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eoieopda · 10 months

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tidal.

but vernon has a point to make, so that’s precisely what he does: “i don’t need a sales pitch. you will never — ever — have to convince me to fuck you.”

pairing: vernon x afab!reader type: one-shot (fluff n’ smut) au: est. relationship wc: 4.8k rating: 18+ a/n: i didn’t plan this whatsoever, but i felt so weirdly compelled to write it that i avoided eye-contact with all of my wips, and now… here we are, lol. cw: pov switch, reader is afab + on their period, gender identity + pronouns aren’t designated, blood mention (obvi), unprotected p in v penetration (ill-advised!!), wee bit of dry-humping (ig?), a lil massage, pet names (baby, sweetheart), self-indulgent ref to a favorite docu of mine, and lastly — vernon (yes, this is a warning 🧍🏻) 🔞 MINORS WHO INTERACT WITH ME AND/OR MY CONTENT WILL BE BLOCKED, WHETHER OR NOT THE CONTENT IS NSFW. I’M AN ADULT WRITING EXCLUSIVELY FOR OTHER ADULTS.

Vernon isn’t blind.

He can see you out of the corner of his eye, laying flat on your back, several unexplained centimeters away from his side. With the duvet clenched in your fists, you stare intently up at the ceiling, like you’re waiting for it to move — or trying to move it yourself, telekinetically. You keep your bottom lip pinched between your teeth, as if you expect it to make a run for it.

So, yes, Vernon can see you.

He just can’t figure out what’s wrong with you.

For a few minutes, he attempts to pay attention to the documentary lighting up the screen on the wall ahead. You were the one that picked it — some wild tale about mother-daughter recluses in New York — and he finds it hard to give a shit about it without your usual commentary. Your hot takes are his favorite part of any movie night, after all.

He’ll be the first to admit that he’s never been good at keeping his eyes off you. Try as he might, he can’t glue his gaze to the television; each glance in your direction sticks longer than the one before it, testing the waters. Minutes slip away just like this until he completely caves, turns his head fully, and stares at you outright.

You still don’t seem to notice.

His brow scrunches up as he watches you, caught in the middle between concerned, confused, and amused by how absolutely ridiculous you look right now. When he speaks, he tries to sound stern, like he isn’t fighting the urge to laugh.

“Baby?”

“Hmm?” is all he gets in response.

You don’t even look his way. If anything, you tense harder now that his attention is on you.

None of it makes sense. Not the weird gap you’ve left between your body and his, your total refusal to look him in the eye, or the fact that there wasn’t an argument to precipitate any of this distance. It’s a symptom with no apparent cause, and it’s totally baffling. Brain-breaking, even.

Frowning, Vernon scoots himself across the bed to get closer to you.

You don’t reciprocate.

He tugs gently at the hem of your sweatshirt in a silent plea for your attention and receives radio silence in response; unless he counts the way you swallow thickly.

Which, for the record, he does not.

This close, Vernon can feel the anxious energy pulsing out of your tensed-up body in waves, so he leans away and props himself up on his elbow. Desperate to know what broke you and how to fix it, he mutters, “What is happening right now?”

Ope.

It comes out harsher than it was supposed to, reading more like annoyance than worry, so he immediately clears his throat. Gently and with a brush of his knuckles against your hip bone, he tries again: “Are you okay? Did I do something to make you mad at me?”

A fly on the wall might get the wrong impression and think he stroked you with a live wire instead.

“Oh, my god. No!” You sputter with a jolt, shifting gears quickly from vaguely on-edge to horrified. You shake your head so frantically that Vernon fears you’ll detach it. “No, you haven’t done anything. I’m fine, I just —”

He interjects with a laugh, “— I don’t necessarily believe that —”

Visibly cringing with every muscle in your body, you cover your face with your hands. Not long after you take a deep breath does a meek voice slip out through your fingers, sounding beyond embarrassed.

“I’m so incomprehensibly horny right now that I can’t even look at you.”

For a second, it’s dead silent because he can’t quite process how much of a weirdo you are, or how completely and hopelessly enamored he is with you. But then the dam breaks. His laugh comes out so forcefully that you pull your hands away from your face, eyes wide.

“Is that so?” He smirks, nodding his head towards the television. “Grey Gardens really gets your motor running, huh?”

Absolutely aghast, you swat at his bicep. Then, you sling your arm over your eyes and groan, “I got my period. It has turned me into a sex-crazed monster, I fear.”

Vernon nods in understanding, even though you can’t see it, and hums, “Ahh.”

And he leaves it at that, only because you seem to have more that you want to say. Something you want to ask, maybe, or a reason you may want to give for not jumping his bones at the first opportunity. He’s down, he thinks without hesitation, so long as you are.

But you don’t say anything.

Maybe you aren’t actually down after all, and that’s why you won’t look at him. Shit, are you embarrassed? Should I say something? Silence falls overtop like a weighted blanket, smothering the two idiots who can’t tell whose turn it is to talk.

Do you or do you not want this right now?

You mumble something that he can’t catch, so he nudges your side gently with his knuckles to encourage you. Just as nervous, you repeat yourself without looking at him, “Period sex is supposed to help with cramps, I think.”

He thinks he’s read the exact same article you have. More than that, he wishes you’d look over at him and see for yourself how completely unbothered he is by this concept.

“If you think about it, it’s kind of like a natural lubricant,” you add in a voice that’s even smaller than before.

Your shyness really might kill him, so he reaches over to grab your hand and gently pull your arm away from your eyes. It’s the first time you’ve looked at him since you laid down — since you put your self-imposed no-contact order in place — and he feels his stupid heart swell.

For what it’s worth, he feels his dick twitch, too.

You open your mouth to speak again, likely to continue your unnecessary campaigning; Vernon is having none of it. He tugs your wrist just enough to tilt you inward, then he kisses you hard enough to shut you up. A tiny whimper slips out of your lips when he pulls away, and it almost makes him regret his decision to do so.

But Vernon has a point to make, so that’s precisely what he does: “I don’t need a sales pitch. You will never — ever — have to convince me to fuck you.”

Your eyes crinkle at the corners, like this is somehow news to you. It shouldn’t be. He’s told you a thousand times in as many different ways how thoroughly crazy you drive him just by existing so closely to him, but maybe you didn’t take him seriously then.

To emphasize his point, he slips his hand under the hem of your sweatshirt and finds your bare waist with the pad of his thumb. It spirals slowly against your warm skin, making both of you dizzy. Then, sick of the distance, Vernon dips his head down to press a kiss to your temple.

“Like, ever,” he murmurs, lips following the curve of your jaw.

Soft, slow kisses trail behind him as he travels down to your lips. Your head tilts further backwards with every single one, providing him with more and more access.

He states it matter-of-factly because, to him, it is. “I’m down so bad for you that it might be terminal.”

“Oh?”

You try to laugh but turn to putty when his palm rests fully on the curve of your waist and pulls you flush against him. The surprised gasp you let loose confirms his suspicion: You can feel how serious he is, affirmation throbbing against your abdomen in time with his heartbeat.

Vernon smirks to himself, relishing your reaction, and bypasses your mouth entirely. A moan escapes from you, soft like an exhale, as his lips move slowly down the length of your neck. Every so often — just to feel you shiver — he flicks the tip of his tongue along the delicate skin he finds there.

“It might be messy…”

The rest of your needless warning gets lost in a dreamy sigh as he suckles at the spot where your neck meets your shoulder. Shifting even closer, your desperate fingers reach out and cling to his t-shirt.

Vernon licks a stripe over the galaxy blooming on your skin. He hums, hand traveling upwards from your waist, “Don’t care about a mess.”

And he means it.

Mindful of any soreness, he smooths his hand over your left breast and massages it tenderly, swearing to himself that he’ll throw the whole fucking mattress out if that’s what it comes down to. For you, he’ll race across town on foot to buy another one, and — fuck it — if the store is closed, he might just break in.

You’re growing impatient; your fingers let go of his shirt and tangle themselves in his hair.

“So needy,” he chuckles low in his chest, teasing. “You know, I think you’re lying. I think it is this bat-shit insane documentary that’s driving you wild, and you’re too embarrassed to admit it.”

“Stop,” you whine, dragging out the vowel sound.

You don’t, though; you throw your left leg over his right thigh and shimmy forward until your cunt grazes his dick. Involuntarily, he groans at the warmth radiating off your core. Every part of you drives him just the slightest bit insane. You seem to know it, he thinks as he watches your pupils dilate in real time.

But he can play games, too, so he rolls his hips forward and grinds against you. He pushes you further, “Don’t get me wrong, baby. I’m not kink-shaming you —”

“Hansol Vernon Chwe!”

Oh, shit. Government name?

“— I’m just a little surprised, I guess.” He sighs with a shrug. “Think you know somebody…”

Your impatience is scribbled all across your scrunched up face. It seeps into your voice when you crash back against the pillows and huff, “Can you please stop fucking with me and start fucking me?”

“Sex-crazed monster, huh?” Leaning over, Vernon punctuates his question with a quick press of his lips to yours.

You whimper, “I’m so serious. I might explode.”

“Then go take care of whatever you need to take care of.” He kisses you again, smiling so fondly that his eyes may even be twinkling. “And I’ll go get a towel.”

You wait until Vernon clears the threshold before launching yourself out of bed at breakneck speed. Stumbling all the while, you race off to the adjoining bathroom and shut the door forcefully behind you. When it clatters against the frame, you finally admit to yourself that you might be a little bit eager.

Maybe.

Opting to keep your baggy, bleach-stained sweatshirt on, you wiggle out of your shorts and — what he refers to as — your crisis diaper. The high-waisted, frumpy, beige panties are utilized exclusively during your period, and to your surprise, they’ve remained spotless. It’s only ever the pretty and expensive pairs that wind up as collateral damage, isn’t it?

As they pool around your ankles, you can’t help but think that Vernon’s nickname for them is pretty spot on. That’s partly why you figured he might need to be talked into this. Unsated arousal aside, you feel as far from sexy as you can possibly get.

You shake your head to clear your thoughts, kick what you’ve discarded into a pile near the hamper, and let your sweatshirt shift down to cover as much of your ass as it’s capable of managing. You grab a square of toilet paper; then, you go to work excavating the wad of cotton that separates you from everything you want in this life.

It is within the realm of possibility that you’re a little bit eager and a little bit dramatic.

Perhaps.

After discarding the evidence in the small trash can under the sink, you wash your hands as if you’re about to step into an operating theater and not the bedroom you spend half your life in. When you finally feel sterile, you lift your head and catch your reflection in the mirror. Instantly, you make eye contact with the painful, hormonal pimple on your chin — the one you’ve been waging a retinoid war against for days.

“Bitch,” you mutter, like calling it names will be the one thing that finally gets it to shrink. Of course, your plan doesn’t work, but you feel a little less powerless. That’s good enough, you think. At least, as good as it’s going to get.

Now half-naked and certifiably unobstructed, you tiptoe back to your bedroom much more carefully than you left it. Vernon enters from the opposite doorway at the same time, jumping slightly the second he notices you. You ignore his frightened eyes and glance down at the crisp, white towel he’s clutching.

You open your mouth to suggest anything otherwise, but he beats you to it. His eyebrows shoot up his forehead as his mouth widens outwards, a self-aware rectangle. Otherwise expressionless, he lets go of an atonal, “Aaaaaaah”, that tells you he’s caught on.

He says nothing else before turning around and walking back the way he came. You have to bite down on your lips to keep from cackling.

That one’s mine, you think, still as infatuated as you were at the start. I chose that one.

While he’s gone, you try not to move, not to breathe too heavily. Vernon said he didn’t care about a mess, but when he said it, he was speaking theoretically with his hand on your tit. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d spoken recklessly with your body melting under his touch.

As far as you know, he hasn’t had any experience with this mess in practice. He could wind up finding you about as sexy as you currently feel — to wit: not at all. So, erring on the side of caution, you turn yourself into a statue and wait for the boy and his towel to find you again.

When he comes back, he plants a drive-by kiss on your unsuspecting mouth before skirting right around you. With shocking finesse, he grabs the corners of the — thankfully — black towel, which unfurls in the seconds before he flicks it upwards. It lands perfectly in the center of the bed, flat without needing to be fussed with.

“Wow,” he mutters to himself, taking in his clean work with raised eyebrows.

The impressed look is still on his face when he turns around, but you don’t have time to comment on his feat because he laughs as soon as he sees you.

“Kinda look like Donald Duck with the whole top-on, bottom-off situation.”

I chose this one?

You pout with an indignant gasp, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m not wearing a sailor hat, so…. bad analogy. Rude, even.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs as he snakes his arms around your waist and pulls you in close. You stumble a little on your way into him; the jury’s still out about whether it’s his hushed tone or the sudden movement that trips you up.

Between his thumb and index finger, he gently captures your chin. You follow along with his unspoken direction, tilt your face up to meet his. This close, you can see your own reflection in his pupils, black dilating against the warmest shade of brown you’ve ever seen.

Vernon takes a moment of silence as he takes in your features, and he studies them so intently that his eyebrows crinkle on their own. He sighs, sounding so completely serious. “You might get prettier every time I look at you.”

It’s unclear if you’re melting, or gushing; and if it’s the latter, you can’t say which biological process is at fault. Thankfully, the hand at the small of your back keeps your weak knees from buckling when his lips brush over yours.

“Even if you’re dressed like Winnie the Pooh.”

You feel him smirk even before you hear him laugh at his own joke. Then, you feel his hand slide down to cup your bare cheek, squeezing affectionately. You want to tell him that this analogy is still inaccurate because you’re not wearing a crop-top; but he gently instructs you to ditch the sweatshirt and get on the bed, and your body moves automatically. No questions asked.

Carefully, you crawl up onto the mattress, then you center yourself on the towel. Still on your knees, you tilt your head curiously and ask, “Where do you want me?”

“Anywhere,” he breezes, pulling his shirt off and tossing it onto the dresser nearby. He amends, “Everywhere. All the time, and then some.”

“Better be careful,” you tease. “Talking like that might have consequences. You may never be able to get rid of me.”

His joggers are the next to go. Your sanity follows shortly thereafter, hungry eyes lingering on the imprint of his cock underneath his boxer briefs. You have to clamp your mouth shut to keep from drooling.

Brown eyes sparkling, he steps closer to you, kicking his pants aside as he goes. “Be careful,” he echoes, not a hint of cockiness to be found — just softness. “Saying it like a threat doesn’t make me wish it’s not a promise.”

I choose this one.

Crossing all the way to you, Vernon reaches the bed and climbs up with significantly more grace than you did. The mattress dips under his weight as he kneels right in front of you, mirroring your posture and causing your stomach to flip with anticipation.

You can’t help yourself; you lick your lips and look up at him with half-lidded eyes. “Naked, please. Like, right now.”

“Damn, I gotta do this myself?” Incredulous, he holds his hands up while glancing pointedly down at his underwear, then back at you.

You arch an eyebrow, unfazed.

“Depends.” You shrug. “Do you want to keep them? Because I really will rip them off of you.”

He concedes quickly; he always does. Sighing, he shakes his head and tuts, “Sex-crazed monster,” before pushing his briefs down his thighs. His length hangs heavy between you, but you swear you can feel its perfect ache inside you already.

You have a one-track mind, so you don’t hesitate to reach out and wrap your hand around him. A groan crawls up from the bottom of your chest when you feel the weighted warmth of his cock in your palm. You don’t hold that back, either.

“Fuck,” he sighs, head tilting as far backwards as it’ll go. Unexpectedly, he laughs. He doesn’t catch the quizzical look you shoot him, though he explains himself anyway, “Your hands are so fucking cold, but it feels so good.”

Swiping your thumb over his tip, you spread the pre-cum you find there down his shaft and stroke him slowly. He grows harder with every gentle squeeze, every pass of your fist.

“We’re learning a lot of new shit about each other today.” You lean forward to pepper kisses across his collarbones. The hum of your mouth against his skin when you talk makes his cock twitch in your hand. “You might have a temperature kink and a thing for Winnie the Pooh.”

He snorts, nowhere near serious, “Shut the fuck up.”

“Make me,” you counter smugly, and you do mean it.

Vernon tilts his head forward to stare back at you. You’re already turning into a puddle, but if the look he gives you says anything, it’s that your melting isn’t enough for him. His voice is low and velvet-lined when he responds, “How about I just make you cum instead?”

“That could work, yeah.” You shrug.

He runs the pads of his fingers down each side of your waist to your hips, then back again; and each time he does it, you shiver. Reflexively, your back arches, chest pressing against his.

At this, he smirks, “It could? Maybe?”

“We can workshop it.”

“Or,” Vernon so generously offers, “You can turn around and lay down on your stomach. You know, if that’s sufficient.”

It’s not until you whip around and flop down onto the towel that you realize you never responded with words. Oh well. You figure he gets the point, judging by the quiet laughter you hear as he settles with his knees on either side of your upper thighs.

You don’t know what his next move will be — you don’t care, either, as long as he moves in your direction — so you don’t anticipate his palms flattening against your bare back, applying perfect pressure with his thumbs while he rubs away the soreness at the very base of your torso.

“Oh, shit,” you moan, eyes fluttering shut as the heels of his hands work out the tension in your muscles. “Have you always been good at this?”

You feel his chest brush against your shoulder blades when he hovers over you. Against the nape of your neck, he murmurs, “Nope.”

He kisses down your spine, mouth trailing after his hands as they work their way back down your body.

“Lemme guess — you read an article? Studied up?”

You get a snicker, then an affirmative hum, then another kiss. This time, it’s at the curve of your spine, just above your ass. Seconds later, he’s kneading the doughy flesh of your cheeks until your whole fucking body tingles.

That’s when it hits you:

Under normal circumstances, Vernon would be face-first in your pussy by now. Devouring you in earnest, like he’s starving. He can’t do that now — and you don’t blame him — so he’s making up for what you both view as a loss.

God, you want him.

One hand disappears from you, but you don’t have to guess where it went. You can hear the barely-there hiss of breath through his teeth when he takes his cock in that hand; as well as the very faint shift of his palm while he pumps himself.

“You’re gonna have to navigate, baby. I dunno how sensitive you are like this, what’s too much — any of that, so you need to tell me how you want me to move.”

Suddenly dizzy over how badly you need him, all you can muster is a nod. Vernon must want a verbal acknowledgment, though, because he leans back over you with one hand bearing his weight beside your head.

He kisses your shoulder and urges you, “Please say so if you need to stop or switch it up. Don’t wanna hurt you, sweetheart.”

“I will,” you breathe. “But I can’t even articulate how much I need you inside of me right now, so please — pretty please — fuck me.”

The tip of his nose bumps your temple affectionately. Right beside your ear, he teases, “With a cherry on top?” And it vibrates down your whole goddamn spine.

“Vernon!” You whine, burying your face in the comforter. It’s muffled, but you warn him nonetheless, “Don’t make me come back there.”

“Aish. Calm down, sex monster.”

The instinct to twist around and glare at him over your shoulder is strong, but every feral urge you feel is stronger. So, when he tells you to spread yourself open for him and tilt your hips back, you do so without even a hint of complaining.

With the crown of his cock slipping through your folds, inching towards your entrance, you hear him curse under his breath. Suddenly self-conscious, you finally crane your neck to the side and glance back at him.

“We don’t have to,” you whisper. “If it’s gross and you don’t want to anymore, I get it —”

He balks at your suggestion without letting so much as a beat pass. “None of that, sweetheart; no spiraling. I’m just trying to figure out the logistics of, like… how to survive how good this already feels.”

Struck dumb, all you can muster is a peep, “Oh?”

“Shit, yeah.” His response comes in a low groan. “Can you take a deep breath for me?”

It’s a good call on his part, a suggestion you’re glad to have taken, because the pressure of him entering you is intense enough to knock the wind out of you. Empty lungs likely would’ve led to your untimely demise.

You whimper, already overwhelmed with the combination of pain and pleasure; the best kind of ache. The little, breathy moans must freak him out, however, because his fingertips caress your waist as he checks in: “This okay?”

Your limp arm lifts off the mattress, which you’ve melted fully into, and you form a circle with your index finger and thumb to indicate that you’re okay. The light is bright fucking green; you’ve just maxed out your capacity for speech.

Vernon continues his slow thrust forward, giving you ample time to adjust to his size.

“Oh my god,” he grunts, “This is — shit, I can’t believe we haven’t done this before. If I knew how good you’d feel like this, I wouldn’t have waited around for you to ask me.”

That hits like a truck.

He was waiting on you.

You spent months convincing yourself that he’d need to be convinced, and chickening out before you could raise the idea. Months, and months, and months, of craving him during your werewolf transformation; wasting away over a shitty assumption that Vernon is anything like the people you’ve been with before.

Christ.

His credit for putting up with you is long overdue.

Too tongue-tied to speak any of that out loud, you settle for a summary that you hope conveys the message: “I love you so fucking much.”

Mindful of how deep it will push him into your cunt, he leans down over you carefully. Weight balanced on his knees and forearms, he envelopes you in his body heat, trails kisses across your shoulder, and echoes your words back at you between each one.

“Is this too much?” He whispers, rolling his hips slowly.

You feel him everywhere, with every drag of his cock along your walls; and you can’t tell where that throbbing sensation is coming from, him or you.

You shake your head and sigh, “‘s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Like he knows it’ll unravel you, his large hand comes to rest over the back of yours. His fingers slip through the spaces between and squeeze you much more gently than the vice grip you hold on the bedding below you. He keeps holding you — just like this — through every movement.

The sensation of being this surrounded, this loved, this whole crashes over you like a wave and knocks you off balance.

“I’m so close,” you pant, voice as ragged as your breathing. There’s nothing that he isn’t already giving you with every deep, deliberate thrust into your heat; but you beg nonetheless, “Please, please, please —”

His speed doesn’t increase, but the intensity does. The smack of his hips colliding with your ass does, too, and you feel it reverberating in your bones. Buried as far inside of you as he can be, cock tip kissing your cervix with every high tide, length rolling across your g-spot with every low.

You cum so hard — so completely, invoking every single muscle you have — that you forget how to breathe. With a choked-out gasp, you squeeze your eyes shut and let your orgasm devastate you.

“Fuck!”

Vernon gets caught up in the current, too, grinding desperately against you until he’s swept up in your wake. You feel him twitch inside you as his release floods, leaving you so lost in his warmth that you feel boneless underneath him.

His face winds up hidden in the crook of your neck, somewhere amidst the baby hairs that cling to the sheen of your sweat. You feel his lips fluttering against your skin when he laughs, “Oh…my god.”

“Mmphf.” You nod weakly in agreement. Beyond blissed, your body still tingles too much to move.

Slurring, you add, “‘s good. ‘s really…”

The rest of that thought dissolves into something between a moan and a yawn.

Just as tired, Vernon pats your ass cheek affectionately and mumbles, “Well said. No notes.”

You tilt your head far enough to free your face from the sheets. When you do, you find your boyfriend fighting a losing battle to keep his eyes open. In the rare seconds he can, he looks back at you in a daze that seems even more adoring than it does fuck-drunk.

“I think I need to hibernate now,” you announce. “Think you just fucked me so well that I need to take a sabbatical.”

He counter-offers, “Shower first, then sabbatical?”

You wiggle so that you can pull your joint hands to your mouth. You can’t kiss him properly while he’s laid out on top of you, but you can press your lips to the back of his hand and hope he feels how much of you that you pour into it.

“Okay, but, like…. who’s carrying who?”

1K notes · View notes

celtic-crossbow · 4 months

Text

Blood Ties Chapter 17

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Smut. It’s all smut. And a little angst. Maybe a lot of angst.

A/N: I will not lie. I’m actually pretty proud of this chapter. I feel like I wrote some decent smut and kept Daryl in character.

You snatched your sweatpants off your face and tossed them aside, sitting up on your elbows to peer at the man standing at the foot of the bed. Daryl was absently rubbing the side of his thumb back and forth across his bottom lip in a way that was almost hypnotic. You likely would have watched him longer if not having noticed that his eyes were cutting a slow trek up your legs.

The urge to shield yourself was immediate. You fumbled for at least the thin blanket to quickly cover up. The apocalypse didn’t allow for certain methods of personal grooming, such as shaving. You had a few disposable razors in your bag that saw to your armpits but hardly had the energy, time, or available water to spend on your legs. So, you just—didn’t.

As the sheet flipped across you, Daryl caught the edge in midair. “Whaddaya doin’ that for?” His tone was curious with a hint of annoyance, his expression reflecting the same.

“I, uh—” Suddenly, it wasn’t just your legs. It was your thickened waist, your breasts, the stretch marks. Nothing about you seemed desirable anymore. Where the hell had the confidence of those weeks in the woods gone?

