#like the dip at the end kind of reminds me of the tip of the crescent somehow idk
a lover's pinch | five
joel miller x f!reader
pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader
rating: explicit, 18+ minors dni
summary: you and your professor enjoy a day in new york.
warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, oral [m receiving], a smidge of cock worship, spoilers for antony and cleopatra by shakespeare lol, flirting, these fuckos kinda go on a date, prof joel is man of the arts idgaf, a tlou2 easter egg, oral [f receiving] and then oral [f receiving] again, sex acts in public, jealousy, sexting/nudes, unprotected piv sex, exhibitionism, dirty talk, light choking, overstimulation [f], pain kink, kinda dom!joel, describing men as pretty and beautiful because I LIKE IT, soft!joel.
word count: 8.3k
series masterlist | main masterlist
a lover's pinch playlist
a/n: so this whole thing is almost entirely sucking fucking and flirting, and i hope you enjoy it before we encounter angst. all credit to willy shakes for the passage from A&C that joel reads in the opening scene. thanks king for inspiring the title of this series lol xo
this is part five of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two, three, four.
Sunday.
The sound of paper rustling wakes you. Muted scrapes of page shifting against page.
Through your lashes you can see a thin reed of sun streaming in the window, flaring across the end of the bed to warm your skin. And there’s a dull ache between your legs; a rhythmic throb that dances and twists through your core, through the muscles in the inside of your thighs. The type of pain that is warm – soft in its caress, like the trail of a lover’s fingertips down your spine. A sort of remembrance, or celebration. And you welcome it eagerly; delight in the sharp reminder of how it felt to welcome his body inside yours again. The hot sting of every third second, the meticulous pulse and ache of flesh that you hope stays with you for days.
Another page turns.
You tilt your head to the side, eyes open a mere crack, and smile at the secrecy of it. At the private sincerity of this man who lies awake, sporting nothing but the thin veil of a sheet, gaze fierce and focused on an endless stream of text that raps his attention. It’s a type of heaven for him, you realise. This resting place, as calm and tranquil it is. The only weight that bears down is in the place where his wrist bends, hand coiled around the spine of a book, fingers poised, flicking impatiently against the corner of a page, begging to turn it, to see more.
You take in every ripple of muscle, every dip and curve and freckle and scar. The jut of his elbow. The hard line of his jaw. Watch pink lips part and purr as he whispers the words on the page to himself, and think about how perfect that mouth felt between your thighs.
His fingers pinch the corner of a page, pressing it down into a dog ear before he moves onto the next. You wonder what piqued his interest, what collection of words made him want to mark it, to leave a trail for himself to come back one day and remember.
You break the silence finally. “What are you reading?”
Joel flinches, glasses jolting to the tip of his nose.
“You’re awake.”
“I am,” you hum. When he stares at you for a moment you just smile, snaking a hand out from the sheet to tap the page of his book. “Tell me.”
“Shakespeare,” he murmurs, a faint blotch of red rising at the base of his neck. You want to kiss that blush—taste it. Want to know if his skin smells like you. “Antony and Cleopatra.”
“I love that one,” you yawn. “Where are you up to?”
“Act five,” he says. “Cleopatra’s big scene.”
“Will you read it to me?” you smirk.
There’s an upward shift of an eyebrow. The spark of a curious glint in his eye.
“Really?” he drawls, unimpressed.
“Please?” your smile softens into something kind, something honest.
With a sharp sigh, and a quick adjustment of his glasses, Joel begins to read.
“Give me my robe, put on my crown,” he begins slowly, as if unsure. “I have immortal longings in me: now no more. The juice of Egypt’s grape shall moist his lip: yare, yare, good Iras; quick.”
His voice is a low vibration, a honeyed sound that drifts through the air and has goosebumps raising across your skin. You watch his mouth shape the words, enamoured. Savouring every glimpse of his teeth, every slip of his tongue between them.
“Methinks I hear Antony call; I see him rouse himself to praise my noble act. I hear some mock the luck of Caesar, which the gods give men to excuse their after wrath. Husband, I come. Now to that name my courage prove my title.”
His hair is a mess. A shock of greying curls that have flattened against his scalp after a night of being pressed into his pillow, threatening to spring up again. That dull pain flares in your core again and you rub your thighs together in an attempt to quell the ache. But something stirs there—low, prowling just behind the pain. Something wet and wild that whispers his name.
“I am fire and air,” Joel continues obliviously, licking his thumb to turn the page with ease. “My other elements I give to baser life. So; have you done?”
Slowly, listening—hanging—you shift against the mattress. Allow the sheet to fall down to your stomach, exposing your breasts to the morning air. Your nipples stiffen, chest tightening as he glances at them from the corner of his eye. He pauses, mouth ajar. Swallows. Brown eyes return to the page, and he continues to read.
“Come then, and take the last warmth from my lips.”
Your hand drifts across the mattress, hidden from sight as it traverses the soft plains of the sheets, the blankets, and then the skin of his thigh. Bare, but smattered with soft hairs that tickle your palm and fingertips. Goosebumps tear across his skin and his breathing hitches; the faintest cracks in his calm façade. You surpass where you can see him hardening, fingers floating up his side to rest against his stomach. Gently, you feel across the soft slopes and curves of his tummy. Glide your finger over the dip of his belly button and smile when he clears his throat, legs shifting in a restless dance. And then your hand shifts down. Past his happy trail, past the dark curls at his base, to wrap your fingers softly around his length.
“Farewell, kind Charmian,” Joel’s voice deepens. “Iras, long farewell.”
You lower yourself on the bed, dragging the sheets with you until they rest wayward and wrinkled around his knees. Your cheek nuzzles against his thigh as you stroke him, humming in delight as his cock stiffens in your palm.
Joel sighs. “You don’t have to—”
“Keep going,” you hush, glancing up. He watches you over the top of his glasses, gaze darkening. There’s still sleep in the corners of his eyes, and it’s so soft, so domestic, it almost hurts. You look down, simpering as you admire the sight of his cock, now fully hard and leaking in your grasp.
The head is swollen, a flushed shade so reminiscent to that of his lips that you want to kiss him. But his skin is warm and smooth, like silk as you nuzzle his length against your face. Feel his wetness streak across your skin, over the closed line of your lips, the apple of your cheek. “Joel,” you urge him quietly when he still doesn’t speak.
“Have I the aspic in my lips?” His voice is hoarse when he continues; wanton, rough with sleep and desire. “Dost fall?”
You lathe soft kisses against the tip, along the vein that pulses along the side of his shaft, against the tight swell of his balls, taking your time with him. You giggle when he sucks in a sharp inhale, the muscles in his thighs tightening beneath your cheek.
“Such a pretty cock,” you whisper, swiping your fingers over his weeping head.
“Yeah?” he exhales and drops the book against his stomach, fingers reaching to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Gonna show me how much you like it?”
“Mhm,” you bat your eyelashes up at him.
Joel raises the book again, slowly, eyes unfocused and glassy but still watching—still devouring—the way your lips purse around his tip. His stomach tightens when your tongue leaves soft kitten licks against the slit, lapping at the salty precome that rests there.
“If thou and nature,” he murmurs. “Can so gently part.”
And it’s almost painful, the way he sounds. Exhalations of tragic Shakespeare mixed with soft gasps, with curses loosed beneath his breath. The occasional revered whisper of your name, spurring you on.
His free hand settles at the back of your head, thick fingers curling in your hair as your lips part to take him deeper inside your mouth. “Fuck,” he groans, hips shifting against the mattress. “That’s it, baby, god you’re good at that.”
You hum around the weight of him, stomach warming at the praise. Swirl your tongue generously around his girth, lathing saliva over his skin until it’s dripping down to his balls. You cup them gently in your palm, massage him as your lips drag to rest around his tip again, paying close attention to the way he gasps and sighs when the point of your tongue dances along the ridge at the underside of his head.
“Sensitive there?” you ask quietly, eyes flitting up to look at his face. His cheeks are flushed, eyebrows furrowed as he nods.
“S’good,” he confirms, fingers tightening in your hair as you rub that spot again. A fresh bead of precome oozes from his slit and you smile, fingers curling around his length to tap his tip against the flat of your tongue. “Jesus,” he mutters, eyelids fluttering. “Yeah, good girl.”
You shift down on him eagerly, letting the heavy weight of him slip against your tongue, inside the warmth of your mouth, until he’s pressing against the back of your throat and you can hear him moaning.
“Got the prettiest fuckin’ mouth, baby,” Joel whispers. “S’like a fuckin’ dream, seeing those lips on my cock again.”
You whimper and swallow around him. A tear squeezes out of the corner of your eye, trailing a shiny path down to your chin. In steady, measured movements, your head bobs up and down on his length, guided by the gentle press of his hand.
“Yeah,” he sighs. “Take it all, baby, yea—yes.”
You relax your throat and take him deep enough to feel your nose brush against the rough hairs at his base.
“The stroke of death is as a lover’s pinch,” he reads, the cadence of his words stilted and breathy. “Which hurts, and is desired.”
Suddenly, his hips jut upward and you gag, throat constricting around him until your eyes are wet and blurry. He tugs gently on your hair, pulling you backward until you part from him with a splutter, messy strings of saliva dangling between your swollen mouth and his cock.
“God damn,” he swipes a finger across your lower lip. “Doin’ so good, sweetheart. So so good."
You think your eyes water more at that. Sweetheart.
“I want it,” you slur, lids heavy as you make eye contact with him.
“What do you want?” he pushes, cupping your jaw in his large palm. “Tell me.”
“Want you to come in my mouth,” your face warms and you lick your lips, fingers stroking him slowly. “Want all of it.” Everything.
“Okay,” Joel soothes, and then his hand drops from your hair so he can grip himself. Gently, he glides the tip along your bottom lip, trailing his salt across the skin of your chin, your cheeks, your nose, before finally pressing the head back against your tongue. “Take it, come on. It’s yours.”
He presses between your lips, jaw tensing, and his eyes drift back to the book as you begin to move.
“Dost thou lie still?” he reads. “If thus thou vanishes, thou—Christ—thou tell’st the world.”
Your lips are tight around him, mouth sucking and moving in tandem with the strokes of your fingers, wrapped loosely around his base. Carefully, you shift to straddle his shins, forearms resting heavily against his thighs as you bring him to the brink of his orgasm. Yours.
“Fuck,” you hear him spit, and then he’s arching forward, the splay of his palm moving down the length of your spine until his fingers slip into the crevice between your ass cheeks. Gripping and squeezing the flesh there until you’re moaning too, the vibrations of your voice muddling with the wet sounds of your mouth against his cock.
It doesn’t take much longer for coherent thought to evade him, Antony and Cleopatra flung to the wayside of the bed as his broad hands cradle your head, the tip of his cock nudging the back of your throat with every thrust. Your entire body is hot, slick with sweat, the musky scent of Joel filling your nostrils with every rushed inhale. The sounds he’s making turn rougher, deeper; raspy grunts and exhales that are almost animalistic in their intensity, and then—
“Fuckin—look at me,” he bites out, and watery eyes flutter open to meet his gaze. “Need to see those pretty eyes when I fill you up.”
And fuck you’re wet. So wet that it’s seeping onto the skin of your thighs, drooling out of you as you clench around sweet sweet nothing, cunt desperate and begging to be filled again. Tightening your fingers around his cock, you drag your mouth back to suck gently around the pulsating head, and when he comes it’s with a drawn-out, laboured groan that fades into harsh mutterings of your name and fuck and so fuckin’ good at that god damnit and that’s it, swallow it all baby, it’s yours, it’s yours, it’s yours.
You pull off him with a gasp, sucking in deep desperate breaths as you fall onto your back beside him.
Soft sheets stick to the sweat on your skin, and you close your eyes, vaguely aware of how the two of you breathe in sync; a high-strung cacophony of sharp inhales and heavy exhales.
After a few quiet moments you ask, “What time is it?”
“Eighty thirty,” he answers. The mattress jostles and tilts as his large frame shifts on it.
“Probably time to start the day,” you grumble, throat raw and tired.
But you can feel hands on your waist, nudging you backward until your head is slumped amongst the soft pillows again. And when your eyes peak open Joel is getting comfortable between your legs, glasses forgotten somewhere out of sight, hands pressing your thighs into the mattress to reveal your glistening sex to him.
And he says, “No,” shaking his head slowly, near-black eyes piercing as his lips lower to meet your cunt. “Not yet.”
You were unsure, initially, whose idea it was.
Unsure of who spoke first; if you or him brought up the idea of the museum. Unsure if he mentioned the bookstore or you mentioned The Iliad. Unsure, unsure, unsure.
But as you stand on the outskirts of Central Park—showered, dressed, sure—eyes scanning the front window of the shop, the glass overflowing with newspaper cuttings and novel covers and author profiles and ads for signings – you are certain that it was him. Certain that he asked what your plans were for the day, head resting on your thigh, lips and beard still glistening with your come. Certain that you mentioned going to the museum, and that those brown eyes lit up, mouth splitting into a smile as he revealed that he had plans close by. Certain that he introduced the idea of going together.
A bell tinkles and your gaze sharpens, watching as his broad frame slips out the door with a brown paper bag tucked under his armpit. Joel ticks his head wordlessly to the side and you fall into step next to him, two sets of shoes scuffing against the pavement in a perfect rhythm.
“Can I see it?” you ask, eyes roaming curiously around the street.
“Sure,” Joel holds the bag out and you take it carefully, fingers peeling back paper so you can take a peak inside.
“The cover is beautiful,” you breathe, fingers tracing vibrant swaths of gold and red, the white lettering that spells The Iliad. You balance the spine in your palm, curious to flick through to the first page. To see the acknowledgements, her author photo, anything. And as your eyes skirt over the very first page your feet stutter to a stop, pulse increasing as you spot the black marker on the page. A messily scrawled signature.
“Joel.”
Joel says your name, pausing a few steps ahead before turning back to face you. “What’s wrong?” he frowns.
You hold up the page, brows lifted in awe. “She… how did you get a signed copy?”
“We’ve met a few times in passing,” he admits sheepishly, eyes glancing between the book and your face. “I’ve always admired her work, and she offered to set a copy aside for me here. She’s very impressive, the first woman to—”
“The first woman to publish an English translation of The Odyssey,” you interrupt. “Yeah, Joel, I know exactly who Emily Wilson is.”
“And now she’s published The Iliad,” he hums. You begin walking again, the museum in sight now. “I’m lookin’ forward to readin’ it. Especially now that I’ve heard all your thoughts about how women and men translate differently. I’m sure it’ll be on my mind as I go.”
The skin on your face prickles and tightens under his attention. You’re still smiling, a wide and satisfised flash of your teeth, when the two of you reach The Met. Still smiling when he pays for your tickets and leads you toward the Cloisters.
You wander together through the exhibit. Medieval, Bohemian, Byzantine. Jean Pucelle, Robert Campin, Tilman. You catch Joel staring at the Bust of the Virgin, one hand on his hip, knee jutted out as he admires her elegance, the tenderness with which her face was carved.
“You like her?” you tease.
His shoulders stiffen and then relax into a sort of indignant laugh.
“I like terracotta,” he smarts, reaching out to pinch your forearm. When he pulls his hand away you see his eyes dart over your shoulder – a quick glance around the room to see if anyone noticed.
“Oh of course,” you nod, a mock serious expression on your face. “Me too. Terracotta virgins.”
“You know,” he huffs, turning to face you head on. “You oughta start showin’ me a bit of respect. Where’s your reverence for an authority figure, huh?”
“Authority?” your eyes widen, smirking broadly as you take a step forward, the material of your jacket brushing against his. “And what authority might that be?”
“I could fail you,” he murmurs, glancing down at your lips. “Tell everyone you’re the worst student I ever had. Never does as she’s told, always talkin’ back.”
“Oh, Professor,” you whisper back, fingers curling around the hem of his shirt, your snark emboldened by his. “I hate to say it, but you’re not very convincing in your distaste.”
You don’t wait around to see his reaction, turning on your heel and heading into the next room. Your cheeks are sore from smiling at the end of it, eyes tired from reading, and then you reach the courtyard gardens. See the cloisters. See the Romanesque columns with their fluting grooves that lead into arches, see the vast green garden with its flowers of yellow and pink and purple. Herbs and flora border the walking paths, filling the air with the scent of thyme and rosemary, and you can’t help but grin.
“Not bad right?” Joel’s voice comes from behind you.
“Not bad at all,” you turn to smile at him. “Would’ve been cooler if they had some dinosaur bones around here though. A museum should always have a dinosaur.”
“A dinosaur,” he repeats, quietly amused. “Of course, you like dinosaurs.”
“I thought, uh,” Joel clears his throat then. Glances away for a second. “Thought you might like it here; that it might remind you of your time in Greece.”
The words make your chest go all warm and tight. He looks so handsome, so easy in the middle of it all. Dark features and broad shoulders softened by the smell of flowers.
“It does,” you nod. “A little bit.”
“What was it like?” he asks.
“Greece was…” you trail off as you remember it. White sand beaches, turquoise waters, boreks and Doric columns, seemingly endless nights spent translating sheets and sheets and sheets of ancient texts. “It was wonderful, really. I feel so lucky to have had the opportunity, and Professor Samaras was a phenomenal instructor.”
Joel nods, fingers looped and resting across his stomach as he digests your answer.
“Good,” is the response he settles on, finally. “I’m glad. You… you deserve that. You work hard, and your presentation was solid.”
And it’s been less than twenty-four hours, but those words bring you calm now, not frustration like they did last night. So you smile, and thank him, and don’t stop yourself from asking him something in return.
“Have you really never been?” you ask, eyes squinting inquisitively as you watch his face, searching the emotions that flitter across it – near impossible to decipher, as always. “You said you weren’t interested, that first night when we spoke about it… but I would’ve thought… I don’t know, maybe a semester abroad or… or a fellowship?”
“Never,” he looks away. “Always too little time, too little money, too many responsibilities.”
You nod slowly, watch him curiously. You wish you could peel back his skin and see inside of that gorgeous brain, that heart. Understand every trouble, every missed opportunity that weighs on his shoulders.
“There’s still time,” you offer. “You’ve got so much time, Joel.”
Joel looks at you and you can see in his eyes that he’s grateful for the words. See that the earnestness with which you speak brings him some kind of solace, some kind of hope.
His fingers graze the skin of your wrist, curling around it to hold you in place beside him. Your body stills, eyes training carefully on the garden; the green of the grass, the pink of the flowers that bloom amongst it all. One of his fingers searches the skin at the inside of your wrist, swiping and rubbing over the tendons and veins there until he finds where your lifeline pulses. And then he strokes that spot, a calm, meticulous glide of his fingertip, over where blood thrums and rushes inside your body.
The tickling sensation has a painful knot of want curling in your chest, but you don’t stop him. Don’t pull your hand away, don’t take a step back. And with every stroke against skin, you feel it as if it where between your thighs—the soft curling of a finger between your folds, against your clit. It feels feverish, like a steady flame that spreads across your skin, up your chest to lick at the inside of your ribcage.
“Soft,” he says, his voice low and thoughtful. “You’re so soft.” And it sounds painfully like, you’ve got so much time.
And you look at him and he knows. Your face says it all.
Says, let your hands wander wherever they like. Says, if you touched me here—now—I wouldn’t say a word, wouldn’t tell a soul. Says, everything I have to offer is yours if you could only bring yourself to take it. Says, and if your hand won’t wander, won’t stray, I’ll take it in my own and show you where to touch.
So you lead him back inside. Quiet, discreet, slipping past patrons and staff and guards until you find a bathroom. Tuck him inside and smile at the snap of the lock shifting into place behind you.
