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adelaidedrubman · 3 months

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59. “You want to come?” “Y-yes, I— please—” “Hm, but do you really deserve to?” and/or 113. “What did I just say?” + for Jestiny x John 👀

[rushing in on literally the last hour of pride month to get the bifails posted and answer a three month old prompt] OMG HIIII CAYMAN THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR SENDING AND I’M SORRY AND I DID BOTH

notes: seriously not joking i am scrambling to get this timely posted so it’s really long and sloppy even by my standards and the ending is both rushed and meandering and if you catch me fixing this in a few days with a complete rehaul no you didn’t. anyways also installment three in the failstrap series but this one is the least fail, ig. (by extension, set vaguely in hook, line, and sinker verse) wordcount: 5k (yeah) warnings: NSFW. nsfw while fishing. outdoor/semipublic (not really bc her fishing spots are secret). pegging. uh. strapwarming? edging. overstimulation. dom/sub type dynamic with implied lack of negotiation. emotional manipulation. there’s a brief joke about strap vs. dick that uses some “real thing” language that could read with uncomfortable implications. (technically it’s about softbait lures vs. worms and bioessentialist language isn’t used for the former comparison but since the double entendre gets us there i wanted to flag.) oh, and egregious fishing sex puns in general. like, that’s most of the fic. really bad

John had the uncanny sense that he was reaching a revelation he’d reached many, many times before, but always failed to internalize. A lesson that had been taught in abundance, without ever once being properly learned.

Because the sting of tears trickling down cheeks burned bright red from hours of baking beneath the unforgiving midday sun brought with it an unmistakable feeling of déjà vu that told John he’d discovered before the exact undeniable truth he was arriving at now — that any time Jestiny Rook gave him something he wanted without a fight, it meant she was going to find a way to give it to him that would make him regret ever asking.

“I — I can’t — Can I —” Another broken sob overtook him as a shiver ran through his body — fuck how was he ever supposed to do this when he was shaking like a leaf and unable to even form words? “I can’t fucking take this — Can I — Can I please fucking move, already?”

And he should have realized it had all gone too smoothly, had been far too simple. That it went too perfectly according to plan from the very start.

From the second Jessie had first called for him to be a good boy and fetch her tackle box as she shuffled out the door. In that fateful, infinitesimal sliver of time the idea first sparked to life to not only pack the box she filled with fishing hooks, bright feathered lures, and glittery plastic worms, but also the more intimate one in which she kept an assortment of expired condoms she’d never once actually offered to use, lube bottles of varying age and brand all uniform in having a slow pouring capful left at most, and an entirely different collection of multicolor, long, rubbery polymer attachments.

An odd quirk of hers — keeping every sex product she owned in a beaten-up tackle box rather than a discrete designated drawer the way any normal person did. But one he thought he might use to his advantage, for once.

It had seemed easy enough to do so — wait until they were far enough out on the water, give her a feigned apology about how he hadn’t been able to remember which tackle box was which and dared not violate her privacy by opening either. But then, oh, since it was here, perhaps he could try his luck distracting her from fishing with the lure of using the equipment in the other tackle box.

“Sure you can, baby,” she answered in hot, ragged breaths kissed into his back, the dark laugh she hummed into his skin sending a fresh quiver through every worn raw nerve of his spine. Her hands slid down to grip his hips tight to hold him firmly in place atop her lap as she added in a husky whisper, “As soon as you earn it.”

He should have known not much of anything could truly and completely distract Jestiny from fishing.

“B-But Jessie —” he gasped out, placing a free hand atop hers in hopes to coax it from its place pinning his hips down. “I-It’s been hours, it’s — it’s too much. I need it, I —”

“What did I just say?” her tone grew colder and firmer as she cut him off. “You’re the one who decided to pull this little stunt. And you knew what the deal was for me to go along with it,” she chided. “You get it inside you now, but you’re not gonna actually get fucked with it until you manage to reel in something with enough inches it’s legal to keep. Until then, you’re gonna sit nice and still in my lap and keep casting.”

Another mistake — he hadn’t really thought the proposition through past needing it inside of him, feeling an arrogant certainty she wouldn’t really be able to withhold from him once they were that far.