“Damn, you’re thinkin’ awful loud.” The archer tossed the blanket toward the opposite side of the bed and leaned forward to wrap his hands around your ankles.

“I’m—a mess.” You tried to maneuver further up the bed but he instantly tugged you right back down.

“Ain’t followin’ ya.”

“I’m not—” With a heavy sigh, you fell back against the pillows to stare at the ceiling. “I’m not what I was back when we met.” His hold fell away, but you didn’t look toward him, fully expecting him to have walked away. You were convinced you were right when you heard the click of the door closing.

Then calloused fingers were back on your ankles, the rough pads making you shiver as they traced a line up to your thighs. He still hadn’t said a word, even as he hooked the waistband of your panties and dragged them down and then off. Before you could sit up, he was pressing his palms against the inside of your thighs and spreading you open.

Your breath stuttered. He wasn’t moving, wasn’t speaking. This was by far the most intimate situation you’d ever found yourself in with him. Broad daylight, no reason to rush. Sure, he’d seen you naked before but not quite like this.

Finally, you called upon enough courage to lift your head. Daryl was staring at your exposed cunt which was already embarrassingly slick with desire. His expression held no disgust, but a sort of lustful awe, the blue of his eyes barely visible around dilated pupils.

You dared not speak, not sure you’d even be able to while he stared at you like that. He released your left thigh to slide a finger through your folds, collecting the wetness on his fingertip before bringing it to his mouth. He smirked at you from around the digit, devouring your juices before releasing your other leg and bowing over you.

His lips met the skin of your belly, just beside the bandage, and then moved to do the same to the other side. Your breathing picked up when he took the hem of your sweater between his teeth and pulled it along with him on his ascent up your body, slotting himself between your legs. Releasing the material, he let it fall just below your chin. Daryl’s lips hovered just above yours, his eyes dancing back and forth between your own.

“Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout shit like that. I ain’t some kinda shallow asshole.”

You swallowed hard and nodded, lips brushing his with the movement. He smirked again and closed the minuscule distance between you. You responded immediately, opening to him when he licked the seam of your lips. His tongue slowly circled and danced with yours. Sighing into his mouth, you savored the familiar taste of him, unique and comforting.

He pulled away all too soon and huffed a quiet laugh when you whined. Up on his knees, he tugged on the bunched up material around your neck. You took the hint and raised slightly to pull the sweater over your head, only then noticing they had left your bra off when dressing you the night before.

“Don’t get whatcha worried ‘bout anyhow.” The archer added quietly, a finger caressing from the hollow of your throat all the way down to your navel. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with ya.” When you regarded him skeptically, you could see something in him shift, a sudden apprehension that hadn’t been there only seconds before. Daryl was quick when shrugging off his vest, taking no time at all to grab the bottom of his button up and pull it over his head.

In one gesture, he was offering you more than you could—or would—have ever asked for. You had felt his scars the last time you were together. You had seen glimpses when he was injured. Now you were being shown the damage at full capacity. Long, jagged, deep wounds that had healed over only to leave him with a permanent reminder of when they were inflicted, of who had inflicted them.

He wasn’t looking for pity and you wouldn’t give it. He was showing you what he saw as his own imperfections, what made him feel inferior and unworthy. He was combatting your fear by laying his own bare. You knew he was a man of action, never one to rely on words, but this? You had to mean more than a little to him for him to offer you this.

“Daryl.” You pushed yourself up to sit in front of him, face level with his chest while he stayed on his knees. You couldn’t ignore them, that wouldn’t help him heal. He needed to accept them as part of him, needed to accept that he wasn’t defined by his trauma. You pressed your lips to one just below his sternum, looking up at him from beneath your lashes. He had closed his eyes but when you glanced down, his fingers were curled into tight fists, trembling harshly. “Ssh, it’s okay.”

Daryl inhaled harshly when you laid back against the pillows again, a hint of panic present when he opened his eyes. He likely thought you were disinterested now that you had seen what he tried so intently to hide.

“You’re perfect.” There was a noise from the back of his throat, something akin to a whimper, then he dropped forward to bury his face against the side of your neck, battling whatever it was he was feeling instead of running from it or forcing it down underneath anger and isolation.

You remained still and silent, allowing him to work through it with only your fingertips rubbing up and down his biceps. Touching any of the scars, you surmised, would only send him spiraling. Not touching him at all would plant a seed of doubt at your last words.

It didn’t take him long to recover, not that you thought it would. He wouldn’t dwell on it, not now. Though you weren’t strangers, this was new. It was a transition on which neither of you wanted to place any strain. There would come a time for those discussions, to share those stories. You knew it and so did he.

When he moved away from your neck, he wasted no time in greedily sucking a puckered nipple into his mouth. The surprise had you arching up into him with a sinful moan, fingers twisting into his hair. “Fuck, it’s—it’s—sensitive.” His mouth left your skin immediately, your grip on his hair keeping him still. “No, it’s good. It’s good.”

The archer smirked and kept his eyes on you, teasing the pebbled bud with his tongue. His lips encased your areola once more, grunting against you when your hips jerked up, pushing your naked center into his groin.

You had been hypersensitive the last time as well, but nothing like this. Heat was pooling in your belly, your cunt clenched around nothing, your clit was stiff and throbbing.

Fuck.

You were suddenly afraid that you were actually about to cum just from his mouth on one nipple. “Daryl—ah—if you, fuck—” His chuckle vibrated over the delicate flesh just as he rolled its twin between his thumb and forefinger.

You were toast.

You came with a shout, pulling at the archer’s hair hard enough to break him away from your breast and elicit a sharp hiss. Your hips were rolling, rutting against him in a desperate attempt for friction to prolong the bolts of pleasure shooting through your core.

Daryl covered your mouth with his own, swallowing each sound. Your face was burning with embarrassment but you were finding it hard to care with his tongue dominating your mouth and his hands sliding down to squeeze your hips and still them.

“Barely touched ya.” He whispered as you panted. Keeping his hands firmly at your waist, he descended to position himself on his stomach, head between your thighs. You wanted to close your legs, but your needy cunt had other plans. Just seeing him there had your clit throbbing again, begging to be touched.

His eyes soaked up the sun’s glow, shining like clear river water while they held your gaze. Daryl puckered his lips to blow gently over your core, from top to bottom and back again. It had the desired effect, your pussy pulsing and clenching as he watched.

“Daryl.” You mewled, reaching for him. He made sure to stay just out of reach, the tips of your fingers barely brushing his hair. When you gave up and collapsed back onto the pillows, only then did he lean in to breathe on your cunt, the puffs of air gentle and hot. Such a simple thing had you keening and your upper body twisting back and forth. His fingers held tight to your hips to keep them immobile. “Please. Please just—ah!”

His tongue delved between your folds, circling your pulsing entrance before dragging up to flick your clit and back down. Your first orgasm left you sopping wet, the lewd sounds of him drinking down what had spilled were loud even over your heaving breaths. That particular thirst quenched, the tip of his tongue breached your opening, circling your inner walls with a tentative but eager curiosity.

For a fleeting moment within the sensual gratification, you wondered if this was something he had ever done before. His mouth was no stranger to your most sensitive areas, but not like this. Not deep and exploring, seeking and learning. He wasn’t just making an attempt to bring you to climax, he was taking cues from you. Each hitch in your breath, each jerk of your hips, he reacted and repeated, committing it to memory.

When he pressed deeper, his lips flush against you so that the length of his tongue filled your clenching hole, you arched off the mattress. Your fingers finally twisted into his hair and he allowed it, very clearly enjoying how the constant wiggling of the muscle inside you seemed to take you to new heights. His right hand left your hip, the pad of his thumb finding your stiff, throbbing bundle of nerves.

He pressed down, just enough to ignite the flames of sensation, and stoked them to an inferno with small, tight circles while his tongue began to pull from you and thrust back inside.

“Oh, god—oh, fuck, Daryl—I’m—” Breathless? Helpless? Seeing stars? On the edge? All of the above? Your body filled in the blanks when he hummed, his tongue pressed as deep as it could possibly go, his thumb almost roughly stroking your clit. The orgasm washed over you in crushing waves. You couldn’t even manage his name, let alone any other sound. Your jaw just hung open, your eyes clenched so tightly shut that stars and colors danced behind your lids. Your thighs trembled and pressed against each side of his head. He didn’t seem to mind, not that you were in any place to notice that.

When you finally began to become aware of yourself again, he was removing his hand to replace it on your hip, his tongue lapping loudly at the nectar still spilling from each pulsing aftershock of your climax.

By the time he had finished, rising to sit back on his heels, the entire lower half of his face glistened with your juices. He showed no shame in using his tongue to clean what he could reach, wiping the rest on the back of his hand, only to lick that off as well.

“Jesus,” you whispered. Your voice shook almost as hard as everything else. Your body felt like it wasn’t yours anymore, you were still floating somewhere in post orgasmic bliss even as your limbs followed your commands to reach for him. He took mercy on you and dropped down to brace himself above you with a hand on either side of your head.

You stared at his smirking lips for a moment before moving your heavy-lidded gaze to his eyes. Smug as he was, there was barely any of that pretty blue left around the lust that resided there. It seemed both of you had foregone your insecurities to become lost in one another.

The knot of desire that was forming below where your baby kicked was making your fingers clumsy. They brushed over the flesh of his stomach with each fumbled attempt to undo his belt. The muscles there twitched each time your skin ghosted over his own, his breaths stuttering. His restraint was flagging.

With a whine of pure frustration, you dropped your hands to the sheets and rolled your hips against him. He took the hint.

Daryl backed off the mattress and deftly opened his belt and zipper, sliding his pants and underwear down before kicking them aside. What neither he nor you expected was how quickly you were able to move to the edge of the mattress with only minor discomfort from the stitches and dizziness from the concussion. One hand landed on his hip while the other wrapped around his cock, your mouth practically watering.

The archer made a noise deep in his chest, a growl that went straight to your cunt like a spark of electricity. He was already hard, heavy in your hand. No kitten licks or teasing strokes, you took him straight into your mouth, using your hand on his hip to drag him forward.

A grunt punched from his throat, his hand going to your hair. It wasn’t the first time you’d sucked him off. You already knew how difficult it was to accommodate him. Forcing your throat to relax, you let the tears come, knowing they would. Your hand stayed around the length you couldn’t fit.

You’d have him in a frenzy in mere moments. If it was possible to smirk up at him, you would have. Instead, you blinked at him from beneath your lashes, watching with smug satisfaction as his head fell back when you slid him nearly out of your mouth, your hand chasing your lips. Hollowing your cheeks and pressing your lips firmly against the silky flesh, you set a rhythm, secretly hoping he’d let you finish him off that way. You’d only tasted him twice and it was addicting. Though, swallowing his seed with the product of aforementioned seed nestled in your belly seemed—odd.

Fuck. That sucked.

Maybe he could get off on your tits. That’d be hot.

What were you doing? You were missing the best parts. His other hand had joined the first in your hair while his hips twitched and jerked with the effort of not fucking into your mouth. He was already bumping the back of your throat, couldn’t go much deeper than that. Still, the thought of him using you in such a way had you pressing your thighs together, wetness dripping onto the sheets below.

“Goddamn, Y/N—” Daryl groaned, looking down to meet your eyes. Was there even any blue left in his? His right hand left your hair so he could thumb away the tears at the corner of your eye, his jaw clenched and visibly twitching. “Stop. Stop, stop, stop.” You pouted when he pulled his hips back, a string of saliva connecting your bottom lip to the swollen head of his cock. “Lay back. Now.”

You wiped your mouth, crawling backwards but only making it halfway up the mattress before he was stalking up the length of your body like a predator, pressing himself between your legs while careful to keep any weight off your belly. No words or kisses were shared as he entered you, bottoming out in one swift, hard thrust. He began pounding into you immediately, skin slapping so loudly that it was certain to be heard downstairs. Your hands scrambled for purchase, settling for a tight grip on his ribs.

“Oh, fuck, right there!” You moaned looking down to where he was pistoning in and out of you, splitting you open, not just your body but your mind and soul. You could barely see over the mound of your belly but it was enough to make you clench around him, your third orgasm already building. “Shit, Daryl, I’m gonna cum.”

And just like that, he stilled, the pleasure ebbing away so quickly that it brought tears to your eyes. He was watching you, wearing an expression you’d never seen on him before; soft and curious and warm. Loving?

Daryl lowered to his elbows, rubbing his nose against yours while kissing you in quick, soft brushes of his lips. You felt a whine become trapped in your throat.

“Daryl?” You whispered. He shushed you quietly, rolling his hips forward, his back arching to push deep, his tip bumping your limit. You gasped at the sensation, forcing your eyes to remain open and focused. A moment passed before he repeated the motion, accompanying it with a kiss so gentle that you could hardly believe it was coming from him.

Your hands traveled along his back, fingertips merely whispering across the raised scars. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even seem to notice. The next deep thrust forced a gasp from you, your head briefly tilting back to press into the mattress while your mouth fell open. The archer took advantage and pressed a kiss to the middle of your throat, his mouth catching your bottom lip when you lowered your head again.

You thought you might die. The amount of time he took between thrusts was agonizing, but just enough to keep the heat in your belly simmering. “Daryl, please. I need—”

“Easy.” He kissed the apple of your cheek, then your jaw. “Gonna getcha there. Gonna take care’a ya.” You knew, in that moment, that he didn’t just mean then, sexually. There was so much more behind the words, even if he didn’t mean for you to catch it. He should’ve known better.

You hummed, giving yourself over to the pleasure. Daryl moved his mouth along your neck, leaving sloppy, wet kisses while his left hand carved a path from your breast down to your belly, splaying his fingers open over the taut skin. It was instantaneous, your hand lowering to lie on top of his.

“Please.” You breathed, your free hand curving around the back of his neck to try and pull him closer. “Please, please.” You began canting your hips up to meet his, your release buzzing in your veins, just under your skin and ready to overwhelm.

“S’gonna feel real good. Just a lil’ longer.”

You whimpered, yearning for his mouth on your breasts, his fingers on your clit. “Please. I’m so—I’m so close. I need—” you trailed off, kissing his jaw, then his neck. “Please, Daryl. Touch me.” You sighed when his hand reluctantly left your belly, calloused fingertips creating a fiery tail up your side and against your breast, his mouth gentle on the soft swell. “Yes, mmm, feels so good.”

You felt him twitch inside you with an unintentional jerk of his hips. He was close too, try as he may to continue drawing it out, to continue savoring it.

You whined against the shell of his ear. “Daryl.”

“S’alright. Let go.” His pace increased minutely while remaining calm and deep. His hand ceased teasing your nipple and traveled down between your bodies, his middle finger pressing against your clit. With the grunts and whimpers unabashedly flowing from his mouth, it didn’t take your climax long to tear through you.

You knew you were crying out, but it sounded foreign. Muted. You were surrounded by Daryl, his warmth and sounds and movements. Even though your own blissful haze, you felt him trembling, and heard him shout. The contractions of your inner walls milked and milked, draining every drop of his spend to pull it even further within you. You were grounded by him, yet the two of you were suspended together, thriving off the waves the other was riding.

He continued to fuck you through your orgasm, prolonging each pulse of his own. He only fell still once your body melted below him. The archer’s forehead fell softly against yours, tired but satisfied blue eyes searching your own for any signs of discomfort.

Panting harshly, you brought a shaky hand to his cheek, smiling softly when he closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.

“I love you.” You hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but his closeness, the overwhelming safety, the feel of him softening inside of you. It just felt so—right. How could you not tell him?

His eyes opened slowly, wet and shining, but no tears were allowed to fall. His expression shattered your heart. It wasn’t rejection, but reluctant acceptance. He lifted his head and looked away.

He was going to run. The intimacy you had shared with him should have been enough, but you just had to fuck it up. Just had to open your mouth.

There was no going back now.

“Daryl. Daryl, look at me.” He was slow to follow through, but he did, unable to hold your gaze but he was trying. “I love you. I love our Thumper and I love you.”

After a moment, his expression crumbled and he turned his head away again.

“Ya shouldn’t.”

Daryl didn’t run. In fact, he had moved off of you and lifted you up to position you correctly on the pillows. You were certain he’d leave then. When he rounded the bed, he grabbed his pants and underwear to quickly slip them on before lifting the blankets to crawl in beside you.

He didn’t speak, not a word while pulling you into him, your back against his chest. His hand went straight to your belly, thumb stroking back and forth.

The silence felt suffocating and you wrestled with the urge to apologize. Apologize for what? Loving him? Why would you apologize for that? You wouldn’t. No matter his flawed reasoning as to why you shouldn’t love him, whatever it may have been.

You remembered the book you had seen in his bag. Was he afraid he would hurt you? Hurt the baby? Maybe he didn’t see it, but you did. He’d never hurt either of you. Daryl was brash and rude and sometimes just unreasonably angry, but you knew his hands would never touch you with the intention of harming you. You knew that he would struggle with even punishing little Thumper, reprimanding for bad behavior in the way a parent should. He would be afraid. He was afraid.

And as long as that fear remained dominant, there would be a wall between you that you couldn’t scale.

Or maybe he just didn’t love you like that. He cared for you, of that you were now certain.

You had fucked up by making him privy on the feelings you held for him. He had only started allowing himself to be vulnerable with his own emotions and then you dropped that bomb. You inwardly cursed yourself.

You started when he moved, his hand sliding off your belly, lingering on your hip before pulling away completely. You didn’t turn to him when you heard the shuffle of clothing. He was putting on his shirt and vest, his gun and knife holsters. You knew when he paused, could feel a change in the air and his eyes on you. And then the door opened and closed, leaving you to stare at the crossbow leaning against the wall.

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macfrog · 6 months

Text

secrets cowboy like me chapter fourteen

one day i'll rein my chapters back in. today is not that day. thirteen thousand words of...a little bit of fucking and a lot of fighting. i love you all and i still can't believe the love you continue to show this series. you're all actually insane. i present to you: the penultimate chapter of cowboy.

pairing: dbf!joel miller x fem!reader

summary: the one where...everybody finds out.

warnings: age gap (reader is 23, joel is 48), a big argument, a lot of guilt, angry disappointed dad, one mention of alcohol consumption, lil bit of sub!joel, unprotected piv, tiny bit of degradation, tiny bit of praise kink, creampie, cursing, smut, fluff, angst

word count: 12.9k (dry heaves)

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 🧡

You haven’t slept a wink. Not one second.

You and Joel were awake until one in the morning on the phone; you – panicking, spilling words into the receiver, watching different cuts of your dad realizing everything as though projected across your blank ceiling, and Joel – monotone as fucking ever, batting every single theory away.

He doesn’t know a damn thing, he’d said. You didn’t miss the way his words hung over the edge of the sentence, trembling almost.

You scoffed and hissed back down the line. You don’t fucking know that! How can you know that?

You think he just found out about us and thought, Hey, better get some shut-eye before I deal with this? Really, baby?

I think he doesn’t know what he found out. I think he’s probably tryna convince himself that he’s wrong.

So, let him. He’s wrong. We go with that.

Joel knew he wasn’t doing anything to calm you down. Wasn’t offering anything you could seriously take on. You know he wasn’t trying to.

He was as worried as you were – he was just pretending not to be, because what fucking good would it do to have the two of you bouncing off one another with panic?

Still, he stayed on the phone the entire night. When he fell asleep, you lay in bed and tossed everything over in your head like tearing back the pages of a diary. Last night, then Frank’s, then the weekend before that, then the Hillcrest – all the way back to that first ride home. The pissing rain, the boxes of nails rattling in the glove compartment with each sway of the truck. Recalling every word spoken, every move made, every expression pulled and glance stolen and fucking breath taken.

Any sound from beyond your door shot a bullet of adrenaline through your veins, coursing through your body like ice. As if it was your dad, barreling in at 3AM to have it out with you.

You reckon you’d be ready if he did. Wide-eyed, fists clenched, heart hammering.

Joel groans back to life at eight. You hear the ruffling of bedsheets, the crackle down the line as he drags the phone across his mattress and pins it to his ear. You lift your own. Joel and 08:43:36, 37, 38 underneath it on the screen.

His voice drums low and groggy from the speaker. “You are gonna have my phone bill through the damn roof. I’m exhausted, darlin’.”

“I can’t think of anything else. He knows, Joel.”

He sighs. You can see his head falling into his hand, see his thumb rubbing circles into his temple. “Let’s just see what happens, alright? There ain’t any chance you left your phone in the living room ‘n he came across it, thought he’d keep it for you comin’ home?”

“I’ve barely left my room all week. Why would it be down there?”

Joel’s quiet. He just breathes down the line. After a minute, he clears his throat.

“Come over, would ya?”

“Huh?”

“Come over. I wanna see you. I wanna make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine, Joel, I’m –”

“Hey. Don’t make me ask again, alright? C’mon, now. I got some errands to run; you’re coming with me.”

He doesn’t have to say much else to convince you; you’re already pulling your bedsheets back and hanging up. Your hoodie and shorts are still hooked over the foot of your bed. The sun filters through the drapes, edges you nearer the door. Your chest fills with something calling itself bravery, and slowly, quietly – you click the door open.

The hallway is silent. A blushing gold in the morning light. The house is still – eerily still. Your dad’s room door is open, bed made, sheets tucked neatly under the mattress. Like he had time to spend on it. Stuff to mull over as he made it.

The carpet softens your footsteps when you finally move for the stairs. The birds are singing outside. The wallpaper canvases your shadow, a little monster creeping along one step behind you, passing picture frames which dazzle with sunrays and mirror a half-lit reflection back to you. One side you – the other, missing.

You lean over the last step, craning your head and shoulders into the hallway. The clock on the wall opposite ticks to no one. Tick tick tick tick. And aside from it, from its taunting tutting, there are no other signs of life. His jacket hangs from the peg. His boots lying below, laces tangled.

The sun separates into brittle shards through the window, illuminating the way to the kitchen. You’re not fucking prepared to follow it.

Shoulders hunched, like it might make a difference, you step forward and lower your thumb and index finger over your keys, aiming for them like a shaky arcade claw machine. Tick tick tick. They jingle as you hook your fingertip through them. Your nose wrinkles.

“Hey.”

He appears around the corner like an apparition. The keys drop back to the unit with a violent clatter.

“Jesus!”

“Woah, woah.” Your dad holds a palm up, laughing nervously. “Sorry. Where you headed?”

“Uh, J– Sarah’s. Some errands she wants some help with.”

He nods. “Yeah? You don’t want breakfast first?”

You drag your eyes to meet his for the first time. He looks drawn, skin like webbing, as though it’s just draped over his skull. As though you could put your finger through it like parchment, just push straight through. He looks like he’s had about as much sleep as you have.

“No, thanks,” you say, the sunken, sullen sight of him crumbling your voice to dust. Your lips move wordlessly, waiting for another lie from your tongue to offer over. But between the way he looks, weary and forlorn, and the thin veil of truth left between you – nothing materializes.

“Why don’t you – why don’t you hold back a second?” Dad beckons you forward, folding his fingers to his palm. “Got somethin’ I wanna talk to you about.”

“Dad, I really gotta go, I –”

“Just – come on. I’m sure Sarah won’t mind.”

He disappears without waiting for a response. Shifts back into the living room, shadow following him like a cloak across the door. You hear the creak of his chair as he settles down into it, the unsettling squeal of leather and spring.

Your feet are planted to the hall floor. To move in either direction feels like a trap. To follow after him – sit opposite and swallow back what you think you know is coming. All of his suspicions stuck in your throat like a bitter, powdery pill. Or to turn away – leave him in an empty house, nothing but the sound of his own breathing and that tick tick tick affirming your guilt.

No more excuses filter through – none of Joel’s ideas, none of his explanations. You let your shoulders drop and your eyes close. The only image behind them is that six-foot, graying, droning idiot who’s probably sat waiting for you to pull up so he can take you to fucking Trader Joe’s or whatever.

And his shirt, which he’d probably drape over your shoulders before he’s even said hello. And his smile, which would draw you onto your tiptoes, draw your lips to his. And his hands, and his waist, and his pulse in step with yours as you follow him around the quiet store, the Saturday morning air daring you to hook your fingers around two of his every now and then. The longing a gnawing in your chest, burrowing deep beneath the cage of your ribs.

He's not here, though. It’s just you. And if you call him now, if he shows up unannounced – it’s only going to confirm what your dad thinks. Fuck it – what he knows.

So you unstick your sneakers and haul yourself through to the living room.

He’s rocking in the chair when you sink back into the couch. Balls of his feet pushing him back and forth. His fingers to his lips, like keeping the words at bay for now. Like feeling the jagged shape of them through his skin.

