuck's sake, okay? I know I can be annoying. I know I say stupid shit when I don’t finish and I’m way less diplomatic than Mr. Il Predestinato,” you breathe. “But you two just let me be annoying!”

“Then don’t be annoying,” Charles says, diplomatic as ever—his voice rises, though, nearly matching yours.

“Not like that!” You huff, folding your legs and sitting straighter, and they catch a glimpse of your pink panties again. “When I’m out of line, you”—you point to them—“need to correct me.” They’re nearly blindsided by your request to… be told what to do, which is so different from how sex usually works. From how this whole dynamic usually works.

But Max remembers your manager, and Toto, and your teammate Lewis even, and your engineers, who have all, at one point or another, had to talk you down and tell you to calm down and correct your behavior. So he says, “People do that all the time, but it only works for a second.”

“Because th—” You suck in a lungful of air. “They’re not you two, you daft fuckers!” You’re at the centre of the bed now, sweater drooped over your folded thighs, eyes matching the rain outside. “Every time, I need to be talked down, and you never. Do it. So do it. Fucking—do it. I have to tell you everything.”

“You don’t—-”

“Oh, I do.” You say, folding your arms over your chest.

“This is despicable,” Max says. “We need to sort this out properly.”

“So what? This isn’t”—you raise violent air quotes—“putting in the work?”

They glance at each other for a minute. They feel you thinking you’re winning, thinking they’ll grovel and say okay we’ll do that next time, can we fuck you? Like all the other semi-resolved fights before. You’re sitting straight, eyebrows raised, defiant. But for them to do that—you just said it wasn’t what you needed.

And they’d have to be caught dead before not giving you what you need. If you want to be bossed around a bit, then they’ll do it.

“Sit down,” Charles goes. Unmoving.

“What.” You’re deadpanning, eyes narrowed.

“Sit the fuck down,” he repeats. You open your mouth, but he’s quicker. “Don’t make me say it again.”

You pout, leaning against the headboard and unfolding your legs. He rounds the room, sits at the foot of the bed. It’s a big bed, so even if he’s on it, he still needs to reach over a bit to be able to touch you. The distance is good, though, keeps them in control. Max sits opposite him, both of them on either side of you, and they’re so close, so scrutinizing, so handsome.

“Put your fingers in your mouth,” he says. You take a second, spreading your knees and obeying. You find a way, though, to make their little challenge all your own—you make a show of it, peeking your tongue out and licking your bottom lip all shiny before hollowing your cheeks. You stare at them the whole time and you don’t blink. It’s hotter than it has any right to be. “Suck on them.” You continue doing it, lips slightly curled.

“You’re a brat.” You try to conceal the whimper that leaves you but it fails pathetically. Charles presses on. “A spoiled brat.”

He’s the nicer of the two. Your whole threesome situation had began three years ago, and in almost every tryst since then, he’s been nice. In fact, if any of them were to ever ‘tell you off’ like you so desperately wanted, apparently, it would have definitely been Max. He’s firm, yeah, but he’s sweet. And he’d hate to boss you around too much, even if it’s something he wants. So he thinks, and he pretends he’s back to quali day of last week. It was a slow morning because of weather problems, so everyone was in a mood, and you were absolutely no exception. You come off as quiet to the public and to some of the grid, but to your friends, you’re anything but.

In an effort to lift the mood, you’d been mouthing off the entire day to your close circle of driver friends, in particular retelling the story of how you had teased Charles post-DNF in Saudi, and even gotten Lando to laugh about it at the time. What a season starter, you said when you were recounting it. You left out a detail: that night in Saudi, he’d fucked you and refused to let you cum, soaking your pillow with tears and goading a sobbed apology out of you.

Watching you joke about it again, even if it was a fucking joke and even if it was because you were mad at him and Max—got him all red hot, pissed off. Seething.

“Do you remember last race weekend when you joked about my DNF in Saudi?”

Cheeks hollowed, you nod.

“Fucking brat. That whole day. Ignoring me, ignoring Max. Didn’t listen to our apologies. Just noise all day.”

Your brows knit defiantly.

“I’m serious. You weren’t being funny. Just a brat. And if you were bored or pissed, you could’ve said so instead of making me look stupid.” You nod.

He glimpses at Max; the latter speaks next. “Open yourself up.”

You spread your legs out farther and sneak your spit-slick fingers down, pushing the flimsy material aside to rub at your cunt, two fingers sliding right back in. You breathe out shakily and wait for them to talk again. You’re still fussy, high-strung, not totally calm and mellowed down yet.

“When Charles and I aren’t here to fuck you into behaving, who’s going to make sure you’re acting proper?”

“Carlos,” you grit out in between thrusts.

They seethe. “Again,” Charles says, unamused.

“Nat,” you name your manager. “Lewis, or something. Fuck. Lando? I don’t—”

You asked to be told what to do, but you never said, they suppose, that it would be an easy job. “Guess again.”

“Toto.” You look delighted at that last one, knowing the implication. They’ve always been a bit jealous there. You thrive off disobedience, getting your two favorite boys all angry and flushed red with it. You open your mouth to try smartassing your way out of their orders, but Max beats you to it. “If you guess wrong, you’re not cumming. We’ll fuck you tonight, but no cumming.”

You whimper out loud, sinking your fingers farther in, adding a third.

“Don’t add another. Answer Max,” Charles says.

“Fuck,” you seethe, slipping the third out on your next thrust. “Me. I’m supposed to keep myself in check. When I’m mad. When I’m giddy and fuck—yeah. Me. It’s me.”

“Good girl,” he rasps out. “Good girl. You have to practice. How does it feel?”

I know, you mouth, eyes fluttering. You scissor the two fingers you’re thrusting in and out, wet with slick. “Feels good.”

“Not your fingers, love,” Max says. “How’s it feel hearing what we just told you?”

“Good, better,” you say in-between breaths. “I’ll practice. I like it. You’re not… letting me push you around. You’re—you can punish—fuck. Me.”

“Yeah? How, then?”

“Fuck me,” you repeat breathlessly. “Both of you.”

“Add another,” Charles orders, and you nod, quick and pliant, fucking yourself open. They’re both so hard, cocks heavy and uncomfortable in their jeans. You can see the thick shapes of them through the denim, and you thrust harder, a futile attempt to replicate how it feels when they’re fucking you.

“You remember how it feels, having both of us in you?” Max sounds amused.

“Yes,” you moan. Your pathetic imitation of moans and gasps earlier pales in comparison to this, voice dry and thick with pleasure and raw desperation. “Yes, pl—fuck, yes.”

“Why aren’t you feeling it now?” They need to hear you verbalize the reason why, admit it one last time before they give you what you want. You whine, rutting your hips up against your hand, catching your clit on the heel of your palm.

“Because I was being a brat, and I—you were being childish, but I didn’t want to talk things through either—and I’m always taking out my emotions on you guys, and I’m sorry, okay, would you just fuck me already?”

They’re on you immediately, all words and whispers, fingers at your chin turning you both ways to slot kisses on your mouth. Your free hand palms over Max’s bulge; he’s the one to your right. It’s hard and thick and heavy and you need it, need them. Charles’ hand takes over yours, thrusting deep and you’re whimpering into his sweet mouth.

“Feel my cock?” Max asks, “Could make you feel real nice, baby.”

“I know,” you sigh, breathless. “I want it.”

“When's the last time you took us both?” Charles asks, smile wicked. “Little thing like you.”

You grit out a moan, fuzzy and floating, letting them lift you up to straddle—one of them—you open your eyes and see Charles staring up at you, wonder and green eyes. “Got this, love?” You nod, yeah, I’ve got it, you say, little sighs. Both of you. Now.

This space you’re in, where it’s pleasure and fuzz and nothing else, is comparable to the high of winning. And you know you prefer that to sex, at least now, because racing is your life. It’s the slow satisfaction of being the best on the entire grid, despite everything. It’s the cheers, the raised fists when you climb atop your car and bring the crowd to a crescendo. The even louder screams when you pull your helmet and balaclava off and smile, trophy and all, champagne shiny and glowy on your face. All that shit—it’s addictive, and it feels just like this. So similar, in fact, because when you win, you finish on top of Charles and Max, and—

—Max is behind you, jeans tugged just enough for his cock to be pulled free, slick with lube and prodding at your ass—

—it feels just fucking like this.

