#without a shell ya feel me

[ricopop]

mini oscillo ref aahh what EVERRR dies @superbellsubways @cephalonheadquarters

[chaoticwholesome]

It will be such a beautiful world when i learn to drive <3 in a perfect world i wld prefer not to but like. having to rely on other people's schedules and listening to my regular driver's racist politics in the mornings is gonna make me chew glass 👍

[nanamiskentos]

★ ☄️🪽 ARMAGEDDON ! jujutsu kaisen. 呪術廻戦.

prologue ⋆ ★ what if gojo satoru was the king of curses? or nanami kento, the suave n' disdainful cult leader? ryomen sukuna, the strongest at jujutsu tech? welcome to alternate reality jujutsu kaisen.

pairings ⋆ ★ gojo, geto, nanami, choso, toji, sukuna genre tags & warnings ⋆ ★ afab/she+her!reader, fíngering (f), metaphysical séx, reader is called 'whóre', the most incorrect use of unlimited void ever, óral (m), consensual éxhibitiónism/voyéurísm (nanami), mentions of violence, wall séx, hate séx (choso), jealous séx, car séx (toji), ríding him to tears, córruption kink, overstím, angry séx, lore swaps in a way that would make shonen jump blacklist me forever

word count ⋆ ★ 5.1k a/n ⋆ ★ been teasing this since november last year and i lost motivation and forced myself to pick it back up and get it togetherrr 😭 my formal apologies extended to gege

GOJO SATORU ៹. the king of curses

"i h-hate you, i really, really do!" funny, isn't it? how the words that fall from your kiss-stung lips don't quite match at how you're writhing and squirming in the lap of a being that could easily snap you in two, should he so wished.

clearly, gojo satoru seems to find you, his vessel, just as amusing, for he thinks he's grown rather used to your antics. to the way that you claim to detest him, and that you'll never entertain his offers ever again. and yet here you are, always crawling back to the king of curses when the long hours of the night don't allow you to rest.

"that's possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me," gojo coos, chiming sweetly while two fingers work their way through your insides, crooking and curling to find your sweet spot. sighing as though he wasn't affected by your bare form, draped across his throne, "you know what i really admire about you? your unshakeable principles. how you say that you just can't stand me, heh, and yet, always beggin' like a whore for me."

"fuck, gojo, r-right there, –" eyes rolling to the back of your head, revealing the whites, as translucent gloss practically drips down one of the demon's four hands.

"yes, yes," gojo mutters, "i'll get to that, jus' gotta' be patient." luckily, your back is pressed against his bare chest, the muscles and flesh littered with bold, ivory markings. the very edges of ice-kissed hair tickling at your cheek as sharp fangs sink into the shell of your ear, almost tender.

each push and pull of gojo's slender, sturdy fingers between your swollen folds leaves a resounding pop! that echoes through this...well, you're not quite sure where you are. all you know is that, as gojo satoru's vessel, you're prone to sharing his domain — particularly when you're trying to sleep. frankly, you should be a little more concerned about the frequency of these metaphysical meetings, but it's hard to think of little else but how his fingers are so thick, hitting all the right spots in you.

"hey, have i ever told ya' about unlimited void?" gojo suddenly murmurs, jostling right over the nasty bulge that the king of curses packs beneath those loose robes. you tiredly droop your head back, too busy rolling your hips, so close to that dear climax that you've been chasing ever since your soul popped up in gojo's throne room. your eyes meet four blue irises, each one cunning and sharp.

"is t-this really the time for a, hah, a lesson?" you scowl, feeling gojo stiffen and curse underneath you when your pretty cunt sets a steady rhythm over his clothed shaft, "you were no help earlier today, y'know that, right? when that c-curse was –"

gojo nips at your neck, those strands of snowy hair kissing your neck once more, "you were doing just fine without me, always got somethin' to complain about, don't you, eh?" lifting your hips to hiss at the arousal that's leaking out from underneath you, pooling in his wide lap. muttering something about how a human and a lowly vessel like you should be honoured to receive a teaching from the incarnated king of curses, "now pay attention, 'cause i'm not gonna' be repeating myself. 's about t-time you learnt more about this domain."

bleary eyes cracking open to try and capture the sight of a floorless throne room, as though the night sky had been captured to form the base, flickering often as a starless, yet stormy sky, "i k-know unlimited void," you whine, "always showin' off in my head 'bout it," seething as gojo stills his fingers inside you, tutting as he presses a kiss to the nape of your neck.

two beefy arms still hold you aloft, while one has fingers buried within your cunt, and the fourth? deft, rough pads of his fingers begin rubbing soothing, tight circles over your clit, rendering most of your mind to mush, "not just a realm, sweetheart. heh, guess you could say it's a curse. at least for anyone foolish enough to find themselves trapped there –," patting your thighs gently, "present company excluded, of course."

resuming his gentle, punishing pace once more, still curling upwards where he's most eager to reach, that special spot that will see you falling apart so beautifully, "see, when most lesser beings enter, it's like – mhmm, how should i put this?" gojo's musing, voice curling melodiously behind you, slapping away your eager hand that reaches for his cock, "not yet, where was i? well, unlimited void stretches one's mind, traps ya' in an endless sea of information. trust me, yer' gonna' know every atom and particle out there."

"ah, gojo!" lashes fluttering with crystal tears that pull at the corners of your eyes, for he's hit the arrowhead right on the mark, right where your climax is poised to wash over you any second now.

but gojo's ignoring your needy cries, two fingers flexing so tense against your gummy, sticky walls, "so the mind can't really handle unlimited void, and most are just...shut down. but only when i activate it, does that make sense?" he's musing, not waiting for your answer, "yeah, it does, hah. but we are not most lesser beings, right?"

you're not even sure what on earth he's going on about, desperate to chase the orgasm that teases you, licks flames at your groin, "n-no, we're not, fuck, gojo, 'm so –"

"close?" gojo chuckles darkly, and you should have known. truly, you should have guessed that he would have never been so generous with your pleasure if he wasn't planning something. for just as you ripple with the dazed pleasure, you can feel gojo crook one finger in you, one behind the other, curling the digits just so he can mutter something you only catch when it's too late.

"unlimited void."

what follows next is earth-shattering, for you feel as though its the ultimate surrender to the king of curses, where time and space, and thought all blend together into something overwhelming perfect, rather than suffocating. your lips part, soundless as a silent cry is ripped from you, your thighs quivering atop gojo satoru's muscular lap, release absolutely spraying and gushing out from your swollen, eager folds.

you've never had a release that's quite so...clear and inviting, and you can hear gojo's amused, aroused laugh against your back, and if you didn't know better, you would assume that the king of curses is running pale claws through your hair, letting you ride out the crystalline wave of your orgasm.

"hahh, oh my – oh my god, satoru," you're probably babbling, clinging and creating a bigger mess over gojo, who just narrows all four eyes, tipped with white, long lashes. he's smiling, as though he knows something that you don't, and he looks almost pleased, "should we continue the next lesson tomorrow night?"

NANAMI KENTO ៹. the cult leader

you should have known better, you really should have been a bit smarter about all this, about flouncing into the hall where nanami had been holding court, or rather, cult. for the mats had been set up the previous day for the wealthiest benefactors to come and see the great, golden man in the flesh.

and you doubt your husband had been...pleased, when you had poked your head past the great sliding doors, clad in nothing but an open robe in swathes of rippling navy. so all those who turned their head would have caught sight of nanami kento's beautiful wife, nipples pebbled in the cool air, drawing their line of sight to the apex of your thighs. so, that's how you found yourself here, lips pursed around the fat head of the cult leader's shaft.

"she's doin' so well, isn't she?" nanami intones, gentle hand guiding the nape of your neck, loving even. well, he always was, despite the games that the two of you played. the show that he was always eager to put on, hazel eyes gazing over the gaping maws of the benefactors who could only watch, shifting on their mats as you lifted your head up with a pop!

he's chuckling to himself, running a limp hand through thick waves of amber hair, "heh, 's okay. no-one needs speak, i need to be hearing her properly." her being the slick sounds echoing from the hollows of your mouth, the lips that you used to press creamy kisses onto his cock.

"doing, mmph – doing good?" you mumble, that heavy slurp! of your tongue against the broad underside of his cock sending him to heaven and back. he's adjusting his glasses, guiding a shaky hand to the base of his cock, where golden curls coil thickly, slowly sliding his member from your pretty mouth. smearing your waiting lips with the translucent smears of pre that you've pulled from him.

"the best," nanami assures you, patting at his thick, muscular thighs for you to lay your head, "and t-they all think so too, i bet." he can see the gleam in your eyes, knows that you're enjoying this just as much as he is.

wondering at all the creative ways that he can take you right after this, perhaps splayed out on his lap for all to see, back against the teal robes snug on his chest, so the benefactors can see his cock slide between the fat folds of your cunt. tempting.

you're pursing your lips once more, wiping a stray, clingy strand of nanami's arousal from your chin, before diving back to the head task at hand. each wet, sloppy sound of your glistening lips against the fat, blushed tip of his cock has nanami's thighs shaking, quivering. determined not to whine and lose composure in front of the men who fork over billions of yen to his...temple each month.

but it's your hands that are the most dangerous, nanami concludes, for while you flatten your tongue against his tip, your fist tightens around the base of his cock, teasing gentle fingers against the folds of skin right underneath, and his mind goes absolutely blank.

shooting ropes after ropes of thick, buttery release against your lips. watching with glimmering, hazy eyes as your fingers catch the droplets of his release, reaching in between your thighs to slicken your cunt further with his climax, god, nanami truly thinks he's going to burst.

there's a faint, muffled groan from someone in the audience, and he can see the pitying, disapproving look in your eyes. for someone's broken the golden rule of silence, and well, the whole room is gonna' pay for that now. and miss out on a truly magnificent show, he'd wager. what a shame, but no big loss. he's truly extracted whatever funds they had, so these men are of no use to him now.

he gently runs slender fingers over your chin, dipping at the plush flesh of your lower lip, helping you up, "come, my love. i don't want you seeing this," pulling your open robes tighter across your heated flesh, he's guiding you to the door, past the rows of slack-jawed men. nanami kento certainly doesn't want the love of his life hearing the sounds of errant curses ripping flesh apart.

CHOSO KAMO ៹. the assassin

you not really sure what's stopping you from plunging the tip of a blade into the throbbing veins that bulge against choso kamo's neck. it would be so easy, and well, it would be fair too. you could claim self-defence too, for had the sorcerer killer not arrived to take your life?

but fate has a funny way of doing things, for there's a hazy smile playing across your lips, fingers twisting into loose strands of dark hair that fall to choso's shoulders, gasping as he rickets his hips into you, greedy as his cock drills you against the damp alley-wall.

"you're not t-that good at y'job, are ya'?" you're teasing, gasping as you can feel every inch of choso's thick shaft pressing disorderly pecks against your cervix, deeper than you really thought possible. and god, the assassin looks ruined. how ironic that you were the one who took him out instead, with nary a weapon but the one that he loved between your thighs.

the taller man's groaning, amber eyes misty, squeezing shut as dark lashes flutter across pale, blotchy skin like brush strokes on an oil canvas. "s'good, oh, f-fuck," choso's lips bloom a pretty shade of bruised pink, "yer' killing me, baby."

he's jerking his head back, partly from the sheer pleasure running through his veins, and partly due to your nails bestowing a harsher, tighter tug to the back of his head. it's got him sheepishly giggling, utterly pussydrunk on you, "sorry, bad choice of words, huh?"

whatever retort was blooming on your open lips falls apart when you feel the cherry head of choso's cock punch at you, pistoning slick smears of pre against your sweet spot, hot and heavy. he's filling you up in the most delicious way imaginable, and you take the moment to run your hands over his back. over the tight top that clings to his build like a second skin, melded into the ashen pallor of his bulging upper arms.

choso's effortlessly got you poised on one arm, jostling and cursing as his fingers loop around thick, coiled chains dangling from the spear strapped to his back. he's fumbling for a split second, throwing the weapon on the ground with little care, all so he can hold you better. cold fingers pressing against your mouth, a waiting command for you to wrap your tongue around the tip of his finger. tasting yourself, from when you had first guided his hand to the apex of your thighs.

"c-close?" choso murmurs, questioning and chasing after your lolling tongue, looking equally wrecked, as he slams the very last of his inches into you. bottoming out with a thick, sticky pop! the final push has him hitting the perfect spot to make you writhe and squirm. sealing him into a kiss this time to muffle the whine that threatens to erupt from you.

knowing that that choso's got you pinned to the wall of an alley in one of the most run-down districts of the city, where none travel save for ill intentions, and yet, anyone could still turn the corner and see exactly where the base of choso's cock meets your hips in clingy slaps of arousal and pre swirled up together.

"the f-first time i've never been able to finish the job, heh," choso muses, his tone almost gentle despite the mean way that he's delving into your walls, "don't think i can face m'boss after this, tch', o-ouh, fuck," choso's leaning into the crook of your neck, sinking pointed canines into soft skin. leaving marks that will surely bruise and bloom in shades of deep violet, when he separates his tacking, syrupy lips from the juncture of your swan-arch.

you groan, unabashed, when choso stills for a second and bestows you with a heady kiss, all before plunging right back in to you, "who would have thought i would be the o-one to bring the sorcerer killer to his k-knees?"

choso's giving you a half-lidded, lazy look, flushing a brilliant shade of blossom-pink, as though he's got all the time in the world, smoothly dragging his hand down further until its patting at your mound, "p-patience, i'll give ya', that too."

TOJI FUSHIGURO ៹. the office worker

"oh, it's you." that was your disappointed, flat intone when toji fushiguro pushed through the elevator doors after you, earlier that day. the man was the office's terminal underachiever, barely even showing up on the clock, but it was hard to complain when he proved such a delicious sight for the eyes in a rumpled black dress-shirt, rolled up to reveal glorious thick forearms dusted with faint, dark hair.

"oh, it's t-too big, toji!" and that's how you somehow ended up, practically pressed flat into the most brutal, nasty mating press in the backseat of your car. toji's large hands splayed across your thighs, legs achingly hooked over his bent form — but the ache between your legs was far more pleasurable. glossy strands of slick snapping and clinging to your skin where his thighs snapped against yours, steady at a pace that wouldn't rattle your isolated car too much in the basement lot.

"didn't think i was gon' show up today, doll?" toji groans, slowly bucking his sharp hips forward so every inch of his cock explores the walls of your pretty, pretty pussy. "that's why y'were flirtin' with that stupid –" the man's muffling back a heavy moan, "that stupid worker on the s-second floor?"

you're not quite sure how toji manages to do it. defying the laws of physics and matter to somehow reach in between the two of you, to slap around the treacly mess gathered at your pressed groins. toji's circling your throbbing clit in faux pity, all as you heave, "you're jealous? t-that's what this is, hah?"

toji's jade, sharp eyes narrow as though he's hesitant to put a name to the emotion, settling to roll and pinch at your swollen bud, hoping that you can feel every vein and fold of skin rummaging through your syrupy cunt, "n-no." but the quake in his voice gives him so brutally away, and it has you grinning. pulling toji fushiguro down for a clash of your lips against his, so that rough scar brushes against your skin, twitching almost as though toji's smiling into the kiss. what a bastard, you hate how he's ensnared you.

you hiss, pulling at soft, silky strands of raven hair, "keep it down, fushiguro –" heart racing with every ricketing motion of your poor car, swaying back and forth, tucked away in this dim little corner of the office basement lot, "s-someone could see, could fire us, hnghh', b-both."

it's clear that toji fushiguro doesn't quite share your concerns, that shark-like grin beaming in brilliant ivory, nipping at your neck, tugging the corners of your blouse with his teeth, "someone, as in – fuck, ya' got a killer grip, doll. someone, like that fucker on the second floor?"

you roll drenched hips further into toji's abdomen, feeling dark hairs tickled at the very lowest base of your own groin, "if ya' wanna be exclusive, t-toji, just say so." head thrown back for toji to bestow heated kisses all along the expanse of bared skin, tossing your employee lanyard aside.

toji punctuates his answer with a sharp tack of his hips against your clit, "yeah. exclusive, you n' me, doll." the burly man must be close for he's flushing, babbling at you as though you're undoing every stitch holding his slacks (and sanity) together, "i'd do a-anything. clean up my act for ya', show up every day jus' to see that pretty fuckin' face."

your own hazy, shaking climax washes over you, just as toji stills, pumping rope after rope of translucent, creamy cum right into you. creating an awful, sticky mess that leaves you writhing, panting toji's name into his open mouth, "do all that, f-fushiguro, and y'can have me in any way you want."

GETO SUGURU ៹. the death painting

"please," the half-curse is whining now, prattling as you run hands over the dark, cotton robes that envelop him, "dunno' what this is, but it feels so –"

you're cooing, pressing soft and slick kisses to the corner of geto's pink mouth, "feels good, suguru? i guess you could say, hmm," running nails through the dark, silky strands of the death painting's hair, "you could say it's pleasurable, right?"

geto's nodding, adam's apple bobbing as his peach-fine features flush the most beautiful shade of crimson. looking nothing like the hardened warrior with an arsenal of special-grade curses, those of his own blood, at his side. he looks positively ruined, and you can feel the curve of his bulge underneath your teasing hands, running softly over the clothed shaft in the most innocuous way possible.

"can you, ouh –" geto stutters when your lips press a searing kiss into the throbbing vein on his creamy neck, where his shaky pulse jumps in staccato, "touch it? feels s-so good, love."

you're batting your lashes, tilting your head as though you have no idea about the effect you hold over the half-curse, "what? touch, oh!" slipping your hand past the band of his loose pants, underneath the deep violet fabric cinched at his waist, "here?"

resting your hand against the very base of his abdomen, right above where he craves you most. geto's bucking his hips up desperately, hoping that you'll get the hint and move past where you've hovering, right over a thatch of raven-curls.

you thinly smile, feeling the heat of his skin sear into you, before you've even touched his muscular, broad thighs. to think that you've got quite the warrior begging underneath you, well, it's got your own thighs damply clenched together. but that's a lesson for another day, for today, you want to see geto suguru gasping in your hold.

"hmm, suguru, y'know you've gotta' be a bit more specific," your nails run dangerously against his shaft, and you won't admit this to him yet, but the sheer length is making you gulp. all before you've even laid eyes on the magnificent inches that he's packing away underneath his robes, "do y'trust me, sugu'?"

geto nods, quickly and sharply, already shivering from your touch, "of c-course, 'course, i trust you." and the admission makes your pussy flutter, the idea of having this girth packed in you, drilling into you until the two of you see stars.

you press another gentle kiss to the corner of his lips again, reaching up to free his hair from the clingy knot resting on the back of his head. marvelling as ink-dark hair pools in sleek swathes, falling to his waist, giggling as geto chases after your lips, "hah, 'm gonna make you feel so good, baby."

you gently tug his robes to the side, revealing an expanse of chiselled skin, and clear-cut muscle. giving geto a coy look as you pull out his weighty, hot shaft, searing in your hands. it's just as pretty and big as he is, crowned with an angry-red head that seems to throb and pulse in your grasp.

"fuck," geto gasps, already looking drunken from your touch, "keep doing t-that, don't stop that, please." he's addicted to the way that your fist starts gently pumping him, slowly applying more pressure as you move from base to tip. dipping your tongue to taste the first, clear drops of pre that have already escaped.

you clearly didn't account for the physiology of those with cursed blood in their veins, for geto's already making a mess. you're certain that barely no time has passed at all, but there's already slick, gooey strands painting your hand. creating loud squelches as you roll your fist, thumb pausing to flit at his weeping slit.

"hey, suguru," you're murmuring, experimentally parting your lips over his bulging tip, "what would happen if i –"

you get your answer when you're barely enveloped his shaft, thick wads of stringy cum exploding out in glossy torrents, painting your chin in slow, clingy drips of geto's seed. geto, who's twitching and flushed in your hold, ears beaming red as he gnaws at his lower lip, "baby, you shoulda', fuck, should have warned me." pausing to give you a shy look, "wanna' try again?"

RYOMEN SUKUNA ៹. the strongest

"what the fuck was that?" you've never quite seen sukuna like this, this furious. this loss of composure just didn't quite suit ryomen sukuna, the strongest sorcerer that walks the earth in this day and age (though, rumours say that he may even hold a candle against gojo satoru, the famed king of curses).

over a decade you've known the gruff man, graduated alongside him, worked and fought alongside him at jujutsu tech, and yet you've never, ever seen sukuna as he is now. not even when itadori yuuji broke his favourite mug before class.

he's blinking crimson eyes in some sorta' haze, dark lashes fluttering as his mouth hovers an inch away from yours. you're not sure what sort of lecture this is, but the throbbing in your groin is a dead giveaway that you don't mind.

a large hand is resting on the nape of your neck, as though sukuna's not sure whether to pull you away or towards him, numerous silver piercing clinking as he shakes his head, "what did i say to ya' earlier, hmm?"

"erm..." no, not your best work.

but it's truly hard to focus when sukuna looks this good, painted in the evening light that filters through the window of the abandoned classroom, long after the students have retired. toned, deceptively fierce arms pushing against the navy jujutsu uniform, rose-pink hair mussed — no thanks to that special grade that was giving the two of you a hard time not so long ago.

he's pushing closer against you, and you're catching that scent, intoxicating and heady, "wasn't a rhetorical question, woman. didn't i tell ya' one important thing?"

you realise how easy it would be to wrap a leg around his slender waist, to pull the tall man in against the two of you were pressed flat against the desk but you tamp the lecherous thoughts down, time and place, yeah? "you said...," you falter, wandering if it's worth tilting your head to brush your lips against the man, "y'said not to get in the way."

sukuna's long fingers are curling at the shell of your ear, running over a stray strand of hair that's come undone in the earlier scuffle, "mhm, good girl. and what did ya' do, then? when i was busy using dismantle n' cleave?"

you sigh, already feeling sukuna's temper roll off him in waves, "yes, i got in the way," intoning flatly, looking anywhere but the concentric rings in sukuna's eyes, "look, if you're gonna' chew me out, can you make it quick? i ended up you helpin' anyway, and i dunno' why you're so pressed about –"

sukuna presses his lips to yours, effectively shutting you up in a kiss that leaves you whimpering, moaning at the desire (and something else that you know sukuna's gonna have a hard time naming) that erupts. bruising lips meeting yours with a fierce urgency, teeth scraping, and hands pulling your own uniform to the side, as though sukuna may lay down his life if he doesn't get to feel you this close to him.

sukuna's muffling something into the kiss, calling you senseless (well, hey! not true) and oblivious (maybe) and gorgeous (true enough, that's fair). you're not sure when his large, tattooed hand managed to pry its way up to your thighs, but you gasp at the feeling of your suddenly drenched panties being torn off with little bravado. sukuna's grinning, all sharp fangs, as he tucks them away into his uniform pocket.

"fuck me." you're groaning, gasping at his thumb hooks over your clit, rubbing hot, tight circles into your most sensitive spot. you're not sure if it's exasperation or a plea colouring your words, but sukuna seems pleased, quirking a brow, "yeah? that's what you want? think it'll get ya' off the hook?"

"please fuck me," you correct yourself, reaching for the metal buckle at sukuna's hips, fulfilling that vision of hooking sukuna in. rocking him closer to your bare, dripping core so he can align his fat, heavy tip against your glistening entrance.

your eyes flit down to the very base of his cocks, where coarse, pink hair teases your flesh, and — oh. sukuna's tracking your line of sight, flushing when he sees your eyes widen, taking in the dark, tattooed ring encircling the base of his shaft.

"don't ask," sukuna grunts, ears flaming red as you giggle, nipping at your ear, "hold on f'me now, can ya' follow that instruction, at least?" the man truly thinks he may lose it, right then and there, watching how your puffy folds bulge around the head of his cock. how it's you, the woman that he's been in love with for ten years, giving him a dazed, lopsided smile when he finally, finally slides it in.

"fuuuck," sukuna groans, pale-pink hair tickling at your forehead as he leans in, "yer' taking me well, heh. not too big for ya'?" he's grinning, even when you swat a droopy hand at him, clenching hard around his girth, "don't flatter yourself."

but it's only when he starts rocking his hips back and forth, imprinting his cock right against your walls, that sukuna begins to lose his mind, losing all sense of other duties and responsibilities. thoughts of the report that he has to submit to the fuckass higher ups, the quizzes he has to grade for the dumb, little first years, oh god, the bills he has to pay. poof! gone, vanquished by the sticky-sweet hold of your intoxicating cunt.

"wanted this for sooo long, woman," sukuna grunts, "you got no idea, wanted you," he punctuates his words with a sharp tack of his hips, "only you. always you, only one for me, heh. i'd take out anyone who says otherwise." and your sweet, pretty whimpers in his ear only make him all the more desperate, ready to slam bullseye on that sweet spot. thank god, classes are over for the day and the campus is empty, for he's got you allll to himself now.

[zaynessbeloved]

The door had barely clicked shut before his hands were on you.

Still sun-warmed and tasting faintly of salt, you barely had time to laugh before Rafayel’s mouth captured yours—hungry, molten, reverent. He pressed you back against the nearest wall like he couldn’t bear the space between you a moment longer, his fingers skating over your skin slick with sunscreen and sun, and want, barely held back all day.

“You’re cruel, you know that?” he moaned against your lips, his voice low and soaked with longing, words curling around you like silk. “Wearing that little thing… knowing what it does to me…”

His hand slid around your waist, fingers teasing the strings of the bikini he’d picked for you months ago—delicate, barely there, the color designed to make your skin glow. He’d forgotten you even still had it. You hadn’t. You’d saved it.

And judging by the state of him now—kiss-bruised mouth, flushed cheeks, eyes molten and dragging across your chest like they were starving—he hadn’t been prepared for the way you looked in it. Perfect. Divine. His.

“You looked like a dream out there, cutie…” he breathed into your skin, his lips trailing down the column of your throat, damp and shivery. “Like something the sea spat out just for me to worship. You should’ve seen yourself.”

