୧ *·˚ favourite movies — emma. sleepless in seattle. how to lose a guy in 10 days. 10 things I hate about you. avatar. anything marvel. white chicks. grown ups. bullet train. hp franchise. mamma mia. walking on sunshine. pirates of the caribbean franchise.
୧ *·˚ favourite books — twilight series. hunger games series. pride and prejudice. me before you.
୧ *·˚ favourite artists — lana del rey. elton john. elvis presley. frank sinatra. sabrina carpenter. amy winehouse. mitski. tv girl. eminem. tyler, the creator. steve lacey. bruno mars. tupac. abba. queen.
no like i’ve genuinely started blocking people if they tag incorrectly idc how good of a writer you are why are you in my face pissing me off when we have wattpad AND ao3 where character x OC thrive. (and don’t try to act smart and say i’m tagging this post incorrectly cause ppl hate done that when the post is obviously directly related to x reader)
this goes for people who do x reader but also make it a point to explicitly describe eye color, hair color, body shape, height, etc. without any sort of precursor in the summary or content warnings. and the character sibling! readers that make it so you can’t even imagine that they’re adopted 😭😭 idk it’s just ik there ARE people that love that kinda content that they could cater to and they choose the one niche corner where being ambiguous is the goal
AYYY HELLO ♡♡♡ I LOVE YOUR ARRANGEMENT MARRIAGE AU
This idea popped into my head and I had to share it with you, but you can ignore it if you want. 🥺
After the wedding, Reader still tries to please Sirius even more, and since she always sees him training, one day she appears during one of his training sessions with a sword she can't hold and asks him to teach her how to fight.
By the way, how was your day? <3 I'm new to your account, sorry for so many likes.
Thanks angel! So I didn't set this quite when you imagined it sorry but given what I plan to come next for them I thought Sirius and our reader could use a bit more bonding :) And no need to apologize for interacting ever, I'm happy to have you here!
cw: muggle au, arranged marriage, Sirius is somewhat objectified but he likes it (actually, not in the way men say this), reflection on war
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her vile agendas
poly!marauders x princess!reader ♡ 1.3k words
Sirius is out in the courtyard again.
It’s like he does it on purpose. He has to know, doesn’t he? Sirius isn’t the sort of man with no clue as to his own appeal, and choosing to do his exercises in the courtyard a large portion of the castle’s window’s face—when you know there’s a dedicated training room inside—can’t be a choice made thoughtlessly.
He probably doesn’t know that he’s treating you specifically, half napping on a sun-soaked settee just inside the window, but you think Sirius must be aware of how the muscles of his bare back ripple when he lowers his chest to the ground, pausing briefly before pushing back up again. They shift like a mirage in the afternoon sun, along with tattoos you’d never seen before the first time Sirius went out to the courtyard and tugged his shirt off without warning. You’d been reading in this same spot, distracted by movement outside the window, and the sight had shocked you into stillness. You really ought to learn his routine better so as to avoid these one-sided run-ins.
Maybe your subconscious already has.
You look away, an unwelcome prickle in your cheeks. You wish you could stop thinking of them the way you do. Sirius’ physique, Remus’ conspiratorial looks, the feel of James’ arms around your shoulders when he hugged you. You don’t relish these thoughts, but they don’t mean anything if you don’t act on them. And you won’t. You like your friends too well to spoil anything. You like having friends.
You force yourself up like you can outrun the tug of yearning that’s knotted itself around your rib. Your steps are quick and your hand steady as it turns the knob of the nearest door, the bright sunlight of the courtyard searing you.
Sirius looks up, a dark streak of hair fallen in front of his face, but he doesn’t startle enough to falter in his strength. “Hello,” he says, lowering himself back to the ground one final time before raising up again smoothly. He sits. “What trouble are you up to?”
You smile. “I was hoping you’d have some ideas.”
“Bored?”
“James is in a meeting.”
“Oh, I know.” Sirius blows at the pesky strand of hair, succeeding only in getting it stuck to his cheek. “What do you think I’m doing out here?”
You sit down in the grass next to him. You notice his eyes drop to your pale-colored skirt, but Sirius doesn’t make any comment. You don’t surprise him as much as you used to; you haven’t decided if you like that or not.
“What good do push-ups do you in your job?” you ask.
Now, Sirius’ eyebrows jump. “You mean, in my job as the fittest bloke in Gryffindor?”
“That’s James,” you correct loyally.
He grins. “Tied with Remus.”
“I meant for your job as Captain of the Guard.”
“Well,” says Sirius, “I’m sure you can imagine how fitness is a part of it. I have to be able to chase off anyone who comes for our James, don’t I?”
“With your biceps, though?” You flush as soon as it’s out of your mouth. Sirius seems to take it with the humor it’s meant, though; he shoots you a biting look in return.
“And to be able to lift a sword,” he says, jutting his chin toward the gleaming sword that lies by his shirt a few feet away. He never goes anywhere without it, though you know it’s mostly ceremonial; like every guard in the castle, Sirius carries a gun holstered at his waist whenever he’s on duty. “It’s heavier than you’d think.”
You must look dubious, because a spark of challenge enters his eyes.
“Try to lift it,” he says.
You squint at it. “Am I allowed?”
Sirius leans back on his hands, smirking. “I’m giving you extra special permission.”
You roll your eyes but get up, walking the few paces over to the sword. The hilt feels warm in your hand. You tilt it awkwardly, resting the blade on the ground until it’s vertical and then raising the whole thing cautiously.
Sirius cocks an eyebrow.
“I mean, it’s heavy,” you say, “but I can lift it.”
“Try swinging it around.”
You adjust your grip on the hilt, widening your stance before holding the blade out in front of you like a soldier in a painting. Or a soldier not in a painting. Would the soldiers of Peleria know how to do this? Are they missing the mundanity of push-ups and sword training now, forced to fight with bullets while you playact their role in your grass-stained skirts and peaceful accommodations? A new heat builds in your face, roils in your chest.
You don’t like the directions your own thoughts take you, lately. You wish you could stop thinking of the war at all, and you hate yourself for it. You wish, selfishly, for the Death Eaters to simply give up and go around Peleria, even knowing they would only bring their bigotry to some other land which would suffer Peleria’s same fate, and you hate yourself for that, too. There’s no refuge from the awfulness of war, and wanting, and figuring out how to live during it and yet unforgivably outside of it.
Sirius’ touch on your arm surprises you into tightening your grip on the sword.
“Building up to it?” he asks, teasing, but there’s a hint of something more sober in his eyes. He’s caught you slipping away.
“Yeah.” You loose a breath, swinging the sword in a clumsy arc in front of you. Your hold on it falters when you try to stop it, and Sirius’ hand is there, tightening on yours, keeping the blade from clattering to the ground.
You look at him over your shoulder. He’s close enough for you to admire the small mole on his cheek. “I had it.”
Sirius releases your hand, holding his up guilelessly. “I only want to make sure you don’t drop a sword on your own foot.”
“I wasn’t going to,” you say, rolling your eyes.
“Right, well, you can’t blame me for worrying. When someone holds a sword like that—” He looks pointedly at your grip, and you feel your brows furrow. “—you never know what might happen.”
“How am I holding it wrong?”
“How long do you have?”
You shoot him an unimpressed look. “Can you show me how to do it right?”
Sirius eyes you a moment. Still not surprised, but something close. “You really want to know?”
You shrug, but your voice softens self-consciously. “Yeah.”
Sirius steps closer. “Okay. Let’s start here.” He sets his hands on your hips. You have to make a concentrated effort not to go stiff all over, but your teacher is perfectly relaxed. “Bend your knees a bit. You should be able to move here without tipping over.” He gives you a little push in each direction. “Yeah?”
You hum and adjust, until Sirius is pleased and moves on to your posture. As he talks and prods at you, that same strand of hair flutters into his face again. You watch him blow at it almost unconsciously, a well-worn habit, and fight the quirk of your lips. You want badly to take care of it for him. You’d comb it in with the rest pulling toward the bun at the back of his head, and you wonder what sort of soft it’d be between your fingers; whether Sirius would lean into the touch, and what brand of look he’d give you with those speaking eyes of his.
“Hello?” Sirius pokes you between your shoulders. You blink. “I’m not going to waste my sought-after tutelage on you if you’re not going to pay attention.”
“I’m paying attention,” you say, contrite.
He raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”
That pesky strand falls into his eyes again. Sirius huffs, irritated, and blows it back to where it’ll surely fall again. You take the flesh of your cheek between your molars.
rugby!simon and rugby!gaz show you just how good their teamwork is.
18+
he’s got his hands all over you.
big hands that squeeze at your hips, knead at the fat of your arse, smother the curves of your tits. and he whispers in your ear all the while— that jarring manc accent pulling you out of a pleasure-induced trance. words of praise and encouragement sliding off his tongue before he drags it along the slope of your shoulder.
“ah, you’re likin’ that, aren’t you, baby?” simon coos, pawing at your tits, his broad chest pressed hard to your back.
you nod, breathing hard, and simon kisses back up your bare shoulder until he can nip at the shell of your ear. you feel him smile against you.
“well, why don’t you be a good girl and tell gaz that he’s doin’ such a good job.”
at simon’s words, gaz hums into the slick heat of your core, his tongue curled within you, nose bumping gently against your puffy clit. his hands are on your thighs, spreading you open as you lean back against simon, who himself is backed up against the bed’s headboard.
you moan loudly. a lurid keen as pleasure vibrates through you. simon chuckles with his lips on your neck— then he begins to suck and bite, and the brief, dull sting means you’re in for a long night.
you crack your eyes open to look down at gaz. he’s grinding against the bed ever so slightly as he laves his tongue across your pussy, up and down, before curling it back inside of you again. he’s grunting, too. deep sounds from the back of his throat that have you clenching around him.
he opens his eyes, as if feeling you looking down at him, and meets your gaze. his pretty brown eyes are black with lust, pupils blown impossibly wide in the semi-darkness of the room. he hums something—a reassurance, maybe—against you, and your mouth drops open for you to let out another embarrassingly loud moan. gaz’s eyes sparkle.
“uh-uh,” you hear simon tut behind you, before one of his massive hands leaves your breast. suddenly, he’s gripping the back of gaz’s head and pressing him closer to your cunt— the abrupt change in pace and pressure causing you to yelp. simon’s other hand pinches your nipple between two fingers. “what did i tell you to do?”
you huff, body growing tense with an impending orgasm. you feel gaz let out a stuttered moan against you. although, it could be a small laugh. you weren’t too sure.
“simooooon,” you stretch out on a whine. “please—”
“no, don’t talk to me,” he replies quickly. you see that he’s stroking the back of gaz’s head gently, while the latter lightly bobs his head as he eats you out. simon pulls at your nipple and talks over you while you squeal. “you need to talk to gaz. you need to tell ‘im somethin’.”
you pant for a moment after he lets go of you, and then speak. “you’re doing such a… fuck, doing such a good job, gaz.”
simon continues, kissing your temple. “and how’s he makin’ you feel?”
“good—”
“don’t tell me, tell him.”
you whine through a pout, burning hot pleasure prickling at the base of your spine. your hips twitch, and you feel gaz mumble something against you, his tongue still working as simon holds him in place.
“you’re making me feel so good, gaz. it feels so good.”
obviously pleased, simon kisses your temple one last time, before he shifts slightly so he can yank gaz’s head back and force him to look up at you.
the rugby winger looks absolutely stunning— his big, round eyes with saucer-like pupils, and a face half-covered in your slick. his lips, parted, shine with you too, and he darts his tongue out to lick up the remnants from his bottom lip.
