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joelsrose · 1 month ago

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Father of the Groom

warnings - smut (as always lmao) virgin reader, cheating, spanking, unprotected sex, family dynamics, creampie ..(??!)

🕊♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

You reached for another glass of champagne, your fingers trembling just enough to make the bubbles shimmer against the rim. The suite was quiet now, too quiet, after the flurry of brushes and curling irons, after the hum of music and the soft laughter of your stylist and makeup artist who had only just packed up and left. The air still held the faint scent of hair spray and roses, mixed with the deeper perfume clinging to your skin — warm, floral, soft like summer.

Your hair had been curled into delicate waves, the top pinned back with a cluster of tiny pearls that glimmered every time you moved. Your makeup was bridal perfection — a gentle glow across your cheeks, soft pink lips, lashes long and curled like whispers. You looked like a dream. You felt… like a trembling one. Nerves tangled tightly in your belly, fluttering like ribbons caught in wind. You were getting married today. Today.

The weight of it settled behind your ribs. Excitement, yes — that warm, hopeful kind — but threaded through with something sharper, more restless. The kind of nerves that made your hands fidget, that made you question if you’d eaten too much, if you should’ve worn a different shade of blush, if the weight in your chest was love or fear or… something else entirely.

You were just about to raise the flute to your lips when a knock echoed at the door — soft, deliberate.

Your heart gave a little stutter.

“Luke, I swear,” you muttered under your breath with a nervous smile, setting the glass down, “you know you’re not supposed to see me until the ceremony…”

You padded toward the door in nothing but your white silk robe — the one you’d saved for today, smooth as water and tied loosely at your waist. You pulled it tighter on instinct, fingers curling around the fabric as you turned the handle and opened the door—

—and there he was.

Joel.

Mr. Miller.

Your fiancé’s father.

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Joel Miller stood in the doorway like he’d stepped out of another world and into this one just to see you — tall and broad in his dark suit, the tailored jacket pulling across his shoulders in a way that made your breath hitch for reasons you didn’t want to examine.

His tie was a muted navy, slightly loosened at the collar like he hadn’t bothered to finish getting ready yet, and in the neat fold of his jacket pocket sat a single white rose — likely chosen to match your bouquet, the detail not missed by you. His hair had been swept back, soft curls glinting silver under the room’s warm light. He looked handsome — devastatingly so — in that older, quiet kind of way that made you want to look at him just a second too long.

“Joel,” you smiled gently, surprised, your fingers tightening slightly on the robe’s sash as you leaned your shoulder to the doorframe, “I thought you were Luke.”

His brow ticked up, but the smile he gave you was warm, touched with something that felt just a little too fond. “Well… look at you, sweetheart.” He stepped closer, eyes scanning you with a reverence that made your skin burn beneath the silk. He leaned in and kissed both of your cheeks — the roughness of his stubble grazing your skin, the warmth of his hands settling lightly on your arms. “You look like a damn dream.”

A quiet breath left you as you backed up slightly to let him in, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Thanks, Joel,” you murmured, turning toward the side table where the champagne and spirits were arranged, the glasses catching soft golden light. “Would you like a drink? There’s whiskey.”

He chuckled — low, gravelly, like it lived deep in his chest. “You know me well.”

You didn’t see the way his eyes dropped to your legs, how they lingered on the smooth line of your thigh revealed by the shift of your robe as you reached forward, silk sliding up just enough to test the limits of modesty. You didn’t catch the subtle way his jaw shifted or how his thumb dragged once over his palm before reaching for the glass you passed him.

“How’s your morning been?” he asked, voice smooth, conversational, but his gaze wandered — over the room, yes, but always returning to you.

You motioned for him to sit, and when he did, he chose the armchair closest to you — close enough that his knee nearly brushed yours. You sat down again, smoothing the robe over your legs as you sipped the last of your champagne, trying to ignore the sudden flutter of nerves in your chest that had nothing to do with wedding-day jitters.

“It’s been busy,” you admitted softly, your voice lighter now. “Hair and makeup only just left. Luke and I are getting photos done soon… in—” you glanced at your phone, “less than an hour, actually.”

Joel nodded slowly, the motion almost absentminded, though his eyes hadn’t left you once — eyes that held something too heavy to be casual, too soft to be paternal. There was reverence in them, yes, but also a flicker of something else, something deep and unspoken, as if he was trying to memorize every angle of you in that moment — the slope of your cheekbone catching the morning light, the gentle way your bottom lip stayed tucked beneath your teeth when you were nervous, the way you kept fidgeting with the edge of your silk robe like you didn’t quite know what to do with your hands now that he was sitting so close.

“You nervous?” he asked at last, his voice quieter than before — lower, almost thoughtful, like it wasn’t just a question but something weightier, an offering.

You smiled softly, almost bashful, eyes dropping to your lap where your fingers twisted the belt of your robe into a little knot. “A little.”

When you looked up again, his gaze was still locked on yours — unwavering, steady, and laced with something warm enough to make your skin prickle.

“Ain’t nothin’ to be nervous about, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice slow and syrupy, rich with something comforting and southern and familiar. “If anything, my damn son oughta be nervous. He’ll get a whoopin’ if he ain’t takin’ care of you proper.”

That made you laugh — the kind of laugh Joel always pulled out of you with so little effort, the kind that spilled out like a secret, the kind that reminded you of every dinner at their family home, of the way he always made sure your wine glass was full, how he always offered you the best slice of roast first, the way he always called you “sweetheart” like it meant something more. Holidays, birthdays, Sunday brunches — Joel was the kind of man who made you feel seen, held, steady in a world that sometimes spun too fast.

And now, as your laughter died down to a gentle smile, he was watching you again — like you were something fragile and golden and borrowed just for a moment. His hand moved slowly, resting gently on your knee, warm and solid where your skin peeked from beneath the silk. His palm was broad, roughened from years of work, but the way he touched you was soft, reverent, fingers still against your skin like he didn’t dare move.

You kept your eyes trained on his, breath catching faintly, though it wasn’t fear that fluttered in your chest. He smelled good — a mix of something woodsy and clean, a little cologne maybe, but mostly Joel — that distinct, masculine scent that always lingered when he hugged you goodbye.

He smiled a little, eyes soft, almost nostalgic. “You remind me of Tess on our wedding day,” he said quietly, and you felt that compliment bloom somewhere deep in your belly, warm and sharp. “She had this look in her eyes — somethin’ soft. Somethin’ like you got now. Though I don’t think she ever wore a robe like that 'round me before the vows.”

The last part slipped out lower, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud, and you blushed instantly, lowering your eyes with a shy smile, your fingers tightening just slightly around the edge of your robe.

“Thank you,” you murmured, voice almost too quiet to hear.

Joel smiled again, tilting his head just a little, and then leaned forward, the hand on your knee giving the gentlest squeeze. “Now come on,” he said, voice teasing but kind, “stand up and give me a twirl. I wanna see my future daughter-in-law in all her glory.”

You let out a little giggle — partly from the champagne dancing in your bloodstream, partly from the way his voice held that proud affection, but mostly from the way he was looking at you. Like you were beautiful. Like he knew you were.

You gave a playful little twirl, champagne dancing in your veins and nerves making your limbs feel feather-light. The hem of your silk robe fluttered around your thighs, and you struck a mock pose at the end, one hand on your hip, the other lifting just enough of the fabric to wink at the lace garter snug around your upper thigh — delicate ivory and barely-there sheer, the one your maid of honor had slipped to you that morning with a wink and a giggle.

Joel chuckled low under his breath, the sound rough and warm and unmistakably male, like it was caught in the back of his throat. He leaned forward slightly in the armchair, elbow resting on one knee, fingers loosely wrapped around his glass of whiskey. But it wasn’t the drink he was looking at.

Your movements had swayed just enough for him to catch a flash of lace — and his eyes tracked it like they had a mind of their own.

“Hold up,” Joel said suddenly, his voice casual but the glint in his eyes not quite matching the lazy ease in his tone. He leaned forward in the chair just slightly, resting his glass on the side table as his gaze settled somewhere lower — somewhere that made heat crawl beneath your skin. “C’mere for a sec, sweetheart.”

You blinked, your breath catching as you stepped toward him with a small, hesitant smile, eyes soft with concern. “What’s wrong?” you asked, your brows furrowed as your mind spun — Did I drop something? Do I have something on my face? Did my lipstick smudge already?

But Joel didn’t answer you right away. Instead, he reached out with one hand, slow and deliberate, his fingers warm as they brushed against the outside of your thigh — the place where the hem of your robe had shifted just enough during your little twirl to reveal a sliver of ivory lace. His touch was gentle, almost absentminded, but his movements were precise. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“This,” he murmured, dragging his finger beneath the silk as he shifted the fabric slightly to the side, revealing more of the garter cinched high on your thigh — delicate and bridal and not meant to be seen by him. “Thought I saw somethin’. Damn near missed it.”

He was smiling — that sweet, fatherly smile he always gave you — but there was something else there too, something in the way his eyes lingered, in the way his thumb brushed the edge of the lace like he was admiring it for more than just tradition’s sake.

You froze, a flush blooming across your cheeks, your chest tightening beneath the satin as you struggled to find words. How were you supposed to explain to your future father-in-law that you were wearing a garter? That it was supposed to be seen by someone else — his son, no less. That it was part of some ancient wedding tradition meant to feel cheeky, fun, maybe even a little flirtatious, but now felt scandalous, intimate, exposed in front of the man who should’ve looked away the second he noticed.

Your voice caught in your throat, lodged somewhere between your chest and your lips, and all you could manage was a breathy, flustered, “It’s…” You swallowed hard, cheeks burning as you reached absently for the belt of your robe, needing something to do with your hands, anything to ground you beneath the weight of his gaze. “Tradition, apparently,” you mumbled. “My maid of honour gave it to me this morning.”

Joel didn’t say anything right away. His fingers — the same ones that had just ghosted over the soft skin of your thigh — trailed off with an infuriating slowness, leaving behind a trail of heat like a brand. He let go of the silk as if he hadn’t just touched something sacred, as if his hand hadn’t rested somewhere it most certainly should not have been — like the act itself hadn’t tilted the axis of the room just a fraction. Like it wasn’t so unbearably wrong you felt dizzy with it.

He leaned back in the armchair, the movement languid and unhurried, like he was stretching into the moment instead of trying to escape it. One arm draped along the back of the seat, the other resting on his thigh, fingers idly brushing his whiskey glass. His gaze moved slowly — dragging unapologetically from your legs, up the length of your body, pausing at the dip of your waist where the robe clung, the soft curve of your chest, the flutter of your pulse at the base of your throat — before finally, finally settling on your face again.

“Well,” he said, his voice warm and low, that Southern drawl folding over you like velvet, smooth but weighted, “it’s a real pretty little thing.”

He paused, his smile curling at the edge with something far too knowing, too intimate.

“Just like you.”

Your breath hitched. You blinked, eyes wide, the blush rising higher on your cheeks as you stood frozen in place, unsure what to say, unsure what could be said. You felt suddenly very young, very exposed — like a girl playing dress-up in a woman’s world, standing in a silk robe that felt too thin, with lace too intimate, in front of a man who should have looked away by now. A man who should have been like a father. A man who wasn’t.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, your fingers trembling slightly, your gaze darting away in a poor attempt to gather composure. But you could still feel his eyes on you — the weight of them. Gentle. Heavy. Wanting.

You sat down again, your legs folding delicately beneath you, hyperaware now of the space between you — or rather, the lack of it. His knee brushed yours when you shifted slightly, and the silk of your robe clung a little too close to your skin, made you feel a little too seen. Your skin still tingled where his hand had rested moments before.

“What are the boys doing?” you asked, your voice soft, trying to ease the thrum in your chest by returning to something normal — something safe — but even as you said it, your voice betrayed you, just a little too airy, a little too unsure.

Joel chuckled, low and warm, that rich gravel sound that lived somewhere deep in his chest. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass with idle ease. “Luke and the boys?” he said, eyes still fixed on you like you were more interesting than anything happening elsewhere. “They’re just gettin’ ready in the suite down the hall. Arguin’ over whose tie’s crooked, takin’ shots behind your mama’s back.”

You smiled, shoulders relaxing a touch, but then — then Joel shifted his wrist as he brought the glass to his lips, and just as his arm brushed yours, he fumbled.

It was subtle. Believable. Performed so naturally you would’ve sworn it was real.

The glass tilted — just enough — and a slow, honeyed trickle of whiskey spilled over the rim, slipping down the side of the tumbler and landing squarely on your thigh.

Your gasp was soft, surprised, as the warm liquid soaked into the silk, darkening it in a bloom that made the fabric cling scandalously to your skin. It rolled down your leg in a slow, sinful line.

“Shit,” Joel muttered, deep and throaty, setting the glass aside instantly. His hand followed the spill without hesitation, brushing the fabric with the back of his knuckles, trying — pretending — to help. “Damn, m’sorry, sweetheart. Wasn’t lookin’. Didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, your voice thin, fluttering from your lips like it had to push through the tightness in your chest. Your breath hitched as Joel’s fingers lingered, just for a second too long, his knuckles grazing the edge of your thigh as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop touching you. “It’s just—just the robe.”

He pulled back, but not far, reaching behind him for the box of tissues on the table with a low chuckle, his voice roughened by something that felt deeper than amusement. “Sorry, darlin’,” he muttered as he shook his head, pulling a few tissues loose. “Old man like me can’t do nothin’ right with these damn hands anymore. Slippery glass, nerves shot, eyesight probably goin’.”

You laughed softly, unsure whether it was the champagne or the way your heart felt like it had climbed into your throat. “You’re not old,” you murmured, looking down at your lap to avoid his gaze.

Joel didn’t respond to that — not directly. Instead, he leaned forward again, pressing the tissue to your thigh with a gentleness that made the breath stall in your lungs. His hand was warm, firm but careful, like he was scared he might hurt you, or maybe scared of something entirely different.

He dabbed at the silk uselessly, the fabric already soaked through, transparent now and clinging like a second skin.

“Damn,” he muttered again, more to himself this time as his eyes followed the trail of amber staining the pale ivory. “I’m makin’ it worse, ain’t I?”

You didn’t answer, your mouth dry, because he wasn’t really asking.

Joel looked up, his eyes meeting yours with a quiet intensity, and then back down at the fabric. “This ain’t gonna come clean like this,” he said after a moment, holding the tissue up like proof. “You’ll catch a chill sittin’ in it all wet like that.”

You hesitated, blinking. “It’s fine, really—”

“Nah,” he said gently, his voice taking on that soft but insistent tone, the one that always made people listen. “You’re gonna wrinkle that beautiful dress if this soaks through. Here—” his fingers moved to the sash at your waist before you even realized, pausing just long enough for your eyes to go wide.

“May I?” he asked, and the way he said it — quiet, kind, not pushy but so utterly deliberate — made your stomach twist with something sharp and hot, something that curled behind your ribs and settled low, where your thoughts shouldn’t be wandering.

“I—” you exhaled a shaky breath, a breathy, nervous laugh tumbling out of you. “I’m not sure—”

Joel’s smile was warm, sweet even, but his hands were already ready — positioned at your waist like he was just waiting for permission he already knew you’d give. “We gotta get you cleaned up, baby,” he said gently, glancing at the watch on his wrist like this was all just time-sensitive logistics and not a private, forbidden unraveling. “You got what… twenty minutes till the photographer shows up? Tess, Lord, she dropped every damn thing on her dress back on our day. Nerves’ll do that to ya. But this?” His hand brushed the stained silk. “This’s before the ceremony. Can’t have your wedding robe lookin’ like this in the photos, sugar. People’ll talk.”

He chuckled, soft and low, like he’d just said something harmless, like this wasn’t the most dangerous thing he’d ever done. And your voice — so small and unsure and trembling in a way you couldn’t seem to stop — came out as little more than a breath: “Okay.”

Before you even realized what was happening, his fingers worked the sash loose, slow and careful like he was handling something breakable. The robe slid off your shoulders with the softest whisper of silk and warmth, pooling at your waist before slipping down your hips entirely. Joel caught it in one hand like it was something sacred, something fragile that deserved care — but his eyes…

His eyes didn’t stay on the robe.

He pretended to examine the stained fabric, muttering something under his breath about the fibers and how whiskey sets, holding it like he was doing you a favor — but his gaze lifted a second later, and when it did, it hit you like heat.

Because now you were standing in front of him in nothing but your wedding-day lingerie.

Lace and satin hugged your body, delicate and white and unforgiving, sheer in places where it shouldn’t have been, the garter still snug on your thigh, the tops of your stockings barely visible beneath the hem of the lace. You felt bare. Exposed. Like you’d been unwrapped and laid open just for him.

And Joel — your fiancé’s father, the man who’d kissed your cheek over birthday cake, who’d fixed the broken lock on your apartment door, who’d always called you sweetheart like it was your name — looked up at you then.

His eyes trailed up the length of your legs, slowly, reverently, over your hips, your stomach, the soft line of your chest rising and falling far too quickly.

He didn’t smile.

He just looked.

And in that still, humming silence — where the only sound was the soft rustle of lace against skin and the distant echo of footsteps in some far-off hallway that no longer felt real — you realized with a throb in your chest that Joel had never looked at you like this before.

But he wasn’t stopping.

Not this time.

His eyes dragged over you slowly, reverently, so intensely it made your skin feel too tight, like you were glowing from the inside out, flushed and trembling in nothing but that thin veil of bridal lace that barely counted as clothing. His mouth parted, just slightly, like the words were trying to catch up with the way his thoughts had already unraveled.

“Well,” he drawled at last, voice low and breathless with disbelief, a wry edge of admiration curling around every syllable, “hell, darlin’... I didn’t even know they made underwear like that.”

You gasped — soft, startled — and instinctively crossed your arms over your chest, trying to shield yourself with trembling hands, but there was barely anything to cover. The silk and lace clung to you like a whisper, translucent in places it shouldn’t be, tight across curves he was now seeing for the very first time, and the heat in his eyes made your knees threaten to give out.

Joel dropped the robe without looking, the silk puddling soundlessly at his feet, forgotten, like it was meaningless compared to the vision standing before him. His voice dipped deeper, reverent but laced with something unholy, something so filthy it made your pulse stutter.

“Shit, honey…” he whispered, gaze flicking down again, breath catching as he took you in from head to toe, “…this lace don’t even cover your pussy, does it?”

You froze, stunned, lips parted in a silent gasp, your body prickling with heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with how the words hit you — low and wicked, like something molten pooling behind your ribs.

He shook his head slowly, as though trying to make sense of what he was seeing, as though the sight of you — flushed and trembling and wrapped in lace that did nothing to hide the soft, sacred shape of your body — was more than his tired, aging heart could bear. His voice, when it came, was hushed and aching, like it had to claw its way up from somewhere deep in his chest. “You look like heaven on earth,” he murmured, almost broken by it, like saying the words out loud wounded him in some unspeakable way. “Like somethin’ God himself made just to fuck with me.”

You couldn’t speak.

Could barely breathe.

Your arms were still crossed tightly over your chest, but your hands had slackened, your fingers curled uselessly against your skin as if even they had surrendered to the weight of his gaze. Your lips were parted in shock, your mouth dry, and your heart was pounding so hard you swore he could see it in the way your collarbone trembled beneath the thin thread of satin. You didn’t know if you should run — throw on the robe, end this before it went any further — or reach for him, admit what your body had already betrayed.

Joel stood then, slowly, without a word, and took the few steps toward you with the calm, deliberate steadiness of a man who had made up his mind.

You didn’t move when he reached you.

Didn’t protest when his rough, warm hands slid gently over your wrists, guiding your arms down and away from your chest, until they hung limply at your sides and you were bare before him in a way you had never been before.

His gaze dropped immediately, and there was nothing coy about it now, nothing shy or hesitant in the way his eyes devoured the sight of you. His breath hitched audibly when he saw your chest, and his voice, when it came, was low and ragged and thick with hunger.

“Jesus, baby…” he muttered, his voice strained and reverent like he was confessing a sin, “I can see your fuckin’ nipples through that lace.”

The way he said it — not vulgar, not joking, but stunned, ruined, like it was a miracle he didn’t deserve to witness — sent a ripple of heat straight through your spine. You felt like you were on fire, like your skin was glowing beneath his gaze, like you were something holy being blasphemed.

“Joel,” you warned, or tried to, though your voice cracked under the weight of your own trembling.

Your brows furrowed, your breath shallow, but you didn’t pull away. You couldn’t. Because his eyes were still fixed on your breasts, on the way the sheer lace hugged the swell of them, your nipples peaked and visible through the delicate floral embroidery, the faint rise and fall of your chest growing sharper with each second his gaze remained. And Joel — your future father-in-law, the man who’d always carried himself with the kind of unshakable dignity only age could bring — just looked.

He didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t say sorry.

He just kept looking at you like he’d never seen anything so goddamn beautiful in his life — like the sight of you, soft and trembling in white lace that barely clung to your skin, had cracked something open in him so deep and buried he no longer remembered how to pretend it wasn’t there.

And then, in a voice so calm and so casual it could’ve been mistaken for small talk, he murmured, “Now you can’t blame an old man for admirin’, can you?”

The way he said it — low, warm, with the faintest flicker of amusement curling in his chest — made your stomach flip. Like this was the most natural thing in the world. Like you were the one being silly for acting like he hadn’t just devoured you with his eyes.

His hand rose, slow and unhurried, and settled against your hip — broad and warm, his thumb brushing bare skin where the lace ended. The contact was electric, your breath catching in your throat as you gasped softly, your eyes snapping up to his.

“You wear this for him?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, gaze trailing from your mouth to your breasts again like he couldn’t help himself. “This pretty little set?”

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even think. Not with his hand on you, not with his voice all low and close like that, like a secret being whispered in a confessional.

“Bet he can’t even fuck ya right,” Joel muttered, more to himself than to you, like the words had slipped out from somewhere dark and unchecked.

“Joel,” you said, eyes wide, voice trembling, every part of your body pulsing with heat and something dangerously close to arousal.

But he didn’t back away. Didn’t apologize. Just looked at you harder, darker, like he wanted to pull every secret from your lips one by one.

“Am I right?” he asked, his thumb pressing slightly into your hip, his voice rough now, frayed around the edges. “Answer me.”

“He’s—” you stuttered, struggling to find breath, to find balance. “We—”

Joel leaned closer, close enough that you could feel his breath on your cheek, close enough that your body instinctively tilted toward his like gravity itself wanted to betray you.

“What?” he asked again, quieter this time, more intimate. “Tell me, baby.”

You swallowed hard, lashes fluttering, unable to meet his gaze. “We’re waiting,” you whispered, cheeks burning. “I… I’m waiting for marriage.”

Joel stilled completely, his hand still on your hip, the silence stretching like a rubber band between you, pulled taut with something unspeakable.

“Is that right?” he said, his voice rasping out of him now — not mocking, not surprised, but so deep and low it made your thighs press together without thought.

And then, with a smirk so slow and sinful it felt like a hand dragging down your spine, he murmured—

“Wearin’ nothin’ but that little lace set… nipples hard and pussy barely covered… waitin’ for marriage?” He laughed under his breath, eyes glinting with heat as his thumb stroked over your hipbone again. “Sugar, you don’t look like you’re waitin’ for anything at all.”

You swallowed, the words catching in your throat before you could push them out, your body so tense it ached. “It’s true,” you whispered finally, barely able to look at him, your eyes darting toward the door, the hallway, the window — anywhere but the furnace of his gaze — “Joel… you should go. You have to leave.”

The reality of it struck you all at once — how easily someone could walk in, a bridesmaid, your mother, Luke, God forbid — how they’d see you like this, half-naked in white lace with your robe discarded, flushed and trembling in front of a man who wasn’t your groom but your fiancé’s father — and yet your feet didn’t move, your body didn’t pull away, your hands still resting lightly against his chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt like he was the only thing tethering you to the ground.

“Ain’t no one been in here?” Joel asked as the pad of his finger tapped once against the thin lace stretched over your cunt — then again, firmer this time — and your knees nearly gave out, a soft gasp escaping your lips as your entire body shuddered, the contact so sharp, so intimate, so forbidden you couldn’t breathe.

Your arms flew up, instinctive, desperate for balance, and gripped his shoulders for support, fingers digging into the fabric as your forehead dropped forward against his chest, your body swaying against his like it was trying to find safety in the very place it should’ve run from.

“No,” you said shakily, head turning slightly against him, your voice catching somewhere between shame and pleading. “I’m—Joel, I’m—no one’s.”

He stilled.

Everything in him seemed to go quiet, like your words had struck something sacred.

“Christ,” he breathed, low and reverent, his hand still cupping you through the lace, fingers twitching against the heat of you, “you mean to tell me…”

You felt his chest rise and fall beneath your cheek, could hear the raw edge of restraint unraveling in his voice.

“And you’re gonna let Luke be the first?”

You flinched, eyes fluttering shut as guilt and desire tangled painfully in your chest. “He’s my fiancé,” you said softly, almost defensively, even though you couldn’t lift your head from Joel’s chest, even though your body was pressing closer to his with each heartbeat. “We’re… we’re getting married.”

Joel exhaled, slow and heavy, his fingers dragging gently over the soaked lace between your legs, not quite touching, just tracing, feeling, memorizing.

His voice came softer now, but no less devastating.

“And still… he ain’t the one you’re tremblin’ for, is he?”

“I—” you tried to speak, to form a protest, a thought, anything — but your words were swallowed before they ever had the chance to live, devoured by the press of Joel’s mouth crashing down onto yours.

Warm, demanding, his lips slanted over yours with the kind of hunger that had clearly been simmering just beneath the surface, patient and quiet until now. His tongue swept into your mouth before you could process the heat of it, before you could decide whether to stop him, and his hands — large, calloused, far too steady — came to cradle either side of your face as though this were something sacred, something earned.

You gasped into him, the kiss knocking the breath from your lungs, your palms pressed flat against his chest at first as though you might push him away, but the moment was already slipping too far beyond your control. You were drowning in the taste of him, in the scent of whiskey and cologne and Joel, in the feel of his body against yours — broad, solid, unwavering — and before you could stop yourself, your lips parted further beneath his, soft and needy, a quiet sound escaping your throat as your hands curled into the front of his shirt and you kissed him back.

Joel groaned into your mouth, a deep, wrecked sound that came from somewhere low in his gut, and when he pulled back just an inch, just long enough to drag in a breath, his eyes were black with something feral.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he muttered, almost to himself, voice rough with triumph, like he’d just uncovered a truth he’d been aching to confirm. “Little virgin with a mouth like sin… wearin’ lace for your weddin’, but kissin’ me like you’re starvin’ for it.”

His hands dropped then, feverish and impatient, fumbling with the buckle of his belt as you stood frozen, breathless, dazed beneath him, your lips still tingling, heart slamming against your ribs like it wanted to escape your body.

“A virgin,” he rasped, eyes dragging down the length of you like a man unwrapping a forbidden gift, “but still a fuckin’ whore for me.”

You whimpered — barely audible — but you didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. Because every inch of your body was betraying you, soaked and trembling and swaying toward him like gravity itself had changed direction.

Joel moved fast, years of control finally unraveling as he gripped your waist and guided you backwards, turning you effortlessly, and before you could register what was happening, you felt the soft brush of velvet behind your knees.

You bent instinctively, breath catching in your throat, and he pressed you down onto the couch — the same pale satin loveseat where your robe had been draped just minutes before — your spine arching as your knees folded beneath you, your chest bracing against the cushions.

Everything moved too quickly and yet not quick enough, your thoughts spinning, your skin burning, the cool air kissing your bare thighs as your position shifted, hips raised, your lace-covered ass now exposed, tilted up toward him like an offering.

You heard the clink of his belt dropping open.

And Joel — standing behind you now, belt unfastened — stared down at you with an expression so dark, so wrecked with lust and disbelief, you could feel the weight of it without even turning around. His breath came heavier now, the air between you thick and humid with something that felt like sin and smelled like cologne and sex, and when he finally spoke, it was little more than a gravel-coated whisper, ruined and reverent.

“Look at that fuckin’ view…”

The words made your spine arch involuntarily, heat crawling up your neck and pooling between your thighs, the lace of your panties so damp it clung to you like a second skin. You turned your head, looking back over your shoulder, your voice small and trembling, barely able to make its way past the knot forming in your throat.

“Joel… what are you doing?”

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t blink. Just stepped forward, one hand settling heavy and possessive on the curve of your ass, his voice low and casual, like this was the most natural thing in the world.

“Gonna fuck you, sweetie.”

Your mouth fell open, a breath escaping so sharp it felt like a wound.

“Joel,” you gasped, your voice cracking from the inside out, but you didn’t move — didn’t pull away, didn’t protest, didn’t stop him — and that alone told him everything he needed to know.

His palm came down fast.

The crack echoed softly against the suite walls, sharp and sudden, your body jolting from the contact as you yelped in surprise, eyes fluttering shut from the sting that bloomed across your skin.

Joel’s hand returned immediately, smoothing over the flesh he’d just struck, warm and steady, grounding you through the burn.

“Gotta be quiet, angel,” he murmured, his voice rich and amused, thick with the kind of heat that made your toes curl. “Don’t wanna spook the wedding planner. She’ll come knockin’ if she hears you squealin’ like that.”

And then, with a patience so unholy it made your head spin, he lifted his hand again — and brought it down once more.

The second smack was firmer, more confident, and this time, he watched with a hunger so intense it bordered on reverence as a soft red bloom appeared across the curve of your ass, glowing beneath the sheer lace.

He exhaled like a man in prayer.

“Fuck…” he whispered, dragging his thumb along the edge of the mark, watching the skin warm and swell beneath his touch. “Look how pretty you blush for me.”

You whimpered, your cheek pressed against the cushion, fingers curling into the fabric as your body burned with shame and need, trembling under his hands, soaked through and aching for more.

“Should be sweet,” he murmured, almost to himself now, like he couldn’t believe what he was about to do, like it hurt him in all the wrong, delicious ways. “It’s your first time, ain’t it? Should be slow. Should be gentle…”

He paused above you, the solid weight of his chest hovering just shy of your back, his breath warm and steady against your ear as he whispered like he had all the time in the world, like this wasn’t happening in the bridal suite moments before your wedding. “…But you bent over so easy for me, angel,” he murmured, the heat of his words seeping into your skin like smoke, “didn’t even need to be asked — now I’m thinkin’ maybe you don’t want it sweet.”