Joel’s knees meet tile with a soft thud, and dark eyes hold yours as he peels your trousers down, as he drags the slick fabric of your underwear to the side, as he presses the soft cut of his mouth between your legs. He watches you, steadfast, cheeks ablaze and pupils blown as his tongue works you open, calloused fingers holding your left thigh over his shoulder.
And after you’ve come, face pinched and hidden behind your palm, he pulls away. Skirts wet kisses down the inside of your thigh, against the shell of your kneecap, to the bruise that colours your shin.
And he whispers, “Does it hurt?” with his fingers tracing tender splotches of purple and blue.
And you whisper, “No.” with your fingers brushing the curls off his forehead.
Afterwards you walk through the park, pressing through streams of tourists and locals alike; a lively crowd that parts and flurries around the two of you as you push forward. He fields your questions about Emily Wilson, about the years he spent doing his PhD, parrying seamlessly with queries about the West coast, about your undergrad, your roommates.
The bubble doesn’t break until Joel gets the text. Cursing softly, he turns away from you, eyes focused on his screen.
“Everything okay?” you ask.
“Yeah, yes,” Joel says, fingers flying across the touch screen, typing out a response before he tucks his phone away. “I, uh, look I actually forgot that I have somethin’ I need to do tonight.”
“Sounds mysterious,” you smile, eyebrows raised expectantly. But your smile wavers when he doesn’t match your teasing, face relaxing as you wait.
“Rachel and I planned this dinner a few weeks ago,” he explains. “When we both agreed to attend the conference.”
“Oh,” you blink. “That’s nice.”
“It’s this thing we do,” Joel offers, shifting on his feet. “A tradition, I suppose. To celebrate another conference done.” And you remember, I’ve been to twenty of the damn things. His twenty to your one.
“That’s nice,” you repeat, and hold your smile when he checks his phone again.
Hold it when he tells you he should go, that he needs to get ready to meet her. Hold it when he hesitates, staring at you for a moment. Hold it when he presses a chaste kiss to the side of your head, lips meeting your temple, the weakest point of your skull, before turning to walk away from you.
Only when you’re alone do you let the smile fall.
After a lonely dinner, you find yourself back in your hotel room, thinking about Rachel.
Folding your blue dress into a neat square, and then a smaller square. Tucking it into your duffel bag, thinking about the rough sound of her laugh. The soft curve of her jaw, the sparkling greys that curl through her dark hair. You fold your underwear, pack that too, and think of her fluorescent toenails and her dangling earrings. Think of how sure she is; how intelligent, how charismatic. And then you think of yesterday – of her hand on Joel’s arm, soft fingers curling around the sleeve of his blazer, carting him around the conference. Leading him. Standing by his side, making him laugh.
And it burns, this hot feeling in your chest. Something dark green and scalding, fiery enough that you feel the need to sit on the edge of the bed and press your palm against the skin above your breast to tamp it down. Feel your heartbeat there, the rise and fall of your chest with each breath, and tell yourself that this feeling is cruel and unforgiving but that it is wrong. You lay out your clothes for the airport, wrap yourself up in the coarse hotel robe and push away the images your mind creates of them at dinner together. Push away the thought of her foot nudging his beneath the table, the thought of them sitting beside each other, thighs brushing like yours had on the bench last night. Because it’s wrong. Joel isn’t like that. Joel wouldn’t do that.
When Nora calls, you pick up on the second ring.
“How did it go?” she squeals, and you feel your shoulders relax at the sound of her voice.
“It was good,” you respond. “I feel good about it. Glad it’s over though.”
“You never answered my text—" the line crackles a little, muffling the last word of her sentence. “I was worried something bad might’ve happened.”
“Fuck,” you apologise. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that, I—I got caught up with something, I… I wasn’t looking at my phone.”
There’s a beat of silence over the phone. Another fried, crackle over the line.
“Oh you cheeky bitch,” she gasps then. “You could’ve just said you were getting some!”
“Nora—” you try, stomach dropping.
“Who the fuck was it?” she continues eagerly. You can almost picture the way her eyes would widen if she were here with you, hands clenched excitedly at her sides as she pushes for all the gory details. “Was it someone from the conference? Oh my god, was it someone from UNE?”
“No, no,” you rush, feeling an anxious heat rise in your chest. “It was just a random guy, we… I met him at a bar afterwards, it’s no one from Maine. No one from the conference.”
Another pause.
“And?” she asks finally. “How was it?”
You consider her question for a moment. Remember the way he undressed you in the dim light of his hotel room – slow, cautious. Remember the way he looked at you. Those dark brown eyes feasting over every inch of flesh, every mark, every freckle, every scar. The feeling of his hands on your breasts, his bare chest against yours as he pressed inside of you.
Quietly, earnestly, you say, “It was amazing,” and smile when she hollers down the line.
And this feeling is so much kinder, you think. The relief and the warmth that comes with being able to tell someone. To talk about him, even if you’re not really talking about him. Even if she can’t really know the truth.
You put her on speaker, still listening and laughing as she rattles off question after question. Did he go down on you? How big was he? Wait he was older?! You bitch! How old?! That’s hot. Fuck, I need to get laid.
“You really do,” you chuckle, laying down against the pillows and typing out a text to Joel.
Are you enjoying your dinner?
He replies within minutes.
Yeah, the restaurant is nice.
What are you doing?
“Hey Nora?” you interrupt. “I actually need to go.”
“Oh,” she huffs. “Alright, alright, I get it. You’re gonna go get fucked again. Good for you bitch.”
“I love you,” you laugh, already typing out a response to him. “See you tomorrow when I get home.”
Well my bags are packed, and I just tucked myself into bed
You watch the text bubble appear, disappear, and reappear over three times before it vanishes completely. Minutes go by; maybe ten, maybe fifteen, and then—
Show me.
Grinning, you loosen the tie around your robe to reveal a flash of the skin across your chest; the curve of your left breast, the peak of your nipple. Take a picture and make sure he can see your finger snagged between your lips, resting against the softness of your tongue.
For a moment you worry. Feel a spike of fear in your chest that if you send it someone else might catch a glimpse of his screen – that Rachel might see it. But then another text comes through, and you feel that fear melt into a warm pool of liquid.
I know you want to show me, sweetheart.
So you do. You click send and wait, teeth catching against the nail on your thumb.
The response is almost instant.
Jesus.
Are you wet?
You know I am
Are you touching yourself?
No
Good.
Dinner finished early. Where are you?
You send him the address of your hotel. Call the lobby and tell them to let him up. And when he arrives, you’re waiting for him on the balcony. You hear the heavy pad of his footsteps crossing the room, and then the slide of the glass door. Feel the broad span of his chest press against your back; outstretched fingers that glide around the curve of your waist to settle over your stomach.
Joel doesn’t say a word, nosing at the frizzled kinks of hair at the base of your neck. One of his hands drifts upward, fingers curling beneath the neckline of your robe, just grazing the curve of your breast. You let your eyes fall closed and think this feels like coming home. Think, if this moment could last for hours, for days, for ever, that would be enough, and I’d never ask for another thing. Think, where have I been all of my life, and why was it not here with him?
You say, “Let’s go inside,” as he touches your nipple, and feel him shake his head.
“No,” he says. Presses his hips against your ass, rough denim brushing the backs of your knees. “Want you here.”
You start to say Someone might see, but Joel pushes you forward again and your stomach presses against railing. Your eyes dart down toward the street, the road. To cars and pedestrians and tourists.
“You don’t want that?” his lips brush the side of your neck as he speaks, the softest pressure. He tugs at your robe, guiding it down past your shoulders, elbows, until it pools around your feet. “Don’t want them to see us together?”
“That’s not—” you gasp as his teeth sink into the skin of your shoulder, hot tongue gliding over already bruising flesh. “Fuck, Joel.”
He groans against your skin, lathing wet kisses past your neck to the top of your spine. His hands are on your waist and your stomach and your tits and his jeans chafe against your bare ass, zipper catching every now and then. But your mind is hazy, a blur of thoughts that can only focus on the feeling of teeth and lips, on something long and firm pressing through the material of his pants, rutting slowly against you.
“You’re hard already,” you breathe, surprised—delighted.
Joel grunts, distracted. “Been hard since you sent me that picture.”
A shaky breathes leave your lips as his hand skirts down your stomach, your hipbones, until his fingers slip past the glistening seam of your cunt – tender and swollen and aching.
“But that’s what you wanted, hmm?” he rasps. You whimper as his fingers circle over your entrance, collecting your slick and dragging it upward. A flinch rips through you when he touches your clit, the nerves fraught after being given so much attention throughout the day. “You like knowin’ how much I want you? How badly? You like that I’d leave dinner early just to come here and fuck you?”
Face on fire, you nod; caught out. And then he takes another step forward, bending you further over the railing and pressing himself against you, hard enough that you can feel his cock between your ass cheeks, denim scraping the sensitive skin there.
“That is how much I want you. All the fuckin’ time,” he says. “Get it?”
“Joel,” you stutter urgently, voice almost a squeak. Your thighs shake, knees close to buckling as his finger rubs slow circles against your clit. “S’too—fuck, Joel, it’s too sensitive.” It burns, too much – but his touch only serves to stoke the fire in your belly until it’s a roaring, raging thing, begging for more of too much.
“I know, honey,” he groans, and you think you can hear the sound of his zipper coming undone. “You sore?”
When you don’t answer immediately Joel’s fingers still, body straightening as if he’s about to stop, about to pull away.
“Don’t,” you say quickly. “Just—”
“M’not goin’ anywhere,” Joel hushes. “Does it hurt?”
You hesitate, stomach tightening when his fingers start to move again. “It’s… yeah a little, but it’s…”
“But you like it? Like it when it hurts a little?” he fills the silence, and you can hear the change in his voice. Hear how it deepens, a gravelly effect that has your cunt tightening. You cringe, turn your head to the side in the hopes that he won’t see your reaction. But he doesn’t let it slide. Of course not. “Talk to me.”
“Yeah, yes, I like it,” you admit, exhaling a relieved sigh when you hear his belt hit the ground.
“Good,” he says, and then you can feel him, hot silken skin on your own, the wet glide of his cock against your ass check.
His knuckles brush against you as he adjusts himself, and the weight of his tip at your opening is not unlike the brush of his fingers along your bruised shin. Tender, careful – the touch of someone that would never hurt you. Not unless you asked him to.
When Joel rocks his hips forward, cock splitting you open around his weight, the stretch is long and deep. A sweet, searing burn that has you balancing on the tips of your toes, mouth hanging open as you grip the railing and take it. The night air is cool against your skin, but warm hands land firm on your hips, thumbs circling and rubbing away the goosebumps there
“God,” he grunts into the hinge of your jaw, teeth nipping at the muscle there. “You’re so wet, so needy. Want this cock all the time, don’t you?”
You can only moan in response – a choked, whimper of a noise that scratches its way out of your throat as he bottoms out. His thighs are warm and thick against yours, body practically moulding itself to you as you squirm, cunt pulsing around the thick length of him.
He gives you a moment to adjust, waits to feel you relax against him, and then he’s moving. Slow, powerful thrusts that have you feeling him in your stomach, and wishing you could see his face. Wishing you could watch his nose scrunch up, his lips curl into a snarl as he fucks you. Wishing that everything you’re feeling could be reflected back to you in his face, the way it was last night.
“Thought about you all night,” he says in your ear, a dirty little confession, whispered only for you to hear. “You know how sick that is? At dinner with my colleague, my friend, and I couldn’t get this perfect cunt out of my head. S’drivin’—me—fuckin’—crazy.”
And it’s sick, it’s awful, but you feel your lips peel back, face breaking into a toothy grin at the words. That envy, that jealousy, that dark green sticky feeling - all of it for naught because you were right. Joel Miller is yours.
“Yeah?” you pant, pushing your ass back into him and smiling even wider when he grunts, blunt fingernails digging into your waist. “What were you thinking about?”
“’Bout how tight you always are,” he kisses the side of your neck, tongue flicking incessantly against the skin there. “How perfect you felt around me last night. How you take it so well.” He bites down, sucking until the skin throbs, another mark left in his wake. “How, if I can help it, I’ll never wear a condom when I fuck you again.”
You curse, head lolling back against his shoulder. The confession makes you ache. “Please,” you mutter desperately. “Joel, please.”
“Thought about fillin’ you up,” he continues eagerly. “Fuckin’ you so hard, so deep with my come that you’d feel it for days. And you’d be mine.” His hips snap forward in a particularly harsh thrust and you grunt, cringing as the railing bites into your ribs. Mine mine mine.
“I’m yours,” you moan as he fucks you, a steady smack-smack-smack sound filling the air as his hips collide with the meat of your ass, over, and over, and over again. “You know I am.”
And you want to know what he thinks of that, want to know what comes next, but the sound of laughter echoes up from the street suddenly, and you tense, eyes snapping wide open. Joel doesn’t slow down.
“Look at them,” he hushes, voice quietening some.
His hand raises to point somewhere over the balcony, but you don’t see where; eyes trained on his fingers, his skin, the blue veins that swell and pulse beneath it. Your eyes try to follow it, but you’re looking the wrong way, following the hard line of his wrist, the corded veins in his forearm, his bicep, trying desperately, shamelessly, to catch a glimpse of his face.
“I said look at them,” his voice deepens, an authoritative tone taking over as his long fingers grip your jaw, angling it down until you do as he says.
You can see three of them. Squinting, you try to make out their faces from four storeys up. Stumbling down the street, laughing loudly, bumping shoulders as they walk.
Joel’s hips press forward and you gasp, eyes rolling back as his swollen tip nudges the deepest, softest place inside of you.
“Wait,” you whisper hoarsely, body jerking forward with every practised thrust of his cock. Say again, “Someone might see.”
“I hope they do,” he growls, hand falling to drape over your neck.
His fingers press gently against either side, cradling your pulse point in the palm of his hand. Your brain goes foggy with the pressure, mind buzzing and blurring. The sensation of his broad grip against your throat mixes with the drag of his cock between your thighs and it’s intoxicating; a high that you’ve never experienced before, and never want to end. You don’t realise how loud you’re gasping, moaning, keening his name, until you hear him laugh. A rough, elated sound.
“I knew it,” he chuckles, and you tighten around him, fingers fumbling backward, seeking purchase at the soft flesh of his hips as he continues rocking into you. His hand drops from your neck to your tits, and he squeezes.
“Admit it. Admit you fuckin’ love it,” Joel pants, every word punctuated by a white-hot press of his cock and a heavy exhalation against your neck. “Dirty little thing—you want them to see. Say it.”
“Fuck,” you cry, spine arching as you push backward, meeting the movements of his hips.
“Fuckin’ say it,” he snaps, all hints of laughter gone now, his rough drawl only offset by the fond way his hands play with your tits. Careful, kind; every pinch, every squeeze, every caress a generous and tender display.
“I want it,” you blubber, sight blurring into a mess of streetlights and skyscrapers and strangers on the street. “W-want them to see how you fuck me, how you take care of me.”
“That’s it,” he groans, and you can feel the way he twitches inside of you, cock jerking against your walls in hot fast movements.
“Want them to know,” you continue, and there’s tears streaking messily down your cheeks, your lips moving faster than you can control. “Want them to see us, see how good it is, how perfect.”
And it’s too much now, you think. Finally, too much of too much. The railing is bruising against your stomach. Every stroke of his cock, every graze of your nipples – Joel’s touch akin to the end of a frayed wire, sparking and spitting embers wherever the two of you come into contact. Your cunt is on fire, every inch of sticky wet flesh throbbing and smarting.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Can feel you squeezin’ me, baby, you gonna show them how you come for me? Gonna let them hear it?”
“I can’t,” you choke out, shaking your head numbly. Yours lungs are on fire, mouth dry as you try fruitlessly to suck in breath after breath. “Fuck, I don’t think I can—”
“Hey,” his voice calls. A rough finger wipes across your cheek, smearing the salty tears further across your skin. “You can, you can, I can’t—I fuckin’ need this, need it.”
“It’s too much,” you gasp frantically. But your words aren’t matched by the desperate grind of your hips. Aren’t matched by the way you twitch and shake between him and the glass, abdomen tensing tighter tighter tighter with every thrust. “Fuck, I’m—I’m close but it’s too much, Joel, it’s too much, I can’t, I can’t—”
He pulls out quickly. You gasp wetly at the loss, at how your walls clench and suck around that empty warm space in his absence. Deft hands grip your waist, tilting and turning you until your back is against the railing now, and his mouth is between your legs, wet lips and tongue so soft in comparison, so soothing against that burn.
There’s no shying away now, no stuttering or whining – you simply melt, thigh softening around the curve of his shoulder, allowing him to hold you up as his tongue teases and coaxes you to the edge of your third mind-numbing, toe-curling orgasm that day.
And you don’t notice at first how his bicep shifts and flexes beneath your thigh. Don’t notice how he groans and sighs against your messy cunt, panting and muttering your name as he strokes his cock in tight, wet jerks. And when you come, gushing into his mouth, his eyes snap open, endless spheres of deep brown gazing up at you, desperate to see. Your legs tremble with the force of it, hands grappling for purchase on his shoulders, in his hair. And with your lips parted, tears drying on your cheeks, you watch the way his face crumples—wrecked. How eyebrows furrow and eyelids flutter shut. Joel’s mouth slips away from you, teeth sinking into the flesh of your thigh, something to ground him as he grunts, a low, ragged sound, before you feel him come in warm, thick spurts against your calf.
“Fuck,” you mumble deliriously. Can hardly hear yourself over the roar of your pulse in your ears. “So good, you’re so beautiful.”
Joel’s face is flushed, skin tinged with a deep red that settles across the highest peaks of his cheekbones and disappears into his beard. And when his eyes open again, drowsiness swimming beneath those heavy lids, you can see the way they shine. Glistening with something wet, something earnest. You thumb gently at his waterline, swiping away the tears like he’s done for you.
His lips press a chaste kiss to the pad of your thumb, tongue snaking out to lick his tear from your skin, and you think you must repeat it, So beautiful, because he smiles. Breathing heavily, eyes wet, he grins for you. A flash of white that he quickly smothers against the skin of your leg.
After catching his breath, Joel leads you inside and helps you shower. Stands outside the glass door, hand gripping your elbow to brace your shaking frame as you glide soap over your arms, down your legs. His fingers dig in firmer when you slip a hand between your thighs, whimpering as warm water streams over the sensitive skin there. He doesn’t flinch or shy away when specks of water flick out and dampen his shirt.
“You okay?” he asks as he helps you out, wrapping a towel around your shoulders.
You nod, mind still foggy, and let him rub the coarse fabric over the skin of your arms, your legs, drying you off before he tucks you back into your robe. And when he leads you back into the room, helping you carefully onto the bed, a flash of concern splits across his face. He takes a step back, a step away, until his back is brushing against the wall.
You lay down on the bed, heavy limbs splayed haphazardly across the soft blankets and pillows. Your robe is open, the tie still forgotten somewhere on the balcony, revealing the skin of your stomach, your thighs, still dotted with warm droplets of water.
And Joel's not far, not really; tucked away in the corner of the room, unsure, arms hanging listlessly by his sides as he stares. Takes in every inch of you as if it’s the first time all over again. Perhaps, as if he’s worried it will be the last.
“I should go,” he says, painfully unconvincing.
“Yeah,” you agree quietly, eyelids heavy as you stare back at him.
Your lips part in a soft yawn as you scratch languidly at the skin over your ribs, and dark eyes follow the movement of your fingers. Watch how your skin smarts and pulls beneath your fingernails until you sigh in contentment, the itch disappearing.
“You gotta be up early,” he says.
“I do.”
“And it’s late,” his eyebrows raise.
“Is it?” you smile. Raise your eyebrows in return and laugh when he sighs, hands twitching at his sides.
