Armin attempts to get back into your good graces after you found out he lied to you, and despite all logic and rationale, you decide to hear him out. | artist : mochikuyo
TRIGGER WARNINGS : lots of manipulation here, armin is overall very terrible and obsessive, heavy themes of dubcon, could be perceived as coercion. depictions of unsafe sex (pls be smart and safe when having sex irl yall!!) as well as mentions of blood. if anything listed above could potentially be triggering please consider skipping this. and if there’s anything i missed pls lmk!
pairing : armin arlert x reader
word count : 11k
what's playing : come over by e_death
*unedited
a/n : hello my princesses! here’s part two! finally! thank you so so so much for all the love, support and patience, it truly means so much to me <3 i rlly hope u guys enjoy this and that it was worth the wait >_< as always, comments are appreciated:) <3 hate will be deleted
Days since the Halloween party had passed you by painstakingly slow, each second melded into minutes, into hours, and ultimately accumulated into long, drawn out weeks that felt more like years.
You hadn’t felt like yourself since the party — something in you deflated and left you dull and hollow.
Empty and dejected.
Texts from Armin aided in that daze, his messages piling up in your phone like an incessant fly who didn’t know how to leave you alone. You ignored them all, deciding to block him after the 7th text asking if you were alright.
Anger had sparked amidst the monotonous drone of dissociation when you had received that message, scoffing to yourself as you reread it over and over in disbelief. How dare he ask if you’re alright, as if he actually cared.
You found yourself revisiting that night, asking yourself questions upon questions that you had zero answers to, driving yourself crazy as you pondered what about that night was genuine and what wasn’t, and if he told a single truth at all.
You felt dirty, caked in touches you couldn’t wash off no matter how many times you tried, dragging your soapy loofah over your skin until you were warm and raw from the friction. Hitch was growing increasingly concerned as the days ticked by, always trying to hide her worry behind her usual teasing and ribbing but, you could tell she was desperate to make sure you were okay.
Sasha came over often as well, to bring you food and to ensure you actually ate it, as well as work on homework with you despite not having any courses with you, just wanting to work parallel to you and be near you.
“Do you think you’ll ever confront him?” she had suddenly asked, the most recent time she saw you, and your heart nearly stopped in your chest at her abrupt question. You looked up at her, eyes a little wide like a deer caught in headlights. Ugh. Deer.
“I… - what?” you stammered, your eyes flickering over her. “Sorry, I should’ve been more sensitive when bringing him up…” she mumbled, setting down her pencil as she sighed. She pushed her homework off her lap and shifted around in your bed to face you clearly.
“He who shall not be named. It’s been weeks and Mikasa is asking me about what happened because he keeps talking about you and I haven’t told her per your request, but it’s weird… you know, being friends with them but knowing what he did to you… which of course you know, is not your fault,” she immediately added, shaking her head hurriedly as if she heard the worries sprouting in your mind.
“But he needs to know what he did was fucked up, and you deserve that kind of closure don’t you think? I know it’s scary and you obviously don’t have to, but that twerp deserves an ass kicking.” she joked and you laughed quietly, your laughter faltering into a low tired sigh with your heavy gaze pointing back up at Sasha.
“Yeah… I’ve definitely considered it, I just get… nervous thinking about seeing him again. It makes me feel so sick, you know? And part of me is scared that he’ll somehow suck me back in… as stupid as it sounds…” she shook her head, taking your hands in hers and squeezing affectionately.
“Hey no don’t say that, that’s not stupid. I don’t blame you for being scared to go up to him again, if I were you I probably would have just transferred universities altogether by now,” she snorted, pulling another smile from you. “But if you’d like, I could come with you? That way it’s less intimidating.”
You smiled appreciatively, your brows drawing together with adoration for your friend as you shook your head, squeezing her hands back. “No that’s okay Sasha, it really means a lot and… I think you’re right, I need to confront him — but unfortunately this feels like something I have to do on my own. I gotta rip off the bandaid and tell him off.”
She grinned, pulling you in for a tight hug, and you smiled, wrapping your arms around her. “I’m so proud of you, you got this! Just text me or Hitch if you need anything.”
—
‘Rip the bandaid off!” my ass.
You were standing outside the library, palms egregiously sweaty while you wavered in the doorframe, shyly murmuring apologies as you continually allowed people to walk in before you, too scared to breach the entrance and walk in yourself.
Your nerves were too loud and almost too debilitating that you contemplated just going back to your dorm and accepting the situation for what it was and simply moving past it.
But no, you knew that you couldn’t just give up, you owed it to yourself to to see it through. You walked in, swallowing down thick bouts of anxiety, taking in a deep inhale while your eyes flickered across the library, searching for Armin.
Sasha had informed you that he was the assistant for the campus librarian, as well as what days he was usually there. And one of his shifts just so happened to be on a day where you had no classes.
It didn’t take long for you to spot him, in fact you found him much sooner than you would’ve liked. You had turned a corner and saw him a bit further from you, standing between two aisles.
A cart full of books rested beside his hip, and you watched as he slid a book into its respective genre section, hating how handsome he looked while so focused.
You wished you could view him as the ugly person he is on the inside, but you couldn’t. He made it impossible to do so when he looked like that.
Your eyes drifted to his fingers, the long and pretty digits swiping across the spine of a book, dusting off the dust bunnies with care, unaware of your watchful and begrudgingly lustful gaze.
While the night you shared with him haunts you, what’s worse is how the ache he left in you sometimes haunts you more than the betrayal itself.
The fact that no one else had made you feel as good as he did drove you absolutely mad — livid really. The worst part was the fact that you couldn’t even say that this asshole didn’t make you cum, because if he didn’t, you could tell yourself that a shit lay like that made the hook up null and void.
Sex logic 101.
But as luck would have it, that was not the case.
On the contrary, he made you cum so hard, and in return left you wanting — craving more. You hated it so much, hated feeling so conflicted with disgust but also with a sense of want, unsure of where your repulsion began and where your desire ended.
Every time you attempted to touch yourself all you could think of were his fingers, the way they drew up and down your folds, making the anticipation for when he finally paid attention to your clit that much more intense.
The memory of the way he sunk his fingers into you and curled right where you needed him never seemed to have left your body, your back always lifted and arched off the bed in the lonely hours of the night as you tried to replicate the very thing that your body ached to feel again, but to no avail you never quite could.
Trying to hook up with someone else was also out of the question, you felt too disgusted with men as a whole to even dare let someone in again the way you did with Armin but deep down you just knew no one else could satisfy you the way he did, and you hated him for it.
Your heart hammered the closer you stepped towards him, the tense muscle nearly stopping altogether when he turned and saw you, a smile spreading over his face as he dropped a book back onto the cart.
He said your name excitedly, soft and eager in a way that made your chest constrict. Your feet acted before your mind could and you took a step backward when he rounded the cart to approach you. He took notice of your standoffish behavior, frowning as his movements faltered.
“Is everything alr—“
“We need to talk.” he stilled, nodding as a solemn look curtained over his face. “O-okay… do you want to sit?” he asked softly, and you nearly cringed at his gentle tone, despising his sweetness when you knew he was anything but.
“No, let’s talk outside. Are you able to step out for a bit?” he nodded once more, holding a finger up to signify needing a moment before he pushed the cart of books at the end cap of an aisle, clearing the walkway.
He rejoined you by your side, his frown deepening when noticing how you maintained an uncomfortable amount of distance between you two.
Armin already knew what this was about, he was just surprised it took you this long to confront him about it. He had a feeling that the consequences of his lies were inevitable, but he had managed to hold onto hope that maybe he could skate past them.
Until he realized you had blocked him, and deep down he knew it was only a matter of time before you approached him about it.
He truly did miss hearing from you, and was upset when he saw his texts go from blue to green, a horrible pit buried in the core of his stomach upon accepting that you had somehow uncovered his deceit.
However, he came prepared, having already memorized his explanations ahead of time and planned on ways he’d convince you to trust him again.
His conscience was a shallow one, and he knew if he could gain your trust once he could do it again. You may have hated the way your body yearned for his, but he held no reluctance in acknowledging the hunger his body held for you.
He missed that feeling of succession in his veins when he dwindled down your hesitation and had you laying before him, all wet and desperate to cum while you moaned in his ear.
He missed the way you mewled his name, how you gasped as if you’d never been touched before. How fucking tight your little cunt gripped his cock, sucking him in and drawing him deep inside you, oh how he ached to fill your pussy with his cum and watch it pour out of you.
“Look,” you started off once you were both outside, standing beside the building of the library and dragging him out of his lewd reservoir of memories.
“I know that the ‘Hook up or Haze’ thing was bullshit.” you said blatantly, dry but heavy with hurt as you looked up at him, your eyes boring into his through a dagger filled gaze.
He was shocked by your blatancy, surprised you weren’t shyly dancing around the topic, but he supposed some things had changed within you upon finding out he lied, and in return causing you to shed that cute shy demeanor he was initially drawn to. But that’s alright, he prepared for more than one outcome.
He took in a deep breath, softening his gaze despite your pointed one, fixing his glasses while he slightly lowered himself to your level, tilting his head remorsefully.
“I figured when I stopped hearing from you…” he trailed off, sighing quietly. “What the hell is wrong with you, Armin? Do you always do this? Do you always manipulate girls into bed like that?”
Well, not always. Just the ones he really likes.
He didn’t say that of course, he just groaned and shook his head, feigning regret.
“No — God, no, I…” he said your name softly, hiding behind his pained stare to gauge how your body responded to him saying your name, and when he noticed the way you slightly softened, he knew this was going to end in his favor, he’d just have to work for it.
“It wasn’t my intention whatsoever to trick you or to manipulate you, God that sounds horrible, I’d never —“
“Well that is what you did Armin, and what you did was horrible.” you scoffed, folding your arms over your chest.
“It was, I won’t deny that. Words can’t even begin to express how sorry I am for lying to you, I just… I can’t stress it enough how sorry I am — please believe me when I say that.” he nearly pleaded, his hands coming around to gently grasp at your arms, taking note of how you didn’t pull away at his touch.
Despite your unsoftened stare, he knew things were going at least semi decently with the fact that you were no longer pulling away.
He supposed if he had to explain his true feelings, he’d state that he doesn’t derive joy from hurting you, that’s not it at all. Seeing you so upset and distraught is the furthest thing that gets him off in this situation. So in one way or another, he is actually technically sorry.
Specifically, he’s sorry that you found out and got hurt, but not that he lied, nor would he take it back if he could. If he could fix anything, it’d be to ensure you never found out to begin with.
To Armin, part of the fun sometimes is the fabrication, because in certain situations he finds that it’s necessary.
Necessary in the same way predators have to hunt in order to eat. You can still find fun within the obligatory. He doesn’t expect people like you to understand. Sometimes you have to do what most people deem as ‘bad’ to get the outcome that you want.
In his mind, more often than not, the means easily justifies the end.
And he knows it’s hard for people who don’t share his same level of intelligence to grasp that, but that’s okay, it isn’t meant for them to grasp, he’s content doing the mental labor and watching his work flourish in the end while — for lack of a more… respectful term — his pawns let themselves be orchestrated in the way he needs them to be.
It’s the same with you, and don’t get him wrong, he truly does like you, which is why he had to go about things the way that he did. At first he wasn’t going to add too many details to his fabrication the night that he met you, but you were just so sweet and seemed to hang off of everything he said — he couldn’t help himself from leaning into it all and adding on some more embellishments to really sell it.
After some various trial and errors in the past, he found that the more you scare a girl into believing there’s an imminent threat and inadvertently present yourself as the only safe option she has, the more she will cling to you without even realizing.
She’ll latch on and grow attached in ways she doesn’t even understand. It’s a hero complex sort of a thing, similar to stockholm syndrome but on a less fucked up scale — or so Armin believes.
When you put a girl in (made up) danger, and save her so to speak, it forms this kind of bond that’s hard to break, it makes her trust you more and love you harder, instilling a sense of devotion that only comes about when a person believes that they are indebted to another.
It sounds more melodramatic than it is, it’s really quite simple at the end of the day.
Make girl believe she should be scared
“Protect” girl from fake threat
Then girl like you!
He will also be the first to admit that on a more perverse scale, it also just makes the sex so much better. Girls like you who feel grateful to have been protected always get so fucking wet, and so easily too.
It’s kind of cute honestly.
In addition to that, the higher the “danger” that she was saved from, the higher the sense of eagerness to appease and to repay their savior there is.
A certain type of delicacy within the spectrum of eagerness occurs, and it makes girls almost excited to make their hero cum, as a thanks for his bravery and/or kindness.
Even with all that aside, Armin still maintains the belief that he was your safer option amongst the idiots at that party. Who knows what could’ve happened if you fell into the hands of someone much less caring and considerate than him.
“But why did you lie to me Armin?” you asked quietly, dejected and hurt, and Armin wanted nothing more than to kiss away that little sad pout in your lips.
Seeing you sad made Armin sad in the same way owners feel guilty for stepping on their puppy’s tail. Poor thing doesn’t understand what’s going on except for the fact that they’re hurt.
He sighed, still slightly bent towards you in a way that made him seem less threatening, his warm hands sliding affectionately up and down your arms, squeezing your flesh with a sense of care you tried to tell yourself wasn’t real.
He glanced behind you, noticing that people were walking slower around you both, listening in on your conversation and the last thing he needed was for what occurred to be spread around. He looked back down at you, deciding to speed up the process he had originally planned.
“Can we talk somewhere a bit more private? I want to be able to give you my full attention without people eavesdropping.” he asked softly, angling his face towards you and catching your downcast gaze pointed at the ground.
“Fine, did you wanna go back inside the library and sit in the back?” he shook his head, straightening his glasses.
“No, my coworkers are nosy, and it’s a bit crowded today… would it be okay with you if we went back to my dorm? Just to talk, I promise.” Lies.
Your heart thudded in your chest and all you could hear was a voice in your head making itself louder than it had ever been, screaming at you to say no.
To do anything else but agree and go back to his dorm. He could see the wheels turning in your head and he knew he had to jam a rod in the gears before you rejected his offer.
He said your name, drawing you out of the glossy blank stare you had fallen into, tilting his head down at you willfully, his voice warm with feigned earnestness.
“I promise, I just want to be able to speak with you properly and give you the explanation and space you deserve.”
Your eyes flitted between his, your palms sweaty at your sides and your brain pleading with you to tell him to go fuck off and to return to the safety of your own dorm instead of his labyrinth of manipulation.
But, of course…
“Okay.” you answered, your voice weak just like your resolve. He grinned kindly and nodded, a quiet sigh of relief deflating his tense chest.
“Okay.” he responded back softly, motioning for you to follow him.
—
“Please, sit.” he said sweetly, sitting at the edge of his bed, allowing you some room on the mattress beside him. Your eyes burned a hole into the space next to him, and you shook your head, holding yourself as you stood before him awkwardly.
“No…no thanks, I think I’ll stand.” you responded quietly, avoiding his stare out of fear that his gaze alone would somehow will you into sitting beside him.
He frowned, pausing for a moment before he walked past you and over to his desk, grabbing his chair and situating it in front of his bed.
“H-here, I’d feel bad just having you stand while we talk… you don’t have to sit with me but… would this be okay instead?” he asked, motioning towards the chair he brought over, sitting back down in his bed.
You eyed the chair and sighed to yourself, nodding curtly before taking a seat. You seemed so tucked into yourself as you sat before him, and all Armin wanted to do was unravel you once more, to make you want him again. He’d get there, he knew he would.
“Okay…” you trailed off, looking at him with an uneasy expectancy. “Are you going to tell me why you lied?”
He took in a breath, his hands on his thighs and his eyes fluttering shut momentarily before he looked at you, his stare nearly knocking the wind out of your chest, prompting the instinct to look away as he spoke.
“Look, it’s important that you know my intention wasn’t anywhere near to hurt you or make you feel used, I sincerely hope you know that,” he began, and you scoffed quietly, folding your ankles along with your arms over your chest, already closing yourself off to him.
He noticed it immediately of course, it was hard not to, but it only made him that much more motivated to change how you viewed him.
“I just… I saw the girls you were with and…and well I kind of figured that if you were anything like them, you wouldn’t want anything to do with a guy like me. But when you walked in… and all I knew was that I had to at least try to talk to you – even if it resulted in you throwing your drink in my face and telling me to go fuck off, it was worth a shot. But when we started talking at the party,” he paused, his eyes scanning over you and taking note of how your body seemed to have grown less tense, less protective over yourself the more he went on, much to his glee.
Due to this, he had to ward off the giddy smile that itched to curl in the corners of his lips at the way you visibly softened at his explanation, forcing himself to keep going and to not celebrate just yet.
“It was clear you were nothing like most of your sorority sisters, you were — a-and still are — so …sweet,” he smiled gently, his eyes peering into yours as if trying to tip toe his way back into the embrace of your trust with honeyed words.
Your face melted from one of a cold stare and into a warm look of affection, a quiet breath leaving past your lips as you sat up, sitting under your hands shyly whilst you replied.
“Armin I…what do you mean…when you say that you thought I’d be like my sisters?” you asked softly but with a twinge of defensiveness for the girls in your sorority.
He sighed listlessly, giving you a knowing look while he trailed off with your name.
He knew he had to be careful when trying to word his next response, the last thing Armin needed was to ruin the steady progress he was making by leaning too deep into the whole ‘you’re not like other girls’ bullshit by insulting your sorority sisters that you seem oddly loyal to.
“Surely you know by now how the girls in your sorority are. Not all of them, but a lot of them aren’t quite as… nice as you are. To be honest, they’re the kind of girls who’d take one look at me and disregard me within a heartbeat.”
“But you’re nothing like that, you’re so kind and funny, and God, it was hard focusing while talking to you because all I could think about was how you’re even more beautiful up close,” As if on cue, a red tint pinched the apples of his cheeks, and he feigned bashfulness, glancing away from you but watching in his peripheral the way your eyebrows drew together with flattery and your lips turned into a downward smile.
“But I wasn’t the only one who noticed that. I saw guys all night staring at you, looking you up and down and then looking over at me and I could just see it in their faces that they were confused as to why a girl like you was talking to a guy like me. I was confused too, but worse than that I was selfish. And the last thing I wanted was for one of them to come up to you and whisk you away from me…so I panicked and I remembered all the shitty things I’ve heard about the frat and came up with the first excuse that came to mind in hopes you’d write off all the other guys that would’ve potentially came up to you and just…choose to stick with me instead.” his voice rang heavy in your ears and in your chest, and all you could do was stare at the hands in his lap, mouth void of any words for longer than he would’ve liked.
Before he could plead with you to say something, you finally spoke.
“Listen Armin, I…I can understand why you felt like you had to lie, it doesn’t make it okay, not in the slightest, but I can understand your reasoning a bit better now,” you sighed, and he nodded, a false sense of remorse in his face as he watched you speak.
“But what makes the situation extra annoying is that you had already written me off as a shallow girl who wouldn’t have wanted to talk to you under normal circumstances. I mean, I really did like you, y’know? You didn’t have to conjure up a whole story just to get me to hang out with you, wasn’t it obvious that I was into you?”
He had to bite back his grin from spreading, a sense of victory had begun to trickle into his veins the more you continued to respond, knowing that he had you exactly where he wanted you.
“I wasn’t sure… I thought maybe you just felt bad for me,” he murmured and you frowned, leaning forward and pressing a hand to his knee.
His eyes stared at your hand and slowly dragged up to your face, peering at you from under his glasses. “Armin, you really need to stop selling yourself so short. Mostly because it makes you do dumb shit like this,” you laughed softly, squeezing his knee before pulling away.
“Next time, if you like a girl just approach her without a scheme. Chances are you’ll probably do just fine.”
He smiled with a diffident nod of his head, rubbing the sides of his legs with faux shyness. “You think so?” he asked and you rolled your eyes playfully. “Yes, of course I do.”
“Okay…well this is me asking straightforwardly, no lies, no schemes… but, if you’re not busy, would you possibly still be interested in playing Final Fantasy with me? My switch is fully charged.” he asked, his voice coy and sweet, with his eyes the same as they bored into yours.
Your face warmed, your eyes widening slightly at his shy offer. Your stomach fluttered and you just knew Hitch and Sasha would probably kick your ass if they saw you actually taking a moment to consider this.
“Fine. But I can’t stay for too long.” you conceded and he grinned, his cock threatening to swell in his pants upon your agreement to stay. “That’s okay, as long as we just get to play together, I’m happy.”
—
Goddamnit.
You told yourself you’d stay for 30 minutes, and not a minute longer. Yet fast forward 3 hours later, you found yourself still in his dorm. Why were you still in his dorm? Not only that, but how did Armin manage to have you on your back and beneath him, again?
The state of your mind was a blur, unable to recollect the moment that landed you in this position once more – but if you were being honest, the ‘how’ was unimportant when deep down you always knew it’d somehow end up this way.
It’s why you were so apprehensive on going back to his dorm with him, because there was simply something about Armin that made denying him feel like the world’s most impossible feat.
He had been watching you play on his switch, resting on his side while you laid upright against the wall, legs in two low peaks and sock covered feet hidden shyly under his duvet. He called your name, watching as you paused the game reluctantly, looking over at him while so unaware of how beautiful you looked doing something so mundane.
“I just wanted to thank you… for allowing me to explain myself and for being so understanding even when you had every reason not to be. I mean, I definitely don’t deserve to even have you still here with me, but you are. And not only that, I just want to apologize again for lying to you, I really hate that I hurt you.” he said, sitting up and a little closer to you, his words gentle like a cradle and you felt yourself slipping right back into his palms all over again.
“Oh, Armin.” you exhaled with a frown, dropping the switch into your lap and shifting towards him.
“I can’t necessarily say “hey it’s totally okay what you did!” you know? but I also can’t say that I still hold it against you. So, don’t worry about it. Just don’t do that shit again, okay?” you teased lightly, poking his side playfully. He laughed, not bothering to shy away whatsoever from your little jab.
And before you knew it, he was asking if he could kiss you. Once more, you went against your better judgement, and said yes.
How could you not? He was laying beside you, propped up on his elbow, looking up at you from behind his glasses and under his long blonde lashes; his lips plump and moist from the vanilla and mint chapstick he keeps on him, basically beckoning you into him.
He had sat up, and slowly leaned in, cupping your cheek and gently pulling you in closer to him, a soft breath of relief rumbling in the base of his throat once your lips connected.
He smelled so good, that familiar scent of sea breeze and eucalyptus clouding over you like it did the night you met, his warmth enveloping you all the same. His thumb ran over your cheekbone adoringly, his face tilting to the side to slot into you deeper as you fell into an easy rhythm with him.
The metal on his tongue made your heart thump when you felt it brush against your lip, a breathy whine escaping from you at the feeling and the memory of the last place that piercing had been flooding you all over again.
Your fingers tightened in his hair, tangling yourself within him once more like your body had been on edge up until that moment. And Armin was right there tying knots into every loose end to ensure you’d never unravel from him. He groaned softly into your mouth, the sound making your clit pathetically pulse with want.
It’d been so long since he had touched you, and to make it worse, before that night, you had already gone a long couple months without sex — and with the way he was handling you with such a reverent but careful touch, you found your body reacting so easily and eagerly to it all.
He pulled you into his lap, prompting you to part your thighs and let your knees sink into the mattress on either side of him, situating you right on top of his growing bulge. He pulled you back down by the nape of your neck, moaning with a low hum of hunger as soon as your lips reconnected.
His hands mapped their way slowly down your sides, taking the time to feel the warmth of your body bleed through your clothes and into his palms as he slid down to your hips, gripping you tight.
“I missed you,” kiss “So fucking much,” kiss. He was panting while he spoke, impatient and desperate, crashing back into your lips between each word, like going on without your mouth on his physically pained him.
“Missed you too,” you breathed out, cupping his face and kissing him back hard. He curled his hips upwards just slightly, meeting your clothed crotch, slow and experimental to gauge your reaction. When he felt you begin to push down right against his growing erection, he shuddered in your mouth, his grip tightening over your hips while he rutted into you.
“You don’t understand,” he groaned, petulant and restless, his hands squeezing onto your hips with a desperate, pleading clench. He pushed you onto your back with immediate ease, pinning you down beneath him and once again reminding you the strength he had over you.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since Halloween. Feels like it's been years since I’ve had you,” he panted heavily, his face a breadth width away from yours, close enough to where you could see the flush creeping up his cheeks and the tips of his ears.
“I’ve been losing my mind over it.” he breathed out, pushing his hips close to yours and letting you feel the proof of his words with his hard cock bulging against your cunt. A low whimper escaped your lips, overwhelmed with such an immense starvation for him, the feeling hitting you like an echo, repeating over and over again throughout your entire body.
“Was I that good?” you joked, a lack of air in your lungs and a shy bashfulness prompted from an inability to handle such praise and blatant desire directed towards yourself.
He didn’t return your attempt of jest, he just slipped his hand beneath the waistband of your pants and cupped you, his fingers circling over your hole like a hungry vulture prepping his meal for consumption.
“You have no idea how good.” he uttered your name with his lips ghosting your jaw, nearly hearing your pulse thump from the proximity.
Your hips bucked up and your body wound up tight with an eager anticipation, a shaky whine leaving your lips with your hand shooting down to squeeze his wrist; not with the intent to stop him but with the means of encouraging him to touch you.
“F-fuck Armin, please,” you begged so prettily just like you did the first time he had you like this, and it made him fall apart instantly, somewhat worried that his heart would simply give out from how hard you made it pound.
He pushed his middle and ring finger inside your pussy, groaning into your neck at how you enveloped his digits and sucked him in like your hole had a mind of its own.
He started fucking you on his fingers, grinding his cock against nothing while wishing he was inside you, your wracking moans doing nothing but making his want for you worse and his cockhead leak through his boxers.
He rose up from your neck and watched you, observed you with a keen eye and a lust driven hazy gaze, surveying intently the way you writhed underneath him like it hurt, except he knew that you felt everything but.
He wanted to commit the sight to memory, wanted to memorize the way your tits bounced just slightly from how fast he was pumping his fingers into you, wanted to memorize the way your beautiful head indented into his mattress from how hard you were pushing into it, completely thrashed below him.
He wanted to memorize the way your lips formed his name through trembling tearful sobs, how your hips would sporadically twitch up and try to sink down onto his fingers before he thrusted them back into your greedy little cunt.
He shoved his fingers inside your mouth, feeling your tongue lap him up and your plump lips wrap around him without even being told, sucking on them like you needed it all along. You gripped the arm between your legs for dear life and grinded, using him like a strong pane of pleasure. Your eyes fluttered shut with a winding bliss and your mouth suctioned around another set of fingers.
Armin felt the way your teeth grazed his fingers and how even amidst the blinding currents of gratification you managed to hold yourself back. But he didn’t need you to hold back, not with him.
“Bite if you want to, take whatever you need from me.” he murmured in your ear, the sound of your soaked cunt getting fucked by his fingers ribboned along the curve of his hushed words.
Your eyes fell open in a heavy slit, already fucked out before he even managed to get his cock in you, and he felt the way his words affected you, felt your cunt grip him that much harder when his permission got through the fog in your brain.
Your teeth sunk into the pads of his fingers and he groaned, his cock twitching and heel of his palm slamming up against your clit, swiveling deep circles over the soaked button.
You had this addictive but sporadic rhythm of nipping him and dragging your tongue to mend the bite, and the scene beneath him almost made him lose the pace between your thighs.
When you drew blood, he didn’t even wince, his jaw just went tight as pain prickled down his hand and through his wrist, but not without a stirring sense of arousal. He watched you slowly draw his fingers from out your lips, and he just stared at the bite marks, then at you.
He brought the wine stained digits to your lips and smeared, making a pretty red mess of you. He ran his fingers down your chin to your neck and over your collarbones, staining you with the purest form of him that there could ever be. Marking you in a way no one else has and no one else ever will.
He trailed his tongue down the streaks he left, leaving a wake of cold wetness behind him while his thumb found your clit and rubbed. He lapped up your skin like it fed him, working his way back up to your lips hungrily and hurriedly, smashing a kiss into the depths of your lips with his fingers between you both.
The taste of his blood and saliva mixed together on your tongue like a cocktail and all you could do was let it permeate over your tastebuds and drink it in.
As you lay there below him, allowing him access to play with the most sensitive parts of your body, the obscene and wet sound of his fingers driving into you caused a sense of hyperawareness of your actions.
Something went off in you, like a switch that reminded you once again of why you had gone so long without talking to begin with. That you could forgive him — you already had forgiven him, but to this extent?
It hit you, what exactly was happening, that you were back underneath him like nothing ever happened, so with an attempt to regain some common sense, you pulled apart from his mouth slowly, swearing for a split second that the air between you felt thicker the more you tried to pull away.
You were breathless, a whimpering fucked out mess struggling to fight through the pleasure coursing through you.
His wrist never stopped flicking and fucking into you, his lips immediately falling to your cheek and jaw, groaning into your skin and trying to trail his way back to your mouth.
“W-wait, Armin,” you panted, voice shaky and weak like your resolve to ever say no to him, your hand gripping his wrist as a meek means of protest.