You whimpered his name, the sound spilling from your lips before you could stop it, trembling with the need clawing its way through your chest. “Please, Joel,” you whispered, voice raw and soaked in shame and longing.

His lips brushed your ear, low and indulgent. “Please what, baby?”

You hesitated only for a breath, the humiliation of the words curling in your throat, but it was overtaken by need, by the aching, throbbing emptiness that only he could fill. “I want you to fuck me,” you said finally, your voice cracking under the weight of it, tears slipping down your cheeks now, mascara probably smeared, dignity long gone, “please, I—I need it so bad.”

Your hand moved before your thoughts could catch up, fingers reaching between your thighs to drag the drenched lace of your panties to the side, desperate to give him access, to offer yourself up in the most obscene, pleading way.

But Joel moved faster.

He stepped in, growling something low in his throat, and pushed your hand away like you were doing it all wrong. His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of the soaked panties and yanked them down with deliberate slowness, dragging the sticky fabric over your thighs, your knees, until it slipped free completely and left your bare pussy exposed, glistening and trembling beneath his gaze.

“No,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you, his voice gravel-edged with hunger and reverence, “not to the side, baby — I wanna see all of it. Want nothin’ in the way of this sweet little pussy. S’too fuckin’ pretty to be hidden.”

You heard the soft rustle of fabric as he folded the panties once, then again, and without ceremony — like it was the most casual act in the world — he shoved them into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

“Fuck,” he breathed, stepping back to take in the sight of you, bent over for him, lace bra hugging your chest, your ass bare and soft, and your pussy so slick it shone in the low light of the room. “She’s leakin’, baby. Soakin’ the fuckin’ air.”

You looked over your shoulder at him, your cheeks burning, your lip trembling, and when your eyes met his, you saw something wild and dark, something feral that had been buried under years of restraint and was finally, violently free.

Joel’s eyes dropped again to your cunt — pink, swollen, dripping — and he let out a low whistle, shaking his head like he was seeing something too good for this world. “Look at that,” he whispered, his thumb brushing along the curve of your ass, just shy of where you needed him most. “She’s just beggin’ to be filled, ain’t she? Never been touched, never been fucked, and already actin’ like she knows who she belongs to.”

His hand moved then, slow and reverent, fingers grazing your folds with barely-there pressure, teasing the slick mess between your legs. “You hear that?” he murmured, almost in awe as your body answered him with a wet, needy sound. “She’s talkin’ to me, baby. Cryin’ for it. She wants me bad — this pussy knows who she wants first.”

His fingers pressed deeper between your thighs now, soaked and shameless, and the way he touched you wasn’t rushed or careless, but slow and possessive — like he’d already decided that this part of you belonged to him, no matter who was waiting outside with a ring. He leaned in again, his mouth grazing the side of your jaw as he murmured low against your skin, every syllable thick with heat and power, “Tell me, sweetheart… did he ever taste you?”

Your lips parted, breath trembling, and it took you a moment to respond, because even now, as you knelt there in nothing but lace and sin, your body already given over, the shame still clung to your voice like it didn’t want to be spoken. “Yes,” you whispered finally, eyes fluttering closed, “he has.”

Joel’s hum was deep and thoughtful, his hand never stopping its slow rhythm as he circled your entrance with one thick finger, teasing you without mercy. He didn’t sound jealous, but rather contemplative — like he was trying to figure out how to rewrite every memory your body had ever known. And then, after another breathless pause, his voice dropped even lower, almost gentle now, as he asked, “And you ever suck him off, baby? Ever get that pretty little mouth of yours wrapped around his cock?”

Your cheeks burned, throat tightening, and you nodded once, eyes already glassy, tears hot beneath your lashes. “Yes,” you squeaked out, barely audible.

Joel exhaled slowly, like the sound of your voice had settled deep in his chest. And when he spoke again, it was with a reverence that made your stomach flip. “Then I reckon this tight little cunt’s still untouched,” he said, fingers spreading you open now, deliberately exposing the soft, slick heat he hadn’t even begun to take. “You’re gonna be tight, angel. Might hurt a little when I stretch you open.”

You shook your head hard, hips pushing back against his hand without even meaning to, your voice breaking apart on a moan. “I don’t care,” you gasped, the words dissolving into desperation, “please, Joel… I need it, I need you.”

The moment you said it — the moment that last piece of resistance crumbled — he moved like something primal had been set loose in him. His belt hit the floor with a low clink, and then you heard it — the sound of fabric shifting, his breath catching, the soft curse under his breath — and you turned your head, just barely, to see it.

Joel’s cock — thick, flushed, the tip already leaking — was heavy in his hand, larger than anything you'd ever taken, long and wide and veined in a way that made your knees shake. He looked down at you, still kneeling, still trembling, and the expression on his face was unlike anything you'd ever seen on him before — not protective, not amused, not even hungry — but possessive, like the sight of you below him, spread and waiting, had finally answered something inside him that had been restless for years.

Your eyes went wide, lips parting, and before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out — honest and stunned and burning hot. “You’re… you’re so much bigger than him.”

Joel’s brows lifted, his expression faltering for a moment like your soft little confession had caught him off-guard, and then his mouth curved into something dark and triumphant, a grin that held no humor, only heat. “Yeah?” he asked, voice soft but curling with something almost cruel. “That right, angel? My shy little girl just saw my cock and realized she’s been settlin’ for less all this time?”

Your face flushed deeper, but you nodded, thighs pressing together with need, your body already aching for the stretch.

Joel’s hand wrapped tight around the base of his cock, dragging the thick head through your folds, collecting your wetness and coating himself in it like it was something sacred. He let out a low groan, deep and reverent, as he whispered against your spine, “You’re about to learn what it means to be filled proper, baby — gonna ruin you so good, you won’t remember how he ever made you feel, and you’re gonna thank me for it.”

With one hand wrapped tight around the base of his cock, guiding himself with a precision that bordered on reverence, and the other braced firmly on your hip, his fingers digging into the soft swell of your flesh, Joel positioned himself behind you like a man about to sin so deeply he didn’t expect to walk away clean. He dragged the thick, leaking head through your folds one last time, gathering the wetness that clung to your skin like honey, before lining himself up at your entrance, pressing forward with a slow, relentless roll of his hips that knocked the breath straight from your lungs.

The moment his cock breached you — that first, unbearable stretch of thick muscle forcing you open for the first time — your mouth dropped open in a silent scream before the sound tore free of your throat, a strangled cry that buried itself in the pillow beneath your face as your fingers clawed at the cushions like you were trying to anchor yourself to something, anything.

Joel groaned above you, loud and ragged, like your cunt had knocked the air straight out of his chest, his breath hitching as he sank deeper into you, inch by devastating inch, until the full weight of his cock was buried inside your trembling body. “That’s it, baby,” he rasped, voice ruined and low, “that’s my good girl, takin’ it like she was fuckin’ made for it — Jesus Christ, this tight little pussy’s grippin’ me like she don’t wanna let go.”

Your thighs trembled, your toes curling, your eyes filling again with tears as you sobbed into the pillow, the fullness so sharp it hurt, a stretch so wide and foreign it felt like your body couldn’t possibly take it — and yet, the heat, the pressure, the weight of him made your entire body burn with something dangerously close to bliss.

He gave you barely a second, just enough to gasp for breath, before his hips drew back and slammed forward again, not with violence, but with intent — each thrust deep and punishing, like he’d waited long enough and now he needed all of you, needed to fuck you through the pain and into something filthy and perfect and his.

You screamed again, voice shaking, body arching up to meet him as he fucked into you, deep and fast and so much.

“Fuck,” you cried, the sound punched out of you, every word breaking on a moan as your body fought to keep up with the brutal stretch.

Joel leaned over you then, one arm bracing beside your head, his chest pressed flush to your back, his mouth at your ear as he growled, “That good, angel? You cryin’ on my cock ‘cause it feels that fuckin’ good?”

You could barely speak, could barely breathe, but you nodded helplessly, tears streaking your cheeks, your makeup a ruined mess, your pussy stretched around the thickest cock you’d ever felt in your life — and Joel, old enough to know better, too far gone to care, only fucked you harder.

Joel was relentless now, driving into you with a force that knocked the air from your lungs, each thrust impossibly deep, thick, and brutal, the sound of his hips slapping against your soaked flesh echoing through the bridal suite like a hymn made of sin. You were sobbing by then, not from pain but from the overwhelming stretch, the brutal pleasure that had overtaken your body like wildfire, every nerve lit up, every breath punched out of you, your throat raw from crying his name like it was the only thing you knew.

And then, without warning, he pulled you back — hard — one strong arm wrapping around your waist to wrench you upright until your back collided with his chest, your spine arched against the heat of him, your ass pressed flush to his groin, his cock still buried to the hilt inside your fluttering cunt.

He was still fully dressed — the open front of his suit brushing your bare skin, the crisp fabric harsh against your softness — and the contrast only made it filthier, more obscene, like you were some trembling little bride mounted by a man who hadn’t even bothered to take off his jacket before ruining you.

His hand slid up, slow and steady, until it wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, just holding — possessive and firm, a collar of ownership as he leaned down to growl in your ear, his voice thick with the sound of his own unraveling.

“Gonna cream all over this virgin fuckin’ pussy, baby,” he groaned, his cock throbbing inside you, twitching against your walls with every brutal thrust. “Gonna fill you up so deep, you’ll be walkin’ down that aisle with my cum drippin’ outta you.”

The new angle was dizzying — every stroke hitting something deeper, rougher, worse, dragging cries from your throat that didn’t even sound like words anymore. Your legs trembled violently, muscles going slack as the pleasure coiled tight in your belly, white-hot and blinding.

“I—I think I’m gonna—Joel—” you gasped, voice choked, your head falling back against his shoulder as your thighs began to shake uncontrollably.

“That’s it,” he rasped, fucking into you harder now, his grip on your throat tightening just enough to make your toes curl. “Come on, baby, give it to me — wanna feel this sweet little cunt clench when she lets go — fuckin’ knew you’d come all over my cock.”

And you did — with a scream so loud it barely sounded human, your pussy clamping down around him in waves, your entire body convulsing as the orgasm ripped through you, soaking him in heat and slick and something filthy and pure all at once.

Joel cursed behind you, a deep, raw sound of something breaking loose inside him, and his rhythm faltered as his hands gripped you tight, dragging you down hard on his cock one final time.

“Fuck—Jesus, I’m gonna—shit—” he growled, voice splintering as he shoved himself impossibly deeper, grinding his hips against you as his cock pulsed violently inside your pussy.

And then he came — hot and thick and overwhelming — spilling deep inside you in heavy, pulsing waves, each thrust slower now but just as deep, his breath hot and ragged against the side of your neck as he held you still, as if your trembling body could take any more. His hand remained wrapped around your throat, not squeezing now but resting there like a vow, like he couldn’t bear to let go of the place he’d claimed. Your insides fluttered around him, spasming weakly as his cock throbbed within you, every thick drop of his cum flooding your aching cunt, the sensation so warm, so full, so all-consuming, it felt like your body wasn’t your own anymore — like it belonged to him now, marked and filled and known.

You couldn’t speak.

Could barely breathe.

The heat curled through your chest like smoke, leaving you dizzy and dazed, your limbs too heavy to move as the wet, messy slickness dripped slowly from between your thighs.

Joel panted behind you, his mouth still close to your ear, his free hand still groping greedily at your breasts like he wasn’t finished, like he needed every last inch of you under his palms even after emptying himself inside you. And then, without warning, his mouth descended to your neck, kissing along your pulse point, soft and slow, then dragging lower — your shoulder, the curve of your back, the lace strap clinging to your flushed skin — every kiss a brand, every press of his lips a silent admission.

“Fucking perfect for me,” he rasped, the words spoken so quietly it felt like a confession, not meant for anyone but your skin.

Your legs gave out the moment he loosened his hold, and you collapsed onto the couch in a daze, your breathing shallow, mascara smudged, hair clinging to the sweat on your face, the inside of your thighs still trembling from the aftershocks. Joel stood, finally withdrawing from your soaked body with a low groan, his cock wet with your slick and his cum, and for a long, quiet second, he just looked down at you — completely undone, flushed and leaking, back arched against the velvet couch cushions like a vision he’d spend the rest of his life remembering.

He tucked himself back into his slacks with slow, practiced movements, the suit wrinkled now, his shirt untucked and his belt hanging loosely from the loops, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t thinking about his appearance. He was thinking about you — about what he’d just done — about the way your body still shook for him.

Then he bent down, breath still uneven, and slid one arm beneath your back, the other beneath your knees, pulling you gently until your hips were right at the edge of the couch and your legs were dangling over the side, parted just slightly from how loose and ruined you were. His large hands cradled your thighs as he looked between them, his expression dark and reverent, and he used both thumbs to part your folds, exposing your swollen, slick cunt — raw, red, flushed from the stretch — and the thick, creamy mess of his cum already beginning to spill from you.

“Shit,” he whispered, his voice cracking with awe and filth in equal measure, “look at that... she’s still full of me, baby. Still fuckin’ leakin’.”

He didn’t blink. He didn’t smile.

He just stared.

Joel leaned in again, no longer rough or wild, but slow, calm, tender, and pressed his mouth to yours with a softness so at odds with the filth he’d just whispered into your ear that it made your stomach turn with something dizzying. You whimpered into the kiss before you could stop yourself, lips parting beneath his without hesitation, and your fingers reached up to find the soft waves of his curls, threading through them like you needed him closer — like you needed him inside you again.

But just as his tongue swept into your mouth and your thighs shifted instinctively to pull him back between them, there was a knock on the door.

Sharp. Semi-urgent. A voice just outside that made your entire body lock up.

You gasped, eyes going wide, body tensing under his hands, panic flashing across your face as you turned to him in alarm, your mouth already open with a breathless, what do we do?

But Joel — calm, unbothered, still warm from the high of fucking you — only smiled, kissed your cheek once more, and moved like a man who had nothing to hide. He reached down, smoothing your sweat-slicked hair away from your face with one broad palm, and then reached for the discarded robe on the arm of the couch, holding it out with practiced ease.

“Put this on, baby,” he murmured, his voice so quiet and so casual that you almost forgot to be afraid. “C’mon now, just like that.”

Your hands trembled as you slipped the robe over your shoulders, the silk clinging to your still-damp skin, the warmth of his cum still sticky between your thighs, seeping down slowly as you stood there dazed and wide-eyed, heart hammering as Joel calmly walked to the door.

He opened it with a quiet click.

You couldn’t see much — just his body blocking most of the entrance — but you could hear the voice that followed, light and affectionate.

“Hey, honey,” Joel said, his tone so casual it made your head spin, “I was just checkin’ on her.”

And then Tess walked in.

Your future mother-in-law.

She entered the room smiling, holding a small clutch and wearing heels that clicked softly against the tile. But her smile faltered the moment she saw your face — the smudged makeup, the dampness still clinging to your flushed cheeks, the robe wrapped haphazardly over your trembling frame.

“Oh, honey,” she said, brows knitting together as she crossed the room, her voice full of concern, “your makeup’s a mess… what happened?”

You froze. You couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t speak. Could only look at Joel.

He let out a soft sigh, the kind that sounded burdened and weary, and stepped beside you like he’d been coaching you through a meltdown. His voice was soft, warm, careful — the voice of a father figure handling a delicate girl on the verge of collapse.

“Poor thing started cryin’ while we were talkin’,” he said gently, his hand brushing your shoulder like he’d been comforting you this whole time. “Think the day’s just gotten to her a bit. I was tryin’ to calm her down, but it’s all hittin’ her at once.”

Tess was already moving toward you, one hand reaching to grab a tissue, the other pulling her compact from her clutch.

“Oh, Joel,” she said with a little laugh, smacking his arm as she passed, “you always get her so emotional. You really gotta stop with all your big speeches before the ceremony, honestly.”

She was smiling, teasing, already wiping gently under your eyes, fussing with your hair, smoothing the fabric of the robe over your bare shoulders — and she didn’t suspect a thing.

But you could still feel Joel’s hand ghosting against your back.

Still feel the ache deep inside you.

Still feel the slow, hot trickle of his cum leaking from your pussy and onto the inside of your thigh.

And when he caught your gaze from across the room — his expression unreadable, calm, smug, and maybe even a little proud — you realized something awful.

You were still his.

And he wasn’t done.

🕊♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

maybe i am deranged and disgusting but i am free xx hope yall enjoyed

3K notes · View notes

underskz · 2 months ago

Text

➪ ‘TIL NEXT TUESDAY

➪ mark lee x cisfem!reader ✩ w.c 8.5k — NSFW ✩ 18+ minors dni —

✰ NON-IDOL AU

pov: you're a camgirl with a secret admirer who's a little (okay maybe a lot) obsessed

note: y'all do not understand the pain,,, the struggle,,,, the trauma that this fic has inflicted upon me <//3 i quite literally started writing it last year on mark lees stupid lil bday and have been typing away at it for so mf long and have had to dig into the deepest filthiest depths of my brain to finally finish this,,,,, anyways welcome to my twisted mind and we can all blame mark lee my greatest enemy,,,, i hate u… anyways pls make note of the warnings !!! btw don’t ask me what website they’re using idk i couldn’t be fcked to think that hard

warnings: NSFW CONTENT, aka smut, obsessive behavior, viscerally lewd comments, uh lying LOL, wolf in sheep’s clothing energy (good church boy mark lee and his hidden demons <3), honestly both reader and mark r freaky (aww they match each others freaks!), readers thinly veiled shame kink, unsafe sex/no condom, barely any prep lol, not beta read bc im a full send girl (sorry for any typos etc LMAO)

There’s clearly something wrong with user ‘66golden_boy99’ and you can’t quite figure it out. Sure, he seems to be just another fan of your work. And maybe his comments tended to be on the imaginative side.

i wanna dick you down til next tuesday

stuff your guts this thursday and stay buried in you thru the weekend

til youre cryin to me about how you can feel my dick in your throat

how pretty would you cry for me?

That little voice in the back of your head whispers (the one that sounds far too much like Donghyuck), an annoying little I told you so, someone was bound to get obsessed. It wasn’t like you never considered or even feared the possibility.

But these comments, this person, there was something there. You click into a different video, scrolling down to a specific cluster of comments.

i wanna ruin you so fuckin bad

ruin that pussy for anyone else

wanna hear you beg me to stop

until it turns into begging me for more

sound fun sweetheart?

Every video, every clip, every single little teaser you post; there’s a thread from him. His stupid username right there, ‘66golden_boy99’ and a digital paper trail that ranges from being unforgivably horny to borderline demented and most of the time a combination of both.

fuck if i could keep you in a little cage…

i’d fuck u every day all day

turn you into my perfect little pet

made just for my cock

don’t you want that too?

You can’t help but let your mouth gape at that one, a cage? Your head spins at the thought, trying (and failing) to not let your imagination wander.

There’s a certain thrill that crawls down your spine, twisting itself deep into your gut and lodging itself there. An ache that you can’t quite sate yourself, barely sated by these comments.

So yeah, there’s definitely something wrong with user ‘66golden_boy99’ but that could only mean there’s something wrong with you.

“Mark, read this! Isn’t it insane?” Donghyuck all but smacks him in the face with your phone.

“Oh! Um.” He immediately flushes, no doubt flustered by the nature of the comments along with the fact he’s one of your few friends who still gets a little red in the cheeks by your choice of profession.

Good church boy Mark Lee at your service. Who thankfully plucks your phone from Donghyuck and passes it back to you— most likely to avoid further being subjected to such filth in broad daylight.

“Don’t bust a tit Hyuck, it’s just some dude living out his freaky fantasy while hiding behind a screen.” You knew it was going to be brought up the moment you saw your friends, but you had hoped that Donghyuck would have the decency to not mention it while seated outside a popular cafe on a busy street.

Jokes on you for thinking he could keep his cool about this. The moment you had sent a screenshot to the group chat Donghyuck had been rearing for a fight, overly scandalized and always righteous whenever he thought his friends were being treated badly.

There was no way in hell you’d tell him those comments piqued your debased interest.

“It’s a little creepy.” Jungwoo settles on, stealing a blueberry off of your parfait. “He doesn’t message when you’re live though.”

“Nope, only comments on clips and videos.” You bite back your disappointment, maintaining an almost clinical tone.

“Does he even watch your streams?” Jungwoo questions as he attempts to swipe a strawberry this time, narrowly thwarted by you whacking his hand with your plastic spoon.

“What difference does it make? He’s a fucking perv!” Donghyuck snipes.

The answer is yes, he does watch every single one of your streams. Occasionally donates too, yet no messages. No live interactions.

“Hyuck, my whole fanbase are pervs.” You ignore the glare of an elderly woman as she passes by your table. “When did you become such a prude?”

It’s enough of a jab to send the man into a fit, ranting and raving about how he’s perfectly freaky enough and that his boyfriend(s) is (are) so into how weird and kinky he could get.

“Seriously though, is he scaring you?” Mark whispers, careful to not catch Donghyuck’s attention lest he starts laying into you about your “creepy” admirer again. Mark’s considerate like that.

For a moment you sit with the question, mindlessly spooning around your half eaten parfait. Were you scared? You knew full well you were bound to deal with the occasional creep when you decided to pursue camming as a full-time job after university.

But you weren’t— aren’t scared, initially you had maybe been a bit unnerved. Yet you hadn’t shared the messages because you wanted your friends to “save” you or anything. More so because you were shocked by the sheer audacity and of course by what was being said.

If Donghyuck wasn’t so busy talking about getting spit roasted much to the horror of Jungwoo, he’d be pestering you for the answer too. And you would’ve lied, told him that you were a little nervous but nothing that’d keep you from carrying on as usual.

Instead you have Mark asking, no trace of judgment behind his thick rimmed glasses, just a curious glint with a healthy dash of concern for a friend.

“He’s not.” Is what ends up coming out. It’s simpler than the whole truth, cleaner as well.

You couldn’t admit to one of your best friends that it sent a thrill down your spine, to have someone so obsessed they comment utter depravity on every post you make. That you’ve checked to make sure this mystery creep was watching your every stream. And that there’s nothing you’ve ever wanted more than to be craved so deeply, to be ached for, to be someone’s sole obsession.

“If you do get freaked out or anything, uh understandably so, we’ll figure something out. I’ll beat him up?” Mark offers one of his dorky smiles, and despite his statement inspiring little hope — seriously Mark is way too sweet to ‘beat’ anyone up — you still appreciate the sentiment. Offering him a big spoonful of whipped cream and strawberries for his valiant statement.

“Hey! Why does Mark get fed and I have to fight for a crumb?” Jungwoo cries out only causing you to roll your eyes and spark even more outrage from him.

You're thankful that the rest of the outing goes on without another mention of a certain fan of yours. Though Mark seems to be shooting more indiscernible looks your way than usual, but that’s easy to chalk down as him just projecting his own anxieties onto you.

When you all start to bid farewell Donghyuck wastes a few minutes to preach about the dangers of internet strangers, while Jungwoo goads and teases him until his nagging is turned onto Jungwoo.

Again Mark offers comfort — though you really have no need for it, considering the fact you honestly are enjoying the debased behavior more than you maybe should — and you pretend to appreciate it.

needa fuck you over and over and over

til your pretty lil pussy is gaping open

so i can see the way i paint you up inside

wouldn’t you like that?

Yes, you dig your teeth into your bottom lip, fuck yes.

You had just posted a teaser for your next video, a simple reaction to some random threesome video your subscribers had begged you to watch.

And as always without fail, only a few minutes after you’ve hit post your phone lights up with notifications from ‘66golden_boy99’. You should hate how much you look forward to it— how you’re practically gagging for it (him).

You remember his first thread of comments, remember the scandal that pumped through your veins as the words registered in your brain.

The thrill.

well aren’t you a sweet thing

He had started it off so normally.

you look like you dont care for just any kind of fun

you look like u need to be fucked within an inch of your life

thrown around and violated like a stupid little toy

i could do that

It’s the only time he hadn’t ended with a question. The only statement needed to stake his claim, to solidify his place.

It planted the seed right in your lust ridden mind, the growing need to see more and more. It becomes a sick little ritual, to go looking for his comments just after you tuck yourself into bed under the guise of resting for the day.

You’re desperate enough to reread old ones, to stare at the same comments from days or even weeks ago. Sometimes he’ll throw you a bone, coming back to leave another thread of comments for you to find.

wanna fill you up so bad

make you take it over and over and over

til my cum is dripping outta you for days

so that all that’s in your pretty head is the thought of my cock pumping you full

wanna make it happen?

Maybe it’s the way you’ve never replied to them, or even acknowledge them in a stream. It doesn’t deter him from continuing, his perverted dedication proving something to you. Something twisted and delicious and all too tempting.

need you so bad

just need to use you over and over and over and over so fuckin bad

turn you into my own pretty fleshlight to use whenever i please

just wanna use you all up baby

how much can you take?

Thursday streams are one of your three weekly streams, and while it had marginally less viewers therefore profit than your Friday and every other Saturday ones, it was by far your favorite.

The chat is far more relaxed, which means you have a better chance to interact with viewers, to have a more intimate stream.

It means you can instead sit at your desk, dressed in nothing but an oversized white tee, playing with your hair and batting your lashes. While making idle conversation as your viewers dutifully pay you compliments and donate small amounts as a hello.

66golden_boy99: hey there

“Oh? Golden boy? And here I was thinking you weren’t interested enough in having a live convo with me.” You wonder if he waited for this, a Thursday stream with an even lower than usual number of viewers to finally send his first message in chat. Was your little freak shy? Only able to sling his filth when nobody was paying attention?

Too late for that, he was in your sights now.

66golden_boy99: nah just liked sitting here and watching you too much

“Is that so?” You feign distraction, looking off towards the side as you tap your chin thoughtfully. “But here I am, doing nothing. Isn’t that boring?”

There’s a flood of no’s in the chat, messages ranging from horny to sweet about how some like just chatting and others saying that you should at least take off your shirt.

“My shirt? It’s only been twenty-ish minutes since I’ve started and you all don’t wanna butter me up first? Tell me how pretty I am?” You’re accused of being a tease, which is of course your exact angle. Some of them bite, sending cooing comments about how they’d love to see your shirt off, some going as far as to send in a few dollars.

$200 from 66golden_boy99

it’s okay sweetheart, show em what’ll be mine

Your jaw drops, because while he had tipped in the past, it was never this much. You can’t help the shiver that itches down your spine, ‘what’ll be mine’ he says, like he already has you in the bag.

“Aww you wanna see me that bad? Everyone say thank you to Golden Boy!” You goad, making a show of hooking your thumbs in the hem of your shirt. Slowly you drag the fabric across your flesh, inch by inch exposing how you truly had nothing under your flimsy excuse for clothing.

66golden_boy99: and where’s your thank you?

“That’s right, you were so generous after all, I should give you a little treat to show my appreciation.” Again you flutter your lashes. “How do you want me?”

66golden_boy99: spreading your legs like a desperate slut

66golden_boy99: wanna see you fuck your fingers

66golden_boy99: cmon babe show off your perfect pussy and open yourself up for me

“Anything for you.” And maybe you’re a little fucked in the head for how much you mean it.

You’ve never had a favorite before. Nobody in your chat, comments and so on have ever caught your attention. They’ve never bothered to be so interesting, to be so openly obsessed.

Slowly you let your hands wander, cupping your tits before letting your fingertips dance along your ribcage, inching down, down, down.

You pathetically think of him, wonder who’s on the other side of the screen. It could be some old man, or some greasy incel, maybe it’s someone you’ve met on the street. It could be anyone, and it sickens you almost as much as it excites you.

Carefully, you plant your feet on the edge of your desk, sliding down a few inches in your chair as you spread nice and wide for the camera.

“This what you want?” The words jumble in your mouth as your fingers continue to find their way south. You dig your nails into your thighs, moaning loudly at the bite of them into your tender skin.

Shame was something that had long escaped you in this field of work, only the tastefully faked sense of it ever gracing you these days. But there’s that all too familiar burn crawling back into your chest after almost years of nothing. Scorching away at your insides as your fingers drag along your waiting pussy.

You’re wet, you’re wet and it’s because of some fucking freak on the internet. Your eyes zero in on the chat, hoping to catch a comment from him.

66golden_boy99: fucking perfect for me always so good

It’s all you need to keep going, to let wanton moans tumble out left and right as your back arches into your own touch.

The sense of shame doesn’t diminish, doesn’t fade as you tease your clit and pump your fingers pitifully into your sopping cunt, loudly bemoaning the fact you didn’t grab a toy.

66golden_boy99: you’ll cum just like this baby, no toys, just your fingers and wishing it was me instead

“Nnn- please.” It’s whiner than you’ve ever heard yourself, because goddammit you are wishing it was him. Old man be damned he had a wicked way of speaking, of sneaking into the dark recesses of your mind and ripping you open. Exposing a side of you that you’d long since buried, a side of you craving to be devoured wholly.

Pleasure snakes through your body, dropping down into your belly as you cum with a whimper. You make a show of bringing your fingers to your lips, tongue flicking out to taste yourself, that sick part of you hoping it makes him want you more.

You slump against your chair, mindlessly answering chats as you fix yourself into a more comfortable position. You don’t bother looking for your shirt, letting your viewers enjoy watching your chest rise and fall in panting breaths, admire the way the sweat gleams on your skin.

You hope his eyes are glued to his screen. You hope you’re driving him absolutely insane.

“I fear I might be tapped out for the night, but don’t worry there’s always Sunday.” You manage to get out a real sentence, your brain still a little mushy from the post-orgasm haze. “Sweet dreams everyone!”

You take a moment to let the chat fill with well wishes, a few more donations and scan for a message from one user in particular.

66golden_boy99: good night sweet thing, dream of me

And oh, you just might.

Ending streams were nothing special, just a click of a button and your privacy was all yours again. Leaving you with a plethora of thoughts, a tiny remnant of that formerly elusive shame and a craving for something or more accurately someone.

Send a friend request to 66golden_boy99?

What did you have to lose? What did you have to gain?

There’s a little angel on your shoulder in the shape of Donghyuck, your ever annoying moral compass, telling you to go shower and to never feed into this anonymous man’s delusions again.

While the little devil on your shoulder shaped like Yuta does nothing, sits there and smirks at you knowing full well you’ll choose his route.

You always do.

Sorry Hyuck.

Friend request sent!

Three days go by, no comments, no messages on stream, nothing. Absolute silence.

You can’t help yourself but watch each excruciating second tick by, waiting for something, anything from him. Three whole days of obsessively checking your phone, every social media tied to your occupation and nothing.