“Are we really doing this again?” you ask, smile slipping when you notice his frown. The twisted furrow of his brows, the curl of his upper lip. As if all of the features on his face have pinched together in the middle. Something churns in your stomach; a sick feeling that rises to lodge at the base of your throat. Waiting. “Talk to me.”
“M’tryin’,” he admits quietly. “Tryin’… tryin’ to be good. I want to be good.”
Your heart drops. And then, driven by some emotion that you can’t name, don’t want to name, it climbs its way back up, lurching forward in your chest. It claws and scrapes and tears itself out through a crack between two of your ribs, flinging itself across the room at him.
“You are good,” you whisper. Feel your bottom lip wobble, unsteady but sure. Certain of nothing but this as the words slip out. “You’re good, Joel. We are good.”
And when he smiles you think you can see it in his teeth. Little fragments of your heart; the beating core of you, dark red and macerated in the cracks of his canines, the lining of his gums.
Joel closes his eyes and repeats the word. A softly murmured, Good, as if the word itself confounds him, and you think you must be imagining the red smeared across his chin. Your blood seeping out past his lips, dribbling down to stain the skin of his neck.
“I hope you’re right.” He takes a deep, steadying breath. One that shakes the planes of his broad chest, makes it rise to its fullest potential before he sucks another in, shoulders relaxing, and walks across the room towards the bed.
Towards you.
thank you for reading! x
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✧gorgeous distraction✧
{James trying his best to study while you distract him}
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“Knock it off” James tries so hard to be serious meekly pushing your shoulder, you watch with a teasing smirk as the crease between his brows wobbles and a small chuckle escapes his supple lips, that he tries so hard to press into a thin line to show how ‘unimpressed’ he his, and he hates to admit it but you’ve got him wrapped around your pretty little finger.
James could never truly be mad at you, you’re his everything and he tells you so about ten thousand times a day, so he doesn’t mind much when you press ticklish kisses against his jaw and to that sensitive part just behind his ear, while he’s trying to study, his books splayed across your bed and he pretends to more interested in them than you.
He always gets this fleeting feeling in his chest whenever he’s around you and it flutters to his stomach leaving him all giddy inside, you drive him mad in the best way possible.
Especially when your gentle fingers play with the curly ends of his hair that sit against his neck, the way your cold knuckles graze against his warm skin, he thinks he just might end up going insane.
You giggle watching as he not so sneakily glances at you, a small smile dances on his lips, and you know he can’t keep his composure for long, “James… James, give me attention” you whisper in his ear as you continue press kisses along his jaw while your gentle fingers still twirl through his hair, with the hope that he might just put away the scattered books and paper tonight.
He wants to be stubborn, he wants to regain some kind of control over himself when it comes to you, but how can he? When you smell like home and your comforting warmth is radiating from you inviting him like a Sirens melody.
"I'll kick you out" he threatens, as you blow cold air against his ear with a giggle, while he scribbles notes down on some paper.
"It's my room, love" you remind him, your head resting against his shoulder
"That won't stop me from locking you out, Love" he smiles as you let out a huff and he thinks he's finally won, that you might have gotten bored, but he's proven otherwise.
Your hands playfully tug at the hem of his sweater nimble fingers dipping under the soft weaved fabric as they gently traverse his lower abdomen, and you feel his muscles tense under your teasing touch as he lets out a breathy giggle that borders on a gasp and you relish in the soft sound.
“Oh!— alright, enough you win, you win” he smiles picking up the old tattered books on transfiguration and chucking them carelessly, you gasp watching them skid across the old wooden floor.
“What did the poor books do to you?” You giggle as he scoffs at you, his hands pull you into his lap and your heart feels so full and loved as his gentle fingers trace mindless patterns on the top of your thighs, and you lean to press a small kiss to the tip of his nose.
his hands settle against your hips, "If I fail I'm blaming you" he says, chuckling as you feign offense with an overdramatic shocked expression.
“Not my fault you're so pretty James” you whisper, hands cupping his warm cheeks, and pride blooms in your chest at the redness that tints his cheeks, "Just completely and utterly irresistible"
He’s a blushing mess and uncontrollable toothy grin splays across his face, his lips wobble as he tries to stop it, and it makes you giggle, “Well... I got nothing on you Angel” he admits with a wink and you roll your eyes at his comment leaning down to capture his soft red lips in a loving kiss that leaves him breathless, and he never wants to let you go.
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☾⋆AN// *BOOM* I wrote this instead of my essay, hope you enjoyed lovelies! <3 {{requests are open!}}
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Don’t Touch [Gojo Satoru]
an: since I reworked Nanami’s version of this (link here), it seemed only fair to give Gojo’s drabble the same treatment.
pairings: Gojo Satoru x female reader
warnings: sensory deprivation kinda (touch), reader is a tease, Satoru gets a lil subby (barely), NSFW throughout
Masterlist
Gojo Satoru was a beautiful man, a good man but a silly one too. If you levelled a challenge at him, especially one he felt certain he would win, then nothing would prevent him from accepting your terms. Would the overconfident sorcerer ever learn?
The pout decorating his lips was simply irresistible—dewy and perfectly kiss-swollen. Celestial blue eyes blink slowly, long white lashes brushing against his blush-tinted cheeks as you dip your head to suck that delicious bottom lip into your mouth once more.
You were naked from the waist down, tormenting the man below you with each languid roll of your hips. The friction from his straining zipper was more than enough to send tiny jolts of pleasure humming throughout your body, fissures of bliss erupting along your nerve endings, but it wasn’t what he wanted, and you knew it.
Satoru’s muscles tense and bulge all at once, the tendons in his neck strain from his desire to free his hands, and he could—in a heartbeat—but his desire to please overrides it.
It’s jarring experience. An alien sensation to the powerful man that is accustomed to being entirely in control of literally everything in his life. However, the truth aches in his pounding chest, his heart beating to a new song orchestrated by the woman he loves above all others. Satoru has been turned into putty by your sheer force of will, and worst of all, he likes it…
“I can feel you wriggling ‘toru. You know the deal,” you purred whilst your fingers card into his lustrous snow-white hair, twisting until you can coil around the roots and tug. Smiling when the breath in his throat catches.
His hands were practically numb from where they lay beneath his backside and you weren’t lying, they did twitch for release. Despite his insistence that you could lock him up if you really wanted, this was an endurance test for him, and not for a pair of cheap handcuffs or the tensile strength of a tie never worn.
“You’re the one not playing fair, princess, just sink onto me already.”
You chuckled at the desperation lacing his plea, petulance invading his tone only to be schooled into some semblance of obedience at the last second. Favouring to ignore his plight, you pressed wet kisses to his bare chest, sucking love bites into his collarbone and neck only to watch them bloom into purple brilliance. Of course, you paid extra attention to his rosy nipples, flicking the perky peaks with the tip of your tongue before offering a firm tug with your teeth.
His pectorals twitched and his head flopped back against the couch, the most desperately pitiful whimpers tumbled from his mouth with little restraint. Satoru’s hips arched up to remind you of what you were currently perched upon. His poor aching cock pulsed against his thigh, desperate for attention, desperate for any kind of touch. Anything was better than being trapped behind his pants, and if he couldn’t touch you then he definitely couldn’t touch himself…
Why had he agreed to this? Why had he grinned like a deviant little devil thinking he could best you when touching you was the highlight of his day, his life? Satoru panted through the myriad of his jumbled thoughts, his mind turbulent and disarrayed. He was being denied the pleasure of caressing your curves, of detailing the little marks that made you unique. He’d willingly accepted the worst form of torture.
“Why don’t you say please, ‘toru? If you ask me nicely, I might take pity and fuck myself on your beautiful cock, hm?”
As if to emphasise the point, your weight rises from his lap only to drop back down with force. A strangled grunt pulled from the depths of his chest in response, cheeks no longer pink but ruddy and sweating.
“Princess, babycakes… love of my life, please—I need you—need you so damn bad!”
You were good on your word. Humming in appreciation of his anguished but heartfelt plea, your hands work deftly to unbuckle his belt and pull down his zipper. The damp stain coating the front of his pants was impressive, slick coaxed from your core in hot need of relief that only Satoru could give to you.
The tip of his finally freed cock was an angry purple, slit oozing pearlescent precum and very sensitive to the lightest touch. He was long, curved and so deliciously thick near the base, you could practically feel the stretch before you even moved over him to notch at your fluttering pussy.
“This what you want, Satoru?”
He didn’t know if he’d be able to keep the no touching rule going when you sheathed yourself fully, moaning directly into his ear. The itch to grasp you by the hips and teach you a lesson for teasing him so mercilessly by forcing you up and down his dick until you were the whimpering mess was rampant.
In the end, he behaved—barely.
“Ah, fuck… I-I’ll get you… shit… back for this. See how you look with… oh my god… with my blindfold tied around your wrists!”
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making a house a home
inspired by this post *:・゚✧*:・゚
pairing: hawks x gn!reader
wc: 1.3k
There’s a loneliness that clings to every surface of Keigo’s apartment. It lingers in the slight dip on one side of the couch and not the other. It stakes its claim in the one chair at his dining table that's always pulled out while the others remain unoccupied. His bed is much too big, too; cold and empty, and like so many other spots in his home, untouched on one side.
His walls are bare, save for the odd photo here and there; one frame in his bedroom, a few in the hallway, one or two on the wall in the living room. It’s a feeble attempt to prove to himself that there are people in his life, though when he racks his brain, Keigo struggles to conjure the names of anyone he considers a true friend, anyone he considers family. At the end of the day, the pictures scattered about are just that — pictures. His apartment is still empty; his heart still yearns.
Every night, with exhaustion weighing him down and a soreness in his joints, Keigo comes home to near deafening silence, to dark rooms and cold spaces. And every night, despite the ache in his ribs, he calls out a chipper, “Honey, I’m home!” A call he knows will go unanswered, like the final, resolute trill of a species on the verge of extinction.
Everything changes when he meets you.
It’s a typical morning in the middle of January, and the streets are packed despite the chill that clings to the air, despite the threat of snow, and Keigo takes the extra time to walk to the coffee place down the street from his agency instead of fly. It kills a little time, and it’s nice to let the cool air gently fill his lungs instead of whip into his face in flight.
And just as he rounds the final corner, he slams into your smaller frame. You stumble, bag toppling off your shoulder, contents spilling out and onto the sidewalk.
“Oop,” he says, steadying you on your feet before stooping down to help you collect some of your things. “Sorry about that. Wasn’t watching where I was going.”
You smile, a casual, sweet thing that makes Keigo’s face feel warm. You’re pretty. “No harm done. I wasn’t looking either.”
With the last of your stuff thrown back into your bag, you offer him one more of those pretty smiles and a kind “thank you” before you’re disappearing up the street.
Keigo lingers for a moment, watching you until you get swallowed by the crowd before he, too, turns and continues on his way. By the time he orders his coffee and his day begins in earnest, he’s forgotten all about his earlier encounter.
That is, until he’s on his lunch break. His stomach, and the ice that clings to his bones despite his jacket and thick gloves, has guided him to the nearest ramen shop, on the hunt for something warm to fill his belly. And once he’s in line, he catches sight of a familiar face — you.
“You again,” you tease, fixing him with that same, friendly grin. You lean a little closer to whisper, “Am I on some watchlist I don’t know about?”
A smirk graces his features as he ducks to whisper back conspiratorially, “Oh yeah.” He pats the pocket on the left-hand side of his coat. “Got your wanted poster right here.”
“Damn,” you mutter, lifting your free hand in mock surrender. “You got me.”
“But I’m a nice guy,” he reminds you with a resolute nod. “So I’ll at least let you eat lunch first.”
You sigh dreamily, batting your lashes at him dramatically before dropping a warm hand against his shoulder. It damn near burns a hole through his jacket, and he can feel the heat from it travel up to the tips of his ears. “You’re so kind.”
A smirk. “I try.”
The conversation lulls for only a moment as your order number gets called, and his follows shortly after. You stand shoulder to shoulder as you both scan the restaurant for an open table. It’s the lunch rush, so the place is jam-packed with patrons.
You steady your tray in a firm grip. “It looks like that’s the only table open.” Keigo follows your eyes over to a small table nestled in the corner by the window. “Do you wanna, maybe, sit together?”
Keigo knows that he should probably refuse. He can imagine the headlines and social media threads now — No. 2 Hero on a Quest for Love, Has Pro-Hero Hawks Finally Been Snatched Up? — but as he watches you shift your weight from foot to foot, eyeing him with what he can only describe as a sheepish smile, he can’t bring himself to deny you.
“Sure, lead the way.”
After that, one chance encounter leads to a dinner date one weekend and a movie date the next. Before suddenly you’re spending nights at his apartment and he’s cooking you breakfast in the morning.
It’s tough at first. Guys like him don’t usually date. They hide and work and yearn until they’ve given the universe all they have. Until there’s nothing left. Keigo’s line of work doesn’t allow him the luxury of relaxation, the comfort of being... normal. It’s a delicate balance, protecting you and spending time with you, one that takes weeks to find. But when he does, Keigo starts to feel a little less lonely. Slowly, he starts to realize just how easily you’ve wormed your way into his life, into his heart.
Your shoes fit so perfectly next to his, right by the door. You snuggle into his side on the couch, perching yourself in the chair across from his at the dinner table. Keigo finds that he sleeps so much better with you nuzzled beneath his chin, even if you try to hog the sheets. You’re occupying spaces that have never been occupied before, exploring uncharted territory.
You leave your mark on his home when your clothes start to join his in the closet, when your toothbrush sits next to his in the bathroom. You place your succulents on his windowsill and buy a fresh vase of flowers for the dining table every two weeks.
Walls that were once barren fill, and they fill quickly. “It’s sad, Keigo,” you’d told him with a pout, staring at the blank canvas that he calls his living room wall. “You deserve better than this.”
His chest floods with affection when he comes home one evening to see that you’ve set up what you call a gallery wall. A collection of different artworks and prints and photographs litter his wall, their sizes and frames varying to draw his eye to each one. They fit together like puzzle pieces.
You were right, he’d always deserved better than those barren walls, than his cold, lonely apartment. And now that you’ve shown him what warmth feels like, Keigo knows he’ll never stop clinging to it.
His favorite thing of all, though, is getting to come home to you.
“Honey, I’m home!” Keigo calls, and almost reflexively he braces for silence, one he’s grown so accustomed to, but that cursed silence never comes. Instead, the sweet, familiar sound of your voice is there to greet him.
“‘M in the kitchen!”
The smell of food wafts through the air, radiating through every corner of his apartment as Keigo approaches you. He wraps his arms around your waist and squeezes before pulling you back towards his chest.
You stop what you’re doing to lean back into his hold, curling a gentle hand under his jaw and leaning up to capture his lips with your own. When you pull away, Keigo can feel your grin against his lips. “Welcome home.”
And, oh, how his heart soars at the sound.
You’ve made his house a home, your home, and Keigo’s certain that he’ll never be able to repay you for what you’ve done for him, for how you’ve changed his life. But with you in his arms, staring up at him with adoration glimmering in your pretty eyes, Keigo decides that a gentle kiss and a soft, but earnest, “I love you” is as good a place to start as any.
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His smile is so pretty!!!!
Bite and smile
TW and tags: biting, marking, sexual content, all consensual except for the first time he bit her, oral sex (m receiving).
Comment: I just found his smile cute and quickly wrote this, probably has mistakes.
Sohee had taken a liking to biting your fingers when you were hanging out. It was soft, innocent, completely playful, his teeth would press over the pads of them, then over you knuckles, and would end leaving a little mark over your wrist that would soon dissapear.
When you left his place you would find prints of his teeth in places you didn't expect, like over your neck after he hid his face while blushing after he said how much he missed you, if he had been lying over your lap you'd find one on the side of your thigh, and if he had kissed any part of your body that wasn't your face, you'd find one there too, but it wasn't alarming, most of the times he left a mark the sensation would vanish when you arrived home and you'd quickly forget about it, only remembering the pretty smile of your boyfriend when you found the almost invisible spots.
It wasn't until you were under him one day that you realized it was more serious than what you thought. You were on your tummy, enjoying the way his hips clasped with your ass while he stretched you with his cock, already lost in the pleasure to pay attention to anything that wasn't him touching that special spot inside you, when his mouth over your shoulder brought you back to reality.
It hurt, it hurt a lot, his teeth were sinking so deep you felt his canine almost tearing apart your skin, and you hissed calling his name for him to stop. He didn't, he continued until his thrust became weaker and his dick started spurring his thick cum inside you, but even there he couldn't leave alone your shoulder, and with fluttering eyes, almost drunk with his own orgasm, he left pecks over the same spot he had marked.
It was the first time, you told him you didn't like it and he apologized. "I don't know what happened to me, I swear", he said, and you believed him, you knew your boyfriend, and he had never done something like that before, so you decided to leave the memory behind and continue with your life.
But it turned difficult no long after, he had stopped using his teeth over you, and like an addiction you hadn't realized you got, you felt the effects over you like a punch, like a person completely leaving sugar from one day to another.
When you made out if he didn't press his incisors over your plump lip you couldn't feel the same satisfaction lingering around when you left his place, going with a smile but with a bitter flavor on your tongue. When you saw your reflection in any mirror your eyes searched for non existent little reminders of your time together, and finding nothing, an uneasiness would install in the pit of your stomach, dissapointment showing over your face even in public.
You didn't like the new you, you didn't hate the image you saw, but it just wasn't you. You hadn't noticed when, but you had been wearing his marks like a badge, proudly going around with his label on places not everyone would notice at first glance, but you knew they were there and that was enough, a kind of affection not evident but that followed you around and comforted you after being together, because when they were about to dissapear, you would go back for new ones that kept you company again.
Soon, silently, you began to ask him to leave his traces over your skin again.
His length was in front of you, tall and thick, with an angry blush on the tip that enamoured you whenever you had it in front of your eyes. You were licking it, from the tip to the base, while maintaining eye contact, making him smile of how pretty you looked down there on your knees.
You gulped the remaining saliva inside your throat and dipped your head as far as you could, holding the weight of it inside your mouth and over your tongue, making him sigh with the first deep dive.
He grabbed your hair and moved it away from your face, always thinking of you, everything was sweet and loving, the eyes meeting, the smiles reciprocated between bows and the soft praises that came out of his mouth.
You continued like that, engulfing him and eyes tearing of how good he touched that place on your throat, completely happy to please him, and then, when you felt his member throbbing inside your mouth, you couldn't help but pull out, jerking it faster with your wet hand covered on mixes of your spit and his precum. His head fell back, feeling the knots forming and closer to his orgasm, he left a surprised grunt when your teeth caressed his thigh, softly nipping his skin, and before he could ask you what you were trying to do, his cock dripped his cum over your hand when you painfully pressed them.
You, looking pleased with what you got from him, instead of leaving pecks like he did, pressed the tip of your tongue over the small dent you had left.
He held your face with both hands, and after making you face him, he tried to find any clue of what your action had meant, only encountering your honeyed eyes begging for him to do something but not verbally saying what you wanted. "Do you want me to do it too?" He asked, nervous and afraid of overstepping the boundary you had brought into the relationship not long ago. When you nodded he felt a weight he didn't know was there lifted off his shoulders, because he would never tell you, but the days without being able to use his teeth on you were like torture for him. Seeing that soft skin begging for him to leave his mark but not being able to do it had started to stress him, and when he couldn't appease himself with the memory of you saying how it hurt you, he felt like the worst boyfriend in the world.
That didn't matter anymore, he had your permission, and even better, you seemed to need it.