“Like Max’s cock filling you up?” His cockhead is breaching your tight entrance and you moan out loud.

“I missed it,” you say, muffled by Charles’ free thumb at your lips, swirling it on your tongue. You flip him off for cutting you off and he laughs. “Give it t’me,” you goad, turning slightly. You want it so bad, missed being fed with their cocks. A week is too long. “I need more of it, all of it. In me, fill me up,” you beg, whimpering, desperate.

Max stares at your ass, grabs at the flesh there, at the string of your thong. You suck him in so hungrily, like you’re challenging him to not thrust in fully; you’re canting your hips backward too, and Max has to hike the too-big sweater up to watch the muscles of your back flex to meet his dick.

“So pretty, princess,” Charles says, because with them you really are a princess. Max begins to thrust into you from behind and you’re getting little moans fucked out of you, watching Charles unbuckle his jeans to tug his cock out, thick and pretty and you want—if you could, you would suck on it, let him fuck your throat, but you’re in the business of being filled to the point of blank thoughts right now.

You feel Charles at your cunt then, your slick making the slide easier, and Charles bucks his hips up and you—this is what you needed, to mellow you down, get you all loose and ready for more. “Take it, baby,” Max says, “all of it, all of us.”

“Ah,” you gasp out. “Ah.”

“Come on,” he grits, voice hardening. “You’re ruined. Pretty little girl. Come on.”

“Maxie,” you call out weakly, your fond little nickname for him. You remember Charles whining about how he doesn’t have one, so you save baby for him, had sussed that out on a night where they took turns fucking you. Your hips torn between the two dicks stuffing you, face sweaty and the sweater doesn’t help, gets you hotter; Charles gets the hint, and with effort, pulls it off you. Your skin is shiny underneath, matching bra sticking to your sweaty, sheened out skin.

“Love it,” you say, voice strained. “Split—fuck—me open.” Your holes clench around them and Jesus, they could have you all flushed and pretty and spread out like them, like this, forever. Charles grabs at the flesh of your ass, slaps you once and you’re tightening around them, breath impossibly still, thighs shaking. Max’s hands hold your hips tight, hungrily traveling up, groping at the wire of your bra to press at your tits. You’re pressed against both of them at a delicious angle that gets you dizzy.

“I’m gonna cum, I,” you breathe out, moaning, “I haven’t touched myself since…”

They both moan at that, delirious. Fuck. The thought of you holding it—for them—fuck.

“You’re so perfect, so—fuck—slutty,” Charles says, and you can’t hide the moan fast enough. “Feels good, having us in you, yeah? Getting you all noisy and… fucking—shit. I know how much you needed this, love. I know how much you love it. Us.”

From behind, Max snakes a hand up your abdomen, the column of your throat, and wraps there. You see white from the sensation of it alone.

“Tell me—I can’t—please, I—Charles—Maxie—” You’re increasingly incoherent, slick running down your thighs, twitching vigorously. You try to comprehend everything but you’re losing coherence and they get it, they get it, wiping your tears and sweat and coercing you to cum, yeah, pretty little pussy so fucking wet for us, cum hard, come on, you’ve been so good, baby, the best girl for us.

There’s no way either of them are lasting after that, after watching you fall apart and finish on top of them, stuffed full, stuffed pliant, stuffed fucking docile.

It’s your turn, then, to praise, your favorite boys, always so good for me, thank you for letting me cum, come on, let me taste it—and you’re stained with their release after a few minutes, Max biting on your shoulder, Charles’ thumb indenting your hip.

—

What. A. Podium, ladies and gentlemen! Max Verstappen of Red Bull, from P6 in the last race to a stunning P3 drive—Charles Leclerc, braving the team’s dismal strategy to get P2! What a knockout. Of course the Mercedes legend, gunning for four championships now, had crossed the flag first to claim her fifth P1 of the season.

What a legendary race, absolutely proper podium. They showed us what driving is, real driving.

The season is heating up.

Makes you wonder what happened over the weekend for them to get such good results.

This is F1. I’m sure they keep each other motivated.

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc x reader #max verstappen #max verstappen smut #max verstappen imagines #max verstappen x reader #f1 x reader

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drwstarkeyy · 4 months

Text

01. white dress

JJ Maybank x Reader

Series Masterlist here

Can also be found on wattpad as JJ x Oc here

Series warnings; abuse, smut, underage drinking/smoking, alcohol, drugs, jj is a dick so is Rafe, death, eating disorder (only a little)

"THE club sandwich, please." JJ wrote down the order on his notepad.

"Honey, what about a salad?" Y/n frowned at her mother. Camila Torres was one special lady.

"I'm not craving a salad, mom." She looked down to her hands, that were placed on her lap. Going against her mother was never easy, she always won.

"But midsummer is coming up, you need to think about what you eat." It is not the first time she had mentioned it. Her mother had already bought the dress. It took a whole day and a lot of wine, but finally Rose and Camila had decided what Y/n and Rafe should wear, she would be furious if Y/n could not fit in it.

"Midsummers is six months away." The girl spoke quietly. Fidgeting with the Chanel bracelet Rafe had gifted her.

"She'll have a caesar salad. I'll have the same." JJ scratched out the 'club sandwich' and added two salads. This was more common then you would think, and JJ learned it is best to just do as you are told.

"Coming right up, ma'am." The blond said before disappearing inside.

"Maybe you would like to join me for pilates this afternoon. You'd be amazed how fun it is." Her mom have always asked her to join, but Y/n did not see much fun in hanging out with women who had a midlife crisis, talking about how hot the guy who works for them are.

"Can't, Rafe said he would take me out." Truthfully he was, and for once she was glad she did not have to make up an excuse.

"Oh, how lovely. I can't remember the last time I had a date. You're so lucky to have him." She knew that already, and somehow it made her feel guilty, like she did not deserve him.

"And how is tennis going? All good I hope." Tennis. A sport she hated, but did it to please her mother.

"It's going good. My coach says I have the potential of getting an athletic scholarship." It was true. Although she hated the sport, she had played it for so long, and was really good at it.

"That's great, honey. Although you won't need it." Before Y/n could respond, the same blond walked up to the table, placing the food down. Muttering a quiet 'enjoy your meal', before he left.

Taking a sip out of the lemon water her mother had ordered for her, she plucked up the courage to question her. "Why?"

Taking a bite before she responded, her mother chuckled. "Well, you're going to studying law, like me. That athlete thing is only temporary. Besides it would be a surprise to even see you working after school, dating Rafe and all."

Y/n picked her fork up, moving the food around with it. This doesn't look appetizing at all right now. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's nothing bad, honey. I just mean that Rafe is a very hard working man. Soon he will inherit his father's company, and have a busy life. You guys would need someone to take care of your children, I just think it would be a good option for you to be at home. You've always loved kids, and cooking, it is perfect." Y/n felt like she would throw up. To some that life might seem as the perfect one, but to her it felt claustrophobic. She would feel trapped.

The girl picked up the napkin that was in her lap, before standing up. "Excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom." She didn't even care for her mother's response, before she turned and headed inside.

THREE MORE HOURS then JJ's shift was over. Three more hours of spending time with ignorant kooks. Three more hours of torture.

As he picked plates from an abandoned table, he look up to meet Camila Torres eyes, who waved him over. He noticed the other girl was not there, and her food was untouched, but he would be lying if he said he cared.

"One more glass of red, thanks." JJ nodded at the request, walking away towards the kitchen. Dropping the dirty plates he was caring into the sink, before he made his way towards the bar. Picking up a serving plate, although it was only one drink, a drink he could easily just hold in his hand, his boss had given him hell about it before, 'it doesn't look good'. JJ thought that was weird, because it looks worse with just one drink on the service plate. When he finally had the glass with red wine, he made his way over to the lady.

He did not get far though, because just seconds later Y/n emerged from the bathroom, crashing into him. JJ cringed at the red beverage, that was now covering the girl's white summer dress.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry." At least she had the decency to acknowledge it was her fault. Luckily, the glass had fallen on the service plate, so he wouldn't have to pick up broken glass. Feeling is boss starting at him, he quickly got into service mode.

"No, no, it's my fault, really. I apologize." The blond moved quickly to get some napkins, although he knew it would not help. As she received the napkins she looked up at him. JJ would lie if he said she wasn't attractive, she was drop dead gorgeous, but he already decided she was horrible, and her dating Rafe just proved it.

