#what you did with the eyes is just PERFECT
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Hydrate or Diedrate
Charles Leclerc x wife!Reader
Summary: after an issue with his car leaves Charles racing without water for the entire Miami Grand Prix, he wants to hydrate with something only you can give him
Warnings: 18+ content and lactation
The Miami sun beats down relentlessly as you make your way through the paddock after the race. Charles had an eventful day, managing to bring his Ferrari home in P3 despite having no water in his car for the entire Grand Prix.
You spot him being interviewed by the broadcast team, sweat still glistening on his face and his hair matted to his forehead. Though he seems coherent, you can tell he’s feeling the effects of the dehydration.
As soon as the interview wraps, you rush over and take his arm. “Come on, let’s get you out of this heat.”
Charles gives you a grateful smile. “I’m fine, I promise.”
You shake your head sternly. “Don’t give me that. You’re clearly dehydrated.” You glance around and wave over Charles’ best friend. “Can you take Jules for a bit?”
Joris nods and gladly takes your four-month-old son from your arms, expertly cradling the bundled infant. “Of course, go take care of him.”
You guide Charles into the air-conditioned Ferrari motorhome and down the hall to his driver’s room, closing and locking the door behind you. Charles immediately faceplants onto the couch with a groan.
“It was so hot out there. I could barely see straight those last few laps,” he mumbles into the cushion.
You settle onto the couch next to him, rubbing his back soothingly. “I know, I could see it on the screens. You did amazing to hang on for that P3.”
Charles rolls over onto his back, squinting up at you. “Do we have any water in here?”
“Of course.” You grab a bottle from the mini-fridge and hand it to him.
He wastes no time downing half of it in one long gulp. “Ahh, that’s better.” His eyes drift down to your chest, where your nursing bra peeks out from under your shirt. “Actually … I have an even more effective idea for rehydrating.”
You raise an eyebrow at him. “Oh? And what might that be?”
Charles sits up, a playful glint in his eyes as he sets the water bottle aside. He reaches for you, bunching the fabric of your shirt in his fists. “This.”
With one deft tug, he frees your breasts from the confines of your top. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he takes in the sight.
“You know that’s not really what they’re for, right?” You tease, trying not to get too flustered.
Charles scoots closer until your bodies are flush together. His hands roam over your chest reverentially. “I think this is the perfect use for them.”
You shiver at his touch, arousal already beginning to pool in your core. “I don’t know, they’re usually just for feeding Jules ...”
“Well, think of this as multi-purpose.” Charles leans in to press kisses along the swell of your breasts.
Despite your banter, you’re already melting under his touch. “I … ah … I suppose you could use some rehydrating.”
With a low hum of approval, Charles takes one rigid peak into his mouth. He swirls his tongue around it firmly, coaxing out the first few drops of your milk.
A soft gasp escapes your lips at the wet heat of his mouth. You tangle your fingers in his sweat-damp curls to hold him close. “Charlie ...”
He only responds by increasing the suction, hungrily drawing more of your sweet essence. You bite your lip to stifle a moan as he switches to your other breast, lavishing it with the same rapt attention.
All too soon, Charles pulls back with a satisfied smack of his lips, chin and mouth glistening. “Delicious ...”
“You have no idea how hot that was,” you pant, completely transfixed by the erotic image he makes.
A cocky grin tugs at the corner of Charles’ mouth. “Oh, I think I do.” He presses his palm to the front of his race suit, making it obvious just how aroused he is. “Want to help me with this?”
“Absolutely,” you purr, pushing him back against the arm of the couch to straddle his lap.
Charles groans as you grind down against the hard bulge in his suit. “You’re a tease, you know that?”
“Takes one to know one.” You lean in to capture his lips in a heated kiss, all tongue and teeth.
One of Charles’ hands threads into your hair to angle your mouth more firmly against his. The other drifts down to grope your ass, pulling your hips flush with his.
You rock against him shamelessly, addicted to the delicious friction. He meets each grind with a roll of his own hips, quickly reducing you both to panting, needy messes.
“I want you,” Charles rasps against your lips. “Need to be inside you ...”
“Yes ...” You fumble for the zipper of his suit, desperate to free him. “God, yes, take me ...”
He surges up to kiss you again, all heat and urgency and unbridled want. You can taste the tang of your own milk on his tongue and it’s so dirty, so sinfully hot that it makes your head spin.
Finally, you manage to tug the fire-retardant fabric down far enough to free Charles’ straining erection. He hisses at the friction of your hand on his bare length.
“Hurry, mon amour,” he pleads, deft fingers already working to divest you of your underwear. “Need to be inside you ...”
No sooner is the scrap of lace pushed aside than Charles is guiding himself to your entrance. You sink down in one endless slide, stretching deliciously around his girth to take him to the hilt.
“Fuck ...” He bucks up into you with a choked groan.
You whimper at the exquisite fullness, rolling your hips to take him even deeper. Already you can feel the tight heat beginning to gather low in your belly.
Charles grips your hips hard enough to bruise, guiding your movements as you start to bounce on his length. His head falls back against the couch with a thump, mouth falling open in ecstasy.
“You feel so incredible,” he pants, meeting your thrusts with shallow rolls of his own hips. “So hot, so tight ...”
“Only for you,” you gasp out between moans, bracing your hands on his heaving chest.
He slides one calloused palm up to toy with your neglected breast, rolling the stiff peak between his fingertips. You cry out at the new stimulation, walls fluttering around him.
“Going to come just like this,” Charles grunts, increasing the pace. “Make such a mess of you.”
The thought of him painting you with his release has you clenching down hard. You ride him with wild abandon now, chase that electric high.
Charles leans up to suckle at your other breast, drinking you down greedily even as his hips snap up to meet yours. “Yes, just like that, fuck!”
With a broken shout, your orgasm slams into you like a freight train. Every muscle locked rigid, toes curled, as molten bliss washes over you in waves. Charles follows a beat later, still thrusting fitfully as he spills deep inside you with a guttural growl.
For a long moment, the only sounds in the room are your harsh pants mingling together as you float down from your highs. Charles peppers sloppy, open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder and neck, gradually gentling the movement of your joined bodies.
“Incredible,” he murmurs against your salty skin. “Absolutely incredible.”
You hum in satiated agreement, nosing at his hairline. Eventually you pull back far enough to take in his thoroughly debauched state — hair wild, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and red.
So beautifully wrecked because of you.
“Feeling rehydrated now?” You can’t resist teasing.
Charles lets out a breathless chuckle, warm palms sliding up and down your back. “More than I could have ever imagined.”
But the sound of the door opening makes you both freeze.
“Oh mon dieu!” Joris exclaims with a bark of laughter, looking thoroughly amused as he stands in the doorway cradling Jules. “I was just coming to return your son, but it looks like you two are already hard at work on the next one!”
You yelp and scramble to cover yourself as Charles groans in embarrassment, burying his rapidly reddening face against your chest.
Joris is already backing out of the room, Jules blissfully unaware as he continues chuckling to himself. “Never mind, never mind! I’ll just leave you lovebirds to it ...”
The door clicks shut and you can’t help but dissolve into nervous giggles against Charles’ shoulder. He joins in, the rumble of his laughter vibrating between your bodies.
“Well, that was mortifying,” he says once you’ve both calmed down some.
“At least Jules is too young to understand.” You press your smile to Charles’ hair. “Though Joris is never going to let us live that down.”
Charles groans again, but you can see the beginnings of a sheepish grin. “I don’t even care. That was more than worth the embarrassment.”
He tightens his embrace around you, settling in to simply enjoy the closeness for a while longer. You’re inclined to agree — a little teasing is a small price to pay for such blissful rehydration.
#f1 imagine#f1#f1 fic#f1 fanfic#f1 fanfiction#f1 x reader#f1 x you#charles leclerc#cl16#charles leclerc imagine#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc x you#charles leclerc fic#charles leclerc fluff#charles leclerc fanfic#charles leclerc blurb#f1 fluff#f1 blurb#f1 one shot#f1 x y/n#f1 drabble#f1 fandom#f1blr#f1 x female reader#charles leclerc x female reader#charles leclerc x y/n#scuderia ferrari#charles leclerc one shot#charles leclerc drabble
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PRAXIS
male reader x irene
23k words
"A girl could walk in and mistake this for an affair," you remark, and Irene smiles up at that.
The sound of city traffic underneath your open window makes for an uncertain backdrop - though the browns of her eyes glimmer caramel in the dying light. Something sweet, the beginnings of an addiction if you’ll let her.
"A girl could walk in," Irene says, "but, she never does."
It was not a good idea, of course, to keep doing this where the whole world could see, where your shadows and silhouettes make lurid shapes against the blinds, but your office is small and the lighting is soft and Irene keeps pushing up onto her tiptoes, pressing you flat against your desk, trying to kiss you, and you won't be able to stop her - or want to, not when she's already leaning into you with her arms loose around your hips, her eyelashes heavy, her mouth a pink line of want against her smile.
It’s inevitable, maybe.
Here's what they might catch in the exact moment, in a not-so-distant memory:
Your heartbeat, quiet and slow and distant, like there's too much blood for it in your veins, your skin electric-pulsing underneath Irene's, the feel of her leg hitched up your waist, your hand wound tightly in her ponytail. The tiny sigh of a smile at the corner of Irene's lips, like you're tickling her somehow - you'll stop if she really wants you to, but - she doesn't. She never does.
Why wouldn't we want to be mistaken for something? is what you’re supposed to hear; she's too haughty, too proud. Someone could catch you. She’ll never come out and admit, just what would anyone do, if they did?
So yeah. It’s complicated.
You give a little, Irene pulls back. You do your damndest not to push. You hate how goddamn easy it is to convince yourself of anything, everything - whatever the lie. Irene isn’t ignoring you. She doesn't ignore the texts you send her. You don’t need to make plans more than two hours in advance. Mixed signals are such a misunderstood phenomenon: she can just be shy, sometimes. Maybe she doesn’t want to intrude. She was nervous, but she felt really fucking good on top of you - maybe next time, the guilt will be a bit less for both of you.
It’s just sex, she says once to you after; there’s no strings attached. How could it get ever more perfect than that?
-
(And she’s right. You know she’s right, or you at least you very well should.
See, you’ve been talking for hours about how you shouldn’t be talking for hours on end. Kissing her after a conversation you’d had around the fact you’d both be better off as friends.
So how's that gonna sound, anyway? Here, go on, try saying it:
Bae Irene? Yeah, met her on the subway - that's the story, the reason you know her; you got on a train one day and she was the prettiest person there. You were both headed to the same place. You’re just not sure when that's gonna change.
And well, the way you see it: you’d feel so much lighter, like a feather, with her off your mind.)
-
To be candid, you can't really pin down how any of this started. The logistical details, sure. However the suggestion, the sex, the seclusion - these things, not so much.
Somedays, if you squint, it plays out rather predictably. You’ll be going about your business, a particularly average day everything considered, or - well, mostly. Today, there are just the two minor caveats:
First off, your key grinds in the lock when you jam it in. That part is pretty normal, but to your surprise, the door is already very much open.
So, that's odd, you think. That's very odd. You slide inside, cautious, and as you call out an even more cautious "hello?" you realize all the lights are on - so either you've been robbed or are currently in the state of being robbed by someone with suboptimal visual acuity. A disability-washed-burglar. Not to minimize crime, of course, but that'd be interesting, you think, or representative perhaps? Maybe.
Alternatively,
Irene's let herself into your apartment again. It’s quite plausible.
She's not great at the whole 'asking permission' thing, though she swears every time it'll never happen again. You peek around your foyer: there’s her coat, her heels, her shirt, a handbag - all strewn about the hall like she’d been raptured and left a delicate trail of destruction, which does sound a lot like the Bae Irene you've known forever.
(Okay, six, seven months isn’t forever - but you get the gist; the general principle still applies.)
Now another, horrifying option is that both theories are true, simultaneously. A home invader has in fact gotten to Irene. In the middle of robbing the place. How terrible, how awful, how genuinely macabre, what a genuinely-
"Yeah, hey," you hear, followed by a heavy, sloshing thunk. "Welcome home or something."
Sure enough, as you enter the kitchen you spy your truly awful vision being confirmed. One of them, anyway. There is your incredibly hot (this is in reference to Irene), extremely fashionable (same boat as before, honestly), dangerously intelligent (yes) and notorious rulebreaker of an (it really bears emphasis on how hot and fashionable and stylish said rulebreaking often is) acquaintance as per her standard. Irene. A roguish and impossibly captivating conglomerate of trouble with a mild attitude and perfect posture; as a collection, she's a collection you want, a package you intend to keep, an accessory you'd die for. That, and a kettle on the stove apparently, so she can make you tea while you languish on the floor, and you could live like that forever, or so the dream goes.
Also right, the second caveat: there's the robbery. She's stolen a button-up out of your closet.
And look - she's actually so much prettier than she has any business being. Hair up in a messy bun, lips painted light. Nail polish starting to fade. She's still in her nylons and a tight little pencil skirt and you can't really complain. You'd need to be legally dead.
"Hi," Irene says, and the burner sputters to life. "Where'd you go?"
"The bank. And then I had to return books," you say, shucking off your jacket. "You know, I wasn't aware anyone else was living here."
"Excuse you," Irene replies. She turns, leans her forearms on the counter; the shirt buttons are misaligned, but she makes it look like a stylistic consideration - how the sleeves are pushed past her elbows and the neckline has already slipped down one of her dainty shoulders.
She has your clothes. She has an irritatingly winsome half-smirk. The clock above the stove says it’s barely even 9 PM.
"Do you get your mail forwarded here, too?" You shuck off your jacket. "To further clarify, why not call first? Maybe text? Hell, smoke signals could do."
"Because it's a hell of a lot easier to ask you for forgiveness," Irene tells you, knowing, "asking for permission gets me nowhere," and then grabs a mug from the cupboards. She seems to know where everything is already. "I don't know why you get so bothered about it, honestly, what should I do? Call you and say, wow, babe, I am planning on letting myself into your apartment, sorry, yeah, I was thinking we could - ah fuck - you know what, I am irreparably, incomprehensibly horny."
"Nice vocab."
"Thanks," Irene says, beaming, and even tips up her chin to show it.
You notice that you actually match right now, since it is, technically, your shirt. Sure, your collar’s a little stiff - and she’s barely able to keep the fabric from folding and spilling over her lithe frame, but that hardly matters. It's so ungodly hot. She could wear anything - or, probably, nothing, if you're being honest.
And you are, mostly.
So you pad into the space right behind her to tell her some truths, the things you think - but she spins on her heel before you get the chance to grab her, which is a pity; you'd love to do that, maybe just push her flat to the wall. You know, if she'd let you. She would. Probably. You'd ask, definitely, but you’re thinking you wouldn't even have to.
Irene crosses her arms. The collar keeps slipping. You see her collarbone, smooth. She is flawless, no fucking wonder. You are almost terrified of her at times.
"How do you know I’d have said no?" you ask, and it sounds a little sweet - then there’s you noticing an old bruise along her throat, where her shoulder dips down; that was probably your doing, probably from this week, last Saturday maybe? Her skin seems softer somehow, looks like her makeup was fresh at the beginning of the day and the end of the night, that kind of evening smudging. She's smiling with her nose crinkling up.
She doesn’t react when you press in closer.
"Really." You’re waiting for her. Probably waiting for her to kiss you, to reach up on her toes and latch her wrists behind your neck, to reach her mouth to yours - though, she doesn't. Her breathing picks up, so it's almost like she doesn't have to, she's smiling at you so sharply. It’s a rare win for restraint as far as your apartment is concerned.
"So then where lies the issue?" she asks, and then she simply waits on this smoldering sort of glance.
You can’t help the laugh that follows. "I mean it's the principle of the thing."
Irene hums at that. She glances to the side. Toward the windows, back to you, and then all over your face.
"Then, allow me a principle," she finally says, staring straight at your mouth, real subtle-like. "Yes, I'm going to keep coming here. Probably a lot. I mean, unless you have an actual issue you'd be hardly one to talk: Mr. Keeps Do Not Disturb Active At All Fucking Times. I bet you're the last person to go through their voicemails, too."
"Guilty, but look - I hit critical mass, like, a thousand unheard messages ago. It’s untenable and unreasonable. You should be offering me pity."
"You are ungovernable." Irene sinks back a bit against the countertop, slow, smooth and sinuous. "You're basically a hermit." She smiles at her own assessment, the grin growing with its truth. Her eyes sparkle in the low-light and her teeth bite at the bottom of her lip. The tea kettle starts to rattle.
"I think we’re supposed to be discussing the breaking and entering here," you correct, dryly, and step a bit closer, "also just for the record, hermits are implied loners. And yet."
"And yet," Irene echoes, letting her voice trail away.
There's an uptick in the corner of her mouth, and she glances at you, quick, momentarily mirthless. You wait for the punchline, the verbal parry, the expertly timed jab-
"What?" asks Irene, and her face instead is all soft edges, light pink lips, and clear, uncomplicated eyes. She grabs for the end of her sleeve and folds it one more time down the slender length of her forearm. The watch on her wrist catches the light. "It's a decent theory."
This almost feels normal, you think, like a routine, something domestic - Irene leaving her things all over your apartment, Irene occupying your bathroom cabinets and the space on your shower rack that used to belong to a singular bar of soap. This is a tale of a typical hookup arrangement gone absolutely off the rails: sex for a night here, a dinner together there, a break from the monotony. You shouldn’t even know Irene that well, you think, or nowhere near as well as you do - and somehow that didn't stop you from giving her a spare key to your apartment - or it didn't stop her from wanting the damn thing.
You try not to read too far into that last one, since you're probably the only idiot that hasn't noticed how smitten Irene has been from day fucking one. It’s your fault, it’s hers; there’s a case to be made for either.
"You can see how a girl might walk in and jump to the wrong conclusions," you remark.
Irene laughs at that, "Oh yeah?" and her eyebrows raise, her lips pursing in an immediate half-smile - this hot little line that’ll get kissed right off her mouth if she’s not careful. She doesn’t even pretend to react otherwise: that same brand of pleased, almost flirtatious - a bit unyielding. Pragmatic, maybe. Not fully on board, still keeping a distance, just an inch outside of what it could be. She never stops fucking with you. She's never anything but beautiful.
It's very unfair, if anyone’s keeping track.
"You mean like an affair?" She laughs out loud. The mark at her temple dots the expression like an exclamation point. "Like me, as your mistress. That’s fucking crazy."
"Satisfy my ego. Pretend that wasn't, in any conceivable world, the worst possible phrasing, but yeah. More or less," you say, "one which would, mind you, seem very poorly planned on both our parts, all things considered."
There's a pause where she scrutinizes your face; you stare evenly back. It's kind of a bluff. You are sort of a self-centered prick, on occasion, but you are not lying to this woman; you have no reason to. Maybe it's a gamble: to hope she understands you better than she ought to, or to wish she'd accept you in spite of that. To want her, in your home, at your leisure, a friend or something more.
Trying to materialize words for the immaterial is largely the dilemma.
"An affair, huh" Irene repeats slowly, tasting the word carefully, like she's trying it on for size - and she cants her hips towards yours. Her fingers had wrapped around the bottom of your tie at some point. "My goodness, that’s like, so, so romantic of us."
"Also jesus, please, ‘mistress’ is horribly gauche," you say, and Irene tugs a little too hard and you step forward. The smug look on her face suggests, not entirely unpretentiously: how else, then, shall we call it?
"But look at me. I am in your kitchen, I’m wearing your clothes," she reminds you, with another tiny pull, which draws you so much nearer. You can feel your neck prickle. "That makes us quite close, wouldn't you agree, darling?"
"Dial it back," you tell her, because Irene's the only person in the world that can put so much stress on a single fucking word and get away with it.
But she's watching you, watching you still, intently. She looks good, smells somehow even better, You inhale her. There's this cloud of shampoo, fragrance, whatever she's decided to wear - citrus today, light. God, she's so fucking gorgeous.
"I'm still trying to scold you," you end up adding, because it won’t go without saying.
"And I'm waiting for you to."
It's not the right answer, though your annoyance dissipates almost as quickly as it rises: Irene could probably charm her way out of anything if she really tried, maybe, and still make the entire world like her even better - so instead of responding, you just sigh, and sink further into her. She wraps your tie once around her knuckles, and tugs again, harder and pointedly, but it's not so hard that it hurts; you know she could manage that if she wanted. Irene just grins up at you, rosy in the face and pretty: no pain, just fun.
"Are you mad?" She tilts her head in and places her exhale right over yours. You could count her lashes if they’d stop fluttering. "Are you going to tell me you'll send me packing now? Just order me right the hell out of here and change the locks, do you mean it?"
"I would, definitely," you say, without so much as a beat missed. "If I weren't so busy being inconvenienced by the fact you're so goddamn pretty."
"Mhmm." Irene fits her lips to yours, murmuring, "exactly."
Her body presses and pushes up against you, and you're thinking again about Door A, Door B. Thinking about your future, her future: it doesn't mean anything. Who needs to dream, when Bae Irene's already such a walking daydream? Hypothetically - a wicked little fantasy if nothing else. She still can't fucking resist pulling away after just a second, just a touch too soon, and laughing right against your lips - even though, when you open your eyes again, her eyes are softly closed and she’s leaning in for more.
The reality is: the two of you, inextricably, are bound in each other's pull. A binary star of (1) extremely talented, (2) equally charming colleagues that only accidentally get lost inside the same room: (3) office, (4) storage closet, (5) bedroom, (6) living room, (7) kitchen, (8) the little-used laundry nook. Your list keeps growing. It is exhausting, but maybe not the worst: not, actually, so bad-
Your hands flatten against the cool material of her skirt.
"I could," you mutter, trying so hard, "you know, stop this. Maybe."
"I actually happen to believe you," Irene's saying. Her teeth graze your chin. "But maybe you can try," she offers, not so helpfully, "just this once?"
The hem of her shirt slips up the long stretch of her leg. It doesn’t move far before the bend of her knee has her pinned, skirt pressed flat to her thighs. You aren’t exactly a gentleman, so you pull it to her waist as you press even closer. The nylon feels wonderful against her legs.
So you let it boil down to the instinctual, the obvious. To physicality: her hip against your own, her soft sigh as the kiss grows in strength. You wrap an arm around her middle; her hands cradle the sides of your jaw - the tip of her tongue brushing yours - then her fingers find their home on the nape of your neck. When you touch the inside of her thigh, across the smooth fabric, ghosting over the center - where the tension is tightest - her lips part a little. She shivers. You try not to smile about it.
"Slow?" you ask her, and the amusement feels unfair to her, even if it is your best attempt to appear thoughtful. She sinks her nails into your skin and her eyelids open slightly. They gleam. "Told me to try," you point out.
You touch her, feel the heat as she says, a little strained, "I did." She swallows. "I'm allowed to change my mind later, though."
"Fine," you relent, "then so am I."
She considers this briefly. Her lashes lower and raise. She nods.
And the teasing has to go somewhere. "Well," you murmur, and kiss the hinge of her jaw. "Mistress it is. Guess there isn't much left to work with, huh." And in any other context, these are the things that earn you another patented-glare, a toss of a pillow over the bedspread, a hard swat on the chest, an indignant 'well fuck you, I can't believe we're having sex!', an abject departure, a million things all at once - at its most dramatic and emotional: a maelstrom of verbal riposte.
Here, though-
She hikes her leg even higher around your hip. Her fingernails clench even sharper. Your tie falls down a button, to the crook between her neck and shoulder, and her hair comes free of its messy ponytail. The line of it skims over her breast, just so.
Irene sighs louder, and does that thing, a deepening in the middle of the noise that lets you know exactly how badly she wants you - this, you're getting familiar with, or the start of it at least, that fine-tuned way Irene wants someone when she doesn't even hesitate to show it. It was odd, and at first almost embarrassing to see. That might've even been part of the charm, you think: Irene could want to devour you. You were you - slightly interesting, and in her eyes, probably the most intriguing fuck - but whatever her reasons, it all clicked for Irene. She had a system to evaluate and adjust and execute. There wasn't room for wasted effort.
"Hey," she hums, low in her throat.
"Yeah," you say, lifting her right up onto the counter.
And see - there are these gestures, reminders, not always in good faith, where you make her feel small: Irene's wrists are suddenly so narrow, one right at the surface of the counter, fingertips cool at your collar, and her nail polish chipping a little at the edges. Your palm is larger, enveloping the high, broad arch of her hip, the sharp line of bone to muscle to sinew. She feels fragile, is what it is, a fine-boned little bird, a thin silhouette under her loose, borrowed shirt - it's almost poetic, a regular old fuckbuddy - a physical habit, and you know her, know how many inches, and you can find your favorite parts of her in the dark, but-
"Want your mouth," Irene's saying now. Her lips glistening, eyes liquid; you want to tell her that that's an indisputable victory, just objectively, even before the clothes fall.
"Tell me where to put it," you offer back, and watch the corner of her lips twitch up.
She runs her hand through the back of your hair, mussing it, the lazy drag of her nails, her heel right to your lower back. The light from the stove is doing her wonders, gold catching off the paleness of her skin. "Make yourself useful, I think, like on your knees."
You raise an eyebrow at her.
"Don't give me that look" - and Irene shrugs her shoulders back - the shirt falling more, the flat plane of her stomach - this jut of bone, the pretty contour of her ribcage, the stark outline of her body just under a few too many buttons.
"It just comes off a bit greedy," you say, letting the words twist, playing with the hem of her skirt between your fingers.
"Maybe because you reward that kind of behavior," Irene retorts immediately.
"You’re spoiled," you laugh. "That’s all. Just spoiled. Life must be great for you, do nothing and let someone else do everything."
It's another one of those, 'you fucking like it', and Irene smirks like the shape of her mouth here is foreplay enough alone. She might be onto something. Like the easy back-and-forth - how she's sharp as razor wire underneath you - a double-edged sword if the weapon knew the sheath.
You lean in. She places her palm flush to your heart, like she can measure exactly how long you’re drawing this out with its steady thud. You know she’ll repay it in turn: she thinks it's hot to jerk around with your emotions before she fucks you, like playing roulette with her orgasm, yours - a slow crawl, a nice burn. Her fingers curl.
"And here you said I was ungovernable."
Irene huffs, slightly. "You are still fucking talking."
"If I shut up, will you scream for me, sweetheart?"
You run a hand up her waist. There's this whiny intake of air. Then Irene says, soft and slow: "earn it."
(Maybe you shouldn’t keep enabling her. Therein lies the problem. Okay, so maybe you like this particular problem.)
But she's tugging your tie out of the way before the words leave her lips. The distance you have between is scant, which seems to be fine, with the way she leans in as the last syllable drops off her tongue, kissing the corner of your mouth, impatient.
It takes approximately zero convincing to drop to your knees; that much has not changed. You glance up at her. Your hands curve to her waist, sliding up. It's funny - how your fingertips just brush under the billowy fabric, how the taut skin over her ribcage fills the length of your palms, and then a touch further. Perfect proportions, as Irene usually is; you're on your knees and that's by design.
Your thumb rolls over the outline of her nipple and it peaks, draws into a quick, rosy point beneath the flimsy cotton, like an open invitation.
Irene smiles lazily, gorgeous - and sinks back again against the countertop. Her feet land on your shoulders. The nylon in the bend of her ankle slides soft at your throat, gentle. "Waiting." She sighs a little. "Still, waiting."
You press a kiss over the nylon, the fabric underneath, teeth barred and tongue pushing. "You said slow," and the rest of you might as well catch on fire, just for borrowing a moment’s composure. You can see yourself bringing her down to the floor, the kitchen tiles, spreading her legs and fucking her into the linoleum, scratching them up, making her cum as many times as she asked. But there's this heavy drag down your back, the nerves blooming. "So let me. I won't get distracted," you murmur - or don't, really - into the softness between her hip and waist, along her navel, the tight planes of her tummy. "I promise, I'll get there, baby."
She hesitates. The breath she holds back is a telltale pause.
And the first thing that really sinks into Irene's skin, besides yourself, is this: every last shred of hesitation she was waiting on, the self-control? Now gone. You've done nothing but serve its loss. She seems to sense her power; and in one blink, the act is apex. In a beat her nerves are recovered, and the nerves are fuel. A natural killer, an organic toxin, that same smile curving her lips, a pointed glint to her eyes.
"Baby, your mouth," Irene insists, her knees falling to the sides, "open. And yes," and a pause, or maybe an addendum, a double meaning in the downtime, "to be perfectly frank: free for me to use. To come and go as I please."
"Haven't left my fucking mind for a minute, sweetheart," you offer up right back, not bothering with restraint.
Irene clicks her tongue. "But yet, you don't ever do exactly as you're told-"
She hiccups, or something close to it - because you grab her ass, bring her hips closer, until you can sink your nails into the firm give of flesh.
Irene looks down at you, eyes just wide, and - ah.
She sighs. Sighs because she knows - you can find god in everything; that’s the goal, that’s the creed - and maybe Irene wasn’t your original way, maybe you were always meant for a different sort of holy figure, but the words you choose are doctrine in the end; that first prayer you got down on your knees and said to her was no less truthful for its betrayal. There are rules to it: this is faith, the religion. This is her. You belong to Irene, and she belongs to you.
"Um. Did you just tear my stockings?" she asks, like a sudden realization, her mouth still dropping.
You nod, because, well, yeah, and pull her panties to the side. "Permission, forgiveness, et cetera."
In lieu of a reprimand or a rebuke, she lets a shockingly pretty little moan when her pussy gets stretched by a finger, two - and they're wet, slippery, easier than the lace had ever expected, and she's already so plush, red and rosy. Irene has always gotten wet quickly, with your fingers, your cock, your mouth on her - and her head falls back in one languorous stretch. The tightness around your finger is dizzying. You'll never grow tired of watching her: a sudden shift, the spine so pretty when arched, the pulse of blood under her thighs, the fluttering of her cunt as it comes to the very precipice of letting you in.
"Do you understand me, baby?" she's asking you, and her breath seems to pick up and the muscle flutters again.
You waggle your eyebrows and lean in, and whisper against her skin, "better than anything."
Your mouth attaches to her clit and never lets go. You fuck her, all sweet, on two fingers. Down to the last knuckle. You curl your fingertips, and she's gasping. The scent of her drives you fucking crazy; this is what paradise has always tasted like, and heaven's the press of her thighs - your name spilling from Irene's mouth. She gets wetter, and wetter - you lap as it floods out of her, down her thighs. You lick it, taste the salt and her bitterness and her arousal, how her pussy grows slick in an instant, swollen under your touch, wanting, aching. Her heels press over your shoulders and dig in, tight.
When you look up over the tight spasms in her diaphragm, you realize she's got the shirt unbuttoned, finally. Fabric spilling down to the granite, skin and bra and sheen; you wrap your arms around the perfect curves of her thighs, the nylon shifting soft on your hands and bringing her closer, hitching up to your shoulders. This is only part one of what you owe Irene - the easy part, actually: you can see her clench in the same breath that she's straining - the need and want to fill her up a sin, the wet smack as her folds are pried apart by the flick of your tongue, the sounds of your hands, the desperation. She'll want, and you'll get, until she can barely handle it. Until the tremors overwhelm her, until it is too much and it never will be, ever enough - until she's left so gorgeous like that, shivering.
The kettle's got the pitch to its scream now, and the volume. The sound makes you grind your teeth. Lick harder, suck longer, kiss a bit deeper - her clit, the pink tip of your tongue pushing in past the folds, between the ring, deep and heavy. Fingers moving slow, almost absent-minded, flitting across her breasts, pinching a nipple - Irene groans. The metal rattles louder, louder.