You throw a pillow over your legs, shaggy ivory fringe tickling your bare thighs. Your dad doesn’t speak. When you lift your head, his eyes flit from yours down to your restless fingers knitting the tassels of his pillow.

“What is it?” you croak.

“Mind if I ask you somethin’?”

You shrug. “Go for it.”

He waits a beat. A hesitation. Like he doesn’t want to ask the first question. He’s at the edge of a cliff. One more step and he’s plummeting down the rocky side, into a fog of cloud. Nothing will ever be the same. Only – you’ve already pushed him. He’s already falling. He just hasn’t realized it yet.

Maybe he feels the drop in his stomach, right now. Maybe the wind screams in his ears. He finally asks, “When were you gonna tell me about y’all gettin’ into a barfight on Friday night?”

Unexpected. But keep your fucking cool.

Your fingertip whitens, blood halted by the knot of the cushion fringe. You chew on a torn leaf of skin from your lips. “What?”

“You ‘n Joel. When he picked you up. What the hell happened?”

Your eyes slide from his to the patio door behind him, garden lighting up with the sun scaling higher in the sky. You stare there until it burns, until it’s all just a blur of color in your vision, and then pull a half-blinded gaze back in his direction.

You’re frozen, as if he has you at gunpoint. Shoulders tense, eyes wide. Dontshootdontshootdontshoot. “Who –? Who said that?”

“Hank. Was on the phone to ‘im last night. Anna said Joel was squarin’ up to some kid in Frank’s. You wanna tell me exactly what happened?”

“Nothing.” Liar. “Nothing happened. It was just some asshole. Joel was just lookin’ out for me. For us. Me ‘n Anna.”

“She told Hank he knocked the kid out. That Sam had to stop it from gettin’ outta control.”

He stares at you, and there’s no mask on his face. No cover, no disguise. He’s suspicious. And he doesn’t care that you know it. He’s not just asking about the barfight.

“Are you gonna say it or am I, hon?”

“Say what?”

Your last thread of insane hope that he’s innocently wondering about Frank’s is snapped in two by the words that tear out of his mouth, so quick they rip into your skin like shards of glass.

“What the hell’s goin’ on between you two?”

Your body suddenly drops further into the couch, the weight of your blood freezing to ice in your veins. Your joints seize, your jaw locks. Air passes across your open lips with no intention of carrying words back out the way it came. You forget any ability you had previously to come up with excuses, to cover up, to lie. Hell, you’re not sure you’d remember your own fucking name if he asked that next.

You say nothing. And he cocks his head, drums his fingers on the arm of his chair.

Say something.

“Nothing.”

Say something more convincing.

“Nothing?” you repeat, a shrill pitch in your voice like it’s a question. Like he’s dumb for even thinking there might be something weird going on. Like he’s the idiot.

The clock in the hall ticks to itself, amused. Fifteen little snaps. Each one sounds like a plate of glass beneath your feet, cracking a little more, a little deeper, a little wider. The abyss opening its wide, dark jaws beneath you.

Your dad’s expression doesn’t change. He crosses his arms, head leaning back a little. He almost looks sad. Almost looks like he might give in. Send you on your way, on your errands with Sarah.

But something recharges him, something must flicker behind his eyes, because he sits forward again and watches your reaction intently as he says –

“Then explain the text messages you been sendin’ each other.”

Another blow hits your stomach, rippling waves of white heat through you. You feel hot, a scorching panic right beneath the surface of your skin so hot that it mistakes itself for ice cold. A panic which radiates from your heart, pulsating through your entire body, every limb beginning to shudder involuntarily. Your silence is answer enough.

He sighs. Sits forward with his elbows on his knees. “I knew y’all were close, knew you cared about each other. You sure always talked to ‘im more ‘n you ever talked to me, even before you went off to college. But I’ve been noticing things lately…Something’s different. Something’s changed.”

Your eyes trace his form as he talks. It’s fucking dizzying. He’s animated, like a character from some eighties cop show who finally solved the mystery. He knows. He knows everything. Your jaw won’t move to answer.

“Seeing you two together – talking, laughing. The way you look at each other these days. ‘n you’re always near each other, ain’t you? Always hoverin’. It ain’t anything like before. That day the three of us went to Costco, that – I –” His anger seems to boil over, cascading from his lips in an angry burst of hot breath. “I felt like a spare tire in the back of the truck that day.”

“We’re…We’re just…f-friends…I don’t –”

He holds a finger up. Doesn’t want to hear it. Not until his speech is done. The sun moves behind a cloud; the living room suddenly drains of light. “That day you said you were spending the night at Anna’s. Said you were havin’ a pool day, right?”

“Right,” you whisper, eyes closing over. They feel heavy. Tired and teary.

“Right. Except,” he brings his finger down, aims it straight at you, “Hank says you weren’t never there. Anna was at Sal’s all day Sunday.”

Fuck.

“Dad…”

You’re pleading with him now. Enough, I’ve heard enough. I know you know. As if you might still be able to stop the train, dig your heels in and hold on tight to derail it. Derail his thoughts. Salvage the situation, string it back together with shame and atonement.

But he doesn’t listen. He doesn’t even hear you.

“’n that’s when I got to thinkin’ – last Monday, at Joel’s. I went over to fix his sink – you remember I told you about his sink?” He doesn’t wait for a response. “I went over there, and he’s cookin’ this great big breakfast – pancakes, all of it – and there ain’t no one else in his house. Just him. Sarah was in Nashville, you remember?”

You take a deep breath. This is it. The ship’s beginning to disappear beneath the black waves.

“I thought maybe he had someone over, maybe expectin’ that girl from the plant hire…Anyway,” he bats his hand, bats the hopeful glint in Lois’s eye from his mind, “I’m walking downstairs, on my way out, and I notice somethin’ on the floor by the door.”

His chair squeaks timidly as he moves, his right arm lowering, scooping for something you can’t see yet. But when he shakily lifts it, your eyes fall to your knees. It hangs before you, apologetic and ashamed.

Joel was right. He knew it. You palmed him off. You told him your dad wouldn’t – couldn’t – put two and two together. And here he is, sat feet from you, holding the final piece to the puzzle in a quivering fist. Proof that, when he was in the house that day, you were only feet from him. Wrapped in his best friend’s shirt, dripping wet from his shower.

“This bag,” he hisses, and the tears finally drop onto your cheeks. They scurry to your chin, gathering and throwing themselves to your chest. Your shoulders drop, your eyes still low. You can’t look at him.

He speaks slowly. Speaks through his teeth. Every word like its own poisonous jab.

“Now you tell me: what in God’s name is your bag doin’ in Joel Miller’s hallway, at ten in the mornin’, when you’re supposed to be at Anna’s?”

Your fingers touch your forehead, a burning pain beginning to sting through your skull. You can feel your pulse in your temples. You’ve never wanted Joel to be stood in front of you so badly in all your life; just to deflect some of the interrogation off of you, just to give you breathing space. Just to protect you from the onslaught of questioning from your dad.

“No,” he mutters, shaking his head. The bag hits the carpet with a thud. “No, there ain’t no way. You were at Anna’s, right? You ain’t with Joel Miller, no way. I’m thinkin’, Please, God, don’t let that have been my daughter’s bag that day. But I’m right, ain’t I? You were there, weren’t you?”

You blink rapidly. The tears multiply quicker. The room is glossed in a protective film of salt and adrenaline. Give me something to say back. Give me something to say back.

“Where were you, hon? Musta been hidin’ somewhere, right?”

Give me something please think of something please come over please walk through that door please tell me what to say.

And then it comes to you. You blink the mist from your eyes. He said…he knew about texts you’d been sending Joel. How did he…?

“How did you know about the texts?”

“Pardon me?”

You straighten up and look him dead in the eye. Your voice feels hoarse. It sounds nothing like you. “How – did you know – about – the texts?”

“That’s your concern right now?”

“How – did you know?”

He begins to sputter, like the heat turned up under a pan on the hob. “Look, hon, you had me worried sick. Disappearin’ and I got no clue where you are. Always having an excuse to go off somewhere alone, no explanation. Don’t even get me started on those marks on your neck.”

Your hand immediately clamps around your throat, hot skin stained pink hissing into your palm. Joel’s teeth on you last night. His words cushioning the sharp bite. I love you. The heat hurts, now, when it felt so comforting just a few hours ago. It burns. It throbs. It feels like shame.

Your dad’s voice brings you back into the room.

“There’s another thing – last night,” he flings a laugh to you, “you were so quiet. So damn quiet. Didn’t say a word the entire time, and then I leave for all of ten minutes, and suddenly the two of you are headin’ over to his for – what was it? UCLA pamphlets?”

There’s a break between his words, a gap which makes you think that he wants you to answer. Like he’s giving you a chance, extending his arm. But he fills the space with a jeering laugh, and keeps talking.

“Where are they, huh? These pamphlets? ‘s why you were at Joel’s, right? Go on, go get ‘em. Show them to me.”

Your face solidifies. Lips tremble. There’s a scowl pulling your brows together. You’ve no right for it to be there. “Stop it,” you seethe. “Tell me what you did.”

“He’s the only one. The only one who could get you to talk. I had to check, kiddo. I had to know.”

Your stare doesn’t let up. Your lips bolt shut, refusing to say another word until he confesses. Which he does. Almost breezily.

“I looked through your phone. While you were gone. I – I went upstairs, ‘n I took it.”

He says it casually, as though he’s simply checked the newspaper. As though he’s just relaying the columns to you. Someone’s had a baby. Someone else won three grand on a scratch card. By the way, I know you’ve been messing around with Joel.

So it takes a minute for what he’s said to hit you. But when it does, the wave crashes over your shoulders so violently that it throws you to your feet, tasseled pillow whipped to the other side of the couch.

There are tears searing across your eyes. A twisted grimace of a smile on your face, a laugh breaking roughly from your throat. Some crazed, disbelieving, ugly little laugh.

“You – you checked my…my fuckin’ phone. You – you fucking –”

His head jerks back, offended. “Hey, now, listen to me –”

“I’m not listenin’ to another word! Am I twelve?”

You stalk over to the kitchen. The rattle of your dad’s chair tells you he follows.

“Well – you tell me, hon, ‘cause right now, you’re making a lot of real stupid decisions.”

That same ugly laugh echoes around the house. You grip onto the kitchen island. The room starts to wheel.

“Who the hell are you to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do?” you pant, eyes tight shut. Your thumbs begin to slip, sweat gliding between your skin and the counter.

“I’m your father! I’m lookin’ out for you, damnit! You think I wanna be havin’ this conversation with you right now?”

The granite countertop blurs in and out of focus when you open your eyes. You hook onto it, using it to haul yourself around the island until there’s distance between your wobbly figure and his. And you remember one week ago, when the same counter separated you and Joel, and you think of Joel, and think of his fingers around your wrist, and his fist against Knox’s jaw, and his teeth in your neck.

“Look,” your dad’s voice floats somewhere over the image of Joel’s eyes, “let’s just – let’s calm down. You ‘n me – we’re gonna talk this out. We’re gonna have a calm, mature discussion about all of this. You’re gonna tell me exactly what’s been goin’ on, and then I’m gonna head over to Joel’s – alone – and talk to him.”

But his voice doesn’t sound calm. There’s a tremble to it – a tremor as fragile as glass, as thin as ice. It’s crackling as he speaks. He can hardly keep a hold on it himself.

If he goes over to Joel’s – this you know – there ain’t anything calm or mature that will come of it. Suddenly the images in your head warp, and it’s your fingers around Joel’s wrist, someone else’s fist against his cheek, someone else’s teeth and the venom spat between them.

“Dad,” you pant, “it’s over. He ended it. It’s been done for, like, two weeks now. It was nothing.”

“Oh, nothing, was it?” He steps closer. You retreat. Edge further around the counter, further from him. His head tilts, eyebrows curl. He looks like a vulture, eyeing its prey. “Then what were the two of you up to last night?”

“We – we went for ice cream, that’s all. He wanted to make sure I was alright.”

He’s not convinced. And he shouldn’t be, either. He coughs a laugh. “For three hours? You were eatin’ ice cream for three Goddamn hours?” His cheeks wobble as he shakes his head. Then, in a softer voice, like he’s arming himself with a chisel to prick at the weakest parts of the sculpture, “What’d he do to you, girl?”

The marble cracks and snaps wide open. Anger floods out in hot waves. Any composure you’d managed to scrape together flushes clean out of your body.

“Nothing I didn’t want him to fuckin’ do. Stop treating me like I’m some kid who’s – who’s been tricked, or something. I’m twenty-three, Dad, I’m an adult.”

His silence sends another misdirected shot of panic through you.

“I was in on it just as much as he was,” you weep, fingers searching for a scratch of beard or kiss of flannel.

Your dad scoffs then, hands slapping against his thighs, and turns away. “There ain’t no gettin’ through to you,” he announces to the timid living room.

Still bracing yourself against the island, you take the break in his tirade to catch your breath. The only thought running through your head, losing velocity with each circuit, is Joel walking through that door. His face when he notices you with your flushed cheeks and wide eyes. His hands reaching for yours, through all the lies and hurt. Your dad, stood opposite, tight as an arrow and ready to fucking fly for him. Fists balled, teeth bared.

“He doesn’t even know,” you realize, staring at the glow on the floor cast by the front door. “You haven’t told him you know, have you?”

“’course I ain’t told him. I wanted to talk to you first. Not that it’s gotten us anywhere, huh?”

“I’m gonna text him.”

“Hon, don’t you d–”

“I am not having this conversation on my own. There are two people involved here.”

You pull your phone from your pocket and scrawl some messy message to Joel. Three messy messages. Something like he knows everything, can you come over? I need you. Some needy, dramatic, helpless message.

The typing bubble appears for a fraction of a second. So fleeting that you almost miss it through your tears, before it drops back to nothing. He doesn’t reply.

Doesn’t pick up, either, when you call him. Three times in a row. Three missed calls; three Hey, it’s Joel, sorry I missed yous.

The phone rattles off the counter when you drop it, your head falling into your hands. Your dad wanders back over to his armchair and collapses into it with a sigh, his fingers massaging his temples. The two of you mirrored, the same storm circling between you, only ice in his veins and fire in yours.

Fear keeps your feet planted to the kitchen floor; adrenaline alone keeps you upright. Your fingers push hard into your forehead, an ache sat directly behind that dizzies you. Blood thudding its fists against your eyes, screaming in your ears.

How the fuck did this happen? It feels ridiculous to ask, but it’s all you got. When did the two of you get so lazy? Start forgetting to cover your tracks? Or – maybe worse – stop caring enough to even try?

Of course, saying you were with Anna was a dumb fucking move. Her dad is one of your dad’s buddies. One of Joel’s, too. That was always going to fuck it all up. And you were too caught up, too hellbent on seeing Joel, too fucking horny to stop for five seconds and keep your damn story straight.

There’s nothing to say, nothing that might fix this. There’s no winding your way out of it. The trap has you by the throat. Your jaw aches from trying to free yourself.

Your dad sways side to side in his chair, staring silently at the wall ahead of him. Your face burns with shame, with anger, with embarrassment. Your heart stings from the hurt, from wanting Joel here, from his ignoring your pleas for help. And, most annoying of all – from letting your dad down.

It doesn’t matter what you tell yourself. How you spin it. Sure, you’re twenty-three. You can make your own decisions. That much is fucking clear now. Doesn’t mean they’re always good. Even when they make you laugh until your cheeks hurt, make your stomach flip with excitement, make you scream from pleasure.

Make your heart do things you’ve never felt it do before. Things you never knew that it could do.

You let your dad down. He can barely look at you for it. You know damn well that it was worth every second, and yet, right now, nothing but thick, awkward, unbreathable air between the two of you – it feels like it should never have happened.

You’re bent over the counter, head resting on your folded arms, breathing still staggered – when you hear it. The squeal of brakes outside. An engine cutting. A door slamming.

Two knocks on the door, and Joel pushes it open. You’re already in the hallway, watching his heavy head and loose shirt cross the threshold.

He looks up and your eyes meet. His hair’s a mess, he’s in the same tee from last night. He’s gotten straight out of bed and into his truck, and he’s braced, like he doesn’t know what’s coming. Which direction to expect the first punch from.

Your knees weaken at the sight of him. The safe haven of his arms, the home of his chest. The beating pulse behind it whose language you’ve become fluent in. Even now, when everything’s fallen apart, his being here washes relief over you like cool water dousing an inferno. Your body relaxes, your breathing quietens.

Joel nods towards you. You okay?

You shake your head lightly, and he flicks his fingers. You’re in his arms before your brain tells your limbs to move.

“’s okay,” he breathes, lips lined with your ear. His chest is soft, warm; you take fistfuls of his shirt. He strokes your hair, mumbling, “Told you we’ll be alright, yeah? It’s goin’ to be alright.”

You weep into him, lips dripping with salty tears. They part to reply, when a low growl rips between your bodies. Joel loosens his grip and you step back, turning around to face the ghost of your father at the end of the hall.

“Get the hell away from him.”

He advances, takes a few steps forward. You meet him halfway, gripping onto his shirt, planting yourself firmly between him and Joel.

“Woah, woah,” you say, pushing on his small chest, “let’s all just calm down. Dad.”

He’s smaller, scrawnier, older, and weaker than Joel. He’s never going to lift a fucking hand to him. Not if he wants to keep it intact. He wouldn’t square up to a fly, never mind an actual worthy opponent – but your gut tells you to make damn sure he doesn’t even try.

“Get out of the way, hon.”

“No. No way. And let you –? No.”

He’s not even looking at you. You’re nothing but an obstacle. He’s staring a few feet behind.

“Baby,” Joel says, voice weary and surrendered. “It’s alright, now. C’mon, outta the way.”

“Baby?” your dad seethes. “You just call my daughter baby?”

“Called me it as long as he’s known me, Dad.”

“’s different now,” he spits. “What the f–? I mean, what the fuck, Joel? What were you even thinkin’? Putting your Goddamn hands on my daughter?”

You don’t usually hear your dad curse. All through growing up, even when you left home – you could count on one hand the number of times you’ve heard it. It sends a bolt of fear through you as if you’re five years old again, and he can’t do much worse than say bad words in front of you.

You don’t usually see your dad do any of this stuff. Raise his voice, ball his fists. Lean forward, feet planted on the ground, like daring Joel to make the first move. Joel – his best friend. The guy he was supposed to be able to trust more than anyone in the world.

Angry. Furious. And you think: if there were a time he had a right to feel this way, to act like this and throw threats around as though they’re light as air, if ever there were a moment – this would be it. A betrayal. A secret this big.

Joel takes a step forward. He doesn’t seem scared. More – placating. Letting the tantrum run its course. He holds his hands out. “Let’s just – let’s just talk.”

“Talk,” your dad repeats, spitting the word like it’s rotten in his mouth. “You wanna talk? Let’s talk. What the hell have you been doin’ to her? Hm?”

Joel shakes his head, shoulders lifting. “I ain’t been doin’ nothin’ to her. That’s not what this is.”

“Hell,” your dad scoffs, “not what it is. Why don’t you explain to me exactly what it is, then, Joel? If it ain’t you takin’ advantage of a young girl? Takin’ advantage of my kid?”

Your head whips back to face Joel, hand lifting in a bracing motion. He sees it – sees the way your head shakes, imperceptible to your dad. Please don’t tell him. Not yet.

It’s bad enough that he knows you’ve been messing around. It hurts enough that he knows you’ve been lying for the entire summer. Telling him the full story – the conversation in the truck, the words exchanged over ice cream and the quiet tick of traffic lights across the street – would only hurt more. Would only sharpen his anger. He’d ask more questions; he’d drive his dagger deeper.

Joel pleads with you. His eyes do his bargaining. You don’t relent. Please.

“You know what I keep thinkin’ about,” your dad interrupts, “you know what’s runnin’ through my mind? That damn garden party. Those cupcakes. You puttin’ your thumb on her lip. I should’ve known the second you touched her what was happening. You arrogant, shameless son of a bitch, Joel, you got no idea what you –”

“Dad. Enough.”

Sure, you’re trying to calm him down, palms outstretched and motioning like he’s a wild horse, rearing frantically and threatening to crush you. But it also stings to hear him talking about Joel like that. Talking to him like that.

The same Joel he’d sling an arm around, knocking their beers together when the Rangers won. The same Joel you know he’d spent hours sat out back with, talking into the night and sharing stories and secrets with the stars.

The same Joel who covered your legs with his jacket last night, who held you when you were hurting, who reminded you what it was like to feel your heart again, beating rapidly in your chest.

He’s not talking about the same Joel. Not the Joel you know. Yours.

He’s still rambling. “…’n all this time, you pair have been closer ‘n you were lettin’ on.”

“You don’t understand,” you plead, “you don’t know him like I do.”

Your dad scoffs, twisted smirk on his face. “Oh, I know ‘im. I’ve known him a hell of a lot longer and a hell of a lot better ‘n you have, hon. Known him since he was fifteen, askin’ me ‘n my buddies to buy ‘im a case of beer from the liquor store. His little brother in ‘n outta jail like God only knows what. I know exactly what he’s like.”

“What he’s like?” you huff, exasperated. You spin on your heel, arms coming down on your sides with a slap. “Joel, help me.”

“Don’t you dare look at ‘im! Listen, kiddo, I know him. Know what he’s like at Frank’s, takin’ women home left ‘n right, then forgetting their damn names. Know he sure as hell can’t remember that schoolteacher’s name, can you, Joel? You remember her?”

“Quit it,” you tell him over your shoulder, still facing Joel.

Your dad laughs from behind you. It turns your stomach. “I’ll bet he never told you about that one, did he? That’d turn you off ‘im in a heartbeat, wouldn’t it?”

“Nah, he told me about Jess.”

Your dad’s voice cuts. Joel’s head finally lifts, his eyes ungluing from the floor to look at you.

You shrug back. “I figured it out. Sister’s name is Mia – she’s a year younger ‘n me.”

You swear he almost fucking smiles. Almost. It’s funny, or at least, it would be if you weren’t both in the middle of tearing your entire dynamic apart. Any other time, he’d nudge you, or tousle your hair, and say you were too clever for him, or something about being old again.

When you turn back to face your dad, he looks like he’s run out of words. So, he repeats ones he’s already said.

“I…Well, I know him, honey. And he ain’t someone you oughta be with.”

“How’d you figure that?”

He sighs. “I just told you my reasons.”

“’cause he wanted beer when he was a kid and he’s slept with people before? ‘cause Tommy gets himself into trouble – trouble that Joel then gets him out of?”

“No, I –”

“You don’t know a damn thing about any of this. You won’t listen to me. If you’d hear me out – hear us out, then you’d –”

“Don’t you dare tell me I’d change my damn mind. Don’t – you – dare.” Your dad’s voice is quiet and slow. Dangerous. Laced with something you’ve never heard in it before. It’s not worth finding out what.

Your head shakes, knee jerking with nerves. “I don’t…I don’t know what else to say.”

The fire flickers, loses light for a second. His voice softens. “Honey…This –” he waggles his finger between your body and Joel’s, “this thing y’all have been…It ain’t right. It is not right, what y’all have been doin’. You are far too young for him. He should know better, and the fact that he doesn’t – well.”

Your brows tighten, eyes pinching around painful tears. “I know why you’re mad. I get it. I’m sorry. But I can’t –” You sigh. “You are suffocatin’ me, living here.”

His façade drops instantly. He pushes his fingers into his eyes, groaning. “Hon, you’re not hearin’ me.”

“I hear you loud and clear, I –”

He cuts you off, throwing his arms up into the air with another loud yell. The words melt into one long drone, a mountainous ramble which peaks and falls in pitch; one minute low and angry and the next high and frantic.

You sigh, shoving by him for the living room. Joel reaches for your hand, your fingers brushing against his.

“Baby,” he says.

“Ah!” Your dad blocks his advance, shaky finger held to his chest. “You dare, son.”

You’re swipe the bag from the floor by your dad’s chair, your change of clothes still in a crumpled heap at the bottom. Slinging it over your shoulder, you whip past your father and lock your hand with Joel’s.

“Hey,” Joel says, slowing you down. “Darlin’, where are you –?”

“I wanna leave.”

“Huh?” he asks, brows raised.

“I want to go,” you whisper.

He glances over to your dad, dumbfounded by the stairs. “Where d’you wanna go?”

Your shoulders roll. Anywhere. Just take me away.

He doesn’t hesitate; barely thinks it over. He tightens his grip on your hand and pulls you toward him. Your feet stumble over the carpet.

“Where in the hell –?” Your dad’s snarling picks up again, his final chance. “I don’t think so –”

Joel’s backing up towards the front door, led by the pull of your hand. “Emotions are pretty high,” he announces, “why don’t we have this conversation once everybody’s calmed down?”