“now,” simon says, directing his speech over your shoulder while he resumes kneading passively at one of your tits. “tell her how fuckin’ good she tastes, gaz.”
you wonder, for just a moment, whether gaz was going to bite back. he’s strong-willed, after all, and both as cocky and competitive as your boyfriend. if not more so. he typically responds to simon’s on-field remarks with a snarky, quick-witted response.
but he always listens, even if he does have to get a sly comment in first.
“why? you’ve never told her?” he chides, but then immediately snaps his attention back to you and, with almost practised softness, utters, “y’taste so good, babygirl. sweetest little pussy i’ve ever had.”
simon grunts behind you but you ignore him. his paw releases gaz, who takes the opportunity to surge forward and slot his mouth back against you. you gasp, jerking violently in simon’s hold, as gaz renews his pace and stuffs his tongue into you.
you whine, head flopping back against simon’s chest as your legs begin to twitch. simon’s hands are back on your tits and his mouth is back on the junction of your shoulder as you hurtle towards release, dragged along by the thick warmth of gaz’s tongue moving inside you.
“hm, look how you’ve got gaz, baby,” simon says over your shoulder, and you wrench your eyes open with great effort as your mind clouds over with pleasure. “got ‘im humping the bed like a fuckin’ dog. look at that.”
gaz all but growls into you, but doesn’t lift his head to take the bait. his hands grip your thighs as he maintains his pace, but simon has a point— he was still gently rutting himself against the sheets, cock hard against the material, the soft mounds of his arse towards the ceiling.
gaz releases another guttural noise against you, and the vibrations send you over the edge. you come over his tongue, thighs clamping shut and pinning gaz between you like a vice. your body spasms, and simon holds you to him, kissing up your neck and whispering praise into your ear as your orgasm rockets through you.
when it tapers off and leaves you dishevelled mess in simon’s lap, gaz plucks your thighs away from his ears and sits back on his haunches, hard cock grasped in one hand, the other wiping your slick from his chin.
simon watches him carefully. “you need something, garrick?”
languidly, simon slips a strong arm around you, trailing down over your belly, your mons, and finally skimming past your clit and splitting the swollen lips of your cunt open with two fingers. cool air hits you, and you let out a tired squeak. simon watches gaz’s gaze fix on the movements, the winger’s cock twitching in his hand.
simon watches a bead of precum pearl on gaz’s tip, before it rolls down the shaft and disappears against his nearly-closed fist.
“oh,” simon utters quietly. condescendingly. he runs his fingers up and down, up and down the lips of your pussy, baring your fluttering hole. you try not to writhe against him, lids low over your eyes as you observe the man across from you. simon continues, “i know what you want.”
“‘course you fucking do, mate,” gaz grits out, shuffling closer— or at least attempting to, as he’s stopped by simon, who bends his leg inwards to prevent his teammate from getting any closer.
simon’s other hand trails over your body, tracing imaginary lines over your tits and tummy, over the softness of your thighs and hips. goosebumps raise across your skin, and you can feel your heartbeat gradually returning to your wet core.
“you want to get your dick wet, is that right?” simon snarks.
gaz huffs, tugging on his cock, and you watch another bead of precum roll over the head and run down a vein on the underside. “don’t be a wanker, riley. s’not like that.”
“then what is it like?” one of simon’s fingers finds your puffy clit and presses down firmly. you moan, mouth dropping open. you feel him smile as he turns his head to press kisses to your temple again.
“i want to fuck your girlfriend and have her scream my name while she comes,” gaz says through a wicked grin, smacking simon’s leg aside and shifting up the bed until he’s close enough to you that you can see the beaded perspiration over his chest.
simon grunts, but doesn’t say anything, and let’s gaz press his mouth to yours. you moan into gaz’s mouth, tongues coming together quickly, teeth clashing just a bit as he moves against you. he continues to stroke himself, but his free hand meets simon’s and presses two fingers to your clit as well, coordinating circles across it.
“oh, fuck,” you curse, body gearing up again as you’re worked towards another release. you feel it in the way your feet begin to twitch restlessly and hips falter against the bed.
“doing so well, sweetheart,” simon says to you, suddenly reaching one hand up to grab your chin, turning you away from gaz. “my best girl.” and then he kisses you, tongue curling against your canines as gaz drops his mouth downwards, licking across your jaw and kissing down your neck.
he also removes his hand from your clit, instead taking the time to squeeze at one of your breasts, rolling your nipple beneath the pads of his fingers. simon continues to grip your chin, but breaks the kiss, watching gaz kiss along your neck and across your bare chest.
“you ready, baby?” he asks you, and gaz looks up from his position between your tits, lips brushing your sternum. gleaming dark eyes peering up at you like a doe. simon stops his fingers on your clit, and you hum a quiet protest as your rearing release slowly fades away.
you nod. “m’ready.”
“now, this is how we’re gonna do this,” simon begins, large hands prying your legs even further apart. gaz shifts backwards, leaving splotches of saliva over your skin, and clutches the base of his cock again as he rakes his eyes down your body. simon rubs your inner thigh. “gaz is goin’ t’be a good lad and stretch you open, ‘kay? he’s gonna stretch this little pussy open an’ make you come before i join ‘im. does that sound alright?”
as he speaks, simon’s hand finds the heat of your cunt again, and splits your lips apart using two fingers in a downward ‘v’ motion. gaz groans gratefully, the sight of your fluttering hole making his cock twitch as he shifts his hips forward.
you find yourself nodding again. “yeah, that sounds good.”
simon smiles. “tha’s good, tha’s good… now, let’s be good for gaz and open up…” he speaks for you, before kissing your pulse while gaz presses the warm head of his cock against your opening.
the winger rubs it in circles there, collecting your release and smearing it around. you whimper, and gaz shushes you gently, leaning forward to kiss you.
“s’alright— just giving her a couple’a kisses, okay?” gaz whispers, the tip of his cock moving back and then forward. this happens a couple of times as he licks over your lips, the tip of his cock ‘kissing’ the drooling hole of your cunt while simon practically gnaws on your neck with one hand still holding your pussy open for his teammate. the other hand, again, is all over your tits.
when gaz pulls away, he finally, finally, pushes his cock into you. the head first, swallowed smoothly by a velvet warmth, then the rest, and you track it’s progress by the feel of that prominent vein against you. it forces several moans from your chest, which seem to rattle against your ribs and leave you breathless.
inch by inch, gaz gently pushes himself inside you, eyes watching where you take him, revealed, still, by simon, who watches over your shoulder, pawing at the softness of your belly so he could get a good look.
he hums, content, into your ear. “god, y’taking him so well, my sweet girl. i’m so proud of you.”
gaz bottoms out with a groan of your name, falling still for a couple of moments to catch his breath. simon repositions his fingers to toy with your clit, and you mewl at the sudden restart of pleasure. the winger wrenches his eyes open and something flashes across his face.
you can’t see it, but simon returns an equally challenging look.
“keep up, garrick,” simon spits coyly. “need her to come so i can fit.”
“ha,” gaz sneers, rutting himself out then in suddenly, making you wail and writhe against simon’s chest. he sets a rocketing pace that forces tremors through the muscles of your legs, his hands grabbing at your hips and thighs, your arse practically off the bed. “don’t think too highly of yourself, mate. m’sure your prick’s gonna slip right in. unnoticed, probably.”
a new kind of euphoria floods through your veins like ichor. being fucked by someone else while your boyfriend cradles you, kisses over your head and neck, rubs circles over your breasts and clit— it’s an entirely different feeling. a haze sits over your brain, your eyes struggling to focus, your lips open in a silent scream.
in your state, you barely even notice the way they’re speaking to each other.
“trust me, i’ll need you to loosen her up,” simon growls. “but, that’ll be ‘ard for you, won’t it? considering your dick barely fills your briefs.”
gaz makes a show of rutting deep inside you, finding that perfect spot immediately, rolling his hips and drawing a loud moan from you. a breathy but pronounced “gaz” as you blindly run your hands all over his chest and toned stomach.
then, he leans forward, kissing you on the cheek, then the chin, then finally on the lips. “you feeling good, darling girl? am i making you feel good?”
much to simon’s annoyance—although, he could never truly be mad at you—you respond quickly, “yes, yes—fuck, yeah, feel’s sooo good, gaz. cock feels so good—so big.”
gaz looks at simon again and winks. simon mouths “fuck you.”
“only if you’re lucky, mate,” gaz retorts, hips slapping against you now, cock driving into you faster and faster.
you know you’re done for as soon as gaz starts grunting with his quickened pace. your body tenses against simon’s, who continues to rub circles around your puffy clit. he’s sucking at your neck while gently rutting his cock against the small of your back, and you relish in feeling the warm length of it against your lower spine.
“gaaaz,” you whine, a slight twinge of pain in your hips as he fucks you, although it’s quickly overwhelmed by the pressure of your building orgasm. “wanna come, please—”
he answers you by slotting his mouth against yours, licking over your tongue and teeth as you whine and huff against him. restless, insatiable. your hands squeeze at the firm muscles that cord across his shoulders as you kiss him back with a pleasure-induced weakness that has his lips quirking in the corners.
then, simon’s in your ear. the pleasure fogging your brain making his accent seem a whole lot stronger. it turns you on even more, if that was possible. “come on, baby. let go.”
you do.
you rip your mouth away from gaz’s to moan loudly— his name, too, which simon’s bitterly sure the winger will wank to for years to come. no pun intended.
it tears out from your throat much like how your orgasm tears through your body, forcing tremors from you and pinning you back against simon. you feel yourself gush around gaz’s cock, which is slowly losing rhythm as he reaches his own high. a high which burns through him as his balls draw up tight.
he quickly looks up at simon. “can i?”
“what?” simon grunts, preoccupied with shoving his two fingers—previously on your clit—into your mouth and pressing down on your tongue.
“come inside?”
simon kisses his teeth and pretends to think.
gaz whimpers quietly, hips stuttering, and the sound sends throbs back into your clit.
“yeah,” you answer for simon. “please, come inside me—”
but gaz falters— looking from simon, to you, then back up to simon as a sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead. those damn big brown eyes. they even have your heart pinching in your chest.
simon grunts, burying his face quickly into the side of yours. “don’t— don’t look at me like that. just do what my bird tells you and come.”
gaz’s eyes slam shut and he finally, with a shuddering moan of your name, comes inside of you. his hips press to yours, cock punched deep inside, strong arms flexing where they grip you for support.
warmth pumps into you slowly, and you smile softly as gaz shakes, then leans in to peck you gently on the lips.
“i—” you open your mouth to speak, but simon is giving you no chances to catch your breath as you’re hoisted up and your legs are spread to accommodate his size.
big hands grab you roughly, man-handling you into a position where simon can slip his cock along the seam of your arse until the fat head brushes against your cunt, still drooling around gaz’s cock.
“s’pose i got what i wanted, didn’t i?” gaz says after a moment of silence while simon jostles you into the position he liked best. he’s regained some of his confidence, it seems.
simon scoffs. “and what was that, exactly?”
“having your girlfriend scream my name while i make her come,” is the winger’s reply, his hands moving idly over the soft mounds of your body as he helps in holding you in position.
you feel heat flush through your veins in a mix of embarrassment and arousal. you tilt your head to the side, and gaz beats simon to it and attaches his mouth to the damp skin.
simon chuckles quietly behind you.
not a good sign, especially now he has one of his massive paws gripping the base of his cock, his fist pressing almost uncomfortably against the bottom of your arse cheek.