It became rougher, everything became rougher, messier, more painful, and you loved it. When he ate your pussy he'd leave little spots on the inside of your thighs, when he fucked you his teeth would find your shoulder like a magnet, staying still until you came over his cock with the best orgasms of your life, tightening around his cock and begging for him to stay there until the last drop of his cum filled you, leaking both juices over the bed after he pulled out. It was almost animalistic, feral, and like an obsessed person you would stand in front of his mirror when he finished with you, your fingers tracing the prints over your skin, elated with his little love reminders.
"Smile" he asked one day when you were so satisfied you almost fell asleep over his chest, and in a haze of pleasure, when he put the phone in front of your face, with the flash slightly blinding you, you made a peace sign and did what he asked you, beaming with his teeth impressions all over your shoulders and chest.
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ennoshita x reader
cw: cisfem reader, intercrucal sex, fingering, shower sex, established relationship
Minors DNI banner by @/benkeibear
takes place 6 months after just the tip
“You know what I’m going to say.”
You try to play off your smile as annoyance, rolling your eyes with a shake of your head. You drop your bags by the foot of the bed and shed your coat, letting it crumple on the floor. “I’m going to take a shower. I remembered to bring conditioner this time.”
“You wouldn’t have to remember conditioner-” Ennoshita sing-speaks, watching you from his spot on the top of the mattress- “if you’d just move in.”
You exchange knowing looks. The idea makes something glimmer inside your chest, shiny and exciting. Your relationship is inching towards the year mark; moving in together is the obvious next step, especially when your lease is ending in two months.
You’re going to give in and live here, obviously.
But it’s fun to tease him.
“Hmm, nope,” you shrug, “I like my apartment.”
“I could move into your place,” Ennoshita replies too easily. He’s already prepared for bed, pajamas on and hair washed. It’s still early, but tomorrow’s a work day and he needs to be up early for the clinic.
“And commute an hour to work?” you scoff, “You’d hate that.”
He smiles with his eyes, real and true. “I’d love other parts of it.”
“Oh yeah? Like what?” you ask, “Seeing me change?”
As you shimmy your jeans past your hips Ennoshita shifts, moving ever so slightly in the corner of your vision. He tilts his head just a couple of degrees to watch you move with an uninhibited view, smiling slipping down, down, down, until his bottom lip catches between his teeth, pearly white against the deep hue of his vermilion.
“That’s one benefit.”
“Don’t look at me like that.”
His eyes crease with amusement, narrowing into half moons, sharp and hungry. “Like what?” he says, an edge of teasing on his voice as he adjusts deeper in his seat, legs spreading almost on their own as if you wordless invite you in. You step out of your pants, then strip off your shirt as well. Your underwear is the practical kind, skin tone with too much coverage, and yet he still reveres you all the same, that pearly clutch only growing tighter the more he marvels.
“Like you’re gonna eat me.”
Your boyfriend's smile only grows. “Come here and maybe I will.”
You take a delicate step backwards, hands reaching behind your own back to unclasp your bra.
“No.” You let it fall and his eyes latch on to the curve of your tits, “You come here.”
When you dip around the corner, the bed creaks with the sudden release of weight and Ennoshita is quick to follow, fingers nimbly undoing his shirt buttons as he pursues you, sure yet patient, like a wolf on the hunt. By the time you make it to the bathroom, he’s eclipsing you; his bare chest presses into yours, squishing your tits against him as he catches you in a kiss.
The physical contact between you has developed. It’s more natural now, with edges of neediness that are so sharp that you think he might break-
But he hasn’t.
Not that you’re upset. You cum more often than most of your friends, but you still find yourself craving a good hard fuck-
Especially in times like this, where you can feel his cock starting to harden against your stomach.
“I really do need a shower, Chichi,” you mumble halfheartedly.
Ennoshita chuckles at the nickname, only squeezing you tighter. His eyes sparkle under the overhead light, their color melting into the black of his pupil, endlessly dark, yet bottomless with pure affection. You’d never tell him this to his face in fear that he’d take it the wrong way, but they remind you of a cow's eyes, soft and sweet and large, with deep lower lids and thick eyelashes that sweep downwards over his iris.
“Go ahead," he says, "I’ll wash your back.”
You love him. The ooey, gooey kind that sticks to your ribs and keeps you full well into the night. It makes you a little sick to think about, like you could choke on it if you swallow the wrong way.
You let him peel the rest of your clothes from your body and you return the favor, both of you naked in the door of his bathroom and bare to each other. The tile is cold against the soles of your feet, but the rest of you is warm.
“Stop doing that,” you scold as Ennoshita departs with a kiss. He starts the tub, testing the heat with his fingertips every couple of seconds, rushing the water to heat faster.
“Doing what?” he hums.
“Being so sweet.” Steam is already starting to cling to the mirror as you both step into the tub and pull the curtain back. The warm spray pulls a sigh from both of you as you settle, facing the shower with Ennoshita to your back. He maintains a boundary, but you can feel him there, moving in the space right off of your skin, electric in anticipation it builds.
“I’m sorry," he says with no remorse in his voice. His lips brush over the nape of your neck, breath cool in contrast to the steam. "Can I make it up to you?”
You lean back, head against his shoulder, damp hair clinging to his skin as you try to see his face. The drum of water against your chest dulls your hum, steals the playful sounds in your throat as he finally touches you, pushing his hands up your sides until they are cupped under the curve of your tits. He lifts them slightly with the press of his fingers and you can feel how he swallows against you, thick with desire.
”Can I?” he asks again. His touch travels up, greedy hands squeezing and pinching at your nipples, the slickness of water gliding between your skin. “Can I make you feel good?”
You nod and press back into him to savor the soft comfort of how his hands wander. One still cups at your chest while the other dips low, fumbling to part your pussy. His middle finger curls and bumps over your clit a bit too roughly as he tries to find it, eager yet clumsy. A runnel of warm water follows his arm, the flow pleasantly warm where it moves against you and the trickle between your legs teasing.
With tentative circles, he falls into a rhythm, brushing over your hooded clit over and over as he mouths the back of your neck. The build up is slow, but there, and your hips wiggle reflexively against him when the urn becomes too much. His cock is now fully hard and nestled into the dip of your ass. It kicks in time with your whines.
“Chikara, ah-” You cling to his wrist, holding him in just the right place as heat overtakes your senses. Wantonly, you throw your foot on to the rim of the tub, knocking over bottles to give him more space to maneuver. He uses the space to stroke you more freely, in neater, cleaner motions.
“Right there, like that.” Your core tightens and you suddenly feel more empty than ever.
The longer you wait, the more ravenous for him you’ve become, your ache to be fucked almost physically painful some days.
“Move in and I’ll do this every night.” Ennoshita’s voice drips with want, “M-make you cum all you want. All you need.”
He pulls you closer. “Just say yes.”
You throw him a look. “You can’t ask now, that’s not f-air.” You squeak out the last syllable as he squeezes his other hand, grip slipping against the slick fat of your tit.
“Move in.” His teeth nips at the back of your neck, “And I’ll-” He stumbles over his words, then refocuses, voice firm, “I’ll fuck you.”
Shock stiffens your spine straight. He’s never suggested breaking his rule. Sure, you’ve skirted the line many times before, but you’ve never fully broken it. It’s his boundary to cross and, despite how much you want him, you’ve never pushed him on the issue.
“Chi-”
“I want to.” He interrupts your worry by rutting his hips into your ass, water lubing his cock as it moves between your cheeks, “Fuck, I want to.”
He readjusts and you’re greeted by the firmness of his cock, pressing through the petals of your cunt. He grips on to your hips, tight enough flesh bulges through his fingers, and drags you back across his length. With every movement, he swallows back a groan, chest high and heavy with sounds he doesn’t want you to hear. Everything between you is slick from the shower, but when you look down, the head of his dick is glazed with thicker, shinier excitement. You are still pulsing, so close to your own high, and you wonder if he can feel your pussy twitching against him.
“I think about it all the time,” he says, voice fucked past the point of recognition, “Holding you like this. Giving you what you want.”
He pulls back and pushes forward, faux-fucking you at a slow, controlled tempo. The shower provides its own lube, mixing with your own body’s excitement to ease his thrusts through the valley of your thighs.
“What you need.”
He pressed on your lower back to angle your hips forward and suddenly the sensation changes. The ridge of his cock catches against the sensitive bump of your clit, pulling another shock of pleasure from you. Each stroke makes you jump, pushing on to your heels with a whine. The rhythm is just enough for you to both get lost in it, hopelessly, aimlessly grasping for each other.
“I’m honestly obsessed with you,” he teases, throwing your own words from way back when back at you.
Tight heart builds in you with every stroke, pulling infinitely stronger until every muscle in your body is taut in anticipation.
This isn’t enough, you realize. You need just a bit more.
You bring your leg back to the ground and cross your ankles, squeezing your thighs together tight. Ennoshita chokes at the sudden sensation, hips stuttering against your ass with sharp, wet claps. The new tension means his member smushed against you and every vein and ridge and texture is apparent with each rut into the makeshift pussy your legs have formed.
“Oh, shit-” he grits out, head dropping to your shoulder and arms wrapping around you tight, locking you in place against him, “Shit-
He spills on to your thighs with a mangled sob, cock jerking with each ribbon of spend. His whole body flushes with heat, all the way down to his shaking thighs. The feel of him, the sound of him, it's insanely hot, but your stomach still sinks as your own high starts to drift away.
"Did you cum?" he asks after a moment. Ennoshita trails sweet kisses down the curve of your spine as he lets you go, cock still locked between your thighs.
You shrug, trying to reach awkwardly behind you for him. "No, but it's fine."
Ennoshita pauses. "No." He runs his fingers through the last remnants of his cum that cling to your thighs, "It's not."
Slicked fingers find their way back to you, dipping deep within your folds to roll your clit. This time, he’s more confident, playing with you faster, needier, pulling whines out of you much easier than before. The feel of his spend adds to the delight, everything about both of you just wet, wet, wet.
The position is awkward, but he still manages to reach around and work his fingers into you, pushing his cum deep inside you. The fullness gives you a tremendous release, but also stokes the fire, forcing you to want more and more- more of him, more of his cum inside you-
“Where it belongs,” he says, as if he can read your mind, and you nod in agreement. Yeah, inside you is where it belongs.
Ennoshita grinds the heel of his palm into your cunt and it’s all suddenly too much. The string inside you breaks and you cum, hard. The sensation makes you sob, pulling in air so hard that you inhale the shower stream and you immediately erupt into a coughing fit. Ennoshita laughs, incredulous.
“Are you alright?” He pats your back. You gather yourself with a sniffle, standing to face him. His dark hair is wild, half wet and smeared across his forehead as he coos with sympathy, calm smile pinned deep into his cheeks.
“You came so hard you’re crying.”
“I did not,” you retort weakly.
“Okay, okay. If you say so."
He holds his arms open for you and you shuffle into them, that shower drizzle already starting to lose its heat. You should hurry and stop running up the utility bill, but instead you linger, savoring the innocent part of skinship. Ennoshita doesn't seem to mind, occasionally dotting kisses onto your crown.
“I will, by the way,” you whisper, “Move in.”
He's unphased. You both already knew that you were going to agree. “Good.”
“Not because of the sex,” you clarify, speaking into the crook on his shoulder. “Because of the ‘you.’”
“I know." He hums to himself, throat buzzing under your touch, “Want me to wash your hair?”
You shake your head with a sigh. "Can't."
"I can't? Am I that hopeless?"
You peek up. He's watching you with those round, round eyes. "My conditioner is still in my bag, Chichi."
He laughs a bit too hard, sputtering a bit on water himself. "
"You know what i'm going to say, don't you?" His fingers tickle at your side, "If you lived here-"
"I already said yes!"
He laughs again and its musical to your ears.
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Rating: Explicit (E)
Word Count:
Notable Tags: Established Relationship, Daddy Kink, Manhandling, Clothed Sex, Rimming, Dirty Talk, Blowjob, Drinking/Tipsy, the use of the word pretty because Steve is on his way to drunk and thinks his Bunny is the prettiest thing in the whole wide world
A/N: There wasn't a doubt in my mind that this day belonged to these two. I don't normally write from the Daddy's point of view, and I've never written from 3DWD's point of view, so hopefully you can enjoy that. Thank you to my sweet sunshine, @ywecanthavenicethingsanymore for helping me work out some details. She is the expert after all. 🙇 These two are so madly in love and aren't afraid to show it, it's disgusting. Sluts! 🥰 Read on Ao3 here. Enjoy babies! 🧡
Steve is in love.
He watches from across the room as Bucky tips his head back and giggles at whatever it is that Nat says to him, swaying backwards with the force of it, Nat blessedly reaching to grab his elbow before he sends both himself and the cup in his hands tumbling to the floor. Even with the moody lighting he can see the flush of Bucky’s cheeks, the way it crawls down his neck.
Steve’s never seen someone so beautiful in his entire fucking life. How did this angel end up falling for such a sorry bastard like himself?
Bucky giggles again, Steve barely able to hear it over the blare of the music but knowing exactly how melodic it sounds from memory alone. His cock swells another fraction of the way, the very visible line of Bucky’s bare throat just begging for Steve’s mouth.
He’s been hard in his jeans for hours, stopped adjusting himself as soon as the sun went down and therefore the lights throughout Nat’s apartment. He can’t help it when his Bunny is so happy and carefree and ethereal.
Fuck, he’s so in love.
Steve is easily the oldest person at this party. The people that mill about are ones ten, fifteen years his junior, are ones from Bucky’s office, friends from college. He’s lucky he still has the love for a good party running through his blood because if he didn’t, he’d be absolutely fucked. Rarely does Steve feel his age and tonight, he almost feels like he’s creeping well into his fifties
Nat sure does know how to throw one hell of a party. When she called Steve to set it up in celebration of Bucky getting a promotion, Steve couldn’t agree fast enough.
“I know how to throw a barbeque and a block party, but I can’t say I know how to throw one worthy of this kind of celebration, kid,” he had told Nat on the phone, and she had brushed him off respectfully with a laugh.
“Don’t worry, old man— we’re gonna throw it back to college for this one, Bucky’s favorite. I’ve got it covered.”
Steve had an idea of what this meant based on what he knows about his Bunny and stories he’s told Steve about his time in school, but to see Bucky tonight, to see him so carefree and loose, has left the older man hard in his pants and soft in his chest. To see him work tirelessly to deserve praise, after going above and beyond at work to design and decorate the house of the Governor himself, to see him accept said praise— Steve is truly, madly in love.
There’s nothing more special than seeing your partner loved and appreciated. Steve is reminded of that now.
And for the hundredth time tonight, he’s reminded of how he fell head over ass for this boy, feeling that familiar zip up his spine when Bucky easily finds his gaze amongst the group, from across the room. The heat that builds in Steve’s groin is ridiculous when the younger gives him a hot, knowing look. Bucky sucked him off right before they left for the party, easily dipped to his knees and let Daddy use his throat as they shared a shower. That was mere hours ago and here Steve is aching in his jeans, insatiable for anything Bunny will gift him with.
Steve isn’t above admitting that Bunny’s looks are what easily reeled him in from the first night they met. Buck is pretty all over: pretty pink lips, pretty eyelashes that frame pretty ocean eyes, pretty and graceful fingers and thighs. Bucky will never fail to take his breath away, to make his dick hard, and if Steve witnesses Bucky accept yet another compliment from another partygoer like the way he is now, he’s going to fucking explode.
Look at how his Bunny glows.
The man who shakes Bucky’s hand stands a bit too close to him for Steve’s liking, but he makes no move to head in their direction. He trusts Bucky and he’s only a few strides away from them anyway. When a hand comes down to gently grasp Bucky’s forearm in conversation and when Bucky’s blush is visible from here, Steve almost smiles. So transparent. Steve adores that about his Bunny, how he can always tell what’s on his mind, how there’s no hiding from Daddy.
He brings the bottle in his hand up to his lips, takes a swig of it as he watches on.
This man is obviously hitting on Bucky somehow, which Steve has to admit is bold. He must not know Bucky very well, must not have been privy to the way he and Bunny rarely wander outside of reach from one another. Yeah, that’s it; this kid just isn’t observant. Steve reminds himself of that once more when the stranger doesn’t drop his hand from Bucky’s arm as he continues talking. Steve downs the last of his beer, places it loudly onto the kitchen counter.
He doesn’t like this feeling in his chest, this foriegn emotion of such caged possessiveness, the urge to claim. Bucky is his, he belongs to Bucky; never will he doubt that. It doesn’t stop his heightened attention, his urge to shake this stranger’s hand from his partner’s body.
But then Bucky is doing just that, much more politely than Steve would have. He looks up over at Steve, easily finding him without needing to look around, giving him a soft, knowing smile. Bucky is apparently not the only one that is transparent.
He then gestures towards Steve, points at him. My boyfriend, are the words that Steve thinks he sees Bucky’s lips form, and just like that the foreign feeling of possessiveness melts away and molds into something different—
Lust.
Pure, unadulterated lust.
This feels good in Steve’s chest, burns pleasantly as he watches the man look in Steve’s direction and begin to apologize. Bucky brushes his mistake off, is graceful yet again, and that’s it for Steve. He’s crossing the room in a few strides, saddling up close to his Bun with his cock throbbing against the zipper of his jeans and his insides screaming for joy that this beautiful man just so easily and publicly staked his claim on Steve himself.
“Steve, this is Brett. He—“
Steve barely looks at Brett and nods at him, gives him a curt, “How’s it goin’?” without waiting for an answer. He ensures Bucky’s hands are empty by placing the cup that is in his grasp on the counter, meets Bucky’s confused gaze with a wink before he’s bending and tossing his Bunny right over his shoulder. The copious amount of beer he’s had could be to blame for the brazen, neanderthal kind of move, but Steve wouldn’t deny someone who blamed each possessive, provider, Daddy bone in his body.
And bless his beautiful heart, Bucky’s first reaction once he’s over Steve’s shoulder is to giggle.
“God, I love you, Bun.”
“Steve, we can’t leave yet. We’re—”
“Not leavin’ yet, baby. Natasha!”
Steve works his way through each room, Bucky tossed over his broad shoulder, until he finds a hallway. A hallway inevitably leads to more bedrooms and Steve needs a bedroom for what he wants to do to his Bunny.
“Nat!”
“Steve! What are you doing! People are looking!” Bucky shouts, hands swatting at Steve’s backside, his ass. Steve chuckles knowingly, slaps his own hand up and over Bucky’s own plump rear end.
“As if you don’t want people to see your Daddy toss you over his shoulder, honey. You hush. Natasha!”
He finds her in the living room amongst a large group of party goers who are playing flip cup, a game Steve hadn’t played before tonight but was rather good at. She doesn’t look surprised in the slightest that Bucky is over his shoulder and, for some reason, he feels a bit proud of that.
“Bedroom?” Steve practically grunts. She immediately squints her eyes at him. Bucky pinches his ass once more.
“Steve…”
He starts to back away, unable to wait any longer, steps slow but pointed. Gone is his brain and in its place is the dig of his cock against his zipper.
“Natasha. Bedroom.”
“Steve, you aren’t about to—”
“I am,” he states pointedly, turning around in the direction of the hallway. “Tell me a room, woman. Or I’ll go out of my way to find yours!”
“Steven Grant! Nat, he won’t do that, he—”
“Second door on the left. You better clean up after yourselves, you animals!”
He doesn’t even bother turning on a light; he closes the door behind them, marches up to the bed, and tosses his Bunny down onto it. He can tell right away that Bucky is a bit miffed, huffing at such treatment, but Steve knows that bite in his mood is smoothed out when Steve crawls over him nice and slow, predatorily. His lips press into as many sweet bits and pieces of his Bun as he can reach, sucking on the skin over his Adam's apple, nipping at his chin.
When he reaches Bucky’s lips, he can’t help but moan, tongue running against the corner of his mouth. Feeling Bucky open up for him, his legs and his mouth and his heart, has him damn near purring in an instant.
