ODETTE / ODIE ⌗ eighteen ⌗ bisexual ⌗ she / her ⌗ mike faist brainrotted ⌗ lottie matthews defender ⌗ daughter of cain ⌗ bambi girl
FANDOMS ⌗ challengers ⌗ yellowjackets ⌗ the bear ⌗ american horror story ⌗ slushy noobz ⌗ outer banks ⌗ bones and all ⌗ twdg ⌗ the last of us ⌗ bridgerton
REQ INFO ⌗ i am open to almost anything except blood-related incest, rape/noncon, pedophilia, bodily fluid kinks, rpf, male!reader, or omegaverse.
❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who rules ΔΦΩ (Delta Phi Omega) like a crown-dripping viper in designer heels, didn’t expect you to show up in thrifted sneakers and a hoodie that said “Camp Mathlete”—but she locked onto you from across the mixer like a tiger scenting prey. she didn’t laugh. didn’t sneer. she just licked the rim of her plastic martini glass and said to her VP, “i want that one.”
❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who plays tennis for Stanford like she’s swinging at the patriarchy itself, all whip-fast legs and snatched ponytails and diamond-studded sunglasses, gets mobbed by frat boys and photographers alike. but when one of them puts a hand on your ass at a tailgate, she wraps her lacquered nails around his wrist and whispers in his ear, “i know people in housing. want to see what off-campus feels like?” he pisses off in seconds. you’re shaking. she kisses your cheek. “you’re safe, baby.”
❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who calls you “bunny,” “doll,” and sometimes—when she’s drunk off pink cosmos and clinging to your hoodie like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered—just “mine.” no one else gets pet names. no one else gets her voice going soft and syrupy like that. no one else gets her climbing into their twin bed at 2AM, crying because someone said her serve looked weak and she hates crying but she does it anyway. for you.
❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who drapes herself across your dorm bed like a cat in heat, leaving behind vanilla sugar perfume and tiny scrawled notes like “wear pink tomorrow, bunny. for me? ♡” and “skip econ. movie night. you owe me cuddles.” she pretends she’s joking. she’s not.
❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who calls it a “glow-up intervention” but doesn’t change your soul. just tames the frizz a little. gets you lip gloss that tastes like strawberry cream. lets you keep your chunky rings and your vintage band tees—just pairs them with fitted skirts and thigh-high socks. “you’re gonna break hearts,” she says, tracing your lip with her thumb. “but mine’s off-limits. got it?”
❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who kisses like sin and spins gold out of it—slow, plush, always starting with your lower lip and ending with your thighs shaking. she moans into it, sometimes. whimpers, even. like she’s starving. like she’s wanted you since that first night you asked what ΔΦΩ stood for. “it stands for don’t fuck with us,” she’d said. now it stands for “devour, fuck, own,” at least when it comes to you.
❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who leaves lip gloss kisses on your thigh after going down on you like it’s a sport. no teasing. no warm-up. just a glittering-eyed grin before she drags you to the edge of the bed and buries her face between your legs like you’re the only god she worships. she holds your hips down with both hands and sucks until your moans turn to sobs. “such a good girl,” she croons. “awh… my bunny’s such a mess for me.”
❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who handles your academics like your personal admin. color-coded planner. group chat alerts. sends you passive-aggressive reminders: “have you eaten today?” and “if you fail psych, i’m cutting your orgasms off.” she does your flashcards wearing only her pink velour hoodie and matching thongs. you never retain shit. and she doesn’t care. “as long as you stay mine, you’re passing.”
❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who throws herself across your lap with tear-streaked cheeks after losing a match and says, “tell me you still like me.” she’s terrifying to everyone else. but with you, she curls in like a child. you kiss her temple and she falls asleep murmuring “love you more than tennis.” and she means it.
❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who keeps a Hello Kitty flip phone with bedazzled rhinestones and an ever-changing lockscreen—sometimes it’s her trophy wall. sometimes it’s a blurry photo of you eating curly fries. “i like my things pretty,” she says, snapping a pic of you in her bed, wearing her ΔΦΩ hoodie and nothing else. she sets it as your contact photo.
❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who has the power to get anyone blackballed from greek life with a single call. she once ruined a frat formal over a tweet that called lesbians “fake for clout.” now there’s an anti-discrimination policy with her name on it. she doesn’t say “i’m proud.” she says, “you’re lucky i’m here.” then she kisses your neck and pulls you into her lap.
❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who gets sloppy-drunk at alumni mixers and climbs on your lap, crying because “you never look at me first” and “why do you always act like i’m not the best thing that’s ever happened to you?” you wipe her tears. she kisses you so hard it hurts. the next morning she texts: “delete my voicemail if it’s psycho. also bring me iced coffee. xoxo”
❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who walks into a party like it’s a red carpet. vintage Dior, strappy stilettos, lip liner darker than her bite. she holds your hand like a leash. eyes anyone who stares too long. calls you “my girl” so loud it echoes over the music. she doesn’t just show you off. she claims you.
❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who smells like champagne, strawberries, tennis sweat, and expensive sunscreen. who chews cinnamon gum. who always has a pack of bubblegum lip gloss and a tampon in her tiny handbag—for you, not herself. she’s always prepared. always in control. unless you kiss her throat. then she goes boneless.
❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who is an amazing fucking kisser—hand on your neck, nose bumping yours, tongue sliding in like a whispered dare. she nibbles your bottom lip. she hums when she’s pleased. sometimes she breaks away just to stare at you and whisper, “god, i love ruining you.”
❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who drags you into her twin XL after a late-night mixer, murmurs, “wear this for me,” and hands you one of her tiny pink tanks. she spends twenty minutes taking your hoodie off. not because you’re resisting. because she wants to savor it. like a ritual. like worship.
❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who knows the names of every exec in the IFC, every professor worth sucking up to, and every grad student who owes her favors. she could get you into law school with a wink. she could ruin a TA’s semester with a post-it. she doesn’t tell you this to brag. she just wants you to know you’re protected.
❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who whispers your name like a prayer when she’s on top of you. who holds your hand during sex. who sucks on your fingers when you’re about to come. who says, “look at me, bunny. i wanna watch you fall apart for me.”
❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who stands on your side when you get into drama with another sister. who says, “she’s replaceable. you’re not.” who teaches you which mixers are worth attending, which are beneath you, and who to flirt with to get free drinks (but never touch). she polishes you. preens you. never lets you feel like an outsider.
❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who sometimes forgets to take care of herself. who stays up helping you outline your poli-sci paper and forgets to eat dinner. who only drinks water if you hand it to her. who keeps aspirin in her bag because your cramps are worse than hers. she doesn’t say “i love you.” she says, “you matter more.”
❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who gives you her bed on bad nights. who gives you her body on desperate ones. who gives you her loyalty, fierce and glittering and unshakable. who tells the world you’re hers long before she ever says the word “girlfriend.”
❀ SORORITY GIRL!TASHI, who doesn’t want anyone else. never did. not since the night you showed up in that hoodie, eyes wide and lips soft. not since you rolled them at her and she laughed, sharp and delighted, like someone discovering a secret. you’re not like the others. and she’s obsessed with you for it.
summary: you come home for the summer thinking it’s just for family, for nostalgia, for tradition. but art donaldson — older, sharper around the edges, barefoot and sunburnt — never really stopped looking at you. and this time, when the fireworks start, you don’t pretend to look away. [ 4.7k words ]
cw: explicit sexual content (MINORS DO NOT INTERACT), age gap (early 30s x early 20s), oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v sex, cowgirl position, semi-public sex
It’s hotter than you expected. Not just warm, not just humid, but full-on muggy — the kind of heat that turns every breath into a wet inhalation, that sinks beneath your skin and settles there like fog in your lungs. You tug at the hem of your cotton dress as you step out of your mom’s car, the fabric already clinging to the backs of your thighs. The air smells like grilled meat and charcoal, cut grass and sunscreen, and somewhere in the distance, someone’s setting off a firework way too early — a rogue spark bursting in the late-afternoon sky. You squint against the glare and try to shake the feeling in your stomach. That buzz of nerves you’d sworn you’d left behind.