“sure,” he says. “but she screamed mine louder.”
his egotistical chiding ends as he pushes his cock in alongside gaz’s— just the head, but the added pressure made you yelp and shout a very loud, “si! fuck!”
exactly what he was aiming for.
gaz knew he was too late to smother your sounds, but he presses his mouth to you again anyway, kneading your tits as simon slowly, slowly feeds more and more of his cock into you. gaz shudders against you as simon moves, and you whine over his tongue. you weren’t surprised to receive a little moan back.
“come on, there we go, baby, open up for me,” simon utters, feeling with his hand how your hole stretches to accommodate him. milky-white rivulets roll continually down his shaft as he pushes in, and you can feel them being pushed from you. he doesn’t stop and start, but his pace is slow and unsurprisingly attentive. “that’s my best girl. doing so fuckin’ well.”
“simon, god, i can’t…” you whimper when gaz allows you space to breathe your entire body is shaking, a searing pleasure settling like a blanket over your lower spine and pelvis. your swollen clit pulses rapidly with your heartbeat.
“yes, you can,” simon shushes you as gaz pets your face soothingly, the other on your side. “i’ve got you— we’ve got you, okay? just let us make you feel good.”
you realise that he’s all the way in.
“oh,” you whisper. you’re so full.
then, they start to move, and you feel even more full.
simon does most of the moving. his hips are snapping against you from where he’s slightly leaning back, propped up by the pillows. and gaz is trying, matching simon’s movements but his thrusts are shorter, more stiff, overwhelmed by simon’s hurried movements.
gaz doesn’t seem to mind, though, panting and moaning as he moves, hips jerking. you hold onto him, the pleasure so intense that you can’t help your eyes rolling and the way your nails dig into his skin.
it’s nothing you’ve ever felt before. you’ve reached a type of nirvana you’ve only ever read fantasised about.
your body is alight, every single one of your nerves feeling the way the two men shift inside you. each twitch, jerk and rut sends electric shocks buzzing through you. euphoric ecstasy, rivers of it, flood your system. liquid gold, and as four large hands grope and touch and hold, you realise they might both be midas.
you also realise that you’re not lasting one more minute. you read your own body like an analog clock, the curling of your toes and tightening of your lower belly a blaring indication that you’re—
“gonna come,” you gasp, the fullness making it hard to breathe right. “ple—please, m’gonna come. i can’t—”
simon groans, then growls his sentence between gritting teeth. “fuck yeah, you are. gonna come all over our fuckin’ cocks, aren’t you?”
“yes, yes, yes,” you babble. you’re seeing stars in your closed eyelids, and you can feel the room spinning around you as if you were drunk.
you don’t feel gaz’s arm move, but you feel two fingers on your clit— and your sternum all but rattles at the force of your cry.
you release with their names being chanted into the cool air of the room, cunt squeezing tight around them both. squeezing, gushing as you come kicking and screaming (a metaphor, although your moans fill the space like choir song and your arms and legs spasm with the force of your pleasure).
gaz comes almost simultaneously, the vice of your cunt drawing another warm release from him. this time, it’s quieter. he swallows most of his moans, but a quivering whine escapes him as he bends and kisses your forehead.
if simon is proud that he lasted longer than his teammate, he doesn’t show it. instead, he reaches his hand to grasp gaz by the back of the neck and direct him down, forcing his mouth to yours. you kiss him back, but barely, energy leaching from you.
“that’s a good girl,” simon praises softly. “an’ a good boy. always such good listeners— doin’ what you’re told. so obedient. so fuckin’ good for me.”
then, he comes, and you wonder how much of it gets on gaz’s softening cock. the thought makes you moan into gaz’s mouth while simon ruts, thrusting his cum deep inside you—like he always seems to do—before he collapses back onto the pillows. his cock slips out of you, and the rush of cold air as cum and slick dribble out of you makes you squeak.
simon wrenches you back roughly so you topple down beside him. gaz hisses as his cock slips out as well, but he soon follows, laying down beside you with his head on your chest.
if he were simon, he would’ve sucked a nipple into his mouth by now. the heathen.
long minutes pass.
silent, comfortable. heartbeat steadying and breath catching. a difficult task, however, with a drooling cunt that simon is leisurely stroking, and with gaz kissing your exposed chest, rubbing your tummy tenderly.
“you two alright?” simon speaks first.
“mhm,” gaz hums, and you reply with a little “yep” of your own.
then, something you didn’t quite get crosses your mind. you had let them do whatever they wanted to you, now your own fantasy was crossing your mind as your body steadily began to shut down for the evening.
“actually… si…?”
“hm?”
“can… i ask you to do something for me? both of you, actually.”
gaz looks up as simon nods. “of course, baby.”
you smile. “can you two kiss?”
simon rolls his eyes. “no.”
gaz just laughs.
you huff. “fine.”
silence again.
then,
“fuck sake,” simon groans. then, “come here, garrick.”
once more, he slams one of his large hands onto the back of gaz’s neck and pulls him over your chest. simon bends, trapping you between the two men, and meets gaz in the middle, parallel to your face. you expect to see a light peck, but simon slots his mouth to gaz’s and splits gaz’s lips apart with his tongue, licking deep inside as their mouths move together.
you hear gaz hum into the kiss as they continue, and you watch with wide eyes, happiness—and arousal—surging within you.
simon pulls away, and a string of saliva connects them together, but it snaps as simon presses his mouth straight to yours.
“happy now?” he asks you.
you smile against him, cradling gaz’s head in your hands. “very.”
summary: Joel knows you. He is also sure he’s never set eyes on you before.
chapter 1 of somewhere in west texas - masterlist
warnings: joel pov, unspecified age difference, smut (piv, handjob, hand fucking which is different okay, joel has a huge cock and r is into that, extreme horniness and yearning), alcohol consumption, references to domestic abuse, references to cheating, loneliness, grief, kind of a soulmate/we find each other in every universe trope (this will make sense eventually), memory loss-ish, author's loose understanding of tarot cards, a creeping sense of dread
a/n: thanks for reading! I’m excited to go on a new journey with yall <3 if things seem weird there is a point and all will be resolved <3
The first time Joel sees you, you are wearing a wedding dress.
The moment you enter the bar is an inflection point. All attention is pulled to you in the doorway, the center of the dive bar’s singular focus. All low lighting, glass lamps, and dark wood. He glances up from the scratched surface of the bar, the visions of all the unending miles of road he’d put behind him that day, all the unspooling, desolate road ahead of him, vanishing in an instant.
A pretty bride still in her finery spills through the door with a laugh, head bent against the wind, and everything changes. When you lift your head, Joel sees your face clearly for the first time. The slope of your nose, the angle of your jaw, the shape of your smile, are so familiar he feels like the breath has been knocked out of him.
You are more than a familiar face.
He knows you.
He is certain he’s never laid eyes on you.
Grinning ear to ear, you duck inside the bar in a swirl of hot air. The bell above the door tinkles as it slams shut with a heavy wooden thud. The sparkling heels strapped over your feet are covered in a thin layer of dust; the long lines of your legs are revealed through slits on either side of your gown that extend nearly to your hip bones. He expects to see a groom following close on your heels, hand in hand with you, fawning gaze following your every move.
But the door doesn't open again and you cross the smoky bar alone. Soft yellow light bleeds over your body, gliding over the dips and curves like unseen, phantom hands. Heads turn, watching you pass in a cloud of silk and satin, pearls and lace, flashes of skin beneath ivory white.
There’s a tiny veil pinned back over your head, fluttering in your wake, an emerald ribbon looped around your throat. The ties of the ribbon spill over your collarbone, descend to the low neckline of your dress, dip between your breasts.
You’re still smiling, giggling deliriously, almost hysterically, manically, when you slot yourself between Joel and another man at the bar. Whatever you're laughing about, he doubts it's funny in the least.
A cloud of sage and lavender follows you, seems to cloud thick and warm in the air.
The dress settles around your legs, high slits closing like curtains drawn, and your shimmering skin disappears from view.
Joel watches you from the corner of his eye, curious and wary at once. You are at odds with the rest of the bar, gruff trucker types in worn baseball caps and flannels. Curious eyes hooked into you like a rare, jeweled fish.
The barman seems to know you, says your name with a question mark tagged onto the end. “You all right? Thought you was supposed to be gettin’ married today, girl?”
“Oh, Tom, I’m doing just wonderful,” you croon, in a voice like honey and gold. Joel is sure he’s heard it before, just as he’s sure he’s seen your face. Everything about you is familiar, like a song he’d once known how to play, or heard over a bad radio connection before it was cut short. “I’d like a drink, if you don’t much mind.”
He raises a brow. “Anything in particular?”
“Strongest thing you’ve got,” you request, leaning on your elbows against the bar with crossed arms. Your wrists are looped with jangling bracelets. Your hands are encrusted with rings, silver and gold dappled in light, though your left ring finger remains pointedly unadorned, not even an engagement ring. Joel suddenly suspects a husband won’t be ducking through the door anytime soon. “Don’t be shy.”
Tom lifts a brow and turns away, pouring a double shot into a heavy bottomed glass. He slides it across the wood with a gentle push. The whiskey sloshes against the rim but doesn’t tip out. “Need the courage or somethin’?” There’s a gleam in his eye, amused, taking you for a nervous bride and not an angry one. You’re too busy knocking the drink back, tapping the counter for another pour, to notice his tone, to answer. “Where’s—”
“Oh.” Your laugh is pitched upwards, cutting and self-deprecating. You sway briefly into Joel’s shoulder. Electricity suddenly, near painfully, snaps between you, biting and sharp, like summer heat lightning. You glance over at him, frowning, just for a moment. When your gaze meets his with a tilt of your head, your brows furrow, your breath hitches. “Not a clue,” you continue sharply when you look away from him. “He left me at the fucking altar.”
The energy of the room shifts, eavesdropping ears tilting closer, hungry wolves licking blood wet maws. Desperate, lonely woman.
The second drink goes down as smooth as the first. The glass thumps down solidly onto the counter. The bartender both looks surprised and doesn’t. “Well, shit. Sorry to hear that. He always was a jackass.”
“You haven’t seen him, have you?”
“A couple weeks back maybe.”
You shrug, nonchalance feigned, the barest trembling of your bottom lip before you smile again. “So I’m drowning the hurt,” you say delicately.
“Well, I reckon you’re in good company for drownin’ sorrows, darlin’.”
Joel nurses his drink, watches the pathetic swill of amber trace the bottom of his glass. He tries not to pay you any mind, the commotion you’re attracting to the bar, drawing in all the lonely, suddenly sympathetic men that have been scattered around the room for the better part of the evening. It's near impossible, that lightning feeling lingering, like a divining rod wrought golden thread between you, impossible to cut away.
The bar is suddenly very busy with men who need new drinks, replacements for the warm beer they’ve been nursing for the better part of the evening, taking their time about it too, watching you.
The group that coalesces around you good-naturedly, and self-servingly, offers to cover your tab, buy you another drink. It invites you to share just what the bastard did, assures you that you did not deserve it.
Joel keeps an eye on you. He’s not a jealous man, never has been, especially over someone he doesn't know, but there’s something about the wolf hungry eyes on you that he does not like. Your back is turned to him, a smooth expanse of bare flesh, cut off at the base of your back where satin sits flush with your skin, buttons the color of pale cream tailored to the curve of your body end near the bottom of your spine. He wants to tuck his fingers beneath it.
Your arm brushes his, the weight of it warm against his own, even through the layer of flannel and cotton between you.
