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cacoetheswriting · 15 hours ago

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something has to change

chapter four from the little mess you made.

pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x singlemom!reader (modern au) word count: 3.5k

summary: slowly, settling into a new normal, eddie starts to think maybe his hometown isn't so bad. after all, you're here, with his kid. although, do you want him to stick around? especially since you've got steve.

chapter cw: suggestive & mature themes, implied intimacy | non-explicit, one night stand gone awry, secret pregnancy aka no-one told eddie he's a dad, forced proximity, mutual pining / yearning, jealousy, fluffy angst, emotional hurt / comfort, navigating family dynamics, adult language, mentions of alcohol consumption — pls let me know if i missed any!

psa: any images used in chapter headers don’t depict readers physical attributes! these are also vaguely — if at all— described in the story.

As the days pass, the initial shock of varying emotions begins to recede.

The quiet, internal turmoils subside with each morning and a cup of coffee that warms the fingertips of those seated at the kitchen table: Wayne, you, and Eddie. The new normal, it seems.

Outside, the world also continues to spin.

Your weekly schedule resumes unbothered by the sudden arrival of a certain brunette rockstar, although you do find yourself thinking about him more than you probably should. Sitting at the front desk of the yoga studio, mind wandering to what Eddie’s doing now, at the house he’s bought for his uncle — the house you also occupy.

That first night, after bidding him a pleasant goodnight, you find him lingering outside the office door and staring at the pull-out with a sad glint to his brown eyes. He feels your presence almost instantly and corrects himself. An act of self-preservation he has done a few times since his unexpected appearance, but you choose not to point it out.

Clearly, there’s a lot on Eddie’s mind.

“You can take my bed,” you offer quietly. “It is supposed to be your room, after all.”

But the rockstar shakes his head, brown locks bouncing in perfect harmony.

“I’ll be fine here,” he reassures you. “Don’t worry about me, sugar.”

Perhaps you can’t get him off your mind because of the nickname that’s slipped his tongue. The one he’s called you repeatedly during that one night in New York. One you’ve not heard since, so you’ll always associate with him. “I’m yours, sugar.”.

Yours, yours, yours.

Or maybe it’s the unspoken. The doleful look in his eyes, telling a thousand different stories of something you’d associate with regret. The way his hand brushes yours ever so slightly as he passes, heading for the bathroom. A fleeting touch that sends a shockwave of electricity down your spine.

Whatever the reason, Eddie Munson has etched himself into your thoughts yet again. A persistent melody you can't quite hum away and frankly, one you’re not entirely sure you want to forget.

Days pass and when an invite from Steve comes, for an evening of drinks and fun (as he put it), Wayne insists on babysitting. Urging you and Eddie out the door, into the warm evening.

“Time to enjoy your respective youths, while you still have them. Before I change my mind,” the eldest Munson says, although you know that’ll never happen because he truly is World’s Best Grandpa.

Eddie looks at you shyly.

Despite spending a week and a half together, living under one roof like some sort of messed-up version of Keeping Up with the Joneses, there rarely was a chance for the two of you to talk privately again.

The rockstar slid into an established routine. Breakfast, preschool drop-off, work for you and household errands for Wayne, preschool pick-up, dinner, bedtime. Every day is the same.

Wayne tells you in a hushed tone how he’s worried about his nephew. When there’s a lull in activities, while you’re still at work and Messer in preschool, the rockstar stares at his phone until it rings and then continues hushed conversations behind the closed office doors. Something’s happened, outside of the kept secret his team most likely knew about — thanks to fucking Felix.

Then, at the weekend, so far the only one Eddie’s been here for, Wayne takes his nephew fishing on Saturday. They get back late, when you’re already cosy in bed. You hear them have a beer or two on the patio but make no attempt to join them, thinking Wayne deserves his time with his big-shot nephew more than you do. Plus you need the rest for Sunday. A day trip to the city with girls from the yoga studio and all of your kids. Three adults and five feral toddlers. By the time you arrive home, you are so rundown, you barely conquer bedtime with Messer and later, almost fall asleep under the shower.

So, Eddie looks at you shyly because you’re effectively a stranger. A stranger he shares a kid with. A kid he knows very little about, aside from what Wayne may have told him. Guilt trickles through your veins and you smile at him, earnestly.

In the car, you offer him your phone. More specifically, you open up Google Photos and scroll to the year Messer was born. Eddie takes the device, albeit hesitantly, but once his eyes scan the first image — you, severely pregnant, sitting on a yoga ball with a tub of ice-cream in one hand and a plastic spoon in the other — he settles into the passenger seat and begins to swipe through.

“You probably won’t get through all of them before we get to Steve’s,” you begin. “But you can start and just pick up wherever you leave off later on.”

The rockstar nods, glancing at you briefly to say, “Thank you.”, and his gaze locks back on the phone in his grasp. A timid smile circling his lips as he continues to scan each image, asking questions for context you’re happy to provide.

Steve’s house is on the other side of town. It’s an impressive three-story brick, featuring large windows that are accented with dark-grey shutters. A simple two-step leads to the front door which is under a cover of a marble-like balcony. Green ivy dangling between gaps of concrete. The whole thing is symmetrical as fuck.

“Imagine the McCallister house from Home Alone, just on a slightly smaller scale,” that’s how Steve described it when he first put the downpayment on the property. Honestly, the king of modesty.

You’ve been here many times, yet as you make way down the pebbled stones, the house coming into view from behind droopy trees, it still takes your breath away. Eddie looks up from the phone, mouth slightly parting.

“That rich asshole,” he mutters under his breath and you can’t help yourself, you snort.

The rockstar’s head snaps in your direction at the sound. One brow raised, cocky grin plastered across his handsome face.

“I’m pretty sure you’ve got more money coming in,” you deadpan, killing the engine.

“I don’t live in a fucking mansion,” he replies, thumb popping behind his shoulder, pointing towards Steve’s home.

Opening the door, you tell him, “The market in California is just different,” before hopping out of the car.

Eddie follows suit, stepping around the dash, the smirk still playing on his lips.

“Last I checked, you lived in Brentwood, so don’t act like you’re slumming it, Munson.”

Handing your phone back to you, a playful glimmer lights his irises and you can’t help the smile that appears on your own expression. Finally, there’s lightness in his aura and you’re determined to keep it this way — if only for the evening.

“It’s about principal. I earned my money. Harrington was born into his.” Eddie states, his tone blithe, unserious. He takes a step closer, eyes bouncing between yours as he leans in to add, “But it’s nice to hear you’re still keeping tabs on me, sugar.”

Shoving past the rockstar, you roll your eyes. The crunch of gravel under your pumps drowns out the hammering inside your chest, caused by his sudden closeness just a second ago. By his presence overall. The magnetic pull you feel. The urge to make him happy by any means necessary.

“Steve’s worked for this.” you defend your friend, without turning to look behind at the rockstar close on your heel. You hear Eddie sigh, but you ignore the reaction and continue, “But what you’re saying is, if your parents were… comfortable, you’d reject the inheritance?”

He barks out a laugh and you bite back your own at the playful sound.

“Now, let’s not get crazy. I’d take the money ‘cause I’m not a fucking idiot,” Eddie says. “But I’d invest it in, like, independent music labels and local venues. Not… whatever this is.” He gestures expansively at Steve’s meticulously manicured front lawn as you ring the doorbell.

“Steve invests too. He told you so last week, remember? This house is just a bonus.”

Eddie’s smile slips and his brows furrow.

“You take his side a lot.”

The sentence makes you blink.

For a moment that feels all too long, his words hang in the air between you, heavy and rather accusatory, causing a sudden shift in the comfortable rhythm of your conversation.

You want to tell the rockstar how Steve’s been by your side over the last few years, making it second nature to support him because he does the same for you. But you bite your tongue. Something tells you the last thing Eddie wants to hear is how close you and Steve are.

Luckily, the door swings open and the man in question greets you both with a wide smile. A warm embrace for you, gentle kiss to the top of your head, and a firm handshake for Eddie – whose facial features visibly jump somewhere between disdain and respect.

“Glad you could make it,” Steve says, oblivious to the odd tension.

“Thanks for having us,” Eddie mumbles and you notice how he forces the smile on his face to widen as he looks around. “Nice place you got here.”

Steve claps a hand on his friend’s back, leading him through the foyer.

“Really? I thought you’d shit all over it,” the brunette half-laughs. “Call me a pretentious douche or a rich asshole.”

Eddie glances at you over his shoulder, eyes twinkling once more, while you chew the inside of your cheek. The unsettling beginning of an argument you two almost had fades fast when he winks before looking back to Steve, listening (or maybe pretending to listen) to the story of how this extravagant purchase came about.

In the large, open kitchen, the three of you are greeted by some of Steve's old high school friends. Nancy, Jonathan, Robin. People you’ve met before at various occasions over the last few years. People who have not seen — or heard from — Eddie since he left Hawkins in search for a greater life. Although, from what you’ve gathered, the rockstar wasn’t entirely friendly with the bunch before he left either.

They welcome you first. Hugging kindly and asking about Messer. Then, one by one, they turn to look at the brunette man, who’s standing stiffly in the archway, unsure what to do with his limbs.

“Hey,” Eddie says, awkwardly waving his hand.

Nobody moves. The silence is palpable, only sound being a faint murmur of the wind outside.

Odd? Tense? Yes, and yes. Your heart aches for the brunette hanging around the entrance of the kitchen because this is clearly hard for him. Being back in his hometown for reasons still unknown to you, facing a life-altering secret on arrival, dealing with the betrayal caused by everyone — including you — in the form of keeping Messer away from him. And now, facing people he went to high school with, pretending everything is peachy keen.

Eddie oozes confidence. That’s his thing. A big reason why the rockstar skyrocketed to stardom and why millions of fans chant his name like he’s their version of God. Up on that stage, in front of a camera, no one does it like Eddie Munson.

Looking at him here, however, he looks lost.

Swallowing a breath, you amble towards him and only stop when the tips of his black-leather, most likely designer boots brush your much less fancy shoes. His brown-eyes flicker to yours, laced with confusion, and you try to offer him an encouraging smile before shooting a quick look over your shoulder. One that indicates for the group to engage in their own conversation, for the time being.

“You okay?” Once no one is paying particular attention, although you know they’re still listening in, the question rolls off your tongue in a hushed tone.

Eddie sighs quietly. “It’s uh, fuck…”

“Tell me,” you urge and before you can talk yourself out of your next move, you place your hand on his bare forearm, squeezing gently.

His gaze briefly jumps to where your fingers hold his tattooed skin. He proceeds to take a shaky breath, then looks directly into your eyes, searching deep. Perhaps for an answer to his own internal turmoil, or a way to answer your question without uttering a word. As if you held the quick fix to whatever he’s currently feeling.

“It’s everything and uh, nothing…” Eddie says, a hand rustling through his already messy hair. “This whole damn situation. It’s a lot, you know? And I don’t want to feel like people are judging me for something I had no control over.”

You detect a double meaning to the rockstar’s last sentence, but choose to focus on the matter you know first hand.

“No one here is judging you, Eddie.” You affirm, squeezing the muscle of his arm once more. His Adam's apple bobs at the sensation, but he doesn’t tell you to stop, or remove your gentle grip. “These are your friends and I know they feel like shit for keeping Messer from you. I definitely do.”

“You shouldn’t,” he says and places a hand on top of yours, trapping it on his forearm. “You tried. It’s not your fault.” Eddie’s voice is low, rough, although there’s a weariness to the tone, one he's trying to hide.

Nodding, you smile sweetly.

“Then you get out of your own head too, okay? Try to enjoy yourself tonight, because I’m pretty sure Wayne will kick your ass if he finds out you moped about.”

This makes Eddie chuckle and your grin grows tenfold, heart pattering behind your ribcage. He reminds you of Messer when he laughs and God, you’d do anything to bottle the sound.

Turning to face the group, your fingers slide down his skin until they reach his palm and you pull him away from the archway, deeper into the kitchen.

You try to ignore the way your entire being is crackling in short, sharp bursts, like logs on a fire. Ignore your imagination, which is running wild with memories of that night in New York when you held his hand for real, guided it along your body. You force those feelings down because Eddie’s already feeling out of place, surely the last thing he needs is his baby mama acting a fool.

“Guys,” you call the attention of everyone else, then jokingly, to ease any sort of tension, continue, “This is Eddie. Messer’s dad.”

The hush eases and is replaced by a wave of titters as, one by one, Nancy, Jonathan, and Robin, approach the rockstar and re-introduce themselves.

You let go of Eddie’s arm, stepping away to give him space for quick handshakes and hugs. His gaze though, it follows you. Even as he’s embracing his old friends, his eyes don’t leave your frame.

Standing by Steve, you can feel Eddie’s stare and you desperately want to know what he’s thinking about. If you helped the situation, or made it worse. Frankly, you want to know everything about him, although, again, that’s not your place in his world. So, you opt to wonder.

Eddie’s wondering too.

He's wondering about the comfort you offered moments ago, in a room full of his people. He's wondering if the faint glow he sees on your cheeks is a mirror of the warmth spreading through his own chest. And most of all, he's wondering if you noticed the way his hand instinctively followed yours after you dropped the physical hold you had on him because if Eddie had it his way, he’d have your hand in his the entire night.

But you’re suddenly next to Steve and the rockstar is feeling all sorts of confused.

He’s not really spent time with you since that very first day back in Hawkins. You lead a busy life, that much is clear, and Eddie’s not entirely keen to disrupt your peace. Has he secretly hoped for more opportunities to talk with you one-on-one? Absolutely. He’s not going to be a dick about it though. You’ve got shit to do, a life to continue. He’s just a visitor, stopping by until it’s deemed safe to return to the glitz and glamour.

Rationally, Eddie knows he shouldn’t get too invested in whatever you have going on. Yes, he’ll remain in Messer’s life to the level you’ll allow, but that’s where it should end. Yet, with every day that’s passing, he’s aching to be close to you in any capacity. Making breakfast, cleaning up, and bedtime with the kid you share. The little things. They’ve brought the rockstar more peace than he’s ever experienced.

And now, you’re calming him down. Prioritising him. Offering up kindness for nothing in return and Eddie’s not quite sure how he’ll be able to let that go, when the time comes.

There’s also Steve Harrington.

Your defensive stance earlier, and the way you cling to the King of Hawkins now, makes Eddie think there’s definitely something going on. Something that is more than just platonic. But again, it’s not his business. He has to remind himself of that fact when his jaw clenches and his stomach twists.

Eddie continues to watch you though. Less intense because he’s not a creep, but he pays attention. To the things that make you light up, make you laugh. To the topics that make you grimace, close your eyes as if you’re willing the image to leave your mind. He’s paying attention to your voice when you speak about the things you’re passionate about — photography — and the shift in tone when it’s anything less than.

He notices the glimmer in your eyes when you talk about Messer and his pulse quickens when you catch his gaze whenever the toddler is brought into conversation. A silent confirmation, understanding, that you’re not ashamed the rockstar is his father. In fact, Eddie would deduce the look in your eyes as pride. Which is crazy because he’s not done anything to prove he’s worthy of the title. Although, he is trying.

Unbeknown to you, or Wayne, Eddie spent the better part of the week-and-a-half he’s been back, in constant conversations with his legal team.

His agent, Smithie, called him in a panic the very same night Eddie texted Felix about Messer. The older man admitted to also knowing about the child — kudos to Felix — and continuously keeping the situation out of the press, killing stories and whispers whenever they circled the rumour mill.

“We only had your best interest at heart, Edward.”

Smithie’s confession only fueled Eddie’s resolve. He may not have been there for the first three years of his kid’s life, but he’s damn well going to make sure to be here now. Even if it’s only financially.

Against the advice of his agent, the rockstar instructed his lawyers to prepare a comprehensive plan because this isn’t just about acknowledging paternity — which he’s not officially done since the public doesn’t know, yet. This is about ensuring his child’s future. So, a trust fund has been established and Eddie also demanded an evaluation of royalties, insisting on a significant portion being set aside for Messer.

He just needs to tell you.

He knows this information will most likely send you into a frenzy, but he can make you understand. Eddie may not be ready to face the public scrutiny and potential career fallout over his last debacle, but prioritizing his child's well-being and your peace of mind, above all else, is a stance he’s prepared to fight for.

“So, Eddie…” Robin hails his attention from across the table. “What’s life like on the road?”

The rockstar swallows a bite of a fancy cheese Steve put out, and grins.

“Oh man, it’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of,” he answers honestly. “There’s the highs. Venues bursting at the seams, everyone singing along, the sheer energy of it all. Nothing comes close.”

Sneaking a glance in your direction, he takes a swig of his drink and continues, “Then there's the lows, long hours, truck stop coffee that could strip paint, and my bandmates' questionable hygiene after partying all night instead of showering post shows.”

Robin chuckles, nodding along. “Gross.”

“Yeah.” Eddie nods with a smirk.

“But it’s everything you’ve ever wanted, right?” Steve probes, “I’m sure even the bad parts are good since you're doing what you love.”

The rockstar looks to his left, meeting Harrington’s disarming gaze. Eddie’s sure his friend means nothing by the statement, yet he can’t help but feel there’s a question within. One that sounds something like: “when are you fucking off again, so I can enjoy my time with your baby mama in peace?”. Although, he’s being ridiculous thinking this.

“Why?” Eddie asks, slightly off-tone. “You thinking of joining the circus?”

Steve snorts. “Hell no. I’m happy here, dude.”

“Well, I’m happy here too,” Eddie tells him before he can think better of it. And as the table exchanges a set of glances that he’s not entirely paying attention to — busy looking at you again, to gauge your reaction — the rockstar realises that perhaps it’s true.

But that would be crazy since he’s only ever wanted to run away from Hawkins. His return is circumstantial, at best. He’s not happy, Eddie tells himself. He’s just in his head because he’s learned half of his soul is here.

In the shape of a toddler (and the young boy's mom).

as always, thank you for reading! pls support your writers by commenting & reblogging <3

story masterlist

tagging some cool people that expressed interest (if you want to be removed, just let me know), and if anyone wants to be added- also let me know:

@tvserie-s-world @probablyin-bed @the-dumpster-fire-of-life @darknesseddiem @kellsck @althaiareads @streamafterlaughter @ali-r3n @ratsematary @alyisdead @kravitzwhore @aestheticsunflower19 @s1mp-4-ga11y @monstermunsonswife-blog @xingyuluvr @ari-joe @dearestro @spider-starry @vodkapetalz-blog @ilovetaquitosmmmm @angelbabyivy @cupidbloaterz @fishinsuits @thedoubleexposurephotography @thrashcam @kravitzwhore @maskofmirrors @taylorswiftsloverr @djodirt @reidsgubbler @wendyxox @obsessed-midwest-princess @mdurdenpitt @talknerdytome5391 @stitchlover324 @tigolebittiez

#the little mess you made.#eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #rockstar!eddie munson #rockstar!eddie x reader

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mandoriana · 1 day ago

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Merlin,

We had a picnic this afternoon!

Well, almost. I complained to you about being bored — you know how much I hate being stuck inside the castle — and with all this snow, well, I didn’t have much choice.

You and Gwen listened to my whining all morning. I admit, I was purposefully annoying just to get a reaction. I’m sorry — boredom really makes me unbearable.

Anyway, you and Gwen are the best. You went to the kitchen and prepared some warm food for us. Bread, pies, cakes — you even left the castle and ran to the citadel to buy chocolate! It was brilliant of you to melt it and turn it into a drink. I’ve never enjoyed something so much in my life!

The picnic didn’t exactly cure my boredom, but sharing that moment with you and Gwen did. Of course, later the knights stormed into my room — there’s no pie Gwaine can’t sniff out, after all. Having everyone in my room was the best part of the whole year! I’ve always wished for this — real friends to keep me company. And thanks to you, I have them.

I’m eternally grateful.

I know immortality can be cruel and thankless. I know it often feels like it only takes and never gives, but that’s not true.

Life may seem cruel, but it is also so beautiful. Living is beautiful. You can always be learning something new, meeting incredible people, seeing new things being created before your eyes — or old things fading away and becoming legend.

I love you… I really care for you. A lot. You’ve made my life better, and all I want is your happiness. So, my request is quite simple.

Have picnics.

But I’m not just saying grab some food and sit by yourself. No. I want you to make food and sit with someone! Maybe a traveler just passing through, or some children from the fields, maybe even lonely widows or retired elders.

Use the picnic to meet new people. Eat and drink with them. Laugh until wine comes out of your nose.

I want you to lay out a cloth — colorful or tattered — and smile with your mouth full of grapes. I want your food and your company to make someone’s day as joyful as you and Gwen made mine. And if someone asks why you’re doing it, just say:

“Because an idiot I once knew asked me to share my good moments.”

Bring friends. Bring children. Bring animals.

Sit on the grass. Watch the clouds. And for one afternoon, eat good food, tell jokes, rest.

If I were there, I’d steal your pie.

I’d say the cloth you picked is awful.

Then I’d sip hot chocolate and smile with my mouth dirty just to make you laugh too.

So please, this is my request: Don’t isolate yourself. Don’t be alone. Share moments and live life.

Your king,

Arthur Pendragon.

P.S.: Thank you.

To Merlin

#Arthur letters #merlin #bbc merlin #merlin bbc #merlin emrys #merlin x arthur #merthur #merlin incorrect quotes #incorrect qutoes #immortal merlin

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madamechrissy · 6 months ago

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Daddy Likes Crazy Girls

Pairings - Dilf Toji Fushiguro x fem reader

Summary -You're Megumi's best friend, and spend more time at the Fushiguro home than at your dorm room, and since you were a kid you've had it bad for Megumi's dad. He was always cool and fun until you got older, then he started being gruff and rude. Well, that just won't do, because you know you need his attention, and you decide to make his life a living hell, but Toji decides to give that hell right back on you. Who will finally give in!?

CW - age gap- Toji is 39, reader is 20, lowkey hint of somnophilia, rough blow jobs, dirty talk, Toji AND reader ain't shit, using others to make e/o jealous, fingering, cunnilingus, rough sex, dirty talk, highkey daddy kink, spitting, choking, reader and Toji freaks. Megumi and Yuuji are reader's age no NSFW w/them (reader uses Yuuji to piss Toji off but it's SFW) Basically it's nasty, filthy DILF Toji smuttt - WC- 7.5k

Based on Your Best Friend's Dad Toji - The pic on the left is from here (tears on a withered flower) I could not find a source for the Toji image! Reblogs/comments so appreciated if you enjoy!

Toji stiffens… in multiple ways as you saunter out that morning, as he’s throwing back two ibuprofen and sipping on bitter coffee, black, just out he likes it. You’re rubbing your eyes just a bit and yawning, stretching up your arms, tiny crop top stretched tight on your breasts, which bounce as your arms rest, and his goddamn cock twitches. He literally turns away, facing the counter then.

“Morning, Mr. Fushiguro.” You say brightly, sleep still in your voice, and he grumbles a hello, tensing when you walk towards him. “Oh, coffee, can I have some? I’m so beat and I have that test later.”

“Yeah, yeah… go ahead kid.” You glare at his strong back, shirtless and muscled, calling you kid when you were damn near old enough to drink, when you drove and worked and went to college.

You’re no kid.

You gently touch his shoulder, trying to get through to the coffee maker in the little kitchen, feeling him tense, as he narrows his eyes, looking over at you, lips pressing together, that scar just stretched a bit over his lip. You lean forward, breasts in his full view, as you start brewing your own cup, and he damn near rubs his hard cock at the sight of your nipples poking out.

God you annoy him, always over here, sure when you were younger it didn’t bother him, you were Megumi’s friend, a good one at that, and a good kid. And as a teen even, you had your shit together, living without your own parents, you had spent a ton of time here. But when you hit about eighteen or nineteen, and you just… started looking at him like you are now!?

Dilated eyes, lowered lashes, licking your goddamn lip?

When you started wearing less and less, and frequently crashed right on his couch, in various states of undress? When your tits jiggled just so, or you bent over in front of him, shorts riding up a bouncy ass? When you giggled and brushed your fingers against his arm?

You drive Toji fucking insane.

He’s tired of jerking it to his son’s best friend, he’s tired of picturing your thighs spread as he fucks women, you’re… infuriating him, actually. Batting your lashes and shooting little smiles, constantly trying to ruin him. Sure, people thought Toji was a creep, a pervert, a fucking whore, and to some extent, he was those things, but with women his age.

Being almost forty and having a very annoying, sexy and tempting twenty year old was not fucking okay. Sure, it’s one thing to jerk it to you, how could he not, but it’s harder and harder with every passing day not to give in, to play with that pussy he’s seen hints of, to suck on those pretty nipples that seem to always be poking out of something you wear.

Toji can’t stand you.

“Have a rough night, Mr. Fushiguro?” You ask then, and he turns his forest green eyes looking down at you, while you pour a little sugar in the cup, taking one of the spoons from his wooden drawers and then stirring it.

“Huh, no rough night. Slept fine.” Jerked it to the thought of you at midnight, and dammit he enjoys his sleep.

“Got it, you seem a little grumpy though.” You tease, nudging him with your shoulder playfully, just that alone makes him wanna spread you wide on this goddamn counter, picturing how your pretty pussy would be in his face.

“Grumpy, doll?” He asks, you giggle a little, looking up at him, the man you’ve had it bad for since you can remember.

As much as you love Megumi, a huge part of you coming here was for him, Toji, Megumi’s far too sexy father. Sure, Megumi was your age, but you two were just too close, but also, Toji. Rippling abbed, strong muscled, thick fucking Toji. The man whose muscles have muscles, and those lazy green eyes, that straight nose with plump ass lips?

The man who you know takes care of business, shit you’ve seen him on nights kissing down girl’s necks, shooting you a quick look before he’d grab their hair, their waist, like you could vividly picture it being you? The man who you could constantly see his thick, girthy outline in these slutty grey sweats he wears?

You want him.

You always have, but at first it was perhaps admiration, or a childhood crush, but now that you’re almost twenty one, and you’ve had sex, you’ve had experience, you can’t stop thinking that Toji knew what to do. Can’t stop thinking how badly you’d love to see that cock just begging for attention, have it down your throat, have him bend you over this kitchen table.

Your mind gets so sidetracked you forget he’s said anything you you, clearing your throat and shrugging. “A little grumpy to me in general lately.”

Toji scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Excuse me for not bein’ Mr. Fuckin Sunshine all the time, doll.”

Doll.

Imagine him saying ‘doll’ as he pounds your little pussy.

Fuck.

You shift just a bit, his gaze catches it. “Hmm, you’ve just been a little mean to me. I used to come… to you all the time, you know.” You smile just a bit, his lips are parted, then you sigh. “Have a good day, Mr. Fushiguro.”

“Damn brat.” He mutters, running his hand through inky locks.

Since you hate your dorm mate, you always come over there, and Megumi never minds, he just gives you a lazy little smile, sometimes you crash in his room, he’ll even take the floor, or separate you all with a body pillow. He listens to your bullshit, with a little sigh and bored face, but he listens. Megumi has been your good friend, even through breakups and makeups with his best friend, Yuuji.

You’d been on and off with Yuuji for years, as the two of you are probably better off friends, but Yuuji is so damn sweet, and so down bad, you end up back with him again, much to the disdain of Toji. When you’re sitting on Yuuji’s lap, hand running through pastel hair, while Megumi and him game, you feel it, Toji Fushiguro’s glare right at you.

Something excites you so much from it, you get overheated, you get wet from your thoughts, and Yuuji would nervously notice, blushing.

You’re kind of shit for that, for being with Yuuji when the man you want is right there, but he never seems to understand that you’re a woman. No skimpy outfit or flirty looks do a damn thing, to the point you think… it’s all in your head, it has to be, some childish fantasy that you have to let go.

Little do you know, as you’re kissing Yuuji, and that boy’s hand is on your waist, Toji has to go to the damn bathroom, and start stroking his cock. He tries to muffle his moans, while he curses you internally, for making him act like some dumb teen. And your smiles are as if you know.

One night Toji comes home and sees you on the couch, with one of your fucking pretty, perfect titties out, shoved out from your twisted little crop top, just begging him to touch it. He goes over, cock leaking precum, to cover you up, but he bends on a knee instead, brushing your hair back, watching your lips part, tempting him to no goddamn end.

Imagine how they’d feel on his -

He clears his mind, or tries to, deciding to fix your tank top, but his thumb brushes your nipple on accident, eliciting a soft whine from your perfect lips, your areola tightening just from his touch. He pauses, hating himself then, but he has to just bend down, pressing a kiss on that peak, and then your hand instinctively grips his hair, making him freeze, wondering what the fuck he’s doing.

“Toji…” You whisper, his eyes shoot up, but you’re fast asleep, shit you’re dreaming of him, like he’s worth a gorgeous girl like you dreaming of his old ass, but he laps at your nipple, before he can stop himself, hot wet tongue tasting your sweet skin. “Mnh!”

Shit.

He pulls back, but sucks your pretty nipple in his mouth for just a moment, greedily, hand brushing over your body and the thin fleece that’s slung over your hips, feeling your heat even through it

Fuck, shit, fuck.

He pulls back, exhaling and swiping up the slick from your nipple with his rough thumb, picturing how pretty your tits would look covered in his ropes of cum, before he stops himself, covering you up quickly and rushing to his room. He can’t do shit like that…

Why are you dreaming of him though?

It’s still not okay… right?

Nor is it okay he wanted to touch that heat, lap up your juices, watch your sleepy face construe in pleasure. He can’t, can’t, can’t. So instead he’s stroking his aching cock, which slaps his belly button as it’s released, stroking it with his hand in little twists, imagining it now, the taste of your nipple in his mouth, until he’s spurting cum all from that reddened tip.

He can’t.

*****

Toji becomes meaner, gruffer, ignoring you, trying to fall into every woman he can, all while you come over less and less, thank god. But you can’t stop thinking of him, he’s a constant thought as you play with yourself, having dreams of him that feel too real and you come over one more time, already lit as you call Megumi, and he yawns, letting you in.

“You’re so needy, tch.” He grumbles, you giggle then, kissing his cheek, earning his eye roll.

“You’re the best friend ever.” You kiss his cheek again and he grimaces, taking in your attire.

“You went all slutty looking to that party, hmm? Mad at Yuuji?”

“Gumi!”

“Hot, just slutty. Go put on my clothes or something.” He says, with another yawn, ruffling your hair then.

“All right, I will in a bit, but… one more drink?” He chuckles, gesturing to the fridge.

“There’s beer in there, but I suggest water after.”

“Sure, dad.”

Megumi basically was Toji’s dad, way too mature always. He rolls his green eyes, just a little darker than his father’s, yawning again. “You know where everything is, crazy ass. I’m off to bed.”

“Night, Gumi, thank you!”

“Yeah yeah.” He shuts his door, as you’re just a little tipsy, curious where Toji was… some date, you’re sure. He’s sort of notorious for the women he has, though you’ve never seen the man have an actual serious girl.

You crack open a beer, sighing now, still clad in your- as Megumi dubbed it- slutty black dress, sitting in the kitchen chair as you sip the beer, right when the door opens and shuts. Toji walks in, actually wearing some dress shirt and slacks, different from the thin work out tees and sweats you normally see, and pauses when he sees you in the chair, his lips clamping shut.

“Have fun, Mr. Fushiguro?” You ask now, crossing your legs, allowing him to see your pretty, perfect pussy as he realizes you aren’t wearing shit under that dress. He gulps, mouth opening, before he eyes your peer in your pretty little hand, the kitchen suddenly far too small.

“What?” He manages, and you uncross your legs again, standing and walking closer to him, looking so sexy and pretty he wants to yank you by your goddamn hair, show you just how to get fucked.

He doubts you get fucked good, you’re too bitchy and needy, he can just tell, you need someone to split you in two. You lean against the counter, tilting your head, looking so slutty in this dress, tits out, thighs showing, hugging every curve and line of that banging body.

You’re sent to fuck him up, he’s sure of it, whatever his shitty past was, you’re the punishment.

“Have fun?” You practically purr the words.

“You old enough to drink, brat?” He demands, and you giggle again, touching his chest just a bit, but that alone is setting him the fuck off, as his hands clench and unclench at his sides.

“Old enough for lots of things.” You look right up at him, tummy clenching with how tall he is, how big he is, mind running fucking insane.

“Still a fucking kiddo.” He grumbles, opening the fridge now, taking a beer out of it and gulping it down, struggling not to let in.

Annoying brat that you are.

“So, did you have a date?’

“Yep.”

“Did you get off?”

“The fuck!?” He demands, sputtering as you giggle, buzzed and finally bold enough to spit it out, as you see him scowl, leaning down. “You said what?”

“Did you get off, Mr. Fushiguro?” You repeat again, batting those long lashes, some fake ones you wear that shouldn’t be as hot as they are on you.

“The fuck, brat?” He grabs you by the hair on the back of your neck with one big hand, the pull of it making you soaking wet, dripping down your thighs.

“I could help you, you always gave me such good advice as a kid you know, as a teenager. Even though you’re so mean now to me.” You lean even closer, pouting, he tastes the sweetness mixing with the liquor in your system, shaking his head, teeth clenched together.

“Don’t know what you’re fucking saying, doll. Should shut your brat mouth up.” His words go straight to your pussy, when his finger finds you between your thighs, and he curses, you’re slick and so hot. “Slutty ass didn’t even wear panties with this little outfit huh? Want all those college boys to see?”

“I’m sure they did. But that wasn’t the- question- ngh!” When he swipes a rough finger against your clit, your moan does him in.

“This soaked just talking to me?” He whispers, you barely are able to form a coherent thought or answer.

You trail your fingers down to his cock, gripping it and raising a brow. “Want me to help you Mr. Fushiguro? That girlfriend suck you good enough?”

“Keep fucking talking shit, brat, you’ll regret it.” He whispers hoarsely, only for you to smile up at him.

“Oh, gonna teach me a lesson - daddy?”

“Fucking brat I swear to…” He shoves you down on your bare knees then, right on Toji’s tile floor, and you gasp when you watch him free his cock, gulping as you see just how huge it is, thick and veiny, and you look up at him then. Tall, intimidating, cock right next to your lips, while he grabs your hair. “Got one chance to come to your senses, doll- ah, fuck!”

You lap at him, and soon you find yourself sucking every bit of your best friend’s dad’s cock all the way in your throat, burning as it stretches to try to accommodate him, and he’s so thick and long it’s damn near impossible to take him all. Your nails are pressing against his slacks as you move your head, sucking him so sloppy, drooling all over him.

Toji can’t take how good your mouth feels, how pretty your eyes are as they fill with tears for him, gripping your hair with his fingers and now fucking your face. “Shut you up huh, brat?”

You just whimper, as he puts a leg between your thighs, and you’re rolling your hips against his foot, his shoe pressing on your clit. You’re whining and grinding as he fucks your mouth harder, grunting, precum salty and sweet coating your tongue. You’re soaking his pant leg, clit throbbing in need, while his cock slides so deep you’re choking on him.

“So desperate, huh, gonna grind on my leg like that? Slutty lil’ cunt soaking me? This what you do to me, fuck…” He’s muttering to himself more than anything, as you suck harder, the degrading words only making you wetter. You’re trembling and shaking when he pauses, throbbing. “Shit… you suck that good, got me fuckin mad ya ever sucked anyone.”

He yanks you back just a bit, looking at your reddened lips, plump and coated in your spit, your mouth is parted, gasping for a breath then, he’s pulling you back up now, pressing you against the counter, thigh between yours, you’re rolling your hips and whimpering as he shuts your mouth with his hand. He feels it, you soaking him, dying to taste you now.

“Keep it quiet, shit-”

Suddenly the door opens, and you two immediately part, Toji adjusting his cock and turning back to the fridge, trying to act busy as you cough just a bit, throwing back the beer when Megumi walks out. He yawns now, blinking bleary eyed at the two of you, as Toji tries to stop his precum from leaking out of his tip.

“Can you two keep it down, shit. Hey…” He turns to you now, as you put the beer in the trash. “Come get some pajamas on, you can sleep in my bed if you want.”

“Thank you, Gumi, good idea.” You snatch up pajamas that Megumi brings, a big shirt and a pair of his boxers, heading to the bathroom and resting your head on the door, shaking like crazy as you peel off your dress. Your thighs are a sticky mess, your damn throat hurts from his cock.

Your pussy is aching with need, you splash some cool water on your face, struggling to take several breaths as you eye yourself in the mirror. You lips are swollen from sucking him, eyes dilated and pupils blown the fuck out, your cheeks have taken on this color from how overheated they are. You struggle to compose yourself, wiping up the endless slick from your pussy.

What just happened?