“What’s wrong?” he murmured, slowing the thrusts of his fingers and making each drag of his digits inside your soaked tight cunt slow and torturous, pushing extra hard against your g-spot every time he slid in, purposefully making you lose focus.
Your brows screwed together and your eyes threatened to shut, your poor nipples pebbling and straining against your bra and into his chest when you arched up slightly, a wavering breath shuddering from out your swollen lips.
“W-we shouldn’t — I can’t,” you babbled uselessly, and he hummed under his breath, patronizing with feigned confusion.
“Can’t what? Cum? Because I think you’re about to right now.” he uttered, rubbing deeper, more intense circles into your clit, his fingers pumping at the same speed that made you almost cum all over his hand the first time he had you sprawled out beneath him.
Except he didn’t prolong your orgasm this time, he made you cum on his fingers instead of his mouth, not wanting to waste time and give you the opportunity to tell him to stop.
You sobbed out when it hit you, those perfect tears breaking the dam along your waterline in oblong streams, pouring freely from your pretty eyes. The mirage captivated him as you squirmed beneath him, choking out strained moans as you came down his wrist.
His cock positively ached when he saw your tears ruin your mascara and leave streaks down your warm cheeks, obsessed with how much of a crybaby he could turn you into.
He hovered above you, eyes drinking in your appearance with his jaw falling slack, a low guttural breath of awe escaping him as he watched you sob through your climax, poor sensitive cunt pulsing around him and little clit throbbing behind his thumb.
He felt the way you shivered and jerked just underneath him, pinned like a twitching little creature unable to handle the pleasure that felt bigger than its entire body.
His touch matched the descent of your body coming down from the peak he pushed you to, slowing the pumps of his wrist down to a halt, withdrawing from between your legs to lick up the mess you made on his fingers.
“You taste as sweet as you act.” he murmured, coming down to kiss you hard and to silence whatever verbalizations of hesitancy or uncertainty beginning to stir in you.
He had you precisely where he wanted you, where he’d been craving you, and he wasn’t going to let it slip through his fingers again.
Your already heavy eyes fluttered shut and your body betrayed your mind once more, too weak and too enthralled with the way Armin’s body felt nestled into yours, how he fit so perfectly on top of you and how his lips and tongue moved against yours like waves crashing into each other.
He moaned in your mouth, a throaty whine falling into yours in tune with his clothed cock meeting your cunt, rutting against you with pure earnestness — as if you’d vanish from his hands in an instant if he didn’t take advantage of having you right then and there.
He was so painfully starved above you and glaringly impatient, you felt it in the way his whines rumbled into your mouth and how he drove his hips against yours, dry fucking you like taking the time to pull down his pants was too many seconds spent away from between your legs.
Your lower half jerked up to meet his rushed pivots, panting against his lips when his forehead came down to connect to yours, sharing the breath that fanned in and out of your mouth.
“I want you on my tongue so bad,” he panted, his nose nudging yours as his lips ghosted over your mouth, like he was pacing himself before he swallowed you whole. A low whimper rumbled from your throat, your clit throbbing at the blatant vulgarity, never able to handle hearing it without bearing hot cheeks and a tingly lower belly afterwards.
He kissed you deeply, sighing in your mouth with charged repose, moving down to the corner of your lips, your neck, feeling your pulse leap to his mouth when he kissed over it hotly, teasing your skin with his piercing.
He made his way down your chest, kissing your collarbones until he traveled lower and lifted up your sweater like the beginning to a holy ritual, immediately greeted by the warm skin of your tummy.
He pressed his cheek just under your belly button, nuzzling into your softness before kissing it, his lips dangerously close to the waistband of your jeans.
He felt the way your breathing picked up, increased tenfold like you just ran, with your tummy beginning to rise and fall quicker against his face. His fingers found the button of your jeans and he pulled it out of its loop and went to drag the zipper down, tugging the denim barricading your cunt away from him down and under your ass.
“God, look at you,” he breathed out, more so to himself, eyeing you the same way a hungry hunter eyes the game he’s stalked and chased. The exact game he finally caught.
“Armin,” you started off, air lacking in your tone, but the rest of whatever you were going to say died off when he kissed your lower tummy, gentler than the rough tide of thoughts and perversions going on in his mind.
“Lift your hips for me,” he murmured, not waiting for your response, hooking his thumbs into your waistband to tug your jeans all the way off, tossing them onto the floor beside his bed. You laid there before him, warm thumping with life, flushed and beautiful and so easy.
He traveled back between your thighs, spreading you open despite the shy tight hold you had your legs closed in, immediately dipping down to kiss and nip at your inner thighs, tasting you along the way until he got to what he truly wanted to devour.
Heat trailed its way up to your cunt the further his kisses went, your chest rising and falling with anticipation as he neared your crotch, his breath fanning against your core. He pulled down your panties, and went in tongue first, acting with a lack of grandeur. There was no patience left in him to take it slow, he wanted to feel your pussy on his tongue and hear you cry out when he rolled his piercing over your clit just right.
And when he did, when he pressed his hot tongue firmly against your clit and flicked, his eyes flitted upwards to watch your face pinch together in bliss, your mouth dropping open with a drawn out shaky moan, just like he knew you would.
To Armin, there's something so filthy about having his mouth on your most private, sensitive, soft little area of your body. It makes him cum so hard when he gets his cock in his hand and closes his eyes and just imagines his tongue buried in a pussy, but there’s something else he likes about it. He loves how weak and malleable girls get after cumming from head, how nearly incapacitated and yielding you were the first time he went down on you.
It was so endearing, watching you lie there completely fucked out and twitching, all before you'd even gotten a cock in you yet. And when he finally put it in? When he slid his slick cock between your folds and pushed inside; that shocked little twitch and jerk of your muscles when he started to move inside your sensitive little cunt gave him a high unlike anything else.
The way you cried out and clung to him for dear life, almost unable to handle the overwhelming sensations he was crowding you with was too addictive to watch, how your soft and soaked cunt gripped him that much harder, all wound up from your previous orgasm and all you could do was take what was being given to you.
And Armin takes great joy in making you take it. He loves to fuck overly sensitive girls and hear them whimper and cry beneath him.
You’re his favorite one to date by far.
You’re so responsive, even when you can’t handle much more, your body still begs him for seconds. He can feel it in the way your pussy sucks in his fingers while his tongue toys with your clit, or how your trembling body still jerks up to meet the thrusts he slams into you. You’re like a toy with endless bounds of entertainment.
He moaned into your cunt, pinning your hips down when you squirmed at the vibration. He swirled the wet muscle of his tongue over your clit nice and hard, letting you feel the metal embedded in it. His face slowly flicked up and down, teasing your folds and darting into your hole, savoring the way you felt and tasted, utterly mesmerized by the sweet thing between your thighs.
“A-armin,” you hiccuped through your own moan, and Armin nearly cooed at you when he heard it, endeared by everything you do even when he has his tongue in your cunt. He released your hips and grabbed your hands, lacing your fingers together and grounding you to the bed while he sucked on your clit, his chin grazing over your hole with every circular motion he swirled over you. Your hands tightened in his, your head indenting into his mattress, trying your best to not arch off his duvet like a man possessed.
The way his thumb lovingly rubbed over your knuckles didn’t match the way he pulled back just to spit on your clit and watch his saliva trickle down your pussy, diving back down before you could even process the wet feeling that hit you. He was a pure mess with his mouth on you, your slick was sticking to his cheeks but he didn’t mind, he liked the thought of being smothered in you.
He squeezed your hands as his tongue nestled further than you thought a tongue could go inside someone, and he felt your shock, heard the way you gasped and whined, pinning your wrists to the bed and keeping up with the way your hips jerked into his mouth. His nose bumped your clit with every flick of his tongue into your hole, the paired assault felt otherworldly, drawing guttural sobs from the depths of your chest and belly as he ate you greedily.
“S’too much, s’too mu–uch,” you babbled more to yourself than to him, because Armin didn’t stop immediately, he just kept going. He dragged his tongue back up to your clit and attacked the aching little button, lapping it up over and over despite your thrashing.
“M’cumming,” you cried, trying to jerk away from his mouth, but that wouldn’t work, Armin needed you drunk and inebriated off of his tongue if he was going to get to cum in you. He needed you fucked out and stupid, unable to think logically if he wanted to pump you full of him, something he didn’t get to do on Halloween like he wanted to. But this was his second chance, and he made no promises to not fill you up like he did last time.
He rode your orgasm out, following every trembly jerk of your lower half, his tongue never letting up despite the way you sobbed at how sensitive you were. If anything it egged him on, he loved the way you cried, everything about it was so beautiful to him. Little crybaby.
He slowly kissed and nipped his way towards your inner thighs, unlacing your fingers to hold onto your hips, wrangling you gently into place as you caught your breath, panting above him. He sunk his teeth into the soft fat of your thigh, chuckling quietly when you winced and whined at the sharp prickle of pain. He kissed you where it hurt, trailing his lips over your mound, swirling his tongue over the V apex, breathing out with unadulterated want into your skin
He was already above you when you finally mustered enough strength to part your eyes, a golden hazy vision of him hovering just mere inches from your face made you pulse weakly. He parted your legs to slot himself atop you, his large palm running up and down your smooth skin. He leaned down to kiss you, but you made him pause, smiling that pretty dazed smile up at him, all shy and sweet. You wiped off your cum from his cheeks, hot and flushed at the sight.
He laughed softly, clasping his hand around your wrist and licking your arousal off the heel of your palm. He kissed your inner wrist before dropping it beside your head, holding it in place as he leaned back down. He captured your lips in another kiss, siphoning your air for his himself, pressing into you with a silent promise of replacing your breath with his own.
Unrushed, he unclasped his grip from your wrist to hold your jaw, steadying you as he lips took yours, his tongue teasing yours with gentle swipes. He was throbbing in his pants, his body drawing itself into yours, aching to feel your cunt wrap around him. He kissed you hard, pulling away to rest his forehead on yours, his eyes flitting down as well as one hand to undo the confines of his jeans.
Your heart spiked when you realized his actions, and the lack of a condom. Again.
“Armin–” you started off, voice wavery and soft. He shushed you with his lips back on yours, kissing you unhurriedly while he pumped himself, groaning in your mouth. He brought his rosy cockhead to your clit, circling over it and smiling against your lips at the choked moan that escaped you upon feeling him. He dragged himself slow and hot down your core, slowly nestling between your soft lips before inching his way in.
He pressed his mouth harder onto yours, swallowing away any uncertainty you had as he sunk into you. He broke apart for a second, a low shuddery groan leaving him, your cunt enveloping him tightly, gripping him with a tight, warm and wet grasp.
The intrusion knocked the air out of your lungs and your legs fastened around him, clinging to him like you needed him. You were panting from the stretch, tears prickling those pretty eyes once more from the slight burn that came with accommodating his size.
He kissed your tears, slowly drawing his hips back and forth, gently fucking you open and getting you reaccustomed to the feeling of him inside you again. “You feel so good,” he breathed out into your hair, kissing a lone tear sliding down your cheek. You pulsed around him at his words, your chest fluttering along with your cunt as his fat cockhead nudged your g-spot over and over with a tender repetition.
He snuck his hand between your leisurely grinding bodies, rubbing your clit in tune with his shallow thrusts, working you up just to take you apart all over again. Your body jerked, your poor clit so overwhelmed from all the attention made your body arch up into him, moaning shakily into his chest.
The more he touched you in tandem, with his cock grinding into you slowly and deeply and his fingers massaging circles into your clit, the more you started to fuck yourself onto him. You brought your hips down to meet him before he could even slide all the way in, and he grinned beside your head, shedding his gentleness little by little until he completely let loose.
He drove into you hard, pulling back and slamming his hips down into yours, burying his cock to the hilt inside you. His whines fell into your hair, his lips near your temple and hips flush to yours, cock drenched in your slick. His hand traveled under your sweater, cascading beneath the bralette you had on to squeeze your breast, playing with your pebbled nipple.
He lifted the material just under your chin, and immediately went down mouth open, lapping messily over your tits, whimpering into your full flesh.
“So t-tight,” he cried, nipping the side of your breast, soothing the bitten sensation pinching into your skin with a draw of his pierced tongue over the wounded site.
Your fingers found his hair, threading through his strands and gripping for purchase, arching into his mouth as he impaled you on his cock and sucked on your tits, feeling the vibrations of his whimpering and whining about how good you felt gripping him resonate into your chest. He grappled around your hips, sucking a bruise into your chest with his hips pivoting hard inside you, rubbing up against your g-spot.
“F-fuck,” he exhaled, slowly rising from your chest, feeling your hands trail down his body and underneath his button up, pressing his forehead back to yours.
“You’re squeezing me,” he whimpered, eyes flickering over yours before crashing down to kiss you once more. You moaned into his mouth, tightening your legs around him and eagerly taking each drag of his cock inside you.
You knew it wasn’t the best idea to be doing this, let alone raw – again. But you could never help yourself when it comes to Armin, could never help how fucking good it felt to be stuffed full of his cock, whether it was safe or not.
Your hands ran down his back, nails sinking in with a sharp gasp falling from your lips and fanning over his when he sent a particularly hard thrust, a wobbly and tearful whimper pulling from your throat. He winced at the crescent indents your nails left, but despite the pain, it made his cock throb inside you, doing the furthest thing from deterring him.
He pulled back just slightly, watching just how far his cock was fucking into you, a low whiny sound of arousal falling from him as he observed the way your tummy formed around the girth of his length.
He leaned forward, groaning into your hair from how tight your pussy gripped him, the sweet dulcet sounds of your moans and incoherent babbling melting into his chest, too preoccupied with reaching for the ruler in his backpack sitting at the foot of the bed, just underneath your head.
It was poking through the open slit of his backpack, and he slid it out from the pocket in his binder, eyeing you under his eyelashes, watching the way your brows drew together and how your mouth laid agape with a string of moans and shaky utterances of his name.
You were too far gone to notice when he laid the blue transparent ruler over your tummy, measuring how far he was thrusting inside you.
“Fuck,” he exhaled, in awe of the way your tummy bulged just slightly from every thrust he pushed inside you. He felt himself twitch inside you from eyeing the way his cock aligned with the ruler pressed to your stomach with each forward pivot of his hips.
“D’you see that?” he breathed out, glancing up at you from behind his glasses, his face still pointed towards your belly. Your eyes were still screwed shut, practically glued together from the heft of pleasure weighing down on you, left to do nothing but blindly take the rippling tidal waves of sensations coursing through your body.
He shuddered a quiet laugh, abandoning the ruler and pushing all the way inside you, a smug lazy grin curling in the corner of his lips when you choked out a strained half gasp half moan.
“I guess you don't need to see it when I’m sure you can feel it.” he murmured into your skin, nestling into your neck with a cocky lilt in his hushed voice. He withdrew his hips back, just for long enough to flip you onto your tummy, silencing your meek petulant sounds with another forward thrust back inside you, shuddering into the nape of your neck when he fell back into a rhythm of dragging his hips flush into you.
His hand found your throat and he tightened, pulling you back into his chest with his free hand slipping to your front to rub your clit. He felt your gasp around his palm, his long fingers wrapped around the pane of your neck, squeezing just slightly, just enough to make you delightfully dizzy.
A lazy smile grew across your lips, your hand holding onto his forearm, hoisted by him with his cock slipping in and out of your cunt, clit rolling between his middle and ring finger relentlessly.
You felt high off the lack of air supply, eyes rolling back and mouth ajar with a set of breathless moans, your ass pushing up against him desperately and sporadically, mindlessly impaling yourself on his cock in earnest.
“M-min,” you rasped, face warm and body on fire, shallowly panting with what little air was making it into your lungs from the grip he had on you, jerking in his arms and nails digging into his forearm, sobbing as your orgasm ripped through you. Every movement you made, he was there, holding you firm against him, every twitch of your hips was met with his cock burrowing deep inside you and his fingers flush to your clit.
You went limp in his arms, body utterly exhausted from cumming a third time, stimulation running rampant inside you as well as his cock and hands all over you. He let you sink into his bed, laying beneath him with his hands around your hips, pushing you into the mattress as he fucked you through his own incoming orgasm.
His back molded over your front, his lips kissing desperately into the side of your neck, whimpering and chasing the breath he couldn’t seem to keep, nestling his mouth into the crook of your shoulder and dropping his teeth into your warm skin, tearful whines falling into your flesh as he humped against your ass.
A weak, pained sound rumbled from your throat at how hard he bit down, but your cunt gripped him all the same, taking him deep inside your all too sensitive cunt.
With a loud grunt muffled by his teeth sunken into your shoulder, he slammed his hips as far as he could down into you, his cock buried in the soaked channel of your pussy, his chest rapidly rising and falling behind your back.
His cock twitched and he felt himself shoot thick ropes of cum inside you, whimpering into your soaked skin with rough jerks behind you, using the tight grip of your cunt to milk himself in your hole. You fisted at his duvet, trembling beneath him as he used you to cum, poor clit throbbing when the sheets brushed up against it.
You winced when he unlatched his jaw from your shoulder, kissing it softly with a slow backwards pull of his hips, ungluing himself from you. A quiet strained sound tumbled out of you from the sudden emptiness, swallowing hard and brows pinching together at the loss.
He lowered himself down to your ass, spreading you apart to watch his cum trickle out of you. It dribbled down to your clit, and he smeared it across your poor abused cunt, shushing you and kissing the curve of your ass when you gasped and tried to squirm away.
He groaned lowly, analyzing the way his cum stained your cunt, how you looked like a complete wreck and it was all because of him. The sight unlocked something primal in him, something deeply possessive and he knew he’d have to maintain whatever was necessary to ensure no one else would get the pleasure of making you leak with their cum.
He scooped you up in his arms, gently and lovingly laying you onto your back, smiling softly down at you, clearing away invisible strands of hair from off your forehead. He leaned down and peppered your face with warm pecks, cupping your cheek with his hand to keep you close.
“I can’t feel my legs,” you breathed out in a playful huff, curling sleepily into his body, resting on his chest tiredly. His arms wrapped around yours with zero hesitation, his lax laughter rumbling from his chest into yours as he held you close, kissing your hairline.
“Might be my fault,” he teased, cradling the back of your head. You scoff laughed, punching at his arm with no strength behind it, face still nestled in the warm comfort of his chest.
“I feel all sticky,” you mumbled, a pout in your words and he pulled back with his hand still behind your head, leaning down to peck your nose. “Wanna hop in the shower together?” he offered, his thumb coming up to run across your cheekbone.
You smiled, nodding with an upwards lean to kiss him chastely. “Mhm. That sounds nice.” you agreed, a soft yawn following suit. “Okay,” he mouthed, sponging a peck to the corner of your lips.
—
Armin peeled your sweater and bralette off, moving at an unhurried pace, his hands delicate and soft, when handling you. He stripped and left your clothes together in the hamper he keeps in the corner of his bathroom.
You leaned into him from behind, arms wrapped around his, watching as he turned on the shower. He waited for the water to heat up to a comfortable temperature before you two entered, not wanting to scald you or freeze you to death with the stream.
“How’s that?” he asked, guiding your hand underneath the shower head. “Perfect.” you smiled, nodding confirmatively. He helped you into the shower, handing you his glasses to set on the bathroom counter before shutting the shower curtain.
He lathered up his loofah with body wash and gently scrubbed over your skin, kissing your cheek and watching you giggle when he ran over ticklish spots on your body. He got on his knees and dragged the netted sponge over your legs, taking his time to pamper you and sheathe your skin in bubbly suds.
He trailed up your inner thighs, glancing up at you and watching the way you sucked in a quiet, but sharp breath. The corners of his lips perked when he let the water rinse the soap off your body, leaning in to kiss your inner thighs, the loofah long abandoned beside him.
He inched his way to your cunt, still soaked from the lewd actions that took place just minutes before. Your hands fell to his hair, nervously grappling onto him as your nipples hardened in anticipation.
Much to your dismay and to Armin’s annoyance, there was a loud knock at the door, the fist to wood contact sounded somewhat rushed and aggressive, and he huffed, pressing a kiss to your thigh before rising up begrudgingly.
You exhaled shakily, collecting yourself as he sighed and looked towards the bathroom door. “I’ll be back,” he huffed, an irritated mutter in his words, leaning down to kiss you once more, reluctant to leave the warm safe haven of the shower with you.
“Fine,” you sighed with feigned exasperation. “Oh by the way do you think we can um… get a plan b afterwards?” you asked sheepishly, as if he wasn’t the one who came inside you moments before. He chuckled, nodding while grabbing his towel and wrapping it around his waist. “Of course.” he smiled, sliding his glasses back on.
With that he left you in the shower, trudging to his door, ready to send whoever was impatiently banging on his door back to wherever the fuck they came from.
“What—“ his face dropped when he saw Hitch standing at his door, instantly met with a glare the second her eyes adjusted on him.
“Where is she?” she asked, sizing him up, her top lip and nose scrunching with disgust. He feigned a polite smile, tilting his head. “Who?”
“Fuck off Armin don’t play games with me, Sasha said ____ went to go find you to talk, thinking she’d actually get something of substance out of it, but here’s the difference between me and her,” she snipped, leaning forward and pushing against the door.
“I see you for what you are, she might not, or Sasha or any of your other friends who are stupid enough to think you’re a good guy, but I know the kind of person you are. And I know —“
“Armin, who is it?” you called out from the shower, unknowingly cutting off Hitch. The color drained from Hitch’s face and in an instant her eyes fell to the scratch marks on Armin’s arms, her heart sinking when she caught the shit eating grin on his face.
“No one important,” he called back, not looking away from Hitch for a single moment. “I’ll be right there.” he added reassuringly, turning back before facing Hitch. He stepped forward, watching the way she inched back, eyeing him with disdain.
“You seem like a smart enough girl, Hitch,” Armin said, a dangerous base in his feigned lighthearted tone. “So I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and trust that you’ll listen without me having to repeat myself.”
He leaned down until his lips met her ear, the droplets from his hair dripping onto her shoes. “Try to sabotage what I have going on with her again and I will personally see to it that you don’t graduate. Okay?” he smiled, his eyes not matching the upward curl of his lips. When she didn’t respond, he cupped her jaw until her lips smushed, his hand still wrapped around his towel. “Okay, Hitch?” he repeated, rougher this time.
She wriggled out of his grip, pushing him off with a harsh glare, wiping his touch off her skin. “…Okay.” she muttered, clenching her jaw. “Great. ‘Knew you would understand.” he grinned, sending her a curt nod of acknowledgment. He dropped his smile and wasted no time in shutting the door in her face, taking a deep breath before turning on his heel and making his way back to the bathroom.
“I’m coming!” Armin’s muffled voice called out to you from behind the door, and Hitch glared at his dorm number, cursing him in her head.
“Fuckin’ creep.” she muttered, stomping back to your shared room, praying that you'd come back the same day.
summary: proverbs 27:17 states “as iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.” but you didn’t want to sharpen the sweet church mouse with the wide baby blue eyes. you wanted to corrupt him.
content warnings: explicit content NSFW MDNI!! 🔞 LOTS of religious imagery/motifs throughout, preacher’s son Armin is a virgin getting seduced by experienced reader, whiny Armin, sexual content in a religious setting, temptation, corruption, teasing, forced proximity, good old catholic guilt, all characters are 18+
word count: 3k
Saturday afternoon Bible study was not in your plans for the summer. It was more of an ultimatum. After a certain graphic video (featuring someone that looked suspiciously like you folded into a compromising, acrobatic position) started to circulate around your small town, your parents concluded that you were troubled, lost, and in dire need of redemption.
Which, apparently, looked like sitting in the front pew in a nearly empty church, the scent of resinous frankincense overpowering your nostrils while the youth pastor with sweat stains down to his waist prattled on about stewardship.
There was, however, one saving grace sitting only a yard away from you in the middle of the pew. Armin Arlert. The preacher’s son. Hunched over his dog-eared and well-loved copy of his King James, annotating the margins with the vehement passion of someone who already thought he was condemned.
If a living person could be canonized as a saint, it would be Armin Arlert. Clean cut, delicate features, soft-spoken, with a halo of shimmering golden hair. Blessed be the meek. You were willing to bet he had never touched a woman before, had never dared to even fathom delving into the sins of the flesh. He would probably flagellate himself at the very thought. He exuded a pure innocence that would only be too fun to taint.
A wicked thought took bloom. Perhaps this summer won't be such a waste after all.
Your lips twitched with amusement as the preacher’s son stole curious glances at you – at the way your thighs shifted when you bounced your leg, at the way you twirled a lock of your glossy hair around your finger. You wondered what his father would say if he saw his son’s wandering, traitorous eyes – would he encourage his son to save your wicked soul? Or warn him to stay far, far away from Jezebels like you? Leaning back against the pew, you winked in his direction as the pastor droned on about the importance of living a virtuous life. A test. A trial.
Armin’s pale face immediately flushed a bright crimson, ocean blue eyes widening like a startled deer as he jerked his head back toward the front of the room. He fumbled with the Bible on his lap, accidentally dropping his highlighter and pen in the process with a clatter that echoed throughout the high ceilings of the church. The poor boy looked like he might actually combust from embarrassment as he scrambled to pick it up, muttering quiet apologies to the people around him.
The moment he peeked back in your direction through his messy blond bangs, you flashed him a lopsided smirk that was all mischief. You expected him to look away again, maybe even move a few rows down – what you didn’t anticipate was the tiny, hesitant smile that brightened his cherubic face. The bridge of his nose and apples of his cheeks were still dusted pink with a faint blush that made him seem younger than he was.
His hands – long, nimble pianist fingers that had never seen hard labor – trembled slightly as he underlined verses in his Bible with a scholar’s dedication. He fidgeted with the collar of his neatly pressed button-down – not a wrinkle in sight – before hastily scribbling something in the margins. The page is full of similar tiny notes, evidence of a restless mind trapped in the body of an obedient church boy. Armin placed the holy book down in the space separating you gingerly, clearing his throat to draw your attention before tapping at a carefully underlined passage with a tiny question mark doodled next to it.
“Proverbs 27:17 - As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.”
You blinked in surprise, raising a quizzical eyebrow as your eyes scanned over the page. Biting the swell of your bottom lip, you swiped the ballpoint pen from his fingertips with finesse before scribbling a response in a looping, girlish scrawl.
Are you asking me to sharpen you, church mouse?
There was a slightly panicked look in those baby blues, as if Armin was anticipating divine retribution – like God would strike him dead for committing the sin of entertaining you. The sharp contrast between the dark ink of your teasing note and the holy words beside it was almost obscene. He just barely resisted the urge to clutch his crucifix necklace for protection. He trembled, nervous by nature, looking every bit like a skittish cornered animal.
And just like the predator you were, you waited to bare your fangs.
At the podium, the youth pastor brought Bible study to a close with a final declarative statement about living in a way that manifests the Word of God (the one you had just scribbled flirtations in). The pews responded with amen in a low murmur, and the few that attended began to file out and shuffle toward the exit. Except you. You eyed Armin with a predatory focus as he gathered his belongings with shaky, clumsy fingers until it was just the two of you left.
Just as he rose to leave, nearly stumbling over his feet in the process, you followed after him, crowding him into an open confessional booth. He gasped sharply, the sound almost deafening in the dark, cramped space – but he could still see the shape of you. The curve of your cheeks, the way your lips curled into a smile that felt almost sinister. The devil wearing cherry lip gloss. He half expected you to sprout horns.
“Saint Armin.” You whispered his name in a mocking prayer. He squeaked back yours like an impending curse. This close, you can count the freckles that dusted the bridge of his nose and cheeks like a constellation, could smell the sandalwood of his cologne and the crisp clean laundry scent of linen and cotton. “What was that about being sharpened?”
“I-I think y-you misunderstood–” He sputtered, voice wavering deliciously close to fear as your eyes flickered down to the chain glinting gold tucked beneath his collar.
“Pretty.” You cooed, reaching out to gently tug the crucifix onto his collarbone, tracing the shape of the cross with your fingertip.
“U-um. Thanks.” He muttered, pulse jumping at the proximity, at the way the tight space filled with the scent of your sweet perfume and something thicker, muskier. A heady smell that made his fingers tighten in mid-air around nothing.
You held his gaze, relishing in the way his breath hitched when your index finger pressed against his bobbing Adam’s apple. You pushed your nail into the delicate skin of his throat – just to see what he would do. As you expected, he jerked back instinctively with a strangled wheeze, only to find there was no escape.
“Yeah.” You let out a laugh that Armin was sure would haunt his dreams and nightmares for years to come. “Definitely in need of some sharpening.”
Before he could even think to push you away, you had made quick work of popping the first two buttons of his shirt undone, your fingers trailing the sharp jut of his collarbone.
“W-what are you–?” He gasped, voice embarrassingly high-pitched even to his own ears.
“Trust me.” You murmured, your voice calm and measured as your head dipped close enough for him to feel your warm breath in soft puffs against the base of his throat. “You trust me, right?”