A couple of the guys invite you to the corner of the bar they’d been occupying before you arrived, so you don’t have to keep standing in those heels. You seem to know a couple of the men that pass by to give their apologies, greeting them by name, but most of them you don’t. He waits for the bar tender to tell them to fuck off as he's like to do, but he's distracted.
One man tells you that you remind him of his daughter. His voice is oily, and your shoulders tighten in response.
The word daughter echoes, roots beneath his skin, but Joel doesn’t know why. Something more than your discomfort weighs on him, the heel of a hand beneath a fragile jaw pushing upward, shoving his face away from peering too closely at that feeling, that word.
“C’mon, playin’ cards with a few old fellers might take your mind off it.”
You decline, laughing and self-deprecating about it. “I don’t think I’d be very good company.”
“Well, you don’t gotta be.”
Your hip bumps against his knee, slowly but surely backing yourself into a corner.
“Y'all leave her be,” he cuts in, voice soft, not glancing up from the glass in his hand, the last dregs of the whiskey reflecting the red-gold lamplight. An old box TV above the bar drones static next to a flickering neon sign of a jumping rabbit. Down the Rabbit Hole, it says. Lubbock, Texas, beneath.
He can feel their gazes shift to him but he doesn’t look back. “Sorry boys,” you interject, smiling sadly, “I’m really not much company to keep.”
The patrons of the bar retreat reluctantly, only half grumbling about it.
Joel can hardly blame them.
This life is empty, lonely. Company is almost always welcome. Though he isn’t sure he’s ever sought it out, but certainly not like that.
The bar settles back into its natural rhythm for the moment, though your presence is a beacon, a light to shore they’re all keeping a carefully trained eye on. Just in case you changed your mind about their company, their unadorned sympathy.
And him now, too.
The longer he sits there next to you, the more he feels as though he’s seen you before, that he knows you from somewhere.
Your gaze shifts to his, warm and soft with the alcohol blooming beneath your ribs. Your head tilts again. “Well,” you say, the taste of familiarity so thick on your tongue that for a moment he thinks he does know you and he’s about to make an ass of himself. “Thanks are in order. Though I had it handled.”
“They shouldn’t need handlin’,” he grouses.
The pretty, curved, corner of your mouth twitches. “They mean well, even if it’s for their own benefit. It wouldn't have killed me to play cards.”
He laughs dryly and reaches down to pull out the stool beneath you, helps you hitch yourself into the seat. The bare skin of your back sears hot against his palm. “That’s one way of puttin’ it, I reckon. They don't need anyone making excuses.”
Your smile wavers, but only for a moment.
“Do I know you?” You lean closer, peering at his face. “You look so familiar. I know a lot of these guys, but I don’t think I know you.” You press a hand to your chest and glance away, “Oh, God, please say no. After you just defended my honor and all.”
He chuckles, breathes out. It isn’t just him. “No, I — I was just thinkin’ the same thing.”
“Really?”
He grunts in agreement and downs the last bit of whiskey in his glass, feels it pool warm and heavy in his stomach.
“But you don’t know me?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Me either.”
He gestures at your dress. “Sorry about the. . .”
“Yeah,” you straighten and smooth your hands over the ivory material. The supple fabric moves over you like water, the soft inverted bow of your waist, the swell of your chest against the low neckline. “Right? What a waste of a good dress.”
Joel chuckles. “You seem to be takin’ it well, considering.”
“My spirits are likely to come crashing down the second I stop to think about it. But for now, drinking ‘til I’m sick’ll do. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but all I can think is that it’s his damn loss.”
“Seems like it probably is.”
That makes you smile, shift happily in your seat.
Whatever your answer is, is interrupted by the man on your other side. He tries to buy you another drink, but you decline with a wave of your hand, so pretty about it that it almost doesn’t sting. “Thank you but I may topple right out of my heels if I keep this up.” You turn immediately back to Joel, the swell of jealous stares almost palpable at your back, that your emotionally compromised attention has been so thoroughly, accidentally, captured.
That his own fascination is mirrored back at him is maybe the best fortune he’s had in awhile.
You lean in conspiratorially, and Joel sees double for a moment, your image splitting off like a divided cell before you come back together. You and not you, like a glimpse of you from another life. Like the echo of a memory he lost along some deserted highway long ago.
Jesus, whatever had been in his glass was stronger than he thought, or, maybe you are that radiant, like heat shimmering off the earth in summer air. Maybe he just wants it to be true, has become that pathetically lonely. Something in his chest aches, an empty place he can't name.
“Did you see how much he poured for me? Tom’s always had a heavy hand. How many shots would you say that was?”
He studies your empty glass, still clasped between your hands. “At least five, I’d reckon. Between the two he poured ya.”
You laugh; the sound is like a siren call, beckoning him closer to a rocky shore. You’re still peering at him curiously, something feline in the tilt of your head, the weight of your gaze. It settles warmer than the whiskey, burns brighter going down his throat.
“Sorry,” you murmur, your breath ghosting over his lips with how close you lean, willing his features to match someone in your memory. He knows that’s what you’re doing because he’s attempting the same. He feels like he’s supposed to know you, that he does. He’s just forgotten. “I’m being rude,” you blink and shake your head, straightening in your seat again, breaking the spell just a little. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Didn’t catch yours neither.”
You offer your ring adorned hand, nails that could scratch out eyes, tiny tattoos on three of your fingers that extend onto your wrist. He takes your hand, palm engulfing yours. Your skin is smooth and warm against his rough hand. Your name is like the toll of a gently rung bell, placed delicately against his ear, calling him toward prayer, devotion, home.
“Joel,” he answers.
You hum, a caress in the back of your throat. “Are you sure we don’t know each other?”
“Think I’d remember you.”
You smile. “And why’s that?” Mirth glitters deep in your eyes. You aren’t as flippant, or as drunk, as you might seem.
He doesn’t answer, fiddling with his glass instead, the center of his palm like ice where your skin met his. “I think I’d remember you too,” you admit. “Just for the record. I feel like I do. Joel.”
His name slips off your tongue separate from the rest of your words, a statement unto itself, tucked in your cheek like a pearl for safekeeping.
“Joel,” you say again, testing the stretch of his name, hands fluttering like anxious birds, like you could cup the letters in your palms, bring them to your mouth, swallow them down. “I like that. It fits.”
The shimmering golden cord stretching like silk between you pulls taut, coiling around his throat until he feels like he might choke.
“Joel,” you say again, weighing the sound with a sigh, though he can’t begin to guess what measure you’re taking of it, him. He’s heard it before, he thinks, his name spoken so sweetly on your tongue. You tilt into his side, head tipping down toward his shoulder like it’s too heavy for you to keep holding up. “Seems I’m very popular. A sad girl is a good lay, after all.”
He clears his throat, shifts just a little on the stool. You laugh, and seem to take pleasure in his discomfort, examining him from beneath your lashes when you lift your head, metallic clung fingers cupped around your empty glass.
“So, where are you heading, Joel?”
“How do you know I’m not from here?”
“You could be.” You shrug, “But Tom is the only real permanent fixture around here.”
“Seems like you might be one too.”
You smile and fidget with the glass, running your nail from the base to the rim and back again, a soft tinkling sound following in its wake. He can’t help but think of your hand somewhere else, tracing those nails from root to tip. He shakes his head to dispel the thought.
It isn’t like him, none of this is.
“I am. . .permanently impermanent. Follow seasonal work, I guess. I can’t seem to settle down anywhere,” you say to the bar top, the warm, humid air. “But when I pass through here, I always stop.”
“West Texas,” he muses, “Not the kind of place people usually stop.” You hum softly in agreement. “Seems a mighty lonely place to get married, anyway. You got family here or somethin’?”
You shake your head. “I’m lonely either way,” you warble, like the beginning of a song. “We were supposed to get married in Vegas a couple months ago. But—” Your mouth snaps shut like a steel trap around whatever you had been about to say. Your shoulders heave with a sigh, the swell of your breasts straining at the low line of your dress. Your whole body moves with the weight of that sigh. “We were in this pretty little town couple hours west of here, and thought, why not here, y’know? After it all happened,” you spread your hands, bracelets clanging together faintly. “I just. . .got in my car and drove. Told myself it was over for good—” you snarl the word, venomous. “Ended up here.”
Your eyes shift to his again. “A place to sleep, drinks,” you slap your hand against the scarred bar, “and a gas station. What else do I need? And Tom always takes good care of me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well usually. He was distracted but that’s why you got thrown into my path today. Things always work out that way. They didn’t mean anything anyway.” You tilt your head at him. “So where are you heading next? Distract me.”
The air ripples, like something thick and viscous layering over his vision, blurring it, tunneling it. The road behind him is murky, all the same, one truck stop after another, miles and miles and miles of endless highway. It all blends together, and maybe that’s why he’s got no fucking clue where he picked up the last load. Or, where he’s supposed to be hauling it to.
He pushes the thoughts away. He’s tired, that’s all. The endless visions of roads without end play on every long haul trucker’s mind.
Of never getting home. Home, which is—
“East,” he answers vaguely.
Joel blinks and the hazy film disappears. East doesn’t really seem right either. Maybe he’s drunker than he feels.
Your head is tilted again, inquisitive in your watchfulness. A smile slips into place on your face. The radiance returns. It’s like looking into the goddamn sun. He blinks and the uncertainty recedes, water pulling back from a terrible, teeth-lined shore. “I was thinking west,” you muse. “After this. Maybe north.”
“Back the way you came?”
You nod, looking wistful, contemplative.
Joel glances away from your profile, the slow rise and fall of your lungs, the vast expanse of your skin. You shift forward on your seat, toes brushing the ground as you stand, fishing out a wad of cash from somewhere to smack down onto the bar top.
An odd anxiety squeezes at his chest. The feeling isn’t necessarily unfamiliar, but the cause is. It just isn’t like him to feel so intensely about a stranger. He tightens his hand around the glass so as not to reach out and grab your hand, beg you to keep him company a little while longer. He thinks you both could use it.
“Hey,” you say, pressing a hand to his forearm. “Could I read your fortune?”
He turns to meet your penetrating gaze. Your lashes cast shadows across your cheekbones, like feathers falling across your face. “My fortune.”
You produce a pack of cards, spirited from the same place the money came from, he thinks, until he follows your hands down and glimpses a triangle of green poking out from the side of your dress, stuck against the glimmering skin between your breasts.
Jesus.
There’s something about you, and he is only a man.
You fan the cards out on the bar and then flick them back together. They aren’t cards he’s familiar with. “Tarot,” you say. “If you sit at a table with me. And if you’re interested, of course.”
“Why?”
You tilt your head, eyes darkening when you meet his. “I’m curious.”
Joel stands and offers you his arm before he realizes what he’s doing. All he knows is that he doesn’t want to think about the road he doesn’t remember or where he’s headed next, and, that he would like to keep you company, that he doesn’t want the warm stretch of golden thread between you to snap.
He ushers you to a booth in the corner.
You seat yourself gracefully on the sunken, worn red leather seat. He takes the seat across from you. The glass green lamp above the table is tilted slightly toward you, ringing you in a fractured golden light, luminous, like a brightly colored bird.
Straight-backed and elegant in this dive bar in the middle of nowhere, you flick the cards in your hands quickly before glancing up at him again. “Joel,” you say, breaking his name in half, over enunciating. Like a snake oil salesman buying her own product. A little bit of a liar. “If you have a question or a problem in your life, hold it in your mind,” you say, still flicking the cards between your fingers, showing off a little.
Blank, empty, unspooling highways like knitted silk stitched into the earth. It seems like there’s never been anything before this bar, that there won’t be anything after it either.
“Do you have it?”
