coco .ᐟ

[cocosweetie]

𓆑 .ᐟ c.ai library fic recs favorite writers

🍎 .ᐟ coco. sturniolo triplets. outerbanks. i <3 music. jj maybanks princess. low rise jeans. red hot chili peppers. caseoh. dogs. tv girl. caffeine addict. fleetwood mac. sweatpants. rafe camerons sweetheart. fuzzy socks. hot chocolate. high top converse. squishmellow collection.

[pinkandblueblurbs]

Same anon as before and your writing has me foaming at the mouth it’s absolute perfection. If you want to write a “trying to dom jack” drabble I would definitely not be opposed 💅🏻💅🏻

YAYYY i already had a draft started to be so honest LMFAO. thank u sm for ur asks :’) i rlly enjoyed writing these!!!

robby version!

18+ MDNI

It takes you giving about 3 commands for Jack to have you all figured out. You tell him to take off his shirt, then his pants, then tell him to sit down on the bed. He listens with a grin growing steadily on his face. He loves the little nip in your tone, the way you try to furrow your brows all stern and puff out your chest like some bigshot. It’s frankly adorable.

“Feelin’ bossy today, are we?” He muses with a condescending lilt as he settles against the headboard. You huff but ignore him otherwise, determined not to let him get you worked up.

You take off your own clothes, leaving you fully nude. You swing a leg over Jack’s lap to straddle him. Jack looks unphased as his large hands come down to knead the pillowy flesh of your thighs.

You grind teasingly against his clothed bulge and swell with pride when it pulls a low groan from Jack’s throat. His hips roll upwards to meet you.

“Don’t move.” You impress yourself with your firmness. Jack’s eyes flit up from your hips to your face with a taunting glint in them.

“Oooh,” he says, leaning back and tilting his head up with feigned impressment, “so scary, baby.”

You glare at him. “I can get scary.”

“Is that so?” He smirks. “Guess I better behave myself then.”

Again, you opt to ignore him in favor of freeing his hardening cock from his briefs. You hold it lightly, keeping it steady so you can slide your slickening folds over it. Jack hisses softly at the contact.

“You like that?” You taunt. Jack groans.

“You know I do, baby. Softest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever felt.”

You hum approvingly. You’re determined to keep your movements steady despite the way the head of his cock glides over your clit, threatening to turn your head fuzzy.

You can feel Jack’s eyes on you. Studying you. Then he leans forward, mouth to your neck, breath ghosting over your flushed skin and lips trailing after it. You shiver on top of him.

His teeth find a sensitive spot, grazing it then suckling with just the right amount of pressure. You can’t hold back a breathy moan.

“What now, honey?” Jack’s voice is husky against your ear. “Thought you were the one running the show.”

You open your mouth to reply, but he chooses that very moment to roll his hips upward, his shaft rubbing firmly against your clit. All that comes out is a whimper.

“Baby,” he coos patronizingly with another roll of his hips, “that fast?“

“Fuck— quit it.”

“You don’t really want that, sweetheart.” He’s pulling you right back where he wants you with his honeyed tone. He thrusts up again, hands grinding you down to really give you that delicious friction. “You know it feels too good.”

“Shit, Jack— please,” it tumbles past your lips before you can stop it. And Jack doesn’t even give you a moment to really regret it, because he’s cooing praisingly and tilting his head to reward you with a kiss.

“There she is. Knew my good girl didn’t go very far.”

“Jack,” you whine, pout settling on your lips.

“Not so easy givin’ the orders, huh?” He brings a hand up to cup your tit, thumb brushing over your nipple. Your back arches at the jolt of pleasure. “That’s okay, baby. Let daddy handle it.”

[peppermintkissesxoxo]

an afternoon stroll

rosekiller x gn!reader

cw: d/s relationship dynamics, little daddy kink towards the end, reader gets carried by Evan, mostly fluff

wc: 2.7k

𓆩♡𓆪

"Pet, hands to yourself," Evan tsks as his arm languidly reaches out, fingers pinching the back of your top to pull you back onto the path with ease. 

Your fingers were just a hair away from grazing the bush housing vibrant purple berries practically glowing in the dim forest light, just for a split second before you're firmly pulled away and tucked into your boyfriend's side. "Ev, c'mon!" You throw your hands up as you huff out a whine. "Wasn't gonna touch..." You lie. 

The blonde haired boy scoffs, clicking his tongue. "Yeah you're very believable. Don't throw a tantrum now, precious, you know I won't be on your side," he murmurs while doting a kiss to the crown of your head, a possessive hand placed on the fat of your hip to keep you close to his body, holding you captive. 

Your heart flutters at his usual blasé tone, affection seeping through your body as you snuggle into his side. You love how effortlessly dominant Evan is. It makes you feel taken care of, safe. And it's saved you from the many dumb decisions that have had you just a brush away from death upwards of 10 times throughout the duration of this walk. 

Evan has spent the better part of this stroll through the forbidden forest tugging you away from various flora and greenery that you like to call "pretty glowing plants," which are in fact poisonous and likely fatal to the human touch. Hence why they grow only in the forbidden forest. And he's spent the other part reigning in Barty when he wanders off too far or gets hit with a wave of boredom and starts acting a little too feisty with his wandering hands. 

Evan can't quite decipher if he's in his own version of heaven or if satan personally sent the pair of you up to him to compete for who could make him have a heart attack first. 

Up ahead a skipping Barty twirls around and comes sprinting back over, having heard you getting a scolding and alerted that you needed him to defend your honor, of course. 

"Rosie! Be nice! It's not Treasure's fault the berries are practically seducing us with their sick glow!" He reasons as he comes up to your side to hug your arm, jostling the pair of you in the process. 

It earns him one bored look from said boy. Evan's hold on you doesn't budge, but his eyes glimmer with a cruel playfulness. In a split second his free hand whips out to grab a fistful of Barty's shirt. He pulls the shorter boy against his body by the fabric, stopping you in your tracks simultaneously, now caught in the middle with wide eyes. 

Evan leers down his nose, eying up Barty. The light in his pupils carry just a hint of mischief, a deviation to his normal dead gaze. "Watch it, Bee. You're walking on thin ice today," his low tone rumbles the threat, though you all know it's actually affectionate. 

Barty tongues the inside of his cheek, fighting a toothy smirk, but it's inevitable. He gazes up at the blonde boy with hearts in his eyes. "Kay, Rosie. I can be good," he purrs in a sly manner. 

Your lips quirk up at his blatant lie, stomach heating at the heavy tension thickening between the boys. 

Evan scoffs, leaning down further to whisper against Barty's lips. "Liar." Then he claims Barty's mouth in a deep kiss, his tongue licking behind his teeth sensually, only for a moment, before he releases his shirt and lazily shoves him backwards, ending the kiss quick only for the sole purpose of leaving Barty on the tip of satisfaction. "Don't stray, idiot," he smirks. And then Evan turns back to the path and pulls you along with him. 

Barty is practically beaming with delight at Evan's shove, his cheeks tinted slightly red and his maniacal smile wide with adoration after that kiss. He catches up to you both quickly, hooking a finger into one of your belt loops and leaning down to dote kisses over your shoulder. 

You giggle softly, your shoulder traveling upwards at the ticklish pressure of his lips. 

Barty melts. "Gods, Treasure I swear an angel is born everytime a sound leaves your lips," he coos in between kisses, voice gooey like molten lava. 

Even Evan can't help but let a soft smile tug at his mouth. He can't get enough of your voice either. 

Then Barty's hand is rustling through his pockets to pull out a handful of something. Your eyes catch on the movement as he pushes his hand into your direct line of sight. "Found you something, angel," he purrs, eyes purely fixed on your expression. 

His hand unfolds to reveal a glimmering holographic crystal, a tiny skeleton crow head, and a stick with various colors of moss growing on it, all laid out on his palm. 

Your heart thumps hard in your ribcage. 

It's become a common ritual now for Barty to gift you random trinkets he's found while exploring. It's like he has a secret sense for the little beauties, a keen eye for anything pretty. He's been doing it just for fun since he was young, but once he found you, his Treasure, it made sense that he'd start gifting you the little gems he's found.

It finally clicked when you found out that his animagus is a magpie. 

"Thank you, baby," you coo, your heart flipping a thousand times over as he gently slips the little treasures into your palm. You pick up each one and admire them with equal appreciation, your heart full. 

Barty grabs a handful of your ass while you're distracted, kissing up the side of your neck. Heat creeps up your chest but you're too zoned into the treasures to be pulled from your task of examining. 

After you've looked them over, and Barty has sufficiently groped you till you're hot in the face and a good bit aroused, Evan scoops up the items to deposit into his pocket for safe-keeping until you return to the dorm. "I'll keep them safe for you, darling."

"Yeah you better keep them safe, Rosie. Spent an hour finding those beauties," Barty quips back with a smirk. 

Evan's silence is the only reply he receives, but you give Barty a quick kiss on the cheek to show your appreciation.

The three of you already started walking back to the castle a while ago, but you've still got a ways to go considering how deep into the forbidden forest you traveled. 

Your legs feel like they're turning to led, your body leaning heavily against Evan. You definitely didn't wear the right shoes for this kind of walk which makes it so much worse. The Doc Martins you picked out earlier, a recent gift from Barty, are beginning to rub against your heels with a sharp, unpleasant friction. 

Now, this is something in which Evan consistently reminded you would happen when you were getting ready to leave the dorm. He almost pulled you over his knee for your stubbornness but you held out and won in the end, i.e. Barty threw you over his shoulder and ran out of the dorm with you before Evan could get to you. 

"Ev..." You murmur, sagging into his side more heavily. 

A tired sigh escapes his nose. "Pet." He already knows where this is going. You want to be carried.

You groan softly, pulling away from both boys to cut in front of Evan and abruptly stop him in his tracks. He raises an unimpressed eyebrow. 

The sudden obvious height difference makes you a bit hot. Evan is effortlessly intimidating, he always has been. Nonetheless, it's not going to stop you from getting what you want.  You lift your arms and press your hands to his shoulders, pushing out your bottom lip in a soft pout and putting on "the doll look," as the boys like to call it. 

Evan's gazes down at you with a bored look. 

You scrunch your nose at him and suddenly his hand is gripping your jaw, his face inches from yours. 

"No," he murmurs gruffly, like one would when scolding their disobedient puppy. He's trying so hard to be stern and act like your cute little fucking face doesn't make him want to fall to your every whim. No, he's the one in charge in here, he will not let you get your way like a spoiled brat. 

He may give into you sometimes (a lot of times) but today he's less inclined to spoil you, particularly because said current issue is because you didn't listen to him earlier. 

Though your lips can't pull up into a smile because of your smushed cheeks, your eyes do all the talking. You know he won't be able to resist for much longer. Or... you think so. 

His dead gaze traces over your pretty face. "You're really testing the limits today, doll," he mutters gruffly. 

Heat pools in your lower belly and you resist the urge to swallow as your heart starts to race. You're pretty good at catching Evan's tells by now, the little facial ticks or body language that reveals his true feelings and intentions under his stoney exterior. 

But right now, you're not quite sure whether you're about get a bruised ass or get scooped up into his arms. The uncertainty makes you tingly all over in the best way. 

You experimentally palm at his shoulders with your hands, maybe your touch will sway him. "Please? M'sorry, I'm being good now," you mumble sweetly. 

He scoffs and rolls his eyes, hand releasing your face and gently pushing you backwards in the process. "No. You ask me one more time and we're going to have a problem, pet. I told you not to wear new shoes for this kind of walk. Don't expect sympathy from me," he deadpans, side stepping you to continue walking on the path. 

You huff at his rejection, your stature deflating. 

Barty rushes to your aid, palms pressing to your waist, just about ready to scoop you up into his own arms and carry you instead. He can't have his beautiful Treasure's poor feet aching. 

"Don't even think about it, Junior! They can walk," Evan barks from up ahead, not even needing to look back to know what Barty's attempting. 

Barty freezes, locking eyes with you. You both know you'll be in trouble if Barty helps you. This is something Barty certainly doesn't mind, but you do, and that's the only reason he pauses, surveying your expression carefully. 

You smile softly, threading a hand through his messy brown locks and pulling him into a loving kiss. 

"Thank you for trying, Bee," you murmur sweetly as you pull away. 

It's then that Barty catches a certain twinkle in your eyes. His heart skips a beat. He knows exactly what you're about to do. You're going to pull out the big guns. 

It shouldn't be a surprise that due to Evan's dominant nature it's become a thing for you and Barty to casually call him Daddy outside of the bedroom. It started as a joke but then it stuck rather quickly. It's not sexual (most of the time), and it's not an all the time thing, but it is typically said when Evan's stern nature is especially prevalent. 

Hence, your choice to pull the Daddy card. You turn and call out to Evan, voice soft and airy, pleading, "Daddy, please!" 

Evan pauses, the name sending a familiar jolt through his body. He lets out a deep sigh and rolls his shoulders, of course you'd pull the Daddy card, little brat. But it has him turning around anyways, and he's no sooner striding back to you. 

"Sorry?" A raised eyebrow is directed towards you once he's a less than a foot away from both you and Barty. He crosses his arms over his chest and it only serves to make his tall build broader. 

You swallow harshly, resisting the urge to take a step back. Are you intimidated out of your mind and slightly regretting your choice to test him? Yes. Are your panties a little wet? Maybe also yes. 

Barty places an arm in front of you, shielding you slightly, his eyes locked on Evan. "Ev c'mon..." he laughs nervously, trying to diffuse the tension, and also trying to ignore how hot Evan looks when he's pissed off. He's got to defend his Treasure right now. 

Evan raises a hand to silence Barty. "No, no. If the little doll wants to go down that route I'd like to hear what they have to say." Evan smiles down at you with fire searing in his gaze, a warning. 

A harsh shiver dances up your spine and suddenly you're staring down at your shoes, heat creeping up your neck as you fiddle with the hem of your skirt. "W-Well um—" 

"No, head up. Look at me, you know better," Evan's bored tone interrupts your mumbling, his expression almost blank aside from his narrowed gaze.

Your head snaps up in a rush, wide eyes blinking at him sheepishly. "Sorry, Daddy." 

He clicks his tongue, eyeing your fidgeting hands. "Enough with the fiddling, and speak up properly. If you have something you'd like to ask, now is the time, pet. Don't bore me," his blunt tone is final. 

You nod your head quickly. 

Barty has migrated to behind you for support, letting you lean back on him while his hands rub soothing circles on your hips. He's drinking up the charged tension between you and Evan. That being said, his eyes are entranced with the expression Evan's wearing. The way he's looking down at you, like you're a just a pretty little doll that needs to be put back in their place. He feels dizzy with delight. 

You start, hesitant, "I-I'm really sorry I didn't listen to you about my shoes, Daddy. My... my feet really hurt and I don't think I can walk back without getting bad blisters. Will you... um, will you please carry me back to the castle, Daddy?" You bat your eyelashes up at him gently and make sure to keep your voice soft, your cheeks scorching. 

Evan's silent for a moment, but then you catch the proud glimmer in his eyes and you know you're in the clear. He rolls his eyes and then opens up his arms and gestures you forward. "Come, Pet. You're forgiven." 

Your face practically lights up. Barty gently pushes you towards Evan and you don't hesitate to step forward and press your palms to his shoulders. 

Evan bends at the waist and wraps an arm around your lower back, scooping his free arm under your bottom to lift you onto his hip as he straightens. You wrap your arms around his neck as he does, body buzzing with a warm tingly feeling you always get when you're touching either of your boys. 

"Thank you..." you murmur shyly. 

Evan presses a soft kiss to your temple in response. 

Barty barks out a laugh. "You've gone soft, Ev," Barty taunts said boy, itching for a reaction even though he's much enjoying the sight of Evan carrying you like a little doll. "All it takes is a "please, Daddy" and they've got you falling to their every whim." He smirks. 

Evan merely rolls his eyes. After all you and Barty have put him through today, he's exhausted about 90% of his usual will to bite back. "Quiet, Bee. I think we're all in need of a nap when we get back," he murmurs as he starts walking with you still in his arms. "Go run ahead, Junior. Your energy is quite the opposite of infectious." 

Barty beams, catching up to Evan to kiss him on the cheek and then doing the same to you. "It's like you read my mind, Rosie! I was craving a little run!" And then he's off, sprinting down the path, his figure getting smaller and smaller the more distance he catches. 

Evan tilts his head toward you, his nose brushing the side of your face. He sighs, hugging you tighter to him. "You two are going to kill me one day, you know that, precious?" His voice sounds tired, but fond. 

You laugh softly, turning your face so your nose brushes his. "Mhm. But you love it," you murmur back, eyes practically smiling at him, bursting with love. 

He presses forward to lay a soft kiss on your lips.

"I am quite the masochist, aren't I?" He muses when he pulls back, a soft smile pulling at his lips.

[loserwheelers]

sound check

╰ in which... steve gets a little too loud for his own good and learns that his girlfriend finds his lack of volume control incredibly attractive.

| steve harrington x fem!reader

𑣲 warnings : smut, unprotected sex, missionary, established relationship

𑣲 from the author : this is so steve you cannot tell me otherwise!!! i love writing for steve so much

your bedroom is your sanctuary. it’s small and a little cluttered, but it’s yours. the curtains are drawn, the only light coming from the little fairy lights strung across your headboard, casting a warm, hazy glow. and steve is on top of you, kissing you like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin.

it started out normal. well, your normal. a desperate, frantic makeout session that quickly escalated. clothes were shed, hands roamed, and now he’s settling between your thighs, his weight a perfect, grounding pressure on top of you.

he pushes into you, slow and steady, and you both let out a collective sigh. it’s perfect. he feels perfect. he starts to move, a slow, deep rhythm that has your toes curling. and then he lets out this sound.

it’s not a moan, not really. it’s a full-body, from-the-back-of-his-throat groan. it’s loud. it’s so loud it’s almost comical, and it’s followed by a string of breathy curses.

“oh, fuck, baby, you feel so—shit—so good.”

you can’t help but smile into his shoulder. you love it. you love how vocal he is, how he just can’t help himself. he’s an open book, and you’re currently reading your favorite chapter.

but then he stops.

he just freezes mid-thrust, his whole body going rigid above you.

you pull back, your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “what’s wrong?”

he’s avoiding your eyes, his face buried in your neck. you can feel the heat radiating off his cheeks. “nothing,” he mumbles, his voice muffled by your skin. “keep going.”

“steve, you stopped,” you say, wiggling your hips impatiently. “what happened?”

“nothing happened,” he insists, but he still won’t move. then, in a much smaller voice, he adds, “did i… was i too loud?”

you have to physically bite your lip to keep from laughing. “too loud?”

he finally lifts his head, and his face is so red it’s almost purple. he looks completely mortified. “i just… i get carried away. and it’s… it’s embarrassing.”

you stare at him. truly and utterly stare at him. is he serious? “steve harrington. are you telling me you’re trying to be quiet right now?”

“well, yeah,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “your parents are, like, two rooms down. and it’s just… undignified.”

“undignified?” you repeat, the word feeling foreign on your tongue. you prop yourself up on your elbows, ignoring the fact that he’s still inside you. “you do realize we’re literally having sex, right? the dignified ship has sailed.”

“that’s not the point,” he whines. “the point is i sound like a… a dying whale or something.”

that’s when you do it. you can’t help it. a giggle escapes your lips, and then another, until you’re full-on laughing, your head thrown back.

he looks utterly betrayed. “it’s not funny!”

“it’s a little funny,” you manage to gasp, wiping a tear from your eye. you cup his face, your thumbs stroking his burning cheeks. “steve. look at me.”

he does, his eyes all big and wounded like a puppy’s.

“i love it,” you say, your voice dropping to a serious, sincere whisper. “i love that you’re loud. i love knowing i’m making you feel so good you can’t help yourself. it’s the hottest thing i’ve ever heard.”

his blush deepens, but the wounded look in his eyes is slowly replaced by something else. something hopeful. “really?”

“really,” you confirm. you pull him down for a soft, reassuring kiss. “now, please. stop trying to have polite sex with me and fuck me like you mean it. i want to hear you.”

that’s all the encouragement he needs.

a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face, and all traces of his previous embarrassment vanish. he’s back. he starts to move again, and this time, he doesn’t hold back.

he’s not just loud now, he’s theatrical. with every thrust, there’s a corresponding grunt or groan or a string of filth whispered right against your ear.

“fuck, just like that. you’re so tight, baby. taking me so well.”

“god, you feel incredible. i could do this all night.”

“you like that, huh? you like hearing how good you make me feel?”

and you do. you really, really do. it’s like a feedback loop of pleasure. the louder he gets, the more turned on you get, the tighter you clench around him, which in turn makes him louder. it’s a beautiful, messy, perfect cycle.

the knot in your stomach tightens, faster than usual, spurred on by his constant stream of praise and profanity. you can feel yourself getting close, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“that’s it, baby, come for me,” he pants, his rhythm becoming erratic. “wanna hear you. wanna feel you. come on.”

and you do. you shatter, a loud cry tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you. it’s intense, all-consuming, and it’s all because of him.

he follows you over the edge a second later with a guttural, positively pornographic groan that you’re sure would give your dad an aneurysm. he collapses on top of you, his whole body limp and sweaty.

for a moment, the only sound is your combined, heavy breathing. then, you feel his chest start to shake with silent laughter.

“okay,” he says, his voice muffled by your pillow. “maybe you’re right. that was… way better.”

you run your fingers through his sweat-damp hair, a lazy, satisfied smile on your face. “told you so.”

he lifts his head, his eyes sparkling. “just… maybe try to keep it down a little next time? pretty sure your dad owns a shotgun.”

you laugh, pulling him down for another kiss. “no promises.”

© LOSERWHEELERS 2026

[cocosweetie]

🐞 .ᐟ character ai masterlist pt. 5

dni 18 + .ᐟ may include explicit content.

♯. jake sully .ᐟ

praying ㆍ he prays for permission to want you. fem!user yearning!jake

he's jealous ㆍ he sees you talking with one of the other hunters neutral!user jealous!jake

shutting him out ㆍ you, his mate, are not talking to him fem!user

♯. neteyam sully .ᐟ

he'd die for you, you're his mate ㆍ he breaks up a fight between you and some metkayina boys. neutral!user protective!neteyam

you're the first albino na'vi ㆍ he's intrigued by you neutral!user

ain't that your girl? ㆍ you get into a fight with another girl fem!user mate!neteyam

he fell for you ㆍ he's interested in you..... a human neutral!user human!user

arguments ㆍ he sees you laughing with someone else neutral!user jealous!neteyam

© cocosweetie 🐞 credit to all the writers

[cocosweetie]

me when writers on tumblr / wattpad say english isn't their first language:

[em1i2a3]

Instant Crush

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: Bob has been avoiding you and when you find out the reason why, you decide that the only way to make it up to him would need to be thorough and obvious.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Angst (the triforce of doom I say lol), Bob and Reader have known each other since the beginning, this takes place about a year into living in the compound together. There is a lot of miscommunication happening here between reader and Bob regarding their feelings for one another, and I frickin love that trope. Jealousy from Bob/Sentry, and The Void puts Bob down a bit for not being more forward with his feelings because he would actually have her if he tried. Oh. And Bob stutters in this.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (I don’t need to tell y’all to wrap it up do I?), Semi Public Sex Acts (sex doesn’t happen in the area, but there is a lot of stuff that does happen before they need to stop themselves), Breast Play, Worship/Praise Kink, Bob is absolutely touch starved and he can’t get enough of the reader touching him, and he can’t stop touching her either, Oral Sex (both Male and Female Receiving), Hair Pulling, Messy Sex, Dirty Talk, Cum Play/Eating, Biting (with marks left), Bob and reader ar both switches (trust me on this one y’all will see lol), and some edging.

Author’s Note: This was a request made by @bellaisasleep , I loved putting my own little angsty twist on things, because a lot of people have been requesting more angst lol! Hopefully you enjoy!! I loved writing this sososososo much! Thanks for requesting it :) Also side note: I literally blasted through writing this because I listened to a live album by Daft Punk. I think I’ve found my Red Bull replacement lol.

Word Count: 21,222 (whoop whoop)

Bob Reynolds was the kind of man who made you believe in quiet things.

He made you believe in stillness, in silence, in softness not born of weakness, but of discipline so complete it bordered on sacredness. He wasn’t the loudest voice in the room, he wasn’t the first to speak or one to interrupt. He just was–in the way the moon just is above the Earth…Constantly pulling the tides of your heart before you even understood what direction you were moving in.

You met him during a mission–before you joined the Thunderbolts officially–that should’ve broken both of you. And maybe it did, in some sort of poetic, irreversible way. Because ever since that night–with blood dried on your tactical gear, and your hands trembling from adrenaline as he whispered ‘you’re safe, I’ve got you, you’re okay’–you had not really been the same.

And neither had he.

Something tethered the both of you together after that. Something deeper than any language could explain. It wasn’t love, not at first at least. It wasn’t romance. But it was something that took refuge in your bones and your soul. Something that pulsed like gravity beneath your skin every time he walked into a room.

And for a while, that was enough for you to survive off of.

You shared everything–your time, your food, your silence. You’d have late-night check-ins, and breakfasts eaten side-by-side. You would pass books back and forth with scrawled notes in the margins, sometimes you’d sit with your legs over his tracing your fingers over his handwriting, smirking at his comments and making light of what he was mindlessly writing when he was reading.