It’s like he up and fucking forgot about you. And maybe three days seems too short of a timeline to be losing it, but this is a man who has been all over your account — and notifications — for months.

And he gets scared off by a friend request.

God, you should’ve known better than to trust Yuta, even if he was just a figment of your imagination at that moment. Though the real Yuta would’ve said the same thing anyway, therefore still making this whole ordeal his fault.

But as fun as blaming your friend and obsessing over whether your twisted little admirer would accept your request, let alone give you something to work with nowadays. It was driving you up the fucking wall.

You need a distraction, and you need it badly.

Your usual and immediate reaction to having nothing to do and needing attention would be to ask Donghyuck to go out and do something stupid, but the lucky bastard was on vacation with his boyfriend(s?) probably getting fucked into the new year.

So you’re left to consider your options but Jungwoo is definitely still at work and Yuta just left to visit his family. And your other friends lived too far.

That only left you with Mark. God, you need more friends in close proximity. Not because you don’t like Mark, you adore the man if anything and still consider him one of your best friends. It's just that despite all the years of friendship the two of you just haven’t figured out how to quite mesh conversationally like the others.

You need more spark, conviction. Mark Lee talks like a wet noodle came to life and decided to use ‘yo’, ‘dude’ and ‘woah’ on a permanent rotation.

At least he’s a great listener.

And since he’s one of your closest friends nonetheless, he would have no problem with you coming over to eat his snacks and lounge on his couch while he works from home.

So you shoot him a text.

TO: marky markmarkly sparkly can i cum over ;P

FROM: marky markHaha sure dude! I told you stop spelling it like that > <

TO: marky markprude be there in 10 want coffee ?

FROM: marky markSure! Caramel latte please :3

He even texts like a good and innocent church boy. But he’s definitely had girlfriends, and that one boyfriend, so there’s no way he’s a virgin. Is it possible to be a blushing virgin in spirit and at heart?

“Hey beautiful, what can I get ya?” The barista’s stare is nothing short of sleazy, not even bothering to make eye contact as he tries to magically see through your clothing.

“I’ll take a caramel latte, lemme double check what my boyfriend wanted, hmm just a regular coffee.” And okay it’s a little demeaning to Mark to switch your coffee orders in front of this greaseball.

The boyfriend comment works well enough, if you take the guy opting to just stare at your ass as you walk out the door instead of bullying you for your number a win.

Thankfully Mark's apartment is just around the corner, and somehow you manage to key in the code not once but twice despite carrying two drinks.

“Marky! Coffee!” Immediately he comes tumbling down the hallway, eyes wide with confusion. His hair is sticking up in different directions, his glasses crooked and half-hanging off his face. His sweat stained white tee, and low hanging gray sweats only the cherry atop the homebody trainwreck sundae of a man before you.

“Hey, yo, shit! Uh dude!” He stops a few steps in front of you, scratching his head sheepishly. “I thought…you would take longer.”

“Do I look like Jungwoo? Or worse, Yuta?” You feign offense with a dramatic gasp.

“Nah! Ha…ha, um come on in, it’s a fuckin’ mess but like you know, ‘m swamped with work and…”

You hand him his latte and push past him, barely batting an eye at the nightmarish state of his apartment. There’s mountains of paperwork and books stacked along the walls, empty food boxes, bags and wrappers scattered across the floor (along with any other available surface) and you’re trying desperately to not gag at the state of his kitchen.

“Johnny would clean?” You muse as you kick aside an empty pasta box.

“Johnny would clean.” He sighs. Johnny, being Mark’s roommate, along with (one of) Donghyuck’s boyfriend(s???) is currently on vacation. On top of that, from what you've heard, he’s barely been at the apartment at all the past few months. Definitely too busy catering to every single one of Hyuck’s whims and dramatics.

“I could help?”

“Woah! I couldn’t ask you that, I made this mess on my own. I’ll clean it er.. eventually.” He gestures loosely.

“Mark Lee.” You muster up your best deadpan tone. “I’m so bored I’m gonna chew my own hand off, please let me help you clean your awfully disgusting apartment.”

“That bad?” He snorts.

“I think that pile of dust moved on it’s own.” At least you’re hoping it’s a pile of dust and not some undiscovered rodent that thrives in the apartments of bachelors with piss poor cleaning habits.

“…I think you’re right. Hey um, lemme just shower and change, I think I’m just as gross as this place. We can clean together. So just…” He shoves aside the pile of laundry inhabiting the couch just enough to give you a place to sit. “Sit for a second?”

The poor guy looks like he’s on the brink of a meltdown, and if you didn’t know Mark as well as you do you would’ve called an ambulance. But he just always has that air around him, exhausted and overworked— but always smiling through it.

“I’m in no rush.” You pat his arm before taking a seat in the space he so generously carved out for you. The second Mark walks off to the bathroom you make yourself nice and comfortable, switching on the TV, straightening out some of the magazines and assorted papers on the coffee table.

Mindlessly you even start folding some of the laundry next to you. The thought of taking pictures and sending them to Donghyuck so he could show Johnny just how far his roomie has fallen in his absence promptly interrupts your side task.

But to your dismay you find your phone is barely holding on by a few measly percentages. Looking around the living room you know there’s definitely no hope in trying to find a charger on your own. So instead you head off towards the bathroom, following the sound of the shower pouring down.

“Mark!” You knock harshly, hoping he can hear you okay.

“Yeah?” His voice comes through clear, sounding only a little startled by your sudden presence.

“Need to charge my phone!”

There’s a moment of pause and you can only assume it’s because his room is so hellish he can’t even remember where he put the thing.

“By my bed!”

“Thanks!”

His room is actually better than the living room and kitchen, not by much, but still better. You navigate around the clothes and books strewn about the floor. Giggling at his wastebasket full of balled up tissues and a used up bottle of lotion, you definitely couldn’t wait to tell Donghyuck when he gets back.

Making fun of Mark was an art, a beloved pastime of your friend group. And he always took it like a champ.

You plop down on his unmade bed, looking around for his charger. It’s half under the bed when you spot it, tugging the cord only for there to be a bit of resistance. Carefully you lower yourself to the floor, yanking at the charger and forcing Mark’s IPad to come flying at you.

“Shit!” It lands next to you face down on the hardwood and you pray to whatever gods that you haven’t cracked it. Slowly you pick it up, carefully flipping it over as you prepare yourself for the damage.

“Oh, my god.”

Because it’s not cracked, it’s not even locked, it’s still open to what Mark had been watching last to be exact.

One of your streams, one of your streams with you bent over one of your pillows, both holes stuffed with toys in the perfect position for the camera to see everything. It’s not even a new video, you haven’t done anything like that in months.

There’s a blur in your vision as you shoot up, lightheaded from standing up straight so suddenly. A scorching heat begins to burn in your gut, creeping through your veins.

You can still hear the shower going, and you know it must be wrong, to go through his private device like this but…it’s you. He’s been watching you, one of your most bible-thumping, prude-built friends who can barely look you in the eyes and blushes whenever you or your friends make dirty jokes, has been watching your debaucherous streams and has never said a word.

Sure, Yuta and Jungwoo have confessed to watching more than once and Donghyuck is a fucking mod for your streams. It never bothered you if your friends watched, it wouldn’t bother you now.

But this is…this is different. He kept his viewership a secret, and you weren’t sure what to make of it. Was he too embarrassed to say? Was he afraid it’d ruin your friendship?

You close out the video, looking through his watch history which consists solely of your videos, looking at who he follows — you, only you, and you can’t tell if that’s a good thing yet — and now the used tissues in his trash bin don’t feel so funny anymore.

“Oh.” You mutter lamely as you open up his comment history. Fucking oh.

66golden_boy99: wanna fuck you with my tongue til youre squirting all over my face

And your world collapses, punctuated by the sound of the shower turning off— yet that’s lost on your ears. You can’t hear anything but the furious pound of your heart trying to dismantle your ribcage, your blood rushing through your veins and sloshing around your head.

Mark Lee, sweet, kind and innocent. Mark Lee, who stutters just talking about who he likes. Mark Lee, the resident saint of the group.

Is him.

The man who’s been peddling filth into your mind, who’s been haunting you every time you decide to start your stream or post a video, skulking around every comment section with your name on it.

Is Mark fucking Lee.

“Heya! Did ya find…it.” It’s cinematic honestly, the way his stride slows as his eyes frantically flicker back and forth between you and the IPad. “Y-Y-You!”

It’s instantaneous, his face turning a brilliant crimson as he trips over himself to grab the tablet and throw it haphazardly to the side.

His chest is heaving, panic creasing his features as you look him over. He kept the same color scheme, you think emptily, white tank top and gray basketball shorts. It does nothing for your brain as you stare at him mouth agape.

“I c-can explain?” He has the audacity to squeak, to look ashamed even. He’s trying to hide behind his bangs as they fall over his eyes, trying to look so innocent despite his filthy secret coming to light.

“Why didn’t you accept my friend request?” It’s probably not what you should open with, and Mark’s jaw simply hanging open at the question might be a testament to that.

“…What?” His croaks, voice hoarse.

“You didn’t accept it, why? And where have you been, it’s been three whole days? I’ve been fucking waiting for—”

“You’re not mad?” His voice is still uneven, and even a pitch higher.

“Mad? Mad? I’m pissed, you, you idiot!” And you are. Probably. Your mind so fucked from trying to comprehend this newfound piece of info you don’t even know where to begin with how you’re feeling. So mad must be the best place to start.

“For months I’ve been wondering who had the fucking balls to send these freaky borderline insane comments.” He flinches. “Wondering just who the hell was making me feel like, like…that.”

“I—”

“And it was you! Right under my nose, looking at me with those stupid round eyes and big glasses a-and you just pretended like you knew nothing? …I got off to you on stream?” You hate the way your voice sounds so high in your ears, teetering on the edge of full blown shrieking.

“Please, I’m sor…”

“When Hyuck showed those comments were you even ashamed?” You hiss.

He’s blubbering now, eyes pinned somewhere to the ground; half cooked sentences or maybe excuses scattering about the floor with the rest of his mess. It’s all lost on your ears, a million different thoughts in your head drowning it all out.

His hands raise as if admitting defeat, even beginning to back away in a pitiful attempt at escaping but like hell you’ll let the fool get away from you now.

“Goddammit, Mark Lee, look at me!” And he does, his mouth snapping shut and eyes focusing on you. His stupid glasses are nowhere to be seen, giving you an unfiltered front row view of how his pupils are blown wide. “Did you mean it?”

“Mean…what?” You could kill him, you really could because how after all these months of sending you towards the edge with the crudest, filthiest words he can barely say a proper sentence standing before you.

“Any of it! All of it, was it all just talk?” You must’ve hit a nerve. He’s silent again, eyes narrowing for a moment at the accusation. But it slips away, a fickle persona he shoves down.

His hands lower to his sides.

“...What do you want?” His voice is more even, eyebrows knitting together.

You know what he’s asking — he was obvious like that, his heart always worn so proudly on his sleeve — because even now with his disgusting secret out in the open between the two of you. He has the audacity to try to take the gentlemanly route of getting you to explicitly state what you want from him, if you want him.

When all you’ve been waiting for was for him to take.

“What do I want, huh? Let me tell you what I think first.” You know this will definitely make or break what happens next, and maybe even your friendship. But you’re sick of his games, of dancing around whatever the hell was going on between the two of you. “I think you’re all bark and no fucking bite, I think you hide behind a screen because you’re a coward and you probably couldn’t fuck your way out of a wet paper bag.”

His eyes narrow once more.

“You hide behind your good little god fearing boy next door persona when you’re a freak who likes watching one of his best friends get off on camera!”

He takes a step closer.

“I think you’re filthy and depraved, a repressed weirdo with disgusting kinks. A borderline incel!”

And another step.

“I bet the second you actually got inside of me you’d cum and cry yourself to sleep in a matter of seconds.” His expression darkens at that, and now you’re starting to think that you should stop.

But where’s the fun in that?

“You couldn’t handle even half the shit you said online, you cowardly little prude, you tiny dicked—”

You don’t realize his hands are on you until you're backed against the wall, one tightly gripping your hip while the other lands on your chest keeping you firmly in place.

“You never shut up. Even in your streams and videos you're constantly yammering on, whimpering and whining and begging.” His voice is low, buzzing around your ears and in your head. You look down at the tent forming in his shorts, mouth drying and watering simultaneously.

“That for me?” Your tongue feels thick as you look up at him through your lashes.

The hand on your chest inches up, until his palm settles against your throat and you're left wondering if he’ll indulge you by tightening his fingers. Even just a little.

“Even now, can’t shut the fuck up.” He moves in closer, until his hardened cock is against your thigh and he’s forcing his knee between yours. “I asked what you wanted, not for you to insult me.”

“You-”

“So I’ll tell you what I want.” And you feel so wildly out of your depth, there’s a cognitive dissonance you can’t quite escape. Good church boy Mark means wholesome activities, ice cream in the park, farmer’s markets and, and–

“And then you’re gonna try again for me.”

“M-Me?” It comes out lamely. Is this really Mark Lee? You think belatedly. Looking at you like he wants to tear you apart inch by inch with nothing but his teeth and tongue.

“I want you on my tongue, on my cock, want you begging for me to stop but it’s all just a filthy fucking lie. I want you to want me to ruin you, this, us.” His voice is raspier, laced with a desperation and craving you’ve never heard before and damn do you need to hear more, so much more.

“So try again. Tell me what you want.” And you can see it, that plea in his eyes for you to just say it. To know you want this as badly as he does, the promise, the threat of him finally letting go looming over the two of you.

“Want.” You grab him by the face, pressing your nose against his and staring into the black depths of his pupils. “Want good boy Mark Lee to die right before my eyes, wan’ you to eat me ‘til nothin’ is left.”

It’s slurred, you’re delirious, so drunk off the way he’s already hard off of you screaming at him (or maybe it was getting caught), at the way he’s demanding you to express your want for him when you’d rather just be on your knees.

But the thing is you always have wanted, craved. That underlying itch to see one of your best friends let loose, the borderline wanting (what you thought was) a random stranger to break into your apartment and do filthy, unmentionable things to you. When you flipped over that IPad thinking you broke it to find yourself being the object of his debauched desire, when you saw his username on the site.

You ached.

It’s stupid and toeing the line of embarrassing with how badly you want, no, need him, how turned on by the fact he doesn’t even know which person to be in front of you. Doesn’t quite know how to be both.

“Let him die.” Is all he can say, having the audacity to take advantage of your stupor to kiss you. To push you back up against the wall and slot his lips against yours, pulling back just to dive back in before you could truly feel his absence. Over and over each one messier, hotter than the last as a debaucherous hunger flows between the two of you.

“You don’t get it.” He mumbles, pressing himself firmly against you, sweat starting to prickle against your skin. “When y-you started camming I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

And suddenly you could see it, vividly. Just behind your eyelids was Mark hunched over in his bed, one of your streams or videos playing in the background as he furiously chased his release. Only to be left wallowing in the shame of jerking it with cheap lotion to you, forced to clean himself off with even cheaper tissues and spending the rest of his night completely alone.

“Your perfect fucking pussy, for everyone to see…when I’ve been waiting.” He rasps, hands finding their way back onto your body. “Couldn’t stand it, couldn’t fuckin’ stand it.”

“Mm, Ma-ark…” Without hesitation he twists his head, allowing himself to sink his teeth at the base of your throat. Pulling away to focus another dark look at you, that heady mixture of unmitigated want and wicked promises swirling in his eyes.

“S’All I could think about, even with our friends.” He noses along your jaw, nipping at your earlobe as his breathing turns ragged. “Wanted to haul you onto the table and fuck you ‘til your head went dumb, ‘til all was left was you squealing like a fuckin’ whore while they all watched.”

There’s a cartoon halo of stars around your head, surely there is, each word from his mouth adding another to the ditzy constellation circling your brain. This is him, this is Mark ‘Golden Boy’ Lee and his once hidden (and so deliciously unhinged) silver tongue.

“Pl-Please, oh fu— please.” His lips are back to working against your throat, and just as you try to reach up and grab at him, to try and sway him into relieving some of the tension building in the air.

He steps back, yanking at your arm.

Yet he doesn’t give you a chance to simply fall, or even react. Instead he uses your off-kilter balance to push you onto your knees, thankful that he’s a sloppy loser when you land on a pile of clothes.

“This.” He doesn’t bother being shy about tugging his shorts and boxers off in one fluid motion. “This is how I want you.”

He pauses, as if to let you admire the view and you’re not nearly above doing so as your eyes roam so shamelessly.

Of course he’s cut, with neatly trimmed hair adorning his groin. And though he's just above average in length, he definitely makes up in girth. You think hazily that calling him tiny dicked was definitely a lie.

Your mouth waters.

He lets out a low chuckle of all things, surely laughing at the way your eyes have widened. And maybe you did let your tongue swipe over your lips in anticipation.

“Go ahead, before I make it hurt.” His words are delayed, understanding creeping in slowly; impaired by having long let that fog of desperation cloud your mind.

You move before you can think, nosing along the side of his cock, pressing a kiss to a cute little mole that you hope to revisit at a later date. But for now you’re flattening your tongue against the base of his shaft and dragging it up his length at a frustrating rate.

He’s heavy on your tongue, thick and heavy and so so hot, and fuck he tastes good or maybe you’re just already addicted. Doomed from the start.

There’s a war raging in your mind, whether to try your hardest to please him with your mouth, all too tempted to hear the pretty, desperate sounds he’ll make and maybe it’ll earn you a bit of praise. Or to tease until he’s pissed off enough to throw any regard for you and your (throat’s) wellbeing out the window.

The latter is far more appealing.

Coyly you look up at him again through your lashes once more, bringing your tongue to tease at the tip of his cock, licking off a bead of precum forming.

“Are you tryin’ to blow me or piss me off?” Ah, so he has you all figured out.

“Haven’t decided.” You reply properly by taking his tip into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it before sinking further down and ignoring the slightly uncomfortable stretch of your lips. You could get used to this.

Languidly you try to mind your teeth as you sink further down, your jaw aching at the unprecedented stretch. Shallowly you bob your head, barely giving anything as you look up to meet his burning gaze.

“Enough.” He groans, clearly sick of the teasing as his hand comes around to hook his fingers around the back of your head.

It’s enough of a warning as your hands come up to grip at his bare thighs, whimpering at the first tentative thrust. Unable to escape, knees aching and you can’t help but wonder how damp your panties will be by the time you get them off.

He’s careful at first, not to be too rough in his movements, trying to be considerate of your comfort. It’s ridiculous, and you let him know as much by stabbing your nails into his thighs only forcing him to accidentally bottom out.

Tears well in your eyes as you choke, gagging around the sinfully thick intrusion into your throat.

“Woah! Fuck, I’m sor-”

He starts to pull away, and desperately you chase after him. But the fucker pulls out, grabbing you by the cheeks to look you in the eyes.

“Do I have to start calling you names again?” Your voice is already wrecked, but not nearly enough, it could be worse, so much worse. If he would just fully let go. “Or are you just scared?”

He blinks at you, once, twice, those stupidly big eyes of his narrowing into something dangerous.

“Two taps if it’s too much.”

“It won’t be.” You barely finish the sentence as he grabs you on either side of your head with both hands, pressing the leaking head of his cock against the seam of your lips, precum smearing across. You barely open your mouth before he’s shoving his entire cock down your throat again.

You can see him, blurred by the tears stuck to your lashes, watching you with such reverence as you pitifully try to relax, still unable to avoid gagging and choking. Yet this time he offers no reprieve, keeps you firmly in place as tears stream down your face and your nails continue to dig into his thighs.

“T-That’s it, choke.” The break in his voice sends something hot through your chest, snaking through the rest of your body and creeping into your veins. How embarrassed would you really be if you came just from having your throat fucked?

“Where are you?” Your wandering thoughts immediately cease, drawn back in by his fingers dancing along your cheekbone before settling at the back of your head.

He doesn’t even have the decency to let you catch your breath after pulling your attention, shallow thrusts turning reckless as he fucks your face with little regard for you— it’s everything you’ve every wanted from him.

It sends another surge of heat down into your belly, pooling between your thighs and now you’re wondering if your poor panties will even be salvageable after this.

“Fuck that’s it, so fuckin’ good for me.” He bites his lip, and a part of you wishes you could be tugging on it too with your teeth.

Use me, use me, use me. The thought fills your mind, leaving room for nothing else but Mark and his cock and your jaw and throat struggling to keep up.

Frantically you tap on his calf, his response instantaneous.

“You good?” He pulls out again, swiping his thumb along your bottom lip to wipe away a mess of spit and precum.

“Need you,” and you could care less how your voice shakes and rasps, “need you in me so bad. Fuck me.”

Your fingers dig into his thighs as you muster up the best pitiful look possible, silently begging for more.

“C-Condom, need, condom.” He huffs, looking around his room frantically.

“Like hell, what happened to painting my insides huh?” Shakily you stand up, managing to push him towards the bed which he doesn’t even bother resisting. “Thought you wanted your cum dripping from my pussy for days.”

And he fucking growls, the sound so wildly animalistic you can barely believe it came from him.

“That what you want? You wanna feel me for days?” You’re on your back in a matter of seconds, his forearms landing on either side of your head to cage you in. He’s staring you down with an uncharacteristic intensity; a predator sizing up his prey.

“Ruin me for anybody else.” It comes out broken, desperation seeping from each word. How much more do you need to bend before he finally breaks?

He’s back on you, a barrage of teeth and tongue assaulting your flesh as his hands leave no part of you untouched, kneading and feeling. Just as you try to bring your own shirt over your head he pushes away your hands, allowing him to take over stripping you bare.

Each caress of his fingers leaves a trail of fire, almost too hot to bear.

“Please Marky, please.” It comes out high and whiny and so very needy. “Touch me more.”

“I’ll give you what you want, just lemme…fuck lemme look at you.” He catches your wrists just as you try to bring your hands up to cover your face, pinning your arms against your sides as his eye shamelessly trace over your figure. There’s a glint of something hungry, swirled with something akin to adoration.

“Y-You like m-me, you’re obsessed.” You

“Yeah, I really fucking am.” He’s grinning, all teeth with a hint of gums that makes your heart somehow pound even harder and you know you’re well and truly fucked. “Like you s’much gonna keep you on my cock forever.”

He lets go of your hands, grabbing at your thighs to spread them apart, callused fingers dragging up until he’s almost carelessly pressing a finger into you.

“Fuck, you can… o-oh keep me!” You whimper as he bullies one, then two more fingers into your throbbing cunt— there’s a determination bordering on desperation creasing his brow in order to prep you as quickly as possible.

“Next time, I’ll spend fuckin’ hours doin’ this.” You whine as he drags his fingers out of you.

His hands hook under your thighs, pressing up and up until he can hook your legs over his shoulders and he’s pressing the blunt head of his cock against your hole. There’s a slight sting as he pushes in, the stretch unfamiliar and despite how wet you are some lube would’ve helped.

But you well and truly could care less.

“I don’t care who sees this, you, I’m the only one who gets to touch, the only one who gets to fuck you like this.” He rasps, bottoming out in one harsh thrust and punching the air out of your lungs.

He’s kind enough to let you catch your breath, indulging you with a few soft kisses along your jaw and nipping at your bottom lip. But it doesn’t last long, following a sloppy kiss with a tentative grind of his hips, then a soft thrust.

Those desperate whines you usually play up for your streams easily escaping your lips as he builds a steady rhythm.

“Yes, yes, yes, Mark.” It’s perfect, every single thrust is perfect, the way you're folded in half, the feeling of his fingers digging into you, the strain of toned muscles under flushed skin; so fucking perfect. “Only you.”

And you mean it, fully, wholeheartedly without any hesitation. Only Mark, if that’s what he wants then you want it too, whatever Mark wants he can have.

“M’Close, fuck, I’m so close.” You whimper, raking your fingers through his still damp hair.

“Already?” It spears through your chest, harsh and burning and tears down your belly.

There’s a split second of perfect silence interrupting the sound of skin slapping against skin, a ringing in your ears followed by the crash of your heart into your ribcage.

Pleasure slices down your spine, rippling through your body in crashing waves and leaving your head spinning.

He fucks you through the high, any chance of a coherent thought spilling right out of your ears, his name garbled and strained as it forces it’s way past your lips.

He slows, as if he’s about to waste both your time and do something stupid like pull out and finish on your stomach. And like hell you’re letting that happen, grabbing at his head with both hands and smashing your lips together, pulling away just enough to stare into blown pupils.

“Cum inside me, you bitch!” His teeth come down on your bottom lip, the bite of iron and tang of sweat and spit swirling together on your tongue dizzying, intoxicating. He slams back into you with a force you didn’t know he had, swallowing down a broken moan from his lips as he spills into you.

“I’m still gonna stream.” The two of you have settled on his now made bed, tucked under the covers. You had no problem letting Mark dress you in a clean tee and boxers, watching sleepily from his desk chair as he made his bed before depositing you in it.

“I’ll still watch.” He hums.

“And comment?” It brings up the matter from earlier, the one you never got an answer to. “Why didn’t you?”

“I…I didn’t know what to do. Uh, it was one thing, hiding, but then I thought you…didn’t…”

“Didn’t?” You raise your head, trying to level your gaze to his.

“Didn’t like m- it, the comments, those messages in chat, all of it. Thought you were just tryin’ to message me to stop. And then I got scared you somehow knew it was…me.” He has that sheepish look smearing his features, a hand coming up to scratch at his nape.

You stare at him silently, watching as his eyes bounce around your face searching for some hint of what you could possibly be thinking.

“Look where that got us, I can’t even feel my legs, oh my god you have to fuck me on stream, please!”

“H-Huh? Live? Yo I can’t just-”

“Think about it, Marky.” Aching hips and sore muscles be damned, you somehow manage to climb into his lap and straddle his thighs. “Fucking me, on camera, for everyone to see just what you do to me. I’d be so good for you.”

You can see it, what little resolve he had starting to crumble, just a little more.

“Don’t you want that?” It’s his words and he knows it, starting to see the monster he’s created. You run your fingers along his jaw, settling one hand on his shoulder while the other comes up to muss up fluffy brown locks. “Stretching me on your fat cock for my pitiful little viewers to see, wishing it was them driving me insane.”

“Baby…” The pet name from his lips is instantly addicting, and you need so much more of it.

“Please.” And now you’re not sure what you’re begging for, your body screams for you to stop, to not roll your hips against his because it’s far too soon to be fucked into the mattress again.

“If, if you don’t stop doing that.” He groans. “You’re not gonna be able to stream tomorrow.”

You blink.

“Wow you really are my biggest fan.”

“Huh?”

“Got my schedule memorized and everything, does that mean we could do it tomorrow? You’ll fuck me on stream tomorrow?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Seriously I–”

“Actually, cancel it.” He’s hooking his hands under your thighs, drawing you closer. “Don’t look at me like that, I said cancel it.”

“Mm, I don’t know if I can go again yet.” But there’s no conviction behind your words.

“You’re fine, I’ll do all the work.” You’re fine he says, it sends a thrill up your spine right into your brain, reworking the entire chemistry in there. It had been there in the back of your mind, slipping in somewhere between finding out his secret and that first kiss.

You’re absolutely hooked, simply addicted, to Mark Lee.

“Okay.” You grin at him.

#mark x reader #mark lee x reader #nct x reader #nct 127 x reader #nct dream x reader #nct smut #nct 127 smut #– miki writes #– mark

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marvelstan0905 · 1 year ago

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"She's so tiny!"

Kenji Sato X Wife!Reader [afab] (short oneshot)

DadAU!

TW: newborn/fluff/Emi referneces/new dad au/cheesy dad moments

This is really just came to my head. It's kinda short. I'm sorry! 😙

Here she was Kenji's little baby. An actual human this time. The baby was beautiful. The apple in Kenji's eyes. She was perfect, his little Emiko. His thoughts drifted off to Emi, his first baby. He wonders what she'd do when she saw an a human baby or if she'd grown alot since the last he'd seen her.

As he stood by the balcony of his home admiring his newborn as he held the sleeping infant. Kenji couldn't help but reflect the long journey he's had. No doubt it was unique and crazy but here he was. A father once again. This time around more permanent but Emi would always be in his heart. Kenji glanced at his sleeping wife as he walked back into the house. God, he was so grateful to her. She brought him, his greatest blessing and his greatest gift. His tiny, Emiko.

"You know..I didn't think I'd be able to handle you. I thought that human babies would be alot harder than kaiju babies. "Kenji murmured as he spoke to his little princess. His pure copy. Those mauve, blue eyes. Those dark raven locks and a nose just like his. His little twin. "Looking at you now..after 9 long months..I think I worried too much. You're such a sweetheart and you're so perfect and tiny. I promise-no, I ultra promise I'll be strong enough for you"

The baby cooed as she woke up. A cute little yawn escaped Emiko's lips as she fidgets in her swaddle.

"Good evening, princess Emiko. Ready to eat, tiny girl? I wonder if you'll like fish" Kenji joked before pecking his child's face and walking into the kitchen. Kenji placed a breastmilk filled bottle into the microwave and waited for it to cool after taking it out. Kenji took the time to gently remove the swaddle from his daughter chasing her to do the cutest little stretch "Adorable" Kenji whispered whiles gently tickling his daughter's tummy.

"You know..Emi used to vomit if I did that. She puked all the time" Kenji chuckled to himself and his little daughter as fond memories of Emi clustered through his mind. "I wish you could meet her"

The baby cooed and since she was a calm and sweet baby, she didn't fuss too much as Kenji swiftly changed her diaper whiles singing softly. "B-I-N-G-O..B-I-N-G-O..and Bingo was his name-o"

Kenji grabbed the bottle and checked the temperature before he started feeding his daughter whispering sweet promises.

"I promise that you'll never go near a boy or girl romantically when I'm around"

"I promise I'll never ever neglect you and I'll take excellent care of you and mom"

"I promise I'll be the best dad and I'll teach you all the baseball skills so you'll be better than me"

"I promise to love you forever and ever"

#kenji sato #ken sato x reader #kenji sato x reader #ken sato #ultraman 2024 #emi ultraman #ultraman rising #ultraman #fanfic #Spotify #scenarios #SoundCloud

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moonstruckme · 8 months ago

Note

Hi Mae!