“Sure,” he answers, but there’s nothing there, nothing but blank spaces and empty roads to fill his mind.
Your foot touches his beneath the table, the side of your bare calf against denim. If you notice, you don’t show it. The warmth of you seeps into him. And maybe he should pull away, but it feels too good, like the aching stretch of sore muscle. He tucks his ankle behind yours.
He’s watching your face, would swear that your mouth twitches.
“Liar.”
“What?”
“You don’t have a question.”
“Suppose I don’t.”
You shuffle the cards restlessly, flicking and flipping with a practiced finesse. Hooded, watchful eyes flash at him from the backs of the thick card stock, your ringed hands winking in the low light.
The movement stops all at once, his gaze pulled to your face as you smack the deck down. “Joel,” you chastise gently, reaching up to unpin the little veil from your hair instead. The smooth arch of your arms above your head is hypnotic; the taut glowing flesh like a calling card. Your breasts lift with the movement, the ribbon quivers at your throat.
His cock twitches, and he shifts uneasily, glancing away. It’s unlike him, this desperation, connection, maybe connection born of desperation.
Joel has never been infatuated by anyone. He doesn’t know you and the feelings lurching to the forefront of his mind are always ones that have taken months to cultivate, fingers of desire dredged up by character.
He doesn’t much care for the feeling; like that of a lecherous man waiting for your guard to drop.
The veil flutters as you lie it on the table, stroking your nails against the delicate material, reminding him that you were meant to become someone’s wife today. Now nothing more than a marionette bride with her strings cut.
“Take your time. It’s not going to work otherwise.”
He sighs through his nose and leans back against the seat.
“It doesn’t have to be a question, exactly,” you explain. “Just focus your thoughts somewhere, on something.”
“All right.”
Your mouth quirks. “You got something this time?” You ask, taking up the cards again, shuffling them slowly now, without any showmanship.
He thinks of long winding roads, a horizon that never seems any closer, and you. The mystery phantom connection to you.
“Got it,” he answers softly.
Your leg presses more firmly into his. “This is just a basic spread,” you explain, still shuffling the cards. “Past, present, future.”
He nods and your fingers freeze around the cards, doling out three in a line.
You set your deck aside and examine them closely, inclining your head over them so a shadow obscures them. He wouldn’t know what the pictures on them mean anyway.
“You don’t have children do you?”
“No,” he answers.
Children.
“No,” he repeats, louder this time. “Don’t think I’d do any kid much good, anyway.”
You glance at him, that bird-like expression, hands fluttering like the guttering of a candle. “Why?”
A blank fills whatever his answer is supposed to be, dark, voided. “Ain’t ever home, am I?” He settles on.
“Hm,” you glance down at the cards again, touching the corners of them each in turn, adjusting them slightly so they’re perfectly straight, a neat little line. The cards, he notices when he peels his eyes away from your face, are beautiful. Hand painted, meticulously rendered, painstakingly detailed art. You pick up the deck and flip out three more, layering them over the first set of cards, covering his past, present, future with a new one.
You glance up at him and point to each card without looking. “You suffered a great loss recently that you aren’t sure how to move on from. You feel stuck and hopeless, like you’re living in a terrible feedback loop.” Your palm hovers over the future cards before you lower your hand and split them apart with pointer and middle fingers. “The future is murky. You have two paths ahead of you.”
He shakes his head, “Bunch of mumbo jumbo.”
Seemingly in spite of yourself, a laugh shakes your shoulders, presses in your mouth into a smile, your eyes into a squint. “The cards don’t lie, Joel,” you admonish. “They are being very clear.”
“Bullshit,” he chuckles. “Pretty convenient the future is the only one with two paths.”
You bite the inside of your cheek. “Well, nothing is set in stone. I could do another reading tomorrow and you might have something completely different. Your past might change too, depending on how you view it.”
Joel rolls his eyes. “Cards are pretty, anyhow.”
“Thank you,” you beam so brightly it blinds him. The earnestness in your voice is swollen and sweet, like you’ve never heard a compliment before. You half the deck and pluck up a card to pass to him, very carefully not disturbing the spread before you. “I painted them myself.”
“Shit, well, color me impressed.” The card is sturdy, tactile with mounds of thick paint beneath his fingers, intricately detailed. Two golden cups, dotted with green jewels, delicate, impossibly soft looking pink silk wrapped around them.
You hum. “Interesting.”
He glances up from the card to find you leaning across the table, slowly blinking down at his card. He’s shocked by your presence again. Your lips part gently and he glimpses your teeth, the pink press of your tongue. “What?”
Your eyes move to his, a shy, embarrassed look tracing over your features. “Just funny. I pulled the two of cups for you.”
“What’s it mean?”
“Thought you didn’t believe in my cards?”
“Humor me.”
You side step his question. “You know, I usually make people pay for the privilege of a reading.”
“This the seasonal work you mentioned?”
Your eyes shimmer. “Something like that.” You’re taking his teasing as it is, good natured, but he can see you believe in those cards, the way your attention cuts to them worriedly before fixing back on him again.
“What do I owe you, sweetheart?” He asks softly. “I pay for good work.”
You laugh. “You don’t even believe in this good work.”
“No,” he agrees. “Don’t mean you didn’t do somethin’ for me.”
You shift happily. “That’s good enough for me, actually, Joel.”
“So, what do I owe ya?”
“Another drink?”
He’s already standing, fishing for his wallet in his back pocket. You could have asked for a star from the sky and he would have found some way to catch one for you just then.
.
.
.
Time slips away like it was never there to begin with. The night feels impossibly long and frustratingly short at once. The bar is like it’s own little world, painfully intimate and warm, like a hazy memory re-watched on that grainy old box television flickering above the bar.
It doesn’t help that familiar feeling in his gut, like you’re an old flame he’s seeing again after so many years apart, intensifies as the night wears on.
He's got an early day, dusty, lonely miles that need covered, but because you keep drinking, Joel does too. He holds his liquor better than you do, but figures that’s all right, if only for this one night. If anyone deserves to get lost in a bottle, it’s you.
You read his fortune again and again and claim that it’s always the same.
Smoke loops above your head in lazy rings from someone’s cigarette, softening your features in the already low lighting. “I don’t know what to tell you, Joel,” you shake your head, staring down at the reshuffled cards, three in a line for the umpteenth time that evening. You sway a little in your seat, eyes glassy. “They just don’t lie.”
The two of cups card still lies by his elbow; he picks it up and holds out his hand for the deck you’re reshuffling.
You hand them over without question, cup your face in your hands and watch him shuffle your deck, flick through the miniature paintings one by one carefully. “I reimagined some of them,” you explain. “Not that you could know the difference,” you add teasingly.
A tower on fire, a moon surrounded by fish chasing their tails, the downy silence of a cloaked woman with a lantern on a snowy plain. On the reverse of each, that hooded, lined all-seeing eye.
“I reckon yours are better by any measure,” he answers. “Why don’t you let me read your fortune?”
When you don’t immediately answer, he glances up to find you peering at him, something wanting faintly distressed in your eyes. “That’s sweet of you to say,” you murmur, your bottom lip trembling very slightly again, twisting the loose ends of the emerald ribbon around your throat through your fingers.
Joel nods. “You all right?”
“I am. . .” you start, looking away, dropping the green strip of cloth. It flutters against your chest, the tail of it disappearing between your breasts.
You cross your arms over your stomach, like you could hold yourself together by force alone. “I can’t believe this is what it took for me to realize.” Anger clouds your face for a moment, brows knitted, teeth bared. “What he did to me. All the shit he put me through—” Like before, you stop yourself, lips pressing tightly together, swallowing back acid, censoring something.
He wonders where you’re keeping that anger, why you’re forcing it back down your throat when you have every right to let it loose. You don’t have the air of a scorned woman left at the altar so much as a relieved one.
You gather yourself and straighten primly. “My. . .well, my nothing now, I guess. He never liked my art. And he certainly never let me read his fortune.”
A bitter seed grows in your throat, choking your voice. Broken promises aside, it seems like he wasn’t that good to you. Joel isn’t aware he moved until his hand is closed around yours. “His damn loss.”
For a long minute, you assess each other, eyes held in other’s kind gaze, the folds of your hands bound together, gold thread wrapping around your wrists.
You cover the knot of your tangled hands with your free one.
It’s the alcohol running warm through his blood; it’s just the loneliness that plagues the life of a long haul trucker like a wraith. Lonelier than he realized, apparently. How long has he been on the road now? It feels like forever, always.
Eventually, you blink away, slide your palms from beneath his.
Joel pulls back too, shuffles the cards a final time and then lies three of them in a row, just as you had for him. The last card gives him pause, feels like an omen.
“Six of cups,” you murmur, looking at the cards, pointing to each one as you say its name, “wheel of fortune, death.”
“Jesus.”
“It doesn’t mean death literally,” you explain. “It’s more metaphorical.”
Something loosens in his chest. “All right, well, what’s it mean?”
Your gaze is a complicated tangle of emotion as you run your nail over the cards, skewing them from their places. “It means I break the cycle or I’m an idiot.”
Before he has a chance to ask you what cycle you should be breaking, you’re peeling yourself up from your seat. “Now I owe you a drink, Joel. Beer again?”
He nods. “That’s fine, sweetheart.”
You teeter in your heels a little, laughing as you trip away. The long slashes up the sides of your dress part, revealing a long, sleek line of leg that he’d like to touch, rub his knuckles against, to run his tongue along—
He shakes himself, watches the sway of your body instead, the slope of your waist and hips, graceful and graceless at once.
He watches you at the bar, laughing and talking with a couple that drifted in a couple hours ago, with Tom, the long length of your spine a knotted, elegant ridge.
You return to the table with a beer in one hand and a glass of something orange in the other that you had clearly cajoled the bartender into making for you, at odds with the swill of whiskey and beer usually on order.
“Last call,” you inform him as you half trip into the booth next to him, instead of across the table, settle right against his arm along the back of the booth, like you’ve always been there. “Good thing, probably. I’m really drunk.”
He laughs, then wonders how bad off he’ll be when he stands up again. “How long we got?”
“Hour.”
You turn to him, crossing your legs beneath the table, that pretty sheaf of fabric falls between your legs, shows miles of skin. “You got a way home?”
“Do you?”
“I’ll sleep in the truck.”
“I’m in a motel down the road.”
“How you plan on gettin’ there?”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not like it’s your problem, you know.”
“Call it my problem.”
Something like amusement dances in your eyes, makes you glance away from him. “You know,” you say, “I think you’re more concerned about me than husband-to-be ever was.”
“Then he probably wasn’t worth marryin’ in the first place.”
“No,” you agree softly, eyes flickering over his face, “Probably not. I’m gonna walk it.”
“Walk?”
You nod and suddenly gulp down that violent orange color in your glass before standing, leaning over the table to clumsily collect your tarot cards and the veil you’d abandoned early in the night. The cards are wrapped lovingly within the lace. “Yep, so I better get going.”
“I'm gonna walk you."
“What?”
“You’re gonna get murdered walkin’ along a highway at night like that.”
“Like what?”
Like a woman alone in the middle of nowhere in a wedding dress. Like a homing signal for unwanted attention and trouble. You seem to know that, though. Like you were hoping to take a gamble. “Like a missing bride,” he grumbles instead.
“Then people will probably just think I’m some lady in white haunting every trucker’s dreams.”
“You’re startin’ to haunt mine,” he complains.
You giggle.
Joel stands with some effort, the room tilting around him as he straightens. You catch your arms around him, only kind of helping keep him upright considering the weight of you tipped pleasantly back against his side. “Doesn’t look like you’d be much help anyway.”