The shirt's rumpled, tangled, bunched up between Irene's elbows. You lean your teeth to the crease of her hips. You lick, the smell filling your nostrils, her fingers threaded in your hair - holding you where she wants you to be:
"And fuck, ah, do you, oh god- fucking do you- have an," she sighs, trembling as the movement of your jaw sends her shuddering, as your mouth runs and your hands open her legs. She pants. "Oh, darling. Have an honest-" she laughs and the sound pitches too, "-idea, I mean-"
Irene has started grinding against you. Your heart is thundering.
"-of what I'm-"
A moan finally breaks from her lips, so disarmingly beautiful. Irene grabs for the edge of the granite counter; she can hardly seem to make out what she wants. Her orgasm is cresting higher, each flick of your tongue and soft sound of you bringing her there, near. You like that she needs you, like that the word 'insatiable' becomes an insufficient assessment. You push, you move - her hands tug you. You taste her: a warmth, the depth, the pulsing.
"-what you're" - a gulp, a gulping swallow - the fridge keeps beeping, the front door sticks, and it'd be so perfectly quiet if not for the fucking tea kettle. It keeps boiling and boiling and you are drinking your fill, drowning. Her skin smells fucking delicious. You can feel her heat pooling. "Fucking, o-oh, fuck- fucking doing-"
You smile into it. Against her messy, quivering cunt. You are: unashamedly smug.
And fuck. She's gone, swept away, carried off, the pressure of your lips sending her crashing back down with a moan - the kitchen still buzzing and the steam a bit of a haze, and you haven't even finished bringing her through the dying breaths of her orgasm before she's gasping, pulling you back up on your feet:
"I need you, I- right now. Up here-"
Irene tries to grab for your neck again. She doesn't seem to mind her own lack of strength, though. In any other circumstance you'd think she'd look a bit pathetic: her shoulders curved, chin resting in a hand, a absent, pleasantly confused grin, legs and hair a complete unmitigated mess - and here: her lipstick wiped, mostly smudged, her wet, glistening thighs-
"Tell me," you say, and a thousand possibilities are imagined. To get inside of her, feel her nails dragging across your chest, her teeth at your throat, her moan as you slide into the very heat of her - fuck, you cannot stop. She's got you spinning and you’ll gladly lose this particular battle; a typical Bae Irene ending. "Please, tell me."
The water boiling over has begun to crack; and the first tendrils of steam begin curling into the air.
"God," says Irene, shaking with her body so desperate, her hand still grasping you back. The look in her eyes seems so beautifully wrecked, but in no hurry to show it. She smiles, because she wants that over anything. "Don't you fucking listen?"
She grins.
"Ah." Irene shakes her head, pulls your head back, staring, but does not rise to a sit, just slides herself out. One leg kicks, one, then two, from the corner of your eyes: her nylons shredding down their long seams. You're on your feet; you're not really standing, but then you have no real bearings to start with. Your cock is throbbing.
She just scoots on out, and shuts off the stove, and sets the kettle a step back.
"Maybe," you say, pressing your thumb to the seam of your pants. You could probably die of lust right now and have no regrets. "Maybe not. I think I need more convincing."
It would probably also help if your thoughts could stop racing.
"Huh."
She turns - though not with the skirt. The hem has fallen to the floor. A puddle at her ankles. She's only slightly out of breath; the wet between her legs gleams. The slick, smooth fabric of her lingerie sticks to the swollen outline of her pussy. Her fingers dip down, playfully, so she's leaning over the counter. She tugs, and it presses and plays and sticks at her center. You're obsessed, half-crazy from it. Her expression twists; it's fucking bliss. She smiles, one breath, then two - the house settles. You cannot stop staring; you can't. Your mouth feels hot and dry and sticky, wet from her cum, and your pants, you can't quite breathe and the view's only getting better: Irene naked, against the counter, the jostle of her breasts as she strums herself, as her breathing catches and rises, and those nails digging deep into her clit as her eyes drift shut-
She's biting her lower lip - but she looks at you and - stops, her toes pressed to the linoleum.
The moment is suspended, and suddenly the words do not fit anywhere in your throat.
"Want it?"
"Fuck," you exhale, and maybe she isn't just asking that out loud, she's the embodiment of the fucking question: the need between her legs so vivid. She laughs again, licks the taste of herself off her fingertip, sucks at the curve of her nails - she touches the tip of her tongue to the very edge of her upper lip. Her smile, in its sharpness and precision, remains unswayed.
"Bend me over?"
And then, very quietly, and without so much as a scoff in disappointment-
"Fucking christ," you mutter, and nearly fall in a heap towards her.
-
It's borderline unhealthy, that this happens as often as it does: sex that leaves you breathless, sex that shivers across every inch of your fucking skin, sex that aches afterward, that drives your lungs to strain, a moan trapped forever just behind her teeth. Her hips were either made for your rough palms, or you’ve worn them down to your grip. Softened all the edges. Her thighs open to you like you own her. The ridge down the center of her back, your mouth trailing down every vertebrae - her pussy. The inside, the depth - and everything she doesn't mean to let out: all these little notes she's learning with each thrust of your cock into her, and you think you should just say yes, give in.
Let it go, and just trust.
Sex as routine? A repetition of desire. What is routine is that, with Irene:
There's always a new discovery. She has you when she's bent over and you're pounding her knees into the cabinets. She has you on the floor with her. She has you when she's bent over and you're eating her out again, then on top, and on your couch, and with her legs kicked high on the shower wall, and - you fuck her, you find room for her on the bathroom sink. You cum all over her stomach and she just smiles dreamily. You fuck her until she’s almost sobbing, and then you're saying her name like she has your life and your attention, for everything and nothing at all. And after an hour of letting her have your patience, and your dick, your face pressed against her throat, and her nails deep in your back - you tell her she needs to stay.
It’s a hell of an admission, apropos of nothing.
"Oh? Say that one more time for me," and she's half-covered, the comforter pulled up over her the gentle slope of her breasts, the bedsheet tucked around her waist. "Again," and you have no real use left, you're certain. The most recent orgasms have nearly shattered you both in half: Irene can barely focus on your mouth, where your hips had slammed hers into the bed and - you are pretty certain - definitely did crack her skull right off the headboard.
"Yeah," you mutter face down into the duvet, "you should stay."
"Then it's decided," Irene says out loud, rather victorious, and drops a hand down the span of your back. She's there still, fingering her own cum from inside her pussy. The look in her eyes, sly. The message in them could not be any clearer: what an excellent suggestion, since you both know she'll have no shortage of reasons to keep coming back, anyway.
-
It all feels rather satisfying, pretending not to like the girl. It feels good not caring where she is at night.
As she had said, like an affirmation, a real statement: "this thing, between us, is so uncomplicated. It's so easy."
And she’s right:
She fucks, and you cum. She looks pretty. That's what she wants to show off, she does and does it well, and as long as you don't pay attention and pretend like it doesn't matter to you, it's an absolute fucking win-win. That's it: that's exactly why, when she calls, when she comes around and asks about dinner, you ask how far you're expected to go for her. What'll earn you her gratitude? Her pleasure's a quick hit, and it's free - if she asks nicely, if you're up for it, if it isn't the same bullshit, same scene - and the night's never a big deal to waste. That's her script; there's your line:
"What's your endgame here," is a thing you're always asking.
She tips her head, her hair falling off her shoulder, that old cliché, those large brown eyes, batting and fluttering. Just curious, but also to draw attention; what a killer pair she has, they're gorgeous. Your eyebrows raise, and your mouth falls open as her fingers dance over your chest, playing with the collar of the button-up that you aren't entirely convinced doesn't belong to her.
"Who says I have to have my mind made up right this second?" is Irene's usual comeback - a favorite - followed by another favor, then an expectation. Then, as your hands fall to the small of her back: "for you, the point is probably the chase," she reminds you, a low little murmur.
Your heart thrums with the little spike of anger. Then again, your cock's feeling the yearn ahead of everything else already; it’s a bad habit, and not getting anything you need. Or, there's a tumble, a mutual surrender in this somewhere.
"Sure, says you."
You kiss her so easily. Run your fingers through her hair and drink down her sighs, pull away and pretend. Pretend to dislike how pretty she looks when you do things like this. Pretend like you haven't missed her, that there is no desire, not to run your touches down the back of her knees, or sink your hands into her perfect little ass.
"Didn't need me to," she points out, the lick into your mouth. And her finger curls right under your chin, nails a pretty, perfect oval shape, manicured and soft at your throat, that way she loves - the angle intimate. "And yet. Not stopping me, are you?"
Which you're not. Neither of you is fool enough. You don't hate yourself, she doesn't hate the truth. So, whatever, sometimes you give in to it - if you could call this a 'means to an end', you suppose that might just about cover the ground, because her plans, her reasons don't matter to you, and vice-fucking versa: just to find an answer, or to find a few dozen, and that's enough.
You're no good at love; she says she's not looking for it either, no heartfelt romantic shit to get a tear out of you, she'd tell you at the start:
"Let's just play it by ear, how about that? I could surprise you. You could surprise yourself."
-
(But fuck: Irene's surprisingly full of surprises.
Take when she texts a few days later.
Hey, a blip on the screen, an innocuous string of numbers you refuse to mark a contact. There's too much power, and leverage. She isn't asking.
It's been too long.
A winky emoji.
I think you’re able to do me a big favor.
A period. It is imperative. She would tell you, with an authority she certainly isn't trying to front or to prove: she likes her punctuation.
I could really, really do with that same favor that you gave me back when we went to that housewarming party, you remember. It'd really be the best thing you've done with your evening if you could help me out. Call it the nice thing to do.
Is your vibrator out of batteries? you text back.
You are a genius.
Thanks.
Let’s go somewhere.
Just this once. But dinner's on you.
A selfie. Slippery fingers, glued to her pussy, running through the glisten-
Oh. Actually, it'll probably be twice.)
-
So. ‘Surprise yourself’ was, naturally, the key.
It's difficult to have a notion as to how exactly you might surprise yourself - but here you are a little later; she's dressed and in heels, and that's a relief, or rather a delight: this woman looks devastating with her hair down. But still, like this: the hem to her slacks that draws her thighs down to an elegant peak, the nice blouse she's got her buttons done to the top, and one less: this cleavage isn't wholly visible but the shadow is still a tease, her thin jacket only pinning in how her waist is cut into such a deep arc. Irene had asked if this looked too formal, and the second response in your brain was to ask why: her normal wardrobe's worse - less clothing, more fucking exposed. Then again, you might not mind watching Irene work so hard if it meant your hands get full quicker-
"That is absolutely no way to put it," she admonishes.
"Come again, Mistress?"
"Ass," she mutters. It's not even a reprimand so much as an agreement, you can see where the smile is trying not to crack open. "No," she corrects, and smiles anyway. She pushes a lock of her hair behind her ear, "I just mean- fuck you and your terrible metaphors. Anyway, we should go. You drive, my car is a total mess."
-
You take her out. There's dinner. There's drinks. It's something like a date, because that's what she wants. The hostess smiles politely. The waiter raises a suggestive eyebrow at your fingertips grazing Irene's leg underneath the table, and you both ignore the interest. You pass him her credit card without comment when you go to settle up. When you stroll about, the sun is going down and the dying light paints her skin orange, yellow, and red. She tells a story about work. You manage to get a few of your own. Your fingers loop through hers and the action makes her do this lovely smile.
So the gist of it is: you have a fling, her name is Irene, there’s some vague cohabitation occurring, and - oh, she's an absolutely fantastic lay.
It's the sort of thing that on the surface level sounds like a total and complete win, even for all its contradictions, flaws, and pitfalls. She fucks, and you're willing. She looks pretty. You keep her content. That's enough, as a friend-with-benefits; more of the benefits than anything else, she always reminds you. And every now and then, when Irene starts making demands of your time, of your availability - making plans, making reservations, making the expectation known that the two of you have a standing obligation, ‘benefits’ penciled into your schedules every Tuesday and every weekend (and Thursday, too, if neither of you is booked) - she suddenly becomes more complicated than she should have any rights or reason being. There's a kind of security you take away from it.
Irene's holding her clutch in the parking lot, posture perfect. The sky's on fire and the setting sun is burning down the horizon all around her.
"Can we do it in your car?" she's asking, totally nonchalant.
"What?"
"Sex," Irene repeats, like you didn’t understand the question. Her expression is bright, seamless. She holds her wrist behind her back, and twists a little on one heel. "I want to get you off."
This is a case study; you’re walking, breathing empirical data. You’ve gone from wondering to knowing about what they say in regards to women of a certain age. The appetite. The inexplicable desperation. It used to be a joke. Maybe it's because men in their 30s are unusually relaxed with their dating life, or all of their friends are talking about wedding rings, kids, a white picket fence - with life a non-event to handle with finesse and a delicate grip. Or: maybe Irene simply isn't complicated in the ways people seem to expect her to be. She’s needier for sex than usual, for starters. "Are you expecting some urgent business meeting, or an important call - any sort of personal news, maybe - like, in the next half hour?"
"Are you serious," you manage. Fuck her, actually.
"I don't know why, I just feel like you might appreciate the cramped quarters. We can make out while you cum and stuff."
You almost snort, but - her hips have that sway. The door’s unlocked. You stare. The purse settles on the passenger's seat. This girl is so stupidly pretty.
"You, uh, wanna get on top?" you ask, voice already slightly drying at the sound.
Irene reaches over and traces your jaw. Her thumb feels lovely pressed to the seam of your lips, rubbing over them slowly. Her mouth is this gorgeous color and you just can’t stop staring. "So cute. What’s your best guess, sherlock?" She pats the roof of the car, gently. "Get the fuck in."
-
Irene is, at her most shameless, a list of demands: give me your fingers, touch my clit, do it now; take my wrists, fuck me faster; don't you dare fucking cum - there's no rush here, so put in the effort. You have a basic idea of where you're both headed, and the situation demands you to, um, obey. The sound of her wet cunt fills the tight confines of the car.
"Fuck, Irene."
At her most elegant, she's pretty much the same, but she fucks like a total dream:
"Slow, yes," she'll coo into your ear, in the early stages, before her head starts falling back and her chest rises, and all the sweet notes from the back of her tongue get driven to the fore, and there are moans instead of directions, groans and cries. "Feel me. Deeper. Fuck, babe, just like that."
Her nails drag deep, and that's not usually the plan - the start is fast and easy; her pussy drips like she's soaking a cloth, a fresh layer every second, and a clench that swallows every thrust; and somehow the friction's good enough that if you stick around and keep your focus, you get Irene begging for mercy by the end of it, just to savor and relish the sensation, the motion of your body into hers.
"There," and her eyes flutter, "yes. You are so fucking hard for me." She leans in, kisses the shell of your ear: "you’re fucking stretching out this little pussy, baby, you know that?"
"Jesus. Fuck, please-"
"Should we? Should I let you?" She clenches down, "fill me up, babe? You think you're worth the privilege?"
"If you'd let me - Irene, the things I could do," you don't breathe, "jesus fucking christ."
And she looks at you with wide, honey-smudged eyes. Pretty even when fucked; especially so. Her fingers get wrapped in your collar and she’s nodding her head in rhythm with her quick little bounce. The snapping of her hips. Up and down, and up and down like she’d be insulted if you didn’t drain your balls into her perfect little womb right then and there. She says don’t do this, don’t do that - and then she fucks you like you’re supposed to.
"Yeah, that’s right, be a good boy for me," her mouth whispers, even though there is no one else in her car, you're pretty sure. Her voice is like a vice, just you, with her hips, her hot little hands pushing you down so she's riding the top of your head. You can hear her dripping down into the space, a new leak.
"How're you gonna deal with it when I'm filling your tight cunt?" You thumb at her ass, squeeze. "This pretty, round ass? Want me to cum inside you every which way, huh? Marking up my territory?"
You hear her stutter on a reply, as her pussy gives a particularly strong flex, another contraction.
"All those wet loads, dripping out your cunt, down your thighs... on your lips... you gonna taste every last one, princess?"
She has a face like she wants to hurt you for that one, the moniker - you have a sneaking suspicion there's nobility in her blood, laid deep somewhere in her veins, another lifetime lived far from this one: she'll have a predilection for thrones, diamonds, queendoms to rule. And if that were true - well, you'd be downright lucky if she consented to an audience, even less entitled to her hand. She's out of your league regardless. Or maybe, she's the furthest thing from royalty and she just knows the script better than anybody. Kneel, she'll say, and you find yourself obliging; give me your mouth, your fingers, she'll ask, and you're compelled. It's all ingrained.
"What was that?" she asks, incredulous, riding your cock so hard the seat shakes instead.
"I said: this cunt, christ-"
You bring her closer to your face, have to feel that clasp of heat with every stroke - and when it is so fucking deep, her hips lock up, clamped, thighs quivering - you just hold her in place, give her a few breaths, let the satisfaction really sink in, even if she's already moaning.
"Well, I guess you got me there, huh." Her mouth gives her away, the lopsided-grin. "Yeah. So cum, give it." And then it twists. Her face looks so beautiful in distress, and you're certain you've had that thought many times since: if the situation demands it - maybe it would be just fine to push a little bit more? It's a neediness that doesn't go understated, even when Irene's more whining for it: like, the fuck are you waiting for, her tits out, panting, sweating, cursing and moaning at the slow drag through her slippery muscle, a grip like satin, like velvet.
You’re a total mess:
"Breathtaking, the faces you make for me" - "you look so good, like that, so handsome" - "has anyone ever fucked you this good?"
It’s official. She'll have to scrape you off the leather.
And as if to add insult to injury, Irene’s hands come up to her hair, holding it up into a messy bundle above her head. There’s a tilt of her chin, a bite into her lip. She’s bouncing fast, taking your cock deeper on each twist, and it’s all very performative. Fucking Irene is as visual an experience as it is visceral, because chiseled into her figure, the lithe frame, are these model-esque proportions - like she’s not actually five foot nothing in her socks.
(A beautiful little paradox. She’s showing off here. She’s showing off, simply because she can.)
"And you’re the one always calling me greedy," she breathes, like the punchline, as she takes the next inch, the wet slapping of skin. There's heat. So much fucking heat - she's got a pulse that pulls you forward and won't let go, your balls hitting her ass and thighs soaked, so red and plush and beautiful, a softness that takes a second and an elbow's reach and, fuck. Her thighs on the dashboard. "You've been-"
Your palms fit into the curve of her ass. How a small, fragile, dainty thing like her can have so much to grab onto remains a mystery and a fucking miracle.
"-a bit of a prick, honestly, for a minute-"
But she's so responsive - and you want to wring it out of her, really, a desire to destroy and savor, even when that sounds a little wrong and too close to sacrilege - you really ought to just call her the ultimate fantasy: she has the cutest tits, soft creamy thighs, tightly wound curves and a sexy-as-sin attitude; and when she sits heavy on your cock, wiggling her hips in a circle, you lose the plot and a little bit of your mind.
"-have to say, it's been getting to me."
"Here's hoping it doesn't give," you grumble as your arms tense and your back aches, your shoulders strain. Irene seems unconvinced, and she usually is, but the drive is relentless.
"Then you'll have to hurry up," the rake of her fingernails across your neck, "won't you?" and she is too slick and so eager, "because you’re gonna cum for me, sweetheart, just let it all out, baby." Her cunt and her heels in the upholstery and the stinging welts draw you deeper-
Your hand braces around the center console.
She has her lips on your temple, your hairline: "I’m imagining how my pussy will look, all creamy and used and pretty - all because you fucked it nice and hard and raw - no matter how many times I fuck myself with my fingers, I'll keep feeling the ghost of this fucking perfect cock."
The noise that leaves your lips is a full, throaty, ragged groan, your muscles shaking and skin burning. "Irene, god," you sputter out; it's not super attractive, you think.
Irene kisses the juncture of your shoulder and neck like it’s music to her ears, her jaw against your jaw:
"You've got to stop edging me, love, my little pussy was made to get stretched by your cock, show me-"
You thrust in deep.
"Fuck."
"Oh," she whispers, eyes hooded and lashes sweeping low, an awe so thick to her voice. "Such a good boy for me - now. Make me cum, yes - make me cum all over you - mhm-"
You jerk your hips again - your pants hanging around your thighs, her blouse pushed up around her waist. You've twisted and knotted the fabric over and over into something you can pull or hold onto - it's not clear to you yet which idea's more pressing.
Because there's no breathing room. You need to twist your hips just to fuck into her - her lips are parted with this insatiable moaning, and it's sweet and pretty and filthy. She wraps one knee higher. There's the lock to your ankle, but she's grabbing the lever and trying to pull your seat down, the rest of it; you absolutely let her. All this in heels that would be impressive without a tight wet pussy pressing down on the length of your cock, begging for what seems like an endless number of thrusts into that delicious heat, the perfect clutch. She rides you rough: the leather beneath your knees shifting with the constant scuffle. Her elbows bent, a thumb grazing her tits, pushing up the silk and the lace.
Her soft, pale skin is spilling all over you, her limbs finding purchase as her mouth slides against yours on a new rhythm of need and want: "that's the thing, right? You're such a delight when you put your mind to it." She's pressing a kiss against your temple - her tone, this intimacy, a hotness between her thighs that leaves you breathless, dumb - it's the only sort of inescapable validation that might suit.
You had the perfect view as she shrugged the jacket, unbuttoned the blouse, sat the bra over it, just undid her slacks: this perfection, laid bare, exposed in your passenger seat with her tits squeezed in both palms. Then it was her hand tugging at the zipper to your pants.
So - you're fucking her harder than you have any business doing. Her nails are digging trenches in the skin of your forearms and you have the slightest sense of everything she has, wants, demands; you've had her under you, bent her in half, folded at the corner of your bed. You’ve fucked her with your cock so far into the slick-dripping hole of her cunt until she can't stop cumming - or begging - or the Irene-equivalent.
"There you go," she says into your throat, like it's nothing, and sags a little further into your chest. "There we go," she repeats. Her brow is glistening with sweat, and you kiss it: hot, and a little bitter. You can't help it.
You're fucking her harder than she can handle. You're filling her. She's stuffed to the fucking brim with your cock, bulging at the folds of her insides.
And, christ, her fucking waist. She is so small, so fragile-looking. You wrap both hands around her middle, and as her hips grind forward, meeting the roll, she grabs your wrists, holds your hands up her ribs and gets, and gets - oh, just where you fucking left her. Your knuckles are left digging to the silky skin, bruises dotting purple across her back, her neck, her tummy and her thighs, every surface - you're grasping and claiming what she has to give you, just a hint. There's a million and one ways to love, to give back, to please a partner - but you have one goal: you're not an artist, you're not a philosopher, or a poet - so you’ll leave physical marks, reminders, of everything you've done and will do. You’ll make her cum. Just hold her still and make her cum again and again and again. The weight, the lift. If she asked, you would. Fuck. You would. She rides your cock and rocks you into the upholstery of the passenger-side chair. She sinks down and presses her mouth to the edge of yours, just shy, her own teeth pulling at her bottom lip-
"Your cock feels," and here Irene takes the moment for a heavy, contented sigh. "-ah, fucking unbelievable. Your fucking cock, jesus."
Her voice is… it's really so dreamy. The praise does strange things: you reach down and pull her thighs so they tighten at your waist. There are no illusions here, she's found something worth chasing. The bare-boned desperation drives her insides wild, you can feel it. The clench, the pulse, the absolute slutty-slick dripping, a real, honest, aching cunt, warm and clamped at the hilt of your cock - it's obscene, and your patience is stretching paper-thin. You aren't asking any questions; she's not taking them.
It’s just you and this petite, absolutely stunning, heartbreakingly gorgeous girl sitting in your lap and working herself on you like a doll, and- oh. She really does look great. It's impossible to look away.
The windows are fogged, and her cunt feels divine as she runs you further into your car seat. Her hips snap up, back down - the soft drag and then the cinching flutter. The inside of her, a total fucking delicacy. One of your hands slides across her back, counting the rise-and-falls of her spine. One, two, three, and so on. Her lips are flush at your throat. You feel her whimper.
It’s the most perfect noise you've ever heard.
"Baby," she mouths at your collarbone, her movements becoming more spastic, more erratic. "I can feel you throbbing."
The encroaching dark keeps threatening the corner of your vision, so much tighter each time.
"You're going to make me," you're gritting through your teeth - this feels a little insane, a little irrational. "Irene you- you’re going to make me fucking cum."
"Oh?" Irene’s reply is immediate. She slams herself down on your cock, hard. "Then cum."
Your patience is truly nothing at this point. There is not a single breath left inside her either: the heavy swell of her chest is proof enough, those eyes fluttering shut, the angle shifting as her ass meets your thighs. "Seriously, I'm going to fucking fill you, and it is gonna slip all down the back of your legs - Irene - sweetheart, I’m going-"
Her fingers curl behind your head. "Cum," and she groans, "I know- I'm here. Take it. Use this perfect little pussy, I want to feel you cum." and you pull the pace up into a frantic tempo. The metal beneath your back creaks with the strain; the bounce of her ass against your groin. The moan, it pitches: a need, a lust, and she is rolling, rutting her body in circles on top of you, a wild gasp and then a beautiful cry, almost in pure unbridled ecstasy.
The angle shifts and - fuck. You’re able to fuck up into her so easily. Her cunt is hot and soft in all the right places, wrapped around your cock, tight and snug like she was made for you. Every drag of slicked skin and clenched muscle sends you both reeling.
"Irene," you barely say, and you're cumming, you’re fucking filling her up with cum - the only possible endgame. You can’t stop fucking into her even though she's just been fucked senseless, stuffed with your cock: little helpless noises, squeals and yelps like they're being tugged out of her. She goes limp on you, and then she collapses, shivering and whimpering with every deep-bore pulse: you're going to mark every inch of her body, claim every part of her soul.
"Oh my god." A groan. Another. It's coming off her like a wave - like a river, really, you're drowning. "It is so, so fucking hot. Your cum, in my pussy..." She trails off.
Her tight cunt twitches: pulsing with every motion. She squeezes down - hard. It takes a great effort for you not to let out a loud, embarrassing whimper. Your fingers dig into her ass, her hips, steadying her grind.
But you're looking right into her eyes when she falls apart, too, that long, tensing shudder, the gasping groan - fuck - because she feels exactly like everything that you've done, you know: Irene's tight cunt has kept your cock perfectly in place. She was just waiting for the spill of it before the final, hardest crest. The smell's in the air and the haze is all through her expression and, god, you want her, you could just sink a million words into that, every possible adoration and every bit of yourself and you still wouldn't be getting the entire story; just fuck - you can never not be fucking her, never not want to have her riding your lap, moaning out and falling and dragging every part of your body deeper-
"Mmmmm," Irene lets out, soft and satisfied, a tiny whimper in the way that she goes all soft around your cock and comes down and presses a wet, tired kiss at the base of your throat.
"Mmmm-m?"
"Thanks, I think." Her blouse is falling off one shoulder, the material crumpled. There are creases all across it. She's biting on her lip, flushed. "Thanks for that."
-
It has to be said, here - because you know, because the sun is setting on your open window and your arm is snug at Irene’s waist and neither of you even have to mutter a word to acknowledge the fact that it will inevitably rise across your living room carpet again.
Irene is everything you might have been running from, everything you’ve ever chased - and you’d never ever stand a chance.
-
Greedy, however, just isn't the right word for it. Not really.
It's the way she leans in when you kiss. The way she fidgets. The way her tongue brushes across her bottom lip. So no - greedy isn't quite the right way to say it. It's more: instinctual.
She's this not-so-subtle tincture of want and desire, in its most basic form - and that makes this all so dangerous, isn't that right, miss? Because want isn't something to toy with; want is, by design, something measured in its inability to be indulged.
(And for the record, your car hasn’t even moved from the lot. You were supposed to get frozen yogurt but that's looking less likely, judging by the way Irene's fingers are tapping lightly across your shoulder, your own clamping down on her chin.)
It’s just so indulgent. Irene hasn’t left your lap, blithely warming your cock for you. Stealing kisses while the day’s last light bleeds low over the buildings. Soft sighs. Whimpers, mewls, muffled little keens of, "oh, oh, please." You trace the edges of her, where your body becomes hers, and her movements are fluid - supple and knowing and just this side of eager.
The car feels now even more cramped and narrow than advertised, the sweat in your skin starting to bloom. The musk of sex, a creeping heat: "go ahead," you rasp out.
She nods, a helpless dip, and that comes with a sigh, "yes, fuck, right there," her cunt squeezing, a hot, slick little velvety clench; there's something about being buried inside her and seeing her fall apart. This slow rock and build-up. All the hard edges worn to a perfect point. Her dark eyes are glowing, her clever little tongue darting to her lip.
You hold her, slumping together in the front seat. The leather squeaks with the gentle shifts, the slides. The color rising in her cheeks. She likes when your breath catches; her smile goes sharp, a hint of teeth: it's very obvious that she is very very drunk - on control, on cock, it doesn't seem to matter.
A beat passes before the architecture returns to her muscles. She's sitting up, and with your hand firmly cupping her ass, and your teeth pressed to the flat of her breasts. "You," she gasps, the most unironic and unexpected reply. The corner of her eyes is still glistening, still dazed, still blissful. "Don't play dumb. Fuck - no, don't stop."
"Sorry, say that one more time for me, miss."
"You- ah." She grins, and her hip shoves your cock out with a filthy wet sound in accompaniment.
The air of the car is sticky, and her slick is still covering your waist, so the discomfort makes the little groan extra appreciative, anyway.
"Fucking god-" she grumbles, and the whine that escapes is an order for attention.
You take her jaw with both hands. Pull her, and look her right in her eyes and kiss her. Not slow. Not gentle. Thoroughly, so the tip of her tongue reaches the very roof of her mouth. She ends up with her back shoved roughly into the dash, and your fingers tangled through her hair and tugging. And her laugh turns to a whimper, her eyes a half-closed - you fingerfuck her cunt open. Thumb pressed tight to the clit. Two, and the palm of your hand smacks between her thighs, resonating all throughout the car. It's your own hot cum coating your knuckles and drip-dropping off your wrist, so she's melting and needy. The evening's passing, her hands go to her bra, so she's twisting and slipping, the orgasms strung together like the pearls on her bracelet.
Her fingers squeeze yours, then let go.
She licks into your mouth. "Jesus, you're way too good at that," is what Irene murmurs, when you're both just left breathless, half-shivering, merely recycling the same torrid air.
"Let’s get you home, princess," you kiss into her skin, joking. "Before curfew."
She sits up. "Shut the fuck up."
"Sorry," you lie, smug - not sorry at all. "Can't help it. You're too pretty when you get like that."
"What, when I'm cumming for you? When your cock is inside me? When you're fucking my brain to mush?"
Her heels clack to the ground.
"You’re gross," she adds, and shoves your arm.
"You like it," you say to her, "don't lie."
"Because I’m just this sweet innocent thing, right? I can't be held accountable for anything. Look at you, fucking me like this - corrupting me." A flutter of eyelash, and she leans forward to meet your eyes. She's adjusting the straps of her bra. She's a picture-perfect pinup girl. "Is that really what gets you off?"
"It's not bad." You let yourself soak in it, for a second, just staring at her. "The whole naive, helpless schoolgirl act. It's a classic for a reason."
Irene snickers. It's sweet-bitter, and that's fitting. You like how her blush is red and stubborn.