"Thank you." She sweetly thanked him. JJ took the wet napkins, and placed them next to the empty glass.

JJ leaned down a bit, not being able to resist. "Good thing daddy's money can buy you a new dress." Y/n looked up at him, a frown on her face. "Besides, white isn't your color, anyways."

"Asshole." The girl muttered, before making her way back towards her mother.

As JJ went and filled another glass with red wine, she sat down in front of her mother.

"You need to look where you are going, honey." He bit down a smile at her mother's words. Placing down the red wine in front of her. Not one single 'thank you' or even a glance was spared at him. Spoiled fuckers.

RAFE CAMERON was anything but happy when he picked the girl up, later that evening.

"You're telling me that fucker ruined your dress?" His fists clenched around the steering wheel.

"No. I'm saying I ruined it by accidentally bumping into him. He was just an asshole about it though. Saying, and I quote, 'daddy's money can buy you a new dress'. Trying to make me feel guilty or something for being born with money." Yes, Y/n ranted a lot to Rafe. It was not like he minded though, although more then half of her little rant sessions, he could not even remember.

"I told you he was a dick, babe." Rafe's right hand landed on her thigh, his left one still on the steering wheel.

"Anyways, where are you taking me?" Date night with Rafe was always a surprise.

"Topper's throwing a party. Have to make an appearance." She just nodded. Rafe was hard to figure out sometimes, and one of the things Y/n never understood was the lack of information he gave out. She just knew he was taking her somewhere, and that means everything between the fanciest restaurant in Chapel Hill, or a party. Luckily she had gotten pretty good at choosing outfits. A simple black dress did the work just fine. Usually Rafe would have been telling her to change, since it was low cut and short, but during kook parties, he loved showing her off. Like a trophy.

THE HOUSE was crowded. It was unusual for Topper to invite pogues, and knowing him he probably didn't. Yet everyone was too drunk to give a shit. The smell of alcohol and sweat, mixed with the lack of fresh air, was something the brunette was used to now. Every week, there were at least one party Rafe dragged her to.

Pouring a new drink into the red solo cup, Y/n felt someone's presence next to her.

"Told you white isn't your color. Black looks so much better." JJ Maybank had a talent for showing up where he wasn't wanted. Without even looking at him, she walked away, rejoining Rafe, who pulled her down to his lap.

Her face frowned as she spotted the white lines on the coffee table. Annoyed by the situation she decided to leave.

"Where you going?" Even though Rafe was high, he wouldn't let her wander around the house alone.

"Bathroom." She saw as he sniffed a new line, and without waiting for his response, she walked away.

Seeing the long line to the bathroom, made her realize she didn't need to pee that badly. But she didn't want to go back to Rafe, not right now. So she headed outside for some fresh air. Even though it was warm during the day, the February air made it chilly during the night.

She could still hear The Nights by Avicii blasting, followed by people screaming the lyrics.

"Finally ditched your bodyguard?" There it was again, that annoying voice that belonged to JJ. Y/n chose to just ignore him, maybe he'd go away, but it seemed like he had made her his personal target, ever since the wine incident.

She saw a sudden light in the corner of her eye, turning her head towards the blond, she found him with a lit joint between his lips. Meeting her eyes, he removed the joint from his lips, and held it out towards her.

"I don't smoke." She simply said. An answer that made JJ let out a chuckle.

"Of course you don't." Her eyebrows pulled together as she looked at him.

"Little miss perfect, right?" She didn't know why that nickname annoyed her so much, but it did.

"Why do you even bother talking to me?" She finally questioned, ignoring his statement.

"Not sure. Maybe because seeing a frown on your face, makes me happy." He spoke simply, taking another drag of his joint.

"You know that's kinda psychotic, right? Wishing pain on others." She didn't know why she even bothered talking to him, yet she continued.

"I didn't say I wish you were in pain. I just like seeing that stick up your ass disappear." He chuckled coldly. "Plus, I know you want approval from everyone, and won't be able to stand the thought that someone out in this world hates you."

"You hate me?" Her question was real, and JJ couldn't understand how dumb she was. She is a rich kook, of course people hated her.

"Damn right I do." He answered blankly.

"How can you hate me? You don't even know me." She hated that he was right, approval meant everything to her.

"I know enough." He moved closer, pulling a strand of hair behind her ear. "Little miss perfect. Virgin, straight A's." He leaned down to her ear. "A spoiled fucking brat." She pushed him away, her hands hitting his chest. A grin covered his face, this was exactly the reaction he was looking for. Without a word she left the blond boy for the second time that night.

#jj maybank x reader #jj maybank #obx fanfiction #obx fic #fanfiction #fanfic #x reader

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differenteagletragedy · 10 months

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Did I write a smutty little Derek story based entirely on this moment in Step 3 after you flirt with him and tell him he's probably super toned?

Yes, I did, and I'm not sorry about it.

This is smut-lite, I'd say, a little racier than the similar-ish Baxter fic I wrote but nothing super crazy. It also may be OOC for Derek but give the man something, OK.

If someone had asked you when you were 13 who you saw yourself with in the future, without a doubt you would have answered "Derek Suarez." He was the boy you were going to marry. There was no doubt in your mind.

Back then, you liked him so much it hurt. Sometimes he'd say and do things that made you think he might feel the same way, but he never said anything. Well, he did ask you to marry him, but only if you were both single in 10 years. And when you tried to point out that if you liked each other, maybe you could just start dating now, he shut it down so fast that you were forced to accept that your crush must have been one-sided.

That was five years ago. A lot had changed since then -- you were still friends with Derek and you definitely still had a soft spot for him, but it had been a long time since you'd realized he didn't return your affections. You'd long since stopped hoping for anything to happen with him.

But during a call towards the end of summer, just before he was leaving for college, he made a remark. Just one little comment, nothing even particularly notable, at least not to the casual observer.

After that, it was on.

During your chat, you'd exchanged updates on how your summers had been going, and you made some offhanded comment about how much more toned he must be after all the training you knew he'd been doing to get ready for college. It was flirty, sure, but nothing crazy.

His response was what had surprised you. He had flirted back.

You could still hear it. His voice had gone low and quiet as he confirmed that he was even more toned that he was the last time you'd seen him, and then, with a smirk instead of his trademark wide smile, he'd said "I hope you can see it in person sometime."

It wasn't likely -- whether it was because of his busy schedule or just by his own design, he was rarely free for a visit. But because he was leaving so soon, Cove had begged and pleaded with him to come to Sunset Bird for one last beach day before adulthood officially began, and he'd agreed.

That's how you found yourself sitting on the shore between your two best friends, holding a fruit tray on your lap as they steadily demolished it.

"What are we going to do next?" Derek asked, grabbing another piece of pineapple. "We already hit up the playground and the grocery store, now we're eating fruit on the beach."

It was a Nostalgia Day -- the three of you were doing things you'd done during that first summer together.

"I don't think we have time to go to the mall," Cove said. "I'll have to be at work before we would get back."

"I think that knocks the pool at Derek's apartment building out too," you said.

"We did pick up the lemons and water balloons," Derek offered. "We'll definitely have time for that."

You and Cove nodded in agreement. You spent the next half hour or so picking at the fruit tray, talking about what was ahead for each of you, then decided it was time for the next activity.

The lemonade was made in Cove's kitchen just as it had been five years before -- except with no knife wounds. It tasted as sweet as it did then, and when you were done with your glasses Cove went back into the house and came out with an empty laundry basket.

"Let's load it up," he said, his tone turning serious.

You and Derek worked together filling the water balloons, and Cove placed them safely in the basket. When you'd made enough to fill it, you carried it out to the street. The three of you stood around it, looking at each other.

Just as you were about to suggest some terms for the battle, Cove struck. He quickly stuck his hand into the basket, pulled out a balloon and hurled it at Derek.

When you were 13, Cove's strategy was to stay by the ammunition, not caring if he got hit so long as he had easy access to hit others, and it hadn't changed. You and Derek grabbed your own balloons as you could, darting away from Cove, but in the end, there was a clear winner, and the sopping wet clothes you and Derek wore were proof.

"No mercy, huh, Cove?" Derek asked. Nonchalantly, he pulled his shirt over his head and wrung it out on the street.