“Jesus,” he mutters. He hasn’t drank like this since he was in high school, since before—
What? A blank, empty, space in his memory.
“What the hell did I drink?”
“About a whole bottle of whiskey, I think. And some beer. You hold it well, considering.”
Your hands are still on him, palms against his back and chest, warm, startlingly familiar. A feeling he never wants to loose, he knows suddenly and with clarity. The night is drawing to a close, like a door tipping shut in his face. If you slip away, he'll never see you again. "C'mon, let's get a move on."
“Are you insisting?”
“I am.”
“Then we better hold onto each other.”
.
.
.
A full moon hangs low in a dusky purple sky, palest white, cream around the edges, like a poor imitation of your wedding dress. The June air is warm and dry, faint and careful, like a held breath. The world looks vast in the blue of the night, all wheeling stars and flattened miles, Indian grass and coneflowers gathered in little coronas on the shoulder of the road.
You walk barefoot beside him, cradling your shoes and tarot cards. He’s worried about your feet but this must be the cleanest stretch of two lane highway in the country because there’s nothing in your path to mind. Not glass, not cigarette butts, not strewn trash, like something knew your feet would be coming this way and swept it away just for you.
The motel is a desolate little thing that appears out of the night. He’s passed it before, the blinking neon pink vacancy sign a marker of a halfway point to somewhere. Down the Rabbit Hold Motel. Never noticed it was the same name as the bar.
“Are you from Texas, Joel?” You ask, balancing on the white line that demarcates the edge of the road.
“Yeah, not Lubbock, though.”
“Where?”
“Arlington. Austin.”
“Both?”
“One then the other,” he answers.
“You sound like Texas.”
“And that’s how I know you ain’t from here.”
It earns him a laugh but not an answer; just the loop and lean of your shoulder into his.
Things look further away than they are, when the world goes this flat, but all at once you’re in the parking lot of the motel, painted in alternating pink and flashing purple. “I guess,” you start, coming to a halt at a set of stairs, a soft breeze swirling around you. The smell of chlorine hangs heavily in the air, the undulating blue-green of a swimming pool down the tunnel created by walkways between buildings. “I don’t really like to be from anywhere.”
“Why?”
“Gives you too much to lose, I guess.” You shrug, eyes and thoughts far away, drifting. “But it doesn’t give other people much to hang onto either.”
“Yeah.”
“I should let you go. Sure you’ve got a long drive in the morning.” You glance over your shoulder, taking one step up the staircase behind you. Joel has to tilt his head up, to keep his gaze on yours. “I promise not to become a wandering ghost bride, okay? Thanks for humoring me and taking care of me. I think. . .I got really lucky tonight. With you.”
“Sure.”
The reality that he will likely never see you again pinches inward, nudges some other loss forward in his chest that he can’t name, can’t match a memory to. You both keep standing there, breathing in that hot air, waiting for the other to break that fragile bone, let the unkept marrow spill into the dirt.
“You could sleep it off,” you offer. “Here. Don’t want you becoming a ghost either.”
He should not want to stay; he should not care about you at all.
He’s reaching for you before you’ve even extended your hand.
.
.
.
The door snaps closed behind you, leaving you stranded in complete darkness.
There is only the warmth of your body close to his, the feeling of your breath against his mouth. The sage and lavender scent of you wraps around you both, undercut with the smoky smell of the bar, the faint salty sweat of your skin.
For a moment, neither of you move or speak. The two of you cocooned together in dark that makes up the whole world. “Are you sure we don’t know each other?” You ask, chest rising and falling against his in the narrow, short entryway of the room. Your voice is a whisper, breathy and catching, like it’s a secret you aren’t supposed to tell.
“Been wonderin’ that all night.”
“At least I’m not alone then.”
Your shoes clatter out of your hands; he isn’t sure what became of those cards that spelled truths.
You wobble into him in the dark with a soft grunt and laugh. Joel catches you and reaches under your arm to grope at the wall for a light switch. His fingers brush your ribs, the delicate satin and lace stitched there, and feels the shaky inhale of your lungs against his fingertips, the wanting arch of you.
He’s almost disappointed when he finds the switch. You squint at him through the harsh overhead light, ringing you in floating dust motes and tempered butter yellow light. The length of your body is still pressed against his, supple as a branch of willow. Your lashes are long against your cheekbones, casting shadows across your skin, your parted lips.
It’s the alcohol, he thinks, desperately, for how far outside himself he feels, unearned attachment to a woman he only met a couple of hours ago, like a sticky, sweet web being knitted between his ribs. Growing a cocoon to keep you close, safe.
A trembling breath passes your lips before you step back, shaking your head, and move further into the room, disappearing in its dimness. “Sorry.”
Joel feels bereft, empty and alone, though you’re right there. He clears his throat and nods. “Yeah.”
He toes off his boots, kicks them next to your abandoned heels tipped on their sides, the needle thin points scuffed.
The room flashes pink from the vacancy sign outside, a pulse of heady light that makes his head ache. Joel yanks the curtains closed, plunges the room into soft gray, the green glow of an alarm clock on the bedside table.
“Thanks,” you say from the bathroom, voice echoing strangely within. “Sorry for. . . would you mind helping me with this?"
The bathroom door is open, more gray light leaking from within, trembling on the air.
Your back is turned, eyes meeting his in the mirror that occupies the entire wall above the counter, one arm bent behind your back, fruitlessly scrabbling at the buttons practically stitched to your skin.
He brushes your hand away and works the little cream buttons out of their loops. It feels forbidden, unearned. You were supposed to become someone else's wife today.
“How the hell did you get this on?”
“One of the housekeepers took pity on me. At the other place I was staying.”
When he glances up from the buttons that descend worryingly low on your spine, you're watching him, eyes shadowed and far away.
He pushes the last button through its eyelet and steps back, tempted to push his hands inside the fabric, feel your breath, still pulsating nervously in your lungs, the tension laced through the static air like a knife against a tightrope.
To his surprise, you don't wait for him to leave.
You let the dress fall from your frame, wriggling a little to get it past the curve of your ass before it pools at your feet in a heap of silk. He follows the long line of your legs to your hips and ribs, the lacy, white underwear that sit high on your hips, a garter looped around the top of one thigh, the vast expanse of your back, a ribboning of another tattoo on your ribs.
"Pathetic, right?" You say.
That is probably the last word in the world he'd use to describe what he's looking at, shamelessly, another man's almost-wife. His bride at the very least.
He glances into the mirror, watches your hands slide over the curves of your body, shocked by his own appearance in the glass. He looks unkept, especially next to you, graying hair curling wildly behind his ears, beard in desperate need of a trim, the bags beneath his eyes so purple and thick they seem to carry their own shadow. Rumpled flannel, dark jeans. You aren't the one he'd call pathetic.
He looks wolfish beside you in the mirror, so pretty and prim and swathed in so much lace. He wants to bend you over the counter, push into you slowly, peel away these final layers of fabric and chase away any notion of a dark thought from your mind. Blot out the memory of any other man, any other person, you'd ever been with. He wants to hear your shuttering breaths repeat his name, on a loop, desperate and untamed.
The wold feels small again, like if he walked away right now, he'd find nothing but an endless black void outside this motel room.
"It's not like I'm a virgin or anything," you say with a scoff. "But it would have been our first time seeing each other married, y'know?" Your hands travel over your waist, dotted, Joel finally notices, pulled from the haze of his own lust, bruises. Along the passageways of your ribs, the swell of your hips, the upper, outer skin of your thighs.
He inhales sharply, but you don't seem to notice.
"Pathetic," you murmur again, voice only a little slurred now, thicker with emotion than alcohol. Sobriety is slowly encroaching on you both. "To try so hard with a man that didn't care at all."
"It ain't you that's pathetic, darlin', trust me on that." He tries to smooth out the hard edge in his voice, water over a stone, like a caress poached in steel.
Joel isn't sure if he should mention it, like broaching the subject might make it real for you.
You're nodding at yourself in the mirror, fidgeting with the emerald ribbon around your throat, the long, velvet threads pasted against your clavicle, the sloping inward curve of your breasts. Your gaze slips from your body to his eyes; you finally see what he does, hands flattening against your skin like you could hide it.
"Darlin'—"
"You think I'm stupid."
"No."
"To let him do it."
"You didn't let him do anything."
"I did, though," you answer, desperate, shaking your head. "I did."
Joel frowns, opens his mouth to ask what you mean, when you trip out of your dress, a sad heap of wishes on the tile floor. He catches you in his arms, supple and warm. "It's my fault, when he. . ." you trail off. "It's my fault."
He rubs your back. "It ain't. You're all right."
Joel expects you to pull away but when you tilt your face up to his, you let out that same shaky breath. "God," you murmur, lifting a hand to his face. Your fingers are like ice. "Why does it feel like this? Why do you feel so familiar?"
"Hell if I know."
Your chest hitches. "I feel like I'm cheating," you admit. "I was supposed to become a wife today."
To an abuser, he thinks. To someone that would lay hands on your precious skin. That hurt you in so many other ways, if what you hinted at was just the beginning of it.
Even if you were cheating, Joel thinks, he wouldn't give a damn. He fits his hands against your ribs, the bruised peach flesh, feels you tense and then relax. "No," he coos. "You ain't doin' anything wrong." Self-serving, but true, he walks backward with you in his arms.
He shouldn't have sex with you, not the way you are right now, but that door is closing, the night is ending, the rabbit hole he jumped into did have a bottom and your both plummeting toward it, back to driving endless seas of blacktop. Of gas stations and truck stops and bars and motels, of bridges and highways and diners and ferries and toll plazas, of route after route of lonely road, truck after truck delivered to empty grocery stores, dying malls, the end of the Earth itself. Nothing beyond cheap cups of coffee, nights spent alone without somewhere to eventually crawl back to at the end of it all.
There's nothing else, just him and the road.
He's never going to see you again; can see the same thought reflected in your eyes, the terrible, ferocious want.
Joel turns and backs you toward the bed, until the backs of your knees hit the mattress. You push a hand against his chest and sit delicately, fingers drifting down as you do, until they hook in his belt.
"Show you mine if you show me yours?" You tease, hands shaking a little.
Despite it all, Joel chuckles. "Sounds like a fair deal."
You release his belt and lean back on your palms to watch him.
He remembers the monstrous thing in the mirror, the state of him, but if you notice, or mind, you don't show it. When he pulls off the flannel and then t-shirt, he only smells his soap and deodorant, the salt scent of skin and day old cologne. Your eyes follow every movement, something reaching deep in your irises, like you want to jump him, break open something precious with your teeth and drink it down.
Your attention feels raw, tender, wanton and slick. The buckle clinks as he pulls his belt through the loops of his jeans.
He's half hard when he untucks himself, strokes his length, eyes on your face.
"What?" He says. "Your boyfriend have a small dick?"
"You have a big cock." Your tongue pushes pink against your bottom lip, eyes not leaving him.
"Uh-huh."
You glance up then, pressing your hands to his thighs, trailing them up to his belly and back. "Oh, c'mon, Joel," you laugh, "you have to know."
He clears his throat, face warm like he's some horny teenager.
Whatever he's going to say is lost forever in the folds of that moment, because you lean forward and lick the head slowly, like you're taste testing a sweet. He jerks at the feeling of your tongue, belly lurching with it. "Christ."
You look up at him, before leaning in to spit on him, on the palm of your hand. The tight ring of your fist squelches around him. "Someone has definitely told you that you have a huge cock."