He didn’t. Not even a little bit. “I–”
You didn’t even give him a chance to respond. Your hot, wet tongue darted out from between your plump lips to follow the line of his clavicle, leaving a trail of fire in its wake as his skin sprouted gooseflesh. His fingers curled into a fist, nails biting perfect crescent-shaped indents into his palm – you swore you heard them creak. But you didn’t stop there. You smirked against his skin – he could feel the lopsided curve of your pillowy lips and oh god they were so soft – before your tongue peeked out again to trace the shape of his crucifix, now resting in the dead center of his exposed solar plexus. He jolted, his hand reaching out for something – anything to hold on to. He nearly knocked out the latticed screen beside your heads instead.
“This… this is wrong!” The words burst out of Armin in what he intended to be an impassioned declaration, but came out as a meek whimper instead. His eyes glittered with tears that threatened to spill over his flushed cheeks.
“It’s not wrong.” You insisted with a scoff, hands reaching up to run up his sides. “It’s in the Bible, isn’t it? Be fruitful and multiply or whatever, right? How could it be wrong if it’s in the Bible?”
He should stop you. He should pull away. You are exactly the kind of moral rot his father taught him to steer clear from. The kind of earthly temptation that would jeopardize his coveted spot in the kingdom of heaven. The forbidden fruit with a sweet face and a wicked grin. The devil in the wilderness tempting Jesus to sin.
But he was no Peter. He wouldn’t dare deny you.
He should’ve told you that you completely misinterpreted the scripture, but your hands and lips and tongue rendered him helpless – even in the face of your corrupted sinner’s logic. “O-okay.” Armin conceded, pink tongue wetting his full lips, surprisingly full for a boy. His unfairly long lashes fluttered as he tilted his head – a lamb bowing its head before the lion.
“Have you ever…” Your lips skimmed up his sternum, leaving behind sticky sheer red gloss across his skin as he trembled with anticipation. You planted a tender kiss to his pulse point, smirking against his skin once you felt how it raced beneath your mouth. “Been touched like this before?”
It was cruel of you to ask, Armin thought, when the answer was written in his barely suppressed whimpers. “N-no.” He bit out, chest rising and falling too fast as your mouth journeyed up his throat, stopping briefly to nip at his Adam’s apple just to hear him gasp.
“You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”
He squeezed his eyes shut in a valiant effort to hide from your gaze, like you couldn’t already feel his mortification in the way his body locked up as you nosed along his jaw. Red splotches bloomed across his pale skin as he flushed deeper. He was burning, burning, in your hellfire.
“...yes.” He admitted in a soft squeak, lashes slowly fluttering open, eyes wide like prey.
Your canines glinted in the dim light between biting kisses along his jaw – a glimpse of the beast beneath the beauty.
“I can make it good for you.” You promised as your lips finally found their way to the corner of his mouth. He can practically taste your breath this close – the sweet fruity cherry lip gloss that was now all over his chest with a hint of peppermint.
Armin was beyond words. Instead, he nodded eagerly, breathing quickening as he tilted his head ever so slightly – just enough to barely graze your lips in a featherlight touch that tickled.
This is my body, which shall be given up for you.
You let out a huff of a laugh before your small, warm hands flew up to cradle his flushed face, slotting your mouth directly on his. His mind went blank instantly at the feeling of your soft lips, moving languidly against his like you were memorizing the shape of them. He sighed into your mouth, a dulcet sound that made your chest vibrate with hunger before your tongue licked greedily into his mouth.
God was watching but neither of you stopped.
Your kisses alone were heaven-sent, but when you started unbuttoning your blouse, his heart stuttered and nearly failed to beat again. Armin had to remind himself mechanically to breathe, and when he did, his breath was tremulous as he visibly shook. Delicate white lace adorned the swell of your chest, a sinful veil that barely concealed you. His cerulean eyes flickered between your face and your chest, caught between propriety and acting on his own growing desire – something he never really paid mind to before, but now was suddenly ravenous in its hunger. His pants were suddenly suffocatingly tight, and he had to shift his hips to relieve himself of some of the pressure.
You didn’t let him think about it too much. Instead, you took his trembling hands and placed it right on your breasts, molding his fingers to cup you. Armin’s breath quivered while his eyes searched yours – for answers, for permission.
“Touch me.” You cooed, tugging down the lace just enough to bare yourself. His fingers tightened reflexively, as if he thought about pulling away, before dropping his shoulders in a deliberate attempt to relax. His thumb rolled over one pebbled peak, his breath hitching as he watched your reaction.
“A-are you sure I can–?” He whispered, staring up at you like you were something holy, a sacrament he was all too ready to fulfill.
“Mmhm.” You murmured your assent, watching him fondle and grope and pinch with wide eyes while you flashed him that dangerous crooked grin that made his heart stop.
“You’re so soft…” Armin said in a hushed voice, his touch reverent, like he was handling something holy. “So pretty…”
“Yeah?” You cooed, already reaching to slide your shorts down your hips, kicking them off once they pooled around your ankles. More white lace, but when you guided his hand down to trade the gusset, he found that the material was damp. Pride bloomed deep in his chest. He had done that. You hooked your fingers into your panties and tugged them to the side.
“I shouldn’t–” He whispered, but his gaze was locked on your core, eyes widening as if he had just been shown the eighth wonder of the world. Despite his protests, his thumb was already caressing your folds with veneration, gathering your slick between his fingers. A breathy moan spilled from your lips, a sound that made him pause briefly before resuming with renewed fervor.
You toyed with the waistband of his jeans, undoing the button with one hand before tugging down just enough to free him. You examined him closely before wrapping your warm hand around his length. He had to gather all the remaining self-control he had to not explode on your fingers the second you touched him – he even dug his nails into his thighs.
“W-wait, I don’t… I don’t have–”
“I do.” You said without missing a beat, reaching back into the back pocket of your discarded shorts to produce a slightly crumpled condom packet Armin ogled openly.
Did you just always have one lying around? Armin thought to himself, feeling his stomach churn from the implication. Doubt curled the edges of his mind in dark insidious tendrils through the lustful haze you put him in.
But you were already ripping the edge of the foil with your teeth before he could voice his concern, rolling the latex over his length with practiced ease. You hovered your hips above his slightly, enough to position him at your entrance while he pressed his forehead against yours. He had always thought the act of intercourse seemed almost violent, like an impalement, but the second you sank down onto him, he realized just how wrong he was. This was connection in its highest form – you were wrapping yourself around him, embracing him fully (and not even laughing too much at him when he whined at the feeling of your heat).
“Good?” You breathed, your lips brushing against his in an almost-kiss as you took all of him.
His hands, still trembling, slid down to grip your hips to keep you in place. “S-so good.” He admitted, lashes fluttering as a flush crept up his chest.
But then you started to move, your hips rolling against his in slow, experimental grinds before building into something more heated, your eyes watching him intently all the while.
The sounds spilling from your lips were sweeter than any psalm. Each moan was gospel truth, a testament to his flesh. His hands shook as they ran down the length of your body in sacred pilgrimage, memorizing your curves like scripture – your devoted disciple, Saint Armin. His fingers lingered on your hips, thumbs rubbing tentative circles around your hipbones before pressing down with the slightest bit of pressure, wanting to mark you the same way you marked him. But no bruise or bite would compare to the stain you left on his soul – one he never wanted to scrub clean. He thrust up once experimentally, drawing sharp gasps from both of you before you tapped his shoulder in a silent invitation to keep going, do that again. His mouth tilted into a smile that was so sweet, so proud it almost made you feel guilty – until he started to match the rhythm of your hips.
“Y-you’re s-so – ah – beautiful–” He whispered in worship. His eyes, the color of the infinite, expanseless sky, shimmered like the sea as he drank you in — like you were his salvation rather than his ruination. All too happy to drown in your current.
As much as he wanted to stay in that moment with you forever, the mounting pressure in his gut was too much, the heat nearly unbearable. He whimpered, hips stuttering before you surged forward to swallow his whines in a slow, deep kiss – just as he hit his pinnacle. Armin felt like his entire body had melted, every single cell of his being singing your name as you clenched around him. He dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a ragged exhale, kissing every part of your skin he could reach – a flustered, whining mess.
“Amen.” You declared with a satisfied, dreamy sigh. You buttoned your shirt back up and tugged your shorts back on, looking almost unaffected while he felt like he would never catch his breath again for as long as he lived. You slipped out of the confessional booth with ease, wiping the smudged lip gloss from your chin and leaving a ravished Saint Armin in your fiery wake.
a/n: whiny armin i looooove youuuu <3 was obviously listening to a lot of ethel cain when i wrote this. also this is my first one-shot in like ten years (!!) so pls have some mercy lol.
Orange lights blinked above fake spider webs and fog machines. Streamers tangled overhead like veins. Everyone was dressed in something ridiculous—vampires, devils, slutty pirates, and at least six different Ghostfaces.
You were in a corset. You regretted it every time you bent down, but you looked hot. And he noticed.
Floch Forster.
Annoying, smug, surprisingly good at dancing. You weren’t sure if you liked him—but he’d bought you a drink, told you that you were the “baddest thing in this whole graveyard,” and started dancing behind you before you could say no.
So there you were. Halloween dance. Grinding to some trashy remix of Somebody’s Watching Me. A fog machine hissed near your feet. Floch’s hands crept a little lower every time the bass dropped.
“You look good tonight,” he whispered, leaning down. His hands were skating dangerously close to your thighs. “Like, really fucking good.”
You laughed it off awkwardly. “Thanks. You too. Uh—maybe don’t touch there.”
His hand didn’t move.
“C’mon,” he breathed. “Don’t be like that.”
You twisted slightly, trying to shift his grip, but he just laughed under his breath.
Until—
“She said don’t.”
The voice came low. Controlled. Right behind you.
Both you and Floch turned.
Ghostface.
Black robes, knife prop in hand. Mask tilted slightly. Watching.
“Jesus, man,” Floch rolled his eyes. “It’s a fucking costume party. Chill.”
But Ghostface didn’t laugh.
He took a single step forward.
Floch scoffed, stepping between you both. “You wanna try that again?”
Ghostface tilted his head.
Then—
BANG.
The lights cut out.
Screams echoed. Music skipped. A moment of pure chaos.
By the time emergency lights flickered on, Floch was gone.
Just… gone.
And in the middle of the floor, where the fog thickened, lay the Ghostface mask—abandoned.
You blinked wildly, stumbling back, heart thudding.
Someone grabbed your arm.
“You okay?”
Armin Arlert.
He wasn’t in costume—just his usual hoodie, glasses slightly fogged, books still in hand. Out of place. Always.
“I—yeah, I think so?” you stammered.
He gave a soft smile, brushing something off your cheek. “You shouldn’t dance with people like him.”
“…What do you mean?”
“You deserve better.”
The lights flickered again.
The music started playing.
But the air felt wrong now. Like someone watching from the rafters. Like something waiting in the walls.
Armin didn’t let go of your arm.
He just smiled.
You slipped into the hallway outside the gym, heels clicking against linoleum. The bass was still thumping inside, but the cold air out here felt better on your skin. You needed a breath. Just a second to collect yourself.
And then—your friends appeared. Drunk off spiked punch and attention.
“Where’d you disappear to, babe?” Mina asked, her cat ears crooked. She was holding a tiny bottle of Fireball like a lifeline. “We thought Ghostface carried you off.”
You snorted, tucking a loose curl behind your ear. “Yeah. Into the night. Gutted like a pumpkin.”
Hitch laughed, swirling her drink. “No seriously—what happened with Floch? You were dancing, and then the lights went out and—poof. Gone.”
You shrugged coolly. “I saw him after the blackout. He looked… sweaty. And scared.” You smiled, dry. “Probably ran off after pissing himself.”
“Ew.” Mina cringed. “He’s so gross. Always acting like a bad boy with delulu energy.”
“Yeah, well,” you muttered, sipping from your own drink, “bad boys don’t usually need to beg.”
That got a laugh.
And then someone else spoke up—Hitch again, eyes scanning the crowd through the glass of the gym doors.
“Okay wait. Real question.”
She leaned in, whispering like it was sacred gossip.
“Who’s the cute nerd with the tongue piercing?”
You blinked. “What?”
“You know who I’m talking about. Blond hair. Glasses. Book in his hand like he’s about to tutor someone into a coma—but also maybe choke you if you ask nice?”
“Armin?” Mina asked, arching a brow. “The quiet guy in World History?”
“Yeah, him,” Hitch said, grinning. “He’s so fucking weird but like… hot-weird, you know? He smiled at me earlier and I got nervous.”
“Are you okay?” you teased. “Should we call a medic?”
Hitch rolled her eyes. “I’m serious. There’s something about him. He has that smart-boy-who-will-destroy-your-life look.”
“Because he probably could,” Mina added. “I heard he tested out of two science credits already. Also, did you know he has a tongue piercing?”
You blinked again. “…He what?”
Mina nodded. “Ymir told me. She saw it during chem lab when he yawned. Said it’s silver. Shiny.”
You tried to picture it.
Sweet, quiet Armin—with his oversized hoodies, his flushed cheeks, his notebooks full of meticulous margin notes… and a tongue ring?
Your thighs pressed together slightly.
Weird.
But maybe not… bad.
Your eyes flicked back toward the gym.
Unseen, across the hall, in the shadows near the stairwell—Armin was watching.
He had a drink in his hand.
And his tongue ran slowly over the silver ball tucked between his teeth, eyes locked on you.
The drive home blurred like a dream dipped in red.
Streetlights streaked past the windshield as your fingers tapped the steering wheel to the beat of some old pop song. Your costume was itchy, your corset had left angry little dents in your skin, and your buzz was fading—replaced with the distant pulse of a headache blooming behind your temples.
Still. Tonight had been… fun.
Weird, yeah. But you had danced. Laughed. Maybe even flirted a little too hard.
Your tires crunched into the gravel of your driveway, and for a second, everything felt still.
No street sounds. No wind.
You blinked at your front door.
Had you… left the porch light on?
You didn’t remember.
Shrugging it off, you grabbed your bag, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.
Click.
You didn’t bother turning on the living room light. The moonlight spilling through the kitchen window was enough. Just enough.
Your fingers tugged at the strings of your costume as you moved, peeling off fabric and fishnets with lazy hands. You kicked off your shoes and left a trail behind you—one boot. Corset. Stockings. The floor looked like a crime scene made of glitter and lace.
The bathroom mirror fogged quickly as the shower hissed to life. You stepped under the stream with a sigh, letting it wash over your skin—hot, heavy, almost too warm.
But something felt… off.
Like the room was too quiet.
You tilted your head beneath the water, listening.
Just pipes.
You turned to grab your shampoo—
Thud.
You froze.
Your heart ticked in your chest like a timer.
Did something fall?
You waited.
Nothing.
Maybe just a bottle toppling over in the other room. Or your drunk imagination. Still, your hand reached for the curtain slowly, peeking just outside the shower—steam curling like ghosts in the low light.
Nothing.
No one.
You shut the water off and stepped out carefully, toes squeaking on the tile. Towel. Toothbrush. Routine.
But when you looked in the mirror to wipe the fog away—
There was something written in the condensation.
A single word.
“Hi.”
You stared at it.
Your breath hitched.
Your legs moved before your brain could catch up. You whipped open the door to your bedroom and flung on the first oversized hoodie you could find, hands shaking now, skin damp and clammy with cold.
You grabbed your phone from the bed.
No missed calls. No texts.
But the porch light was off now.
And you didn’t remember turning it off.
RING. 📞
Your phone buzzed violently in your hand.
Unknown Number.
You hesitated.
Your thumb hovered.
RING.
You answered.
“Hello?”
A long pause.
Static.
Then—
A voice, low and grainy.
“Did you miss me?”
The voice was soft. Male. Not distorted—but oddly calm. Intimate, almost. Like he’d been watching you sleep for weeks and only now decided to speak.
Your stomach dropped.
“Who is this?” you asked, trying to keep your voice flat. Your hand gripped the edge of your dresser.
A chuckle.
“You looked so pretty in the shower.”
You froze.
“What—?”
“The way the steam slid down your thighs. I liked how you bent forward, all wet and slippery. It’s cute how you hum to yourself. Like no one’s watching.”
Your hand flew to the lamp, switching it on. The room glowed—but somehow that made it worse. Too visible now.
You backed up.
“This isn’t funny,” you snapped, eyes scanning the room. “Floch, if this is some twisted joke—”
“Floch’s busy bleeding, sweetheart.”
Your breath hitched.
“I—I saw him after the lights came on—”
“No.”
The voice dropped. Darker. Lower.
“You saw me.”
Your pulse roared in your ears.
“W-What do you want?”
Another pause.
Then, slowly:
“What are you wearing now?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
“Let me guess…” the voice purred. “No panties. Just that big hoodie. The gray one you sleep in when you’re sad.”
“You only wear it when you’re alone. Or lonely.”
Your knees wobbled.
You turned slowly toward the window. Curtains shut. Still, you swore you could feel eyes on your skin.
“You’re a pervert,” you whispered.
A low laugh.
“I’m your biggest fan.”
A beat.
Then:
“I bet you’re wet again. But not from the shower this time.”
Your mouth went dry. “You’re insane.”
“Mmm.” He dragged the sound out. “And yet… you haven’t hung up.”
Your thumb twitched. But you didn’t press end.
Because part of you—deep, twisted, dark—wanted to keep listening.
“Go on,” he cooed. “Sit on the bed. Show me what good girls do when they think they’re alone.”
You flinched. “You can’t see me.”
Another pause.
“Wanna bet?”
Your heart stopped.
And that’s when you heard it.
A creak.
Not from your phone.
From inside the house.
Somewhere past your bedroom door.
The silence was thick. Breathing on the other end. Yours, quick and shaky. His—measured. Like he was savoring every second.
“Tell me something,” he murmured.
You didn’t respond.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
His voice turned soft again. Almost bashful.
Your throat tightened. “Why?”
“Because it matters.”
A long pause.
“Because if you do… I’ll have to kill him.”
You swallowed hard, backing toward the dresser again. “That’s not funny.”
“Wasn’t a joke.”
The line crackled. You could hear it now—something else in the background. Wind? No… a creak. A shift. Like the sound of a door slowly closing.
“Is he better than me?”
The voice dropped again. Hungrier.
“Does he know how to touch you right? Or is he clumsy? Rushed? Too focused on himself?”
You shivered.
“Why the hell do you care?”
He laughed softly—giddy. “Because I think about it. All the time.”
You pressed the phone tighter to your ear.
“I think about how you’d sound moaning my name instead of his. I think about how sweet your thighs looked when you bent over to pick up your costume. And I wonder…”
His breath hitched slightly.
“Would you scream for me?”
“Who are you?”
Another long pause. Then:
“You already know.”
Your fingers trembled as you pulled the phone from your ear.
You didn’t care who it was anymore—you needed help.
You opened your contacts and hit Mina’s name.
Dialing…
One ring.
Two.
Then—
Your phone went black.
Battery full just hours ago. Now, nothing. Not even a buzz.
Dead.
Completely.
The silence wrapped around you like a noose.
And then—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Your head snapped toward the window.
At first, nothing. Just the curtains swaying from the AC vent. Your breath fogged the cold glass as you tiptoed closer, hands shaking as you reached out to part the fabric—
And there he was.
Ghostface.
Standing in your backyard.
Backlit by moonlight. Knife in one hand. Head cocked.
But then—
He moved.
Slowly. Casually.
He reached up and pulled off the mask.
Armin.
His blond hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. His glasses fogged from his breath. And that smile—
It wasn’t shy anymore.
It was twisted. Glowing.
He crouched beside the pool and dropped the mask into the water. It floated for a second, then slowly sank—ghost drowning beneath the ripples.
And then—
He raised the knife to his lips.
Blood.
He dragged his tongue along the blade. Slow. Deliberate.
His eyes never left yours.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He raised one hand.
Waved.
And mouthed:
“Mine.”
You stumbled back from the window, heart jackhammering, hoodie sticking to your damp skin. The curtains fluttered shut—but the image wouldn’t leave your mind.
Armin.
Licking the blood off his knife.
Like it tasted sweet.
A knock.
Tap… tap… tap.
Not the window this time.
The front door.
You moved like you were sleepwalking. Drawn. One trembling step at a time, barefoot, breath caught somewhere between a scream and a moan.
You reached the door.
Hand on the knob.
A beat.
Another.
Then—you opened it.
And he was there.
Armin Arlert.
Blond hair messy. Glasses slightly crooked. Hoodie soaked at the collar from sweat and rain. Knife in hand—dripping with something thick and red.
His lips were parted. Panting.
And his eyes?
Ravenous.
“Hi,” he said, voice hoarse with something close to bliss. “You looked so pretty tonight. I couldn’t help myself.”
You couldn’t speak.
He stepped forward. Into your space. Into your home.
You backed up instinctively—but he followed.
The door clicked shut behind him.
“You know…” he whispered, knife now grazing along your collarbone, not pressing—caressing—“I watched you dance with him. I was right there. So close.”
You swallowed hard. “Why… why did you—”
“Because he touched you,” Armin said, voice soft. “He didn’t deserve to. Not like I do.”
The knife dipped lower, ghosting the edge of your hoodie zipper.
“You let him put his hands on you,” he murmured, eyes darkening, “but you won’t even let me kiss you?”
You were shaking.
Not entirely from fear.
“You’re sick,” you whispered.
Armin smiled, boyish and gleaming—beautifully deranged.
“Sick for you.”
He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard, voice trembling with need.
“I’ve been patient,” he said. “Good. Quiet. But tonight… I saw the way you looked at me. Heard the way you talked about me with your friends.”
His tongue pierced lip brushed yours.
“You want me.”
He tilted the knife just enough for the cold steel to graze your thigh through the hoodie.
“And I can prove it.”
You should have screamed.
You should have run, clawed, locked yourself in the bathroom and called the cops.
But you didn’t.
Because Armin was standing in your living room now, knife in one hand—and your waist in the other.
“Say it,” he whispered, crowding you against the nearest wall. His voice was shaking with restraint. “Say you thought about me.”
You trembled under his touch, breath hitching as the tip of the blade hooked under the hem of your hoodie—lifting it slowly.
“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
His tongue pierced mouth was on your neck in seconds. Wet. Desperate. Obsessed. He licked up your throat with a groan so raw, it was like he’d been starved for years.
You gasped.
That cold silver ball rolled against your pulse.
“You know what I love about this piercing?” he whispered, dragging it across your skin again. “Every time I taste you, you’ll feel it. Cold. Sharp. Mine.”
You whimpered—one leg already hitching up around his waist, not from control, but need. Shameful need.
He dropped the knife—clink.
And then his hands were on your thighs, parting them like scripture, dragging you up the wall until you were eye-level, chest rising against his.
“I thought about this every night,” he confessed, grinding slowly against your core, making you feel every inch of him. “Jerking off in my room with the lights off, moaning into my hand so no one heard me say your name.”
“Armin—” you gasped.
He grabbed your chin.
“Look at me.”
You did.
And his eyes burned straight through you.
“You let him touch you,” he growled, dragging that silver-tipped tongue across your bottom lip. “But he didn’t deserve it. I do. I’d worship you. Ruin you right.”
Your mouth parted.
He slipped the piercing between your lips—a soft, obscene kiss, tongue pressing into yours with a moan so filthy, it curled your toes.
You weren’t thinking anymore.
You were melting.
“I killed for you,” he whispered against your mouth. “Now let me fuck you like I earned it.”
The knife hit the hardwood with a final clink.
And Armin?
He dropped right after it.
To his knees.
Hands gripping your thighs like a prayer—his touch reverent, desperate, possessive. He looked up at you through his lashes, glasses slightly fogged, tongue wetting his lips.
That little silver ball caught the light.
“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he breathed, voice trembling like a sinner in church. “Wanted to taste you.”
You whimpered as he hooked his fingers under your hoodie and tugged it up—slow, teasing, like he wanted to savor the reveal. Your bare skin, your thighs, the heat between your legs. All of it. All his.
He dragged his lips along the inside of your thigh first. Gentle. Worshipful. A sweet kiss before destruction.
Then—he licked.
Slow. Broad. Cold metal gliding through heat.
Your legs trembled instantly.
“Shhh,” Armin whispered, pressing a soft kiss just above your slit. “I got you. Let me.”
And then his mouth was on you.
Fucking ruinous.
His tongue pierced mouth worked with precision and passion—alternating between soft swirls and hard pressure, like he’d studied your body, mapped it, memorized it. He moaned into you like he was addicted, that metal ball dragging across your most sensitive spot again and again until your knees buckled.
“Armin—oh my god—”
“Say it again,” he gasped between licks. “Say my name. Say who makes you feel this good.”
You cried out, hips rocking against his face shamelessly.
He groaned—loud—gripping your ass harder, pulling you against his mouth like he’d die without it.
“Fuck,” he gasped. “You taste better than I dreamed.”
You looked down—and the sight of him?
Armin. On his knees. Tongue out. Drool and slick on his chin, lips swollen and red, glasses barely hanging on—
It broke you.
You came against his mouth with a sob, thighs trembling, hands tangled in his hair as he licked you through it—soft, then rougher again, addicted to the way you writhed.
He didn’t stop.
Not when you cried his name.
Not when your legs went weak.
Not even when he looked up, pupils blown wide, and whispered:
“One more. I need one more. Please.”
You were still gasping, thighs trembling, hoodie bunched up around your waist when he stood.
Armin rose slowly, eyes wild, lips shiny with you.
His hands were shaking—not from fear.
From restraint.
From holding back the beast inside him.
And when he looked at you, it was like watching someone come undone in real-time.
“I waited so fucking long,” he rasped, pulling his hoodie off and tossing it aside—revealing pale, toned arms covered in scratch marks. Self-inflicted. “You kept walking past me… like I wasn’t there. But I was. Always.”
He stepped forward.
You couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
He grabbed your face and kissed you—sloppy, desperate, tongue piercing pressing into your mouth like he was trying to brand you from the inside out.
Your knees gave, but he caught you.
He always would.
“Turn around,” he whispered against your lips. “Hands on the wall.”
You obeyed before you could think.
The air was thick with lust and blood.
Armin’s hands slid down your sides, his knife suddenly reappearing from the floor—cold and teasing against the curve of your ass.
“Ever been fucked with a weapon in the room?” he asked softly, dragging the flat side of the blade across your back like a whisper. “It makes everything feel more real, doesn’t it?”
You gasped as he pushed your hoodie up higher, exposing your ass completely.
SLAP.
You moaned, biting your lip.
“You liked that,” he murmured. “God, you’re perfect. You’re fucking perfect for me.”
His fingers slipped between your thighs again, feeling how wet you still were.
“All this?” he whispered darkly. “From me?”
You nodded.
“That’s right,” he hissed, lining himself up behind you, voice shaking with need. “Because you were always mine.”
And when he finally pushed into you?
It was possessive. Deep. Animal.
He held your hips tight, fucking into you with long, hungry strokes, his tongue piercing running over your spine between thrusts, lips biting your shoulder, marking you.
You sobbed his name, head falling forward.
His voice was broken now, panting, spiraling—
“Tell me you love me—tell me you’ll never leave me—tell me I’m the only one—”
He reached around to rub circles on your clit with two fingers, knife still clutched in the other hand, pressed gently to your side as if to remind you:
You’re not going anywhere.
“Say it,” he begged, hips snapping harder. “Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours!” you choked out. “Fuck—Armin—I’m yours, please—”
He groaned, low and guttural, pushing in deep and staying there as you shattered around him again, legs shaking uncontrollably.
“I knew it,” he whispered against your skin.
“I fucking knew it.”—
—
had this in the drafts for awhile.. Nerdminnn is so hotttttt aaaahh bark bark !
synopsis: Sure, in the past he would habitually pester you and make a point to let you know what he thought of you. That you were nothing and no-one impressive. Wasn’t this going too far for a mere dislike?
warnings: f reader, possessive behavior, he’s kind of creepy in this, I don't really know how to tag this because there's no actual sex but. sexual harassment/assault, read at ur own discretion I guess
authors note: 2.4k words, rewrite of a much older fic that I’ve been wanting to rework for a while lol. lightly proofread. sorry its a short one I wrote this in 3 days lol
Cold day-light filters through bars in a window closer to the ceiling, and an oil lamp left in the corner by the cell entrance provides a warmth that doesn’t reach you. Metal bobs against the roof of your mouth, the barrel of the pistol presses down on your tongue and the faint taste of gunpowder and iron makes you want to gag. Saliva builds up and lubricates the gun. It drools out the side of your mouth, and Floch watches with an emotion that’s thinly veiled as disinterest.
“Make sure you get it all, I don’t want a single spot on it when I take it out.” One hand holds the gun, angling it around in your mouth and prodding you from the inside. The other is in your hair, holding your head in place despite your incessant mewling. Floch pushes his gun further down your throat, making you gag, and it draws out a whine from you. You try to pull your head away, but he tightens his grip on your hair, shushing you with feigned sympathy.
Metal handcuffs dig uncomfortably into your wrists, too tight and biting at the sensitive skin. The gun was warm when Floch put it in your mouth. Smelled like gunsmoke and there was blood on it as if he’d pistol-whipped someone and then shot them. You look up at him; he’s blurry through your tears and he’s looking back down at you with a barely concealed smirk. You can practically hear all of the things he’s thinking, yet he’s being quiet right now, savoring every second of this. The only sounds echoing in the cramped jail cell are your gagging and whimpering.