The lake looks the same. Still glassy, still green, ringed with bleached wooden docks and houses with peeling white trim. There’s the old ice chest someone’s already filled with beer, red solo cups scattered across the grass like confetti, someone’s speaker warbling Born in the U.S.A. in grainy, over-saturated glory. You grip the plastic tray of brownies tighter. It feels ridiculous, suddenly — you, standing here in your college dress and mascara already sweating down your cheekbones, holding a boxed dessert like some pathetic hometown girl returning to the scene of her own emotional crime. But you’re already out of the car. And it’s too late to turn back.
“Hey—”
It hits you like a slap. That voice. Lower now, rougher than you remember. But unmistakable.
You turn.
And there he is.
Art Donaldson. Jesus Christ.
Barefoot in the grass, half a can of Bud Light swinging loose in one hand, the other tucked lazy into the waistband of damp swim trunks. His curls are shorter, sun-streaked and still wet, stuck to the nape of his neck. He’s tan in that way only Art ever really got — a little burnt across the bridge of his nose, shoulders bronzed and freckled, skin so golden it looks unreal. And the grin he gives you? It’s criminal. Slow, knowing, like he knew you’d be here. Like he’s been waiting two years and now he gets to play.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he says, squinting at you like he’s sizing you up all over again. “College treatin’ you too well to come slum it by the lake?”
You try to laugh, but it comes out thinner than you’d like. “My mom made me. She said if I missed another Fourth she was gonna report me missing.”
Art smirks. “Well. Lucky us.”
His gaze drops, then — slow, deliberate — down the length of your bare legs, the hem of your dress fluttering where it clings, damp with sweat and something else you won’t name. You swallow. He doesn’t hide it. Never did. That was always Art — unapologetic, unbothered, half a beer deep and already looking at you like he wanted to ruin your whole summer.
“I, um... brought brownies,” you say lamely, lifting the tray like a shield.
He laughs — full-throated, warm, familiar. “Of course you did. Still the same overachiever, huh?”
You don’t answer. Not right away. Because you’re looking at him, and he’s looking right back, and it’s there again — the pull, the thrum, that silent understanding that’s always lived in the space between you. It was there sophomore year when he lifted you up during that bonfire game of chicken, your thighs wrapped around his neck for longer than necessary. It was there the summer before senior year, when he stood too close in the snack shack line, one hand braced against the wall beside your head. And it’s definitely here now, humming underneath your skin like a livewire.
“You swimming today?” he asks, nodding toward the dock.
You shake your head. “Didn’t bring a suit.”
He raises a brow. “So?”
And fuck, he says it like a dare.
You laugh, but it’s breathy, off-kilter — more exhale than sound. The kind of laugh you let slip when you’re not sure what the rules are anymore. Art’s standing there like he never missed a beat, like the last two years were just a dream you had in some stuffy dorm room, a postcard version of real life that didn’t quite stick. His eyes are dark from the shade, but they’re glinting under it — playful, amused, sharp. You shift your weight and glance toward the lake, the sun laying gold across the surface like someone lacquered it.
“I didn’t exactly plan for a swim,” you offer, voice thinner than you mean for it to be.
Art tilts his head. “Since when do you plan anything?”
That lands. It’s unfair, but it’s true, and you both know it. You were always the planner — the list-maker, the one who couldn’t relax at a party unless she knew where her keys and phone were, the one who always asked what’s the plan with a wrinkle in her brow. Art remembers. He says it with a kind of lazy fondness, like he used to tease you about it in front of your friends, like he used to toss you that look across the lawn at some senior year rager, red cup in one hand and a cigarette in the other, like he knew it drove you insane.