“I mean, how am I ever gonna make a proper fisherman out of you if I reward you for not catching anything?” She wrapped an arm around his waist, reaching up to tuck a lock of displaced hair behind his ear. “You give a man the strap, he wastes a full day of perfect fishing weather. You teach a man he’s gotta earn the strap by reeling one in…” She brushed a thumb back and forth along his lower lip then pushed past to slip into his mouth. “He never goes hungry again.”

“But God, Jessie, I can’t —” He paused, allowing his words to fade into a mumble around her thumb as he leaned forward to swallow deeper and give it a hard suck, as if he could gain something from the sensation of suction hollowing his cheeks alone — anything anything anything, what he wouldn’t give at this point just to get his throat fucked, to feel firm silicone thrusting into him somehow, even just to choke on it. “There’s — oh, any chance there ever was of me catching a fish h-has to be gone now. There’s no way — not when I’m on the edge like this. You can’t really expect me to…”

What had he been thinking? He could barely even do it to her standards when he wasn’t compromised by hours of teasing from her strap resting deep but frustratingly still inside him.

“I do,” she said firmly. She leaned forward, pressing against his back, breath hot against his neck as she guided his hand towards the cup holder on the left in which a styrofoam cup filled with worms rested. (A cup of bait in one cup holder and a bottle of lube in the other — what kind of person lived like this?) “C’mon. Only one way to start.” She did the faux kindness of handing him a hook with fishing line threaded through it. “Bait your hook.”

And why the hell had he agreed to handle fishing hooks with his fully exposed cock and balls out?

He did his best to still his trembling fingers as he pinched the eye of the hook between them, other hand dropping all but one of the dirt covered worms he grabbed (— his poor natural teak flooring, too —) to bring it to the hook.

“Fuck!” he cursed, metal barb piercing through the worm to prick his finger as unsteady hands guided it to slide down the hook.

He tried to focus on the clarity the pain brought and not the quickening of the drumming of his heart against his ribcage. He raised his arm, thumb readied at the rod’s release button as he swung back and —

“O-Oh,” he whimpered against his will as a shudder ripped through his body, the flexing of his hips to push himself backwards also making the strap inside him press at just the right angle to make that diffuse thrum of pleasure swell to something almost solid, a sudden enough spike to make satisfaction seem more that just a distant dream — and to cause the fishing line he cast to fall impotently into the water just a few feet in front of their boat.

Sending out a signal to his hands to begin reeling the line in was so far back in his brain’s queue of necessary actions it might as well not have been there, every ounce of his strength and willpower instead directed towards ordering his hips not to begin rocking as his thighs squeezed together to increase that sweet, solid pressure of silicone against his aching insides.

God, he could cum just like that, he thought — tensing enough to drive himself to a peak from the tightening grip alone, the only means of more more more he could chase. It would take so little to push him over the edge, at this point.

He thought he would, if he wasn’t so certain any finish he found would be so underwhelming and unsatisfying after all the teasing build up at the promise of being properly fucked. A weak dribble as pleasure overflowed by barely a single drop to leak from his overstimulated body, insides contracting with such a feeble rhythm it could be as easily ignored as a lazy tap-tap of a tambourine drowned out in a symphony. Like expecting to reel in a sturgeon and pulling up a measly bluegill, Jessie might say.

When did he begin thinking in fishing metaphors?

“Try again,” Jessie’s whisper found his ear to chase the thought away, placing her hands over his to guide him in reeling the line back in, reeling his awareness back into his body as she did. “You still got your worm on the line and everything,” she said encouragingly as she finished winding the line inward so that the hook dangled just short of the pole. “So just get right back at it. And remember — getting distance is about steadiness, not force. Not so hard, keep it smooth.”

It didn’t help that she used that same patient coaching voice she did when talking him through his finish; instructed him how to cast his line with the same breathy tone and cadence she would use to tell him where to touch himself and how and when to ‘let go, baby.’

Her forearm adhered itself to the underside of his upper arm, hand cradling his elbow to steady him as he cocked the arm back, hot breath falling against his ear as she whispered, “Let go, baby.”

His thumb jammed against the button obediently, a mechanical fwshhh of the line unwinding and soaring through the air following.

He did his best to blink away the newest film of tears blurring his vision and focus on the candy apple red nestled in bright white bullseye of the bobber — it had landed a respectable distance, far enough he had to squint to see it floating amongst the reeds.