You tried not to stare, but you didn't exactly succeed. Feeling your eyes on him, he turned to you, starting to say something, but he stopped. Your own shirt was soaked and clung to your chest -- it was his turn to stare. He let himself look for just a second before he turned away.

He and Cove started picking up the little broken pieces of the balloons that littered the street, and you joined them. By the time everything was said and done, Cove announced that it was time for him to get ready for work. He gave Derek a hug -- his friend would be leaving soon, and he knew this was goodbye for a while.

Cove retreated inside his house, and Derek looked to you, smiling.

"We can keep hanging out if you want," you told him. "I don't have anything to do."

"Me neither," he replied. "Or at least nothing I would like to do more."

You'd had enough outdoor fun for the day, so you decided to hang out in your room, another familiar activity from back when you were younger. This time, you were in a different room, having taken over Liz's bigger one after she left for school herself, and Derek looked around as you went to your closet to pull out a new shirt.

"Don't turn around," you told him, seeing his back was to you as he looked at the photos on your wall. He gave you a thumbs up, and you quickly switched your wet shirt for a dry one.

When you were done, you went to stand beside him and looked at him, then to your wall. His eyes, you could tell, were on one specific picture: one your moms had took of the two of you at the summer soiree.

"We were so little," you told him, trying to focus on the photo and not the warmth that was radiating off his body, so close to yours. He still hadn't put his shirt back on, and you were trying not to think about that either.

"I know," he said. "It was the perfect night. I thought my little 13-year-old heart would explode."

"What do you mean?"

"It was life or death, remember?" he asked. You did -- he had said that that night.

"My very first date, a fancy party with you," he said wistfully. "I wish I could go back and tell myself how good I had it then."

You studied his face then, determined to figure out what he was getting at. He had a similar kind of tone that he'd had during that flirty conversation on the phone the week before, but there was something else there too. Something deeper.

He turned to face you then, moving his body to face you as well. You mirrored him, and you stood close together, neither of you saying anything.

"I really did, you know?" Derek said finally. "Have it good, I mean. I got to spend so much time with you."

"Growing up is hard," you shrugged, trying to keep your cool. "Things get busy."

"I shouldn't have let it get so busy that I stopped being so close to you."

Taking a steadying breath, you said, "We're close now."

He looked at you for a bit, and you could practically see a war going on in his mind. You imagined him imagining what you meant, what he thought was right, what you could do together here in your room while you were home alone. What he needed and what he thought he deserved.

It was tough to see him battling with himself. He'd been doing it for years, and you wanted to help him stop, if only for a little bit.

You raised a hand that you hoped didn't look as shaky as it felt and placed it on his shoulder. His muscles tensed under your touch. He looked down at your hand there, then to your face. You weren't sure how to tell him that it was ok, that he could be with you if he wanted, so you tried to convey the message with your eyes.

His flirty tone that had been on your mind all week couldn't have possibly been from this man that stood in front of you. Over the phone he's been assertive, forward, but now that you were actually in front of each other he couldn't make a move.

"Derek?" you prompted, stroking a thumb over his shoulder.

He inhaled deeply, then stiffly brought his hands up to your waist. He gripped you, testing the waters a bit, and you stepped closer to him and placed your other hand on the back of his neck.

"We are," he said. "Close now."

With a painful slowness, he brought his mouth closer to yours. He paused then, bringing his eyes from your lips to see if you were all right. You nodded, and he leaned the rest of the way in.

His kiss was, as you'd imagined, soft and gentle, like he was. It was careful and unassuming, and so sweet. You enjoyed it for a moment, taking in the fact that you were actually, finally kissing him. You pressed it into your memory.

But then you wanted more.

You pulled him in closer, deepening the kiss, and as timid as he was about this, he readily responded. His hands dipped a little lower, the tips of his fingers grazing over the curve of your hips before he moved them back up. With a little grunt of protest against his lips, you grabbed his hands and placed them where they'd wanted to go.

He laughed, and while normally you would delight in the sound, it wasn't what you were going for now, so you caught his lips in another kiss.

Slowly, he loosed up a little. He had more fun with kissing you, exploring your mouth for the first time. His hands freely roamed along your hips, down to your thighs and around to your back. A moan slipped from your mouth to his, and he pulled back.

"Is this ok?" he asked.

"Yeah. Is it ok with you?"

He smiled, placing another kiss on your forehead, and said, "I'm managing."

At some point, he slid his hands under the the bottom hem of your shirt, caressing the bare skin there. Figuring that it wasn't fair that he was the only one without a shirt, you hastily threw yours over your head and off to the side. It was his turn to moan.

Figuring that being the initiator here had played in your favor so far, you eventually started leading him over to your bed. You sat first, pulling him down with you, then you laid down on your back, hoping he'd fall into place.

With an ease that made you proud, he gently grabbed one of your knees and pulled it to the side so he could fit between your legs. He lowered himself down over you, letting your bodies touch while he still held his weight up himself. Instead of going back to your mouth, he trailed kisses all along your neck, across your collarbone and slowly -- always slowly, giving you plenty of room to pull back if you wanted -- down your chest.

You thought about how much you'd thought about having him here, exactly like this. It was better than you'd imagined, but of course it was -- actually being able to feel his warmth, see the sparkle in his pretty green eyes whenever he took a second to look up at you wasn't something you could duplicate in your dreams.

Then an unwelcome thought came -- he'd be leaving soon. In a matter of days, he'd be gone and who knows exactly when he'd come back, or when you'd get a chance to be like this again? Or if you ever would get the chance?

The thought made you a bit desperate, and you raised your hips to connect with his. His hands, which had been holding onto your hips as he kissed his way down your stomach, clenched. His breath was shallow against your skin.

"You would tell me if you wanted to stop, right?" he asked, almost bashfully. You assured him that you would, of course you would, and added, a bit bashful yourself, that you were a long ways from wanting to stop.

He slid his fingers just under the waistband of your shorts and looked up at you, wanting to be certain before he proceeded. Once again, you nodded, and he stripped you down to your underwear.

"I never thought this would happen," he murmured, coming back up to your lips. Between kisses, he said, "I wanted this for so long. Is that weird to say?"

"No," you said, "I have too. So if it's weird then at least we're both weird."

"I can live with that."

His hand started roaming again, but this time he found his way into your underwear and got to work.

As your sighs and groans grew louder and more frequent, so did his, although you weren't touching him, not yet. He kept kissing your cheek, your jawline, your temple -- anywhere he could get as he focused on moving his hand in the ways that seemed to please you most. You gripped onto his arm to steady yourself, feeling your release coming, and before he could misinterpret it you told him, "Please don't stop."

The gentleman that he was, he obliged.

When you were done -- when he was sure you were done -- he dragged his hand back up your body, confident enough now to touch you wherever he wanted. But, you'd decided, it was his turn. You nudged his shoulder, guiding him to lie down, then sat up and started pulling on his gym shorts. You took a page out of his book, going slow enough so he'd have time to tell you if he wanted you to stop.

Instead, he said, "You don't have to."

"I want to," you told him. "Is that ok?"

He thought about it, then nodded, shy again. But when you slid down his shorts, his underwear with them, and took him in your hand, the shyness was gone.

You knew Derek, and you know that he very rarely indulged himself. He always took care of everyone else and got uneasy when anyone tried to do the same for him. So you took your time.

Thankfully, he seemed to enjoy himself immensely. As you moved your hand, you started talking to him a low voice not unlike the one he'd used in that phone call that started all of this. You told him how good he was, how beautiful, as soon as a compliment popped in your head you showered it down on him, and it was impossible to come up short with words of praise when it came to him. His cheeks became as flushed as his chest, he was grunting and gasping and jerking, but when you moved to put your mouth over him, he put a firm hand on your shoulder.

"No," he said. "Don't, I didn't do that for you."

"It's not a contest," you told him with a laugh.

"Maybe not. But if it is, I want to win."

You hummed in thought, rubbing your free hand down his thigh, and after he was done with that particular moan, you said, "What if this is just the second quarter? Not even to halftime yet, plenty of chances to take the lead."

He grinned. "I can work with that, I think."

After he had finished ... well, it didn't seem like he was finished. With a passion he didn't have before, he pushed you back down to the bed and kissed you hard. His hand found its way back to your underwear, and this time you quickly took them off before letting him wrap you in his arms and pull you tight against him.