How humiliating. You prayed earlier for someone to come save you from this, but now you hope nobody walks through here at all. The idea of someone seeing you like this makes you perform with more intent, hopefully he’ll be satisfied sooner and let you go.
Floch keeps the pistol in place for you, no longer shoving it down your throat and letting you lap and suck on the barrel in your mouth while his other hand lightly scratches at your scalp. No need to tug so tightly when you’re staying still now. The last of your tears settle on your face like water following a set path and eroding the ground. When Floch pulls his pistol out of your mouth, it’s wet and a trail of spit connects it to your lips. He lets out a breathy noise from the back of his throat, letting go of your hair to run his fingers across the length of the barrel. Inspecting. There’s no blood or dirt or dust on it.
“You did good.” He hums after a beat of silence, wiping the gun down with a hankerchief from his coat pocket. He puts the gun back in its place. Floch looks down at you, then kneels to your level to wipe at your mouth with the used handkerchief. “It’s too bad it took all of that just to quiet you down.” He’s softer now, slightly. It’s noticeable. “You’re surprisingly reasonable when you want to be.” Your jaw tightens and you shoot him a glare. If your hands weren’t kept tightly together behind your back, you’d have throttled his neck. “Fuck you.”
Floch’s eyebrows raise in surprise at your curse. If he wasn’t so nervous about you biting his fingers off, he’d have shoved them down your throat for that. He clicks his tongue, wiping away the last bit of drool on your chin. “You still need work. Can’t train a dog in just one day, I guess.” Standing back up to full height, he puts his handkerchief back in his pocket. “I’m not a dog.” “You are what I say you are.” Floch says it as if he’s correcting you. “You’re an enemy of Eldia, I’m treating you kindly.”
An enemy of Eldia. You’d been arrested on a petty treason charge, and nobody could tell you what law you’ve broken or act of treason you’ve comitted. As it turned out, Floch was the one who put a call for your arrest out. He was also the only one you’ve seen since being put in this cell. Isolated from any other prisoner, with Floch as your only company for the past two days. “You can’t even tell me what I’ve done,” you counter him. “What are you going to say when I get a trial?” Floch scoffs coldly at that. “You’re not getting a trial.”
“But I haven’t committed any crime.” Floch looks at you as if you’re arguing a moot point. “It doesn’t matter anymore, you’re here now.” He says slowly. “And if you want to get out, I suggest you be on your best behavior.” Your own disbelieving face is met with a smug one. Sure, in the past he would habitually pester you and make a point to let you know what he thought of you. That you were nothing and no-one impressive. Wasn’t this going too far for a mere dislike?
He peruses your form, hunched over and in handcuffs, red-eyed and dishevelled. Not as pristine and put together as you were before being jailed. He wonders how long he’d have to leave you here before he could coerce you into letting him give you a bath.
Floch grabs your hair again without warning, a good fistful, tugging your head forward to rest against his thigh. He keeps you there, slackening his grip when you don’t fight him on it. The fabric of his coat brushes against the side of your face and Floch himself smells like soap. His uniform must’ve been freshly cleaned. He gives you a look that comes off as patronizing, sighing deeply. “You know, I don’t like treating you like this.” He murmurs, and his face nor his words match his actions. You don’t respond to him.
“I heard you were planning to go to Yarckel.” He continues, and you perk up at that. You don’t know how or why Floch knows that, it’d been something you mentioned loosely to a few friends. Not to him or anyone in his circle. Not that you know of. “Do you have family there?” He asks, now massaging his fingers through your hair. You look up at him, and his likening you to a dog feels embarrassingly accurate with how you’re pressed against him, kneeling like his acolyte. “That’s not any of your business.”
Floch bites his lower lip briefly, the hand in your hair turning rough again. He thinks you would’ve learned to play nice by now. Still, he tries to reign in his composure. He’s the one in control here, not you. You wince at having your hair pulled and it sends a shiver down his spine. “I heard the winters there are rough,” He goes on, watching you clench your jaw and grit your teeth to not snap at him with perverse amusement. You did a good enough job with his gun, maybe in a few days when he corrects the rest of your behavior, he can let you have a go with his dick. “I don’t get why you’d want to go there.”
“Is it a boyfriend?” He continues his prodding. You don’t give him an answer. You struggle again at the handcuffs, and Floch doesn’t know why. They didn’t come off the first time, they won’t come off the tenth. He’s getting to you, though, he can tell that much. “It won’t do you any good to not tell me. I’ll find out.” He presses you further into him, so much so that you’d fall off balance if he wasn’t there holding your head up. “It’s not like that.” “So what is it, then?”
Continuing the pattern of not entertaining him, you leave Floch to come to his own conclusion. Your gaze has shifted to the oil lamp instead of him, but he knows you can’t ignore his presence. Cheek against his thigh, his fingers mindfully making small circles in your scalp. “Yarckel is a quiet place to live. You wouldn’t like it there.” He hums, scratching lightly behind your ear. “You’d be happier in the capital, don’t you think?”
Before you ask him what he’s talking about, and what right he has to make that judgement for you, your stomach answers in the form of a pained grumble. You think you hear him trying not to laugh. This must be been fun for him. You haven’t had anything to eat since last night, and it was only Floch coming to sit down on the other side of the metal bars of your cell to spoon-feed you his leftover stew.
“Oh, right. I brought you something.” He lets go of your hair, taking something out of his navy green coat pocket. Something that looks like hardtack covered in some clear wrapping. “It’s like cake.” Floch tears the plastic off at one end, and in a show of good grace, gets back down on your level to feed you. He brings the biscuit to your mouth, and you don’t need any cajoling to take a bite.
…You’d say it’s more like stale bread than it is cake. It’s sweet and it needs some bite to get through. Floch watches you eat, holding the biscuits in place while you take small, awkward bites. You want to ask where he got these from, and maybe there’s a benefit to pretending you care about making casual conversation with him. Floch answers your thoughts for you, eager to hear himself talk again. “They’re from Marley… Eren said they were fine to eat.” He doesn’t take his eyes off of your mouth. “I’d rather not give you anything at all, but I was feeling nice, and that’s all I could bring with me on short notice.”
You’re not sure if he means he’d rather you stay hungry or if it’s a gripe with the treat being from outside the walls. You don’t ask. When you finish, he lets the plastic wrapper the biscuits were in fall to the ground. There’s crumbs at the corners of your mouth and Floch swipes them away with his thumb. It’s too intimate, more than you care for. The two of you sat on your knees together like this. “How long are you going to make me stay here?” You ask, and he breaks eye contact to look away while he thinks. Finally, he looks back to you, his thumb still near the corner of your mouth, testing to see how close he can get to touching your lips. “As long as I say so.”
“If you behave, I’ll see about letting you out early. You won’t be able to go back home… but we can work something out.” As direct as Floch is, you still get the sense that this entire thing is meandering around the point of your arrest. You know enough to know this isn’t how these things normally go, and that you weren’t jailed on any reasonable crime. A treason charge that can’t be explained, a ploy made so Floch could get you under his thumb. You can’t tell if he really hates your guts or if he’s getting some thrill out of this. Maybe both. There might not be a point in trying to get him to admit to what he’s doing, you can’t imagine it would change anything.
Floch’s thumb brushes against your lips again, pretending to get another crumb off of your mouth. Cleaning you up a little. You take his thumb between your lips, wet tongue poking at the flesh. His eyes widen slightly and it gives him pause. In his stillness, you take the rest of his thumb and bite down as hard as you can. He shrieks, loud enough for the flame in the oil lamp to sputter and flick back and forth. His free hand slaps you harshly, so much so that you lose balance and your head snaps the other direction. You’re forced to let go of his thumb. He’s quick to stand back up. “You—Arrgh!”
With no way to brace yourself, you fall over onto the floor, hitting the side of your head on the concrete flooring with a grunt. Floch holds his thumb, assessing the damage. There are deep teeth marks and blood and spit and his jaw clenches at the sight. The fingernail is split in half and he whimpers like a boy when he accidentally moves it from the nailbed. A bead of sweat rolls down his now pale face. You writhe on the floor to sit yourself back up, a stinging pain in your cheek that radiates outwards.
“You immature brat, you just… love making things harder for yourself.” Floch groans and his voice warbles slightly. He’s hunched over, cradling his thumb like it were a baby bird that fell out of its nest. He gets to his feet, dark brown boots splotched with a thin layer of dust and granules sticking to them now. His neatly combed hair is a bit out of place but he doesn’t care to smooth it over. “You can forget about getting dinner.” He huffs, scrambling to get out of the cell.
“Hey–wait!”
Now on the other side of the cell doors, Floch closes the metal-bar-door behind him with a clang, standing on the other side and refusing to meet your gaze while he fumbles with the keys. His face is tight with irritation and pain. For the amount of times he’s been injured, a bite to the finger hurts more than he thinks it should. Maybe it has to do with all the nerves bundled there, he doesn’t know. He has to figure out how to make you pay for this.
“Be a good girl if you want your charges dismissed,” Floch says it through gritted teeth and locks the cell door clumsily with his non-dominant hand. He glares at you through the steel bars now, chest puffed. “I’ll be back tomorrow to give you your breakfast. Maybe you’ll be in a better mood then.” He turns on his heel, footsteps echoing in the hall as he leaves hastily to attend to his injury. You can hear faintly the sound of a metal door shutting heavily behind him.
You move yourself up and off the floor, with as much grace as you can given your hands are behind your back. The metal cuffs have dug deeper into your skin and you think you’re bleeding. You look up at the barred window that’s close to the ceiling. If you had to guess, it’s mid-afternoon. You try to think of the biscuits and maybe if you think hard enough, the taste will rematerialize on your tongue. Floch left the oil lamp in your cell in his haste, the flame is still going.
Hopefully it has enough fuel to keep you warm throughout the night.
accidentally breaking aegon’s nose by riding his face too hard
I was finally able to write something short and sweet aren’t you proud of me 🤭? as always this is my modern aegon who’s parents are rhaenyra and alicent, hope you enjoy it<3 (1.2k words)
You’d think by now you would know how to sit on your boyfriend’s face, but to be fair it wasn’t really your fault.
Aegon had been working you up all day knowing you would be too busy with work to get a moment away. From texting you every dirty thing he wanted to do to you, to sending you pictures of him laying in your bed with his half-hard cock telling you how much he missed you. You didn’t understand what had gotten into him. He’d always had a high libido but he wasn't usually such a tease about it.
Whatever it was though, it worked on you. You had gotten almost no work done, way too distracted by the spam of dirty messages. Just when you thought he was giving you a break, a familiar vibration pulsed from your phone. At that point you knew the drill, make sure no one was around before clicking on the notification.
Aeggs: he's so lonely without you :(
Accompanying the text was a photo of him; naked thighs spread wide, shirt unbuttoned revealing the chain that dangled around his neck, hand squeezing around the tip of his pink leaking cock as it dripped down his pale fingers.
At that moment you craved nothing more than to lick his hand clean, and suck the rest of his cum out of his beautiful cock. Your thighs squeezed together so hard you were sure they would be sore the next day.
You couldn’t take it anymore, so you may or may not have deceived your boss into thinking you were too ill to continue working. Faking being sick is something that everyone has done at some point in their lives—maybe not to go home and fuck their slutty boyfriends but still.
He didn’t even get a word in before you directed him. “Bed, now.”
He may not have been known as the smartest of all his brothers but he could follow orders like no other. By the time your clothes hit the floor Aegon was already laid bare before you. The sight he’d been teasing you with all day, finally within your reach.
“Don’t make me wait for it, baby,” a cocky smile graced your boyfriend’s pink lips. The fucking nerve of him.
“Me, make you wait? Me, tease you? Oh you’re gonna get it now.” You crawled over his body placing your legs on either side of his neck. “Put your hands where I can see them. You’re not allowed to touch me for that shit you pulled earlier, but I’m going to enjoy myself.”
He nodded obediently to your demands, clearly eager to get to work on your ‘punishment’. Without another word you plopped yourself down onto his waiting mouth, tugging his silver hair into your hands like a lead.
His tongue found its way to your clit quicker than it ever had before, causing you to jump with surprise. No matter how many times you two had sex you were always shocked by how fucking good he was at it. “Fuuck, Aegon,” Despite being in control this time you couldn’t help the submissive whines that spilled out of you.
The movements of Aegon’s mouth became more intense as his confidence tended to boost when you made ‘pretty noises’ for him—his words, not yours. His tongue expertly created a pattern of movements through your lips, dipping back and forth from your aching clit to your desperate hole, occasionally sucking at your bud until you could feel your pulse running through it.
He was like a man starved despite the fact that you had just done this very thing the night prior.
“You like that baby?” His question was mumbled against your pussy.
You sighed out of your nose just as upset as you were turned on that he was still so pleased to have you denying him any affection after the stunt he pulled today. “No talking.” Your tone was as harsh as you tugged harder at his locks until his face was completely flush to your cunt.
Still he persisted at his usual strenuous pace. You wanted to cry from pleasure, toes curling on both sides of your boyfriends head. Your hips began to rock at their own speed, meeting his mouth with equal eagerness.
“Yes just like that,” The vibrations of Aegons moans against you soaking core making it impossible to hold off your impending orgasm much longer. You were already so close and it felt like it had just started. Honestly it was a wonder to you how you managed to last even this long with how pent up you were all day.
“I’m gonna come, fuck,” Aegon let out a clear groan of encouragement underneath you. Unconsciously your pelvis began grinding harder against the Targaryen’s face, his nose bumping against your clit when it wasn’t being sucked between his lips. Your back arched as you visualized your peak coming to an end.
Harder.
Faster.
Pelvis meeting skull in a storm of passion.
Without meaning to, you slipped higher up your boyfriend’s face while grinding against him, desperate to reach your end. That’s when you felt it.
Crack.
You broke his fucking nose.
You acted swiftly, pulling yourself off him and making sure he was at least still alive. You gently tugged his face in your hands to gaze in your direction, getting a better look to assess the damage. “Fuck baby are you okay? I’m so sorry, oh shit—” his nose was leaning to the left side of his face with dark streams of blood leaking out of each nostril.
His eyes welled up slightly with tears in his waterline. “Why’d you stop?” Was the first thing out of his mouth.
You were completely blown away by his seeming lack of concern for his own safety. “You’re fucking joking right? Aegon, I broke your nose!”
“Yeah but you were almost done anyway.” He defended, looking more upset that you didn’t come than his bloodied nose.
A smile grew across your lips. How could one person manage to be so frustrating yet so cute at the same time? Your thumbs rubbed softly at the sides of his injured face. “You really are something you know that?” You laughed.
“Thank you.” He grinned before wincing at the pain of moving his face.
“We have to get you to the ER.” You moved away from him, running around the room to pick up both your clothes and dress yourself.
“But you haven’t even—” you cut him off before he could finish his stupid sentence.
“My orgasm is not nearly as important as making sure I didn’t permanently fuck up your nose. Get dressed, please, I’m going to get you an ice pack for that.” You pointed to the centre of his face.
He made a pouty noise but complied nonetheless, tugging some tissues out from the bedside table to absorb the blood running down his face.
You walked to the freezer, pulling out the cold compress. When you made your way back into the room you found a fully dressed Aegon who looked like the cat who ate the canary. You stood in front of him pushing the compress delicately against his nose. “What’s got you so excited all of a sudden?”
He smirk became wider. “Just thinking about how proud my mums will be when I tell them how I broke my nose.”
Your cheeks heated at his words. The image of his mothers mortified faces as he explains to them in detail how his injuries were caused entering your mind. “You’re not funny.”
“Oh I’m quite serious, they’ll be happier than when they found out I actually managed to get into a university without bribing anyone.”
You found out just how genuine he was being a couple days later when he dialed them up on speaker phone for you to hear.
I don't know. I feel like I should just stop... You know, just stop thinking about it, but I can't. Maybe I've seen too many movies, you know, love at first sight. What do you think about love at first sight? You think you could love somebody by just looking at them? But the thing is, man, I felt like I knew her.
I've been meaning to write a Lewis Nixon smut for the longest time!! Credit goes to these two requests (1) (2) who kindly asked for Nixon smut. I haven't written BoB smut, especially for Nixon in a while so I hope this is okay, apologies as the ending kinda sucks and I don't think it's the best work!
When you see two army nurses hitting on your boyfriend, Captain Lewis Nixon, jealousy get's the better of you and you blank Lew in response. Fed up with your silent treatment, Lewis get's you to talk one way or another. Minors doi, oral (f receiving), fingering, orgasms, etc.
1945 some place in Austria...
You'd had had it up to there with the two army nurses flaunting themselves around Lewis Nixon- your Lewis Nixon. You'd been together the past year, through thick and thin, and if anything you were his nurse, Easy's nurse to be exact, these two random ladies were nothing to do with him, yet here he was, talking away to these random girls. Lewis never spoke to people. You huffed to yourself, offering the three of them the dirtiest look you could muster, before stomping away, back to your own duties, right where those other two ladies should have been instead of fawning over your boyfriend.
The mundane shift luckily was greeted with no casualties other than a strained wrist. Apart from that, you were left to stew in your anger, dreading the moment Lewis would come to meet you outside the make shift aid station. That's if he even turned up. You were growing irrational, but you didn't care, your anger was eating you alive, and so was something worse... jealousy. Lewis had every right to talk to other people, but something about seeing other army nurses fawning over him, giggling and checking out his ranking burnt something deep inside your chest. Worst of all, he didn't look to be casting them aside, and he didn't notice you? What if he was more interested in them rather than you?
By the end of your duty, you were mentally exhausted from all the overthinking and internal conflict. Deciding to take off a few minutes earlier than usual, you stomped straight past where Lewis was intending to meet you, leaving a storm in your path. The night you intended to share together was ruined, and you’d headed off back to the house you’d billeted in with three others.
You had the luxury of having your own bedroom, something you’d not had the access to the entire war. After a soak in the tub and pacing the bedroom over and over, you’d eventually given up on thinking all together. Of course, it was only a matter of time until your dearest came looking for you, confused by your lack of presence.
It took Lew a good hour to worm his way inside your billet, standing outside your door with a heavy knock on your door. None of the women you were billeted with would knock. No men would be allowed past the patrols, unless they were-
“Are you in there?” Lewis.
A deep sigh escaped your mouth, your chest knotting in a mixture of upset and jealousy. And when the door slipped open, your frustrations only grew meeting his confused gaze.
“What’s goin’ on?!” He sounded bewildered, slipping inside quickly, avoiding the threat of others seeing or hearing him. “Nothin’.” You muttered, turning your back on the dark haired man. Lewis paused, glancing around the room as though that would give him some kind of response. You were dressed in your towel, your hair damp and natural, splayed across the pillow. Obviously something had bothered you, Nix just wasn’t entirely sure what.
“Sure seems like nothin’…” Lewis muttered, exhaling and taking a seat on the edge of the springy mattress. His movement only made you pout harder, crossing your hands over your chest in a bid to keep your upset apparent.
But when a hand came smoothing over your hip and back, it only made it more difficult to remain upset at Lew. In another attempt, you nudged your hip, shaking his hand off, only adding to the man’s confusion.
“Wha- what’s gotten into you, are you ignorin’ me now?” The American leaned over in an attempt to see your face, but you avoided eye contact. When you offered him no response, Lewis let out another deep sigh, glancing over you. Your eyes were fixated to the wall ahead of you, lips still tugging downwards in a manner Lewis couldn’t stand.
His frown only deepened, reaching a hand to rest over you once more. “If you’re not gonna tell me are you gonna leave me guessing?”
You simply sighed. As much as you wanted to answer him, something stubborn niggled inside your chest, leaving your mouth clamped shut. Your chest was heaving slowly, in a desperate attempt to remain both calm and in control. For Lewis, he was just more confused by your sudden silence.
His eyes fell down the length of your legs, bare and smooth, something Lewis had been thinking about all day. A hand fell down, resting on your bare thigh, making something twist inside you. It was an unforgiving feeling, one hard to- impossible to ignore. His large hand splayed over your skin, watching you for any sign of reaction, but you had yet to crack.
“Okay then…” Lew exhaled, brow perking. If you weren’t going to do it yourself, Lewis had a few ideas of his own of how to get you to crack. Out the corner of your eye you could see how he was looking at you. The way his lips were slightly picked up at one side, how he fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette, lighting it up and letting the stick dangle between them- something you’d told him many times you found oddly arousing.
It soon clicked to you what he was doing, the way he blew spoke over you, the way his calloused palm began rubbing up and down your leg. Keen to remain headstrong about your punishment to him, your eyes focused harder on the net curtains ahead of you, narrowing ever so slightly when his fingers squeezed.
“Well you don’t seem upset… and you don’t seem like you’re joking.” Lew muttered, cigarette dangling between his lips. The movement of his hand continued, up and down, up and down, until he was inching his touch up the towel. A gasp escaped your mouth, one you didn't even feel control of, it made Lewis smirk harder knowing you were slowly but surely becoming unravelled. Still, you continued your silent treatment, feeling the warmth of his fingers slip higher and higher.
Soon, his fingers had travelled round to the inside of your thigh, separating your thighs, his dark eyes catching sight of the place that was only reserved for him. ''So, you're not goin' to talk.'' His fingers pushed up higher, tips grazing across the slit of your vagina. You were holding your breath now, brows threatening to twitch together as he traced only the very top of his touch over your core. Dammit Lew, you thought, why are you so hard to resist?
''Maybe I oughta' make you talk.'' His voice was muffled from the cigarette dangling between his lips, something you caught once glance of before a soft breath escaped through your nose. It was audible enough for him to hear it, and soon he was sinking his fingers between your lower lips, letting out a throaty hum at the slickness that spread over his fingers.
Your eyes fluttered close. Your teeth were digging firmly into your bottom lip, physically preventing you from speaking, but your body was failing you. Lewis had managed to roll your body so you were laying on your back. One of your legs was bent up, the other slightly spread and beginning to tense as he roamed a little too close to your entrance.
The officers eyes were on you, dark and pupils blown, analysing your reaction as you finally gave in and looked back. You looked beautiful like this, your legs parted, brows knitted together. He watched you attentively as he slid one finger easily inside your tight hole, enjoying the way you clenched and clamped around him. He knew he was making you feel good, it was only a matter of time now until you moaned or spoke, Lewis could tell.
His long digit pushed all the way in, filling you up as you inhaled slowly, turning your face away from him out of stubbornness. When you exhaled either, your shaky breath was cut off with him twitching his finger inside of you, instantly finding that sensitive part which had no time to warm up until he was nudging his finger tip against.
A choke escaped your mouth, but a hand was quickly clamped over your lips, concealing anymore sounds which dared to escape. ''Feels good doesn't it?'' The American cooed, pulling his finger back and forth, enjoying the easy glide of him inside of you. Nix was growing harder in his trousers, his erect member already beginning to twitch, but this was about you, whatever part of you had made you silent, he didn't want to push too far, so he'd simply rinse an orgasm out of you, spoiling you, cherishing you until you spoke once more.
The towel had dropped back over your abdomen now, revealing yourself to him fully as he carefully slipped another finger in. He felt himself stretching you out, even just like this, glancing up to see you fighting with your silence against a thumb now pressed between your teeth.
''I know it feels good.'' Nixon's voice lowered, taking in a breath of his cigarette, before pulling it back with his other hand, knocking the ash aside. He was simultaneously smoking and fingering you, and you don't think you'd seen anything hotter. It was a shame you were sooo annoyed at him, because if not you could swear you'd ride him like there was no tomorrow.
His pace increased the more your body accepted him, pushing and pulling, nudging and twitching against that sweet spot. Your pussy was quickly drenching his fingers and the inside of your thighs in a layer of your juices, the scent of you was undeniably alluring and with one last drag of his cigarette, he dropped it aside into the ashtray sat on your bedside cabinet, leaning back to blow the smoke over your legs.
Now you were looking.
''You don't mind if I have a taste, do you?'' He muttered, a cloud of the cigarette smoke passing his lips as he spoke. You watched as it blew over your pussy, making your eyes roll back as your arousal peaked. Your hand reached out automatically, and without doing the talking, you pushed the back of his head so his mouth was nuzzled up against your pussy. His nose nudged against your pubis and the hair there, his tongue invitingly warm as he got a taste of your core.
He was eating you out, fingering you like a starved man. Lewis was beginning to realise he must've done something to make you act like this, to grow so silent, but the more he licked and sucked at you, pushing his fingers in, the more vocal you became.
''Thas it.'' A sensual coo left his lips as your hum's and breaths turned into gentle whines and sharp gasps, hips beginning to grind against his face. ''Thas it, talk to me, baby, tell me what you want.'' His voice vibrated against your clit, and you felt like you were suddenly starving yourself of something you so desperately needed. A final bid of stubbornness left you staring up to the ceiling, lips clamping together once more, but Nix responded by pulling off, his hands pausing the addictive movements.
''Oh- no, please. Don't- don't stop.'' The floodgates open and you watched as his lips tugged up, smirking as he simultaneously leaned back into your core. You spread your legs wider, opening yourself up for him as your hand clamped down on the bedsheets, tugging them between your fingers as Nixon continued to work you. His fingers were hitting your g-spot, over and over and over again, his mouth working overtime as he hummed and groaned at the delicious taste of your pussy. He was drunk on you, and you were intoxicated by him. There was no way you weren't speaking to him, not when he was so close to making you-
''I'm cumming!'' Your body seized, legs beginning to shake as your chest heaved up and down. You couldn't stay still beneath him, resulting in his free hand coming to pin over your hip, taking a hold of your hand as he guided you through your climax.
The knot inside you tightened, every muscle in your body grew strained and with one last cry of his name, you came around his fingers, and over his lips. Nixon worked you through every wave of your orgasm, his fingers stroking you through as he coaxed more moans and whimpers out your mouth by sucking on your sensitive clit.
By the end of your orgasm, your pussy was left throbbing and you were freely cooing out vocal sighs as you came down. You slipped a hand to nudge his fingers away, jittering as he played with your sensitive core. ''N-Nix..'' You stammered as he pulled off you with one last kiss right over your clit.
Kneeling back on both legs, he smirked back to you, a hand rubbing over the soft of your thigh. ''Knew I'd get you talkin'.''
''Mmmmh, c'mere.'' You grumbled, holding out your arms as the American let out a gentle groan, slotting himself between your legs to engulf your body with his. Finally, you'd completely given up with your silent treatment, moaning in delight as he kissed you, the taste of your own warmth filling your mouth.
''Wanna explain what that was all about?'' He muttered, eyes gazing over both of yours. Shyly, you shrugged, watching back to him. ''C'mon, don't leave me hanging.'' Lewis nudged your side as a dramatic sigh passed your lips, pulling him closer so his face was burrowed into your neck. His lips pressed gentle, loving kisses to your skin, listening to your hushed tone.
''Well I saw you earlier, with those other army nurses, they seemed to like you.'' Lewis's kisses stopped. A moment later, he pulled back, a confused expression crossing his face.
''You mean... the nurses asking for orders?''
Your face scrunched. ''Well, still, they were giggling with you, and you didn't exactly... move away.''
''Baby.'' Lewis sighed back to your pout. ''Honey, I don't have time for any of those other nurses, I passed them onto Dick as soon as I could. Besides, you really think there's any other girl out there for me, thas' not you?''
Adding to dramatic effect, you shrugged.
''Don't be silly.'' He grumbled, pressing a firm kiss to your lips. ''It's always been you, y' almost drove me crazy when you didn't speak to me.''
''I did?''
''Well, yeah.''
''Sorry.'' Eventually, he got you smiling, like butter wouldn't melt, he thought, eventually giving in with an exhale and shaking his head in a fawned grumpiness. ''What would I do without ya', huh?''
Malarkey finds a house number in the rubble of war, he starts a running joke, you thought it was stupid at first but then it became real. Too real.
Malarkey had found the number by the foot of a door, one hell of a thing.
It might have been Holland. It might have been Belgium.
By then, every place had started sharing the same bones: crumbling brick, roof beams split open, lace curtains breathing through shattered windows, a table still set for people who had run or died or learned not to come back.
The number had been nailed beside a door that no longer existed. And a house that was no longer a home.
White porcelain. Blue figures. Cracked through the middle.
31.
Malarkey pried it loose with the careful seriousness of a man stealing crown jewels.
You watched him do it from the other side of the ruined entryway, rifle loose in your hands, shoulders aching from the march and the cold and the weight of trying to stay funny around men who were funnier than grief had any right to be.
You looked around once, habit.
Always watching his back.
You walked over and bent next to him, your cheek brushed against his helmet.
“Look at that,” Malarkey said, turning around with the little plate held between two dirty fingers. “We got ourselves a place.”
As soon as he turned the joke whittled, his eyes snagged yours, and it was a curious little look you couldn't decipher, so you spoke instead.
"Yeah?" you smirked looking down at the number.
Skip immediately looked up.
“No roof, no windows, but hell, Don, it’s spacious.”
Penkala, sitting on a busted wall and picking plaster dust from his sleeve, added, “Rent’s murder.”