You knew how he took his tea, and coffee. You knew what his favourite drinks and snacks were, and what his preferences were in almost anything. You knew how his voice sounded first thing in the morning, and how he fell asleep faster when you were near–only because when you sat together on the couch you would hear him snoring within minutes.

You knew his rhythms and he knew yours.

Sometimes he brushed your knuckles and didn’t pull away. Sometimes you caught him watching you when he thought you wouldn’t notice. And you often considered turning to him and asking ‘what are we?’, but the answer already lived too loud between your ribs to speak it out loud.

So you smiled through it, and neither of you said a word.

Because whatever it was–it was fragile. Sacred. And the both of you were too afraid to shatter it by asking for more and overstepping.

And yet–somewhere in the folds of all that closeness, you started to ache. Because as much as Bob let you near, you still never quite knew what was going on inside his head. You didn’t know what lived behind that long, glassy eyed look he gave you when you made him laugh, nor did you know what it meant when he lingered outside your room before you turned in, like he wanted to cross the metaphoric line, but never did.

You didn’t know if you were special, or if he was just kind. Or if the way he touched your arm to steady you after a mission was the same way he’d touch anyone. If his gentleness toward you was a language he spoke to everyone–or if you were the only one fluent in it.

And maybe you were afraid to ask, because deep down you didn’t think you stood a chance. Not with someone like him.

Not with someone who was part god basically. Not with someone who saw every part of you–your scars, your rage, and your weaknesses–and still folded himself smaller around you like you were something worth protecting somehow.

He deserved someone better, someone far more stable and less scarred. Less haunted by the things that she needed to be strong for.

Maybe he thought the same thing about you…Maybe he thought you deserved someone less fractured, less burdened, and less…Him.

So you both stayed in each other's orbit, close enough to feel the warmth, but too far to burn each other.

Until one night–stupid, and thoughtless–you came home from a bar with Yelena and Ava, laughing too loud with a glow in your cheeks that wasn’t meant to hurt anyone. You dropped onto the couch, stretching out with a grin, drunk on your three tequila pineapples.

”I don’t even know how many numbers I got, but it’s like they were handing them out like coupons!” You exclaimed, waving your phone around. Yelena and Ava had laughed with you at this comment, and you divulged in details.

What you didn’t know was Bob had been walking past the common room at that exact moment. You hadn’t heard his footsteps pause behind the wall, and you certainly didn’t see his shoulders tense up. You didn’t realize your voice–bright, careless, and sweet–carved something open inside him.

Because to you, it was a joke, but to him, it was proof.

Proof that the attention you deserved was already out there–waiting for you in the hands of someone who could say what he couldn’t. Someone who wouldn’t hesitate or stammer. Who wouldn’t hold his feelings behind walls made of fear and light.

Bob went quiet after that night. Not cold, or angry…Just…Distant.

A slow withdrawal, like the tide was pulling out to sea.

You tried to tell yourself it was nothing, maybe he was tired or stressed.

But every time you passed him in the halls and got a stiff nod instead of a smile, every time you curled up on the couch alone and stared at the empty spot where his knee used to brush yours, and every time he walked into a room and kept his eyes down like he couldn’t bear to meet yours…

You felt it.

The ache.

The fracture between what you thought you were to each other and what you maybe never were at all.

You missed him, and maybe that was the cruelest part–because he was still there. Still Bob. Still your friend,

But he wasn’t yours in the way you wanted him to be.

You told yourself it was fine. That being near him was enough. That friendship–real, solid, soul-deep–was a gift not everyone got, and you should be grateful for it all. That you had no right to want more from someone who already gave you so much.

But your heart didn’t care about rights, it only cared about the shape of his silence, and how it shifted.

And it wasn’t the safe kind of shift–to the soft, companionable hush that always existed between the two of you like a favourite song on low volume–but it was something colder, and distant.

It was the kind of silence that felt like a door being slammed shut. It was becoming worse and worse by the minute.

Because now he couldn’t even look at you–his eyes used to linger on your mouth, your hands, your eyes, and now they seemed to look off into space all together.

And it only made you spiral into trying to figure out what you had done to deserve something like this. You turned every event over and over in your mind like a worry stone, each day shaving another layer of calm off your nerves.

Did you somehow push too hard, or did you say something wrong? Was it something you didn’t say to him that was making him this way? You had no clue.

But you knew you missed him so much it was settling in your chest like a bruise. Because the truth–the raw, bitter truth–was that you didn’t just miss your friend. You missed him. The way his voice dropped when he said your name to get your attention. The way he leaned in when you spoke like you were saying something important, even when you weren’t. The way his gaze would fall to your lips to see the way they wrapped around the words you were saying, or how they tilted up into a smile.

You were afraid that if you reached for him, you’d ruin everything.

So you didn’t.

That’s what brought you to Yelena’s room that night. Not to confess, but to collapse. You didn’t knock. You just pushed the door open and stepped into the scent of gun oil, candle wax, and citrus-scented dry shampoo that clung to the air and made your lungs burn.

Yelena was stretched out on her back across her bed, with one leg bent, and blade sharpener balanced on her stomach. Her eyes flicked to you, then back to the ceiling she was looking at just moments before.

You didn’t speak, you just walked in, and fell face-first into the spare pillow beside her with a loud flop. She didn’t say anything at first, but it seemed like she was expecting a visit from you.

The quiet filled the space between you like water in a sinking ship.

Then, finally–

“What happened now?” She asked, shifting a bit to look at your collapsed figure.

”I don’t know what I did to Bob that made him ignore me…” Your voice was muffled against the bedding, “But it’s starting to really get to me.” You added, flipping onto your back to stare up at the cracked swirl of white stucco that coated her ceiling. Yelena’s eyes lingered on you a second longer, then she sat up, legs crossing under her, abandoning the knife sharpener to her nightstand.

”You didn’t do anything.” She replied, this earned her a side eye from you.

“That’s what people say right before they tell you that you did.” You commented, picking at the dry skin around your nail bed, which was already raw from the prior days.

“I’m serious,” She insisted, “You didn’t do anything.” You bit the inside of your cheek.

”Then why won’t he look at me? Why does it feel like I don’t exist anymore? Your voice cracked, “I feel like I’m going insane. I thought we were–“ You stopped as the word ‘closer’ got caught in your throat like a splinter. You could see Yelena hesitate, just long enough for you to notice.

“What?” You demanded, sitting up a little, perching yourself on your elbows so you weren’t lying against the spare pillow anymore. “You know something.” You accused.

”I’m not supposed to–“

”Yelena.” You interrupted. She closed her eyes for a second, then sighed, rubbing at her temples with her fingers.

”Three nights ago,” She started slowly, “He showed up at my door in the middle of the night. I thought he was gonna pass out in the hallway.” You stared at her, a worried expression pulling at your eyes.

”Bob?” You confirmed, just to be sure, and she nodded.

“He looked wrecked. He was pale and shaking. His hands literally wouldn’t stop moving–it was like he was trying to wring the thoughts out of his bones.” You now sat up completely, your breath catching at the images that began to snap through your mind. The nervousness, the wreck that you had seen countless times before, it was easy to picture because you were the one that normally helped him through these little bouts, but this time he didn’t come to you.

”He said he heard you the other night,” She continued, “When we got home from the bar. The whole thing about getting all those guys numbers…He said–“ She swallowed nervously, “He said it felt like someone had hollowed him out.” You could feel your heart gallop at those words, stuttering even, like it stopped for a second before resetting.

“He kept saying it wasn’t your fault. That you deserved it–all the attention, and that it made sense that you wanted someone who could give you what you need. Someone who wouldn’t make you wait.” You could feel your stomach drop into the floor, like it slipped out of you and all you could feel was emptiness.

”Then he said…”Yelena’s eyes flicked to you, “He said he knew he should let go. That maybe he had finally been shown the truth–that you were meant for someone less…Burdened than him.” Your throat burned at her words, as you tried to blink away the tears that began to form in the corners of your eyes.

“That’s not true.” You said quietly.

”I know that,” Yelena snapped, “But he doesn’t.” Your fists clenched the blankets beneath you.

”Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” You asked, staring at her, watching as she shook her head.

”Because I shouldn’t have to,” She said, “Because you’re both idiots.” Your jaw clenched.

”Excuse me–“

”You’re both in love and too scared to breathe wrong around each other in case it breaks the spell,” She said, eyes flashing with anger, “I’m not your emotional translator, but I’ll put it plain and simple for you so your brain can understand. You want to know why he’s acting like a ghost? It’s because he thinks you found someone better. And you want to know why you’re sitting her on the brink of fucking tears on my mattress? It’s because you think you were never enough for him.” You were stunned by the way she had lost her composure on you. Rarely did Yelena snap like this, but it had become something that burdened her so much and killed her to witness that she just needed to let it all out, and unfortunately you were the one she lost it on.

“All you’re doing is killing each other with all this stupid silence. All this pretending. All this worship-from-a-distance bullshit.” You stared at her, the heat of her words stinging like a slap to the face.

She shook her head, quieter now.

”“What do you want me to do? Force the two of you to talk? Drag you by the hands into a room and lock the door until one of you finally confesses? That only works in movies. Real people don’t change when you corner them–they break.” You closed your eyes tightly, and sighed.

”He really thinks I want someone else?” You asked, gently.

”He thinks you already have them.” Yelena’s gaze softened–just barely, “And he thinks he missed his chance.” You shook your head, scratching the back of your neck with more pressure than needed, feeling your nails sting your skin.

“I didn’t even keep those numbers. I deleted them the second I woke up the next morning. I didn’t even think he’d care.” Yelena’s expression didn’t shift when you said this, but her voice did.

”Of course he cares,” She said, the words clipped and firm, “Because it’s you.” She stood, pacing once to the edge of the bed like she couldn’t sit still any longer.

“You know how fragile he is when it comes to you,” She continued, measuring the tone of her voice perfectly, “You’ve seen it. Felt it. You know how he quiets down when you walk in the room. How his hands settle when you’re near. How he breathes easier when you touch his arm, or sit beside him, or just fucking exist in his line of sight.”Your throat tightened, and your gaze dropped from hers, but she didn’t stop.

”And it’s not just Bob,” She added, “You know how all his other counterparts feel about you too.” Your chest stilled.

”Sentry…And The Void…” You whispered, not even considering what they must’ve been doing to him at this point. Yelena nodded.

”You think he was jealous? That was before The Void started whispering in his head about how someone else would be undressing you. How someone else would get the version of you he’s spent months trying not to dream about.” She said it without cruelty–but the truth hit like lightning to the ribs.

”You think Sentry’s any better? That part of him worships the ground you walk on…And you know how emotional he gets when it comes to being challenged.” You stared at the floor, with your stomach twisting in grief. You weren’t sure if it was anger or heartbreak in your bones, but it ached the same either way.

“I…I need to take care of this.” Yelena looked at you, and finally she eased up a bit. The tough love flickered down into care.

”You really do…It’s time. Just push all your thoughts out of the way, and for once in your life, don’t overthink it. Make it clear, and for the love of god…Make it obvious, because I don’t think either of you can survive another miscommunication.” You gave her a nod, then got up, feeling your heart fluttering.

Because this time…You weren’t going to be seeing Bob, wondering if he wanted you. You were going to be seeing him knowing he did.

——————

The next morning you had gotten ready. The sun had not even fully risen yet. It was early–so early the light outside still looked like a haze of dark purples and light blues. The hallway lights buzzed faintly as you padded down the corridor, slipping some socks onto your feet in the process. The tower was still asleep. But you knew where he’d be.

And sure enough, you found him.

Bob stood in the living room, half-crouched as he fiddled with the strap of his messenger bag. He looked like he hadn’t slept–at least not well. His shoulders were hunched, his hair damp like he’d just showered in a rush. The navy blue hoodie he wore was tight across the chest now, the fabric catching slightly as he moved. His black sweatpants clung to the muscle of his thighs, hinting at the training he’d been doing in silence for weeks now.

But it wasn’t his body that made your breath catch.

It was his face.

The exhaustion in it. The hollow weight behind his eyes.

His irises were darker than they used to be. Still blue–but not quite. Not only blue. It was like something black was blooming out from the center, bleeding toward the edges like ink dropped into water.

It wasn’t just sleep deprivation.

It was The Void.

You recognized the way his jaw clenched slightly, like he was trying to stay grounded in his body. Like he was fighting voices you couldn’t hear.

You cleared your throat gently.

He looked up, startled–then confused.

“…Hey,” You said quietly. “Mind if I join you?”

He blinked at you, slow. Like he wasn’t sure you were real. Like his brain was buffering, unsure how to process the request.

“I–Uh…I was j-just…”

”Heading to the mall,” You finished for him, offering a soft, warm smile, pulling at the sleeves of your sweater, “You…Mentioned it a few times this week. Something about your clothes fitting too tight and stuff…” Bob’s pale skin flushed slightly at the comment, as his gaze fell to the floor.

”Y-Yeah…I g-guess so.” You took a careful step closer, slowly closing the space between you both, wanting to see how he would react–he didn’t move back.

”I’ve got my car,” You added, “Might be easier than taking the bus…” He looked up at you again and this time you saw it: the hurt still flickering at the edges of his face, the wall he’d put up, and the little white dots that began to form in the middle of his pupils.

Bob could hear the voice scraping away on the inside of his skull.

“She’s just being kind…She’s taking pity on you, you know how she is. She doesn’t mean it. Don’t read into it. Don’t be pathetic. You’re not her first choice, you’re nobody’s first choice. She deserves someone better than you.” The Void hissed. Bob swallowed hard, feeling a burn tingle the back of his neck.

”…A-Are you sure?” He asked finally, voice rough around the edges, “I–I don’t want to be a b-bother.” You tilted your head.

”You wouldn’t be.” And then, with just enough softness to cut through the static buzzing behind his eyes you added, “I want to.” His hand was still on the strap of his bag, tightening around it enough to turn his knuckles white. You watched him for a moment longer, and then you reached out and brushed your fingers against his forearm. The contact was barely there, just the tips of them grazing the fabric, but you could see his entire body tense up, like something deep inside him folded at the contact. Like your skin reminded him where he was.

His breathing steadied slightly, and you didn’t comment on it, you just gave him a small smile.

“C’mon, I’ll drive.”

—————————

The drive was quiet to say the least.

It wasn’t awkward, it was just heavy, in that unspoken way that happened when hearts were too full and throats were too afraid to work. You didn’t push it.

You let the silence bloom between you. It was strange how familiar it felt again–like muscle memory. Like you’d both spent so long in each other’s rhythms that even this quiet was something you shared.

Bob sat beside you with his hands tucked in his lap, his back pressed to the passenger door like he was trying to stay small. His eyes stayed mostly on the window, but every now and then they drifted–toward the dash, toward your hands on the steering wheel. Once or twice, you caught him glancing your way, like he wanted to say something but didn’t trust his voice not to tremble.

You cleared your throat softly, your eyes on the road ahead.

“Have you been sleeping?” You asked, keeping your voice low, careful not to sound like you were prying. “You look…” You trailed off, searching for a word that didn’t wound, “Tired.” Bob shifted slightly in his seat.

”Y-Yeah, I guess.” He replied, but it wasn’t convincing, because he wasn’t telling the truth, it was obvious. You gave a small hum, gaze flicking toward him before returning to the road.

”Haven’t really seen you around much this week…” His fingers curled tighter in his lap, and you caught the motion in your peripheral, how his knuckles pressed into the soft fabric of his sweatpants like he needed something to hold onto. Like he needed something to fiddle with.

“You’ve been…Kind of distant lately,” You said, and even though you tried to keep it neutral, the words came out soft, almost close to hurt. Bob exhaled quietly through his nose, eyes locked on the window like he was trying to will the city into blurring away.

”J–Just been in a mood…T-That’s all.” You nodded slowly, one hand loosening its grip on the wheel.

”Care to share why?” There was a pause. A longer one this time. Then his head gave a short, silent shake.

“It’s n-nothing,” He murmured, voice low and cracked. “Just something stupid.” But even as the words left him, something twisted deep in his gut, and then The Void spoke again.

“That’s all you are to her, isn’t it? Something stupid. Clinging to scraps, sitting beside her like a dog begging for food.” The voice was slick, slow and unmistakably cruel–like molasses laced with venom. Bob’s stomach clenched, and his eyes stung. For a second his bottom lip trembled, and he turned his face a little more toward the window, trying to hide it, willing himself not to break. He couldn’t crack now, not here, not when you were being so kind to him.

You noticed the shift though. The way his shoulders locked up, the way his breath hitched in his throat like he was swallowing something too big for his chest.

You didn’t press though. You just let your voice drift gently over the space between you, like a blanket being unfolded in soft hands.

”…Okay,” You whispered, nodding slowly, “Well…I’m here if you ever want to talk about anything.” Bob let out a shaky breath and dragged one hand up to his face, rubbing his palms hard across his eyes like he could erase the wetness threatening to spill.

“O-Okay…” He responded quietly, but the sound of it cracked in the middle, and the fragility of it nearly shattered you. The silence returned, but it wasn’t sharp this time. It was soft around the edges, like warm fog curling up against the windows.

When you finally pulled into the mall parking lot, the sun had risen enough to cast a thin gold glow across the tops of the buildings. It wasn’t crowded yet–just the early shoppers beginning to trickle in, and a few food court workers gathered near the entrance, sipping coffees out of paper cups. You shifted the car into park, then turned slightly toward him.

He was still staring down at his lap, his jaw tight, his hands curled loosely in the fabric of his hoodie. He looked like he hadn’t taken a full breath in minutes.

You let your gaze linger on him a second longer before speaking.

“Hey,” you said softly, and when he looked up at you, your voice dropped just enough to make him flinch slightly. “You know you’re allowed to feel things, right? Even the stupid ones.”

He blinked at you. His mouth opened like he might try to argue. But he didn’t.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” You added, your expression gentle, but firm. “Not ever.”

For a moment, Bob just…Stared.

And then your next words slipped out like sunlight between clouds:

“You’re my favorite person to sit in silence with…But I’d rather listen to your voice than anything else…”

His breath caught.

His heart stuttered like a blown fuse, and a faint red crept into his ears. You saw it happen in real time–the way his face flushed, his lashes lowered, and his entire body seemed to pull inward just slightly, like he didn’t know what to do with the heat rising under his skin.

He fumbled for the door handle a beat too late, awkward but endearing, mumbling something incoherent under his breath.

You bit back a smile, then slipped out of your side of the car.

He followed you a moment later, hood tugged up, bag slung loosely across his chest. You waited until he stepped beside you, shoulder to shoulder, before moving toward the entrance.

The automatic doors slid open, letting in the scent of polished floors, faint cinnamon from a bakery down the hall, and the sterile chill of early-morning air conditioning.

The mall wasn’t busy yet–just soft ambient music echoing through the wide halls, janitors mopping along the corners, and the distant hum of espresso machines powering up.

Bob walked beside you in silence, but it felt…A little different now.

Not as heavy.

He didn’t look at the floor this time. He looked at you.

Like maybe he was starting to believe he hadn’t missed his chance.

———————

The coffee shop inside the mall was one of those early-bird places–half-lights still dimmed, pastries just hitting the racks, and the first drip of espresso perfuming the air like warmth incarnate. The floor glowed underfoot with the reflection of sleepy pendant lights, and the hum of milk steaming was the only thing louder than your breath.

Bob hesitated near the register for a moment, before you stepped up and began to speak.

”One medium caramel macchiato with light vanilla, and one medium Earl Grey with two milks and one pump of honey please.” You said, voice casual and kind, “And two plain croissants, one warmed…Thank you.” Bob blinked at you, his eyes wide behind the lashes that immediately dipped toward the floor when you gave the drink order like it was muscle memory.

“H-How did you remember my order so e-easily?” He asked softly, a little stunned, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him until just now. His voice was low–barely above the murmur of the espresso machine–but there was something raw and unguarded in the way he said it. A quiet awe.

You shrugged, trying to keep it casual despite the warmth blooming under your ribs. “I used to make it for you every morning, remember? Before you decided it was–” You leaned slightly closer, lowering your voice into a teasing register, “–‘too much for my busy schedule.’” You even put up air quotes around the phrase.

Bob’s lips parted slightly, then closed again. His lashes fluttered and a pink flush crept up his neck and spread over the apples of his cheeks. You saw it rise like candlelight catching a wick. He ducked his head with a soft, embarrassed breath of a laugh, then reached for his wallet with fumbling hands.

“R-Right… I remember…” He mumbled, pulling out a folded bill and sliding it toward the barista.

You didn’t stop him from paying.

You just smiled quietly to yourself as the two of you stepped to the side of the counter to wait, tucked in that little corner beside the bakery case where the light hit just right through the large window. You could smell cinnamon and sugar hanging in the air, mingled with the scent of warm milk and the faint cedar wood cologne that came from Bob’s hoodie.

He stood so close that you could feel his warmth radiating off him–steady and grounding. Not overwhelming. Just…Comforting. Like the first time you sat shoulder to shoulder on the Thunderbolts couch after a mission, both of you too tired to speak, but not ready to separate. His presence filled the space beside you like heat seeps into a cold mug–slowly and entirely.

You glanced sideways at him.

He looked tired. Still quiet. But something in his shoulders had eased. And god, you wanted to wrap your arms around him and bury your face in his chest. You wanted to tell him everything–the longing, the ache, the nights you couldn’t sleep without thinking about how he used to hold your wrist loosely in his sleep when you nodded off beside him on the couch.

But now wasn’t the right time, you just stayed still and waited for your order, sipping on your drink when it came, and nibbling on your croissant.

——————

The first store you entered was some midrange basicas place–comfy fabrics, soft lighting, warm neutral palettes. It smelled faintly like cotton and burned plastic. It seemed like the store may have been under renovations or it was new, but it had a wide range to offer.

You wandered between the racks with Bob, fingers brushing hangers and the occasional sleeve. He didn’t speak at first, just lingered near you, letting the space between you stay comfortably small.

Then, after a while, he pointed at a sage green hoodie.

“Y-You think this would look okay?” He asked, lifting the sleeve with a tentative expression. You tilted your head, eyeing the color against his pale skin.

“It looks really flattering.” Your voice came out even, but a little softer than before, “Might make a few people swoon.” Bob looked away so fast you nearly laughed.

”D-Don’t say stuff like that…” He mumbled, ears turning a beet red. You gave a shrug and kept moving.

”Just being honest.” He ended up gathering a couple of things: the green hoodie, two crewneck sweaters, and a pair of slate grey sweatpants that looked impossibly soft.

“I–I think I’ll try these on,” He said, holding the small stack close to his chest like it might slip out of his grip if he didn’t hug it tight.

“I’ll hold your tea,” You added, taking the cup gently from him as he moved toward the changing room.

You leaned against the wall just outside, sipping your own drink slowly, content to wait.

And then, after a minute or two, the door creaked open.

Your breath hitched.

Because there he was–soft grey sweatpants hanging just right off his hips, cinched gently at the waist. A dark green hoodie with the tag still half-tucked under the collar, the fabric just snug enough to outline the lines of his chest and the breadth of his shoulders. His sleeves were bunched at the elbows, revealing strong forearms you always forgot he had until they were on display like this. His hair was still a little messy from earlier, his cheeks still pink, and there was something so painfully Bob about the way he stood there–awkward, shuffling his feet, eyes flicking up and then quickly back down like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“I-Is it…Okay?” he asked, his voice hesitant, but hopeful. “It feels…Like me, I think…” He looked like home. Like warmth poured into fabric and held in your hands. Like something you’d missed even before you’d ever had it.

You didn’t answer his question at first, you just let your eyes sweep over him, memorizing every line and fold.

Then you nodded, your voice barely more than breath.

”It looks great.” And for the first time in weeks, he smiled. It wasn’t a big one, just a small sincere curve of his lips.

But it was enough to show you that you were breaking through to him.

Bob let out a quiet breath, still standing in the doorway of the fitting room as if unsure whether he was allowed to be seen like this—so soft and unguarded. But when you gave him that look, the one that reached all the way down to the place in him that still doubted he was wanted, he stepped out fully.

“I–I’ll get them then,” he said quietly, gathering the small stack of new clothes against his chest again. “I…Uh…N-Need things that fit anyway…” There was a shy smile tugging at his mouth now–nervous, but real. The kind you hadn’t seen in weeks.

You handed him his tea back with a gentle brush of fingers, and he looked down at the cup like it was more than a drink. Like it was proof of something unspoken. Something important.

You walked beside him to the register, watching as he paid–hands fumbling a little with the card, thanking the cashier too softly, shifting awkwardly in place while they bagged his items. You could practically feel how tightly wound his nerves were, like the very idea of doing this in front of you was enough to set off a whole chain of overthinking in his head. But he kept glancing at you, too–like he needed to make sure you hadn’t left.

You didn’t.

You waited. Quietly. Steadily.

And when he turned back toward you, you smiled again. Not big. Not loud. Just steady.

The two of you wandered the mall after that, nowhere in particular–just drifting from one store to the next like nothing had broken between you. Like the silence hadn’t once turned sharp enough to bleed. You lingered near a small bookstore where Bob picked up a paperback and flipped it open with a flicker of interest; you guided him briefly through a stationery shop, pointing out pens you thought he’d like. There was something gentle about it all–something close to healing, like you were on that brink of mending everything back together.