You walk back out, seeing Megumi with a water bottle, smiling lazily at you, and you sigh, taking it and smiling, feeling so guilty. You just sucked his damn father, now you’re gonna act normal somehow? Toji is nowhere to be seen, so you try to just to push it out of your brain, even as you’re gulping down icy water and laying in Megumi’s bed.

“You don’t have to sleep on the floor, Gumi.” You say, he sighs now, climbing up and laying on the other side.

“Don’t take advantage of me, hmm? Look like you got dick on the brain.”

“Excuse me!?” You both burst into laughter, you shove him nearly off the bed as he’s chuckling.

“You and Yuuji need to stop the back and forth, you know he’s like a sad puppy when you all break up.”

“Ugh, I know.” You sigh, covering your face now, wishing you could get this annoying old man out of your head. “Dick on my brain, whatever.”

“Mmhmm. Night night.”

“G’night.” You turn on your side, thinking just what Toji is feeling, was it nothing but some girl with some crush to him?

You all literally say nothing to each other the next morning, and Mr. Fushiguro has went from somewhat quiet to completely shutting you out. His replies are grunts and grumbles, and he doesn’t say a damn word to you. For weeks, you haven’t even caught a glance, to the point you wonder if it was all some drunk ass dream.

Unable to handle it, you quit coming over, for weeks, in a way Toji is thankful he doesn’t have to constantly have a hard cock, constantly masturbate to you- well he does anyway, but- the memory of your throat is something he can’t stop. The memory of you so desperate you were grinding on him like that, how he almost had you right in the kitchen.

He fights all of it, glad you’re not there, trying to go back out, to forget you even exist, feeling so damn awkward as he talks to his kid about you, asking ever so casually where you are. Apparently you have some new boyfriend, and Toji doesn’t like the irrational feelings that brings him, so he’s even more thankful you’re not around.

Thinking of some college loser not even getting your pretty pussy off makes him furious, no one even deserves to touch you really, even him.

As Toji’s on a date, and they’re being seated, a rooftop restaurant this woman wants to go to, he spots you then. You’re giggling, hand over your mouth, as you show some boy something on your phone, and he’s laughing too. A boy your age, that’s how it should be, anyway.

Right?

You notice him then, how can someone not notice Toji, his gaze across your body, lingering against your breasts, pressed up and on display in the little dress you’re wearing. You see his hand go to his date’s thigh, so you lean closer to your date, whispering little nothings in his ear. His cheeks heat up as his own hand touches your thigh.

Like some sick game, you both trade looks, touches with your dates, all while the intensity builds, and surely your date must think he’s got the easiest girl around, he’s doing really nothing and can feel your heat as he touches your thigh. And surely Toji’s date is enjoying every touch and caress, as you watch his fingers trail down her shoulders, picturing them.

It’s suddenly all too much, you murmur a quick apology. “I have to go to the ladies room real quick.”

“No worries love.” He says with a smile, and you quickly go to the bathroom, splashing cool water on your face, on the back of your neck, exhaling and trying to compose yourself.

“Shit…” You grumble, then gasp as the door slams open, his tall imposing figure right in the bathroom, broad shoulders so big he barely fits the damn doorway. “It’s a ladies room, Mr. Fushiguro.”

“Stop looking at me like that.” He whispers, gripping your face tightly, you take a shaky breath, legs trembling as he’s too close, and your eyes flicker to his lips, glossy and full, making you ache to kiss him.

“Look at you like what?” You look at him under lashes, as he remember’s your damn demon mouth on him, and he turns you then, towering over you in the reflection of the mirror, tilting your chin to face it.

“Like that, see yourself? Fucked out face, begging to be filled.” You gasp when one hand is wrapping your throat, the other slipping up your dress, groaning in your ear as he hovers over you, finding your panties soaked.

“Mr. Fushiguro…”

“That lil boy toy gets you off, doll?” He asks softly, rolling his fingers under the waistband of your panties, as his other fingers squeeze your throat with the lightest pressure. Your eyes roll back, and he slips two fingers inside to the knuckle, stretching you so good you’re damn near sobbing. “Asked ya a question?”

“Does y-your girl… get you off? Suck dick like I do?” You ask in response, smiling at his scowl, as he starts pumping his fingers in and out of your pussy, you hear the squelching wetness echoing in the bathroom, crying out and bucking your hips.

“Tired of that mouth, tired of you fucking with my head. Little demon brat.” He huffs, cock hard and thick against your back, dying to be inside you, feeling your sticky little walls gripping him, you’re damn near sobbing it feels so good, his huge hard body taking you over. “Look at yourself, huh? Pretty lil face, annoying the shit outta me.”

“Y-you annoy m-me.” He chuckles, as he guides your chin back.

“Open those eyes.” You do as he says, whimpering softly, while your cunt is drooling down to his rolled up dress sleeves, you feel every fucking ridge and callous against your walls, making you even wetter, your cheeks so flushed, your eyes so bright as he watches you. “You drive me nuts on purpose, don’t you brat?”

“Y-you don’t even w-want-” He yanks out his fingers, just as you’re about to cum, leaving you weak, as he literally lets you go, and you glare up at him, as he sucks you off his fingers, making your mouth drop open at how sensual it is.

“Goddamn, gotta taste that good!?” You can’t speak, not when he’s tilting your chin up again, leaning close. “Stop fucking with me, got it?”

“You’re such a dick.” He glares, and you glare right back, as he just walks the fuck out. “Ugh!”

Your jaw sets, stomping out a few moments after, seeing Toji acting so casual, hands gripping a stem of a glass of wine, still glistening from you, smirking at you, and you decide it then.

Two can play at his little game.

*****

You are bouncing around in your little damn cheerleading outfit, as you’re on the field, shaking your hips with your stupid fucking pom poms, all while Toji finally decides to come to Megumi’s football games. Megumi himself is curious why he keeps showing up, it’s not that Toji never came to them, it’s just he didn’t… very often. Usually working or something.

Well Toji takes heavy interest, as he’s got a new girl with him every game, you can practically feel his stupid smirk from across the field as he watches you, an arm wrapped around a pretty lady’s shoulders. So you decide, the best course of action is to slap a big good luck kiss right on Yuuji’s lips before the game, to the awws and oohs of the crowd.

It takes everything inside Toji not to grab you by your pig tails, drag you over and beat your bouncy ass. It takes everything not to smack that ass so hard you can’t walk anymore, especially as you turn away from a blushing Yuuji to smile meanly right back at Toji, seeing his glare.

You may or may not also bend over right in front of him, giving him a full view of thin lacy black panties when you should be wearing spandex shorts, making Toji so hard he physically hurts. It’s not your fault you dropped something, though! You smile innocently when you turn around, feigning surprise.

“Mr. Fushiguro, it’s so good to see you here.” You say brightly, smiling to the lady next to him then. “He’s such a good dad.”

Toji just glares as you wave, running back to the field to finish your routine, little do you know Toji has to leave in the middle of the game, so torn the fuck up from seeing you he can’t stand it. He’s again stroking his cock to his son’s bratty little fucking friend, cursing you the entire time, thinking he could make you stop if you saw him with other women.

But you are driving him more insane.

Megumi is out early for practice when you waltz right in later, wearing your pretty little maroon cheer outfit, the irony is it’s a letter fucking T on your pretty tits, as you peek around, noticing him. You both pause, it’s been damn near a month since you sucked him, and weeks since he fingered you, you’ve both kept your distance just enough.

“Shit, Megumi already left? My phone’s dead.” You frown at it now, sighing as Toji slowly walks up to you, shutting the door behind you and locking it with a click. You pause, breaths coming faster and faster as he looms over you, so big and intimidating and fucking sexy. You let out a whimper before you bite your trembling lip, and he cups your face with one hand.

“You’re playing with fire, y’know that brat? Fucking have no clue what you’re in for if you keep it up.” He juts your chin up roughly then, making your head fall back, you tremble then, biting at your lip harder. “Think I’m playing?”

“Think I’m scared of you? Think I’m some innocent kid? I’m not.” He chuckles gruffly, licking that scar, making it glisten as he tilts his head to the side, strong muscles flexing as he presses you further against the door.

“You ain’t done shit like I’d do to you, none of those lil’ boys could make you cum like me, split you in fucking two, fuck you stupid.” You gasp, his words going straight to your pussy, but you struggle to hide it.

“All talk, is what I think, maybe you’re too old to keep up with me.” You raise a brow with a little smile, when Toji grabs you by your throat, it turns into a full fucking grin.

“You psycho little brat, need a whole fuckin’ lesson, don’t ya?” He slams his lips on yours, and once he does, it’s over for both of you.

His tongue his sliding into your mouth, not teasing, no he’s fucking owning it, devouring it, as your hands slip up his chest, gripping his thin white shirt and his free hand slips down, yanking your cheer top down, one of your breasts spilling out. He moans as he pulls back, squeezing your throat harder, pulling you to him.

“Think I haven’t already sucked on these perky lil’ fuckin nipples?” You gasp then, earning his chuckle. “Sleeping in slutty ass tops, tits out.”

“D-did you… do more?” You whisper, hoarse as he’s choking you harder, and he smirks at you.

“No, freaky ass brat, what did you want me to touch you in your sleep?” You nod weakly, as he squeezes your windpipe even harder, until you’re a soaking wet fucking mess. “What’d ya want me to do?”

“Eat me out.” Your whisper ends him, he’s on his knees then, Toji Fushiguro, on his knees, as your heart hammers in your chest, and he shoves up that cheer skirt, licking you over your lacy panties, groaning as your slick hits his mouth, his tongue lapping the soppy mess out. “Ah!”

Your hands grip his inky hair, hiccuping and crying as he continues to lap at you with his hungry tongue, groaning against you, reducing your panties to nothing. “You’re such a little slut, wearing this? Want everyone to see this fucking pussy?”

“W-wanted y-you to…”

“Shit…” Toji takes your hands, putting them on your skirt then. “Hold this the fuck up, now.”

“Yes…”

“Yes what.”

“Yes… daddy- ah!” Toji groans, knowing he’s just a sick fuck for eating through your panties under your goddamn cheer skirt, knowing he’s old enough to be your damn dad almost, but he can’t stop himself now. Once he tastes you it’s fucking done for him, as you hold your skirt up, hooking a thigh over his shoulder and screaming out.

“Good fucking girl. Finally, listening huh?” You can’t function, dying for the barrier of your panties to leave, wriggling as he teases you relentlessly.

“Please!”

“Please what, doll?”

“Take em off, please… fucking please.”

“Hah…” He’s laughing, biting you over your panties, grinning up at the mess you already are. “Ya gonna cum from this? These boys so pathetic?”

“Mnh…” Is all you manage, and he moans, rubbing your damp and sticky fabric, finally peeling it off you, easing your thigh off him and pressing bites down it as he does.

“All sweet now, huh? Not being a slutty fuckin’ brat?”

“I need… need you… T-Toji…” He moans at how sweet you are when he laps you up between your puffy lips, groaning as you soak his mouth, your hands back to those thin inky locks, pulling as he swipes the flat of his tongue up your slit. “Ah! F-fuck!”

“Bad lil mouth, huh?” He smacks your pussy now, making it sting and throb, but you’re only more fucking wet, as he slaps it again, shoving two fingers up your hole and looking at you under sooty lashes, as his cock throbs in his sweats, precum making him sticky as you fall apart over him. “Nothin’ to say?”

“Fuck you�� ah!” He smacks your pussy again, harder, wet slap echoing in the house as he stands now, picking you up like you’re nothing, throwing you over his shoulder as you squeak. “Let me down, f-fuck!”

Toji laughs, smacking your bare ass and making you squeak, before tossing you right on his bed, spreading your thighs and nudging right between them, spitting right on your pussy and grinning with white teeth glinting, slipping his two thick fingers through it. “Fuck, look at her, so soaked and I just am getting started.”

You blink in confusion, sure you’ve got experience, but just a few licks was better than anything you’ve felt. “I’m r-ready, though- mnh!”

“I ain’t even close to done with eating this pussy. Tastes so fucking yummy, demon pussy, demon mouth.” You’d laugh if he wasn’t slobbering all over your cunt again, making you quiver and moan, your hands grabbing fistfuls of his messy sheets, your toes curling, still in your fucking cheer sneakers.

“T-Toji, please-”

“You’re gonna get it, brat, until you’re beggin’ me to stop, until you can’t even move, can’t think. That what you've been wanting all this time, huh?” He asks, eyes alight with something dark and carnivorous.

“Y-yes, yes, I want it, I need it, I-ahh!”

You don’t have to ask again, because he’s already descending, stupidly tongue licking and fucking in and out of your soppy little hole, as you scream out at it, so close to cumming you can feel the pressure in your tummy. He can feel it, as he grips your hips, shoving that little pleated skirt up and drinking you, drowning in you, your body just twitching under his hold.

“That’s it, there you go, doll. Cum all over m’fuckin face.” He urges, and it’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before, so goddamn intense as he devours your pussy, your eyes roll into the back of your head as he latches onto your little twitching clit, sucking hard, and your body arches up, your back bowing off the bed, as you shatter.

“Oh fuck, T-Toji m’gonna cum I - ah!” You’re sobbing out the jumble of words, your voice hoarse, your body shaking as he feasts on you, his stubble scraping your sensitive skin. He’s fucking humming on your clit, and you feel the orgasm wrecking you as your hips buck up to his face.

He’s moaning as you orgasm all over his face, juices fucking pouring, the sounds of him slurping them up are goddamn obscene, he’s drunk off you as he sips up every bit he can. His breaths are hot and heavy, and your thighs are clamping down around his head, already overstimulated and whining pathetically, but he’s just too fucking strong, and he’s not stopping.

“Again, doll, can your lil slutty pussy cum again f’me?” You weakly shake your head, and he chuckles up at you. “So cute, and we’re just getting started, don’t tap out now… where’s your school spirit?”

“Oh my god…” You wanna cuss him out, but you’re about to cum again as he shoves two thick fingers in, curling them and pressing that spongy spot in your messy, not sloppy fucking walls. “Too much!” You whine, his chuckle tickling your clit as he spreads your lips, watching it twitch.

“Talked all that shit, then can’t take a lil foreplay?” You’re sweating already, about to cum again, the tension in your body coils tighter and tighter until it snaps, and you’re screaming out his name, Toji. Your hips bucking against his face, your juices squirting out all over his mouth and chin, soaking the bed beneath you, and he’s just swallowing it all down, groaning with every drop.

You collapse back, breathless, sweat slicked, and your heart racing so fast you can feel it in your throat, and Toji sits back a bit,, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at you with a smug grin, your pussy still quivering and pulsing around his thick digits as he is relentless in his fingering.

“Weak and fuckin pathetic, huh?”

“Ngh…” Is all you can manage, gasping as he keeps scissoring his fingers in and out of your cunt.

“That was just the fucking appetizer, doll.” And with that, he pulls his fingers out of you, bringing them to his mouth and licking them clean, his eyes never leaving yours, dilated and reflecting your desire when he leans over you finally.

“T-Toji… I….”

“You sure can’t run that bratty mouth no more, huh? I already fuck you stupid with just fingers?” You just whimper, he makes you pathetic, ripping your top off you now, groaning as he sees your tits right in his face, gripping them in his big hands, sucking right on your nipples, while you’re grinding eagerly, dying for his cock.

“Toji please, more…”

“Think you can handle this cock, doll?” You nod eagerly, and he grins, lifting you like you’re nothing, pausing at your skirt and moaning. “Think we’ll keep it on.”

Toji’s undressing eagerly, despite acting in control, he’s dying to slip inside you, soaking wet and eager, sliding three fingers in just to test you, and you gasp at the stretch, legs shaking while he curls them at the knuckles. “Ngh! Too… much…”

“Doll, need ya nice and ready.” He pulls them out now, shoving them in your mouth, making you soak yourself as he lines the thick tip of his cock against your folds, pressing into your entrance, you scream out at it, pussy clenching just his tip, making him hiss. “Fuck you’re so tight still, shit…”

“Please, fuck me please.”

“Begging so pretty, love you like this - ha- f-fuck!” Toji’s green eyes roll back in his own head as he sinks into your soaking wet pussy, stretching you just perfectly around him, cupping your face as he does. “Look at me, now.”

You struggle to focus your eyes as he fills you, shoving in one stroke so deep your nails dig in his back, nothing but your cheer skirt and sneakers on your body, something about that and your pigtails making Toji feral. He slams his cock deep inside you as your mouth is in a slutty O, whimpering at the burn, the stretch.

“Can’t take a dick like this, huh?” You shake your head weakly, and he wants to chuckle, to smirk, but he’s too pussy drunk now, as he fucks you harder, his bed creaking, headboard slamming on his fucking wall as he leans up. “Look at that… huh baby?”

You weakly look down, seeing your tummy bulge as he slows his movements, and you’re blushing, making Toji murmur how cute his cheerleader is, while he watches it slower and slower, groaning. His tip drags on some spot again, making your nails rake down his arms, leaving marks, and he moans, head falling low, sweat dripping from his brow against your lips.

“That’s it, fucking up your lil body, huh? Too fuckin big for you, ain’t I?” You weakly just nod, he has fucked your brains out, he’s smirking now. “Ready for real dick?”

“For what!? F-fuck!” Toji lifts a leg up now, slamming deep in your pussy, fucking wrecking you then, as you’re cumming all over his cock when he presses fully in, stuffing your little cunt so full you’re sobbing at it.

“There it is, feel her milkin’ me already, huh?” You’re dizzy, blacking out damn near even before he wraps a hand back on your throat. “Been driving me crazy for fucking years, y’know what you were doing, didn’t ya?

You nod weakly, tears in your eyes, gasping as you’re pulsing all around his thick veiny length, struggling as he stuffs you, balls deep. “T-too much, too much!”

“Nah doll, you can take it like a good girl, can’t you?” His words and his strokes fuck you up, you nod eagerly as he moans, fucking into you harder and deeper, before pulling out, watching you shake and laugh. “Hands and knees, doll.”

You eagerly obey, barely able to turn, he has to help you, pressing your head into his soft mattress as he fucks you so hard, the slapping and wet sounds filling his room with your muffled cries. You’re clinging to the sheets until he takes your hands, gripping them behind your back with one hand, delicate wrists squeezed while he pumps into your tight, eager pussy.

“Fuckin feel you, so goddamn perfect, made f’me huh?” You can’t speak, you just whimper, as he groans, yanking your head up by your hair, leaning over. “Asked ya a question doll.”

“M-made f-for you.” You whisper, he chuckles, kissing you sloppy before he lets you go, your head falling again, while he pounds inside your eager pussy, which swallows him in so pretty.

“Know how many times I… stroked it, fuck… know what you’ve done to me!? Think I’ll ever let this pussy go now?” He whispers, insane fucking things, maybe they should scare you, as he pounds you so hard you do feel split in two, but you’re just whining in pleasure as he hisses, your walls pulsing as you’re close again. “So fucking easy, huh?”

You can’t answer, you’re screaming into the sheets while he’s pounding you so hard, wrecking you for anyone, as he rambles - ‘that’s it, feel her’ - ‘no one’s ever fucked you like this, huh’ and ‘this is what you get, talking all that shit, hah- can’t fuckin’ speak now, huh?’

You’re a mess, drooling when he has you cumming again, only for him to flip you back on your back like you are some little doll to him, cupping your face and sucking in a breath for a moment. You have the marks of the bed on your pretty face, tears making your mascara trail, eyes fucked out. You have drool that he swipes, slowing then and huffing.

“Know how goddamn beautiful you are?” He whispers, so intimate and shocking for a moment, your breath catches, as he slows his strokes. “Know how you’re in all my dreams? Pretty, perfect, f-fuck…”

“Toji… y-you think…”

“I know.” You’re sobbing when he kisses you, when you’re clinging to him with numb hands from his brutal grip, and he slows just a bit, the kiss deepening. “God I’ve wanted you so long, doll, shit… like I’m dreaming.”

His words melt you, as you try to cling to any sense of reality anymore. “Oh, Toji…”

“Shh, stop making me sappy and shit, demon ass pussy here.” You breathless giggle, but it turns into a cry as you cling to him, hips rolling, when he’s getting close, and he’s cupping your face, you feel far too fucking much. “Where you want me to cum, doll, because I’m close, pussy gripping too good.”

“In me.”

“In you!?” You nod shyly, and he glares, narrowing green eyes as he tenses over you. “Anyone came in this pussy?” You shake your head nervously, earning his grin. “Perfect, gonna fill you first huh- want it all in you?”

You nod weakly, and he presses your thighs up, folding you in half, girthy cock and mean tip bullying your walls until he’s closer and closer, groaning. “Ngh!” You’re pathetically whining, he laughs.

“Beg for it, all this cum doll, been fucking waiting for this.”

“P-please- ah!” Toji loves how submissive you are despite you having been such a goddamn brat, pleased his cock has fucked your brains good enough you’re begging for it.

“Beg harder, doll.”

“Fucking please!”

“Please what, brat?”

“Daddy please!” Toji’s ended then, pouring hot spurts of cum so deep in your abused little hole, white ropes coating your fluttering walls as he damn near whimpers, falling heavy over you. You’re sobbing it feels so good, muscles throbbing and fluttering around his cock, pushing his cum and yours all down his cock. “Mnh!”

“That’s it, milk me like a good lil slut.” He huffs, easing back and shoving his cock in again, pressing kisses sweeter than his mean strokes down your neck. He exhales, fingers running down your skin as he feels you twitching under him. “Goddamn it, you’re such a brat, y’know? Until you get dick.”

“That w-was the cure.” He snorts now, shaking his head, leaning up with a breath, and cupping your face again, a thin sheen of sweat on your perfect skin, when he hears the door unlock, cursing.

“Shit…” You hastily cover yourself, as Toji struggles to right himself, hiding you under the blankets as Megumi walks in, sighing when he sees his best friend’s cheer top and likely her panties strewn along with his dad’s sweats.

“Really, you two?” He grumbles.

“Nothing happened, kid. Just… she’s…”

“Yeah, whatever.” He crosses his arms, leaning in the doorway as you peek out from under the covers. “We have a game? Get it together.”

He walks out and slams the door as you break into a breathless giggle, hastily getting up, only for Toji to shove you back down. You blink rapidly as he shoves two fingers in your sore pussy, making you hiss. “Toji what the fuck!?”

“Need you dripping me at the game, doll.”

A/N- Toji stuff is just my ABSOLUTE FILTH every fucking time, and I'm not sure I'm sorry about it lol. Reader and Toji both ain't shit, and poor Megumi LMAO. See you in the comments bbs hehe

taglist #1- @ella45jjk @rie-star @konekobby @maniccats @getoisinnocent @atiny-99 @y-u-w-k @mimiluvzu2 @kiliggirl @msniks @chsuguru @g00seg1rl @psychoartiste @aerareads @rentheannihilator @mima0127 @paradisestarfishh @themoreeviltwin @zym555 @nutmilky @superstar-t20 @2bizseechile @plimplimmeiododoi @shydroid3000 lavenderdaydream97 @xd3pr3ss3dx @tojiwoah @xllizs @collectionofdolls @midnightry @21yuki12 @angie420 @socrazylola @whosmarjj PERM- @alt--er--love @indiewritesxoxo @nanasukii28 @loafteaw @tojicvmslut @miizuzu @gojosukuna2268 @waterfal-ling @1brii @moncher-ire @orikixx @baepsays @airandyeah @naammiii

#fushiguro toji #toji x female reader #toji smut #jjk toji smut #fushiguro toji x reader #divider by strangergraphics #toji x y/n #toji x reader #toji x you #Dilf Toji #daddy toji #toji x reader smut #jjk x you #jjk x fem!reader #jjk smut #jjk x reader #toji x f!reader

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taintandviolent · 7 months ago

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sin creeps in ; Nosferatu x Reader

summary: You're plagued by heinous nightmares of a mysterious monster, but you can't help but feel drawn to he who plagues you.

word count & w a r n i n g s: 1.5K | female reader, monster fucking, vampires, vampire sex, bloodplay, biting, drinking blood / blood loss, mentions of death, making out, smut, unprotected sex, mentions of accents, shadow play (fingering)????.

a/n: MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS FOR NOSFERATU 2024! this is just.... listen, I'm not even going to try to justisfy myself. rack up yet another hear me out moment for me. you either understand or you don't. shorter than I wanted it to be, but I needed to get this out and sate my hunger. banner by @/strangergraphics!

↓ full fic under cut! ↓ / playlist here / ao3 link here! / I don’t have a taglist anymore, but please turn on post notifications if you’d like to be notified of future fics!

You awake with a strangled gasp, your hands flying to your throat as your breath gradually returns. The nightmares had roused you, as they had every night, but this time, something lingered. Your room was frigid; the gauzy curtains fluttered in front of the open window like misplaced ghosts, allowing the chill of the night to penetrate your quarters. Everything looks terrifying at night; familiar shapes are transformed into horrible spectres, and your very room feels unknown. Unsafe.

He is here. For the first time in several nights, you weren’t dreaming – he has come for you.

“I know that you are here with me,” you bravely whisper into the emptiness of your own bedroom. The wind whistled, a familiar sound, but something growled – growled in a language you didn’t speak, but understood. The voice was low, gravelly, and heavily accented.

Hurriedly, you kick the sheets from your legs. The moonlight pales your skin, washing you in its blanch, bluish tone. Gripping your gown with both hands, you gather it up your thighs, exposing them to the cold. The chill of the wind hits your center, and you hiss through your teeth. Your head drops to your chest, and so does your gaze, watching patiently. At the edge of your bed, a large, slender shadow manifests. Him.

You dare not look up. The feeling of his presence petrifies you, but also arouses you – letting a slick warmth pool deeply between your legs.

The shadows continue to creep further up your bed, until they reach your feet, which twitch in response. Up, up, up… along your shins. Your skin prickles, and you shiver, doing your best to remain calm. Though he doesn’t touch you, you feel him. You feel every pass of his large hand as it makes its way up your body. His shadow glides over your hip, to your stomach and finally between your plump breasts, coming to a stop over your beating heart. It thumps away like a rabbit’s heart underneath the blackness of his form, and you hear a ragged, strained groan.

Then, with no warning, it moves down, leaving a cold, lifeless chill in its path like a gust of winter wind. You pant, desperately clinging to what breath you have. All at once, the shadow envelopes the soft, warm mound between your legs and your hands fall to the bed, bracing yourself. You have felt his ghostly touches for countless nights, tasting your body as a lover would, but each time your body climbed the peak, the sensations disappeared. He comes to you in dreams, always leaving you unsatisfied. Your chest heaves in the night, cold droplets of sweat peppering your decollete and breasts. Your hands claw the sheets while you dream, but never reach euphoria.

Tonight, there are new sensations. The phantom wisp of his middle finger runs along the length of your slit. Grazing it. Somehow, you feel his finger part your wet folds, toying with your most sensitive areas. The nonexistent pads of his fingers sweep back and forth over your swelling clit, bringing a spasmodic twitch from each of your muscles. Wanting. Craving. While the sensation lacks the familiar warmth of a living man, it is bountiful with pleasurable feelings – your body responds embarrassingly; your shoulders shudder violently.

He inhales, a deeply hollow sound. “You desire this… thine own body craves it….”

The accent seems to fill his entire mouth, rumbling in his throat as he speaks slowly, drawing out each word like an incantation. You let out a plaintive moan, throwing your head back against the pillows, the down feathers crackling underneath you. As though he’s still pleasuring you, your hips writhe back and forth, practically convulsing with need. The shadow of his hand is gone from your body, replaced by the looming darkness of his physical form. After a moment of trepidation, you finally lift your head, and stare into the dark, terrifying eyes that watch you.

You swallow hard. “I do.”

A moment passes before you continue. “Take me as you will, for I am yours.” You consent again, desperate to convey your own insatiable hunger, your unimaginable need.

Another intake of breath from him – it almost sounds labored, painful. His footsteps are dreadful as he moves around to the side of your bed. He’s tall, his form stretching towards the ceilings and towering over you, consuming your atmosphere as he had in your nightmares. His silhouette is large; enhanced by the countless furs he has on.

Weightlessly, his lithe, ghastly fingers reach for you and make contact with your form. They are cold, and the icy feeling of them penetrate the thin fabric of your nightgown. He moves gradually, but hungrily, feeling the curves of your body beneath the cotton. As he moves southward, his fingers skim over the peak of your breast, a nail catching on the swollen nipple. It hurts, but your chest jerks forward still, craving more of his touch.

Pulling a breathy moan from deep within your throat, his long, sharp nails rake across the tender flesh of your thigh. It’s bathed in the silvery moonlight, which casts horrible, elongated shadows of his fingers down towards your center. He scrapes downward, his middle finger digging into the flesh enough to leave a reddened streak behind, but not so much to break the skin.

“P-please…” you mewl, looking up into his horrifying visage. The sight of him fills you with dread and disgust, but like a single drop of blood in water, it’s tainted with something else, something else that has been lingering in your system for days.

He’s above you now, though you don’t remember seeing him move atop of you. Still, he’s there. The bed creaks as you push yourself into the mattress, whimpering underneath him. He lowers himself down onto you, the brush of his mustache tickles your face as he lingers above you. A second passes and his waiting mouth envelops yours. He tastes damp and cold, faintly of ash and earth. His tongue slips out and it too is cold, slipping wetly along your own and along your bottom lip. His kiss is dreadful, but possessive, and he inhales each time you exhale, as though he’s trying to suck the very warmth out of you. No man has kissed you the way Count Orlok kisses you, and the chill of the room disappears, snuffed out by the fire that rages in your lower abdomen.

Your tongues collide with each other; you tasting his lifelessness, and him tasting your utterly intoxicating, vibrant liveliness. For a moment, the two of you stay intertwined at the mouth until he separates himself, smearing his mouth over the warmth of your neck. He hovers, pausing over your pulse. It thrums under his lips, and his hips urge into yours, indicating his hunger.

There is a shuffle, a rustling of clothing. You try to lift your head up to gaze between your bodies, but his hand holds you fast, pressing you against the pillow. The size of his hand is staggering; his palm underneath your chin, while the fingertips extend past your hairline, into the strands. You shudder again and whisper his name. He inhales as though he plans to speak, but doesn’t.

The front of your nightgown falls apart, revealing your chest to him. With one hand covetously clutching your breast, his mouth opens between your breasts, the slithery coolness of his tongue gliding down along the length of your sternum. As the teeth puncture your flesh, your hands make fists on either side of your body, pulling the sheets into the confines of your palms. He enters you, in more ways than one, and you feel the steady tug of his mouth as he sucks the blood from your veins. Warmth pools in the cave of your stomach.

The fingers of his other hand crawl up your shoulder, and like a quill in ink, he dips the pads of his fingers into the hollow of your chest, coating them in your crimson essence. He smears the blood along your decollete, along the hem of your nightgown, tugging it harshly over your shoulder. The blood coats you in a flash of warmth, and then chill as it meets the cold air.

His hips rut against yours as he drinks, the pulse of your blood matching the thrust of his hips. An ache starts in your neck, a slow pulling sensation that has your eyelids fluttering. He moves within you, his length penetrating as deeply as his sharpened teeth have. Your release is found amongst blood and groans and that same language which you understand, but do not speak. His tongue scrubs at your soft skin, lapping up the blood as it comes… as you do.

The darkness is ever-looming, and as your aching cunt ebbs its throbbing, it settles down upon you. You let yourself fall backwards into the abyss, freely. It takes you, wrapping its arms around your tiny frame which is dwarfed by his stature. His mouth breaks free of your bloodied skin with a slick pop. Into the softness of your skin, you hear him growl, ‘Mine.’ The feeling vibrates against your neck, and your lids flutter shut.

#this is kind of mild for me in terms of smut but I really couldn't get as graphic as I usually do. it felt... inappropriate to the aestheti #nosferatu x reader #nosferatu x you #count orlok x reader #count orlok x you #nosferatu 2024 #nosferatu #count orlok #vampire x reader #monster x reader #monster x human #vampires #myfics #vampirism #bill skarsgard #bill skarsgård #bill skarsgard fanfiction

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gutsby · 2 months ago

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Heavy Hitter

Pairing: Little League Coach!Joel x Reader

Summary: A kick in the dick is a strange way to get a man’s attention, but Coach Miller doesn’t mind at all.

Warnings: 18+. Protected p-in-v. Oral (m!&f!receiving). Blunt testicular trauma turned semi-sweet meet cute. Light bondage vis-à-vis coach’s whistle. Soft dom!Joel. Overstimulation. Age gap. Size kink. Some discomfort during sex. Brief mentions of drug use, vomiting, & SA.

Note: Technically not necessary to understanding the plot, but lyrics/references to John Mellencamp’s ‘Hurts So Good’ are featured throughout, so I’d recommend giving it a listen! :-)

Another note: Amy’s was my go-to when I lived in Austin for a summer, but I have no clue if that’s where the locals go lol

Word count: 17.3k

You woke Sunday morning with heatstroke, a hangover, and one very pissed off nine-year-old pinching your nose.

“GET UP!”

Your half-crusted eyes made as if to open, then failed. Shifting side to side in more of a grimace than a look, you squinted and spied your brother under a heavily lidded gaze and then caught sight of a uniform.

A baseball uniform.

Sam’s widely-loved Little League team, the Fireflies.

With an emblazoned logo of a lightning bug staring you right in the face, you realized at once you were fucked. You heard the shrill of your mother’s voice calling your name downstairs and knew you were double fucked.

You were supposed to be the one driving your brother to his game that day. But, rather than choosing wisely last night, you’d decided to play a two-for-one trainwreck and clusterfuck and drink yourself stupid until well past four o’clock in the morning. Now you were suffering the consequences—and would be feeling them tenfold if you didn’t get your ass out of the house and into the car with your brother before your mom stomped her way upstairs.

Without another word, you snagged your phone, your wallet, your keys, your purse, and your brother’s small arm to drag him behind you out the back door and left.

The events of last night were still little more than a blur.

Even a half hour later, pulling into the packed parking lot of Wright Field with the full brunt of a Texas summer’s heat beating down on your shoulders, you remembered next to nothing. There were bits and pieces, no doubt—a quick pit stop at Mayor Garcia’s political rally at seven, a few beers at Djarin’s bar around nine, Tipsy Bison at…ten, maybe? You couldn’t be sure. Everything from the time you took a hit of Tess’s dab pen between bars and several more hefty swigs from Marlene’s flask in the street left the happenings of the full night fuzzy at best. A trace of spearmint on your tongue and some upbeat ‘80s tune replaying in fragments were all that remained.

You were in sweatpants you didn’t recognize. A black satin bodysuit you only vaguely remembered putting on and shoes you were half-certain were Tess’s. Glancing down at the strange ensemble while you put your truck in park, you were truly more lost than you’d felt in a long, long time. Your hangxiety was at an all-time high, too.

“Help me get the stuff,” Sam said, sliding out quick.

‘Stuff’ meaning the snacks it’d been his turn to pack for the team: pretzels, granola, muffins, and Goldfish, along with drinks and some over-the-top fresh fruit medley your mom had prepared that morning. Luckily, your brother had packed all the shit himself while you were passed out in your room. For that, you were grateful.

You tousled his hair while you watched him try and lug two full cases of Gatorade out of the bed of your truck. Sam made a face, casting a sidelong glance to the field to make sure none of his teammates could see him, then huffed as he dropped the cases to the ground at his feet.

“Okay, maybe—” He puffed his cheeks out again, reaching for a big YETI cooler that looked to be even heavier, “—maybe I should carry these over on my own.”

You stared at him, incredulous.

“You kiddin’? This is a ton of stuff, Sammy.”

Sam winced, whether from the weight of the cooler he was barely able to fit his arms around or the nickname you’d used, you weren’t sure. The hulking plastic cube pressed heavy on his chest as soon as he tried to slide it off the truck bed, and, swiftly, you secured your hands under the thing to help him lower it down to the ground.

It was heavy as shit. Your mom must’ve thrown in a thousand extra oranges while he wasn’t looking.

“Fuckin’ A,” you hissed.

“Language,” Sam chided.

The cooler hit the tarmac with a resounding thud.

“Sorry. Why, uh…why don’t you want my help, bub?” You were genuinely curious, and a tad hurt, that your brother seemed not to want you there—he always had before.

“‘Cause,” he said, kicking absentmindedly at a small patch of gravel, “Just don’t…need it right now, ‘s’all.”

“That’s a load of crap.”

“Is not!”

You rolled your eyes.

You reached for the big white cooler in spite of your brother and started to lift, when he tried yanking it away—‘I mean it, I can carry it myself!’—and you nudged him off. He nudged you back in more of a push, and you huffed sharply to back off, I got it, we’re gonna be late. He pushed you again, hard enough to cause the cooler to slip out from your fingers, and when the thing dropped again, this time on your toes, you let out a piercing yelp.