“Joel, if you take her, I’ll–”

“I ain’t takin’ her anywhere. She’s an adult.”

Liar. His hand wouldn’t let go of yours if you tried to pry it from his clutches.

“I’m leavin’,” he says, “she’s just coming with me.”

Your dad barks your name, and you freeze. Joel stops, too, allows you the time to turn. Like a deer in the headlights.

“I’m going, Dad,” you shakily tell him.

“I swear to God,” he says, “if y’all walk outta that door…”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean for any of this.”

He shakes his head. “Stay, hon. Let’s talk.”

“You’re not talkin’, though. All you wanna do is argue. I wanna go with Joel.”

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere with no one! ‘specially not him!”

You shrug, give your head a solemn shake. “Stop me.”

Joel hears the exhaustion in your voice, the scratch of your throat. The way the words melt into one another. He tugs on your hand, leading you through the front door. Your dad doesn’t speak again, and you don’t turn back to check on him.

The neighborhood is silent in the early morning. Yards empty, curtains still closed. No one, not even the sun, tucked behind a thin veil of cloud, sees when you pile into the front seat of Joel’s truck.

“Baby,” he says, pulling your seatbelt over your body.

Your eyes fix on the asphalt ahead. “Just drive.”

“Hey. Look at me.”

When you turn to him, he takes your jaw in both hands. “I love you,” he says.

“Still?” you squeak, eyes heavy with sleeplessness and tears.

“More.”

“This is fucking insane, Joel.”

He nods. “Yeah. ‘n you’re worth all of it.”

“Hey,” Sarah calls when the two of you spill in through the front door. She’s on the couch, Switch console in hand. “What’s up?”

“We have a – a lodger, for the next…little while,” Joel grumbles, tossing his keys onto the sideboard. He kicks off his boots and slides them to the wall, straightens up and looks to you.

You follow suit wordlessly, slipping out of your sneakers. Joel places them by his.

“Cool,” Sarah says, standing up. “How come?”

“Just – dad trouble,” you whisper, deflated. She’s wandering around the couch. A defeated sound rings from the console hanging from her thumb.

Her head tilts. “I…I got plenty room for you,” she flashes you a warm grin, “it can be like a big-ass sleepover.”

You return her smile, a slow, grateful breath filling your lungs. Joel’s arm wraps over your shoulder as your mouth opens to answer.

“No, uh…” He clears his throat. “She’ll be in my room. With me.”

Sarah’s expression is blank. She blinks between the two of you, arms limp either side of her hips. Your eyes flit from Joel to her and back again, wide, waiting. Waiting for someone to move, or speak, or yell.

Joel looks indifferent. Unbothered. As if he just told her it’s sunny outside.

She takes a step forward, and by instinct, you draw back. “Sarah…” you mutter, and she swings around the newel post. She dodges your outstretched hand, whether accidental or deliberate – you’re not sure.

“No, it’s…Okay. Yeah. I’ll – I gotta…Yeah.”

You watch as she climbs the stairs backwards, still looking from your pleading face to her dad’s stoic. She shrugs, wiggles the Switch and mumbles something about it needing charged, before she’s spinning and taking the last few steps two at a time.

When her bedroom door closes, you slump back. Joel doesn’t let go of your shoulder, catching you and pulling you into his chest.

“Fuck,” you whisper, lips pressed against his tee. He smells like pine, like mint, like you.

“’s okay,” he says into your hair, hand curving the shape of your skull. “She’ll come around. You know Sarah.”

You turn, ear against his chest, listening for his heartbeat. It doesn’t tell you anything new. You miss the days you used to listen for secret messages in the soft rhythm.

Joel’s chin rests on the crown of your head. “I’m sorry, baby,” he says. “None of this is your fault, you hear? None of it.”

“Now you’re just lyin’ to me. You know that ain’t true.”

A hum rumbles against your cheek like the earth readjusting, rearranging beneath your feet. You lift your head, loosen your grip around his waist.

“You need sleep,” he tells you, thumb swiping gently beneath your heavy eyes.

You don’t protest.

Joel takes your hand, leads you mutely upstairs and into his room. His bed’s not made. The shades aren’t even open. He lifts the sea of sheets, tosses them twice in the air and then pulls the corner back, letting you sit on the edge of the mattress.

He undresses you carefully, like your limbs might crack and burst at the slightest touch. He replaces your hoodie with a fresh tee of his own, one that still smells like the world before its end, and you lay back into bed slowly.

It’s shaped like you – the divot in the mattress. You slot back into it like you never left. The curl of your back and the fold of your knees. You’ve left little pieces of evidence all over the place – all over Joel.

He runs a delicate hand across your head, the repetitive movement lulling you off to sleep. Pushing the boat out.

“You need anythin’?” he asks.

You shake your head, arms wrapping tight underneath your pillow. “I’m good,” you whisper, and the waves pull you under.

His bedside lamp is on when you stir, the left half of the room a glowing honey color. His bare leg slotted between yours, your hands intertwined on his chest. His finger drifts back and forth against your palm, the strokes matching your breathing.

You’re still tired, eyes still rolling beneath heavy lids, but when some commentator screams at the game playing on the TV screen, you snap awake.

Joel curses under his breath, begins tearing the bed apart for the remote – but by the time he turns the volume down, your head is propped against his pillow, knuckles rubbing your eyes.

“Sorry, baby,” he sighs, kissing your forehead as he sits on the edge of the bed.

“’s okay.” You flash him a lazy smile. “What time is it?”

“Almost five thirty.”

“Damn,” you mutter. “Slept all fucking day.”

“You needed it,” he says, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “You want some dinner? Or – breakfast?”

You nod. “Sounds good.”

He disappears downstairs. The echoing of pots and pans and the hum of the extraction fan follow in his wake. You groan, stretching out like a starfish across the messy bed, forgetting for just a moment why you’re here, and what’s happened, and how different everything is.

It feels the same, even after eight hours sleep. Same guilt, and shame. Same anger and resentment towards your dad. Same punch to your gut anytime you picture his face, the wrinkled frown. The trembling fist holding your bag in midair.

The blow is soothed only by the swelling of warmth across your chest, looking around the room. The safety you feel here, as though you’re cut off from the rest of the world. Your father on pause the second you left the house; Joel’s room and his bed giving you time to catch your breath and recalibrate.

You’re not thinking about when you’ll have to go back home. You’re just not.

You knot your shorts back around your waist, take one huge swig of the water Joel left for you, and open his bedroom door, your head throbbing with each movement.

There’s a figure at the end of the hall, frozen in space like a phantom.

“Morning,” she says. Her hair is tied back, oversized hoodie over her shoulders.

“Hi.”

“You sleep good?”

“Must’ve. Missed half the day.”

Sarah smiles.

“Are you gonna kill me?”

“Hm,” her head tips back and forth, “not today. Don’t have the energy. Watch your back tomorrow, though.”

For the first time in almost twenty-four hours, a genuine laugh pushes its way past your lips. The knot in your stomach loosens, even if only a little.

“You wanna come help with dinner?” she asks, nodding to the stairs.

You smile. “Please.”

The three of you settle on pasta with some tomato sauce from a jar mixed through. You sit opposite Sarah as Joel sets the plates down, sliding into the seat next to yours with a gentle squeeze on your knee under the table.

The three of you talk. About nothing in particular – college, Rita and her cross stitch, some client of Joel’s whose wife got caught having an affair – but it soothes the ache in your heart. It feels like a blanket over your shoulders, a spot by the fire, a voice in your ear promising you that things are still okay. That they can still be this way: light, alive. The earth is still moving, the stars are still pinned up in the sky. Tomorrow will always come, and the day after that.

Sarah asks about LA. You tell her you didn’t know she knew. She grins and says, “Well, now that I do – you better put an application in.”

You hum around the fork between you lips. “Maybe.”

“Come on. The two of us out there together? For six whole months? You gotta do it. Tell me you don’t wanna do it. Are you gonna do it?”

Joel casts her a glower, his stony expression pushing her back in her chair.

Your eyes shift from hers over to his. He runs a slice of garlic bread around the curve of his plate, coating it in sauce, before he notices you staring. His face breaks into a tiny smirk.

“I don’t know,” you decide, turning back to Sarah. “I still gotta think it through.”

She nods earnestly. “Yeah, you should sleep on it. And then, first thing tomorrow, we’re doing it.”

The two of you let her have the final say, falling quiet until some new conversation is shifted onto the table, and then another, and then another. When you’re done eating, Sarah takes your hand and drags you back upstairs.

Sarah Miller’s bedroom has been baby pink for as long as you can remember. Joel painted it one summer while she was at camp, eliciting help from your dad to shift all the furniture. As she grew up, she covered the walls in posters, changed the sheets, changed the curtains, strung fairy lights to distract from what she saw as a kiddish color.

But she never asked to change it. Always wanted the same blushing pink her dad had picked out when she was ten – even if secretly.

Her blinds are tilted, golden light from the slowly lowering sun filtering through onto her carpet, stained with tiny dabs of nail polish. She throws herself down onto the bed, her curls igniting brown in the summer light, and you slowly sink down beside her.

“Nice Zayn poster,” you note, pointing to the straight-browed, dark-haired figure painted in a moody grayscale on her ceiling. “Interesting placement.”

“Was so I could dream about him every night.”

“You didn’t wanna take him to California?”

“Didn’t have to,” Sarah smiles, tapping her temple, “he’s all up here, baby.”

You snort. Your eyes flutter closed; hands clasped on your stomach. She sighs contentedly by your side, listening to the chatter of birds out front.

“I miss this,” she says eventually, her voice smooth and soothing. She elbows you lightly.

“Me too,” you reply. And then, with a deep breath: “Sarah…are you okay?”

When she turns back, the sunlight catches in her eyes. They twinkle, like she’s some doe-eyed Disney character. Someone who might be able to wiggle her fingers and make the last day disappear.

“Am I okay?”

“Yeah. With…everything.”

She shrugs, mumbles an I dunno. “What can I do about it? It’s weird, but…it’s none of my business. I guess…I guess if y’all are happy, then – you know. I’m gone half the time, anyways.”

“It is your business, too, though,” you tell her. “I don’t wanna make you feel weird.”

“I think you got bigger things to worry about right now. Sounds like your dad’s pretty mad.”

You sigh, looking back up to the boyband poster. “Yeah. He’s pretty mad.”

“My dad told me what happened. Well, parts. I can kinda guess the rest. Can’t really blame him, I guess.”

You shrug. “Guess not, but then…I am twenty-three, y’know? I’m not a kid. I can make my own mind up.”

She’s still staring at you, but you don’t return her glance. Something tells you that you already know what it says. Still, she verbalizes it.

“Would you be okay if I slept with your dad?”

That is so not what I thought you were gonna fuckin’ say.

You shoot her a look. “What?”

“’m askin’. Would you be okay with it, if I –”

You lift your hand to shut her up. “That is…so totally different.”

“How is that different?” she scoffs.

“Because…because…my dad’s not hot.”

Sarah gags.

“And – and also you’re not friends with him. It’s just different, alright?”

“You were friends with my dad?”

You’re laughing with her now. You can hear how pathetic your justification sounds. “Kinda, yeah. I was close to ‘im.”

“Yeah, that much is obvious, now, babe.”

You smack her arm and she giggles.

“I think he’ll come around. Your dad.”

“I don’t. Not ever.”

“Why wouldn’t he? His best friend would become his son-in-law, I would become his granddaughter-in-law –” She gasps and props herself up on her elbow, staring you down. “Does this make you, like, my stepmom?”

You spit out a laugh, and Sarah throws her head back against her pillow, clutching her belly.

“You’re my fuckin’ mom, dude!”

“Don’t you fucking dare!” you reply, covering your face with your hands. “Aw, fuck,” you breathe, giggling.

You settle back into the bed, your heads leaning against one another as you stare up at Zayn and his audience of glow-in-the-dark stars. Sarah hums something softly to herself, her ankle rocking, her fingers tapping.

The two of you were raised together. Sisters, when neither of you knew what that word really meant. You figure she’s as close as you could find – someone who reflects all of your favorite parts of yourself and who calls out the uglier ones without hesitation. Someone who comforts you with a punch to the arm, a mocking quip about your hair or the something in your teeth. A safe little secret keeper, for all of your wildest dreams and biggest fears.

“I guess this is all why you were so down in the dumps last night, right? Your dad knew then?”

You shake your head. “Not at that point. He found out after we all left. Realized it all on his own. It’s all just…so fucking stupid…”

She sighs. “My dad – if he…if he makes you happy, then I don’t even know. As long as I don’t have to see it – we’re cool.”

One cinderblock of weight lifts from your chest, allowing a rugged breath to escape. “Wish my dad would take a leaf outta your book,” you mumble.

“He’s just mad,” Sarah says. “He’s just mad, and he’ll eventually calm down.”

“Doesn’t matter even if he does calm down,” you reply. “My dad has more of a…restrictive parenting approach.”

“Can you really parent a twenty-three-year-old?”

“He finds a way to try.”

She scoffs, saying, “I get it. My dad’s more, try it ‘n see. Your dad is, like, try it ‘n see…what your punishment is.”

You both erupt into laughter, and Sarah reaches for the TV remote.

“Exactly,” you tell her, tugging on the hem of Joel’s shirt. “Although, if your dad found out you were with my dad, I don’t think he’d be cool with it, either.”

“Yeah,” she smirks, flicking through Netflix titles, “y’all got what you deserved.”

The sound of Sarah’s bedroom door closing over stirs you. Her room is the color of rust; the stream of amber sunlight on the carpet replaced by that of the streetlights. Beneath the door, the sliver of light is shifted by the sway of a silhouette walking off down the hall.

Sarah’s snoring quietly beside you, still in her jeans. Keeping an eye on her, you roll off the bed and creep towards the door, a slow groan coming from the handle as you twist it. Joel’s at the opposite end of the hall, disappearing into his room as you shut Sarah back into her warm slumber.

“Thought you were sleepin’,” he whispers when you slip into his room. He’s already sat in bed, leant against the headboard. The room a thick darkness, a black cloud of dusk spiraling around you and cutting you off from the rest of the world.

“Heard you come in.” You wander over, pausing at the side of the bed. “Wanna stay with you.”

“C’mere,” he says, holding a hand out. You take it, pulling yourself into his lap. He slips his hands under the hem of your shorts, fingertips brushing the crests of your hipbones. “You okay?” he asks, thumbs swiping gently on the seam of your thigh.

“Never better. You?”

He sighs in response and looks off to the window, the light catching his eye. You tilt your head and bend forward, kissing below his ear. He smells like whiskey. You breathe it in, inhaling like the sharp scent might fold you under a numb blanket of inebriation, too.

Joel takes a fistful of your hair and pulls you from his neck, watching the shift in your expression before he kisses you – steady, bracing. The first time since everything went so wrong.

For a few minutes you pretend nothing has changed – you’re still sneaking around, shushing one another; someone’s in the next room, there are still secrets to be kept. You slip your shorts down your legs, kicking them over the side of the bed; Joel’s sweatpants follow soon after. His hands surrender and you push up on his chest, dragging your core against his stubborn crotch, lips never losing contact. Tongues rolling against one another, noses bumping; a tangle of breath between you until you’ve no idea which is yours and which is his.

It’s all you know how to do, after all. It’s how this started, it’s how it got out of control. The two of you taking out your needs on one another. Right now is no different. You need to feel something other than the dread in the pit of your stomach, the ache in your heart anytime you look at him and know he feels it, too.

You come up for air and suddenly the feeling dissipates; doubt sets back in and fear washes over you like ice water. Your hips cease, Joel’s hands lift from your body. He pushes the hair from your face to find his own expression mirrored in yours.

Everything has changed.

You watch his movements, the light trace of his finger on your bare skin, the pinch of fabric as he adjusts his boxers. The careful movements of his own hips, trying not to incite anything more.

“I love you,” you offer, when he doesn’t say anything. Whispered, like it’s a question, like something to dangle in front of him to make him bite.

At the very least, it unsticks his gaze from the cotton print over your chest and back up to your face – where he softens and says, “Oh, darlin’. I love you, too.”

He gives you a squeeze and pulls you by the shoulders closer, letting you feel his lips on yours again and again, until you’re out of breath. You nuzzle your head under his jaw, the rise and fall of his chest and the steady beat of his heart at your ear.

Joel trails his hands up and down your spine. He breaks the silence first – stammers his way through a question you’re not sure how to answer.

“Was I – was I hurtin’ you? All this time?”

You lift your head, looking blankly at him. “What –?”

“Was I hurting you?”

“Hurting me?”

He nods. “Everythin’ we were doin’. Everything we’ve done. You wanted me to be doing it, right?”

He looks…scared, as though forty years have been shaved from him over the course of one day. Eyes glassy like he might burst into tears; bottom lip almost trembling with uncertainty.

You sit up and cup his face; he breathes a sigh of relief when you look him dead in the eye and say, “I wanted you to be doing all of it.”

“All of it?” he repeats.

“Yes,” you nod, “nothing you ever did ever hurt me.”

He lowers his gaze. “’cept when I left.”

“You came back.”

His thumb curves beneath the slip of fabric on your hips, toying with the elastic. There’s more in his question, you know it. He’s not convinced by a word you say.

“It’s just…all such a fuckin’ mess,” he groans, fingertips massaging his forehead.

You hesitate, unwilling to agree and unable to disagree. It is a fucking mess – that much is true. But if that’s all it is, then why does your heart pause for breath whenever you see him? Why does the mere thought of his presence, the tiniest glimpse of him – why does it all send your stomach somersaulting?

How can something supposed to be so bad, make you feel so fucking good?

“It was wrong of me,” Joel says, “to flirt with you that night I first saw you again. To put you in that position. But I did, and we ended up here. And I’m glad we did, baby, you know I am, but…it’s on me. This thing with you ‘n your dad.”

“You don’t think he should back off a little? Don’t think he’s oversteppin’ a mark, even a tiny bit?”

He shakes his head. “I’d do the damn same, ‘n you know it. I shoulda known better. Shouldn’ta let it happen. You mean more to me than the world, and I – I caused all this hurt for you.”

Sure, it’s real noble of him to take all of the blame, but it wasn’t just him. You had a part in it, too: your batting eyelashes, your hands where they shouldn’t have been. Your jaw tightens when he says it, holding back from telling him you want as much responsibility in this as he’s taking, even if he won’t allow it.

But an argument with Joel, right off the back of one with your father, isn’t really something you need. It wouldn’t help anything. So, you swallow your words and whisper new ones.

“You shouldn’t have flirted with me?”

His eyebrows flick, concern knotting them together. He sits up, scooping you in his arms. “I meant I should’ve never let it get to this point.”

“’n what about the first time you touched me?”

The memory plays between you: the weight of him on your body, the sound of the stereo system firing up downstairs. One hand between your legs and the other pinching your heart.

The light in your eyes starts to bleed through your body into Joel’s, distorting the projected image of that scene in your bedroom. It ignites somewhere low, travelling upwards until his stare locks with yours: an understanding weaving between you both.

You lean back from him, drinking in the sight. “Nothin’ but trouble, right? That’s what you said, that first night. You knew damn well where it might go. ‘n you still wanted it, just as bad.”

“Darlin’, I’m not sayin’ I didn’t, I –”

“No, no, I get it. I get it.”

You push his shoulders to the mattress. Fire in your belly, some kind of twisted energy pumping through your veins, you grind down on him again.

That thing, about this being all you know how to do? About taking your needs out on each other?

Right now, you need distraction. You need something to tire you out, to drain you of energy, to stop your thoughts for five minutes. You need someone to hold you, and love you, and make you feel good. Joel’s the perfect distraction.

He’s still hard. You’re still wet. It’s easy.

You drag your hips lazily over his, cotton riding against lace. He’s growing harder, bigger; he’s pushing up into you. You respond by pushing down, and Joel groans.

“Hey,” he takes hold of your thighs, “baby, we don’t have to –”

“Then, let’s stop.”

He says nothing.

You reach down past the band of his boxers and take him in your hand. He bites back a moan, his head falling into the pillow. You’re stroking him: long, hard strokes, fist tightening around him, fingers dipping between your folds to apply your slick to his length.

“Say the word, Joel. We’ll stop,” you pant, unsure if even you buy the words you’re saying. “You said it: none of this should’ve ever happened. You should’ve never laid a finger on me.”

His arms lift, throbbing biceps curving around his pillow and crumpling it against his skull. He doesn’t tell you to stop, because he doesn’t fucking want you to. He needs this – needs you as much as you need him, needs you more than he needs the air in his lungs.

And you’re right: it is different now. Now, it’s out in the open. The whole world could know, for all the two of you care. And maybe that’s the kick to it, now. No more hiding. No more fleeing from shadow to shadow.

You tug his underwear down and lower yourself, dragging your folds up and down the width of him while sticky precome gathers at his tip, dappling the trail of hair from his navel. And when you can’t do it anymore, when the mere sight of him drenched in your arousal threatens to send you over the edge, you line him up to your entrance and sink down, slow.

He moans into the pillow, fabric muffling your favorite sound in the world. And he doesn’t stop, his chest doesn’t stop rumbling until you reach his hilt, where he gasps.

“Darlin’,” he whimpers, hands coming back down to hold you in place.

You bat them away. “Uh-uh,” you tut, pinning his wrists above his head. “Not a – fuckin’ – finger.”

Joel grits his teeth, eyes locking onto yours, directly above him as you slide up off his cock, hips circling as you do, and then back down. Your free hand curves around his ribcage, the solid flesh of his torso stabilizing you.

“Poor baby,” you coo, pouting your lip. “Can’t even touch me. Can’t put a hand on your girl when you need to most.”

“Fuckin’ – whore,” he grunts, and your hips grind to a halt. You release his wrists.

“That what you think of me?” you ask, sitting upright on his lap. Joel’s still buried deep inside you.

“No,” he’s breathing, lips curling, “no, baby. Keep goin’.”

“I’m not the one goin’ back on my word here.”

He flashes a thick, filthy smile. “I know, I know. Go on. Make me proud.”

You lean forward again and he sighs, the feel of your wet cunt wrapping like satin around him.

“You think he’d trust you, anyway, after everythin’?” you mewl. “Think he thinks I’m in a different room right now? Tucked up in bed, safe ‘n sound? Nah, baby, he knows. He knows what you’re doin’ right now. Keep your hands off me? You can’t keep your cock outta me.”

Joel moans in agreement, hands gripping into the sheets to ground himself, hips bucking up against yours. You place your hands either side of him on the mattress and start to bounce, skin slapping, bed shaking.

“You like that, huh?” you moan, feeling the sharp kiss of his head at your cervix. Nudging, nudging, nudging. Blunt pain, blissful pleasure. “Like me riding it. Takin’ what I – oh, fuck – what I need.”

He lets out a guttural moan, writhing around underneath you. It’s like he’s forgotten where he is, forgotten you guys aren’t alone in the house; drunk on the sight, smell, sound, and feel of you on him, not even trying to stifle his sounds anymore.

You close your eyes and hope Sarah doesn’t wake anytime soon.

You’re keeping the façade up for Joel, but on the inside, you feel the exact same. His words echo in your ears, shouldn’ta let it happen, and how quickly that melted into make me proud. Your head starts to swim, your eyes heavy, your body trembling.

The thatch of hair at the bottom of his cock brushes against your clit, a gasp drawing between your teeth. Pain begins to rip upwards on the inside of your thighs, forcing you forward.

“Joel,” you pant, leaning over him. “Fuck.”

“Gotta let me touch you, baby,” he whispers, hands lifting beneath the fabric of your shirt. His fingers ghost across the curve of your shoulders. “You need it, don’t you?”

You whimper in response and Joel slips past the moment of weakness, taking a strong grip of both shoulders and pulling himself upright on the mattress. The tee slips from your body in one breath, and his hands follow the incline of your neck to your jaw, holding you steady as he fucks up into you.

“You want me to fill you up?” he asks, leaning back with a palm flat on the bed behind to watch himself disappear between your legs.

You’re nodding desperately. “Mhm.”

“Gotta ask nicely, remember? Be a good girl for me?”

“Dick,” you hiss, draping your arms over his shoulders.

He pouts. Sweat gleams on his upper lip. His voice cracks, weakens like stone beginning to crumble. “’s not v-very n-ice, baby.”

“Comeinme,” you beg, your fingers swirling around the dark hair at the bottom of his skull. “Please, come in me.”

“Atta-girl,” he groans, and his hands instantly lock on your hips. You don’t stop him this time, letting him push you down as hard as he can onto his cock, coming as deep inside you as he can.