"Goodness," she says, like you can't see the dust of a smile, of a smirk, take shape on her swollen mouth. "Okay sure, let’s get into that; say my dad is sitting up with worry." Her head cocks, playful. "My family probably sent a search party out for me," and her laugh's lighter than air, warm, a few shades shy of ridiculous - if you thought that the sound could make you as much of a fool as she does - then yeah, that’s pretty accurate.
"What - like in a rocking chair, with his shotgun and everything?"
"Yeah, you’re so fucking dead. He's so going to shoot you on sight when he sees the absolute state you're returning me in. His precious little girl, " Irene picks at her bra, tucks herself back in, adjusts her hair. The last of her hairpins drops, falls to the dash. It rolls back, between your legs. "Pull the trigger and turn you into swiss cheese. Last rites, eulogy, the full nine yards." Her makeup's smudged - red lipstick, the tip of her nose - and you just don't feel like pointing it out yet.
"Cremation, most likely?"
"Eh, who knows," she smiles, and now, more than ever, there's not a sign of hesitation in her face, her voice, the light and effortless way she drapes across the interior, stretches. "You’re so cute though. Maybe he'll give you a chance and let you run."
-
It hadn't really occurred to you until you arrived onto the front steps of Irene’s apartment and watched her sink back against the door, exhaling softly in the fluorescent light, her eyes heavy, but you have a sneaking suspicion that you're doing everything completely out of order.
You aren't in some trope-addled tv drama, and Irene isn't your childhood-friend or your slowburn-material, someone with a sentimental backstory.
Maybe in a parallel universe, some twisted alternate ending, where she's in this long, silky wedding gown, both sides of the aisle are watching you commit sins the way people can't resist doing in those fuck-it stories, all heat and sex and dopamine without remorse - but not now, not yet.
(Probably - probably not ever, and if that's a cop-out you can't help it. Because isn’t it silly, the things the people will do. Pretending to not be in love, all for the sake of the chase - getting themselves hung up in this world of digital advances and missed connections.)
You'll regret it later, you think. That's an unforeseen variable you should've predicted, though, isn't it?
Because you've both loved before, both been hurt, the excuses are all in the chamber: all the mixed signals and stereotypes. How she looks at you - or doesn't, some days. Your past, hers, the differences. You've never known exactly how this should go, if there even is a best version of this love to pursue, the idyllic happily-ever-after, that perfect white dress. Fuck, that is not the daydream you're supposed to be having.
The story instead, is like this: you drive her home. She sings along to the music on the radio. She kisses you over the console at a red light. Someone honks. You walk her to the door, because you're old-fashioned when you think it’s useful. You're a charmer, she's yours. You grab her by the chin and probably end up making out for far too long.
Just imagine if it had all been by the book:
A first date, then text messages. A second, where you're supposed to invite her to dinner, drinks. You’re supposed to call her, on the phone, with your voice and everything - low, a little assertive - not bossy or controlling, no: that's what the third date's for. There's a checklist for what to do, what to say; how you're supposed to kiss her, and why she's supposed to act all shy, the picture of demure - like she's innocent, though she'll be anything but. At the end of it, you're supposed to pay. She won’t let you. You're supposed to walk her home. She's supposed to linger, put the keys in the door and ask you what you're doing next - she's supposed to look over her shoulder as she walks inside and say goodnight, be coy, let it dangle on the edge. And that's supposed to be that. All of it: quintessential.
Nowhere in that manual does it say anything about pinning her up against the door and slipping your hand into her slacks either - underneath the soft, dark lace of her panties and placing your other palm over her mouth so the neighbors don't hear what a little slut she can be when she wants to.
Just this side of coquettish. A total delight.
Irene practically sobs into the side of your hand. Her mouth drops open, and you haven't even really touched her; she's wet already, soaked - well. She's always wet for you.
"I'll catch you later," you breathe into her neck, letting your fingertips skirt the puffy lips of her cunt on the drag back up because you’re actually not old-fashioned, like at all.
She tosses her hair, lets a sigh run through her smile, the blush, the creased eyes - and disappears through the door. It's the simplest way you two will ever say good night.
-
Ignoring all the rules of engagement, you and Irene never actually tiptoe around each other.
There's never even been a third date because the lines between hanging out and fucking and hanging-out-fucking blur with astounding ease. It's no real shocker: it's the little details in the way you find her sitting next to you at work, hips shifting minutely from side to side on the stool as she sifts through sheet music, sipping her latte, just barely making a sound.
It's the little details in the way she shows up, dresses to all the events, hands brushing yours to call attention to the ends of her fingertips; it's how every camera in the room seems to favor her.
If any of the 14th-century courtship philosophers could ever weigh in, now would probably be ideal. You’d be grateful, sure - because Irene is the epitome of entanglement. And that's your excuse. If anything's going to kill you, let it be her.
-
The texts do dry up for whatever reason.
Three hours between replies just to conceal a bit of earnest emotion or whatever. You wonder what that's called, wonder when it gets so boring - why all these steps had to be so dull, and why you can't do without them. The modern era has, after all, rendered the ancient rituals pretty fucking pointless - you could both use a time machine to the medieval ages, then you could get the fireworks. The gallant. Some declaration or betrothal - maybe a show of sword, a fistful of your bride's maidenhead. Or whatever the fuck they were calling it in those days, it all sounds a bit crude-
When it really comes down to it, this is less about the charm, the proposal, or the lack thereof. Less about the dear Irene, will you be mine, and more about the want. Want that's palpable, messy: about shedding decorum together and feeling filthy and rough, taking, receiving, biting into the sweet skin of her inner thighs and spanking her so hard she can't walk the next day.
That's all it is, you're pretty sure.
And look - she still attends a majority of your work functions even though, strictly speaking, she has no reason to. Everything is relatively normal, or maybe you don't know how normal is supposed to look, and that's alright because you're trying - and all you really care about is Irene smiling at you with that one knowing tilt of her mouth - and - and she does.
Hey, you're not entirely hopeless.
-
(The toxicity, the slammed doors, ignored voicemails and belted taillights zooming off into the night - look, not everyone is built for all the drama, not everyone feels the thrill at the tip of their fingers when they cut their losses and move on to the next. Floating through the memories thinking, wow, what a waste of time.
That's not you, you're aware. And Irene’s seen it before, probably, had a story just like it in her own life, maybe been there, maybe not, but isn't it fascinating how all of it always sounds the same no matter how the story gets told.
So, keep it simple stupid. It's easy that way. Don't confuse her, or yourself, don’t fuck it up by demanding more.
Afterall, it feels good, pretending not to care where she is at night.)
-
So - take some credit, you do something right for once. You call her.
It’s a Saturday and she’s working late because she’s a singer. She's between hair, makeup and costume. Bored. Or, pretending she is, and if you were a lesser person, the type to lie to yourself, you'd let the pretension sit as-is. It's not even difficult: no effort required to sit back, close your eyes, and listen.
"The way he was just staring at me was so embarrassing," Irene is going on about this production assistant, and her voice is always light, playful - it doesn't matter who, it doesn't even matter what, it's the cadence to her speech that lulls. "Like I could read his mind."
"Can't you?" you ask, indulgently.
"Okay, don't try being cheeky, mister," Irene scolds into the phone, but it's hardly stern; her tone's the softest kind of sultry, like caramel, dripping. "He wanted to bend me over the table. Get some nice little marks in."
Hey, who could blame him? She exhales, almost sounds annoyed - the pout on her face is practically audible.
You are not a good person by the longest stretch of the imagination. "Then what stopped him, princess?" you question, not a hint of chivalry left in you. "Fooled me - isn't that your kink? Fucking men you've barely just met."
She laughs - once, breathless and abruptly; something sharp. You're not actually joking and she can't pretend otherwise. "Fuck." The word is a sigh, the suggestion is all over the air. You aren't blind. "You would, wouldn't you? Probably love to see me bent over, too - and split in half on some stranger's cock. Worshiping it like you've taught me, or whatever the fuck."
You hum in amusement, putting the pieces together from what she hasn't said. "Aw," you coo. "Missing me already I see."
"Don’t flatter yourself," she shoots back, all quippy, fast: quick reflexes, the stuff of her brand. "What am I meant to be doing while I'm waiting for the crew, huh?"
And well, that’s the thing - you end up on the phone for far too long, far too late: she leaves you to wait a minute when someone knocks on the door, and you'll have her later, probably, but what's wrong with dreaming of fucking her in one of those dressing rooms, pulling that corset down her curves and kissing her silent in case someone walks by - leaving teeth and nail marks across the tops of her breasts. You expect her to bring the conversation to something a little more in the moment, but her voice carries back into the room and she's asking you, casually, what's for dinner, how was your day. You laugh, tell her a funny story that happens, talk about everything that's mundane, everything she should know and would know about you if you actually spoke all the words in your head.
"Hey," she says, at some point, quiet and suddenly gentle, and you're already wrapped around her finger and you've yet to tell her. "I like talking to you. Keep calling."
This isn’t like you, really. Or it hasn’t been - not in a while.
"As if that's up to you," you shoot back, your voice so dry you know she can see straight through it, but maybe you're doing alright, making leeway - because at least, it's a placeholder. Irene seems to understand what you can't explain.
"Ha." Another laugh, airy this time: easy-breezy. A vocal shrug. "My hair is way too cute right now to deal with your smart mouth, anyways - they're waiting for me." She hesitates, but the gap isn't uncomfortable, a space to breathe. "Let's just say you'll get tired of me before I get sick of you."
"Do you want me to see?"
"Later," says Irene, almost hurriedly, like an excuse, but in a pretty way, and the click on her end of the line is still warm.
(You hang up, stare at the wall and take deep, shaking breaths: in, out, hold - when you don't, you can taste her. But still, you wait for the feeling to subside.)
-
At first, she had seemed entirely untouchable. It’s funny. At first, you were convinced she'd look right past you.
-
She sends you a video, no commentary: the pretty, delicate sweep of her mouth brushing her shoulder. Her arm casts a shadow down the rise of her hips and your eyes trail that shadow south, across the soft planes of her stomach.
There are no questions after it, no words or emojis. Just her. In lingerie and no fucking context. The sound of her inhales.
(She says things with her face like that - or rather she says nothing at all. There isn't a hand-written translation key, though she leaves clues. She's playing it up, knows how you like her when she gets mouthy, lips glossy, knows how you like her panting. It wouldn't take much if she put her hand between her legs for you: you'd suck on her fingers, clean them off. You'd do anything.
The sound she does make eventually is low, frustrated. It's filthy - just thinking about her, all alone and barely touching herself: waiting for your reply.)
-
And yeah, it'd feel good not having to think about the bullshit anymore - you’d do your best to convince everyone that it's casual: the looks, the touches, all of it - the two of you together. It'd be a total lie, and you'd know it: everyone would know it, but that doesn't really matter. Because keeping things careless works. Never had it been about the feelings, and it's a cop-out, sure, that old cliché, but look - there's a really good chance you'll muck this up if you're given the power to put a name to the way her pupils dilate a half second before she grabs at you. Or the way you always fall a little more for her.
You think about that, about the worst of it: that she could ask you the most invasive question on her mind and instead, you'd answer, honestly and willingly, just like that: "hey, do you want to stay the night?"
-
But here’s the thing: she's a singer and she's got all these friends. Colleagues and acquaintances from work who are, in her words, also 'friends' (code for: people I am required to tolerate by contract.)
Hey, you're no marriage counselor - you won't try to figure out the etiquette. And her labelmates aren't a total disaster.
It's only fair to make an appearance, meet all these alleged Bae Joohyuns. And - she likes it, in that way Irene likes a lot of things you do to her. She’s texting you a new address every few minutes, texting nonstop by the time you've matched a tie to a shirt and are actually considering heading out. It's this afterparty, or wait, sorry, we're actually at a bar now - no, scratch that, it's a friend of a friend's place, you'll love it, I think? - and you can't really picture her stumbling through the city at midnight like she is, but there's a blurry photo of her and Seulgi and Wendy crowded around a mess of champagne flutes on a counter. An outdoor patio, a rooftop garden somewhere downtown. Her dress is breathtakingly gorgeous. There's an arm snaked around her waist and that's - hmm.
Wendy wants u here lol, the next text reads, and okay, you can't actually be bothered to give her shit for that right now. She can't be helped.
Someone's having fun, you type out instead.
Maybe I'm bored, comes the reply, just as fast, and then a few seconds later: i don't think anyone knows me here.
You roll your eyes. You'd love her despite, or maybe because of, a personality like that. "Never took you for anything like a celebrity."
Fine. I'll have to think of something to do, then, Irene responds, almost lazily, the following text-delete cycle appearing under your thumb like some new and innovative high-speed braille. Maybe.
But you could also come over and get me off, you think she should add. That could be fun, too.
No dice.
Meet me soon, she texts, and maybe a drunk mind speaks a sober heart, but she doesn’t even know what it does to your stomach when she follows it with, I miss you.
You wonder, a little, how you got here. You wonder if things like that ever just become normal.
-
Kang Seulgi is standing out front when you spill out of an uber and onto the sidewalk, all stooped over under the yellow haze of the streetlight on the corner, smoke coming up off a cigarette hanging out of her mouth.
The chill night wind picks up and the edge of a leather jacket flaps behind her. It's almost eerie in how mundane the sight should be - and you think it's funny: Seulgi can make herself at home, anywhere.
"Hey," the brunette calls, stepping up. She's tall in her heels, the crescents under her eyes deep. The stars in the sky are shining against all the bright signs and street lamps, and it's hard to spot them. "Haven’t I seen you before?"
"Around the office, probably-"
Seulgi's eyes light up - she's not as drunk as the photo suggested, you think - and she gives a bright smile. Her eyebrows jump in recognition: a blur, the glimmering pulse of neon over glossed eyes and a lip caught by a canine. "You're Irene's-"
"-work friend," you answer quickly, before she has the chance to finish. It makes her laugh, which you weren't really counting on, and pocket her hands. You have enough bad ideas; you don't need hers as well.
"Oh. So you’ve got an arrangement," she suggests.
"It's an occupation," is as much as you'll tell her. "We all have one."
"Mhmm," she agrees, the wince on her face passing as a thoughtful hum. She shrugs.
"Did you-?" You clear your throat, don't know why it's hard to get out. "Is, uh, Irene in there?"
She takes a slow pull, long eyelashes sweeping over her cheekbones. Smoke spills out over her top lip. "Of course," says the girl, with all the attitude. "Just, not so alone."
"So," you start, cautious. "Do I even want to..."
Seulgi waves her hand, drops ash off the cigarette. "Nothing to worry your little heart over, friend," she mumbles, shrugging. Her fingers are delicate as she blows smoke between parted lips, eyes angling up at the city lights. "She said she was meeting someone cute. And I’m left wondering, if that someone could be you."
"Um," you respond. "Could be."
"Hm." The word is loaded, considering, and when she takes another step forward there's a smirk painted to her mouth, the deep red cut in the center of her lips almost reflective. She tosses her cigarette aside: a clean arc into a storm drain. "Interesting."
Seulgi's fingertips brush your collar as she ducks into the door in front of you.
"Later, pal," she tosses over her shoulder, and doesn't look back to see what happens next.
-
(You’d feel so much lighter, like a feather, with her off your mind.)
-
A crowd's scattered around the rooftop, now spread a bit thin - most of the people you recognize from tv screens and billboard ads, and everyone else seems a mix of other media. They're talking to each other in hushed tones about some shoot-down, this piece of gossip. They're comparing agent fees, checking the pockets of their jackets, flicking gold-plated pens in their designer hands. The whine of a power drill going a mile a second comes from over the railing: a few shots left to take. A skeleton crew works behind a camera, behind the glass, but no one seems to mind the business of film in the midst of celebration. They really are a different breed, aren't they?
You pick her out of the crowd instantly - in a white silk cocktail dress that costs more than a college tuition and no sense to act the part, Irene is seated among all of them like she fits. It's never a surprise, her at the center of things.
The seam at her hip rides up when she turns to reach for her drink, her leg extended long: overstretched, one toe pointed elegantly as if she could place her full weight onto a thin little stiletto heel and not snap both ankles. Her bottom lip is coated with bright gloss, pink smearing as it pulls at the straw.
There's a pause where everything slows down: she licks the crease of her mouth, sucks something golden and sparkling down, swallows, blinks - slow, pretty, perfect. Her hair is dark, cute, spilling onto her shoulders, and it brushes a collarbone, slips a little into the slit between her breasts. She's looking for someone, gaze traveling across the patio, swimming through the party - searching - and then, suddenly, those deep-water brown eyes catch yours.
They shine just a little bit brighter.
And then, the only logical thing: Irene smiles, before her feet carry you right in your direction.
-
Inside, things aren’t so loud. The night had gotten its worst out of the way early, the only source of music low and reverberating through the walls, the ceilings - all dark and liminal spaces; you and Irene find one to spare and fall into each other there, slow and searching and full of everything. It would be enough to get lost in her completely, this sweetness. You, and the kiss, and nothing else.
It's almost private enough to call it quiet; you're both out of sight and hidden, but there's voices, drowned noise all around. The bass can be felt through the floorboards, underfoot, but you can only focus on the rhythm that thrums from inside of her chest.
There's a disarm, here, too:
"I kissed someone tonight," Irene confesses, and then there's this break, a fragment where neither of you knows who you are to the other, what any of this means - if she'll bite down, be that sore reminder of a few unspoken words.
"Did you."
"Yeah," she says, exhale tickling your jaw. Her lips drag on skin, trace bone - and maybe it should bother you, but either way you can't help it: a thought finds purchase. Irene in someone else's grip, just enough a squeeze. Someone she'd like, or someone she could put herself back in a relationship with, or whatever they're calling this - and all at once, she's trembling.
The revelation is a bit like getting shot through the heart. A simple, awful: fuck. You think you might be bleeding.
Irene pulls the strap of her dress back up her shoulder and explains how it happened, out in that patio garden: a closed-mouth thing, some fleeting nothing, really, a bold dare on his behalf and her lack of inhibition. No, she assures you - he tasted like vodka and it was boring. She kept his hands off her ass, just in case you wanted to know. But still, the blood pumps harder in your veins knowing what she has and hasn't done - and what's wrong is how you only hear her confession in the middle of feeling something envious, a sudden, strong, profound desire to mark your claim: you'd leave this bruise, something ugly at the hollow of her throat. It makes you a possessive, possessive kind of person, and the sentiment, you figure, can only end in trouble.
"Sorry," she sighs, tipping her face forward to brush her forehead against yours, her eyes scrunching as she apologizes. "I don't think you wanted to know, but-"
You're trying to distract yourself; she's pressed between you and the wall, arms circling your neck as her spine bows under a bit of pressure.
"Yeah?" you question though. You can't not. There's this telltale roughness, the need to breathe: you'll hold on too long, take her mouth the way she deserves, keep her quiet, and let your tongue flick across hers until her lips are numb. "What then - should I care? Am I meant to?"
She swallows. It's all reflex.
"He kissed me," is all she says, and then her palm is stroking against the shell of your ear, soft, quiet. "Then he kissed me again."
She shivers, eyes wide, wet and round and wanting: you could say you understand how he could only dream of being the one to turn her head and bring out her charm, the easy way she smiles, but-
"All I could think of was you."
There was never a chance to compete; this star whose shine eclipses. Your binary system was never quite fair, was it?
Your hands are on her wrists then, trapping them at her sides; her eyes smoky and dark and looking straight up at you. She can't breathe like that, mouth agape as your nose brushes hers, your words blowing straight against the heat of her lips:
"Are you still thinking of me now?"
It's only that - though you can hear a sound building up from her lungs. You kiss the line of her jaw and whisper things into her skin: you have me, you can have me, you've always had me. The truth.
And her eyes are slipping shut: mouth curling into the kind of smile that drives you crazy; half the reason why you're all over her in the first place. You don't care where she's been so long as this is where she ends up, your face brushing hers, the kiss held just out of reach - you press into her forehead, her nose, her cheeks; she tilts her chin towards you, begging you to just - but your mouth is on her, feather-light, not near enough: she chases the pressure, gasps your name as your lips find hers, tongue sliding right past, and oh-
It's fast. It's heavy: you take, you push; her whole body shifts and shudders when she finds a grip, one hand braced on your shoulder as the other swung upwards, pulling you closer by the jaw. Your hand runs up her thigh and you hear her inhale, deep.
Irene kisses you like she was made to. She makes sounds with her tongue against yours, ones that twist in you, wind, undo. Like this, it'd be so easy to just let it go - take, take, take. There's not an inch to hide as your hand climbs her bare skin, feeling a shiver rise as her breath rushes hot against your cheek, over and over and-
"Breathe, baby," you mutter, and Irene huffs like it's a game, one of her soft shuddering hiccups, like there's something you should've known - the gasp when you kiss her mouth open, how it was getting easier to drown. She's not drunk, but she's getting there - and she doesn't ask to take it back when you both tip and crash into the wall beside. The reverberation of her back hitting the surface is nothing like the rest.
You take her arm, press her further against the space.
"Bedroom," she barely manages to request. Breathes, the sound shaking and short, almost - almost a plea, or a prayer. A beg. "Somewhere quiet, please. Anywhere. Please."
There's nothing Irene doesn't do without grace - but how she needs you: her limbs give, and she sags, falls against the line of your torso. There's this full, bordering helpless sound as you find her waist, holding her up, pulling her closer. You're kissing in this empty corridor, knocking on doors, jiggling locked door knobs and wasting time, barely, maybe, forever until you can step back into some stranger's guest room: some hallway hideaway; the unoccupied kind of paradise.
"I want you," she mutters when your hand traces the slope of her neck, and then her face is burying against the space below your ear, her open mouth skirting across the sensitive skin there. "So bad, so much. Out of these clothes."
Her neck tilts and you lick. You find a place beneath her ear, kiss - hard. Irene says please. You leave a mark. You know you’ll leave more.
An unlocked door, and she shoves you into a bathroom instead, fucks you in there with her underwear tugged to the side and her skirt rucked up her thighs: the mirror reflecting back every whine, the squeal you draw out of her when your teeth dig too deeply, the shock, the undiluted want in her eyes when she leans up against it. You have her half on the sink, your arms a cage around her lithe waist, your grip white-knuckled in the silk outline of her dress; she cums around your fingers, cunt slick and slippery, gasping your name so loudly that you have to shush her; and even after that, when her gaze locks into yours, the pretty round of her cheeks all red and her lashes stuck with her tears: when she tugs your zipper down, fits you between her legs and pleads for you to fill her with your cock until the tightness around it is unbearable, fucking her just as you're pulling apart her clothes, the clasp of her bra snapped so hard she curses - even that doesn't stop. She doesn't ask you to stop - she's incorrigible, needy, practically begging.
"Please." Again. Again, as she touches her cheek, fingertips on the skin that's already turning a deep crimson, all shades and blooms; and then she touches the lipstick-smudged prints at the top of her breast, and all the ones on her jaw. Your teeth, where it was light, and your tongue where it was hard. You took, and you marked, and the way she is, her thighs quivering like an aftershock; her body pliable, barely-breathing: that was almost all of what she asked for.
Your hips snap, and the impact jolts through her: ripples sent into the curves of her body from the pleasure, the pain. You try not to listen, not to look - not the obscenities leaving her mouth in a steady stream as you press her down against the counter: every hiss and moan, your name, jesus fuck-
Irene cums a second time with a wail, like someone's hurt her, like she's been set free, like she'll never again breathe so well as she does when your lips catch the scream and hold down the sobs, fingerprints at the faint, fragile curve of her nape.
"God," she whimpers into your mouth; and the sound, that voice, as she moans it to you: "your cock - is gonna kill me, baby."
Her cunt is tighter around your cock than it's ever been, this total vice grip, her hips lean and arched upwards where she lies, slick-dripping onto the bathroom counter; the edge of her heel catches on the marble-topped basin, and her ankle knocks over the handsoap - the whole of it hitting the floor and shattering.
She doesn't care. She can’t. She's a fucked-out mess: her black hair in knots, sticking to her hairline, her face flushed with need.
"Darling," the sweetest, her soft voice cracking with a laugh, the tipsy tilt of a joke; she's begging with it, some lazy, pretty curl of a request, some pretty plea that turns around into a bite, the heat, the feral - you kiss her harder. Take her harder. Leave a few more marks: just so you know she'll still feel it later, bruised and sore and sorry, and it might be too much, but oh, the way Irene grabs and pulls and fights and tries to cling when it crosses the line; she'll be feeling this tomorrow, a sharp tugging at the inside of her chest as she rubs circles into the scrapes and imprints on her hip bones. This reminder; of what's right there, if only-
Mine, you bite against her skin, and the voice in her head might scream with it.
You can see the fantasy in her eyes: her standing here in the mirror after you've filled her pussy, fucked your cum back into her cunt and had your fingers inside her for so, so long that she'd been soaking, dripping with it - your palm pressing firmly on her swollen, desperate clit, two fingers hooking deep, right on the spot that makes her twitch, tremble. Her jaw goes slack, eyes fluttering and back arching as you watch her drip with the mess you've made of her.
"It was always, I think-" and she hiccups, a small pained sound, "it was always gonna be you." She says it like an apology, voice quieter, more uncertain, a little shaky. "I just can't get you out of my head."
Your hips are reckless, a little mean - but your mouth moves slowly across hers. It's tender. It’s everything.
"Baby," you plead back: and it's something soft and small when you sigh it into her mouth. Your fingers tracing her ribs and feeling how she breathes with your every motion; how you're filling her so deep she almost can't. Choking, with a whimper, like it's hard - and then her jaw goes slack, eyes snapping shut - her knees bend - like she'll give up on the control. Her body slackens and gives under you; her legs widen to fit your hips, all her weight sinking backwards on the marble-top-
She keens when you bottom out, a high, delicate noise. Whimpers at how full she is of you; she must've felt your rhythm slipping and letting it run too rough-
And even then. She asks, totally breathless, panting: "Right there," and fuck, god, please. "I love this," she whispers, the sweetest, the most gorgeous, lips moving as slow as a prayer - "and you fuck so good. And-"
Irene swallows; her chest expanding and then halting, shallow and deliberate. Her chin turns; her mouth opening in some expression of yearning before the word comes; a gasp, and she can't - she can't quite-
"Keep- baby, please." Her throat makes a noise and all the words taper. "Please, right fucking there."
She makes another sound, strung out and desperate - and she keeps gasping the faster you thrust your hips. Each drag through her hot, wet cunt has you both clambering closer.
"This," Irene's panting, this terrible, wonderful realization in her mouth. "This feels like-"
A stutter. A strangled sound: you don't even catch a full breath before she's trying again.
"-like us."
Oh, Irene, her heart murmuring. Like something soft, like something hard - this burn, this hurt; Irene, in her prettiest, highest pitch - the way she speaks, the way she breathes, her voice dropping a decibel like some clandestine secret. Like sin, a honey-coated whisper in the space between you two.
"Irene," you say, and she melts like you’re inscribing it into her skin. DNA-deep, carved into her bones. She takes it like a baptism, something in it an invitation, a promise to hold her dear - and all at once, that smile grows, blooms.
It's intimate. It's affectionate. Fuck, it's true.
You break open her world with her own name, spoken like a sigh and sounding like sin.
There's this hollow, raspy sound she makes. Beneath the shallow of her clavicle. When your fingers push down, her nipples pressing back into your palm - there, as her breath hitches, as she quivers - right there; her cunt trembles around you, eyes wide-open, and you're just watching each other lose yourselves until Irene has to beg for another kiss, and the next, her fingers grasping at the collar of your shirt as she slips her tongue into the corner of your mouth. You wonder why she bothers with perfume; when all she is is vanilla and cinnamon, a saccharine so sweet with a touch of spice; she murmurs the words into your ear: I want your cum. Fill me up. Use me.
You think:
God, her body; god, the feeling. The sound.
Think, still:
Look, your hand. At her waist. At her pussy. Right here. The place where you're connected. Flesh, bone, a stretch of skin - the raw, obscene mess you make; when all it takes is a rock of your hips, a thrust upwards and in to dismantle everything that is her, everything that is Irene, until her entire world is centered around you-
It could be a chorus, a refrain:
Let go. Let me see. Drown me out. Kill the lights. You’ll take three hours over three weeks where you pretend she doesn’t exist. It's simple. It’s, it’s-
It’s this: the press of her to your skin. The nails to your scalp, down your neck. The splay of her legs across your thighs. The sweat - hers, yours - all of it together; your mouths meeting and meeting and meeting. Again and again.
God. It’s the entirety of you which you were hoping to avoid. You love this woman. You fucking worship her, all of her, every piece and the whole - that she's making that noise in the back of her throat, soft; that her breathing is rising, ragged; that you do this to her, just this.
It happens in a blink. You tell her to turn. Tell her to bend.
She ends up over the counter, gripping the sink, and you lift the fabric up to bare her ass and keep fucking her, deep, deeper. This sound is all you need, this whine that Irene makes, like you're reaching even her furthest, hottest spots - and then the push through her sopping cunt, how she spills around you and the slickness smears at the insides of her thighs; she clings and squeezes and fucks back against you so wildly, she doesn't even recognize her own name. It's the moment when she loses all sight: that's when you bury inside her, pull back her hair, wrap your hand around her throat, and she's under you, on you, body angling upwards like a flower to the sun. She cums so easily, shuddering into the pull of the climax; her pussy tight around the throbbing swell of your cock - the deep and penetrating pain of that desperate pleasure, like a flash-flood, an earthquake, oh, the grip, the warmth-
The moment stretches, just like that.
Her heels kicked off and toes arching to scuff at the cool, tiled floors; she's sensitive; she wants to play dirty. Your grip loosens, that same tender thing when her throat bobs, a little movement, swallowing for you. She knows exactly what she's asking for, exactly what this all means - Irene begs so prettily: "put it inside me."
There's a few seconds in which you feel nothing but the heat and the way she flinches, like a reaction that's programmed straight into all her nerve endings; the raw instinct; the shudder from deep within her core when your hot cum finally starts to spill thick and heavy inside her - it's been too long since your last proper fuck, and her moaning in the mirror is, how do you say: an incredible inspiration.
"Your pussy," you can hear yourself say, throat gravel-dry. "Is so fucking tight, baby, shit-"
And she's nodding, voice ripped to ribbons. All the words liturgical, a prayer. She's begging with them; yes, please, fuck, god yes, give me-
Her thighs press together, but her eyelids have begun to fall.
"Use me," she mutters. Her breathing begins to even out - the very real sign she's spent, near unconscious. "Want this, want you - so fucking bad."
And the evidence is there. Irene is falling apart beneath you, hands fisting and legs spreading even further as she's braced against the sink, bent, and presented. All of it makes a beautiful sight: the spread of her toned, ivory thighs; her ass pale and her folds so pink; how she's bent, waiting. Everything about her is an artistic consideration, designed, purposeful.
"Christ," is all you manage. The strain is evident in how your tone rasps.
Because your hips are still pumping Irene’s cunt with cum. Fingers wrapped around her tiny waist and pulling her ass flush against your hips for good measure. Again and again and again; no room for doubt: you've missed the warmth, the fullness. Soaked to the hilt as your length curves within her; she coos, and she loves it. She says it’s ruinous. She says it feels incredible. She says it around the shape of your name and with no hint that you should ever stop fucking her apart.
"Feels so fucking amazing." She's panting and she can't say another word for a while; it's a fact and the other is simple. "It's - so good."
She can't stop moaning.