“Sammy!”

“Sorry!!”

You probably would’ve pushed back again—and likely started a slap war in the middle of the parking lot, like you and your brother had long been accustomed to doing—were it not for the sound of a voice cutting in, calling out to you both from a row of cars over:

“Y’all need some help?”

Motherfucker.

You didn’t even need to turn your head to know the owner of that voice. You shot Sam a lethal look.

“We’re good, David, thanks,” you called back.

The ‘thanks’ was nothing more than a courtesy for your brother. That creepy old cunt could eat shit and die.

You forced a smile as you watched the assistant coach of Sam’s team approach through two minivans nearby. He had his black athletic shorts pulled high above his belly button, Fireflies tee tucked in as neatly as any one man could hope to have it, and a baseball cap pulled snug atop his sparse, greasy, strawberry blond head of hair.

With just one grin from him in return, you knew he was still convinced he would get to fuck you at some point.

You wanted to vomit but had no food left in you to do it. You tasted spearmint in your mouth again, and that nameless tune you had stuck in your brain kept playing.

And, true to his irksome, meddling nature, Coach David swooped in and had both cases of Gatorade stacked on top of the cooler and the thing hauled up in his arms before you could stop him or speak a word in protest.

“Sam, help your big sis out and grab the waters, would ya?” He said, nodding to the truck bed with authority. Before he turned back around, he shot you a wink.

While Sam went crawling across the tailgate and tried wrangling the case of Aquafina into his arms, you felt a presence at your shoulder. Then a gaze searing shamelessly into your cleavage, which had been rendered far more exposed than normal in your bodysuit. You wiggled your top up a little, fighting back a scowl.

“Fun night?” David chuckled.

“The funnest,” you returned without humor.

Sam shouldered the weight of the water with some effort, letting out a sound that he was struggling.

“Lift with your legs, buddy,” David barked. Then, to you, “If you need help with anything else, just holler, alright?”

Another goddamn wink. What was it with middle-aged men and winking? Fortunately, he had the cooler and the drinks weighing him down, so he couldn’t stay for long. He did, however, make sure to bump your ass with his hip walking past, and afterward, you could’ve sworn you saw a smirk growing on his face with wretched pride. Then he strode off in the opposite direction, toward the field. Just when he was out of earshot from you both, Sam plopped down with the case of water. He frowned.

“That’s why I didn’t want your help,” he muttered.

“Huh?”

But you knew what he meant.

David was far from the first man who’d ever hit on you in front of your brother, and he certainly wouldn’t be the last. Sam despised it; almost as much as he hated every guy who even thought they had a shot, and made you plainly uncomfortable. Just as he was about to continue, —and as if to prove his point—a herd of preteen boys passed by. All of them waved, grins overtaking their smug, dumb, prepubescent faces as they yelled out:

“Hey, Sam!”

Then, of course, one brave soul waved to you and said:

“Hey, Sam’s sister!”

And the whole group snickered amongst themselves and slapped the brave soul’s shoulder in congratulations.

You already knew what Sam’s expression would be before you’d even turned around to face him again.

“Alright. You win. Tote your stuff over there, and I’ll just…wait in the truck,” you said, hands raised in surrender.

“Okay.”

Then Sam was gone, trotting after his teammates with the water bottles still sloshing around in his little arms. You watched him, almost forlorn, and felt a bit too much like your mother, overcome with a memory of some soft- rock song you still couldn’t name and the sense that your baby brother was growing up way too fast for your liking.

The scary thing was that someday he could turn out to be like David. His teammates. Or worse. Maybe grow up, tune into a few misogynistic, braindead alpha male podcasts, and become the same insufferable, woman-hating douche you both detested. The thought made you shudder to even consider, and you were fairly certain it read plain on your face as you slammed the tailgate shut and started back around toward the front of your truck.

Contemplating just how much you wanted to save your brother from that fate, you almost missed something huge through the open back window on your way.

Glistening in the sun a neon green: Sam’s bag.

“Shit,” you muttered to yourself. You reached inside.

You were certain he’d need it for the game, but you also knew if you set foot on that field you’d never hear the end of it from him. Gingerly, you hoisted the thing up, straining under what felt like a hundred pounds of old clothes, cleats, and a dozen other things, then started to pull it over your shoulder—considering your options.

The soles of Tess’s shoes, unfortunately, had little to no grip to do so. Stepping down from the truck’s running board with a bag in tow was tricky, and for a second, you slipped. You didn’t fall, but the bag’s strap did come to slide off your shoulder the second you pitched back, and the half-zipped tote was sent tumbling to the ground.

A dozen old baseballs went flying, bouncing, and rolling every which way across the hot concrete. You groaned.

Then you were on hands and knees in an instant, skittering across the cracked blacktop and fumbling for balls like a fucking idiot. You grabbed two, three, four, and— shit, you dropped half of them. You scrambled and crawled again. Deposited the balls one-by-one into Sam’s bag, knees scraping along pavement all the while, and gradually got to six or seven of them before you realized at least one more was missing from the batch.

You stuck your head under the red Jeep Wrangler beside you and heaved a sigh. You spotted the last baseball.

“C’mere, you little shit.”

You sank waist-deep beneath the car, stretching your arm toward the ball. You got about an inch away, straining desperately, before the back of your head hit something sharp and hard sticking out from the Jeep’s undercarriage, and you cried out loud, ‘O-OW! FUCK!’

Come on, baby, make it HURT— SO— GOOD!

You clawed at the ball with an exaggerated huff, grabbed the thing, and started crawling back, head throbbing.

Sometimes lo-o-o-o-ve don’t feel like it should.

Your brain was so steeped in pain, anger, and just a stabbing, generalized resentment for all ‘80s music and men—they were somehow to blame for this—that the second you spotted an all-too-familiar pair of dorky ass New Balance 608 Cross Trainers planted behind your feet, beside the car, you couldn’t help but groan again.

You knew those calf-high crew socks anywhere. Knew that David was just dying to crouch down any second now, ask you in the world’s most grating, flirtatious tone if you needed his help again. Then probably stare at your ass or tits another minute. You weren’t putting up with it.

So, with all the hostility you had reserved for him, the many men like him, and the headache that was just then taking shape at the base of your skull, you said, sharply:

“Hey, Coach, could you FUCK OFF?”

Sam’s good graces with the coaching staff be damned, you had to let this fucker know how you felt. Fair was fair when the man had literally been hitting on you since your freshman year in college and still hadn’t gotten the hint.

You crawled out from under the Jeep expecting a fight.

An appalled expression, grim look, sour gaze, anything.

What you weren’t expecting to find was a man who looked absolutely nothing like David—and everything like a shocked, scared, and very sexy man in skintight lycra.

“Fuck me,” you said under your breath.

You immediately wished you hadn’t.

Whether from embarrassment or arousal, you should not have said those words under any circumstances. Now the man was staring you down even harder, most likely shocked and embarrassed on your behalf. His brows were raised, eyes blinking in what looked like a haze; if you hadn’t known any better, you might think he was—

“Oh, hi! Hey…you.”

A little awkward and strange.

He was stupidly handsome, there was no denying that. Dazzling, even, with the force of a dozen different strong, prominent features in perfect harmony, dimpled cheeks, tan skin, and a sublime Tom Selleck mustache. But something in the way he was watching you now, like his gaze had never strayed across a woman’s form before in his life, put a pit of unease in your stomach. You found yourself staring back, watching him closely, wondering how in the hell you could feel both violently attracted and questioning, still, if this man might veritably kidnap you.

All a part of girlhood, really.

“Hi,” you replied anyway. Hoping he didn’t have a windowless van parked anywhere close by.

“Hey,” he said again. Again.

Chomping down on his gum and smiling.

Sexy, strange man was beaming at you now. Practically exuberant in the way his lips had been stretched to make a wide, happy grin while he stared and chewed away.

You couldn’t take this for much longer.

“Sorry, I thought you were—” you started.

“David?”

You paused to give him a quick once-over, as if searching for clues before you answered him. You found nothing.

“Yeah…David.”

Then you caught sight of a nametag. Miller.

Somehow, the man’s grin got even bigger—and with it, your raw discomfort. Why was he smirking like that?

Maybe you were paranoid. Maybe you were stupid. Maybe you had spent far too much time watching true crime shows to have any fair sense of impending danger, but this guy’s aura was downright intimidating and odd. When you saw him slip a hand in his far-too-tight gym shorts and fish around for something in his pocket, your heart clenched in your chest, and its rate nearly tripled.

“Funny findin’ these—” he said, pointing with his other hand. Then reaching toward your lower half, like he was ready to hook his fingers in the waistband of your pants.

Oh, hell no.

Your most-of-the-time reliable instincts kicked in, your gut tightened up, and, truly unable to think or stomach another man feeling entitled enough to touch you again, you found yourself lifting your most readily available limb to stave off the stranger’s advances as fast as possible.

Unfortunately for him, that limb was your leg.

Or your kneecap, rather, hitting him squarely in the balls.

You didn’t even bother to wait for a response. You knew damn well what a knee to the testicles would do to any man, so your fight turned to flight just as quick, and you took off sprinting across the parking lot. A strangled groan and a string of expletives were all you could hear at your rear, and frankly, you didn’t give a single fuck whether it hurt him or not—you needed to get away.

You ran as far as your legs would carry you, and then some. You ran past the cars, across the street, down the sidewalk, between two metal bins that nearly toppled as you passed, and all the way through the gate until you reached a tall, familiar building, gasping for air. In your panic, you’d slung Sam’s bag over your shoulder, but because it hadn’t been zipped, you lost about half of its contents while hauling ass toward the sports complex.

You’d beg for Sam’s forgiveness later. For now, you had only to try and steady your breaths and temper your nerves to the point of not appearing like a total fucking lunatic walking through the place right now. You paused in the middle of the breezeway to press a hand to your side—you hadn’t sprinted that fast in years, probably.

Families were still trickling into the stadium by turns, most too rushed or inattentive to give a shit who you were or what you were wearing. Others stared. It was the stern, disapproving looks you earned from several mothers that made you reconsider being there at all.

And then you saw Frank.

He and his husband were part of the ‘too rushed’ group, ushering their son ahead of them in a breakneck haste while they muttered and cursed to themselves that warm-ups started ten minutes ago, Bill, I told you not to stop for coffee! And Bill just grunted in reply, most likely.

You sidled up beside the latter, giving a quick greeting before joining them in their speedwalk to the fields. In all the sixteen years you’d been neighbors, you hadn’t seen a single event that Frank and Bill had arrived to on time.

“H— oh shit.” Bill didn’t bother to disguise his surprise when he ran a quick look up and down your person.

So it wasn’t just the soccer moms. You did look like shit.

“Mornin’, sunshine!” Frank chirped anyway, unfazed.

Their son, Nathan, cocked a brow but said nothing.

“Hey, Nate, would you mind giving this to Sam?” You held the backpack out to him as the four of you rounded a corner, about to part ways before the bleachers.

The kid nodded and took the bag. Then, shortly, he picked up his pace from a brisk walk to a jog the second he saw his team meeting up on the field. He broke off in less than a second, and you, Bill, and Frank were left to find seats in a sea of hot, metal benches. The taller of the pair was nudging your ribs before you’d even sat down.

“Dare I ask?” Frank whispered.

“I think somebody might’ve, like…tried to grope me in the parking lot,” you replied, slowly but at full volume.

That earned a couple more stares from the parents around you. Bill audibly sputtered and coughed.

The three of you had just sat down at a comfortable distance from first base when Frank turned to face you fully. His eyes were wide, all decorum momentarily lost as he leaned in to say, ‘No fuckin’ shit! Are you okay?!’

You nodded.

“No, yeah, I’m fi—”

“Who was it?”

That was Bill. You could already tell from the flare in his nostrils that some brutal, ruthless beating was being concocted in his mind for whoever had crossed you. You placed a hand over his, quickly, and shot reassuring looks between him and Frank before you continued.

“No, no, I mean, he didn’t actually— it was just…”

You had to cut yourself short, unsure of what the stranger had actually been trying to do before—

“I kneed him in the dick,” you finished bluntly.

That didn’t seem to appease either party. At all. If anything, it just caused their blood pressure to spike, as Frank’s hand flew up to his mouth, and Bill’s eyebrows leapt halfway up his face in visible horror and shock.

“Well who the— what man’s got the goddamn nerve to just—” The one with the sky-high brows seemed to struggle with his words, and right as he was about to reclaim them, a new presence nearby stopped him cold.

Or maybe he kept talking. You couldn’t tell. Truthfully, it was probably only you who’d gone deaf to the rest of what was said, because in that moment, you were met with a gruesome new discovery stumbling onto the field.

Walking with a limp from the dugout to the nearest umpire—practically bow-legged with how carefully he was treading to avoid disturbing his balls—was the guy.

Your guy.

Creepy guy.

Brand new coach of the Fireflies guy, by all appearances.

Suddenly, the man looked far less vile and menacing in his short-sleeved neon tee, shorts yanked up to his ribs in the fashion all Little League coaches were apt to do. His shoes—the same ones you’d mistaken for David’s—looked just as lame as before, but now you saw them connected to a poor old forty-something dude who volunteered to coach snot-nosed kids in his spare time.

He looked about as pitiful as could be, hobbling over to one man in a black-and-white striped shirt and shaking his hand. Then shaking the hand of another. Then exchanging some words, and obviously straining to maintain his composure as he spoke. Smiling kindly.

Trying to ignore the fact that his nuts were on fire.

You lifted a hand to cover your mouth.

Frank’s gaze followed yours.

“Is that—”

“Yeah.”

Shit.

The Fireflies lost 8-0.

The Morales City Catfish weren’t even that good of a team, and still, the boys had suffered a crushing defeat. Naturally, you saw uniform faces of dejection and gloom coming back up to you once the game had been called, and you could tell it would take a shit-ton of ice cream and encouragement to get the team over this funk.

Sam was so down he barely even acknowledged your presence, or the fact that you weren’t supposed to be there in the first place. He just sniffled, hung his head in abject shame, then accepted a quick side hug from you before turning away, crossing his arms, and trying his best to play it cool in front of the rest of his team.

“Uncle Frank, can you take us to Amy’s?” he called over your shoulder, where Frank and Bill were already consoling a similarly miserable Nathan behind you.

“Sure thing, sport,” Frank shot back. He knew just as well as you that two scoops of Rocky Road were likely the only things capable of cheering them up right now.

And, over the course of that long, ugly game, you’d come to learn that Frank also knew Joel Miller. Coach Joel.

Soft-spoken and sweet, salt-of-the-earth Joel Miller who was serving as the Fireflies’ head coach pro tempore while his best friend was taking time off to recover from gallbladder surgery. Frank and Bill most certainly didn’t disbelieve what you’d told them about your encounter with him, but on closer examination, it became clear to you all that there might’ve been a misunderstanding.

In other words, you’d probably jumped the gun on kneeing the poor guy in the dick. You felt like shit.

Particularly when you watched him walk off with David after the game to put equipment away, and you saw he was still struggling to walk without a conspicuous limp. You, Bill, and Frank had decided it would be best at least to talk things out with him, but now that the time was actually here, you were dreading going up to Coach Joel.

Luckily—or maybe unluckily—you didn’t have to.

You felt a light tap on your shoulder as the rest of your group was starting to leave. Sam and Nate were leading the way, and the adults in front of you were too busy talking to notice you’d been stopped. You turned around.

The first thing you saw was a stack of clothes.

You couldn’t bear to look up at the face.

“You dropped these.”

Right. Right. When you’d been flailing like a cat on a hot tin roof to get away from the man. Your cheeks warmed.

You accepted the clothes from Joel and were already starting to shake your head, when your voice clawed out of your throat, far too small and feeble for your liking:

“I am…so…so sorry, Coach.”

At last, you mustered the courage to meet his gaze. It was cool and indifferent as soon as you reached it.

“I thought— see, I-I didn’t know you were—” You sounded downright pathetic, stammering like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar, “I kinda—”

Then a new voice cut in.

“C’mon, we’re leavin’.”

That was Sam.

Gaze hardened to that of an almost-stoic, he stared at Coach Joel and didn’t even bother to mask his grim look.

He probably thought Joel was trying to make a move.

If only he knew how fucking far from the truth that was.

You swallowed and smiled sweetly all the same. Glancing down at the clothes in your hands, then nodding to his bag, you reached over to hand your brother his stuff.

“Coach Joel just wanted to give back some of the junk I, uh…accidentally dropped when I was walkin’ in earlier, Sammy,” you said, trying your best to sound relaxed.

But Sam just turned to the side, wordlessly telling you to put the clothes in the bag for him, and you knew it was because he wanted to keep mean mugging Joel as much as he possibly could while your attention was diverted.

Nine-year-olds were weird like that. Sam might not have had the guts to tell his friends off, or even a familiar ‘authority figure’ like David, but Joel was fair game. He was basically as good as a stranger to him and wouldn’t even be with the team for more than a couple weeks. So he stared him down and continued to frown while you re-zipped his bag, hoping he wouldn’t say anything dumb.

“Why’re ya walkin’ around so weird, Coach?”

“Sam!”

Clearly, you’d hoped a little too soon.

Your cheeks were on fire now, glancing between your brother’s pinched, insolent expression and Joel’s neutral one. It was like the latter hadn’t even registered the jab.

“Sam, you can’t just ask tha—” you started off in a hurried whisper, only to have your speech cut short.

“Old age, buddy,” Joel returned swiftly, words laced with the faintest trace of humor, “Threw my back out this mornin’ chasin’ after somebody, and now it hurts.”

The coach’s eyes didn’t even try to refrain from flitting over to yours when he said ‘somebody.’ You coughed.

Sam smirked, oblivious.

“Yeah? Who?”

“Wish I knew.”

“How come they were runnin’?”

“That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to figure out.”

Offering nothing more than a noncommittal shrug and a scrunch of his nose, Joel re-shouldered his bag and started to lift the other stash of equipment he had tied up in a mesh tote. He blinked a little harder as he did.

Sam looked down at the tote.

“You, uh…need some help with that?” he asked. For the time being, at least, intrigue had supplanted mistrust.

“Nah, ‘s’okay. I got it.”

“Sa-a-am!”

You glanced over your shoulder and saw Nathan with his hands cupped over his mouth, standing by the gate with his parents. Even at a distance, you could see the curious looks on Bill and Frank’s faces. You tried your best to appease both with a nod—‘I’m good, don’t worry.’

Then, before you even realized what you were doing, you found yourself turning back to Sam and smiling. Again.

Sweet and pleading and strained as you’d ever been:

“Go on ahead, I’ll help Coach carry the stuff.”

You weren’t sure why that statement felt so momentous, but it did. You looked back at Joel for half a second to find his eyebrows raised, as if he’d interpreted your message the same, and quickly, you both tried to conceal whatever you were feeling on your faces.

It was hard.

Sam looked between the two of you, suspicions seeming to creep back in for a second. He gave Joel, in particular, a pointed look, and for a moment, you thought he might change his mind and insist on coming along with you.

Then he sucked in a quick breath and remembered ice cream awaited him with Nate and the rest of the guys. His attention span was decent enough for a kid his age, but even that had its limits—and food was too tempting.

‘Whatever’ appeared to be his last, decisive thought.

“Hope your back feels better, Coach,” he said quickly, before he started off across the pavement, “See ya!”

At length, Sam called something over his shoulder about meeting you there, but you could tell he was already too caught up in the prospect of hanging with his boys to really care. You watched him sprint down the breezeway full-speed, and, just as he made it to the gate, he turned:

“Hope ya find that dumb sonovabitch, Coach!”

He was smiling extra big as he said it.

You wanted to yell back and tell him to watch his language, like he would always do to you, but he was gone before you could even start to form the words.

The little shit.

Once he had left, you and Joel exchanged a look that lasted no more than a second, and neither of you smiled.

The coach tossed his mesh bag your way with all the concern he might have had for a sack of potatoes. A heavy set of metal gear clashed and clanged around in your arms, and for a second, you staggered backward.

“Locker room’s that way,” he muttered. Nodding toward the back of the sports facility but saying nothing else.

Joel didn’t wait for you to follow along. He just went.

Kindness wasn’t so much an expectation as it was a foolish hope—that Coach Joel might be willing to make amends, forgive and forget, maybe even grace you with one of his dimpled grins once all of it was said and done.

So far, he hadn’t even looked your way, much less given you the chance to apologize. He strode ahead, quickly, as soon as you’d started walking behind him, then he pressed his phone to his ear and hadn’t stopped yapping away while you trotted on his heels and tried to keep up. Through the bleachers, the breezeway, and a near-labyrinthine set of twists and turns to get to the locker rooms at the rear of the building, Joel was like a wall.

As handsome and fuckable as a wall could ever be, but one whose face you couldn’t even see to properly read for any emotion, because he refused to meet your gaze.

The closest thing you’d gotten to contact was him nodding toward a supply closet on your way in, cupping his palm over the bottom of his phone and going, ‘There.’

“For the…stuff?” you asked dumbly, lifting your bag.

Coach Joel barely gave a hum of acknowledgment before turning away and resuming his phone call with vigor. Then he pivoted again, put a hand on his hip like he meant business all of a sudden, and pretended to be extraordinarily invested in this other, better conversation.

Or maybe he wasn’t pretending.

You didn’t know the guy.

You stepped inside.

Dropped the bag.

And when you returned, Joel was gone, leaving you to a long, empty, dead-cold corridor with no sign whatsoever of where he went—or where you were meant to follow.

Asshole.

It struck you then that not a single, sane soul would bother to haunt these hallways once the weekend games were over. It was just you and Joel and…Joel and you with nothing between but the stale, fetid air and echoes bouncing back and forth across the concrete walls. More sounds followed as you started down the hall yourself.

The first corner you rounded led to a door—Emergency Exit Only. You turned to your left, spotted another closet. Spun on your heels and tried going the other direction, only to find that the adjoining passage was shrouded pitch black. All but one fluorescent bulb that way was turned off. You stared into the darkness, it stared back, and through the soft, flickering glow of that one lone panel, you finally saw the entrance to the locker room.

It looked ominous as all hell.

Already picturing some axe-wielding psycho in the depths of the shadows, you walked ahead, unfazed. Hoping silently, stupidly, someone would jump out and rock your shit before getting to Joel, you treaded as slow as you possibly could. When you pushed the door open and not one serial killer bothered to stop you, you sighed.

“Coach?” you called.

No answer.

For a second or two, you contemplated whether or not you were even allowed to do this, but you went inside. Slowly. Taking two hesitant steps across wet, white tile, craning your neck to make sure no one else was around. Stealing a look in the mirror and seeing yourself cowered—whether from fear or dread, you couldn’t be certain—and shit did you look extra dumb wearing those big, grey sweats that were about two ass shakes away from falling off your hips. You walked up to the mirror and frowned.

The reflection you saw was unsettling—who the fuck gave you these, anyway? What happened to your skirt?

These questions and at least a dozen more began to percolate between your ears with growing unease, memories rehashed and scrutinized into the tiniest, bite-sized pieces. No matter how hard you stared and tried to remember, full recollection was always out of reach.

Such was the state of your mind that you couldn’t believe your eyes when they first drifted to your left.

It seemed too serendipitous, too crazy and coincidental and plainly on the nose to be something from reality staring you straight in the face. You blinked in disbelief.

Sitting in an unzipped bag on the floor was the skirt.

Your skirt—a flimsy little mid-rise denim number that you’d snagged half off at Kohl’s last summer. In there.

Folded at the top of an old nylon tote labeled, ‘MILLER.’

For the second time that day, you would’ve lost your lunch all over the floor if you’d had the food to do it. Instead, you found yourself dropping to your knees and yanking the skirt toward you, eyes widened with shock. Fingering the blue fabric in your hands like the material might disintegrate between them, staring at the thing and almost wishing it’d dissolve so this wouldn’t be real.

So Joel—Coach Joel, with his big bruised balls and all—wouldn’t have your skirt in his bag and know something about the things you’d done last night that you did not.

With this bizarre turn, and the way your day was going, it should’ve come as no surprise when next you heard:

“What are you doing here?”

But, of course, the voice did catch you off guard.

It was like Coach Joel had a knack for finding you in the worst possible spots, at all times. You rose to your feet.

“Wh— what are these doing here?” you snapped anyway.

Joel didn’t flinch.

“Oh. You found it,” he returned, voice devoid of interest.

Like this was no great discovery. Like this was old news. You took a step closer to him, still holding the skirt out.

“Yeah. What the fuck was it doing in your bag?”

“I meant to give ‘em back earlier.”

“Wh—”

“Figured it wasn’t the most appropriate time for that, with your son standin’ right there between us an’ all.”

Your son?

“My son?”

“The kid.”

“That’s my brother,” you said, exasperation only rising, “Why did you even have this thing in the first place?!”

At that, Joel paused. His brows drew in, and his frown grew deeper. Like he wasn’t sure what to make of you.

“So you lied,” he said, finally.

“Lied?”

“‘Bout how drunk you were.”

“I never said—”

“No. You said plenty,” Joel spoke over you, stern. Then, eyes narrowing, “If you can’t remember it, I was right.”

You couldn’t tell whether it was the tendency to interrupt or simply the condescending glint in his eye that you despised, but, by turns, you could feel the remorse seep out from your bones and any desire to make amends dissipate right along with it. And then there was that mention of ‘it’—was he insinuating something had happened between you two while you were blacked out? You gripped your skirt tighter and eyed him just as hard.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” you spat.

The face across from yours was tough, but evidently not imperturbable. A shadow of some amorphous hurt passed behind his eyes, if only for half a second.

“You don’t…remember last night at all, do you?”

You didn’t.

You wished you did, but you didn’t, and it was just then beginning to irk the hell out of you that this man did. You couldn’t stand to be at such a disadvantage—or to have been at such a disadvantage if, in fact, he’d taken you home and done things you couldn’t even remember.

So, perhaps more cruel than you should’ve been, but feeling the need to reclaim some leverage, you said:

“Why? Were you, like, my pity fuck of the night and that’s why you’ve got my skirt? And tried groping me earlier?”

Coach Joel’s nostrils visibly flared; he stared even harder.

“No. No, I tried— those are my pants there, I was—” Growing agitated in the face of the accusation you’d just leveled against him and struggling to find the words to defend himself, Joel’s brows pinched tighter. His lips pursed, and he shook his head. You went on, undaunted.

“Yeah? So you normally fuck girls too drunk to even—”

“No.”

Joel’s response was immediate. Insistent. Voice carrying through the near-empty, wide and tiled room with all the force of a sonic boom. He hadn’t yelled at you, though.

And, before he could continue, you heard the very real scream of a door squeaking back on its hinges from the opposite end of the locker room. Heavy wood struck a doorstop no farther than ten or so yards away from you.

Joel coughed.

“Milleeerrrrr, you in here?”

Choked.

The next thing you knew you were being shoved in a shower stall to your left with Joel painfully close in tow. One broad hand appearing beside your hip like magic, yanking a knob, then slamming a hot and clammy palm over your mouth before you could scream at the spray.

A ruthless, ice-cold downpour had you both drenched in seconds. You would’ve leapt back or turned away if there were space at all to budge, but there wasn’t. And Joel had you constricted to his chest like a python anyway.

‘Don’t’ was all he whispered in your ear before turning.

Then shouting back, loud, “What’cha need, Big D?”

David cackled at the nickname. You inwardly cringed. Huge, glacial spates of water continued to shoot down your back, you squeezed your skirt in your hand like a vice, and the man behind you hugged your body to him even tighter as you squirmed and tried wriggling away.

“Just came to see if you needed a ride to Amy’s. The boys are all already over there,” David replied, and in turn, he was treading closer. Walking slowly to the stall.

Joel pinched your face like you were somehow to blame. You jerked a sharp elbow to his ribs, and he let up a little.

“Nah, man, I—” Joel began, ever-so-slowly reaching out toward the shower knob and turning it, “—gotta talk to Ezra, make a couple more calls. I’ll meet y’all over there.”

Outside, David made a low, disappointed huff. Then he plopped his ass on a bench from what you could hear.

“I can wait,” he said.

“There’s really no need—” You could feel the strain in Joel’s voice, picturing him gritting his teeth and wincing beneath the torrents of water. Slowly, the shower heated.

“Believe me, I’m in no rush to get over there,” David chuckled. The bench creaked as he leaned back.

Then, he added:

“Ain’t like Ms. Cum-On-Me-Tits’ll be there anyway.”

I beg your finest pardon?

You wanted to thrash out of Joel’s arms the second you heard the name—knowing damn well who he meant—but the big, wet arms out in front of you were pressing down on your chest like the oxygen in the air was scarce. Your lungs could barely expand far enough to breathe, much less venture to fight him off of you and leave.

“Ms. Who?” Joel said, sounding dumb as a bag of dicks.

“You know who,” David barked out a laugh this time, “The slut you were eyeballin’ the whole fuckin’ game.”

You’d kill both men with your two bare hands if you could—if you had to be subjected to one more second of this asinine ‘locker room talk,’ you just might off yourself, too.

Joel’s arms noticeably tensed around you.

“I don’t—”

“Sam’s sister, man. I don’t blame ya one bit. Pretty little thing like that, I’m starin’ at those tits every chance I—”

You ground your heel hard into Joel’s toes then, and he groaned. Loosened his grip on you just long enough for you to turn around in that tiny, compact shower and look up to pin him with the most vicious stare you could. He didn’t have to be the one saying these things for the words to sting and make you feel every bit as objectified. As far as you were concerned, and on top of everything else going on, his silence made him equally complicit.

Above you, a pair of brown eyes tried to apologize.

Or maybe just commiserate about how badly David sucked. Joel cleared his throat and cut back in.

“She’s…alright,” he said, eyes boring into yours as he spoke—then, pointedly, “Not really my type, though.”

“Bullshi-i-i-it!”

David sang an incredulous cacophony before continuing:

“Tell me, Joel, does your ass get jealous of all the shit that comes outta your mouth? Or is it used to it by now?”

In another sopping wet and raw moment of discomfort, Joel frowned. The water enveloping you both had slowly crept up to a more comfortable temperature, and just as a pinkish hue ascended his neck, you wondered if it was the warmth or something else that ushered in the color.

And the answer to that came much sooner than you expected—one superb cherry atop a monster-sized shit pie—when something stabbed your pelvis a second later.

Your mouth fell open as Joel’s snapped shut. He blinked; you stared; neither one of you possessed the courage to look down, but you knew what was standing there, stiff.

Then, as if to compound every last one of your problems and add the cruelest of insults to injury, David sat up.

Again, he laughed.

“You know I’m right!” he chided when Joel said nothing, “Got yourself laid after you left Tipsy Bison last night, and it still ain’t enough for a horny fuck like you, huh?”

Now you had to be sick. Your head was throbbing.

Glaring lack of food be damned, you felt the urge. Again.

You almost tore the shower curtain aside when Joel caged you back against the wall with his body, torso pinning yours, and you heard a far-off cackle once more—this time, accompanied by the sounds of David’s shoes squeaking as he stood. Boner momentarily forgotten, Joel pressed his body to yours on cool glazed ceramic and made a plea as he stuck his index finger to your lips.

And whatever that wordless message was, you were too mortified to meet his gaze. You just stood in place and stared over his shoulder as David made to leave outside.

Some words were exchanged; they barely registered with you. Joel told David, again, that he could drive to Amy’s without him—David said something about ‘big butts’ and ‘college sluts’ and promises of hearing the ‘whole story’ when Joel got there—and Joel hummed, noncommittal.

As soon as the door slammed shut behind the Fireflies’ asshole assistant coach, your hands went straight to Joel’s chest to shove him off as hard as you could.

“Hey—”

A short, emphatic ‘fuck you’ was obscured just slightly by the sound of the shower curtain being yanked to the left, your feet moving quickly underneath you, then the splashes of puddles as you walked—stomped—away.

You were back outside, exiting through a different door than David had and making it out into the hallway again.

“Hey—”

“Don’t care.”

Those words weren’t muffled at all. You stalked down the hall with your skirt in a fist and your whole body dripping.

You made it halfway before a hand found your waist, but you tried to keep going in spite of the pull. Straining.

And, personally, you would’ve liked to use your sopping wet denim just then as a projectile, launched directly into Coach Joel’s face. It would’ve been easy, smacking a creep upside the head when he clearly couldn’t comprehend a lick of difference between a ‘fuck you’ and a ‘thank you,’ but the weapon in your grip was virtually useless if you didn’t have the strength to lift it.

Or if Joel didn’t stop you then to make you face him, use one broad hand to burn a wet-hot imprint in your side while his other nudged a door open beside you.

Or if you didn’t stumble inside with one nudge.

If there hadn’t been a bone-empty coach’s lounge waiting behind that door, rattling with the sound and sheer force of the thing shutting swiftly behind Joel.

Then, before you could try and curse him out again:

“I’m sorry.”

“Bullshit.” You sounded like David saying it before.

You were already backing up in that tiny office space, wishing you had the willpower to just chuck your skirt and run, but of course, your pride was too great. Your curiosity was too wild, and your anger was unrivaled.

“Nothing happened last night,” Joel said, emphatic.

“Wh—”

“We didn’t fuck. Or do anything. I swear.”

That kind of candor was a first. You weren’t sure just what to make of it. Wordlessly, you dropped your skirt.

“David said—” you started again.

“David heard—from my little brother, if I had to guess—that we left Tipsy Bison together. And we did…but, uh…” Joel trailed off, shifting his attention to something of note over your shoulder, and then stepping, reaching carefully around you, “I just wanted to get you home.”

“To fuck me,” you finished.

“No.”

Joel tensed again as he shook a towel out in front of you, then draped it over your shoulders. You made a face at the coarse texture but stayed quiet as he wrapped you. He paused, pressed your arms lightly, then appeared to decide in the blink of an eye and one awkward cough that now was not the best time to be touching. You couldn’t deny the warmth was a welcome change as you stood soaked head-to-toe, yet nothing could uncurl the ice-cold fist in your stomach at the sight of him now.

Joel stood, still semi-erect in his five-inch inseam shorts.

A puddle was starting to form on the floor around you both. Joel’s breathing was slow; he stood so close you could feel it. Hear it. Smell it. He started to back away.

Before he did, you got a whiff of something light on his breath. Then some dim, misshapen word began to form.

Spearmint.

You stood and you stared. You saw an image flash before your mind—a memory. At some point in time, you had danced with this man. One night. Last night? Maybe.

‘I knew him as John Cougar. That’s how old I am.’

‘And he’s Mellencamp to me. So what?’

‘Means you’re too young for me.’

All the same, the man’s hand had tightened its grip. Splayed out at the base of your spine and drawing you closer, the fingers tapped along to a heartland rock tune playing loud across the way on the Tipsy Bison’s jukebox. Joel smiled and chewed. Chewed and smiled.

And chewed some more—still, to the present moment.

Joel Miller kept a pack of Wrigley’s Sugarfree Spearmint gum in the pocket of every clothing item he owned. He indulged in the stuff so often because it helped ease his nerves some. You knew this because he’d told you, right before his lips had grazed the corner of yours and told you, slowly, there were worse ways to smell than minty. You had proceeded to frown and demand a proper kiss.

But that night, last night, Joel never did.

“We didn’t…do it,” you said, question and statement commingled as you searched his face for an answer.

What you got in return was more akin to a wince.

“You were drunk,” Joel answered simply.

‘Blackout’ was implied by the tone of his voice. Then, when the same old muscles went tensing beneath the smooth, tanned skin of his jaw to keep chomping away—nerves shot to hell no matter how hard he chewed—Joel held your gaze and drank you in, as you did to him.

And the memories came trickling back, one by one.

“I— took that off myself, didn’t I?” Pointing to your skirt.

Joel’s eyes didn’t need to follow your own. He nodded.

“Stripped it off pretty quick when we got in the truck.”

You wanted to die. Now the mere idea of remembering was something more like an anvil hanging overhead, ready to drop any second. You sucked your bottom lip in.

“Kept on sayin’ to me, ‘I’m sober, I swear!’ and took the skirt off to show ya wanted to, y’know—” Joel paused to circle around the desk behind him. He went rummaging, quietly, then, “You threw it over your neighbors’ fence as soon as we got to your place. I had to fish it out later.”

Coach Joel made it through two, three, four drawers before finally setting his sights on the one he needed—the one where they kept old athletic clothes stored, it seemed. You watched him set aside a heather grey shirt of some minor league baseball team you didn’t recognize, followed by a pair of gym shorts.

It certainly wasn’t the most trendy attire, but it was dry.