He was making the sweetest sounds, and you were breathless as he put his hand between your legs again. This time he was working quicker -- he was a fast learner. You felt him against your thigh, getting hard again already, and you found yourself trying to remember where you'd put those condoms your moms had given you, "just in case."

Before you could place them, there was a flurry of noise downstairs. Your family was home, and they weren't being quiet about it.

Derek froze and looked at you, starting to panic. Understanding that things couldn't go as far as you wanted them to put not willing to be done just yet, you started rocking your hips against his hand. He buried his face in the crook of your neck to hide the noise that move had brought out of him.

Once again, he brought you to climax, and it was your turn to muffle your cries again him. When your breathing slowed, he gave you a slow, easy kiss, then said, "We better get dressed."

You moaned, but it wasn't as fun as when you'd done it earlier.

"Come on," he said, giving you another peck before hopping out of your bed. "I'm not about to be caught in your room naked."

You watched as he quickly got dressed, and you felt his eyes on you as you did the same. Before, he wouldn't have dared to check you out like this. Now he was drinking it in shamelessly.

When you were both presentable, you saw his smile fade a bit. You raised your eyebrows, and he said, "I wish this wasn't over. I wish we had more time."

You could tell he wasn't just talking about this afternoon.

"Well, just remember what I said," you told him, stepping closer and gripping his arms for the pep talk. "This is halftime. The game's not over yet."

He smirked at your attempt at a sports metaphor, then surprised you by moving a hand down to squeeze your ass.

"Oh, it's not over by a long shot."

#our life beginnings and always #our life #olba #derek suarez #our life derek #olba derek #derek x you #derek x reader #derek x mc #derek suarez x you #derek suarez x mc #derek suarez x reader

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starpity · 1 year

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BLACK TIE AFFAIR-pt 1

pairing: girlfriend!ellie x plus-sized fem reader

warnings/themes: slight pinch of loser!ellie, she’s just kind of a sweetheart but stupid in this, smut, oral sex r! receiving, semi-public sex, dom/sub undertones, submissive ellie, begging, cross posted on ao3 under the same title and author, new chapter coming soon

synopsis: Ellie’s new girlfriend Really wants to see her in a suit

a/n: 1) i wrote this in a fugue state it is completely unedited and i may not ever edit it. if things seem out of character thats bc they are <3 2) the reader in this is racially ambiguous on purpose but im not being ambiguous abt the fact that shes fat!!!!!!!!! im giving ellie a plus sized love interest n no one can stop me.

You didn’t throw the party just to have sex with Ellie, but you’d be lying if that wasn’t at least 3/4 of your motivation. You’d sent the invites out with some sweet words about bringing friends together to celebrate the end of a beautiful summer and the start of a new season, but the real reason was much simpler: you wanted to see your new girlfriend dressed up. Ellie was a pretty casual girl, on all the dates you two had been on she’d worn nice jeans and tops that showed off her muscles and tattoos. You loved the way she looked in her clothes, and especially loved how she looked out of them, but there was a little part of your brain that was dying to see her really dressed up. When you’d spotted a suit jacket at the back of her closet while looking for a shirt to steal, your little dream had become a full on obsession and the party invites with your formal dress code were sent out within the week.

By 3pm, the party was perfectly set. You’d started the day off in a messy old tshirt and shorts while you hauled tables out onto the back lawn and swatted spiderwebs out of the corners of the porch, but it was finally time for you to get dressed. Your backyard looked beautiful; the tables were covered in jewel colored tablecloths you’d thrifted, and the tops were decked in purple hydrangeas and golden cone flowers and english ivy you’d pulled from your garden. Sprinkled throughout the flowers were candles of all different sizes, waiting for the first signs of sunset to be lit. The trees were hung with strands of glowing lights that reached across the firepit and wound around the fence posts and trellises of the back garden. From your vantage point by the fence line, you could see the battery-powered candles in every window of the house waiting to be turned on, and hear the faint threads of some country song from the kitchen window where your best friend was finishing up her lemon cake for the party. The pillows on the porch chairs had all been fluffed and arranged, and the soft glow of the string lights in the rafters made the whole porch look cozy and inviting. Everything was perfect, and now it was time for you to be too. After one last adjustment to the flowers on the drinks table, you headed inside to get ready.

After showering off the sweat and grime of the early morning, you laid your dress out on your bed. You’d chosen a gorgeous golden velvet dress that showed off the curves of your body perfectly. In the past, there had been times you felt uncomfortable with dresses as clinging as this one, but something about the way Ellie’s eyes lit up whenever she saw your body had made you start to forget that discomfort. You wanted her eyes and hands on you all night, and this dress would certainly do it. The deep gold of the dress made your skin and eyes shimmer, and the way it bunched at your hips would hopefully have Ellie pushing the skirt up around your waist as soon as possible. You kept your hair simple, braids pulled back into a knot at the back of your head with a few ringlet curls framing your face. You paired your favorite gold necklace with a pair of dangling golden star earrings, and smudged your eyelids with a soft brown eyeshadow that brought out the warmth of your eyes. You finished up your makeup with a bubblegum scented lipgloss and dabbed some flowery perfume behind your ears. Your heels were a shimmering gold that matched your dress, and you’d gotten your nails done with a simple gloss coat the day before to offset all the gold. You looked classy and radiant, and you couldn’t wait for Ellie to ruin it.

The party started around 5. Your friends arrived decked out in autumn colors of orange and red and brown and yellow, each one carrying food and drinks and flowers to share. The house radiated with the scent of apples and cinnamon and oranges as a simmer pot bubbled on the kitchen stove, and the music bubbled along with it beneath the gentle uproar of your friends greeting each other. The reaction to your dress was a catcall from your best friend, and whistles and yells from several others. Several people asked when Ellie would be here, as today would be the first time she met any of your friends. You’d been a bit worried about Ellie meeting such a large group of your friends at once because you knew she could be anxious when it came to new people, but she had insisted she would be fine. You told your friends that Ellie would be a bit late as you had asked her to stop and pick up some extra champagne glasses on her way here.

As Ellie stepped in the door, you realized that you had made a huge mistake. You should’ve come up with a plan to get Ellie into a suit that didn’t involved 30 of your closest friends and an hours-long dinner party, because you weren’t going to make it through the night when she looked like that. Rather than the black suit from her closet that you had assumed she would wear, Ellie was wearing a beautifully tailored brown suit that made her look tall and elegant and so handsome you wanted to cry. Her hair was done up in her usual half-up-half-down style, but you could tell she’d used some kind of product to style her bangs and make her hair looks soft and shiny. She set down the box of champagne flutes on the nearest table and pulled you into a hug before leaning back to look at your dress again. The color of her suit complimented your dress perfectly. Her mouth was open slightly and her cheeks were rosy as she looked you up and down. She smiled shyly and mumbled, “Hi baby, you look gorgeous” into your hair as she pulled you back against her again. You could tell from her posture and the way she was trying to tuck herself into you- a silly sight considering she was several inches taller- that she was nervous to introduce herself to your friends, but she reached back over to the box she’d brought in and pulled out a beautiful bouquet of your favorite flowers. She handed them over to you with another shy smile and a blush as she looked you up and down again.

“Oh my god baby these are beautiful, thank you”, you said as you pulled her down into a kiss. Turning around, you began to introduce Ellie to your friends that were crowded around the kitchen counter picking at the cheese board you had laid out earlier. You tried to pay attention as Ellie responded to a question from your friend Jesse, but for some reason the shine of the lights on Ellie’s hair and way she was holding your hand was making all the thoughts slide out of your brain like water off glass. You wanted her so badly, but you weren’t gonna ruin her chance to bond with your friends by dragging her off to a bedroom and fucking her. You were gonna sit through this night like a civilized human being. You were.

You were gonna kill yourself before the night ended. Ellie was so close to you, looking so insanely attractive in her dress clothes, and she was so. Fucking. Clueless.

The party was going great; The appetizers were getting eaten up faster than you could serve them, and the drinks were going even faster. Groups of people had settled on the porch, and at some of the outer tables and chairs, leaving the long dinner table empty until it was time for the meal to start. Ellie seemed to really be hitting it off with Jesse, so you’d left the two of them talking for a while while you made sure all the food was in the oven for dinner and the candles in the windows were turned on. The sun wasn’t exactly set yet, but it was starting to get darker at the edges of the yard and you’d seen the first few fireflies of the night start to blink their hellos. Once the last candle was lit, you went back over to check on Ellie.