Maybe there was some hope for him yet, he thought, placing his hand atop the crank to turn, trying to remember to do so slowly, teasingly so as to entice the fish, and not in the jerky, clumsy rush his body wanted to move in.

It only took a few turns before the low whir of the line spooling around the reel was interrupted with an abrupt click of the crank locking into place and refusing to move.

John looked up to see the line pulled tight ( — tight, so fucking tight — ) and the bobber vanished beneath the murky water ( — not exactly the thrill of watching plastic disappear he had in mind, but —) then gave an experimental tug ( — oh, what he wouldn’t give — ) to the line, watching as the pole ( — too easy — ) arced downward with a force matching his.

“I-I — I have something!” he announced, a wave of cautious hope washing over him as he tested the line with more force, finding it matched by a weight heavier than he could have hoped. “And it feels like a big one, this time!”

He ignored a snickered out ‘that’s what he said’ and tensed his muscles — untensed, rediscovering the way squeezing around silicone thwarted the mission by making him melt, then tried tensing again, this time only from the waist up, and yanking.

Shit. Steadiness, not force, he lectured himself with Jessie’s previous advice as he found the line refusing to budge, arms flexing at the strength of the fish opposing him, planting his feet just like she’d taught him. A pleasant burn sank into the muscles of his arms as he tugged, and then — oh —

Then he threw himself back, and a molten gold sun glitter matching the caps of the water erupted upward from the base of his spine to sizzle up to his neck, cheeks flushing fresh with its heat as he tossed his head back to rest atop Jessie’s shoulders.

“It’s — I almost —” Every single vertebrae seemed to shudder as Jessie ran fingertips along the arch of his back. And the damn line hadn’t even seemed to budge — how much harder did he need to pull? “I’m close, I know it’s —”

He shot trembling eyes to the spider web silken strand of fishing line, pulled taut as could be — how was it even possible, how could it withstand that much tension without finally —

Snap — the sound cut through the air, followed by a swish-click-click-click of the reel reversing. John lifted his head just in time to make sense of the glint of a knife pressing against the milky transparent glisten of fishing line stretched across the pad of Jessie’s thumb, barely having time to mourn the suggestiveness of the sight before it vanished as she severed the thread.

“Not to a catch, you weren’t,” she shushed, craning forward to press her lips to the corner of his mouth and kiss away the choked noise of devastation. “You always manage to — heh, to snag the bottom.”

John pouted.

He blatantly, unabashedly pouted. He pouted with such untamed, untempered impudence he mentally told himself ‘stop acting like a brat, John,’ before Jessie could utter it aloud, and then huffed to the Jessie in his mind that she couldn’t tell him what to do, when she was being so unfair.

He stuck out his lower lip, he crossed his arms over his chest, he tossed his head to the side. He pouted, and he was determined to keep pouting.

Her lips tickled from the nape of his neck to the dip beneath his ear with featherlight breaths, and his complaining huffs faded back into needy moans.

“Jessie, please…” How did she reel him back in to flounder with such shameless deference as soon as he’d made up his mind to sulk? Did he really have so little dignity left?

“C’mon, you think begging is gonna get you anywhere?” she taunted with a light suck of the skin she teased.

No, he didn’t. Not when she was in one of these moods. But —

But, he thought with the sudden clarity of a man with nothing left to lose, there was always one reliable way to bait her.

No, allowing his own ego to be crushed never got him much of anywhere. But stroking hers, on the other hand…

“But please, Jessie,” he repeated, raising a clenched fist to his mouth to bite down on knuckles then looking over his shoulder to bat eyelashes dewed with tears at her. “Can you show me again — that special knot you use to tie the line? I can only ever remember a basic overhand — especially now, I can’t even think straight. It is —” He removed the hand from his mouth, sinking teeth into his lower lip as he reached towards the tackle box meant for literal tackle, fingers hesitating and hovering above the rows. “It is hook before bobber, isn’t it?”

“Well, look at that. Reckon you have almost managed to learn something, after all,” she replied, giving him the cruel reward of a quick flick to his nipple before knocking his hand from the tackle box to retrieve a hook herself.