You’re both breathless, watching her reflection in the glass, a study in motion: the soft bounce of her breasts in the mirror, the cords of muscle tensing in her abdomen, the small, pinkish mark blooming below her left ear. There's her lower lip, pinched between her teeth, her eyes flickering shut as her hair drapes across her naked shoulder and her skirt rolls higher on her waist. She doesn't try and muffle herself: you could hold her down, or even give her your fingers to bite down on - let her go a little wild as she wrestles against the instinct to stay silent, keep quiet. You plant an open-mouthed kiss against the side of her neck and look up, see her watching the movements, her dark eyes lidded, dazed, fucked-out-of-her-mind content as she smiles - lidded and lovely and impossibly knowing and rocking her hips into the moment.
"You are unbelievable, you know that?" you're murmuring, your palm on her shoulder. Pushing her flat. "Absolutely breathtaking."
You rub a thumb against her cunt, pull at the outer, exposed, sensitive parts as Irene's smile falters. You just keep pushing.
"Oh, baby," she whines, pleading for more. For one more press, another, anything: she begs you. "Your cum feels" - she swallows hard - "so fucking warm inside of me."
A shush, the palm soothingly pressing between her legs, and she bites her lips hard. Still trying.
So - you push it all deep into her cunt.
There’s this beat, this moment, this quiet - where her eyes pinch tight, voiceless, speechless.
And right after, Irene is whimpering: her body seizing and shaking and arching away from the viscous slickness that just keeps building with each and every drag; the cum left on your cock when you pull it out, leaving Irene on the verge of sobbing, collapsing on her stomach, trembling. Your fingers are covered in her cum. And this is how she likes it, stretched and sloppy. The shudder through her body is proof: all over her nerves, electrified. Irene’s shoulders go limp when she feels the push - then your knuckles, curling. The gentle touch, the pressure, the fingers spreading her slit.
She asks what else, anything, please, and hints at wanting more; so much more.
“Irene,” you say, smiling into the ends of her hair. Maybe, you consider. Maybe later, maybe when you're fucking her flat on your bed; your cock up her tight ass or your palm coming down heavy on the supple roundness. You let her fantasize a minute, imagining it's the roughness she wants to receive; maybe the hot, slow grind of you still inside her or the whisper at her neck and her toes digging into the sheets. The offer has her breath stuttering in the mirror.
Irene tells you it's unfair.
"Sorry," you say, and don't mean a word.
Another breath in, the lungs expanding against your palm, ribs slipping. In and out, a reminder.
"Don't be," Irene manages, exhaling a laugh.
She offers you her lips, you know she doesn't mind - and she kisses you. You sink down to the bathroom floor and she sits so easily in your lap, your mouths meeting over and over again. She strokes your spent cock. Your hands squeeze her thighs and you take her chest in your mouth. Wiping your own smear of wetness off her tummy, bringing them to her face, letting her nose knock into your palm and lick at the tips.
"Can you taste how sweet your cunt is? Baby," and your mouth is on hers, kissing all traces off her tongue-
There's so many things you could do, it's enough to keep you sated for ages. Her back is pressed against your chest, and you gently draw another spill of cum leaking out from her pussy; she shoves your digits into her mouth, sucks until her jaw clenches, your thumb rolling around the roof, tongue pressed right between.
"If someone sees us," she whispers, licks her lips, your fingers, moans, tilts her hips and grinds down a bit. "We'd be so screwed."
"Don't worry, I'd say," and you can't help the tease in it; your voice low and all grit, the heat and your heart rushing through every vein. "It'd all be my fault."
It's filthy: her sitting in the puddle of your cum, making it soak the thin material of her dress; your heavy spill leaking from her cunt and soaking your slacks as the mess seeps further and further down your pants and her ass-
"We are such a disaster." She says it wistfully. "You and me, like this. A total fucking disaster."
(With your clothes torn open, hair a disaster, the imprints of your lips and fingertips all over her, she means. If it was anybody but the two of you: oh, how ridiculous it would seem. But the sheer audacity of the possibility has her looking at the cum glistening on her thighs. Then looking back to you, her dark-brown eyes, brighter than stars, searching the depth of the hold in yours, your arms wrapped around her.
Maybe she just wants to have this. For as long as you're giving it to her.)
-
You can feel yourself falling so deeply into her, the pull. The draw. It feels a lot like being lost. Like, there's something about loving her. The night's long and she's pressed so closely, fitting like something just perfect, and the way her hands find your ribs is the nicest, fondest ache. You only break out of the haze once the footfalls of her heels begin to echo behind you. The bass fades as you both make a run for the exit. It gets harder not to laugh - your giggling voices slipping between you. You have her nose pressed to the dip of your collarbone, kisses dropping in her hair, her lips curved into a smile every time your thumb does another circle - that place right below her hip, or right there behind her ear.
"Take me somewhere," she sighs. Her body pressed against yours, her cheek snuggling against you.
"Any suggestions?"
She shrugs, and the elevator chimes. "I wanna sit with you."
When she leans forward, just the faintest movement, her mouth upturning in the smallest smile. Her eyes flit away, and her brow wrinkles and lifts, like this: here. You could swear, to god, or the devil: there isn’t an ounce of light inside you that doesn't live at her mercy.
The clock is ticking down into the small hours. The night at its calmest, darkest, most wicked stillness. You ask her again, this time, just for clarity, a bit of guidance. "Somewhere we can go? If you have nowhere in mind, we could head back if-"
"No." Irene shakes her head. "Take me anywhere but home."
-
You're drunk. Irene's a little worse off. Her heel snaps. The usual grace, the poise, her ease, that’s all but vanished. It's just her: Irene. Hair windswept and the edge of her nose nipped by the chill, the moonlight.
She’s so fucking beautiful.
The night can hear her laughter in the air; you have her hands clasped around your middle, legs hoisted over your elbows. You’re carrying all fifty kilos of her across the pavement; the streets are quiet and the city's yours. Her dress bunches, and her voice is in your ear, a kiss peppered to the back of your hair. The both of you collapse and - ow, it's the crash onto concrete, a scrape and a bruise and a story to piece together tomorrow. Is this from the tumble? the sex? I don't know, Irene will say, sealing a band-aid over the red, the swell. Maybe this, maybe that. It all happened. The physical marks, the chemical thrill - the proof of life, a permanence, tethered.
"Let me, Irene," you're insisting, half-joking, pulling at the broken heel and tossing it a mile behind you. And like it's instinct, you just can't - can't help yourself. "Your legs are gorgeous, but, y'know. I’d hate to see you get hurt."
You run your palm down her calf and steal the other shoe. It gets tossed in the same direction, over her whine. "Babe."
Irene pouts, still too lovely, still too fucking sweet.
She doesn't laugh, or blush, or try to argue. Instead, she sweeps your hair back, curls her fist at the nape of your neck, and suddenly you're staring, eyes locked and wanting. Irene leans in, her weight settling against your forearms, and gives you a look; just long enough and tender and dreamy and calm enough to have the ache of your heart match its rhythm with her own.
"What the fuck," and her smile cracks open as the words struggle in her chest; her hand goes down your arm and strokes a featherlight finger to the edge of your jaw. "Please don't throw away a woman's shoes without permission."
She hiccups. Sways.
You kiss her. And kiss her, and kiss her. Irene smiles right against your mouth.
"Stay right here," she says. "Go get my fucking shoes, but stay right here with me."
-
Look, it feels so good, not worrying where she is at night.
-
"I thought," she's whispering as you cross into a twenty four-hour minimart, Irene on one arm and both her heels in the other - a pack of wet wipes in your hand - and then her pausing, stopping; this brief flutter of something - she says, "I used to think about how this would all eventually fall apart."
Irene leans forward and gives her weight onto you, hand playing around with the sleeves at your elbow.
"I used to wonder which one of us it would be," and the cashier is ringing up your purchases: a bottle of water, a cold compress, baby wipes and neosporin. The ice cream Irene's insisted you treat her for. She runs a hand up the back of your hair and smiles when you meet her eyes again, "which of us would drop the other, you know, first."
"The thought still come up?" you say, sliding a bill onto the counter and offering a quiet "keep the change."
"Yeah, sometimes. Or I mean I'd be watching you, sometimes, I guess." She smiles at your reaction, bumping your shoulder. "That’s the look."
You're walking out to the parking lot and you're pressing a soft kiss against her brow, waiting, patiently; because you always do, waiting. "Do I need to ask?"
Her grin, close-mouthed and gentle, a tinge of fondness, of humor: "you're going to ask either way."
"Hm," you say, popping the lid off the ice cream, breaking off the flimsy paper seal of the container. She's in the pocket of your blazer, Irene's fingers weaving in between yours, her hand reaching for a bite and grinning all the while.
It's four-thirty AM and the early hours will catch up to you, but. It's this: the yellow-orange streetlight above the two of you and her bare feet dangling off a concrete half-wall. In a white cocktail dress and sitting, you and her, atop a parking barrier. You're here, together, watching the skies lighten in the east - there, where the road will split to lead towards her place. Towards your own.
"There's no way," she says, wiping the corner of her lips with her pinky and then making a face. "For us to be together and not mess this up, eventually, somehow." She steals the carton and balances it between her knees. "There's no way to save this."
"Probably not."
Her mouth curls. There, and gone; there again.
"Doesn't that scare you?"
Your stomach is a riot of twists and nerves and the base of your throat is tight, like a swelling.
"It does." You lick your lips, can't think. "A bit, sometimes." You look at her - her profile, her silhouette, the messy, knotted ponytail, the wisping hairs beneath her temple. The press of her lips, how the gloss rubs off onto her knuckles, staining. "But then I see you - and I can't imagine how I'd even pull a 'it's not you, it's me,' convincingly."
Her throat clicks, and she leans her head against yours, and you're forgetting everything else.
You both stop. Sharing a bite. Sharing the silence.
There, and gone.
"Hey," she breathes out - and you can't explain her expression, how her brows knit together; she squeezes your hand, a tremor, and the corner of her lips pulls upwards, almost apologetic; sad, or thoughtful. "This ice cream is so fucking freezer-burnt."
"It’s not great."
You watch her nose twitch like she's holding back a sneeze, or a sniffle. She laughs instead and leans against the warmth of you; the smell of her, your bodies touching.
"I love it," you hear her say, and she doesn't give the container back.
-
Irene falls asleep in the backseat of a cab as the sun rises, your blazer draped over her chest; she murmurs your name and pulls closer, seeking warmth. The traffic thins as the roads lead to where she'll disappear, and you find yourself dreading it already.
In a day, maybe two. It’s funny. You could end up hating each other. You might have to force a pause, or take a break, or even step back from her entirely. That’s how it goes. It's the hardship, it’s living - it’s the knowing that she has a lease on life that will end, will expire, a loan where all her days are slowly counting down; a timer you recognize the injustice that it might someday read zero.
Not to get too far ahead of yourself, or to project some awful ending where one isn’t likely: but when Irene and you are like this, soft, sleepy, curled into each other; her hand at the small of your back, resting; this close, and closer. Your heart aches with an ambiguous type of feeling, indescribable-
Irene shivers a breath and presses her face into your shirt; and like a revelation: you fall further.
"Where do I take her, sir," the cab driver asks, and your eyes turn, watching her chest rise and fall, steady, easy; as her grip grows looser and her cheek presses onto the leather seats.
She's too gorgeous, too pretty in slumber, in sleep, the innocence the most dangerous thing; you fix these wispy tendrils of hair back behind her ear and press a hand to her temple, stroke the line of her jaw, the bow of her lip. How soft, she's always the sweetest sight - with her head resting, her mouth falling slack, eyelashes fanned out over the fullness of her cheeks, and all of her like this, all her darkness tucked away: you think about all those times you've traced her from across a room, across a city; if there was anyone else you'd rather wake up beside, in your bed and beside the pillow; someone who doesn't pick your fights and your silences and loves them in spite of, despite everything. Who lets the fights burn white hot until it leaves you both splayed raw and exhausted, in her, on you-
Someone who fits so, so perfectly with the grooves and the curves, who completes you.
"Just drive," you murmur, looking away, blinking away. "I'm not gonna remember."
You're thinking about a book you'd once read, an idea. The world of difference, the fact in its finer detail; all the myriad iterations of 'loving' and 'missing' and 'want': the imperceptible shifts between being the absence of something and feeling it, tasting it, taking it, drowning it and holding it in your palms, seeing it every time you turn, breathing, living: wanting to never let her go-
"You alright back there, bud?" the driver asks. The tone: the slow and steady understanding, his age, how he watches you, the soft shake in your voice, the gentleness with which you hold your gaze - he knows. A blind man could read what your heart’s written on your sleeve. "Late nights are a killer," he says, a chuckle, before shaking his head, muttering, "but mornings even more."
There are a few more hours left. Maybe more, maybe less, of not worrying, and not caring. The thing about loving Irene is this: her touch, the press and the tugging and pulling; her body and her heart; she can be anyone, the best friend, the boss, the mistress, the princess. The pet. And you would be remiss, she says, not to remember: you, too, can be just anybody. So long as it’s you, I always come running.
-
It's the last time you kiss her, and that's an okay thing; you pull off the side of the street to brush your hand up to her temple, and when Irene opens her eyes to you, her lashes fluttering against the swell of your cheeks; her hair in soft strands over her forehead and framing her face like this. This vision of her is for you, all yours, all the little things.
"I’ll see you soon," Irene says, sleepily, and you know that you will.
-
The nook she occupies in your head by now, is so well-established.
You can't remember when it began. Not like there was a sign, a hint, or a clue. Just, her. And her lips and her tongue and her touch, all this reckless abandon - like everything else, there had to be a leap.
Even with all the lights burning out and the moon hidden in clouds and the nights and days unraveling around you - in those early days, the press of her shoulders or the palms of her hands would always send the worst kind of butterflies through you, like everything else - just her, the sway and the tipsy, the turn and the look she'd have before she would touch the pad of her thumb to your cheek and drag her nail down the curve of your smile.
(It had felt - and you're no longer in it - but it had felt so frighteningly fast.
Weeks, she had told you once. I fell for you in weeks. Months? Years? Fuck, no time at all.)
-
"Hey," Irene says in the not-so-distant present. She's sitting across the kitchenette - knees under her, bare feet pointed to the window, and the steam rises from her tea.
"Mornin'," you mutter sleepily. Stretching, craning your neck and arching your shoulders and ignoring the pop in your lower back, the strain at your ankles. Irene tilts her chin up and blows through the steam. There's an air of self-sufficiency, a state of mind she seems to always have, as if, the ability to ignore her vulnerability is a muscle she could constantly flex, expand, train herself to avoid - and all you're noticing is how that small movement has her shifting and curling over the cup, trying to keep warm. Her hair is pulled high in a knot and held up by an elastic, her baggy sweats loose and rolled twice over, the camisole low, a thin strap sliding off her shoulder.
"When'd you-"
"Had to wake up earlier today." She blinks, her legs slipping open, bending.
"Any chance-"
"No." And Irene snorts. The teasing pull of her lips has your stomach twisting a little more: "you know me."
That you do; the lazy Sunday, the slight pull in the center of her lower lip as she purses it. Irene, with her hair messy-perfect and that stupid fucking smile, so careless, and the joke-flirt she's doing; she knows just what she's doing and, yeah, god. You still have a weak-spot for her and it's so big; the twist in the base of your throat. Your morning wood rising. You’re familiar with this: the deep ache.
"You know," you say instead, blinking through the heaviness of your lashes and scratching a thumb against the line of your jaw. "A girl could walk in and mistake this for an affair."
"Girls love me." She turns the cup around in her grip and grins again, makes sure that the image stays locked. "Or," and Irene holds up the fingers, counts on two. "I've had two affairs in my life. One is basically a distant memory-"
"The other?"
Her teeth press down on her lip again. "How am I doing so far?"
"Honesty and self-disclosure in the kitchen, at eight in the morning? Irene, you're really outdoing yourself."
She lifts a brow, then brings the mug to her mouth - like a second-rate cigarette and a scalding-hot burn. "If you did bring a girl here," she says after a while. And, smiling: "she'd see me sitting here, incriminatingly pretty. I mean, she'd probably cry. Screaming fits, a fist fight. Then the waterworks - oh, he was my first! I loved him! He took my flower - ow, don't touch me, I think I might faint-"
"I doubt it."
"Ooo," Irene sing-songs, turning and crossing the space to sit on the armrest beside you. The sway of her body's so obvious. You've got enough room to pull her onto your lap, but you keep your hands to yourself. She runs the tips of her nails over your shirt, just above the buttons and across the sleeves. "Hun, I bet she'd kill you. It'd be very bloody, but romantic. Sad, but inspiring in a mundane sort of way - something you've only heard in mystery novels. Riveting, sordid stuff. Could fill your entire inbox. I mean, as they say in Chicago: he had it coming."
"Nah," you decide, after a yawn. "Too dramatic."
"Not at all," she scoffs, peering at you over the tops of her glasses. "The man she loved was a heartless betrayer."
"Can I ask why my imaginary girlfriend always comes across like some cliché young ingénue? You seem to have a lot of opinions about this girl."
"What, the girl next door, a little smart, but neglects her intuition?" She flips the bun at the back of her hair. "All wide-eyes, a ribbon in her hair, a flower-child who's seen too many Wes Anderson movies." She sticks her tongue into her cheek. "Never once stops thinking about the bad boy."
"If you want to get technical, all my girlfriends have been older than me."
"Whoops," she says flatly, hand falling to her collarbone, "spoke too soon. Got you wrong. No need to panic. I'm sure you, a man, are not drawn to some young thing, easily swept up in a passion. Simply, if nothing else, for the sweet naivete. Those hushed little moans and then, the screams. She would tell you it hurts - and on the same note, she’d be begging you for more - the little slut. God, she'd still be so, so nice and soft and quiet. Ready to be anything for-"
"And if you're the girl?" You stand up and grab her wrist. "What then?"
She pauses, considering this new development.
"You do not treat me very well." Irene pushes the bridge of her glasses back up the curve of her nose. "No candle-lit dinners or grand, public gestures." She twists a curl of black hair around her finger. "Definitely not a confession on bended knee - oh, no, never, never - you'll not have to stoop to that. Because you are, in fact, quite terrible at it. I don't think I'd have a single opportunity to pine pathetically, waiting. And maybe you're a bad kisser, actually," she concludes.
You tsk, scandalized. "You are really not cut out to be the ingénue at all."
Irene laughs, softly, reaching out to tug gently at a tuft of your hair. She smiles up at you - and it's so easy for her, somehow. So graceful. "Shall I fix that for you?"
"Do not fall for me, sweetheart."
"I will try to resist the urge." She tilts her chin and presses a finger to her lips. "Kiss, first."
You lean forward, let your nose bump her temple, her hairline. "Glasses, first."
"Whiner," she murmurs. She yanks, gently. Tugs and pulls, and presses the pad of her finger at the sharp cut of your jaw - her gaze half-lidded and slow as she holds yours. Like she's reminding herself, something she can't forget - what it feels like, exactly. A reminder. You can only keep your eyes on the slide of her jaw. "Gonna keep you like this forever."
"Love," you find yourself whispering. Sometimes you wait just so you can relive that first kiss. Irene swallows. "What a beautiful temptation."
-
You imagine, again, if it had all really been by the book:
Three dates and a letter of recommendation. Making her pay for half, instead of making her feel guilty about paying at all, which for the life of you, you can't fucking figure out: how to treat a woman. Chivalry in modern times: a fucking travesty, truly. She'd lure you to her apartment, or you'd do the same to her - just after the first, you know, the obligatory. The getting to know her, except you'd end up skipping the post-dinner steps of being a gentleman, which would leave the night open-ended, and you wouldn't give it much thought until the kiss against her door is so fucking filthy it makes you reconsider everything and everyone, you know, the morality of fucking someone more than once in a day.
You'd have hit all the milestones, she'd have to lead you to bed, and you'd play all her favorite movies as she lays across your chest and shows you what she likes to do best: finger herself, or something. And you'd talk about it, afterward, you'd acknowledge it - because this should be what dating is, right? This should’ve been the next few months of your life. Running that same exact pattern, knowing each other so well you can tell what sex will be like before it even happens, anticipating exactly what kind of text you'll get the next day - the call the following night, the feel of her hands on you in all the right places. The lazy moans, her lipstick imprints on your skin, the smile at the corner of her mouth. Nothing like putting your own fucking hand in her pants and rubbing a few hasty circles until her slick gathers around her knees and she can't walk for a whole day.
Things fall into place, they fill gaps, the idea must be mutual at some point - mutual attraction, mutual enjoyment-
How it is Irene got to spending five, six nights a week at your place is beyond you. Not because you're worried about what people will say. You're not. It's just - weird, to not know what you've done to make this last so long.
Are there rules to loving someone? Is there a checklist, a script - what praxis will keep things in place: comfortable. Last you checked, you have no fucking idea how to treat someone like she deserves. To treasure and cherish, hold her tight but never cage - what qualifies, huh?
"Irene," you say, one day - as you're both brushing your teeth. Because really, what does.
She looks at you like she's bored.
"Forget it," you reply, laughing to yourself and leaning down to rinse your mouth. "Idiot."
"Wait, no," she says, stopping mid-brush, her toothbrush bouncing obscenely in her mouth. "What?"
"I said forget it," you tease, and of course, the glint in her eyes is a warning if you ever saw one - but who would you be, then, if you didn't lean in close and tell her, ever so gentle. The three words could be: not a clue, or, you're so petty, or, simply, I adore you and she’d let that one lay to rest.
You choose them a little differently, and Irene's face lights up like she hasn't known all this time.
A foamy spill of toothpaste leaks down her chin. "Th'a m'eh?" She's a mess, wide eyed and dripping and already reaching to swat you on the shoulder, disbelieving. "You can't just-" and her face scrunches, this exaggerated - ugh! - before she hides it in her hands.
Oh, you love her, and it feels so good, not pretending.
"Again. Say it again. I didn’t even hear you." She knocks her knee against yours, grinning behind her palms, wide and genuinely - happy. "Like, have some decorum."
Laughing - so hard you can't breathe - you shake your head and curl your fingers tenderly around her wrists, pull her hands from her face. "You are so greedy," you attempt between breaths, letting yourself press against the softness of her palms, her wrists, the pads of her fingertips - wanting to be a poet, she is a masterpiece - and tell her properly.
-
a/n: thanks for reading, it's always unbelievable to me anyone ever finishes these fics. This one's a very belated 'thank you' present for @yieldtotemptation. I'm like way late, but thanks for everything.
#irene smut#irene#red velvet irene smut#red velvet smut#red velvet irene#bae joohyun#kpop smut#kpop fanfic
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toji ❤︎’s head from virgins . .
he’s super mean.
toji holds your head still with a tilt, forcing you to look up at him. your eyes water from the sting of his grappling fingers tangled in your hair, unforgiving.
you’re situated before him, fat cock sliding against the side of your dewy cheek. it’s embarrassing and vile, but you can’t help yourself from sticking your tongue out for a taste, just one.
“nasty girl .”
he taps the pudgy tip against your lips, in which you open on command. surely he wouldn’t have to tell you that much.
drool and pre dribbles from your leaking mouth, dirtying your thighs and the floors below you, making him cringe at the mess. the one he’d have to tidy up later. this is what he gets for trying to fuck on a virgin, he presumes.
nonetheless, that’d be a worry for later.
for now, all he could focus on is your soft, watery mouth. uncontrollably producing saliva , making it a perfect place to stick his dick in. and to add onto that, you’re cute. it’s like a 2 in 1, he jokes to himself.
“open wider . don’t panic, or you’ll bite down .”
he grumbles, squeezing in a finger into your mouth besides his cock to prevent you from biting down. it elicits an uncontrollable gag, one that has you squeezing your eyes tight in order to halt your tears.
he hears your inaudible mumbles of ‘no, no,’ most likely because his girth is well beyond what a virgin should be able to take in her mouth. you seem to be no different, gently prying at his fingers and moaning onto his dick; which doesn’t help your case.
how could you not panic ? he was huge, and it hurt. your throat burned viciously, although roughly 4 to 5 inches was still yet to be inside your mouth. you attempt to push him away, pressing against his meaty thighs, but to no avail.
“behave now, little one.” he tugs at your hair, pulling your mouth off his dick and what’s left is truly adorable. a cute, braindead little cock-sucker , your drool coating your chin and trailing down your body, your gaze leading off somewhere he couldn’t care less about.
he rubs his cock head against your cheek once again, forcing your attention back onto him.
“y’r daddy didn’t teach ya any manners?”
“h-he did—“
“so what’re you bein’ so messy for ?”
he grins when you attempt to tidy yourself to the best of your ability, wiping away the spit and tears that coat your face.
“‘s okay. this daddy’ll teach you how to do it right .”
#rushed bcs it’s weekday nd i’m still busy :<#but i hope u guys still like it <3#jjk#jjk smut#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen smut#toji fushiguro x reader#fushiguro toji x reader#toji <3#toji smut#jujutsu toji#jjk toji#jujutsu kaisen toji#toji zenin#toji fushiguro#toji x reader#toji fushiguro smut#toji x y/n#toji x you
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something inspired by espresso by sabrina carpenter (excluding the arresting part ofc 🫡) like svt being obsessed with the reader?
18+ / mdi
content: simp!vernon, he's down bad tremendously it's actually a little pathetic, afab reader, very obvious references to espresso by sabrina, smut, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, etc.
wc: 1553
a/n: vernon was the first person to come to mind so i decided to do him hehe hope u enjoy<3
masterlist
vernon was aware of how pathetic he was acting.
it wasn't like everyone around him wasn't liberal in letting him know how borderline desperate his behavior seemed.
he knew through and through how much of a simp he was for you – and being honest, he did not mind it whatsoever.
chasing after you had now become an integral part of his life. catching sight of you at any mutual gathering was one of the things he looked forward the most as of late.
he'd notice the flirty looks you'd throw at him when you caught him staring. he'd groan to himself any time you'd add a suggestive wink just to mess with him. your effect on him awoke a part of himself that none of his exes ever had.
vernon thought of you every night, spending sleepless night after sleepless night with you in mind. sometimes he'd do unseemly things to himself as he remembered your seductive scent (which he had caught a whiff of once in passing and had become addicted to immediately). other times he'd simply imagine what it'd be like to simply get to hold your hand – as everyone else envied him for bagging the prettiest girl in town ...
after a few weeks of pining for you for afar, he finally grew the balls to respond to your provocations (the winks, the looks, the lip bites).
was he nervous? more than he'd ever been. how could he not be when you were staring at him even at this moment? when you were wearing the tiniest skirt known to man – also his favorite – as you made eyes at him? fuck, he felt lightheaded at the mere thought of you taking even the slightest interest in him.
and fuck, did vernon underestimate how much you liked him.
in no universe would vernon have ever imagined for you to grab him by the hand and wordlessly lead him to an empty room the moment he approached you.
much less would he have expected you to push him up against a wall and dig your hands in his hair, moaning into his mouth the moment your lips connected.
he wasn't an idiot, so of course he didn't question why the girl of his dreams was suddenly making out with him in such a thirsty and depraved manner. he simply decided to go along with it, letting you lick his tongue and pull at his hair.
his hands were shy at first, unsure as to what type of touching you'd be okay with. thank god that you took the reigns once more and placed his hands on your ass as a silent encouragement for him to touch you.
you made out for a good ten minutes, contorting yourselves against one another as you sought to leave the other breathless. that was when you decided to drag him away from the wall, walking him backwards into the bed and straddling his lap once he sat down.
"vernon," you mumbled into his lips, now pecking him sensually rather than full-on kissing him.
"hmm?", he was entirely distracted by the feeling of the plush skin of your perfect hips under his hands, hypnotized by the magnetic scent of your perfume.
"this is okay, right?," your lips disconnected, trailing down his neck and towards his ear, "saw you staring at me these past few weeks," you nibbled at his lobe.
"y-yes, of course. fuck, you don't have to ask. you can do whatever you want with me," he practically pleaded.
"oh? anything?", he could feel your smirk against his skin, shuddering at your clear excitement for his words.
"just want you so bad, you- i'm wrapped around your finger. i'll do anything you want," he hesitantly created a gap between your lips and his skin, looking up at you with wide and thoughtless eyes.
there was no response from you, simply a smirk and another connection of your lips as you licked into his mouth once more, this time with even more fervor. mindlessly, he followed your every move, kissing you and feeling you up with as much desperation as you did to him. vernon was willing to follow you anywhere if it meant he'd be on the receiving end of your touch.
lust filled his veins as you had your fun with him, dragging his shirt upwards and throwing it off, doing the same with your own. his hands fondled with your bare breasts, groaning against your lips at the feeling of your warm skin and your pert nipples. he ached to get his mouth on them, but he was too content kissing you to do anything about it.
"wanna ride you, nonnie," you whispered against his lips, getting up and pulling him onto his feet with you. wordlessly, you helped him pull off his pants as his lips trailed down to your neck and chest, breathing heavily against you.
pushing him back down to sit on the edge of the bed, he whimpered at being suddenly deprived of your skin against his lips, but quickly shut himself up when he saw you slip off your panties from underneath your skirt.
you didn't bother to remove your skirt as you sat back down on him, grabbing onto his cock and teasing your cunt with it. he groaned profanities at the feeling, digging his fingers into your hips as he attempted to hold back from fucking into you.
"p-put it in ... please," he pleaded with teary eyes. you had not teased him much, yet he was already desperate for you. putting how pathetic he sounded aside, he continued to beg for you, needing your cunt wrapped around him as much as he needed air.
you sighed at the feeling of his weeping tip against your clit, leading you to a level of desperation similar to that of vernon's (but, of course, not nearly as needy). finally, you lowered yourself onto him, gasping at the stretch and digging your fingers into his shoulder blades.
meanwhile, vernon was in what he could only describe as heaven. the sensation of your warmth embracing him so tightly had him breathless. the sight of your head thrown back as you bounced sensually on top of him made his eyes cross and his hands dig into your plush hips. he could make no noise other than pathetic whined of your name accompanied by endless chants of 'please, please, please' as he begged for you to continue and never stop.
"f-fuck, feel so fucking good ... p-please don't stop, shit. wanted you so bad ... been dreaming a-about – fuck – you every night. cunt's so good ... so pretty a-and soft and warm, fuck, it's so fucking warm," his rambles were never-ending, completely consumed by the feeling of the girl of his dreams finally giving him the time of day.
"tell me more, nonnie," you breathed as you leaned down to kiss him, giving him almost no space to respond, "tell me how – ah! – how much you like me," you encouraged despite being equally lost in pleasure.
"so much. you have no idea. you're so pretty, fuck. please ... please tell me this isn't a one-time thing. i-i'll take it, but, fuck, please," his words faded out as you began rocking your hips more and more aggressively, lips invading his own as he attempted to speak.
you smirked against his lips, ignoring his statement in favor of making him cum as fast as possible, as you were also approaching your high.
"you want me again, baby?" you enticed him with a languid kiss, "if you cum, i'll let you have me again. okay, nonnie? be good and cum with me."
he stared into your eyes, furrowing his eyebrows in what looked like a painful state as he nodded pathetically in affirmation. if you wanted him to cum with you, he'd do it tenfold. anything you wanted, he'd do as long as you even breathed in his direction. he was so horribly desperate for you. now and always.
"c-cumming, oh, fuck, it's so- shit, baby, i need- fuck," he stammered as your high took over, causing your cunt to tighten around him and making him lose his mind as a result.
the harshness with which he dug his nails into your hips couldve easily drawn blood. however, the pathetic cries of pleasure coming from the boy under you had you more distracted. even as your high invaded your senses, your mind was still fully focused on vernon and the desperate mess he'd become.
you played it up for him, moaning and sighing his name in ways you knew he'd remember every lonely night his hand made its way beneath his pants. there was nothing that fed you more than his sheer want for you, so you did everything in your power to amp it up, making your orgasm all the more intense.
he filled you up immensely, leaving you leaking by the end of it all. you panted against him as he held you tightly in his arms, enjoying the calm feeling of your chests pressed together, heavy breaths eventually synchronizing.