You took it from Malarkey’s hand and turned it over. His rough fingers catching your pinkie, you hesitated but he dropped his hand.
One bent screw still clung to the back like it had not been informed the house was gone.
“That’s not a house,” you said. clicking your tongue. “That’s a number.”
Malarkey grinned at you.
Not smug. Not smooth. Malarkey never looked smooth. He looked pleased with himself in the goofy, open way he got when he knew he had found something stupid enough for Skip and Penkala to carry for weeks.
“Not with that attitude.”
That was the beginning of it.
Not the war.
Not the fear.
Just 31.
A stupid little plate from a dead house.
And Malarkey, who had decided it was yours.
The first official 31 was a foxhole with water in the bottom and a view of absolutely nothing.
Skip slid into it, looked around like he was inspecting a hotel room, and said, “Welcome to 31.”
Penkala squatted beside him and nodded. “Little damp. Charming though.”
Malarkey held up the number. “We’re renovating.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself, a real laugh that surprised you on the way out. Malarkey looked over, quick, like he had heard something better than the joke.
That was the first thing you started noticing about him.
He always looked up when you laughed.
Not long. Not enough for anyone to catch him. But there it was, a little flick of his eyes, that soft pull at the corner of his mouth like he had done something right and was trying not to be too proud of it.
After that, 31 followed you.
A busted barn became 31’s gone rural.
You rememeber standing at the threshold, barking at the others to catch up.
Hell you remember when Malark caught your sleeve and tugged you in.
A stolen corner in a billet with three blankets and a smell nobody wanted to identify became Company moved us uptown.
Guarnere started pointing out that they were insane. Luz tried to steal the number but Malarkey snatched it back, said you we're the owner and that's stealing property.
A shell crater with half a wagon wheel in it became 31’s got a driveway now.
A ditch became 31’s summer property.
Skip grabbing a fistful of wildflowers and sprinkling it on you and Malarkey who grabbed grass and tossed it towards Skip but fell on Penkala instead who got some in his mouth spluttering, "What the hell!"
A room with only one wall left became open floor plan.
If it had mud, you had a mortgage. If it had rats, you had tenants. If it had a ceiling, Skip declared you were getting soft.
Malarkey would not let the bit die if somebody had handed him a shovel.
“Careful with the front door,” he’d say, crawling into a hole in the ground.
“There is no front door,” you’d answer.
“Exactly. Open concept.”
Malarkey carried the number in his pack, wrapped in a sock with a hole in the heel. He claimed it was for protection. Skip said wrapping real estate in footwear was disrespectful. Penkala said the property should be grateful for insulation.
You pretended not to care.
But you started looking for it.
On marches, you’d catch the corner of the porcelain plate when Malarkey shifted his pack. In billets, you’d see him set it against a wall before he sat down, as if the number had to face outward to count. Once, during a lull, he cleaned mud from the blue paint with the edge of his thumbnail, gentle as anything.
That was another thing you noticed.
Malarkey’s hands never stayed still after a fight.
He joked first. Always. He came out of fire with his mouth moving, tripping over some crack meant to make Skip snort or Penkala roll his eyes. But once the noise died, once men stopped counting heads out loud, his fingers went searching for something to do.
Checking his straps.
Rubbing dirt off his rifle sight.
Folding and refolding a scrap of paper.
Turning 31 over in his palm.
Like if his hands stopped moving, the war might catch up to him.
You noticed that before you noticed the rest.
The way his grin came quickest when things were worst.
The way he listened for Skip’s voice before relaxing.
The way he and Penkala could argue over nothing with the seriousness of diplomats while shells landed somewhere close enough to make the ground remember.
The way Malarkey looked younger when he was tired.
The way he looked at you when he thought you were busy looking at anything else.
Once billeted in a town, you found him trying to prop the plate on a half fallen off shelf.
“You hanging a sign?” you asked.
He glanced down at you from a broken crate. “People oughta know where they are.”
“We’re in a building.”
“Yeah, but now we’re in a classy building.”
Skip, from the ground, lifted one hand. “Put it higher. Makes the place look taller.”
Penkala opened one eye. “We got vaulted ceilings.”
“There’s a hole in the roof,” you said.
Malarkey looked up through it. Snow or ash drifted down through the dark.
“Skylight,” he said.
You stared at him.
He stared back.
Then you both laughed, but his laugh changed halfway through. Softer. Almost private.
You felt it then, quick and inconvenient under your ribs.
Something catching.
Something you did not have time for.
So you looked away first.
By Bastogne, the joke should have died.
A lot of things should have.
The snow swallowed sound, swallowed color, swallowed the parts of men that had made them easy to recognize. Everybody looked the same under white frost and gray wool. Everybody moved slower. Everybody’s mouth cracked. Everybody’s eyes got older.
Even 31 looked different in Bastogne.
Malarkey had tucked it inside his jacket once his pack froze too stiff to open without swearing. The little porcelain plate sat against his chest, absurd and useless and important for no reason anyone could afford to explain.
Your foxhole was a mean little scrape in the earth, too narrow for comfort Skip and Penkala were wedged in another hole opposite you, shoulders bumping, rifles close, helmets low. Snow had gathered along the rim like the whole forest was trying to bury you politely.
You sat beside Malarkey with your knees drawn up, numb from the hips down.
He had been quiet too long.
That was how you knew he was cold in a way that scared him.
Not because he complained. Malarkey would complain about food, officers, socks, holes, marches, and Skip’s breath like a man born with a constitutional right to object. But real fear made him quieter. It put his humor somewhere deeper, somewhere he had to dig for it.
You leaned into him just enough for your sleeves to touch.
He looked over.
“You stealing body heat?”
“Yes.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“You got any?”
“Not much.” His breath fogged white. “But 31’s got central heating.”
Skip lifted his head from across the hole. “No it doesn’t.”
Penkala’s teeth clicked once before he answered. “Management’s been informed.”
You reached inside Malarkey’s jacket without warning.
He jolted. “Hey!”
“Relax.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You got very cold hands.”
You found the plate tucked in the inner fold and pulled it free like a magician producing proof of bad decisions.
The 31 caught what little moonlight made it through the trees.
You held it up between you, cracked porcelain and blue numbers and all, and burst out laughing.
Not pretty.
Not delicate.
Cackling, really, because the whole idea of it, a house number in a frozen foxhole in Bastogne, four idiots pretending they had property rights in hell ,was so stupid it looped around into holy.
“Gentlemen,” you announced, waving it toward Skip and Penkala, “welcome home.”
Skip’s face split into a grin.
“Oh, thank God. I was worried we were lost.”
Penkala squinted at the plate. “Place has gone downhill.”
“Excuse you,” Malarkey said, taking it from you and wiping snow off the edge with his thumb. “This is prime Ardennes real estate.”
“Prime?” Skip said. “I can’t feel my ass.”
“That’s because you’re sittin’ in the foyer,” Malarkey told him.
Penkala nodded solemnly. “Common mistake.”
You laughed again, and Malarkey looked at you.
There it was.
That quick upward glance. That pleased little look he tried to hide by fussing with the number. His thumb rubbed over the crack in the porcelain, slow and careful.
The foxhole seemed smaller suddenly.
The snow quieter.
Skip and Penkala kept going, because of course they did.
“We got a kitchen?” Skip asked.
“Yeah,” Penkala said. “It’s the part where we imagine food.”
“Dining room’s over there,” Malarkey said, pointing at a mound of snow. “Dress code required.”
You looked down at your filthy jacket. “Am I underdressed?”
Malarkey’s eyes moved over your face.
Only for a second.
Mud on your cheek. Frost on your lashes. Lips chapped from cold. Nothing worth looking at, not really. Nothing soft left in any of you.
But he looked like he had forgotten the punchline.
“No,” he said, quieter than the joke needed. “You’re all right.”
The words landed badly.
Or maybe too well.
Skip stopped talking for half a breath.
Penkala, mercifully or cruelly, looked away with the expression of a man pretending he had gone blind for the public good.
You felt your face warm despite the cold.
Malarkey noticed that too.
Of course he did.
He cleared his throat and immediately ruined it.
“Wouldn’t pass inspection, but who the hell would?”
You shoved his shoulder.
He rocked into the frozen wall, grinning now, and held the number protectively against his chest.
“Careful with the house.”
“That’s not a house,” you said, but softer this time.
Malarkey looked at you across the tiny space between your sleeves.
“Not with that attitude,” he said again.
It should have been nothing.
A reused joke. A cracked number. Skip snickering into his glove. Penkala muttering something about rent control. Trees creaking overhead. Artillery grumbling far enough away to pretend it might stay there.
But you looked at Malarkey, at his red nose, tired eyes, the grin he kept offering the world like a dare, the porcelain number pressed against his jacket over his heart and something inside you gave up fighting.
Not loudly.
Not bravely.
Just gave.
Because 31 had never been a place.
It was Malarkey’s hands cleaning mud off a broken thing.
It was his voice making a foxhole sound less like a grave.
It was Skip laughing. Penkala groaning. Your own shoulder against Malarkey’s in the snow.
It was the stupid, impossible little home you carried from ruin to ruin because Malarkey had found a number and decided the war did not get to have everything.
He caught you looking again.
“What?” he asked.
You smiled, helpless and cold and gone.
“Nothing.”
Malarkey’s mouth twitched.
“That’s a very specific nothing.”
Skip groaned. “Oh, for crying out loud.”
Penkala pulled his helmet lower. “Wake me when they get married or when the roof comes in.”
“There’s no roof,” you said.
And when night had come, the fires putout, the food that tasted like shit had gone, you settled next to Malark.
Your knee bumping his, he looked over at you.
That night, 31 moved again.
Not far.
Just from Malarkey’s jacket to the wall of your foxhole, where he had wedged it between two roots and a clump of frozen dirt like a man hanging a proper address beside a front door.
There was no front door.
There was barely a wall.
There was only the dark, the snow, the smell of damp wool, and Malarkey lying too close beside you because the foxhole had been dug by men who apparently believed shoulders were optional.
You stared at the little porcelain number until your chest started to shake.
Malarkey heard it.
“Are you laughing?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re shaking the whole damn property.”
That made it worse.
You pressed your glove hard against your mouth, trying to swallow the laugh before it got you both yelled at or killed. Across the line, somebody coughed. Somewhere beyond the trees, artillery rolled low and mean, like thunder that had learned everybody’s names.
Malarkey reached up and tapped the sign once.
“Quiet hours at 31.”
You nearly choked.
He turned his face into his sleeve, shoulders shaking now too, both of you trying to make no sound and failing in small, helpless bursts. The foxhole was freezing. Your toes were numb. There was death packed into every acre of forest around you.
And still, Malarkey had hung up a house number.
Still, you were laughing.
“Don,” you whispered, breathless, “that is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”
His grin flashed faintly in the dark. “Top five, maybe.”
“You’re proud of it.”
“Property ownership’s a big step.”
“You stole it off a dead house.”
“Liberated it.”
“You’re a criminal.”
“Homeowner,” he corrected.
You ducked your head before another laugh could escape, and he ducked his too, both of you folding toward the same small pocket of dark between your collars and helmets.
When you lifted your eyes, his were already there.
The laugh went first.
Not all at once. It just faded out of both of you, leaving the cold behind, and the silence, and that awful knowledge that morning was never guaranteed. His face was close enough that you could see the frost gathered on his lashes. Close enough to see his smile soften into something he could not joke his way around.
For once, Malarkey did not look away.
“You know,” he whispered, “if we ever get a roof, hell if we get the damn house, y'know a real one.."
He trailed off waiting for you to reject the whole fool idea of it but your heart had raced, did something stupid.
Your mouth twitched. “Yeah?"
“Yeah.” His eyes dropped, just once, to your mouth. “With that attitude, yeah.”
The ache of it hit you then.
Not like fear. Not like shellfire.
Softer, and somehow worse.
You looked past him at the little cracked 31 in the dirt wall, barely visible in the dark, absurd and brave and doomed as anything else men carried through war.
Then you looked back at him.
“Don?”
“Yeah?”
“If we move again, if we're sepearted…”
His expression changed before you finished. Like he understood the joke, and the part under it. Like he heard the thing you were too afraid to say plainly.
He swallowed.
“I go where you go.” he said.
Your breath caught.
It was not a promise. Not exactly.
Promises were too clean for Bastogne.
But it was close enough.
You leaned in first, or maybe he did. It was hard to tell in a foxhole that small, in a war that had been pushing you toward him for weeks with dirty hands.
His mouth was cold.
Then not.
The kiss was careful for half a second, startled and quiet, as if both of you were waiting for the other to pull away.
Then his gloved hand found the front of your jacket, not pulling, just holding on, and your fingers curled against his sleeve.
And for one snow-choked minute, before the forest remembered you, before the war came looking again, 31 was real.
No roof.
No windows.
Rent’s murder.
But hell you were home.
Because it stopped being about a house or a number.
You looked at Malarkey, who's mouth had gone soft from the kiss, from laughter and something that hurts sweet.
~ Tangled up with Lieb and his dogtags in the middle of Carentan. (that's it thats the description)
HAPPY VE DAY!!!
(🪖 BoB Masterlist here ♤ )
tw: firefight, blood, war, aggressiveness
gifbytragicsiblings
You didn't plan to be tangled up with Joseph Liebgott.
Your first impression of him was running his mouth how you didn't know what you were doin' then him throwing hands with Guarnere.
That was enough for you to avoid him, save for a few back talk when Lieb was getting under your skin (which was always) and duck your head when his eyes find yours.
You brush shoulders with him, wind back in the same damn spot where he was but hell that was war right?
You're either here nor there just in the middle of hell and the men you trained with since Toccoa.
And well here you we're and your grand plan to avoid Joseph Liebgott.
You were struck dumb, rifle in hand, looking at the pharmacy across the street , you didn't know why you stopped running then he hauled you off. Barking about something, his usual 'Are you stupid?' 'Goddamn fuck!' or whatever it was 'cause your ears rang.
A shell cracked somewhere too close, throwing brick dust off the side of the building, and before you could decide whether to drop or run, his hand was already fisted in the front of your jacket.
Dragging you like the whole damn world depended on it.
You felt your heart smash against your chest.
“Move, move, move!” he snapped.
“I am moving!”
“You’re standin’ there like a goddamn signpost!”
He yanked you down behind the wall with him just as the street spat dirt and stone where your boots had been.
You hit the ground half on top of him. The breath nearly knocked out of you as you held your helmet down.
The ground rattled and you panted.
His helmet knocked yours as both of you half stumbled your rifle jammed between your ribs. His dog tags swung out in the middle of half failing; trying to get up and half both of you tryna avoid each other, your dog tags came loose at the same time where he grabbed you, and somehow the two chains caught together in a shining, stupid knot between both your throats.
For one hot, panicked second, neither of you could move.
You we're reeling from the fact that one, you we're nearly hit and two, it was Liebgott that pulled you back.
He was over you, half shielding you from the street, one hand on the wall behind your head.
Liebgott stared down at the tangled chains.
Then at you.
Then back down. His fingers already yanking at the chains.
“You gotta be kidding me.”
“This is your fault.”
“My fault?”
“You grabbed me.”
“Yeah, because you were about to be blown to bits, you're welcome!"
“I had it handled.” No, actually you didn't.
“You had shit handled.”
Another burst of fire snapped across the street.
Both of you ducked lower. You tried moving away from his chest.
The tags jerked tight.
“Jesus, take ’em off,” Joe hissed as you swatted his hand away panicked as you tried to work the knot free but your hands shook.
You both knew you had to get moving or your both getting blasted next.
“You take yours off!" She shouted over the noise.
“I’m trying!” he barked, your hands moving in a frantic tandem.
“You’re pulling mine.”
“Because you’re in the way!"
“You’re always saying that.”
“Yeah, and you keep proving me right.” He looked at you then, his fingers still half around the chain half on yours.
Your fingers shook while you dragged the chain over your head. Not from fear. That was what you told yourself. Just adrenaline. Just noise. Just the street splitting apart around you and Joe Liebgott’s breath too close to your cheek as you moved towards him as he took off his dogtags.
And not because every time he got near, something sick and twisted opened low in your stomach.
Not because his hand was still braced near your waist, keeping you tucked behind cover like he meant it.
He became painfully aware how close you both we're his eyes snapping up to yours, searching.
You shoved the feeling down hard.
For two seconds, you were both crouched there, hunched over like idiots in the middle of a firefight, trying to untangle government-issued metal while France blew itself to hell around you.
“Quit yanking,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m trying to help.”
“How 'bout you stop yapping.”
“Try being useful.”
His mouth twitched, even there.
Even with the bullets.
It made you furious.
It made your stomach twist again.
The knot finally gave. Two chains fell apart into your palms, slick with sweat and dust.
“Here,” you said, shoving one at him.
Joe snatched it, already looking over the wall instead of at the tags. “About time.”
“You’re welcome.”
“For almost hanging me?”
“For not leaving you tied to me.”
“Would’ve been the worst death in the company.”
He slipped the chain over his head without looking.
You did the same.
There was no time to check.
Somebody yelled up the line. Liebgott was already moving, crouched low, rifle in hand, mean as anything, like his hands hadn’t just been tangled with yours.
Like his face hadn’t been inches away. Like he hadn’t looked scared for half a second when he pulled you down.
“Come on!” he barked. “Unless you wanna write the Krauts a thank-you note!”
You hated him.
You followed.
The mistake did not matter until later.
Not to you, anyway.
Not while Carentan was still spitting smoke and men were stumbling out from behind walls with their ears ringing, their mouths dry, their hands still locked around rifles they had forgotten how to lower.
Not while someone was yelling for ammo. Not while somebody else was cursing about a jam.
It felt like forever and no time at all.
Then you were sitting against a low wall, dirt in your teeth, hands shaking now because everything was over and your body had decided it was allowed.
Joe was across the road with Luz and Malarkey, cigarette between his lips, face filthy, jaw tight. Alive. Loud. Annoyed. His usual mean, restless self.
You hadn’t noticed.
He hadn’t noticed either.
Talbert did.
Of course he did.
Floyd Talbert had the kind of eyes that caught things people didn’t mean to show. He was wiping grime off the side of his face with the back of his sleeve when his gaze snagged on Liebgott’s chest.
He frowned.
Then his eyes cut to you.
Then back to Joe.
A slow, terrible grin started at the corner of his mouth.
“Hey Joe.”
Joe didn’t look over, shifting his weight, his fingers fidgeting with the cigarette. “What?”
Talbert pointed with two fingers. “That your new name?”
Joe finally turned, his eyebrows furrowed. "What. Wait huh?"
Talbert’s grin widened. “Your tags.”
Joe looked down.
Your name sat against his dirty jacket.
Plain as day.
For once, Joseph Liebgott had nothing ready.
The cigarette stayed pinched between his lips, unlit and forgotten.
You looked down because everyone else did.
And there it was.
LIEBGOTT JR. JOSEPH D.
Resting against your chest.
Your stomach dropped.
Not fear this time.
Worse.
Your fingers closed around his tags.
The metal was warm from your skin now.
That feeling came back, deep and awful.
You shoved it aside.
No.
Absolutely not.
Not him.
Not the guy who called you dead weight when you ducked too slow. Not the guy who smoked too much and was always judging from the corner. Not the guy who had grabbed you out of the street before the blast took you apart.
Not him.
But he looked up, eyes caught yours and you just scowled.
Easier that way.
Talbert laughed under his breath. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Luz’s head snapped up. “What?”
Malarkey leaned over, saw the tags, and immediately made a noise like he’d been handed a gift from God.
“Oh, that’s rich.”
Joe’s eyes cut to them. “Shut up.”
Luz was already grinning. “Hold on. Hold on. You two exchanging souvenirs now?”
“We got tangled,” you snapped.
Well, that didn't sound right.
Talbert’s brows lifted, gesturing his hands between the two of you. “Did you?”
“With the tags,” you argued, yanking his dogtags. You tried not to look at Lieb who watched you, his eyes dragging from your fingers sliding across the chain then back to your eyes.
“Sure.”
Joe pointed at him. “Tab.”
Talbert raised both hands, still smiling. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You were gonna.”
“Was I?”
“You got that stupid face.”
Luz leaned closer to read the tags on Joe’s chest and nearly lost it. “Jesus Christ, Liebgott, you’re wearin’ her name.”
Joe ripped the tags off his chest and shoved them under his shirt so fast he nearly strangled himself.
“Problem solved,”
“Not really,” Malarkey said, nodding at you. “She’s still got yours.”
You looked down again.
Joe’s name lay under your fingers.
His eyes went there too.
The whole street seemed too loud and too quiet at once.
His name sat under your fingers.
For a second, nobody said anything. Not even Luz.
Then Joe got up, Tab watched him, crossed the few steps toward you, boots crunching over brick and glass.
“Take ’em off,” he demanded, looking down at you.
You lifted your chin. “You first.”
It was always like this with both of you, daring each other, not backing down, you thinkin' it was his pride, him thinkin' it was your ego.
No one relented.
His jaw tightened. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting.”
“You are. You got that look.”
“You always say I have a look.”
“Because you always do.”
He reached for the chain at his own neck, then stopped when a sharp whistle cut through the street.
“Easy! On your feet! Move it out!”
The order snapped through everyone at once.
Men started shifting, grabbing rifles, hauling each other up, dragging ammo, checking wounds with shaking hands.
Joe looked down the street, then back at you.
“Later,” he said.
Your breath caught. “Later?”
“We’re not doin’ it here.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re in the middle of the street.”
You opened your mouth, but he cut you off, sharper now.
“No, I mean it.” His voice dropped so only you could hear. “You wanna stand here with your helmet strap caught, your rifle hangin’ off you, both hands busy playing with chains while some Kraut decides he ain’t finished? Be my guest. I ain’t watchin’ you get shot over tags.”
You went still. Startled.
His eyes flicked over your face, fast and angry and worried. His lips parted once, his eyes shadowed by the helmet and the grit.
Your eyes narrowed trying to read his face.
Then he looked away, like he hated that you’d seen it.
“We switch when we’re off the road,” he muttered. “When we ain’t being watched by half the company.”
Talbert who heard some softened and stepped back. Still alert but Luz wasn't done yet.
“So romantic,” Luz said. “Safety first.”
Joe turned on him. “That makes no sense."
“Not particularly.”
“Then shut up.”
You should have taken the tags off anyway.
You didn’t.
Joe looked back at you. His name was still caught in your hand, your thumb pressed over the stamped letters.
“Temporary,” he said.
“Obviously.” you bit back.
“Don’t get attached.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
And before you could hold back or stop your damn mouth you said, "Don't want them on in case I die with your last name."
And hell you almost said something to take it back, to not make it weird but he said something that made you balk.
"You havin my last name a bad thing?" He snapped too quick, like he meant it, you couldn't tell.
Your gaze softened, turning the words in your head. Shit, you thought, your fingers absentmindedly finding its way to the stamp of his name against his dog tags.
You didn't even know anymore, whatever this hell of a tangle of feelings was about.
He looked down at his boots then, his jaw ticking, like he was irritated with what he said. He tucked his cigarette in his pocket. fidgeting with the flap once.
Neither of you moved.
Then he blinked once fast, then slowly, like he was thinkin' about it, but then he noticed.
His eyes saw your fingers against his last name, his shoulders drooped a little. His eyes shifted from your smart mouth to your eyes, slow, he tilted his head.
He didn't say anything, didn't take what he said back and you didn't know if that was worse, because the feelings in your chest started getting bothersome.
You felt your heart skip a few beats, you looked away but then you see a hand in front of you, knuckles split near to the bone, bruised, fingers caked with asphalt and blood.
You stared at it.
“I can get up.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Sometime before Christmas.” He urged you with his fingers, curling once, beckoning you to shut up and take it.
You took his hand.
He hauled you up too fast, too close. Your eyes locking with his. Like both of your stubborn will only led you both closer. Your shoulder hit his chest, and for half a second, the tags hidden under his shirt pressed between you.
Your name.
His heartbeat.
Your ruined common sense.
Joe looked down at you.
The hard line of his mouth cracked just a little.
Then it was gone.
“Watch your ass next time,” he muttered dropping your hand.
“You watch yours.”
“I always do.”
“You don’t. That’s why I keep ending up near you.”
His mouth twitched.
“Yeah, right.” he scoffed, "Last I recall, I hauled your ass outta there."
You let out a scoff back tearing your eyes off his. Every smart retort you had died in your throat.
The words still ringing in your head, you can't seem to forget what he said or that look on his face.
When the line started moving again, he stayed close enough that his sleeve brushed yours twice.
And all the way out of Carentan, his name kept tapping against your chest like a second pulse.
Your relationship with Bradley is new. Really new. Like, 'haven't let him smell your morning breath yet' new. But when he gets a call telling him that his mom is dying, you find yourself driving him to San Diego in the middle of the night, preparing to meet his entire extended family during the worst period of their lives. Nick and Carole live AU.
Warnings: discussions of cancer, parental death, it's very sad but also quite sweet
This fic is for the @elixirfromthestars cinema challenge! I've taken inspiration mainly from About Time (2013) - but also Elizabethtown (2005). I think they both have such beautiful depictions of grief and love persevering, so I've tried to channel that a little! Songs that offered some inspiration: Hold My Hand by Lady Gaga, Orpheus by Sara Bareilles, Rainbow by Kacey Musgraves + 🍟 for realising they're in love!
Come by the fire // Lay down your head // My love I see you're growing tired // So set the bad day by the bed // And rest a while
You consider yourself an expert on looks. First looks, last looks, and all the ones in between. They made up a relationship. Stolen glances full of longing when the other isn’t looking, anger burning during a fight when you don’t recognise the person across from you.
Whoever said the eyes were a window into the soul had it right.
First looks were easy. Almost all of them were entirely inconsequential, not meant to be remembered. The very act of remembering the first moment you lock eyes with someone was special. A sign, that for better or worse, they were going to become an important part of your life.
Your first look with Bradley had been outside a church, when your friend Hannah had married Bob Floyd. You'd been fixing your heel, having twisted the strap as you got out of the car, and looked up to find his eyes locked on you. His lips had been parted ever so slightly, shoulders broad as he stands in a perfectly tailored suit. You'd known Bob was in the Navy - you just hadn't realised his friends would look like that.
Polite smiles and introductions are exchanged before you find yourself walking down the aisle, arm laced through his.
He was a retired pilot, you learned at the party afterwards. He'd retired and moved to Los Angeles with the intention of settling down and having kids, before his girlfriend had left him for her boss. He was an instructor now, teaching the next generation to fly.
“God, I'm so sorry, you definitely don't want to be hearing about this right now-”
“No, no don't worry, it's totally okay - my last boyfriend left me for his highschool sweetheart. So I guess neither of us are really good at this.”
You don't know why you're telling him that. It was something you were normally embarrassed about, instead opting to just shrug and go ‘it wasn't meant to be’. But something about Bradley made you think he'd understand.
"He's an idiot," Bradley replies.
"Maybe I'm a complete and utter nightmare. Maybe it was totally deserved."
"I find that hard to believe." He's leaning in, and the scent of his cologne fills your atmosphere.
You smile, resting your chin on the palm of your hand. "You don't even know me."
"I'm hoping that's going to change."
You'd danced and laughed, trading stories and swapping anecdotes as the night went on, totally oblivious to the knowing looks passed between Hannah and Bob. It was no mistake that the two of you had been paired up to walk together. Everything was working out exactly as they expected it to.
The night had ended out on the patio, his jacket draped over your shoulders and his lips on yours.
Most of the sex you'd had in your life wasn't as personal as that single kiss.
Last looks were trickier. Harder to predict and pin down. There were last looks you were grateful to get - ex-friends and boyfriends who’d long overstayed their welcome in your life. Others were more painful, and left you longing for a ‘what-if’ that was never meant to be. Some, much like firsts, went by totally unnoticed, with neither of you realising that this was the end.
It was a strange understanding, the knowledge shared between two people that they would never see the other again.
You hoped your last look with Bradley wouldn't come for decades.
It’s midnight when he gets the call. You’re curled into him, arm draped over his stomach, his nose nestled in your hair. Only in his late thirties has Bradley been able to admit that often he much prefers quiet nights in with wine and a book to bustling bars and crowds.
You're more than happy to oblige, finding yourself spending more nights than not in his arms. It felt right, and natural, even though you'd only been together for a few months. A couple of your friends were less convinced.
“You’re moving too fast-”
“You’ll be sick of him before the year’s out-”
But things were good. You didn't believe in following a set schedule just because other people thought they knew how your relationship should work. You were happy, and you assumed Bradley felt the same. He’d never given any indication otherwise, even being the one to initiate a lot of the evolution of the relationship.
You’re in that sweet spot of being near enough sleep to be totally and utterly relaxed, while also still being able to enjoy the feeling of Bradley pressed up against you.
The staying over had been a new development, within the last week, when he’d make the excellent point that if you stayed over instead of driving home, you’d be doing your part to save the planet. You'd lower your carbon emissions, his place was closer to your work, and he'd already cleared out some closet space for you. The logic was unflappable.
“Mav? What’s wrong?” His voice is raspy, and he sits up, duvet pooling at his waist. “No, you didn’t wake me, it’s okay.”