“Hook first is right,” she cooed as she unspooled a generous length of fishing line. “But don’t worry your pretty little head with any of the too fancy ones yet. We’ll start off with upgrading you to a basic clinch knot, for now,” she hummed with a kiss to his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll go reeaaal slow so you can keep up.”

Even appeasing, she was distinctly cruel. He absolutely couldn’t take slow right now.

He especially couldn’t take it watching those deft, dexterous fingers working their magic slipping through every tight loop she wound, curling and prodding with a careful force that made him envy fishing line, of all things.

“You think you can be a big boy and bait it all by yourself?” she teased, her lips finding their place at the base of his skull again as she held out a hook woven into plastic thread.

He prayed his ploy would work, because God knew he hadn’t been paying enough attention to the actual technique.

“Oh, I’ll try.” He reached towards the cup of bait, paused, then reached once again towards her tackle box. “But perhaps…” He trailed his fingers along the lengths of soft baits piled in one of the center trays. “I could borrow one of your lures? Since the fish don’t seem too tempted by the worms alone.”

He forced out a small huff of laughter in spite of his complete lack of amusement at his situation.

“After all…” He threw his head back and turned, nuzzling against the underside of her sculpted jaw. “Many find plastic even better than the real thing.”

John was not quite certain he was among said many. At least not at the moment. Not then and there and acutely aware of how much it might even the playing field if only the phallus inside him were the kind with flesh and blood nerve endings.

As it were, his partner answered with the cold, unfeeling scoff of someone unphased by how long they’d had someone sitting on their lap and taking them without moving.

And had he been less devastatingly sensitive to every slight shift, he might not have noticed the way she stiffened beneath him — spine straightening and shoulders squaring with a proud bluster that betrayed the veneer of indifference.

“Sure, baby,” she answered with a laugh equally choked with artificial irreverence. “Pick yourself out something pretty.”

John flashed a grateful smile, drumming fingers against tin and pretending to consider for as long as he could stand to let anything hang in limbo, then reaching with purpose for his always intended prize — a chunky blue and black striped minnow body with the distinct sheen of newness coating its deep ridges.

He caught before she could hide it with another nonchalant laugh the reflexive gulp buried in her throat, and for the first time in hours he felt a sense of victory as he stuck the hook deep into the soft gel of plastic. He’d wagered correctly, it seemed — it was a new and valued lure, one she was looking forward to using herself, and wouldn’t want to lose. Hopefully, she would want to avoid losing it enough she would see to it herself that he would be reeling it back in successfully.

“It’s —” He lifted the rod in the air, over his head. “Steadiness, not force,” he chanted to himself as a mantra with a particularly choppy cocking back of his casting arm. “Steadiness, not force. Steadiness, not force, steadiness, not —”

“That’s right, baby,” she coughed, drained of usual smugness as she gripped his elbow to pull it back down to a proper casting position.

“Could you —” Her arm had already moved to cradle his before he could even stick out his lip and finish the question. “Could you help to steady me again? You’re so much better at it than I am.”

“God, you’re so helpless and needy,” she chided as she covered his hands with hers. “Can’t believe I let myself keep spoiling you like this…”

Spoiling him. Ha!

What a rich thing to say when she’d spent hours more or less torturing him.

The pit of his stomach fluttered, lurched upward so that the devastating ache that had been along the base of his spine now settled in his chest, and it occurred to him as she swung her arm forward with his in tow that this might be what being in love felt like.

Or perhaps it was just what she’d always promised him fishing felt like, he considered, as she splayed fingers between his to begin turning the crank without hesitation, and he felt the satisfaction of knowing he had his catch on the line.

“That feels…” He gasped at the sudden, thrilling sensation of a tug of his line, the firm pressure of smaller hand tightening in response even more satisfying as he looked back with eager deference. “It’s a real one on the line this time, isn’t it?”

As if he had to ask, as if any deficit in fishing instincts impaired his keen ability to read every little movement of hers well enough to know from the twitch of her fingers alone.

“Maybe you should reel it and find out,” she teased — as if her chin weren’t already resting on his shoulder to gaze at the water in anticipation, as if her fingers didn’t press against his to show him just how to turn and turn and turn. “You’re doing so good, John.”

Fuck, that —

Okay, okay.

God, he needed to fucking finish — he needed to steady his trembling hand so that he could reel so that he could finish. He needed to at least keep up the pretense he was doing this himself well enough that she wouldn’t withdraw.