You stopped a few yards away from the table where Ellie and Jesse were sitting, and just watched them for a while. Ellie looked so beautiful. Her eyes were sparkling and she was gesturing animatedly at Jesse; they were definitely arguing about something. There was a blush high on Ellie’s cheeks from the glass of whiskey in her hands. You loved her hands, the way the rings she wore made her fingers look even longer, the way the veins stood out when she flexed her hands around the glass, the way her hands looked when they wrapped around your wrists and your legs and your throat. She had taken off her suit jacket and rolled her sleeves up to her elbows to show off her forearm tattoo to Jesse, and you wanted nothing more than to crawl into her lap and kiss her in front of the whole party.

“Hey, baby!”, you called out as you walked over to her. Ellie looked towards you with a smile that took your breath away, and waved you over to the table she sat at with Jesse.

“Hi, love. Everything going okay?”, Ellie said as you came to a stop beside her chair, tilting her head up to look at you.

“Yup, everything’s going amazing so far.” You pressed a kiss into her temple and stood with your elbows resting on her shoulders, leaning over her to talk to Jesse.

“Is Jesse bothering you, Ellie? Do I need to steal you away?”, you asked teasingly. You were internally begging for her to say yes so you two could least go make out in a dark corner somewhere for a minute and blow off some steam. Up close, her hands looked even more beautiful and you wanted them wrapped around your neck instead of that stupid glass.

“No baby I’m fine,” she said with that stupid, stupid, sweet smile of hers. “I’m having a good time”.

“Okay, love.” You pressed a kiss to the top of her head and walked off then. You would be a good girlfriend and let Ellie make friends, and you wouldn’t pout about it.

You were definitely pouting. Another hour had passed, the sun was finally starting to sink beneath the clouds, and Ellie still hadn’t gotten up from that fucking table with Jesse. Your friend Dina had come over to the table too now, and the three of them were talking and yelling like they’d known each other their whole lives. Ellie had rejected your hints and requests to come with her twice now, and you were honestly starting to regret ever introducing her to your friends.

In your second attempt, you had fully sat yourself in Ellie’s lap at the table and asked her to come to the bathroom with you to ‘fix your dress’, but you either had the dumbest girlfriend in the world or the sweetest. Ellie had spun you around and said, “How could I fix it? You look absolutely perfect baby”. You only just barely stopped yourself from stomping away.

However, another half-hour and several shots with your friends had passed and you felt ready to try again. This time, there would be no way Ellie could possibly miss your meaning. Locking the door of the bathroom behind you, you pulled up the hem of your skirt and pulled off your panties. You’d picked the pair out special this morning, as Ellie had never seen you wearing anything as intricately lacy and sheer as these. You had wanted to surprise her, but at this point you were unsure if Ellie would ever see them because you felt like you were never going to want to have sex again if this didn’t work.

Heading back outside with the panties tucked discreetly away in your fist, you made your way over to the table where Ellie, Jesse, Dina, and a few more of your friends were all sitting. Ignoring everyone but Ellie, you came up behind her and draped yourself over the back of her chair, leaning down to whisper in her ear.

“You have 10 seconds to get up and follow me. I’m not asking you again.” Pressing a kiss Ellie’s cheek and ignoring the sweet, confused look on her face, you reached down into her lap and slipped the panties into her hand. Her eyes darted down at the feeling of lace in her palm, and her eyes widened as you started to walk away. As you turned around and headed back towards the house, you heard Ellie start to stutter out an excuse, followed by the sound of a chair creaking, a glass shattering, and Jesse and Dina both cursing at full volume.

Ellie opened the bathroom door and your hands were on her shoulders in an instant, pushing her back up against the wall and reaching behind her to close and lock the door.

“Took you long enough”, you said, reaching up to grab her face and pull her down into a rough kiss.

“I’m sorry baby, I knocked over a glass and I-“

“Don’t care,” you interrupted. “I’ve been trying to get your attention all night and you’ve been glued to Jesse instead.”

“Baby, I-“

“Nope! You have an outrageously hot girlfriend and you’ve been neglecting her all night. I don’t wanna hear excuses.”

Ellie’s cheekbones were covered in a bright red flush now and she opened her mouth to speak before swallowing and trying again. “I’m sorry baby, you look beautiful,” she said, eyes darting quickly down to your cleavage before looking back up at your eyes. “How can I make it up to you?”

“There we go, sweetheart” you said, loosening the grip you had on her wrist and instead winding your fingers into her hair and pulling her down to kiss you again. Her mouth opened on a gasp just as your lips met and she pulled herself into your body, her hands coming to rest on your ass and the middle of your back, crushing you closer into her. She pushed you back into the sink, the upper halves of your bodies leaning backwards while your legs tangled together and she slid the hand on your ass down to hitch your leg up around her hip. She kissed you deeper, pressing every inch of her body as close to yours as she could get.

The force of her kiss surprised you, and you felt dizzy when she finally pulled away from your lips. Her head ducked and she began pressing kisses to your neck, mumbling something into the hot skin behind your ears.

“What was that, baby?”

“M’sorry”, she mumbled again, pressing another kiss to your skin. “M’sorry, m’sorry,” she repeated, pressing a kiss into your skin for each apology. You wanted to give in right then, pull her into another hug and call her your sweet girl, but the press of each kiss was sending sparks across your skin and Ellie only grew needier with each touch of lips to skin. She bit down gently in the spot she knew you liked, and worried the skin between her teeth as you gasped and cupped the back of her head with your hand. Your other hand was braced against the counter, trying to hold yourself up against the force of your girlfriend’s apologies. Ellie surged forward and suddenly scooped you up, the muscles of her arms flexing under her shirt, before setting you down gently on top of the counter. The sink was digging squarely into your back and you were vaguely worried about the entire vanity collapsing under the two of you, but you were willing to ignore your worries for now. Ellie’s hand was right next to yours, the tattoo on her forearm flexing as she gripped the marble counter. Her other hand still had your leg hitched around her waist and she was pressing every inch of herself into the gap between your legs, trying to get you to forgive her with your body if not in words.

She pressed a final kiss to the base of your neck before reaching to pull the strap of your dress and the cup of your bra to the side. She licked and sucked at your exposed nipple, moaning quietly into your skin. The hand that wasn’t holding you up flew to your mouth as you tried to hold in a gasp. The feeling of Ellie’s tongue on your skin, the soft material of your dress now hanging off one shoulder, and the press of Ellie and the marble counter on both sides of your body was making it hard to think or breathe, much less remember to keep your voice down in case there was someone outside the bathroom door. Your pussy was uncomfortably wet, the lack of panties making you feel every press and shift of Ellie’s hips through the soft velvet of your dress. You sent up a fervent prayer that your dress wouldn’t be too ruined to wear for the rest of the night before Ellie drove all the thoughts out of your head again as she bit down on your nipple. You finally let out a moan as your head tipped back against the mirror above the sink, and you felt Ellie’s mouth leave your skin for the first time since she’d started.

You were absolutely turned on out of your mind, but you managed a semi-believable haughty voice.

“Did I tell you to stop?”, you breathed out as you picked your head back up and looked down at her again.

Ellie looked back up at you silently, and the look in her eyes-pupils blown wide and adoring- sent a wave of heat through your body from head to toe. Instead of answering, she lowered herself down to the floor, the beautiful lines of her suit crumpling as she settled herself on her knees between your legs. Her hands came up to rest on your thighs just below where your dress ended, dimpling the soft skin there as she dug her fingers into you. The rings on her fingers were cold against your skin, but every other part of your body felt like it was burning.

“Please”, she breathed out, one of her hands reaching up to clutch at the hem of your dress. She leaned forward and pressed a kiss to your dress-covered cunt before resting her head against your thigh, breathing heavily.

“Sweet girl,” you said, cupping her face gently in your hand and tilting it up to look at you, “You’ve got yourself all worked up, huh?”. She nodded her head into your hand, before turning and kissing the palm of the hand against her cheek. Her hands fell away from your legs, balling up in her lap as she waited for you to say more. You could feel the heat of her cheek against your palm, her eyes looking slightly watery against the burn of her embarrassment. You could tell she loved it though, from the way her mouth sat slightly open and she rubbed her balled fists against the tops of her thighs.