You were standing near a shelf of scented candles in a small boutique that sold a strange mix of home goods and novelty items–everything from mugs with sarcastic quotes to little booklets of affirmations and bath bombs shaped like animals. Bob was beside you, thumbing the edge of a journal with a soft leather cover, his thumb tracing the stitching like he was trying to decide if it was worth picking up. His hoodie sleeves were pushed up again, and you could see a faint pink mark at the bend of his elbow–maybe from leaning against a counter too long, or maybe a training bruise he hadn’t noticed. It made your chest ache a little, how much you’d missed these small details. How much you’d missed him.

Your gaze drifted up–just idly, like looking for the next thing to wander toward–and then froze.

Across the mall’s broad walkway, nestled beneath a curved arch of dark wood and glass, sat a boutique lingerie store. You knew the kind. Low golden lighting. Sheer curtains hanging in the windows, filtering the sunlight into a soft, honeyed glow. The mannequins in the window weren’t the aggressive kind with red corsets and feather boas. No–these ones were elegant. Understated. They wore lace bralettes in blush pink, satin in deep forest green, high-waisted sets trimmed in delicate embroidery, and sheer robes that caught the light like whisper-thin smoke. The whole store was intimate without being overt. Classy. Soft. But undeniably sensual.

You could almost smell it from here: some blend of vanilla, amber, and whatever fabric perfume they used on the delicate silks and velvets.

You blinked.

Yelena’s voice echoed through your head, sharp and clear:

“Make it obvious.”

Your heart gave a strange little stutter. And then–without warning–a smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. A slow, sly thing that bloomed without permission. The idea came out of nowhere, but it stuck. Bright and stupid but brave.

You glanced sideways at Bob.

He hadn’t noticed your change in expression yet. He was still reading the back of a candle labeled “Blueberry whipped icing.” The soft rise and fall of his chest was steady now. A good sign. He looked a little more grounded than earlier–still quiet, but a kind of quiet that meant he was starting to feel safe again. With you.

You didn’t want to push too hard. You didn’t want to shatter this fragile warmth that was finally returning between you.

But…

You wanted him to know.

So you cleared your throat lightly.

“Hey,” You said, careful to keep your tone breezy, “Can we check out one more store before we head back?”

Bob looked up, startled, blinking once.

“Uh–y-yeah, sure. W-Which one?”

You nodded subtly toward the other side of the walkway.

His gaze followed yours.

The moment he saw it his entire body stiffened, like someone had yanked a string inside him. You watched his jaw tighten just slightly. His eyes flicked away almost immediately, but not before you saw the faint pink rush to his ears.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

You smiled sweetly. Innocent.

”Wanted to just browse, see if I can find something.” You said, already beginning to walk toward the storefront, “I’m due for a little bit of a closet upgrade myself.”

Bob walked behind you, just a step off pace, like his feet weren’t quite sure they were allowed to follow. His grip on his shopping bag had gone white-knuckled, and the tea in his free hand barely sloshed–it was held that tightly. You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. You could feel the heat rolling off him in thick, clumsy waves–nerves and tension and that unmistakable Bob flavor of hesitation that meant he wanted to say something, but was afraid he’d combust the moment he opened his mouth.

The motion sensor bell above the entrance gave a delicate chime as you stepped inside.

Warmth. That was the first thing you noticed. The air was heavy with scent–rich amber, something floral, and a hint of musk that made you think of bare skin and tangled sheets. The walls were soft matte cream, accented with blush pink panels and gold railings. Velvet display tables lined the floor with bralettes folded like secrets and panties laid out in precise rows, every pair a whisper of silk or mesh or lace. The mannequins were tall, faceless, draped in slip dresses and see-through robes that shimmered when the light hit them. The ceiling lights were low and gold-tinted, casting everything in honey.

It didn’t feel like a store.

It felt like a bedroom someone loved you in.

Bob hovered just inside the threshold, blinking once, twice. His eyes flickered towards the displays and then were quickly pulled away–like just making eye contact with a lace thong might ignite him on the spot, because all he could picture was you in them. His jaw worked as he swallowed, throat visibly bobbing.

You moved casually to one of the racks, fingers drifting across rows of soft underwire and balconette bras. Pale lilacs, buttery creams, deep navy satins. You held up one and studied the lace against the light, just enough stretch to hint at comfort–just enough sheerness to suggest anything but.

Behind you, Bob stayed rooted.

He looked like he was trying to figure out how to hold his breath and exhale at the same time.

“Wonder who she’s going to wear that for…”

The whisper was cold. Low. Inside his skull, it slithered between his thoughts like oil on water.

“Probably someone who can touch her without trembling. Someone who doesn’t have to fight off every part of himself just to keep his hands at his sides.”

Bob stiffened.

The Void didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. He only had to lean close enough that the words touched a nerve already raw.

“You think she’ll let them take it off slow?” The voice purred, mockingly curious. “Or will they rip it off with their teeth?”

Bob shut his eyes at that comment, trying to shake it off as much as he possibly could, attempting to not show any weakness, or to make you aware of the fact he was hearing something.

When he opened his eyes again, you were holding two bras–one powdered blue, and the other a dark red–in one hand, and a sheer black babydoll slip in another. You glanced up at him with an expression that was maddeningly unreadable.

Casual, but not distant. Confident, but not arrogant.

Intimate.

Then you turned to the nearby fitting room attendant–a woman dressed in a long mauve cardigan and platform shoes that made her look taller than she was–and asked:

“Do you allow, like…Second opinions in the fitting room?” Motioning to Bob behind you. She glanced up from her clipboard and smiled.

”Course we do…Happens all the time.” You turned back to Bob, and this time your smile was unmistakable.

”Perfect, cause I’m going to need your opinion.” You said softly.

“I-I don’t know much about l-lingerie…” Bob stammered, frozen in place like his shoes were bolted to the floor.

You raised an eyebrow, tone light but edged with something quieter. “But you definitely know what would look good.” You turned just slightly, letting your voice drop just a little–low and warm, like a match striking the dark. “And maybe I value your opinion.”

That did it.

Bob swallowed so hard you heard it.

“…O-Okay,” He murmured, nodding once. His voice cracked just slightly around the edges, and he followed you past the velvet rope into the fitting room hallway.

The rooms were small–just a few feet wide–but the space inside felt private. Dim golden lighting pooled softly overhead, like candlelight filtered through sheer fabric. There was a bench beneath the mirror, a small side table holding a glass bowl of lavender-wrapped mints, and a faint scent of fruity body spray hung in the air–berries and peach and something a little more sugary than it needed to be. The floor was carpeted in pale rose, and the door had a long mirror mounted across it, angled to reflect the whole space in a soft, diffused glow.

“Sit,” you said gently, motioning toward the bench as you placed your items on the hook. Bob obeyed without argument, setting his shopping bag beside him. His knees knocked slightly as he sank down, hands fidgeting in his lap.

You reached for the hem of your sweater.

He inhaled sharply.

You peeled it over your head slowly–not teasing–but it still left the air crackling. Beneath it, you wore a soft, ice-toned bra that hugged your figure perfectly, the lace delicate across the cups, and the straps tucked lightly over your shoulders. Your skin was warm from the air in the store, flushed faintly from the earlier walk.

Bob didn’t dare speak. But his breath hitched again.

There was a mirror in front of you. You met his eyes in it.

He was already looking.

You lifted the two bras, powdered blue in one hand and dark red in the other, the lace delicate and soft beneath your fingers.

“Which one should I try on first?” You asked, keeping your tone even, but watching him carefully in the mirror.

His lips parted. “W-Whichever one y-you want,” He said, too quickly. His voice wobbled a bit, but he didn’t look away.

“Hmm.” You considered. “Then blue it is.”

You turned your back slightly–not to hide, but just enough to unclasp the bra you were wearing. You let the straps fall from your shoulders, slow and smooth, the lace sliding down your skin like a secret. You didn’t cover yourself immediately. You didn’t rush. You let your chest rise with a slow breath, your bare skin catching the warm light like satin, full and soft, your nipples slightly pebbled from the air.

You could see him in the mirror.

Bob looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

His knuckles were white against the bench. His thighs were tight. His eyes locked on your reflection with reverence and disbelief, lips parted like he was about to speak, but couldn’t find words. Like he was choking on awe.

You clasped the powdered blue bra in front first, then twisted it around your torso to hook it at the back. The lace molded to your breasts beautifully, lifting them just enough, shaping you with a soft elegance that made you smile faintly to yourself.

“Oh,” You said, tilting your head at your reflection, “Wait…I’m missing something.”

You hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your sweatpants, and began to push them down slowly–inch by inch, letting the soft fabric slide along your thighs, past your knees, pooling at your ankles.

You stepped out of them in just your red underwear.

They were lace-trimmed–soft, but revealing. Dark red against your skin, high at the hips, clinging just enough to show the dip of your waist and the curve where your thighs met.

“I guess you’ll just have to picture the matching color,” you said, voice warm and coy, glancing back at him through the mirror.

Bob looked like he might combust.

His eyes darted from your back to your hips, then quickly to your reflection again. His jaw was clenched tight, but his breathing was uneven–shaky in that way you’d come to recognize when his emotions were spiraling between restraint and something far deeper. Something harder to control.

You stepped closer to the mirror, smoothing a hand over your hip.

“I like the way this one fits,” You murmured, more to yourself than to him, but still loud enough to let it hang in the air like perfume. You ran your palms lightly down the lace of the powdered blue bra, watching your own fingers in the mirror–how they traced the delicate embroidery along the cups, how the fabric hugged your shape like a secret.

Bob’s breath was shallow. You didn’t have to turn to know. You could feel the heat coming off him from across the room like it had its own gravitational pull.

Your eyes met his in the mirror.

He was already looking–face flushed, mouth parted slightly, the soft tremble of his hands now visible where they gripped the edge of the bench.

“I-It looks…” He started, voice catching in the back of his throat. He swallowed thickly. “…It looks really nice.”

You raised a brow, a smirk drawing up on your lips. “Nice?”

His gaze flicked away instinctively, but he couldn’t keep it there. His eyes found you again–first your reflection, then the lace against your chest, and back to your mouth.

“I–I mean it looks…r-really good. On you. I mean…” He was unraveling by the syllable. You let the silence stretch for a beat, then hummed softly as your fingers continued gliding over the cups. You shifted your weight a little, hips tilting as you turned sideways in the mirror.

“Definitely a contender,” You sighed thoughtfully.

Then, without turning around, you reached for the next piece.

The babydoll slip–black, sheer, soft as smoke in your hands. It shimmered subtly in the golden lighting, the thin mesh draping across your fingers like a sigh.

You unclasped the powdered blue bra again, letting it slide from your body with one smooth motion. You didn’t cover yourself.

Bob’s inhale was so sharp it sounded like pain.

You stepped slightly back from the mirror, barer now than you had been before–shoulders relaxed, chest lifted with slow breath. Your nipples had peaked again in the cold air. You knew what you were doing. But you weren’t mocking him. This wasn’t a power play.

It was clarity. Honesty. Boldness.

You bent forward slowly to slide the babydoll over your thighs, letting the hem fall like liquid ink as you straightened. The mesh was translucent–barely there–and the neckline dipped into a deep, soft plunge that framed your chest beautifully. The fabric caught on your curves in all the right places before settling delicately around the swell of your hips.

Bob stared like he’d forgotten his own name.

Because when you bent forward, his eyes had dropped–not out of lechery, but because something inside him shattered. The long slope of your back, the shape of your ass in those red lace underwear, the stretch of your thighs beneath sheer fabric–it burned into him like holy fire.

And then–

“She is divine.”

The words didn’t come from Bob.

They rang in his head–low and velvet and terrible in its beauty. Sentry’s voice.

“She’s carved from the very atoms that undo me. She was made to be worshipped. Look at her. Look at her and tell me that heaven doesn’t kneel at her feet.”

Bob blinked, eyes wide and glassy.

Sentry wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t demanding control. But he was there.

Watching. Wanting.

“Let me touch her,” The voice whispered again, smoother this time. “Let me hold her the way she deserves. Just once. Just once, I swear–”

Bob pressed his palms hard to his thighs. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even breathe properly.

Because even without Sentry’s voice curling like gold-leaf flames through his thoughts, the image in front of him would’ve undone him.

You adjusted the thin straps gently, your fingers brushing across the neckline. The mesh hugged the curve of your breasts and fell soft as shadow over your waist. You looked like something from a fever dream–ethereal, vulnerable, and completely, deliberately real.

Then you turned slightly, catching his gaze again in the mirror.

The hem of the babydoll swayed just above mid-thigh, sheer and impossibly delicate. You brought your fingers down to it, rubbing the mesh slowly between your thumb and forefinger–absently, like you were testing the texture, like this was just another thing to consider.

But it wasn’t absent.

Not with the way his eyes followed every movement like they were tethered to your hands.

You turned around slowly.

Bob was still sitting on the bench, his back rigid against the wall, his hands planted hard on his thighs like they were the only things anchoring him in place. His jaw was slack, his lips parted. His pupils were blown, but not entirely black–there was still a sliver of that tender blue left in them, touched now with something gold and shimmering around the edges. The faintest glow. Like sunrise barely breaching the horizon.

They weren’t just his eyes anymore.

They were all watching you.

And god, he looked so beautiful like that–wrecked and reverent, trembling and quiet, staring up at you like you were the only real thing in the world.

You stepped closer.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

His eyes trailed up your body–your thighs, the curve of your hips beneath the mesh, your waist, your breasts barely concealed beneath the sheer fabric. And then they met yours again, wide and pleading.

And then, quietly, hoarsely, like the words were made of splinters:

“W-Why are you doing this t-to me?”

His voice cracked in the middle–soft and aching. He looked up at you like you had your hands around his ribcage and were squeezing. Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted you to let go or hold tighter.

The lighting in the room caught his face just right–glossed over and glowing. You saw it clearly now, that strange shimmering in his irises–blue and gold, and something ghost-white blooming near the pupils. A storm barely held at bay.

You tilted your head, slow and deliberate, your tone laced with innocence.

“Doing what?”

His breath hitched.

“T-Torturing me…Y/N…”

The way he said your name–it landed like prayer in the quiet.

You didn’t answer right away. You just stepped closer, close enough for your knees to touch the edge of the bench, close enough for the hem of the slip to brush his knuckles.

His fingers twitched. Tightened. Dug into his thighs like he was trying to keep them there. Trying not to move, not to reach, not to shatter.

You shook your head softly.

“I’m not torturing you…” You murmured.

Then you leaned down slowly, slowly–until your lips hovered near his ear, until your voice was a secret you whispered against his skin.

“I’m making it obvious.”

And then you took his wrists.

Gently. Carefully. Like he was something sacred.

You guided his trembling hands up, your fingers wrapped around his wrists like ribbons, until they reached the curve of your hips. You placed them there–held them there.

Warmth.

His palms grazed the mesh first, then the shape of you underneath. He didn’t grip. Not yet. His breath stuttered like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this. But then you gave him a tiny nod–barely perceptible, but real.

He got the hint.

His fingers spread slightly, molding to your skin. One thumb brushed lightly over the edge of the lace waistband. His breath caught like it physically hurt, and he looked up at you like you’d handed him the sun and told him not to blink.

He was already shaking.

You watched his expression shift–fear and awe, restraint and need, all woven together. The Sentry’s reverence. The Void’s hunger. And Bob’s aching, terrified love.

“Y/N…” He breathed, like your name was the only thing holding him together.

Then you just whispered:

”Touch me Bob.”

He gulped audibly, before he began to move slowly, like he thought rushing might wake him from a dream he wasn’t ready to lose. His palms traced the curve of your waist with agonizing care, sliding from the edge of your hips down over the soft slope of your thighs. His fingers splayed slightly, grazing the lace along the top of your underwear, then drifting lower. Each pass was like worship–like the act of memorizing, not exploring. He breathed out softly, the sound shaky, a quiet exhale against the electric silence of the room.

You let go of his wrists then and brought your hands up slowly, fingers brushing along the curve of his jaw until your palms framed his face, cradling him with a tenderness you hadn’t dared give voice to until now.

His skin was warm–feverish almost. You rubbed your thumbs lightly under his eyes, brushing along the shadows there, and his breath hitched. His lashes fluttered shut, lips parting just slightly, like he was absorbing every ounce of contact through his bones.

God, he was touch-starved.

You could feel it in how he leaned into your hands without even realizing it, like he was afraid if he pulled away, he’d lose the only safe thing left in the world.

You leaned down.

And pressed a kiss to his cheek–slow and gentle. You felt the tremble run through him like a current.

Then you whispered, barely louder than a breath:

“Do you know how long I’ve liked you, Bob?” His jaw clenched. You felt the subtle twitch beneath your fingertips–right before his nails grazed your thighs, dragging lightly through the skin just beneath the mesh. Not enough to scratch. But enough to leave a trail of heat in their wake.

He shook his head.

Not in disbelief–but like the truth was too big to imagine. Too painful to hope for.

You kissed his other cheek–longer this time. Slower. Your breath curled against his skin as you whispered:

“I’ve liked you since the very beginning…” Your voice cracked just faintly with the weight of it. “…I thought I was unworthy of you.”

His head snapped slightly–not harsh, just desperate–as he finally opened his eyes and looked at you again. And for a moment, all you could see was grief. Longing. The pain of every silent night and missed opportunity that had nearly broken the two of you apart.

And still, his hands didn’t stop moving.

They drifted up again, this time underneath the sheer babydoll, sliding over the skin of your waist, and your ribs slowly. He stopped at the waistband of your underwear–just resting there, barely touching, thumbs rubbing soft circles against your hips like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to be here.

You leaned in again–closer this time.

And kissed him.

It was slow. Deep. Sensual.

Not rushed. Not greedy.

It was the kind of kiss you gave someone who’d been starving for too long. Someone who didn’t know what it felt like to be wanted in the open. Someone who still didn’t believe he was enough.

Bob moaned into it–so soft, so desperate it broke something inside you.

His arms wrapped around your waist before he even realized they had moved. He pulled you in tight, like gravity wasn’t enough on its own. His hands slid along your back and dipped beneath the mesh to hold your skin like it anchored him to this moment. His lips trembled slightly against yours, but he didn’t pull away.

If anything, he kissed you harder. Like he couldn’t bear the thought of the space that had existed between you ever again. What started as soft and reverent turned hungry in a heartbeat. Bob’s mouth opened just slightly, enough for his teeth to catch your bottom lip, the faintest scrape sending a spark straight to your core. You gasped into him–eyes fluttering–and your fingers tightened in his hair, threading through the golden strands and tugging gently, just to feel the way he responded.

He groaned.

It was guttural–low and raw and laced with a desperation you hadn’t heard before. It rumbled out of his chest like he couldn’t contain it, like your touch had coaxed something from the deepest part of him that had been waiting for permission to surface.

His hands slipped downward, slow but deliberate, ghosting over the curve of your hips, down the backs of your thighs–and then suddenly he was gripping you, lifting you just enough to guide you into his lap.

You straddled him.

The motion made your sheer slip flutter like smoke around his knees, pooling soft against his hoodie. Your thighs slid across the firm shape of his lap, settling on either side of him. You could feel him now–hard beneath you, restrained but unmistakable–and it made your breath catch again, the heat between your legs pulsing in time with your heart.

Bob’s hands curled into your thighs, like he needed to hold on or risk falling apart completely. His mouth found yours again with more force this time–messier, wetter, desperate in the way he kissed you like he was trying to drink you in. There was no hesitation anymore. Just need.

One hand slid up your back, warm under the slip, his palm splayed between your shoulder blades, pulling you down into him. The other stayed low, gripping the swell of your thigh, fingertips brushing against the crease where your leg met your body. The way he held you–tight and trembling–sent shivers down your spine.

You moaned softly into his mouth, rolling your hips once against him–slow and intentional. The friction made both of you gasp. He bucked up instinctively, just slightly, just enough, and you broke the kiss with a shaky inhale, your forehead pressing to his.

He looked wrecked.

Flushed and panting, eyes half-lidded and dazed with lust. His chest heaved beneath your hands as you smoothed them along his jaw and down to his collarbones, feeling the pulse hammering in his neck like it might burst through skin.

“I–I don’t know h-how to stop,” He whispered, voice frayed and cracking like old paper. “You…Y-You feel like heaven…”

You smiled softly, still breathless. Your hands cupped his face again, grounding him.

“I know.”

His hands moved again–one sliding along your ribs, the other dipping beneath the hem of your underwear now, just barely brushing the curve of your ass. You shivered.

“I’ve w-wanted you for so long…” He admitted, like it was being torn from him. You kissed him again–quicker this time, mouths opening, tongues brushing in heat–but as your hips rocked once more against him, you felt the coil tightening too fast.

His hands were trembling. His breath was shaking. And you knew if you didn’t stop now, you wouldn’t.

Your breath hitched–just once–before you pulled back.

Still straddling him, still shaking, still so close it felt like any more contact might ignite both of you into ruin. But you reached up, pressed your hands to the sides of his face, and whispered through ragged breath:

“…We can’t do this here.”

Bob’s eyes searched yours–wide, dazed, glassy with restraint he was barely holding onto.

“I want to,” You continued, voice low, your forehead resting against his. “God, I want to. But not like this. Not here. Not where I can’t fall apart properly. Not when I can’t take my time with you.”

He made a sound in his throat–half-groan, half-whimper–and his hips rocked up into you once, instinctively, helplessly.

You gasped, eyes fluttering shut for a second as his erection pressed against your center through the thin layers. Heat bloomed through your core like wildfire.

His hands trembled against you.

”I-I agree…” He whispered. But his voice crack, like it nearly broke him to say it, “I d-don’t want our f-first time t-to be rushed. I c-can’t…” His words were barely audible now, and you could hear the raw self-control in them, stretched to its limits.

With shaking hands, he shifted beneath you, guiding your hips off him gently–like it hurt to let you go. His fingers gripped the waistband of his sweatpants, adjusted awkwardly, then quietly, discreetly tucked himself up into his waistband to conceal the obvious hardness straining against the fabric. He hissed through his teeth at the contact–too sensitive now, too desperate–but he made himself breathe through it.

You slid off his lap fully, legs still trembling, and reached forward with slow, tender hands to fix his hair where your fingers had tugged it out of place. His eyes closed at your touch, his whole body leaning forward like he was still chasing the heat of you.

You smiled faintly, still breathless. Your voice was a hushed vow.

“I’m gonna change,” You murmured, pressing one last kiss to his jaw. “Then we’re gonna buy these…”

You stepped back just enough to meet his eyes fully, gaze dark with promise.

“…And speed back to the compound. Because I want you so fucking bad right now it hurts.”

Bob nearly collapsed.

His knees buckled slightly where he sat, his head tipped back against the wall like he needed the cold surface to keep from slipping under. A choked noise escaped him–almost a laugh, almost a moan–and he covered his face with both hands, exhaling like your words had hit him in the soul.

You leaned forward, just close enough to murmur in his ear before pulling away.

“Get ready, Bob. Because when we get back…I’m not holding back either.”

And then you turned toward the hooks on the wall, your slip still clinging to your skin, your thighs still warm from where you’d pressed into him.

Behind you, Bob stayed silent.

But if you had looked, you would’ve seen his hands still trembling in his lap… and a faint golden glow returning to the edges of his irises–bright, divine, and waiting.

———————

The drive back to the compound was electric. You could feel it in the air–like static clinging to your skin. Bob sat in the passenger seat, trying so hard to keep his breathing steady, his hands folded neatly in his lap for the first five minutes.

But then…His hand slid to your thigh.

It wasn’t casual.

It wasn’t accidental.

His palm settled there slowly, like he was testing a boundary he was terrified to cross–but desperate to claim. The weight of it was warm, grounding. But his fingers…They weren’t still.

They flexed.

Gripped.

Curled gently into the softness of your skin where your sweatpants were bunched up mid-thigh. His thumb dragged a slow, agonizing stroke along the inside, brushing just beneath the fabric, right where the heat of you still pulsed from earlier. The contact was searing. Deliberate. Just barely restrained.

You sucked in a quiet breath, knuckles tightening on the steering wheel.

Bob didn’t say anything. But you could see it in his jaw—the way it flexed, locked, trembled. He was holding back. Every time his fingers inched higher, he stopped himself. Every time your legs shifted wider to invite him closer, his hand tensed like he was fighting himself not to slide his fingers past the waistband and straight into the wet heat waiting for him.

His forehead pressed lightly to the passenger window, eyes shut tight, breath fogging the glass. You didn’t need to hear the words to know what he was thinking.

It was written all over him.

I want her. I need her. I can’t lose control. Not yet. Not here.

But god, it was killing him.

And it was killing you.

The second you pulled into the underground garage of the compound and shifted the car into park, he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the entire drive. His hand slid away reluctantly, fingertips dragging along your thigh like he didn’t want to leave the heat of you.

You didn’t speak. You just moved quickly–grabbing the shopping bags, handing him his, your hands shaking faintly as you both made your way across the garage toward the elevator.

The doors opened with a soft chime.

You stepped inside.

And the moment they closed behind you–

He dropped everything.

The bags hit the floor with a soft thud.

And then he kissed you.

There was no hesitation this time. No fear. No silence.

Just lips crashing into yours, hands gripping your waist, pulling you into him like he needed to feel your heartbeat to survive. His mouth devoured yours–hot, messy, open. Tongues sliding, breath catching. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet.