You nod toward the dock, the familiar stretch of weathered wood and fraying rope. “You still jump off it like an idiot?”
Art squints into the sun, then smiles again. This one’s smaller. Quieter. It softens his whole face, makes him look less like the version of him you braced yourself to see and more like the boy you used to watch from your bedroom window, floating out there on a cracked inflatable raft with his arms behind his head.
“Every year,” he says. “Some things don’t change.”
It’s not flirtation anymore. It’s not a dare. Not exactly. It’s something thicker — weightier, buried under all the July heat and smoke and humidity. You swallow again and feel it drag all the way down, heavy like the air, heavy like memory.
You blink and pull your eyes from his, glancing past him to the spread of towels on the grass, to the town folding chairs and the big cooler full of melting ice. There’s a speaker thumping now, something more current but still tinny, a cover of a song you used to make out to in someone’s basement, turned bedroom pop and bleeding into the lake air. You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until Art moves — steps toward you, easy, unhurried, like he doesn’t need to be in a rush.
“C’mon,” he says, fingers grazing the underside of your elbow. “You’re overdressed.”
You look down. The dress is sticking to your chest now, clinging at the collarbone, wet at the spine. You want to say something smart, something flirty, something that makes it seem like you’re in control of this, but your voice fails you. He’s close. Closer than he should be. And you can smell him now — lakewater and beer, sun and cheap aftershave, him. Like all the summers you tried to forget pressed into one body.
“I—” you start, but he cuts you off with a grin.
“You can’t seriously be scared of a little water,” he says, stepping back, tugging his shirt off over his head in one smooth motion. It hits the grass with a soft, damp slap. You try not to stare, but it’s impossible — he’s broader than before, thicker through the arms, chest dusted with sun-faded hair, a tattoo now peeking just under his collarbone that definitely wasn’t there two years ago. A string of dates, maybe. You’re staring. You don’t stop.
Art doesn’t look back as he walks, just tosses over his shoulder, “Better catch up, Ivy League.”
You breathe through your nose and follow.
The dock creaks beneath your feet. It still smells like algae and cedar, the wood soft and splintered in places, still warm from the heat baking down all day. You step out onto it with care, holding your breath as you glance back — no one’s looking. The grill is flaring. Someone’s handing out sparklers. The sound of beer cans cracking open blurs into the churn of conversation and lake breeze. You look ahead and find him already at the edge, toes curling over the last plank.
“You coming?” he asks, over his shoulder.
You set the brownie tray down, slowly. Slip your shoes off. The grass clings wet to your ankles, and you feel the warm throb of sun still seared into your skin. You walk forward, careful, and he watches — doesn’t even try to hide it this time, eyes slow and heavy on every inch of skin your dress clings to. You should say something. You don’t.
“I’m not jumping,” you tell him.
He smirks. “Didn’t ask you to.”
Then — a splash.
Big, loud, unnecessary. He cannonballs in like a fucking kid, legs tucked, arms flailing, water erupting around him like a bomb. You jump back on instinct, yelping a little as the spray hits your shins. When he comes up, hair plastered to his forehead, grinning like a devil, you want to hate him. You want to roll your eyes and turn away and pretend it doesn’t still do something to you. But he flips his hair back, looks up at you with those bedroom eyes and says, “You afraid your dress’ll get see-through?” like he’s reading your mind.
And god help you — your stomach flips.
You crouch slowly, legs folding beneath you, fabric hitching up your thighs. “You’re such an asshole.”
“You still like it,” he says, easy.
You hate how true it feels.
You dip your fingers in the water — warm, soft, silty. Art’s drifting in it now, arms spread like he’s floating in air, chin tilted back, eyes closed to the sun. He looks like he belongs here. He always did. The lake wraps around him like memory, like promise, and you sit there with your knees tucked to your chest, watching him while something unspoken simmers between you.