“I did,” you murmured with a sly smile, letting your fingers toy with the hem of his linen shirt, sticky now with salt and sweat, clinging to the hard lines of his torso. “You made sure of it, the way you couldn’t stop staring.”

He groaned deep and low, and rutted his hips against yours gently, letting you feel just how true that was.

“I tried to behave,” Rafayel whined, dragging his teeth gently across your shoulder, tongue flicking out to soothe the sting. “I was so good, cutie. I played in the sand. I let you win that race to the pier even though you cheated. I even let that lifeguard flirt with you for two whole minutes without setting the entire coastline on fire.”

You laughed, breathless and heat-drunk, and tugged him closer, nails ghosting down his back until he shuddered against you.

“You’re not very good at pretending you didn’t enjoy every second of it,” you whispered.

“Of you? Sun-kissed and smiling and wearing the damn bikini I hand-selected with trembling hands and the purest intentions?” he nipped at your jaw and moaned like he was in pain. “Cruel. Absolutely heartless. I should file a complaint to the gods, really.”

“Mhm, still…here you are,” you murmured, dragging your tongue just behind the shell of his ear, delighting in the way he gasped, “begging to be punished.”

His head dropped to your shoulder with a whimper, his hair damp with sweat, strands sticking to his flushed neck. His body was so warm pressed to yours, all taut muscle and bare chest, the heat between you clinging like second skin. Your bikini still clung wet and snug to your hips, a contrast to the way his hands roamed like he was trying to undo every tie with touch alone.

“I’m not begging,” he breathed, hands skimming lower, lower, drawing your thigh up around his hip so the contact turned dizzying. “You already know I need you so damn bad, don't ya?.”

“Mmhm.”

“Cutie…” his voice dropped, silk dipped in sin. “You taste like sun and salt and every dream I’ve ever had. I need to touch all of you. Right now.”

And he did—every inch, every curve, every place you’d teased him with that wicked little smirk across the shoreline. His palms were firm and reverent, sliding along the slick warmth of your skin, mapping the path from ribcage to hip with a devotion that bordered on religious. He pressed open-mouthed kisses wherever his hands traveled—under your jaw, the valley between your breasts, the soft curve of your stomach—his moans constant, muffled against your skin.

“You were made for this,” he whispered between kisses, dazed and drunk on you. “For the sea. For me.”

Your fingers threaded through his lavender strands, now damp and curling slightly at the ends, and pulled until he looked up at you—eyes blown dark, lashes wet, lips kiss-swollen and parted with want.

“Take me to bed,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

He groaned again, like the words had physically knocked the breath from his lungs.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he murmured, lifting you easily into his arms, mouth already on yours again, deeper this time, messier, made of sun-warmed desperation and hours of wanting you too much.

“Hold on tight, cutie,” he whispered against your lips. “Because I plan on making you forget your own name.”

He carried you like second nature, strong arms cradling you with all the reverence of a man handling his most precious work of art. His skin glistened, sun-slicked and flushed, his breath shallow where it brushed against your collarbone. The bedroom was already heavy with heat, both from the weather and from you—your body still humming from a day of being watched, worshipped, wanted.

He laid you out on the bed like you were the only masterpiece he’d ever cared to study, eyes roving across your still-wet bikini, the one he hand-picked as a gift a while back, his name practically stitched into the way it hugged your hips. You stretched languidly against the sheets, smirking, and that was all it took—he was on you in seconds.

“You’re cruel, you know that?” he murmured against your stomach, lips trailing down with soft, reverent kisses that made your thighs twitch. “Wearing that little thing… knowing what it does to me…and still smirking like you’re enjoying seeing me at your feet, desperate for a taste of you.”

“I won’t lie, you look so good like this,” you breathed, fingers tangling in his damp hair just to feel the weight of him, the heat, the tremble. “All flushed and needy.”

His hands slid up your sides, palms wide and hungry, and his mouth pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses over your belly, then down, tongue flicking at the curve of your navel. He moaned like he was feasting, like the taste of sunscreen and you was too much for him to bear. Then his teeth tugged at one of the delicate strings of your bikini bottoms, slowly, dramatically, until it came loose with a whisper.

You laughed softly, curling your legs around him. “Using your teeth now?”

“I was being polite before,” he groaned, biting softly at your hip. “But I’ve gone too long without tasting you, cutie, and I’m this close to losing the last of my sanity.”

He moved to come up for a kiss, eyes glassy, mouth parted—and just as his lips neared yours, you pressed your foot firmly to his chest.

“Ah—” he choked on his breath, eyes widening as you pushed him back with just enough strength to keep him pinned where he was. “Oh, you’re evil.”

You smiled, slow and wicked. “Mhm, you love it.”

“I do,” he groaned, falling back against the sheets with a dramatic flair, flushed and completely, hopelessly gone. “Gods, I do. Look at what you’re doing to me.”

You trailed your toes down his chest, letting your heel press to the waistband of his swim shorts. He shivered, hard. Then arched a brow at you, pupils blown wide, chest rising with sharp, shallow breaths.

“You’re going to kill me, cutie,” he whispered. “One day, you’ll smile at me like that, and I’ll just drop dead.”

“Mmm, even so,” you murmured, spreading your thighs in invitation, “you’re still breathing now, no?”

He stilled. Then slowly, like a predator tasting victory, he lowered himself again, hands curling under your thighs, dragging you down the bed with a strength that stole your breath. His eyes were locked on yours as he placed a kiss at the inside of your knee. Then another. Then lower.

When he reached your inner thigh, he hummed a sound that was more growl than sigh.

“I love you,” he murmured like it was a curse, voice cracking. “I love you so much it hurts. You’ve ruined me.”

And then he devoured you. His mouth was hot and slick, tongue moving with practiced, fervent devotion—every stroke tailored to the exact sound he wanted to rip from your throat. He moaned into you, like the taste of you could keep him alive for centuries. Like this was a high he’d never come down from.

Your fingers found his hair—his wild, tangled, damp purple strands—and twisted. His breath stuttered. You pulled, and he groaned, hips grinding into the mattress like he was unraveling just from the pleasure of giving.

“Rafayel—” Your voice broke.

“Mmm, say it again,” he whimpered, mouth not stopping for a second. “You sound so pretty when you’re about to come for me, cutie.”

You whined, eyes fluttering shut as your body writhed under the spell of his mouth, his fingers now working in tandem with his tongue, curling and coaxing every ounce of heat from your core.

And just as you were teetering on that delicious edge—he stopped.

You blinked, dazed and breathless. “What…?”

His mouth was glistening, chin wet, eyes dark and electric. That familiar smirk pulled at his lips as he slowly crawled up your body like a storm, all heat and weight and tension.

“You didn’t think I’d let you stay in charge forever, did you?” he purred, his voice like velvet dragged over flame.

You swallowed, eyes wide.

“Now,” he murmured, nudging your legs open wider with his knee, pinning your wrists gently above your head, “be a good girl and let me show you exactly what you do to me. Let me make you feel so, so good, yeah?”

Of course he loved seeing you like this—sprawled out beneath him, glowing from sweat and sun, pupils wide with need, lips parted with unspoken pleas. Your body arched toward his, trembling on the edge of that final fall, but he denied you just a little longer, dragging it out like the artist he was, savoring every second of your unraveling.

His gaze devoured you, dark and gleaming, like watching you come undone beneath him was a masterpiece he’d been dying to finish.

But you… gods, you knew how to coax him. Your fingers slid down, lazy and deliberate, tracing the thick outline of his arousal through the soft fabric of his swim shorts. Just enough to make a point. Just enough to make him twitch in your hand.

He whined, a sharp, guttural sound that melted into a growl as his hips jerked forward instinctively.

“Oh no you don’t,” he breathed, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head again, harder this time, his frame hovering over you like the storm he always carried inside him. “You don’t get to tease and touch and pretend you’re not trying to kill me here, cutie.”

You barely had time to smirk before his mouth crashed into yours—wild and open and hot, all teeth and tongue and heat. He kissed you like a man starved, like he needed the taste of your moans to stay breathing.

Your bodies tangled, slick and desperate, the remaining pieces of clothing falling inevitably and rapidly to the floor. His hand found himself, stroking with a shudder before guiding his cock to your entrance—and you barely managed a gasp before he thrust in with a single, delicious motion, hips slamming flush against yours with no patience left to spare.

You bit into his neck with a cry, half praise, half plea, legs wrapping tight around his waist as he drove into you without restraint, without pretense, chasing something raw and sacred in the heat of your joined bodies.

But it was what came next that made you clench around him with a sharp, helpless moan. You felt it first—the frantic movement of his hips, the tremble of his breath against your throat—and then you heard it. Words. Not in your language. Not in anything you could understand.

Lemurian.

He was whispering it into your skin, into your mouth, your neck, your chest. Rough syllables, fevered and low, thick with worship and desperation, tumbling from his lips between gasps and groans. The ancient rhythm of his native tongue wrapped around your body like a spell.

You didn’t know what he was saying—gods, you wished you did—but the sound of it, the way it trembled out of him like prayer, ignited something deep and primal in your chest.

“Rafayel—” your voice broke, almost pleading. “Say it again.”

He growled, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his temple as he thrust harder, deeper. And then it came. A string of Lemurian, slower this time, more deliberate—followed by the only words you did understand. The ones he had taught you in the hush of a moonlit night, laughing as you struggled to pronounce them, only to melt when you finally did.

“You’re mine.”

It hit you like a wave crashing through your core—his voice, his rhythm, the way he buried himself so deep inside you it felt like you would never be whole without him there.

Your body tightened, back arching violently as you cried out his name, your release crashing into you in full, blinding waves.

Rafayel groaned, deep and broken, as your body clenched around him like a vice, and he followed—hips stuttering, voice hoarse and filled with reverence as he spilled himself inside you, still murmuring Lemurian into your skin like a prayer offered to the gods.

When the storm finally passed, he collapsed onto you, his breath ragged, face buried in your neck.

“Mine,” he whispered again, softer this time. “Always, cutie.”

[toxicanonymity]

I am humbly crawling to your page to confess my latest obsession: serial breeder!Joel.

no outbreak!universe Joel without Sarah, an old creep who lives in a lone house where every woman goes to get bred.

basement breeder

joel miller x f!reader, 1k words

Ty for this delicious thot. Almost sounds like you know who 🍃 in another life where he has them coming and going at all hours as gossip says. Standalone. WARNINGS: 18+ PWP imagine, break-in, manhandling, breeding piv, degradation, praise, mating press, carries you, pet names.

Imagine going there to get bred while you're consciously on birth control, and he gets obsessed with impregnating you specifically. You show him a positive fertility test, and he gets more aggressive. God damn, he's gonna make this work. Meanwhile, you don't seek him out the next time you (would) ovulate, and he notices, wonders if you're giving up or letting some other guy take a shot. That ain't gonna fly. . .

He quietly breaks into your dim basement while you're folding laundry on your dryer, wearing earbuds. From behind, a hand clamps over the lower half of your face. You scream into his massive palm while his other arm wraps around you, biceps bulging, stretching his white tee. He pins you against the dryer, and the warm, hard shape you feel through his pj pants sends a rush of need to your core.

With you pinned there by his clothed arousal, the arm around you falls away. His free hand brushes the shell of your ear then nudges your earbud out. He reaches to repeat this on the other side, then wraps his arm around you again and gives your breast a squeeze. He brings his mouth close to your ear, and his voice is deep and low. "Stayin' home like it ain't the most important day'a the month."

Oooh, is he mad? God, he's hot like this.

When you struggle, he adds, "Or *did ya* stay home? ... You some kinda cumslut now?"

You subtly shake your head 'no', with your nostrils brushing against the edge of his hand.

"Nah," his hips push forward, "you want this cum," he grinds.

You go quiet and relax your body. He thrusts against you at a slow rhythm, and you're getting wet. A little "Mm?" slips from your lips into his palm.

"Yeahh, that's right," he continues, "Want it bad, don't ya, pumpkin?"

"Mm," you just barely nod.

"Good girl," he says and takes his hand away from your mouth.

You clear your throat. "I was just tired."

"Tired," he laughs. "That's a good one."

He's normally good about foreplay--with you, at least - your body and your scent turns him on so bad. His hands are incredible, and he touches you just how you like it. He's even been known to bury his face between your legs. But this time, he's fully on a mission.

He hikes up your skirt and pulls your panties aside, then spits on his hand and pats the saliva between your legs.

"Ooh," he reacts to your warm, wet cunt against his lingering hand. "Didn't needa do all that, did i? Shit, you're always ready for me." He tugs down his pj pants, then his warm, smooth cockhead prods at your cunt, smearing precum into his saliva and your desire. You bend forward and rest your forearms on the clean laundry abandoned in front of you, then scoot your feet back to give him a better angle.

"Good girl," he whispers.

He buries his length in you with a groan, and your insides spread around his girth. "I'll knock ya'up, baby." He holds your waist, and with a punch of his cock he bottoms out, "Ahh." When he withdraws a few inches, you spread your feet, tilt your hips, and push back on him. "Hell yeah." He bottoms out again, then grabs your hips with both hands and pounds you.

He's on a mission - he's not trying to make it last. And he's been aching hard ever since he got it in his mind to do this. He was palming himself over his pants for relief as he walked up to your basement door.

He's giving it to you hard and stiff, weeping precum into your poor stretched hole with every powerful thrust. "Yeah, take it, baby," he breathes, and promises, "put a baby in ya," making you twitch and throb, close to bliss. When he picks up the pace, pummeling you near jackhammer speed, his words are broken by his rhythm, "ahhh, yeahhh--- cum on this cock." When you whine he says, "yeahhh, you want this cum," and you see stars.

You unravel and moan his name, feeling your face heat up after it slips out.

"Fuck yeah," he breathes, pounding you through it.

He abruptly pulls out, and you whimper at the loss. You start to protest, but he takes your panties all the way down, leaving your twitching pussy bare. He forces you around to face him, then bends his knees and you put your arms around him as he lifts you. You wrap your legs around him, and he sinks you onto his stiff cock, letting out a grunt as he bottoms out. After adjusting your weight, he walks you to your nearby bed. With each step, your clit rubs against him.

He lays you down and folds you into a mating press. His thrusts are hard and deep. "ungh," he grunts, "yeah," another thrust, "ohh fuck, " he bottoms out and throbs, warmth gushing into your depths. "God damn, baby." With another hot burst, he deepens the mating press, determined for his seed to take. Your thighs feel a deep stretch. He hovers over your face, and a drop of sweat hits your cheek.

Breathing heavily, he inches back then thrusts forward again, repeating this action a few times as his balls empty. The last thrust ends with a sigh. With his work done–for now–he stays inside and keeps you in the mating press. He wets his lips, admiring your face. “God damn, you look hot like this.”

"yeah?" You reply.

Nodding slowly, he dips his head and scans your body with hungry eyes. He can't help but pull his hips back an inch to admire the sight of your cunt spread around his fat cock. And God damn, what a sight. Not planning on pulling out any time soon, he fully sheathes himself with a low, soft grunt.

"shit, I oughta clear my schedule," he muses, glancing up from where your bodies are joined. He subtly nods and shifts his eyes around as though thinking it over, rocking his hips absent-mindedly. "Yeah," he concludes, "if this don't take ... take ya to my place 'til it does."

--

--

--

Basement Breeder Adjacent

Night walks Joel has breeder energy but only with reader.

For breaking into your basement, Sleeping Beauty - CNC home invasion / somnophilia with another night walks doppelganger.

For serial breeding, a post-outbreak one shot, the old fashioned way, a different Joel and he's a real professional, not a creep.

TYSM for reading, friends. And truly, thank you for your engagement and support. You're a light in my life when it's in shambles lol. Love y'all 🫶🏼

[rebelssvy]

bABES IS IT HOT IN HERE OR IS IT JUST YOUR SMUT 😭 im obsessedddddd with your writing YOU SLAYED THAT BTW 👏👏👏👏👏 *slam cup* ANOTHER 😘👌👌👌👌 oh my can you do a coach ukai ((w/ no weird age gap)) or nanami 👀 (whenever you feel like it, i feel like im being greedy asking for more when you just FED ME 🤭 so sorry) ps happy valentine’s day 🥰 i hope you get head, queen 💋

BOAFFFF i’ll make them separately because they are both like dif anime’s ykkk

so this is coach ukais

TWT LINKS INCLUDED

secret acc ✧.*

keishin ukai x reader ੈ✩‧₊˚

summary: you and coach ukai have been dating and soon to be married and you have never seen his porn. female receiving oral sex, fingering.

it was late on a friday night while you were wrapped up with your fiance, that something dawned on you. yes you have had sex, a lot. but, you had never seen his porn.

doing the only thing you could, you rolled over and started loving on him. kissing his face he smiled at your actions.

“y/n…. play nice will ya?” he joked. he always read you like a book. he knew you word for word. it dawned on you that instead of sneaking around, you could be blunt. you were both adults of course.

“keishin…” you sat up and faced him. his face had a questioning look on it. “can i… see…” you couldn’t get the words out. this was embarrassing.

“wanna see what..? cmon pretty girl use your words…” the way he talked to you made you melt.

“i wanna see your porn.” you felt like crawling into a shell. and staying there forever.

“woowww y/n.. didn’t know you were so bold.” instead of making tooo much fun of you. he reached and grabbed his phone. clicking it on tracking down his twitter acc. to your surprise he had a completely different one, a secret one.

you watched as he made his way to his saved folder, there wasn’t much on there. about ten or so videos all ranging from years apart.

“picky guy huh…” you attempted at a joke. he offered a chuckle to you and then proceeded to lean back against the bed frame. you followed suit sitting right next to him. shoulder to shoulder.

without any words you stole his phone from him. he didn’t complain or pry it back. he let you, the first video you came across was a girl getting pounded a cock rammed into her so hard that her liquids squirted all over the screen.

“keishin..” you gasped at what you were watching, heat spreading all over your body. you scrolled to the next one.

a girl getting her pussy ate out.

fuck. you felt like you needed a release alone from these two videos. you couldn’t look away. only prying your eyes from the screen when you felt his hand press against your stomach. mindlessly you arched yourself into his touch.

“mhm sweetheart. you keep watching. let me…” slowly he pulled your pants off and worked out underwear off your lower half. your wetness pooled on your cunt.

your eyes found its way back to his phone, a girl bent over, her ass on full display while it got spanked until it was red.

“-sh! fuckkk..!” two fingers entered your sloppy cunt without warning. for the last two minutes he had just been staring at your pretty hole. now taking action into his own hands by pumping his slender fingers in and out of you.

it was hard to keep watching the phone when his paced picked up. your eyebrows contorted, faced pinched with pleasure.

right before you put the phone down you caught a glimpse of a girl getting fingered blind folded, legs shaking.

giving you an idea, you laid flat on your back like the girl in the video. pulling a pillow over your head. you couldn’t see anything. only feel.

you could only feel his fingers making work on your wet pussy. you could hear him grown at your actions, making you squirm. your pussy clenching tighter.

“fuck you like that?” you heard him speak before you felt him press open mouthed kisses on your naked hips.

the kisses got closer and closer to your clit. until you felt him suck harsh on your bundle of nerves.

“fuck!” the way his fingers pumped in and out of you, and his tounge lapping up your folds. maybe it was the way that you couldn’t see him but he could see all of you that pushed you over the edge.

“k-ah..!” you moaned into the pillow, back arched into his mouth, pulling his face into your cunt you creamed around his fingers.

he let you ggrind his face into your cunt until you came down from your high.

“fuck y/n…. didn’t know you were gonna like it that much. i’ll buy you a blindfold right now..”

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:··:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:· ·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:··

this one took so long to make ik my bad my bad

[moonlight-prose]

origins logan, raw, passionate, in a truck, while it rains, a little wine drunk. Yeah. 😁

i have no clue if this is a request or just a thought, but i ran with what my mind thought up. but also cause i haven't written anything fully in two months so this is me practicing to get my voice back. enjoy the heinous mess.

warnings: 18+ only past this point.

You expected to freeze with the shitty little heater blowing air cold enough to raise bumps on your flesh. The overbearing echo of rain slamming against the rusted exterior of his worn in (near broken) truck. You expected to die of hypothermia. With the coroners report noting the time of death to be the second he opened that bottle of wine.

You expected a lot of things to go wrong.

That's how you managed to survive this long. In a world so hellbent on destruction, you took the cynics way out and managed to save time on the ride. Things were fucked, hope somehow managed to become a commodity the wealthy could profit off of. And mutants were enemy number one without actually being hunted for fun.

So you took note of the way your breath hung in the air—the flavor of bitter cheap red wine like a pungent toxin that only sunk you deeper onto the silver claws of fate that promised protection. Even as they offered exposure to the elements. You watched as his eyelids grew heavy, his gaze fixed on the way your top gaped and fingers gripped onto the soft leather of his jacket.

You expected this to go wrong too.

That your words would fall on deaf ears, that you would fumble as he slid a hand between your denim clad thighs. How long would it take for him to jolt back to reality? To understand that you were far too much for him to handle as the world fell on his shoulders.

How long could you get away with feeling wanted, yearned for?

When your fingers clawed at the leather seats in the back, your mouth open and chapped from the cold, is when you stopped. Thoughts slipped past the inner psyche of despondent reality. Hope washed over your spit covered shoulders as he bit down on the plush skin with a grunt. Life appeared bright and hot and burned with something new the second he plunged into your sopping cunt.

"That's it," he muttered, lips catching the shell of your ear as his cock carved a new path in your once aching body. "Open up for me baby."

Your words escaped as a mewl. Eyes rolling back and nails digging new shapes into seats he'd have to fix.

He laughed at your mindless state of bliss. "Gone and made you dumb huh? Cleared out that pretty head of yours."

"L-Logan," you managed to grunt, hips slapping back to his quick timed thrusts that struck gold.

"'S okay." Another bite to your spine had your thighs shaking, the slap of his balls lewdly hitting your clit made sparks embed themselves into your soul. "I like ya better this way. You think too fuckin' much anyways. Gotta shut out the bad shit don't I?"

"I'm gonna-"

"Yeah I know you are," he bit out, fingers digging shapes of intent into the flesh of your hips.

You were aware of the truck rocking back and forth. Of the mist gathering on frozen windows and your moans swallowing the sound of rain. You could feel the tingle of red wine in the base of your stomach. The haze of its beauty clouding everything but him and the small confines of this hot car. You were aware of nothing going wrong, of his cock grinding wet and raw into you, of the pool of slick forming on the seat of his car.

Nothing bad existed in this sphere of bliss. Nothing horrid could happen.

Claws punctured the seat beside your head, his hips slapping fast enough to hurt as the tight coil of tension snapped hard enough to halt your heart.

"Fuck!" he roared, sinking into you deep enough to scrape something aching and lovely. His cock twitching hard with each spurt of cum—spilling out onto your mess on shitty brown leather.

Sucking in a breath felt easy, uncomplicated. Your mind drifted into blank thoughts and images of him. Into a state of bliss with Logan's name scratched on the walls.

You expected to freeze. To lose a limb or two from the air cold enough to kill. But then his body settled over yours, his hands cradling your stomach, face pressed into your back. And warmth became the only language you spoke.

[mattsundaes]

hair down!karasu

“you’re so distracting,” you grouse as you feel your roommate’s chin come to rest on top of your head, your fingers stilling over your keyboard mid-sentence. 

“‘m bored,” karasu sighs. “and ya spelled specific wrong.”

tilting your head upward, you glare up at him while whacking the backspace key more aggressively than necessary with your middle finger, “because you distracted me!”

he stands back up, chuckling to himself and sauntering off into the kitchen to inevitably make more noise while you sacrifice what remains of your late-semester soul to the research paper gods. 

to be fair, the issue of him being a distraction is less about his shuffling and tittering about the apartment in boredom and moreso just about…him. 

well, a very specific part of him. 

you’ve been friends with karasu for years, you’re close. exceptionally close, you’d argue. and when the entire first floor of your dorm building flooded out last week, he offered you the spare room in his apartment—no questions asked.

it’s a temporary arrangement, so really, it should pose no risk to the neat and tidy little drawer that you keep your attraction to him shoved into the dark corners of. spending a few weeks underfoot with his warm accent, pretty eyes, dry humor, and gravely laugh shouldn’t kill you.

you’re been compartmentalizing it all like a champ for years, after all.

if subterfuge of unrequited pining was an olympic sport—

but you underestimated one tiny issue that you hadn’t quite thought out the consequences of when presented with the opportunity to cohabitate with karasu tabito. 

one little thing—

his hair.

his at home hair. 

his i’m not leaving the house or seeing anyone today hair. 

his clean, completely product-free, ridiculously attractive hair—which falls softly across his forehead, tickling the bridge of his nose. which flits along the shell of his ears and rests against the back of his neck.

(which makes you want to run for the hills and jump into his arms and flee the country and kiss him until you can’t breathe and—)

it’s funny, really, when you think about it. the fact that you’ve actually never seen karasu without styling wax in his hair somehow. it feels somewhat ridiculous thinking it out loud. 

but restricted exposure throughout the duration of your friendship thus far was clearly for the better, given the way you haven’t been able to stop glancing over at him every two minutes since he got out of the shower three hours ago. since he padded into the living room in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and plopped down on the other end of the couch, idly scrolling through his phone and entirely unaware of the crisis he’d unknowingly thrust upon your unsuspecting, fragile mind. 

because here’s the thing—on a normal day, you can squash them down, these inconvenient feelings of attraction. the way your heart flutters feebly against your ribcage at the sound of his voice, at the curve of his lips when you say something ridiculous that makes him smile. 

at the way he says your name, how you always seem to be the first person he calls after games. how he falls asleep with his head in your lap when you watch movies, the way he doesn’t even have to ask what you want when you’re ordering food or getting coffee because he just knows. 

but this. 

this. 

he’s sitting on the other end of the couch again, lazily running a hand through his hair and blowing it out of his eyes every so often while he taps away at a game on his phone. 

and yeah, you’ve never been quite so attracted to him as in this moment.

it’s not even just the fact that his hair is down, even though the back of your neck has yet to stop burning at the sight of it. 

it’s the undeniable domesticity of it all that has your heart racing in your chest. 

that has your fingers itching to toss your laptop aside, to crawl across the expanse of cushions and into his lap—

“please tell me you’re almost done,” karasu interrupts your treacherous train of thought. 

you find him on his hands and knees in front of where you’re seated sideways against the arm of the couch, positioned between your lazily spread legs with one hand hovering over the lid of your laptop, which he’s slowly pushing closed. 