It was starving.

You moaned into it–high and breathless–and your fingers flew to his hair, threading through the light brown strands and tugging, pulling, just to hear the noise it dragged out of him.

He groaned into your mouth–deep and ragged–and the sound nearly dropped you to your knees.

His hips pinned you gently to the elevator wall, just enough pressure to feel the tension simmering through both of you. One hand gripped your jaw, the other slid under the hem of your hoodie, palm splayed wide across your back, hot and insistent.

You didn’t stop kissing him. You couldn’t. Your hands slid down his chest, grabbing fistfuls of the hoodie that still smelled like cedar and warmth and him, clinging as his tongue swept against yours again, this time slower. Dirtier.

The elevator chimed.

The doors slid open–

Empty hallway, no shoes, meaning nobody was there.

Thank god.

You broke apart with a gasp, both of you breathing like you’d just survived something. Bob’s eyes were glassy, his cheeks flushed, his lips wet.

Without a word, you both grabbed the bags–awkwardly, fumbling through the haze–and half-stumbled into the hallway. The bags were dumped just inside the entryway, forgotten the second they hit the floor.

Then he grabbed you again.

Lifted you.

You squealed, legs wrapping around his waist like instinct, arms flinging around his shoulders. He kissed you again immediately–hot, breathless, unrelenting. Your back hit the hallway wall once, a gentle thud, before he adjusted you higher, hands gripping under your thighs.

You moaned into his mouth as his tongue slid over yours again, kissing like he was burning from the inside out.

And he was.

Bob groaned against your lips, stumbling forward as he carried you–still wrapped around him–down the hallway, toward his room. You nipped at his lower lip, then kissed it better. You dragged your hands through his hair again, tugging just enough to make him gasp your name into your mouth like a confession.

He barely made it into his room.

The door slammed shut behind him with a muffled thud, his hand still pressed flat against it while the other clutched you tight to his body–your thighs locked around his waist, breath hot and mingling as he chased your lips again like a man starved. He didn’t even bother to turn the light on. He didn’t need it.

The afternoon sun spilled through his window in golden ribbons, catching in his messy hair and painting long streaks across the floor, the wall, your bare thighs where they clung to his hips. It made everything feel dipped in amber–molten and slow and holy.

He pulled back for just a second–just to look at you–and then carried you toward the bed in a few staggering steps. The second his knees hit the edge, he dropped you onto the mattress with a breathless grunt.

You bounced lightly on impact, letting out a startled giggle as your back met the sheets. Your hair fanned across his dark comforter like a halo, and your eyes sparkled in the soft light. Bob just stood there for a second, staring.

His hair was a complete mess–flushed cheeks, chest rising and falling fast beneath his hoodie, lips kiss-swollen and parted like he was still catching up to what was happening. But his eyes looked like they were drinking in the sight of you. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Then he dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed and leaned over you, catching your mouth again in a kiss that was gentler this time—slower. He kissed down your jaw next, reverent and shaky, then down your throat, his lips soft and open, trembling against the skin of your neck.

And then, like it broke loose from him before he could stop it, he whispered—

“G-God, I can’t believe you’re on m-my bed right now.”

His voice cracked on the word “bed,” and the wonder in it made your heart catch.

You laughed softly, breath brushing his cheek as you reached up and cupped his face.

“Well…” You murmured, stroking your thumb along the edge of his jaw. “You better believe it. I’ve been waiting for this for so long.”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, glassy and overwhelmed, like he didn’t know what to do with all the softness you were offering. You traced your fingers down his cheek, and he leaned into the touch instinctively–then turned his head and pressed a kiss to the very tips of your fingers. One, then two, then three. Each kiss was slow, sacred, like a promise he couldn’t speak out loud.

And then–wordlessly, breath trembling–he sat up just enough to tug the hem of his hoodie over his head. His shirt followed, wrinkled and clinging, and when it came off, your breath caught.

God, he was beautiful.

Not just in the obvious way–though that was undeniable. He was all lean lines and pale shimmering skin, scattered with light brown freckles and stretch marks that caught in the light like constellations. But it was the rawness of him that undid you–the way his chest rose and fell too fast, the way his stomach tensed as your eyes moved over him, the way he looked down like he was afraid you’d flinch or look away.

You sat up without a word and ran your hands slowly along the ridges of his stomach, smoothing your palms over the heat of his skin. He gasped quietly at the contact, breath catching in his throat, but didn’t stop you.

You leaned in, pressed a soft kiss just below his sternum. Then another, a little lower. Then another along the edge of a faded scar near his ribs.

“You’re so fucking handsome, Bob,” You whispered between kisses. “Do you know that?”

He shook his head–too stunned to respond–and you laughed softly against his skin, letting your mouth trail lower. You kissed the slope of his abs, the dip of his waist, the notch between his hip and belly, letting your lips worship every inch like it was sacred. His hands hovered near your shoulders, shaking slightly, like he didn’t know whether to touch you or to fall to pieces.

“I could do this forever,” You whispered.

He let out a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a whimper, his hand coming to rest lightly at the crown of your head. Just the tips of his fingers. Just enough to anchor him.

You looked up at him from where you knelt between his legs, kissed his navel one more time–and then you felt it.

His hands sliding down slowly to the hem of your sweater.

They hesitated.

Shaking.

“C-Can I?” He whispered.

His voice was so reverent. Like he was asking to peel back the sky.

You nodded.

“Please.”

And then–very carefully, like he was unwrapping something fragile—Bob tugged your sweater up and over your head, slow and tender, his fingers brushing your skin like he didn’t trust himself not to tremble.

The sweater hit the floor, and the golden afternoon light spilled over your body like it was meant to find you there. His hands hovered midair–still trembling slightly from where they’d dragged your sweater off–his breath held tight in his chest, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to look, even now. Even after everything. His eyes were wide and glassy, lips parted, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, gaze dragging slowly over every inch of you like he was memorizing a prayer in real time.

Not because of what you were wearing. Not because of what you weren’t. But because it was you. Because you were here. In his room. In his bed. In his light.

The sunlight struck you like it was trying to worship too–glinting off the curves of your collarbone, catching in the soft line of your bra, painting warm shadows between the valley of your breasts and the slope of your shoulders. You looked almost surreal like that–so warm and real and close. Like a daydream he hadn’t dared put words to.

He exhaled–slow and ragged–and brought one hand forward, palm outstretched, fingers splayed like he was reaching toward something celestial.

His voice, when it came, was soft. Awed.

“Y-You’re…You’re r-radiant…”

The word barely made it past his lips.

You gave him a small, teasing smile, though your heart ached with the way he looked at you–like you were something sacred that might break if touched too roughly. Like if he blinked, you might be gone.

“You make it sound like I’m glowing,” You whispered.

He nodded without hesitation.

“You are.” And then finally, he touched you.

His fingertips met the soft skin of your waist first, brushing just above the band of your underwear, and sweatpants.

They lingered there, delicate and trembling, as if your warmth might scorch him. Then he slid them up slowly—achingly slowly—over your ribs, along the side of your body, until his palm flattened just beneath your breast. He stopped there. Just breathed. His forehead gently bowed until it pressed to your sternum like he was saying grace.

“I-I don’t…” He murmured against your skin, “I d-don’t know how I’m s-supposed to survive this…”

You threaded your fingers through his hair, cradling the back of his head, and whispered against the crown of it, “Think we just need to take it one step at a time…I’m sure you’ll be okay.”

He groaned quietly–like the weight of that kindness broke something in him–and kissed the center of your chest. Then he kissed lower. And lower. His mouth moving with aching gentleness, like every kiss was a vow.

When he reached your bra strap, he paused. Pressed a final kiss to the edge of the cup.

“C-Can I take this off?” He asked, voice hoarse with restraint.

You nodded slowly, arching slightly to help him.

He unclasped it with careful fingers–then pulled it away like he was parting the curtain of a temple. His eyes drank you in with a hunger that was soft, not frantic. Worshipful. Full of wonder and heat. His eyes drifted over the soft slope of your chest, the way your breasts rose and fell with your breath, the subtle curve of skin that caught the golden afternoon light like it had been painted there just for him. He didn’t speak at first. Just exhaled slowly, shakily, like the air itself was too heavy to hold.

Then, slowly, he lowered his head.

The first kiss he pressed to the top of your breast was featherlight. His lips barely grazed your skin before pulling back again, his breath shaky as he let his mouth trail across the other side. A small, broken sound escaped him.

“Oh my g-god…” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Y-You feel…you feel so soft…”

He brought his hand up next–tentatively–his fingers trembling slightly as they cupped the underside of one breast. His thumb brushed gently along the outer curve, then rose higher, tracing lightly across the peak without quite touching your nipple. His palm was warm–big and careful, like he didn’t want to squeeze too hard and break the moment.

“I-I didn’t know skin could be this s-soft,” He stammered, his breath catching again as he glanced up at you–eyes glassy, wide, rimmed faintly in gold and white. “Y-You’re…y-you’re beautiful. You’re–y-you’re so–”

He broke off, shaking his head slightly like the words just couldn’t come fast enough. Like none of them were enough.

Then he dipped his head again–lower this time.

His lips trailed slowly toward the center of your chest, kissing along the swell until they hovered just beside your nipple. His breath fanned warm against the sensitive skin there, and he hesitated for a beat–watching your face.

You met his gaze. And nodded.

Your fingers slid gently into his hair, threading through the soft waves at the crown of his head, grounding him.

That was all the encouragement he needed.

He leaned in and kissed right beside your nipple. Softly. Gently. Like a promise. Then again, this time a little closer. Your breath hitched, your grip tightening just slightly in his hair. His lips brushed over the hardened peak, not yet sucking, just dragging over it, teasing. His tongue flicked once, testing the heat of you there.

You gasped.

And that sound made something snap loose in him.

He groaned–low and shaky–then parted his lips and sucked your nipple into his mouth.

The heat of it sent a shock through you. His mouth was so warm, so tender–his tongue swirling softly as he drew you in deeper, sucking just enough to make your hips twitch beneath him. His eyes didn’t close. They stayed open–locked on yours, half-lidded and burning with something too big for either of you to name.

You saw it then–the faint shimmer of white blooming in his pupils, gold dust clinging to the edges like light at the center of a storm. But it was still him. He was in full control.

Your head tilted back as you moaned, your fingers tightening in his hair as he sucked harder, moaning softly against your breast like the taste of you undid him. His other hand rose to cup the untouched breast, squeezing gently, thumbing the nipple as his mouth continued lavishing the other. You could feel his fingers shake, even now. Could feel how hard he was trying to stay grounded, to stay present. Not because he didn’t want to lose control.

But because he wanted you to know he was choosing this.

Choosing you.

Every second. Every touch.

He moaned again against your skin, then pulled back just slightly–your nipple slipping from his mouth with a soft, wet sound. His lips were red now, kiss-swollen and damp, his breath heavy and ragged. He looked up at you again, and god, the look in his eyes–

Wrecked, and still trying to believe this was real.

“S-So beautiful…” His mouth was already moving to your other breast. His tongue traced a slow, trembling circle around the nipple first, warm breath hitting the damp skin as his hand continued to gently knead the other. Then he sealed his mouth over the soft peak and sucked.

Your back arched, a sound slipping from your lips that wasn’t quite a moan but something deeper, hungrier. He moaned too–low and hot–against your chest like the taste of you was dragging the restraint from his bones. His hips shifted at the same time, a slow grind of heat against heat, and the sudden pressure of him rubbing up between your legs made you cry out softly, gasping.

Your fingers threaded tighter into his hair.

He grunted softly against you, and then his free hand–shaking but sure–found yours, linking your fingers together like he needed to anchor himself. His grip wasn’t tight. Just intimate. A promise made skin-to-skin.

He pulled off your breast with a soft, wet pop, and his mouth was pink and glistening now, his lips parted and jaw slack like he couldn’t get enough of the way you tasted, the way you looked writhing beneath him.

“G-God…” he whispered, breath hitching as he rutted forward again—slow, desperate, a grind that made your hips twitch up to meet him. “I–I want to worship every inch of you… I–I wanna taste every goddamn part of your skin until you’re c-crying my name.” Your eyes blew wide at that. Your breath caught. A sound–needy, wrecked–escaped you.

“Bob…” He sat up, only for a second.

Just long enough to hook his fingers into the waistband of your sweatpants. He glanced up for permission–barely–but you nodded, hips lifting instinctively. That was all he needed.

He peeled them off slowly–achingly slow–dragging the fabric down your thighs, over your knees, baring more of you with every inch, and he hummed at the sight of the red underwear before him, smiling. Your fingers curled into the comforter beneath you.

“Bob…Please…” He looked up sharply at that–like the sound of your desperation hit him somewhere primal.

And then he bent forward.

His mouth pressed kisses to the inside of one thigh. Then the other.

Slow. Gentle. Worshipful.

Then he did it again–lower. This time, his lips parted, and his tongue slid out just enough to lick a stripe upward along the soft skin near the edge of your underwear. You cried out, hips twitching, and his hands immediately pinned them gently down–holding you steady, grounding you.

He groaned–louder now–pressing his nose briefly to your inner thigh, his breath hot as he inhaled the scent of you. It made his whole body shudder.

You were soaked.

The dark spot on your underwear was undeniable, and when his eyes locked on it, he cursed again under his breath.

“Y-You’re so wet…”

“Bob,” you whimpered, breathless and shaking, “Please…Please touch me. I need your mouth, I–I need it so bad, I’m fucking aching.”

He pressed a kiss just beside the wet spot.

“Shhh…I-I’m gonna take my time with you…” He murmured–his voice lower now, slipping toward something more controlled but just as desperate. Bob pressed another kiss to your soaked underwear–right at the center this time–his lips lingering just long enough for the damp heat to soak into him, his breath shaking as he pulled back slightly.

Then he did it again.

And again.

Soft, open-mouthed kisses. Each one slower than the last, his mouth dragging across the wet fabric like he wanted to memorize the shape of you through it.

You whimpered, thighs trembling beneath his palms.

“B-Bob–” You gasped, voice cracking, “Please, please don’t tease, I c-can’t–god, I need you–need your mouth…” A broken sound spilled from his chest. Somewhere between a moan and a plea.

“Y-You don’t even know what you’re d-doing to me.” His fingers curled around the sides of your underwear, and you lifted your hips for him, trembling with anticipation as he slid the lace down your thighs–inch by aching inch. His knuckles brushed the heat of your slick folds as he worked the fabric over your legs, and his breath caught sharply.

When they hit your knees, he paused–pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh, then slid the panties the rest of the way off.

He balled the lace softly in one hand.

Then tossed them aside like they were no longer necessary in the world.

His hands returned to your legs, and this time he gripped them firmly–fingers splayed wide as he lifted them, draped them over his shoulders, and leaned in until your thighs framed his face like a crown.

You gasped, hips twitching upward toward him, but he just…Looked.

Stared like he was witnessing something holy.

And then he exhaled–slow and trembling–and lowered his hands to your stomach.

His palms spread flat against your skin, fingers splaying across the soft curve just above your hips. The warmth of them grounded you, anchoring you, keeping you from floating away.

“I’ve d-dreamed about this,” He whispered, voice trembling with awe. “About touching you here…K-kissing you here…Tasting you…” You whimpered again, one hand flying to his hair, the other clutching the sheets beside you. Your thighs quivered over his shoulders as he bent lower, his thumbs sweeping lightly over your skin, just enough to soothe, but not enough to still the trembling that rolled through your body.

Then he kissed your belly, right at the center.

A slow, open-mouthed kiss that left a trail of heat behind it, and when he pulled back, he blew softly against the spot–his breath cooling the wet spot.

He did it again. Lower.

Kiss. Warm. Lingering.

Then another gentle puff of air that left you gasping, your thighs tightening around his shoulders like your body was trying to anchor him closer.

“Bob,” you whimpered, arching just slightly beneath his touch, your hips shifting like they couldn’t stay still, not when he was this close, not when every breath against your skin made your core pulse with need.

He kept going.

Slow. Measured. Torturous.

He trailed kisses downward–along the soft curve just above your mound, the edge of your pelvis, the place where your thighs met the heat of your center–but never quite where you needed him. His eyes stayed locked on yours the entire time, half-lidded and blown wide with awe, his lips pink and swollen from kissing every inch of you but the one you ached for.

Your hips jerked.

One of your hands clenched the comforter; the other tugged desperately at his hair.

But his hands never moved from your stomach.

He held you there, palms splayed like a vow, thumbs brushing softly across your trembling skin while your legs shook around his neck.

You whimpered again–helpless, broken–and your head tipped back with a soft cry.

He lowered his head.

Pressed a kiss to your inner thigh.

Then another, closer to the edge of your folds.

Then, maddeningly slow, his lips brushed the crease just beside where you needed him the most–so close your whole body jerked.

You choked on a sob.

And then you felt his breath.

Hot and heavy.

And his voice–fragile but burning–just beneath it.

“G-God,” He whispered, eyes still locked on yours, “You’re so pretty when y-you’re begging me for it…”

Your breath hitched, before you let out a small laugh. High, shaky, and helpless.

Because it was true.

You were begging him. Practically sobbing for his mouth. And it was ridiculous and perfect and raw.

Bob gave the faintest smile–soft, wrecked, reverent.

“I-I know I’m gonna regret m-making you do that later,” he added, voice cracking just slightly, “Because when you get me back for it… It’s g-gonna destroy me.”

Your laughter melted into a groan.

”I’m…I’m glad you r-realized that…” Bob’s breath shuddered as he hovered there—face so close you could feel the heat of him, the faint tremble in his jaw as he fought to keep it together. His eyes flicked up through his lashes, locking on yours again. You were already wrecked, trembling, breathless, soaked.

And he hadn’t even started yet.

“W-Well then,” He whispered, his voice hoarse and reverent, like he was offering an apology and a prayer in one, “L-Let me make it up to y-you…”

And then he leaned in.

The first stroke of his tongue made your entire body jolt.

It was slow–just one, long, deliberate drag from the base of your folds all the way up, thick and warm and unhurried. You cried out, hips twitching helplessly, and his hands slid firmer over your stomach to ground you again. His moan vibrated against you, low and guttural, like the taste alone had knocked the breath from his lungs.

“Oh my g-god…” He whispered, his voice cracking apart at the seams. “You…You taste like heaven. L-Like I always knew you would…”

Then he dove back in.

It wasn’t gentle now. It wasn’t shy. It was consuming.

His mouth worked against you like he’d been starved for it–like it was the only thing that could keep him alive. His tongue slid into you, slow and deep, curling with purpose as he moaned against your heat, tasting the slick arousal that pulsed out of you with every trembling breath. He moved like a man who had dreamed of this for too long, cataloged every detail of you in silence, and now, finally, was committing every second to memory with his mouth.

Your fingers tightened in his hair.

“B-Bob–” You gasped, high and broken, “Oh my god–”

He groaned again at the sound, the vibration rolling into you as his tongue worked in slow, reverent thrusts–in and out, savoring every drop of you before moving higher. When his mouth finally slid up to your clit, he licked over it once, twice–teasing, lazy strokes–before closing his lips around the swollen bundle of nerves and sucking. Hard enough to make your hips jerk.

Your cry shattered the quiet.

Your thighs clamped around his head instinctively, your back arching off the bed as pleasure slammed through your core like a wave. He held firm–anchored between your legs, groaning low as he kept sucking, then pulled back just slightly.

His mouth hovered, glistening and open, breath fanning hot over your skin. He looked wrecked–lips swollen, chin slick with you, pupils blown wide with lust and awe.

“I-Jesus Christ…” He whispered, his voice lower now, stripped down to something darker. “You taste like sin and sunlight…”

Your breath caught. Your entire body pulsed with heat.

“…And I-I’m never gonna get enough of it.”

Then he was back on you again.

His mouth latched to your clit like he needed to drink from you–his tongue circling, flicking, then flattening to drag over you in waves that left you gasping. One of his hands slid off your stomach, reaching for the fist that was still tangled in the sheets beside you. He laced his fingers with yours, palm to palm, gripping tight as his tongue pressed against you again–wet and hot and desperate. You sobbed his name. Over and over, like a prayer.

“Bob–Bob–I can’t–please, I’m gonna–”

He moaned in response, and the sound vibrated through your entire body. He looked up at you through his lashes–eyes glowing faintly now, gold shimmering at the edges of blue, burning with care and awe. And he didn’t stop. He kept licking, sucking, and teasing you with his mouth like he meant to worship you apart, one tremble at a time.

Your hips bucked. Your thighs trembled. And your fingers tightened around his.

And still he didn’t let go.

As if holding your hand was the most important part. As if every sound you made, every tremor, every sob of his name was sacred, and he was anchoring you to the earth with his mouth and his touch. And you knew you were close.

Because your vision began to blur and your breath stuttered.

His grip only tightened. His mouth sucked harder. His tongue swirled with purpose. And he groaned again like he could taste how close you were. Your thighs trembled harder now–quaking around his head like they were begging to close, to pull him in and keep him there forever. Your chest heaved, hips rising again, trying to meet the maddening rhythm of his mouth. But then–God–

Bob changed.

He growled softly against you–low, primal, almost possessive–and then he truly devoured you.

His lips sealed tighter around your clit, and his tongue pressed harder, flicking and circling in messy, hungry swirls. No more teasing. No more restraint. Just heat. Pressure. Purpose. The wet, obscene sounds of him eating you filled the room, slick and desperate and perfect, and your body–already on the edge–snapped.

Your fingers twisted violently in his hair.

Your other hand, still laced with his, squeezed hard–so hard your knuckles went white.

Your whole body arched off the bed as you cried out–loud and raw, his name a sob torn from your throat.

“Bob–oh my God–I’m coming–I–!”

You were writhing beneath him, bucking, legs trembling uncontrollably as the orgasm ripped through you like fire. Your thighs clamped around his head, your hips stuttering against his face, and he groaned against your core like he loved it–like he lived for the way you shattered under his tongue.

And he didn’t stop.

Not when your legs twitched. Not when you whimpered from oversensitivity. Not when your body shook so hard it felt like you might fall apart. He just kept licking–slow, filthy drags of his tongue, drinking down every drop of your release like it was sacred.

He moaned against your entrance again–tongue sliding in one last time to taste you at the source–then up to your clit, giving it one final suck that made your whole body jolt.

Only when he felt your trembling finally ease–when the spasms softened into aftershocks and your fingers went slack in his hair–did he finally pull back.

His lips were slick. His chin was drenched. His eyes were glazed and golden and wrecked.

He looked like a man undone.

And then–without a word–he kissed your inner thigh once. Then the other. Then the soft curve just above your mound. Worshipful. Devout.

And then he crawled back up your body.

Kissing as he went.

Your hips. Your belly. The center of your chest where your heart still raced. Your collarbone. The underside of your jaw.

By the time he reached your mouth, you were already panting again, lips parted and waiting.

And when he kissed you–it was filthy.

He didn’t hold back. His mouth was slick, desperate, open. He kissed you like he needed you to feel what you’d done to him–how drunk he was on your taste, how ruined he was from the act of loving you with his mouth. His tongue slipped between your lips, and you moaned loudly into him, tasting yourself on him–warm, sweet, dizzying.

And he groaned at the sound, deep and low in his throat, the vibration rattling through your chest.

When he pulled back, his lips were still brushing yours, his breath hot against your cheek.

And then–voice wrecked, rough, so low it was almost a growl–he murmured:

“Y-You taste like you were made for my mouth…And I swear to god, I’d spend the rest of my life between your thighs if you let me.”

Your breath caught. Your legs twitched. Your stomach clenched with fresh heat. You were wrecked and soaked and trembling, and you still wanted him so bad it hurt.

You swallowed, tried to catch your breath–and then smiled, slow and dark and shaking with need.

Your hand slid over his chest.

Your lips brushed his ear.

And you whispered–

“Your turn.”

He blinked—once, then twice—like his brain was trying to catch up to what you meant. And when it finally did, when the meaning soaked through the haze of lust and reverence still clinging to him, he nodded—slowly, shakily.

“O-Okay…” he whispered, voice so soft it was almost a plea. He swallowed hard, chest still rising and falling fast beneath your touch. “B-But you need t-to take it easy on m-me… I’ll e-end up finishing really quick…”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh–gentle and wicked all at once.

“Don’t worry,” you murmured, brushing your nose lightly against his, “Wasn’t planning on making you finish that easily.”

Bob let out a half-choked groan–part embarrassment, part arousal, part awe.

“O-Oh God…”

And then he did exactly what you wanted–let himself fall back against the bed. His hair mussed further into the pillow, cheeks flushed, neck exposed, arms slightly bent at his sides like he didn’t know where to put them. You could tell he wanted to reach for you. Desperately. But he didn’t. He let you take control.

You moved slow.

Straddling him gently, you leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth–then his jaw. Then lower.

The edge of his throat. The hollow of it. The line where his neck met his shoulder.

He shivered.

Your lips traced down to his collarbone, teeth grazing it lightly before you kissed the center. He was so warm. So tense beneath you. You felt it all–every twitch, every catch of breath, every time he shifted beneath your hips like he was already aching.

You smiled against his skin.

Then moved lower.

Your mouth trailed down his chest now, lingering on the freckles scattered across his pecs–those warm, honey-colored constellations that dusted his pale skin like someone had painted the stars on him. You kissed each one that caught your attention.