It’s been two years. But suddenly, somehow, it feels like no time at all.
You don’t say anything for a long time.
The water laps against the dock in soft, rhythmic pulses, steady as breath. It’s quiet here, quieter than it should be, the party muffled by distance and lake air. You let your toes dip in. The water kisses at your ankles. Art floats a few feet out, his head tilted back, curls haloing around him like a crown of wet gold. And you watch — god, you watch — because what else can you do? Because it feels safer to look at him now than it did when he was twenty and cocky and unattainable. He’s not just some guy anymore. He hasn’t been for a long time.
He’s thirty, maybe. You don’t ask. You already know.
“You still live out here?” you ask instead, voice low, like you’re scared to break whatever this is.
Art lifts his head, looks over at you. His lashes are wet, thick and clumped, eyes squinting against the setting sun. “Sometimes,” he says. “House-sitting, mostly. My uncle’s got the lake place now.”
You nod like it means something. It doesn’t. Not really. You’re just grasping for something to hold onto that isn’t the way his shoulders move as he treads water, slow and easy, or the way his voice hits deeper now — more gravel, more sleep, more sex.
“What about you?” he asks, resting his chin on the surface, eyes locked to yours. “Big city girl now?”
“Boston,” you say, brushing a wet strand of hair off your cheek. “Graduating next spring.”
Art whistles. “Look at you.”
You shrug. “Trying.”
He watches you for a beat longer than necessary. The sun’s behind you now, and he squints like it hurts to keep looking but he can’t stop. You cross your arms over your knees, suddenly aware of every inch of exposed skin, of the way the heat’s making your thighs stick together, the way your cotton dress clings wetly to your chest. You don’t feel twenty anymore. Not with him looking at you like that.
“Thought about you,” he says suddenly.
It stuns the breath from your lungs.
You blink. “What?”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. Just floats there, water breaking soft around his shoulders.
“I said I thought about you. Last Fourth. Year before that. Wasn’t the same without you.”
Your throat tightens. You didn’t think he’d remember. Let alone miss you.
“I thought you forgot I existed,” you say, quieter now.
Art’s jaw works like he wants to say something and doesn’t. He flicks water off his fingertips and drifts closer to the dock.
“I didn’t,” he says. “Couldn’t.”
He’s right below you now, hands gripping the edge, water dripping off his arms in thick, lazy streams. You can see the curve of his biceps, the slight silvering at the tips of his hair, the freckles across his cheeks that weren’t there before. He looks older. And that should scare you. Should make you pull back.
But it doesn’t. It grounds you.
You lean forward before you realize what you’re doing. Just a little. Just enough to feel the heat of him rising off the water. He smells like lake and smoke and something sharper — like he’s always just gotten out of bed.
His eyes flick down. Then back up.
“You’re staring,” he says, mouth twitching like he doesn’t want to smile but can’t help it.
“You’re floating in front of me shirtless,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.
“So stare.”
You do.
There’s a pause — heavy, stretched taut like summer stormclouds — and then he asks, lower now, “You ever think about me?”
The question is plain. Not teasing. Not cocky. Just real. Like it’s something he’s been holding onto for a long time.
You wet your lips. “I used to.”
Art raises a brow. “Just used to?”
You look down at your hands, how they’ve knotted in the fabric of your dress, and then back at him, your gaze tracing the dip of his collarbone, the bead of water running slow from the hollow of his throat down to his chest.
“Still do,” you say.
Silence. Thick. Hot.
He exhales, like it means something to hear that.
“I was twenty-four,” he says suddenly. “When I realized I couldn’t even look at you that summer without thinking about kissing you.”
Your breath catches.