I love your writing so much and think about it maybe too often haha. Today I fell and sliced the back of my hand open so I had to go wait 4 hours at the ER to get it sutured back together and I thought it might be a sort of funny scenario to write about with the marauders where R just walks up to them covered in blood like “heyy who wants to drive me to the ER” and is pretty chill in demeanour until the reality of having a hole in her hand sets in once they clean her up. I went into shock then, lost my hearing for a few minutes which was scary, but luckily I had a someone nearby who could help. Of course no worries if you don’t feel like it, I appreciate you and I hope you have a lovely day!♡

Thanks for requesting! I hope your hand is feeling better lovely <3

cw: blood, mention of razors (unrelated to blood)

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 788 words

“Hey, Sirius?”

Sirius screws the brush of his nail polish back into the bottle. “Yeah?”

“Are you busy?”

“Not anymore.” He gets up from the bed, wandering towards your voice in the bathroom. “What’s up, gorgeous? You need something?”

Sirius stalls when he finds you. You’re standing there with a dissatisfied frown on your face, your hand a basin of blood held in front of you that’s overflowing into the sink.

“Maybe a ride to A&E?” you ask. “If you’re free.”

“What the hell happened?” Sirius goes to you. He tries to take your hand, but you move it away.

“Wait, your nails—”

“I’m not really worried about my nails right now, babe.” He holds you by the wrist, turning the faucet on to a gentle flow before bringing your hand underneath it. The blood washes away quickly, and Sirius blocks your view of the cut, leaning down to see it. “How’d you manage this?”

“I was just opening my new razors—”

“Razors?”

“It wasn’t even the razors that did it,” you say, a laugh somewhere in your voice. Your raised voices have drawn attention from the rest of the house. Remus and then James appear in the doorway. “It was the plastic it comes in. Surprisingly sharp.”

“What’s going on?” asks James.

“She would like to know,” Sirius informs him, “if it’s convenient for any of us to drive her to A&E.”

You roll your eyes. “Alright, you don’t have to say it like that. I just mean that it’s not so dire, I’m hardly bleeding out.”

“You might be!”

“What’d you do, love?” Remus moves forward to see, he and Sirius now clustered on either side of you, each closer to your own hand than you are.

“She managed to injure herself with plastic packaging.”

“Okay. Again, the tone is a bit much,” you say.

“Aw, sweetheart.” James’ arms wrap around your waist. He smudges a kiss onto your cheek. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you tell him, audibly softening at the affection, “it doesn’t even hurt that bad, it’s only stinging…” You go quiet.

Sirius glances back at you, and you’re staring between him and Remus, your hand in your view for the first time. You look suddenly paler.

“Hey, baby.” Sirius’ voice draws the attention of the other two to what’s happened. He steps in front of your hand again, squeezing up the length of your arm. “You’re okay.”

“It’s…” You stare at where you had been for a moment longer, then snap your vision to the side. You’re breathing a tad faster. “God, sorry. I feel sort of sick.”

“Take some breaths, dove, you’re alright.” Remus holds your hand close to his chest, shielding it from your view as he reaches into a nearby drawer for bandages. “We’re just going to stop the bleeding and then take you to A&E, you don’t have to do anything.”

“All of you?”

“Why?” James gives your middle a light squeeze. “Are there some of us you’d rather not have there?”

“I knew she had favorites.” Sirius grins. “Cruel. We’re only trying to be there for you, gorgeous.”

You smile a little bit for their sake. You’re not sure either of them believe it, but James gives you a thankful kiss nonetheless.

“Keep breathing,” he reminds you, big hand rubbing up and down your abdomen. “You’re really doing so well. I was surprised by how calm you seemed a minute ago.”

“You should have heard her before you got here.” Sirius squints his eyes at you playfully. “She wouldn’t let me touch her hand because she was worried it’d mess up my nail polish.”

“Sweetheart,” James laughs, giving you another fond squeeze. “Really?”

“Priorities, babe,” Sirius chides you.

“Alright,” says Remus. You feel a kiss on your knuckles, and then he’s turning around, your bandaged hand still held protectively between both of his. “Is anyone going to warm the car, or do I have to do everything?”

You nod, chastened, and start towards the door, but you’re dragged back by three pairs of hands.

“I mean anyone not injured, dove.” Remus’ voice is heavy with loving exasperation.

“See what we’ve been dealing with? It’s a two man job.” Sirius squeezes your shoulder on his way past, presumably going to warm the car. James says something about getting your shoes and follows behind.

You give Remus a woeful look. He tsks, folding you into a hug. “Did you really prioritize Sirius’ nail polish over your bleeding hand?” he asks in a murmur.

You mush your cheek to his chest. “Only for a minute.”

Remus is quiet, but his amused breath fans over the top of your head as he brings his lips down for a kiss.

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princessbrunette · 1 year ago

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NEVER LOSE ME ♡

♪ flo milli — never lose me ♪

TELL ME YOU DONT NEVER WANNA LOSE ME!

pairing: rafe cameron + bunny!reader જ⁀➴₊⊹ ♡

synopsis: being in a relationship with rafe, things are always easy on you and your bunny brain. until they’re not.

cw: butt stuff, violence, blood, alcohol mentions, reader is kind of a bimbo, kind of dumbification? mean!rafe, canon spoilers, shoupe, criminal activity, manipulation/threats, slut shaming, mentions of drugs. the ‘dad’ nickname and daddy kink ♡

Your vanity table was your place of peace.

Pink powder puffs and abused beauty blenders. Shimmery MAC gloss. That one blush pallette with the rabbit engraving that was too pretty to use. When you were sat at that table, everything was okay. You were in girl world, with glitter particles floating like fairies in the air around you and that one lipstick swatch on the back of your hand. It was easy to lose time, there were just so many important decisions to make. What lipliner with what gloss? Are you doing glitter in your inner corners today or not? Probably yes, there was never a wrong time for glitter. However it was only the country club you were visiting, and you were meant to be there twenty-five minutes ago. Being a girl is hard.

The country club was where you and Rafe had locked eyes for the first time. You remember it so clearly, not so much like a fairytale but more so like a sexy 2000s movie where the hot people end up together. You were new to the neighbourhood, a pretty young thing wandering into the Kook club with nothing but a shoulder bag and a skirt that clung to your ass cheeks.

Rafe did a double take when he first saw you, the sort they do in cartoons. You were the first girl he’d seen that dressed skimpy and yet still looked expensive, all dressed in virginal white with endless amounts of skin on display. He’d licked his lips, squinting across the golf course as he aimlessly swung his club in circles, tuning out of whatever-the-fuck it was Topper was complaining about this week. At first, for a few seconds anyway — he didn’t know if he wanted you or hated you for walking in here looking like that, knowing you’d be the talk of the town and the visage behind every guy at the country clubs wet dreams. You’d looked back at him and nervously bit at your manicured finger nail, offering a demure smile. There was something unsure and innocent about you, which confirmed how he felt — if his dick jumping in his pants wasn’t enough. He had to have you.

He vowed to get to know you, force his way into your life — and that’s exactly what he did. He would have felt like a creep, eyeing you from across the bar and asking everyone he could what they knew about the new girl — if you didn’t make it so apparent you were doing the same. You made friends quickly with that bubbly, ditsy, happy-go-lucky attitude of yours— and were soon to sit at the tables outside overlooking the golf course in clusters, whispering through cupped palms and giggles when Rafe and his crew would pass by. He’d act all nonchalant at first, but as he chews at his gum obnoxiously, he couldn’t stop the smirk from curling his lips up. Even his friends would shove at his shoulders excitably. This shit is so high school, he’d think. It was time to make a move.

And so he did — he made sure everyone saw too. Pulling up in his truck out the front of the club, graciously turning down the Future song booming from the speakers to wind his window down and lean out of it with that million-dollar Cameron-man smile. “You leavin’ here by yourself? Look, let me drive you, ‘kay? Been meaning to talk to you anyway, beautiful.”

He’d made sure everyone saw you climbing into the passenger seat of his car. Rafe and the new girl. If Rafe had swooped on her, she was pretty much off the market. Word spread fast, and you were his before he’d even asked you to be. Things took off fast, and with Rafes status came your own. You were untouchable, unpunishable, Kildares sweetheart. A mystery to some. Where did she come from? Is it true X tried to take a shot at her? Everyone knows she’s Rafe Cameron’s girl.

The rest is history — dates, excessive spoiling, meeting The famous Ward Cameron, Rafe breaking that virgin cunt in the same night. Things moved at the perfect pace and you couldn’t be happier. Rafe just made life so easy for you, to the point where around him — you were completely on auto pilot, letting your boyfriend do all the thinking. You figured that’s where you earned your nickname and likeness. A bunny, he’d always compare you to.

Whilst you had this Marylin Monroe sort of allure about you that never failed to draw him in, you were wide eyed and innocent like a bunny rabbit. That, and the way you bounced on his cock, and lest he forget the way your nose twitches when you’re upset. Those were recognised as bunny-like tendencies, so for Rafe — the designer shoe just seemed to fit. You sigh, reminiscing on when Rafe had pushed that bunny tail plug into your ass for the first time as you walk through the gates to the County club. Clearly, you were in a mood today.

“People are lookin’ at me.” You giggle with your cheek to his chest once you find him, careful not to smear your blush on the delicate fabric of his polo once more.

“Maybe it’s ‘cos they can practically see your tail stickin’ out the bottom of your skirt. Pull that shit down, would you?” He complains, but does it for you all the same— ringed hands sliding round down your ass to yank the material down enough for him to be satisfied. You let him, enjoying the feeling of his coarse hands on you— knowing the material was only due to slide right back up as soon as you take a few steps.

The sun burns bright that day, and as Topper approaches the two of you on the grassy hill of the golf course— he holds his golfing glove above his eyes as a makeshift protection from the sun. He wears that expression that’s 90% teeth, smiling as he slides over. “And will I be seeing this lovely lady at the party down at Crystals tonight?”

“A party?” Your back straightens in excitement, neck craning to look up at your boyfriend, who’s jaw tightened at his friend.

“I’m there on business, remember Top?” He blinks a couple of times like he was trying to send a message telepathically, and Toppers face falls a little. Your boyfriend looks to your hopeful expression, sighing a little exasperatedly. “Gonna be there for like an hour. Max. Just pushin’ product, baby. Shits boring.” He waves you off and your brows furrow, following him when he peels away to line up his ball.

“But I like parties! What product Rafey?” You mewl, laying a gentle hand on his playing arm, making him briefly stuff his tongue between his lips to concentrate extra hard. He looks around for listeners before turning his attention back to you.

“Got some yayo on me. ‘Kay? Gonna make us a shit tonne of money.”

You furrow your brows. You couldn’t remember which drug ‘yayo’ was, and you wasn’t even aware of the fact he was selling again. He said he was stopping all that, but as he constantly drilled into your head — you supposed Rafe knew best. It wasn’t your business, and wasn’t anything you had to worry about. Truthfully, you cared more about putting together an outfit to wear to the mentioned party in question.

“Can I still come? I wanna come.” You bounce on your glittery sandals with a ditsy smile, the action making your tits jostle in your little top. Perhaps that was what convinced him, the boy squinting thoughtfully out across the golf course.

“Aaah…” He stresses quietly, lifting his arm to scratch the clammy skin of his forehead beneath his floppy bangs.

“Please dad, won’t get in the way.” You pout, standing on your tiptoes pleadingly. Topper coughs awkwardly at the nickname, still standing near by, rifling through his clubs. Rafe licks his lips before rolling his eyes.

“Alright, okay. But no gettin’ involved, a’ight? Got a little chatty with my customers last time. No more of that, got it?” He warns, throwing you a look over his shoulder as he begins to stance up, gesturing for you to move back so he wouldn’t hit you with his club.

Truthfully, Rafe didn’t like bringing you to parties. As much as he loved parading you around, he knew what he was like — and seeing tens of guys ogling what rightfully belonged to him got tiring. Especially when you were so oblivious, bouncing around pool parties with your tits nearly escaping your bikini, or dancing with your friends to the point of your skirt flipping up — giving everyone a show. He knows you didn’t mean it, you were ditsy as it was so with alcohol added you were a complete loose cannon. However, with each sip he’d take— his rage would only grow, always having to deal with your pouting when he’d make the two of you leave early so he didn’t pummel someone’s face in.

Plus, he was trying to mature now. Step into his father’s shoes. He didn’t even like partying at all the way he used to— it was strictly business now. An in and out job. Was harder to do that with you there.

You always forgot how well loved Rafe Cameron was until he brings you along to a function. His hand staying glued to the small of your back as he walks you through, heads turning — his name being called from all angles like he’s a celebrity. It made you snuggle up harder to his side, which he was alright with — he had no problem being extra touchy with you tonight whilst you wore that baby pink IAMGIA Demie set like you were doing it a favour. It shows more skin than Rafe was okay with people that weren’t him seeing, but he’d be with you all night, so he assumed it would be fine.

You fiddle nervously with the diamanté Hello Kitty sat on your chest when your boyfriend started to pull out the small bags with white powder inside. You didn’t quite understand the whole drug thing, but you knew for a fact you wasn’t the biggest fan of the way people acted when they were on it. They were loud, too grabby, scary. You push your cheek against Rafes side as people swarm him, asking for his supply. He’s cool and calm as ever, smirking in that way that made you want him all to himself.

“No hogging my shit this time a’ight? You get what you pay for.” He drawls playfully to the crowd, his hand thoughtlessly sliding to your waist to drag you gently out the way of the group that was forming near him. He turns his body a little, leaning down to your ear. “Wouldn’t mind grabbing me a beer would you baby? Got big boy business to attend to.”

You swan off to complete this task in a bit of a haze, you always got sort of dazed when you were with Rafe— mostly because being with him meant you got to switch your brain off and have him do all the thinking for you. It was a blessing and a curse, because now it’s been an hour and you forgot all about getting Rafe his drink, having found some friends to take some shots with instead.

You’re warm, stumbling giddily away from where everyone else is dancing as you approach the drinks table, pondering another. As you feel a presence appear up by your side, you tug your top up thoughtlessly, humming as you rub your glossy lips together. The strangers eyes fall to your little get-up, lip clamped beneath his top set of straight white teeth like a predator.

“I really love that little outfit. Looks great on you.” He calls out, with a friendly voice matching a friendly smile. It captures your attention and you whip your head to him, earrings jangling from the movement. You take the chance to look down at your ensemble before raising your glassy gaze up to him, ends of your lashes kissing your eyebrows.

“Oh my gosh, thank you!” You grin, wiping your clammy hands on the ruffle of your skirt. It was a compliment, sure — but in the back of your mind you surveyed the situation and he truly seemed like he liked the outfit, and didn’t seem creepy at all. He’s polite, keeps his gaze respectful (until you turn away, and he can catch a glimpse at your cleavage.) and friendly. You exchange names, before he ensues with the conversation.

“So where’s your friends? Left you all by yourself?” He reaches forward, pulling a piece of rogue fluff from your hair, chuckling adoringly at your carelessness as he tosses it aside. You spin around to where they previously were, met with no familiar faces and an empty space. You frown, glossy bottom lip sticking out when you turn back to him. Of course, it’s adorable.

Too adorable, thinks your boyfriend who watches you from across the room. He’s tightly clutching his own beer, stood chatting with his friends as he observes the situation — losing interest in the surrounding conversation all together. It had been an hour since he’d last seen you, and now here you were — parallel to him with some guy in your ear, making you laugh, fluttering those eyelashes like you always did. He ticks his jaw, tongue in his cheek as he stares you down. Waiting for you to come running over all guilty, ready to fawn over him.

The guy is suggesting your friends disappeared upstairs, perhaps a bathroom, a bedroom — anywhere he can get you alone to eventually work you out of your panties. You’re totally oblivious to it, shaking your head — having a reason against each of his suggestions. It’s frustrating, the way you won’t take the hint— but also the whole ‘bimbo’ thing was kind of doing it for him, unable to work out if you were a total slut or a total virgin, those doe eyes and innocent aura contrasting too heavily on the way your tits practically spill out of your top for either to give him a clear conclusion.

Rafe is mildly irritated, watching the way you bounce with each move you make— one wrong pose from your ass cheeks spilling from the bottom of your skirt. He keeps a watchful eye, until finally — your dopey expression meets his and your face lights up, traipsing over. Much to the Cameron’s surprise— you audaciously loop your arm around the guys bicep, dragging him with you.

“Rafey! Hi! Sorry about your drink, I forgot all about it.” You blink up at him, happy as a clam as you free your arms to affectionately stroke at his chest. He nods, lips parted as his eyes flicker over to the guy at your side— who’s face is slowly dropping in realisation.

“Yeah.” He responds, and doesn’t get to say much else because you’re dropping this sucker in it.

“This is my new friend! He’s helping me find my girls ‘cos I lost them.” You pout, and Rafe’s lip curls up into a smirk— gaze now completely fixated on the stranger.

“Friends huh? You uh, you makin’ friends with my girl, man?” He smiles, but it’s malicious— taking a step forward causing you to move aside. Your brows furrow, sensing the sudden shift in atmosphere, especially when Rafes two Kook attack dogs, Topper and Kelce tune into the conversation, which attracted even more eyes.

“I didn’t know, dude.” The boy seems to have lost all his confidence from before, shrinking several sizes as your tall boyfriend closes in on him.

“Ah, he didn’t know.” Rafe shrugs theatrically before turning to his friends— smarmy smiles on both of their faces at the interaction. “Guys he didn’t know.”

“Come on, man.” The stranger seems uncomfortable with the amount of attention the scene is already creating, more and more heads turning by the moment. You fiddle with your necklace again, twirling the thin chain around a manicured finger as you watch— unsure just what was happening. Your boyfriend claps a seemingly friendly hand onto the man’s shoulder, holding him tightly.

“Nah, man— tell me. You usually walk around at parties… alone… making friends with drunk chicks? That’s uh, yeah that’s a little weird man.” Rafe laughs, so naturally everyone laughs. It’s clear your boyfriend is set on humiliating this guy for talking to you, and you’re not quite sure how you feel about it.

“Maybe you shouldn’t let your girl walk around dressed like a hooker if you don’t want guys—” The boy doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because in a moments notice — Rafe has swung his fist back and pummelled it into his face, hard. A crowd forms, and you nearly get shoved out the way by the sudden rush of jeering, drunk party goers. You gasp, watching the way Rafe straddles his squirming body, a meek attempt at fighting back.

“What was that? You wanna say that shit again, huh? Huh?” Rafe continues to beat on the guy who insult you, teeth grit, jaw tense. The victim attempts to push Rafe off, but Rafe pins him again — bigger and stronger by a mile. This only seems to anger him more, and you watch as Rafe wraps two hands around the guys neck, holding down until his face turned pink.

That’s when you notice that Topper and Kelce aren’t smiling anymore, instead pushing through the crowd suddenly to grab a hold of their friend, yanking him off the man on the ground. Rafe only shrugs them off once before letting them drag him away.

“Yeah? Yeah? Maybe you’ll think next time you try ‘n make some fuckin’ friends, bitch.” He spits as his farewell, before shaking free of his friends and grabbing a hold of your upper arm, all but hauling you out of that party at a speed and strength to where you were certain your feet were barely touching the ground.

The drive home is silent, and only then you start to realise that you might be in trouble too. You didn’t like when Rafe got like this, mad and scary. His temper was no surprise to you, he was always storming around with a sour look on his face, or slamming doors after the daily argument he’d hash out with Ward. All of these examples seemed like mild irritation in comparison to the rage you saw him succumb to only moments prior. He had this look in his eye when his hands were around that man’s neck, his pupil overtaking his iris. It was like he really didn’t mind hurting this guy real bad, and you wondered what would have happened if no one stopped him. Usually, for the most part he kept his anger relatively far from you. Now, with just the two of you alone— you were facing it head on.

The car is even more silent once he puts it in park on the Tannyhill drive. Both of his hands are on the steering wheel, knuckles split and bloody still from his attack, and you notice a speck of blood that didn’t belong to him on Rafes cheek, making you pout— fighting the urge to reach out and brush it away. Instead you stare, waiting for him to speak.

“You know, you — you really gotta be more careful with who you make friends with, baby. Look at this shit I… I had to beat his ass because of you bein’ too friendly. Me. I had to handle shit.” He bites, and you sink back into the seat, ashamed and upset. Perhaps he was right, maybe you did need to keep your wits about you more.

“Oh…” Is all you manage, sad and whiny like a kicked puppy. He licks his lips, shaking his head and finally turning his body to face you.

“What did I say about making friends with guys? Huh? Tell me what I said.” He tilts his head, blinking at you with wide impatient eyes as he waits for an answer. You suck in a shaky breath, wracking your brain for the last time you’d had this conversation.

“Um… I don’t—” You swallow thickly but it’s cut off by your boyfriend grabbing your jaw, forcing you to look at him. As if he’d hit some kind of panic button, two fat tears roll down your cheeks, bottom lip wobbling.

“What did I say?” He raises his voice and you let out a sad sob, sniffling as you try to compose yourself— speaking as clearly as you can.

“You— you said— any guy that approaches me doesn’t wanna be friends. He just…” You sniffle.

“He just what? Go on, finish that shit.”

“He just wants to fuck me.” You cry and he nods, letting go of your face to push his floppy, slightly sweaty bangs away from his face, puffing out a breath through his mouth.

“Get your ass inside.” He mutters, and you’re quick to do so, hopping up out your seat and to the front door, fumbling for your obnoxious keychains in your shoulder bag.

He follows closely once you’re by the door, oddly gentle hands on your waist from behind that guide you all the way to the stair case, giving your ass a pat as he sends you off to his room. You’re standing pathetically when he enters a moment or so after you.

You clasp your hands at your front, the picture of innocence. You weren’t crying anymore, but still looking devastated by Rafes unfortunate mood. He approaches you, looming over you with an unreadable expression and you yearned to reach out and touch the warmth of his skin through his shirt, or to kiss his naturally flushed lips— but you wanted to be a good girl for him. Make things right.

“Y’know the polite thing to do is apologise, sweetheart.” He drawls and you nod vigorously, words taking a moment to find you.

“M’sorry daddy! Really didn’t mean—”

“Actions…” He cuts you off, eyes fluttering. He places two hands on your bare shoulders. “Speak louder than words. Understand?”

“Huh?” You pout, and he presses on your shoulders just a little.

“You know what to do. On your knees.” One hand leaves you, beginning to work at his belt making you have a Pavlovian-like reaction, mouth filling with drool. You realise you’re just staring and he blinks at you. “What are you waiting for, huh? Now, please.”

You quietly drop, shuffling to get as comfortable as possible and begin eagerly fumbling to help with his belt, blinking up at him with wet doe eyes. You were surprised to see that your boyfriend was already hard — not just a halfie as things begin, fully hard. Maybe something to do with the adrenaline, maybe he thought you were sexy when you cried— who knew.

His pants drop to his ankles and he widens his stance a little, licking over his sore lips and softly grasping the back of your head, easing you closer to press kisses to his covered cock. Your need to please got the better of you and you impatiently tugged off his boxers too, starting to leave a trail of glossy pink kiss prints all over him as you let out your own moan of relief.

You were thrilled he was letting you do this. You didn’t like arguing, never able to think of the right words and always crying too much just like a baby. You couldn’t stay cross with Rafe, you simply loved him too much — so you were happy to skip all the hard parts and head straight to the end, where you got to make it all better and earn his forgiveness. Rafe was always happy after you gave him head, especially when you worked super hard, giving him plenty of attention where he needs it. You couldn’t wait to watch him relax.

It wasn’t long before you had the tip of his cock bruising your throat, spit bubbling at the corners of your mouth when you gag around him, trying your very best to get him to cum. It seemed he was close, letting out quiet groans and even stroking your cheeks with his thumbs soothingly which was your favourite thing he did. Your nose twitches, sore and watery as you pull back once more — gazing up at him with gloopy eyelashes and flooded eyes, all sweetly, searching for his approval. He gives you a lazy smile and it’s enough to encourage you to head back down to take him as deep as he’ll go.

You clutch his balls and massage as you deep throat him once more, and this time — the burning of your mascara infiltrating your eyes gets too much to handle and you close them, squeezing them tight as you pull back ever so slightly to work your tongue over his shaft. You’re met with a light slap on the jaw, causing your eyes to spring open— staring up all wide like you’d been caught with a hand in the cookie jar instead of wrapping round his ballsack.

“Open your eyes, yeah— fuckin’ look at me. Good girl.” He grits his teeth, and you know he must be close. You keep sucking until he’s milked dry, Rafes pretty bunny and her favourite carrot — swallowing every drop he had to offer.

All is forgiven, and the incident is forgotten about within a few weeks. It was a hectic time, Rafe barely having the time to bring up something that seemed so menial whilst dealing with the death of his father and the feud between his sister and the ‘pogues’ he always seemed to complain about. Rafe seemed to believe there was something gold that he was owed, a cross or something like that. You wasn’t sure. You’d only picked up enough information through overhearing phone calls to his old dealer Barry, in which he’d promptly close the door to obstruct your thoughtless eavesdropping when he’d realise you might be listening.

He seemed to have moved on very quickly from his father’s demise. Oddly enough, his grieving period only seemed to last a few days. You didnt press him on it, it didn’t feel right to do so. You’d learnt from some reality TV show about rich housewives that sometimes when someone loses a person close to them, they don’t even act that sad at all because they don’t want to deal with the big feelings. You wondered if that’s how Rafe was feeling. However, you couldn’t help but also wonder if your boyfriend was in a way relieved to finally be the man of the house. Maybe that’s why he’d started wearing some of Ward’s clothes, demanding you call him ‘dad’ more often.

♪ ‘WHEN I SUCK IT I LOOK IN YOUR EYES

YOU BETTER FUCK ME LIKE YOU MEAN IT!’ ♪

You hum along happily the song you’d grown so fond of playing from the AUX of Rafes truck. Saturday, your favourite day of the week. Your boyfriend had been doing a lot of stuff, lately. Going to a lot of places without you. There was something secretive about the way he’d disappear into his father’s office with Barry, ‘handling business’ for hours and hours on end. Again, it became clear that all of this kerfuffle was clearly about the mysterious gold you’d hear about. Honestly, you didn’t care to ask questions. The only gold you cared about was the glitzy gold chain delicately wrapped around your ankle, a sparkling ‘RC’ pendant dangling off it, Rafes initials. You stretch your leg out in the car, admiring the way it hangs off your smooth limb.

He could spend all week handling business and getting shit done, but Saturdays? They were your days. Days and nights spent out together, always winding up back at your place where he’d stay round. You always had a free house at the weekends, so what better way to spend it than wailing into a pillow with your boyfriend balls deep inside of you?

The journey is cut short when Rafe slowly pulls up outside your house, putting it in park and yet making no move to even remove his seatbelt. You look out the window at the familiar setting before whipping round to look at him in confusion, batting your fluffy eyelashes.

“I’m… afraid you’re gonna be on your own tonight, bun.” He scratches his cheek, a guilty habit you were usually too flustered to pick up on.

“Huh?” You mewl, brows furrowing, body sinking down into the seat in refusal. “But… it’s Saturday. Did you forget, silly?” You pout, your words doing nothing to convince either of you that he had simply forgotten.

“I’ve got business to handle tonight. Really important stuff that you cannot get involved in. Okay? Need you to be at home, and stay out of it alright?” He’s serious, wide eyed and speaking slowly to ensure not a drop of information slips away from you as you blink at him all lost and sweet. He didn’t like disappointing you, and sure — he would rather spend his evening with his dick nestled in your wet warmth, but this was something that had to be done— whatever it was.

“But Rafe—” You go to protest, but he cuts you off with a firm hand on your jaw stopping your speech all together.

“Alright?” He searches your eyes for confirmation. The way he grabbed you reminded you of the time he was mad at you, and if he was really going to leave you lonely tonight — you figured it was best you leave things on a positive note and behave yourself. You blink sulkily at him and nod.

“Yes, dad.” You sigh out your nose and his expression softens, nodding in approval with a small smile.

“Thats my good girl.” He uses his grip on your jaw to pull you in, delivering a sloppy kiss to your lips and even rewarding you with the wet warm muscle of his tongue rolling over yours a few times for good measure — yet pulling away before you got too needy, because then he knew you’d never let him leave.

You’ll admit, you started to huff and puff once you’d left his side. It was Saturday, your Saturday — and maybe you were spoiled, but going out for brunch with your boyfriend and then having him drop you home was not nearly enough to satisfy your needs, especially after he’d been gone so frequently lately. You’d gotten yourself into quite a mood, nearly stomping right past the package that had arrived through your door.

You tear it open, alone in your house and for a brief moment your face lights up — the new butt plug Rafe had purchased for you online after you’d begged and begged sat in the cardboard box. Much like your other one, it was a bunnies tail— but instead of pink, the obnoxious puff on the end was fluffy and white, like a real Easter bunny. Your grin melts off your face right back into a sullen pout when you remember that Rafe wasn’t here to help you put it in, or play with it, or tell you how pretty it looks in your ass. You stomp your foot, anklet jangling. This wasn’t fair.

The sun goes down after hours upon hours of boredom, and you try to preoccupy yourself. You redo your hair all pretty, you fix up your makeup, you play dress up in your closet. The new plug is slicked up between your fingers, your bottom lip tugged between your teeth as you ready yourself. You never had to put your own bunny tail in, Rafe was always around to do it for you — have you sprawled over his lap, his hand pulling your cheeks apart and saying “Good job, stop tensing up would you?” You’re squirmy and whiny all alone, upset and petulant about the fact he wasn’t around. You felt… what was the word again? Neglected.

You press your cheek to your pristine bed covers, arching your ass in the air with an arm snaked uncomfortably round yourself, the difficult angle making it hard to push your tail in. You groan at the stretch from the cool metal, pussy drooling as your eyes flutter closed and you imagine your boyfriend doing it all for you, as intended. When it was snugly pressed inside of you, you giggle hazily — waving it in the mirror to get a good view. Pretty, you can almost hear his voice tell you how pretty that tight ass is, and you yearn to hear it in person.

You decided you weren’t going to take no for an answer. Rafe needed you, you knew it — perhaps he’d been isolating himself to deal with his big feelings, and you couldn’t take it any longer. You’d come to the decision that you were going to dress up so sweetly for him, march over there and make him feel all better with the warm embrace that was your cunt— or your mouth, or even your hand. Whatever your man needed, you would deliver.

You slide on some white, lacy lingerie. When you’d purchased it, you’d hoped it would remind him of wedding-wear, planting the idea that he should totally marry you, put a big glittery rock on your finger. Something that signified that he never, ever wanted to lose you. It was bunny-like in nature too, a hole slotted in the panties especially to fit the puff of your bunny tail through it— perfectly cohesive with your whole look. You’re quick to drag on more white, taking the form of a tight crop top and a skirt that unsurprisingly barely covered the fold of your ass cheeks where your thighs begin. In no time, you’re tottering down the street in kitten heels, clutching your purse to your side. You’d decided to walk— and by decided, you meant you didn’t have much choice — bound to being Rafe’s pretty passenger princess, full time.