Joel was still dripping wet when he motioned to the stuff. Before he could offer it up, though, you frowned.

“Wait— we were at my house?”

Joel smiled in that wry, humorless way of his and nodded. Pretended to inspect a smudge on his shoe so he didn’t have to meet your gaze and watch the first inklings of embarrassment morph into pure humiliation.

Your cheeks were on fire. You remembered it now.

How Joel had calmly set you up in the passenger seat of his truck, politely pushed your feet back inside when you whined and insisted you were fine to keep drinking, let’s go back, then artfully dodged a kiss that you’d tried to plant on his lips. You’d got his cheek instead and huffed.

“Joel, I am so, so sober, it’s insane,” you hiccuped, “Pinky promise we can fuck now if you wanna.”

“I don’t,” Joel grunted. He put the car in drive.

You must’ve gone back and forth on that topic for hours—or however long it took to get from the Tipsy Bison’s parking lot to your parent’s house in the dead of night—and Joel had been adamant. Insistent. He wouldn’t lay a hand on you until you’d sobered up and gone to sleep.

He’d somehow managed to wrestle you into a pair of his sweats after you threw your own skirt over the fence. He’d reasoned, pleaded, then outright begged you to follow his lead inside. When you refused, he had no choice but to throw you over his shoulder and—

“—sneak me into my room?” you said, words steeped in disbelief. Your parents would’ve murdered the man in cold blood if they’d seen him toting their half-conscious, fully drunk daughter over his back and into her bedroom.

Coach Joel was brave for that.

Kind-hearted, too.

And you’d kicked the poor soul in his balls the next day.

Suddenly—and conspicuously—your gaze fell to his dick.

“I-I…Joel, I am so…fucking sor—”

“‘S’okay,” Joel cut in, gently. Wincing at the memory and pretending not to see your eyes burn a hole in his shorts.

Your gaze was still fixed firmly on that spot when you saw his hand stir at his side. He reached into his pocket.

To your immediate chagrin, he withdrew a little wrapper.

Just big enough to house a strip of gum, but it didn’t, at least not anymore. Someone had removed the gum and flipped the wrapper inside out to write something down.

Joel’s fingers flattened it out some, and then you saw it: a phone number scribbled on the small silver parchment. The man in front of you held it out for no more than a second before placing it on top of the clothes on the desk and sliding the pile toward you. Clearing his throat.

“Forgot to give you this,” he said, “I was just, uh— tryin’ to pull it outta my pocket. Earlier. In the parking lot.”

So not trying to grope you. Or kidnap you in broad daylight. Or do anything even remotely malevolent.

Just trying to give you his number. Pointing to his pants.

No sooner had Joel set you down on your bed than you were squirming against your comforter, trying to drag his sweatpants down your legs with some effort. Joel immediately seized both of your hands at the waistband and shook his head. He yanked the pants up while you tried, unsuccessfully, to pull them down your body.

“This ain’t happenin’ now, honey,” he’d said softly.

“Why—” You fisted the fabric even tighter and attempted to wriggle out again, to no avail, “—not?!”

“One: you’re drunk…” Joel replied, voice even as ever. Tugging his sweats back up to rest comfortably at your hips, then rotating your body in bed so he could pull the sheets over you, “Two: date comes first, remember?”

You blinked in embarrassment—again—at the memory. Joel bit the inside of his cheek, as if remembering too.

“I promised I’d take ya on a proper date,” he said simply. Flatly, almost, “Y’know, ‘fore we did anything like, uh…”

And from one shared look alone, the two of you knew what would’ve followed after. Or had a rough idea of it, anyway. Perhaps feeling a bit too forward with that wordless admission, or still uncertain whether you even remembered the date he’d promised you in the first place, Joel looked down. He glanced over at the clothes and opened his mouth to speak again, probably to tell you to get changed, now, you’re fixin’ to freeze to death—and maybe you should’ve waited for him to say it.

Maybe.

Maybe you should’ve waited for Coach Joel to tell you that he’d step outside and give you some privacy while you changed, offer to give you a ride to Amy’s if you needed it. Keep things professional. Platonic. Put dates on the back burner for the time being and leave it at that.

But you were already so cold, and your inhibitions low.

Maybe some part of you wanted to make it up to Joel somehow—thank him for being so kind the night before.

So, instead of letting him speak, you hooked your thumbs under the waistband of his sweatpants, just like you’d done the night before, and started to pull down.

“Does the date have to come first?” you said. Soft, slow.

The wet and heavy fabric fell around your ankles with a less-than-sexy thud, but you stepped out of it calmly all the same. Your legs were met with another biting chill, the kind that was bound to seize your limbs when left bare below the waist—save for your bodysuit—and you felt a wave of goosebumps break out across your skin.

Joel stared as you stepped closer. He hadn’t evinced so much as a note of surprise, but you could tell from the glint in his eyes he had to have been thinking something.

‘Christ’ was all he muttered.

You drew nearer, until just the tips of your toes were about to graze his own, and you kicked off Tess’s shoes with a nonchalance you were amazed you were able to feign. Inside, your heart was hammering against your chest, and your stomach doing somersaults as Joel’s gaze drifted back up to your face. His chewing had slowed, but you could feel the faint fragrance of mint on his breath. You wished he would touch you, but he didn’t.

“Figured we could just...cut through the—” you started.

“No.”

It seemed Joel loved to interrupt. Loved telling you no.

You leaned back a little, both eyebrows raised. You were about to take a step away, sensing by the stern look that had crossed over his face that maybe he wasn’t in the mood to touch, or kiss, or do anything with you at all. As much as rejection would’ve felt like a punch in the gut, and likely compounded your embarrassment tenfold, you would never try to cross that line without his permission.

You’d just sucked in one last inhale of spearmint and failure when you felt a hand on the front of your top.

Joel’s index and thumb pinched the fabric.

They tugged you toward his body, gently.

At the first influx of relief, you smiled—thank fuck you hadn’t creeped the poor guy out—and started to reach for Joel just the same, but his other hand stopped you. Again, it was tender, but appreciably firmer this time:

Don’t touch me.

Your face fell. Hand dropped limply beside you and eyes winced with confusion as Joel continued to pull forward.

He brought you to a stop before your bodies made contact. Then he slipped his touch from your belly, up your sides, before eventually settling on your...shoulder?

He applied light pressure. You didn’t understand why.

When he pushed harder and made your legs buckle underneath you, the message rang a little more clearly.

Your knees made the gentlest splat atop wet hardwood, the office floor soaked from your body and Joel’s. You’d barely managed to keep your balance between his feet and had just started to tilt your head up to meet his gaze, hands instinctively reaching out and gripping his thighs for support, when the fabric rustled under your palms.

The soaked, black shorts were being peeled off, slowly.

You blinked up at Joel in disbelief. Did he seriously—

“Think you should say you’re sorry first,” Joel said.

Your heart thudded even harder. You scarcely had another second to process his words before Joel had pulled his shorts down just enough for a strip of skin to show; for the material of his boxers to glide down and leave the tiniest bit of plaid fabric to contain himself.

Coach Joel smoothed his other palm across the back of your head, nudging you closer without pushing you in it.

Amazingly, there was still a palpable undercurrent of concern, even as he had you planted on your knees in front of him. He stroked your scalp with his thumb.

“Nicked my balls pretty good this mornin’—least you could do is give ‘em a kiss to say sorry, right, darlin’?”

You continued to blink, still not quite capable of speech.

“Uhhhm—” you sputtered, only for Joel to intervene.

“‘S’just fine by me if you don’t,” he murmured, “Figured they’d feel a bit better with your pretty lips on ‘em is all.”

From the sweet and encouraging lilt in his voice to the gentle rubs of his finger going back and forth across the crown of your head, you felt a stab of saccharine pride. An urge to preen beneath his touch and soak in the tiniest streaks of affection wrought by the pad of one thumb and a smile taking shape lazily above you then.

Joel didn’t tug the waistband of his boxers any further; you did. The gears in your brain whirring alive with a desire to have him keep smiling at you like that, keep stroking your head and voicing his dulcet appreciation, you reckoned the effect was something akin to a drug.

You weren’t watching his cock when it finally sprang out. Your eyes were just glued to Coach Joel’s, holding his gaze and hoping he liked the sight of you there beside it.

Beside him.

Beside every inch of him, and— oh fuck were there a lot.

Your attention momentarily diverted, you peered up at Joel’s cock as it sat nestled against a small tuft of grey-black hairs at the base of his belly and almost coughed.

He was huge in every aspect. Your mouth fell open.

Seeing your lips so parted, Joel had to fight back a chuckle, it sounded like, and gently nudged your head.

“‘S’okay, baby. Just the balls, remember?”

Your gaze flitted back to his, visibly unnerved. Confused.

“Just…the balls?” you breathed.

At length, the short, shallow exhales from your lungs were fanning across Joel’s family jewels, and you almost couldn’t believe he wanted you to neglect his cock completely in favor of kissing them. You swallowed.

When your mouth reopened, caught somewhere between a look of curiosity and muted surprise, Joel pressed the pads of his fingers into your scalp once more. Prodding you gently toward the source of his desire without applying too much pressure on the spot.

“Right…there.”

Your lips latched onto the smooth, warm skin as he said it. It was strange, landing straight on a plane of flesh that you typically didn’t pay attention to until you’d licked and bobbed your head down his cock a few times. These soft and rounded globes felt almost foreign to you, as you curled your lips into one, gently, and then felt them spring back with a pop. Your mouth was watering.

Joel groaned at the slippery wet friction from that kiss.

While you stared and started in for another soft peck, Coach Joel sucked in a hiss of a breath through his teeth.

“Feels better already, honey,” he grunted.

You kissed the other. You ran your tongue along the underside and guided it back to your mouth so you could suckle some more, and the fingers noticeably tightened.

Another soft, punctured breath. Another rumbling moan.

“Fuck— baby, you look so pretty. Kissin’ ‘em so well.”

Feeling confidence swell in your chest, you locked eyes with Joel and opened your mouth wider. If you hadn’t been otherwise preoccupied, perhaps you would’ve felt a small twinge of embarrassment at the drool that leaked out of both corners of your lips as you did it, but, at any rate, you were busy, and evidently, the sight had only made Joel’s cock harder. Your eyes shifted to the stiff, thick, veiny member standing upright above you, all but pulsing with need, and you lifted your hand to touch it.

Joel brushed it away.

“Nuh-uh,” he tutted.

Without meaning to, you whined. Tongue ushering more of that soft, smooth flesh against your lips and jaw hanging slack as your cheeks stretched to accommodate as much as they verily could, you felt deprived, in a way.

You pressed your fingertips into his thighs, pleading.

And, as if to answer your question, Joel shook his head.

“An apology to me ain’t about what you want, darlin’,” he said, voice gravelly as he spoke, “Keep your hands off it.”

Something in his tone, though not unkind, grated on your ears like some of the worst news you’d ever heard. An aura you hadn’t been able to decipher until just now seemed to sink beneath your skin, made you sick with it—that feeling of dread that you’d disappointed the man. Perhaps it was because he was a coach, because he knew how to assume an authoritative stance and hold you to it, that you felt especially dispirited by his words. That simple, clipped ‘hands off’ hurt more than expected

You tore your gaze from his and resumed the quiet ministrations with your lips and tongue on his balls, bracing yourself tighter against his thighs as you did.

“‘M’sorry— I—” you said, voice muffled between kisses and gentle laps of your tongue, “—didn’t mean to, Joel.”

You felt the muscles in his legs stiffen as you bathed him with attention, spit smeared all over and lips working tirelessly to massage him, give him more pleasure.

“It’s alright, pretty girl,” Joel murmured, voice strained with the force of another moan clawing out of his throat. At length, he gave in—squeezing your head to him a little tighter and letting out a sound so obscene that you felt a new wave of warmth pool into your panties, trickling fast.

And, as if he could hear your arousal seep out, knowing just what his honeyed praises were liable to do to you:

“Good girl, just like that— fuck, your mouth feels nice.”

The sting of his last admonition was beginning to fade. Your lips worked hungrily over him, suckling and kissing and taking more into your mouth, as much as your jaw would allow. You were just about to try and squeeze all of him in, when you felt Joel shift in front of you slightly.

Then stepping back, crouching down to your level.

You probably would’ve fallen flat on your face had he not scooped you up in his arms the second after. Your knees were like jelly, your brain scarcely more functional and feeling a little self-conscious about the spit on your chin. You were just about to wipe it off with the back of your hand when Joel got it for you—using his mouth to do it.

Licking a stripe across the lower half of your face, mixing his own saliva with yours and tickling your cheek with his mustache in an act that seemed almost pornographic.

“You are so fucking sexy,” Joel murmured, teeth nipping at wet skin and lips pressing light kisses here and there.

Before you could respond, he turned you around and shoved you onto the desk. Pressed a hand to the small of your back, flattened you facedown on the table’s surface with your ass hanging over the edge, and then stepped behind you, quietly. Quickly. Working to rid himself of clothes that were still clinging to his body like a second skin, Joel shrugged his shirt off, yanked his shorts and boxers the rest of the way to his feet, then kicked all three articles of clothing aside as he drew closer to you.

You heard four drawers open beside you, underneath you, in quick succession. Joel was rummaging again.

Where excitement normally would’ve taken root at this point—pleasure pooling between your legs as the man hastily procured a condom and tore the wrapper open, worked it onto his dick—you felt uncertainty instead. Sadness, even. You kicked your feet back and forth, toes scraping the oak floor as though the friction might conceivably rouse something lighter inside you. It didn’t.

Joel returned, and you couldn’t see his face. He gave your ass a taut smack, then kneaded the flesh in his palm, and you couldn’t be sure if he was smiling or frowning or simply glowering down at you with a look of indifference. When you felt his touch graze over your hands and tuck them coolly at the small of your back, you wanted to tilt your chin some to face him. You didn’t.

Instead, you stared at the wall across from the desk and hoped that he liked whatever he saw. When you felt something wrap around your wrists, you didn’t protest, only bit your lip and waited for him to tie it extra tight.

Joel leaned in and dropped a quick kiss on your shoulder.

The knot he made was snug but not suffocating.

You really wanted to see him now, for some reason.

“This OK?” Joel said. He tapped your wrists.

Before you could answer beyond just a nod, though, he tugged the knot and made a noise in his throat that sounded like a scoff. He pressed something cool and light against your palm, and a shiver pulsed through you.

“Is that…your, uh…” you breathed out an awkward laugh.

He’d tied your hands behind you with his whistle.

“Uh-huh,” Joel hummed, sounding pleased.

And in the next, you could hear a trace of a smirk:

“Always wanted to tie a slut up just like this, y’know?”

Ouch.

Joel was great with praise, but his degradation hurt a bit. You squeezed the metal whistle and tried to pretend like there wasn’t a strangely painful lump taking shape at the back of your throat—it shouldn’t have felt like that at all.

You shouldn’t care what a total stranger thought of you.

That’s all Coach Joel was after all: a stranger to fuck.

But as you felt him unclasp the fastenings at the bottom of your bodysuit, tug your panties down, and line himself up with your entrance from behind, you kind of wished he wasn’t. Maybe you’d been mistaken in initiating this thing and would’ve been better off accepting the date like he’d offered. Maybe then you wouldn’t feel so weird.

At any rate, he was already gripping your hips in his hands and starting to ease himself inside you. Groaning at the pressure and warmth enveloping his cock and uttering curse after curse with just the head notched in. You could sense the slightest sting of latex at your center; Joel’s girth felt every bit as imposing as it had looked, and now your face was screwed up with a wince trying to take him in. Your clit was untouched, throbbing.

Just as you’d bit down on your lower lip with discomfort, Joel dropped his head back and let out a satisfied groan.

“Fuck me,” he grunted, “You’re so…fuckin’ tight.”

Next, ‘good girl’ was quick to become a strangled refrain on his tongue as he worked a couple inches in and out of your aching hole. It felt okay, as you’d gotten plenty wet on your knees for him before, but it stung with each stab of his hips, and your body had gotten overly tense. Worse yet, Joel was so focused on getting himself in that his fingers still hadn’t found your clit. They massaged your ass instead, evidently in awe of how small you looked taking him inch by inch; the sight mesmerizing to him.

“Joel—” you started to whimper.

“This what ya wanted all along, huh? Gettin’ fucked over my desk like a little slut?” Joel’s words were equal parts indelicate and venomous—even sexy as they crawled off his tongue—but the tone with his thrusts was too much. He was gripping too hard, pushing too far, being unkind in a way that would’ve been alright if you were a doll. But you weren’t. The least you needed was concern. So, gently, you let out a breath and turned your head.

“Joel—”

Before bottoming out completely, Coach Joel slapped your ass once again and groaned through his teeth.

“C’mon an’ tell me how much ya like it, baby, how—”

“JOEL.”

He stopped. From the corner of your eye, you spied a startled, half-blanched face. Joel pulled out immediately.

“Wh— hey, you okay, sweetheart? Hey,” the man said, leaning in and loosening the restraints on your wrists. When you nodded for him to keep untying, please, he tugged the whole thing off and turned you back around,

“Is everything okay?”

His eyes were much wider than you’d expected to find them, hands gripping you by either arm as his gaze scanned your face. Out of some unsettled feeling, it seemed, he drew closer, hastily, until your legs were nearly enmeshed and his hands cupped your cheeks.

“I don’t…like that,” you answered in a small, soft voice.

“You don’t…” Joel trailed off, blinking slow at first, then appearing to process your words and turn to stroking the cusp of your jawline with his thumbs while he did.

When it hit just how much you hadn’t liked that and why, he paled even more. Like he couldn’t get his touch to be apologetic enough, his eyes soft and glossy and sorry.

“Did I—” Joel leaned in, squeezing your face, “I’m sorry—did I hurt you any? You can tell me, honey, honest.”

“Not much.” And you tried to crack a smile, but the man wasn’t having it. He switched positions, hoisting you up.

He carried you over to the sofa. Held you in a semi-awkward cradle once he realized the couch was all but broken in two from decades and decades of use, then resigned himself, gladly, to just holding you in his arms.

Pretending not to see you make a face as if to say, ‘Joel, I’m alright now,’ he nuzzled his own closer to yours and started sponging little kisses near your chin and neck.

“‘M’sorry,” he mumbled again, voice now stifled by skin.

You tried not to get too squeamish, or giggle in his hold, but the fact was that his lips were so light—feather-like, almost—and the places he was kissing were so sensitive, you couldn’t help but let out a couple sounds that were half-laugh, half-strangled gasp. With each one of these, Joel would start smiling in between affectionate pecks.

And his dark, dampened curls, though striated with grey, framed his face in a boyish way; he grinned and lost a decade. You were amazed what a difference a glimpse of him could make, and now that he was caressing you, kissing you, your body knew it too, suffused with warmth

When Joel’s lips found yours, you almost forgot it was the first time he’d done that today. Or ever. You kissed each other comfortably, without a shade of pretense or pause, and found that your mouths worked so well together it was a small wonder you hadn’t thought to do that sooner. Joel pulled away, still holding your face.

“We did this backwards,” he said, sounding deflated, “Date first, kiss second, embarrassingly bad sex last.”

You shrugged. Smiling. Silently hoping Joel hadn’t felt your cheeks warm while he cupped your face like that and then tried deflecting that attention away by saying:

‘Two out of three isn’t that bad, Coach.’

And, just as swiftly as he’d brought you over to the sofa, Joel had you flipped and pinned under his body on the old, misshapen cushions and squealing out a laugh.

“I thought ya wanted it rough, honey,” he groaned against your throat. Kissing the skin as you giggled.

“And your idea of rough is—” you started.

“Callin’ ya names, slappin’ your ass, all that kinda sh—”

“—constantly interrupting people while they talk, too?”

Joel suspended his affectionate ministrations just long enough to swap his lips and tongue with teeth, giving your neck a light bite. For all his outward displays of Southern gentility and gentleman-like behavior, he was, after all, still a coach: the kind of guy whose primary sustenance was competition, whose ability to hold a conversation reflected the desire to dominate, always.

Maybe he didn’t like having this fact brought to his attention, stated so plainly as his body blanketed yours and his head burrowed even deeper into your neck. Joel squeezed the sides of your body, about to pull you closer, when you squirmed out from under him and sat upright.

You glanced down and saw that Joel had already chucked the condom. He was starting to lean back into the sofa, length standing semi-erect against the shelf of his belly while his hands fumbled over your thighs and hips. Trying to steer you into his lap, he muttered another string of apologies along with some words like, ‘I know.’

“You’re right, I know I’m bad about that, I—” he began.

“Get another.”

Now you were the one to interrupt, limbs resisting his pull as you nodded to the desk. Telling him to go.

“You wanna—”

“Yeah.”

When Joel blinked a couple times and didn’t move, you stood up yourself. He reached for you; you ignored him. You strode over to the desk where he’d retrieved the condoms the first time and grabbed the box, snagged a square metallic wrapper out of it, and walked back over.

You sat down beside Joel and didn’t wait for him to take the lead. You tore the packet with your teeth and, careful not to chomp down on the latex itself, pulled the rubber out. It wasn’t until you sank down on your knees in front of Coach Joel on the wet, hard floor that he stirred at all.

He grabbed your wrist before you could slide it on.

“C’mere.”

Again, you resisted his efforts to pull you into his lap—‘Joel, I wanna do it now, I swear’—and when it seemed you were going to remain as defiant as you ever had been, on the floor, Joel leaned forward and kissed you.

Somehow, he reached you even deeper than he had before. You were on your knees, chin tilting to his and lips parting, slowly, and Joel cupped both sides of your face to drive his tongue inside. Now he wasn’t just touching but tasting, too, his efforts quick to be accompanied by the gentlest of sounds from his mouth to yours. Thumbing your cheeks even harder when his tongue moved against yours and a grunt crept out of his throat.

“I wanna—” he said in between soft, strained breaths.

You already knew what he was going to say. You shook your head against his before pulling away. Watching him watch you with a hungry look and follow you to the floor.

“I need you to fuck me, Joel,” you cut in. You scooted back and spread your legs, and Joel crawled forward.

He murmured something about eating you out, licking that pretty pussy clean before he gave it to you again, but you just told him no, again, and fisted the damp grey ringlets at the back of his head to pull him closer to you.

Joel was already slotting himself between your legs, dismayed not to be able to taste your cunt but also keen to join you as you came to lie supine on the floor before him. His eyes were alight with curiosity, mouth opening and closing with the threat of a teasing word or two on his tongue until you started to slide the condom down.

You almost couldn’t believe it yourself: how forward you were being—sober this time. With the sting from Joel’s first entry reduced to a mere throb between your legs, the space where he’d been before was pulsing, blood pumping, and with each new second you could feel the need amplify. Your legs curled around his waist and pulled him closer, hips inching forward on hardwood beneath him to get his cock pressed flush with your heat.

“Take it…real slow this time.” Joel was already sliding a hand under your head. Cradling the back of your skull as his tip moved over the wet and sticky warmth that had pooled between your folds. His eyes searched your face.

Just sensing the weight of his gaze, his grip, the restraint from his lower half as it hovered over yours, you already felt safer. Silly, almost, for how much that wordless reassurance and concern from Joel came as a comfort—and had you writhing under him for more, now, please.

“We’ll get there, hon, don’t you worry your pretty little head—” And as he said it, Joel pressed a kiss to your forehead, “—and if it hurts any, ya tell me, alright?”

“I will, Joel, please,” you whimpered.

Smooth and bulbous and just a pinch too snug in that latex, the head of Joel’s cock made a dizzying squelch against the rim of your cunt. The tip was all it took to remind you just how big he was, how tough it was probably going to be to adjust to his size, how—

“Hey,” Joel said, voice grounding you immediately.

You looked up to meet his gaze.

“I’m still takin’ you on a date, by the way,” he mumbled, and you smiled, “If you wanna save this part for later—”

As though your bodies had both said ‘no’ at once, Joel’s cock eased forward slightly, softly, and notched into the slick ring of muscles that had kept your parts separate. The intrusion was barely an inch, and not your very first, but it felt like a novelty—something tender and delicate to steal a breath from your chest and Joel’s—and the stretch, now, was a welcome one. Your legs tightened at Joel’s sides, and his lips pressed over your own, briefly.

“This okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you nodded.

“You sure?”

“Mmmh—ohhhh, fuck, yes, Joel.”

The words flew from your mouth without meaning to. Your hands moved up to his chest, his shoulders, squeezing his trap muscles and sinking your nails in the skin while a welt of pleasure blossomed between your legs. Joel kissed the corner of your mouth, smile already starting to tug at both ends of his. Then he kissed it again.

Joel swallowed his awe—and pride—and leaned closer.

“Shoulda been treatin’ her sweeter, baby, I’m sorry,” he hummed against your cheek. Then he sank his length even deeper inside and relished the soft pulse of you.

He was rutting gently with just half his dick, and still, your body and brain were on the fritz, all but overcome with that swollen, coiling bliss. You glanced down and were half enrapt with the heft of his stomach boring into yours. You trailed your fingertips over the soft plane of flesh, pinched it gently while Joel’s steady and shallow thrusts split you even further open, and you smiled, too.

“That’s a first,” he said, chuckle rumbling low.

“What? Fucking on the floor?”

“That— that too,” Joel tried to make the same amused sound but was interrupted by a groan bubbling up in his throat. You’d clenched, and he drove in even deeper, “You…you touchin’ my, uh…my stomach, I mean.”

You pinched it again, feeling soft grey hairs in your palm.

“Your tummy?”

Joel couldn’t help but grin a little at the word.

“My tummy,” he repeated, as if he didn’t believe it.

Again, you could’ve sworn you saw a flush of pink creep up the side of his throat, but you decided not to mention it. Instead, you just slid your hands back up to his chest and stretched your legs even wider to take more of him in. Joel obliged with the last remaining inch and groaned.

You moaned too, squeezing tighter. He’d just bottomed out, and you were already, somehow, on the brink.

It didn’t matter that you were getting fucked on the frigid wood floor by your little brother’s baseball coach, water pooling around you and between you and commingling with the minuscule beads of sweat that were starting to form on your bodies. Joel was as handsome as he’d ever looked, brow drawn inward and lips taking the shape of an ‘o’ whenever they weren’t sponging kisses over yours. The stretch you felt was approaching euphoric now, walls fluttering with each slow and gentle stroke inside you. Joel was deep, and he was measured—and he was careful in the force of his thrusts, taking pains to watch your expression for any changes or signs of discomfort.

He was praising you, too. Strings of ‘Right there, baby—doin’ so good for me’ and ‘Feels so nice’ and ‘Keep goin’ were like music to your ears, nudging you closer and closer to climax with every tender thrust. When Joel’s hand descended to your hip and the cadence of his own body grew a little more deliberate and fixed, you were certain he would be teasing out your release any minute. You wound your fingers through his hair, preparing to pull tight in anticipation of that heady, blissful feeling.

Evidently, Coach Miller wasn’t as ready. He wrenched himself out of your grip and withdrew the next second.

And, try as you might to contain the sound, a whine tumbled off your lips, followed by a ‘Joel!’ just as quick. A hollow feeling swallowed your lower half; you felt you had no other choice but to prop yourself up on both elbows, cast a despondent look between your legs, and groan:

“I was so clo—”

“Couldn’t wait. ‘M’sorry, honey.”

You might’ve liked to give him a little more hell for that—particularly observing the smug smile that had crawled onto Joel’s face as he said it—but the feeling was short-lived. Just when you opened your mouth to speak, you watched him glide down your front. He was painstakingly slow, then swift as soon as he slipped between your legs. His shoulders bumped your thighs, heedless of the feeling the motion would evoke, and came to rest with his face between them. Happy. Or pleased—even eager.

You couldn’t fault him for that enthusiasm for long, either, because the next thing you knew, Joel’s mouth was lowering further. Slotting his lips and tongue against your glistening folds and nudging you gently, teasingly, as if knowing exactly what you lacked in that moment. Your fingers found his hair again and this time were free to tug as long as they liked; Joel busied himself intently.

He flattened his tongue and licked a stripe up your slit. He lapped at your folds, collecting whatever sweet, tangy parts of you had trickled out over the stretch of that morning, and didn’t flinch when the jolt of pleasure it sent caused your hands to make fists in his hair. In fact, the sting on his scalp only seemed to make his actions that much greedier. He grinned when you whimpered.

“Still close?”

The fucking tease.

“N-N— No shit, Miller.”

You hated the way his mouth made a faltering mess of your own. In spite of the impairment, though, it was clear that this state wouldn’t last for long; a couple more strokes of his tongue and a soft, semi-complaisant suction on your bundle of nerves and you would be gone.

Coach Miller was mean, but he wasn’t so cruel as to deny you the sublime pleasure of getting to cum in his mouth. With one hand, he gave your thigh a comforting squeeze, and with the other, he trailed his touch to your entrance. When his index and middle fingers first slid in, he held your leg again and stroked the skin in small, tight circles.

“You’re good, hey. You’re okay,” he assured you softly, the fingers of his other hand sinking even deeper.

You felt pathetic and squeamish, but the heft of that one push just felt so good. Paired with his tongue on your clit and a vicious little suckling here and there, his mustache dragging back and forth along the cusp of your mound, it came as no surprise to you or Joel when next your body tensed and your lower half flooded with pleasure.

What little remained of your resolve not to cry disintegrated in less than a second—by turns, your thighs clamped down around Joel’s head like a vice, your eyes squeezed shut, and the whine that tore out of your throat was as shrill and piercing and high as you’d ever heard it. Succeeded shortly by a fuck, fuck, FUCK, Joel, fuck and a gush of warmth down his chin, your climax couldn’t have been more pronounced if you’d tried. Fortunately, the fully-drenched man beneath you didn’t mind at all; if anything, he saw it as a personal success.

Climbing back up your body, bracketing his bare, muscly arms about your torso, and gripping the base of his cock, triumph was there, painted clear across his every feature. It softened his face. Made his length even stiffer and more ready than ever to re-enter your warmth before you could press so much as a hand to his chest, sighing gently. Joel snagged your lips between his for a kiss.

“That’s it, pretty girl, keep goin’.”

His words were muffled by your mouth—a tiny gasp.

“Gonna make this last a little while longer, that alright?”

He breached the first two inches of your swollen, shiny, still-pulsing cunt as if to punctuate the question. All raw and tender from the last orgasm he’d coaxed out of it, and being stretched around his tip without fair warning, your muscles spasmed again. You both let out a breath.

“It’s— Joel, it’s—”

Another inch. Almost too good to bear. The man appeared to nod in understanding, before he smoothed a hand over your face and cradled it. He drove in deeper, while your voice broke off in some low, muffled whine.

“A lot. I know,” he finished, softly, as if commiserating with you while splitting you open on his cock, “I know it’s a lot, baby. You just tell me if it gets to be too much.”

His words had all the air of a calm, measured authority, spoken in tones you knew too well. He sank further. No inflection quite as stern or steady could have belonged to anyone else but a coach, you reckoned. Coach Miller, the hard-boiled voice of reason for the baseball team, so-called ‘silent type,’ object of every last housewife’s desire—and also the guy you’d kneed in the dick that morning.

It was only fair he got to return the favor in his own way.

Now he was holding your hip in his free hand, pinning you down to the floor while he started to ease in and out of your cunt at a generous pace. He knew you were spent. He sensed he was already on the brink himself, most likely. He also probably knew he couldn’t leave your limp, boneless body well enough alone before he felt the urge to make you hurt a little too—and enjoy it, of course.

Joel was all shining, hopeful eyes as he stabbed inside and found that spot, watching your own flutter closed.

“Coach.” It came out without much thought on your part. It just seemed like the right thing to call him, no matter how ethically grey or downright weird it was.

Joel liked it.

He squeezed your palm when it reached for his, and he brought it up to his mouth, peppering soft, sloppy kisses across the back of your hand while he fucked you into the floor. Shamelessly, he also used your grip on him to gauge how near you were to your next release. From what he could tell in the sights and sounds and frantic little clinches of your fist, you were close. Still loath to give in to that feeling, or else afraid to accede so quickly after the last, though, your breaths were labored. Timid.

“I-I-I don’t know if I can,” you cried, shaking your head.

Inside you, there was a big, swelling something taking shape at the pit of your gut, and with each new brush of Joel’s cock, it only got larger. The sensation was so keen and acute it might well be construed as pain if he kept at this any longer. You didn’t know if you could cum again.

“Go on an’ try, sweet pea,” Joel cooed and lowered your hand, still grasping his, between your trembling legs, “Won’t take any more’n a second or two, just touch—”

His thumb fumbled with yours and made a hapless little circuit on your clit, which almost shrieked at the feeling.

“—right here, and—”

“Fuck me,” you panted.

Your fingers and his were drenched in your nectar, all but oozing down with each slick, deliberate thrust from Joel.

“That’s what I’m doin’, no? Ya like it?” He couldn’t help it.

Frankly, neither could you. From the near-sated, happy-and-about-to-cum-on-your-dick glint in your eye, you sensed he’d know what you meant when you said, next:

“It hurts.”

“Good?” Joel grinned.

“So good.”

The man delivered a thrust that felt like it might puncture your lungs, and with it, your last resolve.

He drew even closer, until his nose and yours were brushing, smiles faint but there all the same, and his thumb guiding your own across your throbbing clit:

“Give it here, baby. Make me feel it.”

And you did. With one more stroke inside, you let it all flood out, cunt spasming and pulsing and leaking liquid heat down the length of Joel’s cock. He fucked you full, only the condom between you, and as your moans gave way to whimpers and whines, the noises in his own throat took on an even more desperate kind of timbre.

Your stuffed, overstimulated hole felt as greedy as it had ever been, and the man rutting into it was still needier. Using your body, squeezing your hand, panting out hot and frantic breaths that all but begged you to keep letting him fill your cunt—please, baby, feels so damn good, keep goin’. Try as he might to maintain the upper hand whenever he could, it was clear this time around he was fucked, top to bottom and ten ways to next week. He had a look that struck you as pleased, pained, and on the last trembling webs of cum being emptied from his body, Coach Miller held onto your face and kissed you.

While your highs died down, he stayed inside—still kissing, grunting, mumbling how good you felt. You barely had the presence of mind to hear it, but you smiled and let him go on. You’d made a mess of yourself.

Of Joel, too. Apart from the sheen of sweat and still-damp and dripping hair, his body was wrecked. Groaning. Lower stomach painted with your slick, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Now that the fucking was done and the room was mostly consumed by silence and strangled breaths, you had the distinct, albeit less sexual, pleasure of seeing some other things.

Like the way the joints in the coach’s knees made a pop when he tried to sit up. How the soft and weathered face pinched tighter, wrinkled further as he ventured to drag you with him, in what would eventually only be a semi-seated position on the floor, against the coffee table. How you straddled his lap, still impaled, and felt a groan vibrate through his chest when you tilted your hips the tiniest bit. He just might’ve grimaced if he wasn’t so spent and lazily fixated on you, eyes glued to your lips. He traced the seam of it with his thumb, looking amused.

“You really thought I was tryin’ to kidnap ya earlier, huh?”

Your cheeks warmed. You hoped he wouldn’t feel it.

“Well, you…you were reaching for me!”

Menacingly, you wanted to add.

“Grabbed you a couple times after that, too, didn’t I?”

And the smile on Joel’s face said he’d already felt the temperature rise in yours. You tried turning your head, embarrassed, but he held it, letting his palms sink in.

“Yeah, well, I’d say we’re even now, Coach.” Your words came out a bit muffled with his hands squishing your cheeks between them. Adamant as you were, defiance was hard to feign when the man was making you pout. You made as if to get up, but Joel just held on tighter.

“Far from it,” he said. He kissed your puckered lips, and you couldn’t ignore the little flutter in your stomach.

“How come?”

“‘Cause I owe you a date.”

You should’ve known he wasn’t the kind to give up, or forget, that easily. Even when you gave a playful push to his chest, pretended not to revel in the spattering of kisses he’d begun dropping along your collarbone—‘That’s a bad idea and we both know it, Coach’—he just pulled you even further into himself, and you felt your defenses falter, if only for a second. Maybe he was right.

“I can take you now,” Joel added.

“Like hell you will,” you laughed.

Your voice was even, but beneath it, the façade unsure. Joel was lifting you to your feet, then looking around.

“I know a place,” he continued, casual. His eyes scanned the room, and you surmised he was looking for clothes. When they landed on the shirt and shorts he’d left for you on the desk, he walked right over. He handed them to you. While you dressed, he grabbed another set from the desk drawer and began doing the same, going on:

“It’s this spot called ‘Amy’s.’ I hear they’ve got gr—”

“Joel.”