The voice on the other end of the line speaks for a couple of seconds, and Bradley’s shoulders tense. It’s bad news. The kind that often precedes last looks. Your heart sinks slightly.
“How is she now?” Bradley replies, glancing over at you.
“Yeah, I can come. No, it's okay, I'll come now - should be there in a couple of hours.” A second. “I will. See you soon.”
“What's wrong?” You sit up, hand resting on his forearm.
“My mom. The cancer's spread. She was in the hospital today, just got home. Dad didn't want to worry me… but Mav thinks I should go home. Be there. He thinks it'll be a few weeks now. If we're lucky.” His voice wavers ever so slightly, but does not break.
“Oh Bradley,” You whisper. “I'm so sorry.” You'd known his mom had cancer, but you hadn't realised how severe it was. How little time she had.
“I-I need to go to San Diego,” He says, getting to his feet unsteadily. His hands are shaking, and he’s three shades paler than usual. “I’ll leave a key for you. Stay as long as you want.”
“Baby, it’s a three hour drive. You can’t do that in this state,” You murmur softly, moving to your knees as you watch him start to throw clothes into a duffel bag. “Let me take you.”
“I can’t ask you to do that-” He begins, but you cut him off.
“You aren’t. I’m offering. Just focus on packing, I'll grab some food and get the car ready.”
You can tell he wants to protest, tell you to go back to bed, but the worry wins out, and he just nods. Wordlessly, you get dressed, and head out to the car. When Bradley emerges ten minutes later, his eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. You don’t know what to say, don’t know if there’s anything to say, so you just reach out, hand cupping his cheek gently. He lets out a shaky breath, eyes closing as he leans into your touch.
He’d known this would come eventually. He just hadn’t thought it would be so sudden. At her last check-up the doctors had said she was doing as well as could be expected. They thought she might have a couple of years left, if she continued on like the way she was going.
A couple of years was good. Bradley could make that work. Maybe settle down, give her a grandchild, and show her that he was happy. That it was okay for her to go. That he’d be alright without her.
He couldn’t do any of that in a few weeks.
The drive is made in near silence. Bradley stares out the window, wringing his hands together nervously as he occasionally offers commentary on the places you pass. The roads are desolate, and you’re turning onto Bradley’s parent’s road just before three.
You hadn’t thought this far ahead. Pulling up to your boyfriend’s childhood home in the middle of the night to see his dying mom wasn’t exactly how you imagined the first meeting going. The last thing they need right now is to meet a new girlfriend, a total stranger. Bradley potentially hasn’t even told them about you yet.
“I-I should probably get going-”
“You’re not staying?” His head snaps to yours, deep brown eyes furrowed as he frowns. “It's 3am, you can't drive back on no sleep.”
“I don’t want to impose,” You reply, twisting a ring round your finger. The last thing you want to do is make this about you. “Or add any stress, or anything. Your parents probably only want family around.”
“Honey, if my mom knew I let you drive me all the way here, and then let you turn around and head straight back in the middle of the night, she’d murder me before I even got my coat off.” Despite your nerves, despite everything, you let out a small laugh. “I’d really like you to stay. Please.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” Whatever’s waiting for him inside, he’d rather face it with you.
“I didn't bring anything.”
“We can make do. I’ll buy whatever you need. Are you okay for work?”
You wave him off. “I have time off I can use. Don't worry.”
He nods, and grabs his bag from the back as you get out. He laces his fingers through yours, and takes a look up at the house that had been his home for eighteen years. There’s a light on downstairs, someone’s still awake.
Squeezing your hand, he begins the walk up the path, knocking lightly. It takes a second before it swings open, before revealing who you assume is Bradley’s dad.
They look so alike it’s almost uncanny. The man standing before you is like looking at Bradley in twenty-five years. Hair slightly thinner, a few more wrinkles, they could almost be brothers.
“Bradley,” Nick murmurs, pulling him in for a tight hug. “You should’ve waited until the morning.”
“Wanted to be with you guys,” Bradley mumbles, before pulling back slightly. “How is she?”
“Alright, all things considered. It’s spread to her lymph nodes. There’s nothing more they can do, therapy-wise. She’s sleeping now. You can go up in the morning.” He finally registers your presence behind Bradley, and straightens up. “You must be the girlfriend.” His eyes are soft, and he reaches out to pull you in for your own hug.
You tell him your name, as Bradley ushers you both inside, shutting the door behind you. “I’m so sorry about your wife, Mr Bradshaw.”
“Please, call me Nick,” He insists. He leads you both inside to the living room, where another man sits.
“Mav,” Bradley greets, as he stands. He introduces you to his godfather, and the two of you take a seat.
“How was the drive?” Maverick asks you.
“It was fine - roads were quiet.” You fight off a yawn, turning your head to look out the window.
“You’re tired,” Bradley says, voice quiet. “We can go to bed.”
You shake your head. “I’m okay,” You insist. Seeing the unconvinced expression on his face, you smile. “Promise.”
Bradley returns to his conversation with Nick and Maverick, and you try your best to stay awake, offering comments occasionally. You learn that Maverick and his wife live next door, and that Carole’s family all live nearby. Bradley has two cousins, Grace and John, who he grew up with. Grace has a toddler named Sophia, while John is getting married next year. Soon, you find your head leaning against Bradley’s shoulder, and he just feels so warm, and your eyes are so heavy-
“Your girl’s exhausted, Bradley,” Nick says softly. “Get some sleep.”
“I’m fine,” You mumble, but you know you’re not fooling anyone. It’s almost four now. You considered two a late night.
“It might be a little tight, but you can stay in your old room,” Nick says, and Bradley nods as he guides you to your feet. Maverick says his goodbyes, before heading next door.
“You’ll wake me when she’s up?”
Nick nods. “Yeah, of course. Now, go before she passes out.” You send him a tired smile, and follow Bradley down the hall.
Bradley’s childhood bedroom is exactly what you would’ve expected from him. Covered head to toe in plane posters, with sporting trophies lining every surface.
Football, baseball, basketball, track, he was apparently good at everything.
“My god, you were a try-hard,” You murmur, gesturing at the pile of medals hanging from the back of the door.
“I liked to win,” He shrugs, dropping his bag by the wardrobe. “You want a shirt to sleep in?”
You nod, and he tosses you an old Top Gun one. He pulls on a pair of sweatpants, and you both crawl into bed.
He insists the bed’s a double, but with the way you’re lying chest to chest just to stay on, you’re not convinced. It doesn’t really matter. You could be sleeping on the world’s largest bed, and would still find a way to be as close to Bradley as possible.
Don't stop // Trying to find me here amidst the chaos // Though I know it's blinding // There's a way out // Say out loud // We will not give up on love now
The next morning you meet Maverick's wife Penny, and his stepdaughter Amelia. Bradley and Nick are up in the master bedroom catching up - it had been a while since Bradley had been home.
They’re up for about an hour, while you get to know the Mitchells, before Bradley appears in the living room. “She wants to meet you.”
“Are you- are you sure?”
“Very sure. She wouldn’t take no for an answer.” As if he can sense the nerves, he holds out a hand for you to take. He knows this must be weird for you. Going from meeting no one to his entire family in the span of twenty-four hours. But he’s glad you’re here. He has a feeling he’s going to be with you for a long time, and if now is the only time that he gets to be with you and his mom, he’ll take what he can get.
If you hadn’t known Carole Bradshaw was sick, you’re not sure you would’ve guessed. Yes, she looks tired, and yes, the bags under her eyes are probably bigger than usual, but her smile is wide and her eyes bright.
“You’re even prettier than he said you were.”
You’re positive this isn’t true. You’re wearing the jeans you had on yesterday, with one of Bradley’s shirts, and you must’ve gotten a maximum of five hours sleep last night. Pretty is not the word you’d use. Heat rises to your cheeks, as Bradley guides you to the chair beside her bed.
“It’s really lovely to meet you, Mrs Bradshaw-”
“Carole! Call me Carole, please.”
“Carole,” You repeat. You’re desperate for her to like you. The idea that you could be with Bradley for the rest of your life, and the only impression his mother has of you is when you’re running on little sleep with greasy hair is not appealing. “I really like your son.”
She laughs. “I really like him too. And he likes you. Wouldn’t shut up about you the last time he called.”
You glance at Bradley, who’s begun to look very embarrassed. “That’s an exaggeration-”
“It is not! He’s very enamoured with you, sweetheart.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“So, what do you do? He got so carried away on the phone, he didn’t tell me the basics. Just how pretty you were, and how he can't believe you'd go out with him-”
"Okay, mom, that's enough," Bradley interjects, as Carole grins.
"Just letting the girl know what she's in for!"
“I work in publishing.”
“You’re a reader?”
“As much as I can.”
“You’ll need to give me some recommendations then. I’ve been getting more reading done recently than the rest of my life combined.”
“I think I can do that.”
***
That afternoon, the extended family come round. You take it all in your stride, diligently answering questions and re-filling drinks. Sophia, his cousin’s daughter, takes a particular liking to you, opting to sit on your knee while the grownups chat.
“What do you think?” Bradley asks Nick, eyes trained on you as you crouch down to chat to little Sophia, smiling widely as she shows off her teddy bear.
“I like her more than you already,” Nick quips, throwing him a grin. Seeing Bradley’s obvious relief, he claps a hand on his son’s shoulder. “She’s great. Really. Way out of your league.”
Bradley snorts. “Believe me, I know.”
“Your mom likes her too. Spent more time talking about her to Mary this afternoon than anything else.”
“Yeah?”
Nick drops his voice to a near-whisper. “I know the circumstances aren’t ideal, but you bringing her here has really made your mother so happy. All she’s ever wanted was for you to find someone - and she won’t get to meet her grandkids, but I think meeting their mother will let her go with a bit of clarity.”
Bradley almost chokes on his drink. Sure, these might have been three of the best months of his life. But it was still far too early to even consider marriage and kids. The last thing he wanted to do was scare you off. Not when things had been going so well. “It’s only been three months-”
“So? Who cares if you met her yesterday, or ten years ago? She wouldn't have driven you a hundred and fifty miles in the middle of the night if she wasn't committed to this thing. Your mother and I were engaged by six months, married by eight.”
He looks back at you. In such a short space of time, you'd become his whole life. On the occasions you had to sleep at your own place, due to early meetings or that time you were dog-sitting, he felt your absence like a gaping hole in his chest. You were the last thing he thought about every night, and his first thought in the morning. “I really like her,” He admits finally.
Nick Bradshaw just smiles. “We can tell.”
Don't you turn like Orpheus // Just stay here // Hold me in the dark and when the day appears // We'll say // We did not give up on love today
You manage a couple of hours of downtime before trying to make yourself useful again. You weren’t the world’s best cook - you certainly weren’t better than Bradley, but you could make a mean lasagna. And you figure the last thing the Bradshaws needed to be thinking about right now was food. So, you enlist Penny, and send Maverick out to get the extra ingredients you need.
“We can just order in, it’s no big deal,” Bradley insists, watching as you and Penny bustle about the kitchen.
“That’ll cost an absolute fortune. We’ve got it covered, right Penny?”
Penny nods, and ushers Bradley towards the door. “We’ll be done in an hour. Set the table for us, will you?”
Spirits are cheerful, despite the overhang of dread. Cousins are playing, Bradley’s serving drinks, Carole and Penny are gossiping, and you’ve found yourself beside Nick. He’s easy to talk to, and is like Bradley in so many ways it’s almost scary. He’s already broken into the baby pictures, showing you various embarrassing Bradley phases over the years.
His cowboy phase at three. His emo phase at eleven. His surfer dude phase at sixteen.
“Later on, I may tell you about Bradley's many failings as a man and as a table tennis player. But, firstly I'd like to say the one big thing - that I've only loved three men in my life. My dad was a frosty prick so that only leaves dear Maverick, Elvis Presley- obviously - and that man there.”
Across the room, Bradley’s giving Sophia a piggy-back, while simultaneously juggling four empty glasses that need cleaned up.
“He’s a good guy,” You agree, eyes soft as you watch him. “I’m really lucky.”
“I’m glad you two found each other. He struggles to let people in sometimes.”
You’d never experienced that with Bradley. From the very first meeting, it felt like you both just understood each other, in a way you’d never felt before. You told him things at Bob’s wedding that it would take you months to work up to with other people. Upon seeing your confusion, Nick laughs softly.
“Good to see he isn’t like that with you.”
Eventually, Carole begins to get tired, and everyone starts to filter out, leaving just Nick, Bradley, and you. You try to start cleaning up, but Nick and Bradley manage to distract you with a game of Monopoly at Carole’s bedside. She dominates, getting hotels on Park Lane and Mayfair that bankrup the rest of you, before you and Bradley give her some peace to get some sleep.
When Bradley emerges from his shower, you aren’t in his room. Frowning, he combs the upstairs. Nothing. Then he hears humming from the kitchen. Inside, you’re tackling the mountain of plates from lunch earlier, having barely made a dent.
“Honey, you don’t have to do that,” Bradley says, and you jump at the disturbance.
“You scared me,” You breathe, before turning back to the dishes. “And it’s fine - I just want to help.”
“I can do it in the morning,” He insists, moving behind you to rest his chin on your shoulder and wrap his arms around your waist. “You already made dinner. It’s too much.”
“You shouldn’t have to worry about dishes, or washing, or cooking right now. Let me take care of you.”
“At least let me help.”
You think for a second, before conceding. “Fine. You can dry.”
It takes another hour, but the by the end, you’re giggling like children as you flick suds of soap at him, before trying to duck out of his arms as he tickles you mercilessly.
Upstairs, Carole and Nick smile to themselves when they hear the “Bradley don’t!” mere seconds before another fit of laughter erupts.
"He's going to be okay," Carole murmurs, resting her head on her husband's shoulder, eyes misty.
By the time you’re ready to go to bed, Bradley’s in need of another shower, hair sticking to his forehead as his shorts drip water onto the floor.
***
“I’ll be back tonight,” You promise, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “But I really need my laptop to work from home.”
Bradley understood. He did. You were already doing far too much, arranging your work so that you could stay in San Diego with him for the time being. And yet, the idea of you being gone for even a day created a pit at the very bottom of his stomach. “Drive safe, okay? And call me when you get home. And then call me again before you leave.”
“I will.” In normal circumstances you’d laugh at his over-protectiveness, but you know he’s just worried. It’s been a hard two weeks.
Carole has had a string of bad days - bad days that are slowly beginning to outnumber the good. It won’t be too long now. Carole knows this, you know it, Nick knows it. You’re not sure Bradley’s come to terms with it yet.
You’re sitting with her that night, while the guys make dinner. You’d been covering it, but Carole had insisted they stop letting you do all the work around the house. So you’re cross-legged on a chair beside her bed, looking at some more pictures from Bradley’s childhood.
“You know, he’s never brought a girl home before,” Carole tells you, as soon as the door clicks shut behind Bradley. He’d popped up with drinks. “Not even Taylor. They were together four years, and we met her once at a wedding.”
“It’s just because I drove him here,” You reason, but Carole shakes her head.
“It’s different with you.” She goes to speak again, before breaking off in a coughing fit. You grab the glass on her bedside, passing it over. “Thanks, sweetheart. And thank you for being here.”
“It’s no problem, really. I’d do anything for him.”
“I know. And I’m glad it’s you. I was so worried about leaving him. He’s always been sensitive. I think you’ll make it a little easier on him.”
You don't know what to say, voice catching in your throat. Instead, you reach out and take her hand.
***
“Please Nick, I'm not dead yet. Penny can come. It’ll be fine.” Carole rolls her eyes, and you know Nick isn't winning this one.
It was the latest argument. Nick and Carole had decided to renew their vows at the Hard Deck, just for closest friends and family. The guys had their suits, but you, Carole and Penny didn't have a dress. Carole wanted to go shopping, Nick thought it was a bad idea. The final compromise was going to one shop, and making Carole stay off her feet as much as possible.
You knew despite Carole's insistence that she was happy with whatever, that you didn’t want to make her walk far. So you set up shop in a local store, Carole and Penny each picking their own dress first.
You try a couple on, eventually landing on a pale yellow maxi dress, patterned with flowers. Just as you’re about to get changed back into your clothes, Carole appears in the dressing room.
“If this is weird and inappropriate, please tell me,” Carole insists, as she steps towards you with a dress bag. “But uh- I never got to have a daughter. Nick and I, we tried for a while to give Bradley a sibling, but it never worked out.” She clears her throat, voice thick as she continues. “And I always hoped that I’d be able to go dress-shopping with whoever Bradley chose to marry. I know that the two of you haven’t been together long, but-but…”
She trails off, and you nod, eyes shining. “I would really love to have you as a mother-in-law,” You whisper.
You step out of the dressing room, breath bated as you look in the mirror. The dress is gorgeous, hugging your curves in all the right places, the cut making you look taller than you are. You’ve never worn a wedding dress before. You're not sure if it's bad luck to wear one without being engaged, but this feels right. It's a moment you'll never get to share with Carole, even if you do marry Bradley one day.
She’s wiping her eyes before she even sees you. “Oh honey, you look stunning,” She breathes. "You'll make a beautiful bride someday."
The tears are streaming freely now, and you hug her tightly. "I wish I'd met him earlier."
"Me too," She whispers. "But it's okay. When it happens, it'll be wonderful. Because you both love each other, and that's all that matters."
I'll show you good // Restore your faith // I'll try and somehow make a meaning of the poison in this place // Convince you love, don't breathe it in // You were written in the stars that we are swimming in
The ceremony's beautiful. If you and Bradley can have half the relationship his parents share, you'll be doing a whole lot better than most people.
Maverick officiates, and Bradley is designated ring-bearer, despite his protests.
"Why can't Amelia do it? Or Sophia? The literal child?"
"It's funnier making you do it-"
“Time for pictures!” Penny announces, grabbing her camera from the counter. “Bradshaw family up first!”
You smile as Bradley fakes a dramatic sigh, pressing a kiss to your hairline as he passes. Nick and Bradley stand on either side of Carole, arms wrapped round her waist as they lean in. You zone out slightly, snapping back to reality when you hear Carole calling your name. “Wait! That’s not everyone!”
If you weren’t already close to tears, this'll do it. “Oh, no-” You begin, but she’s already cutting you off.
“You’ll be family soon enough, sweetheart,” She calls, gesturing forwards. You glance at Bradley, nod wanting to overstep, and get to your feet when he nods. You know the rule for partners - unless it’s serious, they don’t get in the family photos.
Bradley reaches out, looping his arm round you to pull you in tightly.
Penny takes pictures of every possible configuration of people. You and Bradley, Nick and Maverick, Carole and Sophia, before getting one of the bartenders to get a group shot.
Nick captures one single photo the whole night. You and Carole in the corner of one of the booths, eyes crinkled as you laugh together. He saves it for later. Figures it could make a good wedding present down the line.
***
“Listen, if what my mom said was too much, I totally get that,” Bradley murmurs into your ear as you sway gently in time to Bruce Springsteen’s I’m On Fire wafting from the jukebox. “She gets ahead of herself at the best of times, nevermind… nevermind now.”
Carole Bradshaw will never get to meet her grandchildren. If you and Bradley get married, she won’t be at the wedding. If, god forbid, you aren’t it for him, she’ll never know his wife. She won’t get to see him turn forty, or celebrate her fortieth wedding anniversary. It’s an awful finality that he can’t allow himself to think about too much.
“It wasn’t too much,” You reply, voice soft. “I love your family.”
“I love you.”
It slips out before he can even register what he's saying. Truthfully, he's known he loved you since you dropped everything to be with him here. But thinking and saying are very different things.
Your reply is instantaneous. “I love you too.” You don't need to think about it. Because you do. You love Bradley Bradshaw in a big and scary way.
You love how he spends his Saturdays giving free lessons to people who can't afford it, simply because he thinks everyone should have a chance to learn.
You love that when the anniversary of your grandma's death had come round last month, he'd turned up on your doorstep with flowers and chocolates before his shift, even though his work was at the opposite end of the city from your house.
You love the fact that he talks in his sleep - mostly about aircrafts and flying, a language you don't understand at all. Mumbling about F-18s and Mach numbers as his arms tighten around you.
You love that underneath the tough exterior, he’s the softest man you've ever met. That even though the idea terrifies him, you know he'll be a wonderful father one day.
You love him. You think that maybe you've loved him since the moment you saw him.
“You don't have to say it just because my mom's dying.”
“I'm not. I'd say it even if your dad was hideous and your mom hated me, and they were all massive Republicans. I love you.”
***
“They look like you guys,” Maverick muses, as you and Bradley move round the dance floor, totally engrossed in each other.
“I hope you mean that as a compliment,” Nick replies, raising an eyebrow as he takes his wife's hand.
“Of course it's a compliment,” Maverick scoffs. “You guys found your person younger than most, and still managed to make it work. Took me fifty years to get my act together.”
“Bradley’s nearly forty, he wasn’t far behind you,” Nick snorts, and Carole swats at him.
“That wasn’t his fault! He was ready to settle down, and Taylor pulled the rug out from under him.”
“It worked out for the best. He looks happier now than he ever did with Taylor.”
"You both better get absolutely hammered at their wedding for me."
"I think we can handle that," Maverick assures her, grinning. "The boys can do Great Balls of Fire in your honour."
"She'll be heading straight for a divorce if you do that," Carole laughs.
That was the last good day. It was like she'd said her goodbyes, made her peace with leaving. She knew that everyone would be okay, eventually. She's admitted to the hospital on Monday with chest pain, and dies on Thursday.
She goes holding Bradley's hand, while Nick sits on her other side. For all intents and purposes, it is a peaceful death.
It has no name // No guarantee // It's just the promise of a day // I know that some may never see // But that's enough // If the bottom drops out // I hope my love was someone else's solid ground
Nick Bradshaw stands alone at the entrance to the church, greeting every single guest by name. Even when they get well into the hundreds, he treats their grief with a delicacy you'd never expect from a new widower.
You don’t think you’d be able to harness that amount of grace if you were in his position. You stand with Bradley, hand clutched tightly in his. His eyes are fixed firmly on the coffin, only pulling them away to acknowledge the mourners who approach him.
It feels like the entire city of San Diego has come out to mourn Carole Bradshaw. The church is filled to the brim, with people spilling onto the street outside. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen such an outpouring of love for one person.
You manage to hold it together until the opening chords of Tom Petty’s I Won’t Back Down ring out. Bradley’s arm snakes round your waist, and a choked sob escapes as he buries his face in your hair.
“I know, baby, I’m sorry,” You cry, pulling him in tighter.
Nick knew his wife better than anybody in the world - she wouldn't have wanted everyone to be miserable. She wanted her funeral to be a celebration of life, not death.
So his eulogy is full of their best moments - from embarrassing to heartfelt. When she went into labour with Bradley while Nick was in the air, and Maverick had to be sent to get him down. Nick arrived at the hospital as Bradley was crowning. It had taken him a while to make it up to her for that one.
When she almost got them all arrested in Italy by driving on the wrong side of the road.
Their first wedding - when she'd been an hour late to her own reception because she overslept.
Her love for really awful karaoke. Her love for her family, friends, husband, son.
Carole Bradshaw lived a good life. And that was nothing to be sad about.
“How are you handling this so well?” Bradley asks his dad, as the three of you walk towards the car to head to the reception.
“I'm not - not really. I’m fucking furious, and so uninterested in a life without your mother. But I also know she'd punch me for even thinking that.”
For the first time in a long time, Bradley laughs. “She’d tell you to grow up and get on with it.”
“And so that’s what I’m going to do. I’m gonna mope for a couple of weeks, and then I’m getting a dog. And I’m gonna call it Goose.”
“You’re naming the dog after yourself?”
“Hey, your mother was the brains of the relationship, not me.”
***
“Can we- can we go for a drive?” Bradley asks the next day, and you nod.
“Of course.”
The drive doesn’t take long. A couple of miles up the coast, before he’s pulling into a lookout spot. It’s incredible, the view over the ocean. “My mom used to bring me here, to watch my dad fly,” Bradley murmurs, as he leads you over to the railing. He gestures out towards the island in the distance. “He was based there for a while. So was I, when I served.”
There aren’t any planes out today, but the sky is the bluest blue you’ve ever seen, not a cloud in sight. Bradley has to think that somehow, his mom is here, watching over you both.
“I think I've been asleep most of my life,” He admits.
“Me too.”
“I don't want that anymore. Being scared, of not taking any risks. I don't want to have any regrets."
"We've got time," You murmur. "We're still in our thirties. Basically teenagers. Your twenties are just a practice run, anyway. I've heard that being in your forties is where it's at."
"Yeah," He replies softly. "We've got time."
His mom's ring nearly burns a hole in his pocket.
“Not for today, not for tomorrow, but soon, okay?” She'd whispered, slipping it into his hand, smiling softly as her breathing grew laboured.
“Yeah, mom. Soon.”
a/n - thank you so much for reading!! I really love this one-shot, and I've never written Carole and Nick before. Thank you to Mel for hosting the challenge, I had a lot of fun taking inspiration from the movies!
warnings: mentions of cancer, death, light angst, she’s crushing hard, age gap (22&26), secret/forbidden relationship, patriotism rawr 🦅, reader had glasses & braces, long enough hair to curl, sweetheart is HORNY!, past underage drinking, implied drunk driving (nothing happens), navy inaccuracies, maturity gap, slight angst, making out, unprotected sex, slut shaming, cumming inside, fingering, aftercare
summary: in which… some summer bliss & some summer ignorance with jake seresin.
m’s notes: written in the app, bad smut! not proofread universe link
all rights reserved @backtoarkansas
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after a reluctant introduction to your mother, jake seresin snags an invite to dinner— not just any dinner, but tom kazansky’s annual navy summer cookout, or whatever he called it these days. all of your uncles and aunts from the service piled onto the lawn and the house, around the lake.
you loved the summer, especially the cookout. at fifteen, you’d snuck your first beer— gotten hammered on the shitty bud lights in the coolers scattered around. bradley realized first, and panicked. he was acne faced and scared. bradley was enlisting soon, to the detestation of his mother.
carole bradshaw was like an aunt to you— your mother and her were good friends, getting lunch and going to book clubs together whenever it was possible. you don’t remember when uncle goose died; but daddy told the story a lot, how he went down while mav was flying: don’t bring up that kind of thing around him, won’t get you any good. he’d warn.
when carole got sick, it was all hands on deck to take care of both her and bradley. she passed at the end of that summer, pete pulled bradley’s papers from the academy, and you seemingly were with rooster every night. it was a tough couple months, trying to be there for bradley while also balancing school. he was forever grateful for your presence that year, though. it helped him feel less alone, mad at the world.
bradley’s sitting beside you on the deck. you’re focused elsewhere however; across the yard, jake is stood beside your father at the grill. every guy you’d ever brought home was infatuated with your father, asking him questions, hearing his stories. it was different though, jake was navy too. your father harbored deep admiration for any and every aviator.
bradley shoves at you— grinning. he was like an older brother, he really didn’t want jake to break your heart. he loved his friend, he did. but bradley also knew what jake was like. he knew what jake did to girls. he didn’t want you to be another one of jake’s conquests. “what, squirt? worried that ice is taking your boyfriend from you?”
you scowl, elbowing him. you don’t take take eyes off jake across the lawn, muttering: “he’s not my boyfriend, keep it down— but, like— what could they possibly be talking about over there?” bradley leans over, confused. you turn to look at him and huff. his brown eyebrow raises, and the two of you start to bicker— you threaten to rip his mustache off his upper lip, when jake appears before you.
“do you two ever do anything other than argue?” he smirks. he’s eyeing you over his sunglasses; you can feel his glare in your gut, heat curling around your belly. since yesterday on base, he occupied your thoughts. bradley shoves at your shoulders. you nod frantically;
“we— yes, we do.” you sputter over your words. jake looks around the lawn, hands tucked in his pockets.
jake grins down at you, making a soft clicking noise with his pretty lips and nodding toward the house. his fingers beckon you closer, like calling a dog. you make an effort to peer around— your whole family is focused on other things, bradley shrugs. you reach for jake’s hand, letting him pull you toward the house.
the house is cold, empty. charlie’s napping on the couch in the foyer, some football game on the TV. jake stops at the top of the grand staircase, you collide with his back, cursing. he’s taken a framed photo off the wall, and is holding it, grinning. it’s of you, from graduation.
jake holds it up beside your face. “oh honey, aren’t you just a little cutie pie?” he coos, mocking you. you shush him, batting at his chest— yanking the photo from him. carefully, you hang it back on the wall. you shove jake into your bedroom, closing and locking the door behind you.
growing up, you weren’t allowed a lock on your door. you’d snuck over one too many boys in highschool— but when you’d graduated you managed to convince your father to reinstate it; if only he knew now.
your bedroom hasn’t changed since highschool. your comforter was pink and frilly, pictured with girls you didn’t even talk to on your bulletin board— old color coded calendar reading may 2016 jam packed with parties and shifts from the ice cream parlor downtown. posters hang on the walls of old favorite movies and artists you haven’t listened to in years.
jake hums, finger tracing over a photo of you grinning with bradley. he runs his finger over your cheek— the nosy bastard is taking his time savoring your space. six years ago, when you were starting highschool, he was in college. you’re a bit embarrassed of your childish little bedroom.
he finds a picture— your school photo from freshman year. you were wearing your purple glasses, braces. your hair was curled all cute and you looked adorable. jake turns to you; “hey, baby? can i keep this one?”
you shrug, nodding. “i don’t see why not— why do you want it?” you bounce on the balls of your feet. jake pockets the picture:
“want it for my wallet.” he smiles, stepping closer to you, he lifts your arms, wrapping them snug around his neck. you smile up at him, bashful. he was so dreamy, a prince charming. it was like he’d come right off the page of a fairytale. tall, tan, blonde.