“You’re impossible, you know that?” Bucky mumbles between kisses, his body responding to its Daddy by sending his fingers up and through Steve’s hair, his hips naturally rolling against Steve’s erection. “Just…just out here throwing me over your shoulder at a party, Steve? Really?”
“Yes, really,” Steve rumbles, emphasizing his words with a punch of his hips, drinking in Bucky’s blessedly sugary noises as his back arches beautifully into Steve’s burlier body. He can feel how hard his Bunny is beneath him, how stiff his dick is, and his mouth waters at the heady sensation of him being the reason Bucky is so hard.
“Seeing you like this, Bun, seeing you out there being the center of attention like you deserve…god, sweetheart.”
Steve can’t finish verbalizing his thoughts for the younger man, that tightness in his chest from earlier returning. He huffs into Bucky’s jaw, whines as he reaches between their bodies for the front of Bucky’s jeans. When Bucky breathes his name, that familiar dreamy edge to his tone, Steve presses his palm against Bucky’s denim clad dick. He strings together whatever thoughts he can manage before his mind is completely submerged with thoughts of pleasing his baby.
“I just…I need to make you feel good, wanna fuckin’ eat you alive. Lemme make you come, just…come on, Bun— Let Daddy make you feel good.”
“Fuck, Steve. You…you make me feel good all the time, you don’t need to—”
“Don’t gimme that shit,” Steve warns, finally able to unbutton Bucky’s jeans, shoving at the waistband of them impatiently. “Daddy knows what he wants and he wants his Bunny squealing. Now roll over, I’ll make it quick for you.”
There isn’t a sweeter sight than Bucky’s bare peach of an ass. It’s thick and juicy and unfairly round and Steve throws a proper fit if his mouth isn’t on it somehow every single goddamn day.
He doesn’t bother to take Bucky’s shoes or jeans off; he shoves his pants to his ankles and drops to his knees next to the bed in the process. He gives his briefs the same treatment, but not before pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to Bucky’s dick over the material of them, inhaling and then growling throatily. He knows how much Bun likes the deep noises he makes, how much they make him ache, so he lets out another one as he digs his teeth into the inside of one of his thighs.
“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Bucky all but moans, neck flushed and so pretty when he lets his head fall back onto the made bed. It could be blamed on the copious amounts of liquor he’s indulged in tonight, but Steve would like to think he has this great of an effect on his baby.
“Yes you can,” is all Steve says, squeezing tightly at Bucky’s hips, pulling at them as he gives himself a few seconds to take in the sight of his future meal. He leans forward with yet another hungry noise, takes the pretty pink tip of Bucky’s dick between his lips, slurps at it happily. The placement of their bodies is awkward given the rushed nature of their time in this bedroom and Steve’s impatience, and it’s only a few seconds of suction before Steve is grabbing and flipping Bucky onto his front.
Bucky moans like a slut, throaty and happy, as he always does when Daddy tosses him around and where he damn well pleases. That ache in his chest grows when he hears it, when he watches Bucky stretch out along the bed in a way that is all things feline and sensual.
This boy is in his element. Steve did this.
His dick is harder than steel in his pants.
He brings a hand down onto one of Bucky’s ass cheeks tightly, watches as it jiggles and then smacks the opposite one, digs his fingers into the cushion there.
“Show Daddy what he wants to see, c’mon,” Steve mumbles almost distractedly, pulling on the meat of Bucky’s hips eagerly. “That’s it, show Daddy where you want kisses.” He expects Bucky to tip onto all fours, for him to raise his backside up right to Daddy’s mouth, but the air is sucked right from his lungs when Bucky reaches back and spreads himself wide.
Goddamnit.
Pretty and pink and bare just like Bucky likes, just like Steve in turn adores. Steve’s mouth waters just looking at his boy’s pussy, his tight little asshole and his perfect set of balls. The way Bunny presents himself feels like an offering, temptation at its finest. But then Bucky is moving, arching his back and wiggling into position for a moment, before he’s in the most decadent and vulnerable of positions for Steve to enjoy.
Steve is in love.
“Make it messy, Daddy,” Bucky whines where he lays.
Fuck, he’s so in love.
Steve wastes no time. With a happy Daddy noise he dives in, pressing wet kiss after wet kiss to Bucky’s asshole, to his taint, down the seam of his balls. He kisses Bucky’s pussy in the way he’s been wanting to neck in a dark corner of this party all night long: open-mouthed and deep and filthy. He french kisses the little hole he’s going to fuck later as if he’s going to walk out of this room after this and drop dead, never getting the chance to do so again.
Bucky writhes where he lays, hands still holding his ass open for Daddy as he squeals. Steve takes over in an instant, shoving the younger’s hands away and cracking his palm across the meat of Bucky’s ass so he can feel it shake against his face. He squeezes and slaps and purrs against the skin of Bunny’s ass, against his pussy, his beard growing wetter by the second thanks to his enthusiasm.
“Steve…Daddy, feels so good,” Bucky slurs, words sounding luxurious, and Steve purrs, slick kisses turning into ones with suction, sucking at Bunny’s rim in the exact way that makes his toes curl. Bucky’s appreciative moan goes right to Steve’s dick, his own purr turning into a moan as well, one he makes sure to press into the hot skin of Bucky’s sac. He stops to slurp one of Bunny’s balls into his mouth, first one and then the other, lapping at his sac until Bucky’s noises begin to get breathier and shorter.
“You already close to comin’ and I’ve only had my mouth on you for two minutes?” Steve intends to chide, but his voice comes out laced with awe and appreciation.
“You weren’t joking when you…fuck, when you said you’d make it quick. It just feels too fuckin’ good, Daddy. Suck on my balls again, gimme kisses again…”
Bunny could ask Steve to do anything in that pouty, spoiled tone of voice and Daddy would do it without thought. He does exactly as Bucky asks, mouthing and lapping at Bucky’s heavy balls, giving each of them the treatment they deserve. He pulls at each of them, slurps around his mouthful and hums so that there’s no doubt in Bucky’s mind that Steve wouldn’t want to be anywhere else than between his legs.
His baby needs more though, he knows this, sees it. Bunny hangs heavy between his legs, his prick leaking and angry, ignored. He tries to rub his thighs together while still keeping himself open for Daddy’s hungry mouth, but he’s getting more and more frustrated by the second, huffing and whimpering.
Steve coos into his kisses, into the swirls of his tongue back up and around Bucky’s rim, when he reaches an arm around Bucky’s waist and closes a fist around his dick.
Bucky’s squeal is loud enough to remind Steve that they’re at a party, that even though each and every partygoer is aware that Steve pulled Bucky away from the group, it doesn’t mean he needs to drag this moment out. He brings his palm back around and spits into it before returning it to Bucky’s dick. He smears the spit around, gets him good and wet before he begins to jerk Bunny off with enthusiasm, the end goal in mind.
He flicks his wrist expertly around the tip of Bucky’s dick, earnestly strokes him from root to tip again and again, finding the rhythm of his hand in time with his mouth. He hears himself making noises, deep animalistic ones, ones that are laced with pure pleasure as he eats at Bucky’s ass and jerks him off at the same time. He can barely hear those noises over Bucky’s own though, and he pulls his head back in order to pause and appreciate them more.
He did that. He is turning his baby into a stupid, stuttering mess. He is the one that has the honor of licking Bucky’s boy pussy, of sucking on his balls, of fisting his dick. He’s watched him be fawned over all night long, has watched him receive well deserved attention. This is his baby. No one can do this to his Bunny but him.
He growls.
“I’m gonna fuck this hole later,” Steve tells him matter-of-factly, almost sounding distracted as he rubs his thumb around his puffy rim, pressing it in. “I fucked it this morning when I woke up and I’m gonna fuck it again before I go to sleep tonight.”
His groan is one he feels in his toes as he watches his Bunny’s tiny hole suck him right in, transfixed, and he can’t help but lean forward with a hum and press kisses around his digit.
“But Daddy, wan’it now. Fuck me now,” Bucky pouts beautifully and for a moment, Steve almost considers making that happen. But he can still hear the music coming from the other side of the door and he’s reminded they aren’t in their own home. He remembers that this is a party for Bucky and he’s taken the Guest of Honor away in order to eat him out.
He tightens his fist around Bucky’s dick, jerks him off without holding back to distract him from his neediness, his wants. He slurps around Bucky’s rim, removes his thumb before replacing it with his tongue, fucking it in and out of his needy hole.
“No honey, no. When Daddy comes…when Daddy drops his load in this sweet, sweet pussy, he wants it to be a fuckin’ big one. He wants his load to be one you deserve, sugar, one worthy enough of wettin’ you all up inside. Want my balls to ache for you, want—”
“Jesus fucking Christ, I’m coming. Daddy, I’m—!”
“In my mouth, come in my mouth, baby.”
Steve’s got Bucky flipped onto his back in an instant, swallowing him down to the root and moaning. One hand moves in time with his mouth, the other massages and tugs at a handful of Bucky’s balls. There are hands in his hair then, Bucky tugging at the strands in a way that makes his own achy cock throb. He only has a moment to appreciate the taste of pure Bucky on his tongue before the younger man is sobbing and shooting off down Steve’s throat.
He can feel the intensity of Bucky’s orgasm in the way he shakes, in the way his hips roll up into Steve’s face slowly. Bunny tends to be someone who is quieter when he comes, more of a wild, feral thing right up to the point of his orgasm. He pants as he spills down Steve’s throat, stomach rippling and thighs trembling as Steve drinks down everything he has to offer, down to the last salty drop.
Steve pulls back slowly when Bucky is done coming, sucking greedily at the tip of his dick before letting him fall from his mouth and swallowing the last of his come. Bunny is panting where he lays, heaving in deep, irregular breaths.Gorgeous. He bends his head and rests it on Bucky’s stomach, pursing his swollen lips and kissing him there gently.
“Holy shit, Steve,” Bucky sighs after a moment, letting out a noise that sounds like a giggle. Steve just hums, resists the temptation of crawling up into the bed with Bucky; if he did that, they’d be staying the night, and the hardness of his cock cannot be ignored.
It takes him but a minute to piece Bucky back together, to pull his briefs and his jeans up his legs. Clean up is minimal, as is discussion, and Steve is grateful for the quiet moment to pull himself together and slip back into party mode, to talk himself into ignoring his own erection. Bucky is only slightly wobbly on his feet when Steve pulls him to the door, chuckling when Bunny somehow finds the crook of Steve’s neck and begins to purr in it, greedy hand grabbing at his still-hard package through his jeans.
Slut.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, baby?”
Where Steve expects an “I love you” or a joke about pulling Bucky away from his own party, he gets a whisper of, “Can we stop and get McDonalds on the way home? I want fries.”
Oh yeah— he’s so in love.
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yee-haw!!
sub! dan hiroki x dom!reader
cw: dom!reader, sub!character, afab!reader, pegging, accidental biting (is this even a thing?), a teeny tiny bit of cum eating at the end, kind of mean reader but not really
i feel like i forgot a lot so tell me if missed something
wc: 1.7k
This has been sitting in my drafts for weeks..
Also I want to add that english isn’t my first language. This is just a fun way to waste time, when im bored but if people actually like it I can post some more of my drafts.
but yeah.. Enjoy!
“Ride me"
You said while aggressively making out with Dan on your lap. He was clawing at your still clothed upper body, making sure not to scratch you. Even though you wouldn't mind him scratching you because it would show you that you're making him feel good, and he can't get enough of you. His knees are caging your thighs with more force than you're used to. He is so fucking desperate.
"y/n, please. You know-"
"Try at least?" You uttered with both of your hands resting on the side of his face to direct his lust-filled eyes to yours. You're well aware that Dan is very much a pillow princess and prefers for you to do all the work but you just can't help but want to see how he'll look completely crumbled just by the thought alone of having to put any effort into receiving pleasure. It's not fair to him, and you know it.
But when have you ever been fair?
"I- alright, sure then. Hand me the lube!" he voiced assertively while shaking his head to free himself from your hold and opening his hand for you to place the lube in. After you did that, he grasped the bottle with a tight grasp. Open's it and pours some of the thick liquid onto his fingers and guides them to his hole.
"You know I can help with that," you get ahold of his waist, gracefully dipping every one of your fingers into his side to hear his little wince.
"No! I want to do this alone"
Dan just knew that if he let you touch him already, he would fold too quickly for his liking. He doesn't want to cum too early as he doesn't want to disappoint you. Two slow fingers ease up his hole in and out. Slight moans escape his lips as he is fingering himself, trying to loosen up for you. He bites his bottom lip and flops his forehead on your shoulder trying to hide his face from you while his unoccupied hand is still clutching your shoulder tight.
"You're doing so good for me, Dan," you whispered while snaking a hand up his nape and keeping it tangled in his hair.
You can feel him shiver at your remark. He was always so weak when it came to getting praised by you. He wants you to do the fingering so bad, but then it'll all be over so soon. He bites his bottom lip harder to get over this pathetic want he is feeling. He adds another finger, now three fingers fucking himself without many difficulties.
"Ok, I think I'm ready for you," Dan raises his head to meet your eyes and guides his fingers out of his hole. He repositions his hips on your lap from all the squirming he had done. (The strap was already attached to you and all)
"Let me just remind you… I won't be doing anything, ok? I want you to do all the work, and I want you to come just like that, are we understood?" Dead silence and a face of disbelief from Dan meet you.
"I said, are we understood?" You repeat.
"What- yes sure of course…" he answered startled.
"You can back out anytime you know the safe word, right?"
"Yea but I want to try"
"Ok, then put it inside"
His hand took hold of the length. It wasn't an unfamiliar length, he's very well acquainted with it, but now the length and the girth seemed to be somewhat scary from this new perspective. After a few lazy meaningless strokes to waste time, he lowered himself on the strap and felt like that alone drained all of his energy for the entire night. The overwhelming rush of pleasure nearly knocked him over as he bottomed out, feeling the tip reach places no other strap or dildo had hit before. Both of your hands were resting on your sides, nowhere near his body, and it frustrated Dan so much.
He reached out for your hand and tried to place it on his hip. But you quickly removed your hand and left him shocked.
"I said no, Dan," you said sternly.
"It's just your hand, please"
The way the frustration is leaking from his voice makes you feel so hot in your abdomen. He craved your physical touch and attention so much. And this feeling of being needed that desperately just did something to you.
"I don't like repeating myself and you know it. And stop sitting on my dick without moving. Won't you get on with it already?"
With that, he hides his face again by letting his forehead fall into the crook of your neck. With his hand on your shoulder again.
"Move"
You can feel his body gradually heating up from being so flustered. His hips move up with the perfect back arch you could have the pleasure of witnessing. Him sticking his ass out like this, seeing him show off, made you feel lightheaded. You had to physically refrain from touching his mole right above his left ass cheek. He is so gorgeous, and you try to make sure that he knows that every day by complimenting and praising him. You were dying to touch him with such insatiability, and it wasn't fair because this was supposed to be a hard thing for him but not for you. So why is it so hard to keep your hands off his hot and warm-blushing body?
Moans and whimpers are the only things audible aside from his exaggerated sighs to show you that he can't do it anymore. A rapid up and down motion are what his goal was, but it never feels the way it is supposed to feel.
With a pleading look, he tries to persuade you into forgetting the whole "not touching him and making him cum on his own by riding" thing.
You didn't say anything at all. A cold stare-down is the only thing you give him while you have to do everything in your power to stand your ground and not fumble and keep up the facade. Dan continues to bounce on your dick, hands, and arms slinging to your neck in a tight embrace to keep you close while he fucks himself on you. The clapping sound by now turned into a pleasant melody in your ears.
"Fuck, I'm so fucking close,"
"Yes, yes, just keep going,"
"I can't. I just can't cum like this y/n, please,"
Dan uses his hand to direct your face to his.
"Just turn me around and fuck me hard, please. I can't cum like this"
Your continuous hard stare is what brought him to frustration and tears. He kept bouncing, trying to reach his climax, but it simply would not come. His legs were shaking, and he couldn't stop spasming like crazy. What is he supposed to do?
His face inches closer to yours and connects his lips with yours, exposing his crimson flushed face to make you fold and give him what he wants.
What he needs.
Both of you fall back down to the mattress after Dan purposely put pressure on your upper body. You reciprocate the kiss with great pleasure but try to hold back on touching him. Just his cheeks, you say. Your hands rise to his cheeks, holding them gently while crashing your tongue into his mouth, muffling all his pathetic moans from the strap still ramming his insides. Dan moves his head away to grasp some air and speak his mind.
"y/n, I mean it. I can't come like this. I have been trying, please help me. Please-"
You turn him around with his back hitting the mattress and you kneeling in-between his spread legs. He couldn't even say a word and just clung his arms around your neck for another hug and not to hide his excessive blush from you.
One hand of his is placed on the back of your skull keeping your head down while you push your dick into him again, fucking him desperately.
You finally touch him! You roam your hands all over his hips and waist and gradually go up his arched spine while still maintaining a steady pace.
Tears in his eyes start to pool up again, and his inability to keep his mouth closed because of the pleasure makes his face look so arousing.
"Fuck, oh my! That's it! You're-" he came hard, and a lot while muffling his screaming by biting hard in your flesh right above your collarbone which had you wince in pain.
"Ow, Dan! What the actual fuck!" You shout, pushing him off you out of reflex. Your right hand comes flying to the wounded mark on your shoulder as if it was bleeding and you were in desperate need to stop it.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry…" he was so out of it. His whole stomach and chest had splatters of cum on them, reflecting light from around the room as he inhaled and exhaled rapidly. He didn't hold back, did he, you thought.
"I would have been screaming way too loud. I just didn't-"
"What do you mean? You live so secludedly up here. No one would have heard you 'screaming'"
You touch his stomach with your index and your middle finger and go further north gathering his cum in the process.
"you just wanted to bite me, didn't you", you giggled.
"No, no i swear-"
"Open your mouth!"
Without any protest, he opened his mouth welcoming your cum coated fingers. He closed his eyes, enjoying every drop of it. And here you thought it could have been some kind of punishment for him.
He tremored, still overwhelmed by the intense orgasm he had.
"l'm sorry for biting you," he repeatedly murmured.
"Shh it's ok, it's ok,"
It wasn't ok. You now have a big bite mark above your collarbone. How are you going to explain that if someone sees it?
But just the way he's laying there completely exhausted and tired from going so rough at it makes you smile in triumph. You hate to admit it, but Dan might be your biggest weakness. You can't stay mad at him for too long. Whatever it is.
You keep this sadistic smile until you stand up.
"Wait! Where are you going?" He asked desperately.
"Hey, I'm just getting a wet towel. I don't really want all this cum on your body to dry, you know.."
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Nightly Visitor
Fandom: Haikyuu
Paring: Incubus!Asahi X Fem!Reader
Summary: you finally meet the Incubus who has been haunting your dreams for nights.
Warnings: Minors DNI, No Beta, Dark content(non/dub-con)
Tags: spells/enchantments, fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, praise kind, creampie
Word Count: 2k
You've been having this reoccurring dream. All you recall from the dream is a voice telling you, "M'sorry, so sorry." and cumming hard. So hard that you sometimes wake up mid-orgasm. The dreams leave you spent. Even though you've been falling asleep early you still wake up drained. It's gotten so bad that you now lay in bed wondering why even bother trying to fall asleep.
You feel the bed dip and God dammit you just want one night of sleep-wait
You bolt upright now more awake than ever. At the end of your bed, there is a man frozen in place like a scared deer caught in the headlight. Though maybe a sheep would be a better comparison as his dark honey-colored horns remind you of one. Those horns that spiral from his soft hair should be what you are most concerned about. They aren't natural but neither is the size of this man's cock.