Your eyes met his again, expecting to find a smirk on his face. You saw no such expression. Instead, he watched you earnestly. Drew the drawstrings in on his too-tight shorts and smiled. You had to fight with every fiber of your being not to do the same as he strode back over and stood in front of you. You shook your head at him.

“Not happening,” you said. Your lips twitched once.

Meanwhile, Joel’s were stretching into a full grin.

Before you could stop him, he was pulling you out of the office. Leading you back down the hallway from earlier. Your footsteps echoed all through the concrete corridor.

“Think Sam’ll kick my ass when he sees us?” he mused.

“Probably just knee you straight in the dick.”

Even from where you were being tugged along behind Joel, you could feel him wince. He flashed you a sidelong glance, and you returned it with a half-apologetic smile.

“I kissed it all better, didn’t I?”

“I think you missed a couple spots, I dunno.”

And with that, Joel was smirking. Shooting you a wink.

You groaned at the memory of David doing the same.

“Please never do that again,” you begged him.

You strolled into the locker room together.

“Do what?”

“Wink.”

“Oh.”

Joel was slinging the strap of his bag over his shoulder.

“Is that…” he started.

“Creepy as shit? Correct.”

He nodded back in wordless acknowledgment, but deep down, you sensed he was most definitely going to wink at you again at some point in the day, just to piss you off.

You’d get him back eventually.

Or maybe kiss the few remaining spots left untouched.

You were about to tell him as much—maybe give him a preview of what was to come with some road head on the way over to Amy’s, for fun—when you paused. You and Joel were walking back down the hall and headed to the exit when you felt something vibrate in your pocket.

You pulled your phone out and checked the screen.

From: Sam

Leaving Amy’s now

Don’t need a ride 😁

Why the fuck a nine-year-old even had an iPhone was beyond you. You typed as you walked alongside Joel.

From: You

Where are you going?

You approached the set of exit doors and stepped out.

From: Sam

Movies. Frank’s driving us.

You were headed out to the parking lot, listening to Coach Joel argue his case for taking his truck to Amy’s.

From: You

Who’s us? Are y’all gonna need a ride back?

From: Sam

Sarah ☺️

The little shitbird never elaborated when he was talking about his plans. You followed Joel out to his vehicle and thanked him as he helped you into the passenger seat. You weren’t really listening as you focused on the texts.

From: You

Sarah who?

Joel was starting his truck. Cranking the A/C and the volume on the radio—an ‘80s rock station, of course.

John Mellencamp’s voice flooded the cabin, and you could feel Joel’s grin kick up. Luckily, it wasn’t the song.

Something or other about authority, you heard dimly.

Sam was taking forever to reply. You were on the way.

From: You

Sarah who??

“Everything okay over there?” Joel asked. He reached over and squeezed your leg to punctuate the question.

You blinked. You nodded once.

“Yeah, it’s just my brother. He’s…going on a date, I think.”

Again, Joel’s smile stretched wider, like this was news.

“No shit? He’s only like nine years old,” he chuckled.

“Yeah. Third grade going on thirty, this kid.”

You watched your text conversation as if staring harder might procure another message. It stayed the same.

Meanwhile, Joel was pulling onto the highway, and his palm was moving up your thigh. The music played loud.

Your gaze flitted to his, and in it, you saw a brazen look.

“Where’s he takin’ her?” His fingers crawled further up.

Joel would be pulling off to the side of this roadway if he didn’t ease up. You spread your legs a little wider for him.

“The movies, it sounds like,” you murmured back.

Then you grinned and were about to set your phone aside when it vibrated in your hand. You glanced down.

“Sounds like a fun place to go,” Joel hummed, probably thinking of all the things he’d like to do to you in a theatre

From: Sam

Sarah Miller

You scanned over that message and didn’t think twice. Something registered in your mind—a faint recollection of that name, and then a sweet, cheerful face you’d seen at Sam’s school before—and you had to smile a little bit.

You liked Sarah Miller.

You were glad Sam seemed to like her too.

Nerves easing a little bit now, you texted back. Telling him to have fun and be safe, call me when you need a ride home. You couldn’t contain the smile on your lips.

Apparently seeing this pleased look, Joel slid his hand to the inside of your thigh and squeezed again. He brushed the heel of his palm against your shorts, then inched it backward, so that he was grazing the soft heat between your legs. You squirmed a little bit but didn’t stop him. In fact, your teeth snagged your bottom lip, and you were subsequently forced to stifle a sound. Joel leaned over.

“We’re ten minutes out. Think you can be a good girl and cum on my fingers just once before then?” he whispered.

The truck was humming along. The air was warm. The music was as deafeningly loud as ever, and your skin was quickly growing damp with sweat, but you were game.

Biting down on the smallest fragment of a whimper, you nodded your head. Joel’s fingers dove under your shorts.

“Oh, but…” you trailed off, sucking in a quick breath. Remembering. “We gotta get back to my car right after ice cream. Sam’s probably gonna need a ride home.”

Joel groaned.

Evidently, he’d had other plans post-Amy’s.

“Can’t the girl’s parents drive ‘em home or somethin’?”

“It’s just her dad, I think. Sam and Sarah have been fri—”

“Sarah?”

Suddenly, Joel’s gaze was darting right. Meeting yours. The fingers that were moments away from plunging deep within your heat were drawing back. Halting.

“A friend from school,” you finished slowly. “Sarah Mill—”

Oh.

“Miller? Sarah Miller?” Joel interjected again, eyes wide.

You’d never made the connection.

You just remembered the kid with the bright, warm smile and thought nothing else. What are the odds she’d be—

“My daughter?!”

It seemed Joel’s right hand had completely forgotten its former mission, in favor of freaking out about his kid with your brother, in a movie theatre. Alone. Protective dad mode had kicked in instantaneously, and you couldn’t help but smile seeing that development. You sighed at the loss of his fingers but almost wanted to laugh when you saw the truck’s navigation shift from the ice cream shop to the closest movie theatre. Joel’s nostrils flared.

“But our date, Joel,” you whined, tone all faux protest.

Joel shot you a look and glowered at your teasing smirk.

“You’ll get your date, sweetheart,” he answered. Promised. His grip tightened on the wheel and twisted. “Just gotta make sure my player knows how to behave.”

Something told you he wasn’t talking about baseball.

“Whatever you say, Coach. Whatever you say.”

#☝🏼 ONE MORE USELESS FACTOID THAT MIGHT HELP WITH UNDERSTANDING THE STORY:#John Cougar Mellencamp swapped his stage name (Cougar) for his real name (Mellencamp) around 1987 #so joel saying he knew him back when he was ‘Cougar’ and not ‘Mellencamp’ is just a long-winded way of saying he’s old #ANYWAY #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #joel miller one shot #joel miller tlou

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swordgrace · 2 months ago

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❝ 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐮𝐩. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: spending a gentle morning with your boyfriend, bucky barnes.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: bucky barnes x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.2K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), established relationship, post-thunderbolts bucky, lots of fluff, soft!bucky, making out, thigh-grabbing, bucky is a little flirt, morning sex, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, female orgasm.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: so this is my first time writing for bucky despite being obsessed with him for 10+ years (please be gentle & feedback would be really appreciated!) I typically write him as more soft & a service top instead of rough, so hopefully this doesn’t turn people off. anyway, I hope you all enjoy! 🫶

Before the sun splits through a violet twilight, cresting over darkness and into dawn, Bucky is wide awake, smoothing one palm over his grizzled countenance.

It’s too early; though, it’s become something of a normality for him, waking up before the first light of daybreak. Muscles ache with the heaviness of sleep, coiled into knots, still echoing with soreness from a mission days ago.

A five o’clock shadow clings to his jaw, brunette tresses longer, bedraggled by slumber. A shallow exhale simpers from his lungs, slow and steady, something that grounds him to his surroundings.

Save for the pale glow of the light glittering above the headboard, his room is shrouded by an inky black, bathroom door left ajar.

Peering through the dim illumination, his gaze searches for you, back turned to him, swaddled in the comforter; leaving only a sliver for him. A soft huff splits past his lips, knowing that you can’t sleep unless you’ve got a blanket.

Even when the temperature gets sweltering and summertime swings through with a vicious humidity, you’re typically bundled in the sheets, covered, unwilling to go without it. He’s conceded to sleeping with a fourth of the blanket.

A low noise reverberates through your body, swallowed whole by the pillow as you turn, comforter tucked to your collar, now facing him.

Scrunched with slumber, you’re still sound asleep, curled comfortably beside the pillow. You’re huddled tightly beneath the blanket, a tangle of limbs, warm to the touch.

Ritualistic, Bucky’s often ogling you each morning, mapping out every detail that rests within your countenance, finding beauty in everything. Every time the sun comes up, he’s searching for you, drinking you in again and again.

You’re the first thing he sees when dawn splits dusk — the best thing he sees.

You only get prettier with each passing morning, with every sunrise, prompting his heart to gallop beneath his sternum, unable to smother his smile.

If someone told him years ago that he would’ve ended up with you, he would’ve scoffed at the notion; unlovable, unworthy — he’d changed his outlook drastically.

There’s something inherently soft about your relationship — pure, clean, built on a foundation of mutual trust and protection. Bucky never experienced soft, save for the forties; now, he was able to rest.

Unconsciously, you stir, crawling closer until your body wedges into his arm, flesh and blood, bicep firm as he adjusts, bringing you against his side. Still muddled by the haze of sleep, you exhale, cheek pressed into his shoulder.

He smooths a feather-light kiss to your crown, gaze drifting toward the ceiling; nondescript, too modern. The massive undertaking of renovating the former Avengers Tower was met with mild resistance from the team — plenty of needless additions, too.

The training room is entirely too large for how many people live in the tower — a meager seven, unless Valentina intended on recruiting. There’s buttons on the sofa in the common lounge, and he’s still uncertain of what they do.

Sometimes, it all feels too new, too sprawling — he’s always enjoyed the simpler things in life, the rustic and the unappealing.

Hushed, Bucky steals another glance, gaze fluttering over your visage, over the strands of loose tresses that stick to your temples. He sweeps them aside, vibranium arm a kiss of ice to your warm skin.

Slowly, he begins to shuffle, gently easing you aside and into the pillow, muscles stiff as he rolls to perch along the edge of your bed.

Dawn unfurls somewhere beyond the horizon, tendrils of muted orange whispering through the eventide. A soft groan slips from his lips, body still recuperating from a mission days ago, bruises bone-deep.

Early to rise before anyone else, he stretches, reaching for a black undershirt, dog tags sparkling through slivers of light. Tugging the fabric over his head, he trails toward your bathroom, making for the sink.

Palms splay flat over smooth granite, mirror revealing a rugged countenance, tresses disheveled. A tangle of scars lay where vibranium kissed flesh — old wounds, old memories interlaced into his skin.

Formed by him attempting to claw at the metal, they were a remnant of a ghost, a spectre he’d left behind. It was the piece of him that had healed entirely, leaving behind mere wisps — Bucky wasn’t him anymore.

The Winter Soldier was no more, only present in a name, a stranger left within the recesses of his mind; lingering still, no longer important.

Nightmares still nipped at his heels, less intense than they used to be, but still prevalent. There’s brighter days ahead when you’re around, presence comforting, able to soothe him without effort.

Screwing the knob of the sink, a rush of cold water tumbles from the spout, filling the basin with icy liquid. Dipping his vibranium hand beneath, he splashes a barrage of water against his face, a brief shock to the system, cooling over warm skin.

Droplets of water rolled over his chin as he scooped another handful into his mouth, allowing it to soothe his dry throat. A comfortable hush echoes through his room; it’s tranquil.

In the mirror’s reflection, he spots your writhing body, adjusting again, but this time, you’re awake. Through furrowed brows and mild confusion, you’re humming, limbs uncoiling, searching for Bucky.

“Bucky?” Through a barely-audible murmur, you notice the empty space beside you, indent still warm where a body once lay. With a low groan, you sit up, groggy as you blink to try and rid yourself of the sleep-induced haze.

Lingering in the doorway, Bucky makes himself known, bathed in blanched light from the bathroom, as if he’s caught in some glow. “Morning.” He drawls, his smile lilting into something lopsided, warm.

With a smile, you rub at your eyes, peering toward your phone, the time flashing up at you. It’s only ten-past-six, typically too early for you, but not for him. “Hi,” Wiping the blur from your sight, you shuffle beneath the comforter. “You okay?”

Bucky nods, reassuring as he dries off his metallic hand with a towel, watching you as if you’re the center of everything; you are. “Early riser,” He muses, head tilting to one side. “You can go back to bed.” He assures.

“I’m awake now,” You protest, squinting as you allow yourself a moment to adjust. Sleep’s thick fog still clouds your mind like a haze of steam, prompting you to stretch out your arms. “I might as well stay up.”

Through a half-sleepy smile, you comb your fingers over your crown, hand dropping to your side as you lay back down. Knowing that Bucky is up and will continue to stay awake prompts you to do the same, hands folding over your abdomen.

With a soft chuckle, he turns, tossing the towel back onto the rungs before crossing the threshold to your bed, sinking back down beside you. The black undershirt and silvery gleam of his dog tags is a good look for him — he’s handsome.

Swiveling around, you turn to face him, tucking one arm beneath your head, a smile still curling at the corners of your mouth. Instead of saying anything, you’re gawking, ogling him as if he’s the center of your universe.

Bucky can feel your gaze on him, and he turns, brows slightly furrowed, a half-smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “What’s wrong?” He rumbles, softening at the sight of you.

You’re breathtaking, exhilarating; he still can’t believe that you’re with him after all this time, steadfastly by his side. He feels your hand trace over his bicep, leaving fire in your wake, prompting him to inhale.

“Nothing, just … You’re pretty,” The tender cadence of your remark evokes a chuckle from him, nose briefly wrinkling, brows furrowing. “I’m being serious.” You assert, cheek nudging over his shoulder.

“I know,” Bucky counters, rolling over on his side to mimic your position, cool vibranium brushing over the exposed flesh of your hip. A metal thumb caresses circles over your hipbone, enough to make your breath catch. “Supposed to be telling you that.”

Ardor oozes from his gaze, cerulean hues traveling over the delicate slope of your jaw, across your body, which happens to be clad in one of his shirts. After being The Winter Soldier for a lifetime, Bucky has become exceedingly gentle.

Being callous, cruel, rough; it isn’t ingrained into his codex anymore, he doesn’t want it to be. Your presence evokes the gentler feelings, ones that he prefers to let guide him over anything else.

“We can tell each other,” You level with him, fingertips snaring over his dog-tags, nail tracing over the indents on the metal. “Did you sleep well, at least?” A tender hush wraps around your cadence, a soothing lull.

Bucky huffs, a light smile toying at the corners of his mouth, metallic digits still circling your skin. Gooseflesh spawns in the wake of his touch, spreading like wildfire across your spine.

“Yeah,” He muses, unable to peel his eyes away from you, gaze softening whenever you smile. Rest is better with you around — he feels safe, more aware of his surroundings. “Did you? Sorry for waking you up.”

With a playful roll of your eyes, you’re dismissive of his apology, digits gliding toward the collar of his undershirt. The constant touching is assuring to Bucky, something grounding. “Don’t be sorry. This is nice, being up together.”

Optimism has always been your strongest attribute, and he concedes, finding contentment in the smaller moments like these. “It is,” He hums in agreement, metal fingers smoothing over your waist. “You’re so beautiful.”

A scoff erupts from your mouth, as if he’s said something outlandish. “I think you’re still asleep or something,” You tease, feeling rather disheveled, undeserving of his compliment. “Like this, all messy from sleeping?”

Bucky’s brows momentarily furrow, mouth agape to make room for a quizzical chuckle. “Exactly like this,” Insistent, he takes a swipe at your brief moment of self-deprecation, dismantling it with ease. “You’re always beautiful.”

A droning groan slips past your mouth as you descend against the mattress, sprawling out, limbs somewhat untangled from the comforter. “Thank you.” Through a soft mumble, you feel your skin crawl with a constant warmth.

Biting back a grin, he shifts closer, propped up on his side, vibranium palm kissing your thigh, a burst of lce to your flesh. “Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen,” He murmurs, tone droning at a husky octave. “Getting shy on me?” He’s teasing you, now.

“Bucky,” In a feeble attempt to counteract him, your knee nudges against his abdomen, but he isn’t going anywhere. “No, just … You’re really sweet.” You mumble, staving off the bite of embarrassment.

“Hm,” Bucky clicks his tongue, a hint of amusement swirling within his eyes. “Sweet, huh?” The pitch of his voice is disarmingly gentle, stirring embers within the pit of your stomach.

Adjusting your leg, your knee sits over his waist, brushing against the fabric of his undershirt. “Very,” You muse, and the flustered feeling begins to dissipate, replaced by elation. “You can’t keep up the tough act with me.”

A ribbing scoff escapes him, faux disbelief creeping over his countenance. He’s so handsome that it hurts, stinging your chest, rousing butterflies within your belly. “Who says that I am?” He remarks, inching closer to you, the distance growing slim.

With a wrinkled nose, your mouth grows into a beam, melting beneath his gaze. He oozes with an effortless charm, one that’s drastically improved since the beginning of your relationship.

Warm fingertips card over your temples, stretching into your hairline as he partially hovers above you, head cocked to one side. You’re mesmerizing, he’s mesmerizing; you’re both awestruck.

He’s gazing at you, hues shamelessly flickering between your doe-eyed stare and the soft curve of your lips. Bucky finds a purpose, a semblance of tranquility within your heart.

The sensation of your palm pressing against his chest barely registers, lost within a labyrinth of you, fingertips roaming over your crown. Your hand sits soundly above his collar, over an old, steady heartbeat — he’s at peace.

Digits climb toward his collar, tracing the metallic chain of his dog-tags, higher still, until you reach the shadowed scruff that covers his jaw.

Bucky exhales, a contented noise that drags through his chest, steady and sure, throat bobbing as he swallows. The quiet is kind — it’s one that he allows himself to settle into, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Words aren’t exchanged, bleeding into the kiss he plants against your lips, nose brushing against yours. A hitch forms within the bottom of your throat, hand splaying over his jaw, involuntarily keening into his touch.

Vibranium tenses over your thigh, cradling, thumb drawing slow circles over the pliant muscle. The sensation is enough to make you quiver with exhilaration, lost within the labyrinth of his lips.

Something incendiary lingers within his kiss, a subdued restraint that he clings to, and you can feel it, too. He savors the feeling, fingertips ghosting along your cheek until he’s cupping your jaw.

With a soft sigh, you’re turning into him, chest brushing against his, other hand drifting to grasp at his bicep. Through a momentary gap, you exhale, warm breath pluming over his lips before you resume the kiss.

Mouths tangle into one another, deepening when he presses closer, slotting a muscled thigh between your legs. Another shiver rolls down your spine, digits tensing over his arm, heart hammering beneath your breast.

He’s deliberate, attentive; Bucky kisses you as if you’re the center of everything, tender as it stretches on for several moments. Kisses edge with something desirous, and you withdraw to catch your breath, visibly smitten.

Your head descends against the pillow, fingers flexing near the nape of his neck, toying with the brunette tresses there. “Could you wake me up like this every morning?” You mumble, lips curling into a smile.

Bucky huffs, mirroring your countenance as his hand still caresses over your leg, beginning to slip towards your hip. “All you gotta do is ask, sweetheart.” He affirms, still close to you.

The affectionate nickname fills you with a thinly-veiled delight, eyelashes kissing the skin beneath your eyes. “Noted.” With a gentle hum, you’re wanting to kiss him again.

“I have something else in-mind, if you’re willing.” Bucky chimes, cadence husky, curling around you like some pleasant haze. He kisses your jaw as if to hint at what he wants; you’re more than willing.

“Enlighten me.” Breathless, you’re attempting to pass as collected, calm, but when icy metal begins to tease the waistband of your shorts, your resolve wavers. His lips travel over the slope of your jaw, sluggish, as if he’s exploring.

Slivers of orange crest the horizon, fracturing dusk with pooling light. It’s still early, early enough for the both of you to hide within the shadows for a little while longer, before everyone else stirs.

Bucky shifts, now positioned between your legs, musculature taking up a decent amount of space. A sigh bubbles within your throat, hands clamoring to perch atop his shoulders.

His mouth works at you still, drifting from your jaw to the silky expanse of your throat, scruffy beard scratching pleasantly against your skin. A delighted half-whine splits your diaphragm, flesh burning with a newfound heat.

“Bucky …” A throaty moan floats from your lips, feeling his fingers curl into the hem of your shirt, gently easing it up towards your chest. Brisk air drifts over your exposed skin, gooseflesh erupting in its wake.

Each kiss makes you feel weightless, as if your bones have turned to molten liquid, stomach churning with anticipation.

After another string of kisses brand your throat, he descends, mouth ghosting below your breasts. His visage prickled over your ribs, sending a brief shiver of anticipation through you.

Cerulean hues flicker toward your face, vibranium hand pressed firm to the mattress, hovering beside your waist. Lips peppered themselves across your stomach, traveling to your hipbones before ascending again, a lackadaisical pattern.

Every kiss possessed meaning, a fervent love for you, etched into your skin as his mouth feathered across your lower stomach. He only came to a crawl when he found your waistband, stealing a glance at you.

“This okay?” Bucky inquired, tone a mere purr, husky as warm breath fanned over your abdomen. “It’s been awhile.” He wanted to taste you again, have you writhing against his tongue; he couldn’t help himself.

With an eager nod, you kept your legs parted, shivering when cool metal toyed with the elastic of your undergarments. “Yes,” You huffed, feeling his lips twitch into a smile. “Bucky, please.”

Unwilling to deny you, he nodded, hands curling into the soft cotton of your shorts and panties, easing them down your legs. Knuckles brush over your thighs, calves, until he’s discarding them near the foot of your bed.

“God, you’re beautiful.” Bucky sighs, reverent as he plants a kiss against the inside of your knee. Your breath hitches, words dissolving to ash in your mouth as he kisses a trail toward your thigh.

A familiar heat pools within your belly, arousal coalescing between your legs, thighs shifting together to relieve a sliver of tension. He continues, hunger stirring within him, ravenous.

Careworn palms caressed circles into your thighs, dragging from your haunches toward your knees, and then back again. Sweet kisses buried themselves along soft skin, inching closer toward the slick warmth of your cunt.

He’s methodical, intimate; there isn’t a need to rush into anything, which you’re thankful for. Instead, you savor his lips as they plume over the inside of your thigh, visage marked by a rugged scruff.

Bucky lowers, prone atop the mattress, threading your legs over his broad shoulders. Metal graces the swell of your hip, holding steadfastly as his other hand caresses your thigh.

With a broad stroke of his tongue, he raked hot embers over your core, hands steadying you, eager to please without an ounce of hesitation.

The unexpected surge of pleasure washed over you in an instant, stomach coiled into a knot of tension, mouth slack to make room for a moan. One hand flew to his crown, carding through brunette waves, urging him closer.

“Bucky,” A blissful whine flutters from your lips, goosebumps traveling over your body. He’s too good at pleasing you, and if you let him, he would’ve stayed buried between your thighs for an eternity. “Feels so good.”

A ripple of satisfaction blisters through him, coupled with his own want, but he’s able to put it aside, content to focus on you. He presses a string of kisses to your cunt before alternating with flat strokes of his tongue.

Lurching forward, your hips jolted, urging yourself onto his mouth with a twinge of desperation. His tongue continued to greedily lap at your slit, briefly teasing your entrance.

The tip of his nose brushes along your petals, tongue splitting deeper still, until he vigorously laps at your core. Your taste permeates his mouth, a bittersweet ambrosia that draws him into some wanton haze.

Thighs twitch, tense on either side of his head, not that he minds. Bucky is exceedingly tender with you, savoring your body, vibranium hand soothingly rubbing along your hip.

He can’t get enough, akin to a man drinking greedily from a desert oasis, chin steeped in your arousal. The shadow of his beard scratched against your supple flesh, leaving behind a prickling burn in its wake.

That taut heat within your stomach had been wound so tight, like a coil threatening to snap in two. His mouth was voracious, lapping and kissing wherever he pleased, pinning your hips down whenever you squirmed.

Fingertips perused through his tresses, gripping snugly near the base of his skull, back arched from the mattress. “B—Bucky, please!” A delighted moan rippled through your diaphragm, sending pleasant shivers through his spine.

A tremor gripped your legs, little spasms of delight making their way throughout your body. A sharp groan blossoms throughout his sternum as you incessantly tug upon his dark locks, urging him closer.

Bucky turns, mouth sealing a hot kiss to the inside of your thigh, metal palm kneading into your hip, drawing circles near your pelvis. Through a shadowed stare, he watches your face as it contorts with bliss.

His mouth hotly returns to your cunt, tongue stroking over your core, splitting past your folds. Oozing heat, he trails his lips toward your clit, pressing a lingering kiss over the sensitive clutch of nerves.

As soon as he pursed his lips around your clit, you nearly exploded, thoughts completely derailed, scattered into a blissful abyss. Your body reacted with shivers and tremors, hand gripping at the nape of his neck with a reckless abandon.

Hips surge forward, jolting into the greedy heat of his mouth, and he happily treats you to incessant barrages of his tongue. Shockwaves of pleasure strike at your belly with each stroke.

Absentmindedly, your hand darts to clasp over his vibranium one, chest tight with a flurry of excitement. The gesture is enough to make him shudder, and he continues, ministrations wrought with vigor.

Slurred cries of ecstasy slip past your lips, back arched, keening into any sliver of friction he offers. Your body was wound into knots, and you felt yourself being pushed towards the precipice of your release.

As his lips rolled over your clit again, your knees buckled, ecstasy mounting, electrifying your very veins. He did not cease, tongue stoking the fire, content to lap at your core, the sweetest agony of all.

“Close,” You huff, doing little to mask your cacophony of pleasure, moaning his name as if it’s all you know. Bucky indulges you without any hesitation, mouth pursing around your clit. “T—There, right there.”

A low groan stirred within his chest, reverberating within his throat as he went about teasing your clit, suckling on the bundle of nerves. A spasm passed through you, mouth slack, desperate moans leaving you in droves.

He doesn’t stop nor change pace, metal thumb stroking beside your wrist, the other hand clutching at your haunch. Bucky drags you close, flush, mouth buried against your cunt with such rapture.

Bucky gingerly suckled on your clit, feeling your fingers tighten within his brunette locks, gripping him tight. He wanted you to have your release, built upon this pent-up feeling.

“Come on, sweetheart,” His voice emerges as a husky lull from between your legs, pulling a whimper from your diaphragm. “I’ve got you.” He soothes, tone wrought with a warming tenderness.

He could feel your encroaching release, feel the tension in your grasp, the way you let your hips continue to lurch forward. Another cry of his name falls from your mouth, affectionate.

Without relenting, Bucky continued to suck at your clit, letting it intermingle with hot laps of his tongue, dutiful and fervent between your legs.

That heated coil within your stomach began to unfurl, bringing an onslaught of arousal with it as you bucked into his mouth. Pleasure washed over you in feverish ripples.

At last, your peak consumed you in a white-hot oblivion, and you very nearly saw the stars themselves. Another drawn-out moan crescendoed from your lips, visage contorted into sheer bliss, hand loosing from his hair.

Bucky slowed, lavishing kisses to your cunt as you shivered, body awash with a burning ecstasy. Spots still floated behind your eyes, heart hammering within your chest, blissed-out.

Withdrawing, he pressed a string of kisses over your inner thighs, which still twitched from the aftershocks of your orgasm. Planting another kiss to the crook of your knee, he sat back, chin glistening with your slick.

Left to recuperate, you were hot, as if you were bitten by a fever. Smitten, you searched for your panties, rubbing at the back of your neck. “That was amazing.” You sighed, as if it were the first time all over again.

Dragging his tongue over his bottom lip, Bucky ran a hand over his chin, a charming smile molding to his features. “I’d be worried if it was anything but.” He remarks, a hint of confident charm creeping in.

Before the ice, before the fall, Bucky was renowned for having a suave, gallant demeanor. He had it still, relearning what it all meant, and he enjoyed making you flustered.

“You’re getting ahead of yourself, Barnes.” You mumble, lashes fluttering as he wordlessly slips your panties back on, letting you tug them the rest of the way.

Daybreak slips through the windows, an ember-orange that slivers over your shared bed, painting him in some euphoric glow.

Bucky slinks forward again, wedged between your legs, vibranium hand firm atop the pillow. “Am I?” His smile warms your insides, and he exhales when your fingers find his face, cradling his jaw within your hands.

Hushed, he bends to kiss you, a gentle action threaded with heat. The kiss is clean, passionate — he handles you with care, and you make sure to do the same; it’s what he deserves.

“A little bit,” Mesmerized, you reciprocate his kiss, clinging to him like an anchor, foreheads dipping to brush against one another. When dawn strikes you both, your nose wrinkles. “Good morning, Bucky.”

“Morning.” He murmurs, lips stilling as he plants a kiss over your jaw. He gazes at you with ardor, and he knows that with every sunrise, he loves you just a little more.

#mcu #marvel #thunderbolts #thunderbolts x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky x reader #marvel x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes smut #bucky thunderbolts #marvel smut #marvel fanfic #sebastian stan #sebastian stan x reader #james buchanan barnes

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nightingale-prompts · 10 months ago

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The Nightingale Family-DC x DP prompt

(Shameless Addams family inspired prompt)

News travels fast in Gotham, especially in affluent circles. A new family has arrived in the city, old money at that. They had taken up residents in the old mansion overlooking the Historic Gotham Graveyard.

The Nightingales had a way of letting their presence be known. They were rarely seen in public. The eldest Jasmine Nightingale however had made waves working at the Gotham Asylum as a psychologist. She was often escorted by her younger brother Dan Nightingale. The public really started talking when Jazz was seen talking with Harley Quinn.

There were two children that lived in the Nightingale manor. They were elusive to say the least as the family didn't attend the parties of Gotham.

It wasn't until Damian Wayne got an invite from his classmate Danielle to visit their manor that someone saw the lives of Nightingales. This invite had been received after Damian carefully befriended the youngest Nightingale to investigate their connections.

That's how the Waynes ended up at a dinner party.

The manor was bleak to say the least and that's saying something in Gotham. The buildingbwas made from black stones and gargoyles perched on the roof. The garden was wilted and full of thrones that crept up the walls.

Bruce felt a sense of Deja vu as he approached the door and rang the bell. Tower bells rang out as the face of Jasmine Nightingale appeared. She was dressed in black dress pants and blazer. Her lips were painted to match. Her red hair had a striking white streak through it which had become a fashion trend since the family's arrival to girls wanting to seem mysterious.

"Good Evening. It is so nice to meet the infamous Waynes." She shook Bruce's hand. Behind her, the sounds of clanking metal was heard. "That is just my younger siblings playing. You don't you boys join while I talk to your father.

Despite only being a fresh-faced 20 year old Jazz carried herself like a confident adult. A certified genius in psychology who graduated early she also handled the inmates at the Asylum well enough that escapes are at an all time low.

"She's got it all" was what Harley said.

Bruce's admiration of the young lady was only matched by his suspicion. The house the Nightingales lived y had once belonged to the Al Ghouls. There was no telling yet if there was a connection.

He took a seat in the living room with Jazz tea already prepared. She poured two cups of black tea. Not black as in the type of tea but the color of the drink. Bruce cautiously sniffed the black liquid, it smelled earthy and acidic. Poison.

"Do you like it? I made it myself. I added the belladonna myself. It has a sweet taste so you don't need sugar. The kids have sweet tooths but we avoid added sugars. They love nightshade." She smiled drinking.

Bruce put the cup down. So they drink poison at a young age. They must be part of The League of Assassins. But why are they here?

"If you don't mind me asking. Why did you move to Gotham? Your parents-" Jazz put a hand up as she finished her cup.

"Mr. Wayne I'm sure you are no stranger to parents leaving before their time nor the concept that not all parents deserve children. Now I can't confirm or deny if that is the case for use but you can understand that it's a private matter." Jazz said sternly.

That wasn't an answer.

Upstairs Danny and Danielle played with Elle's new toys. Swords from Dan's trip to Portugal. He even sharpened them. They were currently tearing through the mansion.

Tim and Damian caught them while Danny had successfully pinned Elle to the ground.

"Dami! Help!" Elle yelled catching Danny off guard as Damian tackled Danny to the ground.

"Alright, alright. You can go next." Danny rolling Damian off him and passing him the sword. "Im taking a break."

Danny loved playing with his little sister but baby games are tiring.

"They let you play with swords," Tim exclaimed. This wasn't something he expected, sure it was normal for Damian but Damian is weird and was raised by assassins. Damian didn't do it for fun, it was training.

Damian and Danielle ran off while fencing.

"You must be one of the Waynes. Elle has been excited to have your brother over." Danny said politely if not a bit dismissive.

"Eh, yeah. Your sister said we should join you." Tim said a bit awkward. " You have another brother right?"

"Oh, yeah. He travels alot but he's relaxing right now. He's probably swimming." Danny shrugged.

Tim had heard of Danny. They went to the same school but Danny was part of a program that allowed him to come to school when he felt like it. The program is for young engineers who want to work for Wayne Industries. He mostly worked on small experimental projects. So far Danny's superconductor tech was revolutionary but impossible to replicate. Danny somehow managed to make a more effective coolant than anything they had created in the lab.

"You have a pool?" Tim knew that the mansion didn't have a pool.

"Of water? No." Danny shrugged but gave no further answer.

"I see, so what do you do?" Tim tried to sound normal like he was talking to his friends and not someone he was trying to probe.

"Anything, everything. I was going to recalibrate my telescope but I have a laser to test." Danny walked off expecting Tim to follow.

Testing was just cut a bunch of things in half. Tim got some great info on making an explosive ice canister and foam bombs. Tim made sure to get his number to hire him to make some gear for him.

The Nightingale kids were absolutely lawless. They destroyed everything in their path.

Elle had dragged Damian to her room to show off her toys. She used to travel with Dan until she started school. She picked up a bunch of items. Cult artifacts, shrunken heads, voodoo dolls, cursed puppets, knives, swords, and the homemade taxidermy Elle made from roadkill. She also had a pet dodo bird named Ernesto who had a bed next to her bed. Ernesto took a liking to Damian and sat on his head. The way he shows his affection

Soon enough Dan came upstairs to check on Elle and Danny.

"You kids, need to get ready for dinner. Sharpen your nails and teeth." He said before going back to the kitchen.

"What does that mean?" Damian asked.

"You don't sharpen your nails. Well good luck at dinner." Elle said bemused.

Dinner was...horrifying. Watching the family chat happily as they ripped apart the moving food as it came to life. Damian was actually excited as he skewered the cheese and broccoli casserole that screamed at him.

"Father, why can't we do this at our home?" He asked.

#dc x dp #Dan was swimming in the Lazarus pit in the basement #dpxdc #dc x dp prompt #dp x dc prompt #danny fenton #danny phantom #batman #tim drake #damian wayne #bruce wayne #dark danny

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pyronovas · 5 months ago

Text

𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐃 | Harry Castillo x reader

summary | Harry's pulling you along for another event and, as expected, he needs you to keep him entertained. Alternatively, cockwarming, cum feeding, and creampies!

author's note | another one? yes. @gracieheartspedro said some shit that had me pausing and now we're here. i live in my docs lately, i'm sorry.

content warning | 18+ MDNI — sugar baby!reader, fancy events, harry is a damn fiend, cockwarming, cum feeding, public sex, exhibitionism, unprotected piv, bathroom sex, creampies

word count — 2.5k

You’ve never had an arrangement quite like what you had with Harry.

Nice men were few and far between when it came to the business. They were never pure of heart, always masked with cruel intention or wants, never acting out of genuine and authentic kindness.

Harry Castillo had changed that for you.

You’ve only been seeing him for three months, but the whirlwind it has swept you up into was nothing like you’ve ever experienced. You two were practically attached at the hip, rarely time to spend in your own apartment because you were always with him.

It only helped that you were being paid well, but the excitement and enjoyment you experienced with him was real. It couldn't be bought.

He was special—more than you could put into words.

He ordered the outfit for the night, a dress appropriate for the event he was intending to show you off at, sent his driver an hour before you were designated to be there, pulling around the back entrance to his apartment building as you took the staff elevator up to his penthouse.

Harry greets you with a smile, a kiss, a very quick glance over your outfit.

An examination, praying you passed his mental checklist.

You always did, smiling softly as he leaned in for another kiss, his hand tipping your chin up to meet his lips—one peck, two, both of you going back for more and more, until he’s forcing himself to pull away.

“What’s on the agenda tonight?” you ask curiously, clutch in your hands as you held it at your waist, watching as he stuffed his phone into his suit pocket before fastening the button on his jacket.