“we shouldn’t—” you whisper quietly, your warm breaths rolling from your lips. his dexterous fingers lift, brushing hair behind your ear. you tried— really tried— not to get too attached to jake. it had been literally one day.
usually, you had to force yourself to like a guy. the ick came quickly; bad breath, ugly laugh, stupid haircut. you tried to find it with jake, but he was perfect. you could never tell him that, though. that son of a bitch.
“why?” he hums, he’s not pushy. his eyes are focused on yours so intently it makes you shiver. you turn your head, looking away from him. he lifts two fingers, moving your fake to look back at him. “not so fast, little miss.”
you glare up at him “my whole family is here, and men you respect from the navy. anyone could walk in and— i’m not in the mood to deal with it.” he sighs, backing away a step. you feel cold, instinctively wrapping your arms around yourself.
he turns to you, tugging you close by your hips. stumbling, you collide with his chest. you peek up at him, embarrassed. “think you can lie to them tonight?” he hums, “after fireworks or whatever?” you nod, confused.
“yeah— why?” you tilt your head.
jake smiles, flicking your forehead. “you could stay over my place, baby. tell ‘em you’re staying at a friends house or somethin’. you were teasin’ me all day today and yesterday. need you f’real.”
you smile up at him, nodding. he was a real sweet talker— he could talk you into anything. “fine. after fireworks.” you point at him, “and no funny business. it’s bad enough bradley knows!” your voice is scolding, but jake cuts you off with a kiss.
“no promises.” he coos against your lips. you nudge him away, brushing past him on your way to the door. jake delivers a firm smack to your ass on your way by— shrieking, you slap him.
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later that evening, you’re stood on the dock, next to bradley. jake’s on his other side, eyes fixed on you. you’ve got a blanket wrapped snug around your shoulders— you loved fireworks. even as an adult.
you and your sisters help your mother clean up the lawn as people slowly start filling out one by one. jake and bradley are talking with your daddy and charlie. your dads loud, abrasive laugh echoes across the warm night air. the two men approach you next—
“see ya later, birdie.” bradley smiled, pressing his lips to your temple. he smells like beer, sweat, and his cologne, it was weird to say, but his smell always put you at ease— it was so uniquely bradley bradshaw. jake turns to you and nods. you’d almost forgotten you were sneaking over to his place after.
“later princess.” he nods, before turning and shaking your mothers hand— thanking her for her hospitality. she was a big fan of lieutenant seresin. she reminded her of your father; that’s why. they depart soon after, and your phone lights up with a text:
jake
address is 74 wood field ave
my neighbors are old
text me when u get here ;)
you can’t help but roll your eyes at jake’s texts. he texted like a college kid still, even at twenty six. you send him a thumbs up and approach your mother. “hey mama?” she hums, looking up at you curiously.
“do you mind if i stay at melanie’s tonight? i haven’t seen her in a while.” you smile— laying it on real thick. your mama was the glue of the household, sarah kazansky had a sixth sense for sensing bullshit; which meant you were a fantastic liar. she nods, telling you to drive safe.
in the house, your dad is in the living room, reading some old war book. you walk up to him, smiling. “i’m heading over to melanie’s for the night, daddy. i’ll see you tomorrow. love you.” you kiss his cheek and he smiles— for a man called ice man, he was a big softie.
“alright, lovebug. careful driving— people drink and drive a lot on the fourth.” you nod; before making your way upstairs. you pack overnight clothes into a little bag, and change into your sexy underwear. jake made you feel giddy.
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you send jake a quick ‘here’ text when you pull up in the driveway. his house is cute— an american flag on the flagpole, white with blue shutters, a manicured lawn. you can imagine his elderly neighbors watching him mow his grass— you feel hot.
jake is leaving in the doorway, waiting for you. as you prance your way up the steps of the porch, you grin at him. “lieutenant.” you salute, smiling wider. jake rolls his eyes, pulling you inside with him. he makes quick work at kissing you, sliding your bag off your shoulders and letting it drop on his welcome mat.
you pull away, giggling. shouldering past him, you look around his house— the pictures of family on the mantle, the throw blanket on the couch, the magnets on his fridge. it’s neat, military clean but lacking personality— he’s watching you dissect him, smiling.
“not bad, seresin.” you grin at him, returning to your spot before him. “less of a bachelor pad than i was expecting.”
jake grins. “didn’t have much faith in me, did you?” you didn’t, really. he laces his fingers with yours, bringing you down the hall to his bedroom. the wooden floorboards creak below your feet. jake nudges the door closed behind you both.
you lift up a photo of a woman on his nightstand. “who’s this?” you hum softly, “she’s beautiful.”
jake’s usually cocky expression is gone now, watching softly. “that’s my mama.” you didn’t know much of anything about jake’s family. you knew he had sisters and was from texas, but that was it.
you hum, biting your lip. “how many siblings do you have again?” jake reaches his hand out, tugging your lip free from your teeth.
“four, just like you. three sisters n’ me.” he hums, “i’m second in the order— my sister charlotte’s three years older, than me, stella was two years after me and my baby sister julie is eighteen.” he gets this soft little look in his eyes when he talks about his sisters, its cute.
he lifts his gaze to look at you, and reaches over to flick your forehead. “i don’t want to talk about them now. i want to focus on you.” his voice is all low and gravelly, it makes you swoon.
you sit back blindly on his bed, the backs of your thighs brushing the quilt. he moves closer to you, cupping your face in his hands.
jake’s lips are warm and soft against yours, and you can taste his chapstick on his mouth and smell the sunscreen on his cheeks. he kisses with purpose; holding your face like it’s sacred and smacking his lips against yours.
he nudges you back against his bed, grunting. his hands are everywhere; tugging your dress up, feeling up the warm skin of your thighs. your breath stills in your throat, jake pulls back enough to look into your eyes.
“you still okay with this?” you nod, frantic. jake smiles, kissing you again. your hands come up to pull at the black t-shirt he’s wearing. slowly, he pulls it over his head. you take a minute to admire him. the navy has been kind to jake seresin.
you drink him in. each ridge and valley of his tanned skin. the golden hair leading your gaze down to his jeans— he’s perfect. muscular in his arms and shoulders. your fingers come up to trace over his abdomen.
jake nudges your hands away, moving his hands to shift the straps of your dress down your arms. his fingers then shift to unzip the dress— freeing you. jake’s mouth moves down the column of your throat, your chest, and belly. you squirm under his touch.
“fuck,” you whine, nails making purchase in the skin of his shoulders. jake’s teeth scrape over the apex of your thigh. he wraps his big, heavy palms around your thighs; using them to nudge your legs open wide enough for him to lie between.
his eyes are heavily lidded, staring up at you. your fingers sift through his blonde hair, jake’s fingers lift, looping through your panties; sliding them down the length of your legs— he tosses them behind him.
“last chance t’say no.” he whispers, licking his lips. you shake your head at him, you would never dream of saying no to him, not when he looked at you like this.
jake makes his way back up your body— kissing a dark hickey into your throat. one of his hands is pressed firm against your belly, keeping you from thrashing around. “you finally gonna let me fuck you?” jake murmurs against your neck.
“please, jake,” you whine, hips lifting up off the mattress to smash against his. “m’so wet—” you plead, fingers snaking their way down into your panties. with one hand, jake collects both your wrists; pinning them over your head.
“baby, stop fuckin’ talking.” he smiles at you. “keep blabbing on and on, just lemme take care of you, yeah?” you trust him wholly, you do. slowly, you nod. lip between your teeth.
“open,” he murmurs, fingers pressed against your lips. obliging, your lips part wide enough to welcome his pointer and middle into the warm heat of your mouth. they press a gentle weight against your tongue. his eyes haven’t left yours; you whine around his digits—
jake released your wrists, his now free left hand moves under your back, unclasping the black lace bra you’re wearing. inch by inch, your bare skin is revealed until you’re fully nude before him. he looks wolfish, pupils wide in his pretty eyes.
your hands fumble with his belt, shaky and desperate to see him fully. he nudges your hands away, pulling his belt free in one swoosh. slowly, he unzips the denim and pulls it down his legs, stepping out of them. you feel like an animal, waiting for dinner.
he’s standing before you in his calvin klein underwear, smiling like a centerfold model. your hands move on their own, pulling him impossibly closer. jake laughs heartily, kissing you.
his fingers come down, brushing against the wet heat of your cunt. you’ve been dripping down your thighs since you got in his bedroom— he slips a finger inside of you, thumb rubbing against your clit. you’re squirming beneath him, tiny noises crawling up your throat and tumbling out of your lips.
he smiles, kissing the corner of your mouth. “please—” you beg him, eyes staring up into his. he nods, free hand brushing your hair from your face.
“gotta get you ready, baby.” he grins, cocky. “s’gonna hurt.” your nails dig into his shoulders, hiccuping desperately. jake pulls his fingers away, glistening. he brings them up to his lips, lapping them clean.
“don’t make me wait any longer, please,” you beg so pretty that jake can’t resist anymore. he’s propped himself above you, hand beside your head supporting his weight. he frees himself from his boxers. golden hair leads your gaze down his navel. he’s sculpted; his cock is slim, but long— a vein along the underside, his slit already leaking with precum.
you lick your lips subconsciously. jake positions his hips against yours. pelvis pressed against you. your hand guides him along to your hole, the head of him pressing into you. he inches inside slowly, the stretch makes your toes curl. when he finally bottoms out, jake presses a firm kiss to your head.
“okay, baby?” he coos, “you okay?” you nod. jake smiles.
he starts to fuck into you slowly, grunting with each press against you. you make yourself busy, peppering kisses along his face each time it reaches you. jake groans deep whenever you clench around him.
“fuck— m’already fuckin’ close,” he murmurs, adjusting his pace. your head tips backward, moaning quietly into the still air.
“me too, fuck,” you hiccup. “please, jake. m’so close.”
“c’mon, baby— where do you want it?” he whispers, fists clenched around the pillows by your head.
“inside, jake, please— m’on the pill.” you beg him. you’d been dreaming about feeling him deliver his load inside of you all night. jake almost cums when you beg— but holds off another minute before he lets go.
you manage to hold on a few seconds after, finishing while he’s still sheathed inside of you. the both of you pant loudly for a moment before jake pulls out, grabbing a damp cloth and cleaning you up.
the wetness of the towel is cold against the heat of your cunt— and jake is careful, pressing kisses to your thighs. when he’s finished cleaning up, he curls up into his cool sheets beside you. you’re zonked; drooling on his pillow.
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a few nights later, its girls night. you’ve been drinking at the hard deck since four— it’s currently ten thirty. everyone was back in town for the week, so you and some highschool friends were catching up over some drinks.
jake strolled in with his naval friends at nine fourty five— your head lifted, as if sensing his presence. his eyes meet yours, and he gives a firm nod. that was all you got? a nod? bradley spots you soon after, walking up and hugging you. he knows all your friends from highschool— he makes quick work greeting them all with polite handshakes.
it’s different, this time. usually you were the one to ignore your fling at the bar. hardly ever serious with any guys from school— it felt good to hurt their egos. without realizing it, you were suddenly on the receiving end of that ignorance.
your friends leave around ten fifteen— and you’ve spent the last fifteen minutes trying to work up the courage to go up to them. his friends all know you through bradley; slamming your empty bottle on the table, you approach.
you snake your arms around jake’s slender waist, he yells in surprise— spinning around to look at his attacker: you. he looks confused. “uhm, hello?” he looks so handsome when he’s pretending to be a stranger.
you giggle up at him, reaching to squeeze at his cheeks. he nudges your hands away, holding your wrists down by your sides. he gives a nervous look around— nobody’s watching. “why are you ignoring me?” you whine, beaming up at him.
jake’s grip on your wrists is tight. “anyone who knows your father could be texting him right now— don’t risk this, baby.” he’s scolding you.
you huff, glaring at him. “so— what’re you saying? you’re embarrassed to be seen with me or somethin’?” your words are slurred, and jake realizes just how drunk you are. he hasn’t been this plastered since sophomore year of college.
he’s getting frustrated. “no, baby. you know it’s not that. we’re keepin’ this a secret, remember?” his brow lifts. his final straw comes when you try to lean up and smush your lips against his. jake firmly grasps your shoulders, steering you toward bradley and the other pilots.
“hey, rooster.” jake sighs, “she’s hammered. i’m gonna bring her home.” bradley nods, looking you over. you’re sweating, dress rumpled and pouting up at jake. bradley sighs.
“alright man— just. keep her safe and don’t be an ass. she’s sensitive.” jake nods, guiding you out of the bar. you stumble over your own feet, bradley watches like a hawk as the two of you leave.
natasha looks up, following bradley’s gaze. “he’s not— right?” she has heard all about jake’s lady killer behavior. “she’s like— really drunk.”
bradley shakes his head. “god no— he’s driving her home. offered to do it for me.” he nods. he can’t exactly tell the pilots jake had been sleeping around with their admiral’s daughter for the past few weeks.
javy whistles, smiling. “bagman’s trying to earn some brownie points with ice?” it’s a joke— but it suddenly dawns on bradley that this is what jake was doing. playing with your feelings for a promotion in the ranks; his jaw tightens.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⟡ ݁₊ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
in the car, you fiddle with the AC, turning it way up and letting out a frazzled moan as the cool air blasts your overheated skin. jake’s gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles are white. you turn to look at him, sighing.
jake pulls up outside your parents house and you dart up in your seat. you were under the impression he was bringing you back to his place. “why are we here?” you slur, half yawning.
“where else would i bring you?” jake looks confused. “my place?” his tone is joking— but that is what you had thought. you’d been looking forward all night to crawling into his bed.
you pout, nodding. “yeah— don’t you want me, jakey?” he laughs, shaking his head. the age gap between you two had never been so apparent to him than right now. you were whining and pouting like a damn teenager.
“sweetheart, you and i both know that’s not the issue.” his tone is strict, like if he let his walls down he’d melt and lean across the console to kiss you silly.
“but i want you.” your tone is needy, jake sighs and shakes his head.
“you’re drunk out of your mind.” he’s not looking at you anymore, eyes fixed ahead of him. “i’m not going to take advantage of you.”
“you’re drunk too—” you try to argue, but you know deep down he’s sober. he would never drive you while he was drunk, he would never drive at all drunk.
“don’t try.” he’s interrupts, “i’m not going to fuck you tonight.” the words are clipped, they have to be.
“but—”
jake cuts you off again: “how many times do i have to fucking say it? i’m not going to take advantage of you!” he’s loud, voice raised. you shrink back in your seat.
“but i want you to!” you whine, arms crossed over your chest.
jake scoffs, turning to look at you. “what, you want me to take fuckin’ advantage of you? that shit turn you on?” you scowl, embarrassed. he’s usually all southern manners— but he’s swearing. it’s how you know he’s angry.
the two of you sit in tense silence for awhile. the only noise is the engine of his truck and the ticking of his watch.
you finagle with the door handle. beside you, jake sighs. he gets out of the car and comes around to open your door. you glare at him, taking his hand and climbing out of the car. he walks you to the door, hands on your shoulders.
before you unlock the front door he turns to you, he looks tired. he brushes your hair behind your ears and presses a firm kiss to your head. “call me. tomorrow.” you nod, he continues, “when you’re sober.”
he waits until you make it inside to get back in the car, he rests his head against the steering wheel, frustrated and tired. his phone dings— a text from bradley.
bradley
she get back okay?
jake
big fight. she’s home now
bradley
it’ll be okay
she’s a tough drunk
jake thumbs up the message, and drives back to his place.
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⟡ ݁₊ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅
inside, you lean against the door, letting out a big breath. stood at the foot of the stairs is your mother— she’s been awaiting your arrival home.
“was that jake seresin bringing you home?” your mother crosses her arms over her chest. she had a serious expression on her face; guilt builds in your belly for making her wait up on you.
you nod. “yeah— he offered so bradley could stay at the bar—”
she cuts you off. “don’t you lie to me.” she reprimands. “i know your ways, little girl. don’t you mess up that boy’s life cause you want to rebel a little.”
your eyes widen— what?
she continues. “he has a future ahead of him in the navy. and he is four years your senior. you do this to nice boys all the damn time. so before you think about doin’ anything— don’t.”
you glare at her. “okay, mom— jesus. i’m not going to do anything. i don’t know why you think i’m such a slut.”
she gasps, scandalized. “don’t you use that language with me!” you throw your arms up and turn on your heel, marching upstairs to your bedroom. you slam your door behind you, collapsing into bed. instinctively you text jake.
bobby franklin x reader [mdni] — your boyfriend splashes out on a new camcorder and insists on testing it out on you.
“State your name for the record.”
“You know my name, Bobby.”
“The camera doesn’t.”
Said camera has barely left Bobby’s hands since he’d brought it home two days ago, much to your chagrin. It had taken the entirety of those two days—when you weren’t at work, anyway—for him to convince you to be his muse on your day off. You weren’t even sure what you were signing up for.
Now you sit cross-legged on the bed with one of Bobby’s shirts hanging from your frame, sweating in the summer heat. The fan in the corner rattles noisily, doing little to combat the warmth, and the heat of your annoyance at a camcorder being shoved in your face isn’t exactly helping.
You roll your eyes at him, unimpressed. “The camera isn’t a person. I'm not introducing myself.”
“Well—“ He kisses his teeth, ready to argue his case.
“If you’re just using this as an excuse to roleplay, I want no part of it,” you interject, arms folding stubbornly over your chest.
Bobby zooms the camera in on your deadpan face. “Subject displays signs of hostility—“
“Turn that thing off.”
The warning in your voice only seems to amuse him. The viewfinder hides his expression, but you imagine him grinning, which only exasperates you further.
“Hostility increases—“
“Bobby.”
“Fine. Fine,” he relents—not by turning the camera off, obviously, because that would have required him to possess even a shred of self-restraint, and he’s thoroughly enjoying pestering you right now. Instead, he zooms back out and lowers the camera enough for you to see his face. “This image quality is insane.”
Despite yourself, you feel a little endeared by his enthusiasm. “Well, it better be. That thing is worth, like, a month’s rent.”
The number still makes you feel vaguely ill. The conversation where you’d discovered exactly how much his new equipment cost had almost given you a heart attack. Bobby, however, appears completely unbothered. In fact, judging by the distant look in his eyes, he probably hasn’t heard a single word you’ve just said.
He’s more focused on staring at the tiny flip-out screen again, adjusting the focus ring, watching you reluctantly unfold your arms again.
“Though to be fair,” he says, “you make it easy.”
Your frown deepens. “That’s a terrible line.”
“Line?” He replies absently.
“That.” You gesture vaguely towards him. “Whatever that was. You make it easy.”
A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. “It wasn’t a line.”
“It absolutely was.”
“It wasn’t.”
“You called me pretty.”
“I did not,” he denies.
You sit upright. “So now we’re lying?”
Bobby laughs. “I said the image quality was good.”
“Because of me. Therefore you implied I was pretty.”
“I did no such thing.”
“Liar!”
The grin spreading across his face makes your stomach flip unhelpfully. You considered yourself immune to his charms by now, but his boyish grin and the way he’s admiring you through his camcorder makes you want to swoon. Which is exactly why you immediately scowl at him.
“Stop looking so pleased with yourself.”
“I can’t help it,” Bobby says.
You huff an amused breath despite yourself. The sound seems to encourage him, and he adjusts something on the side of the camcorder and squints through the viewfinder.
“Hmm,” he hums thoughtfully to himself.
Naturally, such a sound is immediately enough to warrant suspicion. “What?”
“I need the subject to move around. Test how it picks up motion.”
“So now I’m just ‘the subject?’” You raise a challenging brow at him, and he immediately backtracks.
“I need my hot supermodel girlfriend to move around,” he corrects.
You roll your eyes, but it does make something stir in your chest despite its sheer ridiculousness. Bobby lowers the camera again and you catch the mischievous look on his face.
“Maybe you should model.”
“No,” you deny instantly.
“You’re not even going to think about it?” He says, a whine catching in his voice.
“I don’t need to. I don’t want a video of me stripping, or whatever the hell you want, sitting around our apartment. I babysit my niece here twice a week.”
“Okay, and? It’s not like she knows how to work one of these. She barely knows how to brush her own teeth.”
“It’s— it’s the principle,” you insist, cheeks burning. You wouldn’t consider yourself a shy woman, far from it, but the idea of there being a physical record of you attempting to seduce your boyfriend is offputting. “I’m not a slut.”
He groans and throws his head back. “No, you’re not,” he agrees as patiently as he can. He’s using the same voice he uses to console your aforementioned niece, which isn’t exactly helping his case. “You’re very loyal, in fact. Dedicated, too. It’d be really nice if you could show me that dedication—“
“Gross.” You stick your tongue out. “Don’t make it weirder than it has to be.”
“Fine. Fine.” He raises his free hand in surrender. “I’m not making it weird.”
A silence falls over the both of you, and you worry at your bottom lip in consideration. It just goes to show how much you adore him, because you should be sticking with your gut answer and telling him to fuck off. Alas…
“You promise you won’t show anyone?”
Bobby perks up instantly. “Promise. Scout’s honour.” The boyish salute that follows makes your shoulders ease up a little, and you briefly question why you’d even consider stripping for such a childish individual.
“Fine. But just a little. To… test your motion, or whatever.”
“What?” He blinks stupidly, before realising that’s the excuse he’d used just a moment ago. A sheepish grin tugs at his mouth. “Oh, right. Exactly. Just a little is fine.”
You swallow, shifting slightly on the bed. The frame creaks, and you can’t help but think the moment feels incredibly unsexy. You’re sweating in the sweltering heat, and it’s probably picking up the whirring sound of the fan, and—
Now you’re just psyching yourself out. It’s fine. It’s just Bobby.
“Okay, so… what do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know. Didn’t think I’d get this far.”
“Bobby.”
“Just do what feels right.” He waves a vague hand. “Take your shirt off, or something.”
Such a request should make you sputter with indignance, but it’s no surprise coming from the man who seemingly spent upwards of eight hundred dollars on a camcorder just to record his girlfriend in their shitty apartment. You force some more confidence into your posture, shoulders squaring as you look down at your shirt. Slowly, your fingers drift down to the hem, curling around it.
You glance up at him for reassurance, met with an eager nod. Stifling a sigh, you drag it up slowly, revealing inch by inch of warm skin. “Like this?”
“Just like that,” Bobby breathes, voice lower now.
Encouraged by that, you pull it up further, dragging it up past your bra. Bobby wets his lips at the sight—your breasts spilling over the cups, soft and enticing. Up up up it goes until you’re pulling it over your head, letting it fall to the floor in front of you.
You want to shift uncomfortably, clamp your thighs together, cover yourself with your arms. It’s not like he’s never seen it before. It’s just unnerving with the camcorder directed at you. But you force yourself to stare directly at it, spreading your thighs slightly to give him a proper view of your panties.
“Fuck, yeah,” he murmurs. “Touch yourself.”
“What?” You say, alarmed.
“Not—“ He laughs a little, shaking his head. “Not there. Sorry. Just… your tits, or something.”
Your shoulders sag with relief. That’s a little too much for now, but you’re content enough to give him at least some form of show. Your fingers skate back up your stomach, goosebumps prickling beneath them. Then you cup your breasts over your bra, watching his reaction through half-lidded eyes.
“You’re so pretty, babe,” he says, and the approval goes straight between your legs. “Doing so well.”
You reward him by hooking your fingers under one of your bra straps, inching it down. His breath catches audibly—selfishly, you hope the camera caught that reaction—and he shifts a little on his feet. The thought of him getting visibly aroused by your display emboldens you further.
The other strap follows, and you palm at yourself over the cups a little more. “I would have worn a better set if I knew we were doing this.”
“I like this bra,” he says, only half hearing you, zeroed in on the sight of you squeezing at yourself.
You release them and he almost groans in disappointment. Before the sound can escape, you reach behind you, unclasping the bra and letting it fall away. His eyes widen cartoonishly, and you bite your lip to mask a smile, trying to remain as sultry as possible.
“Shit, can I touch you?” Bobby takes a step forward. Your eyes flick down to his jeans. They’re tight, but you think you can make out the forming bulge beneath the denim.
“Can’t touch ‘the subject,’” you quip.
Hands skim along your chest again, and he seems enraptured as you grope yourself. You’re surprised he hasn’t caved already, but his restraint is admirable as he nods sagely in agreement. Still, you hear him groan under his breath when you focus on a nipple. It stiffens under the touch, already sensitive enough to make you bite the inside of your cheek.
“Is this enough movement?” You ask, rolling your nipple between your fingers while your other hand palms at the flesh of your other breast. You’re hardly moving, so the answer is definitely no, but he indulges you with another one of those enthusiastic nods. You're certain you could sit entirely still with your bra off and he'd tell you it was enough for his little 'motion test.'
“Yeah. Looks, um—“ His gaze moves to the viewfinder, which he realises he hasn’t actually looked through since you took your shirt off. He can only hope the camera was pointed at you properly. “Looks great.”
“The movement, or me?”
“The movement,” he says, laughing at the indignance that crosses your face. “You look more than great. You look perfect.” Heat crawls up your cheeks, but he’s not done. “Which is exactly why I really can’t keep my hands to myself right now, and I don’t think you should waste your day off sitting in bed alone when we could be having sex.”
You bark out a laugh as he switches it off, setting it on the dresser and advancing towards you. “Well, that’s an improvement from your last line.”
He stands between your parted legs, ducking his head to give you a quick kiss. “For the record, it wasn’t a line,” he insists as you reach for his belt.
“Liar,” you mutter against his mouth.
The smile he gives you when he pulls back is so hopelessly smitten that your own laughter softens with something warmer. He ruins it by breaking the silence with:
“Maybe we should invest in a tripod. Then we could really record something sexy—“
Summary:
Bartending at The Hard Deck was fun. The difficult part? Trying to resist Hangman's continuous attempts at flirting and getting you into bed with him. Because you wanted more than just a one night stand and you weren't sure he did.
Warnings: idiots in love, pretty slow burn, slight miscommunication, smut, unprotected sex, oral f!receiving, oral m!receiving, very slight dom/sub undertones, praise kink, swearing, alcohol use, afab!reader, no use of y/n, not really proofread.
Words: 7k
A/N: Stayed up wayyy past my bedtime to finish this cause I was so excited, but I'm quite happy with how it turned out! First time writing for TGM/Hangman so let me know what you think :)
It was Friday, the sun was scorching, the waves were crashing and you were stocking the bar at The Hard Deck before it opened.
You were expecting the usual weekend crowd so you made sure everything was ready. It was second nature by now, the work here. After almost six months you knew all of the regulars, their orders and who would show up when.
That’s also how you knew that today, the Dagger Squad would be showing up. For two weeks they were on a mission and if the rumors were to be believed, it was successful. Which meant a celebration was in order.
You’d be lying if you said, that they weren’t your favorite regulars and having them show up made every shift pass by in a breeze. Especially when a special someone was there too. Hangman.
Or Jake, his real name you had only learned after a few months of knowing him.
He was the loudest, the one you couldn’t help but notice even in the thickest of crowds. He was cocky, flirty and funny and more than aware of his good looks and beautiful green eyes.
You were also pretty sure that he had more than a hint of a god complex, something that was necessary as a fighter pilot, but did not always bode well for a personal life.
All of that was a very deadly combination. A combination you had sworn to resist.
But that was easier said than done.
Hangman was like a magnet, drawing you in, dragging your gaze towards him and sometimes even your body, making staying away very, very difficult.
And today, of course, was no different.
As soon as the dagger squad poured into the bar, your gaze was locked onto the door, watching as Rooster, Bob, Phoenix, Fanboy, Payback and Coyote swaggered in and for a split second you thought that Hangman wasn’t going to be there. But then there he was, rounding out the troop, last but definitely not least. The golden hour sun illuminating him from behind, making his blonde hair practically glow.
Rowdy as always, they were laughing and talking as they stepped up to the bar.
“Hey guys,” you said with a broad grin towards the group. “How was the mission?”
“Absolutely crushed it!” Rooster replied.
“Yeah, if it wasn’t for Hangman flying like crazy, we would all be dead!” Coyote butted in and it involuntarily made you look towards Hangman, who was leaned against the bar, the picture of casualness as he shrugged. His eyes already on you.
“What can I say? I’m very good.” Smirk on his face, his eyes looked you up and down and with an intensity that made your heart race. Trying to slow it down again, you turned back to the others.
“So what can I get you to celebrate?”