“hey!” you choke out, both startled by the way your body reacts to his sudden proximity and the fact that you haven’t saved your document in fifteen minutes. 

hastily, you do just that, and the laptop snaps shut with a resounding click that seems to echo off of the walls of the apartment like a beacon while karasu stares back at you for a beat. 

a slow grin of victory spreads across his face when he uses one hand to transfer your laptop to the coffee table, but he makes no move to get off of you. 

“otoya and hiori wanna get dinner,” he tells you by way of explanation. 

it’s not fair how much more attractive his stupid, cute little mole looks with dark strands of hair falling against it—

“and?” you ask carefully. 

you just want to reach out and touch—

“and you gotta eat, too, so i’ve been waitin’ on you, princess.”

fucking pet names. one goddamn crisis at a time.

your ribcage is on the verge of becoming a triage center. 

“well, don’t you—shouldn’t you go and get ready, at least?” you do your best not to sound completely and entirely rattled as you gesture toward his hair. 

he looks up with just his eyes, as if he’s only just now noticing the origin of your afternoon’s torture. “what, does it look that bad?”

is he serious?

he smirks, and—oh. your breath hitches in your throat as you try to figure out when he got so close, when he shifted even higher to cage you in entirely between his tall, muscled frame and the plush, worn-in couch cushions. 

it makes you feel dizzy, being beneath him like this. 

karasu smells like the strawberries he was eating earlier, and your throat goes dry as you think about the way he’d outright fed one to you instead of handing it to you like a normal person when you asked. the way his fingertips had briefly touched your lips—

he smells like the fabric softener he’s used for years, and it’s seemingly the last remaining lifeline left to ground you in this moment. you grasp at it, almost desperately. 

you end up unconsciously fisting a hand in the fabric of his shirt instead. 

he leans in a little closer, close enough that his hair brushes against your forehead. 

it tickles. 

warmth blooms hot in your gut, petals of heat caressing your spine.  

“does it look bad?” he asks again. 

you can feel his breath skirt against your lips. 

“maybe,” you whisper, voice almost hoarse. because you need some sort of an upper hand here. 

he huffs, eyes locked on yours. “liar.”

“you’re distracting,” you tell him again for the—you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve said it today. 

one of his knees is slotted dangerously between your legs, and you try not to think about the way his thighs look in his kit. how often you have to tear your eyes away from the sight of them when you’re watching his games. 

fucking footballers. 

“am i?” 

you nod slowly, and you wonder what his lips taste like. how he kisses. if they’re as warm as the body heat that’s blanketing you while he keeps you bracketed beneath him. 

if he’d methodically break you down like he does to his opponents on the field—if he’d call you some other endearing thing in that pretty accent of his while your legs are wrapped around his waist, while you’re carding your fingers through his hair and parting your lips and gasping his name. 

you wonder if he’d take it slow and drag his nose down your cheek before sliding his lips along the curve of your jaw. 

if he’d kiss you long and deep, licking his way into your mouth with one hand splayed against your throat and another curled around your hip. 

if he’d—

“you’re distracting, too, ya know,” he whispers. 

“what?” your heart’s pounding so loudly in your chest, you’re not sure if you heard him right. 

karasu taps your chin lightly with his pointer finger. “ya read out loud, and ya sing to yourself while you’re cookin’ and cleanin’.”

embarrassment washes over you as you begin to realize what a bothersome house guest you’ve probably unintentionally become over the past few days. “i’m sorry, i’m just so used to living alone, and—“

he cuts you off abruptly, “i said you’re distracting, not that i didn’t like it.”

you blink up at him owlishly, and your chest tightens in confusion as you breathe out what seems to be one of the few last remaining words in the wasteland of your mental dictionary, “what?”

“you have a pretty voice,” he murmurs, thumb ghosting over the edge of your bottom lip. “i like hearin’ it.”

you feel breathless when you exhale the only other thing you can think to say, “karasu.”

his eyes fall shut for a moment, and he smiles. “i love the way you say my name.”

your tongue dances impatiently against the back of your teeth as you swallow, testing the weight of three different syllables—

“tabito,” you whisper. 

he opens his eyes suddenly, and he stares down at you with an expression that has your toes curling against the couch cushions. 

“you should only say that if ya want me to kiss ya,” he rasps. 

your fingers tremble slightly as you reach up and touch his hair, slowly brushing the tips across his mole. he catches your hand when you go to pull away, keeping it there. 

“tabito.”

karasu’s mouth crashes into yours. 

[7-deadly-cats]

killing me softly | 13

K M S M A S T E R L I S T | <- P R E V I O U S | N E X T ->

✿ G E N R E ✿ she fell first, he fell harder | slice of life | drama

✿ P A I R I N G ✿ s1!rafe cameron x overthinking!reader (f)

✿ C O N T E N T W A R N I N G ✿ swearing, suggestive language, reader smokes weed and drinks alcohol, reader being silly and bold (yas girl), rafe does and sells coke, verbal tension, kinda angsty but also fluff, a little reader x random guy, rafe showing mixed signals/jealousy/possessiveness/DENIAL/heavy mood swings (but of course he doesn't name it as such), mentions of vomiting (non-graphic), also subtle implication of rafe having sexual thoughts about reader (just hints + non-graphic)

✿ S U M M A R Y O F L A S T P A R T ✿ thursday afternoon, cara helped you pick out an outfit for the party and she even managed to get you excited for the night. on friday, after econ class, you and rafe had a little run-in with ruthie and her bsf gracie (his ex-fwb/whatever), where you managed to politely get ruthie to shut her mouth. later, rafe got pissed when he found out topper had texted you and offered to give you a ride to the party. topper claimed he was just mad bc of the ruthie situation and he'd talk to him later. surprisingly, rafe texted you after school saying he would pick you up instead, claiming topper decided on taking ruthie and her friends. but the truth was (revealed in the extra scene UNKNOWN to reader) rafe got so mad with topper that he'd basically told topper to go fuck himself, leaving topper to drive ruthie's gang. rafe decides to drive you himself bc you're the only one he actually tolerates rn and also bc he doesn't wanna hear you whine about not having gotten a ride.

✿ W O R D C O U N T ✿ 8k+ (sorry)

✿ A / N ✿ guys, this was one of the hardest things to write and i'm the most stupid person alive for not having made a plot outline of KMS beforehand (i didn't even think i'd get past the second chapter ngl). i tried to include different kind of scenes and moods for the party setting without making it seem like pressuring reader and rafe into a dynamic that'd feels off or rushed but still i feel like i kinda made it flop. please please please lmk what you think and i hope you enjoy reading it anyway <3

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

W E E K O N E // F R I D A Y

Deep breath, brain off. I got this.

DON’T FORGET TO EXHALE.

“Hey,” you said with a hesitant smile as you opened the passenger door of the black Mercedes. And oh boy, you felt just as awkward as you had on Monday, the first time you two had actually talked.

Because this? This was a whole different level. A whole fucking different league. Because holy shit—this wasn’t school-related. You weren’t being forced to meet for a project or anything.

No, this was completely casual.

Even if Rafe’s invite to Kelce’s party was supposed to get you out of your shell and (quote) “fuck your brain out” (which—absolutely not happening tonight, wtf), he was still here voluntarily.

It had been his decision to invite you. His decision to come pick you up. And honestly? All the other stuff—the project meetups the past few days—were all initiated by him too (which, thinking about it now, made you a pretty shitty project partner, oops).

And that was what made this whole situation feel so intimate. It created this weirdly charged atmosphere that clearly only you seemed to notice (of course the ungodly hour didn’t help, nor did the fact that he was picking you up FROM YOUR HOUSE and now you were alone together in his car hahaha(very funny, yeah)).

Rafe turned down the music (some Kendrick Lamar track) and looked you over with a crooked smile (we’re talking full-on checking you out). “Damn, you really dressed up.”

DHGHCNGXFUDNJFKNGIKCDFJS.

A COMPLIMENT, RIGHT???

You smiled shyly, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. Still, you raised a brow and met his blue eyes with a playful glimmer. “I guess I look like shit the other days then.”

Rafe scoffed, amused. “Shit, jusy say ‘thank you’ and shut your ass.”

IT WAS A COMPLIMENT.

Okay but—NOPE GIRL, NOT TONIGHT.

“Thanks,” you said, the butterflies in your stomach going absolutely feral. And then, feeling bad for not having something to say about his looks, you added: “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

OKAY SLOW IT DOWN, BRAIN OFF DOESN’T MEAN ZERO FILTERS. STAY COOL!!!!

But still, it was true. Rafe looked fucking good. The fresh aftershave lingering in the air? HOLY SHIT. But even that couldn’t top the look itself.

He was wearing a loose white button-up—partially unbuttoned (MHM)—with subtle vertical stripes, a silver chain resting against his collarbones, and whatever was under the shirt, your eyes didn’t even dare look at, afraid he’d catch you staring. And his hair wasn’t slicked back today—he had it styled into curtain bangs AND OVMFKNJDNVKFDHLSK.

Rafe raised his brows, smiling. “Yeah?”

OH UM OKAY??? NO DUMB COMMENT OR SOME SHIT???

You gave a surprised smile, awkward as hell, and your eyes flicked to his hair. “Yeah, I mean… your hair's different, right? Suits you better than the other one.”

You had to literally bite your tongue to stop yourself from backtracking, from explaining that the other hairstyle wasn’t bad per se, but this one just looked better without sounding like—

“Shit, is that a compliment or a polite insult?” Rafe shot back with a smug teasing grin, starting the engine.

Cool cool I’ll just get out of the car and crawl back into bed now, thanks.

You fiddled with the strap of your bag in your lap and gave a nervous smile. “A positive observation.”

“A—Jesus Christ, your game is ass,” Rafe said with a chuckle as he pulled out of your driveway.

You bit the inside of your cheek, hesitating. Then (fuck it): “Who says I’m playing?”

Rafe shot you a quick look, his smile widening, something weird glimmering in his eyes, before he turned his attention back to the road.

Okay, sir????

“What?” you asked, genuinely confused.

“Nothing.” Rafe shrugged, the smirk still on his face. “You ever even made out with a guy before?”

WHAT.

You furrowed your brows, painfully aware of the heat in your cheeks, and turned your gaze to the lights flashing by outside the window. “Can we not.”

“So that’s a no.”

NO I HAVEN’T YOU ASSHOLE.

“Why does that even matter?” you asked frowning.

But of course Rafe didn’t notice—or maybe he did, and he enjoyed it. In the reflection of the window, you could see his smug-ass smile.

“Well, maybe you should deal with that first before you try to go all in tonight,” he said, eyes still on the road.

And because you were REALLY not in the mood to listen to this kind of shit all night, you looked at him, clearly annoyed. “Okay, seriously, why are you so obsessed with my sex life or whether I get laid?”

WHEW GIRL OKAY.

Even Rafe gave you a quick, surprised glance, then let out this dumb little chuckle like what you said was so ridiculous. “Shit, that’s why you’re coming to the party tonight. So your crazy-ass brain can finally shut off.”

An uneasy feeling creeped up your chest—thoughts bubbling up, the sudden worry that maybe this whole thing was a joke to him. That you were just something to keep him busy tonight, some kind of project. But you pushed it down.

Actually, NO—you weren’t gonna let that sit. If he was really just here out of boredom, treating you like some throwaway experiment, then bye. He could take you right back home.

Because crush or not, you weren’t about to let him treat you like some kind of piñata.

“Okay, for real, this is getting on my nerves,” you said, and the sharpness in your voice? Yeah, he better hear it. “I know I have a problem with overthinking, okay? I know that. But getting drunk and letting some random guy rail me at a party?” You let out a dry laugh. “If you really think sex fixes everything, then you’ve got a way bigger problem than I do.”

You half-expected him to pull over and kick you out of the car (tbh, with Rafe you never knew), but instead he just scoffed, still looking at the road ahead. “See? That’s pent-up tension. A simple fling or a makeout would fix that.”

“Well, I guess, you can turn around then.”

Rafe laughed. “What?”

“You clearly invited me so some guy could get in my pants,” you said, shaking your head. Your voice was sharp, not exactly angry—more like fed up. “But that’s not gonna happen. So I might as well just stay home.”

Rafe glanced over at you, actual confusion on his face. “You actually going crazy right now?”

“No, you’re crazy for inviting me and acting like I’m—I don’t know, just some fucking project for tonight.” Your heart pounded hard in your chest, all the pressure you’d been holding in since this afternoon choosing now to break out. “Like, is that the plan? Throw me at one of your friends like I’m some kind of …sex doll?”

That thought had been hiding somewhere deep in your subconscious, and the fear that it might actually be true cracked through in the shakiness of your voice.

And now that it was out in the open—spoken, thought, real—your chest tightened, and whatever excitement you’d had about this night started twisting into—

“Holy shit, what?” Rafe looked over at you, visibly thrown off. “That’s actually insane.”

“Is it? Because that’s exactly what it feels like.”

Rafe didn’t say anything for a second. Just stared ahead with his jaw clenched. His brows twitched, then froze—his face unreadable, some emotion you couldn’t place.

Your heart was racing, nerves buzzing. You half expected him to turn the car around, drop you back off, maybe confirm your fear with some offhand joke.

But instead, his voice came quiet, serious: “Did Kelce or Topper put that shit in your head?”

You blinked. “What, no.”

“Then why the fuck would you think that?”

“I just told you.”

Silence. Just Travis Scott playing low in the background. Oh—and your fucking heart, hammering in your ears.

“If this is some pick-me girl attempt to—”

“No, what? Why would you even—okay, you know what, forget it,” you cut him off bitterly. “Clearly it’s impossible to have a normal conversation—”

“Jesus Christ, what would I even gain out of throwing you at some desperate fucker at a party, huh?” He motioned to himself with one hand, a pissed-off smile on his face. “As if I’m out here playing wingman for some asshole.”

Your knuckles hurt from how tightly you were gripping your bag. “Then I don’t get why you keep bringing it up.”

Rafe dragged a hand down his face, subtly shaking his head. “A joke, okay? It's just a fucking stupid joke, holy shit.” His voice was tight, barely holding back the tension, but there was a rough softness in it too. Like he was trying not to escalate. “Seriously, why do you spiral so hard over everything?”

“Because that’s what I do, okay?” You turned your body toward him, tapping your fingers against your temples like an actual maniac. “I overthink and spiral and if you keep repeating the same shit every fucking day, it doesn’t help—it just makes it worse, whether it’s a fucking joke or not.”

Rafe pulled the car over and cut the engine. For a second, you really thought he was gonna kick you out—but then you realized you were already parked in Kelce’s driveway.

Now he turned toward you, one arm resting on the steering wheel, brows furrowed deep. He pointed toward the house. “We’re gonna walk in there, Kelce’s gonna roll you a joint, and you’re gonna take the fattest fucking hit of your life. Then you’re gonna throw your goddamn brain in the trash and chill the fuck out.”

You blinked. Had he even listened to what you just—

He snapped his fingers in front of your face. “Fucking stop that. Seriously, I can hear the crazy-ass voices in your head.” He motioned to himself with a tense laugh. “Shit's making me nervous.”

And that—that utterly ridiculous idea that Rafe fucking Cameron felt nervous, and because of you—that made you let out a shocked, almost disbelieving laugh.

“You know,” you said, voice softer now with a hint of amusement, “telling me I’m crazy doesn’t actually help either.”

“Oh, fuck that,” Rafe muttered, no real bite in his tone, as he unbuckled his seatbelt. “Get your ass out of the car before Kelce starts getting ideas. And neither of us wants to deal with that shit right now.”

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

"Poor Top, now he has to deal with Ruthie’s bullshit," Kelce said as he leaned back on the couch, grinding the weed.

The three of you had settled on the back porch. No sign of guests yet (technically the party didn’t start till ten), but everything was already set up.

In the kitchen, there were all kinds of snacks in glass bowls, paper towels, and red cups everywhere, lit up like a club thanks to LED strips and fairy lights which also ran outside across the yard.

And of course, there was a whole damn bar—yes, Kelce’s family just casually had a legit bar in their backyard, with taps, shakers, and everything. It looked like a museum of alcohol. Four hookahs were set up in different corners, fully stocked with tobacco and coals, plus tables for beer pong and a pool filled with inflatable balls and flamingos.

And the wildest part of it all? The insane speaker system in the living room, hooked up through a network of cables so music played both inside and out.

Future was already blasting at a volume that felt like a preview of how loud shit was gonna get later. For now, though, it felt like the calm before the storm.

Which made the joint all the more welcome.

“More like his mom’s bullshit,” Rafe replied, taking a sip of his beer. “She won’t let him out of the office before ten.”

Kelce nodded and started rolling. “Oh yeah, right. That lady’s just straight up insane. Ruthie doesn’t even come close.”

“Shit, that bitch probably reminds him of his mom. That’s why he’s chasing after her in the first place,” Rafe said with a scoff.

Both of them chuckled at the same time, and for once, they actually seemed like friends—not like... bully and victim.

And honestly, you kinda felt like a third wheel.

“What about you? Cara showing up later or what?” Kelce asked, glancing over at you for a second before going back to rolling.

You were a little thrown by the question at first, then remembered—right, you’d talked about it in history class. With him and Topper, actually.

After Rafe had stormed off today, Topper had invited you to sit with them, and well, not wanting to be an asshole (especially since Topper had been so chill and polite), you’d joined them.

And it turned out, without Rafe around, both guys were actually decent company. Topper anyway, but even Kelce hadn’t seemed like such a loudmouth—just someone who liked to talk.

You nodded, smiling. “Yeah, she’s coming around twelve. If that’s cool.”

Kelce grinned. “Shii, of course. A hot girl’s always welcome.”

Even you had to smile at that because damn right, Cara was hot af.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Rafe shift in his seat and scratch at his chin. "Dude, you done yet?"

"Perfection takes time, okay?" Kelce said, then turned to you. "You wanna lick it or should I?"

UM... He hadn’t even said it in a teasing tone but still like—

You shook your head with a polite smile. “You do it. I’ll probably mess it up.”

NO WAY were you gonna go over there and lick a joint in front of both of them like ?? excuse me???

“Your tongue game can’t be that bad,” Kelce said, but he went ahead and sealed the joint anyway.

PLEASE, the party hadn’t even started yet. Jesus.

“You want me to beat his ass?” Rafe asked with a deadpan expression, and you had NO idea if he was joking or being serious.

Either way—THE BUTTERFLIES WENT FERAL FOR THAT BECAUSE OMG WHAT???

Not sure what to say, you just let out a nervous chuckle and were thankful when Kelce jumped in, holding the finished joint up like a trophy. “No need for violence. This bad boy’s ready to be smoked.”

After Kelce gave you a quick rundown on how to hit it best (you knew from Cara, but he looked so excited to explain you didn’t wanna interrupt), you took a deep inhale and let the smoke roll through your lungs and—fuck, it scratched the hell out of your throat.

You really tried to hold it in, but you were already leaning forward and having a mini coughing fit.

Ugh. Classic.

“Dude, here,” Kelce said, holding your beer out to you.

You smiled awkwardly, eyes watery, still half-coughing, and took the bottle from him. Then, out of pure secondhand embarrassment, you started laughing—only to choke a bit on the beer and end up patting your chest. “Sorry.”

Kelce grinned, taking the joint back from you with a shrug. “It’s cool. Ask Rafe. Dude coughs up a whole lung every damn time.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Rafe shot back, but even he had a little grin on his face, those blue eyes of his watching you with quiet amusement.

And you just smiled back, a soft giggle slipping out, your face finally relaxing. That whole insane argument in the car earlier? Not even worth thinking about anymore.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

“Quit giggling,” Rafe said, hiding a smirk while mixing himself a Jäger-Bull drink in the kitchen.

It was just after 10, and where the house had stood quiet earlier, now it was packed with dozens of guests. The music had kicked up a notch.

Most of them you recognized from school or around town (just from seeing them though). Basically all frat boys, gym bros, wannabe influencer girls/self-proclaimed kook princesses, or gossiping drama queens.

In short: people you couldn’t stand.

And while Kelce played the perfect host—probably spending the next thirty minutes loudly greeting people and taking shots with half of them—you and Rafe had ducked into the kitchen.

And yeah, HE had asked you to come with him. Or, well, kind of. Said something along the lines of “Shit, let’s dip until the first zombie wave passes.”

Obviously, you’d followed him, because (A) it was the obvious choice, (B) who the hell else were you supposed to hang with??? and (C) ... you were way too high to argue anyway.

Ever since your second hit, your whole body had been wrapped in this soft, warm glow, your thoughts nearly (!!!) silenced, and you couldn’t stop smiling and giggling. You were probably looking at him with total heart-eyes right now, but honestly? You felt too good to care.

“Sorry, I just—” you let out another amused chuckle, grabbing some snacks from one of the glass bowls while watching his hands. “That was kinda petty.”

Rafe scoffed and flicked open the Jägermeister bottle. “Nah. If he acts like a little bitch, he gets treated like one.”

Oh, right, context:

Topper had shown up earlier—or more accurately, waddled in behind Ruthie and her girl gang. And surprise, surprise, the second they got what they wanted (aka a ride), they vanished into the bathroom. Poor Topper got left behind, dapping up Kelce while Rafe had stayed on the porch couch, holding his beer in his lap, only giving Topper a slight nod.

You, at least, had had the decency to give him a smile and a small wave—not even feeling awkward about the obvious tension between him and Rafe, which you seemed to be the cause of, but whatever (that joint had absolutely softened your brain).

Meaning, that Rafe had probably just wanted to get away from Topper more than he actually wanted to hang with you, but WHO CARED.

You raised your brows at him, amused. “What even happened though? I can’t believe you’re this pissed just ‘cause he drove Ruthie.”

“Shit, of course. That’s a fucked up move,” Rafe said, now cracking open a Red Bull.

“I don’t buy that,” you replied, cheeks warming a little when he met your eyes. “I mean, I can't believe you'd back down for Ruthie.”

He raised a brow. “You’re being nosy as fuck right now.”

“I mean you were already acting weird at school when Topper mentioned he’d give me a ride,” you said, and um, yeah, WHY did you say that?

Rafe paused, tilting his head slightly, his whole expression switching to defense mode. “Shit, you think this is about you or something?”

You chuckled (girl, get it together) and squinted at him. “I’m just saying, it’s kinda funny how Topper suddenly ends up driving Ruthie even though he told me earlier I didn’t have to worry about a ride. And then you text me, offering to drive instead.”

Okay, maybe you were pushing it a little too far because Rafe looked at you with a frown. "Okay, what the fuck are you trying to say, huh?" he scoffed, disbelief in his voice, gesturing to his chest with an irritated smile. "You think I’m jealous or some shit?"

His reaction just made you giggle (girl next time, just take one hit). “I don’t know—”

“Okay, fuck no, jesus, what the fuck.” Rafe cut you off, shaking his head and squinting like you were giving him a headache. He gestured toward you now. “I picked you up so you wouldn’t end up bitching to me about how Topper ditched you for Ruthie, alright?” Then he motioned between the two of you. “You’re not seriously getting the wrong idea here or anything, right?”

Your smile faded, and then, panicking that your face might give something away, you just shook your head with a baffled little laugh. “What? No, oh my god, I just—I was just saying—”

“Yo, Rafe, there you are!”

Your mouth snapped shut as some guy from school walked into the kitchen, heading straight for Rafe and dapping him up.

Ugh, okay—not just some guy. That was Chris Reid. A walking jock stereotype.

Blonde hair, athletic build, tanned as hell, and captain of the football team. An asshole… and a full head taller than Rafe.

“Kelce said you'd be in here,” Chris said, and his stupid grin landed on you next, eyes scanning you in a way you did not appreciate. “This your girl?”

Heat crept up your neck, and when you caught Rafe’s dark look, you suddenly just wanted to leave. You felt completely unwelcome.

“You actually want something, or are you just here to creep on girls?” Rafe said with a crooked smile, not taking his eyes off Chris.

Reid’s grin only deepened. “Me? Come on, dude, I’d never hit on someone’s girl.” His eyes flicked back to you for a split second, almost like a provocation, before settling on Rafe again. “Nah, I heard you brought some yayo.”

...

Seriously?

You knew Rafe liked to mess around a little at parties, and okay… apparently during the last couple school days too, but dealing?

If you weren’t so high, it would probably hit you harder. But right now, you were just standing there awkwardly, a smile glued to your face because you had no clue what else to do.

Rafe’s eyebrows twitched, like his face couldn’t decide whether to go with annoyed or full on pissed off.

You honestly thought he might swing at Chris and Chris clearly thought the same because he just let out this cocky little chuckle. “Hey, I get it, if you wanna play the sweet little boyfriend role—”

“I’m not her fucking boyfriend,” Rafe finally snapped, his voice cutting through the room hard enough to startle you. He ran a hand down his face, clearly irritated. “You even got cash on you?”

Chris looked between the two of you, that gross little grin still on his face. “Of course.” Then he nodded toward the hallway. “You coming? Sounds like you could use some too.”

Rafe’s jaw tensed, and every part of you hoped he wouldn’t just leave you standing there. But he sighed, frowning, and motioned vaguely with his hand. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Waiting in the guest room then.” Chris gave you one last smirk before turning and disappearing down the hall—and something ugly and heavy settled in your chest.

It’s not like you expected Rafe to be your bestie tonight, and definitely not to act like you were his or anything—wtf, no, omg??? No. That would be peak delusion, holy shit.

No, you’d just kinda hoped… well, yeah, what had you hoped for?