He needed to remember how the fuck to unhook a fish, because the splash of the water just over a rod’s length away from the hull revealed he definitely had a real one this time.

Jessie’s breath hitched, a tickle against his neck, and he knew it was time to pull, to hoist his catch up — struggling, nearly faltering as their shifting forward in unison sent a shiver through his entire body that made the weight of the (?)trout(?) feel tremendous enough to break him. It would have, if only Jessie’s sturdy arms hadn’t been there to catch, hold him and support him.

Which made him want to melt all the more, but somehow he managed to do it — managed to pull it to flop down atop the gunwale, use the last of his strength to hold it down.

“Is it…” He dug teeth into his lip, looked back with begging eyes. “Please say it’s big enough.”

“You tell me,” she rasped, uncapping her knife again — this time offering it to him, tapping against the ruler etched into its side.

He blinked, focusing on the ticks of the inches and praying he was correct about that being a trout.

“E-Eight inches,” he announced through heavy panting. “Big enough to keep!”

She tsked. “Barely.”

She loved exaggerating.

“But we will,” she said, slipping out her precious bait and dropping the fish into the cooler with expert speed.

“Does that mean I —” Hot, sweltering summer air stung the insides of his lungs and still left him breathless as he gasped like a fish out of water, falling forward in collapse to grip the side of the boat until his knuckles grew so blanched white from the pressure the black ink atop them looked pale gray. God, he was too close to the finish line to let it all fall apart now, to let it all be for naught. “Do I get to — Can I —”

Firm hands gripped his hips, a deep laugh vibrating down his spine as finished for him, “You want to come?”

Even the pressure of her fingertips was becoming too much at this point, sparks dancing across his vision from the touch. “Y-yes, I — please —”

“Hm, but do you really deserve to?” she nuzzled lightly against his shoulder blade before burying her face beneath the base of his neck, as if they were doing nothing more than chaste spooning. “I mean, it feels like I did most of the actual angling…”

No no no no. His throat somehow grew even drier.

“I like when you do all the work,” he hurried out, hoarse beyond hoarse. “Don’t you?”

Nothing but a noncommittal grunt from her, as the warmth of her skin pressed against his back vanished, hands on his hips staying in place.

“I know you do,” she deflected, flashing him a smug smirk from her place leaned back in white leather swivel seat. “Mm, I bet you wouldn’t bother to move for yourself even if I did let you.”

Fighting a fish was a very, very precise artform, indeed. A careful balancing act. It required strength, it required intelligence, it required endurance, it required a touch both delicate and forceful, a perfect combination of brains and brawn.

“W-Would I really have to, Jessie?” he whined, knitting his brow. “You won’t — Don’t you want to fuck me? Don’t you —”

“I want what I’ve been wanting,” she interrupted, stroking fingers along the ridge of his hip before allowing them to retreat. “For you to earn it.” Fingertips traced back towards his spine, stroking down down down to his tailbone. “You can move.”

“Fuck —” He pushed himself up tentatively, unsure that wobbly legs wouldn’t give out beneath him, forced to move at the same molasses slow paced she’d subjected him to.

Still, his tolerance for feeling empty reached its limit before his weakened muscles did, and exhaled and lowered himself even more slowly, stuck between savoring the deeper and deeper stretch and rushing himself for more.

“Fuck, you do look pretty doing that,” she whistled behind him. “Could lure a girl in.”

“O-Oh,” he sighed, bobbing up and down at a more deliberate pace now, meeting with rocking of the gentle waves lapping against the boat, each amplifying the other. “Tell me again, won’t you?” he requested, resigning himself to find his finish on his own as he released his grip from the boat and reached to stroke himself. “Tell me I —”

A low rumble of a growl from behind them, a sudden snap of the fragile push and pull — his arm jerked and pinned to his back before it could reach its destination, finding himself shoved forward as Jessie rose to stand herself, the supportive arm that wrapped around his waist all that kept him from falling from the force.

He’d barely managed to process his new position bent over the side of the boat before silicone was buried to the hilt, its rounded end swiftly hammering just where it needed to, with such an unexpected force and precision he felt the world fade and spin around him as low waves of pleasure began to kick and whip into an all consuming whirlpool, eyes rolling to the back of his head.