If they have, he can't remember it at that precise moment, distracted as it were. You cup his balls in your other hand, massaging and then squeezing just tight enough to make him grunt. You lean forward and kiss his stomach, along the line of his waist.
He covers your hand, forces your pace to slow, then stop. You cup both hands around him and let him thrust into your still palms. You watch, looking dazed, lips parted. "Fuck," you whisper. "Oh, fuck."
And Joel hasn't even touched you yet.
He pulls away, pushes you gently back on the bed, fumbling with the fastening of your bra behind your back until it unsnaps. "Doin' good, honey. So good."
You preen, bloom like a flower seeing the sun. "I want you to fuck me."
"'Course you do," he agrees, nodding as he runs his hands over your ribs, those dark clouds on your skin. "I'll give it to you, baby."
When he tugs your bra up your arms and tosses it to the side, his cock twitches against your thigh. Beautiful seems a meek, watery kind of word for what you are. Ethereal, otherworldly. You have silver bars pierced through your nipples. "Look at you," he coos, lowers his head to suck on pebbled nipple into his mouth. You taste like salt and iron, as tangy as blood, the scent of sage and lavender drifting up from your throat, the space between your breasts.
You moan, a loud, rapturous sound that goes right to his dick. He thrusts against your covered pussy, the lace dragging against the sensitive head. You bury your hands in his hair, tugging, pushing your chest up into his mouth like you'd like to be swallowed whole. Joel rolls your other nipple between his fingers before turning his mouth there, sliding his tongue down your stomach to your navel.
A gasp like your first breath of air when he licks over your drenched underwear, the inside of your thigh.
"Hold on," you mumble. "Wait."
He pulls back, watches the twist of your muscle as you reach for something on the bedside table. "Let me."
Joel sits back on his knees, let's you roll on the condom with a touch so tender he isn't sure he's ever been touched at all.
You lay back and Joel tugs your underwear off, soaked so bad they're nearly translucent. "Ain't she pretty," he says of your glistening pussy, dripping onto the bed. "Anybody ever tell you how pretty?"
"No."
"C'mon," he mocks softly. "Somebody musta told you before how pretty she is."
"Oh ha ha," you gasp and spread your cunt open with two fingers. Your hole convulses, pulses, and he finds some measure of pride at making you so desperate and hungry, needy and empty. "Please fuck me, Joel. I promise I'll never tell you again how you have a huge fucking cock."
He chuckles but any levity is drained from between you when he notches himself at your entrance. You are unbearably tight and hot, instinct begging him to split you in two, bury himself so deeply inside you, that you can't be pulled apart.
Instead, he works himself inside slowly, in increments, watching your face for discomfort, bottoming out quick when naked bliss parts your face. He's not going to last inside the wet, dark, heat of your body, your pulsing cunt.
He pulls back and slams into you, watching you tits bounce with each desperate thrust of his hips flush against yours, knees anchored on his hips.
Your head lolls back, a moan choked tight in your throat. The green ribbon is askew now, trailing midway down your belly.
When he pulls on one end and the tie goes slack, he almost expects your throat to split open, your head to tilt horribly, like a folktale he once new. He groans at the sight of your bare neck, pulls away to lift one of your legs, ankle pressed to his shoulder so he can sink that much deeper, fingers rubbing messily against your swollen little clit.
"Come for me, sweetheart, let me feel it."
Your throat strains and Joel grunts, feeling the curl of his own pleasure tracing along his spine, teasing and pressing.
Your cunt contracts like a vise, a violent shutter wrenching your body up from the bed in an arch, a cry bursting from your mouth like a trapped moth.
He comes hard inside you, vision going black with the hot fingers of pleasure spreading outwards through his body, thrusting inside you until you loosen and go slack. "You okay?" He asks, breathing hard as he lowers your leg from his shoulder.
"Yes," you breathe.
"Gonna pull out now."
"M'kay." Sleepy, warm voice, tucked against his collarbone.
He laughs a little and slides out of you, the feeling akin to walking into a blizzard after being sheathed in the heat of your body. "Good girl." He pats your thigh and stands on legs like a newborn deer, peeling the condom off to trash, rummaging in the bathroom until he finds a washcloth to wet and bring to you.
.
.
.
Joel grunts when you cup him in your hand beneath the sheet, squeezing his balls, lazily rubbing your hand along his softening length. Curiously, carefully. It's so intimately familiar, like you're a couple and not new lovers. He doesn't mind it.
Your skin is tacky against his where you press into his side, and he likes the tacky, kind of painful pull of it. You pull your hand away and watch him in the dark, the gray muteness of the room beginning to lighten. "Can I tell you a secret?" You whisper when he turns on his side to face you.
"You tell me anything you want."
You swallow, the sound of it loud and anxious in the still room. "He didn't leave me at the altar."
He cups your cheek in his hand. "I figured."
"I couldn't go through with it. He's been better since Vegas but last night he got, he, um. . .anyway, I got ready and drove to meet him at the courthouse and just kept driving and driving." You smile at him softly, self-hating, but your eyes are hard, daring him to judge you, though the veneer is thin, cracked.
You bottom lip trembles then, your face squeezing closed, eyes shut. "The very worst part of it? How I know he's right about me?” You ask with a bitter laugh, blindly pressing your thumb hard against one of the bruises. “I know I’ll go back to him. He’ll call in a couple weeks, and I’ll believe him when he says he’ll never do it again. That he’s so sorry.” You open your eyes, the full force of your gaze suddenly locking onto his. “What does that say about me? Not the fact that I’ll go back, but that I know I will? That I know I’ll believe him?”
Joel doesn't have an answer for a long time, just holds you, strokes your cheek.
“Maybe,” he says eventually, still stroking your cheek, “try to think of right now. When he calls. You know better right now that he ain't gonna change."
"That's good advice."
"You gonna listen to it?"
"I really hope so, Joel."
He says your name softly, as tenderly as you said his, and leans in to kiss you.
Your mouth opens against his, tongue carefully slipping into his mouth to slide against his. You taste like that bitter orange drink, sweet at first with a bite beneath.
He's pretty sure you fall asleep this way, kissing until your mouths are swollen, aching with it like so much sour candy.
But when he wakes, you're gone. The duffel bag and pointed heels and pressed pooled like wishes. His flannel is gone too, but he's glad you took it, imagines you wrapped in his scent driving with all the windows down.
The bottom of the rabbit hole is bitter and the walk back to his truck, the truck stop near the bar, behind fucking schedule now, seems much, much longer than it appeared last night, with stars wheeling above, you balancing on the white beam at the edge of the road.
He goes through the routine of getting the rig ready like a man in a dream, everything seems hazy and far off and unreal. With you, he was alive, now, he's slipping back into some complacent, ever ending, numb nightmare.
Joel tries not to dwell on it, but when he climbs up into the cab, finally ready to set off, lukewarm travel cup of coffee in hand, he finds your veil hanging down from the sun visor. When he pulls it down to press against his nose, though the truck is brimming with your scent, something falls with it.
One of the tarot cards.
He doesn't wonder if he'll see you again, just when.
And what this card, a beautiful woman looking up at a sky full of stars, could mean to you.
"When I was princess, men worshipped me." Your drag your nails across his scalp. His mouth works against you patiently, dutifully.
"They'd do anything to be in my presence, to see my body, to touch me, to taste me," you sigh. "I could get two to lick me at once and they'd thank me for the experience."
The knight licks harder, brow knitted in concentration.
"I could never touch their cocks at all and they'd still kiss my feet in gratitude. Making me cum? Touching my tits? That was a reward in itself." Your rant continues. "When I was gracious enough to let them cum? To touch them? Jewels. Treasures. Adoration."
The knight's hand presses at your opening, two fingers sliding in and crooking-
"I saved my virginity for your king." You stroke the man's hair again. "And his three fucking inches. Flops on top of me every night and still no heir. It's no wonder: the little thing struggles to even get inside me and stay at attention. All I wanted out of a husband was a nice cock. I should have let my tutor marry me. He was thick and eager--"
The knight sucks hard and your body goes rigid. A quiver comes over you as you realize you're to cum.
"Yes, pet, like that-" you gasp. "Are you jealous?"
"Yes." He growls it into your dripping cunt, never fully breaking away. "Do not think of other men while I'm pleasing you."
"I only think of their cocks."
"You say that as if I do not have my own to offer,"
werewolf cowboy... he has you tie him up every full moon (so he doesnt end up pursuing you or another woman through the town)
"I'm a big man, sugar," he comments softly. its almost impossible to tell when he's starting to lose himself to the change, but you see it now, in that golden twinge in his eyes.
"I see that," you say. He's all tied up, no strain in the lines.
"Nah," he grins with too sharp teeth, his eyes glancing down at his own lap. "I'm a big man."
Your face burns at the implication.
"Got nine inches for you all month and you won't even take one-" he sighs, hips rolling into the air. "come sit on it before it gets too big for you to handle."
"I can't-"
"You can, sug', you can. It's real simple and I'll be real nice-"
"I'm not on birth control."
"I fucking know, darling, baby, sugar-" the ropes are tight as he tries to strain forward, "You're in fucking heat."
pairing: steve harrington x reader
summary: it’s the age-old fall from grace: high school royalty faceplants into reality, and the burger king crown starts hanging heavy. (sailor hat, in his case.) heir to the hawkins high hierarchy, ruler of keggers and hallways alike, steve harrington used to be untouchable. now? he's shaking under your hands, bleeding from battles no trophy could ever commemorate. you've stitched together plenty of broken people before—but never one that left a scar in you, too.
warnings: 18+ mdni, piv sex, oral (m!receiving), touch/praise-starved!steve, hurt/comfort, blood, injury, mutual friends/enemies-ish to lovers, hair washing, massaging, praise kink, body worship, sexual tension, forced proximity of sorts, reader isn’t fond of steve at first, mostly S4 canon but fix-it, angst, domestic fluff, found family, happy ending
a/n: another steve harrington character study dressed as a fic, what the hell else is new? | playlist ♬.ᐟ
They don’t take him to the hospital. They bring him to you.
Which is, objectively, stupid.
But apparently, hospitals ask questions. And you—part-time party medic, occasional dispenser of prescription-only painkillers (for legitimate anxiety and migraines, thank you very much)—you don’t.
You’re halfway through a rerun of M.A.S.H., sucking the soul out of a cherry popsicle. You’re braless. The house is quiet. Peaceful, if a little tragic. Exactly the way Fridays are meant to be.
Until the knocking starts.
Correction: pounding.
Panicked, frenzied, FBI-doesn’t-need-a-warrant kind of pounding.
You groan and peel yourself off the couch, popsicle stick still dangling from your lips. You are not emotionally equipped to accept salvation or Thin Mints right now.
But when you open the door, it’s not a solicitor.
It’s Robin.
Robin Buckley, looking like she just got shot out of a chimney. Her cheek’s streaked with soot and something red that is very much not Kool-Aid.
You blink. Yank the popsicle out of your mouth with a wet plop.
“Don’t freak out,” she blurts, before you even ask.
Which is Robin Buckley-speak for: Start freaking out immediately. Shit is on fire, metaphorically or otherwise.
The last time she said that, you ended up faking an asthma attack so you could ditch pep band and hit up Denny’s for the $1.99 Grand Slam. The time before that, you drove through three counties to rescue her cousin’s “emotional support ferret” from a petting zoo in Muncie.
This time? She’s brought a car with her.
A sleek maroon BMW, purring at the curb, passenger door flung wide open.
Inside: Limbs. Denim. Blood.
A boy.
Slumped sideways in the front seat, head tilted back at an angle that screams whiplash or maybe already dead.