Rafe didn’t owe you anything. He had every right to do what he wanted at this party, with whoever he wanted. He’d invited you as a guest, not as his date.

But still, this hollow feeling crept up and wrapped around your chest, sobering you faster than anything else could’ve.

“I assume you can handle yourself for ten minutes,” Rafe muttered, eyes dull like even he knew he’d just given in to some jock-asshole. There was this weird tone in his voice too, something tired and flat. “Unless you wanna come along and give it a try?”

Your cheeks already hurt from all the fake smiling but this one was worse, because now you weren’t smiling from comfort but because you had no idea what else to do.

You shook your head, chuckling awkwardly, trying to keep the disappointment out of your voice. “Oh, no thanks. I’m good here.”

No way in hell you’d do a line in this environment. Plus, being around Reid made your skin crawl. And if Rafe had actually wanted you there with him… well, girl, it doesn’t matter. Let the guy do his thing. Don’t get clingy.

Rafe seemed to hesitate, big blue eyes staring at you with his jaw clenching slightly, then he just nodded and muttered, “Aight,” before following Chris down the hallway.

Something deep inside your chest twisted painfully as you were left alone in the kitchen. Suddenly, this whole party felt like the dumbest decision you’d ever made.

Technically Rafe didn’t even do anything wrong. He didn't owe you any kind of loyalty. But still, the way he’d made very clear that he’d had no interest in you.

Yeah, that stung. Made you feel hurt. Stupid.

The fact that you'd actually—seriously—believed that Rafe might see you as anything even remotely—

“You okay?”

You looked up, startled, as Topper stepped into the kitchen holding a beer, a genuinely concerned look on his face.

Once again, that default smile found its way to your face—probably from relief at seeing someone friendly. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. I just wanted to get a drink,” you lied, gesturing to the untouched cup Rafe had left behind.

Topper glanced at the bottles nearby and raised his eyebrows. “You drink Jägermeister?”

Um…

“Lemme guess. Rafe dipped,” Topper said, now frowning.

The fact that he acknowledged it out loud just made it even more embarrassing.

“Well, he went off with some guy to…” you started, not sure how to finish the sentence.

“Snort coke,” Topper finished for you, clearly annoyed.

You nodded silently.

“He’s such a fucking idiot, I swear to God,” he said, setting his own cup down on the counter with a sigh. “Sorry he’s being such an asshole.”

You raised your brows, not quite following. “It’s fine. I guess that’s just his version of having fun.”

“That’s his version of being stupid,” Topper shot back, brows pulling together. “First he blows up at me about the whole driving situation, then he ditches you? The guy doesn’t know what the hell he wants.”

OH, WHAT???

“Sorry, what?” you asked carefully, trying not to sound too curious.

Topper leaned against the counter, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Okay, what did he tell you—why I couldn’t drive you?”

Your eyebrows twitched, a sinking feeling already forming. “Well, he said you were picking up Ruthie and her girls, and that’s why he picked me up instead—so I wouldn’t get upset or whatever.”

“He made it sound like I decided that, didn’t he?”

... oh my god. OH MY GOD. DID THAT MEAN...?

“He didn’t say it explicitly, but—”

“What a fucking idiot. I can’t believe it,” Topper said, scoffing and shaking his head. “Ugh, and I’m the dumbass for letting his bullshit slide.” His gaze softened as it met yours. “Honestly, I’m sorry this turned into such a mess.”

You smiled—this time for real—a warm feeling blooming in your chest at the fact that he actually cared, though part of you was still confused why he seemed so riled up about all this.

“It’s all good, really. Just the fact you even offered me a ride in the first place means a lot.”

Topper nodded, then hesitated before saying, “Cara told me you weren’t sure about coming tonight. Or more like... didn’t feel great about going without her.”

God, at this point you didn’t even know who had texted what to whom anymore.

Also, you probably should’ve been a little annoyed that Cara had shared that with him but if you were being honest, you’d kind of figured that out the moment she’d asked Topper to give you a ride. And right now, you didn’t even care, because honestly? You were just glad not to be standing alone in some random corner.

So you nodded, a little embarrassed. “Well, yeah. I mean, I barely know anyone here.” You chuckled awkwardly. “And it just feels weird showing up to a party by yourself.”

But instead of laughing or making some dumb comment, Topper just furrowed his brows. “And that idiot still left you here?”

“What? Yeah—I mean, no,” you said, smiling nervously. “He’s free to do whatever he wants.”

Topper just looked at you for a second, his expression softening like he was trying to figure you out. Then he nodded, grabbing his drink again. "So are you", he said and tilted his head toward the door. “Me and a buddy are looking for two beer pong players. Was actually trying to find Kelce, but I think he’s stuck playing party host for a while. You down?”

You didn’t even think—just nodded with a smile, cheeks still warm from the aftereffects of the joint, and relieved to be included in something,. “Sure.”

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

“Damn, nice shot!”

You high-fived Rob as he held his hand up after you landed the ball in one of the opposing team’s cups.

“Thanks,” you said with a sheepish smile.

Rob—who was actually named Robert Lewis—had come all the way from Wilmington for Kelce’s party, and even though he was technically Topper’s rival in bigger surf tournaments, the two of them still seemed to be really good friends. And we’re not talking about that performative, hyper-masculine/bro-chill/we-might-be-toxic kind of guy friendship either—like, they were actually genuine.

Topper had even told you Rob was the better surfer by far, but the guy didn’t flaunt it or tease him about it. It was kinda sweet.

And Rob was sweet to you too. He’d greeted you right away, offered you a handshake (like, okay, manners king??), introduced himself, and was excited to play on your team.

Long story short: he wasn’t some Kook from Figure 8, and it showed.

Topper was teamed up with Molly Crane. WHICH WAS A FUCKING CELEBRATION FOR YOU, BECAUSE OMGGG?? A FAMILIAR FACE??

You had even hugged her when you saw her because you were so happy to see someone you knew and actually got along with.

And all three of them were just... nice. Chill. No dumb comments, no weird mixed signals, no constant mood swings. You actually felt comfortable for once.

And because the joint was wearing off and you were starting to feel a little tired, you’d ended up taking a few sips of Rafe’s fresh Jäger-Bull drink he had left behind to get your energy back.

That crazy-ass combo did make your heart race a little faster, and yeah, it freaked you out a bit because like, hehehehe what the fuck??? Butttt you’d already had a beer and half your current drink plus like three cups from beer pong, and so far you were totally fine HIHIHIHIHII.

Maybe even too fine, because playing with Rob was... NDNXDXNDUSXNK, he looked good, OKAY? Like objectively handsome (okay, scratch that—he was exactly your type), and also sweet and respectful, BUT still kinda flirty???

BEST. OF. BOTH. WORLDS.

And it seemed like he was genuinely interested in you. He asked where you were from, how you knew Topper, what you did besides going to parties, and even asked what perfume you were wearing because “damn, it smells really good” (THAT BASTARD WAS SMOOTH).

So yeah. To sum it up: you were having a great time, felt extremely at ease, and that was a very dangerous combination—because the way Rob so obviously showed he liked you, yeah, that gave you a big confidence boost.

So while you were having the time of your life, you just kind of... tuned everything else out. The loud music and chatter, the crowd, the screaming girls getting pushed into the pool by drunk dudes.

You even tuned out your own thoughts, just let yourself enjoy the moment, completely forgetting all the anxiety you’d felt before this party.

Including Rafe.

Who had totally disappeared ever since he left with asshole Chris Reid to go do god-knows-what sketchy shit. Like, why should you care that he’d ditched you? That he basically traded your presence for a line of coke? Or that he had acted genuinely offended when Chris had assumed you were his girlfriend? Like OKAY I GET IT.

No really—you were fine. Everything was great—

“Hey, watch out.” Rob reached out and gently pulled you toward him, saving you from a soccer ball that would’ve smacked right into your hip (“sorry” came the shout from some drunk guy in the distance).

You looked up at Rob, startled by the close proximity, your cheeks heating up, the warmth of his hands still on your shoulders, his smile, and girl, DO NOT FALL FOR THIS RANDOM GUY RIGHT NOW.

But it was getting really hard not to, because in the following, you two were seriously a great team—and more importantly, he wasn’t sending you any confusing signals like some people.

“Nice game,” he said after sinking the final shot that won you the round.

You just chuckled, your whole body buzzing warm. “You landed most of the shots though.”

Rob smirked, eyes twinkling a little as he looked at you. “Sorry—if I’d been more focused, it would’ve been even more.”

BOIIIIII.

“Nice win,” Topper said as he walked over to your side with Molly. “Up for another round?”

Honestly, you really had to pee… and all that standing around was starting to get exhausting, especially now that the backyard had gotten way more crowded in the last half hour.

Molly seemed to feel the same. “Maybe later, I need a quick breather first.”

A few seconds later, you both found yourselves giggling in the downstairs bathroom.

You were peeing while Molly sat on the edge of the bathtub—your heart pounding, cheeks flushed from the alcohol. Your vision was… well, not trashed exactly, but yeah, you were definitely feeling it.

Shit, but you felt good. Free, open, not like some socially awkward fish anymore.

You and Molly talked about this and that, giggling like two silly, smitten girls over Rob and sharing your mutual suffering about the hell that was senior year.

You felt genuinely happy—thankful for Topper and Molly (and obviously Rob, hihihii), even for Kelce, who’d welcomed you so warmly and actually seemed kinda caring after your coughing fit because of the joint.

You and Molly were about to head back to Topper and Rob when your phone buzzed.

Probably Cara.

“Go ahead, I’ll join you in a minute,” you said to Molly with a smile, then stumbled with a surprised chuckle to the edge of the tub, sitting down, ignoring the sudden funny feeling in your stomach.

Ready to shoot Cara a quick update, your heart skipped a beat when you saw Rafe’s name on your screen. It started beating just a little bit faster as you texted him back.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

Rafe shoved his phone back into the pocket of his shorts, jaw clenched, not even bothering to reply to your shitty-ass pic.

Had you really managed to catch some dude named Mickey—or Mikey, or whatever the hell that name you tried to spell was—within the thirty goddamn minutes he’d left you alone? And on top of that, gone into the bathroom with him to—

He cut the thought off with a sharp shake of his head, a frown settling in. Why the fuck did such an image flash in his head again?

Rafe gritted his teeth. He’d only left to deal with that asshole Chris and his loser friends, selling them a few grams (and also snort some lines because why not). He wouldn’t even have left you behind if he didn’t desperately need the cash to meet Barry’s deadline.

Fuck—and there it was again. Another picture, clear as day. You, in that stupidly good-looking outfit tonight, pressed against the bathroom door—

What the actual fuck.

Rafe rubbed his eyes, a heavy, sick feeling sitting in his stomach. Jesus fucking Christ, he needed another line. This shit was getting unhinged.

He lined up a clean stripe of white on the kitchen counter with his phone, ignoring the looks of some bickering bitches, and snorted it off in one go.

Rubbing his nose, he inhaled deep, the familiar kick spreading through his veins like wildfire.

Better.

But then—another image. This time from his own point of view. You in front of him, his pants around his ankles, your pretty lips on—

NO. NO, FUCK THAT. What the actual—like, actually, holy shit.

Rafe’s breathing was heavy now, his heart pounding in his ears, and his brain kept flashing images he couldn’t stop if he tried.

Frustrated and irritated, he ran a hand through his hair, pissed at himself and at the fact that he had no idea where the fuck these thoughts were coming from.

Then he spotted that fucker Reid across the room, chatting up some chick like he wasn’t a walking STD, and the memory hit him—the way that bastard had looked at you earlier when he’d walked into the kitchen. How his eyes had lingered on you. That slimy-ass grin.

The fucking fact that he’d had the balls to do it right in front of Rafe.

Shit, you weren’t Rafe’s fucking girlfriend. Fuck, no—not even close. But the idea that you could’ve been—and that Reid still had had the audacity to look at you like that—lit something vile, something filthy and twisted in Rafe’s gut.

And then it hit him harder: this whole fucking party was filled with greasy assholes like Chris Reid, looking for some poor girl to get laid.

And one of them had probably latched onto you while Rafe had been gone, maybe even fed you drinks, pretended to be all nice and charming just to pull some sleazy shit, and that made Rafe’s blood boil on a whole different level.

You weren’t some cheap party girl who let any random dickhead get handsy. Plus, the way you’d texted Rafe, made clear you weren’t exactly sober.

Fuck no. That thought alone had his jaw locking tight.

And before he even knew what he was doing, before he could stop to question the wild, confusing feeling building inside him, his feet were already moving.

He shoved past sweaty, perfumed, half-drunk bitches and pricks as he stormed out of the kitchen and into the hallway, brows furrowed, pulse hammering.

He came to a halt in front of the downstairs bathroom door, ignoring the group of girls waiting in line, and grabbed the doorknob.

His heart did something weird as it didn’t budge.

“Wait your turn, Cameron,” said some irrelevant chick who wasn’t even worth looking at.

Rafe ignored her—her, and the rising storm inside him over why the fuck he was even doing this—and knocked on the door.

Once. Twice. Four times—

The door creaked open. He lifted his chin, ready to confront the bastard inside but all the tension in his shoulders dropped the moment he saw your face.

Eyes glassy, wide with surprise, still slightly red from the joint, your skin glimmering like it had just been washed, and your lips slightly parted as you met his gaze.

In your breath, he caught Red Bull, beer, and something else.

“Did you puke?” Rafe raised his brows, trying to peer through the crack in the door to make sure—

“Yeah,” you replied with a half-tired smile and a little chuckle. “But I’m good now.”

Jesus Christ.

Rafe felt like a fucking joke. At this point, he was seriously considering if he’d done way too much earlier because why the fuck was he even here right now?

“Cameron, take your girlfriend somewhere else, some of us still gotta use the damn bathroom,” said that same dumb bitch’s voice again.

Rafe glared at her, ready to snap that you weren’t his fucking girlfriend, but before he could say anything, you just let out a chuckling “sorry” toward the bitch and softly stumbled forward.

Toward him.

Your hand, landing briefly on his chest—just enough to steady yourself—sent a sharp jolt of something through him. You gave him an awkward “sorry” and when you immediately backed away, something in Rafe wanted to pull you back but fuck that, holy shit.

And because the bitches in line were already clucking impatiently behind you, Rafe put a hand on your back and said, “Move,” guiding you through the crowded hallway.

“Where to?” you asked, almost too quietly to hear over the pounding bass.

“Kitchen,” Rafe replied dryly.

This was exactly why he didn’t want a damn girl clinging to him. No annoying girlfriend. No clingy chick of any kind.

He hadn’t come to this fucking party to play goddamn babysitter.

Honestly, he could punch himself in the face. He’d only come looking for you so that no dirty asshole had a chance to get handsy. Rafe had some decency. He wasn’t about to leave a drunk girl in the hands of some rando loser.

With a scowl, he placed his hands gently on your shoulders when some other girl almost stumbled right into you. Rafe almost opened his mouth to snap at her but clenched his jaw instead, confused as hell why he was suddenly so on edge.

Once in the less crowded kitchen, he hesitated before letting go of you.

You leaned back against the counter with a tipsy smile—but it faded the moment your eyes met his.

“What’s wrong?” Your voice was nervous, almost apologetic.

A strange pull tugged at Rafe’s chest but he shoved it aside, annoyed, and stepped next to you toward the bottles.

“Why were you alone?” he asked, pouring a shot of vodka.

“I wasn’t,” you replied. “Molly was with me before.”

Molly Crane. That was the name you’d tried to type earlier. Not some fucking Mickey.

Holy shit—was Rafe actually losing it?

He let out an irritated scoff, brows furrowed as he set the bottle down. “Such a good friend, leaving you alone to puke.”

“Funny thing coming from you,” you said with a half-laugh, and Rafe could feel your gaze on him.

He clenched his jaw, then threw back the shot, the bitter taste hitting his tongue and burning all the way down.

Meeting your eyes with a crooked grin, he said, “Yeah? The fuck’s that supposed to mean, huh? You pissed because you couldn’t be alone for thirty minutes? You do realize I’m not your fucking babysitter.”

Your expression shifted, and something about it pulled a hollow feeling straight through his chest.

“I was joking…”

Rafe gritted his teeth, overwhelmed by the mess of confusing shit swarming his head. He ran a hand down his face. He needed to chill the fuck out. Either he’d done too many lines or not enough.

You gently pushed yourself off the counter, a sad smile playing on your lips. “I think I should go find Molly. Don’t want her to worry.”

What about me?

The thought hit him like a fucking truck—crazy, embarrassing, pathetic as fuck—and yet there it was, leaving him almost sober in its wake.

Fuck.

He just didn’t get why you suddenly wanted to get away from him.

Fuck, seriously, what the fuck. Why do I even care?

“Or… did you want something?” you asked hesitantly, a flicker of vulnerability in your voice Rafe didn’t know how to process.

He shook his head, irritated, keeping his mouth shut—because clearly his brain was on some fuckery, and the last thing he needed was to start saying that shit out loud.

Your brows twitched, uncertainty flickering in your eyes. “I just thought... you texted me, asking where I was, and—”

“Ayo, Rafe! Y/N! We were just looking for you.”

Kelce’s voice boomed over the music as he barged into the kitchen with some random dude in tow—

Oh fuck no. Fucking hell no.

Not this fucking asshole.

Stupid fucking grinning Robert Lewis.

Topper’s dumbass surfer buddy who Kelce, for some unknown, brain-dead reason, seemed to worship.

Rafe already wanted to punch him. But instead, he forced a fake-ass smile as Robert came up, hand outstretched for a dap.

“Good to see you, man,” Robert said with that dumb fucking grin. “How you doing?”

Rafe just nodded, subtle shake of the head, corners of his mouth pulled down. “The usual shit.”

Robert laughed like it was the funniest fucking shit he’d heard all night, and the moment his eyes landed on you, Rafe felt a twitch in his fingers—ready to swing on this fucker.

And fucking hell, the way he looked at you. That big-ass smile. That glimmer in his eyes like you two were already familiar which was ridiculous because—

“And you, Y/N?” Robert asked, voice all warm like he gave a shit. “You doing okay? Molly told us you wanted to stay behind.”

What.

The.

Actual.

Fuck.

Rafe thought he’d misheard—his ears were already ringing from the coke and the insanely loud music (fucking Carnival playing for the fourth time tonight), so maybe it was just his brain tripping again.

But the way you looked up at that grinning asshole, eyes all dreamy and soft, a smile so sweet Rafe didn’t even know you had it in you—it felt like someone smashed a baseball bat right into his skull.

“Oh, yeah, no, I’m all good,” you said, a soft chuckle slipping from your lips. “My stomach just freaked out a bit after the beer pong drinks, but I’m good now.”

Funny. Yeah, real fucking funny. You and that douchebag playing beer pong together? Funniest shit Rafe had ever heard.

Kelce laughed. “Ahhh, shit, classic mistake. Weed and alcohol are not the best of friends.”

“My fault,” Robert said with that fake-ass innocent smile. “Should’ve made sure you weren’t drinking all of Topper’s hits.”

Rafe tensed instantly, alarm bells blaring and he didn’t even know why—no, actually, he did know. This fucker had been trying to smooth-talk you while Rafe had been gone, get you drunk, play his little fake-charm game, and wrap you around his goddamn finger.

God, Rafe would love to slam his fist into that smug face right about now. And fucking Topper too, for setting up this whole bullshit game in the first place.

And you? Why the fuck were you falling for this crap? Looking at that loser you’d known for maybe a couple of hours like he was the only guy in the room?

Rafe had spent an entire fucking week with you—every day—for that damn school project, trying to make you feel at ease, and you still hadn’t warmed up to him. But this greasy little fucker? All it took was one night?

Fucking ridiculous.

He didn’t get it. Didn’t understand. Couldn’t make sense of this fucked-up chaos inside him. The rage. The insane thoughts. The way he suddenly wanted—needed—you to look at him the way you just looked at that piece of shit.

FUCK.

What the fuck had Barry mixed into that coke?

And what. the. fuck. was going on with the guys at this damn party that they were looking at you like Rafe wasn’t standing right the fuck there?

Like seriously?!

Rafe never brought girls to parties. And the one fucking time he did—and yeah, okay, it was chill and casual and nothing serious—BUT NONE OF THESE FUCKING IDIOTS KNEW THAT.

NO ONE KNEW YOU WEREN’T RAFE’S HOOKUP OR DATE OR GIRL—AND STILL, THEY HAD THE AUDACITY TO ACT LIKE THAT?

Nah. FUCK THAT.

Rafe wasn’t some fucking merchant bringing girls around to be snatched up by whatever fucker got his hands on you first.

At this point, they were asking to get decked.

And Rafe? He’d seen enough. Let enough of this bullshit slide.

Because you didn’t just show up here. You were brought. Invited.

By him.

And if nobody seemed to fucking get that, then it was about damn time he’d change that.

So when Kelce announced a game of Truth or Dare starting in the living room, Rafe didn’t back out despite how much he hated that childish-ass game with every fiber of his being.

Because if this meant he could wipe the stupid fucking smile off Robert Lewis’ face, and shut down every other asshole at this party who thought tonight was their chance to piss him off—he’d gladly take part.

“Aight, party people, get your asses into the living room then”, Kelce said, clasping his hands.

Rafe glanced at you for a second, watching the way you looked at douchebag Robert… the way that fucker placed his hand on your back, leading you out of the kitchen toward the game.

Yeah. That guy? Rafe was fucking him over tonight.

Because he could just about tolerate that loser hanging around Kelce and Topper—Topper had been pissing him off lately anyway, and Kelce was like some dumb puppy always chasing new people—but you?

No fucking way was Rafe letting that wannabe surfer douche try anything with the girl he had brought.

Didn’t matter that you weren’t his girl or whatever.

No, it was about the fucking principle. About the fact that this prick even thought he could lean that far into Rafe’s zone.

And somehow, the thought of how you’d cling to him after he’d chased off Fuckhead Lewis—Rafe being the one you’d gaze at so smiley and sweet—left him with a buzzing feeling in his chest that hit almost as good as the high from a line.

"You coming, dude?" Kelce asked, putting a hand on Rafe's shoulder, a drunk grin on his stupid face.

Funny enough, Rafe didn't push him away because he realized that idiot might just be the key to fucking Lewis over.

So all he said in response was, "Yeah, yeah, sure". A crooked smile appeared on his lips. "Just wanna know if you'd be down to score some extra baggie."

Kelce's shitty grin was answer enough.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

K M S M A S T E R L I S T | <- P R E V I O U S | N E X T ->

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

T A G L I S T F O R M (taglist for this series is CLOSED but you can sign up for my other stuff through this link)

@ursogorgeous13 @my-name-is-baby @moneybaby07 @jjasmiineee @sttaejoon-blog @vogueprincess @princesspeaxhh @wtfisastiles @wefelldowntherabbithole13 @rafes4 @kathryn-maraudersversion @wuluhwuhmaster @torturedtypewritersdept @sfotiegiuls @ltristessedureratoujours @stoned-writer @lunaleah @akobx @cokewithcameron @b00klvrs @rafesdrew @mattyskies @yktayy9669 @beabafreakbee @c1gsafterwhat @drewstarkeyswife-7 @wtfdudesblog @akobx @wintercrows @miaaaoa @setmefreemyg @pogueprincesa @chimchimjiminie16 @drewstarkeysrightarm @wtfdudesblog @wolfstarsimpxx @emmiesummers @brycesfav @ayy1234567 @rgeraldg @stanseventeen @louvrgirl @chaoticromantic @drewstarkeysrealwife @drewstarkeyswifehoe @psychicnatural @mysticbby2009 @oreocheescake-12 @miniiminie @drunkinthemiddleoftheday @drewstarkeyywife

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Johnny sings. Simon mourns.

cw: mcd, grief, suicidal ideation.

Price had put the bullet in Shepherd and Ghost had put the bullet in Makarov as they had agreed. That meant the business of the 141 had concluded. Without Johnny, Simon intended to disappear. Properly this time. There would be no crawling out of the grave he’d dig himself. There had been no tears shed, no outpouring of grief. Simon was completely and utterly numb. Like someone had encased him in ice the moment the light had faded out of Johnny’s eyes; any hope for Simon had died with him, leaving only the shell of Ghost to be puppeted by Price’s orders.

When Simon had pulled that trigger and Makarov’s body had hit the floor, he’d felt nothing. No triumph, no closure. Just an emptiness. A great, yawning void where emotions should be. Where Johnny should be. He’d learned long ago that revenge healed fuck all, so he wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. But it had felt like just another kill. Just another fruitless step towards the inevitable darkness that awaited. Price had watched him in the back of Nikolai’s Black Hawk with a crease in the centre of his brow, but Simon had been lost in his own head.

Simon had little doubt Price had seen the writing on the wall and when he had summoned Simon to his office two nights before Simon was due to depart Hereford, Simon reckoned it would be a last ditch effort to get him to reconsider the plan he knew had been percolating on the inside of Simon’s skull since they had spread Johnny’s ashes over Moray Firth.

Simon knocked twice and waited for Price’s bark from the inside before he turned the handle. “You wan’ed to talk, sir,” Simon murmured through the mesh of his mask when Price continued to scribble on the paperwork in front of him.

”Yeah, Simon. Take a seat.”

Simon watched Price’s hand. Something weren’t right. There was a subtle shake to it, and Simon realised that it had been the thickness of Price’s voice that had drawn his attention there. Looking for reassurance in the strongest, most trusted pair of hands he knew. But, it was almost like he’d been—

Impossible.

The chair groaned under Simon’s weight and he scooted forward to the very edge of it, back straight, curled fingers on top of spread thighs.

“What ‘m abou’ t’ show ya, I need ya to know I had to make a decision to keep it to meself ‘til now,” Price said. “I needed ya focused. If ya never wanna see me again, I’d understand.” When Price looked up, Simon wanted to gag. Not from disgust, but because his body didn’t know how to process the quiver of horror that went through him at the remains of Price’s tears. His eyes were red, still glistening. His breath caught in his lungs and he had to force himself to let it out in a stuttering grunt.