And then – that familiar feeling of being his. Filled with him, your eyes and your nose and your mouth and your cunt spilling with the sight, smell, taste and feel of him. He coats your walls, throbs deep inside you as he claims every tiny corner of your body.

He growls as his cock twitches, and you watch his expression go from determined, to blissful, to fucking exhausted when he stills and his head rolls forward into your chest. His breath hot and staggered between your breasts; light kisses peppered onto damp skin.

You watch him through a post-sex haze, the air between you thick and blurry, as he presses his lips into your chest. He sucks along the cushion of your breast until he reaches the nipple, lips cupping around it, tongue flicking with all the effort he has left in him.

When he lifts his head again, one final kiss to your sensitive flesh, you balance his chin under your thumbs.

“You come?” he asks, the words propelled by a heavy exhale.

You shake your head slowly. “I’m tired, anyway.”

“Alright,” Joel groans, flipping you over. He pushes your thighs apart, his spend leaking from your slit and running southwards.

“Joel,” you giggle, “c’mon, I’m tired. You don’t have to –”

He’s already pushing himself lower, whipping the dark cotton tee from his shoulders and brushing his naked chest over your stomach. You lower your arms to hook under his.

“Hey. Come here a sec.”

Joel blinks up at you. “What’s up?”

“Just – come here.”

He kneels back up to you, hovering over you with his hands under your shoulders. His limp cock lies against the inside of your thigh as he lowers his weight onto your hips. You tilt your head, mapping his face.

Your knuckle runs across his cheek, the jagged bristle of his beard on your warm skin. Like running your hand under water, unable to tell whether it’s scalding hot or freezing cold – there is no saying whether you’re so used to him now that the feel of him is unaffecting, or entirely all-consuming. There’s no middle ground. Not anymore.

“I know –” You sigh, your voice swollen with a soft cry. There’s no stopping the tears anymore. They just come. “I know you think you should’ve known better. But I am so fucking glad that you didn’t.”

It’s done nothing but pour all day. You woke up this morning to the rain battering against Joel’s window, your body hooked against his by his arm.

Day four. Still no call, no text, no nothing from your dad. You haven’t exactly returned the favor – the closest you dared was having Sarah drive you to your house while he was at work so you could dip into the hallway, grab your car keys, and drive straight back to Joel’s. You pulled up in his driveway alongside each other and she rolled her window down, checking your expression before snorting.

It’s like a damn Mission: Impossible film, she jested.

The pain feels blunter, more distant than it did on Saturday. Like your father has bowed his head, faded some into the dark background of upstage. You realize, a few days in – the movie nights and the meals homecooked by three chefs; the way Joel’s scent starts to become yours, his T-shirts hanging loose over your shoulders and his boxers snug against your hips – that you forget to check on the shadow of your dad. Forget the spot he once stood in, the thunderous cloud cast over his head. The same one that so regularly used to pour rain over you.

Sarah went out with her friends a few hours ago. She called to say she’d miss dinner, so you and Joel ordered Chinese. You’re sat with your legs in his lap picking away at some noodles, scrolling mindlessly on your phone while he catches up on some baseball highlights show.

“Fuckin’ – idiots,” he mumbles, fork angrily picking at rice.

Your eyes don’t lift from the Instagram caption you’re reading. “Fuckin’ idiots,” you flatly agree.

Joel’s head turns. “Alright, Miss Big Rangers Fan. I remember a time you pretended to be into ‘em to get my attention.” He attempts to grab your phone, and you swipe it from his grasp.

“Shut up,” you giggle, grabbing hold of your takeout box. “Joel – be careful!”

He snorts, settling back into the couch, changing the TV channel. You give his thigh a little kick, tugging your blanket up. As the TV switches from one showing to the next, your phone buzzes.

You glance down, chopsticks halfway to your mouth, and freeze.

Dear Candidate…

“Joel.”

“Hm?” he asks, eyes glued to the flickering screen.

“Joel.”

“Yes, darlin’?”

You unstick your stare from the phone, looking up to meet his perplexed expression. “They got back to me.”

He squints for a second before the remote is dropped to the cushion. “And?”

“I don’t know, I just saw the first line.”

“Open it, baby. C’mon. Whatever it is, you gotta know.”

“You know what,” you shrug, “I’m good. I don’t need to know. It’s all good.”

“Hey.” Joel snaps his fingers scooping your gaze from the floral, bohemian name on the header of the email and up to his own. “Open it, or I’m kickin’ you out.”

You mock gasp. “You’d put me out on the streets?”

“Worse. Put you back to your dad’s. Now open the email.”

Your thumb trembles as it hovers over the screen, one tap away from the biggest change in your life since you left for New York. Like it’s five years ago, and you’re sat in front of your laptop, psyching yourself up to open the response to your college application.

“Okay,” you breathe, slamming your thumb down. Joel leans in, staring at the screen from upside down.

It swipes across and your eyes flit down, focusing hard on the sentence beneath the opening line. You blink rapidly, waiting for the wash of tears to clear and dissolve it to Unfortunately, or After careful consideration, or We appreciate your interest.

But it never does.

Invite to interview stares back up at you, waiting for your face to break. Expectant, a little nervous. Jittering inside your shaking fist. Joel breaks first, when he spots it.

He almost throws his food onto the coffee table, taking your container from your hands and bundling you up in his. He pulls you into his body, presses heavy kisses to the crook of your neck as you laugh, your entire body quaking with joy and terror and relief and anxiety.

“What’d I tell you?” he says, kissing you roughly. “I knew it, babygirl. I knew you would – Fuck, I am so fucking proud of you.”

“It’s just –” sniff, “– it’s just an interview, remember. I might not get it, in the end.”

Joel shakes his head. “I don’t care. You’re a damn sight closer to gettin’ it than you were three days ago.”

You sit for probably twenty minutes, laughing and then weeping and then laughing again – until the food is cold, there’s a new episode of South Park rolling on TV, and Joel’s T-shirt is soaked with your tears.

“I gotta call Sarah,” you whisper, finger sifting through his hair. Your head buried in his neck, your knees either side of his hips.

“She’s going to lose her fuckin’ mind,” he mumbles into your shoulder, laughing to himself. “She’ll sit off-camera in the corner of the room, so they can’t see her, ‘n hold up cue cards.”

You giggle, letting it dissipate into something weaker, something unconvinced. In a small voice, you say, “We just got one step closer to being four states apart.”

He looks up at you, curving a hand around your jaw, and pulls your lips against his. It’s slow, tender – his every thought and feeling translated into physical movement, transformed into a spin of butterflies in your chest.

When you pull away from him, smiling dumbly, he clips your cheek. “That scare you?”

You hesitate, afraid to tell him the truth. But it’s Joel. He knows every thought that passes through your head. You nod, eyes filling with a salty sting.

“Why?” he asks.

You glance out to the street. “’cause I love you. I don’t wanna leave you.”

Joel nods. Considers it. Then says, “You know why it doesn’t scare me?”

You lift your eyebrows in response. Why?

“Because I love you. And we are gonna be just fine.”

And you believe him.

#joel miller #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #the last of us #tlou #tlou fic #dbf!joel miller #dbf!joel #joel miller smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal joel miller #cowboy like me

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superbat-love · 7 months

Text

Bruce lay on the bed with Batman-themed bedsheets, his head resting on the bat-shaped pillow, surrounded by all kinds of Batman merchandise. He stared at a large life-sized poster of Batman above him on the ceiling, currently questioning his own life choices. It seemed a little strange to be hooking up with someone while having his own secret identity glare accusingly at him, but he supposed that there were weirder kinks out there.

The door creaked open and Clark stepped into the room, wiping away the excess water dripping from his freshly washed hair. Bruce sat up on the bed.

“Umm, I hope you don’t mind all my…stuff. As you can probably tell, I’m a huge fan of the hero.”

Bruce smirked flirtatiously at him. “I find it cute actually. How about we pretend that I’m Batman tonight? You can be the big bad villain that I’m apprehending.”

Clark looked sheepish. “I don’t think I’d make a convincing villain. Can I be another superhero? Maybe…Superman?”

Bruce’s smile faltered. Shit, he didn’t think the reporter would want to roleplay as the man whom he actually had feelings for. In the dim lighting of the apartment, the man even had a similar build as his superhero partner and could pass off as him. But this would only be a one-time thing right? Superman would never need to know. Bruce could write this off as temporary insanity caused by his own sleep deprivation.

“Well,” Bruce dropped his voice to a lower register, watching Clark shiver at the sound of his voice and standing up straighter. “Why did you call me here Superman? This better be good.”

Clark slowly approached the bed. Even the careful way he moved, like he was somewhat afraid of scaring him away if he moved too fast, was reminiscent of Superman.

“I don’t truly know why myself,” Clark answered. The look in his eyes was so earnest and hopeful that it hurts. He looked at him as though Bruce was really the Batman that he admired. He was, but Clark did not know that.

Clark took Bruce’s hand in his, and Bruce nearly flinched at the affectionate gesture. “But…I’m really glad you’re here with me tonight Batman.”

#secret identities #secret feelings #mutual pining #clark the batman geek #roleplay #dc headcanon #dc fanfic #drabble #text post #superbat #dc #superman x batman #batman x superman #superman/batman #batman/superman #superman #batman #clark kent #bruce wayne

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spookykoolkat · 8 months

Text

kinktober | sorry about your boyfriend - e.m.

kinktober day ten - phone sex

pairing: eddie munson x plus size!reader

wc: 3.45k

summary: when you had plans made for halloween night already, eddie was alone once again. but that didn't stop him from having his own fun, until his phone rang with your contact listed.

warnings: 18+ ONLY! minors are never welcomed! inappropriate thoughts, memories from a past hookup, masturbation (m and f), mentions of breeding, crude language, dirty talk, infidelity (reader cheats on boyfriend *again*), possessiveness,

reblogs are encouraged! i hope everyone enjoys this! feel free to like, comment and reblog everything is appreciated :P sorry 4 being so late :(((

⛧°｡⋆༺♱༻⋆｡°⛧ °｡⋆༺♱༻⋆｡°⛧°｡⋆༺♱༻⋆｡°⛧°｡⋆༺♱༻⋆｡°⛧

HIS OPPORTUNITY WAS PERFECT. eddie’s roommate left for the night, leaving him alone in the crappy apartment, it was halloween and he had zero plans after you canceled on him. his options were to watch a movie, go to sleep, or think about you.

he couldn’t even try to not think of you if he wanted to. it was only one night when the two of you hooked up, and it never happened again. it was almost six months ago when you and eddie ventured to a friend’s birthday party, drinking a little too much and finding each other at the bathroom door.

things were said, things that neither of you could take back, but somehow the two of you completely bypassed it. accepted that it was a one time thing, that friends aren’t supposed to do that, and you even tried to convince eddie that he wasn’t attracted to you.

which he thought was ridiculous. because eddie would’ve kissed the soles of your dirty shoes if you asked him to.

you’d been on his mind since that night, questions in his head that he never got the answer to, the way your body felt around him, on him. he never knew someone could be so perfect for him, how he found someone to connect with on every level.

so he thought about you as he laid in bed, eyes at the ceiling and hand palming his half hard cock through his blue plaid pajama pants. wondering if you’d ever give him the chance to fuck you sober, if you’d ever think about him when you touched yourself.

he didn’t even know how vocal you were until that night, seeing a side of you that he got angry at when he thought about anyone else seeing that side. seeing the way you bounced for him, how your body curved and was marked with beauty and stretch marks.

he was trying to remember what your cunt felt like again, remembering how juicy you were for him — he felt like he could lick between your folds for hours.

soon, he shimmied off the clothing that constricted him and pushed them to his ankles before spitting in his hand and lathering his length with it. he was thinking about how you looked when you saw him, saw how he throbbed for you.

eddie pulled down his jeans clumsily, releasing the aching member you craved to see. the minute it sprung out for you, red and leaking with precum, you let out a soft gasp and a moan.

“eddie,” you started as you shifted on your knees, your hand cupping his balls and moving to grip him at the base of his cock, eyes darting wide eyed between his cock and his eyes, “you’re so big,”

“so pretty,” you smiled and bit your lip, watching as he let his mouth hang open and breathing heavily before letting your mouth connect to his tip, licking up his precum and giving his tip small kisses.

he groaned, wishing he could feel your throat again. it was killing him, seeing you with this new guy you said was the one. the anger and jealousy eddie felt was sinful, knowing that nobody would be good enough for you. not even himself.

it wasn’t until eddie bucked his hips into his fist when his phone rang obnoxiously, eddie’s heart racing as he used his free hand to pick up the cellphone and look at the screen.

it was your picture you chose for the contact, and your name flashing. he could practically feel his cock throb at the sight of you.

“h-hello?” eddie breathed, realizing he hadn’t been talking since he laid in bed.

“hi eddie,” you smiled through the call, “i just wanted to tell you happy halloween, i’m sorry i couldn’t make it,” you sighed.

“i went to a party, i’m a little tipsy but i’m home. i just wanted to call you.” your voice was raspy, how it usually got after you smoked weed.

“you okay? do you need me to come stay with you?” eddie worried, his grip still on his hardened cock.

“no! no, no that’s okay. just wanted to hear your voice,” you admitted with a blush, the small amount of alcohol you consumed causing you to fluster as well.

“you like my voice, sweetheart?” he asked, something darker in his tone than you expected, but loved anyways.

you could admit the crush on eddie was ridiculous. until he did and said things like that, the way he did, and it made your thighs clench.

“you have a nice voice eddie, okay?” you said, finally stripping out of your clothes and deciding to just lay naked in bed.

“tell me moreee,” he dragged with a smile, slowly pumping his length as you spoke into the phone.

he knows it’s wrong. he knows it’s foul and sick. perverted even.

but did he care? not right now. not when you sounded so fucking sexy just by talking to him, in your sleepy high voice.

snuggled up in your blankets, you press the phone to your ear and smile at the wall in the darkness. “there’s a lot i like about you, eddie, can’t name them all.”

eddie’s heart twinged, and his cock throbbed.

“i have all night, sweets,” eddie breathed into the phone, trying to mask the pleasure he was inflicting on himself because of you.

you weren’t sure if you were hearing right, or if maybe it was just the cell reception, but you could vaguely hear the tremble in eddie’s voice and something that sounded wet.

“well, i like your voice, and your taste in music, and… mmm… your hands, those are nice. i also like your hair even though you won’t let me touch it.” you pouted and he could hear it through the phone, only making him think of how you pouted after he fucked your face.

it was magical to eddie. how could he forget the way your wide eyes stared up at him with spit traveling down your chin, the way you gripped his cock and wanted to suck him off more.

he let out a small groan, one he thought he concealed as he pumped his cock faster, feeling his precum leak down his shaft.

“you like my hands?” again, breathy and hoarse as he tried to keep composure.

“i do.” you smiled. you were intentional with your words.

you remembered telling eddie that when a girl compliments your hands, she isn’t admiring the fact that they’re nice. she’s saying they’re nice because she’s thinking of the ways your fingers would feel inside of her, or just touching all over her.

and he remembered it too.

“i like yours too,” eddie breathed and your face heated up, drowning in redness.

“i like your arms too, seems like all the guitar playing you do pays off.” you smiled and hearing the rasp in your voice made his cock jerk, stroking himself firmer and at a bit of a faster pace.

“did you have a good time tonight, sweets?” he asked, trying to keep it together even though he was trying to picture what you looked like. if you wore the dress that didn’t require a bra, pressing tight against the curves of your breasts and perfectly fitting them.

eddie knew your bra size, of course he did. he managed to rummage through your top drawer, seeing the panties and bras you had. he was shocked at how big they really were, and you ended up catching him with the cup of your bra on the top of his head.

“i did, but i just, i don’t know. i missed you. wished i could’ve spent your favorite holiday with you,” you said solemnly, like you were actually grieving the fact that you couldn’t see him today.

to eddie, he was getting mixed signals.

“sweetheart let me ask you this,” eddie said and halted his movements, “why are you on the phone with me instead of your boyfriend after the club?”

your smiled faded, “‘cus i wanted to talk to you,”

he could hear the pout from behind the phone and bit his lip, stifling the groan you elicited from him. his hand kept stroking his length, getting closer to his release the longer he had you on the other line.

“now can i ask you something?” you asked and heard it again, the wet noise and his heavy breathing.

“g-go ahead,” he stuttered, mouthing a curse word as he failed to keep his composure.

“are you,” you cleared your throat and sat up a little in bed, “are you touching yourself?”

eddie practically felt his heart stop. his breath caught in his throat, his cock ached, but he secretly wanted this. he wanted you to ask, he wanted you to hear, he wanted something to remind you of the words you spoke to him that night.

“i, uh, no i, just, i was uh,” it was too late. eddie couldn’t come up with an excuse, and as he felt fear in his heart and mind that you’d get grossed out and never talk to him again, you cut him off before he could embarrass himself anymore.

“are you touching yourself to me?” your voice turned erotic within seconds, sounding like the same voice that cried when you came around his cock.

he just breathed in through his nose, hearing the tone and letting himself get dragged back to those memories that replayed in his mind. “yeah, i, i’m sorry i’m a fucking pervert, i just, i was doing it before you called and, i dont know, i just, i can’t stop thinking about that night and,”

he rushed it all out while taking small pauses in his own embarrassment, and waited for you to say something in return.

“i like it.”

his words stopped, but his hand only kept up his rhythm and gained more confidence with the situation.

“what about kendall?” he breathed, only out of respect. he didn’t really care.

“what about him?” you grinned behind the phone.

you already had plans of breaking it off with him, knowing you couldn’t get eddie out of your head from that night. but nothing in you felt sorry enough to not entertain eddie right now, not after you’d spent all evening thinking about him.

“he can’t fuck me like you did. just didn’t feel right picturing my best friend when he fucks me,” your voice got low, sultry and seductive in attempt to make him go along with it.

“fuck,” eddie huffed, his cock aching for your walls again, “you don’t even know how much i keep thinking about you, about how you looked when i was inside of you,”

you shift to lay on your back, pushing the blankets off of you quickly and letting your fingers trail down your body to your mound. you teased yourself lightly, letting your finger run between the fat of your pussy lips and pushing it in between to feel the slick of your cunt, spreading it to your throbbing bud.

“i miss it,” you whined, “didn’t know how to tell you i wanted you to fuck me again without being weird,”

“oh sweetheart,” he groaned, looking down at his cock and imagining it was your hand that was stroking him, “i wouldn’t have to even think twice about it, i’d do whatever you asked me to, you know that.”

you grinned, closing your eyes to hear the bass in his voice, listening to the words he spoke and felt your hole clench around nothing. you widen your legs more, letting your cunt spread and moving to rub circles on your clit.

“really? you’d fuck me again if i asked you to?” you gleamed with joy, loving his admission.

“because i really really miss you. and your dick, and your fingers. i missed feeling you stretch me out,” you whined in a moan, and eddie swore he could hear your slick through the phone.

“fuck baby, are you playing with yourself right now?” he asked and moved to sit against his headboard, spreading his bare legs to fuck his fist again.

“mhm,” you moaned, your fingers teasing your hole and prodding it with your fingertips, “need it too bad, need you to fuck me right now eddie,”

eddie was tempted to hang up the phone and drive over the immediately, nothing stopping him from going to fuck you until your shaking on his cock. but something about this, something about hearing each other touch themselves to the other person, something about the tension of being best friends and you having a boyfriend — doing something that isn’t right over the phone just added to both of your arousals.

“baby,” he said, massaging over his tip in the way that you did, “i’ll be over there in ten minutes if you really want it, i’ll do anything for you,”

you moaned at his words, feeling your arousal drip and leak down your ass as you decided to slip your fingers in with a gasp.

“yeah? you’d come over right now and fuck me?” you asked, now eddie was able to hear your cunt squelch around your fingers.

“fuck, you’re so fucking wet, yes i’d fucking go over there right now, i, i promise i’ll fuck you all night,” he grunted, his eyebrows furrowing as he tried to hold up the phone with his other hand. he spit into his palm again, and moved to rub it over his tip.

“i can just imagine what you look like right now, playing with your pussy and trying to reach that spot you know only i can reach, not even your fucking boyfriend could do,” he spit, his cock throbbing in his grip as he bucked up into his fist, “fucking useless, can’t even make his poor girl cum on his dick,”

you whined, pushing further into your cunt and flexing your fingers, trying to fill yourself like he did, “wanna be your girl eddie, want you to be the only one i touch myself to, the only one who can make me cum on your dick,”

he nearly growled, picturing you begging for him on your knees to fuck you, give you what you deserved. the image alone was sickening, making his stomach pull and tighten at remembering how you took his cock and cried for him.

“you are my girl, baby. always have been, i mean i could’ve told you that.” he chuckled hoarsely and you giggled, fingers still trying to fuck your cunt like he did.

“thought you already knew you were mine when i fucked you in the mirror, you didn’t see how fucking sexy you looked taking my dick? looked like you were fuckin’ made for me, wished i took a picture just so i could show you again.”

eddie didn’t know where this confidence was stemming from, not knowing how he even had the breath to talk to you like this but you were fucking loving it, you could feel your cunt gushing around your fingers like you’ve never felt before.

“tell me baby,” he said, feeling his release sting at his lower tummy, “how many fingers are you stuffing inside that pretty little cunt?”

“only two,” you cried, letting your cunt clench around your fingers.

“play with that clit, rub her for me, yeah? wanna hear how wet you are for me, alright baby?” he said into the speaker, slowing his hand down on his cock but still slowly stroking.

“okay,” you whined and opened your eyes, looking down at your hand as you pulled your soaked fingers from your hole and rubbed up to where your clit was.

eddie’s breathing was harsh, and he tried to quiet himself so he could hear the wet sounds of your cunt — and he was successful.

he listened to the same sounds he dreamed about ever since that night, he listened to your small whimpers and whines through the phone, the same ones that made his cock stiffen in a heartbeat.

“fuck, she’s so fucking wet for me, all for me, wish i could feel you on my dick again. you don’t know how fucking bad i wanna fill you up, how fucking bad i wanna see you cream all over my cock again,” he was panting at this point, and so were you as you rubbed firm circles on your clit until you felt tingling all over your body.

you were vibrating with pleasure, your body jerking and squirming on the mattress as you inched closer to your release and listening to eddie on the other line pant your name, and tell you how good you sound.

you could feel your back practically sticking to the sheets from your sweat, the feeling of heat creeping up your neck and down your body until your thighs tightened and squirmed.

“tell me you want me to fuck you again, tell me how bad you need me inside of that sweet cunt and i’ll come over there baby,”

“fuck eddie, please, need it, need you to fuck me and fill me up again, you’re the only one who can make me cum,” you blabbered as your arm got tight, fingers rubbing sloppier circles on your clit and between your pussy lips.

your eyes were screwed shut, remembering the way eddie fucked you from behind, watching you in the bathroom mirror. it was too much, too erotic, sending your cunt to clench as if he was inside you.

“that’s right baby, that’s my pussy, right? your boyfriend can’t fuck you like i can, so you need me to make you cum, make you feel real good, isn’t that right?” his words were so sharp, only sending shocks of pleasure through your body until you felt your hole clenching continuously around nothing.

his confidence was growing as he heard you fuck yourself, to him, for him. he was practically edging himself at this point, on the verge of cumming for you the more he heard your whimpere ring in his ears.

“yes! yes! need you eddie, only you, i’m yours baby, please make me cum,” tears were prickling at your eyes, your body heating and started to sweat as your legs squirmed to keep them held open.

“let me hear you cum for me, cum for my dick sweetheart and i’ll be over there right now, fuck you til’ the morning,” you couldn’t registar much over the slick sounds of him fucking his fist and the way his breath stuttered.

you could only imagine how he looked, almost hunched over with his dick in hand wet and sloppy just for you. you imagined how he’d feel again, remembering the way he filled you completely without even bottoming out completely. you even thought about how many times he’d jacked off to you in the span of your friendship and it only made your hips buck into your palm.

“gonna-fuck-gonna cum, eddie ‘m cumming,” you cried as you rubbed a few more sloppy circles on your clit, and feeling your lower tummy heat up as you came.

your orgasm took over your body, not having had a feeling like this since you fucked eddie. your limbs were limp and relaxed as they shook with pleasure, and you could feel coldness inch its way up your spine as you cried into the phone.

you could still hear eddie moaning and groaning at hearing you release, and you heard how he fucked his fist through the phone as he started to release.