An all white outfit was innocent, virginal, wedding-like. He couldn’t say no to you like this, surely not— you convince yourself as you stride street to street beneath the lights of street lamps. Kildare was safe, you seemed to think so anyway. Rafe disagreed, said there was lots of stuff you didn’t know— but you’d never seen anything too bad with your own two eyes.

Half way into your journey, your quiet muttering to yourself going over what you’d say when you got to Tannyhill was interrupted by your surroundings suddenly being tainted with a flashing blue and red glow. The rumble of a car pulling up beside you alerts your attention and you whip around to look, being met with the concerned gaze of Shoupe in his Sheriff car.

“Hi officer.” You wave politely.

“Can I ask what you’re doin’ wandering the streets at night by yourself? Not safe to be walkin’ about with next to nothing on, young lady.” He appears stern and your brows furrow, wondering if you’re in trouble. You hadn’t been questioned by a police officer before, they had come sniffing around after Wards death, but Rafe was always there to answer all the tricky questions for you. You whimper like a confused puppy.

“I—I missed my boyfriend so I wanted to go n’see him.” You whine, fists balled nervously at your side. It probably didn’t help that you were already riled up, so this was just immediately too much for you.

Shoupe recognised Rafe Cameron as your boyfriend and his eyebrows raise, purely at the fact that whilst he respected the Cameron family — he couldn’t fathom missing a spoilt brat like that.

“You know I got a niece of my own, about your age — I wouldn’t be lettin’ her walk the streets like this alright? Why don’t you give someone a call? Where are your parents?” He shakes his head, and now you’re super fed up.

“I don’t — am I in trouble? I had to walk because I failed my driving test and— and my parents go away on weekends I— I just miss my boyfriend and I want to go to his house! I don’t understand why you’re asking me stuff—” You start to cry, stomping a mini heel on the ground making the officer sigh, closing his eyes for a moment regretting stopping all together.

“Not my circus, not my monkeys. Don’t get paid enough for this crap.” He mutters to himself before opening his eyes and plastering on a forced smile and leaning his elbow out the open window. “‘Know what? Don’t you worry that head, young lady. Be safe, I’ll let you get on with it.” He waves before pulling out the parking space, leaving you waving him off tearfully— continuing your journey.

You wipe your tears, happy that you’re finally approaching Tannyhill— not long now until you’re back in your boyfriend’s arms. Sure, you were directly disobeying his one rule to stay home and mind your business tonight, but it wouldn’t be the first punishment you’d faced from Rafe — and the thought of having his hands on you in any way was delightful — so you’d be more than happy to pay the price.

Your shoes crunch carefully down the drive, blinking up at the grand historical home before you. You always loved being there. Being at Tannyhill with Rafe made you feel like he was the president and you were his first lady, ruling over Kildare in your very own White House. The fantasy whisks you away for a moment, and it takes you a couple of slow seconds to realise no one has responded to your knock at the front door. You wiggle the handle, and for once — it doesn’t open. You frown. Rafe was home, right?

You hum in confusion, trailing around to each window — looking for any signs of life as you call his name. “Rafey, are you home? It’s me…” You all but whine, growing increasingly more frustrated. Had you really walked all that way in the dark for nothing?

You puff out a dramatic breath, gathering yourself. Take a look around, you command yourself — use your big girl brain for once. Rafes truck was on the drive, and the lights were on in the house — so you figured it was fair to assume he was indeed home. The only thing out of place was the large van parked haphazardly on the drive. It wasn’t unheard of for unknown vehicles to be at Tannyhill. All sorts of people were in and out the gates for transport purposes whenever Ward would find something new and extravagant to auction off— but Ward wasn’t around anymore, and something tickled your curiosity enough to step towards it, questioning what it contained.

The large back doors are left ajar, so nosily you tiptoe over— fingers wrapping around one to pry it open some more, standing on the toes of your kitten heels to look at what would remain inside. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, and for a few seconds you’re not met with anything of interest. Boxes, crates— nothing extraordinary. Your eyes drop down to the floor of the van, and you freeze. Surely not.

The body of a man lies dormant in a pool of distinctive crimson. He’s frozen up, like he’s scared or had been turned into a statue. His skin is pale, and his eyes are open— unblinking. You hadn’t seen many bad things in your life, hell— Rafe had even put you on a restriction from horror movies because you just couldn’t handle them — but what you were looking at was unmistakable. You were staring at a dead body.

You draw in a shaky gasp, and a heat wave of panic overcomes your body. It begins in your chest, and spreads through you like a virus — to your stomach, and then your arms and legs all the way to frozen stiff fingers and toes. You jerk back, hand flying up to cover your mouth as you stumble back a few steps, fresh hot tears brewing in your waterline. “Oh my g—”

Your whimper is cut short, the sound punched right out of you when you back up into something hard and firm. You jump out of your skin, yelping as what you walked into sprouts arms and whips you around at lightening speed to face it. Rafe, your boyfriend holds you infront of him, enraged. For the first time in your life, he terrifies you. “Told you to stay home, kid.” He spits out before spinning you back around and manhandling you into a lift, arms round tightly around you as he lifts you off the ground.

You go to scream, you even go to run— from your own boyfriend, something even a few moments prior you wouldn’t be able to fathom. He only grips you tighter, and this time covers your mewling mouth with a firm hand as he wrestles you inside, dragging you through the house.

As he tugs your flailing, panicking body up the stairs — you catch sight of Rose who lingers on the stairwell, watching with wide eyes.

“Rafe? Rafe what did she see?” She hisses urgently, alarmed by the way her step-son was handling his girlfriend.

“I’m handlin’ it.” He drawls out, seemingly irritated by her presence as he pushes you down the hallway.

“Don’t hurt her, Rafe.” Hurt her?

He all but launches you into the bedroom and you fly away from him, on the verge of hyperventilation. You paw at your eyes, wiping away the tears as you sniffle watching his every move. He moves slower now, locking the door which causes your heartrate to spike once more.

“Why the hell are you here?” He blinks at you irritably. “Huh? After I specifically told you to stay home.”

“I missed you.” You cough out a wet sob, trying to gather your thoughts enough to ask the valuable questions. Like, what was going on? Who was the dead body?

“You missed m— so we’re just… disregarding my rules now. The — the shit I tell you to keep you safe? Keep you out of allllll the dirty work I gotta do to keep shit afloat?” He’s mad, squinting and shaking his head.

“Did you kill that man?” You raise your voice ever so slightly, coming right out with it. The forwardness shocks you, but Rafes expression simply flattens, shoulders dropping a little before he sighs, shaking his head with his hands on his hips.

“No, I didn’t.” He makes a point to emphasise the ‘I’, which only reels you off into more confusion. “But… it’s my problem now. A’ight? So — so I gotta step up and handle it alright, look at — hey, look at me baby— okay, I’m a proactive person — I — I was handed a problem, and now I’m fixin’ it. Me. You understand that?” He’s walked right over to you now, and you’ve backed up away until your legs hit his bed causing you to sit down with a bounce. He crouches over you as he rambles, a hand on your shoulder to keep your attention. He has thrown a lot of information your way, and you try to follow along — eyes wide and head shaking slightly in response.

“Rafe— you’re scaring me. That person was dead you — you have to tell the police! I saw Shoupe on the way here, even talked to him — why — why don’t you just call him up n’tell him?” You whimper, breath catching in your throat between every couple of words.

Your boyfriend stands up straight suddenly, blinking like he’d been snapped out of his wide, watery eyed trance.

“You— you saw— what do you mean you saw Shoupe on the way here?” He glares and you shrink, feeling like you’ve done something wrong but not quite knowing what.

“He stopped me on the way here n’I told him I was comin’ to see you.” You pout.

“Oh, that’s…” He begins to pace, before barking out a soft laugh, hand rising to scratch his cheek. “Yeah that’s uh, that’s perfect really.”

You tilt your head, jostling your hoop earrings in the act. “What are you talking about?” You felt nervous for his answer, and unsure as to why that was.

He stops his incessant pacing, turning to you with an amused and yet somewhat deranged grin. “You’re in this now, baby. You n’me.” He gestures to the two of you with a finger as he slowly prowls closer. “So— so Shoupe knows you were on the way here at,” he lifts his arm, checking the watch beneath his Northface fleece. “Around this time frame. Right? So really…” He closes in on you fully once more, bending at the waist to look at you eye to eye. “If… if you turn me in, we’re goin’ down together. How’s that sound, huh— think you could handle jail baby? You think they do mani-pedis in prison?” He jokes, smirk only growing when your eyes widen. He was being cruel.

“Stop! I— I would never tell on you Rafey!” You start to cry again, and he nods slowly in approval, licking his lips. “Don’t wanna get locked up.”

“Yeah, well. All you gotta do is keep that pretty mouth shut. Think you can do that for me baby? Think you could… keep this little secret just for me?” Even now, he had a way with words. He made you feel special, like teaming up with him was something to be so proud of. There’s a warmth in your chest from the way he speaks to you, but a pit in your stomach at the guilt from feeling this way. You were dizzy with conflict.

“S’just too much, daddy. I dunno, what if I make a mistake? Just so dumb sometimes.” You sniffle, going to cover your face but he bats your delicate hands out the way with his own palms, cupping your cheeks to force your attention on him.

“Hey, hey. Gotta… use that bunny brain sometimes baby. Yeah? Gotta think about what might happen… if anyone finds out.” His voice softens with each word, invading your personal space until his warm breath fanned over your face comfortingly. He had a way of breaking you down to something so regressed and yet primal, pure putty in his criminal hands. Somewhere in the back of your hazy brain you felt this might be a tactic to get you on his side with all of this, but the words wouldn’t find you. “You’re my good girl, alright? Know you can do it…” His lips softly press to yours, and he starts to kiss you slowly, sensually, like he had all the time in the world.

You get lost in the kiss, it’s only natural — with the way his tongue wrapped itself skilfully around yours. He finds himself sat on the bed beside you, pulling you to perch on his leg as you succumb to the makeout session. He was really good at it, so talented at getting you wet and squirmy with just his mouth on yours. It feels like ten minutes of this have possibly passed by when your brain starts to ring out the alarm bells once more, warning you of your predicament. Your heart starts to pound and you pull back a little, eyes shiny and wide as they gaze into his lustful pair.

“M’scared.” It comes out quiet and he shakes his head, in total refusal of this.

“Shh, shh. How ‘bout you turn that brain off for a while. Yeah? Let me handle it.”

You suck in a shaky breath, swallowing thickly as you try to keep the panic at bay in his tight hold. “Can’t.”

“Yeah. You can. Can start by taking all these clothes off.” He drags his hands over your body, messing up the fabric in its wake. “Came over just lookin’ all pretty… would hate to ruin a night like this, right?” He talks slowly like you’re dumb and it only makes you ooze more, finding yourself nodding eagerly, sniffing back the tears and hopping onto your feet to kick off the kitten heels, dropping an inch or so in height.

Rafe tugs your skirt down as you pull your top over your head, and he hums in appreciation at the white lace adorning your body. “Mm, s’fuckin’ sexy.” He whispers, turning you by your hips to do a little spin for him, not able to help himself from giving your ass a sharp little smack and jiggle when he spots the new bunny tail poking through. “This one’s new, huh?” He drawls, giving it a little tug making your knees buckle, turning to clamber back onto his leg.

“Mhm.”

“Yeah. Wanna keep these on, yeah?”

You nod, and he’s kissing you again, handsy as ever as he caresses your soft skin. He’s being nice, for now. It usually started off this way before he’d get too impatient but you knew he was being extra nice for the purpose of persuading you to side with his unforgivable actions. Your criminal boyfriend drags his hand down your stomach, two finger pads rubbing circles over your clit through the lace making you groan out a cracked and desperate sound against him.

“Turn around.” He whispers, aiding you to sit between his legs, leaning back against him. Once in this compromising position, he peels your soaked underwear to the side— sliding his fingers through your messy folds. “God damn, weren’t lyin’ when you said you missed daddy— that right?”

“Just… just missed you so much.” Your eyes flutter shut, and you do find yourself relaxing more and more against his warm body, a clammy hand clutching the zip of his grey fleece, shuddering from his skilful touch.

After stroking your clit, causing you to clench and cream around nothing for a while, desperate moans sure to be heard by Rose if she was worriedly lurking in the hallway, Rafe started to push his thick fingers in, humming and licking his lips hungrily as your greedy hole swallowed him up, the long digits squelching from your copious tsunami of arousal.

“Oh daddy!” Is all you can say as he curls them just right, working you quickly towards your finishing point. As you drop into that Rafe-obsessed headspace, nearly at the crowning of your orgasm— his deep nasally voice rumbles from behind you, attracting your attention. As he speaks, he pulls his fingers back just so only the tips still remained inside you, and kept them there even when you wriggled your hips trying to get them in further.

“So… what are you gonna say if someone asks you where you were tonight? Huh?” His voice carries a threatening tone, which makes you pout at how totally unfair of him it was to work you into brainless mush and then ask you such an important question.

“I— uhm, I don’t—” You whimper as you writhe in his lap. He pulls his fingers out of you completely and in one fluid movement slaps your pussy, causing you to cry out in sensitivity at the harshness on the cunt he had spread open on top of him.

“Where?” He grits his teeth and you pant.

“At home, daddy!”

He seems satisfied, and slowly he sinks his fingers back inside you, causing you to release a relieved whine, liquifying against his body once more. “See? Not as dumb as you look, bunny girl.”

The words cause tingles to run through your very being, and as he continues to finger fuck you— you’re brought very close to the edge, very soon.

“Mmph— dad, g’nna cum!”

“Yeah? Gonna cum just for dad?” He lilts sympathetically in response.

“Yeah!”

“Yeah?”

Just like that, he pulls his fingers out of you — and before you have the chance to complain or even let out a petulant whine, he’s forcing your mouth open and stuffing his soaked fingers inside, all the way down your throat.

You slap at his wrist, gagging wetly as he holds your head against him keeping him still. “Yeah, that fuckin’ hurt? They’ll do a lot worse to you in prison, sweetheart. Can tell you that for free.” He finger fucks your throat for a few quick beats before drawing them out, letting you suck in harsh breaths. He wipes his fingers on your cheek before giving it an affectionate pat. “Haven’t earned the right to cum just yet. You understand right?”

You sniffle, starting to cry again. This whole ordeal was clearly upsetting to you, and Rafe was just treating it like it was one big loyalty test. All you wanted was to be with him, kiss him, touch him — and he was just being so mean.

Your tears do nothing for your case. Suddenly and aggressively, your boyfriend grips the back of your neck and forces you down into the mattress on the bed, your ass lifted obscenely in the air — panties still forced to the side with your tail-stuffed hole and drooling pussy on full display to him. Glitter refracts off your cheek when you turn your head on the bed, trying to get a look at him.

“Would you look at that?” He twiddles with the fluffy tail and you groan, body softening slightly and pussy dribbling. “Doesn’t take much. Does it baby? Yeah. Dressed up all sweet for me, you uh—” He chuckles at the cruel joke before it leaves his mouth. “Wouldnt take you for an accessory to a crime.”

You let out a pitiful sob and his jaw ticks in irritation, leaning right over you, jostling you a little so he could talk right in your ear. “Quit. That guy you saw in the truck was a bad man, alright? Worlds better off without scumbags like him. I don’t… I don’t wanna hear you’re feelin’ all bad about it. I always make the decisions, right? Daddy always knows what to do, right?” He demands aggressively, spanking your ass hard when you don’t respond immediately.

“Yes daddy you— you always know!” You wail, distraught and he nods, lips parted and jaw slightly agape — fighting his belt off his body to yank his pants down just enough to pull his dick out.

As much as you enjoyed showing your tail off to Rafe, wiggling it against his pelvis, tickling his tanned skin with the fluff each time he draws his hips in — you were actually a little disappointed you weren’t getting to be on your back today. You craved the closeness, the kisses, getting to see his pretty cock collect all your glittery slick as he fucks into your glossy hole. Instead, he pushes in from behind and sets a punishing pace, balls slapping against you as he holds you down, forcing your arch into place. With each thrust, comes a quiet grunt of his own exertion — the days frustration being worked out on you.

This lasts for a few minutes, Rafe slightly changing things up like adjusting your position or putting a foot up on the bed to dig you out even deeper. Your cunt was so sloppy it was audible, squelching with each roll of his agile hips. From the way he had previously stolen your much needed orgasm, you could tell you weren’t going to last much longer, fucking desperately back against him as you sobbed.

“Shit, why you fuckin’ crying so much huh? This not enough for you, princess?” He taunts breathlessly, squeezing your hips for an answer.

“Miss you Rafe, want you— want you nice!” You’re shaky, forcing in a painful breath as you cry— mascara making a mess of his sheets but he didn’t care about that right now— too focused on the way your ass jiggled against him with each thrust. As perfect of a view this was, he couldn’t tolerate the tears and flipped you onto your back, forcing your legs up over his shoulders.

As he slots himself back in, he shakes his head— floppy hair sweaty, some of it stuck to his forehead. “There? Happy? Y’gonna stop cryin’ now, hm?” He drawls, speeding up his pace once more, indulging in the way your tits are escaping the lacy cups of your bra. He palms at them greedily, helping free them out the top and he disappears into your neck, groaning as he hits a new spot, your hole sucking him in like it had a mind of its own.

He sucks marks on your neck. Proof you were here, he thinks in the back of his mind. He draws back to admire his work and is met with your tear-stricken, devastated face. All pretty with doe like eyes, gloopy runny mascara framing them, a single mink lash on your cheek. He swipes it away, unable to control the urge to press his body right onto yours and envelop your lips with his own.

He sucks on your tongue, holding you there with a hand gently round your neck as he possesses you entirely. The continuous slapping sound of his cock bruising your insides becomes music to your ears as you float away on a cloud, eyes struggling to stay open from the sheer amount of pleasure you were facing. As he softly holds you by your throat, like a farmer handling its first baby bunny — he feels that remaining amount of tension coursing through you. That last inkling of resistance, even if you didn’t know it was there. He slows his pace, grinding his cock inside you, massaging the tension out.

“Oh, little girl. Poor bunny, huh?” He coo’s, cradling your shaking, clammy body as you whimper, puffy walls spasming around his length. “All caught up in big bad Rafe’s problems, aren’t you. Yeah… well, it’s okay. I got you baby. You’re never gonna lose me, okay? You’re all mine.”

With your bodies connected, you gaze up into his eyes. All his, the words you adored more than anything. Your eyes drift over to his left shoulder where your anklet swings with each jostle of your body. ‘R.C’, the initials catch the light through blurry tearful eyes. All his.

A hand snakes between you, and when he presses down on your clit — your body finally gives in and you squeeze out a gut wrenching moan, legs shaking violently as you grip him, cumming hard and abundantly around his slick cock. He’s talking you through it, rolling his hips determinedly as you cum. You briefly catch his voice groaning out a “Thats my good girl. S’me and you baby. Don’t you forget it. Me n’you.”

You squirt out around him, soaking his abdomen, and whilst you might usually be concerned and embarrassed— you can’t think straight enough to consider that. He doesn’t seem to mind either, fucking into you as he chases his own high, mumbling words you couldn’t hear into your neck or mouthing at the fat of your tits as he’s spurting out his own thick, hot release.

Everything feels dreamlike after that, from the way he pulls out and smothers your hot face in sloppy kisses — to the way he lazily mops you up with a towel. You can’t process the pleasure you endured, and soon you fall asleep right there on Rafe’s bed, hot and feverish.

It must’ve been a good few hours you slept for, because when you wake to the soft warm touch of your boyfriend and his rings gliding up your back— your bleary eyes find the clock at his bedside to read 5:30AM. Rafe is dressed differently to how he was before, a black shirt you recall noticing in your immediate vision. He’s scooping you in his arms, sitting you up as you let out a disorientated whine, having trouble letting your brain catch up.

One hand strokes your cheek, to keep you awake— and the other strokes the fat of your hip, self indulgently. “So turns out, we’re uh— goin’ on a little trip. You like vacations, huh?”

You blink your sticky eyes at him, hand grazing the buttons of his shirt as your voice attempts to croak out a response. “Rafe, what’s —” Your brain starts to catch up, an unfamiliar and harrowing feeling spreading through your stomach— sinister and dooming as you remember the events that occurred before he’d fucked you and gotten you to fall asleep on his bed. Where had he been? So many hours had passed.

He cuts you off with a smile, a relieved smile — like all his problems had vanished, the corpse you’d found having just gotten up and walked away.

“Goin’ on a big boat. How’d you feel about the Bahamas, baby?”

#rafe cameron fic 🎀#bunny!reader

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satorurize · 10 months ago

Text

He wanted them three rounds, DC had to come help him

Pairings: Established relationship, bf!gojo, reader is AFAB, a little lovesick gojo, he's overworked :(

Warnings: 18+, MDNI, freaky!gojo, marathon sex, p in v, (multiple) creampies and orgasms, squirting, feral gojo, sex in general.

Gojo Satoru is a freak..

Rumors about him being an absolute slut is true, but there is no bigger example than Satoru who is a slut and a virgin, a walking contradiction, before he met you.

Satoru looks at you in almost apprehensiveness when you give him a soft gaze at the revelation. This wasn't a look of disappointment, it looked like....pity. And Satoru hated being pitied more than anything.

He's a little embarrassed, although you reassure him that it's something you will never care about.

"You are literally juggling too many things with barely three hours of sleep, and virginity is a social construct anyway.." You shrug, looking up at him hovering over you, his tip nuzzled between the ingress of your sopping pussy, and oh how he thought that the pity would make his cock soft but it didn't, it just made it harder. It was a little pathetic, the way his cock was so easy that mere words of care and tenderness and acknowledgement for his furious schedule has got him rock solid, with the pearls of his precum clustering on the exterior of your sweet cunt. He was that love starved.

It took everything to not give your pussy mauling thrusts already, he was never the one to talk about how he indeed wanted a break sometimes and he wouldn't even now, especially being this horny and excited that he felt like a dog in heat. He had more than a good idea of how to go on about it, he had seen it in the bad porno that never appealed to him.

"Sweetheart..just let me put it in, I feel like my cock is gonna explode..I don't want to think of a bunch of blobs that I exorcise, not very hot.." He chuckled cheekily, leaning into your cheek, looking at you with the periphery of his eyes with a lecherous gaze, planting hot, open mouthed kisses onto your jaw and neck while he ached.

"Always a brat.." You sighed, grabbing his endowed cock from the base, pushing it into your velvety walls with a look of challenge and amusement laced onto your face.

After that, all hell broke lose. There was nothing that would stop Gojo Satoru now, not even if he was to be kept caged within his infinity. He would break it, just to discern your sweet, sweet cunt.

The challenge that was plastered onto your face just vanished, your assumption that Satoru would stop just after the first round with the orgasm that hit him with the speed of light, which made him finish so fast that it was deplorable, was so so wrong. He went on, and on and on.

And Gojo Satoru was innately confident, the fact that this was his first time didn't matter. He was always explorative, always excessive. Bold of you to assume he understood the concept of moderation.

"O-oh..fuckk..Toru.." You looked up to him with your glassy, nearly red rimmed eyes from the nth orgasm of the night, your cloying moans just made him keep going. Your was pussy puffy and clit violently engorged after being fucked this thoroughly.

"U-uh-huh..yeah, you like that..fuuuck baby, look at you.." He cooed with a feral grin on his lips as he steadily moved his hips, keeping your legs hoisted up on his shoulders, getting the hang of it. His hip movements no longer uncoordinated. He had always been a fast learner. He stills his hips with a series of whimpers as he came with hot white, thick ropes into your womb, pulling out with a lewd pop that spilled the cum stuffed inside down to your ass. You moaned softly, hazy and a little disoriented as your fluttering pussy pushed it all out.

He hummed at the sight, tapping and massaging his now agitatingly red tip onto your clit, he himself could feel his brain seem afloat, reverberating to take you again even after the multiple orgasms. He was dead set.

He hissed softly with widened eyes, in surprise and amusement, a full blown throaty laugh echoing his throat when you squirted, gushing out like a dam. He vigorously rubbed his sensitive cock on your sloshing pussy, his cock unbearably hard again. He was hooked, addicted. To you.

He grasped your hips, pulling you forward which made you mewl at the suddenness. He pressed his hefty weight on your body, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip. If he had a laceration on his brain from the way this image of you burned in his head, sprawled underneath him, all flushed, sweaty and a mess, just for him. He would die rather than using his RCT.

"God baby..you washed my cum away, gonna hafta, fill you up again.."

©𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐢𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬

Plagarism not authorised.

m.list!

#gojo x reader #jjk gojo #jjk smut #jjk x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #gojou satoru x reader #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo smut #jujustsu kaisen x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru #gojo smut

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tobesolnelyx · 1 month ago

Note

new fan, love ur frat boy series. do u think u could make one abt frat boy Shauna, Lottie, Jackie, and Nat all fighting over reader? - 🥄 not sure if this emojis been taken

— how you get the girl || fratboy!yellowjackets x reader ⭐️

a/n: hello 🥄anon! also, yes, title again from taylor swift’s song, are we even surprised?

summary: they all try to…hit on you? holy shit. modern college au. g!p characters.

warnings: none!

From the very beginning, you somehow ended up orbiting that fratboy cluster. A lot of people assumed you were just…hooking up with them, but the truth was, you had simply—miraculously—slipped into their world. You always got invited to parties. You could walk into the frat house like it was your own living room. None of them ever minded your constant presence—whether it was during casual hangouts or at the cafeteria table. You thought it was just because they liked you.

The problem was, maybe they liked you a little too much. And that started to sink in over time, once you managed to untangle flirting from just being nice.

Natalie Scatorccio was the subtlest of them all. Nat didn’t care much for people on campus, but she could spend hours in yours company. Her idea of flirting was making you endless playlists. Her strange love language was sending you songs. Sometimes, out of nowhere, she’d hand you one of her earbuds.

“Yo, check this out,” she’d say, stretched out on the frat house couch while you were supposed to be studying. Supposed to, because Natalie never took it all that seriously. She’d hand you a tiny black earbud, the same ones seemingly glued to her ears—she wore them all the time. Nothing made her happier than when you added a song she recommended you, to your favorites. Yes, she sent you shared playlist links. Always curious about what you listened to. Just so she could blast it later at parties and drag you onto the dance floor.

No, she had no idea why another song from your favorite artist was suddenly playing through the speakers… totally a coincidence.

Nat, who always insisted on being the one to give you rides. Most arguments about that were between her and Shauna.

“It’s not safe,” Shauna would insist, arm slung around your shoulders in some vague gesture of territorial affection. Natalie’s eyes would burn holes in Shauna’s hand, which rested a little too close to your collarbone.

“Oh, give me a break,” Nat would roll her eyes and flash you a grin. “You love those rides, sweetheart, don’t ya?”

Of course it was a joke—with a loaded undertone. She even bought you your own motorcycle helmet, complete with custom stickers, so she had every right to drag you out for rides now and then.

Nat, who thought you were the perfect dance partner. She’d always pull you into the center of the crowd at parties, already a little high and a little buzzed, swinging you around in drunken waltz.

Nat, who thought you were the ideal weed-smoking companion. You didn’t even have to get high with her—just being there was enough.

Jackie Taylor, who liked to play the romantic. Okay—maybe she wasn’t really playing. Sometimes, she was genuinely sweet in all of it, despite her occasional theatrics. Which made her flirting painfully obvious. Not everyone was a fan. While Nat at least tried to brush it off, Shauna rolled her eyes every time Jackie opened her mouth, muttering that nobody was buying the cheap tricks. Lottie wasn’t thrilled either—she’d mumble about how Jackie was hopelessly fake, all plastic charm and recycled lines.

Jackie, who loved bringing you flowers. Fresh, cut, sometimes even handpicked. One bouquet a week became a habit. And okay, Lottie may have had a point—Jackie did reek of clichés sometimes. But still—she was sweet. She invited you to the movies in cinema, on spontaneous ice cream runs, dragged you along to her piercer when she got new jewelry, or switched out the old. She’d even help you pick something for yourself now and then.

She showed far more than she ever said. She tied your shoes. Wrapped you in her varsity jackets. Brought you breakfast—or bought it—just because. But if anyone asked her how she felt about you, she’d deny it instantly. She’d say it was just a deep friendship. That’s all.... right…

Even though you were walking around campus in her t-shirts, and she never took off the bracelet you made her by hand.

“You can’t even admit you like her,” Shauna scoffed one night, in that know-it-all tone she reserved for moments like these.

Jackie shot her a glare cold enough to freeze glass. She threw a small tennis ball at her head—the one she’d been absentmindedly tossing around for the past hour—but Shauna ducked.

“Shut your mouth,” Jackie muttered, her voice low. A flush crept up her cheeks. “Says you,” she grumbled sarcastically under her breath. “The one who’s always first to start talking.”

Shauna Shipman, who was downright awful at expressing her feelings. She was the hardest to figure out. For the longest time, you were sure she didn’t like you at all. And then—it started.

Shauna, who spent every single study session with you. She always made sure you came along to the library. Being a full-time fratboy-level asshole was one thing. But skipping her academics? Not a chance. At first, she just tolerated your presence. Now, she was suddenly showing up at your door unannounced. That dopey grin on her face, hands shoved into her pockets.

"Ready, princess?" she’d ask, just to get under your skin. She loved irritating you. At her core.

"Not if you call me that again," you’d laugh, grabbing your jacket— and her arm was already slipping around your waist, pulling you in like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Shauna, who didn’t take no for an answer. You were hers. Even if you didn’t know it yet. She was already convinced that Lottie, Nat—and especially Jackie—didn’t stand a chance. Typical. That ego of hers.

Shauna, who started texting you constantly. Gym pics became a trend—tight shirts, sweat-matted hair, those particular grey sweatpants (hmm...). She knew exactly what she was doing.

Shauna, who had a bit of a obsession. Enough to start fights at the frat house when Natalie’s hand lingered somewhere it shouldn’t, or when Lottie tossed some strange joke your way. Not to mention she’d start the dumbest arguments over you—full-blown chaos, just because someone looked at you a second too long.

Sometimes she’d even tell people you were together. You were supposed to find out in your own time that—in Shauna’s mind—you already were her partner. Simple as that.