"does- does this mean i can get your number?", he mumbled when he recovered his breath.
you giggled, knowing that he'd call you endlessly if you gave him your number. yet the thought excited you far too much to deny him.
#seventeen fanfic#seventeen x reader#svt fanfic#svt x reader#seventeen imagine#seventeen#seventeen oneshot#svt#seventeen smut#svt smut#svt oneshot#svt imagines#vernon x reader#vernon imagines#vernon oneshot#vernon scenarios#vernon fanfic#hansol x reader#hansol imagines#hansol smut#hansol scenarios#hansol fanfic
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SECOND CHANCE
Pairings: Rhysand x Reader (platonic), Azriel x Reader (?)
Summary: Rhysand tells Feyre about his favorite person.
Warnings: mentions of blood/abuse (nothing descriptive); Reader doesn't make a appearance.
Words: 2.4k
Author Note: Hi! So this is my first fic ever. It was supposed to be smaller, but i got a little carried away. Anyways, english is not my first language, so sorry if there's any misspelling. I've been wanting to publish this for a while but didn't have the courage. But i finally got it, so here you go.
I hope you like it!
-------------------------------------------------------
It was her fourth day in Velaris, and Feyre still couldn't believe how beautiful and magical the city of starlight was.
It felt like a dream that she could not wake up from, too good to be real, but there she was, staring out the window one more time.
The little noise from her stomach made her break her gaze and remind her that she hadn't had breakfast yet.
Feyre looked at Velaris one more time and then made her way to the dining room where Rhysand was already waiting for her.
He was immaculate as always in his black attire and with his perfect styled hair.
Rhysand was sipping on his tea as Feyre made her way towards the table, took a seat, and started serving herself.
"How did you sleep?" Rhysand asked while he looked at Feyre pouring food on her plate like he was assessing if it was enough or not.
"Very well," Feyre responded while meeting his gaze. "The city is beautiful, I couldn't stop looking at the view." She admitted after a moment of silence.
"Thank you. I take pride in it," He respondend while giving another sip on his tea.
Feyre looked at his hand and noticed the little mark that lay in the space between his thumb and his index finger. She had noticed that mark before but was never close enough to understand what it was. Now that she was sitting right next to him, she realized that it wasn't just a simple mark but tooth bites.
"Are those tooth bites?" She asked while pointing at his hand.
Rhys took a look at his hand, and a genuine smile appeared at his lips while setting his cup back on the table. "Yes, they are."
Feyre couldn't help her curiosity, and before she lost her courage, she asked, "How did you get them? Pissed someone off?"
Rhys chuckled, and for the first time, Feyre couldn't help but smile at the sound.
"Actually, a little girl did it," Rhysand said with nothing but amusement in his voice while he stared at the mark.
Shock and confusion settled on Feyre's face at his words, but the love in Rhys eyes and his smile while still looking at the mark, probably from remembering the memories from how he got them, didn't went unnoticed by her.
"A little girl bit you? What do you mean?" Feyre asked him again. She was so intrigued at this new information that she completely forgot about her breakfast.
Never breaking his smile, Rhys looked up again and met her gaze "Well she's not a little girl anymore but she was at the time she gave me these" He said while gesturing to his hand. He chuckled again. "It's a long story."
Feyre didn't even hesitate to respond, "I love stories, and now that i'm immortal, I have nothing but time, so please tell me about this little girl that bit you. I like her already." She finished with a smile playing on her lips.
Rhys gave a big laugh that went around the room, and at that moment, Feyre wanted to make him laugh more often just so she could hear that sound again.
Still with a smile on his lips, Rhys replied, "Her name is Y/N, she's my little sister."
Another set of shock and confusion settled at her face. He had another sister? She remembers Rhys telling about his mother and sister, about what happened to them at the hands of Tamlin's family, but he never mentioned your name before. So why didn't she meet you yesterday at dinner with the rest of the Inner Circle? Feyre went through her memories from last night's dinner, trying to remember if at any point one of them had mentioned your name, but she came up with nothing.
Seeing her confusion, Rhys explained, "You didn't meet her yesterday because Y/N it's not in Velaris at the moment. She's in Winter Court taking care of some matters for me, but she returns today, so you will meet her in few hours."
"Why didn't you mention her yesterday when you talked about your mother and your other sister?" Feyre asked, trying to understand why were you kept a secret until now.
Rhys smile faded, and a hint of sadness made his way into his features "Y/N it's not my biological sister. When I met her, I was already High Lord, and a century had passed since my family's deaths. "
"How did you meet her then?" Feyre asked, her voice a little more quiet after the mention of Rhys family.
Rhys gave a long sigh before answering. "Me, Cassian, and Azriel found her one night. We were returning from one of the illyrian camp's, i don't know why but we decided to fly that night instead of winnowing like we always did but I'm glad we did otherwise we wouldn't have found her. On the flight back, one of Azriel's shadows detected movements near our border, so we decided to go check." Feyre noticed that Rhys got distant, like he was probably remembering that night as he spoke. He looked at her before continuing, "When we got there, we immediately smell blood. There wasn't a lot, but there was enough for the scent to linger in the air. We followed the scent, and that's when we found her. Laying on the floor, her eyes closed, not moving, and her dress had blood all over."
Feyre gasped, and Rhys continued. "She was so small and so skinny, we thought she was dead. But then, like she read our thoughts, she moved. So i tried to approach her, and when i touched her shoulder, she turned around so fast that I barely noticed and bit my hand." Rhys laughed at that, and the air became lighter. Feyre couldn't help but laugh at the thought of this little girl biting the hand of the most powerful High Lord in Prythian's history.
"And after that?" Feyre asked, amusement in her voice.
"After that," Rhys said while laughing more. "She got up and started running. Cassian tried to catch her, but she dogde and kicked him in the nuts. "
"What??" Feyre said, disbelief all over her face and a big smile on her lips.
"Yep," Rhys confirmed. "She kicked him right there before passing beneath his legs and lauching at Azriel. He tried to catch her too but also failed. She managed to grab Az's leg and ripped Truth Teller from his hip right before pointing it at us." Rhysand concluded with the biggest smile on his face. In that moment, Feyre could've swear he looked like a proud father.
Feyre gasped again before replying, "No way! She actually did that?" She asked, shocked, and when he nodded, she asked again, "How old was she?"
Rhys started laughing again and shaking his head. "Seven. She was seven and was able to make three full-grown illyrians males feel like stupids." Still to this day, Rhys couldn't believe how you managed to dumbfound the three of them.
Feyre couldn't hold her laughter. "What happened after?"
Rhys locked eyes with her, amusement written all over his features. "You mean after she humiliated us?" Feyre gave a big belly laughter while nodding her head. "I said we weren't going to hurt her. She didn't quite believe us, so I went inside her head and saw what led her there."
Feyre's smile faded when she noticed how serious Rhys got and how a flash of anger passed his face. "What was it?" Feyre asked, afraid of the answer but wanting to know any way.
Rhys looked at his mark again. "She runned away from home. Her stepfather was abusive and used to hit her. Her mother died when she was just a babe, and she never met her father, so it was just the two of them. One day, she decided it was enough and ran."
By the cauldron, Feyre couldn't even begin to imagine what you had to went through so young.
Sure her life wasn't easier either but at least no one ever hited her. You must've been so scared.
"What happened to the male?" Feyre needed to ask, she needed to know.
Rhys didn't tear his eyes from her when he respondend firmly "Me, Cass and Az took care of him, after we found out who that bastard was."
"Good," Feyre replied whitout a trace of regret from her words, "And the blood on her clothes? From that night?" Feyre wondered, praying for that abusive male not be the caused of it.
"It was from the wounds she got while running away, we found her barefoot, and the dress she wore wasn't enough to protect her skin." Rhys said, and Feyre released a breath she didn't know she was holding, somehow relieved that the wounds weren't for a worse reason.
"How did you bring her here? You said she was pointing Truth Teller to the three of you." Feyre said.
"She was," Rhys said with his smile back on his face. "I got into her mind again and put her to sleep. She had no mind shields at the time, so it was easy."
Feyre noticed how he said 'at the time', so she had to ask, "Did you teach her how to create mind shields?"
"I did." Rhys smiled, a proud look in his face. "I also taught her how to read and write." Rhys added with a sarcastic smile all over his lips while looking at her with amusement.
Feyre laughed and reciprocated the look. "Let me guess. You told her to write 'Rhysand is the best High Lord ever' and 'Rhysand is the most handsome High Lord ever'. Am I right?"
Rhys gave a big belly laughter "Nope," Feyre gave him a look telling him that she didn't believe him for a second, Rhys laughed again before saying "I told her to write 'Rhysand is much stronger than Cassian' and 'Rhysand is much smarter than Azriel', things like that." Rhys concluded, still laughing.
Feyre noticed the love and the pride in his eyes and couldn't help but look at him with admiration.
Noticing the way she looked at him, he asked, "Why are you looking at me like that?"
Without a second thought, she said, "You really love her, don't you?"
Surprise passes in his eyes before replying, "Yes. Very much. I basically raised her. Me and the rest of the inner circle, of course, but mostly me and Cassian." Rhys paused for a moment looking at the window, a sad smile settled in his lips before returning his look to Feyre."Y/N is my second chance. Losing my sister, was one of the most painful things i ever had to go through but Y/N," Rhys paused, looking at the bite marks again "She helped me heal that part of me. She's the best thing that ever happened to me and to the my inner circle. Finding her that night feels like a blessing, like the Mother gave me another chance, and i'm not gonna lose her this time. She's Cassian second chance too, you know? After losing his mother the way he did, Y/N helped heal that part of him, too."
Feyre nodded, somehow understanding his feelings. For a few seconds, she wondered what it would be like to have a relationship like that with her sisters.
"So what is her position in your inner circle?" Feyre questioned, thinking why were you in Winter Court.
"She's my Emissary. Usually, she doesn't go to others' courts alone, Azriel's always by her side," Rhys says with a certain amusement in his voice before he continues "but she was born in Winter and has a very good relationship with Kallias. I trust him and I know he would never hurt her." Rhys scoffed. "Gods help him if he did."
Feyre noticed the amusement in his voice at mention of his brother's name, her curiosity speaking louder, "Y/N and Azriel?"
Rhys snorted. "Honestly, I don't know. Sometimes they flirt with each other but I don't know if it's just for fun or not. Their relationship was never like ours. While me and Cassian always saw her as our little sister, Azriel always saw her more like a friend and Y/N too. She always saw him as a friend. As someone to run to when Cass and I started acting too much like dads to her."
Feyre snorted and caught Rhys looking at his hand again. She saw him caressing the mark and wondered, "Why didn't it heal?"
Rhys understood what she meant without taking his eyes from his hand. "I don't know, but i glad it never did. This," Rhys said while gesturing his hand in the air, "is what kept me sane and going during all those years under the rule of Amarantha."
Feyre gave him a small smile, and before she could say something again, Cassian entered the room in a rush.
"Am i interrupting something? Cassian asks.
Rhys is quick to reply, "No, you're not. What is it?"
Cassian says with the biggest smile on his face. "Our little star is back. She decided to come home earlier and arrived a few minutes ago. She's at the House."
Rhys face lights up at this new information and is quick to stand with the warmest smile on his lips. "Finally." Feyre notices his shoulders relaxing, like a pressure was taken of from them.
Feyre asks, confused. "Little star?"
Cassian and Rhys answer at the same time, "Y/N.
Feyre let's a giggle escape her at the cute nickname they have for you.
"Well," Rhys holds out a hand, and Feyre is quick to grab it. "Would you like to meet her?"
Feyre snorts "Would i like to meet the girl who bit your hand, kick Cassian in the nuts and stole Azriel's precious dagger? Yes. Yes, i would." Feyre replies like is the obvious thing in the world.
Cassian laughs. "Seriously, Rhys? Out of all of the stories that there is about Y/N. You had to tell that one?"
Rhys could only laugh and shake his head. "I know, i know." Rhys looked at Feyre again ."Shall we? I don't want to stay one more minute without seeing her."
Cassian snorted. "Cauldron, you're such a dad. It's only been six days."
Rhys gave him an unfazed look. "Like you weren't acting the same."
Cassian scoffs. "Shut up. Now let's go before Mor drags her to go shopping."
Rhys laughs, knowing very well that his cousin is absolutely doing that. He looks at Feyre one more time, love, and affection all over him. "Ready to meet my favorite person?"
Feyre nodds at him before answering, "Ready."
-------------------------------------------------------
Author's Note: Thank you for reading! If you have any suggestions, please leave it in the comments. Thank you. 😊
Part Two
#azriel x reader#acotar#acotar fandom#rhysand x reader#rhysand x feyre#a court of thorns and roses#inner circle#cassian#cassian x reader#azriel#azriel shadowsinger#rhysand
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𑁥౿ 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑒 — sunday.
۫ ּ 𓂅⋆ cw. nsfw, 18+ ! fem, sub! reader. office sex. use of nicknames ( he also calls u pup once :p ). possibly ooc ? :o js jealous mista sunday at the gala <3 ( 2.2 is finalli out ! had to drop hehe ! )
sunday, despite maintaining his nearly perfect persona, was a jealous man. it’s a flaw of his that he must clean up— he knows. trust me, he’s trying . .
“hello there, my pretty girl.”
he whispered in your ear, hoping his tone of voice was calmer than the raging thoughts racing inside his mind, because you see, this is him trying. if he had his way he would've swiftly tugged you away from the random attempting to make conversation with you. he truly does not know how much more he can take watching you chat and dance with so many disgusting men all in one night. though his rational side promptly reminds him it’s only natural you do so as his partner and co-host of this event.
“dearest !” you cheered, doing a quick nod to dismiss the man in front of you before turning to your beloved. “i was just wondering where you disappeared too, how could you leave me out here all alone ?” you pouted, cheeks puffed out as you glared at him. god, you just don't know how adorable you are, do you? even when you're berating him your eyes shone with love for him, and that alone was making this hard-on of his even more unbearable.
“my apologies darling, i’m afraid the crowd pulled us away from each other.” sunday mused, pulling you in close, strategically hiding the boner in his slacks from the view of others. he brushes off a stray hair strand off of your shoulder, the thought of it belonging to another man making his brows furrow. “i’m happy to have found you..”
“gosh, so am i ! all this socializing is sooo draining, y’know?” you spoke exasperated, soon going on about the fellow members of the family’s questioning on your career and the direction of you and sunday’s relationship. though to be honest, the winged man was too preoccupied by your lips to catch everything.
fuck, what flavor lip gloss did you have on today? strawberry? mint? peach, maybe? he couldn't help licking his lips in temptation, with half the mind to steal a hungry kiss. however he couldn't, not here where all eyes laid on you both.
after making up his mind, he was tuning back into your annoyed rant, nodding in agreement to whatever you last said. his fingers trailed down from your shoulders to caress the curves of your waist as he lowered his lips to your ear.
“well doll, how about we take a break away from all those problems . . how does that sound?”
the authoritative gaze of his amber eyes smiling down at you as he finally pressed you against the ache that's been begging to be made known the entire time. a look of realization flashes across your features before flushing into something more sensual and needy. finally, you're on the same page as him.
“don't make such a fuss sweetheart, you act like you haven't rode me before.” sunday commented. his honey eyes watched you struggle to sit on his cock, observing every squirm and weak complaints falling from your lips.
your cunt was stretched and soaked, taking him like you were made for this, so he couldn't comprehend why his angel was too afraid to bottom out completely.
“s-so b..big ! ‘s too much !” you squeaked, your eyes foggy and obviously cockdrunk. sunday couldn't help but click his tongue in disapproval since this was your punishment after all. your angelic presence drove him crazy all night but you couldn't do the simple task of sitting on his dick? unbelievable. perhaps he did spoil his angel a little too much.
a smirk plays on his lips as his fingers grips into your ass firmly, slamming you down immediately. he groaned out as you let out a high pitched squeal, his cock thrusting up into your maddening warmth at a quick pace. your breathy moans were soon becoming more choked and whiny as mindless babbles fell from your sweet lips.
“so— fuck,, 'so big' was it? but here you are, humping my cock like a needy pup.”
he grunted as the sound of his hips slapping into yours echoed through his office, catching your lips into a sloppy kiss. your mouths pressing into each other with a strong fervor for each other’s touch. his hands traveling around your bare skin to pull your perky nipples and massage on your clit as he pounded himself deeper into your pussy.
“pleasepleasepleas . . “ you wailed out, voice cracking as you felt yourself being engulfed even further by his cock. he was acting like such a bully the way he fucked into you, so fast and deep but would slow down everytime you neared the edge. soon your pretty eyes was staring down at him with tears threatening to fall. “sunday make me cum, d-don't be mean . .! m’ need it soo bad!” you sobbed, desperate for even a slight release, causing an amused huff from the perpetrator.
“oh dear, you really don't have a clue?” he grunted, faux sympathy laced in his words as he started his quick pace once more, rendering your ability to answer his question. your heated breaths were mixing and his cock filling you to the point where hearts were twinkling in each of your gazes as you made eye contact.
“your beloved is a jealous, jealous man.”
© CUBFFECTIONS
#𑄼ల۫ ﹒𝓈𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓉 𝒹𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂𝓈 . .#still shocked m wrote tis . .#sunday smut#sunday x reader#sunday hsr#sunday honkai star rail#sunday x you#hsr smut#hsr x reader#hsr sunday
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Hey!! I hope that you are having an amazing day 💞💞💞 If requests are open, may you please write some hsr yandere!Sunday headcannons?
✎ yandere! sunday headcanons . . .
✎ warnings . . .
― possessiveness, manipulation, obsessiveness etc.
(gn! reader x male yandere! character)
✎ yandere! sunday who can't help but adore you. he'd never have thought someone who'd capture his heart would be so near to him! right here in the heart of penacony! of course he's going to talk to you! what, did you think he'd just ignore someone who's got his attention?
✎ yandere! sunday who is extremely touchstarved and probably fell for you because you hugged him once and told him he was cool. yeah bird man liked how warm your hug felt, what about it?
✎ yandere! sunday who gets to know you better as the perfect family head. surely you'd fall for him, right? i mean, he's perfect in every single way. you'd be a fool to reject him. and of course u rejected him😜🙏
✎ yandere! sunday who's absolutely flabbergasted when you reject his proposal to be his. what? are you serious? out of his league? duh he knows that- you're supposed to be thankful that he proposed the idea and accept!
✎ yandere! sunday who hates it when things don't go his way. he's a perfectionist and everything has to go according to plan... oh wow would you look at that? you went against his plans and rejected him! even said you wanted to be friends... hah! he couldn't believe you said that! you don't know how hard he bit down on his tongue to prevent himself from cursing at you.
✎ yandere! sunday who subtly changes the way he acts towards you. no, he's not acting passive aggressive. you're just delusional. what do you mean he's glaring at you? it's just the angle silly!
✎ yandere! sunday who obviously looks over you with his weird robot bird drone things. they resemble a real bird fairly closely (save for the Family crest he has embedded in them) and he'd be an idiot to not have an eye on you 24/7.
✎ yandere! sunday who's an obsessive freak and you'd think you'd know how obsessive he is by now but... it's far more worse than what you'd expect. bro has a whole ass shrine dedicated to you, and you just know that he has a small dreamscape designed for you. bro will throw you in there if you misbehave 💀
✎ yandere! sunday who gets other people to do the dirty work for him. he's a man of status, why would he need to dirty his hands? plus, he hates it when things get dirty. how uncouth.
✎ yandere! sunday who always has a smile on his face. you bet your ass he's going to be smiling when he tells you that your family mysteriously died in the dreamscape. of course, he's going to feign sympathy and comfort you but... there certainly won't be a frown on that gorgeous face of his.
✎ yandere! sunday who gracefully accepts you into his arms when you come crying to him that you can't leave. oh you poor thing. you did the wrong right thing coming to him for help. he'll definitely help you through this tough time. by making it worse 💗
✎ yandere! sunday who molds you into his perfect lover. oh dear me, you're permanently stuck in the dreamscape with him! it's an error no one has experienced before and you need to stay here with him to ensure your safety! no it's not a lie, why would he do that? after all, he only wants the best for you. don't worry, you can pass time by being his cute darling for now!
✎ yandere! sunday who will never let you go. and... why would you want to escape in the first place? he loves you and you love him now, don't you? besides, he's sweet, handsome, charming... you will never find someone better than him. so don't misbehave and just stay with him, won't you? besides, the Family doesn't tolerate traitors in the slightest. and you're a part of the family now, aren't you? his beloved little darling ♡
✎ "oh dear, now where do you think you're going my love?"
#suiana's sinners#yandere#tw yandere#yandere x reader#yandere drabbles#yandere imagines#yandere scenarios#yandere concept#yandere character#yandere character x reader#yandere hsr#yandere honkai star rail#yandere sunday#yandere sunday x reader#gn reader#suiana rambling#suiana brainrotting
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so in love ꨄ charles leclerc
charles leclerc x f!reader
warnings: 18+ only, p in v - no protection, charles is in love, charles doesn't shut up when he's horny [1008 words]
request: 🌶 Could you write prompt 17 with Charles Leclerc, please [17. “What’s wrong? Why’d you stop?” “Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to take a second to admire how beautiful you are.”]
The smell of sex wafted throughout the room. The fan running above your bodies did little to erase the sheen of sweat that had begun glittering across yours and Charles’ bodies. The sounds of skin against skin, grunts into the open air, it was intoxicating, it was all you could focus on.
Charles was insatiable. Had been since his win. All he could think about, all he wanted, was to feel himself pressed against you, inside of you. By all means, you were his favourite drug. He had practically begged you to let him bend you over in his driver’s room after the race. Then barely even gave you any time to recuperate once you were in his car, on the way back to the hotel.
His hands had only left you to drive, and even then, one was still running up your leg, dangerously close to where your own body was yearning for him, practically soaking through your clothes because of the teasing movements of his hands.
His body craved yours more than it craved anything. But his mind, his heart? They just simply craved you. The way you smiled up at him from below the podium, the way you were always the first person on his brain when he woke up, and the last thing he thought about before he went to sleep. He craved everything about you, everything about your relationship. You were all he wanted.
It’s what always made things so much more intimate with him. The way he loved you transcended into his every action. It didn’t matter if the night was supposed to be about him, Charles always found a way to turn it around to make it about you.
Just like tonight.
His nose was pressed into the junction between your neck and shoulder, leaving open-mouthed kisses to the bare skin. Soft moans fell from your lips when you felt his teeth scratch against the sensitive skin of your neck, an inevitable mark forming from his actions.
Charles’ hips rutted against yours gently, his hardened member stretching your wet heat deliciously. You could feel him mumbling into your neck, his warm breath coasting across your skin, prompting goosebumps to jump to the surface as a shiver wracked throughout your body.
“So fuckin’ perfect, f’me. So beautiful, merde. Takin’ me so well. God, so incredible. Wish we could stay like this forever,” he groaned.
He was practically delirious as he mumbled words into your neck, soft whimpers falling from your lips as he pressed his hips deeper into yours, hitting spots inside of you that had you crying out for him.
Pulling himself up and onto his elbows, his eyes locking on yours. Looking up at him questioningly as his lower body halted its ministrations.
“What’s wrong? Why’d you stop?”
Shaking his head at you, he used one arm to hold himself up as he ran a thumb down the side of your cheek, across your lips, down your neck. You couldn’t contain the goosebumps that continued to litter your skin from his actions.
“Nothing’s wrong. I just wanted to take a second to admire how beautiful you are.”
Your cheeks instantly heated, the adoration so evident in his eyes as he smiled softly down at you.
“Oh, Cha… hush,” you giggled, slapping at his shoulder. He leaned down to press his lips to yours, his hand now delicately holding your cheek.
Pulling away from you, he flopped over onto his back, tugging on your hand as he directed for you to climb on top of him. He loved watching you ride him, loved watching as you threw your head back in pleasure, or when you would grasp his thighs, your unrelenting grip always causing his hips to stutter in pleasure.
To put it simply, he loved just being able to look at you. Loved being able to make eye contact with you, being able to connect your fingers. Loved being able to see how much you loved him, in the most intimate form.
You did as he directed, climbing on top of him and sinking down on his cock. The stretch caused your eyes to close in pleasure, tipping your head back as a small sigh left your lips. Charles’ own sounds of pleasure mixed with yours, his hands instantly gripping onto your waist as he pulled you down harder.
“Fuckin’ love watching you ride me, merde,” he swore.
His thumb pressed against the hood of your clit, rubbing against the sensitive nub as you whimpered at his actions. The mixture of him rubbing your clit alongside the feeling of him stretching you out pushed you to move your hips faster, craving the feeling that was slowly beginning in the pit of your stomach.
You could feel the pleasure growing, Charles’ fingers never leaving your clit as he guided your hips with his unoccupied hand. He couldn’t take his eyes off you, the way your hips moved, the way your head was tipped back; revealing the darkened marks he had littered against your neck earlier in the night. A small smirk grew on his lips when he realized you were getting close, his own orgasm creeping up on him.
The sounds you were making increased, your hips stuttering against his.
“Gonna cum f’me, pretty? Gonna soak my cock? Wanna cum with you, baby. Wanna fill up this pretty pussy,” he practically cooed his words, bucking his hips upwards so his cock hit the spot inside of you that had you crying out for him.
Your upper body snapped forward as your hands hit his shoulder. Charles’ own hips stuttered as he began to empty himself inside of you, continuing to rub his fingers against your clit, guiding you through your own moment of pleasure.
Slapping his hand away, you allowed your body to drop lightly onto his, attempting to regain your breath. Charles wrapped his now-free hands around your back, pressing his lips against your cheek in a soft kiss.
“Je t’aime, mon cœur,” he whispered.
“Je t’aime aussi, mon amour.”
i don't know what to say!!! but what i want to say isn't appropriate!!! hope y'all enjoy this
#charles leclerc#charles leclerc x reader#charles leclerc x you#f1 x reader#f1 x you#charles leclerc smut#f1 smut#formula 1 x reader#formula 1 x you#formula 1 smut#charles leclerc imagine#f1 imagine#f1 one ship#f1 fic#formula 1 blurb#formula 1 imagine#charles leclerc blurb#f1 one shot#smut#writing#my writing
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Kissing a Fool
This is a classic sick fic - a quick trip to the out of hours doctors but nothing extreme.
If there was one thing that Alexia was, it was determined. That was what had gotten her to the place she was today, with countless trophies and awards in her possession, stadiums filled by fans adorning jerseys with her name and number, an endless amount of brands desperate to work with her, and millions around the world idolising her.
However, nobody was perfect.
Sometimes, Alexia's determination can, and will, bleed into pure stubbornnes. And that's when things can start to go a little downhill.
It all started one morning when she woke up beside you with a certain scratchiness in her throat and a dull ache behind her eyes. She ignored it, obviously.
Ignored it throughout your shared morning routine, paying you no mind when you asked if she was okay due to the disgruntled furrow in her brow and how she squinted uncomfortably with every slight increase of light. She also ignored it as she kept her sunglasses on whilst moving from her car to the main building for training, again acting none the wiser to the face you pulled at her as she walked around the facilities with the glasses still firmly planted and seemingly going nowhere anytime soon.
"Ale, you know you can't wear them for training?" You wonder amusedly as she holds the door to the locker room open for you. Shockingly, she doesn't reply, she just answers with a noise that can only be described as a huff. "If your head is hurting, take some pills before we start. Don't be stubborn."
"No. Todo está bien." She offers a tight-lipped smile as a consolation to her bare-faced lie, and the only thing you can do is sigh, nod, and leave her be until she finally gives in.
Though, in her world, giving in wasn't even a concept, nevermind an option. As expected, she woke up the next day feeling so much worse, to the point where she had no appetite and even if she wanted to eat, her throat was in way too much agony to simply just entertain that thought.
That was something you didn't realise though, because she normally had breakfast whilst you showered in the morning, meaning you didn't spot she had skipped that step. You also overlooked the fact she'd been completely non-verbal that day as she dared not to speak through fear of her voice failing her. It was only when you were rushing around, last minute of course, to pack your training bag when you needed her help.
"Ale, where are my new boots?" You called out from the bedroom, knowing she was at least somewhere in the flat. When you didn't get a response, you groaned frustratedly and marched out into the kitchen.
"Did you hear me?" You ask where she was seated at the kitchen island, slowly drinking a mug of honey and lemon tea whilst scrolling through her phone.
"I can't find my boots. Ale!"
Looking across at her from your place in the hallway by the front door, rooting through the storage cupboard beside it, Alexia shrugs half-heartedly.
"Okay, amazing, thanks for all your help. Don't blow up at me if we're late." You scoff at her, turning back to the cupboard.
Amidst your frantic search, you miss the way Alexia leans her body weight on the island counter in front of her as she stands, and the pained groan that goes with that. She walks over to the coffee table and pulls out the Nike box you were looking for from the bottom half of the unit, clearing her throat with a grimace before presenting it to you.
"Oh, thank god. Thanks, I'll be ready in literally just a minute, I swear." With a quick kiss to her cheek, you sprint back off to the bedroom to continue packing for the day.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Alexia fixes herself another honey and lemon tea that she purposely adds an ice cube to just so she can drink it before you come back in. It doesn't help at all though, and the realistic part of her mind immediately notices that is a huge red flag, but of course her workaholic mindset overrides it and shoves that thought to the side.
So when you come rushing back in, packed bag in hand, she offers a smile and leads you out of the apartment with a caring hand on your lower back.
Her untimely crash arrived later that day. The combination of a high fever and the symptoms that came with that and her illness, as well as the lack of food and the Barcelona sun, all colluded together to tear her down until all that was left was a lethargic and downtrodden shell of her.
You waited for what felt like forever as she showered, to the point where you were the only one left in the locker room. At some point she finally did walk out, her hair unbrushed and her face bright red and clammy despite the fact she had just showered, and her actions the past two days along with this appearance of hers caused alarm bells to ring in your head.
"Be honest, Alexia, how do you feel?" You question her pointedly, watching with a careful eye as she avoided your eyeline and cleared her throat for possibly the hundredth time that day.
"Fine." It was then that you realised that was the first time you'd actually heard her talk that day, and the sound of her voice sounded as comfortable as nails on a chalk board.
"Please, Ale, just be honest. You look awful." You tell her, to which she lets out a sharp breath, otherwise known as her attempt at a suppressed laugh. "What do you get out of lying about it? Nothing. If you're sick and feeling like shit, just admit it so we can figure out how to make you better."
The fact you said 'we' when talking about her being ill made the prospect of just dropping her act and accepting she's sick exceptionally more appealing, but she just couldn't do it. Tomorrow was an important Champion's League game, and there was no way she was going to miss it. Not a chance in hell.
"I am okay, I am coping. Let's go home." She managed to get out, swallowing harshly after speaking to choke down a gag due to the agonising burn of her throat.
"Will you at least take some medicine at home? There's no use feeling like this when there's things you can have to at least take the edge off." You try to compromise, knowing at the very least you will force some pills down her throat one way or the other.
She nods, finally admitting defeat to one little thing, and your stern persona softens a little. Under the light of the changing room, her face is pale apart from her rosy cheeks and there's a sheen to her forehead that indicates just how terrible she's feeling. And there was no point sugar-coating it, she really did look awful.
"Hey. Come here."