After taking orders and pouring beer, they moved towards the pool table and crowded around it, only Hangman remained by the bar.
“Did you miss me?” He asked, taking a sip of his beer, but that cocky smirk never left his face.
“Those were the longest two weeks of my life,” you said theatrically. “I couldn’t sleep or eat, fearing for your life.” You clutched your chest.
He laughed, leaning a little further over the bar, closer to you.
“See I know you’re playing this off as a joke, but I know there’s truth in there.”
You rolled your eyes at him but couldn’t fight off the smile accompanying it.
Okay, yeah, maybe there was a little bit of truth to it. But he didn’t have to know that. Maybe those two weeks really felt a little slow and like they stretched on for an eternity. And maybe you had occasionally thought about him - and the others - and if they were safe, but any normal person would do that. You were somewhat friends after all. It had absolutely nothing to do with him specifically.
“But don’t worry sweetheart, you won’t get rid of me that easily.” He winked at you before he went to join the others and their lively conversations.
Time passed and the night went on, the Deck filling up and some of the daggers coming up to the bar periodically to buy more rounds of drinks, but it was so busy, you barely had time to talk to them.
Only once Penny relieved you of your shift, taking over for closing, did you have time to pour yourself a beer and walk towards them.
You did that sometimes, join them when you could, playing a game of pool or darts.
“There she is!” Phoenix spotted you first and opened her arms to give you a quick hug.
Out of all of them, she was the only one you hung out with outside the bar. Being in such a male dominated field, you knew she was glad to have another woman around as a friend and you felt the same. She was also the only one who knew about your feelings for Hangman. You hadn’t intended on telling her, but she was so perceptive, so sharp, you didn’t even have to. Or maybe you were just so obvious in your ogling, although you’d like to think you weren’t.
One day she simply asked you “when are you gonna fuck him?” and you almost choked on your drink. Trying vehemently to fight off the allegations but the raised eyebrow she gave you made you give in quickly, spilling the secret you had held on for so long.
She didn’t exactly approve that he was your choice, but was still supportive nonetheless. And in your logical mind you didn’t really know why your heart decided on him either, when quiet and polite Bob was there, or Rooster who wore his every emotion on his sleeve. No, it had to be Hangman. Hangman, who flirted with every being with a pulse and two legs and had a reputation like no one else.
That flirting obviously also involved you, pulse and legs meeting the requirements. It was easy at first to shrug it off, thinking he would eventually get bored. You were the shiny, new plaything. However, he never did, in fact the flirting increased. Probably seeing you as a challenge now, which meant that as much as you wanted it - wanted him - you could never give in.
You wanted more than to be his one night stand, his challenge, his conquest or notch in what must’ve been a very long belt.
There was only that one time when you almost crossed that line. Closing down the bar, just the two of you, Hangman insisting on helping… but you didn’t like to think about it. Hated how it still made you heart skip a beat and heat curl low in your belly. The way he looked at you as he leaned in. How your lips almost connected. How his hand felt on your hip, warm and heavy and a tad possessive, before Penny came barging in.
You’d jumped apart, pretending like nothing had happened. Really, nothing did.
Swearing to never repeat that mistake again, you just had to be content with watching him from across the bar, or the pool table. Just as you did right now, sipping your beer, pretending like his smile didn’t make you weak in the knees.
“I’ve got a date tomorrow,” you then told Phoenix out of the blue. Her eyebrows shot into her hairline.
“A date? With… Hangman?” She asked confused.
“What? No!” You shook your head. “With some guy who came into the bar the other day. At first I was going to say no, but then I figured it might not be such a bad idea.”
“Getting over him by getting under someone else, huh?” She smirked, sipping her drink and you shrugged.
“Something like that. Or at least take the edge off,” you mumbled the last part.
“Ohh, so you just wanna get laid!” She laughed at the realization, her voice louder than she intended, drawing Jake’s eyes towards you.
“Shh! I mean, yeah, it’s been so long and I am this close,” you held up your index finger and thumb, practically touching, “to saying yes to Jake. And we both know this can’t happen.”
“Well good luck now, ‘cause he’s coming over.” She snickered as she walked off, leaving you alone and defenseless as Hangman walked up.
“I couldn’t help but overhear something just now.” He grinned, green eyes bearing a glint of mischief. “Something about you wanting to get laid?”
“No- that was… not at all-“ You stammered, scrambling for an excuse. It only made his grin widen.
“You know, flying and almost dying really gets the adrenaline going.” He leaned down a little, whispering the next words. One hand sliding down your bare arm.
“It’s one hell of an aphrodisiac.”
You swallowed hard.
“Yeah, I can imagine.” You managed to whisper back, not fully trusting your voice to speak louder.
“How about we help each other out, hm?” His gaze was back on your face, taking in your reaction. Watching - and probably enjoying - as your resolve cracked.
Your skin was burning under his touch. Innocent technically, it was just your arm, but it felt like he was setting your skin on fire.
Raising your chin slightly to look up at him, you took a shaky breath.
“Maybe next time.” Still whispering, trying to pass it off as a joke.
“That’s not a no.” He didn’t sound disappointed, just amused. Intrigued. Like he could wait you out. He did stop touching your arm, though. Stepping back a tiny bit and giving you more room to breathe.
“No, it is definitely a no.” You built up the wall of your resolve again, brick by brick, speaking louder. Desperately trying to ignore the growing ache between your legs that had you ever so slightly clench your thighs together.
Hangman nodded, that cocky smile never leaving his face.
“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.” He gave you one more look over his shoulder as he walked away. The only thing you could do in return was take a deep swig of your beer, which was a little warm by now, the bitterness more noticeable, but exactly what you needed.
“You’ve got it bad.” Phoenix laughed, sliding back up next to you.
“Shut up,” you replied but couldn’t help laughing with her.
Every time you were close to giving in, you reminded yourself of what Penny had said to you that night after she caught you almost kissing Hangman.
You thought she would give you a stern talking to about hooking up with customers at work, but instead she pulled you aside and told you to be careful with Navy boys. Especially the pretty ones that looked like Jake. Because a big part of their job was breaking hearts and she didn’t want you to learn the hard way.
She had known the whole group for a lot longer than you had and you had heard stories about her complicated relationship with their group leader, Maverick.
Not having been around military before in your life, you took her advice to heart. And it wasn’t like you hadn’t seen Hangman make out with pretty girls in corners before or watched him as he staggered out the bar with his arm around their waists. You knew what he was like and you were grateful to Penny for the reminder.
On Saturdays, The Hard Deck opened at noon and you took the opening shift again so you had the afternoon off to go on your date.
It was quiet, but the day still went by pretty quickly. Distracted by first date jitters and what outfit you were gonna put on.
By the time it got busier, Penny took over for you and sent you on your way. You let out a sigh of relief. Jake or any of the others hadn’t come in yet today, which meant you didn’t have to explain why you were leaving early and where you were going.
In the parking lot, you were just reaching for the car door handle when you heard Phoenix call your name.
Shit.
You turned around with a sigh and wave and saw her, together with some of the others coming over, while the rest went inside the bar.
“Off already?” Jake was - of course - at the forefront and before you could even think about lying, Phoenix answered for you.
“She’s got a hot date.” She grinned, side eyeing Hangman. If your looks could kill, she would be dead right now. You bit your bottom lip, not denying the fact.
Your gaze flashed to Jake next. He clenched his jaw - just for a second - and a look flickered across his face you couldn’t quite identify, before that ever-present, easy smirk of his snapped back into place.
“Have fun then,” he said easily, but his voice had an edge to it and a tightness in his shoulders as he turned that made you bite down on your lip harder.
“Dude, really?” You hissed at Phoenix.
“Relax, it’s good.” She replied, looking over her shoulder at Hangman.
“He didn’t need to know that.”
“He did.” A grin spreading on her lips. “Cause what you just saw, was jealous Hangman.”
You opened your mouth to deny it, but then closed it again. Replaying the way he looked as Phoenix told him about your date had you admit: it did seem like jealousy.
“He’s probably just pissed someone else might get to fuck me before he does.” You tried to reason and not get your hopes up that maybe he wanted more than just sex.
“Or maybe he’s just Hangman and admitting his feelings is something that he’s never had to do before.” Phoenix countered.
“Nah,” you simply denied. “I’ll stick to him just wanting to fuck me first.” What Phoenix was saying sounded too good to be true. That Jake might actually have feelings for you but was just too emotionally constipated to say it out loud? Not likely.
She just rolled her eyes.
“Suit yourself.”
After a quick hug goodbye, you got into your car and pulled out of the parking lot, feeling eyes on you. A quick glance proved that Jake was still standing at the entrance of the bar, watching you with an intensity and seriousness in his eyes you rarely saw.
Your grip on the wheel tightened. Ignoring the urge to stop the car and call off the date.
Instead you kept driving. All the way home.
You had put on your favorite short skirt and top that made your boobs look especially great but the date was still just… fine.
Mike was nice. Polite. Handsome even. But God, was he boring. Only talking about himself and his job, not making you laugh a single time.
Did you still let him take you home? Yeah. You did. And it wasn’t necessarily regret you felt after, but you were disappointed.
Of course he hadn’t made you come. Part of you expected that before you even started. You had still hoped, however, it would scratch that itch. Somehow it had the opposite effect. Like it had reminded your body what it should feel like to be touched and kissed. How much better it would be with someone who actually cared about your pleasure.
Leaving his place immediately after, you didn’t bother to sleep over. At home you had to take measures into your own hand, making yourself come at least once, to stop that incessant craving. Trying not to think about Hangman and failing spectacularly. How his hands felt on your body and how much better they would feel between your legs. How he probably had an annoyingly perfect cock that would fill you up just right. And how he would put that smart mouth to good use. You stopped fighting it.
For the first time, you let yourself freely fantasize about Jake while you fucked yourself, resulting in an intense orgasm that had you out of breath and your legs shaking.
You weren’t sure if you could look him in the eye tomorrow without blushing.
That turned out not to be a problem, because Jake wasn’t there the next day or the following few.
Phoenix had been there one Sunday and you told her about the date, how disappointing it was. All of it. She extended her condolences in return.
“Maybe it’s time to fuck Hangman after all.” She joked and a part of you started to think that maybe she was right.
How much longer were you going to torture yourself with longing and heartache, when he freely offered himself up at every given moment? Doing it once might actually cure you.
Or maybe make things so much worse…
It was Thursday when you were closing down the bar, putting chairs on tables when you heard the bar door open.
“We’re closed.” You said without turning around.
“Just one drink.”
You recognized the voice immediately. Jake.
He staggered towards the bar, swaying slightly as he did so and sat down on one of the bar stools. It didn’t take you long to realize that something was wrong. His hair looked disheveled, his clothes wrinkly and as you got closer, you also saw that his eyes were red, as if he had been crying. He was wasted.
Reaching over the bar, you grabbed a bottle and two glasses. Without asking, you poured him a shot of whiskey and slid it over to him, taking a seat next to him.
“You okay?” You asked quietly, concern lacing your voice.
“Peachy.” He knocked back the shot in one go.
You refilled his glass and also poured one for yourself.
In almost six months, you had never seen him like this. Not even close to it. Rarely did he get a bit too rowdy and confrontational when he was drunk, but this was a whole other level.
“You wanna talk about it?” You didn’t really know what to do or what even had him in a state like this. Instead of replying he just shook his head. Without saying a word, he picked up his glass and drained it again and you did the same. Refilling them a third time.
He was slouched on top of the bar, one hand holding up his head that hung low, the other one playing with the shot glass.
Not knowing what else to do, you reached out and put your hand on top of his. He didn’t look at you, but you could still see his jaw clench.
“How was your date?” He asked, and you could hear now that his words were slurred.
“Not great,” you replied honestly, your thumb now absentmindedly stroking the back of his hand.
“Did you fuck him?” That question caught you off guard. The words felt like they slapped you. Harsh. Bitter. Almost spat. The moment of hesitation before you could reply was enough answer for him. He moved his hand from underneath yours and picked up the shot glass again and once it was emptied he got up.
You thought he was going to leave, but instead he turned towards you, getting closer until he stood between your open legs. Your back pressed against the bar.
“Was it good?” His voice was low now, but it was quiet in the bar with no one else there and he was so close you had no problem hearing him.
You didn’t dare look at him. Instead your face was turned off to the side, but you still just shook your head to answer him.
“That’s what I thought.” His right hand came up to rest on your jaw, gently turning your head to look at him. Hesitantly you glanced up.
“If you’d let me, I’d make you feel so good.” Those words had your heart skip a beat. Your breath caught in your throat. His other hand now moved to rest on your hip, pulling you ever so slightly closer to him, fingers digging into your flesh.
“Jake…” You whispered, breath hitched. You wanted this, you did, but not like this. Drunk and sad.
“Please…” His voice cracked slightly - raw, desperate. “Let me make you feel good, make you come. I promise you won’t regret it.” His hand was now stroking the side of your face, pushing a loose strand of hair back. You tried pushing down the heat that was coiling low in your belly. Tried to resist. It might’ve been the hardest thing you’ve ever done.
Jake leaned in then, glancing down towards your lips and you couldn’t help your eyelids from fluttering close. When you felt his hot breath fanning over your lips, could smell the whiskey on it knowing that he was just inches away, you pulled back.
“Don’t.” You whispered, so quietly you weren’t even sure you really said it out loud.
The kiss never came, instead you felt him retreat. Removing his hand from your face and hip and taking a step back. You opened your eyes and saw hurt on his face, clear as day. He gave you one curt nod.
“Jake…” you started again, trying to explain. Apologize. Something.
“No, it’s fine. I get it.” He said as he turned around and took the few steps to the front door.
You wanted to stop him or go after him, you really did. But your body felt frozen. Making you sit with it. Feel the damage you’d done.
His words kept echoing in your head as you sat there a while longer. The blatant want and then his hurt expression after.
Taking a deep breath, you finally got up from the chair and finished closing up. Once back home you sent Phoenix a text. You knew that she probably wouldn’t see it until morning when she got up but you just had to ask.
Jake came to the bar absolutely wasted. He seemed upset. Did anything happen?
You were surprised when an answer came back immediately.
I think it’s the day his best friend died a few years ago… he gets like that sometimes.
You stared at the screen. Heart sinking.
That explained a lot and it made your chest ache for him worse than before. Even more so that you had added on to his agony.
You barely slept that night, but still turned up to your opening shift, and for the first time you felt dread at the prospect of seeing Hangman. Not knowing where you stood with him now.
Every time the door opened, you anxiously glanced towards it. Relief and sadness filling you with equal measure when you saw that it wasn’t Jake. Until it was.
He swaggered up towards the bar, Fanboy and Payback in tow, that easy grin on his face.
“Hey,” you breathed. “How are you?”
“I’m great.” He shrugged ever so casually.
“Really?” Your brows furrowed a little, confused.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” He still wore that smirk, but now you could see through it. Hurt, barely hidden. So that’s how he was going to play this. Pretend like last night didn’t happen. You shouldn’t be surprised, but somehow you still were.
Pouring drinks and handing them to the boys, you got spared from more conversation as Phoenix showed up. They scattered away, only her remaining.
“What’s going on?” She asked, visibly confused, having picked up on the strange vibe between you and Hangman.
“Things got… weird last night.” You said vaguely, not knowing how much into detail you should get. Still you continued.
“Weird like he tried to kiss me and I stopped him.”
“Oh.” Her mouth fell open, eyebrows raised.
“Yeah.” You nodded.
“I’m sure he’ll get over it. He always does.” She tried to reason, wave it off and make you feel better, but something in her voice sounded uncertain.
You leaned in closer to her above the bar, lowering your voice.
“I don’t know. This time seemed different. He was hurt, Phoenix.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“Guess we’ll see,” you said sighing.
For the rest of the night, he was avoiding you, you could tell. He sent Bob to buy him drinks and only looked over to you when he thought you couldn’t see it.
Eventually you even lost sight of him, not knowing if he had left or was just hiding in a corner somewhere from you. Only once your shift ended and you went over to Phoenix to say goodbye did you spot him again, leaning against a wall, a pretty blonde next to him with her boobs practically in his face. You couldn’t blame her, but you sure as hell could blame him.
In that moment you realized that it’s been a while since you had seen him flirt with anyone in earnest. Sure he still let out the occasional one-liner, but not like this, right in your face and obvious, not even trying to be subtle or hide it.
Unfortunately you also had to walk past him to get to the front door.
You tried not to look, ignore him, but then he leaned closer to push a strand out of the girls face - just like he had done to you last night - and caught your eye with a smirk for a split second. You couldn’t help yourself. You scoffed.
“Un-fucking-believable.” You bumped his shoulder, trying to push past, but you didn’t stop.
“What?” You then heard his voice behind you and you knew it was directed at you. There was a challenge in that one syllable. Like he was daring you to turn around.
“Nothing, it’s fine!” You said loudly as you looked over your shoulder. The air felt thick. You knew people were watching now. Didn’t need to look around to see the other daggers glancing back and forth between you two. You simply turned back again and walked out the door.
You hurried to your car and heard footsteps behind you, quickly approaching, following you. You assumed it was Phoenix so you didn’t look.
“So you get to go on dates and fuck losers that don’t even make you come, but I don’t get to flirt with other women?” Of course it was Jake. His voice cutting like a whip. Never backing down from a fight or a challenge. You’ve seen him like this before, but it had never been directed at you.
“No, you don’t!” You turn to him. “Not after almost kissing me and practically begging to fuck me! And now you wanna go around and pretend like nothing happened?” You felt yourself get heated now, too. Voice raising, pulse pumping.
So this was it. You were finally doing it. Talking about your feelings.
“You rejected me!” He surged forward, making you back up until your spine hit the cold metal of your car. It wasn’t like you were scared of him. You knew he would never hurt you, but his presence still somehow intimidated you. The way he was towering over you.
“Yes, but only because I didn’t wanna be your sad comfort fuck while you’re out of your mind drunk!” That shut him up. For the first time tonight, he had no comeback.
“I want more, Jake. I need more.” You added quietly.
Silence. The only thing you could hear was your pulse beating in your ears and the faint music from the deck, but you could feel the tension between you. Thick and heavy.
You looked up at him and saw his face soften, the anger and frustration that had just been there - gone.
And that’s when it happened.
Jake mumbling words that sounded an awful lot like fuck it and then closing that gap. Hands gripping the sides of your face, lips crashing onto yours.
Any anger that you still held in your body dissipated as your body melted against his.
His kiss hungry and devouring, mouth open, tongue sliding over yours. Moans swallowed by him. Your hands fisting his shirt, gripping it tight and pulling him closer towards you until his entire length was flush against yours. Jakes hot body a contrast to the cool metal of your car at your back.
The way he kissed you was all-consuming and so, so good. Better than you could’ve imagined. And you imagined it a lot. Where only minutes before there was anger, desire now took its place. Arching more against him, wanting to feel him closer. Jake grabbed one of your thighs and hitched it up and around his waist, holding it there which left your center exposed to him.
Body shifting just so that his hard bulge was pressing against your clothed clit.
A whimper escaped your mouth that was greedily swallowed by him and you could feel a smirk forming on his lips as he kissed you.
His mouth then moved over your jaw, down to your throat, leaving kisses and dragging his tongue all over. With your eyes still closed, you let your head fall back against the car, giving him better access.
“Wanted this for so long,” he muttered against your skin. You couldn’t speak. Just nodded in agreement.
“Do you wanna give the others a show,” he asked, still kissing your neck. “or would you prefer something more private?” At first you didn’t know what he was talking about. Until you opened your eyes and gazed over to the bar, seeing the faces of the entire dagger squad pressed against windows. He didn’t even have to look. He just knew they’d be nosy enough to watch whatever would unfold between you two.
You immediately tried to hide behind Jake, mortified, face flushing with embarrassment.
“More private,” you whispered but also couldn’t help a laugh despite it all.
“Mhm, I agree,” he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes and there it was again. That glint of mischief in the green. “Wanna take my time with you.” He leaned down to kiss you once more, slower, deeper. And then muttered against your lips:
“And I don’t think they deserve to see you fall apart around my cock for the first time.”
A shiver went down your spine, settling deep in your stomach. A groan accompanying it, slipping out before you could stop it.
If you hadn’t been wet before, you sure as hell were now.
You genuinely didn’t know how you made it home. The drive back a blur. Definitely going above the speed limit. Jake in the passenger seat, the air around you thick with sexual tension. You shifting in your seat, thighs clenching and of course Jake noticing with a cocky grin. He looked almost unaffected, if not for the giant tent he was pitching in his jeans giving him away.
But once you were inside your apartment, the door clicking shut behind you both, Jake was back on you. His arms wrapping around your body as he kissed you. Yours moving to wrap around his neck, running nails through the short hair at his nape.
Together you stumbled further into the apartment. His hands eventually sliding down to the back of your thighs and lifting you up with ease as if you weighed nothing. You squealed at how quickly he did it.
“Bedroom?” He asked, having never been to your apartment before and needing instructions.
“Down the hall, to the right,” you said and now it was your turn to kiss down his neck, nipping at his jaw as he walked you towards your bedroom. Every step made your center push against his hard abs, desperation growing. Grinding yourself down against him a little more.
“Are you getting off on my abs?” He asked, amusement clear, but so was his breathlessness.
“So what?” You shrugged, but not stopping your grinding. He hummed in reply.
“You’re fucking perfect.”
He kept one hand on you while the other reached for the doorknob to your bedroom. Once inside, he dropped you on the bed. You laughed as you looked up at him, still standing at the foot of it. His eyes unashamedly roaming your body, heavy lidded and dark with desire and his cock all but bursting through his jeans.
“Are you just gonna stand there or are you going to fuck me?” Biting your lip to hide a grin, you toed off your shoes.
“Oh, I’m going to fuck you,” he said, voice dropping an octave, coming to crawl onto the bed, looming above you. “Gonna fuck you so good you’ll never want anyone else again.”
You liked the sound of that. Because you didn’t want anyone else but him.
“Ruin me, then.”
Kissing you again, Jake let his hands explore your body. The kiss still hungry, but not as frenzied and anger-charged as the first kiss against the car.
Smoothing his hands over your breasts, down to your belly and pushing his hand under the fabric, slowly, teasingly, before pushing it up completely and making you take it off. Your bra got the same treatment, quickly discarded. Grabbing at his shirt, you reached to pull it off, wanting to feel his skin against yours. Jake kissed down your throat once more, but moving further this time, to your sternum and across your boobs to your nipples. Sucking and flicking them with his tongue. You were so distracted, you barely felt him pop open the button of your jeans and pulling down the zipper agonizingly slow. But he didn’t take them off yet. Just ran his fingers under the waistband every now and again, moving across your belly, then back up to your boobs before finding the waistband once more.
At this point your core was aching, heat coiling in your stomach. The desire and need to be touched were overwhelming.
“Jake, please…” you whined, wanting him to undress you completely. Needing more.
“So needy,” he breathed between kisses, but he did listen. The next time he hooked his fingers into the waistband, they started dragging your jeans and panties down, achingly slow until you couldn’t take it anymore and started kicking them off. That earned a deep chuckle from him.
Once you were fully exposed, he kissed his way back up your legs, nipping the inside of your thighs on each side until he reached the juncture at the very top.
He spread your legs further apart, opening you up for him. You felt his breath, cool against your wetness and then he dove in. Like a man starved, he started lapping at your pussy. No testing strokes or hesitant licks, just overwhelming certainty in what he was doing and what he wanted.
And God, did he know what he was doing. You weren’t sure if it was all the tension from the last six months getting to you or the fact that he really was just that good, but he had you writhing under him in no time. That coil inside of you winding tighter and tighter.
When he added a finger, gently pushing into your wet heat, and then a second one, curling them both just right and pumping in and out, you knew you were done for. Orgasm building higher and higher until it all crashed. Pleasure rushing through you in waves, arching your back, throwing your head into the pillow. His name and a string of curses falling from your lips.
He kept going until even your last wave had subsided, leaving you a panting and breathless mess beneath him.
Jake gave you no time to recover though, you watched him as he got up for a second to take off his own pants and boxers, finally getting to see his cock for the first time. It was thick and long, and curved just enough to promise it would hit all the right spots.
“I knew it,” you mumbled more to yourself, but Jake heard it, making him raise an eyebrow in confusion.
“Annoyingly perfect cock,” you said as if it was the most obvious thing on the planet.
“Been thinking about my cock a lot?”
You opened your mouth to reply but he stopped you, holding up a finger.
“Don’t even try to deny it. We both know the truth.” The way he said it, with that smug little smirk, was so him it made your heart melt.
It was your turn now to crawl towards him, his cock at the perfect height with him still standing next to your bed.
Reaching a hand up, you wrapped it around his length, fingers barely able to close around it. Giving it a few slow strokes, you looked up at Jake and he looked down, biting his bottom lip.
You stuck out your tongue and slid it over his head, watching the way his brows twitched, pulling together, before working his cock slowly into your mouth. Lips stretching around it, jaw wide open. Guiding him in and out, tongue swirling in tandem until you found a rhythm that had him moan softly. Hand finding purchase in your hair, tightening slightly.
“Just like that.” His voice barely more than a groan, which went straight down to between your legs again. Reaching one hand down to start rubbing circles over your clit.
You kept going, speeding up occasionally or taking him so deep until he nudged the back of your throat, fighting back your gag reflex.
His breathing came quicker, then and you knew that if you didn’t stop soon, he would come into your mouth. You weren’t opposed to the idea, wondering what he would taste like, but it seemed like he had other plans as he pulled you off his cock.
“As much as I’d love to watch you swallow my cum, I need to bury myself in your pussy first.” And you couldn’t agree more.
You were still on your knees, looking up at him through your lashes, eagerly awaiting what he had planned for you next.
“Lay back down,” he said.
“Yes, Sir,” you replied with a cheeky grin, and his cock twitched, and he let out a low growl.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish.” His eyes grew even darker and you filed that information away for another time. But for now you wouldn’t push it further.
Jake moved back between your legs, kissing you deeply once more and you felt the head of his cock nudge your entrance. You were wet, very wet, but knew it would still be quite the stretch to accommodate him. Slowly he pushed forward. Inch by agonizing inch.
“Relax, sweetheart,” he whispered against your lips. “You can take it.”
Drawing back slightly before pushing back in, deeper this time. He kept going, mumbling as he continued.
“You’re doing so well.”
“You feel so good.”
“That’s it, baby.”
And then he bottomed out.
He gave you a few seconds to adjust, staying still.
“You alright?” He asked and you nodded.
“So full,” you breathed out.
He only smirked again in return before starting to thrust slowly. Shallow at first, but as you got more used to it, he went deeper and faster. Pulling out almost all the way before thrusting back in.
It was rare that you could come from penetration alone, but the way things were going and the way he felt inside you, you were sure that it would happen. Pressure already building again.
Spreading your legs further, he opened you up more, but it seemed like that still wasn’t enough for him. He hooked his arm under your leg and tossed it over his shoulder, hitting even deeper.
“Fuck,” was the only thing you could say as you moved your hips with him. He leaned forward more, your knee practically pressed against your chest now. Hips snapping against yours. At this angle, he perfectly hit your g-spot on every thrust, making your nails dig into his back as you clung to him, your pussy starting to clench around him.
“I can feel you’re close,” he said, breathing heavy. “Want you to come on my cock.”
“Yes, please,” you whined, so close to your second orgasm now.
“Just a little longer, ‘m close too.” You could tell by the way his thrusts became more desperate, irregular. And you had to try really hard to hold back your orgasm, wanting to be good for him. It took a little longer than expected and with every passing seconds, tears started to prickle at your eyes. Out of pure desperation and the need to come. You were so close to breaking, when he finally said:
“Come for me, sweetheart.”
And the moment he said it, the coil finally snapped, your orgasm released throughout your body, those unshed tears in your eyes now rolling down your cheeks as your pussy clenched around his cock. With one final, deep thrust, he spilled himself inside, cock twitching and Jake all but collapsed on top of you.
You were both breathing heavy, trying to get your pulse to come down to a normal frequency, before Jake rolled off and flopped down beside you.
“Sufficiently ruined?” he asked, turning to look at you with that familiar grin.
You laughed and nodded.
“Yeah. Definitely.”
“That was the plan all along, you know. Get you into my bed. Fuck you so thoroughly you never want to leave. Didn’t think you’d be so stubborn, though.”
He pushed back a strand of hair, fingers lingering against your cheek, as he looked at you with such open adoration.
Oh.
“And here I was thinking you just wanted me for a one night stand.”
You huffed a laugh, shaking your head.
Things suddenly made sense. Why Jake was so relentless. Stopped flirting with other women. You weren’t a challenge. It was all part of his dumb, ridiculous plan.
“Now why would I want that? When I’ve been crazy about you for months?”
“A normal person would just say that. Not make convoluted, stupid plans.” You couldn’t help but laugh. It was ridiculous. Months spent wondering whether Jake actually liked you or just wanted to fuck you. And now here he was, confessing so easily it almost annoyed you..
“Eh, maybe.” He shrugged. “Still worked out, though.”
“Yeah, I guess it did.” You grinned at him. He smiled back before pulling you close and kissing you again.
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