Shauna, who never said a word about how she felt. But her hands were nearly always on you—like they belonged there. Sometimes you’d push them away when they wandered too low or too high, but she’d only grin, that same ridiculous grin, and she definitely wouldn’t move.

Lottie Matthews, who seemed to be the most chill about the whole situation. As if she already knew—inevitably—you’d choose her in the end. As if the others were simply playing catch-up in a game they didn’t know they’d already lost.

She always watched Shauna’s desperate displays of ownership with a kind of amused pity. She snorted at Jackie’s endless, cheap gifts. And as for Natalie—Lottie barely concealed her smirk whenever Nat stumbled over her own version of flirting.

Lottie, who loved to flex her cars. Did you really understand much of her rambling about them? Not really. You’d never been that interested. But Lottie always spoke with such passion, you let her talk. She’d customized each of her cars with a space just for you— a cushion in the seat, your spare sunglasses in the glove compartment, your favorite hand cream tucked neatly beside them.

Lottie, who showered you in gifts. Sometimes she’d drag you out for a spontaneous shopping spree. Other times, she’d just show up with something already picked out. You’d both lie sprawled across her bed at the frat house—specifically chosen to avoid any surprise Shauna ambush and her relentless, idiotic monologues. Lottie would drop the shopping bag in front of you, grinning like she'd just won a prize. Visibly pleased with herself.

“Open it,” she’d snap her fingers at the bundle, and with a soft smile you’d pull out some luxury skincare set—or, more bluntly, a beautiful piece of lingerie. “Saw it today and immediately thought of you.”

“Thanks, Lottie,” you’d murmur, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek. And she’d smile even wider like your touch sealed the deal.

Lottie, who made the dumbest jokes just to see you roll your eyes.

Lottie, who—unlike Shauna—touched you with finesse. A hand grazing your waist as she passed behind you. Fingers resting casually on your knee, like it meant nothing. Sometimes she’d lean in close only to inhale slightly, and ask if you were wearing the perfume she gave you last week.

#my writing #shauna shipman #yellowjackets #yellowjackets x you #shauna shipman x reader #shauna shipman x you #jackie taylor #jackie taylor x reader #jackie taylor x you #lottie matthews x you #lottie matthews #lottie matthews x reader #natalie scatorccio x you #natalie scatorccio #natalie scatorccio x reader

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screampied · 1 year ago

Note

your writing is so amazing I’m begging you to write anything for nanami

❤︎ ໋𓈒 ex husband nanami who fucks like he can’t live without you

warnings. fem! reader, ex husband nanami, mating press, breeding kink, praise kink, slight whiney nanami. mdni.

an. thank u bb!! xo i want him so bad

ex husband nanami that’s completely infatuated with you. he’s never stopped fully loving you—you probably never stopped him either. his touch against you was gentle, he’d watch as you’d try to cover your face with your hand. beneath him, nanami lets off a grunt with a idle hand pressing against your tummy.

“nono, don’t do that,” he whispers, the feeling of his wedding ring he’d never take off skims against your skin. “i wanna see my wife before she makes another mess on me.”

wife.

a term he’d always call you, despite the two of you not exactly being together. yet you’d always find yourself back in nanami’s arms, in his bed.. vice versa.

“k-kento,” you’d gasp, each thrust he creates has the bed creaking and creaking. you gawk as nanami once he grabs your hand to kiss it. twice, the softness of his lips that ran against your skin made your heart swoon. “fuck, you’re so—big.”

“perfect size for you, sweetheart,” he sighs, and he picks the position specifically just to see your face…purely to study your facial expressions, planting a plethora of kisses all over your face. “god, you don’t know how much i’ve missed you.”

he was so thick, stretching you out with such ease like an elastic band—your walls forevermore clamped against him and you bit the inside of your cheek with your eyes rolling back. “so just let me show you, sweetheart.”

as nanami maintained a thorough pace, he was visibly sweating a bit.. not much to your surprise.

beads of it ran down the side of his partly arched eyebrows, his jawline was perfectly sharp each time he clenched his jaw and it was unintentionally sexy.

“w-woman, whenever you look at me like that…” he groans.

the way your walls gripped him oh so tight, it left him speechless. nanami had your legs just dangling in the air as he’s hitting against your cunt with such sloppy erotic thrusts.

your ears ring vividly as your lip trembles in pleasure. “makes me wanna give you another baby.”

“do it then, kento.” you moaned, and for a second the two of you make direct eye contact. his heart pounds and nanami gives you a soft glance.

a sheepish grin going across his pink lips. he lets off a moan right against your ear, “…baby, i just might. ‘m so pent up ‘n full for you. should give you triplets this time. i always adored how you looked with a pretty rounded tummy.”

his brutal hits against you, the way he pivots his hips each time, you’re left with your mouth dumbly dangling open, nails carving into his skin. “oh my g-god, kento. keep hitting me right there, pleasepleaseee.”

he’s plugging into you with such soft force, your legs nearly give out. nanami’s low husky grunts against your ear makes you throb for more.

“i will,” he mutters, grabbing your hand to give it another kiss. “you’re so pretty like this. am i making you feel good? speak to me, my love.”

all that escaped from your lips was a soft, “mhm.”

“that’s all you can give me?” he teases, leaning in to plant a soft kiss near your mouth. nanami’s fingers graciously ghosts against the middle part of your neck. he swipes a thumb against it, smothering you with kisses until he left you gasping for air. his dick reached the deepest parts of you, the curve he had fully expanding into you and you’re just a whiney mess. “my wife’s never been this soft spoken.”

“i— i’m gonna cummm,” you babbled, a sensitive cluster of nerves brewing up from the inside. “kento. ‘s gonna—”

as he’s buried into you, he lets off a soft whine at the way your cunt tugged against him. the filthy wet sounds between your legs created reverberated across the room.

“look at me, look at me.” your eyes dart towards him and his smile was so warm and gentle. you feel the way every few seconds his cock was disappear inside your folds, in and out and your eyes just rolled and rolled. “you drive me insane,” he grumbles, his thrusts began to become more unkept and dirty. his fingers intertwine with yours before he whispers in a broken voice. “marry me again.”

“kento,” you moaned, and he stares deeply into your eyes, bringing a few more kisses towards the center of your mouth. you found yourself speechless, forever being coddled with his warmth from how he’s just so gentle with you. his weight gingerly hovered against you before he lets off a sigh, stroking your cheek. “re-marry?”

he lets off a grunt once he feels your droopy legs just brush all against his back. you’re constantly moving all because of him and it makes him smile. “i’d give anything just to see you in a pretty white dress a-again.”

for a split second, his words gets cut off and he laments lowly at how your pussy gripped him tightly with much needed force. “sweetheart, ‘m gonna fill you…you want that?”

“please,” you whined, practically hugging his back. this position was so lewd — nanami always expressed his love for mating press, it was so affectionate not to mention intimate. he’d always have a good enough excuse just to see your cute expressions right when you were about to orgasm.

“anything for my girl,” he murmurs into your neck, and his voice gets a bit pitchy — whiney even. forlorn and almost desperate, he was trembling on his words from how sensitive you had him, a nanami you don’t think you’ve ever experienced this version with. “so full for you,” he whispers, licking a strick up your neck before claiming your hands against with his.

you feel his ring graze against your palm as he’s quickening his pace just a tad bit. “just for you though, j-just for you.”

once nanami cums, it’s so thick. lengthy ropes spew into your cunt and your legs were left twitching, just clinging onto his waist. nanami’s softly panting against your ear, murmuring how gorgeous you were, how pretty you looked, and most importantly….how charming you’d look with your tummy plump for him again.

“come here,” you’d moan, picking up nanami’s head so he could face you directly. you’d hastily bring him into a warm kiss and he returns in, swabbing a thumb across your cheek before he groans into your mouth.

nanami’s heart raced—you were forever perfect in his eyes, each second the kiss lasted, he craved more of you. still buried inside of you, you feel his palm softly press down against your tummy and you moan. the moment he pulls away, nanami takes off his ring before placing it inside of your hand, kissing your hand afterwards.

“think about it, for me?”

#★vegasbaby.#nanami kento smut #nanami x you #nanami x reader #kento nanami x reader #nanami smut #nanami kento x reader #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujustsu kaisen x reader #female reader #anime smut

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queenofwands89 · 10 months ago

Text

Quiet Affections

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x Pilot!reader

Summary: After her friends tease her about Jake having a crush on her, Y/N reflects on certain memories that make her question whether there might be some truth to their playful jabs.

Warnings: Teasing, pining, Jake being a sweetheart, Y/N being oblivious, insults aimed at Y/N, protective Jake, mention and description of injury, anxiety, doubts, fluff.

Notes: Happy Friday, everyone! We made it! 🎉 I just hit 2,500 likes on here and wanted to thank each and every one of you who liked, reblogged, or commented on my works. It means the world to me. I’m down bad for Jake, and need him badly so I wrote this. Enjoy byeeee

You find yourself deep in the heart of the Hard Deck, the familiar hum of chatter and clinking glasses forming a comforting backdrop. Rooster, Natasha, Javy, Bob, Reuben, and Mickey are clustered around the pool table, laughter spilling freely as they take turns making shots and throwing jabs. Jake had just excused himself to go to the restroom, but not before brushing a lingering hand against your shoulder and whispering something that made you smile. This action set off a chain reaction of teasing directed at you.

"Y/N, you know Hangman’s got a huge crush on you, right?" Rooster's mustache twitches with a sly smile as he lines up for his shot.

You laugh it off, waving a hand dismissively. "Oh please, Bradley. Jake? No way. He's just... nice."

Rooster and Natasha exchange glances before Natasha cocks an eyebrow at you. "Nice? Hangman is many things, but nice isn't the first word I'd use. Unless he’s talking to you," she remarks, tapping her cue stick against her palm.

Bob, always the quiet observer, chimes in. "He's got a point though, Y/N. I've seen how he looks at you."

You can't help but roll your eyes. "I'm just completely unaware of it," you say, sarcasm dripping from your voice. "You guys are ridiculous."

Mickey grins, his boyish charm lighting up his face. "Maybe, but can you really deny the way he's always got your back?" he asks, leaning casually against the pool table.

Your first instinct is to rebut, but as their words settle in, you start to think about some of the things Jake had done for you. Not just the grand gestures like saving your hide in aerial combat, but the small, everyday things. The way he'd always save you a seat, bring you coffee exactly how you like it, offer subtle words of encouragement when you doubted yourself.

Javy steps forward, his competitive spirit twinkling in his eyes. "You're telling me you haven't noticed how he always goes out of his way to make sure you're okay?"

Reuben, good-natured but always vigilant, nods in agreement. "Hangman's not exactly an altruistic guy, Y/N. But for you? He'd go to lengths he wouldn't for anyone else."

You crack a wry smile, determined to stay firm in your denial. "He's just protective. We're teammates."

Natasha had already joined in, her voice warm yet teasing. “Don’t sell yourself short, Y/N. It’s not just about being teammates. He genuinely cares.”

In the ensuing silence, you can't help but ponder on their words. Jake "Hangman" Seresin is charismatic and assertive, traits forged from his exceptional flying skills and competitive nature. But beneath that cocky exterior, there lies a heart incredibly loving and caring, willing to sacrifice anything for his loved ones. Slowly, you find yourself drifting into a vivid memory, reliving the countless cherished moments and experiences you've shared with Jake.

You recall that evening at the Hard Deck vividly. The bar was buzzing with the usual chatter and laughter, the hum of camaraderie filling the air. You were amidst your friends, enjoying the rare downtime when an unfamiliar voice cut through the noise—this stranger making an offhand but cruel remark about you. The comment was subtle, yet it stung deeply, rooting you in place with a mix of shock and mortification. Your cheeks burned under the weight of the ridicule, words lodged in your throat.

Before you could muster a response, you felt Jake's presence beside you, solid and reassuring. He stepped forward, placing himself between you and the offender. His usual easy going demeanor was replaced by a steely resolve, his eyes dark with anger. "Do us all a favor and think before you speak," he said, his voice steady but carrying an unmistakable edge.

The bar fell into an uneasy silence as Jake’s glare pinned the offender in place. "If you've got a problem with Y/N," he continued, his voice low and unwavering, "you’ll be dealing with me."

The tension hung in the air, thick and palpable. The offender, unable to match Jake's intensity, muttered an apology and slunk away, deflated. The moment passed, but the impact lingered. Jake remained there a moment longer, ensuring the threat had fully dissipated before turning back to you.

As he met your gaze, the hardness in his features softened, replaced by a gentle concern. He reached out, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. "You okay?" he asked, his voice filled with a tenderness reserved just for you.

You felt an overwhelming wave of gratitude, the initial embarrassment giving way to a profound sense of relief. Jake had stood up for you without a second thought, his protective instinct leaving no room for compromise. In that moment, you knew you were safe, not just physically but emotionally, knowing Jake had your back. His touch and the concern in his eyes reassured you even more, providing a solace that words alone could not.

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

Then there was the night when you couldn’t sleep, tormented by insecurities that gnawed at the edges of your mind. It was long past midnight, and you found yourself seated on the deck of the aircraft carrier, trying to get some fresh air to clear your head before the mission. The vast expanse of the ocean and the cool night breeze did little to quiet the whirlwind of self-doubt swirling inside you.

The stars dotted the sky like tiny beacons, and the waves below gently lapped against the ship's hull, but none of it brought you peace. You wrapped your arms around yourself, tense and lost in thought, barely noticing the sound of footsteps approaching.

Jake emerged from the shadows, his silhouette becoming clearer in the soft glow of the ship's lights. He paused when he saw you, his brow furrowing with concern. He looked around, ensuring no one else was around, before walking over to you with determined but careful strides.

"Y/N, what's wrong?" he asked, his voice breaking the solitude with an edge of worry.

You hesitated, feeling foolish for bothering him. "I…I just can't stop thinking about everything that's been going wrong. I don't know if I'm cut out for this, Jake."

Jake's eyes softened, and he lowered himself to sit beside you on the cold metal deck. "Tell me more," he said gently, coaxing you to open up. His voice was so steady, so soothing, that you found yourself pouring out all your fears and anxieties—the relentless pressure, the fear of failure, the nagging feeling that you weren't good enough. With each word, you felt a weight lifting from your chest.

Jake listened without interrupting, his usual cocky demeanor replaced by an unwavering focus on you. His eyes never left your face, and his expression remained kind and attentive. "You know what I see when I look at you?" he said quietly once you had finished. "I see someone who's brave, who fights every day to be better, who cares deeply about others. You're stronger than you think, Y/N. Don't let those doubts control you."

His words felt like a balm to your soul, soothing the raw edges of your insecurities. When he reached out to brush a stray tear from your cheek, the warmth of his touch and the sincerity in his eyes melted away your remaining doubts, leaving you wrapped in a cocoon of reassurance. Sitting there on the deck, under the endless sky, you felt profoundly grateful for Jake's unwavering support and the strength he helped you find within yourself.

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

You also remember the time when you injured your ankle during a training exercise. You had insisted on limping back to your quarters, trying to maintain your independence. But Jake wouldn't hear of it. He had scooped you up without a second thought, cradling you in his arms as if you weighed nothing. "I've got you," he murmured, his voice laced with an uncharacteristic gentleness. The entire trek back, he kept you engaged in light-hearted banter, ensuring your mind stayed off the pain.

. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ . ⋆ * .♡ *:･ﾟ. ݁ ˖ ࣪ .

And how could you forget the morning he had brought you coffee? Not just any coffee, but a complex, personalized concoction—an oat milk latte with a shot of caramel, a pinch of cinnamon, and a dash of nutmeg, and no foam. You hadn’t even mentioned it to him before. "Thought you could use a pick-me-up," he had said nonchalantly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. But you knew the effort he had put into remembering such a detailed order, and it made your heart swell with an unfamiliar warmth.

These memories play in your mind like a cherished montage, each moment a testament to the man beneath the bravado. Jake "Hangman" Seresin wasn’t just the cocky pilot everyone else saw. He was a protector, a confidant, a friend who cared deeply for you, even if you had been too blind to see it before.

Returning back to the present moment amidst the lively ambiance of the Hard Deck, surrounded by the warmth of friends and laughter, you notice Jake returning from the restroom. As your eyes meet, his familiar smirk emerges, but this time there’s a tender softness in his gaze that you hadn’t noticed before—or perhaps, hadn't allowed yourself to see.

“Miss me?” he jokes, sliding back into the chaos of pool cues and friendly banter.

You chuckle, shaking off the speculative thoughts. “Like a bad habit, Seresin.”

But later, as the night winds down and the camaraderie ebbs into a quieter hum, you catch yourself glancing his way more often. The teasing remarks of your friends aren’t so easily dismissed anymore. And as Jake catches your gaze across the room, you start to wonder if maybe, just maybe, they might be onto something.

Because sometimes, the most significant realizations are the ones that had been right in front of you all along, masked by the comfort of friendship and the chaos of duty.

You smile to yourself, feeling an inexplicable warmth. Maybe it was time to see what was beyond the camaraderie, to delve into the possibilities of what if. The thought lingers, like an unopened letter, waiting for the right moment.

For now, you return to the laughter and games, but with a new awareness, a curiosity that couldn’t be easily shaken. One thing was for sure—things were going to get interesting.

Text divider credits: @bunnysrph

2K notes · View notes

calypso-rt · 4 months ago

Text

detour!

with the insufferable Rafe Cameron

| one | | two | | three | | four |

-> Rafe x F!reader

The wedding weekend is officially over.

Guests filter out of the lodge in clusters, some nursing hangovers, others waving sentimental goodbyes.

You stand near the gravel lot, arms crossed, watching as JJ dramatically drapes himself over the hood of Kiara’s car, claiming he’s “too emotionally fragile to leave yet.” Sarah is nearby, laughing as she helps John B pack up.

And then there’s you, trying very hard not to glance at Rafe, who stands a few feet away, running a hand through his hair as he checks his phone.

You pretend you’re not listening when someone calls your name.

“You need a ride?”

You turn to see Luke, one of the Pogues’ older friends, dangling his keys. “I’ve got room in the truck,” he adds. “Figured you wouldn’t wanna be stuck with him all the way back.”

Your lips part, instinct ready to say yes, because of course, that makes sense. It’s logical. No reason to put yourself through hours of close quarters tension with Rafe when you could ride with someone else.

But then...

You glance over.

And Rafe is looking at you.

Not like he’s expecting anything. Not like he’s waiting. Just... watching.

It’s subtle, but you catch the way his shoulders stiffen slightly, the way his fingers tighten around his phone. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t try to sway you.

He just looks away, like he already knows what you’re going to say.

And suddenly, for some reason, you hesitate.

“…Actually,” you say slowly, turning back to Luke. “I think I’ll just drive with Rafe.”

Luke raises a brow, glancing between you two. “You sure?”

No.

“Yes,” you say instead.

From the corner of your eye, you swear you see Rafe’s posture relax.

Luke shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He tosses his keys in the air and catches them before strolling off toward his truck.

You exhale, turning toward Rafe, who’s still looking at his phone like he wasn’t just listening to the whole thing.

“Guess we should hit the road,” you say, shifting on your feet.

Rafe nods, pocketing his phone. “Yeah.” He glances at you, something unreadable in his gaze before he steps toward the car.

You follow, trying to ignore the way your stomach twists at the thought of spending the next few hours trapped in a car with him.

You tell yourself it’ll be fine.

It’s just a ride.

Nothing else.

…Right?

...

The first ten minutes are quiet.

You scroll through your playlist, pretending to be deep in thought while Rafe focuses on the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gear shift. The soft hum of the engine fills the space between you, mixed with the occasional sound of his fingers tapping against the leather steering wheel.

It’s fine. Normal.

Until he ruins it.

“I still can’t believe you actually chose to ride with me.”

You don’t look up. “Would you rather I hadn’t?”

He smirks, eyes on the road. “Nah. Just figured I scared you off after our little honeymoon suite experience.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Oh, our honeymoon suite experience? Pretty sure I was the victim there.”

“Victim?” He scoffs. “Sweetheart, you got to share a bed with me. That’s a privilege, not a punishment.”

You make a face. “You stole the covers.”

“I was the covers.”

“I had to wake up in the middle of the night and rip them out of your death grip.”

Rafe snorts. “Yeah, and then you practically wrapped yourself around me in your sleep. Should’ve just admitted you wanted to cuddle.”

You gape at him. “I did not—”

“Oh, you definitely did,” he lies smoothly, knowing full well he was the one doing the cuddling. “Don’t worry, though. I won’t hold it against you.”

You groan, sinking into your seat. “I should’ve taken Luke’s truck.”

“You say that,” Rafe muses, “but we both know you’d miss me if I wasn’t here.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips, because—ugh. You hate when he does that. When he says something in that half-joking, half-serious way that makes it impossible to tell if he actually means it.

He flicks a glance at you. “Admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“That you’d be bored without me.”

You huff, crossing your arms. “Fine. I admit that without you, I’d be peacefully enjoying my music without someone inflating their ego next to me.”

Rafe chuckles. “Fair enough.”

Silence settles again, but this time, it’s different. Easier.

Then—

Your favorite song comes on.

And you barely have time to register it before Rafe reaches over and

Clicks ‘Next’.

Your gasp is pure outrage. “Excuse me?”

“Nope,” he says, entirely unrepentant, keeping his eyes on the road.

“That was my song!”

“Yeah, well, I’m driving. My car, my rules.”

You shove his arm. “It’s a universal rule that the passenger gets aux.”

“Not when the passenger has terrible taste.”

Your jaw drops. “You listen to EDM remixes of country songs, you absolute menace—”

“Hey, those go hard.”

“You’re deranged.”

He grins, and you know—you know—he’s doing this just to mess with you.

So you yank the phone off the dashboard and put your song back on.

Rafe groans. “You’re the worst.”

But you catch it.

The way his grip flexes slightly on the wheel. The way his lips twitch like he’s fighting a real smile.

The way, when he glances at you, there’s something softer in his expression than he probably realizes.

And you tell yourself not to overthink it.

Because, at the end of the day, this is just a drive.

Nothing else.

...Right?

...

It starts with a sputter.

A tiny, almost imperceptible hiccup in the engine.

You barely notice at first, too focused on the battle for control of the aux cord, your foot propped up on the dashboard while you scroll through playlists. But then the car gives a little lurch.

“Uh… what the hell was that?”

Rafe frowns, glancing down at the dashboard. “No clue.”

You both wait.

Another sputter. Another jolt.

Then, the car just… dies.

No dramatic explosion, no smoke billowing out from under the hood, just a slow, pathetic roll to a stop on the side of the road.

Rafe stares straight ahead, hands still gripping the wheel like he can will the car back to life.

You blink. “Oh, this is rich.”

Rafe exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “No. No, no, no this cannot be happening right now.”

You snort. “I don’t know, Rafe. I think it just happened.”

He shoots you a look. “Not helping.”

You give him an innocent smile, but your amusement is short-lived as you glance around. The road is practically deserted, the nearest gas station at least ten miles back, and you don’t even have enough service to load a map.

Fantastic.

Rafe sighs, popping the hood and stepping out of the car. You follow, leaning against the door as he pokes around the engine, muttering curses under his breath.

After a minute, you arch a brow. “So? What’s the diagnosis, car expert?”

He gives you a flat look. “The diagnosis is that my car just randomly died and we’re stranded in the middle of nowhere.”

You hum. “Sounds serious.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

Silence.

“So, how long until you fix it?” you ask sweetly.

Rafe groans, straightening up. “I swear to God, if you don’t stop talking—”

You smirk. “What? You afraid I’ll say I told you so?”

He glares. “You didn’t tell me anything.”

You shrug. “I thought about telling you to get your car checked before the trip. So technically, I was psychically right.”

Rafe closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. “I’m gonna lose my mind.”

“Bit late for that.”

He shoots you a glare, but there’s no real bite to it. If anything, there’s a twitch at the corner of his lips, like even he can’t help but be a little amused.

And that’s when he spots it.

Just past the treeline, a sloping hill gives way to a cluster of rooftops in the distance. A tiny town, tucked into the base of the mountains, nestled in a sea of green and gold wildflowers.

Rafe gestures toward it. “Town’s not far. We can walk there, find someone to tow the car.”

You glance down at your shoes, cute, yes, but entirely impractical for a trek through nature. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “Fine. But if I die of heat stroke or get mauled by a bear, I’m coming back to haunt you.”

Rafe smirks. “Hot and a little unhinged. Gotta say, sweetheart, I like the energy.”

You shove his shoulder, but then he grins at you. That easy, boyish, almost-too-charming grin.

And against all logic, you can’t help but grin back.

...

The walk starts out fine.

Mostly because you are still convinced that if you complain enough, Rafe will magically fix the car with sheer willpower alone.

“That was a perfectly good vehicle,” you mutter as you trudge behind him. “A working one. One that had air conditioning and, oh, I don’t know, wheels.”

Rafe snorts, stepping over a fallen branch. “Really? Hadn’t noticed.”

You huff, swatting at a mosquito. “This is your fault.”

“How, exactly?”

“You jinxed it.” You dodge a shrub. “I bet if I were driving, we’d be at our homes by now.”

He turns slightly, giving you an unimpressed look. “You can’t drive stick.”

You wave a hand dismissively. “Details.”

Rafe chuckles, shaking his head, and despite the situation, despite the heat and the uneven trail, you don’t totally hate this.

Because it’s… nice out here.

Golden wildflowers stretch out in every direction, brushing against your legs as the two of you weave through the hills. The sun is just starting to dip lower in the sky, casting a honeyed glow over everything, and the town ahead looks like something straight out of a movie: rustic, picturesque, the kind of place that seems frozen in time.

Rafe slows down, glancing back at you. “You okay?”

Your face is flushed from the heat, a few strands of hair sticking to your forehead. You wipe them away, rolling your eyes. “Peachy.”

He smirks but doesn’t push it. Instead, he reaches out, casually and easily, and plucks a wildflower from beside the trail.

Then he tucks it behind your ear.

Your breath catches, because he does it so effortlessly, so naturally, like it’s a completely normal thing for him to do.

You blink up at him.

Rafe just smirks, like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“There. Now you match the scenery.”

You scoff, ignoring the way your pulse flutters. “That was so corny.”

He grins. “Yeah, but it worked, didn’t it?”

You shake your head, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, you push ahead, pretending to be much more interested in reaching the town than in the fact that Rafe Cameron just tucked a flower behind your ear like you’re in some kind of romantic montage.

The trail dips, curving around a small stream, and then you finally step onto a paved road.

The town is small but charming, lined with old-fashioned lampposts and brick buildings with hanging flower baskets. There’s a diner on the corner with twinkling lights in the windows, a little gas station down the street, and an inn with a wraparound porch.

You exhale. “Civilization. Finally.”

Rafe stretches his arms over his head, cracking his neck. “Not bad. Could be worse.”

“Could be worse?” You give him a look. “I just had to hike in a dress, Rafe. Through the wilderness. I think I saw my life flash before my eyes twice.”

He rolls his eyes but grins. “You’re so dramatic.”

You’re about to retort when your stomach growls loudly.

Rafe smirks. “Food first?”

You sigh, resigning yourself to the fact that he is your only option right now. “Fine.”

...

The town is even cuter up close.

The streets are lined with cobblestone sidewalks, little boutiques with painted signs, and cozy brick buildings that look like they belong in a Hallmark movie. String lights crisscross above the main road, swaying gently in the late afternoon breeze, and the air smells like fresh bread, coffee, and something sweet... maybe pie.

You and Rafe step out of the diner, bell jingling behind you, stomachs full and feet finally rested. You should probably be focused on finding a way back, but right now the town is too charming to ignore.

“We should explore,” you say decisively, brushing crumbs off your dress.

Rafe gives you a look. “Explore?”

“Yes.” You gesture around. “Look at this place! When’s the next time we’re going to be stranded in the cutest town on the planet?”

His lips twitch like he wants to argue, but then his gaze sweeps over the town, taking in the fairy lights, the warm glow from shop windows, the distant sound of a street musician playing guitar.

He exhales. “Alright, fine. But if you drag me into some candle store that smells like fifty different flavors of vanilla, I’m walking back to the car.”

You grin, already leading the way.

The first stop is a bookstore, one of those tiny, independently owned ones with towering bookshelves. The air inside is warm, filled with the scent of old paper and lavender tea from a little café in the corner.

You trail your fingers along the spines, stopping when you recognize one of your favorites. “Oh—this one’s so good.”

Rafe raises a brow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say distractedly, flipping through the pages. Then, without thinking, you blurt, “You’d like it.”

There’s a pause.

When you glance up, Rafe is watching you, expression unreadable.

You clear your throat, shoving the book back onto the shelf. “Anyway. Next store.”

He smirks but doesn’t push it.

The next stop is an antique shop, filled with mismatched furniture, vintage postcards, and dusty record players.

Rafe immediately starts messing with things.

“What about this?” He holds up an atrocious ceramic cat figurine, complete with googly eyes.

You grimace. “If you buy that, I’m never speaking to you again.”

He grins. “Tempting.”

You roll your eyes, wandering over to a glass case filled with old jewelry. There’s something oddly romantic about it: lockets that have held secrets for decades, rings that have witnessed love stories long before yours.

You glance at Rafe. He’s already watching you, something soft in his expression.

You turn away before he can say anything.

Then, of course, there’s the candle store.

“I knew this would happen,” Rafe groans as you drag him inside.

“Just one candle!” you insist.

“You’re not even gonna buy one,” he mutters, trailing behind you as you pick up different scents and inhale deeply. “You’re gonna spend twenty minutes sniffing them and then walk out emptyhanded.”

You give him an innocent smile. “That’s half the fun.”

He grumbles something under his breath, but when he thinks you’re not looking, he picks up a candle labeled Stormy Nights and sniffs it.

You catch him, of course.

“Oh my God.” You gasp, clutching your chest in mock surprise. “You like this store.”

He immediately puts the candle down. “Do not start.”

You laugh, linking your arm through his before he can escape. “Come on, Rafe. Just embrace it.”

He groans, but he doesn’t pull away.

By the time the sun sets, you’ve somehow ended up at the town’s little lake, sitting on a wooden dock as the sky fades into deep indigo, the first stars appearing above. The town glows behind you, reflections shimmering on the water, the distant hum of conversation and soft music carrying through the night.

You sigh, dipping your fingers into the cool water. “Okay. I’ll admit it.”

Rafe leans back on his elbows. “Admit what?”