“that’s it baby, sound so fuck, sounds so fucking pretty for me,” he stuttered, his balls taut as he let go of his shaft and watched as his cock jerked and shot ropes of his cum on his abdomen.

it was messy, just like yours was, his cum coated his tummy entirely and dripped down his sides. he didn’t realize how bad he needed to cum for you until tonight, seeing his own mess and thinking of yours. the way your cum dripped out of your hole and down between your asscheeks, eddie was craving to see it again.

his grunts were enough to send another jolt of pleasure through your body, and you moaned again as your wet fingers trailed up your tummy and rested there.

your eyes got heavy, feeling as if you were high on something and your limbs went numb. but still, something was missing.

“fuck baby,” he breathed, looking at the mess he made on himself and watching his cock start to soften.

“are you still gonna come over?” you asked softly, fixing the phone to your ear and becoming more aware of the sweat on your body.

“uh, hell yeah!”

TAGLIST

@awilderi @nerdieforpedro @cyb3rluvvxx @joelmillers-girl @pedritoferg @bethanymccauley @dirtydianaahah

comment if you would like to be added to my taglist! thank you for reading!

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flynnriderishot · 5 months

Note

Can you do a fic where the reader and her best friend gets into a car accident and the best friend dies and matt conforts her at the hospital or smt🫡 I love your ficcs!

you got me - m.s

tw: mentions of car accident, death, survivors guilt. let me know if i missed any.

a/n: i wasn’t gonna post this cause i planned on deleting this account but i figured why not 🤷🏾‍♀️

you laid in the hospital bed, unmoving as you stared at the ceiling above you.

the lights were headache inducing but you couldn’t bring yourself to look away.

your body ached but you couldn’t help but think your heart hurt more.

she was gone.

dead.

all because some idiot couldn’t stop himself from driving while intoxicated.

all because some idiot didn’t think of the lives he’d be risking if he got on the road with even a hint of alcohol in his system.

and the worst thing? he was alive.

alive and well. or, as well as someone with a broken arm and leg could be.

you could hear him screaming just a few rooms over. pleading that they didn’t arrest him, swearing on his life that he didn’t mean any harm.

whether he meant it or not, harm was made.

and your best friend was dead.

you guessed the only good thing is that you felt like you were dying too.

it sucked to think that way, you knew that.

but you didn’t know how you’d get through life without her. she was everything to you. you almost never left each other’s sides if you could help it.

and now you couldn’t.

it wasn’t like you didn’t have people there for you to help you get through this, you did.

in fact, one of them was sat in a chair next to you, eyes closed, hand gripping yours as soft snore’s escaped his lips.

you knew he wouldn’t be asleep right now if he knew you were awake.

nick and chris were in the cafeteria in search for something to fill your stomach. they knew you wouldn’t eat anything but they also knew you needed a bit of silence to let your thoughts consume you for a minute.

now you wished they hadn’t.

you sniffled as you remember your shrill screams as you begged the ambulance to help her. begged them to care for her before they even attempted to pull you out of the vehicle.

unfortunately, despite how quiet it was, your sniffles had the person next to you moving around.

it was only a few seconds before he opened his eyes, hand squeezing yours to reassure himself that you were still there before he finally looked up at your tear stained face.

“oh, baby.”

matt quickly sat up, careful not to move too much in fear that he would hurt you in some way.

you shut your eyes in hopes that the tears would stop but to no avail.

“i miss her so much, matt.”

“i know. i know you do, baby. i’m so sorry.” he had moved so he was sat on the edge of the bed, hand tightly gripping yours as it seemed to be the only part of your body that wasn’t bruised up.

“i’m so sorry.”

you lifted your free hand to wipe your tears, unintentionally being a little rough with your movements.

matt’s heart clench as he watched the love of his life break down.

selfishly, he was glad it wasn’t you that died in the accident. he didn’t know if he could live with himself knowing you didn’t survive.

his warm hand came up to wipe your tears for you, being a lot more gentle than you were.

“i’m here for you, okay? and i know that isn’t the same as y/bsf/n being there, and i don’t want to try and replace her cause god knows i can’t…”

he noticed a small smile slip before it quickly fell.

“but i am here, okay? you got me. you’ve got nick and chris too. i’m never leaving you.”

your teary eyes met his, “can i have a hug?”

his face fell, “yn, you’re hurt—“

“please, matt.”

it didn’t take much convincing as he slowly lowered himself into your arms, his lips meeting the crown of your head, a soft whispered filling the room,

“god, i love you so much.”

#sturniolo triplets #matt sturniolo imagine #matt sturniolo x reader #nick sturniolo #matt sturniolo fluff #chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo

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laiiaaa · 8 months

Note

carmy who comes home after running some quick errands, gone for maybe an hour or two to find you sprawled in, fingerfucking yourself and moaning his name? you’re just so so needy for no reason, so desperate and so loud and before carmy helps you he’s teasing you like “it’s only been an hour baby, what happened?” ^3^

(18+) oh em gee…! i may have gotten a lil carried away…sorry not sorry i just love a teasing Carm 🙈

He’s toeing off his shoes when he hears it. That long, breathless and drawn-out whine of his name, in that voice he knows so well.

“Carmyyyyy . . .”

He almost thinks he’s hearing things until it rings out again.

“Fuck, need it, oh my God—”

And he knows what he’s hearing is beyond real when he creeps up to the bedroom door left ajar, your whines only clearer now, matched with an image that has his jeans tightening: half-naked, sprawled out on the bed, chest heaving while your fingers work away at your pussy, so wet and so needy, and you’re moaning his fucking name.

You don’t even notice when he walks in, that’s how caught up you are, busy trying to feel good. Eyes closed, lip tugged between teeth, chin tilted toward the ceiling as your hips grind into your hand. His poor baby.

“Fuck,” he huffs without thinking, startling you.

You just look too good, he couldn’t help it. Is this what you’ve been doing since he left, not even two hours ago?

You gasp, though, shocked, and you close your legs like you were doing something you shouldn’t. “Carm, what’re you—when’d you get home—?”

“A minute ago,” he answers coolly, even if his face is flushed pink and his jeans are just so, so uncomfortable now as he kneels on the bed, coming closer to you. “You been like this a while, baby?” Rough palms ghost by your shaky knees, and he eyes you expectantly. “Been touchin’ yourself while I was gone?”

“I—” You try to protest, but he runs his hands down the tops of your thighs and turns your brain to mush. “Y-Yeah . . .” Pouting, you arch your back to try and get a least a little friction between your thighs, sneaking your hands beneath your shirt to squeeze your breasts.

“I was only gone a couple hours, baby, what happened, hm?” He presses your thighs apart, and it has you keening for him, a moan jumping from your throat that makes his head loll back as he tries to collect himself.

“Missed you, Bear, missed you so much . . .”

“‘S that right?” he asks, hypnotized by your pussy, all slick for him, all puffy and aching for him just because he was gone. He shifts a little closer, lets your knees fall to the side so you’re spread for him right fucking there, so his hands can smooth up and down your inner thighs while he just watches you fall apart. “Thinkin’ about what I’d do to you?”

“Mhm,” you nod your head quickly and desperately.

“Use your words, baby, c’mon.”

“Yes, Carmy, yes.” You pout up at him, brows drawn together, and you can’t help but keep babbling. “Thought about—about you touchin’ me . . . Want you t’make me feel good . . .”

“Yeah?” His eyes are blown with lust, with desire, and it’s taking every ounce of self restraint in his body not to pull out his cock and just pound into you, fold your legs up over your chest and fuck you open, have you moaning out his name and strings of fuckfuckfuck and yesyesyes until you’re coming undone, until he’s fucking you full and you’re spilling cum onto the sheets. You’d look so pretty like that, he knows, but you’ll have to work for it first. “What d’you want me to do?”

“. . . Want you t’kiss it . . .” You bat your eyelashes when you say it, oh so convincing when you add, “Please, baby . . .”

“Fuck,” he sighs, quickly moving on top of you, hands planted on the mattress when he kisses you fervently, one two three times, and again—deeper, now, and your legs wrap around his waist with a moan, like his lips are the best thing you’ve ever tasted. Your hands reach his hair and scratch at the nape of his neck, tugging on the strands when his tongue teases into your mouth, and he groans before forcing himself off your lips. He could get lost in them, your sweet and sultry kisses. Just not yet. “That what you wanted?” He doesn’t know whether the question was more for you or himself. “Wanted me t’kiss you like that?”

“Carm,” you plead softly, because as good as it was, as much as you want him on your mouth again, it’s not enough. “Want your mouth on my pussy,” you whine, though you’re sure once you get it you’ll be writhing in pleasure and coming in mere seconds.

Carmen’s jaw goes slack. “Shhhit . . .” Another quick kiss to your lips, ‘cause by now he can’t ignore how painfully hard he is in his jeans. “‘M gonna fuck you so good, baby . . .” He’s breathless as a hand grabs at your waist, soaking up your softness, his words skimming along your skin. “Gotta be good f’me, though, you gonna do that?”

“Yes,” you beg, and it sounds angelic when it hits his ears. “Please, I’ll be good, I’ll be so so so good, I promise, Bear—”

“Fuck yeah you will,” he murmurs, more to himself now that he’s working his way down your body, lending slow kisses to your jaw that bleed down to your neck, agonizing with how deliberate he’s being. “Always so good f’me—” He tugs at the collar of your shirt to kiss your collarbone, but quickly moves to push up the fabric of the rest of it to see your breasts. “Got the prettiest tits, angel . . .” And he hums deep as he shows you, squeezing and kissing at the flesh to make you buzz with pleasure.

But he can tell you’re impatient. Your hands keep running through his messy curls, pawing at his shoulders to push him further down your body, legs pressing at his sides in fruitless efforts to ease that ache between your thighs.

So he lets his kisses trail down your tummy, over your navel until he’s almost where you want him.

“Carmy,” you cry out, “Please, need it . . .”

He smirks then, committing this to memory. How cute you are, how downright needy you are, how pretty your whines sound as he skips over your dripping pussy to suck bruises along your inner thighs. God, another cant of his hips at just the right time and he’ll be coming in his jeans like a teenager.

“Shhh . . .” he coos with a soft kiss right above your clit, making his index and middle into a V to spread your folds for him to see. “So fuckin’ wet . . .”

“Yeah, ‘s all for you, Carm . . .”

He chuckles then, smiles, looks up at you. You’re gonna be the death of him.

“Don’t worry,” he assures you, breath fanning over your cunt, “I got you, baby.”

#i need this right fucking NOW #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto #carmy the bear #jeremy allen white #carmen berzatto x reader #carmy berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto smut #carmy berzatto smut #the bear #the bear fx #the bear hulu

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just-aake · 1 year

Text

Marry Me?

Pairing : Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: You "teasingly" ask Natasha to marry you at different times even though you two are not together.

Warnings: angst, brief mentions of sexual themes

Words: 919

a/n: first time writing and posting something like this

“Marry me?”

Natasha quirks her eyebrows unamusedly as she pins your body to the training mat for the third time in a row.

Not the best moment for such a proposal you have to admit. You were drenched in sweat and completely out of breath. Your whole body was screaming in pain with areas that you know will definitely feel sore later on.

Meanwhile, above you, Natasha still looks as composed as when you both started the training session. With her red hair tied back, letting you see her green eyes, always focused and confident, and a slight sheen of sweat on her face, giving you a small satisfaction that you actually gave her a challenge.

You let out a breath in awe as you stare up at her.

She’s so beautiful.

Her lips curl into a small smirk as she moves away, standing up again. Her hand stretches out towards you.

“Sure…if you ever land a hit.”

You groan as she pulls you up for another round.

Within minutes, you are thrown back to the ground with your breath knocked out of you again. You wave your hand in surrender as you lay flat, your body unwilling to move anymore.

“I think I’m done,” you breathe out, staring at the white tile ceiling above.

Turning your head to look at her, you watch as Natasha walks to the other side of the room, collecting her things. She takes a drink from her water bottle, and you can’t help but be captivated by the sight.

“Better luck next time,” Natasha calls out as she exits the training room.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

“Marry me?” you moan as you take another bite of the dish Natasha made for dinner at the Avengers Compound.

Natasha rolls her eyes as she hands you a napkin to wipe your mouth.

Around the table, the other members are amused by your comment.

Tony laughs and wriggles his brows at Natasha and you, teasing, “Oh, when’s the wedding?”

Meanwhile, Thor looks between you and Natasha in confusion, “I was not aware Y/N and Natasha were in a relationship.”

His comment makes Tony laugh harder which earns him a hard kick from the red hair avenger, knocking him off his chair and to the ground.

“We’re not. She’s just playing around. Right, Y/n?” Natasha looks at you, brows raised, expecting you to back her up like you always do.

You give her your most convincing smile, hiding your feelings perfectly.

“Right”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

“Marry me?” you murmur against her lips as she brings you in for another deep kiss.

Natasha has you pressed against your bedroom door, her body pinning you in place. You moan against her mouth when you feel her tongue enter yours, deepening the kiss.

Before you realize it, she maneuvered you through your room, and your back hits your bed as she moves on top of you.

Never once breaking any contact. Natasha’s hands are all over you, removing all of your clothing and leaving a warmth and fire everywhere she touches.

And when her hand moves down your body and between your legs, your previous words are forgotten by both of you as you scream her name in pleasure.

Later that night, you fall asleep with her body wrapped around yours, her arms around your waist holding you tightly against her chest.

In the morning, you wake up alone.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

“Marry me?” you cough out, feeling your blood drip down the side of your mouth. You feel the pressure of her hands press down harder against your wounded stomach at your words.

Natasha doesn’t look at you. Her eyes focused on keeping your blood in your body as she yells into the comms.

“Steve, Y/n needs help! Now!”

You can still hear shooting from the battle outside.

You’re positive the rest of the team’s having a tough time breaking through, especially to get to your position.

Your body feels weak and in pain. It reminds you of that day in the training room with Natasha. The memory reminds you of Natasha’s words.

With your remaining strength and a lot of effort, you slowly raise your hand and let it fall against her hands in a light slap.

She finally looks at you at the contact. Her usual red hair is matted gray with dust and dirt from the battle. Her green eyes now shining with unshed tears and her face is pinched with worry as she looks at you.

She’s still the most beautiful sight you’ve ever seen.

You give her a small smile as you whisper, “I landed a hit…”

Your eyes slowly close with your vision fading to darkness as you see her face change to panic. The last thing you remember is the feeling of warmth of her hand on yours and the sound of your name from her lips.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

“Y/n…,” Natasha’s words echo softly in the room. The sound of your slow heartbeat monitor beeps in response.

She’s sitting next to your bed, clasping your hand in hers as she watches the small rise and fall of your chest, reassuring her that you were okay.

You were still alive.

The doctors say they are not sure when you will regain consciousness, but it didn’t matter.

Natasha was not going to leave your side. Not until you wake up and give her an answer.

Natasha brings your hand to her lips, pressing a soft kiss there, before whispering against your skin, “Marry me…?”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: thank you for reading! Side Story : Love in Red

Part 2

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff imagine #black widow x reader #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff angst

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lowkeyerror · 8 months

Text

A New Victim pt2

Sam Carpenter x Reader

Word Count: 1.6k

Notes: Will contain suspected Scream warnings eventually

Summary: Now you're a character in the story. It doesn't sit well with you.

Part 1 | part 3 | Masterlist

“ No, she’s lying,” Chad dismissed your claims immediately. “ Remember what she said at the park. This is a fucking prank. It’s not real. He’s not he-“

“ Chad,” Mindy cut him off. “ Look at her.”

It was clear to everyone in the room that there was something wrong with you. That whatever emotions you were feeling were real.

The other selling point was that Sam herself was convinced that you were being honest. She was the most skeptical one of the group. However, there was no doubt in her mind that you were not deceiving them.

“ I was on my way home after you guys left. It felt like someone was watching me. I thought I was going crazy, but then I looked around. He was across the street, watching me. He dragged his finger across his neck. I felt like I couldn’t move that’s when Sam bumped into me,” you recounted the events clearly.

“ He was watching us at the park,” Tara deduces.

Sam rubs her forehead, “ It probably looked like we were close. So the killer grouped you with us.”

“ What does that mean?” The fear in your voice made everyone at the group look at you with pity.

“ Welcome to the freak show,” Mindy says.

Anika shoves her girlfriend,” It means, that you’ve just got a bunch of new friends.”

“ Am I going to die?”

They group all share looks.

Sam puts her hand on your shoulder. There’s a fire in her eyes as looks at you, “ No, you’re not going to die. In this group we protect each other and that includes you now “

“ I think you should stay here for awhile Y/n,” Tara speaks softly.

You nod, still unable to fully process what this all means.

“ In the morning we can go to your place and pick up some of your stuff, ok?” This time the older Carpenter sister speaks to you.

You nod again. Your moments away from slipping back into the trance that you arrived in. Sam squeezes your hand lightly pulling you back into the light.

“ Y/n?”

You shake your head and stand abruptly, “ Can I use your bathroom real quick?”

Sam eyes you but agrees to take you, “ Follow me.”

Instead of escorting you to the public bathroom, she leads you to her room. You stand awkwardly as she rummages through her drawers.

She hands you some sweatpants and a t-shirt, “ Here, you can use my bathroom. Have a shower and um if you’re tired you can sleep in here.”

“ Thanks,” you’re grateful for the offer.

Usually you’d take a long shower, but you had a sense of paranoia about you. You were in there for less than 5 minutes.

Sam’s clothes feel big on you. They smell like her and that brings you some comfort. You quickly exit the bathroom to find her bedroom empty.

You stare at the bed for a long while debating on whether if you should lay there. You decide against it, thinking about where Sam would sleep if you were to take her bed.

You grab a pillow off her bed and then lay on the hardwood floor. Sleep wasn’t going to come easy after the day you had. So you stared up at the ceiling trying to think about anything, but the killer.

“ Why are you on the floor?”

You turn to loom at the dark haired girl, “ I thought it’d be weird to take the bed from you.”

“ We’re going to share the bed,” Sam wasn’t asking or suggesting, she was telling you what it was going to be.

She extends her hand to help you off of the floor. You hesitantly grab it and she yanks you to your feet. Her grip is much stronger than you expected.

You slip into the bed, which is ten times better than the floor. Yet, you still don’t see yourself sleeping any time soon.

“ I’m going to shower really quick and then I’ll join you, ok?”

“ Ok.”

You want to wait for Sam. When she comes out you’ll go to sleep. That’s what you convince yourself. However it was far from the truth.

When Sam gets out of the shower and into the bed your heart rate spikes. She's so close, she smells like vanilla, her skin is ever so slightly touching yours.

“ Y/n,” she says your name gently.

“ Hm.”

She turns so her body is facing yours, “ You need to rest.”

You sigh, “ I can’t.”

“ You’re safe here.”

You shake your head, “ How can you be so sure?”

Sam grabs one of your hands. Her hands aren’t soft like you imagined. They are worked and rough, but for some reason that brings you comfort.

“ I’m not going to let him hurt you.”

“ He doesn’t want to hurt me, he wants to kill me.”

Your anxieties begin to rise again. It almost feels like you’re seeing him across the street again. He’s watching you and waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

“ Look at me, Y/n.”

There’s something behind her eyes. It almost scares you. It’s dark and nearly sadistic.

“ I’m not scared of Ghostface. It doesn’t matter who is behind the mask because it always ends up the same for them. Dead or in jail. I will make sure of it."

You want to ask about the first time, but you decide against it. Instead you just nod at the woman’s words. However Sam could still feel the anxiety coming out of you.

She was hesitant, but you wouldn’t have been able to tell. Her hand intertwined with one of yours. The feeling of her hand in yours causes you to blush. Something you hope that Sam doesn’t take notice of in the dark. She does, but she doesn't comment on it. She’s trying to process her own feelings of warmth.

You squeeze her hand lightly as a thank you and it makes her smile a bit. It’s somewhere in the softness of that moment that Sam decides she’s going to protect you no matter what it takes.

Taglist: @aiakuma @idkwhatiamdoingherebro

#lowkeyerror #samantha carpenter x reader #samantha carpenter #tara carpenter #chad meeks martin #anika kayoko #mindy meeks martin

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saintwyfe · 1 year

Text

࿐ ˚ . ✦ SKINCARE. jude bellingham

summary. begging your boyfriend to do face masks together

cw. none, fluff

word count. 1054

after scrolling through tiktok and coming across multiple videos of couples together (specifically doing face masks and skincare), you had the bright idea of bothering your boyfriend, jude.

"juuuudeeee," you flung yourself onto the boy next to you, who’d also been on his phone.

"what, babe?" he replied, his eyes still preoccupied by what seemed to be some sort of mobile game.

"let’s do face masks together," you whined, stretching your arms to move the phone from his face, attempting to steer his attention toward you.

he shot you a critical glance while dodging your attempts to fling his phone. "uhm…" he paused while tapping away, "let’s do it later."

you scoffed, "i can’t do it later, though." you sat up from your previous position, "please, babe. it’ll be so much more fun than your game."

"mhm, for sure," he chuckled, contesting your statement. you rolled your eyes in annoyance..

"what’s so fun about it, anyway? it looks so... boring. you’ll have so much more fun doing masks with me." you queried, wiggling yourself next to him to see his screen. "yeah, this cannot possibly be fun at all," you added.

watching as he’d been fixated on his phone, he let out a quick mutter, "you raid people’s stuff. it’s actually really fun," he replied.

you scanned the game for a few more seconds before letting out a dramatic huff, turning to the side, and prated, "hmph, why does my dear boyfriend, whom i love so much, hate me?" you flung your hand to your head, imitating some sort of terrible monologue.

his head tossed over to where you’d been hurling. "what? i never said that. that’s nonsense," he retorted in defiance.

you shook your head, "that’s what you’re implying, though."

"how?" he sneered, unimpressed by your exaggeration.

"because, you don’t want to spend time with me, so what can that mean other than that you hate me?" you responded, turning back over to him.

"that’s not true. i actually love you, very much," he replied, "plus, are we not spending time together right now?"

"i mean, yeah, but doing this would be so much more fun. and memorable," you jabbed. "plus we can run a bath or make cookies or something," you cooed, clasping your hands together.

he sighed, placing his now shut off phone next to him, "i don’t want to get out of bed, though."

you stared in disapproval at his uncooperativeness before hunching over to his side of the bed, "you’re actually so lazy." pulling onto his lengthy arm, you did your utmost to try getting him out of his aloof position. him being so heavy obviously outweighed this attempt.

"jude, just get up," you whined, ceasing your efforts. a small moment of silence followed as you eyed him dozing off at the ceiling.

"fine," he gave in, departing from the bed. you let out a small cheer after all of your hard work and dedication.

scurrying to your bathroom, you quickly scanned through the cabinets for the appropriate supplies: cleanser, serum, clay masks, moustrizer… because you weren’t just doing face masks. of course, it'd only be right to do an entire routine, of course, even though he didn’t deserve it after all that tedious convincing.

"are you making it or something? why is there so much stuff?" he inquired, head tilting.

"uhh, yeah…" you drawled, trying not to suggest anything that’ll make him turn away. "wait, let me grab something for you." you dashed to your vanity, grabbing your hello kitty headband and concealing it behind your back.

"oh no, what is it," he cried.

"shh, just close your eyes," you instructed, snickering while fetching the scrunched headband over his head. instinctively, his eyes fluttered open, mouth dropping. "y/n, take this off. i look so dumb," his mouth agape while skimming himself in the mirror.

you chuckled away as you tried to snap a picture. "you look like such a pretty princess."

he shot you a glare before shaking his head, "please, take this off."

"no, no, it’s fine, it’ll be quick," you snorted, still trying to relive his reaction, "c’mon, let me wash your face."

you turned the tap on, pumping your favorite cleanser into your hands before rubbing them together, creating a soapy mixture when mixed with water.

"turn toward me," you commanded, rubbing your hands on his face in a circular motion, but obviously struggling a bit because of the height difference.

"you’re so damn tall," you murmured as he sneered, "not my fault you’re so short." he teased as his arms cradled your waist.

"okay, rinse your face now," he nodded, turning toward the sink. you quickly reached for the cleanser, repeating your previous actions.

after cleansing both of your faces, you grabbed your favorite clay mask, twisting the cap before turning to your boyfriend beside you. with a brush, you dipped into the container before painting his face, leaving it a shade of teal.

"i look so ridiculous right now," he stifled a laugh as you covered his forehead in the paste.

"ridiculously cute," you prompted, teasing him.

he chuckled before flinging himself inches from your face, "oh yeah?" his taunting immediately made you laugh before he pecked his lips against your cheek, leaving bits of blue residue on your face. you pulled away, giggling.

"stop, i was just kidding." you cocked your head to the side, "i meant to say ridiculously ugly," you mumbled.