“Pretty boring, lots of guest speakers,” all they ever did was talk at the events he’s invited you to—you knew why he brought you along, not because you served as an accessory or a prize to show off, but because you kept him entertained, even without trying.

And when Harry gets restless, he’s unpredictable.

The first time it happened you were listening to the CEO of some company you’ve never heard of, his fingers wandering under the fabric of your dress from where you’re squeezed in beside him, the tablecloth hiding his movement as he pats your thigh gently.

You spread, obediently, watching him swallow at the feeling of your slick on his fingers—hot, wet, welcoming the stretch of him into your cunt like you had no other purpose then to keep him busy, your fingers encircling his wrist to keep yourself still, his eyes never parting from the front of the room, the rest of your table oblivious to his antics as they seemed almost hypnotized.

When you came, it was quick, a gasp you covered up with your silverware dropping to the floor.

Harry has that annoying, handsome smirk on his face the entire night.

Oftentimes, he just likes to watch you squirm.

Touches, so light it was like you imagined it.

He knows how hard it is for you to keep your composure around him like that.

It’s a challenge and he enjoys watching you lose.

–

The night starts as expected—handshakes and polite hugs, air kisses and curt nods.

Small talk for a half hour, a drink, and a small dinner that Harry barely touches.

You had a table in the corner of the room at his request.

Harry’s hand rests on your thigh, fingers tracing absent patterns along the fabric of your dress.

The brush of his skin is subtle, but igniting.

You fight back the yawn that crawls up your throat, his eyes catching the movement as you quickly try to stifle it, offering a soft giggle in return to his knowing smirk.

“Bored already?” he inquires, a squeeze to your thigh as his hand slips up higher.

You give him a knowing look, head tilted slightly as the corner of his mouth curls up higher.

Mischievous, that was the only word that came to mind.

“I’ve got an idea,” Harry begins, words that make the pit in your stomach swirl with anticipation.

Your pulse quickens with his words but this isn’t new.

Harry loves to push boundaries, and you’re more than willing to indulge him. It was your job, after all.

A round of polite applause breaks your gaze as the speaker concludes. The next presenter approaches the podium, but your focus is entirely on the way Harry's fingertips toy with the hem of your dress, his head turning to lean toward you as he speaks.

“If you’re bored, I can keep you busy,” he suggests slyly, eyes flicking toward the floor and you already know, no need for him to elaborate.

You slip from your chair quietly, the thick tablecloth providing cover as Harry surveys the room, careful to inspect any watchful eyes, luckily everyone was distracted. He pushes the chair in quietly, removing any trace that you were around, his legs widening to accommodate you as you settle on your knees below, mouth already watering at the opportunity presented to you.

You were lucky the patrons at your table were running late, his throat clearing as you pulled at his zipper, catching sight of the bare skin underneath. He hadn’t even bothered wearing underwear and the touch to your chin, a gentle squeeze to your cheeks assures you that it was entirely for you, that he’d had this planned the entire night.

His arousal is evident too, the thick press of him straining against the inside of his slacks.

You free him with ease, admiring the warmth of his skin.

His smell, heady and sweet, a mix of his expensive cologne and him, intoxicating.

His hand move with yours, under the table as both of your hands work over his cock, your tongue swirling gently around the tip as he jerks himself, slow and quiet, his unoccupied hand returning to your jaw again, guiding his cock down and into your mouth as he squeezed until your lips parted, a airy breathe pushing through your nose as the soft, velvety skin touches your tongue.

The sounds of the event carried on above, oblivious to the atrocity of sin being committed under the table, waiting until you had taken him fully into your mouth before his hands curled around the back of your head, gentle guidance but never forceful.

And you’re so eager to please, explorative licks of your tongue down his shaft and up before you’re bobbing your head in a steady rhythm that has his hand flexing to keep his need to take the lead at bay.

“Slow, slow,” he murmurs softly, lifting the cloth just enough that he can see you, shifting his chair slightly to move closer, regretting his actions almost immediately as your eyes turned up, wide and attentive, lips stretched around him, “just keep—keep it there,”

His cock, in your mouth, a solid weight against your tongue.

At this point, you were merely a placeholder for his pleasure.

You hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, your tongue tracing the sensitive ridge along his length, that saltiness of him. His thigh tenses, fabric shifting as your fingers press against the floor between your legs, his hands suddenly shift up above the table and you hear a voice, unfamiliar. A quiet exhale escapes him, almost inaudible, but you hear it—and it urges you on.

He carries the conversation effortlessly, like his cock was trying to bury into your throat just below the table, feeling him twitch against your tongue.

Your jaw starts to ache as he talks, his voice smooth and collected, like he’s not getting his cock sucked under the table. It’s almost like you’re not even there, just an accessory to his pleasure, a vessel for him to fuck and use however he pleased.

Your fingernails dig into the fabric of your dress as you adjust, chest heaving slightly with the weight of his cock in your mouth, letting him inch deeper and deeper until you have nothing left to give. You resist the urge to gag as the thick head of his cock presses against your throat, eyes fluttering shut.

Harry seems to sense your discomfort, easing you with a touch that could be mistaken for an itch from an outsider’s perspective as his hand presses against your throat, the heel of his palm resting underneath your chin as he urges you up, allowing you a moment to relax but not stray to far, his thumb drifting over your cheek.

“Yeah, yeah—I’ll give you a call,” his voice strained, undetectable to anyone but you.

They carry on conversation idly, resisting the urge to moan as his fingers curl around the back of your head and tighten, forcing you down again, missing the warmth of your mouth even down to the base.

“....of course,” he says, almost breathless. “I’m—I’m looking forward to talking.”

Then, a shuffle.

Chairs moving.

Your mouth is still full of him when the person leaves and there is an exhale of relief, also of need.

“No messes,” he warns gently, peeking at you from above, finally getting a sight of how wrecked he looked—of course, to most, he just seemed a little irritated, maybe annoyed.

But, to you, it meant he was holding back.

If it wasn’t so indecent, he would take you over the table in front of everyone.

You pull away slowly, the head of his cock catching against your bottom lip as you nod, letting Harry guide your mouth around and down his cock in tandem with the waves of applause, subtle grunts that were only for you to hear, his hand wrapped tight around his shaft as he kept you in place through the crescendo of his orgasm, his body tensing as he fills your mouth.

It was hot and sudden, his hips jerking forward until you can’t take anymore, pulling back to breath and swallow, satisfied with how slick and wet you have left his cock from holding him in your mouth.

He watches you swallow, watches the way his cum fills your cheeks and overwhelms you for a slight moment, eager to have a taste of him after being so patient, but the best part about him watching you as that you can see him—it was small, fleeting moment as he tries to keep his composure but you can see it.

It’s why you started this arrangement with him—the thrill of knowing that underneath all that power was a man who would come undone just for you, only for you.

He tucks himself back into his pants without missing a beat, petting your mused hair down gently until you were clear to move, hearing him clear his throat as you shifted and stood, looking as if you had just returned from the restroom with the way your shift your dress and approach him at his side, turning to look at you with a smile as his hand slides over the curve of your ass and up to the small of your back, guiding you into your seat.

You can feel him watching you through the dim lighting, eyes locked on the speaker at the front of the room, both of you waiting eagerly for this whole thing to wrap up, feeling smug as you wipe your lips with your thumb and feel his hand tighten where it is, again, resting on your thigh, slipping the pad of your finger into your mouth as you glance over, savoring another taste of him.

“Good girl,” he murmurs under his breath, barely a whisper as he leans forward, lips brushing your ear, “think we’ll survive the night?”

You giggle quietly to yourself, looking down at his hand that squeezed with an unending need for you, never enough, “I saw a private bathroom on the way in,” you tell him.

His tongue clicks in his mouth, debating if he could slip out unnoticed.

He’s willing to risk it.

“Let’s go,” he urges, “before I tear that dress off of you and fuck you over this table.”

You shrug at his words, indifferent to the idea, though his hand is tight against your back as you slip through the maze of tables toward the front of the building, both of you sliding into the private bathroom and breathing out a sigh of relief that it was unguarded and unoccupied.

His mouth is hot and relentless the moment the door clicks shut.

“I should make you wait,” he says against your skin, tugging your dress up as you hop up to settle against the bathroom counter, feeling his hand swipe away the neatly folded hand towels.

“I should put you on your knees again until I’m really satisfied,” his fingers skim upward, finding your core dripping with arousal and you gasp. He groans with the contact, feeling how wet you already are, “But, it seems like I need to take care of you—is that what you want?”

You nod, hand twisting around the back of his neck to pull him forward, his mouth pressing against your chest, face buried in your breasts as he quickly pulls your panties aside enough that he can slip his cock inside of you, already hard again and hungry.

You loved it this way—quick and desperate. It was Harry in his most raw form, eager to sink his cock into you in whatever way he could, his thrusts shaking the mirror that was digging into your skin, gasping as your hand wraps around his shoulders, pulling you tight to his chest as you lips press into his neck, moaning softly.

“Fuck,” he grunts, “you love this, don’t you?”

You nod eagerly, too worked up to care how fast your orgasm was creeping up on you, his hand working between your legs in time with his thrusts, mumbling, “ My filthy fuckin’ girl.”

His head dips, other hand gripping the edge of the counter next to your thigh as he pounds into you harder, faster. The sensation of his touch, his determination, and the way he’s watching himself sink into your tight heat over and over and over again, practically mesmerized.

It all tumbles over rather quickly, gasping into his open mouth as he pulls you to him, letting you ride through your high with soft, gentle praise, “There it is—give it to me, baby,” he begs, “feel how good that is?”

You nod weakly, hearing him growl into your neck as his second orgasm of the night creeped in, a hand tight at your hip as he held you close, coming inside of you with hard, sharp thrusts until he had nothing left to give.

And still, he was prepared to give you everything.

Anything.

#harry castillo #harry castillo x reader #harry castillo x you #harry castillo x y/n #the materialists #the materialists fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fic #harry castillo smut #harry castillo fic #my writing

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sunshinesfreckless · 4 months ago

Text

Every Girl Gets Her Wish: Part 2

Part 1. Part 3.

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Pairings: Hyunlix x Fem!Reader

Summary: After their first night together, she couldn’t stop desperately craving a second round with her boyfriend and his best friend. But while she tried to beg them to have their way with her again, they already had a plan for her.

Warnings: OKAY let‘s see….. Anal (Hyunlix), Double Penetration, Felix being a Pussy Eater again and yea…. everything sex related i fear…..

Enjoy 🙂‍↕️

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

She woke up nestled between two gorgeous men, her body warm and tangled in the sheets. For a moment, she lay still, her mind hazy—until the memories of last night crashed over her all at once. Heat flooded her cheeks, but she was too exhausted to process any of it. Her limbs felt heavy, her body deliciously sore.

The next time she stirred, the bed was empty. The warmth of their bodies had faded, leaving only the faint scent of them lingering on the sheets. With a quiet sigh, she pushed herself up, stretching despite the ache in her legs.

By the time she made it to the kitchen, dressed but still drained, her muscles protested every step. A slow burn, a deep ache—evidence of exactly what had happened.

Changbin was the only one there, He glanced up as she walked in, the corner of his lips twitching.

“Morning… Rough night?”

Her face burned instantly.

────୨ৎ────

As she walked down the street toward his workplace, the cool evening air did little to soothe the warmth simmering under her skin. She waved at the security guard with a soft smile.

“Good evening, Miss Y/N. Felix is in the dance practice room.”

She nodded in thanks and stepped into the elevator, carefully balancing the tray of drinks in her hands. The smooth hum of the lift did nothing to quiet her racing thoughts. The moment she stepped into the practice room, the lively energy of the group washed over her.

“Wow, look at you. Felix, your girlfriend is an angel,” Seungmin called out the second he spotted his favorite coffee shop logo on one of the cups.

“Please, someone help me before I drop everything,” she laughed, only now realizing just how exhausting it was to carry them all.

The boys immediately stopped what they were doing, reaching for the drinks without hesitation. Felix pressed a quick kiss to her cheek before taking his cup, the warmth of his lips lingering for a second longer than necessary.

“Felix, no way you made your girlfriend come all the way here just to bring us coffee,” Bang Chan teased. “That is very un-boyfriend-like behavior.”

“Yo, I just told her we were practicing. That was her own will,” Felix defended, his voice light with amusement.

But she wasn’t listening.

Her eyes had wandered—unbidden, instinctual—toward Hyunjin. He was standing slightly apart from the others, his body glistening with a light sheen of sweat, the tank top clinging to his frame like it had been made just for him. Muscles sculpted with an almost ridiculous perfection, every flex, every shift of his body an unintentional display of raw beauty.

He noticed her staring. And he looked right back.

A slow, knowing smirk played at the edges of his lips.

Heat bloomed in her cheeks, and she quickly shifted her gaze back to Felix—only to find him already watching her. His expression unreadable, but his eyes dark, knowing. The air in the room changed, something unsaid passing between the three of them.

Lee Know, sensing the shift, leaned in toward Bang Chan.

“Hyung,” he muttered, “maybe shut up for a second.”

And just like that, her face burned.

She sank into the sofa, crossing her legs tightly as she watched them. The boys had returned to their practice, sweat glistening on their skin, muscles flexing with every sharp movement. She tried—God, she tried—to ignore the way Hyunjin had just looked at her.

But the heat between her thighs made it impossible.

They spent too much time together, moving in sync both on and off the stage. Sometimes, they even seemed to speak in a language only they understood.

A treacherous thought crept into her mind. Had they fucked behind her back?

The idea made her thighs clench. The night hadn’t been that long ago, but with how comfortable they were around each other, how easily they touched, how effortlessly they existed in each other’s space… It could have happened.

She bit her lip, looking up just in time to see Felix and Hyunjin exchange a high-five. The sound of their palms meeting sent a shockwave through her body—her mind throwing her straight back into that night.

The way they had ruined her together.

A quiet whimper almost slipped from her lips, but she swallowed it down. Fuck, she was so worked up.

────୨ৎ────

Later that night, she tossed and turned in Felix’s bed, the sheets cool against her feverish skin. She squeezed her thighs together, but it did nothing—nothing to ease the ache, nothing to replace the way they had both felt inside her.

The sound of running water stopped, and a few moments later, Felix stepped into the room, towel slung low around his hips. His damp hair dripped onto his shoulders, droplets sliding down his sculpted chest. He barely made it two steps before noticing the way she was staring at him.

He smirked. “What are you thinking about, sweetheart?”

She pushed herself up on her elbows, her breath unsteady.

“I need you two to fuck me dumb again.”

Felix’s smirk faded. His eyes darkened, jaw ticking as he exhaled through his nose. A slow, knowing chuckle left his lips as he stalked toward her, the air between them thick with heat.

“Oh?” He tilted her chin up, thumb ghosting over her parted lips. “You miss the way he touched you?”

She nodded, barely able to breathe.

His thumb pressed against her lower lip, slipping inside just slightly. “Then I guess we’ll have to call him, won’t we?”

She sucked on his thumb, her lips warm and soft around it, tongue swirling just enough to make it obscene. She knew exactly what she was doing—how much Felix liked watching her like this, pliant and eager, her big eyes looking up at him like she’d do anything for him.

But instead of rewarding her, he sighed. A slow, deliberate sound.

Then, he pulled his thumb from her mouth with a wet pop and wiped the glistening sheen of spit against her flushed cheek.

“No.”

Her stomach dropped.

He tilted her chin up between his fingers, his voice calm, almost pitying. “I spoil you too much, sweetheart.”

She swallowed hard.

“You’re just a little spoiled girl, always begging to be stuffed full without even earning it.”

Her thighs clenched together instinctively, the sharp rejection making the heat between them ache even more.

“Felix… please—”

“No.” He cut her off, voice firm. “Why would you deserve it?”

She stared up at him, her nails digging into the sheets. He loved this. Loved making her squirm, watching her melt into desperation.

She shifted forward on the bed, crawling toward him on her knees. Her nightgown was barely anything, thin and delicate, the lace tracing over her curves. It had ridden up, exposing her bare thighs, and her nipples pressed stiff against the fabric, aching for attention.

Felix ignored it.

The towel slipped from his waist as he reached for his boxers, leaving him completely bare for a few seconds. And god, fuck, she couldn’t look away.

His body was carved perfection—toned, sweat-kissed from the heat of the shower. And between his thighs, his cock hung heavy, thick, and teasingly out of reach.

She swallowed hard, her mouth going dry.

She barely realized she had leaned forward, staring shamelessly, her breath coming faster. The ache between her legs was unbearable now, her body desperate, skin too hot, too sensitive.

“Lixie, please,” she whimpered, shifting even closer. “I’ll be so good…”

Felix finally pulled his boxers on, raising an eyebrow as he climbed onto the bed.

“Oh?” He tilted his head, voice laced with amusement. “And why should I believe that?”

“Because I will do anything,” she whispered. “Anything you want. I just—” She exhaled shakily. “I just need you. Please.”

For a second, she thought she had won—thought he’d finally give in.

Then, he smirked.

And laid back against the pillows, stretching out comfortably, completely unbothered by the way she was practically begging at this point.

“Maybe,” he mused, “you should ask Hyunjin what he thinks about it.”

Her breath hitched.

Her whole body stiffened. “W-what?”

Felix smirked at the stunned expression on her face. “You heard me.”

Then, he reached over to turn off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

She sat there, still kneeling on the bed, heat burning under her skin, her heart pounding against her ribs.

How the fuck was she supposed to ask Hyunjin?

Should she… seduce him?

The thought sent a fresh wave of arousal through her, making her thighs squeeze together instinctively.

Would he let her? Would he make her work for it the way Felix did? Or would he take control the second she so much as looked at him the wrong way?

She swallowed, fingers curling into the sheets.

She might have been spoiled.

But she wasn’t patient.

And if Felix wasn’t going to give her what she wanted�� she would find another way to get it.

────୨ৎ────

The dorm was quiet, the kind of stillness that only settled deep into the night. Most of the members were asleep, and Felix… well, he was still ignoring her on the second night.

She couldn’t sleep.

She needed to do something.

So she slid out of bed, slipping one of Felix’s oversized shirts over her body, barely bothering with shorts underneath. It was just the dorm, after all. And if she happened to run into Hyunjin?

Maybe that wasn’t a bad thing.

She padded into the kitchen, her bare feet light against the cool floor. The fridge hummed softly as she opened it, grabbing a bottle of water—only to freeze when she heard a voice behind her.

“Can’t sleep?”

Her pulse jumped.

She turned, the dim kitchen light casting long shadows over the tall figure standing in the doorway. Hyunjin. His hair was damp, strands curling slightly at the ends, and he was shirtless, just a loose pair of sweatpants hanging low on his hips.

Oh.

She licked her lips, gripping the cold bottle tighter. “Yeah.” Her voice came out softer than she intended. “You?”

Hyunjin shrugged, stepping inside. “I was sketching. Needed a break.”

She swallowed, watching as he moved closer.

He smelled clean—like body wash and something distinctly him, warm and slightly musky. And when he leaned against the counter beside her, his arm nearly brushing hers, the heat between them became impossible to ignore.

Perfect.

She turned toward him slightly, shifting her weight just enough for the oversized shirt to slip down her shoulder, exposing a hint of smooth skin.

“You work too hard,” she murmured, taking a slow sip of water. “You should let yourself relax more.”

Hyunjin exhaled a quiet laugh. “And how do you suggest I do that?”

She tilted her head, her fingers tracing idly over the condensation on the bottle.

“I could help,” she said, letting the words linger between them.

Hyunjin’s gaze flickered, his jaw tightening just slightly.

Oh, she had his attention now.

It hit her all at once.

The way Hyunjin leaned back against the counter, eyes dark with amusement, lips curled in that lazy, knowing smirk. The way he didn’t look surprised at all by how she was acting—by how desperate she was, shifting on her feet, heat crawling under her skin.

Felix had planned this.

They were both in on it.

She really was too spoiled.

Hyunjin exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head as if he pitied her. “Tsk. You just don’t learn, do you?”

She swallowed hard, her thighs pressing together. “I—”

“Shh.”

Before she could answer, his hand dropped down to the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging them lower just enough to tease her with the sharp lines of his hips.

Her breath hitched.

Then, he palmed himself lazily over the fabric, fingers wrapping around his length, pressing just enough to make the shape of it obvious. “Is this what you want?”

A soft, broken whimper slipped from her lips before she could stop it.

She was too worked up, too far gone, too fucking needy to play it cool. Her entire body felt like it was pulsing, heat radiating from her core, making her skin feel sensitive, restless, desperate.

Hyunjin chuckled, slow and low.

“Ask for it nicely, sweetheart,” he murmured. His fingers tightened around himself just slightly, stroking once, slow and deliberate, enough to make himself twitch under the fabric.

She bit her lip so hard it nearly hurt.

She wanted to drop to her knees right then and there, wanted to press her lips to the growing outline in his sweats, wanted to show him exactly how much she needed this.

Her mouth opened—ready to beg, ready to say anything.

And then—

Hyunjin sighed dramatically, letting go of himself, his hand dropping back to his side.

“Ugh, I’m so tired.” He stretched his arms over his head, yawning like he hadn’t just had her on the verge of losing her mind. “Goodnight.”

Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and walked off, disappearing down the hallway toward his room.

She stood there, frozen in place, her body screaming in frustration.

Her fists clenched at her sides. “Fuck you,” she muttered under her breath.

From down the hall, she heard him chuckle. “You wish.”

She cursed again, then turned toward Felix’s room, where she knew he was still awake, probably smirking to himself just like Hyunjin had been.

They were going to fucking kill her.

────୨ৎ────

Her body wasn’t letting it go.

Even after she’d stormed back to Felix’s room, dropping onto his bed in a frustrated mess, she still felt hot, still felt restless. It was unbearable—the way her skin tingled, the way every little movement made her painfully aware of how empty she was. Felix wasn‘t in the Bed… probably on the toilet…..

Hyunjin’s teasing had pushed her too far.

Felix’s rejection had left her wound up too tight.

She buried her face into the pillow, letting out a muffled whine. They can’t do this to me.

They had left her like this—knowing how desperate she was, knowing she wouldn’t be able to sleep, knowing exactly what she would end up doing.

Maybe that was part of their plan, too.

She turned on her Back.

Her thighs pressed together instinctively, hips shifting, searching for relief. The feeling wasn’t enough. Not even close.

Her fingers trailed lower, slipping beneath the waistband of her panties.

A sharp breath left her at the first touch—her own warmth, her own slick betraying just how much she needed it. She let her legs fall open, breath hitching as she stroked slow, teasing herself the way they should have been doing.

Her mind spiraled, flashing back to Hyunjin’s fingers wrapped around himself, the way he had stroked so slowly, the lazy amusement in his voice as he told her to ask nicely.

Felix’s voice from earlier echoed in her head. Maybe you should ask Hyunjin what he thinks of it.

Her stomach clenched.

What would Hyunjin do if he saw her like this—legs spread, back arching against the sheets, her fingers drenched with her own need? Would he call her pathetic? Tell her she was proving their point?

She swallowed hard, whimpering softly as she sped up, fingers circling exactly where she needed them most.

Her body tightened, the pleasure building higher, hotter—almost there, almost—

The door creaked open.

She froze.

Her breath caught in her throat, heart slamming against her ribs. She barely had time to yank the blanket over herself before she heard it—

A quiet, amused hum.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Felix.

Her stomach dropped.

Her head snapped up to see him standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t even trying to hide the smirk on his lips, the glint in his eyes as he took in the scene before him.

“I leave you alone for five minutes and you can’t even behave?”

She swallowed hard, gripping the sheets tighter. “I—I wasn’t—”

He raised a brow. “Don’t lie to me, baby.”

Her body was still thrumming with need, still aching, still so close. The blanket was doing nothing to hide the way her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, or the way her thighs had yet to close.

Felix tilted his head, stepping inside.

“Looks like Hyunjin was right,” he murmured. “You really don’t deserve it yet.”

Her entire body flushed with heat. “Felix—”

“Mm-mm.” He reached down, taking the edge of the blanket between his fingers. “You want to touch yourself like a needy little thing? Go ahead.”

Then, with one sharp tug, he pulled the blanket away.

Her breath hitched—completely exposed under his gaze, her hand still buried between her thighs, her skin burning with humiliation and want.

Felix just grinned.

────୨ৎ────

The next few days were hell.

For her. For the boys. For everyone.

Felix and Hyunjin had left her high and dry, and her frustration was hitting a breaking point.

She was moody, snappy, and completely unbearable.

Changbin, poor, unsuspecting Changbin, had barely asked where the salt was when she threw the entire pack at him without a word.

Lee Know, who only wanted the remote, had barely touched her shoulder when she turned to him with glassy eyes, voice cracking, “I don’t know where it is!” before she burst into tears.

The whole dorm was walking on eggshells.

And they—Felix and Hyunjin—were enjoying every second of it.

They weren’t even subtle about it.

Felix would pass by her in the kitchen, hand brushing the small of her back, lips ghosting over her temple, whispering, “Such a moody little thing, aren’t you?” before walking away like it was nothing.

Hyunjin would sit too close to her on the couch, spreading his legs wide, body heat seeping into her skin, looking at her with that knowing smirk that made her want to either strangle him or ride him right then and there.

She couldn’t take it.

She had half a mind to beg, to drop her pride and beg—but just when she was about to give up, something changed.

────୨ৎ────

She woke up in the middle of the night to the feeling of soft lips pressing along the side of her neck.

Warm. Slow. Teasing.

A breathy sigh left her lips before she even opened her eyes, her body already reacting before her mind caught up.

“Lixie?” she murmured, voice still heavy with sleep.

A low hum vibrated against her skin, but the voice that answered wasn’t Felix’s.

“Mmm… it’s Jinnie, baby.”

Her eyes fluttered open.

The room was dark, the only light coming from the soft glow under the door.

She turned her head, blinking the sleep away, only to find Hyunjin lying beside her, his face inches from hers, his hands already palming at her breasts through the thin lace of her nightgown.

Her breath caught. “What are you—”

Hyunjin hushed her with a kiss, soft and lingering.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered against her lips. “Felix is in the bathroom.”

She should’ve pushed him away. She should’ve questioned why Felix wasn’t here. But the second he squeezed her breast, rolling her nipple between his fingers, a whimper escaped her lips instead.

“We didn’t punish you because you were a bad girl,” he murmured, lips trailing along her jaw. “We just wanted to hear it from you first. We wanted you to ask for it.”

She shivered beneath him, hips shifting, pressing against nothing. “I—I did—”

“Not properly.” His hand slipped lower, fingers teasing along the edge of her nightgown. “Felix had to prep himself for a second night, you know.”

Her stomach clenched at the words.

Felix. Prepping himself.

Her breath hitched. She looked up at Hyunjin. “Remember how he promised me I could fuck his ass too?”

Hyunjin’s lips curled. “Mm,” he hummed, kissing her again, swallowing the soft moan that left her lips. “And he keeps his promises.”

“Felix is in the bathroom.”

The words echoed in her head, but she barely registered them.

Not when Hyunjin’s lips were already moving down her neck.

Not when his hands were already teasing at the hem of her nightgown.

“You missed us that much, huh?” His voice was all silk and sin, low against her skin. “You’ve been such a brat these past few days… all moody, snapping at the boys…”

His fingers ghosted over her inner thigh, but never where she needed him.

She whimpered, hips shifting, trying to guide his touch lower.

Hyunjin only chuckled. “Look at you… so desperate.”

He dipped his head, lips skimming along her collarbone. “But we couldn’t just give in right away, baby. We had to be sure you wanted it again.”

His teeth scraped gently, just enough to make her squirm.

“And now?” He exhaled against her skin. “Now we’re sure.”

She gasped softly as his hand finally cupped her through her panties, rubbing slow, lazy circles that had her entire body tensing.

“Jinnie…” she whined.

“Shh.” His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, just barely teasing at her slick heat. “You’re soaking, sweetheart.”*

She shuddered. “Because you two left me like this for days.”

Hyunjin smirked, pressing his fingers against her just enough to make her ache. “Mmm… and whose fault is that?”

“Yours!”

“Wrong answer.”

He pulled his hand away completely.

“Jinnie—!”

“Shh,” he murmured again, fingers pressing against her lips instead. “You want Felix to hear you begging while he’s getting ready for me?”

Her stomach clenched at the thought, at the realization of what was happening just a few feet away.

Hyunjin smiled lazily, watching her expression shift. “Oh? You like that, don’t you?”

She swallowed, her whole body burning.

“You want to go in there and see?”

She hesitated—God, she wanted to—but before she could answer, he flipped her onto her stomach.

“Too bad,” he whispered against her ear, pinning her hips down. “You have to wait your turn, baby.”

────୨ৎ────

Her wrists were bound.

Not tightly—just enough to keep her in place, to remind her who was in control.

Hyunjin had made sure of that.

She lay on her back, arms above her head, chest rising and falling in frustration. Her lace nightgown had ridden up, her wet pussy dripping, and her thighs were already trembling—because Hyunjin hadn’t stopped touching her, hadn’t stopped teasing her.

But every time she whimpered, every time she begged, he just smirked.

“You wanna be a good girl now, huh?” His voice was a slow drawl as he trailed his fingers along her inner thighs, stopping just before she got what she needed.

She bucked her hips, desperate for anything. “Jinnie, please—”

“Shh.” He leaned down, lips brushing against her ear. “You don’t get to make demands. Not after the way you’ve been acting.”

She wanted to snap at him, tell him how unfair this was, but her words were cut off by the sound of the door opening.

Felix had finally come back.

And the moment he stepped into the dimly lit room, his breath hitched at the sight in front of him.

“Well, well…” Felix’s voice was hoarse, still flushed from the time he’d spent prepping. “She’s already a mess.”

Hyunjin chuckled, shifting so he was straddling her waist, keeping her completely pinned beneath him. “She’s been a mess, Lix.” His fingers ghosted over her sensitive heat, making her jolt. “But she hasn’t earned anything yet.”

Felix tilted his head, his gaze dark, as he drank her in—her flushed skin, her parted lips, her arms restrained above her head.

“Is that so?”

Hyunjin nodded. “She’s been a little brat these past few days. Taking out all her frustration on the boys, throwing tantrums…” His fingers teased at the edge of her soaked panties. “And she still thinks she deserves to be fucked.”

Felix hummed, stepping closer. “That doesn’t sound very fair, sweetheart.”

She whined, struggling against the binds. “I wouldn’t have been frustrated if you two didn’t leave me like this for days!”

Hyunjin tsked, shaking his head. “And now you’re making excuses…”

“Jinnie—!”

“No.”* He leaned down, kissing her slowly, deeply, making her toes curl before pulling away just as suddenly. “You wanna make up for it? You’re gonna have to watch first.”

Her eyes widened. “Wait, what?”

Felix finally climbed onto the bed beside them, running his fingers lightly along her bare thigh. “That’s right, baby. You don’t get to join in yet.”

Hyunjin pressed a chaste kiss to Felix’s lips before turning back to her, his smirk widening.

“You’re gonna watch us first. And we’ll see if you’ve really learned your lesson.”

She moaned in frustration, her entire body burning as the two boys in front of her exchanged another lingering kiss—Hyunjin’s hand already moving to Felix’s waist, pulling him closer.

She shivered.

She was so screwed.

She had never seen Felix like this before.

Her breath caught as he positioned himself on all fours right in front of her, his head nestled between her thighs—close enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath, but not close enough to give her anything.

“You like watching, sweetheart?” His voice was low, teasing, his dark eyes locked onto hers.

She squirmed, but her bindings didn’t let her move.

“Felix…” she whimpered.

He grinned—like he was relishing in her frustration. “Ah, but you don’t get to do anything yet.” His fingers grazed her thigh, making her body jolt. “You’re just gonna lay there and be our little audience for now.”

Behind him, Hyunjin’s hands smoothed over Felix’s waist, his fingers digging into his skin just slightly as he lined himself up.

“Relax for me, baby,” Hyunjin murmured, his tone softer, gentler—but his grip stayed firm. “You prepped well, yeah? I bet you’re gonna take me like a good boy.”

Felix shuddered, his fingers clutching at the sheets beneath him as he exhaled shakily. “Fuck, Jinnie…”

She watched, entranced, as Hyunjin pressed in slowly—his eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of Felix stretching around him for the first time.

“Shit…” Hyunjin let out a shaky groan, his fingers digging deeper into Felix’s hips. “You’re so fucking tight, Lix.”

Felix whined, his back arching, his breath coming out in shudders as he adjusted to the stretch.

And she—she was losing her mind.

Every little sound Felix made, every tiny movement, every time Hyunjin praised him—it was making her body burn with need.

“That’s my good boy,” Hyunjin murmured, pressing a soft kiss to Felix’s shoulder before rolling his hips deeper. “Taking me so fucking well…”

Felix moaned, his head dropping between her thighs, his breath coming out in hot, uneven gasps against her bare skin.

She could feel everything—his heavy breaths, the way his body tensed and trembled, how Hyunjin’s movements sent small shocks through him that transferred directly to her.

“F-Fuck…” Felix whispered, before suddenly lifting his head to look at her again. His lips were parted, his pupils blown with pleasure—and he was smirking.

“Poor baby,” Felix mocked, his voice breathless, but still full of teasing cruelty. “You just have to sit there and watch, huh? Bet you’re dying to be in my place.”

She whimpered, trying to close her legs, but Felix’s hands immediately pushed them apart again.

“Ah, ah,” he scolded playfully, his nails dragging along the inside of her thigh. “You don’t get to hide from me.”

Hyunjin’s pace picked up, his grip on Felix’s waist tightening as his voice came out in husky groans. “Look at you, baby… taking me so good“

Felix gasped, his fingers curling into the sheets as his whole body shuddered.

“Jinnie—fuck—”

She could barely breathe.

Hyunjin’s movements rocked Felix against her, every slight shift making his breath hitch against her skin, sending shocks straight to her core.

She wanted to move. She wanted to touch.

But she couldn’t do anything.

And Felix knew it.

His smirk deepened, his lips grazing her thigh as he watched her suffer.

“You gonna cry, baby?” His voice was mocking, but there was a deep hunger in his gaze. “You wanted this, didn’t you? To see what it’s like when you’re not the center of attention.”

Hyunjin let out a low chuckle, his fingers digging into Felix’s waist as he snapped his hips forward. “She looks so cute when she’s desperate, doesn’t she?”

Felix moaned, his nails scratching down the sheets as his body trembled from the impact.

And she—she was soaked, her body burning, her mind spiraling from the sight in front of her.

She couldn’t take it anymore.

“Please…” she whimpered, her voice shaking, pleading. “Please let me join…”

Felix tilted his head, pretending to think.

“Hmm…” His fingers ghosted up her thigh, but never touched her where she needed. “I don’t know, baby… you were pretty mean to us this week.”

Hyunjin groaned, snapping his hips deeper, making Felix’s whole body jolt. “Mmm, Lix… I think she’s learned her lesson.”

Felix’s eyes were dark, heated, as he looked at her.

“You think so?”

Hyunjin smirked. “Maybe we should still make her beg a little more…”

Felix chuckled, his breath hot against her skin.

“What do you think, sweetheart? You willing to beg for it?”

She was desperate. She’d never felt so frustrated, so needy—watching, feeling, hearing everything but not being allowed to have it.

“Please…” Her voice was breathless, her wrists straining against the binds as she tried to reach for Felix. “Please, I need it—”

Felix smirked, still breathless himself, his lips swollen from all the kissing, his golden skin flushed under Hyunjin’s hands.

“Mmm… What do you think, Jinnie?” His voice was mocking, but his body shivered under Hyunjin’s touch. “Should we give her something?”

Hyunjin, still thrusting deep into Felix, hummed thoughtfully before leaning forward and biting the back of his neck. “Mmm, I dunno…” he murmured against Felix’s sweaty skin. “You’re still so fucking tight, baby… I’m kinda distracted.”

Felix whimpered, his fingers clenching the sheets.

But then—Hyunjin’s eyes flickered to her.

“She is looking so pretty like this though,” he mused, his grip tightening on Felix’s hips as he snapped his own forward with more force. “Maybe we should let her feel something too… but only a little.”

Felix smirked again, shifting so his face was level with her aching, throbbing heat.

“Guess I could be nice to my poor, needy girl,” he murmured before lowering his mouth onto her.

She gasped, her whole body arching as Felix’s tongue slid through her wet folds, slow and deliberate, his breath hot against her.

“Ohh, look at you,” Hyunjin groaned, eyes flickering between them as he fucked into Felix harder. “Eating her out so sweetly while taking my cock so fucking good, Lix…”

Felix moaned against her, the vibrations sending shocks up her spine.