You glance at him. “This… wasn’t the worst way to be stranded.”

A smirk tugs at his lips. “Wow. The high praise is overwhelming.”

You nudge him with your foot, but he catches your ankle, his grip warm, solid. His thumb brushes lightly over your skin before he lets go.

Your stomach flips.

You look away, suddenly very interested in the water.

Rafe exhales. “We should probably figure out where we’re staying.”

You groan. “Please don’t say honeymoon suite.”

His smirk is way too smug. “I wasn’t gonna say it, but now that you mention it...”

You shove him, and he laughs, standing up and offering you a hand.

You hesitate for half a second, then take it.

The night is warm, the town glowing, and somehow, somehow, this doesn’t feel like a disaster anymore.

It almost feels… nice.

...

“No vacancies?” you echo, staring blankly at the woman behind the front desk.

She offers an apologetic smile. “Unfortunately, with the festival this weekend, every place in town is booked solid. We had one cancellation earlier, but another couple just claimed it.”

You slowly turn to Rafe.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Great. Love that.”

The desk clerk hesitates. “There is… one option.”

You perk up. “Yes. We’ll take it.”

Rafe shoots you a wary glance. “You don’t even know what it is.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s better than sleeping in the car.”

The woman shifts, clearly trying to phrase this delicately. “Well… it’s not exactly a room.”

Your excitement dims. “...What do you mean?”

She winces. “It’s a guest cottage.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Rafe muses.

She quickly adds, “It’s also part of the romantic getaway package.”

Your stomach drops.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you mutter, already knowing where this is going. Talk about deja vu.

Rafe, to his credit, is at least trying to suppress his laughter. “You mean… like, a honeymoon suite?”

“More like a honeymoon cabin,” she corrects. “Cozy, intimate, fully stocked with all the romantic touches—”

“I don’t need the details,” you cut in.

“I kind of do,” Rafe counters.

You glare at him. He grins.

The woman hesitates. “So… will you take it?”

Rafe looks at you expectantly, like he’s waiting for you to reject it.

You want to. You really do. But at this point, you’re exhausted, your legs are sore, and the thought of sleeping in the car, especially with Rafe Cameron, is a level of misery you refuse to endure.

You exhale. “Fine.”

Rafe blinks. “Wait, seriously?”

You cross your arms. “Unless you want to sleep in the car?”

His smirk returns in full force. “Nah, sweetheart. If you want to shack up in a love nest with me, who am I to say no?”

You groan, rubbing your temples as the desk clerk hands over the key.

The moment you step inside, your jaw actually drops.

It’s adorable.

A rustic little log cabin, lit with soft golden lighting and warmed by a stone fireplace. The bed has plush white bedding with more rose petals scattered on top, and there’s an open balcony that overlooks a lake, reflecting the stars above.

“Oh my God,” you whisper. “It’s actually cute.”

Rafe whistles behind you. “Hate to say it, but I think this might be nicer than the first honeymoon suite.”

You slowly turn, narrowing your eyes. “Are you saying you enjoyed the first one?”

He shrugs, tossing his bag onto the bed. “I dunno. Kinda grew on me.”

“You’re insane.”

He just smirks, toeing off his shoes before flopping back onto the bed.

You groan. “Rafe.”

“Babe,” he says, mimicking your annoyed tone, “the sooner you accept that you love being stuck with me, the easier your life will be.”

You throw a pillow at him.

He catches it, because of course he does.

You decide to explore the cabin, mostly to ignore the fact that you’re about to share a bed with Rafe again.

The kitchen is surprisingly nice, stocked with chocolates and a bottle of wine (which Rafe immediately opens, because of course he does).

The balcony is probably your favorite part: warm summer air, twinkling lights, the lake stretching out beyond the trees.

You lean on the railing, inhaling the fresh air.

Rafe appears beside you, two wine glasses in hand. “Here.”

You take one, surprised when he doesn’t make a snarky comment about you accepting a drink from him. Instead, he clinks his glass against yours.

“To… surviving another night together,” he says, voice lighter than usual.

You snort. “Cheers to that.”

You both drink, settling into a comfortable silence as the stars shimmer above.

You don’t feel stranded.

You just feel calm.

Which, with Rafe Cameron, is kind of a miracle.

...

You stare at the bed. The one bed.

Again.

“What are the odds?” Rafe muses, standing beside you, wine glass still in hand.

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Oh, I don’t know, Rafe. Maybe it’s because we keep getting shoved into romantic lodging situations like some kind of sick cosmic joke.”

He chuckles. “Could be worse.”

“How?” you ask flatly.

He hums, considering. “The bed could be heart-shaped again.”

You shudder at the memory of the first honeymoon suite. “Don’t even speak that into existence.”

Rafe just grins, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt lifts just slightly, and you hate that your eyes flicker downward for a second too long.

Noticing your hesitation, he smirks. “You taking the left or right?”

“I’m taking the whole thing,” you deadpan. “You can sleep on the floor.”

He snorts. “Yeah, okay, princess.”

Rolling your eyes, you grab your pajamas from your bag and retreat into the bathroom.

By the time you step back into the room, Rafe is already sprawled across the entire bed, hands behind his head like he owns the place.

You glare. “Seriously?”

He smirks. “What? You were gone forever. Thought you bailed.”

“It’s been five minutes.”

“Exactly.”

You huff, marching over and shoving his legs aside so you can climb in. He chuckles but lets you settle in, shifting onto his side to face you.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. The room is quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the fireplace. The wine has left you warm, making the dim lighting feel even softer.

“…Thanks for staying,” Rafe says suddenly, voice quieter than usual.

You glance over, caught off guard. “What?”

He doesn’t meet your eyes. “Back at the lodge. You could’ve left with that Luke guy.”

You hesitate. “I almost did.”

He lets out a dry chuckle. “Yeah. I noticed.”

You shift onto your side, mirroring him. “Why did you look so upset?”

Rafe tenses, just slightly. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something sarcastic, but then stops. Closes it.

Then, finally:

“…Didn’t want to drive back alone.”

It’s quiet.

Your stomach does a weird little flip.

You swallow, gripping the edge of the blanket. “Oh.”

Rafe clears his throat. “I mean, who else would keep me entertained? Can’t exactly banter with myself.”

There it is. The deflection.

But it’s too late. You already heard the honesty in his voice before it.

Smiling softly, you nudge his foot under the covers. “You’d probably try.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Maybe.”

Silence settles again, but this time, it’s comfortable.

Eventually, your eyelids grow heavy. You barely register the way Rafe shifts closer, the warmth of him seeping through the covers.

And just before you drift off, you swear you hear him mumble:

“…Kinda glad you stayed.”

Your lips part, but sleep pulls you under before you can respond.

And in the soft glow of the fire, Rafe watches you for just a second longer.

Then, quietly, he closes his eyes too.

...

The scent of fresh coffee drifts through the air, pulling you from the depths of sleep. The warmth of the blankets is inviting, but something else is even warmer.

You blink groggily.

Rafe.

Still asleep. Still close. Still very much in your personal space.

At some point during the night, he must have shifted even closer. His arm is draped lazily over your waist, his face relaxed in a way you don’t usually see.

For a second, you let yourself take it in. The soft rise and fall of his chest, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his fingers twitch slightly in his sleep.

Then reality slams back into you.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

You try to move—try being the key word—because the second you shift even an inch, Rafe groans and pulls you closer.

Your eyes widen. “Rafe.”

“Mmm,” he mutters, voice still thick with sleep. His grip tightens slightly, like you’re a pillow he refuses to let go of.

You freeze. “Rafe.”

Another groggy noise.

“Five more minutes,” he grumbles against your hair.

Your face burns.

You push at his shoulder. “Get off.”

“Mm-mm.”

“Rafe.”

A beat.

Then, suddenly, he tenses.

You can feel the exact second he realizes what’s happening.

His eyes snap open. He pulls back, just slightly, blinking at you with a confused, half-awake expression. Then, very slowly, his gaze flickers down to where his arm is still around you.

He smirks.

“Oh, good morning, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice smug. “Sleep well?”

You shove him. Hard.

He laughs as he rolls onto his back, stretching like he wasn’t just wrapped around you like a human koala. “Don’t need coffee when I’ve got you to wake me up so rudely.”

“I will smother you with a pillow,” you grumble, sitting up and raking a hand through your hair.

He grins, propping himself up on his elbows. “Bet you wouldn’t have minded if I looked like that guy from the bakery yesterday.”

You throw a pillow at him.

Bakery guy didn't even hold a candle to a half-sleepy Rafe Cameron.

He catches it, still grinning. “Alright, alright, truce. But if you wanna cuddle again tonight, just say the word.”

You grab the other pillow and whack him with it.

After breakfast at the little café down the street (where Rafe insists on making a dramatic show of stealing bites from your plate), you wander into town, only to find it completely transformed.

Colorful stalls line the streets, people bustling around with baskets filled with fresh flowers, handmade crafts, and sweet-smelling pastries.

You blink. “Whoa.”

Rafe raises an eyebrow. “Did we walk into a Disney movie?”

You spot a sign near the entrance of the market, scrawled in elegant cursive. Annual Wildflower Festival – Welcome!

Grinning, you nudge Rafe’s arm. “Looks like we have plans today.”

He groans. “You want to be surrounded by pollen?”

“Yes.” You grab his wrist, tugging him toward the nearest stall. “Come on, grump.”

He mutters something about “allergic reactions” but follows anyway.

You weave through the crowd, admiring bouquets of vibrant wildflowers and stopping to sample homemade lavender honey. At one stall, an elderly woman waves you over, offering you a delicate flower crown made of soft blue forget-me-nots.

“For you, dear,” she says kindly. “And one for your boyfriend too.”

Before you can correct her, Rafe just smirks and leans down slightly. “Yeah, sweetheart. Put it on me.”

You glare at him but place the crown on his head anyway, pressing it down a little too firmly.

He tilts his head. “How do I look?”

“Ridiculous.”

He winks. “Good. That means we match.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart does a little flip anyway.

...

The drive back is slower this time. Not because of car trouble this time but because neither of you seem to be in any hurry. The windows are down, the late afternoon sun painting the world in gold, and the scent of wildflowers still lingers in the air, mixed with the crisp mountain breeze.

You stretch your legs out, sighing dramatically. “If I never have to trek down a winding road in the middle of nowhere again, it’ll be too soon.”

Rafe snorts, flicking his blinker on as he pulls onto the highway. “Oh, come on. You loved it.”

You turn your head to glare at him. “I tolerated it.”

He hums, like he doesn’t believe you. “You didn’t complain that much.”

“That’s because I was too busy wondering if we’d end up as one of those missing persons cases.”

He glances over, smirking. “Yeah? And who was it that said, ‘Okay, fine, maybe this is kind of nice’ when we stopped at that overlook?”

Your jaw drops. “I did not say that.”

“Oh, you definitely did.”

“You’re misremembering.”

“Sure, sweetheart.” He adjusts his grip on the wheel, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You huff, crossing your arms. “Next time, I’m taking the ride back with someone else.”

“Next time?”

You freeze.

Damn it.

Rafe doesn’t say anything at first, just drums his fingers against the steering wheel, eyes on the road. But then, softly, almost teasingly, he adds, “Guess that means you didn’t hate it that much.”

You don’t answer.

You don’t want to answer, because he’s right, and if you say it out loud, it’ll mean something more than just a banter-filled road trip gone wrong.

Instead, you reach over, stealing the sunglasses hooked onto his shirt and sliding them on like they’re yours.

Rafe makes an affronted noise. “Seriously?”

“Consider it payment for keeping me alive.”

He grumbles something under his breath but doesn’t actually take them back. Instead, he glances over at you, at the oversized frames sitting just a little too big on your face, and shakes his head with a barely-there smile.

And just like that, the silence settles again. But it’s not uncomfortable. It’s not filled with things left unsaid.

It’s just easy.

And as the car rolls on, the sun dipping lower behind the mountains, you realize something.

You kind of don’t want the drive to end.

Taglist: @drewstarkeyslover, @honeybee270, @melsbels-zip, @rafeycameronsgf, @vanessa-rafesgirl, @amel1ee, @magicalflowerstranger, @lilithblackkk, @starkeyxcameron, @simp4f1, @wtfdudesblog, @f3rnlee, @dinnodallas, @jjasmiineee, @drewrry, @lmaolmaos, @mattyskies, @yourmomdotcom42069, @chillgal135, @scorpiosaintt

(tagged everyone asking abt a pt 2 /3) <3

part 4 here!

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe x reader #rafe cameron fanfiction

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lxvebun · 10 months ago

Note

if it's okay could you write something about simon asking the reader to stay the night and it will be the first time they sleep over? no pressure ofc!

Simon "Ghost" Riley x gn!reader. Fluff! i'm yearning for fall/winter so it's written with that in mind. The heat is getting to me🥲 not proofread im nervous. Eng isn't my first language so I'm sorry for any mistakes!

“I should probably go."

It took you an embarrassingly long time to finally get those words out. Every minute ticking by only making you more and more nervous to actually say them. You truly don’t want to leave just yet. Don’t want to pull away from your place next to him, tucked into his side, soft, warm. A strong arm wrapping around you keeping you nice and close to him, occasionally his hand traces invisible heart shapes and silent i love you’s into your skin.

(a habit that has shifted into his love language. Simon Riley loves quietly, but deeply. And moments where he can get his hands on your skin to spell out his devotion to you, fingertips burning pleasantly, leaving behind a trail of falling stars, is something he makes time for often)

It feels all too safe and domestic to leave just yet, but the colder months are approaching and it’s well into the evening now. The sky has already completely settled into a deep dark blue with clusters of stars and a bright full moon. The streets however are still lively, early sunsets and longer nights having no affect on most people's schedule. People are coming back from a long day at work, couples are running their last errands at the corner store and old grannies are coming back from their weekly bingo night down the street at the community center. Right now, it still feels safe enough to walk back home on your own. Without a doubt, Simon would offer to walk you, but he’s barely made it through your annual movie night and you’d rather not keep him from his much needed and well deserved sleep.

(it would not be your first time walking home alone at night, don’t tell Simon, but you prefer not to. Being so hyper aware of every movement and every sound is tiring and your 15 minute walk back home feels like you just finished a marathon)

He shifts next to you, the haze of sleep laced in his movements, a groan of disagreement falling from his lips as he throws a glance at his watch.

"T’is only eight, sweetheart. You never leave this early. Something wrong?" A twinge of worry coursing through his voice, brows furrowed at the thought of you being uncomfortable. His hand changes from tracing shapes to rubbing comforting circles into your side, albeit a bit frantically.

(he’s so attentive it honestly makes you wanna cry sometimes)

"No, nothings wrong," You begin. Smoothing the crease between his eyebrows with your thumb and placing a gentle kiss to his jawline. "I just don’t want to walk alone at night. Nor do I want to keep you from your sleep"

You’re quick to add the last bit, practically hearing the words "I'll walk you " escape from his mouth already.

He doesn’t make an attempt to remove his hands from your waist, or sit back up straight. On the contrary he’s taken it to melt into you a little more, pull you a little closer and you think he’s doing this to convince you to stay

(it's working)

even months deep into your relationship, every sweet touch and gentle kiss still manages to cause your heart to soar and flutter in your chest.

He takes a moment to just look at you, and it makes you avert your eyes at its heaviness. Too sweet, too piercing, you feel like he’s looking into your mind and soul, breaking it open like a book and taking everything in. Usually, he coaxes you with delicate words and a warm hand on your jaw to keep looking at him but he’ll let you look away for now. You who’s so sweetly tucked into his side, you who feels so warm and peaceful against him it makes him wanna squeeze you to his chest and never let go. How could he possibly let you go when you look so content and so safe in his arms. From the look in your eyes and body language alone he can tell you feel good here, that you want to stay. He’s right but It’s the nerves, the shyness and not being sure where his boundaries lie that make you pull away from this moment

"You could always stay the night." He whispers, honeyed and soothing. Making sure you know there’s no pressure behind his request. It makes something warm curl in your heart

He’s been thinking about it often, what it would be like to wake up next to you. Seeing you first thing when he opens his eyes all angelic and soft in the golden morning sun rays, sleeping in his bed, draped in his sheets. Would you have any special night routines, would you like to use a nightlight or do you prefer complete darkness, do you move around a lot, are you cuddly. It honestly takes over the majority of his thoughts when he goes to bed himself. Finds himself imagining in detail what it would be like and he swears that he sleeps best on those nights. He can only imagine how good he’ll sleep next to you.

Your silence would worry him if he wasn’t able to read you so well. A hitch in your breath, eyes looking everywhere but him, a shy smile tugging on your lips

(you’re so cute)

"I’d like that." Your voice comes out soft, a little vulnerable but you know you’re safe. Taking a deep breath to calm your nerves.

You’ve been thinking about it too. Spend many nights imagining what it would be like to curl up in his arms and drift off to sleep. Waking him up with a plethora of kisses to his face. Making your respective morning drinks in the kitchen together, stealing kisses in between sips. Thinking about it always leaves you feeling a little dizzy.

His response comes in the form of a wet kiss to your forehead that trails down to your cheeks, then the corner of your lips before finally pulling you into one. You'll choose to spare him and not comment on the flush on his cheeks, just this once

"I’ll go grab a hoodie and some sweatpants, you can use those to sleep in"

reluctantly, although motivated by the image of you in his clothes, he stands up, warmth slipping away for a moment before it’s contained again by the blanket he drapes over you.

"I’ll grab the clothes, you pick another movie"

With that he makes his way to the bedroom to retrieve said clothes. Before you can pick up the remote to pick a movie however, his voice booms out of the bedroom

"Do not pick twilight. Can’t stand that edward fucker."

Perhaps the Notebook will be more to his taste then:)

thank you for requesting nonnie! and thank you for reading angels!

#simon riley x gender neutral reader #cod mw2 x reader #cod fluff #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost x you #simon ghost x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #cod x reader

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greenbuns · 11 days ago

Text

checkmate | e.w

written by greenbuns

° . Pairings : Ellie Williams × Fem!Reader (you)

° . Contains : slight nsfw, enemies to lovers, rivals, bet, swearing & bickering, mutual tension, suggestive content, eventual confessions, eventual kiss, slight nudity and mention of sex, theatremajor!ellie, musicmajor!reader, college vibes, men & minor DNI

"chess match with ellie came with stakes. the rules are simple; each time ellie loses a piece, she owes you 10$, and for you—you strip out of your clothes for her"

♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕

Your fingers pound a restless rhythm across the piano, a chord that tastes like burnt coffee and unresolved feelings. You tell yourself it’s just warm‑ups before your orchestration class, but really you’re trying to drown out the voice drifting in from the corridor;

“No, no, no, Jesse—you’re delivering the monologue like you’re apologizing. Lear’s a storm, not a drizzle. From the diaphragm, man!”

Her. The theatre-arts star, self-anointed director, campus darling with a chip on her shoulder and a clipboard in her hand. Every professor adored her “vision” and every actor bent to her will, she was poetry with a cigarette edge—smirking in spotlight, living for drama both onstage and off.

You hunch lower over the keys, jabbing staccato notes. It’s unfair that her voice still gets under your skin—warm cedar timbre wrapped in sandpaper sarcasm. You can’t remember a time you didn’t know that voice. She’d been lodged squarely under your rib cage since kindergarten—the sandbox tragedy, eighth‑grade spelling bees, senior‑year talent shows. Wherever you went, she was a step away, tossing barbs like confetti. She's the equal parts muse, rival, and the most infuriating person you’d ever wanted to kiss just to shut her up.

Okay, maybe not kiss. Or maybe yes kiss.

When the rehearsal door swings open, you heard footsteps.

You swear you can smell Ellie Williams before you spot her—warm cedar cologne and permanent stage‑paint residue.

“Hey, Treble Queen.” The greeting lands with practiced drawl. “You composing Swan Lake 2: Electric Boogaloo in here?”

You glide into a thundering tremolo and keep your gaze on the sheet music. “Just trying to drown out the wailing from the hall. Someone’s butchering Shakespeare.”

“Oof.” She paces behind you, casual predator. “I’ll tell Jesse you think he’s butchering it. He cries easy; should be fun.”

“You could direct him better.” You strike a dissonant cluster. “Or is yelling your only coaching tool?”

She appears in your peripheral vision, leaning her hip against the piano. Loose jeans rucked at the knees, black tee flecked with silver paint, auburn hair tied up messily—infuriatingly magnetic. Her eyebrows lift. “Yelling’s efficient. And cathartic, especially when the Music Department won’t stop practicing the same four bars of Les Mis outside my studio every night.”

“That’s called rehearsal,” you retort. “You theatre people should try it sometime.”

Ellie’s grin blooms, all teeth. She flicks a folded index card onto the music stand. “Speaking of rehearsal: you. Me. Chess match. Midnight at black-box.”

Your head snaps up despite yourself. “Chess? What is this, retro rivalry week?”

“Try lifelong vendetta.” She crosses her arms. “Unless you’re scared.”

“Must be desperate for humiliation.”

Her grin widens, shark‑sharp. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m counting on you being the desperate one.”

You scoff but your pulse jumps. Chess has been your shared battleground since middle school—a quiet war fought behind library stacks, hospital waiting rooms, band‑trip buses, and the occasional rainy cafeteria lunch when neither of you wanted to talk about feelings. It wasn’t just a game between you two; it was ritual, a sacred tradition of sharp glances over pawns and smug grins after a stolen queen. An unspoken agreement lingered like smoke between your fingertips: if you could beat each other on sixty‑four squares, maybe—just maybe—you could beat each other at life. Your record? Dead even. Thirty-two wins each. Ten draws. And one game interrupted by a fire drill and never resumed, still the subject of playful arguments to this day.

“Stakes?” you ask warily.

Her smile sharpens. “Every piece I lose, I owe you ten bucks. Every piece you lose…” She tilts her head, eyes glinting. “You shed something.”

Heat floods your cheeks. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” She taps the card like a judge’s gavel. “Call it high‑stakes strip‑blitz. Unless the Music Department’s prodigy doesn’t believe in performance art.”

You thumb the edge of the sheet, knuckles tense, your pulse thudding a steady rhythm against the cotton. Part of you wants to hurl your metronome at her smug face—watch it bounce off her stupidly sharp jawline and shatter that ever-present glint in her eyes. But another part—one you don’t examine too closely, the one that lives somewhere deep in your gut and hums like an electric current—thrums with a different kind of anticipation.

The idea of making Ellie pay, piece by piece? Delicious. Watching her frustration simmer behind that cocky grin as her pawns fall like dominoes? Even better. But the idea of risking bare skin under her gaze? Or peeling off your layers one by one, her eyes trailing, lingering, devouring? That idea sends heat curling low in your belly. You're not sure if you’re about to win this game—or fall straight into her trap, breathless and bare.

Terrifying... but much more delicious.

Shit.

“Fine,” you hear yourself say, mentally slapping yourself. “But if campus security finds me half‑naked in your studio, you handle the scandal.”

Ellie pushes off the piano, swagger in every line. “Director’s privilege. See you at twelve.”

She strolls out whistling a parody of your arpeggios. You stare after her, heart playing triplets, wondering if accepting tonight’s gambit was brilliance—or checkmate waiting to happen.

♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕

11:37 p.m.

You pace your dorm room like a storm cloud waiting to burst, counting heartbeats like metronome clicks—each one faster than the last, like you're already halfway into the game. Your laptop glows dimly from your desk, the only witness to your growing nervous excitement. You pause in front of the mirror, smoothing down your top with shaky fingers, double-checking your outfit like it’s armor.

Blue jeans. Teal crop top. Your favorite silver hoops—the ones that sparkle just right under warm light. Strategic choices. Clothes you wouldn’t mind sacrificing early if it came to that. Easy enough to peel off. Easy enough to look good doing it.

Underneath? Lacy peach bra and matching boyshorts, a set you swore was for laundry day comfort but deep down… you know better. It’s soft, delicate, flirty. It says I didn’t dress for you, I dressed for me—and maybe, just maybe, for you a little too, shut up.

You catch your own reflection biting your lip coated with cherry gloss, eyes gleaming with something between war-readiness and something far more dangerous. Anticipation pools low in your belly, warmth blooming like a threat.

This isn’t just another chess match.

This is Ellie-freaking-Williams. And you’re about to go to war.

You throw a hoodie over everything and cram a water bottle, spare hair tie, and your battered chess notebook into a tote. Your roommate, Dina, grins from her own desk on the other side of the room.

“Hot date?” she asks.

“Hot disaster,” you reply.

“Same thing,” she sing‑songs.

You flip her off fondly and bolt.

The quad’s lamps cast honey pools on wet pavement. Rain earlier left petrichor in the air. You stride past the fine‑arts building—stone gargoyles peering like silent gossipers—into the theatre wing’s rear entrance. Half the campus is asleep; the halls echo with your sneakers.

Ellie’s studio door lies ajar, gold light spilling. You push in.

The black‑box is transformed; center stage cleared, two director’s chairs at a scarred wooden table holding a well‑worn walnut chessboard. A single work light hangs overhead like a spotlight. Coils of lighting cable snake across the floor. On the table: neat stack of twenties, digital chess clock, and—unsettlingly—an empty coat rack.

Ellie lounges in a chair, feet propped on another. Dark sweatpants, army‑green flannel, battered Converse. She’s rolled her sleeves, exposing her tattoo, more freckles, and lean forearms painted with faint charcoal streaks. Her brow lifts as you enter.

“Punctual. I’m impressed.”

“Just want this over with.” You drop your tote, trying to ignore how your pulse spikes at the sight of her. “Rules clear?”

She fishes a Sharpie from her back pocket and uncaps it with her teeth. “Let’s codify.” On a scrap of gaffer tape stuck to the table she writes:

Ellie loses piece = $10

(You) loses piece = Strip 1 item

She peels the tape, slaps it down. “Signed, sealed, humiliate‑delivered.”

“You’re awfully confident,” you mutter, pulling out the White pieces.

“Statistically,” she says, tossing you the bag, “White wins 52 percent. But I thrive on underdog tension.”

You line pawns. The board’s earthy smell triggers memory of summer camp tournaments—Ellie across from you, slurping melted Popsicle, swearing she’d beat you before lights‑out. She did. You cried behind the mess hall and vowed revenge. Four… what, five years later? Same vow, fancier stakes.

Ellie sets the clock: five minutes each, 3‑second increment—blitz. “Faster game, hotter drama,” she winks, handing you White’s side.

“Let’s burn,” you say, sliding your D‑pawn two squares.

Clock punched. Game on.

♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕

You steer toward the Lasker Defense—lines you rehearsed all week for a campus blitz tourney. Ellie’s playing Black but falls right into theory, mirroring classic moves. On turn three, you capture her center pawn. She peels a ten off the stack and flicks it into a mason jar labeled Tuition Relief. You smirk.

“Beer money,” you correct.

She taps the clock. “Worry about your clothes.”

A minute later she blunders a pawn again; you seize it immediately. Another ten. But she’s smiling—that predator grin—which worries you. You glance at the position; symmetrical, but her minor pieces hum with latent energy.

“Predictable,” she purrs. “You still play the book like you’re afraid to improv.”

“Oh please, Miss Theatre Kid lecturing me about originality?” you retort, pushing another pawn to harass her bishop.

Ellie shrugs. “At least I know drama sells. You musicians lock yourselves in practice rooms because the real world scares you.”

You snort. “Spoken like someone who’s never faced a juried recital.” Your bishop lands on d3, eyes her kingside. She castles quickly.

On move 10, you slide your pawn forward with deliberate ease—sacrificing it like an offering on an altar. It’s calculated, clean, and utterly dangerous. You know the moment she sees it, her brow arches ever so slightly, eyes narrowing with suspicion. Two full seconds tick by in the silence, her fingers hovering above her black bishop. She hesitates. You can practically hear the gears grinding behind that smug expression.

And then—she takes it.

Click.

You grin, slow and wicked. The trap is set, and she just walked right into it.

“Trying to honey‑trap me?” she drawls.

“Trying to see if you remember your endgames.” Your queen slides to h5, threatening mate. Ellie’s eyes narrow—lip bite, concentration crackling. Her knight leaps to block the threat.

The clock ticks; you have 3:42, she 3:19. Not bad.

When you pull a fork move; king and rook, the classical Greek Gift, Ellie groans. Finally tips her rook.

Her total: $40.

“God, I saw that in YouTube shorts last night,” she mutters.

You lean back theatrically. “Should have gone to sleep earlier.”

She retaliates, sweeping your pawn off the board like it personally offended her—of course, you counter, slamming your piece down with a smirk, knuckles brushing the edge of the board.

For a heartbeat, the silence between you sharpens—then all hell breaks loose.

What follows is a messy fight—pawns crumbling, knights leaping into suicidal charges, rooks skewering from opposite flanks. It’s blitz now, and the room buzzes with tension, the clock ticking down with merciless speed. Your fingers move faster than thought, chasing her through a tactical minefield, but it’s getting harder to breathe, harder to keep up.

Ellie’s brow is furrowed, lips parted slightly as she calculates, and you hate—hate—how good she looks when she’s thinking like this.

Three moves later, in a blur of bad judgment and adrenaline, you miscalculate. Your fingers brush the wrong square. Your light‑square bishop is hanging—undefended. Exposed. Ellie doesn't hesitate. She snatches it off the board with a flourish and an audibly smug inhale.

“Oops,” she says, teeth flashing. “Was that important?”

You grit your teeth. Damn it.

“Strip,” Ellie sing-songs.

You inhale, heart banging, and reach up to unhook your silver hoops. They clink onto the table. Small sacrifice.

Ellie exaggerates a pout. “Aw, I was hoping for something bigger.”

“Your ego’s big enough,” you mutter, moving your rook with force.

She laughs, cheeks flushing. “Touché.”

For the next minutes, Ellie’s pieces coordinate with predator grace. On move 18 she launches a pawn break, cracking your center. You misjudge, your queen misplaces on e2, and her knight lands a killer fork. Off goes your knight.

“Hoodie,” she commands.

You slide it free, cotton dragging over your top, tossing it onto the rack. Heartbeat drums in your ears. Ellie’s gaze flickers down, then back to the board, a faint flush blooming on her cheeks. She tears her eyes away and slaps the clock.

Your advantage evaporates. Two moves later you lose your dark‑square bishop in a tactical skirmish—she pins your queen to your king.

You gulp.

“That top,” Ellie whispers. Her voice is suddenly rougher.

You peel the teal top you were wearing, chill air kisses your bare arms; gooseflesh rises. Ellie’s pupils dilate.