He keeps talking, eyes locked on yours. “I’d come back from school and there you were, running around in that white tank top, hair up, laughing with your friends like you didn’t know what you were doing to me. Like you didn’t notice me losing my mind every time you looked my way.”
“I noticed,” you say, soft.
Art blinks, lashes wet. “Yeah?”
You nod, slow. “You always looked, Art.”
He leans forward on his elbows, water dripping off his arms onto the dock.
“I shouldn’t have,” he says.
“But you did.”
The space between you shudders — ripples outward, like the lake itself is reacting.
He whispers, “You were eighteen.”
“And now I’m not.”
You lean forward, just a fraction closer, until the heat of him hums against your skin.
“Tell me to stop,” you whisper.
Art swallows. His hand comes up to touch your knee, fingers slick and warm. He doesn’t say anything for a second — just watches the way your breath hitches, the way your thighs shift.
“You shouldn’t be looking at me like that,” he says.
You smile. “Then stop looking back.”
He doesn’t.
He pulls himself up onto the dock in one slow, dripping motion, body unfolding in pieces — chest, arms, knees, all glistening and tan and real. He kneels in front of you, water pooling beneath him, and cups your jaw like he’s not sure you’re real either.
“You grew up,” he murmurs.
“So did you.”
And then — finally — his mouth finds yours.
It’s not soft. It’s not chaste. It’s hungry.
It’s two summers, two missed chances, two years of denial wrapped into one long kiss that tastes like Bud Light and memory, like powdered sugar and regret. His lips move against yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again, hands finding your waist, your thigh, the back of your neck. You’re clutching at his shoulders, dragging him closer, heat pulsing low in your belly like something sacred.
When he breaks it, he breathes against your mouth, “You sure?”
You nod. You don’t hesitate.
And that’s when the fireworks start. The one firework splits the sky in half.
pop-ssshhhh-CRACK!
It’s loud and close and shivers down your spine, the kind of sound that feels inside your body. Gold bleeds across the lake in wet ribbons, reflected light flickering over Art’s skin where he kneels between your thighs, his lips swollen, his breath hard against your jaw.
You’re barely breathing.
The dock creaks beneath you, old wood groaning under the weight of a secret. His hand is splayed low on your thigh now, fingers dragging the hem of your dress upward, knuckles brushing damp skin with a reverence that borders on holy. He smells like fire and July and beer — and when he speaks again, it’s all gravel and heat.
“Lie back for me, sweet girl.”
You do.
You don’t ask why. You don’t protest. You lie back on the dock, the wood warm against your spine, and the air folds around you — thick, close, electric with the taste of storm. Art’s shadow moves over you, blotting out the sky as his hands slide up, slow, fingers coasting along the inside of your thigh like he’s tracing old roads he forgot how to name.
He pushes the fabric up.
Not rushed — intentional. He’s watching your face, reading every twitch of your breath, every little gasp you try to swallow down as he exposes more and more of you to the open night. When his fingers slip under the edge of your underwear — cotton, damp, already sticking — your hips lift before your brain catches up.
“Jesus,” he mutters, half under his breath. “You’re soaked.”
You make a sound — something breathy, needy — and he smiles like a man who just got exactly what he wanted.
boom-ssssshhhhh-POP!
Another firework explodes overhead, red and silver raining down in blurred sparks while Art’s fingers find the slick heat between your legs.
“Fff–fuck, Art—”
You clamp your teeth down, but the moan breaks out anyway — raw and rising from your throat like steam:
“Nnnnghh—huhhhn…”
He huffs a laugh, breath warm against your thigh. “You always moan like that, baby, or is that just for me?”
You go to answer but his tongue is already on you — flat and slow, dragging through your folds like he’s tasting a summer fruit he can’t get enough of. Your whole body arches off the dock. Your dress is pushed to your waist now, hips tilted toward his mouth, and Art fucking groans when you buck into him.
“Aahhnn… a-aahh—shit,” you gasp, thighs shaking.