"hm?" he chirped. "nothing," you said, clearing your throat before turning back to apply your mask after being distracted. he rolled his eyes as he watched you run the paste onto your face, as well.

after covering the last piece of skin, you finally placed the container on the counter before muttering, "20 minutes, okay?" earning a nod from him. "let me take a cute picture, though." you grabbed your phone, opening the photos app, and snapped away. his poses did not disappoint, though he seemed to be annoyed just 10 minutes prior, he’d been throwing up peace signs, winks, and duck lips. you found yourself surprised at the sudden interest, but you realized great minds think alike (skincare & selfies>his dumb mobile game).

"ooh!" you suddenly blurted. "let’s make tiktoks while they set." you smirked. he sighed, but ultimately knew there was no way out of this.

an: gamer bf skincare gf trope 😜 expect more ffs soon i'm gna make it a goal to stop slacking + tysm for all the love on my last post ❥

#jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham imagines #jude bellingham imagine #football fanfic #football imagine #jude bellingham blurb #jude bellingham fluff #football imagines #jude bellingham fanfic #jude bellingham

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greatlydelirious · 1 year

Text

𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞

Kratos x F!Reader

wordcount: 4.1k words

summary: Two lost souls find comfort in each other’s company.

warnings: slow-burn, falling in love, angst, fluff, bedsharing, lore heavy

a/n: This is a teaser of a scene between the reader and Kratos in the giant fic, “Of Gods and Men” that I’m writing. This is my “proof of concept” for you guys that I’m actually working on it. (The reader is OC in regards to some characteristics, but skin color is not specified.)

“…There is the heat of Love, the pulsing rush of Longing, the lover’s whisper, irresistible—magic to make the sanest man go mad.” - Homer, The Iliad

Voices ignite like fueled flames outside Kratos’s bedroom as someone enters Sindri’s home. Not just anyone can stir up that much ruckus though. The arrival of Kratos always elicited a flurry of questions and action. Despite your want to check on the god you don’t move from your supine position on the hard bed.

You continue to count the cracks in the ceiling above as if the number you came up with would unearth some deep truth within yourself. Time became a foreign concept as you tried to convince your body to relax. Sleep is elusive to you despite your mind’s craving for rest. Sindri told you, just as he did Atreus, that sleeping would make all the troubles of your mind work themselves out. Easier said than done.

That’s how you find yourself on a bed that’s not yours. One that you’ve only slept in once but couldn’t forget the feeling of. The furs below smell of him, earthy with notes of smoke and musk that remind you of the lush jungles in your home realm of Vanaheim.

Home.

It had been centuries since the last time you felt the security of such an ideal. To the dismay of your fickle heart, you felt that sense of contentment that comes with being home merely weeks ago in the arms of another. Someone you tried to remind yourself you couldn’t have. Someone who, like you, made a pact to never let themselves be kept in mind or body to another again.

It’s strange how night devolved hardened hearts into feeling such soft vulnerability. Memories have a way of burrowing deep in the brains of even those who try to forget. You’re sitting at the dining table in front of the roaring furnace. The warmth doesn’t completely stave off the coldness that stems from more than just the weather.

Sindri’s home is filled with a rare stillness, but it only works to grate on your nerves rather than bring you peace. Solace is nearly impossible to find in a world full of gods and men. Throw in the endless monsters and magic, and the notion is nothing but a fantasy for the whimsical. That you are not.

Your head darts up when a large shadow appears across the table. Wood groans as Kratos settles in the seat. It’s not often that the two of you get to sit in each other’s company alone without having other things on your mind like hunting or survival. The gripes of being a god and goddess in the opposition to the All-Father are endless.

“Can’t sleep either?”

Kratos grunts in response as he reaches for the pitcher of mead abandoned in the middle of the table. He fills the large tankard next to it to the brim before putting the pitcher back down with a weighty thump. You watch transfixed as Kratos’s adam’s apple bobs with each pull he takes from the cup.

The veins in his neck bulge and when some droplets of mead spill from the corners of his mouth, you can’t help but trail their path down his beard. For a moment you forget what was keeping you up in the first place.

“Something troubles you.”

A statement, not a question.

“I’m fine, Kratos. My woes matter not.” You feign indifference as you lean back in your chair, like his notice of your mood doesn’t make your heart leap in your chest.

Kratos leans forward, his hulking form hovering over some of the table, “Speak the truth, woman.” The word woman comes out in a growl, lingering with a threat that would never be followed through. Yet, it’s still effective enough to make you give in.

Your eyes move to focus on the expertly crafted wooden surface under your hands. Calmness is common nature for you, but something about Kratos’s piercing gaze makes you fumble to find words. Dryness coats your mouth as if your body was cursed to not utter your torment.

“I had a twin sister once. Her name was Hnoss, everyone always said we were identical, but I still think she was prettier. She…”

When your voice begins to crack you stop. Emotions you’ve suppressed for hundreds of years come bubbling to the surface. Thinking about your sister was one thing, but voicing it out loud made it all too real again. Like she’s not what haunts your dreams, but the young girl you once played in ponds and climbed trees with.

“Go on.”

The earnestness makes you chance a glance up. A small, sad smile curves your lips at the sight of Kratos’s focus trained on you. He may not say much, but he always listened. No wonder Mimir didn’t mind being stuck with the man.

“She often went to Bifröst, a rainbow bridge that reaches between Midgard and Asgard, hoping to run into our father. People predicted that Hnoss would reunite our parents. Alas, hope is not always enough to alter reality.”

Kratos slides his tankard toward you, giving you a moment of reprieve without a word. Picking it up, you swirl the amber ale with a twinge of bitterness. Normally you would say gods made pitiful fathers. That was until you met Kratos and Atreus.

The god makes a habit of surpassing expectations.

Sending a quick prayer to the lost goddess mother of Vanaheim you take a giant swig of the mead. Soft notes of bready malt accompany aromatics with a musty, oaky finish coats your tongue. A clicking noise escaped through your teeth as you cringe at the overpowering taste.

The sound of Kratos humming in approval grounds you from your wandering thoughts. You nod at him in appreciation before taking a steadying breath and continuing,

“During her visits, there was a god by the name of Heimdall who kept watch over the rainbow bridge that would entertain her with stories of old and new. One day he revealed to Hnoss that he possessed night vision and never slept. He also claimed to have existed since the beginning of time and told her tales about the creation of various things.

While our father remained absent, Hnoss was taken to Baldur's Stead to comfort her in her sorrow since it was believed to be a place where healing occurred. Baldur’s wife Nanna would often cradle her during these times of profound need. One time in particular, with Nanna by her side, Hnoss shared a strange dream she had about Queen Hela, a queen who was half living woman and half corpse. In her dream, Hela entered Asgard and declared ‘A lord of the Aesir I must have to dwell with me in my realm beneath the earth.’ Hnoss was paralyzed by fear after experiencing this dream.”

You take another swig from the tankard before handing it back to Kratos. Obsidian eyes stay locked on you as their owner downs the rest of its contents.

“What happened to your sister?”

“Hnoss was never the same after that. They say that those who use seidr magic will eventually succumb to the evils of its art. Unfortunately for her, it was true. Similar to Baldur, she died a needless death.”

And just like all of the Vanir people. Many of their lives were taken by the power-hungry Aesir for no other reason than greed. Peace in these realms always comes at a price.

“So that’s why I’m troubled, Kratos. Now my own dreams are filled by her. No matter how hard I try to forget.”

Kratos hums in acknowledgment, “I too know the pain of losing a sibling.”

Comfortable silence hangs between the two of you for a couple of minutes. The time is filled with unspoken understanding lined with a sense of melancholy.

“Drink.”

Kratos seems to present a bottle of wine out of nowhere but you don’t hesitate to accept it. Not even gods are above drinking their sorrows away. Another pitcher of mead and bottle of wine later and you’re drunk. Loose-lipped, fumbled-word, soft-legged drunk.

You’re currently giggling like a fool as you lean against the bedroom door simply staring at Kratos while he sits on his bed. When you started to create too much of a ruckus in the living room he took into his room since you refused to leave his side. You’d slap yourself in the forehead for that fact the following days later.

“Come.”

Your feet move before your mind can fully process the command. It’s as if your body is compelled to obey him without hesitation. The idea goes against everything you stand for. You ran from the one home you’d ever known and the one man that ever truly loved you, because of your refusal to submit to any man or god. Thankfully, the mead-fueled haze creeping into your brain keeps you from spiraling any further.

Kratos tilts his head to look up at you as you stand between his thick legs. A lazy smile spreads across your face and before you can think you lift your hand to cup his cheek. Although he captures your wrist, he doesn’t pry you away. Tentatively, your thumb rubs small circles into the rough flesh.

For a moment he indulges in your touch, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. You smell like vanilla with a citrus charge of tangerine and cinnamon. Something tantalizingly sweet, forbidden.

A rumbling noise emanates from Kratos’s chest when your thumb ghosts along the scar on his right eye. You wonder how he got the nasty slice. What god put it there many years ago. Unfortunately, Kratos is still a mystery to you. Bits and pieces of his life are shared sparingly through short stories during long journeys, but nothing else beyond that.

Nothing else beyond that. The four words ring in your ears. What are you doing? It’s not your right to be in his room, near his bed, and touching him of all things. You are companions, sure. Friends? Maybe. But partners? Nothing of the sort.

Any semblance of tipsiness you had quickly evaporates, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-“ You stop when Kratos brings his other hand to your hip, squeezing lightly.

“No need to explain. Not to me.”

Your hand drops when he moves to lay on his side on the bed. Kratos scoots back until his back is against the wall.

“Lay.”

When you hesitate, he pats the small space in front of him in an almost comedic fashion due to his large size, “Lay, agápi”

The word he calls you is spoken in a language you’ve never heard before, but he says it with such tenderness that it makes you slide into the bed. You start to think you’ve been sleeping this whole time when Kratos wraps a thick arm around your waist to pull you flush against his front. After three years of pining, you’re in the arms of the man you admired. The sudden realization is almost too much.

“Will you tell me a story from your homeland?”

Kratos’s silence at your abrupt question makes you huff out a laugh. Butterflies were swarming in your belly and if you didn’t do something about them you would never fall asleep.

Was it childish for you to ask for a bedtime story? Perhaps. But this might be the last time you get to have Kratos to yourself like this. You gently nudge him with your leg. It doesn’t even slightly jostle the mountain of a man, but it does keep his attention.

“Come on! An old man like yourself must know hundreds.”

After a beat, Kratos sounds almost bashful if that emotion was even possible for the god, “There’s this… poem.”

“What’s it about?

“A cunning general and a war over forbidden love.”

Ironic.

“Is it based on truth?”

“Yes, but I prefer the poem.”

You giggle at the displeasure lacing his tone.

“Can you recite a line for me?”

Kratos grunts at the way your tired eyes have you looking at him through your lashes. You’re the picture of innocence and natural beauty. It stirs something inside him that’s laid dormant for years. He would say Aphrodite’s beauty paled in comparison to yours, but you’re more than that. You’re a beauty beyond comparison wrapped in a warm light.

“I wish that strife would vanish away from among gods and mortals, and gall, which makes a man grow angry for all his great mind, that gall of anger that swarms like smoke inside of a man's heart and becomes a thing sweeter to him by far than the dripping of honey.”

You twist your head to the side to look back at Kratos. The darkness in the room keeps his features hidden yet you still can’t help but smile. A truly genuine, happy smile despite the small crookedness from your drunken state.

“Wow… I think that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say in one breath. Didn’t think you were one for lovely words.”

Kratos makes a low noise in his throat, contemplating for a moment if letting you in his room, in his bed, was really a good idea. When you suddenly snuggle back into his front, he doesn’t move a muscle. Your soft and warm against the hard expanse of his chest. The word “comforting” comes to the forefront of his mind but he tries his best to suppress the feeling.

Only to fail when you open your mouth again.

“The totality of emotions can either make or break a man. Let them in, Kratos.” Your voice oozes drowsiness encompassed by a softness you saved for his son Atreus. It’s an inflection filled with sweet sincerity and motherly care.

When a light snore reaches his ears, Kratos looks down at your face. You’re already sound asleep. His arms tighten a fraction before letting himself close his eyes. He told himself it was just for a night.

It’s never that simple.

For long seconds after you woke up the next morning you took in the sleeping man’s face. His features were free of stressed lines and his usual frown. Kratos looked even more handsome under the lull of sleep.

His arms were secured around you like a lifeline. It wasn’t a lover’s embrace, but the comfort of another person’s body aiding you both into a dreamless sleep. Although, it would be a lie if you said your heart didn’t flutter when you woke up to his face buried in your neck, the scruff of his beard making your skin prickle and heat.

You managed to slip out of the bed without waking the beast of a man. A feat when he held you so tight. When you made it to the door you chanced one more look back at Kratos, a heaviness settling inside you. For days you’ll blame your abrupt intimacy on you both drinking, but it would take oceans of alcohol to muddy the god’s mind.

Kratos never said anything about that night; never said that you helped him have the first truly peaceful sleep in his lifetime.

The sane part of your brain is cursing you for laying in Kratos’s bed like a loyal dog waiting for its master. Especially when he gave you no inkling that your presence was wanted. You’re so lost in your thoughts that you flinch when the door opens.

Kratos doesn’t falter at your uninvited presence as he shuts the bedroom door with a heavy sigh. You sit up on his bed as he takes off his armor with rough hands, letting the items loudly clank to the floor with little care. The blades go first, then his cuffs, and the axe.

Concern fills you at his sullen state. Emotions can only be bottled up for so long and Kratos was an expert at doing just that. You know he doesn’t want your help, but he needed it more than he’ll ever admit.

“You carry your burdens with you in mind and hand.” Your eyes trail to his Blades of Chaos on the floor. They act as physical reminders of the pain and suffering he caused not only strangers and gods, but the ones he loved the most.

“What do you know of carrying burdens?” His voice is gruff, but not fueled with malice.

“Don’t you remember that night?”

Guilt washes over Kratos’s features as remembrance dawns on him. The furrow of his brows and the twitch of his jaw is evidence enough. Sighing, you scoot to the edge of the bed, “I will not claim to understand your suffering Kratos, but I do know what it means to be lost. To follow your path while being confused as to why you must. To wonder why you get to live when they don’t.”

Kratos’s shoulders are visibly tense as you stare up at him. Standing up, an idea pops into your head that is so outlandish that you whisper it in hopes that he doesn’t completely hear it.

“For just one night give your burdens to me. Let me take care of you, Kratos. Someone needs to. Let that someone be me.”

A part of you doesn’t think but knows he will reject you. Especially when those eyes filled with shadows stare at yours unblinking and unwavering in their passivity. Who were you to ask for something so personal?

A love-sick fool, that’s who.

Every fiber of your being is pulled toward Kratos, but that doesn’t mean the feeling is mutual. Dejection washes over you at your boldness fueled by foolish hope. Right when you’re going to walk away, Kratos clears his throat.

“Okay.”

You blink at him like a small child would at the sight of a giant bear. Odin himself must have been playing a trick on you because you can’t believe that Kratos just accepted your proposition. For a solid minute, you stay standing with your chests inches apart.

Heat blooms in your cheeks as you become acutely aware of your closeness. Every deep breath he takes causes his taut stomach to brush against you. Your neck starts to feel the strain of having to crane back to make eye contact with him.

“Do I need to speak in even simpler words?” Kratos’s deep voice snaps you out of your gawking. Never had a man made you feel like a mere mortal; let alone make you like the idea of being overpowered.

“I-“ You clear your throat, finally letting the air dense with an unspoken tension fill your lungs, “N-no.”

Unconsciously, you rub your hands on your trousers and take a deep breath to steady yourself. “Sit on the bed.”

Kratos follows your command without question. Carefully, you crawl behind him on the bed and prop yourself on your knees. The skin under your hands tenses when you bring them up to rest on his shoulders.

“Relax. I mean you no harm. I swear.”

Your voice is just above a whisper and laced with sincerity. You begin to knead the endless knots that harden Kratos’s shoulders. The endless burdens he carries on his back would crush any mortal. When Kratos lets out a satisfied groan you have to bite your lip to stifle out a noise of your own.

Now’s not the time to start frothing at the mouth.

Instead of letting yourself turn into a pathetic puddle of suppressed desire, you opt to continue your efforts to comfort.

“We will get to Asgard. Atreus was raised by a strong man. I know he is doing more than fine.”

“A strong man perhaps, but not a noble one.”

Your thumbs travel down to press into the rigid flesh of his shoulder blades while you scoff.

“What does it mean to be noble? You are strong, courageous, watchful, full of wisdom, and give astute instruction. Those are very noble traits.”

Kratos shakes his head, “You do not know the extent of my sins.”

You sigh at the persistence of his inadequacy. How could he not see that his obvious guilt was the biggest indicator of his good heart? Your hands move to his bulky chest to lightly rub the muscles.

“We are more than the sum of our parts, Kratos. Bad deeds cannot be undone, but what we do after is what matters most. We must be better, work harder, and do whatever it takes to keep the realms from falling into chaos.”

At your words, Kratos takes hold of your wrists, “Where did you hear that?”

“I heard that from centuries of living. From reaching the lowest I could possibly go and coming out of it stronger than I was before.”

You move so you’re next to his side and only hesitate for a fraction of a second before you bring a hand to his cheek. Kratos doesn’t resist as you turn his head with the gentle guidance of your palm. Instinctively your thumb gently rubs back and forth against his rough flesh. The gesture feels different than the last time. It’s more intimate, rawer.

“You’re a good man, father, and friend, but if you continue to let the past dictate your future you will never see that for yourself.” You bring your other hand up to rest on the middle of his chest, “Open your heart. I promise it will only serve to make you stronger, not weaker.”

The way Kratos is looking into your eyes leaves you breathless. It’s almost like he’s seeing you for the first time. Not your outward appearance, but the depths of your soul.

Unlike usual, the silence that fills the room is stifling. So much so that your skin begins to heat, a humid tension that rivals Vanaheim hanging in the air. Maybe you said too much. Maybe you’re silly for spewing your opinions to a man who didn’t ask for them. Maybe this is what it feels like to love someone that’s out of your grasp.

Dejected by your imprudence you leave him with one last thought, “The totality of emotions can either make or break a man. What will it do to you?”

When you try to climb off the bed, one of Kratos’s hands shoots out to grab your bicep.

“Where are you going, woman.”

His voice is deep and reminds you of the forcefulness of booming thunder. One that shakes you more than Thor could ever make. Swallowing thickly, you advert your eyes to the ground, “I don’t want to disturb you any further.”

“Stay.”

Without another word, you let Kratos slowly pull you down on the bed. Half of your body lays on him as he rests his chin on your head. He feels safe and solid, protecting and proud. If only he can see what you see. If only he can feel what you feel.

You let yourself indulge in being in Kratos’s arms just like before and close your eyes. In seconds your body relaxes. Exhaustion mixed with the tidal wave of emotions you’ve gone through makes the perfect sedative.

Kratos watches your breathing slow as you go lax on his chest. He can’t help but admire you in the secrecy of your sleep.

The light shining through the window casts a glowing effect on your long locks, making it seem as though a halo is over your head. Your hair reminds him of the sunsets in Sparta, golden and awe-inspiring. More than that you remind him of that comforting feeling that comes with being where one belongs.

Home.

When Kratos grunts at the absurdity of his thoughts, the noise causes your leg around his hip to tighten. He carefully traces your spine with the tips of his thick fingers. You’re so small and fragile in his hold, like a mouse cuddling in a bear’s den during a frigid winter despite the looming danger.

You’re unlike any goddess he’s met before; calm, kind of heart, strong, and free from the chains of greed that comes with a being with that kind of power. You told Kratos to open his heart and be better for the future. Only one other woman told him those exact words.

“The culmination of love is grief. And yet we love despite the inevitable; we open our hearts to it. To grieve deeply is to have loved fully. Open your heart to the world as you have opened it to me and you will find every reason to keep living in it.”

An epiphany hits Kratos so hard that it causes him to hold you tighter to his chest.

You’re something to live for.

Any and all interactions are greatly appreciated.

greek translation: agápi = love

#kratos x reader #god of war x reader #god of war ragnorak #god of war #kratos #delirious masterlist

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azsazz · 6 months

Text

Keep It Up

Kinktober Day 19: Nesta x Reader [Praise]

Summary: Nesta let's you know just how good you are for her.

Warnings: Smut, fingering, FF

Word Count: 2,328

Notes: Don't come for me it's my first time writing FF.

_________________________________________

“Would you look at that,” Nesta says, blue-gray eyes drinking you in as she rounds the bed. You crane your neck, following her movements, desperate to watch her reactions, to hear those words you want to hear fall from her lips.

You’re naked, legs spread wide for her to see. Your body is flushed from head to toe, chest heaving a little as you come down from your first orgasm of the night. The one where Nesta had sat on the plush couch across the room and watched you, demanded it from you. You whimpered loudly, back arching off of the plush bed as you worked your fingers through your folds, circling your clit as you stared at her, eyes wide and nearly begging for her words.

She hadn’t given them to you. Not yet. You know how Nesta likes to play, you earn your praise like the good girl you are or you don’t get her hands, her mouth, her words. “Look at me,” and you did. “Another finger,” and you obeyed. ��Cum for me.” Yes, yes, yes.

“Please, Ness.”

Your cunt glistens in the soft lighting dotted along shelves stuffed with books. There’s no warmth in the room, not a fire in the hearth, and your nipples hurt from the tightness, the cold licking over them. You ache to have her warm mouth on them, licking, sucking, biting. Gods, you need her.

Nesta prowls closer. She moves with such grace, it’s a surprise she hadn’t been fae her entire life. With a preternatural elegance, she slowly unhooks the straps of her dress from her shoulders, revealing pale, perfect skin that dips down to her glorious, full breasts.

You hadn’t seen her in days, off on a mission in the Winter Court on Rhysand’s command. It hadn’t been anything terribly serious, emissary duties with an ally of Night shouldn't have taken as long as it did, but the stipulations had changed on Kallias’ part, and you’d been told to stay within the ice palace until you could convince them to agree to your High Lord’s terms.

And you’d done it, but not without missing your mate. The crystals hanging from the ceilings reminded you of her eyes, her sharp wit and less than warm personality. It’s what you love the most about her, though, because while she may be cold and unfeeling towards others, with you, she’s different.

You get the greatest gift of all, her warmth. There isn’t enough to share with the rest of the world, so it’s mostly kept within the confines of your bedroom. You don’t mind, though, because there are often times where you don’t leave the chambers for days. And those are your favorites. And exactly where you hope this night is leading to.

“All pink and pretty for me, aren’t you?” Nesta praises, coming to kneel between your legs. She drinks in the sight of your glistening cunt, shining just for her. Your fingers are still stuffed inside of yourself, moving at a slow pace as you try to work through the sensitivity from your orgasm. “How about a proper welcome home?”

“Yes,” you hiss, spreading your legs wider for her to see the entirety of your eager, dripping cunt.

Icy fingers trail the expanse of your warm legs, from calf to bent knee. Nesta’s gaze is pinned to your weeping cunt, begging for her to touch. The softness of her stroking fingers doesn’t surprise you, she looks more enamored with how ready you are for her than anything else.

“Did you miss me, mon amour?” she questions, right as she brushes her knuckles across your throbbing clit. Her gaze finally flickers to yours, catching how your lips part to suck in a sharp breath at the feeling, your breasts rising with the action.

“I missed you so much, Ness,” you add softly, taking a moment to meet her gaze full on, nothing but honesty in your eyes. Her gaze softens, and you send those yearning feelings down the bond, diminishing now that you’re back together with your mate. “It hurts to be away from you.”

She sighs softly, a shiver working up her spine. It’s a comfort, to know that you feel the same as she does, like she’s missing a limb when you’re not around. She tends to lock herself away from others while you’re out of town, more irritable when you’re not there to keep her calm.

Nesta leans over you, pressing her lips against yours. It’s slow, soft, and sensual, everything you’ve been missing all in this kiss right here. Paired with a finger sheathing into your cunt, all the way to her knuckle, it’s everything.

“We’re together now, mon amour, let’s make the most of it.”

She knows exactly what she’s doing, too. How to work your clit in tight circles, the quickest way to get you to reach your orgasm. You whine. You don’t want this to be fast, you want all of her attention on you all night, and the morning, and the entirety of your time until you’re whisked away on another mission from Rhys.

“Ness,” you mewl, eyes wide and pleading.

Her chin is lifted, eyes looking down at you and she jerks her fingers faster, twisting them to brush across the bundle of nerves you’re crying out for her to touch. Her pose exudes dominance, even though there’s no one else she needs to be proving this to, with you pinned by the movements of her fingers, it’s pretty clear what role you’re playing in this sexual act.