Offering your arms out for a hug, Alexia mumbles something you can't quite make out before stepping into your embrace and deflating with a deep sigh.
"It's all well and good hiding how you feel around the team, but not me. Please don't do it around me. A blind person could see you feel atrocious so please admit that and accept my help." You whisper, rubbing a hand up and down her back comfortingly.
"Don't want you to get sick." She mutters at the quietest volume she can, giving you a hint at just how much discomfort she was in.
"That doesn't matter to me. Let me take care of you. Please?" Hesitantly, she nods after a moment, so you pull back to get a good look at her face. What you're met with breaks your heart. "Oh, Ale. Let's get you home."
You do exactly that, demanding that she go get in bed the second you're through the door to your apartment. Now, in the comfort of her own home, you hope that she'll fully drop her guard down, but it seems a little trickier than you thought. She rejects the bed and settles for the sofa, though she grabs her laptop from the coffee table and opens it to start doing some work admin.
"What are you doing?" You ask when you come over with a glass of ice water and a pack of tablets.
"Work." She answers with a shrug. This was part of her routine, but you had guessed, incorrectly, that she would drop this part of the day considering how she was feeling.
"No, you should be resting." You tell her, sitting beside her and offering her the box of pills.
"I am not running on a football field anymore. I am on the couch like you asked. This is routine." Alexia answers. Her voice is barely there anymore, it was merely just a rasp, and the pain she hid was evident in each word.
"Alexia." You sigh disapprovingly, popping two tablets out of the packet for her. "If you're going to be like this, at least for the love of god take these pills."
She does as you say, swallowing them both with a grimace before turning her attention straight back to her laptop screen. You had tried your best to help her, but pressuring her further would only make the situation worse, so you relent and stifle a sigh. There was a little bit of guilt you felt at getting annoyed at her, but this was just who Alexia was. You didn't like this process, you despised it, but there would eventually be a time where she would come crawling back to you when her stubborn tendencies had taken it too far, you just hoped she was sensible about it.
It was undeniably difficult watching her as the afternoon bled into the evening, knowing at some point her meds had worn off and she was putting herself through torture for nothing. Still, she was adamant as ever that she was okay, so there was little you could do about it without causing an argument. The only positive was that she somewhat relaxed after eating less than a third of her dinner, cuddling up to you as the pair of you watched a film on the sofa.
Her blinks got slower and her eyelids drooped a little over halfway through though, so you decided it was time to usher her to bed. And if she refused, that would be your last straw before you blew up at her.
Thankfully, and quite surprisingly, she agreed and stood up before walking, very sluggishly, to your shared bedroom.
At her request, you make her a cup of the tea she'd had before and bring it to where she lay on her side once she'd done her routine, a hand covering her eyes to block any light. Placing the mug down on the table, you draw the curtains and sit beside her, one hand falling to her head to gently massage her scalp.
"Rest. Early night. Big game tomorrow." Alexia insists weakly, barely able to string a sentence together as she pats the space beside her for you to lay down.
"You've not taken any tablets, or drank your tea. I'm not resting until you do." You state, not-so-discreetly laying the back of your palm on her forehead to gauge her temperature. Her skin is burning, and you curse the pair of you for somehow not owning a thermometer in your flat. "Ale, you're really unwell."
"It's not too bad." She argues feebly, leaning up on shaky arms to sit up against the head board. You hand her the tea and tablets, watching as she winces even more than earlier whilst struggling to swallow the pills.
"Ale." You warn her. "I doubt you should even play tomorrow."
"No!" She croaks out, coughing afterwards. "I am playing. No other option."
Speechless at her defiance, you just shake your head and go about your own night routine. As you brush your teeth, you watch her through the crack in the door and see how she is when no one is around. Her face scrunches up every time she swallows, and her hand clutches at her throat too. Not only that, but you hear her let out strangled groans every so often whenever she moves, her body aching and her head pounding. This all indicates the exact kind of state she's in, and it's not one fit for a 90+ minute long, possibly intense, football game.
"Alexia, listen to me." You demand tenderly, sitting beside her again and taking her hand. "You are not well. Stop resisting that because you will only get worse. This game tomorrow, the rest of the team have it. I believe that absolutely, and I know you do too but you won't admit that aloud. I know what's going on in that head of yours; you're scared of letting people down and disappointing yourself, your family, me, and the fans. Well, I'll tell you. You won't let anyone down by not playing. People, and that includes me, just want you to be healthy. You can gaslight yourself into thinking you've not got a minor injury, but you can't do that in this situation. You need to slow down and rest before you end up in the back of an ambulance."
"It won't end like that." Alexia shakes her head.
"That was just an exaggeration, Ale. I have no doubt that you will be sensible and not let it get to that point. Please, for your own sake, prove me right." You sigh once more, flicking off the lamp to delve the room into darkness so you can settle for the night. "Get some sleep at least. I love you and I only want the best for you."
"Love you too."
The way she tucks herself up beside you for the night, her face buried in the gap between your neck and shoulder, tells you all you need to know. It's a subliminal sign of how much she needs you, a subconscious message that conveys how much she wants to give in to whatever illness she's got and let you take care of her. The thing is, she's not quite at that stage yet mentally.
So when you line up in the stadium tunnel the next day, a few people in between you both, you're staring daggers into the back of her head that she can surely sense.
Your attempts throughout the day to get her to skip just one match, where Barcelona were already winning 2-0 on aggregate, were completely futile because - shock horror! - she just would not listen. You gave her a piece of your mind multiple times, as did Irene and Marta and Mapi and other members of the Barcelona staff. What frustrated you most though, aside from Alexia's stubbornness, was Jona's willingness to put her on the pitch. He didn't think twice when Alexia confirmed with an apprehensive nod that she was well enough for the match today, and that's how you were in this situation now.
Throughout the whole first half, where Salma scored to make it 3-0 on aggregate, your eyes were on her any chance they could. By the 30th minute, her movements were sluggish and slightly lacklustre, you were adamant it was clear for everyone to see that playing today was not the right choice. Did that mean the referee or the match officials or Jona and his staff did anything about it? Absolutely not.
At a lull in the game, where the opposing goalkeeper was getting the ball for a goalkick, you jogged over to her and tugged on her jersey.
"You need to get off this pitch, Alexia. You are not fit to play." You warned her through gritted teeth before walking off without a response.
That didn't seem to deter her from continuing though, because she carried on playing like you hadn't spoken a word to her. Your fury only grew, and it took everything in you for it not to show through your actions in the game. You managed to suppress it until halftime, where you sprinted off the pitch to give Jona a lecture about the circumstances.
You were almost certain that, when Alexia walked back onto the pitch for the second half, there was steam coming out of your ears like a comedy sketch. If you thought your girlfriend looked awful the previous day, she looked even worse now.
"She snuck off to the toilets at halftime to... you know, throw up." Esmee reveals as you go to join the team huddle. That revelation just added fuel to the fire.
After the huddle, you carefully grasped her arm to give her another warning.
"Alexia, I know you were sick at the break. You need to get off the pitch, you are worrying me now." You choose a softer approach, hoping it'll get through to her.
"No. Leave it." She grunted, jogging away towards her starting position.
Turns out, as you had told her for the past 72 hours, that statement could not be more wrong. By the 60th minute, her movements were lethargic and lacked any strength or power, and each kick of the ball stole more energy from her already severely depleted endurance. Every step, every little movement felt like she was fighting a losing battle, and it was obvious to everybody at this point. Any longer and she would have had to been taken off on a stretcher.
But finally, finally, it seemed concerns were raised about her because she was substituted off. Alexia decided now was the time to give in, because truthfully she had never felt worse in her life.
The words from the staff and her teammates around her simply weren't registering in her head as she grabbed a puffer coat, zipped it up to her chin with the hood up, and staggered down the tunnel. She was freezing cold, yet to the touch of anyone else she was sure they'd be burnt at how hot her skin was. Stumbling through the door of the physio room, she just about made it to one of the beds before she collapsed down onto it.
By the time one of the team doctors caught up to her, she was shivering at an extreme level, also unable to stop the pathetic whimpers and whines that left her. The next period of time was a blur as the medics worked around her, urging her to take off the jacket as a cold cloth was draped across her neck and a bottle of water with electrolytes in it was handed to her. She sipped at it periodically, eyes tightly shut as the effect of her defiance ripped through her. With not much else to do right now but bask in self-pity, she was filled with regret and shame for letting it get to this point, where she couldn't even finish a game. If you were to ask her now, not that she could really talk, she would confess that she absolutely should not have played today.
To put it simply, she had exerted herself far too much and pushed way beyond the limits that her health could handle. Her actions were dangerous, to no one other than herself, and that paired with the worry people no doubt felt for her, eventually led to tears seeping from her eyes. She would never admit that they were mostly a result of how unwell she was feeling, no, she wasn't at that point yet.
The only saving grace in this whole thing was when you rushed into the room once the match was over. When you approached her, her eyes were still closed and she appeared to be stuck in some kind of trance. Your hand on her waist didn't alert her, neither did the hand that brushed her hair out of her face where it stuck to her forehead.
"Ale?" You whispered, jumping a little when her eyes flew open.
There was no other reaction from her though, she just looked at you with wide, frantic, fearful eyes that seemed to plead for help. It was then that you realised the trance she was in was a state of shock, and it instilled fear in you too.
"We think it's best we take her to the out of hours doctors. She has symptoms of tonsillitis, I doubt it is anything more severe than that, and it's just been made worse by playing today and not resting." One of the members of the medical team advised, to which you nodded instantly.
"Yeah, absolutely. Can someone drive us there please?" You asked, glancing back down at your girlfriend to see her eyes had shut again as more tears streamed from them. You took one of her hands and cupped her cheek, your thumb gently stroking over the burning skin of her face.
"Of course. We'll have it outside in a few minutes."
It was a struggle trying to get her to the car, but eventually you were in the backseat with her leaning heavily against you, her head on your shoulder. You clutched at her hand for the whole drive, filled with intense concern for the woman beside you. She could barely keep her eyes open, nevermind talk or move. To sum it up, she was ruined. And though, rationally, you knew it was all her own doing, you couldn't help but feel somewhat at fault for it getting this bad. Ultimately, there were lessons to be learnt for the both of you, and you'd be damned if you weren't going to do better next time. You never wanted to go through this again, nor did you ever want to even imagine Alexia this sick again.
The team doctor that accompanied you explained the situation to the receptionist at the sign-in desk, and fortunately there was a doctor available immediately for Alexia to see. That was a huge weight off your shoulders, literally, because the nurses helped to guide Alexia to the consultation room and assisted her in laying down on the bed.
It was quickly decided that giving Alexia an IV was the best way to start as it would provide her with fluids that she had lacked recently, before the doctor assessed how bad her tonsillitis was. He then prescribed her a round of strong antibiotics for her to take for the next ten days, something that would be a struggle due to the condition her throat was in but she'd get it done.
Now in proper care receiving treatment, Alexia was feeling slightly better and a lot less spaced out. The staff member from Barca had left a while ago once Alexia had been seen to, and for the moment the doctor had stepped out of the room to get her tablets. That left the pair of you alone now, for the first time since before the game earlier.
You were stood beside her bed, still grasping tightly to one hand as the other repeatedly ran over her hair to comfort her. Though, out of nowhere, Alexia rolled over and it worried your for a moment, thinking she might be sick, but she only dropped your hand and pulled you closer by the waist so that she could hide her face in your jersey covered stomach. With a soft smile, you let her rest there, glad she was doing well now.
No words needed to be uttered, it was a moment of silent intimacy that allowed both of you to process the events that had occurred and begin to decompress from the stress of it all. There was no doubt in your mind that your girlfriend was still feeling rougher than ever, but there was comfort found in the fact that she wasn't hiding her true feelings now. What she needed was you, that's all she wanted all along, and in this moment now she started to think she was borderline crazy for denying herself from that.
You could pin-point the exact moment she had that thought, because despite her weakness, she managed to pull you tighter to herself. Additionally, you felt her body deflate as she sighed into your shirt.
"Sorry."
Through her limited words that you had quickly grown accustomed to over the past few days, you know there are about a hundred other things she wants to say in this moment, but her voice and her vocabulary fail her. You couldn't blame her or fault her though, you never could, because that one word placed a plaster over an anxious crack that had formed with everything that had occurred.
"It's alright, Ale. I'm just glad you're on the mend now." She leans back a little and looks up at you with anxious, bloodshot eyes, and you understand the message she's trying to communicate. Your heart plunged at the broken sight of her, but you quickly reminded yourself this wasn't the time for that. You needed to relax almost as much as she did. "Don't worry about it, my love. Just relax for now, that's all I ask of you."
That seems to do the trick, because she settles back down afterwards and the last bout of stress leaves her body. Despite her weakened movements, her grip on your waist never faltered. The simple fact of it all was that you both needed the proximity right now. Love languages always came across as a bit of a farce to you both, but it was hard to deny that right now one of them was being portrayed at its utmost strength.
There was one last thing, however, that you had to do to settle those last niggling anxieties.
You move out of Alexia's space momentarily, smiling slightly at the disapproving mewl she lets out, and she watches with one eye as you pull up a chair beside her so that you're at a more equal level. She's still lay on her side facing you, one side of her face smushed against the bed which makes you let out a quiet giggle that pulls a confused look out of Alexia.
"You look a bit cute right now." You tell her, grinning when she huffed and closed her eyes. From your new position, you raise a hand and slowly start tracing your index finger up over her nose and down the right side of her face, repeating the movement over and over again. "I love you."
Her eyes opened once more at the statement you uttered, a hint of a genuine smile blooming on her face for what might be the first time that day.
"Same." Was all she could mumble, making you laugh and the sound of it caused her smile to grow.
"I feel bad for laughing but I can't help it." You somewhat apologise, and Alexia rolls her eyes jokingly.
When she gazes at you again, you're completely overcome with love and admiration for her, knowing there's not a soul on earth you could adore in the same way you do for her. At that, you lean forward to press your lips against hers, but upon first contact, she jolts away with wide eyes.
"No, amor." She grumbled despite the pain it caused her.
"Why not?" You wondered, feeling a little butt hurt at the rejection.
"You will get sick." The midfielder states like it's an obvious fact. Well, she was wrong.
"No I won't." You claim with a sly grin. When she frowned in confusion, you giggled. "I had my tonsils removed when I was younger."
A look of understanding and relief crosses her face, before she smiles and pouts up at you dramatically. To deny her now would be sinful. Her lips are a little chapped, but in the grand scheme of things, that minor fact is like a drop in the ocean, because your girlfriend is here, and she's safe, and she's going to get better, and most importantly of all, she's in love with you. In sickness and in health, right?
"You really are as white as a piece of paper, Ale."
"Stop being mean."
#woso x reader#alexia putellas x reader#alexia putellas imagine#alexia putellas one shot#alexia putellas#woso#woso community#woso imagine
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This episode really highlighted how close Marcille, Laios, and Chilchuck actually are.
The viewer is used to seeing our main characters behave like coworkers up to this point—even friends—and they express normal, understandable levels of concern and fear when their other party members are in danger. But when the nightmare attacked Marcille, it brought out sides of Laios and Chilchuck that the viewer hadn’t seen before.
Laios immediately notices when something is wrong with Marcille, and he tells the others as soon as he’s sure of the problem. Chilchuck and Senshi then follow Laios’ lead as it becomes clear that he intends to make her get some rest.
We see Chilchuck’s hands lay out the bedroll and Senshi’s hands set up the pillow, working in almost perfect tandem as Laios physically wrangles Marcille into bed.
Senshi is in a similar perspective as the viewer, and mostly sits and watches the ordeal unfold. He doesn’t have a shared history, like these three do, so he helps in little ways, but mostly waits on standby for direction.
From here on out, it’s mostly Laios and Chilchuck who take over in planning how to help her.
It’s uncommon for Chilchuck to openly show such distress and worry for one of his party members. He’s used to Marcille being able to defend herself; he’s used to her being capable and strong. He immediately defers to Laios for instruction, (rightly) assuming he will know what to do.
This actually produces a reaction close to real fear from Chilchuck, who outright SMACKS her in a panic to wake her up before getting any further information.
Laios has to quickly stop him, explaining that he could truly hurt her if he interrupts the attack this way. He tells them how he’s going to wake her, and he doesn’t hesitate. He jumps straight in, explaining what he’s doing for the others so that they (Chilchuck) won’t be afraid.
Chilchuck doesn’t question him once. He just does what he can to hurry along the process. He tucks Laios in with his blanket as soon as he lays onto Marcille—an unnecessary action that betrays how much he cares for both of them.
And Laios succeeds in helping Marcille out of the nightmare’s grasp. While trapped in her mind, he reassures her, protects her, tells her how much she’s valued and appreciated. He isn’t embarrassed or sheepish about it, either; he openly declares these things like it’s the most normal and obvious thing in the world.
He gets her out, he saves her. He did the exact thing he set out to do, even though he’d never done it before, and only had Falin’s secondhand information to work with.
Once he wakes, Chilchuck immediately checks on him to see if he’s alright. Chilchuck is clearly still rattled, displeased with having to wait while both of his close friends were unconscious, fighting a battle neither he nor Senshi could see or help with.
Marcille wakes up shortly after Laios, but Chilchuck is still on edge, worrying that she’ll fall back asleep. Laios, too, has a moment of alarm when he makes sure she won’t close her eyes again.
Once he takes the subdued nightmares out of Marcille’s pillow, only then do Laios and Chilchuck relax.
Laios, for his part, remained calm and collected almost the entire time. He did not show panic or fear when it became clear that Marcille was being attacked, nor when he told the rest of the party what he’d be doing to help her. And once the nightmares had been collected from her bedroll, he gently explained what happened, to everyone else’s horror.
Seeing this, it’s not a huge surprise that the Touden party is so successful. We’ve seen Laios handle danger with a level head; we know he’s capable.
But it’s an entirely different kind of talent to face a threat that’s targeting one of your closest friends—which can make even the most competent fighter sloppy out of fear of losing them—one that requires a high-risk, specific rescue style that none of you have ever tried before. And then pull it off flawlessly. Like damn, these guys are lucky to have him.
#i will never be normal about the interpersonal relationships of the touden party#dungeon meshi#delicious in dungeon#marcille donato#laios touden#chilchuck tims#senshi#izutsumi#senshi of izganda#dungeon meshi spoilers#dunmeshi#dunmesh spoilers#dungeon meshi analysis#dungeon meshi meta#chilchuck dungeon meshi#laios dungeon meshi#marcille dungeon meshi#you know i’m not above viewing this in a shippy light. but i love both platonic & romantic iterations so i’m happy either way#laimar#marchil#marchilaios#laimarchil#i’m just guessing on ship names at this point lmao
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Pierced Perfection ~ Miguel O'Hara x AFAB! Reader
Content: Breast play and fondling, Miguel goes crazy over your nipple piercing, leg humping, MINORS DNI!
A/N: Thought about nip piercings which turned into thinking about how Miguel would react to them so here we are. Enjoy!
“Baby, can you come here for a sec?”
Miguel came into the bathroom at your call, “Yeah?” He noticed you covering up your chest with your robe and his brows lowered, “What's wrong? You okay?”
“Yeah, I'm fine.” You reassured him with a smile, “I have a surprise for you.” He gazed at you in question, watching you open your robe.
Two red stones caught his eyes, dangling from a silver ring that enclosed around your nipples. The piercing fit perfectly on your body, as if it was made for you. Miguel couldn’t stop staring at it.
“Wow. They look great.” He got closer, “When did you get them?”
“Around noon.”
You had discussed the idea a few times about getting nipple piercings. A couple of designs on the internet caught your eye and you thought it would be a good idea to get one. Your husband liked the idea as well. The two of you did research on the healing process, understanding that it could take up to 6 - 12 months for you to heal. In some people's experiences, it was much longer. Almost 2 years. You were a little worried about that, unsure how your body was going to react. But you wanted them. So you got them.
“It's just been tingling a little but it's not so bad so far.”
Miguel’s brows furrowed again, “Tingling is okay, right?”
“Yes.” You provided a pat on his shoulder for more reassurance, “The artist told me that's normal and it shouldn't take too long to go away.”
He nodded at that, eyes still going back to your exposed chest. Miguel’s hand twitching at the idea of wanting to touch them. Your breasts were one of his favorite parts of your body and you couldn't help but have a twinge of guilt at the unexpected surprise.
“I'm sorry. I should've told you when I was going to get them.” Your lips formed a pout, “So you could prepare.”
“No, it's okay.” It was his turn to reassure you with his gentle hands on your arms, “It's not the end of the world that I can't touch them-”
“Well, you can touch. Just not right now.” You clarified, “You can’t suck on them now though.”
“Oh.” Miguel took a moment before clearing his throat, “I'll be fine. I can give more attention to other parts of your body.” You smirked when his hand squeezed your ass cheek.
Miguel stayed true to his word, not providing any additional stimulation by mouth or touch while you were healing. Your man had amazing self control, even when it came to sex. He tried to stay away from making contact with your breasts. Not wanting to hurt you. If he was really feigning for them, he'd place his head between the valley of your chest. Warm tongue licking up the crevice, causing you to shiver.
You knew he truly liked them by the way he stared with fascination. Crimson eyes reflecting back at the jewelry with a semblance of similarity. How a distinct feature of him was also on you. It was a little embarrassing when he asked for a picture of your breasts. His reasoning was so he could look at them while he was at work. You were no stranger to taking pictures like that and sending it to him. But somehow your mind created a scenario of an innocent spider coming in to see your unseemingly naughty picture on display.
It was a big day when Miguel found out he could finally touch them.
You were extra careful in cleaning your piercings, knowing you were going to clean them again once your husband finished fondling. He placed you on the counter in your bathroom, your shirt pulled up above your chest. No bra as you were still trying to get used to your nipples brushing against the padding. They've been extra sensitive since the procedure. But you also haven't been touched like this for 4 months.
“Be gentle.” You warned, “I'm still a little…”
“I got you.” Miguel kissed the top of your breast. As a test, he motioned his thumb against the jewel. That simple motion causing shockwaves throughout your body. You bit your lip, already missing the feeling. He did it again with your other breast and you sighed in bliss. “You okay?”
You hummed, “Feels good.”
Miguel grinned, placing his palm against your nipple, creating a gentle circle. You gripped his shoulder to keep steady. Low moans escaping your lips from his touch. He stood in between your legs, watched you whine and whimper for him. While his hands carefully rubbed you. The large palm hitting a right spot on your nipples that made you squeeze your thighs around his waist. He silenced you with a kiss, drinking up your sounds of pleasure underneath him.
You pushed your chest against him, begging for more under his hold. Only for him to pull away, tugging against your bottom lip.
“They feel nice.” His voice low, eyes filled with lust.
You leaned forward again for more but he dodged your advances, chuckling. You purse your lips, hunger in your eyes. “Just nice?”
Miguel flicked your nipple, causing you to tremble, “Just nice.”
You wondered if you made a mistake in getting your piercings. Because your husband was very touchy. Even though he couldn't taste you yet, he loved playing with your breasts. Running his fingers over your erected nipples casually. Gently pinching them. Teasingly flicking the jewelry. He'd always ask if he could touch them, still considering himself as being a gentleman. Who loved playing with your boobs.
He was going to be ecstatic when he found out he could taste them.
You were feeling great one day. Your nipples healed up nicely after almost a year. You thought it would be the perfect time for Miguel to place his mouth on you. And you were also going to clean it later to be sure.
If he had a tail, you would see it wagging. His eyes lit up when you told him on a call he could finally place his mouth on them. Whenever he was ready to do so.
That meant now as he portaled back home, hovering over your body in bed. “Let’s go.”
“Wait a minute.” You sat up, holding in your laughter. “Don't you still have work?”
Miguel sucked his teeth, “It's not important right now.” He got on his knees, hands gripping your sides. Desperation clouding his eyes. “Let me taste.”
How could you say no to that?
You pulled up your shirt to tease but your husband demanded to take it off completely. So he could have room. Your heartbeat picked up in your chest, practically heard in your ears. Miguel licking his lips in anticipation. You closed your eyes as you felt his breath against your breast, gripping the sheets to stable yourself.
A whimper escaped when Miguel's tongue flat against your nipple. Done in a way where the tip swirled around your ring, sending sensations throughout your body.
“Finally…” He groaned while sucking on your nipple with care, “I missed this.”
A firm hand rested on your back before pulling you closer. Miguel provided extra care to your nipple, practically almost putting your entire breast in his mouth. He moaned as if he starved. Wanting to keep you there as he finally got what he was denied for almost a year.
Your whimpers turned into full out sounds of pleasure as his fingers twirled your other nipple, his nail scratching along your areola. He kept you in place, making sure you never wandered off far. Your husband was still in his suit as you felt the material against your leg. While in his pursuit of tasting you, you felt his hard cock. Hips grinding slowly against your leg. Muted groans along your breast.
“Tan bueno (So good)…” He muttered, “Sabes tanto (You taste so)…”
Miguel rutted against you, his tongue and lips taking turns messing with your nipples. His hard thrusts shook the end of the bed. Causing you to hold on to his body. Your hand deep into his curls while the other was on his shoulder. Gripping him tight as he continued. Grunting and groaning before suddenly stilling. He was cumming against your leg.
His mouth parted against your nipple as he came. Those crimson eyes rolling back in his head. And all you could do was watch. Tug against the strands of his hair to prolong his orgasm.
“You really missed them, huh?” You asked when he calmed down, his face still buried between your breasts. Panting against them. All Miguel did was nod, hugging you tight.
#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o’hara x reader#miguel o hara x reader#miguel o'hara x you#spiderman 2099 x reader#miguel x reader#miguel o'hara smut#slushycoookie writes
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Dustin with a… hammer? | an Eddie Munson Series
pairing : henderson!reader x eddie munson. summary : eddie is your longtime crush. so what happens when you get him all alone, one wednesday afternoon? warnings : eventual smut, friends to lovers, dustin freaking out, kissing, pet names. a/n : this will be a series. please lmk if you like it!
You heard a loud bang, and seconds later your door was slammed open, revealing an unkempt Dustin with a… hammer? in his hands.
“Y/n/n! You have to help me!” He screamed at the top of his lungs, yet you remained unimpressed and it was driving him nuts. “Get up!”
You squinted at him, eyeing the hammer in his hand. And then his face again. “What are you doing with that, you wombat? Put that down” you rolled your eyes and looked back down at your book.
Yet you could hear his breathing, well, it wasn’t something unusual. But he was getting agitated and you could feel it in the air. “It’s Eddie” spluttered Dustin, and your ears immediately perked up. “W-Well, actually it’s Vecna. But I am way more concerned about Eddie.”
“What’s up with Eddie?” You asked, looking back at him as you walked down the stairs, your brother following right behind. Your book was already long forgotten, and any plans you had had before Dustin mentioned Eddie.
You liked the boy. He was sweet, pretty, and he always gave you free weed, blushing like crazy when you kissed his cheek as a thank you.
“I am supposed to meet him here in a few minutes, but Steve called and said that he needs me because Vecna is back and he wants Max and obviously-” he rushed out, but when you gave him a weird look he paused, clutching at his chest. “I need you to distract him until I get back from Steve’s.”
Your eyes were shining. And if Dustin saw, he didn’t say anything. He accepted the urgent nod you gave him, and left, but not before hugging you and yelling “He should be here soon.”
This should be good.
♡
You made sure to do it all. You took a shower first, using your favourite sprays and creams. You put on perfume, cleaned the living room, put on cute clothes. Well, not too cute, you didn’t want him to realise what you were doing. At least not at first.
It was perfect. You had waited for some alone time with Eddie since forever, and Dustin gave it to you on a silver plate, albeit unknowingly.
You jumped a bit at the knock on your door, adrenaline rushing through your veins. “Henderson, you better be ready! I even came a few minutes late so you could-… Oh, hello. You don’t look like you’re into D&D” he smiled that charming smile of his, and you took a moment to admire him. He was wearing a black shirt, black jeans and black boots. His usual clothes, but now he seemed to look even better in them.
You smiled back, opening the door so he could come inside. “I could be” you mumbled and he heard it. Of course he did. His eyes met yours, a mischievous glint in them as he kept eye contact, making his way into your living room.
“So” Eddie rubbed his hands together, falling back down on the comfortable couch. “Where’s Dusty Bun?”
You laughed out loud, sitting down next to Eddie, keeping a fair distance at first. “I see you met mother” he hummed and looked at you expectantly, to which you responded with a shrug and a small “What?”
You tried your best puppy eyes on him, hands toying with the hem of your bycicle shorts. Eddie bit back a smirk, shaking his head “He isn’t here, is he? Little fucker.”
“Actually, he told me to take care of you!” You rushed out when you noticed Eddie beginning to get up, and he looked back at you, wide-eyed. “No! I mean, he told me to stay with you until he gets back.”
Eddie exhaled loudly, ring clad fingers covering his face. “He said what?”
You were taken aback. Was he annoyed?
“Yeah, I’m sorry” you mumbled, mood already ruined. You didn’t know what to do, so you just kept fiddling with your fingers.
Eddie raised his head, looking at you through the space between his fingers. He fucked up big time. His eyes softened and one of his hands found your thigh, squeezing gently. “No, sweetheart. I just- God, he’s cancelled on me too many times now. The campaign is in two days, for fuck’s sake.”
You hummed, hand covering his, still on your thigh. His eyes met yours and he was looking at you carefully, feeling his whole body tense at your touch. “I could try to help you. I mean, I know a few things about D&D. Dustin won’t stop talking about it.”
Eddie’s heart swelled in his chest at your offer. If there was anything he liked more than a pretty girl, was one who actually showed interest in the things he liked. Especially D&D.
“Buckle up, dollface.”
♡
“God, Eddie” you sighed, finally finishing your 3 hour session of helping Eddie with his campaign. He was really passionate about it, and you loved hearing him talk, occasionally asking you for your opinion, which made you feel included and content. “This is harder than it looks. Now I understand why Dustin freaks out so much about every game.”
Eddie chuckles, running a hand through his curly hair and messing it up a little more. “What can I say, sweetheart? It’s not for the weak.”
“What are you implying, Munson?” You snort, swatting his shoulder as he laughed even louder.
Even his laugh was something to die for.
Eddie tipped his head back, leaning on the couch. “I’m joking, Y/n. You have helped me a lot, Henderson must thank you for not getting in trouble with me.”
He put on a serious face, big eyes looking at you as seriously as he could. But it didn’t last long as you both burst out laughing. He was so unserious.
“I’m joking, obviously” he rolled his eyes, still laughing a little bit. “I have some weed in my bag by the way… That’s not a joke” he grabbed his bag from the floor, searching through it.
You put your hand over his, stopping him. “I have some in my room. Come” you took a hold of his hand, dragging him up the stairs and straight to your room.
You left Eddie to sit on your bed as you searched through your makeup drawer, taking a big amount of weed from there.
Eddie’s eyes widened when he saw how much it was in there. “Woah, I don’t have that much weed at home… Where did you- how do you have that?”
Looking down at the floor timidly, you responded. “S all the weed you have ever given me.”
His eyebrows shot up, a confused look on his face. He understood, I mean, he saw the weed, but he didn’t understand… the other parts. “Why did you keep all of that? Sweetheart, that’s gold. How come you have never tried that?”
Sighing, you sat on the bed as well, legs crossed. “I don’t exactly smoke, Eddie” you explain to him, hoping that his questions would stop there. They didn’t.
“Well, what the hell do you use weed for? Wait- you snort it? That’s so fucking cool-”
“Eddie, I don’t know how to!” You raised your voice, and his words are cut short, a flabbergasted look all over his face. “Anytime you’d offered me weed, I couldn’t just say no to you. I wanted you to think I am cool.”