He whimpered.

Then gasped when your teeth grazed the meat of his pec, a little nip just beside his nipple.

“F-Fuck…” he breathed, hands fisting the sheets at his sides now, his eyes fluttering closed like he couldn’t handle watching you do this to him. “I-It’s t-too much–y-you’re…”

You kissed the center of his chest again. “You okay, Bob?”

He nodded quickly–too quickly. “Y-Yeah, y-yeah, I just–y-you’re killing me…”

You continued your descent.

Lower now. Down the gentle slope of his abdomen, where muscle twitched beneath his skin at your touch. You traced your tongue along the soft trail of hair that led lower, then kissed the spot just below his navel.

That’s when you felt it.

The hardness beneath his sweatpant and boxers–thick and straining, the outline unmistakable against the fabric. He was ready. So ready it nearly made you groan just from the heat of him pressing up into your thigh.

But you didn’t rush.

You kissed around it.

Along his hips. His lower stomach. The spot just above the waistband.

He whimpered again–this time louder, more desperate.

His hips shifted up instinctively, trying to get friction, contact, anything.

You just smiled–sweet, dangerous–and looked up at him.

“Bob,” You murmured, brushing your hand slowly over the waistband, teasing your fingers just beneath it, “What do you say?”

He was panting now. Eyes wide, lips parted, sweat gathering at his brow. His voice cracked when it came.

“I-I’m… I’m sorry f-for teasing you…”

Your eyes glittered.

“Oh?”

He nodded frantically, breath hitching again as your hand slipped fully beneath the waistband–but didn’t pull it down yet.

“P-Please…” He gasped, chest arching up toward you. “I-I’ll never do it again…P-Please, I-I c-can’t–just–please…” Your smile turned downright sinful.

“Good boy,” You whispered.

Your fingers curled around the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers together–tugging them down slowly, until the fabric cleared his hips and the tension finally gave way.

You sucked in a breath as he sprang free–thick and flushed and already leaking, the tip glistening with pre-cum and twitching ever so slightly as the cool air hit him. He was…Big. Bigger than you’d expected. Bigger than anyone you’d ever seen before. Long, heavy, impossibly hard, the flushed head slightly curved and swollen with need. And the moment you stared, it hit you in a new way.

His thighs were trembling, his chest heaving. His whole body was braced like he was fighting not to lose it just from being touched.

“Holy fuck, Bob…” You breathed, and the awe in your voice made him twitch again.

He whimpered—actually whimpered—and leaned up onto his elbows, his eyes wide and desperate, golden light faint at the corners of his irises now.

“I-It’s n-not usually… I mean–I-I don’t–” His voice cracked, flustered, like he was about to apologize for the way his erection stood proud and leaking for you, like he was embarrassed for how ready he already was.

You reached out and wrapped one hand gently around the base of him, fingers barely managing to meet. You gave the slightest stroke, thumb brushing along the underside–and watched the way his breath stopped. His hips stuttered upward just barely, like he was trying not to buck.

”Don’t apologize.” You cooed, licking your lips slowly as your eyes dragged up to meet his again. You leaned down, so your breath ghosted over the tip, and his whole body stiffened.

Then your tongue flicked out.

One slow, teasing lick–just a soft, playful swipe across the head, collecting the salty bead of pre-come that had formed there. The taste hit your tongue, warm and slick and uniquely him, and your mouth curled into a smirk as you pulled back just enough to speak.

”You taste so good Bob.” And he felt his arms give out. He dropped back to the bed with a helpless groan, one hand flinging over his face, the other clutching the comforter like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this plane of existence.

“I-I c-can’t–oh fuck, I c-can’t survive this…”

You let your grip slide higher along his shaft, fingers gliding with slow, steady pressure until your hand circled just beneath the head. He twitched again, and your thumb gently teased the tip.

“Poor thing,” You murmured, voice syrup-slick and sinful, “Already shaking for me?”

His head tipped back with a moan. “P-Please…”

You bent down again–this time kissing the tip, soft and slow.

Then you opened your mouth.

You took just the head in first, lips sliding over the crown, tongue swirling gently as you let him sit heavy and hot on your tongue. He moaned loudly, his hips twitching again, barely restrained, and his hand shot up to grip the pillow behind his head.

You pulled back, slowly, with a slick pop, then looked up at him again–your lips glossy, your voice low.

“You okay?”

He nodded frantically. “I-I don’t know how m-much of this I-I can take…”

You grinned.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

Then you took him back into your mouth–this time deeper, slower, letting your lips stretch around him, inch by inch. You felt every pulse, every twitch of his erection as your tongue pressed beneath the shaft and your throat adjusted. He groaned so loud it echoed through the room, raw and wrecked.

Your hand stroked what your mouth couldn’t reach, slow and firm, while your tongue swirled and licked, teasing that sensitive ridge just beneath the head as you bobbed up and down in a rhythm that had him panting.

“F-Fuck–oh god–please–you’re gonna–g-gonna kill me…”

And you just moaned around him–low and hot–sending vibrations through his entire body. You didn’t stop.

Not when his thighs tensed. Not when his breath hitched. Not even when his hand left the pillow and dropped to your shoulder, fingers flexing like he didn’t know whether to pull you closer or hold on for dear life.

You kept going. Letting him slide deeper with each pass of your mouth, your lips gliding down his shaft as your tongue pressed and curled beneath him–dragging along the sensitive underside just to hear the way he gasped, then choked, then whimpered your name.

Your hand worked in tandem—fisting around the base of him in slow, steady strokes that kept time with the rhythm of your mouth. And the sounds he made were everything. Guttural, helpless, and pleading. Like he didn’t know whether he was supposed to worship you or fall apart for you.

Then his voice cracked.

“J-Jesus–” He gasped, hips stuttering upward as you took him deep again. “I-I’m–f-fuck, I’m close–!”

You pulled off instantly.

Not cruelly. Not abruptly. Just smooth, controlled, intentional.

His erection slipped free of your mouth with a slick pop, strings of spit still connecting your lips to the tip as it twitched in the air–wet, flushed, leaking.

Bob choked on a sound–half sob, half whimper–and his eyes flew open, dazed and pleading. His chest heaved beneath you, rising and falling in uneven, desperate bursts as his hand shot forward like he didn’t understand why you’d stopped.

You licked your lips.

Saliva coated your mouth, your chin, even your cheek, and you wiped at it absently with the back of your hand–eyes locked on his the entire time.

He looked destroyed. Pink-cheeked and sweat-damp, pupils blown wide and blinking like you’d just left him in the middle of a battlefield without a weapon.

“W-Why’d you…?” He whispered, voice cracking on the edge of devastation. You giggled, sweet and sinful all at once. Then leaned in–close enough for your lips to brush the underside of his jaw.

“I told you,” You murmured, voice velvet-wicked and dripping heat, “I wasn’t planning on letting you finish that easily…”

Bob whimpered again–audibly this time–and his hips twitched like they couldn’t handle the tension coiling inside him. He looked down at himself–still fully hard, twitching, slick from your mouth–and then back at you like you’d committed an act of holy betrayal. You smiled wider.

Then, slowly, you let your hand curl around the base of his erection again–just enough to feel him throb beneath your touch.

He gasped–eyes fluttering shut, head falling back onto the pillow.

“And besides…” You added, voice lower now, dripping promise, “If you’re going to cum anywhere…” You leaned up, brushing your mouth beside his ear, your breath hot and deliberate as your body shifted higher–lining yourself up along the length of him, not yet taking him, just letting him feel the heat of your soaked core hovering, “…It’s gonna be inside me.” His whole body jolted at your words–like the thought of being inside you, of finishing inside you, hit him somewhere primal.

His hands found your hips–hot and trembling–his fingers splayed wide like he was trying to hold himself together with touch alone. You watched the way his throat bobbed, how his eyes flickered down to where your body hovered just above him, and then back up again.

“I-Is it…Is it safe?” He asked softly, voice frayed and wrecked and barely holding together. “I-I mean, f-for you…?”

You smiled–slow and knowing–and leaned down to kiss the corner of his mouth, letting your lips linger just long enough to feel the way his breath stuttered.

“Yes, Bob,” You murmured, brushing your nose lightly against his. “I’m clean… and I’m on birth control.”

He exhaled–shaky and hot, like he’d been holding the breath in his chest for days–and the sound of it ghosted across your lips.

But before you could tease him again–

He moved.

Fast.

You let out a surprised yelp–half laugh, half moan–as he rolled you underneath him in one sudden, fluid motion, his body moving like instinct, like he couldn’t take it anymore. Your back hit the mattress with a soft bounce and your hair splayed across the pillow as you looked up at him–eyes wide, mouth parted in shock.

“Bob!” You gasped, breathless with laughter.

But he was already there–already kissing your neck.

His mouth found the pulse point just below your jaw, then lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat as you laughed and moaned beneath him. One hand cupped your hip while the other braced beside your head, his chest flush to yours, heat rolling off his skin in waves.

“I-I knew…” he whispered between kisses, his voice ragged and thick, “I knew you’d be the person who w-wrecks me like this.”

Your breath caught. And then you smiled–soft and wicked and full of everything you hadn’t said yet. You reached up, cupped his face gently between your palms, and you kissed him like you were trying to pour the very ache of your love into his mouth, like you needed him to feel how much you wanted this–him. Not just now. Not just physically.

But all of him Forever, if he’d let you.

He moaned into your mouth, hips rocking down instinctively, grinding the thick length of his erection against your soaked core. You gasped into the kiss, fingers tightening against his jaw as he rutted forward again–slow, teasing strokes that slid his length right through your slick folds, nudging against your clit every time he rolled his hips.

“F-Fuck,” He whispered, voice cracked with need, “Y-You feel so wet…I-I can feel how bad you want it…”

“I do,” You breathed against his lips, “I want you so bad, Bob. I want all of you…”

That undid him.

He pulled back just enough to look at you–really look at you.

His eyes were wide, pupils blown, lashes damp at the corners. His lips were kiss-swollen and pink, and his breath stuttered as he propped himself on one elbow and reached down between your bodies with his other hand.

You felt it when his fingers wrapped around himself again–heard the soft, wet sound as he dragged the flushed head of his erection through your folds one more time. Up and down ever so slowly.

Your hips twitched.

And then he found your entrance.

He paused, just for a beat.

His eyes flicked up again, searching your face, checking one last time.

“Y-You sure?” He whispered.

“I’ve never been more sure,” You breathed, hand sliding down to rest over his thudding heart.

That was all he needed.

He pushed forward.

The first inch made your whole body tighten–heat blooming in your core like something sacred breaking open.

He was thick. Stretching you already. But he went slow like every second mattered. His breath stuttered as he pressed in deeper, eyes locked on your face like he couldn’t look away. Your mouth parted, a soft moan falling from your lips as you felt him sink inside you, inch by careful inch, filling you with such deliberate tenderness it made your eyes sting.

“Oh my god,” You whimpered, back arching slightly, thighs trembling, “B-Bob…”

He was shaking too–sweat beading along his brow, his jaw clenched like he was trying not to lose it from just the feeling of you wrapped around him.

“G-God…” Bob gasped, voice shaking as his hips rolled forward another inch. “You’re t-taking me s-so well, Y/N… You’re stretching around me so g-good…”

Your breath caught, hips twitching as he filled you deeper, the weight and width of him making you gasp. You could feel everything–every slow inch of him, every tremble in his arms as he held himself up, every quake in his breath as he tried to keep from sinking into you too fast.

Your arms slipped around his shoulders, pulling him closer, your nails digging into his back—not harsh, not clawing, just enough to leave small crescent reminders that you were there. That this was real. That he was inside you.

And still he pushed deeper.

Bit by bit.

Agonizing. Perfect.

Until he bottomed out–his hips flush with yours, the thick head of his cock pressed just barely against your cervix.

You gasped, your whole body jolting softly beneath him. “Ah–B-Bob–just a little careful…”

His eyes flew to yours, wide and wrecked. He nodded quickly, breathless. “Y-Yeah. Y-Yeah, I got you. I-I’ll take it slow…” You nodded, teeth catching your bottom lip as your legs curled tighter around his waist. He was trembling now—arms braced on either side of your head, his body a taut wire strung between reverence and restraint.

He kissed you.

Soft and deep, his mouth pressing to yours with a desperation that made your chest ache. Then he pulled back just enough to move–slowly.

He slid out–inch by inch–until only the tip remained inside you, slick and hot and pulsing. And then he thrust forward again.

Gentle.

Deep.

Your moan was soft, trembling, like it had been carved from somewhere sacred inside you.

Your eyes fluttered open, and his were already there–locked on yours.

And oh god, the way he looked at you.

Like he was drowning in the sight of you. Like your face was the only thing anchoring him to earth.

His hips rolled again–smooth and slow–pressing into you with that same impossible depth.

You whimpered softly, your nails digging into his back again, and for a second, you half-worried that it might hurt him–but he didn’t react.

Not a flinch.

He just kept moving steadily. Like your body was the temple and he was made to worship inside it.

He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, his voice cracking as he whispered:

“I-It’s like you w-were made to hold me l-like this…” You whimpered again, hips rising slightly to meet his next thrust, and the friction—slow, full, rhythmic—made your toes curl.

His hand slid to your face, cradling your cheek with a tenderness that made your heart stutter. He kissed you again–deeper this time–tongue sliding against yours in a slow, sensual rhythm that matched the motion of his hips.

“I-I love the way you sound…” He murmured against your lips. “Love the way you look at me like I’m s-someone worth this…”

You moaned into his mouth, your body trembling beneath him, and he didn’t stop.

His thrusts stayed slow, steady, deep.

His praises never stopped either.

“You’re so b-beautiful…You feel so fucking good around me… I-I could stay inside you forever…”

Your breath hitched, your eyes fluttering as another slow stroke dragged a cry from your throat. “B-Bob…”

“I’ve got you,” He whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “Always.”

And he rocked into you again, his breath ragged and mouth still brushing yours as he filled you over and over, every thrust a promise, every kiss a prayer.

Your hand slid up the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, and your voice–low and breathless–shook against his mouth.

“F-Faster, Bob… please.”

His hips paused, his breath catching. His eyes opened just enough to meet yours–wild and warm and so full of emotion it nearly knocked the wind out of you.

“You sure…?” He whispered, his voice cracking with restraint, with reverence.

You nodded, lips brushing his cheek. “Yes. I want to feel you. All of you.”

He groaned like you’d just ripped something out of him–deep and raw and ragged. Then his hips rolled forward again, a little harder this time. A little deeper. You gasped, your head tipping back against the pillow as he started to move faster–still gentle, still careful–but with a new kind of rhythm. One that made your whole body arch to meet him.

Every thrust dragged a soft cry from your lips, and he swallowed each one with kisses–down your jaw, across your cheek, then lower, to your neck. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin there, just beneath your ear, and you shivered as his breath caught.

“I c-can’t stop kissing you,” He whispered. “Y-Your skin–your neck–fuck, you taste like everything I’ve ever needed…”

Then he bit you.

Just once–just enough to leave the faintest mark. And before you could even moan his name, his tongue was there, licking the spot like he could soothe it back to calm. But it only made you shake harder beneath him.

“F-Fuck, Bob–” You gasped, nails dragging lightly down his back now, digging in just enough to make him whimper. “You feel so good–so deep–God, you’re perfect—”

He let out a broken noise, hips stuttering, and the next thrust hit deeper, grinding gently against the soft barrier of your cervix. Your moan was wrecked—high and ragged and unrestrained.

“Y/N,” He moaned hoarsely, eyes fluttering shut, his voice so low and hoarse it barely sounded human. “Y-You’re squeezing me so tight–I-I can feel you pulling me in–I can’t–fuck–”

His forehead pressed to yours, his breath trembling against your lips as he kept thrusting, deeper and faster now–wet and hot and slippery with everything you’d given him, the sound of your bodies joining filling the room like something sacred and messy and alive.

His moans were desperate–soft at first, then deeper, throatier, more broken with every roll of his hips. You could hear the tremble in them, like he was fighting himself with every breath, trying not to fall apart too fast.

“You’re so good for me,” He whispered against your mouth, voice frayed with awe. “Y-You’re everything–I can’t–I don’t ever wanna leave this body, this bed, this moment–”

You whimpered, your hands clawing at his shoulders now, your whole body rolling up to meet each of his thrusts, matching his rhythm even as your legs trembled around his waist.

“I’m s-so close,” You gasped, “Bob, I–I’m gonna–”

“I feel it,” He moaned, and he didn’t stop moving—just kept pushing deeper, grinding slower at the end of each thrust now like he was trying to drag your orgasm out of you with his body. “C-Come for me, baby–please–I-I wanna feel you lose it–I wanna feel it all–”

And it was messy now.

So messy.

Your slick was coating him, dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets beneath you. Your moans were tangled with his–louder now, echoing off the walls, hot and unfiltered and desperate. He was shaking on top of you, muscles taut, chest slick with sweat, the tension in his body barely held together by the grip of your hands on his back.

Your nails dragged down his spine again, and he let out the loudest moan yet–a broken, reverent cry against your shoulder.

“I can’t–I c-can’t hold it back much longer–” He gasped.

“Don’t,” you whispered, panting against his mouth, “Don’t hold back. Just f-fuck me, Bob…P–Please.” You whimpered.

He growled–soft and wrecked–and his next thrust was deeper, smoother, the angle perfect. You shattered.

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave–rolling through you in waves that left your whole body writhing, crying out, sobbing his name. Your thighs locked tight around his waist. Your arms clung to him like a lifeline.

And he felt it.

Felt you tighten, clench, squeeze him so hard it almost pushed him over the edge with you.

He groaned–loud and hoarse–and kissed you through it, his thrusts slowing just enough to ride out the quake of your orgasm, whispering broken praises between each kiss.

“You’re so b-beautiful like this–so perfect–so good–so fucking good for me–” His hips stuttered once–then twice–shallow and trembling as he tried to hold on. But the way your walls pulsed around him, still fluttering from your orgasm, dragged a guttural moan from deep in his chest.

“F-Fuck–I’m gonna–oh my god–” His voice cracked, and then he thrust deep.

All the way in.

One last, hard, perfect stroke that ground right up against your cervix–flush, thick, shaking.

And he came.

You felt it.

The hot flood of it–spilling deep inside you, thick and molten. His whole body shuddered, his arms trembling as he clutched you, forehead dropping to your shoulder with a small, broken sound.

“Ah–fuck–ngh– Y/N–” His whimper was soft and wet, lips brushing your skin as he moaned through his release. He stayed buried inside you as he came, throbbing, pulsing with every wave, hips twitching in small jerks until it slowed–until all he could do was breathe. His arms folded under your shoulders, and he let himself settle on top of you with a low, shaky sigh. His weight was warm and grounding, not heavy–just enough to make you feel wrapped in him, surrounded by him.

You sighed too–soft and slow and utterly wrecked–and your nails grazed lightly up his back, dragging in gentle, satisfied lines over sweat-slick skin.

“Holy shit…” You whispered, your voice breathy with awe and disbelief.

Bob let out the faintest laugh–hushed and dazed and still short of breath. Then his lips started moving again. Everywhere. Pressing lazy kisses to your throat, your shoulder, the slope of your collarbone, the space beneath your ear. Tiny, messy kisses. Adoring ones. He couldn’t stop.

“You’re unreal…” He murmured against your skin. “C-Can’t believe I’m here. With you. Inside you. Like this…”

You smiled, your heart fluttering.

He shifted–just enough to raise his head and look down at you, cheeks flushed, lips red, hair a golden, tangled halo. You reached up, cupped his face with one hand, and ran your thumb gently along his cheekbone, pushing his hair out of his face int he process.

“Hi,” You whispered.

His chest rose with a warm, broken laugh, and his hand came up to cradle your face in return–his palm cupping your jaw like it was precious.

“Hi,” He breathed, voice still trembling.

You both giggled–giddy, overwhelmed, barely able to process the way the world still felt like it was glowing from within.

Bob leaned in, kissed you softly–slow and messy and open-mouthed, like he was still drunk on you. Then, with visible effort, he pulled back and sat up slowly, his cock still sheathed inside you, twitching slightly from overstimulation.

You whimpered softly at the shift, and his hand rubbed along your thigh.

“I-I’m gonna pull out,” He informed quietly. “Just…Real slow.”

You nodded, biting your lip.

He moved gently–so gently–and as he slid out of you, you both gasped softly. You could feel it instantly: his cum already dripping out of you, thick and warm and sticky against your inner thighs.

Bob saw it too. His eyes widened slightly. He let out a soft groan.

“Y-You’re already leaking…”

His fingers brushed your inner thigh, trembling slightly, before carefully gathering what had come out of you on them and pushing it back into you. You jolted at the suddenness, back arching slightly with a small gasp.

“B-Bob!”

“Shhh,” He murmured, kissing your knee as he slowly pushed his fingers deeper. “Want to make sure you keep some of me in you…For a little bit lo–longer.”

Your cheeks burned.

He pulled back just slightly and watched–mouth parted, breath trembling–as his fingers glistened, slick with the mix of you both. He looked enchanted by it. Awestruck. And when he pulled them out, you reached for his wrist before he could wipe them clean.

You brought his hand to your mouth.

And licked.

His eyes nearly rolled back.

You wrapped your lips around the tips of his fingers and dragged your tongue along them, tasting the arousal still warm on his skin. The mix of your essence and his. His breath hitched sharply. His other hand gripped your hip.

“Fuck,” He whispered, voice barely holding together. “That’s…God, that’s so hot…”

You smiled against his fingers, slowly letting them slip from your mouth with a soft, wet pop. His gaze stayed locked on you, eyes dark and glassy.

And then he said it.

Voice low. Reverent. Almost dreamlike.

“I could die right now…And it’d still be the most beautiful moment of my life.”

You laughed softly–your laugh shaking a little this time, because of how honest it sounded. How completely undone he looked saying it.

And then you tugged him back down into your arms.

Because you needed to feel him again.

Because his body, warm and wrecked and trembling, belonged right there–with you.

He let out a small, contented sigh, nuzzling his nose gently into your cheek as his arms wrapped around your waist. His body still trembled faintly from the aftershocks, and he was warm–so warm, like his skin was humming with leftover sunlight and your name.

“…You know…” He murmured against your temple, voice hoarse and shy in a way that was almost too soft to hear. “I-I really…Really like you. Right?” You blinked, and then a laugh bubbled up from your chest–sweet and wrecked and giddy.

You tilted your head back just enough to meet his eyes, your smile tugging crookedly at your lips as you whispered, “If that mind-blowing sex wasn’t a testament to that, I’d be interested to see what is…”

Bob flushed deep red. His laugh cracked as it left him–quiet and breathless, like it had been knocked loose by your words. He kissed you again–softly, lovingly, like he didn’t want to stop.

When he finally pulled back, he was still smiling, cheeks pink and eyes glassy.

“We…W-we should drink some water,” He said, voice low and dreamy and still a little unsteady. “A-And then do it all over again…M-Maybe in your room this time…”

You arched a brow, your grin turning sly. “Oh yeah?”

He nodded solemnly, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. “W-We’ve got to c-christen both beds…F-For evenness.”

You laughed–loud and unrestrained this time, the sound muffled only slightly by his lips as they brushed along your shoulder.

“Get the water bottles,” you said, running your fingers slowly through his sweat-damp hair, “And I’ll take you up on that offer.”

He groaned softly against your skin, already rolling off the bed with a dizzy grin whispering, “A–Anything for you.”

[lolala1414]

Walk Em Like a Dog

Pairing: Bsf!JJ Maybank x Reader

Summary: JJ would do anything for you and follows you everywhere

Inspired by an edit I saw of him and Kiara to the song Walk Em Like a Dog by Saucy Santana🤪

Word Count: 1,800

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More often than not, if you’re somewhere, JJ Maybank's right there behind you—close enough to reach.

Everyone on the Cut notices. A lot of girls are extremely jealous.

Everybody knows you don’t mind—but they don’t know how much you love it. Love him. And how much he loves you.

Or maybe they kind of do. Your friends definitely do.

He follows you with the unthinking loyalty of a golden retriever—happy to carry your things, happy to wait, happy to walk you home, happy just to be near you.

You tease him about it all the time— laughing and calling him a 'good boy' when he does exactly what you ask, like handing something over or falling in step beside you or behind you without thinking. Sometimes you reach up and ruffle his hair, fingers quick and familiar. "Who's a good boy," you giggle. He scrunches his nose and ducks away like he hates it, muttering, “Oh my god,” but the smile gives him away every time. Sometimes he jokes back "Me" leaning into your touch. And he realizes why dogs like to be petted so much.

His smile stays, crooked and stupid and soft, like he doesn’t actually want you to stop at all.

You step onto the dock at the Boneyard and he’s already there, tossing you a beer without looking. You sit on the hood of the Twinkie, and he leans back between your knees like it’s his assigned seat. You wander off mid-conversation and—two seconds later—JJ’s right behind you, grinning, acting like that’s just how it goes.

“You ever gonna stop tailing her?” Kiara asks one afternoon, arms crossed.

JJ doesn’t even look up. “Nope.”

Simple as that.

One day you’re sprawled in a beach chair, sunglasses on, the sun warm on your skin. JJ’s kneeling in the sand beside you, fixing the busted strap on your bikini like it’s the most important mission of his life.