You had caught him just as he was crawling into your bed; one knee pressing into the mattress and his opposite foot still planted firmly on the ground. Though as soon as you bottled up in bed, he threw his hand up.
"M'sorry! I'm so sorry I-I thought you were already asleep.
You stare at the man in all his naked glory slacked jaw. That was the voice. The one you had been hearing from your dream night after night. This too should be more of a pressing matter than the erection between the man's legs. It curves to the side under its own weight. A bead of clear precum drools from the tip and your eyes follow it down where it makes a dark stain on your duvet. Oh my god, nothing had even happened and the man- what he even human? Looked like he was about to bust.
“What are you?” the question slips from your lip in your stupor. Really how were you so hung up on a dick when there was a naked man with horns in your bedroom?
“My name’s Asahi. I ‘m an incubus; a demon who feeds off of sexual energy,” he supplies then goes back to crawling onto your bed. “And I am so hungry.”
No, you should say no. You should be screaming and pushing the sex demon away, of your bed, out of your house, out of your life he has disrupted with his nightly visits. But Asahi is so much bigger than you. It is so easy for him to push you back down onto the bed while the shock is still fresh in your system. Now that he’s fully on top of you, trapping your waist under his weight and caging you between his arms on either side of you, there is nothing that you can do but plead to the demon to spare you for just one night.
“Pl-please leave me alone. I can’t do this another night.”
“Nonono, you totally can. I know you can. That’s why I keep coming back to you,” Asahi reassures.
Something is happening. As the demon cups your cheek in one of his big hands, he gives you a soft smile. Your mind gets foggy as soon as the warmth from the palm of his hand seeps into your skin. There is a heat that spreads across your body that no matter how much you squirm won’t go away. You hear yourself moan which seems to put the nervous demon at ease.
“See how good you are for me. Falling under my spell so easily like such a good girl.”
There’s this tiny part of you that knows you should be scared but hearing that deep voice call you a good girl makes you want to melt. And you do. You essentially become puddy under the demon’s hands. Asahi peels back your covers. Admires how little that tank top and cotton shorts cover-up. You can only whimper as the demon strips you out of what little clothes you wore to bed. He takes his time with this part of his nightly ritual. He loves the way that his fingers dip into the supple fat of your thigh and how your tits feel squeezed in his hands.
The fog starts to clear from your mind when Asahi’s hands remove themselves from your body momentarily. In this moment of clarity, you try to escape. Flipping yourself over onto your stomach you scramble to crawl away. The demon’s quick to grab your hips and pin them to the bed. Feeling the weeping tip of his cock slide against the small of your back you let out another one of those whimpers that sounds about as close to heaven as Asahi is ever going to get.
“Please don’t try and run from me,” Asahi’s tight voice makes the warming sound more like he’s begging.” That’s just goanna excite me more and I’m trying so hard to go easy on you.”
You can’t seem to think of any sort of reply or retort. Not even another attempt at pleading to the incubus to just leave you alone. With his hands on you once more your mind fogs back up.
Everything feels hot. Your skin, Asahi’s hands as they pull at your hips up so that your ass is up in the air, each breath you take, especially between your legs. That’s where you feel it the worst. Asahi’s form leans over you and even the new proximity feels hot. You think that this is it. He’s going to take you again. He’s going to leave you so fucked out you won’t be able to get out of bed tomorrow morning.
What he does instead is grab one of your pillows and slips it under you. Asahi is a demon but he's a monster. Ok, maybe a little since he has you trapped under him and his spell. You barely have time to register the kind act because in the next moment he is slipping his hand between your thighs and running his fingers along your folds.
You almost sob. You were so wet that the demon has no problem slipping two fingers inside you. You didn't think the unwanted touch would feel so good. Relief and pleasure wash over your body. In the wake of the feeling, you find yourself wanting more. You need more. There’s still some small part of sanity somewhere inside telling you that this isn’t consensual and asking about a condom, but it can’t stop your hips from rocking back against Asahi’s fingers.
“That’s a good girl,” the demon purrs. A delighted moan follows when he feels you squeeze around his fingers.
You look at the duvet clenched in your fists. Ashamed that Asahi doesn't have to do any of the work because you’re fucking yourself on his fingers.
Then Asahi adds another then a fourth, and you've lost. Everything feels too good. You’re too far gone for any common sense to reach you. If this was bad, then why did it feel so good? If it wasn’t consensual then why were you the doing the work?
There's a string of slickness when Asahi pulls his fingers away. He can't have you cumming yet. Asahi needs you to cum on his cock. He's so hungry his mouth is watering as he lines himself up to your empty hole.
Asahi enters you with one swift movement of his hips. Both of you moan. You are so tight, and you can’t understand how he fits so snuggly inside you. You can’t even move your hips anymore because of the grip the incubus has on them, but you so desperately want him to move.
“Please,” you’re begging in a much different tone now, “Need you to move. Please Asahi, I need you to fuck me. Need to cum so bad.”
You can’t see the giddy smile that crosses the demons. This is why he can’t stay away from you. With just a little charm you fall right under his spell with no fight. You may say and act as if you don't want him. But if the hat were really the case, he would have to put in a lot more work to put you under his spell.
Asahi begins thrusting his hips and hisses,” Fuuuck, fuck, you always feel so good around my cock y/n. “
He knows that he won't last long. He never does and that’s fine because you don't either. The energy is already coming off you and waves and it’s so delicious.
You hug the pillow under you and spread your knees more. You can't tell if the moans you hear are from your own mouth or from Asahi’s. All that’s on your mind is the surprise and shock that you're already cumming. Asahi hunches over your body, struggling to keep his rhythm as you wall repeatedly squeeze his cock.
He babbles praise after praise about how good you are to him. He can’t imagine any other human who can milk him like you can. And he can’t get enough of it.
The world blurs and suddenly you are on your back. Asahi’s big hands lift your thighs up and press them to your chest.
“Wait Asahhh~”, you throw your head back.
The incubus wasn't going to give you a break. He doesn't even care how embarrassing the sloppily sounds of his cum being fucked back into you are. Asahi loves everything about you right now. The sloppy sounds your cunt is making when he thrusts back in and how you’re doing such a poor job at hiding your red face. Turing your head and trying to smother it into the comforter while your hands are too busy clingy to the incubus’ shoulders.
“No, “Asahi wines. “Don't hide such a pretty face from me. I know you never remember and that’s ok because I know you love it when to tell you about the pretty faces you make while I’m fucking you. “
And you do. The praise makes you practically melt into the bed. Asahi knows you better than you know yourself. Visiting you nearly every night had made him keenly aware of what made you come undone beneath him. Rolling his hips a certain way. Letting you know how good you are making him feel over and over. He was never good at staying quiet in the first place and you love it when he a moaning mess.
“That’s its y/n, yes~ cum all over my cock. Just like that, so good.” Asahi’s cum spills into your squelching pussy. This time there is so much that you feel leak out down the crack of your ass.
And as much as the incubus would like to sit back and admire the mess, he’s still so hungry. He is definitely a demon because no human can keep going like him or cum as much. At the rate, things are going the demon's going to fuck you raw, and much to your horror you want him to.
“Fuck, your so fucking perfect y/n. Makes me want to keep you forever as my little pet-” Asha gasps when you clench down around him. “Oh, you like that idea?”
Of course, you do, and Asahi knows you do because he fantasizes about it out loud every time, he visits you. This just might be the first time you remember it.
“Put a cute color around you and keep you with me in the demon realm. You’d have nothing to worry about but satiating my hunger. I’d dress you in nothing but pretty and soft lingerie. Occasional share you with my friends Show them how much a of good girl you can be oh Fuck, just like that y/n, keep squeezing me just like. Keep losing yourself in pleasure. So delicious.”
Your head is so muddled and lost. You're faintly aware of the drool dribbling across your cheek. You can’t believe you going to cum again? How many would this make? How long had it been since the last time you orgasmed? Surely not that long. Would you survive these back-to-back orgasms? You can. You have to. If you wanted to be Asahi’s good little pet, you’ll learn how to give him one orgasm after the other. As many as he wants.
The sad truth is that Asahi knows he can never have you. You would never survive in the demon realm. Too many demons would want such a sweet mortal like you. So, he has to be satisfied with coming back to you every night and fucking until his hunger is bearable or you wake up. Or now that you've seen him awake until you pass out.
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Hello!! I saw your post about sagau and if you want could you do sagau Xiao smut? If you’re i’ve read the rules but if you’re uncomfortable with this please ignore!! Please take care and thank you💓
yes I do smut! I’m a little scared though because it’s been a while since I wrote smut and I’m kind of bad at it, plus I don’t rlly do sub!reader, mostly sub!character, I should put that in my rules.
MINORS DONT INTERACT. 18+ ONLY.
GENTLY
honey’s notes: lowkey excited because I haven’t written smut in a while and I want to familiarize myself, i kind of want my writing to be extendable and i think this is a good way to start!
no tags! don’t want to tag people who may not want to see content like this!
recommended song: i was never there - the weeknd.
[content warning: sub!xiao, dom!gn!reader, mostly service top!reader. Xiao getting a blowjob basically, I will try my best to keep it as gender neutral as possible. a little light choking, worship, HANDS. am a hand lover, xiao has a praise kink. this kinda reminds me of a fic i read once haha.]
Xiao had no idea how he ended up under you, your gaze hypnotizing him, a muffled whimper leaves his lips, your hands slowly running themselves down his toned body, his shirt was long discarded somewhere on the floor of your bedroom, he tries to remember what led up to this moment.
oh yes, he was..called to your bedroom, on urgent business, he had thought something had happened, as soon as his name left your lips, he’d appear in your bedroom, looking up at him with an unknown look in your eyes. Almost, angry? But he had just arrived, has he done something.
And suddenly he’s against your dresser, you’re kneeled in front of him, as if worshipping him. “your highness- ah!” Light scratches from your nails makes him jump, you could see red lines start to form down his stomach, you knew all those fanfiction you read about him back in your world wasn’t lying, Xiao’s skin was milky, smooth and soft.
Standing up from the floor, his eyes still on you, your hands were on both sides of his figure, red covered his face as you slowly closed the gap between him and you, it was expected that xiao’s lips were really soft, despite being a servant to morax his whole life, he knew how to give a kiss, and he loves it, he started gaining confidence in his hands, both of them gripping your wrists.
He started pushing you to your bed, you let him, falling into the bed a few steps later, you part away from him, a small string of saliva follows your lips as you glance at xiao’s amber eyes, seeing them fill with love and adoration. “This..your highness..you want this?..you want..me?..” xiao mumbles into your hand, pulling it to his lips to flutter kisses onto the tips of your fingers.
“I wouldn’t of called you if I didn’t.” You whispered back, a small whine left xiao’s lips as he dipped back down, capturing your lips, desperate, he tugs on your button up, a silent plea to remove it. You, not wanting to upset the Adeptus, you gladly do as he asked, Xiao’s breath hitched, he took you in, you were definitely divine. He wonders what he could’ve done to let him touch you like this, he, a tainted demon, touching such an angelic thing. He could’ve never imagined it.
“It’s okay, xiao, relax. I want to take care of you.” You mumbled against him, letting him fall into your bed himself, resting up on his elbows, watching you undress him lovingly. Embarrassed, Xiao looks away, a hand over the lower half of his face. He jolts from the way you let a finger trail down to his…oh he doesn’t want to say. This is embarrassing he thinks.
Your thumb runs over his tip, Xiao’s hands momentarily grip the sheet, you slid your hand slowly, feeling xiao’s cock harden in your hand makes you smile, nuzzling your face into his neck, kissing down to his collarbones. Xiao let’s his silent pants slip from his lips as he glances at your hand pumping him slowly.
You part from his neck as he looks at you, Xiao’s eyes were lidded, he could barely see you from his vision, your hand sent electric shocks to his body, almost making him buck his hips up to meet your hand. “I…hngh..” xiao tries to speak, but his mind’s too focused on the pleasure you’re causing him.
“haah…wait..please wait..” Xiao pants out, a coil in his stomach starts to form, You stayed silent during this moment, silently admiring Xiao’s concentrated face, as he tries not to cum so quickly.
You hum, as you fasten your pace, a surprised moan leaving Xiao’s mouth. He unknowingly bucks his hips up to your hand, trying to earn more friction. You get off from the bed, positioning yourself at the end instead.
Xiao felt the dip of the bed from your movements, opening his eyes momentarily to see what you were planning, before he could look down, he felt your tongue on his tip, “ah! hah!-huh?…” a garble of surprised sounds leave Xiao. Your lips wrap around his cock, looking up at his reactions, seeing him clench his fists and shut his eyes tight.
You left his cock with a pop. Trailing small kisses down his shaft, your free hand fondled his balls and xiao couldn’t stop his moans from leaving him, even if he would cover his mouth with the back of his hands, his whimpers and moans would only come out muffled. “Please..” a plea suddenly leaves Xiao’s lips.
“hm?..” you want to hear xiao beg for his release, too much of an opportunity for you. “Please let me, I want to..” xiao seems to struggle with what he wants to ask, grumbling the end of his sentence. You decide to tease him a little. “you want to what?.. I don’t know what you could possibly want, Xiao.” You mock, a small chuckle coming from you as xiao continues bucking his hips up to meet your hand.
“I want to cum, oh please!” He finally exclaims, his hands held the bed sheets once again, his fingers holding the white sheets on a death grip. Xiao’s hair decorated your bed perfectly, his hair scattered in all the right way. You smile, prompting your hand to pump faster, holding his balls in your free hand, watching xiao squirm even more.
His moans unknowingly get louder and desperate, signalling he’s close. You stood up from the end of the bed, sitting on the end of the bed and dipping down, to pull Xiao Into another kiss. That seemed to tip him over as he erratically bucked his hips up, his cum spurting out from his cock and coating your hand with his semen.
“Aah! Hnngh!…hah-ha!” Xiao squirms uncontrollably as you let him ride out his high, pumping and slowing down only until he falls limp against the bed, his head facing the side, a small sheen of sweat covering his forehead.
“You did so well Xiao, my acolyte. My beloved.” You praised him, reaching over him to your bedside table where, a table cloth was sat neatly folded, you grabbed your bottle of water, pouring a bit onto the cloth before wiping your hand.
“Thank you..” Xiao mumbles, loud enough for you to hear, you were preoccupied with gently wiping Xiao’s cum off of him, being careful and gentle not to overstimulate the poor adeptus. A satisfied rumble leaves Xiao’s chest as you helped him into your bed, needing some good cuddles from him to end your day with.
You lay beside him as he clutches your wrist in a protective way, unbeknownst to you. A certain archon has been eavesdropping on you, trying to keep his moans in as his knees buckle from his..little problem.
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☁ The Sound of your Loneliness ☁
Yuta Okkotsu x Reader
Cw: ages 18+, Minors do not interact. Depiction of depression and poor mental health. Probably bad coping tactics.
The familiar click of the apartment door alerts you that Yuta’s back home from his mission. When he walks in, you’re on the couch completely covered by a blanket. You can feel his presence staring at you before he walks over and lifts the blanket up. Your eyes are devoid, and heavy. He knows that look. He could recognize it anywhere.
“Shit” he murmurs, hand drifting across your cheek. “It’s one of those days?”
All you can do is shrug your shoulder and that’s all the affirmation he needs. “Come on, angel. Let me at least bring you to the room.” He bends down and picks you up off the couch, you barely have enough energy to wrap your arm around his neck. One arm hangs limply, and hits Yuta’s abdomen as he jostles you into the bedroom.
He lays down on his side of the bed, dropping you on top of him. Your eyes shift closed again and he begins to rub up and down your body. Trying desperately to bring back any kind of feeling to you.
Yuta’s fingers drift across your arm till he’s slotted his fingers around your wrist. Gently picking up your slack limb, he brings it to his lips, placing a chaste kiss on the veins that pulse lightly. He then brings your fingers to the top of his head, forcibly giving you a way to ground yourself. Slowly, you begin to play with strands of his bangs. Twirling them around your fingers, tugging at them to remind yourself that he’s real. That Yuta is here. With you.
Although this feeling was something he was familiar with, dealing with his own bouts of depression at times, it was much different when it came to you. Usually when Yuta was feeling down, it was situational. You just had to kick his ass to get him out of his downward spiral of thinking. But you required a more subtle approach. He had to be delicate. One wrong word, one poorly put phrase, and he could trigger your mind even further. It was difficult, absolutely. But he refused to lose you to it. He cared too much, loved you too much. Above anything, he just wanted to see the light in your eyes again.
“I don’t want to feel like this anymore, Yuu.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “It’s getting to be too much.” The words crack at the end of your sentence and he can feel the tremors starting in your fingertips.
“I know, baby. I’ve got you though. You’re safe here.” It's obvious that he doesn’t know what else to say to bring you back. His hands that have lightly been massaging your back all this time, have now come up to frame your face. He angles it slightly so he can see the dip of your eyelashes and the ennui lathered over your visage. It’s like a dream where the stillness is suffocating and the memories of what you used to be drive you mad.
Yuta chokes on his words. The sound of your loneliness is clear across the plains of your face, despite his physical presence pressed against yours. “You gotta come back to me, angel” He murmurs. “I can’t let you drift off anymore, you’ve gotta come back.”
He grabs your chin with the tips of his fingers and tilts your head up even more so that your eyes are even with his. He looks into them, and sees how unfocused and lifeless they are. He’s worried, but he can’t let you know that. He has to be your pillar right now- the one to bring you home.
“Don’t wanna” A tear slips down your cheek unbidden. You’re sure you didn’t conjure it.
“I know but you gotta hang in there, princess. You’ve gotta keep going.”
“Why” your voice is strained with incoming tears. “Why do I have to. Why.”
“....because… there’s this off shore beach in Yokohama that I want to take you to sometime. It’s beautiful during sunrise. And next week we’re all hanging out for Toge’s birthday. You two are like little balls of destruction around each other. I've never seen a weirder friendship in all my life.”
You giggle at the mention of your best friend. Slowly your eyes begin to refocus and the numbness starts to ebb away.
“You’ve gotta keep finding reasons to go on. And I can’t do that for you. You have to find those reasons for yourself.” Yuta swallows the salt of his sorrow on his tongue.
“Yuu.” Sitting up, your legs circle around his torso and you head falls in place against his neck. The feeling comes back, albeit slowly. It starts at the edges and fills in through the gaps of your skin. The warmth of Yuta’s body against yours is recognizable again. It ends with the clearing in your brain. The rain still clings at the edges. You don’t think there will be a time where you won’t feel the impending pressure of an thunderstorm or the suction of a black hole. But the loneliness is subsiding. And the sound of Yuta murmuring praises is much more vivid than before.
He can’t be one of your reasons. Not a sole reason at least. But he’s the heartbeat that washes you clean. He’s the crystal voice to give you clear reasons. And you pull him tighter sighing into his neck. Because if there are little reasons to keep going in life, reasons you’ve lost, he’ll be the one to help you know.
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When Life Gives You Lemons- Part 14
Warnings: Mature content, abuse, rape, eating disorders, OCD etc. Some of these things go into a bit of detail. These warnings are relevant to the whole fic, not just particular chapters.
Word Count Chapter: 4500
Word Count Total: 62,779
Author’s Note: Huge shoutout to @newlibrary for the graphics and @hockeylvr59 for the editing reads.
Barbs and Lemon are back by popular demand! Reminder, that this fic starts during the summer of 2019. I will be tagging the Avs and Lausanne HC. Also *~*~*~*~* means a POV change. Flipping between Mark and Clementine. This part begins with Clementine. THERE BE SMUT.
Part Fourteen*
My stomach swooped like I was on a roller coaster, and I knew I’d forever remember this moment as the one when I fell in love with Mark Barberio, or at least one of them. There seemed to be many moments when I fell a little more in love with him.