“You want me to fuck your face, sweet girl? Is that what you want?”. You rubbed a thumb across her cheekbone as a single, burning tear of embarrassment fell across her face.

She nodded fiercely and breathed out a, “Yes, please”. She looked so determined you wanted to laugh and tell her you hadn’t really been mad at all, but she was obviously getting off on this and you weren’t about to cut it short. Besides, your cunt was aching and you thought you might go insane soon if you didn’t get what you’ve been waiting for since you came up with this stupid party idea.

“Go ahead, love”. Ellie didn’t need any further encouragement. She reached out with surprising forcefulness and yanked your hips forward, until your lower half was nearly off the counter. Still on her knees, she pushed your dress up and licked into your pussy like she was starving. The first touch of her tongue was enough to have you cracking your head on the mirror again, startling a laugh and a moan out of you in the same breath. Ellie didn’t stop, and you wondered if she could even hear you. You could barely hear yourself, the pounding of your heart in your ears mixing with the underlying thump of the music from somewhere outside.

Ellie’s arms wrapped around the outside of your thighs and held you tight, fingers digging into the velvet of your dress as she held it up bunched at your hips. Her tongue dragged across your clit like a match striking, sending a blistering heat through your chest that burned through every part of your body. Ellie’s face was slick already, and you could feel her sucking gently at your clit between swipes of her tongue. Her fingers kept flexing against your upper thighs, gripping tighter and tighter until the skin there was flushed and irritated. You scooted your hips further off the counter, pressing your cunt harder into Ellie’s mouth. She moaned against you, and the noise you made in response was definitely audible to anyone within 20 feet of the bathroom door. You stuffed your hand into your mouth, biting down hard on your knuckles to try and keep quiet. Ellie seemed to take that as a challenge, licking into you harder and faster until the whimpers coming out of your mouth were constant. She held you tight against her with her right arm, and used her left to push your leg further out of her way, leaving your golden heel dangling over her shoulder. Your hands were in her hair, absolutely ruining the bun she had so carefully styled before the party.

You started to feel dizzy, the focus of the world dulling until the only things you knew were the feelings of Ellie’s tongue against you, and your fingers in her hair, and the burning in your chest that was spreading down your arms and legs until every finger and toe was on fire. Your eyes closed, and you fought the urge to close your legs around Ellie’s head. Your fingers slid through her hair and spasmed against her back, scratching at her skin through the crisp whiteness of her shirt. Everything in you wanted to snap, to jerk away from the feeling burning through you. It was too much. It was, you were going to tell Ellie that it was too much, that you couldn’t take it anymore, but when you went to say it the only word that came out was her name. Ellie gave another gentle suck on your clit, pulling on your hips and grinding your cunt into her face as hard as she could, and everything shattered.

Your legs snapped shut around Ellie’s head, trapping her head between your thighs. She pushed back fiercely against the inside of your legs, forcing them open and continuing to lick into you while your body shook against her mouth. Your heartbeat was pounding in your ears and it felt like every ounce of blood in your body was right up against Ellie’s tongue, being kissed at and licked and sucked. You pushed her head away and finally closed your legs, your lower body still spasming against your will as you leaned back against the mirror, trying to breathe.

Ellie’s hands were on you again then, hand behind your neck pulling you limply away from the mirror to rest your head against her shoulder. You giggled, empty-headed as you buried your face against her neck, breathing in the smell of sweat and her cologne and your body. You slung your arms loosely across Ellie’s shoulders, pulling her in closer to you.

“Hi baby”, you whispered.

“Hi,” Ellie whispered back. Giving you a mind-numbing orgasm seemed to have brought Ellie back to herself a bit, her eyes were focused again and she smiled when you leaned your head back into her neck and moaned again, aftershocks making your legs kick gently at the back of Ellie’s thighs. “Was that good?”

“Mhmmmm”, you moaned out, smile twisting your lips at the end of the noise. You would gather up the scraps of your dominant personality and start bossing Ellie around again soon, but for now your head was blissfully empty except for the gentle pulse of EllieEllieEllieEllie in your head like a heartbeat.

#ellie williams #ellie williams smut #the last of us pt 2 #the last of us #ellie x reader #ellie x y/n #ellie williams fanfiction

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wheretheharekissesthefox · 11 months

Text

Tav’s sex parade – Chapter 12: Mate me, mark me, make me yours (Halsin x Tav)

(Trigger warning (18+): graphic description of sex, smut, cunnilingus, biting, the feels)

Notes:

To avoid confusion: In one of my other fanfics, Halsin and Tav had named the owlbear cup Naïlo, which means 'night breeze' in the Elven language.)

Chapter 8 is mentioned.

The snowflakes twirled through the cold air of the grey day, covering the world in its first fine layer of this year's snow like powdered sugar.

Tav was sitting in the living room, composing, while Gale wrote letters to scholars, Astarion rested in reverie, and Shadowheart was at Morena's place to help her heal some clients. Gale's mother appreciated an extra pair of hands at this time of the years when the townspeople ended up with runny noses and coughs. Scratch and Naïlo were sleeping in front of the fireplace, tightly entangled. The owlbear had grown a lot and barely fit through the doorframe anymore, but he still behaved like an over-excited puppy. It was adorable and gave them 'scary dog privilege' when going on a walk in the park with him.

Tav was in the middle of figuring out what rhymes with 'apple' when there was a knock on the front door. The bard wiped her ink-stained fingers on a cloth before getting up and opening the door.

"Oak Father preserve you, my heart. How are you?"

"Halsin!" Tav fell around his neck, beaming. "I missed you. I'm alright, and you? Come in, love."

With a chuckle, the druid entered Gale's tower house and shook off his coat and boots.

"Nature's preparing for her hibernation. The snow will cover her like a warm, protective blanket soon."

"You're always so poetic," Tav smiled. "We truly must write a poetry book together. Maybe this winter? Will you stay longer this time or did you plan to travel during the winter season?"

"I'm not sure yet," Halsin answered as he was ushered into the kitchen to sit down. "It depends on how much it'll snow – and how long I can stand the city."

"I see. You can decide spontaneously," the human bard told him. She put the kettle on the stove and piled cookies from a ceramic yar onto a plate. She put it down in front of the druid. "Here, eat some. Gale baked all of our favourites."

Halsin looked at the plate and pointed at the vanilla shortbread.

"Let me guess; Gale's favourite?"

Tav nodded grinning.

The druid chuckled, studying the assortment again. He took a crescent-shaped cookie and sniffed it.

"Cinnamon, hm... Shadowheart? She strikes me as someone who likes exotic flavours."

"You're right, kudos."

Smiling softly, Halsin grabbed a pale star-shaped pastry and took a bite.

"Lemon? That's your favourite? I wouldn't have thought that. You look more like someone who likes raisins."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tav asked, pursing her lips.

Halsin chuckled and leaned his head back to look at her.

"Your welcoming, open-minded, flamboyant nature reminds me of the people in the south - even though your skin's so pale it would burn down there. When I'm in wildshape, you smell like raisins. Somehow, I can picture you between the vineyards and the olive trees."

"And the citrus trees," Tav added. Then, she sighed. "You're awfully observant. It's almost a bit scary."

When the druid looked at her confused, she sighed again, explaining: "I am from the south and did grow up next to a vineyard."

Halsin's eyes widened in surprise and Tav chuckled. She kissed his temple and muttered: "I do like raisins, but lemons are my favourite. When I was a kid, I ate them like apples."

The druid shook himself at the thought, making his lover snicker. The latter stole a lemon cookie from the plate and shoved it in her mouth. Halsin pointed at the sticky clusters, asking: "And what are those?"

"Walnut-honey cookies. Gale thought you might like them since you love honey."

Halsin blinked at her dumbly.

"Gale baked cookies for me?"

"If course! You're family after all."

"Oh."

Touched, the druid gazed at the plate and welled up a bit. He gently took one of the misshapen cookies and took a bite. He closed his eyes and moaned as the taste of flowery honey and earthy walnut exploded in his mouth.

"Good?" asked Tav, rubbing his shoulder blades.

"Mmh, definitely my favourite," sighed Halsin. "I must thank Gale properly. They are divine."

"He should have become a cook or baker instead of a wizard," Tav agreed, stealing another lemon cookie.

Halsin did the same, happily munching on the sweet treats. The bard walked over to the stove and brew tea. She filled two cups, placed them on the table, and sat down next to the wood elf. They silently enjoyed the beverage and the pastries for a while.