He said nothing and you felt even worse now. You’d just, albeit indirectly, admitted you had something for the boy, and he had no reaction. “I just wanted us to have things in common and-”
Warm. He smashed his lips against your own, and they were so soft and warm. He couldn’t hold back anymore as his once gentle hands found your hips, gripping them and bringing you to sit on his lap.
When Eddie pulled away for a moment to catch your breath, he leaned his forehead against yours, your hands still holding his face between them. You took your turn to look at him confusedly, breath uneven. “Your lips are soft” you blabbered and Eddie chuckled, kissing your nose.
You were staring unseeing into Eddie’s eyes, and he couldn’t help but bring you even closer to him, face against your neck. “You are so perfect. Fuck- I love kissing you.”
His lips were a sin against the sensitive skin on your neck. So skilled and full, you just had to grip the back of his neck, head tipped back in pleasure.
“You can do more” you whimper, pleased when you felt Eddie’s bulge against your clothed cunt, closing your eyes tightly at the sinful feeling.
Heavy silence enveloped them as Eddie stilled, because, well… he had two options. Possibly screw his friendship with Dustin or… not.
Oh no. Eddie began to panic.
“I can’t” he pulled back, shaking his head as if he was having a whole ass discussion in his mind. And boy, was he. “I can’t, Y/n. This is not right, that’s not how this is supposed to happen.”
He got up, brushing down his clothes with his hands. You had no words as you stared up at him, shivers ran down your spine when you realised that he was practically running down the stairs and you were left alone. He didn’t care, of course he didn’t. You had tried everything to make him like you, but it still wasn’t enough for him.
#eddie munson x you#eddie munson series#eddie munson fanfic#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson x y/n#eddie munson fluff#eddie munson smut#eddie munson imagine#stranger things fanfiction#stranger things smut#eddie munson x henderson!reader#Dustin with a… hammer?
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Aim for the Sky Part 4 | Rooster x Reader
Summary: Bradley can't help himself. When he sees cute things for his baby, he buys them. When he craves you as much as you crave him, he makes a complete mess in the garage. Pregnancy bliss is taking his domestic bliss to a new level as he tries to plan the perfect first anniversary outing.
Warnings: Fluff, smut, cum play, swearing, pregnancy
Length: 4100 words
Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader
Aim for the Sky masterlist. This was written to accompany my series Is It Working For You? along with a bunch of my one-shots and other series, but it can be read on its own! Check my masterlist for the reading order.
"What are all these boxes from?"
Your husband clearly didn't hear you come in from work by the look of things. He was still in his flight suit, desperately emptying cardboard box after cardboard box onto the dining room table. When he turned toward you, his eyes were wide like you'd just caught him doing something he shouldn't be. "I have no idea," he said, quickly picking up a smaller one and rushing your way. "This one has your name on it."
You were still trying to look past him into the dining room while he actively blocked you. "Are you joking right now? Oh my god, you went on a shopping spree!"
His cheeks were tinted pink, and he looked like he was going to burst at the seams as he blurted out, "It's for the Nugget!"
"When did you even have time to buy it?" you asked in exasperation. "You just got home on Friday!"
He was raking his fingers through his hair. "There was a special on two-day shipping, and as soon as we found out it's a girl, I started adding things to my shopping cart."
His gaze was sweet and earnest, but you chucked the box you were holding and ducked around him before he could stop you. Then you gasped. There was baby clothing, a folded up pack 'n play, bibs, bottles, and a baby carrier all spread out on the table.
"Do I need to take your credit card away?" you asked him, but even you weren't immune to the little pink onesie that said Daddy's Co-pilot.
"I can behave," he promised. "I'm just excited."
You groaned and looked at his face as he picked up the baby carrier. It was impossible to be annoyed with him right now, and at least it was a bunch of things you were going to need. You nodded toward the hallway and asked, "Do you want to start getting the nursery ready in a few weeks?"
Suddenly you were pinned up against the side of the piano with the carrier pressed between your body and his while he kissed you senseless. "Yes," he whispered against your lips. "Please. Pastel airplanes and clouds." He had mentioned it so many times, you already knew he was still thinking about it.
"Anything you want."
He kissed you one last time and said, "I want my little girl to have the cutest nursery ever, and I want my wife to still agree to cook me dinner after she sees the credit card bill."
Your stomach started growling at the mention of food. "I'm starving," you admitted. "Clean everything up, and I'll work on dinner."
He sprang into action while you unbuttoned your uniform shirt which was way too snug now. You even unbuttoned your pants. You started heating up the chicken casserole that you made and froze while Bradley was deployed before cutting open the box that arrived with your name on it. You already knew what was in it, but you still cringed when you saw it.
The United States Navy maternity uniform was one of the ugliest articles of clothing you'd ever seen in your entire life. You looked out the window at the partially built playset in the backyard and whispered, "You're lucky I love you, little Nugget. Because now I have to wear a weird tent to work for the next four months."
It was too ugly to think about right now. Your stomach was growling relentlessly, so you cut up some carrot sticks and poured out a little bit of the hot sauce you brought back with you from dinner in Del Mar last night. "Mmm, that's so fucking good," you groaned, biting into a carrot stick you dipped into the sauce. You cut up another carrot into sticks and tried to get them as saturated as you could before eating them.
The baby was moving around a lot now as you ate your snack. "Jesus," Bradley grunted, and you turned to see that he had changed into some gym clothes.
"Want some?" you asked, as you dipped more into the hot sauce. A drop landed on your chest above your bra before it made it to your mouth, and Bradley was there to lick it up in an instant.
"Is this some sort of pregnancy craving?" he asked, and you smiled as you fed him the carrot stick. "And are you going to eat in your bra all the time now?"
"Why? Do you like it or something?"
He gave you a stern look and ran his thumb over your lace covered nipple. "Come on, Sweetheart. Your tits make me hard on a regular day, but right now they are doing a little something extra, and you know it."
"My favorite bra barely fits right now," you informed him as you reached for another carrot. "And my maternity uniform arrived." But you could tell he was hardly listening now as he kissed along your bra strap while the kitchen timer told you dinner was ready. "I could model it for you after we eat."
"Absolutely," he whispered as Tramp trotted in, ready to be fed too. They both gave you puppy eyes until they had their food in front of them. Bradley pulled you down onto his lap and offered to share his plate of dinner with you, but you mostly ate the carrot sticks. You were almost tempted to drink some of the hot sauce, so yes, this probably was a pregnancy craving. What you really wanted was to dip some marshmallows into it...
"Baby Girl, I'm going to go work out in the garage," Bradley said, pulling you from your food fantasy. He rubbed his hand along your bare belly and up to your breasts. "Meet me out there if you want. I'll clean the kitchen later."
You watched him slip out the sliding glass door and head for the garage. In fifteen minutes, he would be all sweaty. His skin would be slick to the touch. He would taste incredible. Yeah, you were obviously going to go meet him out there. In the meantime, you should probably try on your maternity uniform.
You wrinkled your nose as you carried it to your bedroom. The pants were nice and stretchy, and they felt comfortable. The shirt had ample room for your belly, and it would definitely accommodate you in your third trimester as well. "Let's have a look," you said to your daughter, but when you glanced in the mirror, you gasped. "Fuck!"
Oh, it was so much worse than you imagined it would be. You laughed to keep from crying as you tried to come to terms with this khaki monstrosity. Your butt looked weird, and there was just so much fabric. You tried to tuck the shirt in, but somehow that was worse.
After you slipped some shoes on, you made the trek out to the garage and stood in the open doorway, admiring your husband for a few minutes while he listened to his gym playlist and did some bicep curls. Then he dropped down to the mat and did fifty push ups while you tried not to moan. You almost forgot why you were there, but then he got to his feet, wiped his forehead with a towel, and jumped a bit when he finally saw you.
"What the fuck are you wearing?"
"Bradley!" you whined. "Is it really that bad?" You knew the question was almost laughable. The answer was clearly yes. But your husband scrambled over to you with an apologetic look on his face anyway.
"You're still beautiful," he insisted, taking both of your hands in his. "I just wasn't expecting you to be wearing this... uniform."
You let him kiss you, but you rolled your eyes and said, "I'm going to have to hide in my office at work until March."
"Okay," he finally said, "it's hideous, to be sure. But I see plenty of officers wearing them on base. And if anything, you make it look a lot better than it really has any right to." Your laughter must have encouraged him, because he wrapped you up in a delightfully sweaty hug and led you to his weight bench. "Wanna watch me do lunges? I'm practicing for the Nugget."
"You're practicing?" you asked as you settled down on the narrow bench.
He was already strapping the baby carrier around his torso and clicking it into place. Then he picked up one of his ten pound bench press weights and slipped it into place where a baby should go. You wanted to laugh at how ridiculous he was, but when he looked at you and lunged down into a squat, you moaned and had to press your thighs together instead.
"Yeah," he grunted. "I'm practicing for when I get to wear my little Nugget around. Actually, do you think we should be calling her Nuggette?"
Once again, his words were comical, but the way he was doing reps of lunges like he was cradling a tiny baby's head with his hand instead of a metal weight left you whimpering.
"Nuggette sounds cute, too," you told him, rubbing your belly through your hideous maternity shirt. She was squirming a bit as you said, "I don't think she's picky about what you call her, Roo. She's just very excited whenever you're around."
He lunged down one more time before getting on his knees on the mat in front of you, removing the weight from the carrier and setting it on the floor. "Is that true?" he asked as he scooted a little closer. He smelled like clean sweat, and his body was radiating heat as he started to kiss your belly through your shirt. "You love Daddy?" he asked, running his nose gently against your bump.
His fingers found the hem of your shirt and eased it up so he had full access, kissing the spot next to your belly button. You brushed his damp hair back from his forehead and moaned, "We both love Daddy."
"Hey," he whispered as he started to unbutton your shirt. "I really want to fuck you, but this thing is a mood killer."
"Bradley!"
"I'm so serious," he told you, shaking his head. "We need to get this tent off of you immediately."
"You're so rude," you said with a laugh as he finally pushed the fabric down your arms and tossed it to the floor.
"That's what I'm talking about," he grunted, unhooking your bra and tossing that aside as well. Then he was still on his knees with his mouth on your breasts, and suddenly you could barely remember your own name.
-----------------------------
Something about pregnancy cast a magic spell on your tits, and if left uninterrupted, Bradley could have happily sucked on them all night long. They were bigger, sure, but they were somehow a little firmer, too. And he couldn't understand it, but they were warmer and smelled so sweet. And your fucking nipples looked a bit bigger and were always furled into pretty little peaks that made his dick so hard, he could barely keep from touching himself.
He was moaning for you, on his knees in the garage while he licked and sucked to his heart's content. His left hand was stroking the underside of your breast while his right was stroking his cock in time with the way you were whining, "Brad-ley. Brad-ley." Your fingers were in his hair, and he was in absolutely no hurry to fuck you, but he was slightly afraid he was going to cum within the next few minutes.
So he carefully pushed you down onto your back on the bench and pulled those ugly as sin maternity pants off of your gorgeous body, yanked your underwear to the side, and ran his cock through your soaking wet pussy.
"Fuck, Sweetheart." As soon as he pushed himself inside you with a little snap of his hips, your tits bounced for him. Mesmerized, he did it again.
"Roo," you whined, trying to find something to hold onto as he fucked you a little harder with his hands cupping your bump.
"Yeah," he crooned, ramming himself deep, thankful he'd already removed the bar and the weights. "You better hang on tight."
He fucked you until you were a screaming mess, gripping the bench above your head for support. He'd never let anything happen to you or the baby, but it was delicious watching you scramble like this as he rocked the bench. The grip of your pussy as you arched your back and pressed your bump into his palms had him clenching his jaw, holding back as long as he could.
"Oh, fuck!" he shouted, pulling out of you while you were mid orgasm and shooting his load all over your belly and chest. "Jesus Christ," he panted, standing while straddling you on the bench, jerking himself off all over those tits.
You looked like you were in a daze as you reached one hand up, grasped his sensitive cock, and dragged it through the mess. Then you leaned up and kept eye contact with him while you licked his cock clean. He was literally twitching, hands folded behind his head as he stood there and let you rub his cock along your nipples again and again before setting him on your plush tongue.
He had to clear his throat a few times before he could manage to say, "I'm really happy you decided to join me for my workout."
Your pretty laughter filled the garage as he helped you sit up. Once you were dressed in his sweaty shirt with your awful uniform in your hand, he followed you out the door, across the backyard and directly to the shower.
"I don't know what happened here," he rasped, rubbing his rough hand all over your soapy tits, "but I love it."
Your eyes were closed, lips softly parted as you whispered, "I'm pretty sure it's just pregnancy boobs, Roo."
"And I'm pretty sure I've never cum quite that much before. You were fucking covered in it."
He had to kiss the smirk off your face so the two of you could finish showering and get in bed. "Hey," you murmured as you draped your arm across his chest. "You haven't read any of the Nugget notebook to me since you got home."
Bradley ran his fingers along your shoulder. "I could read some of it to you now," he whispered before reaching to get the pink and blue notebook from his nightstand. He wanted you to read it. He wanted you to know everything he wrote in there, but there was one page he didn't want you to see quite yet. "Have you thought any more about baby names?" he asked as he opened the notebook.
"A little bit," you said with a yawn. "Nothing I'm totally crazy about though."
Be breathed a sigh of relief and started reading out loud. He could wait for the perfect moment to mention it, and he thought that perfect moment might be on your anniversary.
---------------------------
For the rest of the week, you absolutely refused to wear your maternity uniform to work. You wore Bradley's extra shirt instead, affixing your own insignia pins and name tag to it each morning.
"You're out of dress code," he told you for the hundredth time on Friday morning.
"I don't care," you replied as you ate a granola bar covered in mustard while you both rode to work in the blue Bronco. "If I can go one last week or two before I have to start wearing the uncomfortable tent, then that's all that matters."
Bradley laughed, and you glared playfully at him. "It's not that bad, Baby Girl. I can still get a boner with you in it."
"You could still get a boner if I was wearing a tarp."
He was quiet for a beat before he moaned and asked, "Would the tarp be the same shade of blue as the Bronco? Because yeah, I might actually like that."
"See?" you replied before popping the rest of the bar into your mouth and chewing it up. You'd been craving weird food combinations all week, and honestly the best part of your days was visiting the cafeteria where you could combine whatever you wanted into the perfect meal.
"Hey, don't forget, I won't be at lunch today," Bradley said casually. Had he mentioned that before? You weren't sure. You were starting to have bouts of forgetfulness and brain fog.
"Where are you going again?"
"Uh," he hesitated. "Well I have to go see Nicole."
Nicole was the name on the list you found in the kitchen. Something about a permit. He said he'd never met her and didn't know who she even was. "Why?"
He coasted into a parking spot as he sighed. "It's something for our anniversary. Remember?" He turned and looked at you with those big brown eyes and asked, "Can we please let this be a surprise? I've got some shit planned for that day."
Your parents weren't coming out for Thanksgiving, and the two of you weren't going to Maryland. When you called them a few days ago to let them know the baby was a girl, your mom erupted into joyous screams before starting to cry because she wasn't going to see you until Christmas. Instead, you were planning on having a quiet Thanksgiving at home in the craftsman with Jake, Cat and Jeremiah. So if Bradley wanted to plan something special for later that weekend, you didn't mind.
"Yeah. It can be a surprise, Roo."
He looked relieved when you leaned in to kiss him on the cheek, and then he held your hand and walked you all the way to the elevator where he leaned in close. "I'll see you and your tits after work," he whispered, earning him a swat on the arm. He was laughing as he placed a big hand on your belly and said, "Love you, Nugget."
Then you rode the elevator up to your office where you dipped a second granola bar into the container of maple syrup you brought with you and ate it before heading to your lab. You bumped into Maria in the hallway, and when you tried to say hi, she kept rushing by.
"I don't have time to talk," she said. "Bob keeps making me late for work."
You stood there in surprise for a second before you called out, "I mean, good for you though." Your hormones were an absolute mess, because by the time you walked into your own research lab, you were trying to get the image of Bob and Maria doing some nasty shit with his D&D dice out of your head. "Why am I like this right now?" you asked with a grimace.
"Like what?" Cat asked as you sat down next to her. "You're out of dress code." Then her expression melted as she said, "I swear you get bigger every day. You look so cute."
You opened your computer and casually asked, "You think you and Jake will have more kids?"
You were just trying to mess with her, but she cradled her face in her hands and groaned. "He wants to get married."
Your eyes went wide as you spun to face her. "Really? Do you? He's so good with Jeremiah."
"I can't," she whispered, looking around. "I'm still in so much debt. He's already paying for Jer's daycare on base now, and he's paying for a lawyer for me. If we get married, he'll try to pay off everything."
You shrugged. "So get a prenup or something. He loves you and Jer, and you cease to be a hardass now that he's around."
She started to spin away from you, obviously done indulging your antics, but then she said, "Can we keep this between the two of us?"
"Who would I even tell?" you asked as you typed your password.
"Your husband. And he'd tell Jake. And then Jake would come storming in here like a knight ready to save the day once again, and I don't want that."
She wasn't wrong, and you knew it. "Yeah, my lips are sealed. You're still coming for Thanksgiving dinner, right?"
"Just as long as you let me help you cook."
"One again, something I can't trust Bradley with," you muttered. "Deal."
-----------------------------
Nicole was honestly lovely. She had everything ready for Bradley to sign when he got there, and then she made some quick photocopies and sent him on his way. Perfect. The permit was in order, and now he just needed to take care of the food and figure out where to buy non-alcoholic champagne, if it even existed. But he had another full week to think about that.
When he got back to work right after lunch, he headed for the lounge to wait until he was called up by someone in the tower. The room was empty except for Nat and Bob who were eating popcorn and sleeping on the couch respectively.
"Want some?" his best friend asked, and he shoved his hand into the kernels.
"What's wrong with him?"
Nat turned to look at Bob. "Oh, he's worn out from too much sex."
"Love that for him," he muttered before shoving the popcorn into his mouth.
Nat snorted. "You're looking a little worse for the wear, too, old man."
"Am I?" he asked after he swallowed. Sometimes it was glaringly obvious that you were six years younger than him, and other times he kind of just forgot about it. But you had been a bit of a brat since the night on the weight bench. You knew now that you could use your delicious tits against him to get whatever you wanted, and you really seemed to want to get pounded into the mattress at every turn.
When Nat touched the hair at his temple, she said, "You're wearing the expression of a man who is about to be wrapped around his daughter's fingers, and you also have a few gray hairs coming in."
He'd known her long enough to be sure she wasn't joking about either of those things. When he stopped in the locker room and looked in the mirror on the way to the parking lot at the end of the day, he found that she was right. It didn't really bother him. Hell, you hadn't said a negative word about it. On the contrary, you'd kissed him right there and told him how much you loved him in bed earlier this morning. The issue was that it reminded him of his parents and how young the both were when they just stopped existing.
He pushed off from the sink forcing himself to focus on the fact that he was very much alive and very much had his wife waiting in the parking lot for him. When he found you next to his Bronco, you were in tears, and you were unbuttoning his uniform shirt which you kept insisting on wearing.
"What's wrong, Baby Girl?" he asked as he rushed to get to you, and as soon as you saw him, you flung yourself into his arms.
"I got a formal reprimand! By some random admiral!"
"For what?" he asked, even though he already knew.
You sniffed and told him, "For being out of dress code."
He waited a few seconds until you seemed a little bit calmer, and then he said, "I think this means you should start wearing the tent."
"I hate it when you're right."
He guided you around to the passenger side door and unlocked it for you. Then he let you pull his shirt off and toss it onto the seat. He didn't even ask questions as you climbed in, he just buckled your seatbelt for you and let you ride home in your bra.
The Bronco was pretty close to the house when you finally reached for his hand, and he gave it to you immediately while you pouted out the window. "Can I have a little hint?" you asked.
He stroked your soft knuckles, unsure what you were referring to. "About what, Sweetheart?"
"Our anniversary. Please? Today was so shitty, and I miss my parents, and I'm starving for grapes dipped in hot sauce, and I am pissed that I got reprimanded."
Bradley tried not to smile as he pulled into the driveway. You were always so endearing even when you were annoyed, and he was going to get you grapes and hot sauce as soon as he got you inside. "Yes, I'll give you a little hint. What do you want to know?"
He watched you unbuckle your seatbelt after he parked, and you crawled across the seat toward him, practically spilling out of your bra. As you straddled his lap and guided his hands to your bump and his sweet Nugget, you asked, "Where are you taking me?"
Bradley smiled and kissed your lips. "Back to the scene of the crime."
----------------------------
Daddy Roo with some gray hairs along his temple. Sign me and BG the fuck up. The Nugget is growing nicely on her new hot sauce diet. Up next is Thanksgiving with the Seresins and the Bradshaws along with an anniversary dinner. Thanks @beyondthesefourwalls
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Hello hope your doing well. Could I request maybe the housewardens receiving a love letter from the reader accidentally. Like the reader accidentally left it somewhere or sent it to them without realizing it.
I got Lilia's General Vanrouge card, so I'm doing very well right now!
Housewardens accidentally receive your love letter
Riddle:
-He gives you a smile as you leave his dorm after an afternoon study session. You'd desperately needed his help, and he had been more than willing to teach you. As Riddle returns, he notices a piece of paper on the floor where you were sitting. As he moves to pick it up, he spies his name on the page, and he begins to read what you have written.
-Riddle's face turns the loveliest shade of red as the letter states your feelings for him, and his heart races. The letter is unfinished, and it's rather clear that you didn't mean for Riddle to read it, but it's proof that you feel the same way about him. And to Riddle, that's all that matters.
-Once he's done, Riddle picks up his pen, and writes his very own letter to you, inviting you to a private tea party. As the pen flows over the page, Riddle's face flushes again. He plans on reciprocating your feelings over tea, telling you just how much he's grown to care about you. In his mind, he's confident and collected. However, when he actually confesses to you, all you see is a sweet boy with a blushing face and eager eyes as he declares his affections.
Leona:
-You certainly didn't mean to leave that love letter, but you did, and Leona found it. His tail lazily sways as he picks up the paper you dropped on his floor. He was actually going to throw it away, until he saw his name. Seeing it captures his interest, and he begins to read through what you wrote.
-Once he finishes, he flops back down onto his bed, still holding your letter. He loves you too, so a part of him is extremely pleased. However, there's a tiny part of him that wonders if you truly understand what a relationship with him would mean.
-In the end, Leona reaches the conclusion that there's no need to avoid getting into a relationship with you since your feelings are mutual. He saunters towards you, with a lazy grin on his face. He shoves your letter in your face, and he laughs when you realize what it is. Just as you open your mouth to speak, Leona yanks you close and kisses you, silently reciprocating your love.
Azul:
-Azul pushes his glasses up as Floyd careens into his office, with Jade trailing in behind him. Any questions die in his throat as Floyd shoves a piece of paper at him with a sharp grin and an insistence that Azul read the letter immediately. Azul sighs, and begins to read, only to gape like a fish out of water.
-He initially has a hard time believing that you actually wrote those lovely things about him, of all people. Old insecurities bubble up to the surface, and they nearly choke out the warmth of his feelings. But as he pores over the letter again and again, your words start to reach him. Hope begins to blossom, and Azul sucks in a shaky breath as he deliberates over how to respond.
-Despite his nervousness, it doesn't take long for him to invite you to a private dinner at Mostro Lounge. When you arrive, you're greeted by the sight of a candlelit dinner. The table is perfectly arranged with all of your favorites, and Azul is a perfect gentleman. But you can tell he's nervous. He keeps fidgeting, and there's a crease in his brow. As you finish eating, Azul clears his throat, and confesses to you. He tells you about the letter, and softly tells you that he loves you too.
Kalim:
-When Kalim spots a piece of paper fall out of your bag, his immediate thought is to return it to you. However, you're gone by the time he picks it up. And he knows it's wrong to look at people's things without permission, but he's curious. His eyes start to sparkle as he reads, and he has to refrain from cheering out of joy.
-You love him back! Kalim practically swoons as he reads the letter again, a bright smile spreading across his face. Already, visions of a happy future with you are playing in his mind. He picks up his phone to call you, but he stops himself. He wants things to be perfect, and so, he calls Jamil instead.
-Kalim is always throwing parties for one reason or another, so you're not surprised by his seemingly impromptu invitation. You enjoy the party, and you happily accept a ride on Kalim's magic carpet. As the stars twinkle above you, Kalim tells you everything. As the two of you embrace, Kalim's eyes fill with overjoyed tears.
Vil:
-Vil's delicate brows pinch in confusion when he sees a letter on his vanity. The confusion only grows when he sees a note from Rook sitting neatly on top of the letter, proclaiming that he'd "found something rather interesting." Vil sighs, and picks up the letter, only for his lips to part in a silent gasp as he reads.
-This is clearly just a rough draft, with crossed out words and notes in the margins, but your feelings come through loud and clear. With every clumsy phrase and every bit of awkward wording, you tell him that you love him. Vil lets out a delighted sigh as he sets the letter down, gently tucking it away for safekeeping.
-It takes Vil a while to decide on the best method for telling you about his own feelings, ultimately deciding that you deserve nothing less than his best. And so, he pulls out all the stops. Throughout the course of a day, he takes you out shopping, books massages, and takes you to all of the best places on the island. It culminates in a wonderful dinner, where he confesses his true feelings for you.
Idia:
-A ping on his monitor catches Idia's attention, and he clicks on the notification. It's an email from you, and he internally groans a bit. He's really hoping that you're not trying to invite him out to something. However, his grumbles turn into a high pitched shriek as he actually reads what's on his screen.
-The email was clearly sent by accident, as it's an unfinished draft, but Idia's poor heart still leaps into his throat as he reads. You love him? Idia scrambles away, muttering to himself as he runs his hands through his pink hair, trying to process what he just saw. Sure, he loves you too, but he never actually thought that his crush would be reciprocated. After a long while of pacing, Idia decides to respond. Well, he tries to. Seeing your letter again just makes him feel all anxious.
-It took a bit of help from Ortho, but Idia eventually manages to hatch a plan to confess to you. He invites you over to binge watch some anime with him. Idia makes sure to have your favorite snacks, and he sits beside you as the episodes start to play. It turns out to be a romance series about a shy man who keeps trying, and failing, to get his crush to notice his feelings. As the characters confess to each other, Idia clears his throat, and awkwardly compares the two of you to the couple on the screen. Luckily, you get the hint, and Idia gets to experience the same happy ending.
Malleus:
-Malleus didn't mean to pry, but his curiosity was piqued when he spied a folded piece of paper lodged in the branches of a bush outside of Ramshackle. Malleus figures that the wind must have blown it there. A quick glance reveals that it's your handwriting on the page, but he doesn't think much about it until he sees the word, "love." He frowns, and reads the letter from start to finish.
-The letter proclaims your amorous feelings for someone who's name isn't stated. The edges of the paper crinkle in his grip as jealousy begins to burn in heart. However, the flames of envy are quickly snuffed out when he arrives at the final line of the letter, a simple, "I love you, Malleus." Oh. Malleus cradles the letter to his chest, a smile spreading across his face.
-Malleus doesn't hesitate to let you know just how he feels, even though it's late. He teleports into your bedroom, and he leans down to kiss your forehead. As you're roused from your slumber, you find him towering over you with a broad grin and your letter still clutched in his hands. He tells you that he feels the same way, making grand declarations of everlasting love. It would be romantic, if you weren't in your pajamas and it wasn't 2 am.
#riddle rosehearts#riddle x reader#leona kingscholar#leona x reader#azul ashengrotto#azul x reader#kalim al asim#kalim x reader#vil schoenheit#vil x reader#idia shroud#idia x reader#malleus draconia#malleus x reader#twisted wonderland#twst reader insert#twst x reader#twst
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lando jr - l.n
Warnings: Fluff!
Pairing: Lando Norris x leclerc!fem!reader
Summary: (copy and pasted) I would like a request with Lando. The main character is the ister of charles leclerc and is in love with leo ( charles' dog ). she ask her boyfriend lando if she could have a dog similar to leo but he says no. So, she decide to surprise him ( at the Miami Grand Prix ) with a dog ( named Lando Jr ). Lando is not angry when he sees his "son" (Lando Jr) and think that he is his lucky charm.
A/N: @formula1-motogpfan
“Lando, please, look at Leo,” you pleaded with your boyfriend, hands clasped together, your brother’s dog perched on your lap. “If you like Leo so much, you can dogsit when Charles needs it,” you boyfriend grumbled, rolling his eyes at you. “Nuh uh! I want a dog, Lando!” you sniffed, pushing him with your hand as he shook his head with a laugh, his fingers wrapping round your wrist.
“Watch yourself, Leclerc,” he raised his eyebrows as you stuck your tongue out, trying to wrench your hand from his grasp. He didn’t even try to retaliate, sat with a cool gaze as he watched your shriek and wriggle. “Good luck, sis,” Charles smirked, scooping the dog off of your lap. “No, Leo!” you reached for the puppy - to no avail. “Fuck you both,” you slumped onto Lando’s chest, letting him hold you.
So, if neither your boyfriend or your brother was gonna get you a puppy, you’d take matters into your own hands. You were an independent woman, after all. So you did just that, adoption a small half German shepherd half golden retriever puppy called Lando. Funny - you hadn’t even named it, it was adopted and already called that. Your friend was kind enough to keep her for the Miami race week, considering she was coming with you and could say it was her dog. When you were gonna show Lando - you weren’t sure.
So what perfect time then when your boyfriend, probably full of adrenaline and over the moon, won his first formula one race. So you brought the puppy to the podium, Lando getting congratulated by the engineers. “Y/N, w-what is that a dog?” Lando’s eyes widened as the cameramen huddled around you two. “I wanted to surprise you,” you pouted at his horrified expression. “Does it have a name?” he asked slowly, still getting patted by engineers.
Grinning, you flipped the tag. “You named a dog after me?” he stifled his laughter. “He was already called that,” you grinned, your boyfriend rolling your eyes. “My girlfriends crazy and I love her,” Lando chuckled at the camera, scratching behind the ears of the puppy.
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I have a request for a fic where both Jake and reader are starting their freshman year of college and jake is applying to be in a frat, but to be accepted the brothers in the frat make a bet with him to make the reader sleep with him ….
a/n -> omg i was literally thinking abt writing a jake fic (which i'll get to soon) and then this pops up lmao. but your mind...lord, this is such a good idea. anyway, tysm for being my first request !! it means a lot lol and i rlly hope you enjoy this :)) then, just in general, if you also sent me a request, i promise i have seen it !! i just work five days a week now, so i don't rlly have a lot of time to sit and write, but i promise i am working on them and will release them when i can 💕
are you down or what? | s.jy
pairing -> futurefratboy!jake x fem!reader
genre -> college au, best friends (alludes) to fwb
warnings -> MDNI, smut, drinking, cursing, mention of weed (no drug use tho)
w.c. -> 7.3k
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Going to college is already scary enough, moving to college is even scarier. You wouldn’t categorize yourself as the “outgoing type” and you had pretty much figured your college experience would be dull and stressful; Junior year of high school pretty much prepped you for that. Luckily (depending on how you see it) for you, Jake is the complete opposite. He loved extra-curriculars, joining clubs, joining sports teams, and always made honor roll; essentially, he loved making new friends, trying new things. Everyone adored him and he had practically a long line of people waiting to be his friend. If only they knew they just had to be allergic to any sort of social activity and he would’ve immediately taken them under his wing. He’s always tried to have you venture out of your comfort zone, and sometimes, it worked. This time, however, you honestly didn’t see yourself branching out alongside him. Which both bummed you out and seemed as if it was inevitable.