“Whot is it?” Simon managed, finally.

“Ya need t’… we got ‘em, now ya need t’ start healin’. For him. Ya can’t jus’ throw away what he was denied, Simon. You…” Price pinched the bridge of his nose and trailed off, clearing his throat. Whatever this was, it was eating him alive. Price reached for his phone as he stood up to circle his desk, his thumb sweeping across the screen until he found what he was looking for. “Watch this. I’ll send it t’ya after. But I need ya to watch it here, olrigh’? I jus’—just in case, I can—fuck, jus’ watch it, Simon.”

There was that shake again and Simon took the phone quickly. The face he saw on the screen, frozen behind a large black play button, made a knot tighten in his throat. “Johnny…” His thumb hovered, his fingers creaking around the plastic case of the phone. Price reached down, his own thumb brushing over the top of Simon’s nail to help him those final few centimeters.

Johnny came to life before Simon’s eyes. ”D’ye really think he’ll wanna hear me croonin’ like a wee cat?” He asked the man behind the camera. Hearing his voice again lit a tiny pilot light deep in Simon’s chest and it was like feeling warmth again after being buried beneath ten feet of ice. A pressure began to build behind Simon’s eyes, but he swallowed it down so he could focus on the irreverent bastard that had given his life meaning over the last few years.

”Don’t you Caffliks sing ev’ry Sunday, la?” Price. That was Price. He only went a bit Scouse when he’d had a drink, and judging by the flush in Johnny’s cheeks, they both had. Simon glanced up and saw the pain on Price’s written in deep lines around his eyes.

”When…?”

”While you were away,” Price croaked. “Jus’ shut it. Watch.”

Simon looked back to the phone. Johnny was looking over his shoulder, the scruffy back of his mohawk facing the camera. Someone spoke—Garrick. “Weren’t you an altar boy? Bet those old priests helped you hit the high notes.”

”Get tae fuck ye filfy cunt.”

”Oi, oi, lads, now now, c’mon… fer Simon. E’ll love it.”

“Right, an’ ye sure ah can’t jus’ tell him over a tiext, maybe a… ye knoow, a water emoji…”

”Naw, naw, he’s a proper romantic, like. C’mon, look… I’ve got…” Price played a few chords and the camera shook. The picture turned upside down and then righted itself, and suddenly Simon was looking at the both of them as Price set his phone against something on a nearby table. Bloody wankered, the both of ‘em. Despite the pain balling in his chest, Simon’s lips twitched into a faint smile.

”Awrigh’, but if he rips th’ shite outta me, ‘m gonna pish in ye boots next op, sir,” Johnny said, squinting at Price. He lifted his phone from his lap and tapped at the screen. In the next moment, a grainy violin played a few notes and then… and then… and then…

…Johnny started to fuckin’ sing.

“Oh, my love seid tae me ‘will ye meet me by the sea? Ye c’n kiss me underneath the misty mo-o-on’. He is stunnin’, he is pretty, he's as warm as amber whiskey, and as bonny as the heather on the hill.” Price played along beneath Johnny’s voice, smoother than honey, warmer than an August evening. The smile that split over Johnny’s face as Price echoed ‘oh my love’ in his gravelly voice, still perfectly in tune, made something crack at Simon’s core.

Johnny drummed his fist against his thigh. ”When I was a young boy, my mother seid tae me, "find yerself a pretty lad, don't take his love fer free", from fields of Aberfeldy t’ the shores of Loch Maree, I knoow that he's the only one fer me.” His palm opened as he sang through the chorus again, his heel bouncing against the floor, his shoulders relaxing, his voice lifting as he stylised through another ‘oh, my love’ before breaking into the next verse. Larger than life, brighter than the sun. Simon’s next breath burned out of his lungs like it was made out of dragonfire. He—Johnny was singing to him—Johnny was—Johnny—

“He was dancin’ by th’ fire as a pi-per played a tu-u-une, he wrapped his arms around me an’ he asked, ’are ye my groom?’ A dram of amber whiskey an’ a twinkle in his eye, we danced beneath the Caledonia sky—oh my love seid tae me, will ye meet me by the sea, you c’n kiss me underneath th’ misty mo-o-on. He is stunnin’, he is pretty—”

The crack widened. Simon felt his chest quiver, his heart thundered, something weight-bearing gave way, a molten chill coursing through his veins, like glacial ice had melted away and now threatened to drag him under in the current as it searched for an exit. Johnny continued to croon through the chorus, his voice lifting and falling, his blue eyes crinkled at the corners. Simon’s entire world narrowed in on him, his cheeky smile, the handsome cut of his jaw, the stupid fuckin’ ferret fuckin’ haircut the fuckin’—the fuck—the fu—

The song ended and Johnny stopped the backing track on his phone. Price’s hand stilled on the strings, his whiskers twitching. “Well, bloody ‘ell, that weren’t ‘alf bad.”

“Man of many fucking talents! The bastard’s toast, mate.” Garrick called from somewhere off screen.

”Aye,” Johnny said, and then looked directly at the fucking screen with those bright blue eyes full of promise, and life, and love… looked directly at the—he was looking at the—“Be seein’ ye, L.T.”

Simon didn’t remember leaving the chair.

He didn’t remember staggering for the door.

He didn’t remember yanking his mask from his head as the balaclava suddenly felt suffocating rather than protective, stifling him like Ghost was trying to keep a stranglehold.

He didn’t remember when his hands began to shake, his fist threatening to shatter the phone, breaking the white plastic of his mask, or when his knees gave way. Only that Price was there to catch him when he began to fall apart, strong arms wrapping around his chest. Simon’s fingers scrambled into Price’s back, clawing at the firm bulwark of it as the first broken noises wheezed from his chest. “Johnny… Joh—Johnny…”

”I know, son. I know—i’s ok, i’s ok, I gotcha, let it go… s’olrigh’…”

Price held him so fuckin’ tightly, buried his face in Simon’s neck as they ended up on their knees, Simon’s manic scrambling too much even for Price to handle. Every raw emotion, every broken part of himself that he had pushed down to get the job done, poured out in the animalistic, shattered sobs that wracked through his entire body. Ugly, gasping, broken noises, with tears, and snot, each breath rasping from his burning lungs as he fought against the tsunami of agony that pulled him under.

Simon clutched the phone to his chest, like he could absorb the image of Johnny into his heart and use it to glue the shattered pieces together, his face buried in Price’s shoulder, blunt nails biting into the cotton of his shirt, howling like a wounded animal as everything he had lost, everything that he could have had, finally swallowed him whole.

[calzone-d]

So just saw your post about steve being an absolute much and i wholeheartedly agree. On that note i also believe he talks you through it so good when he fucks you. He comes off so poised to everyone else but when he’s with you? He gets so nasty and cocky with it, it’s all “that’s right baby take it” “oooohh is that right, that feel good?” “just let go sweetheart come for me” and when you get close and start gasping he smirks and mocks your little oh oh oh’s, like he knows he’s big and he knows he fucks you good, he just can’t help it

Thoughts?

pairing: Steve Rogers x afab!reader

warnings: unprotected sex, creampie, reader has a vagina, steve has a filthy mouth

a/n: 100% Think about it- Steve loves to help. Loves to help others, loves helping you take his cock. and yeah he’s americas sweetheart but he deserves a little moment to be cocky too!!

not proofread!

absolutely nsfw below the cut im warning ya

“Yes, Sir. Thank you for coming out tonight, your donation makes a world of a difference.”

Steve’s voice is firm but sincere as he shakes the hand of another rich friend of Tony’s. They’re all making their way to the door as the night dies down. Not fast enough, though. Not fast enough to where you can whisk Steve away upstairs like you’ve been dying to do for the past few hours.

You toss back the rest of your drink when Steve moves to wrap his arm around your waist. He brings his lips to your neck, peppering the soft skin with little kisses. The feeling makes you laugh, the only people in the room left are a few of the other Avengers so he clearly has let go of his inhibitions. The asguardian mead kind of helped that along, too.

“Let’s go upstairs, need to feel that sweet pussy wrapped around me, sweetheart.”

His words cause you to choke. Your face flushes as you turn in his arms to set your drink down on the bar. He gently pats your back with a blush that matches yours.

“Sorry, honey. You okay?”

You chuckle thinking of how his filthy mouth always catches you off guard. America’s Golden Boy definitely has a golden tongue to match, but you’re the only one who holds that knowledge.

On your tiptoes, you put a hand on the back of his neck to pull his face down to your height. Your soft lips brush the shell of his ear,

“You want my pussy, baby? That’s what you need?” you whisper with a kiss to his ear.

His blush ripens just as it began to fade. He nods, preoccupied with making an escape plan, always the Captain.

Steve drags you out a side door and makes a beeline to the elevator. The second the doors shut, his hands are on your hips. His fingertips squeeze you as he starts speaking again.

“Bet that cunt’s drippin’ for me, huh?”

His Brooklyn accent always comes out when he’s like this. Before you have a chance to respond his fingertips are slipping up your dress. They skate over the inside of your thighs before pulling at the waistband of your panties.

“Lemme feel, honey.”, a thick finger slips between your folds. A wicked smile spreads across his flushed cheeks.

“Sweetheart… already so wet for me..” the tip of his finger catches your clit and makes you whimper.

Steve pulls his fingers out right as the elevator dings and the doors open. You clear your throat and follow him to his room. Steve’s pink lips wrap around his finger as he unlocks the door, mumbling something about how you taste.

He’s pulling you in as soon as the door opens, hurriedly pulling down the zipper of your dress.

“Need this off, honey girl. Now. Panties too, need to taste that pussy again.”

Without a second thought you shimmy the dress off and kick your panties somewhere behind him. He drops to his knees before you and crawls the rest of the way, backing you up against the wall.

Steve unbuttons his shirt and yanks it off, “Got me crawlin’ on the god damn floor for that pussy. Like a pet.”

You bite your lip at that. Your hands reach out to make a home in his perfectly styled hair. Steve settles on his knees, pulling one of your legs up and over his broad shoulder.

“Am I your pet baby?” You chuckle softly and nod.

“Mhm.. a good pet too, Stevie.”

He groans and leans forward. One of his hands comes up and spreads your folds open, putting every inch of your soaked pussy on display for him. His tongue sets a path from your quivering hole up to your hardened clit.

Pulling away the slightest bit he groans “Fucking hell”. Steve’s dirty mouth isn’t new to you, but always takes you by surprise. Always makes you blush just a little harder.

Steve makes a rhythm of poking at your opening with the tip of his tongue and using it softly against your clit. He’s obscene with it, too. A mixture of your slick and spit coating his sharp cheekbones. He slurps and moans as you near your orgasm.

“Gettin’ wetter, honey. Gonna cum for me? You can cum, sweetheart. Been so good to me tonight.”

“Gonna make you cum on my tongue, honey. Don’t worry, just let go. Lemme taste it, pretty girl.”

His words are muffled by your cunt but it makes you squirm all the same.

The tension snaps when he shoves his tongue as far as humanly possible inside of you. His pointed nose creating the perfect amount of friction against your throbbing bud.

“That’s- that’s it.” He pants into your sensitive folds. He slows down, pressing gentle kisses against your clit. “So sweet, honey.” another kiss. “Could taste this” another lick “this pussy all night.”.

You don’t miss the way he wobbles just the slightest bit when he stands to pull you into his arms. He pulls you in for a kiss that’s all tongue. The taste of you on his tongue makes you moan.

Steve kisses you all the way to his bedroom. Once he has you on the bed he shoves his pants and underwear off, not bothering to make a show of it. His cock is heavy and wet, the tip glistens as the weight of it makes it hang down in front of him.

You instinctively spread your legs, your arms reaching out for him.

“Stevie..”

He’s over you in an instant, nose nuzzling your cheek, then the flushed skin of your neck.

“M’here sweet girl. I’ve got you.” he murmurs. He wastes no time in bringing the tip of his cock to your soaked folds. He runs the tip up and down, making sure he’s wet enough to not hurt you.

“This pussy will be the death of me, honey. You hear me?”

You nod and grab at his back, holding him to you.

He slides in, and you both moan at the feeling.

“Just needed this- fuck- this sweet pussy on my cock. Needed you wrapped around me sweet girl.”

Once he’s balls deep he doesn’t even pull out to thrust into you again, just grinds the head of his cock against your cervix. The trimmed hair at his base adds to the sensation of his pelvis putting pressure on your clit. His heavy balls are pressed flush to the dip of your ass cheeks.

“Ohh fuck. Got me- got me so weak, honey.” he pants. One of his hands goes to the back of your head, pulling your face into his neck. You discovered pretty early on that he was so sensitive there. The second your lips touch his neck he’s a goner.

“You like that though, don’t you? Knowing you’ve got- mmm- got your captain so weak for you?” He pulls out almost all the way before slipping right back in, all the way to the hilt.

Steve tilts your hips backward just an inch or so, and the next move of his cock puts sweet pressure on your g-spot. The feeling makes you yell out, frantic hooded eyes searching for his as you grab onto his biceps.

“There it is, I got you, sweets. Just-“ another thrust, “Just taking care of my best girl.”

You whimper at the pressure on your g-spot. “Oh, steve! I- fuck.. So good..”

“I know baby, found your spot, huh?” he smirks as he hits it again. You nod as your eyes flutter shut.

“You can- you can take it, hun. That’s it..” he murmurs against your hair.

“I’ve got you sweet girl, just take it.” your moans only spur him on. “I know, I know, shhh. Taking it so well, sweets. Taking your captain’s cock.. god damn.. Squeezin’ me so tight.. Just creamin’ on my cock baby.”

He leans back and his thumb finds your clit. He thrusts more shallow now, jackhammering against your g-spot and putting you right on the edge.

“So sensitive here baby, such a pretty pussy. Love this pussy, oh fuck.. Got me- got me so close sweet girl.”

You lock your ankles behind his back, making him fall back over you.

“Cum in me Steve, I- fuck!- need it baby. Steve, please.. need- ohh- need it so bad.”

He drops his weight on you, face buried in your neck as he fucks you, spurred on by his most primal desire.

“Steve, I need to- m’gonna cum.. I’m.. I’m oh fuck!”

The way your pussy clenches on his cock sends him right over the edge.

“Shit, oh shit. m’cumming, honey. Ohh my god.” he doesn’t stop thrusting even as his cock twitches and empties itself deep inside you.

“Take it,” he buries himself as deep as possible. “Take your captain’s cum. All for you, sweet girl. Fuckkk, take it. Ohhh that’s it…”

He swallows thickly, nudging his nose against the side of your neck.

“Love..” he pants. “Love you, y/n. My sweet girl. Love you so much.” his voice is raspy.

He doesn’t even try to move. Your hand comes up to scratch at the back of his scalp and he wiggles a little against you, getting comfy for a minute.

You press a few kisses to his sweaty temple “Love you too, Stevie.”

He lays there on top of you until he goes soft and you’re poking him in the ribs to get him to move.

“Wanna shower, stevie. Get up.”

When he pouts, you giggle and press a soft kiss to his lips. After he slips his cock out of you, he uses his thumbs to gently spread your lower lips. He ghosts his thumb through his cum that’s starting to leak out of you. When he’s done admiring his handiwork he pulls away and brings his thumb to his lips.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, honey.”, he murmurs and pulls you to your feet.

In the bathroom, he gets the shower started while you pee and attempt to clean yourself up with some wipes.

“Jeez, Steve.. there’s just so much of it.”

Steve snickers and pulls the shower curtain back for you. “Been savin’ it for you, babe.” he says with a cheesy wink.

You laugh and fake gag, “Gross”. Steve leans in and presses a kiss to your scrunched nose.

—-

a/n: thanks for reading! likes/reblogs/comments are always appreciated, and requests are always open!

[lokis-army-77]

Cozy

Eddie Munson x fem reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Waking up the day after Eddie has fucked your brains out you have a little more fun.

Warning: 18 +. unprotected sex, p n v, breeding kink, kinda innocent reader, soft dom eddie, 1 whore, a bit of hair pulling.

Thank you to those of you who beta read! <3

Masterlist

You wake up in the late morning, sun shining through the blinds, warming your bare body. You can feel the heat radiating from your boyfriend as well. He's awake too. You can tell by how his hips keep pressing into you from behind, still not satisfied even after a night of rolling in the sheets 

Eddie's arm holds you close to him and you feel his lips barely caress the shell of your ear. "Morning baby." He hums. 

You smile sleepily. "Mornin'," you say as you snuggle further back into him.

He grunts. "Don't do that or you'll start something you can't finish."

"I don't know what you’re talkin' 'bout." Your giggles are soft, muffled by the comforter.

Eddie rolls his hips into the curve of your ass. "Oh, I bet you do." He bites at your ear lobe. 

"Eddie stop." You swat your hand behind you at an awkward angle. 

"Stop what?" He asked, rolling his hips again.

This time you can't help but moan. 

You can feel him grinning lazily, his unshaven scruff catching on your hair. 

He's getting harder, his cock is pressing into you and it's impossible to ignore with neither of you having clothes on. 

Eddie slowly moves his hand down your body, fingers contouring to every curve until he ends up between your legs. 

He pries your leg back and hooks it over his own. "You're so wet, baby. I've barely done anything." He says as he runs a thick finger through your folds. 

You shift, sighing when he touches your clit. "Eddie..."

You liked him like this. Liked living in the softness of a late Saturday morning. But you can't lie, you liked it when he was rough too. 

Memories of the night before had you buzzing. Skin on skin, mouth to mouth. You loved when he dominated you but you loved when he was soft and sweet. 

"What is it, sweetheart? What'd ya need?" He asks, finger now circling languidly around your entrance. 

"Mmm, you. Need you." 

"Me? What from me?" He teases.

You just whimper, brain foggy from sleep and his touch.

"Come on, Sweetheart, tell me." His thumb swipes over your clit.

"Please," you breathe. "Need your cock." Your face is flush. He knows how much that word embarrasses you. 

"Is that right? Want me to give you my cock?" His finger dips ever so slightly into you 

"Yes!" Your hands grip the covers when he finally pushes his finger into you fully. 

Eddie takes his fingers away from you and gives your ass a quick smack. He leans in and gives you a kiss on the cheek before whispering, "Then get in that puppy pose I love so much."

Your legs squeezed shut and your heart fluttered. He could always make the most dirty things sound so innocent. 

Wasting no time you throw off the covers and get onto your knees. Eddie watches you with lust-filled eyes as you slowly put your chest to the mattress, leaving your ass bare and presented. 

With your head resting on the bed, you can only hear and feel Eddie moving behind you. You suck in a deep breath when his large hand grasps your ass cheek. 

"Such a good girl for me." He praises and you keen. You wiggle your hips and he laughs through his nose. "Gonna give you what you want." 

His hands roam over the roundness of your ass, spreading your cheeks even more apart. 

You clench around nothing, waiting as he admires you. 

"Eddie?" You ask.

He hums in response, still staring at how you are spread out for him.

"Need you really bad," you whine. You could only stand so long without him being inside you and patience was starting to wear thin. 

"Okay, okay." He pressed up into you. He's hot, you can feel the heat radiating from him as he pushes his cock through your wet folds. He passes through them a few times before he takes a breath and pushes into you completely.

The angle had him hitting deep within you. His head rubbed against your walls in a way that had you clenching your toes. 

“Fuck,” you moan into the sheets, fingers grasping for anything that could help ground you. 

“That’s it, baby.” Eddie groans. “Pussy’s just squeezin’ me.” He begins to pump in and out of you at a steady pace. “God you’re perfect.” 

You close your eyes and reach your hand behind you. Your fingers come in contact with Eddie’s hip and he slides his own hand from your ass down your back. His touch sends a shiver down your spine. 

A long whine is pulled from you when Eddie fists your hair in his hand, tugging only hard enough for you to feel a small amount of pressure on the back of your head. He moans when you start to rock back into him. “That’s right use my fuckin’ cock.”

He pulls your hair harder and you mewl. “Wanna be closer to you.”

“Okay Sweetheart.” Eddie lets go of your hair and reaches down with both hands to help you up. He pulls your back flush to his chest, it’s sticky with perspiration. He dosen’t stop his efforts, his hips still move, pucnhing into you. 

All you can do is grunt and groan as you feel him fucking into you. Your head rolls back onto his shoulder and he wraps an arm around your chest so that he can hold you steady but also grab at your breast. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” you moan into his ear. “Want- fuck I want-”

“What’s that baby? What do you want?”

You can’t answer, too embarrassed to say but when Eddie gives you a firm smack on the ass, the words come fumbeling past your lips. “Cum inside me. Want you to cum inside me, gimmie- fuck- gimmie- ah!” 

His hips press harder into you. “oh? Want me to fuck you full?” He slaps your ass again. “Hum? Want me to fuck a baby into you?”

Those words had you crying, begging for more. You love when he talks like that. When he fucks into you so despretly at the thought of you having his children.

“Mmm, that’s what I thought. Such a whore aren't you, Sweetheart? Need everybody to know you’re mine.”

“Yes. Yes, Eddie, I’m yours.” You heave. 

Eddie lets you go and you crumble back to the bed. His pace quickens and you feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge. His breathing gets heavier, and you can feel the pleasure building inside you. Your moans get louder and more frequent. 

“Right there!” You cry when he goes deeper. 

“Yeah, baby? Right there? That’s the spot?” 

You nod and he continues to hit just the right place. Your mouth is hanging open, drool pooling on the bed. It feels so good to have him so close. 

In and out, in and out he goes, hips clapping against your ass. Your back arches and you feel yourself coming closer. 

You let your hand fall from behind you to the bed before you bring it between your legs. Your fingers find your clit and begin circling. Another shudder courses through your body and you clench around Eddie. 

“God, fuck baby, don’t do that.” He grunts, thrusts faltering as you squeeze him again. 

“AH! Eddie, please, I'm gonna cum.” You moan. Wetness is dripping down your thighs and hand and onto the sheets. 

“Then cum, sweetheart. Cum on my cock like the good girl you are.” He tells you, hips snapping into you faster. 

You feel yourself tensing in pleasure before you finally let go, cumming hard. You keen and arch your back, your orgasm crashing through you. Eddie thrusts a few more times before his own orgasm overtakes him and he groans. You both collapse in a heap, breathing heavily. 

When you open an eye to peek at Eddie, he’s already watching you. A smile envelopes you and you hide back in the sheets. 

Eddie tuts, “Let me see that pretty face.” He takes his hand and tries to pull you from your hiding place. “Come on, Sweetheart, show me how beautiful you look.”

You finally peer up at him again and he just beams, cheeks round and eyes scrunched. He leans forward and plants a kiss on your forehead before leaving pecks down the bridge of your nose and lastly on your lips. You hum into him. 

“I love you, y’know that?” He asks. 

“Yeah, I know. I love you too.” You say sweetly before you are interrupted by a yawn. 

Eddie gives you another tender kiss on the cheek, “Go back to sleep baby, I’ll clean this mess up.” 

“Okay-” you comply, yawning again. Before Eddie can leave and come back with a warm cloth, you are already fast asleep. 

[angrythingstarlight]

credit

Just a few thoughts I have about this man's hands.

Pairing: Beefy!Bucky x Reader

A/N: Don't know where this came from. Don't judge me. It's was an urge I couldn't control.

Bucky Barnes's hands are lethal. Not because he can effortlessly crush a guy's skull or punch through a wall.

No his hands are lethal because of how delicately and gently they hold your face when he kisses you. Like he cherishes you. Doesn’t want to break you. Soft warm skin and cold metal cupping your jaw, thumbs pressing into your cheeks as his lips slot over yours. He kisses like he's fucks. Always starts off soft and slow and sweet until you're begging for more. Gets a little faster and deeper until he's controlling you, dominating you. Moving you where he wants you so he can take and take and take until you're gasping for air and willing to do anything he wants.

His hands are lethal. They're huge compared to yours. Everything about him is big. Thick. But what really makes you feel small, and delicate is when you're palm to palm with him, your fingertips don't come close to reaching his.

His hands are lethal and he can't keep them to himself. His fingers are always curved around your thigh, his thumb drawing circles on your soft flesh, chasing away the goosebumps his touch created. He can't go more than a few minutes without holding your hand, keeping yours tucked away in his so you can't get loose. Not that you want to. At night, when it's quiet, the world is nothing but a distant hum, just you and him sprawled across the sheets, you fall asleep to the sound of his voice and his fingers trailing up and down your back.

His hands are lethal. Especially when he's guiding your hips across his firm, warm body and dragging your pussy over him until you're sitting on his face or cock, grinding you down nice and slow until he can feel you pulsating and dripping on him.

As gently as he holds your face when he kisses you, his grip is bruising and firm when he fucks you. His hands folding your legs back so he can go as deep as he wants, relentlessly pounding you harder and harder, fucking you so good all you can do is take it.

His hands moving you to all fours so he can fuck you from the back, one hand putting yours on the headboard cause he knows you're going to need something to hold on to or you're collapse on the bed, the other hand, all metal, and firm, pushes your hip back so you can meet his thrusts, his cock moving in and out of you so fast, it feels like he's not even pulling out, only going deeper and deeper, hitting your spot so good and hard, tears spill down your face and you feel him making your belly bulge.

His hands are lethal when his warm, calloused fingers roll over your swollen, pulsing clit, metal fingers in your hair bringing your head back so his lips can graze the shell of your ear as he rasps out a soft, deep "cum for me gorgeous, cum all over my cock like a good fucking girl. There ya go, that's it, that's my girl. That's what I needed. Fuck–fuck you're so fucking good."

His hands are lethal when he has his metal fingers around your throat, leaving you lightheaded, teetering on the edge of euphoria with just enough air to moan his name as he bounces you on his cock, his large hand slapping your ass, demanding you ride him faster even as your thighs tremble around him and the room gets blurry. Show me how much you wanna cum, show me how bad you want this. Make a mess all over me.