"What do you think was Astarion's favourite cookie?" Halsin suddenly asked. "Maybe something with exotic, expensive spices?"

"Or cherries?" Tav wondered.

"No, peaches," the vampire spawn revealed as he strode into the kitchen. "Hello, druid. Nice to see you again."

"Oak Father preserve you, Astarion. How was your rest?"

"Good, but I'm peckish now. Can I take a nibble?"

"Sure."

Astarion stared at him in surprise.

"Really?"

"Mhm," Halsin answered with a shrug.

Licking his lips, the vampire spawn moved closer, stroke a finger along the druid's thick neck before biting down. Halsin gasped, squeezing his eyes shut. He still wasn't used to the feeling of being bitten – other than Tav and Gale. Shadowheart refused to let Astarion feed from her and he respected her boundaries. The vampire spawn drew back, licked the wound clean and then his mouth. He swayed slightly, drunk on the druid's blood, again.

"Thank you, darling," Astarion slurred and kissed him sloppily before staggering out of the kitchen to lay down in front of the fireplace.

"Your blood has an interesting effect on him. I wonder why," Tav mused.

"Me too. He only gets drunk when feeding on me," Halsin muttered. "He says I taste like a bear."

That made Tav giggle.

"And what a lovely bear you are," she teased and leaned over to connect their lips. "I'll run you a bath."

"Mmh, thank you, my heart."

They kissed again before the bard left the kitchen and the druid finished the plate by himself. Then, he got up to seek out Gale in his study. The wizard was hunched over his letters, conferring with Tara.

"Oak Father preserve you, Gale. How are you?"

"Oh, hello Halsin. It's a pleasure to have you back. How was the journey?"

"Good. We'll talk about the details over dinner."

"Of course. Excuse me, I have to finish these letters first before I can start cooking."

Gale turned his attention back to his work.

"It's good to see you again, Mr. Halsin," Tara said and purred as she accepted the druid's caresses.

"It's nice to be back. Thank you for the cookies, Gale. They're delicious," Halsin said, smiling.

"Oh? I'm glad you like them," the addressed replied with a sigh of relief. "I didn't know what you prefer, but when Tav said you like honey, I remembered this recipe."

"Thank you, from the bottom of my heart," the druid told him. He didn't know how to show his gratitude or how to repay the favour, thus, he did the only thing that was able to express his feelings; he gave Gale a tender kiss. The wizard gasped in surprise, but placed a hand on Halsin's chest immediately. When they parted, they leaned their foreheads together.

"Thank you," whispered the druid. "You have no idea how much this means to me."

"Mh, I can only assume," mumbled Gale, still slightly overwhelmed by the sudden kiss.

"Halsin! The bath's ready!" yelled Tav from the bathroom.

Halsin smiled and kissed Gale again before he left the room.

"What a lovely way to show his gratitude," purred Tara, highly amused.

Gale hummed, dazed, and went back to work.

At the dinner table, Halsin told them about his journey. The former Shadow-Cursed Lands had recovered and the wildlife was returning, slowly but steadily. Soon, the area would be suitable for people again, but Halsin was torn.

"It had been my home before the Shadow Curse claimed the lands. I always dreamed of returning, but now, that I can, I'm unsure about it. It feels so different now. The energy's not the same, nature has changed, and it doesn't feel like my homelands anymore." The druid sighed melancholically. "But I'm sure the lands would serve the refugees well. They're not welcome in Baldur's Gate and are forced to live in misery. Maybe, if I'd guide them to Thaniel's Realm, they'll find new hope and a new home."

After said gloomy words, Halsin changed the topic and handed Gale a set of ceramic soup bowls that he'd bought in Mirabar. The wizard marvelled at the craftsmanship and gushed over the design; dark blue background with yellow stars, moons, and suns.

"You were in Mirabar again?" asked Tav.

Halsin nodded.

"I saw the beautiful ceramic ware last time, but didn't buy anything. Winter Solstice is near and your hospitality's always wonderful, thus, I thought I'll bring you a gift to show my appreciation."

"Thank you, Halsin, but you're not just a guest here, you're family," Gale told him, looking serious.

The druid was taken aback and averted his gaze.

"Am I? Hm... thank you. That's... an honour, truly," he mumbled, blushing slightly.

"Of course you are," Gale replied with a smile. Shadowheart, Astarion, and Tav nodded in agreement and the latter placed her hand on Halsin's.

The druid welled up a second time this day.

The conversation had lit a fire in his belly, something he'd never felt before, and it overwhelmed him. Halsin possessively placed a hand in Tav's neck as he kissed her hungrily. Even though he'd had dinner, he was starving. With a growl, he grabbed the bard's buttocks and hoisted her onto his hips. She immediately wrapped her arms and legs around him.

"What's on your mind, love? You're acting strangely," Tav panted.

Instead of answering, Halsin kissed her again. He didn't want to talk, couldn't put into words what he felt. He dropped his lover onto the bed, hastily removing her clothes before stripping himself. Tav stretched an arm towards him to caress his cheek.

"Halsin, talk to me. What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Quite the opposite actually," he answered.

Before she could keep pestering him in concern, the druid bent down and started to eat her out. Tav moaned, bucked her hips up, and sunk a hand into his hair. Halsin focused on drowning in her taste and smell. He didn't want to think anymore. He just wanted to be. The bard mewled and came across his tongue, and Halsin moaned at the familiar taste. He didn't give her time to rest and entered her immediately. Tav whimpered but pulled him into a messy kiss. Halsin squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away. It was too much, too intimate, too loving. Tav was warm and welcoming, trusting him completely. He smelled her skin, felt her breath on his cheek as she panted, her strong arms around him. Halsin drew back and looked at her. Dazed, she gazed up at him.

"Halsin, love, what's –"

The addressed pulled out, flipped her over, and pushed her head into the mattress.

"Stop talking. Please," he pleaded, desperately trying to gain control over his emotions and the scratching beast inside him.

Tav nodded silently and he grabbed her hips to pull her up onto her knees. Halsin entered her again with a groan and leaned over her. His thrusts were hard and fast, making the bard whimper and sob in ecstasy. The druid kissed her shoulder blade. The bear inside him spurred him on to mark his possession. To mate and mark what was his. Moaning, Halsin licked the bard's sweat off, grazing her rosy, freckled skin with his teeth. The beast roared and the druid growled irritated.

"Do it," Tav told him. "Bite me, Halsin. Mark me and make me yours."

The wood elf growled again, grabbed her broad shoulder to pull her closer, and listened to his natural instinct. He sunk his teeth into the nape of Tav's neck, biting down until he could taste blood. The bard gasped and groaned, but kept perfectly still. A shiver ran down the druid's spine, it felt like he was lit aflame, liquid fire running along the bones. A mating bite. Marking someone as his. His.

Mine, Halsin's brain screamed and he moaned as his climax hit him like a boulder. Colours exploded behind his closed eyelids and his ears were ringing. His legs gave out and he collapsed onto Tav who got squished into the bed under his weight. At the moment, Halsin neither noticed nor cared, his brain was still caught up in the fact that he'd marked his lover. It hadn't been a new feeling, he'd had the urge to bite for as long as he could remember, but he'd never acted on it. Halsin had never marked a lover before. It had been a big no-no, too animalistic, even for his taste. Something he'd been ashamed of and had always controlled – until now. Halsin finally unclenched his teeth and lazily tongued the bleeding wound and rolled off of Tav to let her breathe properly.

"I'm sorry," he croaked out huskily.

"Don't be," she replied, way too calmly for someone who'd just been mated and marked like an animal.

"Why aren't you freaked out by this?"

Tav just shrugged nonchalantly.

Halsin's non-bear brain started panicking.

"I- I bit you. Marked you. I left a mating bite on you!"

"I know," the bard replied, stretching languorously.

The druid stared at her in disbelief and repeated: "I left a mating bite on you."

Tav looked at him with a smile and stroke his cheek.

"I know," she said and kissed him sweetly. "I'm yours."

"You're mine," Halsin whispered, pulling her into another kiss.

The beast in him was sated, satisfied, and the druid felt as content as he hadn't in a long while. Tav was his, and now, the entire world could see it.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #fanfic #halsin x tav #halsin #tav #smut #mind the trigger warning #gale #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #astarion #astarion ancunin #shadowheart

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