Who knew that the kid you met at your fifth grade honor roll assembly and pizza party would be the one you ended up applying to colleges with, let alone plan on going to the same college with? Well, actually, you and Jake didn’t quite get along at first, it was your moms that became best friends well before the two of you did. But, thankfully, both of your moms showed up to the honor roll assembly and brought the two of you together. Even if at first he would try to make conversation with you and you would just nod your head in response, too shy to actually say anything back. At first, he thought you hated him and at the time, you thought he was annoying, but somehow you both came to find these qualities about each other endearing. There were a lot of times you were grateful to have met him and have him as your best friend.
But when he brought up the topic of a fraternity mixer while he was helping–well, more like he was the only one working–assemble an IKEA storage unit for your dorm room as you both sat on your floor, you automatically rolled your eyes. You weren’t surprised in the slightest that one of the first things he wanted to do since you guys got to college was join a frat; it’s like he was born for this, and you mean it in the least douchey way possible.
“Come on, it’s just like, some mixer; nothing major. I really want you to come. Please?” he says as he drags out the “e” at the end.
You roll your eyes again and let out a huff, handing him the screwdriver to which he rolls his eyes in return and takes it. “It’s only been a week and you’re already rushing a frat?”
“What? Think I’m not good enough for them?” he asks, joking as he continues to assemble the storage unit for you. You knew he was perfect for this sort of thing, you swear, he was already breezing through it as a pledge, or at least he was making it seem like it. Besides, you’re pretty sure that he is even mistaken as a member already around campus. “It’s not even going to be that bad. Plus, there’s going to be free booze and hella cute chicks, so there’s that to look forward to.” he says as he grins to himself.
“Gross,” you mumble, “it’s not really sounding like there’s anything for me at this dumb thing.”
He chuckles a little. “What? You mean the thought of hanging out with a bunch of sweaty dudes playing beer pong doesn’t sound enticing?”
You shudder, “You’re not really selling your case here, pal.”
He laughs. “C’moooonnnnn,” he whines, playfully bumping his shoulder with yours, “I promise you’ll have fun. And if not, then we’ll just leave after an hour and get some food. Sound good?”
You think for a moment before letting out a huff, “Fine. But if you even leave me alone for a second with those…heathens, then I will never speak to you again.” you say, half joking, half serious.
“You’re acting like these dudes are all terrible people; they’re not the spawn on Satan, y’know.” he says as he can sense the hesitance and apprehension in your voice. “I promise I won’t leave you and I’ll hold your hand the whole time.” he says as he coos and then laughs to himself.
“Dear god.” you mutter, rolling your eyes again, which only makes him chuckle.
“I’m just kidding. But seriously, you’re coming. Who knows, it could be a funny story later on.”
“Right. I bet it’ll elicit all sorts of chuckles.” you say, sarcastically.
He laughs again, shaking his head slightly as he focuses on working on the IKEA product. He shrugs his shoulders. “Maybe you’ll even meet someone there. Imagine if you fell in love with one of the frat dudes.” he laughs at his own thought.
You scoff, “Ew.”
“I know, right? How mortifying, you fall in love with some muscular, frat boy named Chad.” he shivers, “Scary.” he says, teasing you.
You laugh, “Shut up.”
He chuckles softly and then stops working to look at you. “But seriously, will you please come with me? It would be nice having you there, and it will be our first college party together, how can you possibly pass that up?” he says as he pouts slightly, giving you his best “puppy dog eyes”.
You roll your eyes and playfully shove his shoulder, “Ew, fine! Stop doing that.”
He laughs and grins, “You are the best friend I could ever ask for!” he says, acting overly enthusiastic as he hugs you tightly, ruffles your hair, then kisses your cheek. “We’re gonna have so much fun, you’ll see.”
“Bleh,” you jokingly whine as you wipe your cheek, “yeah, yeah. Just finish my storage thing.”
He rolls his eyes, “Yes ma’am.” he says as he continues working for a few more minutes. He finishes working on the storage unit, turning it upright and smiling proudly. “What would you do without me, honestly? BOOM!” he says as he smacks it lightly, “There it is, built by yours truly; you’re welcome.” he says with a smug grin.
“Alright, alright, calm down.” you say as you laugh a bit. You stand up, rolling it over to a corner in your dorm room.
Jake follows your lead, standing up as well. “Here, I can even help you pick out something to wear for the party. I was thinking of wearing a Polo-”
You turn to him and grimace, “Dear god, you’re already becoming one of them.”
He laughs and scoffs, “Hey, I make Polo’s look hot, don’t even try to act like I don’t. Besides, if I wear a short sleeved one, it will totally show off my muscles.” he says as he flexes a bit, grinning. You roll your eyes and pretend to gag and he laughs and stops flexing before nudging your arm. “Shut up.” he mumbles and turns to look at your closet. “Do you still have that dress you wore to that grad party we went to over the summer?”
“I mean, I think.” you say as you walk over to your closet rummaging inside it (even if there isn’t much room to rummage through).
You were kind of surprised to hear him talk about a dress you wore almost two months ago, but you didn’t think too much about it. You suppose maybe he only did because it was the first dress you wore in a while, so maybe he just subconsciously remembered about it. He glances at you as you look for the dress. He was secretly grateful you didn’t tease him for remembering about it, but he just thought you looked pretty in it. Not that you aren’t pretty all the time just…that time…he shakes his head to himself; it’s just a pretty dress.
He crosses his arms and peers over your shoulder, looking into what clothes you have in your closet as well. “What about that white top?” he asks, pointing out a white, low-cut tank top that is discarded to the side of the closet. “Wear that with a nice skirt or something; that’d look good.”
You glance at it and laugh, “I wear that to bed when it’s too hot. I am not wearing that to the party; my boobs will literally be spilling out of it.”
He pauses for a moment before speaking again. “And that’s a bad thing because…?” He grins, giving you a quick wink which results in you punching his shoulder. He laughs and rubs his shoulder. “Kidding, kidding! But seriously, pick out something. You’ll look amazing in whatever you choose.” he shrugs casually. You roll your eyes and keep rummaging through your closet, suddenly hating every article of clothing you own. He leans against the wall next to your closet, “I swear to god, I can never understand why girls sometimes take so long to pick out what they wear. It’s like, how hard can it be to choose something quickly and then wear it?”
“Jesus, fine, you pick out something, then.” you say as you walk over to your bed, laying on it. “You’re the one who wants me to go, anyway.”
Jake smiles mischievously, walking over to your closet and looking through your clothes. “Do you have those tight, high-waisted jeans? The ones you wore last weekend?”
You raise an eyebrow. Is he talking about the ones you wore to the brunch your mom took you out to with him and his mom? You laugh. “Probably. My mom bought them, so she probably snuck them in there somewhere.” you don’t even realize you’re smiling a bit to yourself, a part of you secretly liking that he remembered them; maybe you looked better than you thought. “Aren’t skinny jeans, like, out or whatever?”
Jake shrugs. “All I know is your ass looked good.” he says as he spots them after looking through some of your bottoms. He grabs them and tosses them at you, the jeans hitting your stomach, causing you to let out a small “oomph”. “And pair it with that white tank top. For your shoes…” he shrugs, “maybe your Doc Martens or something casual. That’ll look good.” he says as he looks at you, nodding his head in satisfaction. “There. Done. And it only took, like, two minutes. See? It wasn’t even hard.” he jokes.
“You chose, quite literally, the most basic outfit known to man.”
“Oh, come on, it’s not even that bad. Besides, you’ll pull it off, anyway.”
You narrow your eyes at him. “I’ll wear the pants and the shoes, but I am not wearing my “booby” shirt, you perv.”
“Oh, c’mon. You know you like to show it off sometimes.” he says, grinning as he wiggles his eyebrows before laughing softly. “Just wear it, please? For me?” he jokes in a playfully flirty tone. “Plus, I need some sort of eye candy when we go to this thing.”
You scoff, playfully. “Ohhhhh, I see what this is.” you say as you sit up on your bed. “You’re hoping if you bring a hot girl to the mixer, you’ll have an automatic in with these frat fuckers, right?”
The tips of Jake’s ears turn slightly red and he scoffs, looking away before looking back at you. “What? No, that’s not the reason. Not the entire reason, anyway.” he says, laughing slightly to hide his embarrassment. “It’ll just be nice to go with you, okay?”
“Uh-huh, suuuurrrreeee.”
He laughs before going to sit beside you on your bed. “Okay, fine, fine, you got me. I did want to bring a hot girl so it'd be easier to get in with the frat. But that's not the whole reason! I also wanted to go with my best friend since we haven't really hung out this week because of classes. And I knew I'd need at least one sane person to keep me in check. Or, at least, as sane as you can get." he teases, wearing that stupid giddy grin of his he gets whenever he feels he said something hilarious.
You scoff, playfully, “Watch it.” you warn.
He laughs, “Sorry, sorry. I meant a perfectly sane, normal human who doesn’t listen to musicals in her spare time.”
You nudge his arm, “Hey! That was middle school me, back off.”
He laughs again, “I’m messing with you. But seriously, I am glad that you’re coming. It’ll be way more fun with you there.” he smiles that typical charming smile he does, not because he knows he looks good doing it, but because he just does anyway. “I really do appreciate you. Especially since you’re ‘sacrificing’ your sanity to be surrounded by these frat guys.”
“Soon, you’ll be one of them.” you shudder, “I’ll have to start writing my obituary for you.”
“Oh, come on, we’re not all that bad. I'm sure there's at least a few decent guys there that aren't complete douchebags. They're just...eccentric." he jokes, "This mixer will be a great chance for me to maybe get an in with the career path I wanna take plus if I leave a good impression with the frat guys, maybe I won’t have to be a pledge for much longer."
“‘We’re’? Oh my god, you’re already clumping yourself together with them!” you say in fake horror.
“Oh my god, you’re right.” he says in the same tone with a shocked expression. “I’m turning into one of them without even realizing it! Quick, snap me out of it!” he says, laughing slightly.
You shrug, “Gladly.” you say before punching his shoulder. It honestly hurts your knuckles, but you decide to keep that to yourself and ignore the pins and needles shooting through your hand.
He frowns and looks at you with an “i’m not mad, just disappointed look” which causes you to burst out laughing. “You know, you’ve got a mean right hook. Who knows, you might be the one joining the frat.” he says, rubbing his shoulder a little before wrapping his hand over your knuckles, squeezing it a little. He knows you probably hurt your hand a bit, so he hopes this makes your hand feel a little better before letting go.
“I’d rather die.” you say in such a serious manner, he can’t tell whether you’re joking or not, but he laughs nonetheless.
“Just get dressed. I’ll come get you later, okay?” he says as he gets off of your bed.
You groan, “Fine. But I hope you know, you are throwing me to the wolves by making me wear this outfit.”
He laughs and opens your door. “Have to let them know I’m there with the best-looking, smartest, and funniest girl at the party somehow.” he says with a wink.
You roll your eyes and cross your arms. “You’re lucky flattery works with me.” you mutter.
He grins, “What can I say? I know you so well, babe.” he says before nodding his head as a goodbye and walking out of your dorm room, closing the door behind him.
-
Against your will (and your own regard for fashion), you wore what Jake had picked out for you. He smirks a bit as he looks at you after opening your door when he knocks around a few hours later. He looks you up and down, and you notice how his gaze lingered a little longer on your chest before meeting your eyes. You cross your arms, unintentionally pushing your chest a little together, he scoffs as his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek.
“Yeah…I’m for sure getting into this frat.” he says, mainly saying it to himself, but you would be lying if it didn’t give you a little bit of an ego boost.
“Pipe down, it’s literally the most basic outfit known to man.”
“But you make it look hot…real hot.” he grins.
You roll your eyes and shove his shoulder. “Don’t even.” you mumble as you walk out of your dorm room, closing and locking the door behind you.
He laughs softly as you start walking to the frat house, which is just around a block away. As you step outside, you shiver a bit from the cold and you frown at the fact that you didn’t bring a jacket, but you honestly felt too lazy to turn around and go back to grab one. He notices (and since he wasn’t wearing one either), he opts for putting his arm around your shoulders, pulling you a bit closer.
“You have to admit, this is a little exciting. I mean, it’s our first college party and I’ll make it my mission to make it memorable.”
He honestly means that; he genuinely wants you to have a good time. He knows how you would rather be spending your time right now, just laying in your bed as you watch some show you’ve seen a thousand times, but he wants to break you out of that. Not that he has any problem with you being more introverted or wants to mold you into something he wants you to be, he has a more…specific reason than that. Your smile. As you two walk, he smiles to himself just thinking about it. How, whenever he sees you smiling this certain way–like you’re smiling for the first time–it’s like time stops; like you’re the only thing of importance in that very moment because nothing else matters, nothing else could possibly compare to how special and beautiful you look in those moments. It makes him feel giddy and the first time he ever saw you smile like that, he knew he had to do whatever it took to make it happen again.
“Maybe for you, but if it smells like B.O. and weed, I am so out of there.”
He laughs and covers his mouth, his laugh coming out louder than he expected it to. He runs that hand through his hair and turns his head to look at you. “I feel like you have some underlying stereotypes about frat boys.”
“And until this party proves me otherwise, it’ll stay that way.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then you’re on your own once you join their cult.”
He chuckles softly and shakes his head a bit. “I’m not going to become some buff incel just because I want to join this fraternity.”
You knew that. Well, you were hoping that would be the case. But this is different. This is college. Dramatic, maybe, but you were afraid the two of you would split apart and although you have other friends, he’s the one you’ve had for years. He knows everything about you and has seen you through all of your phases and vice versa. You just feel this looming anxiety that him joining this fraternity will be the first step in the direction of you two no longer being friends; that you’ll just become people you pass by on your way to class. You don’t want to tell him this, though, you’re not really ready to have a discussion (which may turn into an argument) about this just yet. You feel terrible for wanting this, but you’re secretly hoping he doesn’t get in. Not because you don’t want him to branch out and experience his own things in college, well, maybe a little. Maybe you’re selfish. Or maybe you’re saving him from turning into a douche. At least, that’s what you’ll tell yourself to feel better about hoping he doesn’t get in. It’s just because you want him to not forget about you. You’re not as outgoing as him, so what if he starts to find you to be boring? The thought made you frown.
-
Ten minutes. It’s been ten minutes and this party is already making you feel like you’re being suffocated from the amount of people at this thing, all of whom already seem to be drunk. Once you and Jake got here, you could already tell you were going to hate every lousy minute you had to spend at this party. Especially since there have already been a few people who’ve had their eyes on you for a little longer than you wanted. You tried to make this situation a positive, trying to just relax and have fun as you see Jake greeting the many people he already knows. It’s only been a week since the semester started and he already knew at least twenty people here (yes, you counted). He introduced you to everyone he’s greeted, though, he didn’t want to make you feel left out. He could see you were a little uncomfortable, probably just because it was crowded and loud, so he decided to take you to the kitchen, getting the two of you some drinks.
He smiles warmly, “We can dance if you want, or we can just talk, drink, get wasted, and judge people. Up to you.” he says, nudging your arm.
You smile a little and playfully roll your eyes. “I know that’s now what you want to do.”
“But it’s what you want to do.”
You look at him for a moment and before you say anything back, you hear a loud, booming voice calling Jake over. You both look and see some of the frat brothers laughing and motioning for him to come over as they yell at him like he’s some football player on the team they love. You glance at Jake.
“Please go so they stop.”
He laughs and nods, walking over to them. You take another sip of your drink and then you see someone you met in one of your classes. They notice you and wave and you wave back before going over to talk with them.
Jake walks over to the group of four of the frat boys and greets them, dapping them up. One of them motions their head towards you, “So…who’s she?” he asks, crossing his arms as he grins. The others nod their heads and Jake turns to glance at you before looking at them.
He shrugs, smiling shyly, “She’s my best friend-”
“She rushing Delta Theta Zow?” another one asks.
Jake shakes his head, “Nah, sororities aren’t her thing.”
“Too bad, she’s hot.”
Jake feels himself frown slightly at that. Sure, his intention was to hopefully have them think you’re hot so they would be more inclined to go easier on him when hazing, maybe even just decide to let him in if he could prove he knew some hot girls despite how shallow that sounds. It’s just the way he said it, the way they’re looking at you, that makes him feel sick.
“Tell you what, Jakey, you let us…get to know her, and who knows, you might just be exactly who we’re looking for.” one of them suggests.
Jake feels all of the blood suddenly drain out of his body and the frat brother grins, nudging another one. “Or, tell you what.” he says, putting his arm around Jake, “You sleep with her and you may just be one of the newest members of Alpha Omega Phi. Sound like a deal?”
“You want me to…”
“Fuck her.”
Well, there goes his chances of joining this frat, which surprisingly, is one of the more tame options out of the other ones. This one has great connections to people in the field of computer science and engineering, which is what he desperately wants to achieve. This could give him a big head start…but he can’t just use you.
He chuckles nervously, “I don’t know…she’s not like that-”
“Too bad,” the frat brother says as he takes his arm off of Jake, “We thought you would’ve fit right in with us.” the others nod their heads in agreement.
Jake thinks for a moment. “...alright…fine.”
The four of them cheer, which ignites cheers from other party goers, making Jake look around and find it a bit strange that they hold that kind of power.
“You can use Bradley’s room, he could use some sort of action on that bed.” one of them teases and the others laugh. Jake nods his head, trying to laugh along and then they shove him to go over to you. Jake quickly walks over to you, setting his drink on the counter and grabs your arm.
“The hell-?” you say as he quickly drags you upstairs into a bedroom and he closes the door behind the two of you, looking at you kind of panicked. “What the hell is your problem-”
“They want me to fuck you.”
You feel yourself freeze, all of your muscles tensing up at what just came out of his mouth. Was he being serious? “...deadass?”
“Deadass.”
“Damn…” you mutter, him releasing your arm from his grip. “So…”
He shrugs, “So…” he repeats.
“Guess you’re not getting into this frat.”
He looks at you for a moment, “So, this is like…a for sure thing.”
You raise an eyebrow, “Dude, I’m not having sex with you so you can join a frat.”
“Come on,” he pleads, using his puppy dog eyes again. To be honest, he knew you would say no for obvious reasons, but this was important to him. Sure, you’re important to him, too, which is kind of why he also figured you would be okay with doing this as a favor. “this is really important, I have to get into this frat. I could get an upper hand with some major companies I want to work for once we graduate. Please?” he clasps his hands together, “Just do me this one favor.”
“Fucking me is not a favor.”
“Well, it’s also not a punishment-”
You scoff, shoving his shoulder lightly and he laughs softly. It goes quiet for a moment between the two of you and he looks at you, expecting, wanting you to change your mind.
“How would they know, anyway? Can’t we just, like, pretend to have had sex? You know, like that scene in Easy A.” you suggest.
“In what?”
“Oh my god, we have to add that to our list of movies to watch, it has Emma Stone, so you already know it’s going to be good-”
“Okay, okay, yeah we can watch it later. Are you going to let me fuck you or what?”
You groan, “Can’t I just give you my panties or something and then you can wave them around and brag about it? Actually, don’t do that.”
“Look, this frat is made up of guys in business, engineering, chemistry, and physics majors, they’re not stupid. They’ll know, trust me, and I really don’t want to have to deal with any more hazing because I’m pretty sure it’s just going to keep getting worse and I would actually like to survive my first few weeks of college.”
“Or…you could just not join.”
He frowns, “You know how much this means to me.” You sigh. Yes, you thought this was stupid, but you also weren’t dumb enough to not realize how joining this frat could actually help him in the future. You saw the superficialness of it all and you knew he wasn’t dumb enough to see past it either, but Jake has worked really hard and besides, you would be lying if you said you saw this as a worst case scenario. “Please?” he asks, anticipating your answer.
You sigh again, “Fine.”
He smiles, “God, yes, thank you so much.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”
“I’ll make you feel so fucking good.” he says. You thought you should take it as a joke, but he says it with a more serious tone before he hooks his fingers through the loop of your jeans, pulling you closer as he leans in, kissing you.
You were a little surprised by him just going for it so suddenly, but you close your eyes and kiss him back. His hand travels up to your waist, holding onto it as his other hand moves to the side of your face, cupping it as he pulls you closer, his fingers slightly tangling with your hair. He tilts his head, slipping his tongue past your lips, sending shivers down your spine as it slides over your own. He kisses you with a sort of hunger, not expecting to be kissing you with so much intensity, but once his lips met yours, it’s like a switch went off for him and he can’t help himself from wanting you more and more.
He guides the two of you over to the bed as you continue to kiss, him grunting softly as his eyebrows furrow together, feeling himself getting hard from just kissing you. He parts from your lips, having you both gasp for air before he pushes your hair aside, feeling his long, thin fingers brush past your neck before being replaced with his soft, plump lips. He leaves open mouthed kisses along the side of your neck before turning you around, your ass pressing against his hard on, making him moan softly into your ear from the contact, his precum leaking and staining his underwear and pants. You tease him, grinding against him slightly which makes him bite your neck softly as he continues kissing along the side of it, down to your shoulder. He grips your hips tightly, stopping your movements and you feel his lips and hot breath brush against your ear.
“Don’t play with me.” he whispers, gently nibbling on your earlobe before pulling away. His hands slip to the button of your jeans, undoing it and slowly zipping down the zipper. He pushes your jeans down just slightly, a little past your ass and he feels like he’s going to pass out from his fingertips gently grazing the edge of your underwear alone. He kisses your neck again, his left hand going to your neck, gently gripping it as he moves your head to the side to give him more room. That action alone almost makes you moan, but you just gasp softly as his right hand slips its fingers past your waistband, finally feeling them push against you. He moans at the feeling of you already being so wet and he coats his fingers in your arousal, making a mess in your panties.
He uses his middle and ring finger to press and circle your clit, causing you to gasp and close your eyes, your head falling back against his shoulder and he pulls away from your neck, breathing slightly heavily. He turns his head to look at you, leaving gentle kisses on the side of your face as he moves his fingers down, pushing them inside of you. From the way your lips part and you let out the softest moan, your eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly, he can feel himself almost cum at the sight alone. He pushes his fingers in and out of you, his thumb rubbing your clit and he leaves a kiss against your ear.
“That’s right, baby, you like this, hm? Fuck, you’re so wet, do you want me to just fuck you now?” he whispers against your ear, knowing he, himself, wants nothing more than to do just that. He fingers you faster, curling them against your walls as the pads of his fingers reach areas you can’t. You moan louder, feeling your legs shake and he smirks. “I bet you taste so good.” he whispers and he pulls his fingers out of you and your panties. “Open.” he demands and you open your mouth, slightly sticking out your tongue and he puts his fingers into your mouth. You lick them as he shoves them a little deeper and then pulls them out, sliding the mixture of your spit and arousal on your bottom lip before he turns your head and kisses you, wanting to taste you. He licks your lip, he sucks your tongue, anything he can just to have you on his lips. He moans softly and pulls away, a string of saliva connecting your lips before breaking. He’s decided he needs more.
He runs his hand along your back, slightly pushing you so you bend over the bed. You can feel your heartbeat against the comforter of the bed. He pulls your jeans down to your ankles, biting his bottom lip as he grins at the full view of your ass on display. His eyes look over how soaked your panties are, feeling a sense of pride knowing he did it. He gently squeezes and kisses one side of your ass, playfully biting it and then realizes he likes the idea of him marking you like this. He bites it a little harder, you moaning and whining at the feeling, your fingers gripping onto the bed sheet. He grins, kissing his teeth marks before he pulls down your underwear, feeling as though he is looking at the gates of heaven itself, his eyes locking onto your pussy. He mumbles something to himself that you can’t hear, but you suddenly feel his tongue slide slowly along and in between your folds. Your mouth opens as you moan, feeling yourself clenching around nothing and he chuckles softly, licking his lips.
He can feel his cock twitch in his pants, more warm precum sticking to his thigh and underwear. He goes back in for more, low groans and moans coming deeply from his throat as he buries his face into your swollen pussy, covering his face in your slick. “You taste so fucking good.” he says with a raspy voice, the vibrations feeling as though they travel throughout your whole body as you moan, feeling his tongue lick feverishly. You feel yourself drool at how he spreads your legs more, his nose and tongue all pressing into you more, him hooking his arms under your thighs, his hands resting and squeezing your ass, raising your hips slightly as he licks and sucks your clit. His nose rubs between your swollen folds as you moan louder, gripping the sheets tighter.
He licks faster, making out with your cunt as his tongue slips in and out of you. You let out a long moan, feeling as if your knees buckle, coming all over his tongue, lips, chin, and nose. He moans into your pussy, licking up all of your release and he pulls away, looking at your glistening pussy, rubbing his fingers between your slit, spreading the mixture of his spit and your cum all over. His tongue licks his lips clean, reaching down to lick the part of his chin it can reach and he lets out a low groan, relishing in your taste. You whine as he gives a soft slap to your pussy, licking his fingers clean before using it to collect your cum from the rest of his face and licking that up as well.
He flips you over, leaning down to kiss you again and you kiss him back eagerly, wrapping your arms around his neck. His hands roam along the sides of your body, his right one moving up to your chest and groping your breast through your shirt, you moan and whine as he squeezes it tightly, palming and kneading it as he starts to kiss you roughly. His breaths are heavy and before he even knows what he’s doing, he rips your shirt open, his patience dwindling with each second that passes. He kisses down your throat and buries his face between your breasts, kneading them as he kisses between them. He squeezes and pushes them together, licking across them and switching between each one to leave kisses on. He pulls down the cups of the bra, your nipples hardening more from the sudden cold air hitting them as your breathing becomes shallow and you moan with how he is handling you.
He flicks his tongue over your nipple, sucking and gently tugging at it with his teeth. His tongue swirls around your nipple, his hand squeezing the breast to fill more of his mouth as saliva runs down his chin. He moves and does the same with the other one and your chest rises and falls, moans escaping your lips. Your hand moves and tugs at his shirt, pulling the fabric up and he notices, moving away from you as he takes it off quickly. You feel yourself get even wetter at the sight of his toned arms and abs, looking over every curve of his upper body and he grins. He takes your hand and places it on his abs, moving it over them slowly and you both moan quietly to yourselves. He lets go of your hand and slides off his shoes, you taking the initiative to do the same. You both undress the rest of yourselves quickly and you feel yourself stop in your tracks when you see his long, thick cock slap against his abdomen. You clench around nothing as your eyes look over each vein, biting your bottom lip.
You reach out, using your finger to slide it over his tip, collecting the precum. His breath gets caught in his throat as he watches you, as you also collect the precum from the side of his thigh. You bring your fingers to your lips, licking them slowly as you look up at him. He watches you intently, his eyes shifting from your fingers, to your tongue, to your lips, to your eyes. You let out a soft moan as you taste him, licking your fingers clean and he reaches out, his hand grabbing your chin and lifting your head up to look at him more. He looks down at you, grinning before kissing you, tasting him on your tongue; that fact alone made him feel proud. He pushes you back against the bed, positioning himself between your legs. He kisses your temple muttering a “thank you” before pushing himself into you.
Your back arches slightly at the feeling, the pressure between your legs, the way that your walls mold and clench around his cock makes your head spin. You can feel the ridges of the veins in his cock grazing against them, making you clench tighter. He grits his teeth, cursing under his breath as he pushes himself fully into you. He moans and whines a little at the overwhelming feeling of you around him. His forehead rests on yours as he catches his breath, his hands wandering down the sides of your waist to your hips, gripping them tightly as he holds back the urge to cum. He thrusts slowly, sliding in and out of you, subtle squelching noises of your wetness coating his cock. This sound alone, however, causes him to go faster, moans spilling from your lips as the bed creaks harshly, the headboard hitting the wall. His grip becomes tighter and he clenches his jaw, letting out short breaths as he pulls away, watching your tits bounce with each thrust. He reaches and grabs one, playing with your nipple and fondling the breast, his eyes rolling back a bit as he moans. He fucks into you harder and faster, his hips meeting yours quickly, his balls slapping against your ass, the sound of your skin slapping, your moans becoming increasingly louder as your cunt swallows his cock each time he thrusts into it, his soft whines with short moans, and your arousal spreading between your thighs while getting on his drives him wild.
He pulls out and you gasp at the empty feeling. He grabs your hips and flips you over, pushing your ass up and spreading your legs, sliding himself back in, pounding into you harder and faster. You moan–almost screaming–at the sudden change of pace, your face buried into the mattress as your body shakes. He moans, gripping your ass tightly as he uses that to keep him steady while he fucks you. You moan and scream his name into the mattress, making him moan in return. He grabs a handful of your hair, pulling your head up from the mattress, making you moan and gasp.
“Scream it now.” he demands, fucking you deeper, his other hand reaching to rub circles on your clit hard and fast.
Your eyes roll back a bit and you comply, screaming his name, letting out a lewd moan afterwards as pleasure overtakes your body, your orgasm crashing down. You clench tightly around him, repeating his name over and over as you cum. That was all he needed and until now, he never realized that’s all he wanted. He thrusts harshly a few more times, going back to gripping your hips before moaning your name and pulling out. He pumps his cock a few times and flips you back over, you just giving in because your mind was blank at the moment. He moves up and moans deeply as he cums on your breasts, watching as the pearly white liquid spills on your nipples and the soft flesh, feeling warm and sticky on your skin.
He lets out a breath he seemed to be holding and kisses you. You kiss him back, sloppily, before he pulls away, moving to your chest. He kisses your nipples, a little bit of his cum on his lips before he licks it off. He uses his pointer and middle fingers to spread the cum around your nipples in a slow, circular motion, making you shiver. He smiles, and collects his cum onto his fingers off of your breasts. You open your mouth and he chuckles softly, sticking his fingers in your mouth as you suck and lick them.
“So good…so pretty…” he whispers to you.
You blush a little and he pulls his fingers out. He moves off of you and you both just take some time to catch your breath. You sit up and you both look at each other before bursting out into laughter. You both calm down after a moment before getting up to put on your clothes, but after you put on everything but your shirt is when you realize you can’t.
You glare at him, “Genius, what the hell am I supposed to wear?” you ask, holding up your ripped shirt.
He laughs sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck, “Damn, my bad.” he looks around and then he takes off his shirt, handing it to you. You raise an eyebrow and take it, putting it on. He walks to the closet and just grabs a shirt from there, putting it on. “I’ll give it back later.” he says, to which you laugh.
You both walk out of the room, seeing two of the frat boys Jake was talking to earlier. They smile smugly and whistle, cheering a bit and you roll your eyes. They give a thumbs up to Jake and he smiles a bit awkwardly before leaning to whisper in your ear, “Let’s get out of here.” You both walk silently as you leave the party. After a moment, he speaks, “Thanks…by the way…and I’ll buy you a new shirt and…I definitely owe you one.”
“You better get into this frat, I swear to God.”
He laughs, “Damn right.” he says as he nudges your arm and you nudge back. “So, how can I make this up to you?”
You think for a moment and then shrug. “It wasn’t all that bad.”
He scoffs, “Gee, thanks.”
You laugh, “You know what I mean.”
He smirks and looks at you. “You know…you look even hotter in my shirt.”
You roll your eyes and laugh. “What a random thing to say.”
He shrugs, “Maybe…we could do this again.”
You look at him, quiet for a moment. “...very funny.”
“I’m serious.” he says as he looks back at you. He smiles a bit and wraps his arm around your shoulder. “Are you down or what?”
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