I kissed the underside of his chin as I murmured, “You’re so full of it.”
He wrapped me up in his arms again, hugged me to his chest and shifted his hips as he replied, “I’m full of something, and I’m gonna have to go take care of it in a minute.”
Bracing a hand on his chest, I sat up. How he could toe the line between being romantic one minute and entirely asinine the next I might never know, but, much to my great dismay, it was incredibly endearing and I felt my heart squeeze in my chest. My hair fell in a curtain around me as I scooted back onto his thighs and I tilted my chin in the direction of his crotch as I whispered, “Can I?”
His grin was impossibly wide as he chuckled and informed me, “Lemon, for the record you never have to ask a dude if you can touch his junk.”
I hid behind my hair, faltering as I offered, “Ok, I just…”
I trailed off, because how to do you tell someone you’re about to be intimate with that indescribable trauma happened to you and you don’t actually KNOW what to do with a dick since you’ve never had a healthy sexual relationship before? I wasn’t exactly sure, hence why I grew quiet.
Mark settled his hands behind his head— which just accentuated his arms and chest, and I realized that it was really unfair that there are men who looked like this in real life and not just on romance novel covers and I was still halfway shocked that I was curled up on the couch with one of said men— as he responded evenly, “Lemon, just do what you want. It’s ok, I promise. If I don’t like something I’ll tell you.”
“But I don’t want to do something you don’t like,” I bit my lip after answering. Perfection wasn’t a suggestion with Bill and I hated that I kept comparing them together because Mark was kind and wonderful and Bill was a shitstain on humanity.
“Babe,” he countered, “I do shit you don’t like all the time. But I stop and let you adjust or call me an idiot or we talk about it. That’s how you ended up on top, remember?”
I nodded and scooted back a little farther down his thighs, trying to sit on my heels instead of his knees. He had tucked his erection under the waistband of his underwear and jeans, leaving the head of his cock sticking out; without thinking, I reached out and, with the tip of my finger, smeared around the precum that had gathered there
His breath hitched, and I heard him hiss through his teeth. He unclenched his hands from behind his head, moving them to grip the arm of the couch instead. I bit my lip, palming him through his jeans and then tentatively, unbuttoned his fly. As I slid his zipper down, I took a moment to appreciate how he was straining against his boxer briefs.
I dipped my hand under the waistband of his shorts and when I wrapped my hand around the base of his dick, his hips jerked and he swallowed a moan. The way his body responded to me made me feel a little dizzy with power; the novelty that I caused him to react that way and that I was calling the shots here was almost too much to bear, but I knew one thing for sure: it was incredibly hot and I kind of loved it. With my free hand, I shoved his underwear down and freed him completely, letting my fingertips trail up his length. His dick jumped into my hand and I enjoyed feeling him, enjoyed the velvety feel of his skin over the hardness of his erection. When I risked a glance up at him, he had sucked his bottom lip between his teeth and his eyes were intense, and laser focused on me. “Is this ok?” He nodded vigorously.
I watched him react as I stroked him, never having the opportunity to explore someone so thoroughly. Precum was dripping onto his stomach and I swiped it up with my finger and licked it off, rolling the bitter taste over my tongue. Mark’s breath hitched again and his dick twitched in my hand.
This time when he exhaled, there was a distinctive “fuck,” muttered under his breath. Watching him straining, gripping the arm of the couch so hard I thought there would be permanent divots in the leather, I realized he was doing his best to give this completely unpressured experience to me, and as hot as this moment was already, the fact that he could be so unselfish in it, despite everything, only endeared him to me more.
I rubbed my thumb over the head of his cock, and I saw the muscles in his jaw clench as I spread around some more of the precum that was leaking out.
“Lemon,” he choked out, “Spit in your hand.”
“What?” I asked. His words broke my trance, and even though I understood what he was saying, it took a moment for me to process the suggestion.
“Spit. In. Your. Hand,” he panted.
I did my best to gather enough saliva in my mouth before I did what he asked. The lubrication changed the texture of his skin, and he went from velvet to silk. I loved the feel of him against my hand, the easy slide of him across my palm almost hypnotic. As I stroked him, I felt him get impossibly harder.
He was trying to control the movement of his hips, but they kept jumping up underneath me, shoving the length of him through my fist completely.
He wasn’t completely shaven, but he was trimmed and I moved my other hand to palm his scrotum, rolling his testicles in my hand. I heard him curse softly as I teased them, felt them tighten as jet of cum landed on his stomach and he groaned, “Fuck. Don’t stop.”
I had indeed stopped what I was doing to watch the cum jet out of him, but with his encouragement, I started again, stroking him through each spurt and firmly holding his balls in my other hand.
FInally, he was done and he reached down and grabbed my wrists in his hands as he conceded, “Okay, now you can stop. Too much.”
He flopped back, sinking into the couch as he let my wrists go and with his eyes closed he rasped, “Holy shit, Lemon, that was… hot.”
It was hot and now that I wasn’t transfixed by his genitals, I was able to sit back on my heels and just look at him: his hair was disheveled from my fingers carding through it and the cross on the silver chain was resting against his chest, carving a shimmering path through all of the muscles there. I took that moment to appreciate that there were so many muscles. Even if I worked out just as much as he did, I still probably wouldn’t have half the amount of muscles— which I personally thought was unfair.
HIs abs were splattered with his cum and I gave in to the urge to reach down and trail my index finger through the milky fluid, pushing it through the valley of his abdominals. When I risked a glance at his face, he had one eye open and he was watching me carefully, his rakish eyebrow raised. “You’ve never gotten the opportunity to just enjoy someone’s body, have you?” he asked.
Shaking my head, I impulsively licked the cum off my finger.
He grabbed his shirt off the floor and wiped his stomach off before he sat up. When we were facing each other again, his hand went to the back of my head and he pulled me down for a kiss, his tongue invading my mouth almost like he was trying to lick his own cum out of it.
When he finally pulled away, I had to touch my lips to make sure they were still there. “Come on, Lemon,” he prompted, picking me up and setting me on my feet next to the couch. He made it seem so easy, even though I knew there was no way it was. He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the bedroom, trying to hold his jeans up with his free hand. He ended up kicking them off in the hallway.
Once we were through the door, he pulled me forward and spun me around like we were dancing, his bed hitting the back of my knees and I fell backward onto it. I had been dreading this moment and I shut my eyes, bracing for the moment of panic I knew I would feel when he fell on top of me.
When his weight didn’t hit me right away, I opened an eye to catch him falling to his knees. He had disposed of his boxer briefs and tossed them with his shirt into a pile and I realized he had gotten fucking naked and I had missed the show.
Propping myself up on my elbows, I asked, “Barbs? What are you doing?”
He reached up to hook his fingers into the waistband of my leggings and stripped them off with my underwear in one smooth pull, throwing them in the same pile as his clothes. “I should think that is obvious,” he whispered into the skin of my thigh.
“It’s… not?”
He gave me a look I couldn’t interpret and grabbed me gently, dragging my body toward him until I was almost hanging off the bed. He arched a brow, like that was supposed to give me a clue and I shrugged, clueless. I was still unsure as to what was happening, but I wasn’t uneasy about it, which was a miracle in and of itself.
He walked closer to me on his knees as he instructed, “Arms up.”
I lifted my arms, more as a reflex than anything, and when I settled back on my elbows, I was naked. It was the first time I had been naked with a man since my marriage, and I fought the urge to cover myself. Mark sat back on his heels for a moment and I could feel his gaze traveling up and down my body. When he spoke, his voice was so soft that I barely heard him murmur, “You are breathtaking.”
I looked down, half concerned that my body had been replaced by body snatchers. But, all I saw was the same old body I saw every day: one with a faint map of stretch marks from gaining weight too fast; battle scars, that were both literal and figurative, from fighting my marriage and myself; a smattering of cellulite, weird tan lines and broken capillaries; and assorted other imperfections that seemed to be emphasized in this moment of vulnerability. Before I could voice any of this, Mark slid his hands from my ankles to my knees and twisted them to skirt along the inside of my thighs. He ran them upwards until his thumbs found the crease along my vaginal lips, which proved to be sufficiently distracting and quieted the self-doubt racing through my brain.
When he pulled my folds apart and blew on my clit, I fell back onto the bed, a whimpered “fuck,” escaping my throat. I felt the smile on his lips as he pressed them to me and licked the length of my pussy.
I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to watch him or just lay back and enjoy the sensations. He explored me with his tongue, his fingers spreading me apart as he licked around my pussy. When he closed his lips over my clit and sucked, my hips arched into his face, and when he slid a thick finger into me, I bit my lip to keep from crying out.
My orgasm hit me like a tsunami; the sensation started to rise, and suddenly I was drowning, my hips bucking wildly into his face. I swear Mark growled when he locked his free arm over my pelvis to hold me in place as he sucked my clit and finger fucked me through my orgasm. As I was coming down, he slid a second finger in with the first and the stretch caused a mini orgasm on the heels of the first. With a flat-tongued lick, he detached from my “pleasure nub,” and I suddenly understood why terrible romance novelists called it such.
He continued to slide his fingers in and out of me, leaving trails of wet opened mouth kisses along my thighs until I relaxed completely, the occasional tremor shaking my body.
When he slipped his fingers out of me, he sucked them into his mouth to clean them off before crawling over me and resting against the pillows; once situated, he hauled me up his body and arranged me half on top of him, his dick resting along my thigh.
With our naked bodies like this, it painted a stark picture of how different we were. HIs body was thick and toned. I don’t think he had one tiny cell of fat on him and his skin was a dark olive after having been in the sun all summer. I, on the other hand, looked like poorly proven sourdough bread that Paul Hollywood would have been ashamed of… with blue hair.
I felt Mark take a breath below my ear as he whispered in it, “Was that ok? I don’t want to brag, but I have been told I’m pretty good at that.”
I stretched my jaw a bit, willing the muscles to work since all of them felt like they had the integrity of wet cardboard. “I don’t have anything to compare it to,” I ventured, “So you could be the absolute worst in the world, but if that’s the worst, then the best might kill me.”
He went completely still beneath me as he processed my response, taking a moment before he responded, “What do you mean you don’t have anything to compare it to?”
I set my chin on his chest and looked up at him as I clarified, “I’ve never experienced that before?”
He looked a little shocked, and rubbed the hand that wasn’t cradling my ass down his beard as he thought that over. “Never tell Landy this,” he murmured, “but I’m actually at a loss for words.”
I shrugged. “Honestly,” I admitted, “If getting that as my first time meant I didn’t get it other times, I think I’m ok with that.” Mark smiled down at me and I returned the smile before I schooled my face into a more stern expression and continued, “Also, please don’t even mention Landy again while we’re naked, in bed together, or naked in bed together. ”
Mark’s face softened and he kissed the top of my head, chuckling lightly and he concluded, “Well, Lemon, I was glad to give it to you.”
His cock was still hard against my hip, and I ran a finger up the length of him as I began, “You’re still..”
“Mmmhmm.” I felt his chest rumble as he responded.
I looked at him inquisitively, “can I?”
He just looked amused as he answered, “Babe, if it involves you and my dick, I’m going to have very few restrictions.”
I bit my lip and straddled his thighs again, mimicking our position on the couch earlier.
“Do you have… you know?” I hoped he would know.
Mark’s face was caught up in a grin as he answered the question I couldn’t finish, nodding as he informed me, “your inability to finish sentences when referring to anything about sex is adorable.” His long arm reached up and he somehow dug a condom out of the drawer of his nightstand and tossed it near my knee. “Knock yourself out, babe.”
Suddenly faced with a hard dick, a man with his hands folded behind his head, and a condom, I didn’t know what to do or where to start. I looked up at him for guidance and he just shook his head as he told me, “This is your show, Lemon. No judgment.”
I bit my lip and traced the outline of his testicles in his scrotum, fascinated when the skin drew up tight in response to the stimulation. Mark sucked in a sharp breath but didn’t react otherwise. I was nervous all of a sudden and the moment felt charged, in a different way than it had earlier; some of the urgency was gone, and we had all the time in the world, which meant there was plenty of time for me to prove I had absolutely no idea what I was doing and make a fool of myself. I didn’t want to throw all of that at him right now so I just said simply, “You have to tell me what you like.”
“Clementine, you are naked, on top of me, playing with my junk… I like all of this.” He made no effort to hide his amusement.
I wrapped my hand around his balls and rolled them between my fingers, causing another sharp inhale from Mark and and an exhaled “fuck.”
His dick twitched against his stomach, the tip leaking clear fluid onto his skin. Letting go of him, I scooped it up with a finger and sucked it off.
His big body squirmed beneath me as he groaned, “Fuck, you are killing me, do you know that?”
Comments like that filled me with confidence and made it easy for me to toss aside all of my hesitation and it occurred to me I should thank him for that later. Feeling reinvigorated and embracing my newly-found inclination for power, I teased him, “You taste good. I didn’t know you could taste good.” I may or may not have made a show of licking my lips to prove my point.
He threw his head back and moaned.
I ripped the condom wrapper with my teeth, gripping his length in one hand and rolling the condom down it with the other. I let him slap back against his stomach and he twitched again as he cursed, “Damnit, Lemon.”
I gave him a sickly sweet smile. Had he not looked so incredibly good imbued with such a level of desperation, this wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun as it was.
“Oh, she’s playing now,” he chirped at me, before looking at me dead in the eyes and stating, “If you had a different past, this would be going way differently.”
I moved forward, feeling the length of him settle between my pussy lips and I rolled my hips, the friction so good that I swear I could feel it in every inch of my body. The crown of his head dragged against my clit and I moaned as I asked him, “What would you do differently, Barbs?”
As I slid along the length of him again, coating him in copious amounts of my wetness, he hissed, choking out, “We wouldn’t have made it this far; for one, because I would have fucked you over the back of the couch.”
“Oh?” I quipped. I honestly didn’t know being this turned on was even possible and my hands went to my breasts of their own accord, holding them in my hands and rolling both nipples between my fingers.
Mark slammed his head back into the pillows, eyes screwed shut, as he took a deep breath and rasped, “Fuck babe, this is better than literally every fantasy I’ve ever had about you.”
“Really?” I breathed, rocking against him, enjoying hearing him say it. “I’m not really even doing anything…” As the pleasure coursed through my body, I could hear my voice falter and I was pretty sure that Mark was almost at a breaking point, if the tremor I could feel in his thighs underneath me was any indication.
“Really,” he confirmed, as I kept up my steady grind against him, his breath shallow as he continued, “What you’re doing is…..so fucking hot…” I felt him twitch against me as he confessed, “The only thing that could possibly make this better would be if I was inside of you.”
I raised up off of him and the action caused him to open one eye. Reaching between us, I angled his cock just right and started to sink down on it, pausing every few millimeters. Mark arched a brow at me as he watched, admitting, “Lemon, if you want me to beg for it, all you have to do is ask. But since you haven’t, I gotta know, are you trying to kill me?”
I shook my head, realizing that we were on two separate pages regarding my slow pace. “No,” I told him, “I’m just waiting for it to hurt.”
Mark looked at me pointedly and sat up, his arm sliding behind my thighs to prevent me from sliding down on him any farther. “Okay,” he began, “First of all, I think we need a rule: we don’t talk about previous experiences while we’re having NEW ones. Second of all, sex shouldn’t hurt EVER. I mean, unless it’s on purpose and you’re into that kind of thing. If you’re not into that, then it should never hurt. Do you understand me, Clementine?” His voice was firm and once again I had the feeling I may have trivialized something that wasn’t really trivial.
I nodded because I couldn’t do anything else.
He pulled me off of his cock and slid us both up the bed until his torso was resting against the headboard.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Mark smiled at me ruefully, bringing his lips to my neck as he whispered into my hair, “I thought I just needed to let you figure things out for yourself, but it has become glaringly obvious I need to be an active participant.”
My voice was soft as I responded, half scared and half confused, “I don’t know what you mean.”
We were still pressed closely together, and his hands trailed over my naked body, fingers teasing my nipples, as he directed me, “Kiss me, Lemon.”
I leaned forward and he moved his hands to knot in my hair, my breasts pressed against the hair on his chest as I kissed him. I kissed him deeply, trying to convey with my tongue just how much this all meant to me.
As we kissed, one of his hands slid between our bodies, his fingers slipping between my pussy lips and softly rubbing my clit. I may have mewled into his mouth, but I’d perjure myself in a court of law denying that.
While I was rocking into his hand, he grabbed his dick and angled it just right so that the tip slid into me as I rolled my hips. The sensation made me gasp, and I rocked harder, needing more.
“That’s it, babe,” he murmured, “That’s it.” His hands were on my hips, guiding me. I curled my hands into fists on his chest, wishing his hair was long enough to grab like this, but it was still short from a summer wax.
I needed him, I needed to feel full. I slammed myself down on him and he cursed in response, cautioning, “Fuck. Easy, babe.”
“Mark, please,” I whimpered, “I need more. I need you.” My hands unclenched, and I dug my fingers into his chest desperately.
His hands tightened on my hips as his punched up forcefully and he confirmed, “Ok?”
I nodded, almost delirious with pleasure as I begged, “More.”
He set a quick rhythm with his hips, and soon all that filled the room was the squelch of our bodies coming together and our sharp breaths.
“Fuck, I’m almost there,” he groaned, “Tine, touch yourself.”
One of his hands left my hips and he took my fingers and pressed them to my clit, “Cum with me,” he urged.
“I can’t,” I choked out.
“You can,” he encouraged, “Look at me.”
My eyes met his and he held my gaze as he continued, “I’m gonna get tested by the team doc tomorrow, because I can’t wait to fuck you skin to skin and fill you with my cum. I can’t wait to make you mine so you never have to worry about a man hurting you ever again. Even me.”
My voice was a whisper, as I whined out “Holy shit.”
“Now fucking cum with me, Clementine.” He punched his hips up hard and I came apart in a million pieces, like a stained glass window shattering from a bomb. He thrust into me irregularly until he sagged against the headboard and cradled me to his chest.
We lay there in a sweaty mess, panting, until I broke the silence, and repeated, “You want to fill me with your cum?”
“Lemon, I swear to God, if you ruin this perfectly good moment with some self-deprecating sarcastic comment, I’m going to tell Landy you think his magic is dumb.”
I gasped in horror, “You wouldn’t. Also, again with mentioning Landy in bed!!!”
He kissed the top of my head chuckling, “You know I would. Now, just lay there and be quiet and soak in the moment.”
We were quiet again for a long time, long enough that the sweat was starting to dry on my skin and giving me goosebumps. I shivered, and this time it was Mark who broke the silence, asking “Does Daze need dinner or something?”
At the mention of dinner, my stomach growled. “Probably,” I guessed, “I know I need dinner. Why?”
I looked up at Mark and he was staring in the direction of the door as he told me, “Because she’s been quietly staring at me since we finished. Honestly, she started even before that, and if you weren’t half as hot as you are, I wouldn’t have been able to finish.”
I chuckled against his chest and sat up, pulling my leg over him, intimately feeling the loss of him inside me. “I’ll go feed her if you order pizza,” I offered.
Grabbing his shirt from earlier off the floor, I pulled it on, though it hugged my body a little more than I would have liked.
“Babe,” he sighed, “That one is covered in cum, grab a clean one out of the drawer.”
I gave him a saucy wink as I sashayed out of the room, shouting behind me, “Maybe I wanna be covered in your cum.”
He fell over into the pillows laughing and I heard him grumble, “Fucking minx.”
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
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Billy and Steve get into an argument about Billy’s behavior—he baited Jason Carver until Carver punched him in the face—and Billy has the shattering realization that he’s been zeroing in on Carver in particular because he reminds Billy of Neil—just like how so many of his destructive behaviors are all about Neil. Sensing he’s about to spiral and not wanting to lash out further at Steve, he tries to leave.