“Look at me,” she ordered in a tone so authoritative, cool, flat, compared to the frantic whimpers he let out as he rocked back to meet every thrust, receive every sensation at full force now that he finally had it.

He obeyed, eyes he would have thought it nearly impossible to pry to squint shooting wide open in reflex at her mere suggestion, every detail of her face coming into crisp, vivid detail — that firm, sculpted jawline hanging with a surprising lack of tension, plush rosy lips not scrunched into the angry line he might have expected, but rather parted with a gentle bow to pull in quick breaths, auburn brow lax over half-lidded but unblinking eyes.

“Come for me,” she said, eyes widening with molten gold flare that burned straight through him.

This time his hand didn’t have time to begin to reach to touch himself — he didn’t even have time to think about the possibility, as one final thrust reverberated through every nerve in his body, making those gentle waves of pleasure finally rise steep enough to bend with a curl as steep as his hunched spine, then finally break, crashing against itself to white-cap in choppy pulses.

He let out a choked sob of surrender, feeling so lost and thrown about in its tow he was capsizing, spilling over with blazing heat blown away into a cool rush as quickly as it rose, as if struck down by a frigid, stormy breeze. His insides flipped and eddied about with such ferocity, his sense of balance so thoroughly obliterated it felt as if he really was falling, suspended in air and tumbling over himself to a crash at a distance he couldn’t predict, a force he —

John realized with an abrupt splat and a stinging smack of water against his cheek that he had literally been falling, had tumbled straight overboard to belly flop against the surface of the lake and plunge beneath it.

“Shit!” He heard the shout muffled through pressurized whoosh of water and the blub-blub of bubbles rising from the breath knocked from him.

He blinked his eyes open in effort to see through murky water what direction the bubbles rose, will sore and aching muscles to kick him towards the surface they foretold — only to be pushed down by another splash as quickly as he started.

This time he opened his eyes to find bright amber cutting through the murky greenish brown, set in ruddy alabaster framed by warm copper halo.

And once again, that supportive arm wrapped around his waist, and he was jetting upwards to a breath of air so fresh and relieving it felt like the first he’d ever taken.

“I got you!” His redheaded savior called through her own hungry gasp for air, keeping him held tight to her as she flailed on a rough path towards the stern of the boat. “Just hang onto me.”

“I —” He reached a palm towards the boat’s side to brace himself as the other tread through the water, legs joining to bring them to a more stable float with their weights equally supported. “I can swim, Jessie.”

Her mouth closed tight, nostrils flaring outward with a huffy exhale as she kicked towards him to propel herself gliding backwards towards the ladder, holding to its bar and wedging a foot against its rung. “Well I didn’t fuckin’ know that, now, did I?”

“No,” he rumbled softly, paddling towards her and grabbing onto the opposite bar, his other hand reaching up to cup her cheek, feeling a dimple sink into his round as she tensed. “You didn’t.”

With that he craned his neck upwards as he gently pulled her towards him to press their lips together, not caring a bit about the fishy taste of lakewater clinging to them as he savored the delicate warmth so few would ever know, sighing at the subtle tilt of her head to lean into the kiss, allow his hand to stroke along the underside of her jaw.

He felt the gentle tickle of her eyelids fluttering open before he heard the gruff clearing of her throat, followed by her pulling warmth leaving him in chilly waters as she parted and pulled away.

“Now can we get back on the boat?” she complained, ascending the ladder midway then turning down to cast a scornful glare at him, then nodding down towards sleek black silicone protruding from her crotch. “This thing isn’t a flotation device, y’know.”

He gave a breath laugh as he watched her finish her climb, envying every tiny droplet of water that got to trail its way down the curves of toned legs. “Next time we’ll be sure to strap-in to our life jackets as well, hm?”

“Next time you’re gonna have to reel one in yourself if you want there to be a strap,” she barked back, fidgeting to quickly loosen her harness. “I sure hope you fucking managed to learn something about fishing!”

He forced his laughter to fade, shaking his head as he climbed to join her. Such sudden fight in her, as if she hadn’t just shown him how deeply his hooks were buried.

He thought he’d learned quite a lot about fishing, all things considered.

#nsft #11:58 so that's the only tag it gets for now aaaaaand post

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