It was too much—the sight of Felix getting ruined, Hyunjin wrecking him, while she was finally getting something—finally getting a taste of the pleasure they’d been keeping from her.

But she was still tied up. Still helpless. Still at their mercy.

And Hyunjin was relentless.

“Fuck, baby, you’re gripping me so tight,” he growled, one hand sliding down to play with Felix’s sensitive nipples, tweaking and teasing, making Felix’s moans deepen against her core. “So fucking greedy—look at you—clenching around me like you wanna milk me dry.”

Felix whined, his body trembling, his tongue flicking harder against her just from the sheer pleasure of being fucked so good.

Her breath hitched. “Felix—fuck—”

She was so close, her body burning, her hands tugging uselessly at the restraints.

Hyunjin, noticing, chuckled breathlessly. “You wanna touch him that bad, sweetheart?” He leaned down, pressing kisses between Felix’s shoulder blades before whispering, “I think she’s been good enough to let her hands free… don’t you?”

Felix licked up her slit one last time before pulling away, his lips glistening, his voice husky.

“Mmm… I guess…”

He nodded, and Hyunjin untied her wrists.

Her hands flew forward immediately, grabbing onto Felix’s messy, sweat-damp hair, pulling him back into another kiss—his lips tasting like her, his moans spilling into her mouth as Hyunjin grabbed his hips and flipped him onto his back.

Felix gasped, his thighs spreading instinctively, his hair messy against the pillows as Hyunjin hovered over him again.

“Fuck, you look so good like this,” Hyunjin murmured, guiding himself back in, making Felix whine and arch up into the sensation. “So fucking addictive…”

Felix bit his lip, his eyes hazy, his body trembling under the weight of Hyunjin’s thrusts.

“Mmm, baby,” Hyunjin purred, fingers trailing down to toy with Felix’s nipples again, rolling them between his fingers. “So sensitive, huh? You love this, don’t you?”

Felix whimpered, his hips lifting in response.

And she—she was finally free, her hands shaking as she moved closer, pressing kisses along Felix’s jaw, her hands wandering, her body melting into his.

Felix smirked, even as his body shuddered from Hyunjin’s relentless pace.

“Mmm… you’ve been patient, sweetheart…”

Hyunjin grinned, leaning down to kiss Felix’s throat, his voice husky. “Alright, baby… time to give our girl some attention too…”

Hyunjin pulled out of Felix

“Fuck,” Hyunjin murmured, eyes flicking down to where Felix was still trembling slightly from the stretch. “You got a pretty hole, baby… looks even better stuffed full.”

Felix only smirked, still catching his breath, before grabbing her and pulling her in for a filthy, desperate kiss. His tongue pushed past her lips, hungry, messy, fingers curling into her hair as if he needed to claim her all over again.

Hyunjin’s large hands gripped her waist from behind, his hot, heavy length pressing against her ass, grinding slow and deliberate.

“You know how long I’ve been thinking about this tight little pussy?” Hyunjin muttered against her ear, rubbing his tip against her, teasing, barely pressing in. “Had me up all fucking night, baby.”

She whimpered—aching, desperate—but before she could say anything, Felix was already positioning himself underneath her, guiding her over him, his tip nudging against her entrance.

“I still can’t believe this tight pussy can take both of us,” Hyunjin groaned, kissing down her neck, his teeth scraping over her pulse point as Felix slowly pushed inside her. “She was made for it, huh?”

She moaned, trembling, feeling Felix finally sink into her, stretching her in the best way.

“Mmm, fuck,” Felix groaned, hips twitching up, hands gripping her thighs, keeping her pinned against him. “Missed this pussy… she’s so fucking tight, Jinnie.”

Hyunjin chuckled, his lips ghosting over her shoulder, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along her back.

“You think she’s tight now?” he murmured, lining himself up, his tip pressing in beside Felix’s cock, nudging into her at the same time. “Wait ‘til I stretch her open.”

She cried out, hands clawing at Felix’s chest, her body shaking as the familiar overwhelming fullness took over.

“Fuuuuck, there she is,” Hyunjin groaned, slowly pushing deeper, watching the way she struggled to take them both, her body clenching around them. “You feel that, baby? This is what happens when you get greedy.”

Felix gasped beneath her, his head tilting back, his lips parting. “Shit, she’s squeezing me so good…”

Hyunjin gritted his teeth, grabbing her hips as he pushed in deeper, finally bottoming out. “She can take it—she’s our good little slut, aren’t you, baby?”

She moaned brokenly, her body overwhelmed, completely at their mercy.

“Mmm, fuck—look at her, Jinnie,” Felix panted, cupping her face, his thumbs brushing over her flushed cheeks. “She loves it. Always so fucking desperate to be stuffed full.”

Hyunjin smirked, pulling back only to slam back in, drawing a choked, wrecked moan from her throat.

“Oh, she’s getting off on this,” he murmured, setting a deep, steady pace, making sure she felt every inch of them both. “Look at you, baby—look how easy you take it. This pussy was made to be filled.”

Felix groaned, his hands moving to her hips, gripping her so tightly it was almost bruising. “You’re fucking perfect,” he whispered against her lips, his thrusts matching Hyunjin’s, both of them dragging against every sensitive spot inside her. “Gonna make you come so fucking hard, sweetheart.”

She was already shaking, barely holding on, her mind foggy, overwhelmed, every movement sending white-hot pleasure surging through her body.

“Come for us, baby,” Felix breathed against her lips. “Be a good girl and soak our cocks.”

And she did.

Her whole body seized up, pleasure crashing through her so violently she could barely breathe. She screamed, her walls clenching down around them both, pulling them even deeper

Hyunjin groaned, his hands tightening on her hips, but he didn’t stop—not yet.

“I’m not done with you yet, baby,” he murmured, slowing down just enough to slip out of her. “Felix—switch with me.”

Felix’s half-lidded eyes flickered open, and he grinned.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

She barely had time to catch her breath before Hyunjin was repositioning Felix over her instead, guiding him between her legs. The thick head of Felix’s cock nudged into her slick heat again, stretching her open just as Hyunjin pressed inside Felix from behind, the blunt tip of his cock pushing past the tight ring of muscle.

Felix’s breath hitched, his whole body tensing before a broken moan escaped his lips. His head fell against her shoulder, soft blonde strands brushing against her flushed skin as his lips parted against her throat.

“F-Fuck…” he gasped, his fingers gripping her wrists, pinning them over her head. His whole body trembled, caught between the overwhelming heat of her beneath him and the thick, unrelenting stretch of Hyunjin behind him.

“Mmm, just like that, baby,” Hyunjin groaned, his large hands splayed over Felix’s hips as he thrust forward, sinking in inch by inch.

Felix let out the prettiest whimper, his body shuddering as Hyunjin bottomed out. His nails dug into Y/N’s skin, his hips jerking involuntarily as pleasure wracked through him.

Hyunjin chuckled darkly, rolling his hips experimentally. “You love being filled up just as much as she does, huh?” He slid a hand up Felix’s back, pressing between his shoulder blades, arching him forward so Y/N could feel every delicious inch of him inside her. “Look at you—already falling apart, and I’ve barely even fucked you yet.”

Felix could only let out a broken whine, his body writhing between them.

“So fucking greedy,” Hyunjin murmured, grabbing a fistful of Felix’s hair and tilting his head back, forcing him to meet Y/N’s gaze. “She sees it too. Sees how fucking pretty you look getting stretched out on my cock. Doesn’t she, baby?”

Y/N’s breath hitched, her eyes locked onto Felix’s flushed, desperate expression.

“Tell her,” Hyunjin demanded, pulling back just enough before slamming forward again, making Felix cry out. “Tell her how fucking good it feels to be stuffed full like this.”

“I-It feels… so good—fuck, Hyunjin—please don’t stop,” Felix sobbed, his thighs trembling as Hyunjin set a merciless pace, thrusting into him deep and slow, making sure Felix felt every inch.

“That’s my good boy,” Hyunjin praised, his grip tightening on Felix’s hips. “Taking it so well. Letting me stretch you open, fuck you like you were made for it.”

Felix whimpered, his body shaking, overwhelmed by the relentless pleasure.

Hyunjin smirked against his ear, his voice low and teasing. “I can feel you squeezing me, baby. You gonna come just from getting your pretty little ass fucked?”

Felix could barely hold himself up, his cock twitching inside his Girlfriend as he let out a desperate moan.

She watched them both, her heart racing, her body still tingling from her orgasm—and yet, she still wanted more.

Felix kissed her, deep and slow, moaning into her mouth as Hyunjin fucked into him, his thrusts pushing Felix even deeper into her.

“Ohhh, fuck—” Felix moaned, gripping her hips, rolling his hips against her, his thrusts syncing with Hyunjin’s.

Hyunjin smirked, reaching around to tweak one of Felix’s nipples, making him gasp and arch.

Hyunjin started kissing Felix’s shoulder, his pace increasing, his thrusts hitting deeper. “Your ass is fucking addictive, baby.”

She was panting, aching, watching them lose themselves in each other, and it was the hottest fucking thing she’d ever seen.

“Such a pretty boy, isn’t he, sweetheart?” Hyunjin murmured, looking at her, smirking when he saw her bitten lips, her dazed eyes, her raw need.

“Mmm,” Felix hummed, grinning lazily, kissing her soft and slow.

Y/N barely had time to catch her breath before pleasure slammed into her again, harder, deeper—so overwhelming that she could only moan, her body shuddering as another orgasm ripped through her. Her thighs trembled, her skin burning where Felix had gripped her, where Hyunjin’s rough hands had roamed. She could still feel the aftershocks pulsing between her legs when she let out a desperate whimper.

“Pull out,” she gasped, voice raw from moaning.

Felix stilled, blinking down at her with glazed-over eyes, his lips parted in heavy breaths. Even Hyunjin, usually so composed, faltered for a second, watching her with dark, hooded eyes.

“I need to see you getting off on Hyunjin’s dick,” she pleaded, her voice barely above a whisper.

Felix shivered at her words, but before he could respond, Hyunjin’s hands slid up his thighs, squeezing firmly.

“Fuck, you’re such a little slut for us, aren’t you?” Hyunjin groaned, lips grazing Felix’s ear. “Getting all desperate just to watch me fuck him senseless?”

Felix let out a breathy moan as Hyunjin pulled him flush against his chest, his cock still buried deep inside him. Slowly, Hyunjin adjusted, gripping Felix’s hips and guiding him into position—his back pressed against Hyunjin’s solid chest, his legs spread wide over Hyunjin’s thighs.

“Be a gentleman, Felix,” Hyunjin murmured, amusement lacing his voice. “Do what the pretty girl with the pretty pussy wants.”

Felix whimpered as Hyunjin tilted his chin, forcing him to look at Y/N.

“Let her see how fucking wrecked you are on my cock, baby.”

Felix let out a sharp gasp at the change in angle, his head falling back against Hyunjin’s shoulder. He was completely at his mercy now.

“Shit, look at you,” Hyunjin growled, hands tightening on Felix’s waist as he lifted him. “So fucking tight—taking me so well, baby. You love this, don’t you? Love being my little fucktoy while she watches?”

Felix barely managed a nod before Hyunjin slammed him back down, making him cry out.

“Just like that,” Hyunjin praised, his voice thick with arousal. He held Felix’s thighs still, keeping him open, exposed, as he thrust up into him—deep, brutal, claiming.

Y/N could barely breathe as she watched—watched the way Felix’s body trembled, the way his cock bounced with every thrust, the way his pretty lips parted in a silent scream of pleasure.

Felix’s moans were high-pitched, desperate. “I’m— I’m gonna—”

Hyunjin smirked against his neck. “Yeah? You gonna come just from getting fucked like this?” He reached around, wrapping his fingers around Felix’s cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts. “Be a good boy and make a mess for us, baby. Show her how pretty you look when I fuck you dumb.”

Felix let out a choked sob as his whole body tensed, his orgasm slamming into him so hard that he nearly collapsed. His thighs trembled violently, his breath shattering into desperate, broken moans. Hot ropes of white painted Y/N’s stomach as he shuddered in Hyunjin’s lap, overstimulated and wrecked beyond comprehension.

But Hyunjin wasn’t done with him.

Hyunjin groaned, his pace stuttering as he pushed in deep one last time, grinding into Felix, making sure he felt every thick inch buried inside him. His voice was low and wrecked, the pleasure overwhelming, his grip tightening on Felix’s hips as he spilled inside him, his body jerking with the force of it. “Taking every last drop like a good little slut, aren’t you?”

Felix could barely think, as Hyunjin held him there, grinding lazily, dragging out every last wave of pleasure. Felix whimpered, still twitching, still clenching around Hyunjin’s cock like he didn’t want to let go.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were the ragged breaths, the sticky heat of bodies trembling in the aftermath.

And then, slowly, Hyunjin pulled out.

Felix whimpered at the loss, his thighs weak, his whole body shaking. But Hyunjin wasn’t finished admiring his work. He grabbed Felix’s ass, spreading him open, his voice thick with satisfaction.

“Look at this, babe,” he murmured.

Y/N’s breath hitched as she took in the sight—Felix’s hole still stretched and fluttering, slick with Hyunjin’s release, a slow, milky trickle escaping. The heat in her stomach burned, watching the way Felix trembled under their gazes, his lips parted in exhausted bliss.

Before Felix could react, she leaned in—her tongue flicking out, catching the mess before it could spill.

Felix gasped sharply, his whole body jolting, overstimulated. His fingers twitched against Y/N’s skin, his breath hitching in disbelief.

Hyunjin chuckled darkly, dragging his fingers along Felix’s trembling thighs. “Shit, baby—watching her clean you up? You like that?” His voice was teasing, smug, fully aware of how wrecked Felix was beneath his touch.

Felix only let out a weak whimper, his mind too foggy to form words.

Hyunjin tilted his head, watching Y/N with dark amusement as she licked him clean. “Taste me, baby,” he murmured, his fingers stroking up her spine. “Tell me how good my cum tastes on your tongue.”

Y/N pulled back slightly, lips glistening, her expression slow and sultry as she met his gaze. She let her tongue flick over her lips, savoring the warmth, the musk, the saltiness that lingered.

And then, she smirked.

“So good.”

(it‘s me… the author… see what i did there ? LIFE IS SO GOOD LA LA LA LA LA)

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

for my one and only: @hwangjoanna

#felix #felix stray kids #felix x reader #felix yongbok #lee felix #skz felix #lee felix smut #stray kids #skz smut #stray kids smut #hyunlix x reader #skz hyunlix #hyunlix fanfic #skz hyunjin #hyunjin #hyunjin smut

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greatw0r · 7 months ago

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roommate vi ✶ vi × female reader

she's a night owl, you always hear sounds coming from her room when you get up to get a cup of water in the middle of the night

sitting with her on the cold balcony floor while talking about life and smoking

she's messy, her room is literally- you don't even wanna go in there until she gets her shit together and finnaly cleans it

everytime she goes to the gym she invites you to go with her " cmon princess- don't you wanna at least see me covered in sweat ? " she smirked and you trow her a pillow

cooking together sometimes- she's sitting on the counter while telling you the recipe and what to do next and eventually helps you - cuts something or mixes things

she's an caffeine addict omg

going grocery shopping with her and she acts like a nine years old, jumping into the wheels of the cart and running around almost hitting someone

helping her paint her hair and cutting her hair- she says she doesn't want to waste money on hair saloons who aren't going to do what she wants so you do it instead with a bit of begging on her part

sometimes you get home and get hit with her music busting trough her speaker and her doing workouts in the middle of the living room " sorry sweetheart- hey can you pass me that towel ? "

talking about towels- she almost doesn't wear one when she gets out of the shower- making extremely hard for you not to stare at her when she walks out

having her friends over and they immediately make you feel included, laughing and drinking around the house

watching movies with her ! if she picks she will tell you all about the movie before it even starts or she will be super exited

making her go shopping with you- she swears she hates it but she actually doesn't- she loves it specially when you go try on clothes and wait for her opinion

becoming ... a little more than just friends and roommates when one night- you two are talking about your last relationships and the past when vi hands you her jacket- and then her lips where on yours

" shit- ... I shouldn't have " she cursed and sighed but you pull her back into you kissing her more . she's shocked but kisses you back with an smile " didn't thought you had it in you princess "

#lesbian #vi x reader #vi x fem reader #vi arcane #arcane x reader #caitlyn kiramman x reader #jinx x reader #sevika x reader #arcane headcanon #vi x caitlyn

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mahalachives · 5 months ago

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The Truth Serum Incident

pairing: azriel x fem!reader

summary: Mor, ever the troublemaker, accidentally spills a powerful truth serum into Azriel’s drink at a casual dinner with the Inner Circle. At first, it’s hilarious—Azriel openly admitting he once caught Cassian flexing in the mirror and cried laughing. But then, things get interesting when he starts blurting out the cheesiest, most romantic things about you.

genre: fluff, cute

Dinner at the River House had been normal—until Mor happened.

"You accidentally spilled it?" Feyre repeated, rubbing her temples as she glared at Mor, who looked suspiciously unbothered.

"It was one tiny drop," Mor said, swirling her wine.

"A drop of truth serum," Rhys deadpanned.

Cassian, meanwhile, was losing his entire will to live as he clutched the table, gasping for air. Because Azriel—broody, secretive, terrifying Shadowsinger Azriel—had just said, with the most serious expression:

"I once caught Cassian flexing in the mirror for four whole minutes, and I had to leave the room because I was laughing so hard I almost passed out."

Cassian choked. "YOU—YOU WHAT?!"

Azriel blinked, his face completely blank. "You made finger guns at yourself. Twice."

Cassian screamed. Nesta looked like she was about to frame this moment and hang it above their bed.

Rhys pinched the bridge of his nose. "Mor, exactly how strong was this serum?"

Mor grinned. "Oh, you know… regular strength."

"You are lying," Feyre accused.

And then—disaster.

Because Azriel, under the influence of the truth serum, turned his head.

To you.

His mate. His beloved. His greatest weakness.

And then—**in the deepest, most emotion-filled voice ever—**he said.

"I am so in love with you."

Silence.

Cassian choked on his drink. Mor slammed her hands on the table.

You?

You blacked out for a second.

"Az—" you started.

"You smell like summer and sugar and everything good in this world." His voice was deadly serious.

Cassian fell out of his chair. Nesta cackled like a damn witch.

"I—" You opened your mouth, panicking.

"Your hands," Azriel continued, completely lost to the serum, "are so perfect I could write odes about them."

Nesta wheezed.

Cassian, from the floor, screamed into the void. "Odes?! MOTHER ABOVE, THIS IS GOLD!"

"Mor," Rhys hissed, dragging his hands down his face. "Fix this. Now."

"Why would I fix this?" Mor said, grinning like a lunatic. "This is the best thing to ever happen to me."

Meanwhile, you were still struggling to breathe because Azriel—the most secretive male in existence—was looking at you like you were the stars themselves.

And then—your vision blurred.

Your head spun.

You gripped the table.

And in that moment, realization hit you like a drunk Illyrian at a tavern fight.

"Wait," you whispered. "I think I drank some too."

Rhys and Feyre's heads snapped toward you.

Cassian gasped. "Oh, this just got better."

And then—you felt it happen.

That horrifying pull of the serum forcing your deepest secrets out.

You tried to fight it.

You failed spectacularly.

"I sniff your leathers when you’re gone."

Silence.

PURE. DEAD. SILENCE.

Then—

Cassian detonated. He literally collapsed.

Mor was screaming. Rhys looked like he was debating whether to exile you from Velaris. Nesta was taking mental notes.

Azriel?

Azriel froze.

His hazel eyes blinked. His lips parted.

"You—" His voice was so soft. So utterly bewildered. "You do what?"

You slapped a hand over your mouth, mortified.

Nesta leaned forward, gleeful. "Oh, this is good."

But it was too late.

You couldn’t stop.

"I stole one of your shirts and hid it in my closet because it smelled like you."

Cassian WHEEZED.

Azriel, staring at you like you’d just told him he was High Lord, whispered, "Which one?"

And yet—you weren’t done.

The serum wouldn’t LET you be done.

"I—" You tried to fight it. You really did.

"I also—uh—kissed your pillow once."

Cassian SCREAMED SO LOUD that an actual plate fell off the table.

Nesta was wiping tears from her eyes. Mor was face down, dying.

Azriel, watching you combust in real time, slowly smirked.

SMIRKED.

It was over for you.

"You like my scent that much?" he murmured, voice pure sin.

"I—"

The serum refused to let you live.

"YES," you blurted. "IT’S NOT MY FAULT YOU SMELL LIKE NIGHT AND SAFETY AND—"

You slapped both hands over your mouth.

Cassian, on the floor, WHEEZED.

Azriel, grinning like he’d won a war, tilted his head. "Huh."

You prayed for the Cauldron to take you.

Rhys, waving his hands wildly, stood up. "Alright, that’s it! Dinner’s over!"

Cassian rolled on the floor. "No, wait—this is the best night of my life—"

Azriel, smug as hell, leaned in.

"So…" he whispered, right in your ear.

"Which shirt did you steal?"

You made an undignified noise and YEETED YOURSELF OUT OF THE ROOM.

Cassian?

Absolutely lost it.

Mor?

Tears. Actual tears.

Nesta?

Taking notes for future blackmail.

Azriel?

Azriel just sat back, looking insufferably pleased, and took another sip of his wine.

And somewhere in the distance, you could already hear Cassian yelling, "I NEED A POEM ABOUT THE HANDS! GIVE ME THE HAND ODES!"

MORAL OF THE STORY: NEVER. TRUST. MOR.

#acotar #azriel x oc #azriel #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #rhysand #cassian #azriel x you #nesta acotar #feyre acotar #mor acotar

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vettelsvee · 7 months ago

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THE MOMENT I KNEW | Max Verstappen

Max Verstappen x Girlfriend!Reader

SUMMARY: After a few races where he didn't get the results he expected, Max decides to go out with some friends to disconnect from everything. Unluckily, one of those days when he arrives home after having some drinks, he finds out that he missed his girlfriend's birthday as soon as he sees the cake she ordered on the trash ↳ REQUESTED BY ANON: Maybe something angsty?? Like maybe bro goes out with his friends and forgets readers bday until he sees the cake in the trash can and realizes bro screwed up

WORD COUNT: 2007

WARNINGS: Curse words, mentions of being drunk, angst

TAGLIST: @hc-dutch @raavadakedavra @coffeedestroyingperson @evey-kuznetskova @bowielovesyou @chaoswithus @isotopemylove @iceman-kazansky @gwginnyweasley @formula1-motogpfan @myescapefromthislife @regalbanshee [in case you wanna be tagged just tell me so i can add you!]

VEE'S NOTES: I've absolutely loved this one my God. With this fic, we mark a total of 6196 words written this week (not counting my uni essays and other several projects), so I'm quite proud about that! Also, thank you so much for the support all this week, hope you liked all the fics! I'll be uploading this upcoming week's posts tomorrow. Let me know in the comments or on the anon inbox your thoughts on this one! See you next week :) ↳ MAKE YOUR REQUESTS | LET'S TALK! | JANUARY UPDATE CALENDAR

Max stumbled into your apartment, fumbling with the keys and opening the door with trembling hands, his pounding headache reminding him that it wouldn’t be this bad if he’d listened to the bartender’s advice to stop after the last gin tonic.

As soon as he stepped inside, he froze in the doorway, scanning everything as if it were his first time entering the place, even though he had been living there for nearly five years, the last two with you. He took a few unsteady steps toward the small entryway counter, where he dropped his keys and realized the silence was far heavier than he had anticipated.

His laughter, faint and fueled by the false sense of security that alcohol had provided, quickly dissipated. Taking a cautious step further into the living room, he noticed there were no lights on, no plates or leftover food on the small coffee table in front of the TV, and most strikingly, you were neither sprawled out on the couch watching one of the romantic movies you adored nor curled up asleep with one of your cats.

Despite the glaring signs, Max didn’t panic, at least not as much as he should have, even though something inside him whispered that the situation didn’t sit right.

It wasn’t until he wandered into the kitchen to get a glass of water and rounded the island that his foot stumbled slightly, nearly sending him sprawling to the floor. Puzzled, he looked down to see what had caused him to trip. His heart sank when his eyes landed on a discarded box, its lid broken as if it had been thrown to the floor, angrily, on purpose.

That’s when reality hit him like a freight train.

He turned his gaze to the left, where the trash can stood partially open. Inside, he saw an untouched cake, decorated with intricate floral designs and a message that read, “Happy Birthday, Y/N!” The sight struck him like a blow to the chest, the pressure so intense it made him want to vomit.

“No… No, it wasn’t today…”

Desperately, and trying to figure out what to do, Max ran his hands through his hair, as if that might somehow help him calm down. His breathing grew more erratic with each passing second, his eyes glued to the cake. It didn’t feel real. He couldn’t understand how he had managed to forget such an important date… you, his girlfriend’s, birthday. Something so obvious had suddenly spiraled into a waking nightmare.

He noticed his phone sitting on the kitchen counter. Grabbing it quickly, he checked for any missed calls or messages from you, only to realize after several failed attempts to turn it on that it was dead. He blamed his drunkenness not only for not noticing he didn’t have his phone with him or that it was out of battery, but for forgetting such a meaningful day and breaking every promise he had made to you.

Deep down, though, he knew all the excuses were hollow. Any justification he tried to offer would be nothing but foolishness.

Setting the phone back on the counter, he decided not to waste any more time. He headed toward your bedroom. The door was ajar, and though the lights were off, he could make out your silhouette lying on the bed, your back turned to him. You gave no sign that you had noticed his arrival. The only sound in the room was your muffled, quiet sobs. As Max stepped closer, he saw you were clutching a pillow tightly, as if it were your only source of comfort.

That was the moment Max realized he couldn’t avoid facing the situation, no matter how impossible it felt to fix things right away.

“Y/N...” he said softly.

You didn’t answer, and your silence hurt more than a thousand words could have. Max knelt beside the bed, close enough to reach out, and gently began stroking your face. You didn’t resist his touch, but your indifference pierced him deeply.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, his voice trembling as he fought to hold himself together. “I swear this wasn’t my intention… I wanted to come home earlier, but Lando insisted we stay a bit longer, and then I didn’t have my phone…”

“You forgot, Max,” you interrupted, your tone sharp but laced with pain, anger, and sadness. You still wouldn’t look at him. “Goddammit, Max, you forgot my fucking birthday ever since the moment the clock struck midnight.”

Max fell silent. Once again, reality hit him square in the face, forcing him to acknowledge that anything he said would likely be inadequate. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, trying to find the words to explain himself calmly, to admit his mistakes while grappling with the weight of his guilt.

“You know it wasn’t my intention,” he began, his voice low. “It’s just… with the shitty season I’ve been having and everything that comes with it, I’ve been feeling overwhelmed. I just needed to step out of my comfort zone for a bit, to clear my head…”

“And you thought doing that on my birthday, after promising me a dream day, was the most appropriate choice?” you cut him off, finally raising your head. Your eyes were swollen and red from crying. “I know you’re not in a good place right now, but I also know that until now, every promise you’ve made to me, you’ve kept. You didn’t just forget about me, Max. You left me here, alone, all day, like I didn’t matter at all.”

Max searched desperately for a way to salvage the situation, to apologize, to do something, anything, to prove how deeply sorry he was. But when you turned on the light and sat up to face him, he realized he was out of options. He didn’t know how to continue without disappointing you further.

“You know this has been really hard for me…”

“Hard for you? Seriously?” you interrupted, leaning closer and pointing your finger at him. “And you think this has been easy for me? Watching you shut me out, never telling me what’s going on in that head of yours? Not to mention your fans… They’re fully convinced that your shitty season is all my fault, that our relationship is ruining your career.”

“Y/N, I know…”

That was a lie. He didn’t know. Max had ignored the comments and criticism because, deep down, he believed you weren't to blame for his performance, especially when you rarely even went with him to the races anymore.

“There’s nothing I can say to argue with you,” Max admitted. “You’re absolutely right. I’ve been a complete asshole today, and I’m truly sorry. I love you, Y/N, more than you know…”

“Are you sure you love me?” you shot back, your voice trembling with anger. “Do you love me, or your damn career? Because lately, it feels like your whole world revolves even more around cars, races, speed, adrenaline, and your constant need to be the best at everything.”

“Hey…” Max tried, his voice faltering.

“Every day, you show me more and more that we’re no longer a team… that I’m no longer a part of you. And I know I’m not the only one who sees it.”

Your words hit him like a dagger, but he knew he deserved them.

“It’s not just about you forgetting my birthday today, Max. It’s everything. You don’t listen to me… you don’t give me anything, not even a minute of your day, let alone affection or support. Why should I stay in a relationship that, instead of giving me life, is killing me inside?”

Your words struck him like a bucket of ice water.

“You don’t get it, do you?” you asked, frustration and sadness mingling in your tone as he stayed silent. “If you really loved me, you wouldn’t be afraid to show me who you are, flaws and all. But you’ve always done this, Max, keeping me at arm’s length, never letting me into your life.”

“I don’t do that, Y/N, it’s just that…” he began, summoning his courage to explain, but you cut him off once again.

“Damn it, Max, yes, of course you do!” you yelled, your voice cracking under the weight of your emotions. “Do you realize that even though I’ve been with you, I’ve been completely alone? Alone, Max, utterly alone! I’ve tried so many times to talk to you, to make you see that a few bad races aren’t the end of the world for someone like you, but…”

You stopped yourself abruptly, your throat aching and your head pounding. You felt no remorse for the way you were speaking to him since he deserved every word, but you couldn’t help but feel a deep sadness. Sadness for the Max Verstappen you had once known. A man who had been so proud of himself and his achievements after years of hard work, now emotionally shattered and, worse, so determined to hide it from everyone, including you.

“I can’t keep giving you everything I have while you keep taking and taking, without giving anything back.”

“I’m sorry…” Max muttered, but the words felt hollow.

“A simple ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t fix anything, Max,” you replied, your voice quieter now but no less wounded. “I wish it were just about today, but like I said, I feel like you’re pushing me further out of your life with every passing day. You’re becoming a stranger to me, Max,” you admitted, trying not to let your voice waver. “You’ve been like this for months, and I don’t know what else to do to stop us from falling apart… though it feels like that’s exactly what you want.”

“That’s not true,” he answered immediately, desperation in his voice. “Y/N, seriously, I love you more than you could ever imagine.”

“Are you sure?” you asked, tears welling up again. “Because I feel like you’re showing me the exact opposite.” Your voice trembled with the weight of her words. “Sometimes it feels like you love your career, the success you’ve achieved and the crowds chanting your name more than you love me.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, his voice barely audible. “You know I want to, but… I don’t know how to fix this anymore…”

You looked at him, your eyes searching his face for some sign, some silent promise that would make you believe things between you could change. But Max’s words only made you realize that you had to stop thinking fantasies and start facing reality.

“Maybe you can’t fix it,” you confessed, the words breaking you from the inside. “I can’t keep going like this, Max… I can’t keep feeling like I’m not enough… like I’m not good enough for you.”

“Seriously, there has to be a solution…” he pleaded, his voice full of regret. “I’ll do better from now on, I promise…”

“You don’t get it, do you?” You turned to look at him, the pain evident in your expression. “Things won’t magically get better if you take me to dinner or buy me a million-dollar necklace to make up for today. That won’t fix anything, Max…”

“Y/N… Y/N, please… I need you…”

No matter how many times Max said those words, he knew that any promise he made now would be meaningless, especially considering how much he had already failed you.

Feeling that there were no more words left to say between them, you slowly got out of bed. You gathered the few belongings you had on the nightstand and, with a sense of finality, began to pack a bag, all the while feeling Max’s powerless gaze on you.

“I can’t keep waiting, Max,” you said, her voice steady despite the anguish inside. “Today, no matter how much I tried to turn a blind eye, let it go, and even put myself in your shoes… This… everything… after many tries… God, Max, all of this… That was the moment I knew.”

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tobeholyistobeempty · 6 months ago

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“here’s what’s gonna’ happen.” he mutters, kissing the gun up your neck, leaning an elbow on your thigh. “m’gonna answer this call, you’re gonna’ talk. be honest for daddy. tell em’ you’re tied up.”

so fucking obsessed with the idea of a you x ghost lovers-turned-enemies who just can’t stay the fuck away from eachother. it’s gross and it’s toxic and it’s brutal and it’s probably more insane than it should be but with all the war around you it’s one of the only fucking things left that makes you actually feel alive, so inevitably you end up back under him in new inventive ways each time you cross paths.

maybe you’re working for shadow company during the time graves decides to betray 141 - perhaps you didn’t know it was going to happen because you weren’t directly involved with that mission, after all, but with your rank, ghost has a hard goddamn time believing anything otherwise - no matter how many times he turns it over in his head.

so when he sees you - rather, when you all too conveniently find yourselves in the same map dot city, some shithole for some hellscape intel search while graves and his team are still actively after them - it’s all a little too much for him.

ghost doesn’t know who you’re serving, what your loyalty is, and decides that maybe he’ll just have to get that information out of you himself.

but that’s all little to your knowledge - because you don’t even know the fucker knows you’re here. it’s been a long fucking day. you’re already exhausted, graves has all but sent you to deathrow to chase dead end leads in circles, and everything just keeps getting worse with each passing day. but it’s late, and the motel that you’re staying in has a decent bar that you think you’d like to take advantage of.

you decide one quick drink can’t hurt, can it?

ha.

about as famous last words as any. because, turns out, it can. yes, it can hurt.

it can actually hurt real fucking good when the living embodiment of every mortal man’s nightmares decides (at the most convenient of times, because just so happens you left your gun back in your room) that he’s got questions for you, and isn’t too fucking keen on waiting for answers.

he strikes when the lights have gone out and the bar has closed. when the motel has fallen silent and the only noise is your footsteps as you creep down the hallway that leads to your door. you, however foolishly, drop your guard, thinking you have fuck all to worry about at this point - when suddenly the shadows by your door shift, and the owner of the hand that has the muzzle of a fucking gun pressed to the back of your head tells you that your mistake was waiting until so late, coming here so alone, and not realizing that the shadows in this place are not empty but instead filled with men that can see you just a little bit better than you can see them.

but when the voice sinks in, and you merely smile - dread subsiding as you ask him what took him so damn long to find you - he decides he isn’t too fond of the response. you’re inside your decrepit room only in a few moments after that, tied to a chair, and he’s just looking at you like he can’t quite figure out what’s so damn funny.

you let him have the win, you always do. you know that despite it all, when he’s infront of you like this, it’s never as ghost.

simon riley could never hurt you. not truly.

“who knows you’re here?” he husks, pale eyes surveying the room in a quick sweep. for show, you’re sure. he mapped every inch of this room before he’d even stepped foot inside.

you suck your teeth, fighting to let that shit-eating grin spread. “you mean like, my mom? dad? sister—“

“watch it.” he cuts you off, and the muzzle made of cool steel is pressed at the side of your jaw, shifting your head, turning it away from his. “y’know how i feel about tha’ smart fuckin’ mouth of yours.”

“stupid questions get stupid answers.” you reply back sweetly, tilting your head a little so the steel digs in harder, amplifying the ache for the hell of it. “you’ve got a gun at my jaw, LT. talk to me straight.”

there’s silence, until there’s a hum - he shifts then, crouching beside your chair, stalling at eye level with you. “talk t’ya straight, huh.”

“you act like i don’t know why you’re here.” your chest feels tight, with the way he’s looking at you. it’s a battle with an army of its own to push it down. “you’re looking for the big man, aren’t you? graves. heard he—“

the press of his gun softens momentarily as his free hand finds the other side of your jaw, tilting your eyes back to him, forcing you to look him right in that dead fuckin stare of his.

“y’best be real careful about lying t’me, princess.”

“you can kiss my ass.” you smile thinly, and in the darkness you think you see his eyes gleam, but whether it’s out of irritation or out of something else entirely, you can’t be sure. you exhale. “i had nothing to do with graves’ little villain arc. i don’t know fuck all about it, or where he currently is. you’re wasting your breath.”

the muzzle of his gun trails down, down along your jaw and throat, sparking gooseflesh to life.

“liar.” he rasps, and despite all your moral instincts screaming at you that this is all but a shade off insane, when it comes to this behemoth of a man before you your depraved instincts are just a tad stronger. and when your thighs tense, he notices. “what’s it gonna take, mm? t’get ya talkin.”

you exhale a breath you didn’t even know you were holding - and ghost smiles. you see it through the crease in his mask - but just when he goes to speak again, your fucking cellphone, buried in your jacket pocket, starts to ring.