“Quit staring.”

“Trying,” she rasps. “Eyes keep malfunctioning.”

You slide a pawn, more forceful than necessary. Ellie counters. The board is chaos—queens roving, rooks on open files. You’re down material but compensation lurks in active squares.

“Why the strip rule?” you blurt mid‑calculation, attempting calm.

Ellie shrugs, moving her rook. “Needed motivation. You always play safest lines. Thought risk might coax you out.”

“You could’ve just asked.”

She glances up, expression unreadable. “Thought you’d say no.”

The truth hits you like a misfired spell to the chest—sudden, electric, and disorienting.

She’s not trying to humiliate you. Not really.

She’s not gloating like she used to when you were thirteen and shoved a queen off the board just to piss her off. There’s something else in her gaze now—sharp, yes, but not cruel. Focused. Curious. Hungry in a way that has nothing to do with winning and everything to do with you. Her eyes flicker, not to the board, but to your bare shoulder, to the slope of your neck, the rise and fall of your breath like it’s the most fascinating thing in the room.

She wants to see you.

Not dominate. Not destroy.

See.

And the realization fries a circuit in your brain. Suddenly the room is too hot, your skin prickles under her gaze, and you're no longer thinking in moves or strategies. You reach for your rook on instinct—half-aware, off-balance—and place it a square too far.

Ellie blinks.

Then smiles.

“You sure about that?”

You look down and your heart sinks. You blundered. Badly.

You don’t even have time to curse before she takes it, slow and deliberate.

And gods, the way she’s looking at you now—like the game’s no longer about chess at all.

“Sock,” she murmurs.

Your pulse spikes; you tug off a sock, toss it onto the rack. She smiles softly, almost apology. “We’re even now.”

“Hardly,” you mutter, but nerves tangle with something gentler.

While Ellie ponders her next move, you recall sophomore year of high school—community‑theatre production of Into the Woods. You were pit‑orchestra percussion; she was Jack. One tech rehearsal the fly system jammed, set piece dangling precariously. Ellie had climbed the rigging to fix it before anyone else reacted. You’d watched her silhouette against stage lights, heart jackhammering with adrenaline and… something else. She’d winked after, and you’d told her to go fall off a cliff.

Back then, you didn’t understand why your insults sounded like confessions in reverse.

Back on the board, time dwindles: you 1:14, Ellie 1:01. You sacrifice another pawn for an attack, ignoring the clothing risk. Ellie fumbles under pressure, her queen briefly hanging; you snatch it with your rook. Ten bucks whoosh into the jar. You beam.

“Overacting again,” you tease.

She rolls her eyes. “Directed chaos, babe.”

The term of endearment slips out, both of you freezing. For half a second the black‑box silence roars. You swallow. Ellie’s ears redden.

You capture her remaining bishop. Her ten hits the jar. Total $100.

She leans in, elbows on knees. “Gonna bankrupt me?”

“As soon as I’m done performing my strip routine apparently.”

Her tongue clicks thoughtfully. “Maybe I’m paying admission.”

Your breath stutters, cheeks blaze. You capture her last knight. She owes $110. You’re ahead in pieces taken, but down to bra and jeans.

Not great.

Ellie forks your queen and rook with a pawn deflection. Rook gone—another socks gone. You grip the cotton hem, tug your sock and pulled it off from your foot. Chilly air plus vulnerability goose your skin. You refuse to cross arms; instead you stare at the clock like the plastic digits hold salvation.

Ellie’s gaze tracks lower but she snaps it to the board, jaw tense. “You okay?” she murmurs.

“Focus,” you say, voice ragged.

She swallows. “Roger.”

Despite exposed skin, you’re weirdly emboldened—fear converted to kinetic energy. Your queen spearheads an attack, delivering perpetual checks. On move 32 you snag her rook with a between‑move discovered tactic. You’re material up again. Two more tens hit the jar.

Ellie huffs. “I swear you studied Tal games just to torment me.”

“I did,” you confess. “You like drama; Mikhail Tal was the drama king.”

She chuckles, low and genuine. The laugh warms you more than your hoodie ever did.

With pieces traded, endgame looms: your king slightly safer, but Ellie’s passed pawn menaces. You realize with horror that your knightless army can’t stop promotion without huge losses.

You bite your lip, think of earlier camp vow. No giving up.

You push your pawn to distract. She ignores, queen escorts pawn. You sacrifice your last rook in desperation. She captures; grin triumphant.

"Jeans,” she says quietly.

Your hands tremble. You stand, unbutton jeans, shimmy out. Damn AC hum makes your skin pebbled. You refuse to blush, planting yourself back on chair in just peach lingerie. The bare stage light paints your shoulders in amber.

Ellie’s breathing grows uneven. She rubs a hand over her mouth as though wiping away drool—then blinks guilt. “You sure—”

“Play.” Your command wavers but holds.

She nods, sympathy flickering. Somehow that kindness slices deeper than mockery.

Two moves later you salvage a skewer tactic; Ellie’s queen falls. The jar climbs to $130. Gasps echo from both of you: her at the loss, you at rescue.

With queens gone, only bishops and pawns skitter. You’re down to a single pawn on h7; Ellie’s has advanced to d2. Kings race across board like marathoners.

Sweat beads on Ellie's temple. You’re each under 20 seconds. The clock’s increment barely saves you from flag.

Your pawn promotes, snatching a spare queen from the box. Ellie counters by queening hers with check. Suddenly bare kings and shiny queens square off in mutual zugzwang.

The position repeats twice. You glance up, breathing hard. Ellie mirrors you across the table, eyes liquid.

“We’re… stuck,” you pant.

“Draw?” she whispers.

You examine the board. You could play on, but one misclick could lose. Pride says fight; heart says enough bloodshed.

“Draw,” you agree, pressing the clock button three times. The digital display freezes.

Your world spins down to silence.

♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕

Neither of you moves. The board sits between you like a battlefield in the aftermath—pieces scattered, kings still standing, but barely. Sweat clings to your hairline, trickling down your spine, and adrenaline pulses hot through your veins, leaving a subtle tremor in your limbs. You can’t look away from her, and she doesn’t look away from you. The silence is thick—electric—buzzing with everything unsaid.

Then Ellie stands.

She moves without a word, strides across the studio to swipe a towel from the backstage rack, her posture loose but eyes still burning. You expect her to toss it at you with a snide remark, something cocky and offhand.

But she doesn’t.

She returns, stepping into your space with a strange softness. And then—gently, so gently—it’s draped over your bare shoulders like a queen’s mantle, warm and worn, smelling faintly of stage paint and sandalwood.

Her fingers linger a moment too long at your collarbone, brushing your skin like a secret. The contact jolts you like a live wire. You inhale sharply but say nothing. Your mouth is suddenly dry.

“You cold?” she murmurs, voice lower than before, rough with something that has nothing to do with teasing.

“A bit,” you exhale, suddenly felt small under her gaze.

She gathered your clothes on the rack, placing them on your lap without comment on your near‑nakedness. The jar sits heavy at $130.

“Keep it,” Ellie says softly. “Call it hazard pay.”

You shake your head. “Split after pizza."

She chuckles. “Alright.” A beat passes. “We, uhh—we should talk.”

You clutch the towel. “About?”

Her eyes find yours—vivid green ringed by exhaustion and honesty. “About why chess matters so much… why you matter so much I had to make a stupid strip bet just to keep you in the same room after midnight.”

Your lungs seize, breath catching on a sudden swell of memory. Fireworks crackling in July darkness, her laughter splitting the night; the dizzy height of the rigging where she’d steadied you with a gloved hand; the endless hallway skirmishes—hip‑checks, sharp words, sparks flying off metal lockers. Each recollection clicks neatly into place, stacking like polished chess pieces until a single, aching truth towers over everything: you hated her because hating was simpler—safer—than admitting how badly you wanted her.

“I thought college would be escape,” she admits. “But then you showed up at freshman orientation wearing those ridiculous headphones and I felt…” She exhales. “Everything all over again.”

You toy with the cotton towel, “And so you challenged me to chess instead of, I don’t know, coffee?”

“I don’t do gentle,” she murmurs. “I do rivalry. Conflict. Direction notes. With you it’s always been… high stakes.”

You swallow. “What if we tried gentle? Just once?”

Ellie’s gaze softened, “Define gentle.”

You step into her space. Under the midnight shadow, freckles pattern her cheeks like constellations. Fingers trembling, you let the towel slip from your shoulders and drop to the cold floor beneath your bare feet, grounding and intimate all at once. Ellie pointedly looks away, giving you space rather than devour.

Respectful, longing, maddening.

You raise a hand, brush an auburn strand behind her ear. She shivers.

“This,” you whisper, bringing her face to look at yours. “No bets, no insults. Just honesty.”

Her breath catches, eyes trailed down from your eyes, lips, collarbones..

Fuck. Your tits gorgeously wrapped with the lacy peach bra.

She's clearly better than no man.

"I’ve wanted to kiss you since you played that solo song sophomore year and glared at me like I’d stolen your thunder," she whispered, her eyes back on you.

Your laugh cracks. “I glared because you cheered louder than anyone and embarrassed me.”

“Did it work?”

“Like a charm.”

Silence brims with possibility, thick enough to taste. You lift your chin by a breath; she closes the distance, breath fanning across your lips like the hush before a decisive move.

"You're so fucking beautiful," Ellie breathed, the words slipped out before she could stop it. Her eyes locked with yours when she murmurs, "Can I kiss you?"

When she saw you gave a small nod, both of your lips finally connect. The kiss is feather‑soft—tentative as a pawn’s first step—but heat sparks instantly, an opening gambit that leaves you both hungry for the middle game.

She presses closer, lips molding to yours with newfound certainty, and you feel pieces topple inside your chest, scattering strategy into pure sensation. Her fingers anchor at your waist, thumbs brushing against your bare skin, igniting a shiver that races up your spine.

You cup her jaw, fingertips tracing the sharp line to her ear before sliding into her hair, tilting her even deeper. She tastes of peppermint gum and adrenaline, cool mint over molten desire, and when her teeth graze your lower lip—a teasing, wicked scrape—you answer with a soft gasp that vibrates between you like a struck chord. The world narrows to shared breath, quickened heartbeats, and the heady realization that this is no longer a game; it’s surrender, bold and breathtaking on both sides of the board.

Her tongue sweeps along the seam of your mouth and you open for her, hunger roaring to life. One hand skims up your ribcage—calloused fingertips tracing reverent lines until they brush the edge of lace—while the other slides into your hair, tilting your head so she can drink you in deeper. She breaks the kiss long enough to nip your bottom lip, eyes dark and wicked, before capturing you again with a groan that vibrates straight to your core. You arch into her, hips meeting denim with dizzying friction, nails grazing down her back in a plea you’re no longer shy about voicing.

Ellie shifts, guiding you gently backward until your spine presses against the cool wall of the studio, her body a furnace against yours. She kisses you again, slower this time but no less intense—like she’s memorizing you piece by piece, savoring every reaction she pulls from your mouth. Her knee slides between your thighs, coaxing a breathy moan as you grind down with desperate instinct, chasing friction like oxygen. Her hand cradles the back of your neck, grounding you as her lips trail from your mouth to the edge of your jaw, then lower, brushing your pulse point with a heat that borders on reverence.

"Fuck," she breathes against your throat, voice wrecked. "You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this—wanted you."

Your reply dies in your throat as her fingers skimming the soft underside of your lacy bra with a graze so light it’s cruel. You gasp, hips twitching in response, and she huffs a laugh against your collarbone—low, soft but maddening. “You like that, sweetheart?” she murmurs, voice dripping with challenge. You grip her by the collar of her flannel and pull her flush against you, heart pounding like a war drum. “Stop teasing, Williams,” you whisper back, half threat, half invitation. Her answering grin is wicked and victorious just before she kisses you again like it’s the only language she’s ever been fluent in.

Her lips trail down your neck with unhurried hunger, teeth grazing sensitive skin just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips rise instinctively against her. She groans low in her throat—a sound born of want, raw and impatient—as her hands slide under again, this time with purpose, fingertips tracing the edge of the lace before slipping beneath it to palm your breast. "Mmmh.." Your head falls back with a soft, broken but heavenly noise, and she takes the invitation, mouth latching onto the curve of your throat as if claiming every inch of you she can reach.

"Yeah, keep making that sound, baby,” she murmurs against your skin, voice thick with desire as she keeps on playing with your left breast, “Every time you open your pretty mouth, I want to either argue with you or fuck you senseless.”

You moan—half scandalized, half soaked in how true it feels—when she unclasped your last armour and latched her wet tongue around your hardened nipple, gently licking then sucking it while she kept whispering sweet nothings in the process. You pull her in tighter, your own hands roaming her back, curling into the hem of her flannel. "You're a menace, a pretty one," She murmurs, grinding her hips against yours, slow and devastating, and you feel everything you’ve ever denied flood to the surface, hot and impossible to ignore.

Every stolen breath clings to the heat blooming between you; strategy, pride, and years of rivalry melt away until only her name trembles on your tongue like the final, breathless move of the most dangerous game you’ve ever played.

And now? You’re both ready to fall.

♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕♚♔♛♕

The heat has settled into a slow, glowing hum between your bodies.

You lie tangled together on the worn couch at the edge of the black‑box, skin still warm and flushed, breaths mingling in the dim light. Ellie’s arm is draped lazily over your waist, fingers tracing idle, possessive shapes across the bare skin just above your waistband. Her jacket is haphazardly thrown over both your bodies, soft against sweat‑damp skin, still smelling of her. The silence isn’t awkward—it’s heavy with everything that just happened, everything you finally let go of. Your legs are twined with hers, your cheek resting against her collarbone, and she presses a kiss into your hair like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You realize this is the real checkmate: not victory over each other, but surrender to everything that’s been waiting, patient and inevitable, just beneath the rivalry’s surface.

“I never hated you,” she murmurs, voice low, raw from breathless moans and whispered curses. “I just didn’t know how else to want you.”

You smile against her skin, your fingers brushing the hair away from her face. “All those years—every fight, every argument—I was just trying not to fall apart wanting you.” You whisper back.

Ellie then cups your face, forehead resting against yours, and you feel her exhale—shaky, like this moment has unraveled something in her too. “I want you. Every version. Even the one who calls me a pretentious theatre bitch.” You laugh, breathless and dazed, curling your fingers in her shirt to keep her close. “Good,” you whisper, “Because I want the overdramatic director who smells like peppermint and chaos.”

Ellie chuckles, soft and wrecked, then tips your chin up and kisses you again—slow, deep, claiming. When you break apart, you’re both smiling.

“Check,” she whispers.

“Mate,” you breathe, and she laughs, bright and disbelieving. [•]

> istg i fell asleep while editing my drafts and accidentally posted this :) anyways ty for reading luvs! also thanks for all the likes and sweet comments, i'm totally melted <33

#ellie williams #tlou #tlou 2 #ellie williams the last of us #ellie williams tlou #wlw #ellie tlou #ellie williams fanfic #wlw post #romance #ellie x reader #ellie williams x reader #ellie the last of us #need that #tension #enemies to lovers #sapphic #wlw ns/fw

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cevansbrat0007 · 8 months ago

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Guessing Games: A Fast Car Interlude

Summary: You accidentally trigger Ari's jealous streak. Takes place directly after the events in Guessing Games.

Warnings: Mature Themes, Implied Future Smut, Ari Being A Menace, Brat!Reader, Jealous!Ari, Innocent Flirting, Stupid Men, Manhandling, Mentions of Spanking, Discussions of Self-Image, Mentions of Lingerie, Semi-Public Sex, Allusions to Fingering, Cursing, Minors DNI

A/N: After a shitty week, please enjoy this completely self-indulgent fic. Part of my Sweet Renegade Series. Semi-proofread, not beta'd. All mistakes are my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated. Thanks for reading!

“Hey. I know this car.” You think as you come to stand in front of a vehicle on display that happens to look strangely familiar. Smoothing your hands down the skirt of your sundress, you manage a quick side-step, narrowly avoiding a collision with a small child who was too busy enjoying his ice cream cone to pay attention to where he was going.

You’ve been wandering around Fulton County’s annual Classic Car Showcase for the better part of an hour now, and so far things were going better than you’d expected. And not only that, but you were even beginning to have fun.

“I can see why this one caught your eye.” A familiar voice muses as he comes up behind you.

“I’m trying to figure out where I’ve seen it before. But I’m drawing a blank.” Angling your body, you reach for one of Ari’s big hands, grasping it with both of yours. “Any ideas?”

“You really don’t recognize it?”

“‘Fraid not.” Your lips purse as you continue to wrack your brain.

“It’s an exact replica of The General Lee, the 1969 Dodge Charger driven by Bo and Luke.”

“Who?” You stare up at him confused.

That earns you a chuckle, followed by him placing a gentle kiss atop your head. “Bo and Luke. From The Dukes of Hazzard. It was a popular show back in the eighties.” He explains, brushing a stray curl away from your face.

“Oh. Got it.” You nod, pretending to understand. “Mystery solved.”

You both stand there a few moments longer – mostly so he can admire the engine, or whatever the hell you assumed he was doing. Once he’s looked his fill, it’s apparently time to move on to the next car that catches his interest. You’re seemingly content to trail behind him until you happen to spot a nearby cluster of tents.

“Ari?”

“Yeah, little Bird?” The rich timbre of his voice has you smiling before you even realize you’re doing it.

“I reckon all this car hoppin’ has me feelin’ a little parched.” You tell him, turning your attention to the concessions located just across the lot. “I’m gonna go fetch myself a lemonade real quick while the lines are short.”

As expected, your man responds without missing a beat. But not before leading you over to the shade so that you can continue your conversation. Which was a good thing seeing as the temperature outside was hovering around the mid-eighties.

“Well, we can’t have that now can we?” Mirroring your smile, he brings your hand to his lips so that he can kiss the ridges of your knuckles. “Let’s go get you somethin’ to drink.”

“Hey, it’s okay. I’ll go while you hang out here in the shade.” Your palms come up to rest against the hard wall of his chest. “Besides,” you continue when he opens his mouth to object. “It’s not like I’m going far. I’ll just be right over there.”

“Nah.” Ari swiftly disagrees, adjusting his sunglasses. “How about you wait here while I go get us both something to drink?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yep.” He gently flicks the tip of your nose. “After all, what kinda man would I be if I left my sweetheart out here to melt?”

“I mean…if you insist.” Rising on your toes – a feat made easier thanks to your wedge heels – you plant a smooch on his bearded cheek. “Hurry back, sugar.”

Now that he’s officially a man on a mission, Ari wastes almost no time making a beeline for the concessions. But not before issuing a stern warning to you, his curious little Bird.

“Don’t you go wanderin’ off on me, darlin’.” He growls, leaning down to tenderly peck your lips . “I expect to find you right here in this spot when I come back.”

And then he’s gone. You barely have time to respond with a playful salute before he’s striding off in search of sustenance for you both. Leaving you alone to twiddle your thumbs while you dutifully await his return.

Not that you minded. If anything, grateful for this brief respite from the heat. It never crosses your mind to abandon your spot in favor of looking at more cars. At least, not until you spy one that has you gasping in pure delight.

“Woah.” You breathe as you come to stand in front of the one vehicle with the power to transport you straight back to your childhood: a 1958 Plymouth Fury.

Better known as the car from Stephen King’s novel, Christine.

You’d absolutely loved this movie as a kid. So much so that your Uncle had bought you your own personal copy after he got tired of renting it for you weekend after weekend. Why, you must’ve seen it over a hundred times.

But as luck would have it, your private glee is interrupted by the sound of a voice coming up behind you.

“She’s a beaut, ain’t she?” The man asks, his southern drawl growing even more inviting when he tips his black stetson. “Restored her myself.”

“Holy crap! It looks just like the one from the film.” You chirp, reaching out to run your fingers along the shiny finish before swiftly thinking better of it. “Sorry.” Is all you can manage as you turn to face him. “I just…never thought I’d get the chance to see it in person.”

“Well…” The dark haired cowboy admits, flashing a chagrined smile. “It’s not actually the car. But it’s pretty dang close. Took me a few years, seeing that pretty smile of yours makes it all worth it.” His smile only grows wider as he holds out his hand to you. “The name’s Russell, by the way.”

You two spend a few more moments exchanging names and pleasantries before he politely redirects the attention back to the prized vehicle in front of you. Russell invites you to ask all the questions you like, only to laugh when you eagerly take him up on his offer.

In fact, you’re enjoying the conversation so much that you hardly notice when he slowly begins inching closer to you, his leanly muscled frame almost boxing you in. He was charming – you’d give him that much. And easy on the eyes.

Russell was the type of man who warranted a second look. Or at least he would. That is, assuming you hadn’t already been blessed with the gift of Ari Daniel Levinson.

“You know,” He murmurs, his cool gaze warming as he boldly peruses your dress. “Something tells me this conversation would pair wonderfully with a glass of wine.” His hand reaches for yours once more. “Perhaps over dinner?”

“Oh, I’m sorry...” The shocked apology comes tumbling out of your mouth. “I–I can’t. I actually came with someone. He’s–”

“Look, I don’t wanna be too forward.” Russell smoothly interrupts, stroking his thumb along the ridge of your knuckles. “But I haven’t been able to let you out of my sight since I saw you damn near an hour ago. Honestly can’t remember the last time I came across a woman as sweet as you.”

“That’s awfully kind of you to say.” You reply, intending to let him down easy.

“I saw that fella you were with.” He continues in earnest, still refusing to relinquish his grip on your hand. “Also saw him walk off and abandon you too.”

“He didn’t – no one abandoned anybody!” Closing your eyes, you can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the entire situation. You weren’t used to men hitting on you like this. It has you feeling way out of your depth.

“Be that as it may, I also believe in fate.” His already gravelly voice dips an octave. “I mean, I’ve come to this showcase year after year and never once have I met someone like you.”

“I…I’m not sure I’d go that far.” You hedge as you weigh your options.

On one hand, you really did want to be polite. But you also needed to be firm. You already had a man in your life. A man who owned you – mind, body, and soul. Not that you’d had any say in the matter. But these days, you were well past complaining about the handsome Beast of a man you’d come to cherish.

“Think about it.” Your would-be suitor implores, giving you a gentle squeeze. “There has to be a reason our paths crossed today.”

Alright. It was officially time to put a nail in this coffin. You open your mouth to respond, only to have someone else beat you to the punch.

“I think it’s about time you let go of her hand.” Ari rumbles, the sound coming from somewhere deep in his chest. “Now.”

“Something I can help you with, buddy?” Russell responds without hesitation, clearly annoyed by the other man’s sudden reappearance. “Because the lady and I were in the middle of a conversation.”

“And I’m sure it was a great one.” Your bounty hunter is too busy glaring at his apparent rival to pay you any real mind. Although, he’s quick to shove a cup of what you suspect to be lemonade into your palm the second Russell releases his hold. “Too bad it’s over now. Let’s go, sweet Bird.”

The ice in his tone is enough to make you shiver. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Ari was none too happy to find you entertaining the company of another man. But the last thing you’d expected was for him to be jealous.

Unless you were reading things wrong.

“I’m afraid you’re gonna have to wait, fella.” Russell surprises everyone by coming to stand almost nose-to-nose with Ari. “Because she and I were about to take the ride out for a little spin.”

“We most certainly were not.” You try, impatiently tugging on his arm. “Ari, let’s just go.” Although, you’re not surprised when you end up being completely ignored.

“Oh yeah?”

“Guess that’s what happens when you abandon a pretty little flower like her all alone in an empty field.” Grinning like a Cheshire cat, Russelly makes a point of poking your man in his chest. “I’m just glad I was lucky enough to be here to catch your mistake.”

Worry fills you when you see Ari simply nod along, his brawny shoulders wrought with tension. Sucking on his teeth, the bounty hunter briefly looks away as he forces himself to take a calming breath. Not that it seems to help any.

“You know what? I get it. No, really–I do.” Ari smirks, reaching up to lightly scratch at his jaw. “I knew what I was getting into, walking into a showcase like this with a beautiful woman on my arm, wearin’ the hell out of that dress.” One thick arm wraps itself around your waist, hauling you close. “My girl turns heads everywhere she goes. She’s just too sweet to realize it.”

Tucking you behind him, your man bridges the last bit of distance between himself and Russell. And while you can’t see his face, you’re shocked when he gently lifts his rival’s hat from his head, before tossing it in the direction of his forgotten plymouth.

“And sometimes that sweetness makes cowboys do stupid fuckin’ things.” Ari continues, sounding almost smug. But you don’t miss the danger in his tone. “Which is why I’m gonna be the bigger man right now and walk away, before I give into the urge to find out if you have what it takes to make the long drive home with a fractured arm.”

“Alright, that’s enough from you two.” You snap, finally fed up with all this male posturing. After all this nonsense, you just wanted to sit down and enjoy your drink before all the ice melted. “Russell, cool car. But I’m not interested, okay? And as for you, Ari…”

In lieu of responding, your man chooses to quirk one impatient, tawny brow.

“You’re looking a little flushed. I think it’s time we got you outta the sun.” Grabbing his wrist, you proceed to physically drag him away from the scene. It takes virtually all your might, but you’re grateful when his legs finally begin to move.

You don’t stop walking until you reach a set of picnic tables that are far enough away from the show to give you both some much needed privacy while you hashed things out.

“Darlin’, I can tell by your face you’re fixin’ to yell.” Ari growls, yanking his arm out of your grasp. "And I'd like to make my case before you start." His frown only deepens as he watches you perch on the edge of a bench, but not before taking a dramatic sip of your ice cold lemonade.

It tastes divine – the perfect treat for a hot summer’s day.

“Did you really have to throw the poor man’s hat?” You ask, fanning yourself.

“Probably not. But it felt good.” He shrugs, jamming his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Should’ve stuffed his ass in the goddamned trunk while I was at it.”

“I don’t know what you think you saw, but I was in the process of letting him down easy.”

“Could’ve sworn I told your bratty self to stay put where I fuckin’ left you.” His normally clear blue eyes glitter dangerously, letting you know that he’s pissed. “I mean, it was bad enough waitin’ in line listening to two idiots talk about which one of ‘em was gonna be brave enough to ask for your number…”

“Yeah right.” You scoff, looking up at the sky as you pray for patience.

“Roll ‘em at me one more time, baby. Swear to God.” Scrubbing a hand over his jaw, he finds himself wondering for the umpteenth time just what the hell he’d been thinking bringing you to something like this with you wearing a dress like that. “I’m just itchin’ for a reason to lift that skirt and redden your disrespectful ass.”

In Ari’s mind, you were always the prettiest girl in the room. But on a day like today? You were downright irresistible. And what made it even worse is that you honestly had no idea the effect you had sometimes – on him and damn near every other man who came into your presence.

“You can’t talk like that!” You hiss, hoping that you weren’t being overheard.

“And just why the hell not?”

“Because we’re in public, you Beast!”

Rising to your feet, you set your drink on the table, deciding it might be better if you put some distance between you. Too bad Ari chooses to follow, walking you backwards until you feel yourself collide with the base of a nearby tree. His hands come to rest on either side of your head, effectively caging you in with his much larger frame.

“I should’ve known what I was getting into the moment I decided to let you walk outta the house wearing that dress.” Ari rasps, trailing his nose along the delicate column of your throat. “I thought I was safe, even with that lacey little scrap of nothin’ you’ve got hidin’ underneath.”

You barely manage to stifle a moan when your man captures your bottom lip between his teeth, sucking hard before releasing it with a soft pop. One of his hands leaves its purchase to settle dangerously low on your hip.

“But I see now that’s not enough for you, is it baby?” You press your thighs together when that same hand moves once again. This time working it’s way under your skirt - his short, blunt nails dancing along your skin as his mouth hovers a mere centimeter above yours. “I’m not sure why you thought it might be a good idea to tease me like this. Not too keen on you flirting with other men.”

“I promise I wasn’t.” Your eyes flutter closed as he grinds his growing erection against the softness of your belly. “I just got excited about the car. It’s from one of my favorite Stephen King stories.”

“Is that why I found you two holdin’ hands?” You let out a whimper when you feel the roughened pads of his fingers dig into your heated flesh, making you squirm. “Because you were excited?”

It wasn’t often that your man got riled up like this. But when he did there was almost no getting through to him until he calmed down. If you were lucky, you could typically drag him to some place quiet, away from prying eyes and listening ears.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry, sugar.” Leaning up, you press a kiss against the corner of his mouth. “I suppose I wouldn’t like it either if I saw you holding hands with a random woman. Promise it won’t happen again.” You add, weaving your arms around his trim waist after all you receive is a grunt for your trouble.

Although you can’t help but notice that some of the tension seems to have finally left his shoulders.

“Thank you.”

Ari allows his forehead to rest against your own as he struggles to collect himself. Wanting more, you cup his face with your hands, bring his mouth down for a much needed kiss. His eager tongue dances with yours, demanding more of your submission as the passion builds.

You’re both breathing hard when you finally come up for air. However, you realize your man’s not done. At least not yet.

“You’re enough to drive a man insane. You know that?” He groans in between soft, yet feral kisses. “I swear I try to be progressive – I do. I got sisters. A niece.” A sound almost like a purr rumbles in his chest as he nuzzles his nose in the crook of your neck. “But I’m also man enough to admit I’ve got a bit of a jealous streak. Never was much of a problem until I met you.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” You murmur at the same time as your pussy spasms, dampening your panties with your slick.

“Good.” Ari lifts your leg, hitching it around his waist and not giving a damn about who sees. “And Bird?”

“Uh huh?” A shiver courses through you as he begins covering your exposed flesh with tiny, possessive love bites. This time you make no move to stop him. Thank goodness you’d had the foresight to pack some concealer.

“I hate to break it to you.” His mouth finds yours once more, deliberately teasing you with each sensual stroke and flick of his tongue. “But you and me, we’re not gonna make it back to Bell’s Creek tonight.”

“And w–why is that?” Your eyes threaten to roll back in your head as his fingers find your clit, toying with the swollen nub through the soaked fabric of your panties.

“Because I’m having the damnedest time trying to talk myself out of fucking you hard and fast on the hood of my truck.” He responds with an unapologetic shrug. “But I suppose I’ll just have to settle for a hotel, huh?” Grinning, he increases the pressure on your sensitive bundle of nerves, loving the way you buck and writhe beneath his touch.

“I’ll start hunting for reservations.” You move to reach for your phone even as you feel your vision blur and your toe s curl. “But whatever you do…oh God…just please don’t stop.”’

END

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