“You know,” Pope mutters to John B, “if she told him to bark right now—”

JJ ties a knot to keep the strap in place, looks up at you. “That better?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “Maybe a little tighter.”

He does it. Immediately. No questions. With a smile.

John B snorts. “Unreal.”

JJ stands, brushes sand off his hands, and leans down close to you. Too close. Always too close. His voice drops, soft and playful, just for you. “Anything else you need, boss?”

Your heart stutters. You roll your eyes like it doesn’t.

He never makes it weird. Never pushes. Just stays. Loyal in the loudest, quietest way possible. You tell him you’re thirsty? He’s already halfway to the cooler.

You say you’re bored? He’s dragging out the cards, the fishing poles, the Twinkie keys.

You sigh like something’s wrong? He’s beside you, shoulder pressed into yours, saying nothing—but ready.

Later that night, the Pogues are piled together on the sand, a fire crackling low. You’re sitting cross-legged, and JJ’s stretched out with his head resting on your thigh like it belongs there. You fiddle with the shark tooth on his necklace mindlessly.

Sarah giggles at the two of you and nudges Kiaras arm.

“You spoil him,” Kiara says, teasing.

You glance down at him. “I don’t do anything.”

JJ hums, eyes closed. “That’s a lie.”

You laugh, nudging him with your knee. “You good?”

He opens one eye, looking up at you like the world makes sense right there, grinning wide. “I'm fantastic." He closes his eye and sighs happily. "You're cozy.”

It goes quiet for half a second. Everybody exchanges looks.

Then Pope clears his throat loudly. “Okay. So. When are you two gonna stop pretending?”

You freeze. JJ doesn’t move—doesn’t sit up, doesn’t pull away. Just stays right there, grounding himself in you the corner of his lips twitching up just a bit.

“Pretending what?” you ask, carefully.

“That this isn’t already a thing. The two of you,” John B says gesturing in between you. “Because, uh—hate to break it to you—it is.”

JJ finally looks up at you fully now. He doesn't ask but you can tell he's wondering.

You just crack a tiny, knowing smile and your fingers slip into his messy blond hair without thinking. He melts into the touch instantly, like he’s been waiting for permission that was never actually required.

Then you snap out if it and tell John B to shut up. Avoiding the question.

Kiara groans. “I feel like I just watched a proposal.”

JJ smirks, closing his eyes again. “Relax. She hasn’t told me to put a ring on it yet.”

You laugh—soft, warm, real—and JJ stays right where he is. Right where he’s always been.

Tonight you're at a house party. The music’s loud enough that it rattles your ribs.

You feel eyes on you all night, but there’s one in particular that makes your skin prickle.

A Kook boy. Smug. Lingering.

You’re standing near the pool, drink in hand, hips swaying without even thinking about it.

JJ is behind you, hands on your hips, guiding you with him, having noticed the boy and trying to shut it down. He's dancing with you like he always has, close but not too close to make you uncomfortable. Not that anything he'd ever do could.

When you turn your head, his eyes are already on you—bright, locked, hungry in that way he only ever is with you.

You turn around, placing your hands on his shoulders.

“Do you ever need personal space?” you shout over the music, smiling.

He leans down, placing a gentle hand on the side of your neck, mouth brushing your ear. “From you? Never.”

Heat curls low in your stomach.

You take his wrist and tug him forward, just enough to make a point. He comes willingly, stumbling a half step, laughing like he loves it, chest pressing against yours.

Kiara groans. “Jesus Christ. You two.”

“What?” he says innocently. “She pulled.”

You turn, suddenly face to face with him. The firelight paints him gold, eyes dark, grin slow and dangerous. “You follow me everywhere,” you say, voice light, a little tipsy—but there’s something underneath it now.

He shrugs. “Someone’s gotta.”

“Like if I walked away right now?”

“Wouldn’t even hesitate.”

Your fingers curl in the collar of his shirt. The smile on his face falters—not fear. Anticipation.

“Say I told you to stay,” you murmur.

His breath catches. Just barely. “Then I’d stay.”

You hold each other’s gaze for a long second, the air between you tight enough that you swear you could lean in and kiss him right now. But your nerves win. When a new song begins to play, you smile and blurt out how much you love it, reaching for his hands and swaying into a dance instead.

There’s a flicker of disappointment on his face—gone almost as soon as it appears—but he laughs, shaking his head, and joins you anyway.

A few minutes later you tell him you're going to the bathroom. He figures this means to stay.

You go inside and slip down the hallway. When you finish and open the door you see him. JJ, leaning against the wall just outside, arms crossed, jaw tight. Like he’s been stationed there. Like nothing’s getting past him.

“Oh, hey there," you giggle.

His eyes flick to your face, then past you—down the hallway—then back. Protective. Focused.

“Some dude followed you inside,” he says. “Didn’t like it.”

You smirk, stepping closer, invading his space on purpose. “And?”

“And I figured I’d wait,” he says. “Make sure you’re good.”

“Like a guard dog?” you tease.

His mouth twitches. “If that’s what you wanna call it.”

The air feels thick now. Quiet compared to the party. His body is close enough that you can feel heat coming off him.

“Look,” JJ says quietly, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes not quite meeting yours. “I know you can handle yourself. I mean—maybe you would’ve wanted him to talk to you—”

“I wouldn’t have.”

The words come out steady. Certain.

His head snaps up, relief washing over his face so openly it almost makes you smile. His shoulders loosen, like he’d been bracing for something that never came.

“Oh,” he breathes. “Okay.”

You step closer, voice softer now. “I like that you take care of me.”

He stills. “You do?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I like that when you won’t listen to anybody else… you listen to me. That you're always there for me. Doing things for me.”

That finally pulls a real reaction out of him. His gaze drops to your mouth, then lifts back to your eyes, his body angling in without him even realizing it.

“You do,” he repeats, more to himself than you, disbelief threaded through the words.

You nod, teeth catching lightly on your bottom lip as you look up at him. The movement is small, unconscious—and it wrecks him. His breath hitches. His jaw tightens like he’s holding himself back.

“You don’t have to,” you add softly. “But you always do.”

Something shifts. He steps closer, close enough now that the space between you feels charged, fragile.

Your fingers hook into the belt loop of his jeans, tugging him just enough to prove the point. He comes easily. Willingly. Foreheads close and breath now tangling together.

“You’d really do anything I told you to?” you ask.

His breath stutters and you feel it. “Don’t play if you don’t mean it.”

He steps in and your back slowly presses into the wall, pulling him with you until you're caged between his body and the hallway.

“I mean it,” you murmur. “Kiss me.”

For half a second, he freezes—like the words hit somewhere deep. Then his hands come up, stopping just short of touching you.

“Say it again,” he says, voice wrecked.

“Kiss me, JJ.”

That’s all he needs.

He kisses you like he’s been starving—slow, deep and deliberate. Like he’s learning the shape of your mouth. One hand goes to grip your hip, the other slides past your warm cheek and tangles into your hair.

You pull back just enough to breathe. “Open your mouth.”

He does. Instantly.

You kiss him again, harder this time, tongue sliding against his. He groans low in his throat, pressing you into the wall without even realizing he’s doing it. Your fingers curl in his hair, guiding, controlling, and he follows every movement like it’s instinct.

When you finally break apart, both of you are breathless.

His forehead rests against yours.

“Anything else?” he asks quietly. “Anything you want me to do?”

You smile—slow, dangerous. “There’s a lot I want you to do.”

His hand tightens on your hips. His voice drops, rough and sure. “Then tell me,” he says. “I’m yours.”

You take his hand and lead him down the hallway toward a closed bedroom door, the party noise fading behind you.

And JJ doesn’t hesitate for a second.

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Taglist: @daggersanddresses @outerbanksgirly @shayyaps @andrealux21 @wolfwar @obxobsessedbitch1 @maybanksbambi @bambigirl10 @holyfujjj @kookmaeli @moonlitpogue

[blank-potato]

Sad Eyes

Pairing: Ivan "Vanya" Zakharov x Reader

Summary:

“Will you kiss me?” he asks, ignoring your harsh words. If he could kiss you, he could forget. The pain would melt away and he could lose himself in your touch. “Ia umoliaiu tebia potselovat menia (I’m begging you to kiss me).” When you don't respond, he pulls off his sunglasses and lowers himself onto his knees, cheek pressed against your leg like a dog begging for scraps. “I get on my knees, see?” he says, pitifully, looking up at you as if you were his very reason for being. He was so easy. Or You like to make Vanya sad and spend his money. He likes to make you happy.

Tags/Warnings: Angst, Toxic Relationship, Mean!Reader, Sad!Vanya, Verbal Degradation, Kneeling, Begging, Vanya's a Pretty Crier, don't save him - he's right where he wants to be

WC: 1.0k

A/N: Trying to clear out my drafts, found this and finished it. The reader is normally going through it in my Vanya fics so I thought I'd swap it around. Enjoy!

***

You loved Vanya's lips.

The way he kisses. 

Especially when he's sorry.

So damn desperate, so needy. Giving you sloppy kisses, eyes half-lidded and distraught when you pull away.

You like to make him sad.

Love to watch as his tears flow from his eyes, kissing all over your face and neck, saying, “Prostite (I'm sorry)” over and over.

Knuckles white as he grips the fabric of your shirt, needing to cling to you.

Head resting on your chest as he sobs, practically begging for your forgiveness.

If you could keep him crying… you would.

Vanya wasn’t hard to figure out. He was impulsive, reckless with his heart, desperate for validation.

You had a game to play, had to stay just out of reach, to make him want you more than you want him.

To prod at his insecurities, the ones he parties to forget about, while offering yourself as the only cure.

Before he knew it, he couldn’t live without you.

***

“Solnyshko! (Sunshine).”

Vanya’s trudging around the mansion in search of you. Sunglasses on, hangover making his head ring like a church bell, his boxers hung low on his waist, and his robe hanging open.

He missed you the moment he woke up and you weren’t beside him, the sheets cold where your warmth had been. You had lulled him to sleep last night, whispering everything he wanted to hear, soft words sinking into his dreams and keeping the nightmares at bay.

“Kroshka, gde ty? (Baby, where are you?),” Vanya whines.

These days he finds it hard to be without you. You soothe him, busy his mind, more than the drugs and alcohol ever could. 

He finds you in the kitchen, the morning light spilling in through the windows. You’re not wearing headphones, so it’s clear you could hear him calling.

“There you are,” he breathes in relief, like you’d been gone for days instead of minutes. “I was calling you.”

You stand with your back to him, deliberately distant, not even bothering to turn around as you scroll through your phone.

Vanya steps closer, desperate for your warmth, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing himself against you. His lips find the nape of your neck, soft, needy kisses trailing up your skin.

“Fuck, you’re needy,” you sneer, cold and sharp, unwrapping his arms from around you like they’re nothing more than an inconvenience.

“Please… please, not today. I can’t—” His voice cracks, unable to finish his sentences in panic. 

Every once in a while, you’d flip on a dime like this, acting as if you wanted nothing to do with him. It was cruel, and he never understood why. Making him grovel and suffer even when he hadn’t done anything. Vanya didn’t understand, all he knew is that he’d do anything to make it stop. 

“Stop clinging to me like I'm your lifeline. It’s not my fault your parents don’t love you," you snap. The words left your mouth like they were nothing, and to you, they were. But to him, they were everything, and that's all that mattered.

He shrinks a little, but it only makes him want you more. Makes him want to work for your affection which is surprising considering he doesn't like to work for anything. 

He was used to everything and anything being within reach. That's probably why he likes you so much. 

You didn't just tell him no, you told him no and made him apologise for asking.

“Will you kiss me?” he asks, ignoring your harsh words. If he could kiss you, he could forget. The pain would melt away and he could lose himself in your touch.

“Ia umoliaiu tebia potselovat menia (I’m begging you to kiss me).”

When you don't respond, he pulls off his sunglasses and lowers himself onto his knees, cheek pressed against your leg like a dog begging for scraps.

“I get on my knees, see?” he says, pitifully, looking up at you as if you were his very reason for being.

He was so easy.

“Your credit card. I want to go shopping," you say, almost unimpressed with him.

He pats his pockets, fishing out his wallet and handing it to you without hesitation, hands shaking slightly.

The smile you give him is nothing short of angelic, at least in his eyes. A blessing, if his credit card was a sacrifice, then it’s considered a token of his devotion.

He's never met anyone like you, no one that can put him in his place and make him like it. He'd be damned if he let you go.

Leaning down, you place a gentle hand beneath his chin, crouching so that you are face to face with him. He was upset, so his cheeks were a pretty shade of pink, as if he had been holding his breath, fighting back the tears but too frustrated to let them fall.

“Thank you, Vanya,” you drawl, the tingle of your breath against his ear making his eyes flutter shut in response.

Your fingers leave his chin and snake their way into his hair. It's no surprise that he lets out a shaky moan the moment you grip the strands hard enough to sting.

He likes having his hair pulled.

You tug him forward, his hands falling onto your knees to keep him upright and give him what he's been waiting for. 

A kiss.

As your lips crash into one another, he melts against you, kissing you like he’s running out of time. Each kiss accompanied by a moan, each one more pathetic than the last.

His hands slide up your thighs and get to your waist before the two of you break apart for air. 

The sight you see is a dream. 

Lips red and parted, shallow breaths racking his whole body.

And the pièce de résistance, those pretty, sad little eyes of his. Like all he wanted was for you to kiss it all better.

“Nikogda ne pokiday menya (Never leave me),” he says before dramatically wrapping his arms around your waist, his face finding purchase in the crook of your neck.

As his soft hair tickles your cheek, and you consider that you're holding the Zakharov fortune in your arms, you say, “Keep me happy and I won't go anywhere.”

Main Masterlist || Anora Masterlist

[jesuistrestriste]

we need to see artie with the yummy cupcake lotion!! PLEASEEE

ask and you shall receive ᢉ𐭩

cw (18+) : sub!art, dom!reader, dom!patrick, multiple orgasms (art receiving), sloppy blowjobs, biting, brief dacryphilia, nipple play, handjobs, art gets ruined .

“fff—uhh-ck—!” art’s body shudders atop the mattress hard enough to vibrate it, his aquamarine eyes rolling back and his leg muscles flexing underneath your seat over his thighs. as your hands work the newly-bought (thank you, patrick’s wallet) whipped body cream into his swollen shaft, he fixates on the way your thumbs rub at the vein bulging and throbbing from within the underside of his length. he heaves like he’s short of breath. patrick slings a leg over his chest and smirks down at him, obscuring his view of you.

“so hot when you can barely handle a handjob,” he teases, his palms moving down to cup the back of art’s head and urge it forward to meet his glistening tip, “open up f’r me, watching you get worked up is making me leak..”

art’s never one to put up a fight when it comes to pleasuring you or patrick, so he lets out the prettiest of keens before he relaxes his jaw and swallows his best friend down in one ragged gulp. his cheeks puff for only a brief moment as he stifles his gag reflex, then they hollow as he adjusts and begins sucking the pleasantly-salty flesh with the finesse of a seasoned slut.

pat immediately tosses his head back, letting out a deep, guttural groan that reverberates throughout his chest, and guides his hips to shallowly thrust against art’s face—the flushed tip of art’s nose buried in nothing but thick happy-trail. little “mmn”s from the blonde’s chest escape as the inches are sloppily fed to him with every grinding motion, pushing him to swallow down as much as he possibly can.. and he can take quite a lot..

your hands begin to pump the rigid length harder in your grasp; up, down, up, down, up, and then down, down, down to cup his tightening sack. you smirk. you know each and every one of his weak spots in a way that no one else does; it’s become easier than ever to exploit them for your (and patrick’s) benefit. all it really takes is one specific touch, and he’ll lose it. with that in mind, you drag your fingernail against the soft seam in his balls, chuckling when you hear an unsurprising, muffled cry erupt from art’s body. his hands rush to squeeze at pat’s thighs, his pelvis jolts like he’s a wild horse trying to buck you off, and then he comes. just like that. simple—quick—inexcusable.

his toes curl, his cock spasming as you stroke him through it. your eyes stick to the sight of his spend spurting and spilling over your touch and his lower abdomen. it looks like the icing that glazes cinnamon rolls; it makes you lick over your bottom lip, desperate to finally lap up what you’re craving. in the same breath, patrick reels back and pulls his still painfully-hard erection from the other’s mouth. strings of spit cling and break from their point of contact. while pat’s frame is still shielding the sight of your plaything’s post-orgasmic expression from your gaze, you can hear him breathing and whimpering through the aftershocks, same as he always does. composure is something he never retains after the first climax. you give the middle of his member one last pump before you’re sliding down onto your tummy and patrick is moving in tandem to sit beside art’s torso—grabbing the bottle of lotion from the bedside table and squeezing a deliciously-sweet helping over art’s bare chest. the initial chill of it makes his body shiver.

“that wasn’t even a minute, artie, maybe not even thirty seconds,” you croon, kissing his inner thighs, looking up to him through your lashes, “that was a little embarrassing, actually..”

art moans at your taunting words and the feel of your soft lips pressing to his sensitive skin. his unsteady hands curl into the sheets where they fell from pat. he wants to cry already, you can tell; the urge wells in his eyes like pools of saltwater. you rub his hipbone in an attempt to comfort him before you lick over his flesh and then sink your teeth in hard enough to leave a mark. as soon as he feels your canines, his back is jerking up from the mattress into a perfect arch and he’s gasping feverishly—all stuttered and urgent. you laugh warmly around his flesh caught between your jaws, crinkle your nose with the effort, then let him go. you soothe over the bite with your tongue. his face screws up, his cock throbs back to full-mast, and the first tear spills from the outer corner of his eye. right on schedule. art loves being bitten, but it overwhelms him terribly. mouthing mindlessly at the indentations of your teeth in his skin, you let him be coaxed back to the edge.

“.. ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry, i—i didn’t mean to, everything just happened so fast, and i—“ he sniffles, trying to catch his breath after your recent act of tender sadism. he doesn’t get much time to do so though before your accomplice is having his way with him once more.

patrick gropes at art’s pecs and rubs the cream in, ignoring how close he was to finishing mere minutes ago as he’d been getting some of the best head of his life. blondie is a pro at oral, he performs it like his life depends on whether or not he can make the person fall apart over his tastebuds. pat’s fingers toy with the pink buds on art’s chest and he smirks devilishly when his tennis partner tips his head back and squirms like an overexcited puppy.

“relax,” the brunette murmurs, leaning down just a bit, thumbs rubbing merciless circles over art’s nipples, “and stick your fuckin’ tongue out.”

art does as he’s told. no complaints. why would he? a desperate moan pours from his chest as his mouth opens and is instantly flooded with the sugary taste of smooth vanilla bean—the body cream. patrick’s middle and ring finger nearly suffocate him as they slide as deep as his dick had been. art coughs. he splutters, really. he drools. then he succumbs to the sensations and lets himself be used. the hand still on his chest rubs relentlessly at his right tit.

“uuungh—!” he whines around the digits, feeling a pit of prickly heat boil in his stomach for the second time, “wai—.. w-wait.. i think i—ohh, fuck..! haah—haah-!”

but you can hardly understand him with his mouth full.

you chuckle, making victorious eye-contact with patrick for only a fraction of a second, and then pepper chaste pecks to his tensing lower limbs. art’s golden curls cling to his dewy forehead and splay out over the pillow. he looks princely like this. it only makes you want to take him apart more viciously.

pat dips down and suddenly licks over the top half of art’s chest, letting his spit-covered fingers retreat from the blonde’s orifice and rub at the leftmost bundle of nerves. the man under him nearly wails.

“mmn.. cotton candy icecream,” he whispers playfully before languidly kissing another spot, “or maybe it’s supposed to be sugar cookie,” he kisses another area, “or birthday cake..”

each touch of pat’s mouth has art’s noises pitching higher. more pathetic, more obscene, and certainly indicative of his second climax beginning to creep in and muddle his thoughts, as if he wasn’t already a bit too delirious with ecstasy to function properly. he wonders if he can even withstand the mental weight of another one, but it’s not like he can stop it—even if he did want to. he’s completely at the mercy of you two, and he doesn’t yet plan to attempt to wriggle free.

you’re too entranced by the lewd interaction displayed in front of you to do what you had intended, so you hold yourself steady between art’s legs as the muscles continue to flex and twitch around your head. in the blink of an eye, pat is taking art’s right nipple into his mouth and suckling like he expects milk to flow.

that’s plenty for poor, helpless artie. the rush of fiery gratification floods his body and has him sobbing out a handful of frenzied syllables. his cock bobs in vain against his tummy, gushing more milky fluid.

“im coming,” he yelps, “im coming, hard, hard, hard, im—AAH-“

patrick pulls his pout from art’s bud with a slick pop and flutters his tongue over it afterward to let his buddy ride out his high. he waits until the tremors have subsided before lifting his head and taking in the sight of the spent form twitching on the comforter.

“good boy,” he groans, unable to stop himself from reaching down to jerk his cock in his fist, overcome with arousal from watching art finish twice in no more than seven or eight measly minutes.

now it’s your turn.

you get the last one.

“such a good boy, baby,” you echo pat’s sentiment, not giving your toy a moment more of reprieve before you’re sucking at his softening, hypersensitive cock. you expect his previous two loads to overpower the flavor of the lotion, but they don’t—art eats extremely healthily, so his come hardly tastes like much of anything at all. it’s like he’s made of strawberry shortcake. he’s sweet all-over. you swirl your tongue as you feel his length kick with overstimulation against the roof of your mouth.

“FUCK—“

he squeals, shaking his head, thrashing like a fish-out-of-water. his hands race to squeeze your shoulders, pawing at them and trying to push you away, even if part of him wants nothing more than to pull you in closer. patrick sees this and takes the initiative to check in—he’s good at that.

“you want it to stop?” he strokes his messy fingertips through art’s strands, combing them out a bit as he watches his expression crumple, “y’wanna be all done? if you wanna be done, you gotta tell us.. you know how it works. if you can’t talk, give me the taps. three, and it’ll all be over.. just like that.”

art’s eyes squeeze shut tighter at his best friend’s reassuring instructions. his hands move from your shoulders to fumble blindly for pat’s wrist, clutching it like a lifeline as the sensation of your tongue and lips sends him hurtling toward a third and final release. it coils and stretches and brews in his gut like it’s threatening to tear him apart from the inside-out. he’s hot to the touch, body trembling uncontrollably, a slew of unintelligible noises leaving him as everything builds, and builds, and builds..

“you can give us one more,” patrick mumbles lowly into art’s cheek, “one more.. here it comes.. here it comes, dude..”

you moan encouragingly around art’s length, slurping around it and bobbing your head in imitation of the way he had when he was going down on your dominant counterpart. you look up to his face, you lick at his precome, you pat the side of his torso. he knows that that means. you’re ready to drink everything he can give.

he crashes.

patrick tugs at the back of his hair just the way he likes, you rub your tongue rapidly against his frenulum, and he mewls painfully through the last climax his nervous system is willing to grant him. his thighs clamp down around your face and keep you held close, his dick throbbing in your throat as he spills over. ropes pour one after the other as you swallow—the feeling of your throat convulsing around him only prolonging the intoxicating nature of every tingle and thrum of pleasure that runs up his spine.

“hurt—hurts, hngh, n-no.. can’t.. o-okay—please—done—“ he hiccups out after only a few more short moments, tears fully spilling down the sides of his face and over his temples now. you pull yourself slowly off of him and revel in the way his abdomen contracts in response to the last blinks of sensitivity. you gasp for air when you’re sat back upright, and then you’re crawling up to cup art’s cheek.

“we’ve got you.. you’re alright,” you kiss the words into his neck, patrick moving to press a kiss to his brow as well, “didn’t that feel so good?”

art manages a nod, but that’s all he has in him. everything else has left his brain and melted into the bedsheets. it’ll be a while before he’s back to his usual self. you and pat know what he needs—this is almost routine by now.

“we’ll get you cleaned up and taken care of, yeah?” you hum.

he nods again. his eyes flutter under heavy lids. he stifles a tiny whimper.

you watch as the brunette idly palms his flaccid cock, his hand frothy with a release you hadn’t even realized he experienced. must’ve finished when art did. disappointment fidgets and flares in your chest at the thought of missing one of your boys’ orgasms. it makes you frown a bit, but then you get an idea. one that only makes sense—is only fair—right? your lips drag against the outside of art’s ear.

“gotta get you rested up, artie.. tomorrow’s patrick’s turn..”

taglist : @voidsuites @fawnnpaws @artstennisracket @imperishablereverie @ghostgirl-22 @lexiiscorect @cha11engers @patricksbf @newrochellechallenger2019 @pittsick @blastzachilles @oncefaist @tacobacoyeet @nozhdyved @tinythebunni

[cocosweetie]

𖦹 .ᐟ favorite writers

@mi-co-uk

@rafeslvbug

@delilahsturniolo

@luveline

@lucydixon

@sturniphone

@viviansturns

@vanteguccir

@tinythebunni

© cocosweetie 🐞

[cocosweetie]

🐞 .ᐟ character ai masterlist pt. 3

dni 18 + .ᐟ may include explicit content.