His hands are lethal when he pushes his cum back inside your aching cunt, telling you he's going to make sure you keep every drop of him inside your pretty little pussy. That he's going to keep you full all the time, never let you feel empty again.

His hands are lethal because they provide the best aftercare. The dichotomy of warm and cold fingers on your back, massaging and kneading your sore muscles while he praises you for taking him so well, being so perfect for him, making him feel good, only stopping when you're relaxed and sleepy. Those hands pick you up like you're feather-light, placing you in a warm bath. Those hands feed you whatever you like, his touch lingering on your lips. Those hands carry you back to bed, placing you under fresh sheets.

His hands are lethal and only you know everything they're capable of.

Only you know how perfectly two of them fill your pussy, stretching you out just right so you're ready to take his cock.

Only you know how intoxicating it is to feel him grip you even tighter just before he comes apart, the way his right hand trembles slightly before pulling you closer.

Only you know how nice his hands feel around your waist when he's guiding you through a crowd of people, wordlessly letting you know you're safe with him.

Only you get to feel the full power of his touch, only you get to wear his marks like a badge of honor.

Bucky's hands are for you and only you. And that's the way he likes it.

And I—

[blackpantherismyish]

Tell Me You Missed It 💰

Modern!au Elias “Stack” Moore X Black!OC Harper Jones

Work Count : 4.3k

Authors Note: Sooo 😅 While I love Papa Smoke down, we know (s/o to @theethighpriestess) that Stack is Killmonger’s grandpappy. So yall might hate him just as much as the OC does. But I like me a slick mouthed southern nigga 🙂‍↕️🤭 I’m just saying. Warning, This is some smutty smut. So you might wanna check ya panties afterwards. Or just take them off all together, you do you. But enjoooy.

Setting: Downtown Los Angeles, a warehouse-turned-art gallery lit in warm gold and exposed brick. It’s First Fridays, and the place is buzzing with live music, neon cocktails, and art that screams sex and sorrow.

Harper feels it before she sees him.

That heat. That weight. That pull from somewhere low in her belly she thought she’d buried.

She turns, slowly. And there he is.

Stack.

Standing at the far end of the gallery in a black hoodie, gold chain catching the dim light, jaw set like he’d chewed through regret and didn’t care who bled for it. He looks good—too good—like time’s only made him sharper, thicker in the arms, and darker in the eyes. But it’s that look he gives her across the room that wrecks her. Like he’s not surprised to see her—like he knew she’d show up eventually.

Harper’s breath stutters.

It’s been a year and a half.

She’s had someone else. Someone safe. Predictable. Smelled like sandalwood and didn’t talk with his hands. But her body? Her body remembers Stack like recipe handed down through generations.

She adjusts the sleeve of her cream silk blouse and steels her spine. No weakness. Not tonight.

He moves through the crowd like it owes him space, people parting naturally. No words. Just a slow saunter until he’s standing in front of her, close enough to touch.

She says nothing.

Neither does he.

Then Stack leans in, slowly. Inhales. Right at the curve of her neck.

His voice comes low, gritty.

“You smell like someone else.”

Her stomach flips. “You’re bold.”

He doesn’t back off. “I’m pissed.”

A beat. Then..

“You been letting another man put his hands on you, Harper?”

“You been gone,” she shoots back, chin lifting. “What did you expect me to do, wait around?”

Stack doesn’t blink. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t soften.

“I expected you to remember who taught you how to melt like that. Who made you shake without even takin’ your clothes off.”

Her eyes flicker. Her throat tightens.

“Don’t do this,” she warns.

But he’s already stepping closer, chest brushing hers. One hand lifts—gentle, almost reverent—and tugs her bottom lip free from between her teeth with his thumb.

“I can still smell him on your skin,” he murmurs. “But underneath that? You still smell like mine.”

Her legs threaten to give, knees brushing his.

“I’m not yours,” she whispers, but even she can hear the lie.

Stack’s lips graze the shell of her ear. “Then why are you shaking?”

Harper closes her eyes. One year, six months, two days. That’s how long she’s been trying to forget what it felt like to unravel under him. How she swore she wouldn’t go back.

But Stack doesn’t give you space to forget.

He leaves a scent. A rhythm. A hunger.

He exhales slow. “You let him lay next to you. But he didn’t know you. Not like I did.”

And he’s right. Her new man never touched the places Stack touched. Never pulled tears from her eyes with just a look. Never made her feel like fire and glass at the same time.

Harper wants to be angry. Wants to shove him back and spit venom. But instead, she just whispers.

“Why are you here, Elias?”

His answer is soft. “To take back what’s mine.”

The music shifts behind them, but it might as well be silence. Her pulse is in her throat. She hates how good he smells. Like smoke and recklessness and the kind of sex that ruins lives.

“Say the word,” he says, palm finally resting low on her waist. “And I’ll remind your body who it really belongs to.”

And she does.

She says nothing.

Just lets her fingers curl into his shirt.

And Stack?

He leans in and kisses her like he’s starving—like he’s reclaiming every inch. Like no other man ever existed.

Because in his world?

No one else ever did.

They take the elevator in silence.

But the air between them?

Loud as hell.

Stack doesn’t touch her. Not yet. He’s got that look on his face again—calm, composed, but she can feel the heat rolling off him in waves. That dangerous kind of patience. The kind that waits ‘til you’re begging.

The elevator dings at the 9th floor, and Harper steps out first, trying to act like her legs aren’t trembling with every step. Her heels click against the hallway floor, and each sound feels like a countdown.

Her body is not being helpful.

Her heart’s doing the most.

Her breath’s shaky.

And worst of all?

Her nipples are hard.

What the hell, she thinks, crossing her arms.

We’re not doing this. We’re not folding. He doesn’t get to come back in like this and—

But her body doesn’t care.

Her body’s a traitor.

She’s wet. Dripping even.

She knows it.

It’s shameful how easy her body remembers him—how it lights up just being near him.

Behind her, Stack unlocks the door to his condo with a subtle twist of the wrist. That familiar click of the lock sounds like temptation cracking open.

She steps inside first—and there it is.

The scent.

Dark. Musky. Him.

That wood-smoke, bergamot, and something dirtier beneath it. Something hers. Like the sheets still know what they used to do to each other.

She stands in the middle of the living room and dares herself not to sit. Not to lean. Not to remember.

Stack sets his keys on the counter, shrugs out of his hoodie.

Black tee underneath, clinging to his chest and arms like a second skin. Veins like anger. Tattoos she used to trace with her tongue.

She clears her throat. “You gonna pour me a drink, or just keep undressing slowly?”

He smirks. “Didn’t think you needed liquor to make bad decisions.”

She glares, but the corner of her mouth twitches.

Don’t smile, Harper. He wins if you smile. Be strong. Say what you came to say and—

Then his voice slices right through her.

“I can still see it,” he says, slow. “How your body looked the first time you let go for me. Shaking. Soft. Stupid pretty.”

Her thighs clench. Reflex.

“Betrayal,” she hisses at her body. “You’re acting brand new.”

Her inner demon cackles.

“Oh baby, this ain’t new. This is home.”

“I’m not gonna sleep with you,” she repeats, more to herself than to him.

Stack leans against the counter, arms folded, eyes raking her slow.

“I know,” he says.

“Your mouth keeps saying that.”

She hates that her knees feel loose.

Hates that her body’s already angling slightly toward him, like gravity’s rigged in his favor.

“We are NOT doing this,” she whispers internally.

Her nipples: We did it already.

Her thighs: It’s already started, boo.

Her inner demon, reclining in a fur coat with a wine glass: “Tell me again how ‘safe’ was supposed to be better than this?”

Stack pushes off the counter and walks up behind her.

Doesn’t touch. Just stands there.

She can feel him. The heat of him against her back. Her breath quickens.

“You feel it?” he murmurs, lips ghosting the shell of her ear. “This thing between us never left. You tried to clean me off—but I’m still under your nails.”

A soft, involuntary gasp escapes her throat.

“I hate how good you are at this,” she whispers.

He finally touches her—just two fingers at her hip. Light. Teasing.

“You hate that I know your body better than he does.”

And then—like her body had just been waiting for permission—she melts. Shoulders sink. Chin dips. A low, shameful moan coils at the base of her throat.

He turns her to face him. Doesn’t kiss her.

Just speaks softly.

“Last chance. Walk away. Or let me make your whole body remember who the fuck you really belong to.”

And Harper?

Her mouth says nothing.

But her body?

That damn traitor leans in.

Stack doesn’t take her to the bedroom.

Not yet.

He backs her into the corner of the living room instead, low lights casting shadows across the hardwood floor. Every move is deliberate, every inch between them charged. He’s still got one hand grazing her hip—like he’s reading her pulse through the silk of her blouse.

Harper stands stiff, jaw set, arms crossed again like armor. But it’s useless. Her body’s already betrayed her, and he knows it.

He leans close, nose brushing her temple as he whispers, “So this who you replaced me with?”

Her eyes narrow. “Don’t.”

“Lemme guess,” he says, lips grazing her hairline. “Says nice shit. Calls you ‘babe.’ Sends ‘good morning’ texts. Fucks like he’s worried about messing up your makeup.”

She doesn’t respond.

He takes that as a yes.

Stack chuckles, low and smug. “That the kinda love you settled for?”

Harper’s spine snaps straight. She steps back.

“Settled?” she echoes, sharp. “You talk like you didn’t vanish. Like I had options.”

Stack’s eyes flicker, but he doesn’t flinch.

“I had to go,” he says, calm. “You know why.”

“No,” she bites. “I know what you said. And then I watched you disappear like I was just… noise.”

He’s quiet. But not guilty. Not apologetic. Just still.

“I didn’t leave ‘cause I stopped loving you,” he finally says. “I left ‘cause I didn’t know how to keep loving you without breaking everything around us. You included.”

“That’s real poetic,” she mutters. “But you still left me standing in the wreckage.”

He steps forward again. Slower this time. Hands now by his side like he’s trying to keep them off her.

“I didn’t come here to play therapist,” he murmurs. “I just know what I smelled on your skin tonight wasn’t love. It was… safe. Easy.”

“Why is that so bad?” she snaps.

“‘Cause you’re not easy, Harper,” he growls, stepping in close again. “You’re wild. You’re all sharp teeth and wet heat and fucked-up loyalty. And safe?” He scoffs. “Safe don’t know what to do with a woman like you.”

Her chest is rising and falling faster now. She’s furious.

And turned on.

“You don’t get to romanticize this now,” she hisses. “You broke me. And now you’re mad I let someone else hold the pieces?”

“I’m mad you gave those pieces to someone who ain’t built to hold you whole,” he snaps, voice dropping lower. “You let someone soft put his name on scars I carved.”

Silence. Thick as honey.

Her demon rises again, smug: “You gonna slap him or kiss him, mama?”

Her body? Already making room for him.

Stack softens, just a little. His hand lifts again—not greedy, not forceful—just a knuckle brushing the dip between her breasts. The whisper of contact sears her.

“I know you hate me,” he says, eyes locked to hers. “But I also know when you touch yourself, it’s still my name that slips out your mouth first.”

Her breath catches. Her mouth opens—but nothing comes out.

He leans in, nose barely brushing hers. Not kissing. Just feeling.

“You remember how I sound when I’m inside you?” he whispers. “The way I used to lose my mind when you grabbed my wrist, trying to hold me still even though you didn’t want me to stop?”

“Stop,” she breathes. It’s not convincing.

His lips hover over hers. “Say it like you mean it.”

Her voice cracks. “You’re so arrogant.”

He smiles, slow and sharp. “No. I’m just the only one who ever matched you.”

And there it is.

Her hands ball into fists at her sides.

Her voice is low, strained: “You’re a bastard.”

“And you,” he says, gently taking her hand and pressing it flat to his chest, “are still burning for me.”

Harper feels his heartbeat under her palm. Strong. Steady. Like a drum calling her back to a rhythm she swore she forgot.

Her head shakes, but she doesn’t pull away.

He leans in again, lips barely brushing her cheek now. Whispering heat.

“Tell me you don’t want me to lay you down on that couch and make you forget how to spell his name.”

She exhales like it hurts. Her thighs press together. Her body betraying her again. Skin flushed. Breath ragged.

But her pride? Still hanging on. Barely.

Harper stays quiet a long moment, hand still pressed to his chest like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. Stack watches her with that steady, unreadable gaze—but there’s something in his eyes now. Something vulnerable beneath the usual swagger.

And maybe it’s that.

Maybe it’s the way his calm is cracked just enough.

Or maybe it’s the way her body’s been screaming for him since the moment he walked back in.

But her voice finally comes, low and bitter and beautiful.

“You don’t get to say my name like that and pretend you didn’t leave me starving.”

His brow lifts, but she’s not done.

“I begged for you. You remember that?” Her voice trembles. “Sat on that floor by your door like a fool, texting you for days. Weeks. Watching your read receipts pop up with no reply. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. I stopped wearing red lipstick because I couldn’t stand seeing it smudged without your mouth being the reason.”

Stack’s jaw tightens.

She steps in now, close enough to make him shift.

“I had to teach myself how to not ache at the sound of a Hellcat engine. Had to unfollow every playlist that reminded me of the way you used to fuck me through my own cries.”

A pause.

Her voice is a whisper now. “And then you show up smelling like memory and sex and say I settled?”

Stack doesn’t speak.

He just lowers to his knees.

Smooth. Silent.

Like he knows words won’t save him.

Like he knows what she really needs is not an apology from his mouth—

But a redemption sung between her thighs.

Her breath catches when his hands move up her calves, deliberate. Slow. He presses a kiss to her left knee, then the right. Soft. Reverent.

And still doesn’t say a word.

She watches him from above, chest heaving.

When he reaches for her waistband, she doesn’t stop him.

Just whispers, “You left me so fucking empty, Elias...”

He looks up at her, hands still at the hem of her pants.

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

And then he peels her out of them like something sacred.

Her legs are trembling already. Rage and arousal tangled like a noose in her stomach. She’s still mad. Still hurt.

But when his mouth settles between her thighs, God help her, all of it folds.

He starts slow. Tongue soft. Patient. He kisses the inside of her thigh like he missed it. Like he dreamt of it. Then another kiss, closer. Then a lick—flat, slow, upward—until her whole body arches like she’s trying to rise from her own skin.

Her hand flies to his hair, fingers tightening. Not to push him away.

To anchor.

Stack moans into her, low and deep, like he’s getting drunk off the taste of her. Like this is his confession.

He eats her like she’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

Like she’s a punishment and a prayer wrapped in silk and salt.

She wants to be stubborn. Wants to keep her pride tucked in her throat.

But her hips grind against his face, slow and filthy, on instinct.

“Stack,” she breathes, breath hitching. “Fucking hell…”

He sucks her clit just enough to make her legs shake—then pauses, pulling back an inch.

“I should’ve never left,” he says, voice rasping against her. “You hear me, Red? I fucked up.”

Her head falls back with a moan. She’s not ready to forgive him.

But she can’t deny the way his tongue carves apologies deeper than any words ever could.

“I waited for you,” she gasps, breath sharp as glass.

“I know,” he whispers, licking her slow, again. “I’m here now.”

And when he dives back in, hands gripping her thighs, tongue relentless and sin-slick and full of sorrow—Harper finally lets herself unravel.

Not for him.

But for her.

Because if she’s gonna burn, she might as well cum with the blaze.

Her thighs are still shaking when he lifts her into his arms.

Stack doesn’t rush.

He holds her like she’s breakable, but walks with the kind of purpose that says he’s far from done. Mouth grazing the crown of her head, beard brushing her forehead as he carries her to the bedroom they used to know like scripture.

The bed still has the same navy sheets.

The same creak when he drops her gently onto the mattress.

Harper blinks up at him, dazed, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. Her chest rises and falls with soft, ragged breaths, like her body’s still catching up to what just happened downstairs.

But he doesn’t give her time to come down.

He strips for her. Slow. Intentional.

Shirt first. Over his head, revealing skin she used to mark up like it was hers. Her eyes trace every line of him—shoulders, chest, those veins in his arms that always pulsed when he pinned her wrists. Then the jeans. Undone with one hand. Dropped low. His dick is hard, heavy, angry with need.

He catches her staring. His mouth quirks.

“You remember how good this felt?” he murmurs, crawling over her, settling between her thighs like a prayer that never really ended.

She glares through her arousal. “You’re really not gonna let me hate you in peace, huh?”

His laugh is low. Dark. “Nah, Red. I’m gonna fuck you in pieces.”

And then he sinks into her.

No tease this time.

Just a long, slow stretch of him filling her until her back arches, a sob slipping from her mouth as her body gives way. He feels impossibly big inside her—thick, deep, like he’s trying to reach the parts of her that moved on.

And maybe he is.

Stack groans against her throat, hips still for a moment as he drinks in the feeling of being back where he swore he wouldn’t return.

“You feel like heaven,” he growls. “Like I’ve been in hell without you.”

Harper grips his back, nails sinking in. “You put me in hell, Stack.”

His thrust rolls deep. Slow. Controlled.

“I know,” he pants. “I know, baby. I hate myself for it. I hate that I missed you… missin’ me.”

Another thrust.

Deeper.

She gasps, thighs squeezing his waist.

“I missed everything,” he breathes, forehead pressed to hers. “Missed your damn laugh in the morning. The way you tuck your leg under you when you talk shit. Missed those tears you try to swallow when you moan. God, Red…”

He fucks her through the guilt. Through the ache. Through every word he should’ve said a year and a half ago.

“I used to jack off just to the memory of your sounds,” he rasps. “Now I’m inside you, and I swear to God, I’m never—fuck—never leaving you empty again.”

Her moan is strangled, raw. She’s too close. He feels it.

She grabs his jaw, kisses him hard. Sloppy. Teeth and tongue and fury.

“You don’t get to promise me forever,” she gasps against his mouth.

He thrusts harder now. The pace filthy. Deep and punishing.

“I’m not promising you,” he growls, voice cracking. “I’m begging.”

She breaks.

Clenches around him, mouth wide in a silent scream, tears streaking down her cheeks as her orgasm rips through her like an exorcism.

And Stack watches her.

Takes her in like scripture he’s re-learning by heart.

Only when she’s trembling under him—boneless, dazed—does he let go, burying himself deep, moaning her name like a man saved and ruined all at once.

He spills into her with a raw, broken sound.

And stays there.

Inside her.

Like maybe if he stays deep enough, long enough, she won’t drift again.

Like maybe this time—

He’ll be enough.

Harper thinks she’s done.

She thinks her body’s wrung dry, trembling with aftershocks, spine melted into the sheets. Stack’s still buried inside her, breathing hard against her neck, weight grounding her like a storm finally passed.

But then—

He moves again.

Not to pull out.

But to stay in.

To grind.

Slow. Deep. Deeper.

She whimpers. A mix of overstimulation and don’t you dare stop.

Stack lifts his head, slick with sweat, his short fade becoming fuzzy around his temples. His gaze is wild now—darker, unhinged, like that first round was just the appetizer. His hand slides between them, and she already knows what he’s looking for.

“Stack… ‘Lias—” she warns.

But he just smirks, fingers finding her still-swollen clit with pinpoint accuracy.

“Baby,” he murmurs, dragging circles that make her hips jerk, “I waited over five hundred days to taste you again. You think I’m tapping out now?”

Her legs twitch, trying to close, but he shifts his weight and spreads her wider, deeper. One long, dragging thrust hits the spot that makes her eyes roll back, her hand flying up to cover her mouth.

“No,” he growls, grabbing her wrist and pinning it to the bed. “Don’t hide from me.”

She’s panting now, helpless under him.

And he’s just getting started.

“You know how many nights I fucked my own hand thinking about this pussy?” he mutters, nipping her collarbone. “How many times I said your name and nearly bit through my damn tongue?”

“Stack—fuck—”

He fucks her through it. Through the whimpering. Through the heat climbing her spine like it’s trying to set her on fire from the inside.

“You think some new man could replace this?” he pants. “You think anybody else could have you like this?”

Harper cries out, her body folding up into him, and he lets her. Hooks her legs over his arms and pounds into her now, the bed frame knocking against the wall, no rhythm but desperation. No words but moans and filth.

Her nails drag down his back. He doesn’t care.

Her voice cracks on his name again. He grins through his groans.

“Say it again.”

She can’t even speak.

He slaps her thigh. “Say it.”

“Elias,” she sobs, eyes glassy. “God, I—”

“Louder,” he demands, fucking her harder. “Let the neighbors hear what a year and a half of missing me sounds like.”

She screams it this time.

And Stack loses his damn mind.

He flips her before she can even catch her breath, dragging her hips up and back onto his lap, sinking into her from behind. The mirror across the room shows her ruined—spine arched, hair messy, eyes half-lidded and mouth open. And him, behind her, looking like sin in motion.

He wraps her hair around his fist and tugs gently, leaning in.

“You see that?” he rasps against her ear. “That’s mine.”

She tries to push back against him, match his rhythm. But he’s relentless now—chasing another orgasm like it owes him rent. Her hands grip the headboard. Her body screams. And when she starts to come again, she doesn’t even recognize the sounds leaving her mouth.

He follows her over the edge again, but keeps going. Barely slowing. Just kissing her shoulder, still buried deep, voice husky and low.

“We’re not done,” he whispers.

“I want to break every man outta your system. One thrust at a time.”

Stack’s thrusts slow.

His hands ease up.

And the storm that’s been raging between them finally begins to quiet.

Harper’s hips tremble, lips parted, a soft whimper caught in her throat. She’s boneless, fucked raw, soaked in sweat, and still somehow… floating.

Stack stays inside her a moment longer. Just breathing. Forehead pressed to the curve of her shoulder, his hands cradling her hips like she’s something fragile now—like after all the mess and madness, he wants to worship what’s left of her.

He kisses her back.

Then again.

Then again, slower. Softer.

He pulls out carefully, groaning low as he settles them back onto the bed, tugging her into his chest like instinct. Like muscle memory. Like home.

Harper blinks through the haze, dazed and sore in all the right ways. Her head rests on his chest now, the steady beat of his heart drumming under her cheek. His hand strokes her spine—up and down, up and down—his other hand brushing her hair off her face with the kind of care that unravels her more than the sex ever did.

It’s quiet.

But not empty.

“Red,” he murmurs finally, voice scratchy and thick with sleep and something heavier, “I never stopped thinking about you. Not even for a day.”

She swallows hard.

“I was angry,” she admits, barely a whisper. “But I never stopped loving you either.”

Stack presses a kiss to her forehead. Long. Lingering.

“I can’t give you a perfect man,” he says softly, “but I can give you one who never forgets your name. Who knows your body like his own and your moods like weather. One who left, yeah… but never really stopped building a life around your ghost.”

She closes her eyes.

“Don’t say this unless you mean it.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

Another beat of silence.

Then, with his lips at her temple, he says it.

“Come home, Harper.”

Her chest catches.

That little ache she’s been nursing for a year and a half cracks wide open.

Because this is what she needed. Not just the sex. Not just the confessions. But this warmth. This peace.

This invitation back into belonging.

She nods, nuzzling into his skin. “Okay.”

Stack exhales, relief and something like wonder bleeding from his chest.

And like that—it settles.

They drift off tangled together. Her leg hooked over his hip. His hand on her ass, lazy and possessive even in sleep. Their breaths syncing. Bodies marked. Hearts a little bruised but beating in the same rhythm again.

The city hums outside.

But in that room, under those navy sheets,

Harper finally sleeps like she’s safe again.

And Stack?

Stack sleeps like he got his heart back.

——

Taglist: @bigjh @anniensmoke3 @hdfen2474 @uzumaki-rebellion @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @killmongerdispussy @theogbadbitch @ccwpidsblog @princesskillmonger @blowmymbackout @blktinkerbell @theethighpriestess @steampunkprincess147 @diamondsinterlude @partylikemajima @mhhhhmmmmmmm @coolfoodrunworld-blog @lilchubbs @thebumblebeesworld @mastertia221b @brownskincheyenne @belleofthefloor @c0tt0ncandi @irefusetobeacasualty @cocoxciv-blog @melodyofmbaku @lb-xci

Divider: @cafekitsune

[adelliet]

Joel Miller x f!reader

FORBIDDEN FRUIT

Summary: You and your boyfriend Tommy have been having problems lately. You don't understand each other, argue a lot, but somehow you're still together. Everything change one fateful evening, when his brother comes to comfort you.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, kinda toxic relationship, cheating, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex (p i v), praise kink, rough, Joel talks you through it, creampie, nicknames

A/N: Hii! I hope you'll like this story/smut! It's kinda long again :( but, if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

It all started with your first real fight with Tommy.

For months now, something had been off. He was distant — emotionally absent, almost like he was just going through the motions. He used to come home and wrap you in his arms, tease you with that lopsided grin, ask about your day with genuine interest. But lately… it was as if work had swallowed him whole. He’d return exhausted, irritated, sometimes barely even looking at you. And when he did, the warmth was gone.

At first, you gave him the benefit of the doubt. Jackson needed him, and you understood that. You really did. But weeks turned into months, and you started to feel more like a ghost in his life than a partner. Every attempt you made to spark something — a touch, a kiss, an evening set just right — was met with excuses. “Too tired.” “Long day.” “Maybe tomorrow.”

You even wondered, for a fleeting moment, if he was cheating. The thought clawed at your gut, but there was never any real sign. No secretive phone calls, no lipstick on the collar, no changed passwords. Just… nothing. He wasn’t cheating. He just didn’t want you. And that, somehow, felt worse.

Then came the day. Tommy walked through the front door, shoulders slumped, boots muddy, a scowl carved deep into his face like it had taken root there. He didn’t even greet you — just grunted and collapsed into the armchair like his bones were too heavy.

“Grab me a beer, will ya?” he muttered, not even looking at you. Something inside you snapped.

“You know what, Tommy?” you began, voice trembling — not from fear, but from months of pent-up anger. “No. I won’t.”

He blinked at you, confused. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

And then it started. Words flying like arrows. You yelling. Him raising his voice in return. Neither of you laying a hand on the other, but the fight was loud. Emotional. Raw.