“Don’t hold back,” your name is a demand on her lips, and the tightness coiling through your cunt tells her that you’re trying to keep yourself from cumming, all to keep her fingers inside of you a little longer. “Cum for me, and I’ll give you my face.”

Her words make you explode, fingers digging into her soft skin as you cling to her, trying to claw your way through the dark. Your mind is muddled and Nesta keeps up her quick actions, sliding her fingers in long strokes, working you through that incredible feeling coursing through her body until you’re limp in the bed, unable to open your eyes.

“That was…” you trail off because you can’t find the words. Incredible. Magnificent. Extraordinary.

“You’re doing so well for me, mon amour,” Nesta says, finally leaning down beside you. Your naked bodies press tightly together as you roll, facing her. Her eyes have gone a touch soft and she lifts the hand between your legs, hushing you softly when you whimper from the loss. You’re all wet and warm, but the ache for her never ends, not really.

Nesta lifts her glistening fingers between the both of you, pressing them against your slightly parted lips. There’s a hunger in her eyes that has you clenching your thighs again, but she’s wedging her leg between yours, and you grind down on the muscle of her thigh.

“Be a good girl and clean me up,” she says, and you don’t hesitate, sucking her fingers into your mouth. The taste of yourself floods your senses and the bond in your chest goes warm. It makes you preen, when she shows you her delight by shooting soft feelings down the tether of your souls. It’s almost as good as hearing those words coming from her lips. “That’s it, just like that.”

You moan, gyrating against her leg, soaking her skin. Your fingers find her body to hold her tightly as you do, stimulating yourself on newly formed muscles from Valkyrie training. One particular grind has you weak and desperately trying to work yourself faster.

Nesta watches you with bright eyes. When any semblance of your slick is gone from her fingers, coating your mouth, does she finally remove them, grabbing your hip and pulling you further into her body. She leans in, devouring your mouth, licking your taste as you brush your tongue against hers, giving it to her eagerly.

In a bold—needy—move, you snake your hand between the two of you, sliding between her legs to touch her. She’s warm, wet between her legs and she gasps against your mouth when you slide your fingers between her folds, brushing right up against her swollen clit. In retaliation, she nips harshly at your lip before soothing it over with her tongue.

You can be daring when you want, when you need to feel her as much as she needs you, and Nesta loves it when you do. So, you make work of it, falling into the feeling of her mouth, her thigh between your legs and your fingers between hers, working each other up as you kiss, touch, and grind against the other, a pile of tangled limbs in the middle of your plush bed.

The heat in your gut is present again, a burning through your loins that has you panting against Nesta’s mouth. “I’m—mph—I’m going to cum.”

“Louder,” she moans into your mouth, accepting it. “Let me hear you.”

Except, that she’s pulling away. And it hits you like a wave against a rocky shore, that she isn’t asking to hear your cries of pleasure, but those begging ones that you sound so fucking pretty making.

“Please, Ness, I need to—”

“Need what, mon amour? Need to cum? How? Want my mouth? My hands? My cunt?” Nesta teases, licking hot down the skin of your throat. You arch off of the bed, flattening your head to the pillow to give her more space to work. She climbs down your body, pressing her hips flush against yours as she works. You can hardly even think when she suctions a tight nipple into her mouth, laving over the nub with her tongue. She nips at them, sucks harshly, her free hand playing with the one she doesn’t have her mouth on. Your fingers bury in her long hair, caressing the nape of her neck as she works.

The bucking of your hips for friction does nothing to distract her. That’s your Nesta, hard-willed and determined. Determined to leave her mark across your skin in any way possible, love bites sucked into skin, bruises shaping your hips, teeth marks gone red with nearly broken skin. If you could tattoo her on your skin you would. Maybe you should make a bargain with her so that fantasy can come true. You want your skin, your aura, to reflect how you feel for Nesta on the inside, the mating bond thrumming with love.

“I need to cum,” you pant, but that much is obvious. Nesta licks a long stripe from your navel to the base of your throat and blows air on it. The sensation turns you dizzy. “Want to cum on your cunt, Ness.”

“I was hoping you would say that,” she grins against your skin, pulling away to give you what you ache for. She slots herself against you and you groan from the sensation of her hot cunt pressing against your own. Unable to control yourself, you roll your hips, enjoying the sound of pleasure Nesta releases as you take charge. “C’mon, mon amour. Show me what those hips do.”

Fervor consumes you. You’ve orgasmed once on Nesta’s fingers and it hadn’t been enough. To edge you further, she’d nearly had you cumming against her thigh as you rutted into her like a teenager getting off for the first time. It should’ve been embarrassing, but with the way she was kissing you, you were anything but.

The remnants of your lost orgasm creep back slowly. Nesta’s noises help a lot, and the way she’s grinding just as desperately against you, throbbing clits pressed tightly together with each stroke of your hips, adds to the building in your stomach.

You’re both so wet for each other, soaked cunts slick and noisy as you move. You bite at the skin on her pale throat as her head is thrown back and she cries out with a wail that makes your clit pulse, beating in reaction.

“Gods, Ness,” you sigh, “You’re fucking beautiful.”

She hums, pulling you closer, hands guiding your hips as you fuck against her. The position she puts you in stimulates you more, like a part of your subconscious had been holding back, wanting to fuck your mate for as long as possible.

“Right there,” she croons, lashes fluttering over intense gray eyes. “Right there! Yes, yes, that’s my good girl—”

Those words always unlock something within you. You lose all control of your body but Nesta’s there to guide you through it, soft words pressed into your skin as she encourages you towards the orgasm clenching your cunt.

“Right there!”

“If you keep making those noises, mon amour, I’m going to cum.”

You keep it up, releasing yourself and falling fully into it. You moan louder, more languid, drawing it out until Nesta is jerking against you and cumming with a cry of her own. Her grip on your body is strong, as if locking the muscles on her convulsing body will stop you from grinding yourself against her. It doesn’t. You move faster, reveling in her soft moans she makes, the bite of her fingers against your forearms. You’re chasing your own orgasm like hell, and the pool of Nesta’s hot cum that slides across your cunt is what does it for you.

“Fu-uck, Ness!” You cum with a cry and now you’re both a mess of jerking limbs and clinging to each other like the searing heat coursing through your blood is trying to separate you. You bury the rest of your noises in her mouth, needing to feel her against your mouth as euphoria wracks your body.

“So good,” she sighs, when the both of you melt into each other, the bed. She brushes a strand of hair from your face, tucking it sweetly behind your ear and presses her lips to your cheek in a chaste kiss. “So good for me.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•

Kinktober Taglist: @bunnymallowo @jeannineee@icey–stars @hannzoaks @harrystylesfan2686 @azriels-shadowsinger @alysena2 @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @impossibelle @glitterypirateduck @reading-moongirl

#nesta archeron #nesta smut #nesta x reader #acotar #azsazz #acomaf #acowar #azsazz kinktober 2023 #nesta archeron smut

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violetsaffron5 · 1 year

Text

In Another Life (1)

series masterlist • chapter 2

1 | Bliss

Pairing: Gojo x f!Reader and Geto x f!Reader

Life is great, especially after getting engaged to Gojo Satoru. That is, until you receive a letter from your future self wondering what life would have been like if you followed your soul mate, Geto Suguru, when he defected from Tokyo Tech.

Words: 3.9k

Warnings: oral sex, vaginal fingering, spit as lube, anal fingering, breeding kink, vaginal sex, creampie

an: this was originally going to be a Valentine's oneshot, but after talking with lemonlover1110 and ayyypee about the idea, they convinced me to make it a short series!

an2: this chapter starts off with immediate nsfw content

Taglist • Ao3 • Discord 18+ • Social Media • Series Masterlists

“Fuck, you taste so good.”

“Satoru, please,” you’re whining, both hands tangled in his snowy white locks, his face buried in the apex of your thighs, the place he’s been for the majority of the past weekend.

The ring on your left hand shines and gleams from the sunlight filtering in through the partially closed curtains, rainbows from the diamond fractals bouncing off the walls and ceiling each time your hand moves.

One of his arms is wrapped around your thigh, holding you in place while he curls the two fingers inside you, running them along the soft spot that’s making your legs tremble.

You’re arching your back, grinding your hips against his tongue, eyes squeezed close as the knot in your stomach grows tighter and tighter with each passing second.

He watches the way your stomach clenches each time he flicks his tongue over your clit, just the way he knows you like it, and feels the grip in his hair tighten as you try to push his face closer to your core for more stimulation.

And he does just that, because how could he deny you when you’ve been so good to him over the years, your lives falling in line with one another when you both least expected it.

He never thought his life would turn out this way, the two of you friends turned lovers, now engaged to be married. He never thought he’d take on a wife, or have a family of his own when he has the weight of the world resting on his shoulders.

But here you are, chest heaving as you reach your climax, his name reverberating off your shared penthouse walls as you moan deliriously into the open space. The swells of your breast shine from the sunlight peeking into the bedroom, engulfing you in a halo of light so bright you look ethereal.

Satoru moans too, because you’re so sweet, he can never get enough, licking through your slick folds as he removes his fingers, placing a quick kiss on your pussy before sucking his finger clean.

You’re panting, trying to catch your breath after such an intense release. Satoru lifts himself off the bed, placing a soft kiss on the plush skin of both your thighs before sucking and nipping at the skin on your hips, stomach, and through the valley of your breasts.

He settles himself between your legs, rolling his hips into yours. You gasp as his clothed cock nudges your sensitive clit causing him to chuckle. Tweaking and pinching one nipple with his fingers, he slips the other in his mouth, rolling this tongue over the hardened bud.

Satoru watches you with sparklingly blue eyes as you wriggle under him, moving your hips up to meet his.

“We’re going to be late for work,” you manage to gasp out.

He hums in acknowledgment not really caring one way or another if he’s late to his class, his students all know him well enough by now to be aware he’s never going to show up on time, a fact you’re painfully aware of too. Your students, however, are going to ask a million questions as to why you’re late.

“Really want me to hurry?” He asks, voice low, gravelly with need slipping his briefs down while turning you over so you’re on all fours, slapping your ass. You’re gripping the cashmere sheets below, he’s running his cock through your folds, circling your clit. He’s waiting for an answer, but all that’s coming out are broken whimpers.

“Maybe I should leave you like this,” he teases, reaching forward to encircle your clit gently, “dripping, waiting for me to come home tonight.”

“N-No,” you stutter out.

“Mm. Didn’t, nngh-” he moans, pushing in slowly until he’s fully sheathed, your round ass pressed to his hips, “didn’t think so.”

After rolling his hips a few times, letting you adjust to his length, he pulls back, snapping his hips into yours fucking into you with everything he has.

It doesn’t take long for you to become a moaning mess under him, it never does, with the way you’re so pliable, melting into his every touch. He’s always known, it seems, what makes you tick, all your spots that make you gasp, moan and tremble.

“Feels s’good.” Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, back in a severe arch, arms losing their will to hold you, his hands gripping so hard on your hips you know they’ll bruise.

Satoru smirks, pistoning his hips into you harder, faster, entranced by the way your ass jiggles each time he slams into you. Placing his hand between your shoulder blades and pushing down so your face is planted into the soft fabric of the sheets, ass up higher giving him a view of your other entrance.

“Oh my god,” you whine at the feeling of him being able to get deeper in this position, the tip of his cock just barely hitting your cervix with each thrust. It’s enough to leave an ache in the pit of your stomach, a delicious twinge that’s causing more slick to pool between your thighs.

The sound of moans, grunts, and sloppy wet slaps fills the open space. Satoru looks down, watching where you’re connected, the way his cock slides in and out, how you take him so well, arousal coating every inch of him; he just can’t get enough of you like this.

And fuck if you aren’t the prettiest person he’s ever seen.

He’s always thought that, even back when you were teenagers roaming the halls of Jujutsu Tech, back before you were his like you are today, with your brows knitted together, mouth agape with a small wet spot forming on the sheets below.

Just a little mess getting fucked within an inch of your life, that’s what you are.

“Look so good, baby,” Satoru groans, “doing so well, taking all of me.”

Satoru moves his hands from your hips, slapping your ass hard before rubbing small circles over the soft reddening skin. He moans at the sights, spreading your ass, giving him a perfect view of your other hole.

He gathers saliva in his mouth before letting fall, causing you to jolt away when you feel the warmth pooling on your ass before dripping down.

“Nuh uh, baby,” he says in a teasing tone, using one hand to grip your hip tighter, holding you in place so you can’t wriggle away, “gonna make you feel so good.”

He presses his index finger to the rim of your entrance, pressing in slowly, listening to the way you moan at the additional pleasure. It’s music to his ears, all staccato, a little melody you play for only him.

Your velvety walls clench around him as he works both of your holes, his finger running along your walls until tears of pleasure are streaming from your eyes, down your cheek, and onto the cashmere.

Doing your best, you rut your hips back and wiggle your hips against Satoru’s cock and hand, meeting each of his thrusts.

“Let me hear you, baby. I want the neighbors to know who’s making you feel so good.”

“Satoru, S’toru, S’toru,” you’re chanting until he reaches his other hand forward to press gently onto your clit, eyes rolling to the back of your head before you even had a chance to expect the wave of pleasure you’re feeling wash over you.

“You’re doing so good for me baby, taking me so well,” he coos you through your orgasm, slowing his movements with his hands, his thrusts coming to a halt. “Lay down baby, on your stomach.”

He pulls out causing several embarrassing whimpers to leave your lips as you do what he’s asked, laying flat on your stomach as he spreads your legs wider with his knees. He slips back in easily, laying over top of you, his weight pinning you down on the bed.

“Wanna cum like this,” he says low in your ear as he kisses the spot below your ear that makes you gasp every time. He smiles into you as he runs his nose along your jaw, down your neck, and to your shoulders.

Satoru nips and sucks at the skin in each spot, leaving little love bites in his wake. He moves a hand under your stomach, feeling the outline of his thick cock before moving his hand lower, encircling your clit again.

“I’m gonna -oh fuck- I’m gonna cum,” he’s breathing heavily next to your ear, hot breath causing shivers to run down your spin, the knot in your stomach quickly forming again from the intimate position he’s put you in, “wanna fill you up, put a baby in you.”

You gasp at his words, pussy clenching around him like you’re trying to milk him for all he’s worth, “please.”

He leans up, placing a quick kiss on the center of your back before a guttural groan rips through his chest, his release painting your walls white. It’s enough for you to find your end too, loud cries and whimpers escaping your lips, muffled by the sheets and pillows.

You lay like this for several minutes, with Satoru overtop, still inside you, he runs his nose through your hair and kisses your neck and shoulders sweetly.

Eventually, he pulls out with a wince, rolling off the bed followed by a soft groan before kissing your forehead, walking into the bathroom, and turning on the hot water.

You’re curled on the bed, basking in the glow and warmth of the sun while he showers and gets ready for work, really not wanting to get up and do more than you have to now that you’ve been so thoroughly fucked, all before 8 a.m.

Sighing, you roll off the bed yourself, feet pitter-pattering on the mahogany hardwood floor as you make your way into the bathroom when Satoru comes out, towel on his waist, heading into the closet.

Walking in, you shield your eyes from the bright lights lining the large vanity mirror, housed around his and her sinks with marble countertops. The shower is large, clear glass looking into the brown tile that lines the wall and floor of the shower. There’s a touchscreen on the outside of the door which you use to turn on the rainfall shower head with hot water.

“Hey babe,” Satoru says, coming into the bathroom as he puts his black blindfold over his eyes, “I’m gonna head out. I’ll see you later.”

“Okay, love you,” you’re smiling, standing at the door of the shower before getting in, letting him place two soft kisses on your lips, “will you bring in the mail before you leave?”

Satoru smirks, cupping your face, pressing his lips to yours for a more passionate kiss, pulling away, tugging your bottom lip between his teeth playfully, “love you,” he whispers, running his thumb over your lip before vanishing into thin air.

“Jackass.” You’re muttering to yourself, pouting, because of course he didn’t do a mundane task, such as getting the mail.

The hot water runs over your skin, loosening your muscles as you stand, water droplets running down your face, twisting the engagement ring that’s been sitting on your finger for the last two and a half days.

Satoru took you out on Saturday night to one of the most expensive restaurants the city has to offer, something he enjoys doing on occasion when he has free time from work; being able to dote on you.

Afterward, he took you to Tokyo Tech where he said he had to pick up several things he had forgotten earlier in the week.

In reality, paper lanterns had been placed on the path leading to the courtyard between buildings, and fairy lights had been strung up in and around the trees. There was soft music playing and candles perched on every rock and hard surface around, flickering in the cool breeze.

You remember looking around and smiling at the romantic setup, laid out for just the two of you.

All of the students came out from one of the nearby buildings, Nanami included, and watched with small gasps, some with tears in their eyes as they watched Satoru get down on one knee and proclaim his love for you in front of everyone, stating the last three years had been the best of his life with you by his side.

You watched in shock and awe at all of the effort he had put into the night, with wide eyes, staring into Satoru’s twinkling cerulean gaze, waiting for your answer.

And of course you said yes, because what could possibly hold you back from marrying the man you love?

There was a little part of you that hoped when he proposed it would have been somewhere quiet, private, just the two of you to enjoy the time alone. But you’ll also cherish the memories you made that night, laughing and hugging your friends and students as they congratulated the two of you.

It’s not the direction you saw your life going by any means, especially when you were in high school.

Back then, Satoru was loud and rowdy and still is to a certain extent. You were also dating his best friend, Geto Suguru, at the time and really thought you would be spending your life in the arms of a raven-haired angel, rather than those belonging to a certain white-haired menace.

It was a shock, a cold hard reality you had to face when Satoru informed you of Suguru’s doing - how he massacred his family, whom you loved so dearly, along with one hundred and twelve non-sorcerers in a small village during his final mission at the school.

Your heart and soul shattered into a million pieces, right on the front steps of Tokyo Tech that day.

The days and months to come were exceedingly difficult as well, and you had to fight the urge to run off and be with Suguru on a daily basis. Most days you could be found laying on your bed, gripping the sheets, face planted into your pillow crying your eyes out.

Though Satoru was going through his own pain and suffering at the loss of his best friend, he would come and check in on you. Hold you close and let you cry into his shoulder, soaking the fabric of his shirt, as you’d gasp for air, trying to catch your breath.

You spend countless hours forced to see the higher-ups, explaining over and over how you knew nothing of Suguru’s plans, how you didn’t see this coming or expect it from him.

And it was true. In front of you, Suguru remained his calm, loving self. Holding you close, spending his nights with you, admiring and idolizing you every chance he got.

It took many months of self-reflection to come to the realization that Suguru had been losing weight due to his mental anguish, and not because he was working out more, as he had told you.

Realizing that as time went on after the Star Plasma mission, he was holding you closer than ever before, a little tighter each night until he could no longer hold on and chose to leave, uprooting your entire life in the process.

The shared trauma of unexpectedly losing your lover and best friend brought you and Satoru closer. He was, literally, your shoulder to cry on when you needed someone the most, ensuring he was there for you in a way he didn’t realize he needed to be for Suguru.

And in return, you made sure to be there for him when he struggled too; letting him rant and rave about the higher-ups, turning into his new moral compass as he was working to figure out who he is and what he wanted to be in the Jujutsu world, aside from the strongest.

Sometime over the years, you noticed when you would see him, your heart would beat a little faster, your hands were sweatier, and you cared more about how you presented yourself in front of him.

He also began to see you in a way he never had before. The way the dresses you would wear hugged your waist and draped over the curve of your hips, how your voice was more smooth and melodic than in your teenage years; realized he found he was at peace in your presence.

One day, the two of you were grabbing a bite to eat after work. He walked you home that night, something you thought was odd of him, usually choosing to part ways after dinner.

When you got to your apartment door, you turned to say good night, his crystalline eyes flickering between your eyes and lips before he pulled you into him.

You wrapped your arms around his neck as he held onto your waist, tongues tangling and gliding along one another until you both pulled away, out of breath.

And it was awkward.

Both of you felt as if you had just betrayed Suguru, even after years of him being gone, his presence still lingered between the two of you like a ton of bricks.

It took a little convincing on Satoru’s part, but shortly after your twentieth birthday, the two of you started dating.

Biting your lip, you sigh to yourself as you finish rinsing the conditioner from your hair and stepping out of the shower, wrapping a towel around your form after drying off.

You’re as quick as you can be when you do your normal morning routine of brushing your teeth, applying moisturizers, and doing your hair and makeup before going into the large shared closet and putting on your uniform.

Before you decide to leave, you grab the mail that has been piling up since the start of your weekend that your beloved husband-to-be failed to gather this morning.

Chewing on the side of your cheek, you flip through all of the junk mail, planning on throwing it out when an envelope with a similar aqua shade to Satoru’s eyes comes into view.

Oddly, it was sent to your old apartment address, which you opted to sell when moving in with Satoru a year into your relationship, but has since been forwarded on to the penthouse.

And the writing on it looks like your own.

Knitting your brows together, you open the top of the sleeve and pull out a white sheet of paper, it even has the same scent as the perfume you use, and there are traces of residual energy on it.

Opening the paper, you read through its contents, a gasp escaping your lips as you hold your hand up to your mouth, feeling the cool metal of your new engagement ring on your lips, tears pricking in the corner of your eyes.

. . . . .

Dear younger-self,

I know what you’re thinking, “What do you mean ‘younger self’? How is it possible to send a letter to myself from the future?” and the answer is simple. I met a curse user with the ability to send items into the past, at a specific period.

I know, I know, “How did you convince a curse user of all people to help you out?”

Over the years, I’ve picked up plenty of tricks from Satoru, along with several creative ways to threaten people into doing what I need from them. And if all else fails, all I have to do is mention Satoru’s name, and most sorcerers and curse users will do as asked, in fear of him.

There are limitations with cursed techniques such as that, as I’m sure you’re fully aware of at this point in your young life. The item had to be small, no larger than a book.

A letter seemed the most obvious choice, so I could provide you with the details of my life, and the decisions I made, so it could potentially help you when you get to those turning points in your own life.

By the time you receive this letter, Satoru will have been changing over the years. No longer the cocky kid from high school, but rather a strong, confident, handsome, young man (as if he wasn't always that way), who’s beginning to show interest in you.

Our feelings for one another blossomed as we spent time with one another, without the presence of Suguru between us, however, when we first kissed, there were still lingering feelings of betrayal that manifested.

Despite that, I moved forward, into a relationship with Satoru and I wish now in my life I would have taken more time to think about what I truly wanted and needed in the future, not just in the moment.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve absolutely loved the life I’ve been able to live by Satoru’s side, and I love Satoru with every fiber of my being.

We’ve had many good years together, our wedding day and honeymoon are memories I hope to never forget as I grow into old age. Being surrounded by those we love and hold dear to our hearts has been an important aspect of our relationship and growing alongside one another.

Of course, like every relationship, we’ve faced our fair share of challenges. After marriage, we learned we were both more forgiving of the other's quirks and unreasonableness while dating.

It was as if we thought as soon as we got married, those things that bothered us wouldn’t exist anymore, which of course wasn’t the case. It seems so silly, looking back on those early arguments now, having learned along the way that communication was the key to our success.

And how could I forget the time he got himself trapped in Shibuya, relying solely on his students and friends to rescue him?

Despite this, despite knowing what the future will bring for you, I still wish when I was at that turning point in my life, I had made a different decision. I wish, rather than accepting that first date with Satoru, while my heart was still bleeding for Suguru, I would have told him I needed more time to sort things out.

And maybe then, I would have turned away and never looked back.

Because even after all this time, after everything the future holds, nothing on this planet will ever compare to the love I still hold for Suguru, even after all this time.

I can see myself rolling my eyes after reading this letter, crumpling it up, and throwing it away in anguish from the facts I’ve stated.

You’re going to be questioning if this letter is really from your future self, and how will you ever truly know that is the case?

There are so many things that happened during my time together at Jujutsu Tech. Some of my personal favorites consist of the dinners Suguru and I would cook in the dining halls when Satoru would be out on missions alone. We would cook noodles, play music, and slow dance without interruption since Ijichi and Nanami would stay cooped up in their rooms.

The times Suguru and I would sneak out of the dorms during summer, being caught by Haibara once and convincing him not to tell, just so we could walk along the moonlit beaches near Tokyo, sitting in each other’s arms watching the sunrise, just to have a little more time together before parting ways to your own classes and missions.

I hope for your sake, you can make the decision that will make you the happiest. One you won’t come to lament over time

@s-witch-bitch @watyousayin @coffee-on-a-rainyautumn @ritsatoru @faewithsnakes @lex-dear @hvziers @babybae-shisui @saiewithakatana @yihona-san06 @shartnart1 @lilith412426

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