♯. jj maybank .ᐟ

wild child ㆍ jj may be the wild child of the pogues, but you were on another level neutral!user

hold him close ㆍ no one's ever treated him so softly, not until you neutral!user yapper!jj

he loves your tattoo ㆍ he's obsessed with your tattoo neutral!user whipped!jj

mama's mad ㆍ he smoked in the twinkie even after you told him not to, you're mad at him fem!user

breakfast club ㆍ he got caught with weed now you have detention together fem!user

mother hen ㆍ you live on poguelandia with the pogues fem!user boyfriend!jj

♯. rafe cameron .ᐟ

something wrong ㆍ rafe comes to your house in tears neutral!user sad!rafe

moto-x3m ㆍ you ride on his bike with him neutral!user

stepbro ㆍ he has a problem with your outfit fem!user overprotective!rafe

he misses you; craves you ㆍ he sees you at the boneyard, he misses you neutral!user exboyfriend!rafe

© cocosweetie 🐞 credit to all the writers

[cocosweetie]

🐞 .ᐟ character ai masterlist pt. 2

dni 18 + .ᐟ may include explicit content.

♯. art donaldson .ᐟ

jealousy, jealousy ㆍ he sees you talking to a man during his match neutral!user

step daddy ㆍ it's past your curfew and he catches you fem!user stepdad!art

lapdog ㆍ you get home from work and he immediately clings to you neutral!user puppy!art needy!art

you cheated, he's sorry ㆍ he wants to be better for you neutral!reader pathetic!art

stalker ㆍ he's obsessed with you neutral!user stalker!art

puppy love ㆍ he doubts your love for him neutral!user puppy!art

crybaby, crybaby ㆍ you broke up with him and he misses you neutral!user ex boyfriend!art

♯. patrick zweig .ᐟ

annoying roomie ㆍ he's your roommate who you hate fem!user pervy!patrick

pissed off n’ pent up ㆍ he hates you but he loves you fem!user mean!patrick

stepbro ㆍ he's your annoying stepbrother neutral!user pervy!patrick

© cocosweetie 🐞 credit to all the writers

[cocosweetie]

🍎 .ᐟcoco's character ai library .ᐟ 🐞

ꕤ sturniolo triplets .ᐟ includes chris sturniolo and matt sturniolo

ꕤ outer banks .ᐟ includes jj maybank and rafe cameron

ꕤ challengers .ᐟ includes art donaldson and patrick zweig

ꕤ stranger things .ᐟ includes steve harrington ( s o o n )

ꕤ avatar .ᐟ includes jake sully and neteyam sully ( s o o n )

© cocosweetie 🐞

[cocosweetie]

🐞 .ᐟ character ai masterlist pt. 1

dni 18 + .ᐟ may include explicit content.

♯. chris sturniolo .ᐟ

not his girl, yet ㆍ you met at tara's party and he's whipped for you. fem!user

drunk ㆍ he helps you when you're drunk after a party. neutral!user drunk!user

crybaby ㆍ he comforts you when you cry. crybaby!user bf!chris

single mom ㆍ your boyfriend left you after finding out you were pregnant but chris is there to help you. singlemom!user

the loser ㆍ he'd do anything for you loser!chris meangirl!user

unable to sleep ㆍ you can't sleep but he's there to help you. neutral!user

who's a good boy? ㆍ he's wants to go home, he's your good boy. fem!user sub!chris

freckles ㆍ you love his freckles. neutral!user bf!chris

♯. matt sturniolo .ᐟ

tattoos ㆍ he loves your tattoos neutral!user bf!matt

cowboy au ㆍ he's infatuated by you but he's your father's farmhand farmhand!matt farmersdaughter!user

sleepy ㆍ you're yapping to him, he's tired sleepy!matt fem!user

school project ㆍ you're his partner for a school project nerd!matt meangirl!user

sleepy girlfriend, quiet gamer boyfriend ㆍ he can't sleep fem!user gamer!matt

glasses ㆍ you love matt with his glasses on neutral!user

♯. chratt .ᐟ

tag team ㆍ you caught their attention at a club fem!user

crybaby ㆍ you're clingy and need their attention fem!user crybaby!user

ditzy ㆍ they spoil you ditzy!user spoiled!user

© cocosweetie 🐞 credit to all the writers

[cosmictheo]

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐒! | steve harrington

— summary: steve is jealous of jonathan and head over heels for you. you're jealous of nancy, but you'll never accept that you might like steve. fortunately, there's alcohol and a big pool to sort it all out! — pairing: steve harrington x female!henderson!reader —word count: 6.5 k (wow) — content: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), p in v sex, oral (female receiving), some porn with some plot, unprotected sex, creampie, body worship, friends to lovers, mutual pining, bratty!reader, a bit of angst, reader is jealous of nancy, steve is jealous of jonathan, steve is down BAD, kind of baddie!reader, drunk love confessions, praise kink, size kink, steve being pathetic for the reader as he should.

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!

You met Steve Harrington back at that awful Halloween bash at Tina's where Jonathan practically dragged you along with him. Well, you had first seen him at school, however, you had never spoken, for obvious reasons. 

He was a full-blown jerk, clueless, insensitive, and absurdly dull. The type of guy who was the least like your type of guy.

And him? He was hopelessly, devastatingly in love with you. Ever since he had met you that night at Tina's place, you had entered his life as if he was already yours, offering him comfort and a shoulder to cry on through one of the roughest patches of his life.

And to top it all off, you were his best friend's older sister. A feisty full-blown Henderson, a bad-tempered smartass, someone capable of pushing his buttons and turning his world upside down. Sometimes he thought you were even more annoying than Dustin, and that was an understatement.

But he loved you, to the core. You were so fearless, the best sister and friend, always humble, kind-hearted, and selfless.

He told himself it was stupid. He was stupid.

You barely tolerated him.

The first few days of your unlikely and emerging friendship you hardly glanced at him, only greeting him out of politeness.

Then, the first few months had been quite rough, more for him than for you. Because there were days, moments when he would try his heart out to catch your attention, to make you laugh, to at least have you smile at him, just for him.

Because Steve Harrington had always been the kind of boy who was used to being liked. Effortlessly. Girls smiled at him in the hallways, teachers forgave him things they never should have, and life had a funny way of opening doors for him without him even knocking. All his life, everything had been laid out for him on a silver platter; he didn't even have to put in much effort in order to get what he wanted.

But you?

You were a locked door.

You didn't like Steve Harrington.

And yet, you always felt that icy, crushing sense of jealousy creep over you whenever you saw Steve draw closer to Nancy, choose her above others, and compete with Jonathan for her attention and appreciation.

“You know Nancy has a boyfriend, right?” you asked him once, your expression too grim to match the humor in your voice. He had spent most of the afternoon competing with Jonathan over who had killed more monsters from the Upside Down—something completely ridiculous. “And that's Jon?”

Steve huffs at the way you pronounce that nickname, closing the passenger door of your Jeep and settling into the seat. “I was just saying facts. I did kill more shit down there last year. Jonathan wasn't even there.”

“He was in California. What the hell did you want him to do from California, Steve?” you retort in an overly defensive tone, determined to defend the honor of your childhood best friend.

Because of course you would leap to Jonathan's defense. That aggravated Steve even more.

He raises his eyebrows, smirking with triumphant mockery, “Exactly.”

“Can you two stop arguing like an old married couple?” Dustin chimes in, popping up between the two front seats from the back and glaring at you both with a sour look on his face. “And maybe drive? I'm going to be late.”

Steve leans back in his seat, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Jonathan Byers.

It was always Jonathan Byers.

Steve had never said it out loud—because admitting it would make him sound small, petty, exactly the kind of guy he was trying not to be anymore—but the jealousy had been there from the very beginning. From the way Jonathan knew you before he ever did. From the way you laughed more freely around him, softer, unguarded, safe. From the way you touched Jonathan's arm when you talked, a casual familiarity Steve would have killed for.

He hated that Jonathan didn't even have to try.

That he got your trust without earning it.

“So,” Steve mutters, staring out the window, “you and Byers hang out a lot now.”

You had already dropped Dustin off at Mike's house, so the two of you were all alone now, which was a rare occurrence lately. 

You glance at him for a fraction of a second, catching the stiffness in his shoulders and jaw, and the way he averts eye contact entirely. He looks like a grumpy little boy, it's kind of funny and cute. “We've been friends since we were kids. We've always hung out.”

“Yeah. I know,” he says quickly, as if the words were venom on his tongue. “Just saying.”

There it is. He's such a passive-aggressive jerk when it comes to Jonathan.

“You're always just saying things about him,” you shoot back. "What's your problem, Harrington?”

That finally makes him look at you.

“Problem? My problem?” he laughs, sharp and humorless. He looks awkward now, a little self-conscious. “Nothing. Why would I have a problem?”

Probably because Jonathan is your best friend.

Because when you're scared, you reach for him first.

Because he knows things about you Steve doesn't—and maybe never will.

You sigh, exhausted, shaking your head disapprovingly. “You act like he's done some evil thing to you.”

Steve swallows. “He hasn't.”

That's the worst part.

Because Jonathan Byers had never been really cruel to him. Sure, he disliked him as much as Steve disliked him, and he kind of stole Nancy from him when they were still together, but he had never been intentionally rude. 

Jonathan was just... there. Steady. Familiar. Important. Close.

Everything Steve wanted to be.

He also knew that you weren't exactly his type.

Because the truth was, you never had been.

You were better.

You were someone who saw meaning in shadows, who believed stories could save people, who challenged him without trying to change him. You saw him as he really was. You see him.

Jonathan was your person. Your best friend.

But, no matter what, Steve had always been special enough.

It made no sense, and you hated that the feeling existed at all.

Because you didn't want Steve Harrington.

You didn't like his stupid hair, or the way he pretended not to care when things hurt him, or how he filled silence with silly jokes. You definitely didn't like how easily people forgave him, how quickly Nancy Wheeler smiled at him, how natural it seemed for her to fit at his side.

So why did your stomach twist every time you caught him looking at her?

You told yourself it was protectiveness. That you were just being a good sister. A good friend. Dustin adored Steve, and maybe—maybe—you were just afraid he'd get hurt again.

But that lie got harder to swallow the longer it went on.

Because Steve had a bad habit of showing up when things fell apart. When your mom was working late and you kept having nightmares, Steve was right there, answering your three-in-the-morning phone call without hesitation. When the world went to hell—literally—Steve never ran. He stayed. Bloody, shaking, terrified, but still standing between danger and the people he loved.

Between danger and you.

And you hated how safe he made you feel.

There were nights when you sat across from him on the floor of your room, knees almost touching, sharing a blanket and a silence that felt too heavy to be accidental, a long-forgotten movie was playing on your television screen. You might not have paid attention to it, nor did you appreciate its corny jokes, but his laughter was all it took to make your day and night. His laughter was softer around you, more careful.

Falling for Steve Harrington felt like stepping off a cliff without knowing if there was ground below.

It had started innocently enough, in one of those impromptu gatherings that somehow always ended up at Steve's big house because his parents were never home and because, for some reason, he never said no when someone needed a place.

You remember that night very clearly.

Robin had shown up first, already halfway through a stolen bottle of something that tasted like regret and cough syrup. And Nancy and Jon showed up together a few minutes later, swearing they wouldn't get all lovey-dovey with booze in their system.

And then there was you.

Sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, back against the couch, laughing harder than you meant to as Robin—dramatically as ever— was telling you about the times at Scoops Ahoy, and how Steve kept blowing his flirting attempts with pretty girls.

At some point, with the sun already setting on the horizon of an uncharacteristically quiet Hawkins, the alcohol softened the edges of the room.

So, someone suggested the pool like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Robin was the first one in, cannonballing without warning and shrieking at the cold water. Nancy followed shortly after, already in their swimsuits, laughter bright and careless, Jonathan close behind her. 

You stayed seated on the edge, feet dangling just above the water, denim already warm from the sunset, watching them with an amused smile.

“Come on, Henderson,” Robin calls, eyes glinting with trouble. “Live a little.”

“I didn't bring a swimsuit,” you protest, pointing down at yourself. “Unlike you degenerates.”

“And? That's never stopped anyone before,” she chirps too cheerfully, creeping dangerously close to you.

You don't even have time to register her next movement.

One second Robin is grinning at you, the next her hands are on you, and then—

You scream.

Cold water swallows you whole, clothes and all, the shock ripping the air from your lungs. When you resurface, sputtering and furious, the sound of laughter echoes around the backyard of Steve's big mansion.

“Buckley!” you whine out, hair plastered to your face, shirt clinging uncomfortably to your skin. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I regret nothing!” she shouts back, already retreating as Nancy splashed her in retaliation, laughing heartily.

Steve hadn't laughed.

He was already at the edge of the pool, crouched down, concern etched into his face as he reached out instinctively, his absurdly overpriced beer bottle abandoned on the ground, and his sunglasses — totally unnecessary since it was late afternoon — propped up in his hair. 

“Hey—hey, you okay?”

You nod, still catching your breath, suddenly very aware of how soaked you were. How cold. How exposed.

“Yeah,” you respond, sulking. “I'm gonna fucking kill her in her sleep.”

Steve snorts softly, relief washing over him. “Yeah, That's the bare minimum we expect from you.”

He hesitates just for half a second before standing up and helps you out of the pool, hands tightly holding yours, one of them sliding down to your waist, with an awkward, hesitant touch.

His chocolate-brown eyes are glowing every time they shift from your chest to your face and back again, taking in how see-through the damp fabric of your shirt is now. “Uh... you can borrow something of mine— I mean, if you want. So you don't freeze.”

You blink at him, hugging yourself and feeling a little self-conscious. “You sure?”

It's strange to say the least. You'd had a few tough weeks, you had grown a little distant from each other since that thing on your car. Out of some silly jealousy, that's why.

And still, Steve is treating you with the same decency and care as in your glory days as friends. Just like always.

He shrugs, pretending it was no big deal. “Yeah. I've got like... a million hoodies.”

That is an understatement.

You follow him back inside his house, dripping quietly through the empty halls, covering yourself with a towel that he had handed you, the noise from outside muffling behind you. Steve leads you upstairs, steps careful, like he is afraid to scare you off.

“My room's—uh—here,” he says, pushing the door open.

Even though you had been to his house several times, for whatever reason, you had never been in his room before. So this was a new experience for you. One that, even though you didn't want to admit it, you found particularly intriguing.

And it is... nothing like you expected.

Not messy. Not careless. But warm. Thoughtful.

Your eyes wander before you could stop them.

A stack of vinyl records sat neatly by his turntable—records you recognize immediately. Your favorites. The ones you'd mentioned once, offhandedly, during a late-night conversation you hadn't thought he remembered.

There are movies too. VHS tapes lined carefully along a shelf—old horror, indie films, that one foreign movie you loved and had insisted was misunderstood. A couple of well-worn books lay stacked on his nightstand, spines cracked, margins dog-eared.

You pick one up slowly.

“This is... mine,” you say softly. “I mean—this is my favorite.”

Steve is frozen in place, turning to face you from within his open closet doors, previously very involved in a search for a pair of shorts that are preferably smaller than the ones he usually wears and a hoodie, for you.

“Oh. Yeah. You said you liked it,” he replies, too casually, spectacularly downplaying the significance of the situation.

You turn to him, eyes landing on the broad expanse of his back as he went back into digging through his clothes. “Steve... you don't— you don't even read.”

He laughs nervously, still not looking at you. “I do, sugar. N-now.”

The nickname slips out casually, he says it so sweetly. It's the first time you've heard him call you that in days. And it brings a cute little smile to your face.

There are photos pinned crookedly to a corkboard near his desk. Not trophies. Not popularity. Not reminders of who he used to be. Just moments.

Dustin missing a teeth. Robin mid-laugh. One of you, sitting on the floor back at your house, unaware, smiling at something just out of frame. Probably Steve.

You stare at that picture longer than you mean to.

It's candid. Soft. You're younger there, unguarded in a way you rarely allow yourself to be. It makes something tight coil low in your chest.

“Why do you have that?” you ask quietly.

Steve doesn't answer right away, he flicks a glance at you and then his eyes move down to the photo you're holding in your hands.

And when he does, his voice is low, stripped of bravado. “Because you look happy.”

And cute. And pretty. Like, the most gorgeous sight he's ever seen.

He digs a little more through his closet and finally, hands you a pair of Nike shorts and a hoodie—one of his favorites, judging by how worn the cuffs are. 

The hoodie swallows you whole, warm and smelling like him. Soap. Shampoo. His perfume that is so masculine and yet, soft. So Steve.

You don't miss the way his eyes linger on you as he enters back into is room, once you let him know that you had already changed.

“Okay,” you start, crossing your arms, suddenly very aware of the way your heart is misbehaving. “So. You collect my favorite records. You read my books. You keep pictures of me like some sort of—”

“Please don't say serial killer,” he interrupts weakly and extremely embarrassed.

You snort, sitting down on the edge of his bed, slightly dizzy from the alcohol. “—like some sort of sentimental idiot.”

That gets a smile out of him. Real. Soft. A little sad. Like, drunk sad.

“Look,” he says, gesturing dramatically with his hands and walking towards you wearing an embarrassed little smile, “you don't have to make it weird—”

You're smart and quick enough to cut him off, of course. “You already did that, Harrington.”

“Fair.” He exhales, blushing so much both out of embarrassment and out of the quantity of beer consumed in the evening, “I just... I like knowing what matters to you. I'm trying to keep up,” his voice keep lowering gently as he continues, “I just— I just like you a lot—,” suddenly he is just a babbling mess of rushed words, “I like being with you, like, your company,” he shrugs, making an effort to appear casual, “so, you know, I-I care.”

I like you.

Not loved. Not needed. Just—there. Honest. Low. Patient.

You smile softly, shaking your head as you look up at him with eyes gleaming with longing and drunkenness. “You're drunk, Harrington.”

“Yeah,” he agrees easily, smiling too, “and so are you, sugar.”

“Yeah but, I get you, I like you too, Stevie.”

The way you pronounce his nickname rings like sweet music to Steve's ears. You almost never say it. And he absolutely hates that nickname, but coming from you, it's different. He loves it. He'd listen to you say it all day if he could.

You smile back at him. God, you smile at him so easily when you let yourself. Or like now, when you're not sober.

You're smiling a lot.

Steve takes a seat on his bed next to you very cautiously, making sure he is holding your gaze. He sits so close that your shoulders brush against each other. But you don't pull away. And neither does he.

“And—” he says suddenly holds back for a moment, unsure whether to continue speaking or not, but then decides to go ahead anyway, “Jonathan.”

“Jonathan...” you repeat, slurring out the name.

Steve swallows. “Is it—” he stops, shakes his head once. “Is there something I'm not seeing?”

You frown slightly, not quite understanding exactly what he's getting at. “Meaning...?”

He forces himself to look at you now, brown eyes searching your face, not accusatory—just honest, curious and vulnerable all over.

Sober, you're the smartest person Steve knows. However, as soon as a drop of alcohol hits your system, your brain seems to go into stand-by mode, as if it were on vacation. Or maybe you're just playing dumb.

“Are you in love with him?”

The question lands softly.

That's what makes it hurt.

You blink, caught off guard by how gentle he sounds, regardless of the heavy topic he is bringing up. And in spite of that, he doesn't look or sound as defensive as he always is when it comes to Jonathan Byers.

“I—” You hesitate, then sigh, leaning back on your hands, sighing heavily and frowning, blinking really slow. “Jonathan's my best friend. He always has been.”

“I know,” Steve says quickly, looking down at you. “I'm not— I'm not saying it like it's a bad thing.”

“Well, you sound like it,” you smile a little, a kind of silly, carefree smile that you hardly ever show.

Steve opens and closes his mouth, stammering words out, “So... you've never—?”

“No,” you answer, shaking your head and wincing in disgust, “Ew, dude. That's sick to even think about. He's like a brother to me.”

Relief flickers across his face before he can stop it.

You notice.

“Good, that's good,” he breathes out the air he had been holding in his lungs, casting his gaze away from you toward the floor, blushing.

You tilt your head, studying him with narrowed eyes. “You care an awful lot for someone who claims he doesn't have a problem with Byers.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, shaking his head, suddenly on the defensive again. His lips twist into a grimace before he speaks. “Well, you've been spending a lot of time with him lately. It does seem a little suspicious.” He shrugs his shoulders dismissively. “Nancy and I thought for a moment that you two were onto something.”

“There it is,” you whisper, rolling your eyes. “This is what you do. You get weird and defensive and then act like I'm the problem.”

“I'm not saying you are,” he snaps back, sharper than before. The alcohol makes his edges rougher, his honesty more reckless. “I just don't get why you're always going out with him lately, always choosing him.”

That makes you sit up straighter, now you're a tiny bit more on the defensive. “I don't choose him.”

“You do,” Steve insists, finally looking at you again, eyes dark and earnest. “Every time. When something's wrong. When you need someone. When you—” he cuts off his own words as he gestures vaguely, frustrated. “You don't even notice you do it.”

You swallow, anger softening into something more complicated. “You don't get to be jealous, Steve. You don't get to act like this when you're still—” you hesitate, the bitterness of jealousy stinging your tongue. “When you're still half in love with Nancy”

He stands abruptly, raising his hands in offense. He looks very offended. “I am not—"

“You so are!” you fire back, standing too. “Everyone can see it. You look at her like she hung the damn stars, and then you turn around and accuse me of being in love with my best friend?”

Your eyes are brimming with tears of anger, frustration, and disappointment, but your words speak a completely different story. They are full of resentment: “And then you get angry out of nowhere and drift away from me and accuse me of something I haven’t even done, and suddenly I feel like I’m the problem!” Steve keeps quiet, gazing at you with the same anguish reflected in your eyes. “Why are you keep doing this? Why are you pushing me away?”

“Because I love you!”

The room goes quiet, awfully quiet.

The ringing in your ears from the rage suddenly vanishes, replaced by that deafening, heavy silence. 

Steve is breathing hard, his chest heaving as if he's just run a marathon, his hands still raised in that defensive gesture that now looks more like he's trying to catch the words he just threw into the air.

“W-what?” you manage, the word barely catching on your vocal cords.

Steve looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole, but he doesn't look away. Not this time. 

“You heard me,” he says, his voice losing its edge, turning raw and shaky. “I'm not in love with Nancy, okay? I haven't been for a long time. It's always been about trying to find... I don't know— maybe, a way to make you look at me the way you look at Jonathan. To be that important to you.”

He takes a step closer, pressing into this kind of invisible void that always kept you two apart, a protective barrier you had built around yourself, now trembling on the verge of collapse.

“It's you. It's always been you.” Steve continues, very much at odds with the dismissive expression on your face, lost for words. “Since that night at Tina's. You were so mean to me, and all I could think was, 'God, I hope she never stops talking to me.'”

He laughs, a low, self-deprecating sound that makes your heart ache in your chest.

“I read those stupid books because I wanted to understand why you liked them. I bought those records because I wanted my house to sound like a place you'd actually want to stay,” he brushes his fingers through his hair, voicing every thought that crosses his mind, his eyes filling with tearful emotion that overwhelms his heart, capitalizing on your uncharacteristic quietness. “I'm an idiot— I know. I'm a sentimental, clueless idiot because you— you are all I see. I see you when I try to imagine my future. With me. In a big house, with a dog and a cat and a couple of little kids who look just like you, with your beautiful smile and your big eyes and your brilliance. You are my future, my dream.”

You shake your head, blinking away a few tears. “I should go.”

You barely take two steps before his hand closes around your wrist.

“Don't— I'm sorry, honey,” he whispers barely, voice really low. “Please.”

You stop, turning around to look at him. “Steve—”

And he just leans in.

It's not rushed. Not desperate.

It's careful—like he's giving you time to pull away.

You don't.

Your lips find his, warm and hesitant at first, then deeper, fuller, as everything you've both been holding back spills into that single moment. His hand loosens around your wrist, sliding up to cup your cheek instead, thumb brushing softly through your skin.

His other hand swings up and closes the door behind you, leaning against it, pressing you between the wooden surface and his body.

You break away from him just enough to catch your breath before kissing him again, more passionately, more feverishly.

Steve's kiss is everything you hadn't allowed yourself to imagine: desperate, yet incredibly tender, as if he were trying to memorize the texture of your lips.

His hands, usually so confident, tremble slightly as they move from your face to your waist, bunching the fabric of his own oversized hoodie that you are wearing.

“So smart, yet such a brat sometimes,” he mumbles hot against your mouth, his voice a jagged wreck of its usual charm. “Always got something to snarl back. Always slipping away from me.”

“Just shut the fuck up, Harrington,” you breathe out, your hands winding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. “You knew what you were getting into.”

Steve groans, a low vibration you feel in your own throat, and shifts his weight. He pressed his hips firmly against yours, pinning you to the door. The friction sends a jolt of electricity straight to your core, turning your knees into jelly.

He begins to trail kisses down the column of your neck, his warm tongue grazing your sensitive skin. You tilt your head back, a shaky gasp escaping you as his teeth caught on the spot where your shoulder met your neck. 

“You have no idea,” he whispers, his breath hot against your collarbone, “how many times I've sat in this room, listening to those records, just wishing you were here. Having you just like this...”

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze dark and heavy with a possessiveness that made your heart hammer against your ribs. He reaches down, his fingers hooking under the hem of the hoodie, slowly sliding the soft fabric upward.

“Is this okay?” he asks softly, in contrast to the wild, dark desire that burned in his eyes.

You don't answer with words. Instead, you reach for the hem of his own shirt, tugging it upward in a silent invitation.

Steve don't need to be told twice. He pulls his shirt over his head and toss it blindly into the shadows of his room. When he presses back against you, the contact is electric. 