So loud that people passing by outside the house either crossed the street or hurried along, pretending not to hear.

You couldn’t take it. Not anymore. You couldn’t even look at him when it was over. Couldn’t stand being in the same room, breathing the same air. So you walked out. No plan. No destination. You just had to go. Had to get out before something inside you shattered.

He didn’t stop you. Maybe he knew you needed space. Maybe he was just too damn tired to fight anymore.

And you wandered through the quiet town, dusk settling like a blanket over the rooftops, the air cooling against your skin, until you realized — you had nowhere to go.

Nowhere… except for one place. One man.

Joel Miller.

Joel had always seemed like a good man.

Rough around the edges, sure. There was something intimidating about him when you first met — that deep voice, the scowl he wore like a second skin, the heavy silence he could summon with just one glance.

But beneath that tough shell, you’d found something else entirely.

You were nervous at first. Afraid he wouldn’t like you, that he’d think you weren’t good enough for Tommy. That he might act like the overprotective big brother and treat you like an outsider. But all those fears dissolved quickly, scattered like dust in the wind.

Joel welcomed you. Genuinely.

He talked to you, helped you without hesitation, offered you rides, fixed things around your place when Tommy was too busy. He made you feel like part of the family — someone he respected. Someone he cared about.

And tonight… he proved that once again.

You found yourself standing at his front door, breath visible in the cool air, knuckles trembling as you knocked. You didn’t even know how your feet had carried you there. Only that they had. That you needed somewhere to go. It didn’t take long for the door to open with a soft creak.

Joel stood there, blinking into the porch light, clearly roused from sleep. His hair was tousled, a little messy — grayer than you remembered, curling at the ends. His t-shirt was wrinkled, clinging to broad shoulders and thick arms, and his sweatpants hung low on his hips. His eyes, still heavy with sleep, softened the moment they saw you.

And just like that… something snapped inside you. Something you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding back. Desire.

Your gaze lingered longer than it should’ve. On the messy hair. The beard you secretly liked way too much. The tired lines around his eyes. The way his biceps flexed just from leaning on the doorframe.

And then it hit you and your core pulsed.

It was involuntary. A biological response. A full-body reaction to a man who had no idea what he was doing to you.

Joel’s brows furrowed. “Everything okay?”

You swallowed hard and managed a small nod. “I just… had a fight with Tommy. Needed some air.”

He stepped aside without hesitation. “Come on in.”

Inside, his house smelled like cedar and something vaguely smoky. The lights were low. It felt warmer than you expected — like a quiet cabin tucked away from the world. He offered you coffee. Tea. Something to eat.

You shook your head. “No but thank you.”

He nodded and said you could take the spare room. He even went to get you some clothes to sleep in — a soft, oversized t-shirt and sweatpants that were far too big for you.

And when he handed them to you, your fingers touched. The spark was small. Barely there. But it spread like wildfire through your chest, then your spine. You looked up at him. And for a moment, your eyes locked.

He said something, probably a simple “here you go” or “they’re clean” — but you didn’t catch it. Your ears were ringing. You were too busy staring into the deep brown of his eyes, too caught up in the way they seemed to study you back, like maybe he felt it too.

You took the clothes, mumbled a thank you, and retreated to the bathroom to change. But even as you stood there alone, the shirt hanging loosely on your frame, you couldn’t get him out of your head.

And that night, lying in a bed that wasn’t yours, wrapped in the scent of his laundry detergent, you realized something that made your stomach twist. You knew you were absolutely, completely, and irreversibly… fucked.

And now, it had been a week. A week since that night at Joel’s. A week since everything shifted — even if no one else could see it.

Things with Tommy hadn’t improved. If anything, they’d gotten worse.

You fought constantly now. About stupid things, about nothing, about everything. You didn’t even know what started most of them anymore — the toothpaste cap, the way he sighed too loudly, the silence at dinner.

It wasn’t explosive, not always. But it was endless. A simmering discontent that never quite faded, only circled back again and again, like waves hitting the same crumbling shore.

And worst of all — neither of you ever talked about it. No apologies. No meaningful conversations. Just this sad, quiet erosion of something that used to be whole.

But Joel…

Joel was different. Joel was the problem, wasn’t he? Because you couldn’t stop thinking about him. Not just that night, not just how he looked, standing there sleep-rumpled and warm and so utterly male, but every damn day since.

He was in your mind when you woke up. When you brushed your teeth. When you made dinner. When you argued with Tommy and wished he was someone else. You didn’t mean to. But God, it was getting impossible to stop.

You kept picturing his hands — the thick fingers, the rough calluses, the way his veins curved over his knuckles like they were sculpted with intention. You imagined how those hands would feel on your hips, gripping your thighs, sliding under your shirt with practiced ease.

You thought of his arms — strong and solid and made to hold. Of how his shoulders looked like they could carry the whole damn town if they had to. You thought about being held in them, your head tucked under his chin, your breath catching when he exhaled slow and deep.

You thought of his chest — broad and warm and lined with that dark, silver-streaked hair. Thought of laying your cheek there, fingers splayed across his heart, listening to it beat steady beneath your touch.

His face haunted you.

That strong jaw, always clenched like he was holding back a thousand words. The curve of his mouth, half-hidden under the beard but always there — lips you kept imagining pressed to your neck, your shoulder, between your thighs.

And his eyes… His eyes were your undoing.

Dark, deep, unreadable. They saw through you — not just your clothes, but your walls, your lies, your guilt. When you closed your own eyes, you saw his instead, full of lust. Or maybe that was just your own twisted fantasy. You shouldn’t want him. You knew that. He was your boyfriend’s brother.

But your body didn’t care.

Your body betrayed you every time you thought of him — a flutter low in your stomach, a tightening in your chest, a heat between your thighs that left you squirming in bed at night, aching for something you couldn’t name out loud.

You tried to drown it out. Tried to pretend. But the truth whispered like a lover in the dark:

You wanted Joel Miller. Desperately. And the worst part? You didn’t know how much longer you could keep pretending you didn’t.

Becuase it’s not just a passing thought anymore, not something you can brush off like a stray cobweb in your mind. No, it's visceral, constant. It lives under your skin like a second heartbeat.

Every time Joel walks by, you feel it. That earthy, musky scent of his — a mix of sweat, cedarwood, and something deep and masculine that makes your thighs clench without warning.

You hate how much your body reacts. How just one whiff of him leaves your panties damp, how the air feels thicker when he’s near. And when he works… God, when he works, that's the worst.

You’ve seen him splitting firewood behind the house, sleeves rolled up, sweat glistening on his tanned skin as the muscles in his arms ripple with every swing of the axe.

The tight line of his jaw. The way his shirt clings to his broad back. The grunt he lets out when the blade hits the wood just right.

You watch him from the porch like a starved woman watching a feast she’ll never be allowed to touch. And it drives you fucking crazy.

Most nights, you don’t sleep.

Most nights, you lay in bed, biting your lip, heart racing, one hand gripping the sheets while the other slides under the waistband of your panties, because thinking about Joel isn’t enough anymore.

You need to feel it.

You imagine him looming over you. That heavy, calloused hand wrapping around your throat — not tight, just enough to make you submit. His other hand spreading your legs, fingers rough and sure as he slides them between your folds, dragging through your slick heat like he owns it.

You imagine his voice — low, rough, dangerous.

“Look how wet you are for me.”

“You want this, baby? You want me to ruin you?”

And you do. You want him to ruin you. You want him to take you right there, against the wall, the bed, the floor, anywhere, as long as it’s him.

Your fingers move faster now, desperate and messy, circling your clit in tight, practiced motions.

You press your thighs together, arching your back, your breath catching in your throat as your slick drips down your wrist.

You picture his mouth on your skin. His beard scraping your inner thigh. His tongue pushing inside you — thick and hot and hungry.

You choke back a moan. Your body is burning. You’re grinding into your own hand now, fucking yourself on your fingers like he would, imagining how deep he’d go, how big he’d feel, how he’d stretch you open and make you scream his name.

“Joel,” you whisper into the dark, breathless.

It’s always his name.

You come hard — thighs trembling, chest heaving, sweat beading along your hairline — but the ache doesn’t fade. Not really. Because as good as it feels, it’s not him.

No matter how many times you make yourself come, no matter how vivid the fantasies get, no matter how soaked your sheets are in the morning, you still want more.

Every time Tommy lay down beside you, his body heavy with exhaustion and the scent of sweat and woodsmoke still clinging to his skin, guilt clawed its way up your spine like a cold hand.

You would lie there stiff, eyes open to the dark, heart pounding, not from affection or comfort, but from the memory of your own trembling fingers just an hour before, hidden beneath the blankets, gasping his brother’s name against your bitten lip.

Joel.

Tommy’s brother.

The man you couldn’t stop thinking about — not now, not ever. You hated yourself for it. You weren’t just betraying your boyfriend. You were betraying a family. A trust.

But the worst part? You didn’t want to stop.

Tommy hadn’t apologized. Not once. But that didn’t stop him from organizing a barbecue. Some way to press “reset” on everything, as if grilled meat and forced laughter could patch over weeks of silence, resentment, and half-finished arguments echoing off the walls.

You knew him well enough by now to see through it. He wasn’t trying to fix things. He just wanted to pretend they were fixed. And that… hurt more than the fighting.

So, you dressed for the occasion. Not for him — not really.

You put on the white lace dress that didn’t quite reach your knees, the one that hugged your hips, cinched your waist just right, and fluttered in the summer breeze like something soft and dangerous. You wanted to feel beautiful. You wanted to feel powerful. Maybe even cruel.

When you stepped out of the bedroom, Tommy was standing at the kitchen counter with a beer half-raised. He froze. Completely.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, eyes locked on you like he was trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

You could feel his gaze moving, mapping, remembering.

And when you passed by him, deliberately brushing just close enough, he reached out — a firm grip on your wrist.

“You look… you look good.” He muttered.

You paused, turned to him with a small, unreadable smile. “Thanks.” Your voice was polite, detached. And the moment he released your hand, you slipped out the door like a whisper on wind.

Outside, the sun was still warm.

People were already gathering, familiar voices, laughter, clinking glass. The backyard glowed in golden hour light, casting long, soft shadows across the tables and swaying grass. You fixed your face into the practiced smile you’d worn so many times — the one that said everything’s fine even when your chest felt like it was made of glass.

Then you saw him. God.

He walked up the path like he owned every step of it, in that worn flannel shirt and rolled sleeves, arms streaked with dust and sweat. His hair was tousled, like he’d run his fingers through it instead of brushing it. His beard, just the right length to make your skin ache to know how it would feel. His eyes… they found yours.

And just like that, you forgot how to breathe.

He smiled, that subtle Joel kind of smile that only lifted one corner of his mouth, and stepped forward, arms opening as he greeted you.

“Hey there, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart.

He pulled you into a hug, and the moment your body met his, you knew you were in trouble. His arms were strong. Warm. The scent of him curled around your brain like fog. You imagined his mouth, his fingers.

And your body… reacted.

But you smiled. You played innocent. You even laughed at something he said. And he had no idea that your panties were already damp and that your heart was beating like a drum against your ribs.

The barbecue continued like some slow, lazy dream.

Music floated in the air from an old radio, someone poured too much whiskey, and laughter echoed off the fences. The sun dipped lower, turning the sky into a watercolor wash of pink and tangerine. Kids played tag near the trees. The smell of grilled meat mingled with fresh cut grass.

And all the while, you watched Joel.

He leaned on a post, beer in hand, talking to someone with that low, gravelly voice that made your stomach twist. You weren’t really part of any conversation. You were too busy stealing glances.

Then came the moment with the salad.

It was almost a relief to slip away — an excuse to clear your head. You made your way back into the house, opened the fridge and pulled out the cold bowl of greens.

That’s when you heard footsteps behind you.

“I’m glad you wore that dress,” Tommy said quietly. You turned around. He looked more serious than he had in days. Weeks.

“I know I’ve been… distant,” he said. “Hell, maybe even a real asshole. I just… I’ve been stressed, but that’s no excuse. You deserve better. And I’m sorry.”

His eyes met yours, and for once, you saw something honest there. You didn’t say anything. You just nodded. And then he kissed you.

It was hungry. Desperate.

Weeks of tension burst all at once. His hands were on your waist, pulling you close. You kissed back. Maybe you wanted to forgive him. Maybe it felt good to be wanted again — by someone who should want you.

But just as his hand began to slide beneath your dress —

“Hey—”

Joel’s voice at the doorway.

“—where’s that salad, huh?”

You froze and Tommy stepped back, startled. You turned slowly, cheeks flushed, heartbeat thundering. Joel was standing there with a lopsided smirk, but his eyes caught yours — and lingered.

And just like that, the heat pooled in your stomach again. Not because of Tommy, but because of the way Joel looked at you like he knew.

You stood there in the now-quiet room, trying to steady your breath. Your hands were resting on your sides, clenched just a little too tightly. It wasn’t just what had happened—it was how it made you feel. Like you were a pawn in some game… only the rules were seductive, dangerous, and written by men like Joel and Tommy.

And Tommy took charge. Said something about the salad being on its way and vanished with the bowl like it was the most natural thing in the world. You needed to process it. Breathe. Think. Only… thinking wasn’t helping much.

Later that evening, the fire crackled, casting a warm flickering glow across familiar faces. You were sitting on a log, surrounded by others from the community, the sound of laughter, bottle caps popping, and faint guitar strumming filling the night air.

Joel sat directly across from you. Beer in hand. Legs spread slightly. Relaxed, but not unaware.

His gaze would meet yours every so often, and every single time it did… it felt different. Like something had shifted. The look wasn’t teasing—it was loaded. Heavy. Hot.

And each time your eyes met, your stomach would flip in that delicious, terrible way. You’d forget someone was talking to you, only snapping out of it when someone waved a hand in front of your face or chuckled at your distraction.

Then Tommy appeared, standing beside you with a crooked smirk.

“Up. Come on,” he said, motioning with his hand.

You blinked. “What?”

“Trust me,” he chuckled. “Just stand.”

You did, hesitantly. Tommy immediately dropped down onto the log in your place and patted his thigh with a smug grin. “Sit.”

You raised an eyebrow but obeyed. As you settled on his lap, his arms loosely wrapped around your waist. The warmth of him, the calm strength in his hold—it brought a sense of peace you hadn’t even realized you needed. Things with him were okay again. That mattered. That grounded you.

But…Joel was still in your head.

You looked up, just as he shifted in his seat. A subtle movement, but enough to draw your eyes. He adjusted the way he sat, lifting his hips ever so slightly, and the motion was enough to ignite something deep inside you. You could feel your breath hitch.

You shifted on Tommy’s lap, just a little. Just enough.

Your underwear—already damp from earlier—felt traitorous against your skin. This was the fourth time tonight you’d caught yourself being wet… and always because of Joel.

Tommy felt it.

He tightened his grip on your waist, leaning close so only you could hear. “You tryin’ to tease me, darlin’?”

You didn’t even realize you were doing it. But your body had been responding to Joel all night. And now, it was affecting Tommy.

You shifted again without meaning to, and this time, you could feel Tommy’s erection pressed firmly against you. It made your breath catch. The air around you was thick. Electric.

Tommy leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “We’re goin’ inside. Now.”

You gave a small nod, barely able to speak, and stood up with him. You mumbled an apology to the group, but your eyes found Joel one last time. He was watching.

Not speaking, not smiling, just watching.

And that look, God, that look, it followed you even as Tommy took your hand and led you into the house.

The door slammed shut, and everything exploded.

Tommy didn’t wait. He had waited long enough. Weeks. Maybe months. His mouth crushed yours before you could even say a word, hands already under the hem of your dress, grabbing at your thighs like he had every right to claim them.

And in that moment—you wanted him to.

You moaned into the kiss as his grip tightened, pulling you flush against him. His teeth grazed your bottom lip before he bit, just hard enough to make you gasp. He swallowed the sound hungrily.

Your hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him closer. The kiss was messy. Hot. Tongues colliding, teeth clashing, breaths heavy and desperate. It wasn’t slow or sweet, it was starved. Like both of you had been dying for this.

“Fuckin’ missed this,” he growled against your lips.

You nodded blindly, breathless. “Me too.”

His hands slid up under your dress—rough, impatient—and found bare skin. Touching, exploring every inch of your body, like a reminder of what skin feel like. His knuckles grazed the inside of your thigh, then higher, until his fingers found how wet you already were.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, eyes dark. “This all for me?”

You didn’t answer.

You watched his expression change, something wild flickering in his gaze as he gripped your ass hard with both hands and lifted you. Your legs instinctively wrapped around him as he pressed you back against the wall, grinding against your core through the fabric of his jeans. You could feel how hard he was. How badly he wanted to be inside you.

He bit at your neck now, harder than before, leaving a mark. You cried out, fingers digging into his shoulders.

“God, Tommy—”

You were soaked. Panting. Desperate.

And then—he dropped to his knees.

There was no teasing. No build-up. He pushed the dress up around your waist and shoved your legs apart, spreading you open in front of him. You braced yourself against the wall, heart pounding as you looked down at him, eyes blown wide with lust.

His mouth was on you in seconds. Hot. Wet. Greedy.

He licked you like he was making up for every day he’d gone without it. His tongue worked you in tight, focused circles, alternating speed, pressure, rhythm until you were writhing. His nose was buried against you, breath hot, beard scratching your inner thighs in a way that made your knees threaten to give out completely.

You moaned his name, over and over, gasping for air. “Tommy… fuck, please… just like that…”

Your hand buried itself in his hair, yanking, tugging as your hips rolled into his face without shame. You could feel his groan vibrate through you, sending another jolt up your spine.

He sucked your clit into his mouth, hard, and your vision went white for a second.

“Tommy—oh God—I’m gonna—”

You were so fucking close, teetering right at the edge, every nerve screaming. You could feel the pressure building, tight and unbearable, ready to break—

“…Joel…”

So soft. So breathless. So honest. But the effect was immediate. His mouth froze. Then his hands. Then the heat. Silence slammed into the room like a fist. You opened your eyes and met his. And his face looked like someone had gutted him.

He stood slowly, like every second hurt. The warmth, the fire, the hunger from just moments ago—gone, replaced with silence.

He didn’t speak right away. Just looked at you and you looked at him, breathing heavily.

Then, finally:

“Are you fuckin’ serious right now?”

You opened your mouth to explain, to say anything, but your voice cracked before a word came out. Tears were already stinging your eyes.

Tommy backed away from you like he couldn’t stand to be near you. “That’s who you were thinkin’ about? While I had my fuckin’ mouth on you?”

Your hands trembled as you tried to pull your dress back down, cover yourself—shield from the weight of his voice, his stare. “Tommy, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t,” he barked. “Don’t bullshit me.”

His voice broke on the last word. That hurt more than if he’d yelled.

“I’ve been waitin’, hopin’ we’d get back to how we used to be, and this is what I get?”

You reached for him, desperate. “Please—”

But he jerked away from your touch like it burned.

“I can’t fuckin’ look at you right now.”

And with that, he turned and stormed out. You didn’t even hear where the door slammed. Maybe it was the back one. Maybe the front. It didn’t matter.

He was gone.

You collapsed onto the couch like the strings holding you up had been cut. The sound that left your throat wasn’t even human. A sob, raw and wet and broken. You curled in on yourself, dress still hiked halfway up your thighs, chest heaving. Tears soaked your cheeks and the fabric of the pillow you gripped with white knuckles.

The fire pit was still glowing outside. You could hear distant voices, laughter, clinking bottles—life happening while yours felt like it had just imploded.

You didn’t know how long you sat there. Could’ve been minutes. Could’ve been hours. Everything was numb, except for the ache in your chest. Like someone had reached in and twisted your heart until it bled.

You wiped your face, tried to breathe, tried to calm down—but your body refused. Every time you thought the tears had stopped, another wave hit.

Then the door opened.

“Hey… I’ve been lookin’ for—”

Joel stopped.

You didn’t have to look to know it was him. You just pressed your face into your hands, body trembling, barely able to breathe through the mess of it all.

“Shit,” he said softly. You heard the door close again behind him, slow and careful.

“Hey. Hey—what happened?”

You felt the couch shift as he knelt in front of you, warm hands hovering just inches from your knees, not touching—waiting for permission.

“Are you okay? Did someone hurt you?”

That voice—rough, low, full of concern. You shook your head slowly but didn’t lift it.

Joel exhaled, his hand finally brushing lightly over your calf. “You’re shakin’. Jesus… What happened?”

Joel’s eyes searched yours the moment you looked up at him, and he froze.

Your face was soaked, lashes clumped with tears, lips trembling. Your eyes—glassy, red-rimmed—looked like they were still breaking in real time. And they were. The tears didn’t stop. They just kept coming, welling up and spilling over in fresh waves.

He could see you didn’t have the strength to speak. So he didn’t ask again. Instead, he moved.

He gently, slowly, pulled you into him. The moment his arms wrapped around you, you caved.

You collapsed into his chest, breath hitching, sobs stuttering out of you again as he held you tighter—arms strong and sure, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other splayed over your back, pulling you into his warmth like he could glue your pieces back together.

“Shhh…” he whispered into your hair. “I got you. I got you…”

And he meant it. You could feel it.

His chest rose and fell beneath your cheek, calm and steady, grounding you. His shirt smelled like sweat and firewood and something so purely him it made your throat tighten. His skin radiated heat, and his arms were solid around you, unmovable, like nothing in the world could get to you if he didn’t let it.

Being in his arms felt like safety. Like home. You sank into him fully, shaking, letting the quiet take over. The tears kept coming, soaking through the fabric of his shirt until it clung to his skin.

After a long silence, you mumbled, voice rough and small:

“…Your shirt’s wet…”

Joel huffed a soft breath, like he almost smiled. “I don’t mind.”

A few more tears slid down your cheeks, and you could tell he felt every one of them against his skin. He didn’t push. But the question was still there, unspoken, hanging heavy in the air.

Finally, his voice rumbled low beside your ear.

“You don’t gotta talk if you’re not ready… but if somethin’ happened, I need to know. Did Tommy…?”

You shook your head quickly, breath hitching again.

“No—no, not like that,” you whispered. “We just… we had a fight.”

Joel’s brow furrowed. “About what?”

You hesitated but he waited. The truth sat like glass in your throat—jagged and dangerous. So you shook your head again.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Joel shifted just enough to look at you, hand still holding your shoulder.

“I get that,” he said softly. “But if it’s somethin’ serious… maybe I can help. You two are close. Whatever it is, maybe it ain’t as bad as you think.”

You almost laughed—almost. But it came out choked, hollow.

“It’s bad,” you whispered. “It’s… really bad.”

Joel’s fingers gently traced up and down your arm now, soothing, grounding.

“What happened?” he asked again, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to give me every detail, just… talk to me.”

You stared at the floor for a long moment, lips pressed together, heart pounding.

“…I said something,” you murmured, “during a moment and it hurt him. A lot.”

Joel was quiet, but you could feel the tension under his touch now. Like he was trying not to read into it.

“What did you say?” he asked carefully.

You looked up at Joel.

Straight into those beautiful, kind, heart-wrecking eyes. The light from the living room lamp hit them just right, made them shimmer, like they were made of something more than just brown. His brows were drawn, lips softly parted, that usual scruff shadowing his jaw in the most familiar way.

God, his face.

That face, all concern and comfort and that damned puppy-dog softness, it made everything worse. It made the truth burn inside you like acid.

You looked away again.

“…You can tell me anything, you know that?” he said gently. And you knew he meant it. That was the problem, he meant it. But if you told him, how could he ever look at you the same? How could anyone?

Your heart was hammering. You could barely breathe. Your fingers curled into the fabric of your dress. If you said it, everything between you and Tommy would definitely be over. And maybe it already was.

Because of you.

Because you couldn’t even keep your mouth shut during something that was supposed to be intimate, sacred. You said his name. Joel’s name. And now all of this—the tears, the fight, the possible end of your relationship, was because of that.

Because of you.

The weight of it hit you like a truck, and your throat clenched all over again. More tears flooded your eyes, spilling down your cheeks in fresh, helpless waves.

Joel was still rubbing your shoulders softly, whispering gentle reassurances. “Hey… hey, you’re alright. Just breathe, okay? Just talk to me.”

You were shaking now, fists clenched. He didn’t stop. He stayed with you. But you couldn’t hold it anymore. The guilt erupted from your lips—maybe louder than it should’ve. Maybe desperate.

“I said your name.”

The words dropped like glass onto hardwood and you couldn’t even look at him. Instead, you buried your face in your hands, trying to hide from the horror of your own confession. The shame curled in your gut like fire. Your breath was shaky, lips pressed to your palms, heart thundering like it wanted to escape your chest entirely.

Joel froze. Completely.

Even his hands, which had been so gently stroking your shoulders, stopped mid-motion. The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. Every second it lasted made your stomach twist harder.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe for a moment. Just… stared.

You didn’t dare look up to see what was on his face. You were scared to see the same thing Tommy had shown you—hurt. Shock. Disgust. Your head spun. You wanted to disappear.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered hoarsely, trying to swallow the lump in your throat. “This was stupid. I shouldn’t have—”

You stood up, desperate to escape, to do something other than sit there and drown in your own shame.

But before you could take a step, his hand closed around your wrist. You froze.

Joel stayed seated, his grip firm but not rough. You turned to look at him—and when your eyes met, everything in your chest just stopped.

The silence that passed between you in that second felt like a storm. His expression had shifted. Gone was the softness, the worry, the quiet patience.

Now there was something else.

His eyes burned into yours. His jaw was tight. His brow furrowed in a way that felt almost… territorial. His gaze dropped to your lips for half a second, then shot back up, and that heat in his stare made your breath catch.

And then—he stood. Slowly. Purposefully.

He was close now. Too close. The kind of close where your body tensed and your skin tingled, and every nerve screamed that something had shifted in the air.

His voice came low. Rough. Like gravel soaked in heat.

“Did Tommy ever make you come?”

The question hit you like a slap. Your lips parted. Eyes wide. Breath caught in your throat.