He grabs them, palms splayed hard against your hips to keep you still. You can hear the wet sounds of his mouth on you — obscene, slick, messy. His tongue flicks, presses, circles, and each time you think you’ve hit your limit, he changes rhythm. Keeps you right there.
“Uhhhnnnghh… mmmh, mmhh—please—”
Another firework:
ka-POPPOP-sssssshhhhhh–BOOM!
It’s like a fucking soundtrack. Your back bows as a white streak explodes across the sky, mirrored in the water beside you. His mouth doesn’t stop. You’re panting now, hands in his hair, hips grinding against his tongue without shame. Everything else — the music, the shouting, the beer cans rattling in coolers — it all fades.
It’s just him. His mouth. Your skin. The lake.
“C’mere,” you whisper, dragging at his curls.
He doesn’t answer. Just kisses up your body, the heat of him sliding along your thighs, his mouth wet against your stomach, then your ribs, then your collarbone. He settles above you, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip like he’s still holding on to the moment.
His cock presses against your inner thigh — thick, hot, leaking against the skin there.
“Condom?” you manage.
“In my bag,” he mutters. “Fuck—back at the chairs.”
You stare at each other. Your breath ragged. His face flushed.
“I’m on the pill,” you say, voice hoarse. “I want to feel it.”
His eyes darken. He doesn’t argue.
You guide him with one hand, legs wrapping around his waist as he lines himself up, head pressed to your entrance. His forehead rests against yours, and the sound he makes when he pushes in — huhhhhnn—fuck… — is almost a whimper.
The stretch is slow. Deep. A burn that feels like coming home.
You cry out — ahhh-hhhnghh! — and he shushes you, mouth brushing your jaw.
“Shhh… it’s alright,” he murmurs. “Got you. Just breathe, baby…”
KRA-BOOM!
The fireworks finale begins, sky strobing with red and gold, white-hot streaks illuminating the water around the dock. His hips start to move — slow, grinding into you, each thrust dragging a moan from your lips that gets caught in your throat:
“uhhh-uhh-huhhh—”
“mmmnhf, aaahh—Art, fuck—”
The wood groans under you. The lake laps louder. His hand finds yours and pins it above your head. The other curls around your thigh, holding it high as he drives deeper. Every sound is swallowed by the exploding sky.
“Tell me you wanted this,” he grits, voice tight in your ear. “Tell me you waited for it.”
“I—fuck, I did—uhhhn—years—” your voice breaks.
He kisses you then. Rough. Full. It’s not pretty. It’s real. All teeth and tongue and the taste of sex and lakewater and longing that’s been waiting since you were eighteen. He fucks you through it, dock groaning beneath your hips, water licking the wood, fireworks erupting in time with your cries.
You’re close. He knows it. His rhythm stutters, hips slamming harder, faster, the head of his cock dragging just right with every thrust.
“Let go,” he pants, “fuck, c’mon—come for me—c’mon, sweetheart—”
And when you do — when your back arches, legs locked around him, mouth open in a wrecked moan — ahhhh-uhhh-hhhhuhhhnnn-f-fu— — the sky breaks open again.
KABOOM—ssssssssshhhhhh—
And he follows you with a strangled groan, spilling into you deep, face buried in your neck, the whole dock shaking under the weight of it.
You stay like that. Just breathing. Just touching.
His chest against yours. His cock still inside you. The sky above you going quiet.
And for once — finally — there’s nothing left unsaid.
The fireworks don’t end so much as they fade — like a party slipping out the back door. One final hiss of light across the lake, a soft pop…shhhk, and then it’s just the sound of the water again. A few cheers float across the grass. Somewhere, someone yells USA! like it means something. But on the dock, it’s quiet.
The air smells like smoke now. Sulfur and ash and burnt sugar. Your dress is bunched around your waist, your thighs slick and trembling. Art’s body is heavy over yours, chest still heaving, his hand tangled tight with yours above your head like he never meant to let it go. You feel his breath on your skin, slow and damp, and it’s the first time in a long time you’ve felt like you weren’t about to float off the edge of yourself.