He lifts you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you the few short steps toward the bed, the party downstairs sounding like it belongs to a completely different world now.

The springs of the mattress squeaks under the weight of both of you as Steve lowers you down, his body a heavy, welcome heat following you closely. He doesn't break the connection for a second, his mouth finding yours again with a frantic hunger that tastes like expensive beer and desperate longing.

The soft fabric of his own hoodie is bunched around your ribs, and Steve's large hands are everywhere—mapping the skin he'd only ever dream of touching like this. 

When his palms slid up your sides, grazing the undersides of your breasts, you let out a sharp, needy sound that was lost in his mouth.

“Steve,” you gasp, your back arching off the bed as he finds a particularly sensitive spot behind your ear. 

Your hands are busy, too, wandering over the firm muscles of his broad back, feeling the way he tenses and shudders under your touch. 

“You're so fucking pretty,” he coos, breaking away to trail a line of biting kisses down to your jaw. “You drive me crazy”

He seats up slightly, straddling your hips, his chest heaving as he gazes in awe down at you. The moonlight from the window catch the sweat glistening on his skin and the sheer, unadulterated devotion in his eyes. Without a word, he reaches down and pulls the hoodie over your head finally, tossing it to the floor to join his shirt.

You feel a momentary flash of shyness, but it vanishes the second Steve's eyes darkens, his breath hitching. 

“God, you're beautiful,” he whispers, his voice thick with desire and adoration. “It's not even close to what I had imagined.”

“Did you imagine it?” you manage to ask, sheepishly battling your lashes at him, biting your lower lip.

Steve lets out a huff, running his hand along the curve of your waist and leaning back down toward you, his eyes sparking with nothing but pure adoration, teasing your lips for a kiss, “Every goddamn day.”

As he speaks, you reach up to unhook your bra, and Steve licks his lips as he takes in the sight of your pretty tits laid bare for him.

His hands comes down your body, cupping a breast with a reverence that made your blood boil. He leans down, his tongue swirling around one nipple before taking the tit into his mouth, his suction firm and demanding. 

You moan out, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your hips instinctively bucking against his.

Steve groans against your skin, his hand sliding down, past the waistband of his own shorts on you, his fingers seeking the heat he knew was waiting so patiently for him. When he finds it, already slick and aching for him, your eyes roll back in your head.

“You want this?” he asks, his voice a low growl of a challenge, his thumb rhythmically grazing your wet folds. “You want me? I need words, baby”

“I want you, Steve,” you whine, your voice breaking with emotion. “Please—”

That is the breaking point. The patience he'd spent months cultivating snaps. He moves with a new, feral urgency, shedding the rest of your clothes until there is nothing left to obstruct his way onto you.

And then, he eats your pussy like it is his very last meal, lapping and drinking in everything you have to offer, every bit of wetness from you.

His tongue feels so familiar against you, as if it had known you all its life, as if its sole purpose is to consume you. It traces its way between your folds, all the way up to your clit and back down again, sliding in just deep enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

Steve, Steve, Steve...

You moan out his name like a prayer.

“You taste so good,” he marvels in awe, “so sweet, sweetheart”

Steve pulls back for just a second, his face flush and his hair a wild, beautiful mess, but he doesn't go far. He looks up at you from between your thighs, his eyes dark with a mix of hunger and a raw, vulnerable worship that makes your heart ache even more than your body. 

He watches your face as his thumb continues the job to swirl against your clit, circling with a agonizingly perfect pressure that has you gripping the sheets until your knuckles turns white.

“I've spent every night for months wondering what you'd sound like,” he coaxes, his voice vibrating against your inner thigh. “Thinking about you cumming for me...”

He doesn't give you a chance to retort with some smartass comment. 

He dives back into your cunt, his tongue moving with a relentles, purposefully pace that push you right to the edge. 

You are crying out his name now, your head tossing back against the pillow as the first waves of a massive climax begin to roll through you. 

Steve doesn't slow down; he drinks you, his hands holding your thighs firmly so you can't escape the pleasure, grounding you as the world shatters into a thousand bright sparks.

“Cum for me, baby.” he coos, already too pussy drunk to even form a rational thought more than to please you, “Cum on my tongue, yeah, just like that”

“Holy shit, Stevie—” you hiccup, feeling tears blur your vision, a wave of pleasure unleashing from deep in your belly. “I'm cumming—hmph!”

Steve gulps down all you give him like it is some kind of holy water.

You open your eyes, blurred with tears and lust, and see him. His chin and mouth are dripping with your essence, his dark, piercing eyes in awe of how your pussy is clenching around his fingers.

He doesn't pull away. He hovers there, hands trembling as they gripped your thighs, watching the way your chest heaved and your eyes struggle to focus on him.

“You okay?” he whispers, his voice cracking. He reaches up, using the back of his hand to gently wipe a stray tear from your cheek, his touch surprisingly light for someone so clearly on the edge. “I didn't... I wasn't too rough? You're good?”

You can't even find an answer. Your body is still humming, the aftershocks of the orgasm making your muscles twitch. 

So you just nod, “I'm perfect, Steve. P-please keep going, I need more.”

He moves right up, crawling over your pretty body, ready for him, his skin feels hot and slick against yours.

He moves closer to you and kiss your mouth, making you savor your own taste through him, his hands appreciatively caressing your thighs, palming the fat of your ass.

“Tell me if it's too much, yeah?" Steve breathes out, his forehead dropping low to rest against yours. “I've wanted this for so long, I don't want to mess it up. I don't want to hurt you, sugar.”

“Just fuck me already, Harrington,” you hiss right back, looking up at him with eyes half-closed in ecstasy, squeezing his forearm eagerly.

Steve sucks in a breath, leaning in close to kiss you once more, “Such a little brat.”

Then, he stands up, swiftly stripping off his pants and boxers under your attentive gaze. He is a handsome boy, always has been. His physique is strong, his shoulders are broad, his biceps are muscular, his six-pack is slightly marked, and beads of sweat roll down his tanned skin. You are drooling at the mouth from the urge of wanting to sweep your tongue along it, scooping up the salty sweat.

And he's so big that it has you in a chokehold. You really can't resist letting your eyes drift down. His cock is so hard that it looks painful, with a plump head dripping with pre-cum, twitching for you.

He kicks his clothes aside without a glance and moves back over you, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settles in between your spread thighs.

He doesn't just dive in. Instead, he takes a second to look at you—really look at you—lying there, flushed and open, so ready and eager for him, your hair forming a wild halo against his pillows.

He knows he can cum right there just by seeing you like that.

Steve reaches blindly toward the nightstand, his fingers fumbling with the drawer until he pulls out a small, square foil packet.

His breathing is ragged, his eyes never leaving yours even as he starts to tear the edge with his teeth. He looks so fucking hot.

As he starts to pull the condom out, you reach up towards him, your palm flat against his heaving chest, feeling the frantic gallop of his heart.

“Steve,” you whisper, your voice thick with demanding.

“I know, baby, I know, just—one second,” he mumbles absentmindedly, his fingers shaking slightly as he tries to roll it on.

“No,” you tell him, firmer this time. You hook your fingers into his, pulling the half-open condom away. “Don't. I want to feel you. All of you. Please”

Steve freezes. He looks down at you, his pupils so blown they've nearly swallowed the chocolate-brown of his irises. “Honey... I don't— are you sure? I don't want to—”

“I'm sure,” you interrupt, your legs winding around his waist, pulling his hips flush against yours. You can feel exactly how much he wants this, how hard his cock is, rubbing against your inner thigh. “Go raw, Stevie. Please, baby.”

The condom is abandoned, fluttering to the carpeted floor, forgotten.

“Holy shit, you're going to be the death of me,” Steve breathes out tremulously, his voice dropping into a register so low it sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

He lets out a low, guttural sound—half-sob, half-growl—and finally guide himself to your entrance. He pushes his bulbous head in between your wet folds very slowly, a steady, relentless inching that makes your eyes roll back. 

Steve is so big and hot, filling every empty space you don't even know you have, even when his cock is just halfway inside your pussy. You felt your breath hitch as your body stretching to your fucking limit to accommodate around his size, the sensation so intense it was almost overwhelming.

“Oh, baby, there you go. You're doing so good, mhm. Breath for me, sugar, yeah?”

One inch, a trembling hot praise whispered against your ear, another inch, another soft praise...

And he goes like that until he is buried all the way to the hilt inside your fluttering pussy, his forehead resting against yours, both of you frozen in that perfect, overwhelming moment of connection. You are breathing the same air, your nails clawing up his back, his are gripping the bedsheets on either side of your shoulders.

Steve groans, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his body shuddering at the sheer sensation of finally being home.

“Jesus Christ, you're so tight,” he whimpers, beginning to move. “You feel perfect, you're perfect”

Each thrust is slow, deliberate, and deep—a physical manifestation of every word he'd been too scared to say. 

You lock your legs around his slim waist, pulling him even deeper, meeting every one of his thrusts with a desperate hunger of your own. The rhythmic "slap, slap, slap!" of skin against skin and the sound of your shared, ragged breathing fill the room, drowning out the distant music still sounding from the pool little party.

“Steve... please,” you whimper his name again and again, the knot growing tighter in the lower part of your belly, more intense than before.

“I got you, baby. I'm right here, hm?” he responds to your cries, leaning down to kiss each of your flushed cheeks, gently licking away a couple of stray tears that keep slipping from your pretty eyes. “I'm right here...”

He shows you. One of his hands lands on your lower belly, where the outline of his cock is clearly visible every time he fucks in and out of your messy pussy and then, Steve presses down just a little to get both of you to sigh, both feeling the pressure of his hand's weight.

And when Steve pulls out of you, he doesn't just shove back in again; he is agonizingly slow now, savoring the way your body stretched out and yielded to him, inch by excruciating inch.

Steve quickens the pace, his jaw tight, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your chest. He is relentless, pushing you higher and higher until you find that sensation of that familiar coil tightening in your gut once more. 

He leans down, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss just as you break, your body pulsing around him. He could feel you were close, he could feel it every time he slid back inside you, bullying your cervix like he’s determined to mold your pussy to the shape of his cock. Your warm, plush walls contracting all around him, taking in his entire length right down to his base.

He's buried balls deep now, his hips slamming against yours with a raw, primal rhythm. And then, Steve suddenly slow down just a fraction, his muscles trembling with a fucking Herculean effort of holding back and not bust a nut right there.

“Steve, I'm—”

He pulls back a few inches, his face flushed a deep, beautiful red, sweat dripping from his chin onto your chest as he rests weakly on your tits.

“I know, I know,” he knows, his lips grazing one of your nipples as he speaks, drooling all over your skin. “Right there with you, baby. I'm—I'm so close. I can't... I can't hold it much longer. Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” you manage to choke out, your fingers digging into his hips to pull him back down and back inside you. “Fill me up, Steve. Don't you dare pull out.”

A low, feral growl rips from his throat at your words, a sound you had never heard come from him.

Steve is a good boy and he obeys you, as always, so, he surges forward, burying himself to the absolute hilt, and gives three more devastatingly deep, fast thrusts that have you seeing stars on the ceiling of his room.

“I love you,” he cries into your neck, his voice muffled by your skin as he finally lets go, pumping hot spurts of his cum right into your welcoming womb. 

Soon, you have him reduced to nothing more than a wobbly, crying mess all over you, laying there on your chest all worn out.

You too are a fucking mess, cumming, earth-shatteringly, for the second time under the weight of his body, the suffocating sensation of his love and worship lavishing all over you and in you. 

You can swear you see the entire universe flashing right over the expanse of his shoulders, and you can feel the heat radiating from its flames burning through your fingertips. Stars twinkling on his skin, lighting up each of his freckles and moles spread across his body like a constellation.

For a long moment, neither of you move.

The world slowly crawls back around you—the distant music downstairs, the hum of the house settling, the soft night light slipping in through the window.

Steve is still inside you, breathing hard, his forehead pressing against your shoulder like he needs the contact to stay grounded. 

He presses a gentle kiss on your shoulder before leaning back just enough to look at you.

“I'm— I'm sorry,” he murmurs suddenly, panic threading his voice as he pulls back a little more. “Not sorry like I regret it, just— are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” you reply, flashing a sheepish, lazy smile.

After double-checking that you are indeed okay, with his teeth nibbling on his lower lip, he pulls out of you, carefully, delicately.

He then spends a good ten minutes cleaning you up, running a clean cloth between your legs, thighs, belly, with such care that it sometimes tickles you due to the overstimulation.

And after that, Steve collapses beside you on the bed, careful to tug a blanket over both of you, pulling you against his side. His arm wraps around you instinctively, protective, familiar—like he'd been doing this with you in another life.

You rest your head on his chest, listening to his heart slowly calm down beneath your ear.

“I meant it. What I said earlier,” he says after a little while, voice quiet now, stripped bare, gruff from all the moans and whimpers you got out of him. “I love you.”

You don't answer right away.

Not because you don't feel it—but because saying it out loud suddenly feels huge.

Steve's fingers still for half a second on your waist.

“You don't have to say it back,” he adds quickly. “I just needed you to know.”

You tilt your head up, meeting his eyes in the dim light and you lean in and kiss him—slow this time, soft, nothing desperate about it.

Steve's lips are warm, familiar already, like something you don't realize you'd been missing until it is finally there, all for you. When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, noses brushing, both of you breathing each other in. 

“I love you too”

You carefully lie down on top of him now, on your stomach, pressing against his chest. One of his hands lingers on your lower back, affectionately caressing the curve of your ass, and the other is gently stroking strands of your hair behind your ear.

He exhales shakily, a sound that's half a laugh, half disbelief. “Okay,” he gasps. “Okay. Wow.”

You huff out a soft laugh against his chest. “Is that all you've got, Harrington?”

“Hey,” he protests weakly, palming your ass now, more playfully. “I just confessed my undying love and then had my entire soul rearranged. I need a minute.”

You sigh and nestle closer to him, your legs tangling with his under the blanket. “You're gonna be so annoying about this.”

“Oh, unbearably so,” he chirps. “I'm thinking lots of 'remember when you hated me' jokes.”

“You know,” you say casually, like you're commenting on the weather, your fingers toy lightly with the hairs on his chest, “it's actually really pathetic.”

Steve squints at you, but he is so happy he could fly. “Why do I feel like I'm about to be bullied?”

“You listened to all my favorite records,” you explain, pressing into his skin every time you name something else. “The sad ones. The pretentious ones. You watched my movies. You read my books.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. “...okay?”

You tilt your head, holding back a teasing smile. “Like, that's loser behavior.”

Steve shrugs, completely unbothered. “I listened to your records. I read your books. I watched your sad little movies.” He pauses, then tilts his head, grin widening. He is triumphant. “But you still fucked me. So, technically? I won.”

You groan. “I take it back. I don't love you.”

He is laughing, hugging you so tight you can't ever pull away from him.

[blues-main]

friends who fuck again

part 1 (both can be read as stand-alones)

jj maybank x fem!reader x kiara carrera | word count: 2.1k

a/n: so apparently I can only write good smut when I'm high af lol, here you go, enjoy! (haven't labelled everything in the content warning cause honestly idek what i put in here)

cw: 18+ content, porn with no plot, threesome (again, Kie and JJ fuck in this, its labelled for what it is) sub!jj (begging, overstimulation, he tells reader to stop and she doesn't), Kie and reader are mean to jj lol but he loves it

It had been weeks since you hooked up with JJ and Kie. There was an awkward sort of tension that none of you knew how to name — each of you thinking the others regretted it, didn’t want to revisit it, all silently, secretly, wanting. 

You hadn’t stopped thinking about it. Late at night. It’d play over and over in your mind as your hand slipped beneath your sleep shorts. Flashes of the night would play through your mind at the most inconvenient times. Sitting at a family dinner, hell, even at work, standing at the register, right in the middle of a conversation. JJ fucking you into oblivion, Kie’s mouth on you, your face buried in her pussy. Fuck. You’d get soaked just thinking about it. 

The others were no better; JJ getting hard the second you’d touch him, fisting his dick later that night to the thought of being buried deep in your pussy while Kie rode his face. Kie would do the same; fingers sliding into herself as she remembered the way your skin felt against hers, the way you tasted, the way you came so pretty on her face. JJ fucking her so hard she saw stars.

Every time they met your eyes, you’d feel a rush of heat, JJ smirking when he’d remember the way you screamed his name — faltering slightly when you’d look away. Kie was more touchy than usual since then — a hand on your knee, her head resting on your chest, drawing small circles into your thigh. The casual touches had you burning, heart thrumming hard in your chest. 

You wanted to talk about it, wanted to ask if they were thinking about it as much as you. Wanted to know if they were feeling the way you were — wanting nothing more than to kiss them again, fuck them. If only you knew. 

It happened at a party of all things — Kie grabbing your hand and pulling you into a room after doing a couple shots, the alcohol running through her fueling her actions. She had pushed you up against the door, smirking against your lips as you flipped the two of you, kissing down her neck. She pulls out her phone discreetly, texting JJ. 

Third door on the left upstairs. 

You’ve got Kie on the bed now, in nothing but her bra, pussy dragging across yours. You’re so wet, it drips down onto Kie, her gasping at the sensation. She’s grasping for something to hold, fingers fisting in your hair as she rolls her hips up against yours. 

You hear the door click open behind you. Shit, you’d forgotten to lock it. You scramble to get off Kie, looking behind you as you pull your skirt down. 

“Relax princess, s’just me. Was hoping I could join.” JJ locks the door behind him. His eyes are dark, smirk dripping in pure sin. 

You barely acknowledge him, giving a small nod as you pull your skirt off, unclipping Kie’s bra in the process and watching it fall off. You’re both completely bare now, JJ letting out a groan as he lies back on the bed next to Kie, sipping his beer as he takes in the view. You roll your hips against Kie’s once again — her letting out an obscene moan at the sensation. 

You lean down to kiss Kie, lips parting against hers to kiss her deeper. She tastes like beer and strawberry bubblegum. The smell of her shampoo is intoxicating as your fingers curl into her hair. You pull back so you’re sitting on your knees, hooking one of your legs over hers, the angle allowing you to grind down onto her deeper. 

JJ’s just lying there, eyes fixed on the spot where you and Kie meet, the sight and the wet sounds making his dick throb in his pants. He pulls his pants and boxers down to his thighs, gripping his dick in his hand, tugging at it as he watches yours and Kie’s faces contort in pleasure. The way Kie’s pussy is dragging across your clit has you so close to coming. 

“Mm, fuckkk — Kie, feels so fucking good,” you moan, eyes drifting over to JJ, biting your lip at how good he looks with his shorts halfway down his thighs, hand stroking his cock. He has his shirt off now — abs flexing as his hand continues moving up and down, thumb brushing over the tip as his eyes flutter closed. 

“Eyes open.” You’re staring at JJ, eyes hard — focused.

His eyes open slowly, watching you as you gesture him closer, your hips still rolling against Kie’s as her head tips back in pure pleasure, hands grasping at your tits. 

JJ shuffles himself closer, pulling off his shorts and boxers in the process. You cup his chin in your hand, pulling his mouth to you, aggressive. JJ practically whimpers against your lips, parting his to let you kiss him deeper — his mind going completely blank. 

JJ’s still chasing your lips as you pull back suddenly, gripping his chin harder, pulling his view to the spot where you and Kie connect. 

“Now watch, but don’t touch.” 

JJ swallows hard. He can’t help but listen, eyes focused on your pussy dragging against Kie’s — completely mesmerized. His hand is still moving up and down when you catch his wrist, pulling it away from his dick. His eyes meet yours quickly, questioning. You smirk, pushing his chin down again, with a quick swipe of your thumb against his lips, pushing the tip in slightly before pulling it away, watching as JJ’s lips part — wet. 

“I said no touching Jay.” 

Kie’s hands grip your hips desperately, pushing you deeper, chasing her orgasm with a high moan. You feel yourself get close, lips messily meeting Kie’s as you feel her come against you. She’s whimpering desperately into your mouth as you kiss her. Your orgasm hits you slow — washes over you in waves as your tongue moves across Kiara’s. 

You push two fingers into her, smirking as she pulls back from the kiss with a loud gasp. She’s pushing your hand away, overstimulated. You laugh, pulling your fingers out of her and moving over to straddle JJ’s lap, swinging your hip over his. You feel his hard dick brush against you and you bite your lip, holding back a moan. 

JJ’s looking up at you — reverent, determined. You push your fingers against his lips, letting him wrap his lips around them and taste the mix of you and Kie. He sucks them into his mouth, moaning at the taste. You push them in and out, JJ swirling his tongue around them — his eyes never leaving yours. 

Kie’s trembling next to you, eyes fluttering as she comes down from her orgasm. You pull your fingers from JJ’s mouth, before moving your hand down to his cock, pumping it slowly as his head falls pathetically to your shoulder, letting out a soft sound. You gesture to Kie to move behind JJ. She presses herself up against his back, wrapping her arms around him, tracing soft lines down his abs as her lips suck and bite at his neck. 

JJ’s gone — utterly and completely gone. He gets lost in the feel of Kie’s lips kissing up and down his neck, one hand tugging on his strands of hair, the other tracing infuriatingly soft lines down his stomach. Her chest brushes against his back. JJ feels an odd sensation of being so relaxed and so aroused all at once. Your hand moves up and down his cock, tugging at it gently as your lips meet his in a soft kiss. 

JJ didn’t realize how much he needed this — to be completely taken care of, pampered almost. Fuck, JJ feels like he could cry as he reaches his orgasm. Your hand moves faster, using your thumb to trace under the tip. You rest your forehead against his, Kie’s face buried in his neck, placing soft kisses to the skin there. 

“Fuck baby — I’m gonna— please—” JJ lets out between moans. You grip him firmer, pulling him into a heated kiss, it’s messy and sloppy and so fucking good. JJ comes hard, spilling over your hand and Kie’s resting on his stomach. He groans into your mouth, biting down on your lip. You stroke him through it, before pushing him down onto the bed, Kie moving out from behind him. Her lips meet his, his hand cupping her jaw, Kie humming into his mouth as his tongue softly traces hers. 

Your hand is still stroking him, using his cum to move your hand faster. JJ’s gasping, overstimulated out of his mind. You bring your mouth to his dick, kissing the tip before taking him into your mouth. Your eyes flutter closed at the taste of him, the feel of him — heavy and hot on your tongue. You look up at him and the sight alone could have you coming — he’s flushed, face red, contorted in mind-numbing pleasure, jaw tense, abs flexing. His lips part around a gasp when your tongue presses flat against the underside of him. His hands push weakly at your head, letting out a soft whimper as Kie kisses him again. 

“Fuck, baby please, s’too much, stop—I can’t—” His voice cuts off with a loud moan as you hollow your cheeks, sucking him harder, his cum dripping out around your lips. You keep going, head moving up and down as you feel him get harder in your mouth. Kiara’s kissing down his neck and JJ’s never felt so good. It’s too good — too much. 

“Please—s’too—fuck baby please stop.” JJ’s head tips back, hands gripping your hair. You swat his hands away, sucking harder for just a second before pulling away. JJ lets out a gasp at the loss — only half relieved. 

You turn to Kie, pulling her towards you before going down on her. You eat her out like you’re starved— nose nudging against her clit, tongue moving up and down before pushing it inside her, over and over. JJ’s watching, hands caressing your back, pushing your hair out of your face as you tongue-fuck Kie’s pussy. Kie comes hard and fast against your face, moaning uncontrollably as her body writhes under yours. 

You look over at JJ, lying back with his arm behind his head, completely breathless, eyes filled with need. You straddle his hips again, letting his tip brush against your wet pussy. You slide his tip back and forth, coating it in your wetness. Your moans mix with JJ’s as his tip brushes your clit. 

“Please baby, fuck me, I need you.” JJ’s eyes plead with you, pushing his hips up slightly, letting his tip sink into you before you push his hips down. 

“Mm-mm, you said it was too much, now you need me?” You smirk as his eyes flutter closed at the feel of your slick dripping down around his dick. Fuck, he needs more. 

“Yes, need you baby please, need to be inside you.” He tries pushing up into you as you lift your hips away from him. You need him just as much — pussy practically throbbing, clenching around nothing — but you don’t want to give in just yet. 

“Too much talking. Kie, you wanna come shut him up?” 

JJ’s eyes widen at your words, groaning as Kie laughs, swinging her leg over his head, straddling his face, pushing her pussy down onto his mouth, facing you, meeting your lips in a messy kiss. 

You finally sink down onto JJ’s cock after teasing him until he was twitching, hips desperately thrusting off the bed, whining into Kie’s dripping cunt. Your eyes roll back at the delicious stretch, feeling his tip nudge that spot inside you that has you reeling. You fuck yourself on his dick, circling your hips just right, grinding down hard. 

You don’t know how long it goes on, party probably over and done by now — JJ lying there while you and Kie take turns riding him, using his dick to get yourselves off. And then his mouth. And then his dick again. JJ takes it. Oh he fucking takes it, groaning into your pussy as he feels Kie clench around him, milking him as he comes deep inside her. 

The three of you lie there, a mess of limbs and sweat, completely fucked out. You hear someone banging on the door, telling you to get the fuck out. You can barely care when you’re this blissed out, watching your best friends kiss slow and soft before leaning in to kiss them yourself. 

Yeah, you were definitely doing this again.

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