“well if that ain’t just my fucking luck.” you don’t need to see it to know who’s calling. you ignored check in twice already. too busy at the bar, drowning your sorrows. “ghost, listen—“

oh, he’s listening, alright. listening to the sound of that fucking ringtone filling the space between your words. you can’t tell he’s cocking an eyebrow at you, his eyes not leaving yours as he shifts a hand, reaching for your pocket. you open your mouth, but he’s already withdrawing your phone, snorting after a fleeting glance at the name lit up on it.

he turns it to you, and you try to fight it - but you can’t stop the deadpan. no matter how much you’d already known it would be him.

graves.

oh, dear go—

“this your fucking idea of a loyalty test?” you hiss, and you can suddenly feel your blood roaring in your ears, your heart hammering. “are you insane?”

that’s a redundant question, you think, and ghost must agree, because his only answer is to shift the gun in a way that allows him to press a fingertip against your pulse.

you swallow - he’s checking for pulse leaps like a fucking lie detector.

“mhm.” he purrs, absolutely loving this - before pressing a button on your phone, and a low rumble of anticipation rocks through you.

he’s put it on speaker - and the second it connects, graves is talking.

“sergeant.” he all but barks, and you tense, closing your eyes at the sound of his voice. he’s pissed. “where the fuck are you? you missed two of—“

“sorry, sir.” you say through your teeth, flicking your eyes to ghost. he just tilts his head, as if he’s saying go on, show me that you’re still mine. christ. “i uh, got a little…tied up.”

there’s a brief silence, presumably as graves just stands there (you can envision it in your head, crease in his eyebrows, hand clutching his phone - trying to determine what the fuck that means) before he eventually clears his throat.

“and what could you possibly have gotten yourself so tied up with that you can’t report in on time?” he asks, and you want to laugh, because if only he knew. your hands tense against the ropes, and he speaks again. “that was a rhetorical question, sergeant. you’d better have a damn good excuse for this.”

oh, you definitely have a good excuse, though you’re pretty sure that if you were to tell graves who it was that had you so very busy right now, he might just turn into fairy dust and transport himself through the phone to try and kill you both. (keyword, try.)

you open your mouth to answer but words disintegrate as ghost shifts, standing to his full height.

you look up at him, and the blood that rushes to your stomach is something catastrophic - so disarming that you almost forget graves is still on the goddamn line. you blink, and you’re about to say something, when ghost does something you don’t expect; he tucks the gun back into his holster, before moving to the buckle of his belt.

oh - oh.

“christ,” you breathe out, before you even realize it. and when ghost shoves the phone closer to your face, you realize you couldn’t give less of a fuck about graves at this moment. “sir—graves, i was fucking busy, okay? i had shit to do. you’re the one who sent me out here, into this goddamn nightmare, to do your grunt work. should i be really sitting around waiting for your call while you’re out sucking off the general?” the silence that answers you is deafening. and so is the rage you can suddenly feel permeating the air. you suck your teeth when he doesn’t answer. “right, well. if you don’t mind, i’d like to go the fuck to bed. i’ll call in first thing tomorrow.”

ghost’s fingers drift, starting to undo the latch and you know, with your heart and bloodied soul - that he’s smiling right now.

you hear a low, rumbling growl coming over the other end of the line - it takes you a moment to realize it’s coming from graves - and the next thing you hear is the dial tone as he hangs up, presumably plotting the ways he’s going to make your life hell for the next unforeseeable future.

but then, the belt buckle of ghost’s belt is undone, your phone is tossed somewhere behind him, and you find yourself smirking up at him with glistening lips.

“now, look what you made me do.” you whisper, a lazy drawl. “always doubting me, huh. insane fuck.”

and ghost just snorts at the insult, before taking off one of his gloves with his teeth and shoving it into your mouth. you groan at the sudden taste of leather and dust that touches your tongue - but when he leans over you, lips at your ear, it’s a little too easily forgotten.

“quiet now.” he murmurs, with an audible smile. your eyes close at the sound, and his breath against your neck makes you want to scream. “no more talkin’ less you’re good n’ beggin’ f’me put that mouth to proper use.”

you want to spit at him, just for the fun of it, but settle for biting down on the glove as you shift, trying to bring your legs together. but then he’s crouching between them again, pushing them back open with his bulk, and you can only groan as he rips the leather from your mouth.

“if he finds out,” the words spill out without much thought - as you stare into his eyes. “he’ll—“

“mmm.” he hums, leaning in to press his teeth against your jaw. “he’ll what.”

oh, the things your mouth should say. but if you’re being honest, the only thing you want your mouth to say right now is please.

“i’ll - i’ll be the next one getting shot at.” you hiss out as his hands find your thighs. “christ. untie me, asshole.”

“y’jus told the boss you’re tied up.” he mutters back, and from the heat of his breath alone, you know he’s smiling again. “wouldn’t’ wanna’ make a liar outta’ y’self now, would ya?”

————————————-

a/n: the way i would let this man ruin me is concerning.

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randomshyperson · 11 days ago

Text

practical magic - wanda maximoff oneshots

summary: study nights with wanda were supposed to be all about magic theory… until you discover the private magic Wanda’s been exploring - and what she’s been using it for.

warnings: smut, bottom!wanda, enchanted strap; overstimulation; suggestive dialogue; fingering; creampie; vampire feeding; mild roughness; humorous, soft aftercare; friends to lovers; emotional intimacy; reader is a vampire | words: 6.388k

a/n-> accidentally posted the unfished version before, just pretend i didn't. this was written with a mission, we need more bottom wanda fics.

General Masterlist | AO3 |

-&-

You've been friends with Wanda for a little over three years now.

When she officially joined the Avengers, you were still elbow-deep in the impossible task of recruiting more witches for what was not-quite-yet a coven. Agatha refused to call it that - “a nosy vampire and three witches who had one joint spell session does not a coven make,” she'd scoffed.

She had a point. The so-called group was mostly chaos: Agatha and the girls argued every other day, Jen technically wasn’t doing magic anymore, and Lilia had a rather violent aversion to the concept of community, possibly because of the whole plague situation. Still, you were trying. Someone had to.

So when the new Avengers were announced and vampire networks started buzzing about humans playing gods again, it wasn’t just politics or prophecy that drew your attention. It was the unmistakable pulse of magic laced in Wanda’s powers, bright and wild and untrained.

The others warned you against mingling with the superhero crowd, especially dragging magic into mortal affairs. But as usual, you ignored them. You knocked on the Tower’s door anyway - literally - and extended an invitation to the witch who didn’t yet know she was one.

Wanda had resisted the label as much as your group had resisted hers. But something softened over time. Bit by bit, routine rooted itself in the quiet moments: delivering spellbooks to the Avengers Tower every week, practicing basics on quiet Sunday mornings, sharing rituals and stories passed down through your centuries-long memory.

You grew close. Agatha would tease - “maybe too close,” always with that knowing lilt - but you both pretended not to hear her.

Which is how you found yourself, for the fourth time this week, sprawled across Wanda’s bed like you belonged there, magical books open in a circle around you. One hand flipped a page absently while the other nursed a stolen blood bag (donation room, New York Hospital - nobody missed it).

You looked up just as the door creaked open. Wanda entered slowly, flushed from her last training session of the day. Hair tousled, breath caught halfway between a sigh and a laugh, she offered you a soft, worn-out smile.

“I guess you don’t do doors anymore, huh?” she asked, voice light but teasing.

You paused mid-drink, fangs still out, mouth curved in a guilty little grin that made her look away too fast. She found sudden interest in the dirt on her sneakers.

“Portals are more efficient,” you said with a lazy blink.

Wanda smiled despite herself, that warm kind of smile she tried to hide. “Make yourself at home,” she muttered, already peeling her hoodie off, adding over her shoulder as she headed to the bathroom, “As usual.”

You mumbled something back - half smirk, half acknowledgment - but your attention had already started to slip.

The blood was sweet, warm enough to relax every taut line in your shoulders. You let your head tip back, fangs still buried in plastic, arm tucked under your neck, legs crossed at the ankles in the middle of her bed like you lived there.

Maybe you did, in a way.

You didn’t mean to listen. You didn’t try to notice the way her footsteps padded across the carpet, or the soft rustle of clothing falling to the floor. You didn’t mean to hear the sigh she let out as the hot water hit her back - or the way the scent of soap slowly replaced sweat, steam curling through the air like incense.

But you noticed anyway.

It wasn’t the first time you found yourself a little too aware of Wanda. Of the way her energy shifted when she entered a room. Of how the scent of her skin after a shower made your brain short-circuit for reasons you refused to unpack.

You blamed the blood. It was easier.

You discarded the empty bag in the container she’d sweetly labeled for you months ago - “blood trash 🩸🗑️ only” - and made a valiant effort to gather the books. Your limbs felt too relaxed to cooperate. Your brain, fogged with warmth and the remnants of adrenaline, wandered somewhere it shouldn’t.

She could skip tonight’s lesson. You weren’t really in a teaching mood, anyway. A movie under the covers sounded more tempting by the second.

By the time Wanda stepped back into the room, towel around her neck and damp hair dripping onto her collarbone, you’d transformed the bed into a cozy nest. Pillows fluffed, blankets piled just right, snacks from the Tower kitchen arranged with near reverence on a tray between the two of you.

Wanda’s gaze softened instantly.

“You spoil me, you know that?” she murmured, walking past you with bare feet and warm skin. One hand ruffled her damp hair, while the other reached out to give your shoulder a playful squeeze. The casual intimacy of it sent a flutter through your chest you definitely ignored.

She climbed into bed with a tired sigh, half-buried herself under the covers, and smiled at the little altar of treats you’d made for her.

“Although I love it… if I keep skipping our lessons like this, I’ll only learn the fundamentals by the time I’m thirty.”

You smile at her, the corners of your mouth twitching with playful softness as you click your tongue.

“We can do a whole day of studying tomorrow,” you say, voice low and warm as your fingers move to the buttons of your shirt. “Tonight, I can sense the exhaustion in your skin, sweetheart. You deserve a break.”

There’s the faintest blush on her cheeks at the nickname - she pretends to focus on drying her hair, but you catch the way her eyes flick toward your hands. Your shirt is halfway unbuttoned now, revealing a smooth stretch of skin.

Wanda’s brow furrows almost instantly.

“What are you doing?” she asks, eyes narrowing as if trying to read your intentions.

You shrug, lips twitching upward in mock innocence. “Getting more comfortable for bed?”

She lets out a breath of a laugh, light but incredulous, her gaze trailing, just for a second, along the exposed line of your collarbone before she catches herself and lifts a finger in warning.

“I know you came here straight from one of your vampire errands. There is no way you’re sleeping in my bed with whatever blood-slicked demon germs you picked up tonight.”

“But I was already in there - ”

Her look is sharp. Final. You sigh, dramatic and defiant, arms dropping to your sides.

“Fine,” you mutter, letting your shirt fall open completely as you pad toward the bathroom. She calls after you, “Towels are in the bottom drawer!” - with a grin in her voice that only deepens when you growl back, “I know where the goddamn towels are.”

Wanda’s still chuckling softly to herself when her eyes catch a glimpse of your silhouette in the ajar door.

She was not expecting the sound of the shower to affect her the way it does - soft splashes, the shift of your body behind thin walls, steam curling like lazy magic through the cracks. Her mouth goes dry. She tells herself to focus on the screen. Instead, she finds herself watching the way your shadow moves behind the glass.

By the time you return, the scent of her shampoo lingers on your skin, mingling with the heat of the shower in a way that’s almost intimate. Familiar. Her breath catches when she glances up - and then immediately flicks her gaze away again.

You step into the room like it’s yours, skin still damp, droplets trailing down your collarbone and disappearing beneath the towel slung low around your waist. You hum under your breath, hair dripping onto your shoulders, leaving little wet marks on her floor.

Wanda makes the mistake of looking again - just a peek - and nearly chokes on her own breath.

You don’t seem to notice. Or maybe you do. It’s hard to tell with you.

A low chuckle slips from your throat as you move toward her dresser, digging through drawers like you’ve done a hundred times. “What the hell are you watching, Maximoff?”

Her eyes go wide, a guilty flush creeping up her neck. She thinks you caught her - thinks the heat in her chest must be visible somehow. But you add, casual as ever, “Your heart just skipped. Don’t tell me you’re scaring yourself with horror movies again.”

Lucky. Very lucky.

Wanda exhales, relief blooming like smoke. “Guilty,” she says quickly, flashing a nervous smile as she gestures to the screen. It’s some old monster flick - practical effects, over-the-top gore, and all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Something Natasha lent her as a joke.

You glance over your shoulder and laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s what got you riled up? Weak.”

She’s about to retort, something equally sarcastic on the tip of her tongue, when you let the towel drop.

Wanda stops breathing.

There’s nothing between her and the sight of your bare back, the elegant lines of muscle, the quiet strength carved into your form like poetry.

She’s seen you naked before. You were once a maid, then a pirate after your transformation - sharing cramped quarters with others became second nature, which explains your complete lack of modesty when it comes to nudity. But for Wanda, lately, it’s felt less like a habit and more like a divine trial of restraint.

You don’t seem bothered. Not at all. You stretch, slow and cat-like, and turn just enough for her to see the faint veins beneath your skin beginning to darken, the glow in your eyes blooming red for a heartbeat.

“Honestly,” you say, voice lower now, more playful, “I don’t know why you’re impressed. You’ve seen me transform a hundred times. Real-life horror movie, free show just for you.”

To prove your point, you flash her a half-formed vampiric grin - sharp fangs, darkened veins webbing lightly across your cheeks, just enough to make her pulse stutter.

Wanda groans, her thighs pressing together under the blankets as she throws herself dramatically onto the pillows. “Don’t do that,” she mutters, eyes squeezing shut. “You’re gonna give me nightmares.”

You laugh again, completely unbothered.

What she doesn’t see - what she misses, because she’s too busy pretending she’s annoyed and not aroused - is the way your eyes linger on her just a second longer than necessary. The way your smile softens when she hides her face in the pillows. The way your hands move a little slower now, as if savoring the comfort of being here, in her space, like it’s something sacred.

Wanda makes the mistake of not noticing where your hands are searching now. She’s too distracted by her own thoughts - by the fire licking at her skin, the way her body is betraying her with every heartbeat.

You find a shirt that’s comfortably oversized - definitely Wanda’s - and pull it over your head. As you fold a few other pieces and rummage through the drawer for something else to borrow, your fingers close around something far too structured to be clothing.

You freeze for a second. Then a slow, wicked grin curls your lips.

You’ve shared a house with Agatha Harkness for more than a century - there are very few enchanted accessories you haven’t seen. And besides, you lived through the entire pro-discovery, post-puritan, human-rights-to-sexuality era, so your fingers wrap around the leather strap with practiced curiosity rather than shock.

But enchanted magical straps? Those are always tethered to the witch who conjured them.

So when your hand tightens around it and lifts it ever so slightly from the drawer, you don’t miss the snap of Wanda’s head in your direction - eyes wide, mouth parting slightly in panic, cheeks already flushed a deep rose.

“Well, well,” you begin, voice dripping amusement, “what do we have here - ”

Before you can finish the sentence, the item yanks itself from your hand with a rush of scarlet magic and flies back into the drawer, which slams shut with finality.

You burst into laughter, fully delighted.

“Oh my god, Wanda. You don’t have to panic like that!”

“Shut up,” she hisses, crossing the room fast - but her voice is trembling and her face is practically glowing red. “Not a word about this!”

“Too late,” you grin, teasing mercilessly. “I love that you’re getting creative with your magic. Really taking your spellwork into… practical territory.”

She groans, turning away from you, face buried in her hands for a moment.

“I knew Agatha would be a terrible influence when I brought you into the coven,” you continue, folding your arms, expression mock-thoughtful.

Wanda wheels around, cheeks still pink. “Agatha has actually been… very mature about this. Extremely helpful.” She points at you, flustered but trying to sound stern. “You’re the one being insufferable.”

Your grin only widens as her hands press to your shoulders, gently but insistently trying to steer you away from the closet. You’re still laughing, still half-dressed, still entirely enjoying yourself.

But then you cheat.

Vampire speed kicks in, and in a blur, you’ve crossed the room, the object once again dangling from your fingers. Wanda’s horrified gasp echoes off the walls.

“Y/N!”

You hold it up between two fingers, smile cocky, eyes glittering with mischief. “You do know Agatha invented this spell, right? I’m just curious - did she teach you all the tricks, or just the basics?”

Wanda groans in frustration. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

But she doesn’t use her magic to pin you down, not yet. She’s chasing you the mortal way, half-hearted, half-laughing through her mortification, her fingers swiping at the air just inches from your hand every time you dodge.

“Come on,” you tease, voice lilting. “We’re all adults here. Sex is natural. Magic-enhanced sex? Even better.”

“You’re the absolute worst. Worse than Agatha.”

You laugh harder, and that’s when she finally has enough - her magic tugs sharply at your wrist, yanking your arm down and finally letting her seize the toy. But as her fingers close over it, so do yours. Neither of you lets go.

Your eyes meet.

There’s a sudden shift - like the breath is sucked from the room. The laughter lingers on your lips, but something deeper pulses underneath. You tilt your head slightly, tone dropping lower, velvety.

“As your mentor, Wanda… It’s only natural I keep up with the kinds of spells you’ve been exploring.” Your voice is a caress now, the teasing thick with heat. “I just want to make sure you’re reaching your full potential.”

Her breath hitches - she feels the pulse of magic through the toy, the heat it responds to like a heartbeat. Her heartbeat.

You step a little closer, gaze locked to hers. “I could’ve helped you, you know. If you’d told me about this. We could’ve crafted something together. Something designed just for you.”

Her fingers tremble where they hold the object. She tries to speak, but it comes out as a half-broken, “I - I…”

You let go of the strap and take her wrist instead, the shift in contact gentle but commanding. Your other hand rises slowly, carefully, to cup her cheek, and she leans into the touch before she can stop herself.

Your thumb strokes her jaw, and when you speak again, your voice is barely a whisper, warm with sincerity beneath the sultry lilt.

“It’s no problem, really. I still know a few tricks… and I’d be more than happy to teach you. If you want me to.”

There’s a question in your eyes - no pressure, no assumption, just quiet patience. Wanda stares at you, breath shallow, caught between the rhythm of her own desire and the weight of her affection for you. You’re looking at her like she hung the stars, like you’d follow her anywhere if she only asked.

Her voice fails her again. So she nods, slowly.

And the way your smile shifts - softer, sweeter, reverent - makes her stomach flip.

“Oh, Wanda,” you murmur, voice like a promise. “The things I’d do for you... If you only asked.”

Her heart skips.

The hand you still have around her wrist begins to guide hers lower, slowly, deliberately - until it rests just above your waist. Wanda’s breath catches, her lungs refusing to function properly under the pressure of what that might mean. Her mind is racing ahead, heart in her throat, and nothing - nothing - prepares her for what you do instead.

“We’ll have time for you to lead another night,” you murmur, your voice raspy, grounding, commanding in the softest way. “Right now, I’m the one in charge.”

It’s only then that Wanda looks down to where her hand connects with yours, and the sight stops her breath entirely.

The strap, deep crimson and laced with faint magical etchings, is no longer simply something she was holding. It’s now fastened snugly to your body, the enchanted harness shimmering with scarlet runes, secured perfectly around your hips like it belonged there all along. Magic. Old, tailored magic. Magic that listens to arousal.

Her fingers twitch, then squeeze instinctively - and your body jolts forward slightly with a soft, fractured groan.

Wanda’s mouth falls open.

“I bet she didn’t teach you this trick,” you manage through your teeth, your smile strained by the pleasure that flashes visibly across your features.

Wanda doesn’t reply right away. She just releases the strap, palms sliding up to your shoulders instead - firm, grounding, trembling with adrenaline and something deeper. Her eyes lock with yours, voice low but resolute.

“Please stop talking about other people.”

And you’d agree to anything she asked in that moment.

The kiss she gives you is tentative at first, almost uncertain - like she’s afraid you’ll pull away, even though she’s the one fully dressed and you’re still barefoot and mostly naked in her bedroom. Her lips brush yours gently, a silent question.

But when she pulls back, cheeks flushed, eyes searching your face for any flicker of hesitation, you only stare at her like she’s the answer to a question you’ve been afraid to ask for centuries. You don’t need telepathy to know what she’s thinking: Am I crossing a line?

You don’t let her linger in that doubt. Your hands are already cupping her face, guiding her back to you. This time, the kiss is deeper, hungry in the way repressed feelings always are, tender in the way confessions often feel.

It’s the kind of kiss that anchors you. That rewrites the air in the room.

You lose yourselves in it for a while, long minutes of breath shared, lips parting slowly, tongues moving with lazy, reverent rhythm. Wanda's fingers twist into your hair, nails grazing your scalp in ways that make your knees threaten betrayal. And yet it’s the way her hips start pressing forward, restless and seeking friction, that truly tests your restraint.

She’s beautiful like this - messy and warm and open. Lips swollen from your mouth, skin flushed from the weight of wanting. Her whole body hums against yours.

When you finally pull back, it’s only to bury your face in the slope of her neck, placing slow, burning kisses along her collarbone, each one landing with weight. She shudders, fingers tightening around your arms. You feel her lean into you, legs weakening.

Then your fang grazes her skin - barely, a passing scrape - but Wanda’s response is immediate: a high, needy whimper that stokes something primal in you.

“You can feed,” she whispers, breath hot in your ear as she tilts her neck for you. “I don’t mind.”

You close your eyes, inhaling slowly as your grip on her waist tightens. The scent of her skin, still laced with soap and arousal, clouds your thoughts.

“I already have,” you murmur against her throat, voice hushed with restraint. “I don’t really need more tonight.”

Your tongue replaces the fang, a slow, wet stroke against her pulse point - soothing. Grounding.

But Wanda doesn’t want you grounded.

She reaches down suddenly, hand wrapping firmly around the base of the strap between you. The pressure is immediate - blinding - and the groan that rips from your chest is not subtle.

Her voice drops an octave. Confident now. Taunting even.

“I’m offering,” she says, eyes gleaming. “Don’t be rude.”

The enchantment responds at once, feeding off her arousal and yours, sending waves of stimulation back into your body. Your knees nearly buckle at the sensation, and your fingers dig into her hips just to stay steady.

The room spins slightly, heat swirling around you like smoke, thick with magic and want. You swallow hard, regaining your footing - but your fangs have already dropped, lips parting as you hover at her neck again.

There’s something sacred about the way she leans in, baring her throat to you like it’s instinct.

And something dangerous about how much you want her.

She whines sharply and low, the sound of it vibrating in your throat like a tether pulled too tight. Her back arches into you, desperate for friction, and just as your fangs sink into her neck with controlled precision, her fingers move again - this time teasing the very tip of the strap.

It’s too much. Too much.

A sharp jolt runs through you, spine tightening, and you lose your rhythm in feeding as your hips press forward on instinct. Wanda gasps, not from pain but from impact, because the two of you stumble across the room, limbs clumsy and tangled, until her back hits the wall with a dull thud.

You try. You try to keep your fangs in her skin, your lips at her throat, to hold your body in check and drink without falling apart - but she’s a natural at destruction. Her grip on the toy doesn’t loosen. She keeps moving her hand with shameless precision, masturbating you through the strap like she knows exactly what she’s doing. And maybe she does.

You’re panting against her throat now, ragged and struggling, blood thick on your tongue and arousal hotter than anything you’ve felt in decades. Her power sings under your skin, and it’s not magic, it’s her. Wanda.

She giggles - soft but wicked - and the sound is a spark to dry kindling.

“Go ahead, sweetheart,” she purrs in your ear, voice molten. “Let go.”

Your fangs scrape her skin again, unintentionally, because your whole body is shaking from how tightly you’re holding the knot low in your belly.

“I want to see the big, bad vampire break for me.”

Then her tongue flicks your earlobe, her breath warm and wet. Her hand tightens once, twice - and it’s done.

You come undone in her hand with a raw, guttural groan. Your body convulses, the force of it dragging a cry from deep in your chest. One of your hands slams against the wall for balance, the strength behind it splintering the paint, your fingers flexing as your release pulses through you hard and hot. You’re left shaking, panting, head bowed against her shoulder, clinging to her waist like she’s the only thing keeping you from burning alive.

Wanda giggles again, and it’s unfair how pleased she sounds - mischief and something softer curled around her smile. Her hand finally goes still, slick with your cum, and when she lifts her palm to look at it, her expression flickers with something curious.

“I wasn’t sure that would happen,” she says, a little breathless, a little stunned. “But I’m definitely not disappointed.”

It takes a moment for your brain to connect the dots. She's not talking about the sex. Not exactly.

Her eyes flick back to yours, questioning but hesitant. “Is it…?”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to.

Still catching your breath, you manage a nod and a rough, low reply.

“Mine. Real. Yes.” Your voice is hoarse, but steady now. “Functions like the traditional kind… if you want it to. Witches have very creative, non-male methods for building families.”

You kiss her quickly, nothing but warmth, grounding yourself, then pull back, fingers pried from the wall with effort. Cracked drywall and bruised pride. But worth it.

Wanda’s biting her lip, the implications of your words flickering behind her eyes. It makes her look so devastatingly her - intellect and feelings always working together. You use that second of distraction to inhale, gathering some of the control she just stole from you.

Not because you mind her leading. You don’t. You love it. But you're not about to let yourself lose control of your strength - not in this space. Not with her. She deserves better than unbridled force. She deserves intention.

You let the back of your knees find the bed, falling into a seated position, legs spread, arms behind you for balance.

The enchanted strap is still vibrating faintly between your thighs - hard and slick, pulsing in tune with the magic it fed off. A bit of your cum leaks down your thigh, gleaming in the soft lamplight.

You look up at her.

“Take off your clothes, darling.”

The flush that blooms over her cheeks spreads down her neck. Still, she doesn’t look away. Her hands move to the waistband of her pajama bottoms, fumbling slightly, awkward in a way that makes your stomach ache with affection.

You sigh, all heat and hunger.

“If you take too long,” you warn, “I’ll rip them off you.”

That gets her.

Wanda swallows hard, visibly trembling. She lets go, magic sparking in the air around her, and in one motion she’s out of her shorts. But her panties are still clinging to her hips when your patience runs out completely.

Your hand reaches up, fast, closing gently but firmly around her wrist. In one motion, you pull her down into your lap, chest to chest.

Centuries old. You've fought monsters, conquered cities, danced with death, and kissed gods. But nothing - nothing - compares to the feeling of Wanda Maximoff grinding into you, panting into your mouth, whispering your name like it’s holy and begging to be fucked.

Your grip on her waist tightens, enough to bruise if you weren't careful, but you’ve never been anything but careful with her. It’s hard when she’s like this, moving her hips in frantic circles, riding the enchanted strap nestled between your legs like her life depends on it.

You manage a breath, a brief second of stillness, just enough to let your mouth travel down her body. Open-mouthed kisses trace along her collarbones, then lower, tongue teasing one nipple, then the other. You suck her tits until she's trembling above you, grinding halted, too overwhelmed to do anything but shake and whimper under the weight of your mouth. Her hands dig into your hair, and her chest heaves, breaths ragged. You didn’t expect her to be this close already.

But because the strap is magically connected to her arousal, her orgasm takes you out of orbit. You don't come physically - but you feel it, the echo of it, the way the spell is designed to drag you along with her, the throbbing ache of your own desire flaring bright. Your hips jolt. You groan into her chest.

She whines, too, writhing, overwhelmed, and pretty sure she's going to combust if you don’t fuck her now.

“I need- ” she pants, trying to pull away just enough to yank off her panties, still in the way because you were too impatient before. But you grab her hips and hold her against the strap, grinding her down onto it. “I’m just - just trying to-”

You rip the fabric with a single swipe of your hand.

“Really?” she protests, glaring for a second. “Those were nice.”

But you’ve already flipped her onto her back, pinning her against the pillows. “I’ll buy you new ones,” you promise, eyes flicking down as your hands part her thighs. “I’ll buy you everything. The whole damn world if you want it.”

Wanda laughs, cheeks flushed. “God, you’re such a sweet talker.”

Scarlet sparks hum around her fingers as they tug your shirt away. Her hands hover nervously at her sides, the way they always do when she’s trying not to tremble.

“I’m not,” you murmur, gaze locked between her legs. You’re barely listening, distracted by the sight of her - dripping, swollen, aching for you. “I’m cranky. Suspicious. You just bring out the version of me worth loving.”

Her expression softens, and she reaches for you, not for a kiss, not for your hand.

No, she’s guiding you. Down, between her legs, until your fingers find her heat and sink inside with an obscene wet sound. She moans, breath hitching.

You take your time with this, one finger, slow and deliberate. Then two. Twisting, curling, finding the spot that makes her clench around you with a cry.

“I want- ”

“I know, baby.” You hush her, your voice thick. “Just stretching you first. You’ll take me easily like this.”

She mewls, hips stuttering, her hands clenching the sheets. And just as you're adjusting, the strap between your legs pulses hard - your body jerks, gasping. Wanda came again.

It’s fast, sharp - her body is too sensitive now - but it still rocks through her like a wave. Her cunt flutters around your fingers, and you don’t know how much longer you can wait.

“Please,” she begs, voice high and thin. “Please, I can’t-”

“I know, shh,” you murmur, soothing her while you line up the strap with her soaked entrance. You press the tip against her, barely nudging inside, dragging it through her slickness just to hear her whine. “You’re so ready for me. You’ve been ready.”

You try to keep teasing her, only because you can. Because centuries have taught you patience in the face of primal hunger.

But then-

Scarlet sparks push at your back, a rough shove that drives your hips forward. You sink in, deep, with a single sharp thrust.

Both of you cry out.

The strap fills her completely, pulsing with her magic, thick and hard and vibrating just enough to keep you both panting. Her heat wraps around you, squeezing like her body’s trying to keep you there forever. And you're a goner.

The bed creaks violently with each thrust. Your hips snap forward, steady and punishing. Wanda claws at your back - literal blood under her nails - but you barely feel it. She's shaking, gasping, her legs wrapped around your waist so tightly there's no air between your bodies.

You don’t relent.

Your pace is ruthless, fucking her deep, fucking her through it. The room smells like sex and magic and sweat, and your hand finds her clit mid-thrust. She sobs at the contact.

"Fuck-!" Her whole body jerks, her fourth orgasm slamming into her so hard the lights above flicker.

You falter, nearly losing rhythm, groaning against her throat. “Wanda-fuck-where should I-?”

“W-What?” she gasps, dazed.

“Should I pull out?” you manage. “Or - ”

“What?” she says again, this time angry. Offended. “Don’t you dare fucking stop, Y/N.”

Her ankles lock around you.

You don't argue. You can’t.

You slam into her, thrusting hard as your orgasm rushes through your whole body. You bury your face in her neck, a long, drawn-out groan leaving you as your hips roll forward, grinding deep inside.

The strap pulses, spilling your cum into her in thick, slow waves that make you both tremble.

Her cunt is a soaked mess around the toy, slick and clenching, and when your hips roll again just to stay grounded in her warmth, the wet noise that follows is so obscenely loud it makes her eyes roll back.

And still, she doesn’t let go of you. Doesn’t let you pull away. Her legs hold you in place, her magic curling around your spine.

You're both still struggling to breathe, lungs heavy with the weight of satisfaction, limbs warm and slack after the intensity of climax. But you fight the sleepiness clawing at your body - fight it hard - because Wanda lets out a soft, desperate whine when you try to pull away.

“I gotta pull out, sweetheart,” you murmur, biting back a groan when she clenches around the strap, undeniably on purpose. You push gently against her hips, trying to ease out of her hold.

“I don’t want you to,” she breathes, less demanding now, her voice languid and soaked in exhaustion. Her ankles have slipped from behind your back, but the longing in her tone still tugs at something primal inside you.

You laugh, quiet, honey-sweet and it makes her blush. So does the tender kiss you press just beneath her ear.

“Oh, I know you don’t, baby,” you whisper, adjusting slightly. The enchanted toy slides out of her, and you both sigh at the loss, overstimulated nerves fluttering. Your voice drops, playful but rough with restraint. “But this kind of magic runs on intention. And I’m having all sorts of unholy thoughts right now. I’d rather not knock you up by accident.”

Wanda chuckles breathily at that, but doesn’t protest further. Her body, well-fucked and trembling, is already past its limit. Even your gentlest touch now makes her flinch more than melt.

You slip the strap off with the same ease you'd show removing a coat, as though tonight - the spellbound lust, the raw confessions, the whole fucking-your-best-friend-into-the-mattress thing - was just another Thursday.

“Don’t fall asleep on me just yet, Maximoff,” you tease, catching her eyelids fluttering. Her tired smile is pure surrender. She tries to respond, but her body’s already slipping. “We made a mess, sweetheart,” you murmur, brushing her sweat-damp hair back from her face. “Don’t you want me to-”

Scarlet sparks answer you before she does, pulling you back down and holding you there, face resting on your chest, her magic clinging to your skin like a second blanket. That’s all the answer you get.

And honestly? It’s more than enough.

You settle in with her, bodies tangled, her breath steadying into your collarbone. She’s asleep within seconds.

It doesn’t take long for you to follow.

It isn’t the warmth of the sun that wakes Wanda - it’s the absence of yours.

The chill that slips into the sheets in your place is subtle but unmistakable. Still tangled in sleep, her hand stretches across the linen instinctively, searching for your body. When she finds only the faint impression of your form on the mattress, her brows knit together in a drowsy frown.

Footsteps shuffle across the wooden floor. The sound is light, familiar. The rustle of fabric follows - and something in Wanda's sleepy brain registers it as you.

"It's too damn early, Y/N," she rasps, voice rough with sleep, eyes only half-open. But she doesn’t flinch from the light bleeding through the window - because even as her voice breaks the silence, she sees you standing there, reaching up to draw the heavy curtains closed.

"I know, sweetie. That's exactly why I got up," you reply gently, not looking over your shoulder, too focused on shielding the room. "We forgot to close the curtains last night."

It takes a second - two, maybe - before her still-sleep-fogged mind catches up to the words. Vampire best friend. Sunlight. Her eyes snap fully open.

“Sorry,” she mutters, suddenly wide awake, guilt flooding her features as she tries to sit up.

But you're already crossing the now-dim room, waving off her concern with a shake of your head. “It’s alright. Didn’t get me,” you reassure her with a soft smile, and she breathes out, easing back into the pillows just as you crawl up onto the bed - and settle on her waist.

It’s a position that feels far too natural for something so new. And Wanda feels her cheeks bloom red at the thought - at how much she wants you to stay exactly like that.

"I know I promised you a day of studying," you murmur, eyes drinking her in like you haven’t seen her in years, “but I was thinking… maybe I could take you on a date instead? What do you say?”

Her answer doesn’t come in words - it comes in the small sound she makes when your lips press against hers, hungry and warm and deeply familiar. It steals her breath. She only manages a weak, dazed nod as you pull back with a teasing laugh.

You lean closer to press another kiss to her cheek, but your gaze lingers, catching sight of the scattered constellation of hickeys and bite marks blooming across her collarbone. It makes you pause, and your voice drops as you murmur, “I’ll be gentler next time. I promise.”

Wanda immediately frowns. “Don’t you dare,” she counters, and you snort at the conviction in her sleepy voice.

"Very kinky of you." You grin, and she rolls her eyes, sticking her tongue out at you like a defiant schoolgirl - except her fingers are already curling around your hips, pulling you down against her again.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” she says, gaze sharp despite the blush on her cheeks. “I know how much you like leaving your mark, Miss Vampire. The thought of showing me off must drive you crazy.”

You raise an eyebrow at her smugness, and the glint in your eye is all the warning she gets before you strike - fast, fluid, effortlessly dominant.

You pin her wrists above her head, your palms encasing her wrists like cuffs of silk and fire. She gasps, startled, and then gasps again as your hips grind into hers with calculated force.

“Oh?” you purr, low and dangerous, “You’ve been reading my mind, you naughty witch?”

She flushes, caught between embarrassment and arousal, unable - or unwilling - to deny it. Her thighs shift beneath yours, trying to find friction, but you don’t let her.

You adjust your position, sliding your thigh between hers. The slow, deliberate pressure makes Wanda moan - long and breathless - as her hips press down against you.

“Just practicing what you taught me,” she whispers, voice trembling, eyes wide with want.

“Let me teach you more, then,” you say, tone dipped in velvet, watching as she tries again to grind against you - only for you to shift back just enough to make her whimper.

“This,” you say, voice thick and sinfully sweet, “is called edging.”

Wanda's breath hitches. She opens her mouth to ask - what it is, why you’re doing it, maybe even to protest - but your lips are already back on hers, and your next words are spoken against her mouth like a spell:

“Questions are only allowed at the end of class.”

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