“I just—don’t want you getting hurt,” Harrington insisted.
“Noted. Roger that,” he said, bitingly, and Harrington glared, losing patience. Billy tried to press Pause. Didn’t know why he was being so—“Sorry.” He breathed in. Out. “I should go. M’all screwy—I don’t wanna be a dick. I’m sorry.”
“No, you don’t have to—” Harrington looked gutted, and Billy couldn’t stand that, rounded the counter before he knew it. Insinuated himself between long legs, wrapped himself around Harrington’s torso and got an affirming squeeze in return. “Don’t care if you’re being a dick,” Harrington mumbled.
“I care,” Billy said, and stalled out there. He’d been on such a good stretch for a while—hadn’t felt like this in… weeks? This riotous inner mess pulling him in different directions, thrumming in that panicky, aimless way that demanded some kind of release, that sometimes ended in explosions if he couldn’t redirect it. Numb it. Drown it.
It wasn’t altogether unprecedented, periods of relative peace. Of even-keeled almost-normalcy. For one thing, Neil always lay off a bit during basketball season—the one time of year when he deemed Billy marginally less of a fuckup—so there was less to rock the emotional boat, those months. And it helped to have a Neil-approved reason to be out of the house a lot. So yeah—nothing had really sent him spiraling.
But now it was back: that roiling mass just below the surface—a subconscious disturbance that was liable to boil over at a moment’s notice, and he didn’t want to accidentally burn anyone if it did, least of all Harrington. It was partly the fight with Carver, and his mixed-up feelings about it, partly the crummy resentment that came with uncovering the roots of yet another warped behavior and finding they sprouted directly from Neil. Like Billy was a dumb puppet laboring under the delusion that he was a real boy, when really every jerk of his rotten strings was dear old dad.
Huge, heaving sigh, so big Billy could feel the lungs expand and contract within his hold. Harrington tipped his head back, and Billy obligingly dipped down for a kiss, tried to convey through the gentle press of lips that they were okay—but he couldn’t quite repress a fine tremor.
“I care,” he said again, drawing back, trying to step away. Big warm hands framed his face, and he stilled, looked up to find Harrington evaluating him closely.
“By ‘screwy,’ do you mean like that day we did this?” His pinky brushed the hoop in Billy’s right earlobe. “Because I gave you my number for reason.” A small, stern smile. “Remember?”
Billy did. It was the fourth phone number he’d ever memorized—after his home phone, his grandparents’ place, and Cherry Lane. He’d mentally placed the Harrington landline in the empty category that had once belonged to Carlsbad: In Case of Emergency. He nodded in answer to both questions.
“So,” Harrington said, leading. His thumbs stroked Billy’s cheeks, under his eyes. “Don’t go. Tell me what you—need.”
Everything went tight: Billy’s throat, his lungs, every muscle. Tight and trembling. “I don’t know,” he whispered through gritted teeth. The tingle behind his nose heralded tears. “I can’t—”
It was all a jumble. Knew he’d half intended to go home and instigate something: deliberately wake the monster, walk into Neil’s backhand, maybe add some symmetry to the bruise already blooming. You know, seize some punishment now rather than wait who knows how long for the consequences of his actions. But there was a competing impulse to stay as far away from his puppet-master as possible—to give himself over to some other force, whether human or substance, because… was being in control even an option when so much of what Billy did was a reaction to… him? And so—wouldn’t it be better… to pick who or what was pulling his strings? To at least have that reprieve?
“Can’t—couldn’t you?” Billy asked, breathy and begging, resting more of his weight in Harrington’s hands. “Tell me? What I need? What to do?”
Somehow, Harrington didn’t look confused by that—just considering, cautious. Probably helped that he already knew Billy sometimes liked being ordered around during sex, but that had only ever been little commands here and there, a cheeky means of teasing more than anything. Not quite—as all-encompassing as this.
Harrington slowly pushed back on him until he was standing upright, let his hands fall to Billy’s jittery shoulders.
“You’ll tell me if you don’t like something,” Harrington said. It wasn’t a question, but Billy nodded anyway. “Okay.”
Already Billy was buzzing in anticipation—primed to drop to his knees, or strip and bend over. Whatever mind-wiping method was on offer, he’d take it.
Harrington was chewing on his lip, lost in thought. Then he took Billy’s hand, guided him back so he could stand up. Didn’t lace their fingers together like usual, but sort of—grabbed his palm. Held it between them.
“Come on,” he said. Then, in the tone of someone testing a theory: “Past your bedtime, baby.”
Oh. Billy’s eyes went glassy as everything froze. He thought they were gonna—fuck. Not—whatever this was.
“Okay?” Harrington checked.
Billy cleared his throat, blinked till his brain rebooted. “Yeah,” he managed.
Before leading him by the hand out of the kitchen, Harrington asked if he needed anything—Was he hungry? Thirsty? Billy stared, blank, still finding his footing.
“My head,” he said, at last. “Hurts.”
They went to the medicine cabinet. He downed some Advil with the water Harrington gave him in a little Dixie cup.
Harrington kept firm hold of his hand up the stairs, and every step was a toss-up on whether Billy was gonna laugh or cry. His insides had gone fuzzy—staticky and soft. Then he was in the hallway bathroom brushing his teeth because Harrington had told him to, because Harrington would be back soon to check. Unbidden, he’d been silently running through the ABC song—keep brushing till you get to Z, Billy Bear.
He spit, wiped his mouth on a damp washcloth, his burning eyes.
Harrington smiled when he returned, murmured, “Good job,” and herded him down the hall, toward the door at the end, while good job, good job ran on a loop in Billy’s ears. Beyond the door lay a dim cavernous space—the master bedroom. The light from the hallway and the roaring en suite illuminated a massive four poster bed, gleaming dark wood bureau and wardrobe, a chaise lounge by the window…
Not allowed, he thought, nonsensically. Not allowed to be here.
Steam billowed from the adjoining bathroom, the hard surfaces resounding with the thunderous deluge of multiple taps, and the sound shot him back to—god, when he was… eight? Had it been almost ten years since he’d had a bath?
Since someone had given him a bath? Since his mother had?
He stopped a few feet from the threshold, suddenly unsure whether he wanted to…
Harrington came around to his front, ran reassuring hands up and down slack arms.
“All right?” he asked.
Billy followed the arcs of steam curling as they touched the chilly dark. “Are we not gonna…?”
“I wanna take care of you,” said Harrington. On the upsweep, he continued onward, linked his fingers behind Billy’s neck. “Let me.”
“Like this?” Because why would he—want to?
“Like this,” he confirmed. His eyes were warm—dark and steady and sure.
Billy nodded, and Harrington drew him into the golden glow, closed the door behind them. The air was humid, sticky—and between one blink and the next, the lights had softened, only the fixture over the sinks left on.
There was a shower stall to his left, but it was silent and still—all the noise and vapor poured from the opposite corner, where a shining jacuzzi set into this white marble platform was filling up under the onslaught of a pair of ornate faucets.
Harrington helped him get undressed, even knelt to peel off his socks. Billy snuck a glance at the vanity, beheld himself standing there—his broad shoulders, the cut of his pecs, his dick hanging limp from a tawny thatch of pubes.
Lifted his foot, and his foot was bare. Put it down on cold tile.
The definition of his abs, the curve of his biceps, the purple ringing round a socket the way it had so many times before. Then the image split and split and split—the compounding eye view of a bug—and he remembered, in his mother’s voice, the cadence she’d had when reading aloud:
I am still every age that I have been. Because I was once a child, I am always a child… to forget is a form of suicide.
Lifted his foot, and his foot was bare. Put it down on cold tile.
What book had it been? She was at the kitchen table while he stirred the soup. Had paused, looked at him, read it again. Don’t forget that, she’d said. Don’t forget that, Bear.
When Harrington stood, Billy’s face was wet.
He’d forgotten it. And usually his memory was so good. Too good.
“Ready?” Harrington asked, holding out his hand.
Billy sniffed, took it in that childlike grasp from before.
Heeded words of warning as he stepped, awkward, into the water, as he lowered himself into the bubbling currents of the jets. The heat enveloped him, touched every part with liquid sun, and he let out a long unwinding breath. His ass touched the smooth bottom, and Harrington gestured him toward the built-in headrest, where a jet waited to pummel every knot out of his lower back. Billy groaned, heard a chuckle.
“Good, huh?” Harrington crouched by the lip, testing the water.
Billy wiped a hand down his face, rinsing the salt tracks from his cheeks. “Been holding out on me, Harrington.” Eyed him under heavy lids, drowsy in the lulling warmth. “Really not gonna join me?”
The responding smile was so soft that Billy fought not to look away—managed not to blink until Harrington turned his attention to the taps, shutting them off, plunging them into an abrupt, echoing quiet.
“No,” he said, pushing up off of the marble to stand. “Isn’t about that. Just relax.”
Billy sighed, closing his eyes. He heard the thump and creak of cabinet doors, the thunk of items deposited by his head, but he was too droopy all over to investigate—totally al dente. So remote that he sensed Harrington nearby as though through a fog. A palm rested on his brow, smoothed the hair off his forehead.
“Still awake, baby?”
Billy swallowed—wondered why baby was different than babe, why it stung but made him wanna lean into it all the same. He nodded.
“Can you sit up?” At Billy’s whine, he chuckled again. “Only for a bit. C’mon.” He wedged a hand under Billy’s shoulder, and with an aggrieved grunt Billy was levered upright. The water sloshed, settled back to a simmer.
Harrington had pushed his sleeves up, perched himself on the marble ledge next to an array of… fancy-pants body wash and hair products. Considering that Billy was but a noodle, cooked tender by the buffeting current, it was no wonder that, when Harrington arched an eyebrow, it took him a couple beats to put two and two together. But when he did…
His face flushed. Like he was—too big for his skin, heart pounding loud. Harrington waited placidly until Billy nodded, then cupped his nape, told him to lay back. Billy didn’t speak, too focused on his breathing; tilted until he dipped like a ladle, the hot water exquisite, lapping his temples, his forehead, the hinge of his jaw. Shivered when he sat up and streams ran down his skin, dark tendrils plastered to his neck. Harrington gave him a sudsy washcloth then patted the side of the tub by his hip, and Billy shifted so his back was against the smooth surface.
A whisper, warm in his ear: “This okay?”
Billy filled in the rest—that I’m behind you?—and breathed out a broken laugh. “Yeah.” His only associations here were Ma. Just her.
While he scrubbed at his pits, his crotch, strong soapy fingers massaged his scalp, circling firm to work up a lather, and holy fuck, he did not recall it feeling this good as a kid. Damn near divine. Like, so good his dick was taking an interest—until, that is, he noticed some familiar movements up there… distinctly sculpting.
“Are you giving me a mohawk?”
“Maybe.”
Billy turned to level a joking glare at his tormenter, and Harrington let out a giggle.
“Looks good on you,” he said, then leaned over to fill up a plastic cup with fresh water from the faucet. “Tip your head back, baby.”
Billy did, eyes slipping shut, and didn’t mind at all when it took a couple cascades of water—so hot, but not too hot—to wash it out. Pretended it was cleansing him of more than just soap suds.
Harrington offered conditioner, and Billy’s eager nod made him laugh.
When at last Harrington got up to put the supplies away, Billy unfolded, reacquainting himself with the best jet by the headrest, and thought he’d never felt so… pristine. Weightless. A weird buoyancy in the chest rather than floaty in the brain, as when Harrington mind-wiped him the usual way. Like… out, damned spot. And it was out.
Drifting as he was, it took him a moment to realize Harrington had sat on the tile floor, right where Billy had draped an arm… and how could he resist? Harrington hummed when sluggish fingers sank into his hair, craned for better access, and even this spacey, Billy knew what that meant—gathered a fist of brown locks and lightly squeezed. Not enough to hurt, but enough to feel the pull.
“How’d you know?” Billy asked, quiet over the bubbling jets. “To do all this?”
Harrington’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Gloria,” he said. “Nanny number two. Had this whole—bedtime routine. Brush, bath, story. It was the best.”
After a pause, hoping he’d keep going, Billy prodded. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Harrington snorted. “She would sing, tuck me in the right way… They let her go when I was—six, maybe? Seven? And nanny number three said I was old enough for showers, so…” He shrugged.
Billy combed his fingers through silky strands, a slow sweeping arc. “No more songs? Stories?”
“She made me brush my teeth, still.”
God, that tone. It was a Harrington specialty—this jaunty, blithe bitterness—and it stabbed Billy every time.
“Babe,” he said, tugging, and when that didn’t work: “Baby.”
“You’re baby,” Harrington said, finally looking over his shoulder. Billy tugged again, and Harrington sighed, shifted into a kneeling crouch, his arms crossed on the ledge. Billy curled forward, mirroring him.
“We can both be,” he said. “You think I don’t wanna take care you, too?”
Harrington’s mouth twitched, side to side, gaze glued to the seam between fiberglass and marble.
And that… that silence was deafening—so damning that something sprang loose, and Billy was murmuring hey, reaching to tip Harrington’s chin, coax his eyes up. They shone, glimmering in the half light. And Billy saw him, in there—the child inside.
“I—” Billy choked on a painful lump. Took a beat to gulp it down. “I do. Course I do.”
Harrington didn’t say anything—couldn’t. Billy watched nostrils flare, his throat seize, the sheen pool at his lashes. Remembered that night when Harrington told him he could cry if he needed to.
“It’s okay,” he whispered. “You can… tell me.”
It wasn’t like Billy, the way Harrington caved in. He smiled, for one thing—this ghastly crooked baring of teeth—and a few tears spilled over rictus cheeks. Just a few before he ran dry. Gasped a punctured laugh.
“Christ, I used to…” Shook his head, unfocused—a million miles off. “I used to do the routine with my bear. After she left. I’d help him brush his teeth and pretend to give him a bath in the sink and I’d read to him but I couldn’t really read so I’d just make stuff up based on the pictures…”
Billy blinked away his own prickle of tears and quirked trembling lips. “That explains it, then—why you were so good at this. You had practice.”
Harrington chuckled wetly, propped his head on his hand. “Guess so.”
He was trying—Billy was trying so hard not to picture it… a little kid with a brown mop of hair, tucking his teddy into bed, play-acting what he wanted for himself but wasn’t getting anymore.
A phantom kiss on his forehead, a sense memory from way deep in the archives, and before he knew it, he’d leaned forward and pressed his lips to Harrington’s brow—clumsy, catching half skin and half hair.
He sank back down in the water, chin pillowed on his wrist, and when their eyes locked, something had—shifted. Thought about how they weren’t each other’s everything but were… some things.
Things they hadn’t been able to name.
“I’ll be your baby,” he said. “And you’ll be mine?”
The slope of Harrington’s shoulder rose and fell, the heave of release—relief. A smile played at the corners of his mouth. He nodded.
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Object permanence got me feeling some kind of way, so i wanted to write something about it. Mind the warnings, this is a bit heavier than my usual stuff. To my peeps who suffer from object permanence issues, you aren’t uncaring or unloving. You are valid and amazing and you shouldn't feel guilty for not missing the people you love.
Hurt/comfort, no beta I die like wormgo.
Tw: grief/loss, object permanence, guilt, internalized ableism
Summary: Sometimes Emmet thinks his smile isn't as forced as it should be.
—————-
“Take all the time you need, Boss.”
“It’s okay to cry.”
“You don’t need to pretend for us. We’re here for you.”
The words were harmless. Well-meaning, even. Coming from his depot agents, Emmet knew they were meant to put him at ease. To give him time to recover.
They hurt like a knife in his gut.
He wasn’t pretending.
Emmet had a new schedule. He brewed enough coffee for one. He fed all 12 of their pokemon. He left a generous tip for the sitter and packed six balls on his belt. He walked to Gear Station, filling the empty silence to his left with soft humming. He entered the station a few minutes early as he always did. He passed by the night shift agents on their way out and wished them a good day. He made sure the morning shift agents were situated in place before the brief break in service ended for the morning.
The depot agents left him alone for the most part. It was easy to ignore the pitying glances and the compassionate eyes when he only ever looked at their mouths or nose. Sometimes, though, they would try to remind him that it’s okay to not be okay.
His first reaction was to remember. His brother was not there. Ingo was gone and there weren't any leads on where he went.
His second reaction was shame. Ingo was gone, and Emmet was fine. What kind of a person was he, to forget his twin?
——————-
It shouldn’t have been a surprise to Emmet when the general public started to pick up on it. The Battle Subway was ridiculously popular, and as one of the heads, Emmet was a verrry public figure. He should have known that whispers would start.
“Well, isn’t he cheery.”
“Seems odd that the double battles trains are running the same as ever.”
“I know a forced smile when I see one. That isn’t it.”
Elesa complained that the media vultures had no idea what they were talking about. Emmet could only hum in reply. It was hard to agree with her when the things they said were the same things that played in his mind whenever he thought of Ingo.
—————
It happened like this. Emmet found one of Ingo’s spare coats in the closet. It hurt to look at, and Emmet was tempted to throw it into a box and hide it in a corner until he forgot about it, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go of the sleeve.
He stayed there for a while. He felt an ache build in his chest and his fingers as his hands curled tighter into the fabric. Emmet leaned into the feeling, allowing it to sink in and take hold of him. Wasn’t this how he should feel? His brother was missing, presumed dead by the public if not by the law. Emmet should be in pain. He shouldn’t be able to go on like nothing had changed.
Elesa found him spread out on his bed with Ingo’s coat on, his pokemon having long since given up on moving him.
“Emmet,” she called through the doorway. Her voice was heavy with sadness. Whether it was from seeing Ingo’s coat, or seeing Emmet like that, he couldn’t tell.
“Elesa,” he replied flatly. “You miss Ingo, right?”
Emmet kept his eyes on the ceiling as he heard a sigh. The bed to his right dipped under her weight.
“Is this about that awful gossip piece? I told you not to pay attention to that.” Elesa combed her fingers through his hair as he blinked the prickling dryness out of his eyes. His cheeks itched from salt tracks, but he didn’t bother with rubbing his face.
“They are right though. I do not miss him. Not unless something reminds me he is not here.” He fiddled with the end of Ingo’s collar, catching the black in his peripheral vision.
“Oh Emmet, sweetie. Of course you miss him.” Eless’s voice broke as she took Emmet’s hand in her own. They were warm. Emmet met her eyes with a skeptical look, but he didn’t protest. “Look at yourself, you’re doing it right now.”
“I am Emmet. That is because I’m trying to be sad.” It sounded like a weak excuse even to him.
“Don’t try that with me. We both know you’re the first to cry over a sad lillipup movie,” She chuckled good-naturedly, and Emmet’s mouth twitched at the corners. Elesa continued when she saw his smile return. “You don't have to be sad constantly to grieve. It's okay to be okay sometimes. That doesn’t mean you don’t care. It just means you have to work through this differently.”
Emmet blinked tears away as her words sank in. She gave him time to process what she said as she rubbed the back of his hand with her thumb. After a minute, he gave her a tiny nod.
“Okay,” he conceded with a sniffle. Unfortunately, his pokemon took the response as an invitation to approach, and the two of them were swiftly buried in a cuddle pile. Fresh out of a crying spell, Emmet immediately burst into tearful laughter at their antics.
“I am sorry I worried you all. I am back on track now.” Emmet grinned.
“Do you wanna change, or…?” Elesa trailed off.
“Nope,” Emmet chirped. “Even if I could escape. I would not want to. I would like to keep this for now.”
“Suit yourself. Just don’t let yourself spiral like that again, got it? I’m always just one call away.”
“Understood, Miss Elesa Nimbasa.”
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