You were so stunned you couldn’t even answer right away. A nervous sound slipped out, barely a word—just air and panic tangled in your chest.

But Joel didn’t wait. He asked again, sharper this time, more intense, his voice scraping down your spine like thunder.

“Did he ever fuckin’ make you come?”

A shiver ran through your entire body. You swallowed hard, the air suddenly dry in your throat. Your gaze dropped to the floor, heat rushing up your neck.

You couldn’t lie.

You just shook your head once.

Joel exhaled a bitter, humorless sound—almost a laugh. His tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek as he looked away, shaking his head in disbelief. His hand let go of your wrist, but he didn’t step back. He turned slightly, pacing two short steps before running a hand through his hair.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath. Like he couldn’t believe it. Like he was trying to keep himself from saying something worse.

The room felt too quiet again. Your heart was hammering. You didn’t know what was happening, what this was turning into.

“Joel… why did you ask that?” your voice comes out quieter than you intended, almost a whisper. “Why would you—?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just turns away from you for a second like he needs to breathe, like looking at you makes it harder. His hands settle on his hips, fingers curling in frustration.

You watch him like he’s something dangerous. Not because you’re afraid — but because you don’t understand him. You don’t understand what he’s thinking. Why he cares. Why it felt like something cracked in him when you shook your head.

Finally, he speaks.

“‘Cause it ain’t right,” he mutters, but the words are too quiet. He says it more to himself than to you.

You blink. “What isn’t?”

He turns to you again, and his eyes lock with yours. There’s something burning there, low and slow and intense. You feel it before he even says a word.

“That you’re with someone who doesn’t even know how to take care of you.”

Your breath catches. The words hit you straight in the chest — like they weren’t just meant to be heard. Like they were meant to be felt.

You don’t know what to say. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. You’re frozen, not by fear, but confusion. Confusion that somehow carries a pulse deep in your stomach.

He takes a step closer. Not much, just enough to make your heart pick up. You feel like you’re standing on the edge of something you weren’t prepared for — and the air between you and Joel is different now. Thicker. Charged.

You whisper, “Why do you care?”

He stares at you like he’s trying to decide if he should tell you the truth. Or maybe he already has.

He looks at your face, your mouth, then your eyes again. His voice is lower now, almost rough.

“…Don’t ask me that unless you wanna hear the answer.”

Your throat feels tight. You can feel the tension rolling off him like heat, and suddenly you’re not just confused. You’re scared — not of him, but of what’s happening. Of what you want. Of what might come next. But that fear is mixed with anticipation and excitment.

The guilt is still there, still whispering into your ears, trying to convince you to just leave and don't get yourself into any more trouble than you already are. But one side of you, the one that is leading you these past days is screaming at you not to leave, to cross the line and break the ice, to gamble with your fate.

He takes another step closer.

There’s something in the way he moves now — slower, deliberate. Like he’s stalking a moment that’s been building for far too long. His eyes never leave yours, and it’s not just a stare — it’s a pull, dragging you in with each second that passes.

The air in the room thickens. It wraps around your body like smoke, warm and heavy, and it settles deep in your chest. You can feel your own heartbeat between your thighs now, each beat like a silent cry. The thin fabric of your dress brushes your skin, soft and ghostly, no underwear to muffle the feeling. Just you. Bare. Vulnerable. And aching.

Joel’s voice cuts through the silence, low and rough, like gravel soaked in whiskey.

“You feel that, don’t you?” he murmurs. “This thing between us?”

You don’t trust yourself to speak. You just nod, barely.

He takes another slow step, his boots scraping softly against the floor. He’s close enough now that you can smell him — leather, sweat, something masculine and heady. It makes your head swim.

“I see the way you look at me,” he continues, softer now. “The way you breathe when I’m this close.”

Your breath hitches. He’s right. You’re breathing faster now, shallow and sharp, chest rising with every gasp.

His gaze drops to your mouth, to your throat, then lower. His eyes darken when he sees the outline of your breasts through the thin fabric, the curve of your thighs where the dress has shifted. And he knows.

He knows you’re not wearing anything underneath.

You watch his jaw clench, the muscle ticking — a flash of restraint. He shifts his weight, and for a moment, your eyes fall to the hard shape beginning to press against the front of his jeans.

You swallow. Heat pools low in your belly, hot and thick. Your pulse pounds louder between your legs, insistent and wet and wanting.

Joel moves closer. There’s barely a foot of space left between you now. One move, one breath, and you’d be touching.

He tilts his head slightly, voice barely audible.

“You wanna kiss me?”

His words slice straight through your self-control. You feel your whole body clench in response, as if your muscles themselves are answering for you.

You open your mouth, but no words come out. Just air. Your lips part and your breathing quickens — faster now, raw and shallow. His eyes flicker between your mouth and your eyes, over and over again, and you realize… you’re doing the same.

The moment stretches. Neither of you says anything. Just the sound of your breathing fills the space, fast and hot and frantic. His hand twitches — not quite reaching for you. He wants you to move first.

Everything burns.

Your thighs are pressed tight together. You can feel the slick heat between them growing with every second. The ache is sharp now, desperate. You clench around nothing, your whole body begging for contact, for relief.

His chest rises and falls quickly, and the tension in his shoulders is impossible to miss. His jeans are tight now, that hard bulge pressing against the zipper, throbbing. Waiting.

He licks his lips. You do the same. Your gaze locks again, the silence screaming between you. Someone has to break and you can’t take it anymore.

You move — fast, hungry, like something inside you finally snapped. You grab the front of his shirt, drag him down to you, and crash your mouth against his.

He groans, deep and low in his chest, and his hands are on you instantly — gripping your hips, pulling you flush against him. You straddle him, your dress riding up your thighs, the heat of your bare skin grinding against the bulge in his jeans.

Joel groans into your mouth like he’s been waiting years for this. His hands slide under your dress immediately, rough palms dragging up the bare skin of your thighs.

There’s nothing coy left in you. You’re past that. You’re on fire, desperate, your whole body pulsing with need. His fingers grip your ass tight, pulling you flush against the hard line in his jeans. You gasp when it presses right between your legs, through nothing but heat and skin.

Without blink, Joel suddenly picks you up and both of you crushed on the sofa, you on top of Joel. You squeak in surprise and he pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are blown, dark, pupils wide. He looks like he wants to ruin something.

“Bet my brother never made you feel like this,” he growls, voice low and thick. “Did he ever touch you like this, huh?”

He trails one hand up between your bodies, over your stomach, under your dress, stopping just below your breast.

“You gonna lie to me, sweetheart?”

You shake your head, breath trembling. “No. He didn’t. He never—”

Joel doesn’t let you finish. His mouth finds your neck, and suddenly he’s sucking, biting, dragging his teeth along your pulse. You moan loudly, fingers fisting in his hair. You feel the bruise forming instantly, heat and sting and possessiveness all in one.

“Good girl,” he whispers against your skin. “I’m gonna mark you up so good. Let him see what he lost.”

His hand finally cups your breast — firm, rough, claiming. He rolls your nipple between his fingers, slow at first, then harder. You arch against him with a whimper. You’re so sensitive, the touch sends lightning down your spine.

“You’re so fuckin’ soft,” he mutters. “So perfect for me.”

Every word he says goes straight to the ache between your legs. You’re soaked now, thighs slick, grinding slowly on his lap because you can’t stop yourself. You’re past shame, past hesitation — you’re riding the edge of something, and Joel knows it.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, leaning in close again, kissing down the hollow of your throat. “Just needed someone who knows what the fuck they’re doing.”

He thrusts his hips up, just a little, grinding into you. You let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a gasp and a plea. He’s so hard it’s unbearable. You can feel the outline of him perfectly through the denim. You want him. All of him.

“You wanna feel me, baby?” he asks, eyes burning into yours. “Wanna know how I fuck you? Not him, me.”

Your breath stutters, hips rocking without thinking. You nod again, frantic now.

“Use your words,” he growls.

“Y-Yes. Joel, I want you,” you whisper, voice cracked and breathless.

“That’s my girl.”

He pulls you even tighter against him, his mouth on yours again, teeth clashing, tongue deep. There’s nothing soft about this — it’s raw and rough and real. You can feel every inch of him between your legs, every heartbeat thudding through your core.

And when he whispers, “I’m gonna make you forget his fuckin’ name,” you believe him.

His hands tighten around your hips and he moves — fast, fluid, strong. In one motion, he lifts you off him and guides you back onto the couch, gently, but with a command behind every touch.

You’re sitting now, alone on the couch. Chest heaving. Legs still parted from how wide you were straddling him. The thin summer dress is bunched up around your hips, your bare skin exposed to the warm air of the room, and his dark eyes drinking in everything.

Joel doesn’t sit back down. He sinks to his knees in front of you.

The sight alone makes your stomach flip — Joel Miller, broad and burning, down on his knees between your legs, eyes locked to yours like you’re the only thing he’s ever needed.

“Spread ‘em for me,” he says, voice low, but not asking. Telling. You obey without hesitation.

The second your thighs part, his breath catches and he smiles. That slow, crooked, devilish smile that makes your whole body throb.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, gaze dropping between your legs. “Look at you. Already so wet for me, baby.”

You squirm, cheeks hot, heart pounding. You’ve never felt so seen — so shameless and completely desired. He leans forward, slow and reverent, placing a kiss on the inside of your knee. Then another. Then higher. And higher.

Each kiss burns into your skin. By the time his mouth is ghosting over your inner thigh, your hands are clutching the fabric of the couch, nails digging into the cushions. Your legs are trembling.

Joel pauses, looking up at you — his face so close you can feel his breath on your skin. His hands slide up to grip your hips, thumbs brushing just under the hem of your dress.

“You ever have someone devour you, sweetheart?” he asks, voice hoarse. “Not just touch you. Not just fuck you. I mean really take his time — make you fall apart over and over again ‘til you forget how to speak?”

Your breath catches in your throat. You shake your head, trembling.

“I didn’t think so,” he murmurs. His lips brush the inside of your thigh again. You let out a soft whimper.

He chuckles, a dark, dangerous sound.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs. “That ends tonight.”

And then, finally, he leans in. His mouth meets your folds like he’s starving. And not just for anyone. For you.

His tongue is slow at first — lazy, teasing — just enough to make you cry out in frustration. Your hips buck toward him instinctively, but his grip is firm. He holds you in place.

“Nuh-uh,” he says, pulling back just enough to breathe against you. “You take what I give you. Nothin’ else.”

Your legs tremble. You nod, lips parted, breath ragged. Then he really gets to work. Long, slow licks — deep and thorough. He moans against you, like you taste better than anything he’s ever had. He eats like a man possessed, tongue and lips working together to unravel you completely.

You cry out, head falling back, hands flying to his hair.

“That’s it, baby,” he groans. “Just like that. So fuckin’ sweet. You feel that? That’s me. That’s how it’s supposed to feel.”

You’re already close. Embarrassingly fast. Your body is burning, shaking, legs threatening to close, but Joel doesn’t let you. He grips your thighs tighter, spreads you wider, and keeps going.

“Bet my brother never had you beggin’ like this,” he mutters against your soaked skin. “Never even knew what to do with you, huh?”

You sob out his name. “Joel—!”

“That’s it. Say it again.”

“Joel—oh god, Joel, please—!”

“That’s my girl.”

You’re falling apart, unraveling under his mouth, praise and hunger and heat flooding through you like fire in your veins. And he doesn’t stop.

Joel has you trembling, gasping, clutching at his hair like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. Your legs are draped over his broad shoulders, your dress bunched up to your waist, and his mouth is working you like he wants to ruin you forever.

You moan his name again, voice breaking as your body convulses, heat flooding through you in sharp, hot waves. He doesn’t stop, not even as you twitch and cry out, completely undone. He groans into you like your pleasure is his, like he needs it, feeds on it.

Then, finally he pulls back.

He’s panting, lips glistening, eyes locked onto you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He looks completely feral. Wrecked. Controlled only by some last shred of restraint.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, still staring at you, and whispers:

“Told you. Didn’t I?”

You’re still catching your breath, trying to remember how to speak, how to think — and then he moves.

He stands in one fluid motion, towering above you, and then bends to scoop you into his arms like you weigh nothing. You let out a soft sound, somewhere between surprise and surrender, and he carries you back down to the couch — but this time, you are underneath him.

His body covers yours, solid and warm, and you can feel the sheer size of him — every hard muscle, every sharp breath. His jeans are still on, but the bulge pressing between your thighs is undeniable.

Your pulse pounds. You want him. You need him.

Joel braces himself on one arm, eyes flickering down to your swollen lips, your flushed chest, the mess between your legs. He growls softly, the sound vibrating through you.

“Christ, look at you,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ gorgeous. Can’t believe he had you and didn’t worship every inch.”

He leans down, mouth grazing your jaw.

“But I will.”

He kisses your neck again, slower this time — no rush. His lips move down, finding the bruises he left earlier, tongue tracing the marks like he’s proud of them.

You arch into him with a soft moan. His free hand slides up your dress again, palm dragging along your thigh, your waist, your ribcage — until he cups your breast once more.

“You feel that?” he whispers, rolling your nipple between his fingers again. “This is mine now. All of you. Mine.”

His hips grind down, slow and hard, and you cry out — it’s too much and not enough all at once.

You reach for the hem of his shirt, pulling it up, needing skin — needing him closer. He helps you, yanking it off over his head, revealing every broad muscle, every scar and freckle. He’s so warm, so solid. You can barely breathe.

Joel lowers his forehead to yours, breathing hard.

“You tell me when to stop, and I stop. I mean that,” he says. “But if you don’t stop me now… I’m not gonna be gentle.”

You shake your head, breathless. “Don’t stop.”

His eyes flash.

“I want it all,” you whisper.

That’s all he needs.

He kisses you again, deeper than before, as his hand slips between your thighs — possessive, sure. You gasp into his mouth as his fingers slide through the slick heat he left behind, teasing, preparing, claiming.

He growls again, lips brushing your ear.

“Gonna make you scream my name. Again. And again. Until you forget his ever left your mouth.”

And then, with a sharp, dark smile, he finally undoes his belt. His eyes don’t leave yours as he tugs the belt free with one rough pull — the click of the buckle makes your stomach flip.

You bite your lip, chest heaving, heart hammering. Your dress is still hitched high around your waist, breasts rising and falling with every breath, nipples hard and aching from his touch.

You’re completely bare under him. And he knows it. He leans in again, mouth brushing yours, and whispers, “Still wet for me?”

You nod and he groans against your lips.

“Good,” he says. “Keep that pretty little pussy ready. I’m not gonna be nice.”

You shudder, hands sliding over his chest, nails dragging down his ribs. He growls low, then kisses you again — deeper this time, hungrier, like he needs to taste every breath you take.

You reach down, desperate, shaking, and he grabs your wrist, holding it still.

“Nuh-uh,” he murmurs darkly. “You just lie back and take what I give you. You hear me?”

Your thighs tremble as you whisper, “Yes.”

“Say it,” he growls. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you breathe.

His eyes ignite.

“That’s right.”

He pushes the fabric of your dress off your shoulders — slow, deliberate — until you’re completely naked beneath him. His eyes drink you in, pupils blown wide with hunger, reverence, and something else… something almost possessive.

He kisses down your collarbone, your chest, stopping to suck a dark bruise just above your breast. You gasp as his teeth graze your skin, and he pulls back with a wicked smile.

“Mine,” he mutters again, almost to himself. “You feel that? That ache in your belly? That need?”

You nod quickly, dizzy.

“I put that there.”

His hand moves between your thighs again, fingers sliding through your slickness with practiced ease. You cry out, back arching — and he grins.

“So fucking perfect,” he growls. “You hear me? I want you to remember this. Every time you think of me. Every time you lie in bed alone. No one else is ever gonna make you feel this way. Not even close.”

You’re gasping, trying to keep up, but he overwhelms every sense — the scent of him, the weight of his body, the deep rasp of his voice in your ear.

He lines his hips up with yours, breath ragged.

“You ready?”

“Yes—please—”

He pushes forward. Slow, steady, relentless, and you both groan at the same time.

The stretch makes your eyes flutter. You cling to him, digging your nails into his arms, and he holds still for a second, letting you feel everything.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes. “So tight. So good. Bet my brother never even got you halfway there.”

You whimper, overwhelmed, tears prickling behind your eyes from the intensity. Joel leans down, kisses your temple, and murmurs:

“You take me so well. Just like you were made for this. For me.”

And then he moves. Long, deep strokes. Slow and unforgiving, like he’s memorizing the way your body reacts to every single inch. He watches your face, hungry, like it’s the most addictive thing he’s ever seen. And maybe it is.

“Look at you,” he pants, brushing hair from your sweaty forehead. “You’re already falling apart, and I’ve barely even started.”

You whimper, legs tightening around his hips, fingers clawing down his back. He hisses, but doesn’t stop, if anything, he thrusts harder, deeper, dragging a loud cry out of your throat.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let me hear you. Let the whole fuckin’ town know who’s making you feel this way.”

He kisses you — messy, open-mouthed, all tongue and teeth — then moves to your neck again, sucking another bruise just below your jaw. You moan his name, breathless, shaking.

“You ever scream like this for him?” he mutters, voice sharp against your skin. “Did he ever make you beg?”

You can’t even answer — just whimper, nod, then shake your head. Joel chuckles darkly.

“That’s what I thought.”

One hand grabs your thigh, throwing your leg higher around his waist, changing the angle — and you scream.

Your back arches off the couch, vision going white. He grunts as you clench around him, and leans in, forehead to yours.

“You close already?” he whispers. “Fuck, baby, you gonna come for me?”

You nod wildly, too far gone to speak.

“Then do it. Be a good girl and give it to me.”

He slams into you harder, faster, relentless now. The praise, the pressure, the heat — it all builds to a breaking point, and then you shatter.

It’s too much. Too deep. Too Joel. You cry out, body shaking under him, clutching at his shoulders like you’ll float away otherwise.

He groans, deep in his chest, and then follows — thrusts turning rough, erratic, as he loses control. His body stiffens, then you feel the heat of him inside, pulsing with every last roll of his hips.

He collapses against you, both of you drenched in sweat and still trembling. For a long moment, there’s nothing but your rapid breathing, your fingers in his hair, and the pounding of two hearts against each other.

Then, finally, he speaks. Low and gentle.

“…Damn.”

You let out a breathless laugh. He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing your cheek with his knuckles.

You nod. More than okay. You’re wrecked. Raw. Full. But you manage a soft smile.

“Better than okay.”

Joel kisses your forehead, arms still wrapped tight around you. You’re still breathing hard, lips swollen, skin hot — but your body’s no longer trembling from pleasure. Now it’s trembling from something else entirely.

Joel is quiet above you. Both strong arms draped around your waist, his forehead resting against yours as he tried go catch bis breath. His chest rises and falls, rhythmically with yours. But your own breath… it’s hitched. Tight. Shaky.

And of course he notices.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers softly through your hair. “Talk to me.”

Your stomach twists. It hits you — full force. The weight of it. Not the sex or the lust, but the reality. You just had sex with Joel. Your boyfriend’s brother. Right there — on his couch, in his home. While he was gone.

You push yourself up slowly, Joel sits up with you, eyes narrowing, instantly alert.

“What is it?”

“I… I can’t—” Your voice cracks. “I just…”

And then you burst. The tears start falling before you can stop them. Big, hot, painful tears. The kind that come from your chest, not your eyes.

Joel moves fast, cupping your cheeks, holding you like you’re something fragile that could break if he squeezes too tight.

“Hey, hey… it’s okay. You’re okay,” he whispers, caressing your face. “I’ve got you.”

“No,” you sob, burying your face into his neck. “It’s not okay. I just slept with you. Joel, what did we do?”

He holds you tighter, jaw clenched as he tried to search something in your eyes.

“We did something that we both wanted,” he says. “And yeah… it was messy. But it was real.”

“I cheated on Tommy,” you whisper. “With his own brother.”

Joel flinches at that — just barely. But he doesn’t let go.

“I know,” he says softly. “But I can’t bring myself to regret it. I’ve wanted you for so long, darlin’. I don’t know if that makes me a bastard… but it’s the truth.”

You cry harder. He rubs your back, murmuring things you can’t quite make out — gentle, soothing things. He kisses your shoulder. Your temple.

“You’re not alone in this,” he says. “Don’t carry all the weight by yourself. I was there too.”

You sit in silence for a long time, curled against him, your tears finally slowing. The room is quiet except for the occasional sniffle, and Joel’s steady heartbeat

Eventually, you both dress in silence.

The air is heavier now. Like you’ve both stepped into a different world — one where consequences have finally caught up.

Joel leans on the edge of the couch, watching you. Guarded. Protective. You wipe your face again, still fighting the tremble in your chin. “What… what happens now?”

Before he can answer—

The front door creaks open. Click. Thud. Boots on wood. Your heart stops. Joel straightens instantly. You freeze. And there he is.

Tommy.

Walking through the doorway, wiping sweat from his brow, rifle slung over his shoulder. He stops when he sees you, then looked at Joel. You were shocked, nervous, your face still swollen from all the crying, while Joel played with his fingers, dropped by his sides.

“Could you leave us alone?” Tommy said, looking at Joel. He clearly had no idea.

Your chest falls and your body relaxed, closing your eyes in relief. Joel just nodded and before he fully left, he gave you one last look. Look, that clearly said:

it's gonna be okay.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a beautiful day!

BYEE🦋🌀

[gweelczz]

Golden

Bo Chow x OC (Rosetta)

Genre: smut (MDNI)

Warnings: Bo Chow is tewwww foineeee 😮‍💨, cigarettes

Summary: Bo receives a gift from Smoke and Stack and now he’s paying the price

A/N: a pic of Bo’s grills will be at the bottom but umm lemme know how y’all feel about it below. (Y’all goin hate me for this ending LMAOO)

The screen door creaked as Rosetta stepped into the house first, her heels clicking softly on the worn wooden floor. The thick Mississippi night still clung to their skin, the heat of the Smokestack’s dance floor followin’ them all the way home. Laughter, sweat, whiskey, and music still echoed in her bones.

Bo followed behind, slow and easy, shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, a toothpick stuck between his lips. The grills that Smoke and Stack gifted him earlier that night glinted gold and wicked every time he smirked — and Lord, he knew what he was doin’.

“You been lookin’ at me all night,” he said, voice low as molasses, shutting the door behind him. “Thought I wasn’t gon’ notice?”

Rosetta scoffed lightly, tossin’ her clutch onto the side table. “Ain’t no law sayin’ a wife can’t admire her husband.”

Bo leaned against the wall, arms folded, watchin’ her move around the room. The way her yellow silk dress clung to her curves, ridin’ up ever so slightly with every sway of her hips — it made him bite down on that toothpick.

She turned and caught the way his eyes dragged over her, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizin’ every dip and line of her.

Then he smirked. The gold on his bottom lip caught the light just right.

It hit her low.

Rosetta paused mid-step, feelin’ the breath catch in her throat. That smile. Those damn grills. She felt her thighs press together on instinct, her body betrayin’ just how bad she wanted to crawl up in his lap and kiss the cocky right off his mouth.

“You wearin’ ‘em like that on purpose,” she said quietly, eyes narrowin’ as she crossed her arms under her chest.

Bo pushed off the wall with a shrug, pullin’ a cigarette from his pocket, lips partin’ just enough to slide it between ‘em. “Maybe,” he said, lighter flickin’ to life. “You actin’ like you ain’t been starin’ at my mouth since Smoke put ‘em in.”

Rosetta rolled her eyes, but the way she licked her bottom lip betrayed her.

He blew a slow stream of smoke and walked toward her, real slow. Each step was deliberate, like he was already unwrappin’ her with his eyes.

When he reached her, he dipped his head, his lips barely brushin’ the shell of her ear. “Go ‘head and look all you want, baby,” he whispered. “Ain’t nobody else wearin’ ‘em for you but me.”

That was it.

She turned to him without another word, grippin’ his collar and walkin’ him back toward the couch, hunger sparkin’ in her golden eyes.

Bo sat down with a lazy sprawl, legs spread, cigarette perched between his fingers as he looked up at her like she was the only thing that ever mattered.

Rosetta didn’t ask.

She climbed into his lap, slow and deliberate, skirts ridin’ high, hands slidin’ across his shoulders as she settled herself.

He took another drag from his cigarette, eyes half-lidded, that same damn grin on his face.

“You gon’ behave?” he murmured, smoke curlin’ between them.

“No,” she whispered, mouth against his. “Not even a little.”

Rosetta wasted no time reaching down unzipping his pants pulling out his cock. Hiking up the skirt of her dress she pulls her panties to the side sinking down onto him with a loud moan.

Bo’s free hand comes up to wrap around her waist holding her upright, cigarette hanging lazily between his lips while she rolled her hips. He watched her face screw up into various emotions of pleasure all while puffing on his cigarette that held something that wasn’t tobacco but a different plant.

He reached up grabbing her chin yanking her down towards him, “Open ya mouth baby” she obeyed welcoming the cloud of smoke he blew into it. “Good girl” he hummed in approval thrusting his hips up to hit that spot for her.

Gasping a bit she grips his shoulders burying her face into his neck sobbing as her hips rocked, he smirks, gold glinting in the dim light. “I know pretty, I know. Feels so good huh?” She whimpers nodding her head quickening her pace while his thumb found her clit rubbing tight circles to push her over the edge.

Clenching around him she came to an earth shattering orgasm panting into his ear. He rubs her back to soothe her not once putting the cigarette down or out. He gently removes her from off of his cock and carries her into the bedroom with one arm removing her heels and dress for her.

“Bo?…” she asks softly watching him as he dressed her and tied her hair up for her, “Hmm?” He answers placing a soft kiss to her neck. “What about you?” Bo smiles pecking her lips before gently laying her back saying something that would knock the wind out of her, his eyes looking as if they changed colors for a second; A trick of the light maybe?

“Baby, your pleasure is my pleasure”

———

Bo’s grills but picture