Neither of you moves. Not right away.
You’re still full of him. Still wrapped around his hips. And there’s a strange kind of stillness to it — not awkward, not cold. Just thick. Real. Your pulse is in your throat, your thighs, your fingertips. You look up and the stars are coming out now, one by one, soft and tentative like they’re waiting to be invited in.
Art shifts first.
Not much — just enough to brace his weight on his elbows, give you room to breathe. He’s looking at you in that way he used to look at the lake before he jumped in. Like it’s deep. Like he could drown if he’s not careful.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You nod. Your voice’s gone somewhere low and far away, too wrecked to speak just yet.
He brushes a strand of hair off your cheek with the back of his fingers. They’re calloused — rough from summers spent fixing docks and cutting rope and working odd jobs around the lakehouses. But the touch is gentle.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
You laugh a little. It comes out more like a breath. “So are you.”
He grins, that slow-melting smirk. “Fair."
You close your eyes for a second. Let the sweat cool on your skin. The lake laps gently below you, soft ripples against the dock’s edge. It smells like damp wood and lake grass and skin. His come is already leaking down your thigh. You should care. You don’t. Not even a little.
“I’ve wanted that for so long,” you say, almost surprised to hear it come out of your mouth.
Art doesn’t answer. Just looks at you. Like he’s replaying the last ten minutes in his head, wondering if they really happened. His hand slips down, cups the side of your thigh — the one he hiked up around his waist when he fucked into you so deep you couldn’t breathe. He traces the line of it now, slow and absent.
“You were a kid,” he murmurs. “Back then.”
“I’m not now.”
“No.” He nods. “You’re really not.”
There’s something about the way he says it. Not just reverent — staggered. Like he can’t quite believe you’re real, that this is real, that it’s you he’s still inside, softening now, but still there. Like the past two years just collapsed in on themselves and left this moment behind.
You untangle your fingers from his and let your hand skim up his arm, then to his jaw. There’s stubble now — rough and short, catching under your palm. He leans into the touch like he’s starved for it.
“I used to imagine this,” you say, voice quieter now. “Being with you. Here. On this dock.”
Art exhales through his nose. “You don’t have to tell me that.”
You blink up at him. “Why not?
He tilts his head, that crooked smile twitching up again. “Because I imagined it too.”
Your heart stutters.
He pulls out slowly, careful, and your breath catches — the loss of him sudden and stark, the rush of wet heat between your thighs immediate. You clench instinctively and he chuckles, low and warm, as he reaches for the hem of your dress to pull it down gently.
“C’mon,” he says. “Let me clean you up.”
You bite your lip. “Now you’re offering to be a gentleman?”
He winks. “Better late than never.”
He stands and stretches — the lean line of his body backlit by the stars now, muscles shifting beneath damp skin, swim trunks still hanging low on his hips. He reaches for his t-shirt from the grass and pads it gently between your legs, slow, watching your face the whole time. The fabric’s soft, damp with lakewater but warm from his skin.
“Still good?” he asks.
You nod. “More than.”
He helps you up, and you sit on the edge of the dock together, legs dangling over the side, feet brushing the water.
You don’t talk for a long time. Not because there’s nothing to say — but because it’s all here already. In the silence. In the wet heat of your bodies cooling together, in the way your shoulder presses into his, in the night sounds around you: frogs calling, someone laughing too far away to see, the metallic crackle of a grill being scraped clean. Normal things. Summer things.
He nudges your knee with his.
“You staying long?”
You look over. His eyes are half-lidded, that lazy lakehouse gaze, but there’s something tight behind it. Like the question matters more than he wants to admit.
“A few more weeks,” you say.
He nods.
You don’t ask what he’s thinking. You already know.
The dock creaks again as you lean your head on his shoulder.