You squint.
“Who the fuck is that?”
…
Steve Harrington.
Steve Harrington is bleeding out in your driveway.
You don’t know him. Not really.
Knew of him, sure. Back in high school, he was all Farrah Fawcett volume and varsity swagger. Heir to the Hawkins High hierarchy, ruling keggers and hallways alike. He had rich parents and a bimmer he didn’t pay for. Threw parties like they were some kind of divine rite.
But then? Senior year hit him like a metaphorical truck. Or maybe a literal one. Hard to say.
Because somewhere between the scorched-earth gossip of graduation and the literal scorched-earth of the mall burning down, Steve Harrington dropped off the map.
Poof. King Steve: dethroned.
Burned out, like the very mall he used to work in.
You missed that whole implosion. Spent that summer in Chicago drowning in vending machine coffee and disaster drills, chasing your EMT cert while trying not to puke during ride-alongs.
You came home to find that Hawkins had gained a mall, lost a mall, and started blaming everything weird on “gas leaks” again.
And Robin Buckley had Steve.
Her little sidekick from the ice cream wars. Who, allegedly, once confronted a creeper in the food court for harassing her. Ruined his pretty face doing it, too. Walked around with a purple shiner for weeks after that summer ended.
He now stocks tapes with her at Family Video, where helping customers ranks somewhere between abusing the label maker and arguing over who gets to abuse the label maker.
You ran into him once, alone, in the cereal aisle of Melvald’s.
Dark rings under his eyes. Hair still doing that gravity-defying thing.
He smiled. You didn’t smile back.
You didn’t care.
It’s the age-old fall from grace: high school royalty faceplants into reality, and the Burger King crown starts hanging heavy. (Well, sailor hat, in his case.)
But now, he’s here.
Dying on your lawn.
Ruining your Friday.
…
Up close, he looks worse.
Biblically bad.
Like, plague-of-locusts, hail-from-the-heavens, Lamb-of-God-who? kind of bad.
His jeans are shredded, shirt gone entirely. Bright red ligature marks around his throat like someone tried to strangle him with a piano wire. There’s ash in his hair, and something black smeared across his jaw that you’re really, really hoping is just dirt.
His eyes flutter.
Then, absurdly, he smiles.
“H-hey. Heard you know first aid?”
You stare at him for a beat. Then toss your popsicle stick into the grass.
“Yeah. Try not to bleed out on my porch, Harrington.”
He snorts. Gives you a weak thumbs-up.
Then promptly goes limp.
…
“It’s called compensated shock,” you grunt, dragging six-feet-too-much of unconscious prom royalty into your living room. “He looked okay ‘cause his body was pumping him full of adrenaline. Now it’s wearing off.”
Robin’s on the other end, doing her best to help, which mostly means not helping.
“Oh my god, yeah,” she babbles, smacking his sneakers into the doorframe. “—shit. He got all woozy at Skull Rock earlier.”
You pause mid-haul. “Skull Rock? Like, the makeout spot?”
Robin makes a face. “Yeah, but not for us, gross. That’d be like making out with my brother. Anyway, Steve invented Skull Rock! Took Heather C. there in tenth grade. Remember her? The girl with, like, thirty scrunchies and that creepy obsession with Mr. Connor’s—”
“Robin.”
“Right! Sorry! Panic talking!”
Steve groans from where you’ve deposited him on the couch, more pained by Robin’s volume than the probable internal bleeding.
You ignore him. “Why were you actually at Skull Rock?”
“Uhh walking? You know... trees. Friendship.”
You level her with a look.
She claps her hands. “Anyway! You can fix him, right? You’re, like, certified!”
You glance down at Steve.
His lips are blue at the corners, breath hitching in those tight, silent gulps that mean pain and refusal to show it.
“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Maybe.”
…
You do fix him.
Because you’re a sucker. Because you trained for this. Because your hands know what to do even when your brain is screaming.
And maybe, just maybe, because Steve Harrington keeps making these soft, miserable, apologetic noises every time he flinches.
Like he’s sorry.
Sorry for bleeding. For being in pain. For existing.
You hate that.
You also kind of hate how he looks like this—hot, in that tragic, beaten, dog-left-out-in-the-rain kind of way that hits your brain like a chemical imbalance.
You strip off his vest first (Dio patch on the back, which, huh, maybe he has changed) and find a makeshift bandage beneath it, half-dried and crusted with old blood. You peel it off. It comes away with a wet schlorp like opening a bottle of dollar store wine.
And something inside you goes still.
These are... bite marks.
Not scrapes. Not scratches.
Bites.
His flesh looks shredded, like a rottweiler got bored of chew toys and decided to sample teenage boy instead.
Except: you’ve treated dog bites. This is not a dog bite.
“Jesus christ,” you whisper.
You look up at the boy collapsed on your couch: sweaty, shirtless, and—oh, now he’s got a belt in his mouth.
Robin jams it there. “For the pain,” she says, helpful as ever.
Steve groans around the leather, eyes fluttering. Looks like he wants to die.
You’re still staring at the worst bite, wondering if it’s actually moving, when you ask, voice low:
“Someone want to tell me what the fuck did this?”
Robin freezes. Eyes the belt like she’d rather choke on it herself than answer.
“Uh… bats?” She offers weakly.
You blink. “Bats.”
“Like. Big ones? Really big?”
You stare at her. Then at Steve.
You don’t believe her.
But also… you kind of do.
Because whatever this thing was, it didn’t just attack.
It fed.
…
“Okay, but like—” Robin’s pacing like she’s trying to wear a hole in your rug. “He was fine earlier. Like, maybe not fine fine, but, you know, Steve-fine. And then we got out of the Up—uh—the woods, and I was driving him back and he just…”
She makes a dramatic fainting motion. Nearly brains herself on the coffee table.
“So, it could be rabies? Or tetanus? Or maybe one of those parasite things that lay eggs in your stomach? Or—”
“Robin?” you cut in, sharp as the pair of shears in your hand. “There’s towels and vodka in the kitchen. Go.”
“Right. On it.”
She skitters away like a gremlin set on fire, the thud of cabinet doors punctuating her panic.
You turn back to Steve.
His pulse is thin, fluttering weakly under your fingertips, but it’s there.
“Harrington. You with me?”
His hand twitches once, thumb up.
…
He doesn’t scream.
You wish he would.
Because you know this hurts. You know that when you pour antiseptic into wounds this deep, it’s supposed to rip sound out of a person. A yell. A curse. A sob. Something.
But Steve just… takes it.
His jaw’s locked tight enough to bend steel—no belt, miracle he doesn’t shatter a molar—and his throat works once, twice, swallowing back whatever wants out. His whole body trembles, shoulders twitching, knuckles bone-white, yet his voice stays sealed inside him like it’s chained there.
You kind of hate him for it.
Because you know this type.
Boys who bleed quiet. The beautiful, tragic kind who carry pain like it’s a penance.
You’ve seen them before, at crash sites, in the backs of ambulances.
It’s not bravery. It’s habit.
A mask.
And Steve Harrington? He’s been wearing his so long, it’s practically fused to the bone.
Still, Robin squeezes his hand like she’s coaching him through labor. Eyes locked on the ceiling, because she’s still pretending she’s never seen boobs or blood or the inside of a human person.
You press gauze to the worst of the bites, just under his ribs, angry and wet and oozing something thick. You have to lean your weight into it.
Steve jolts—full-body, every muscle locking under your palms. His hand lashes out, fast and blind, gripping the leg of your jeans until his knuckles go pale.
Then, just as quickly, he lets go. Eyes squeezed shut. Shame radiating off him like heat.
“Shit. S-sorry.”
You don’t answer.
You can’t.
…
It takes two hours.
Three full rolls of gauze. One regrettable vodka break, just to keep your hands from shaking.
It's not pretty. Not even close. But it's enough to keep him breathing, which, all things considered, feels like a decent win for a Friday night.
Now, he’s bandaged. Shirtless under your ex’s old hoodie, the one with the weird bleach stain and the hole in the sleeve, but Steve fills it out like it was made for him.
Of course he does.
In the kitchen, Robin’s hunched over your tiny sink, scrubbing dried blood and whatever else is staining her forearms that awful color.
As soon as she’s done, you grab her by the sleeve and tug her into the hallway.
“Talk.”
Robin sighs, long and loud. Tries to stall by running a hand through her hair, only to grimace when it sticks up with dried sweat.
“…Demobats.” She mutters.
“I’m sorry?”
“Demobats,” she repeats, like that’s a word people just know. “From this place called the… Upside Down.”
You wait. There’s no punchline.
“…You’re serious.”
She nods.
And then it all spills out.
Demobats. Some guy named Vecna. Russians. Underground government labs. Scoops Ahoy, for christ’s sake.
You lose the thread somewhere around “telepathic hive mind overlord.”
But you don’t interrupt. Because Robin may be a lot of things—loud, chaotic, deathly allergic to social cues—but she’s not a liar.
And there’s a half-dead boy on your couch with holes the size of teacups to prove it.
“So,” you say slowly, “that job at the mall…”
“Yeah. Secret Russian lab.”
“And you were tortured?”
“I mean, mostly Steve?” She winces. “But, uh. Yeah.”
“Jesus christ, Robin.”
“I know,” she groans, dragging both hands down her face. “I know it sounds crazy. I didn’t want to drag you into this, okay? But I thought—he looked bad. Worse than before. And I couldn’t exactly walk into the ER and say ‘Hi, my best friend got eaten by mutant bats from another dimension, please ignore the blood trail.’”
She huffs, blowing hair from her eyes, and squints at you. “You don’t believe me.”
You snort. “No. I do. And I think you should’ve called me sooner.”
“Well, I thought he was fine. He was fine. Until we got in the car and he started slurring his words and, like… blinking wrong. Then I panicked.”
You glance back toward the living room. At the boy who didn’t scream. Curled on your couch, twitching in his sleep like he’s stuck in a loop he can’t wake from.
Robin follows your gaze, voice softening. “Look, I know he’s not exactly your favorite person, but… thank you. Really.”
You roll your eyes. “He was bleeding out, Robs.”
She gives you a look. The kind that says she knows you better than you want her to.
You scowl.
“Go. Shower. You smell like a burnt tire.” A beat. “…You want something to eat?”
Robin doesn’t answer. Just throws her arms around you in the tightest, sweatiest, most Robin hug imaginable. All elbows and bones and bloodstained sleeves.
You stiffen. Then sigh.
“Love you,” she mumbles into your shoulder.
You hold her tight for a second. Then let go.
“You owe me, Buckley. Big time.”
…
Robin crashes in your bed, dead to the world in ten seconds flat.
You stay on the couch next to Steve.
Not close. Just close enough. So if he does something stupid like stop breathing, you’ll notice.
You keep a cool cloth on his forehead. Check his pulse every half hour. Whisper a soft “motherfucker” every time he twitches, because if he wakes up and asks if you were worried, you want to be able to say no with a straight face.
You stay up.
Because someone has to.
…
It’s almost 3 a.m. when he stirs.
Your head snaps up, heart launching into your throat like a flare. Your hand goes automatically to the bucket, the cloth, the mental checklist of emergency procedures you’ve memorized so well they’re practically sewn into your DNA.
But then his lips part.
Just a cracked breath through the dryness, small and quiet and impossibly fragile.
“Don’t… don’t let ‘em go back.”
It’s barely a whisper. It slams into you like a freight train.
You don’t know who ‘they’ are, but you know exactly what he means.
You’ve seen this kind of thing before, too. In the shaking hands of people who left something behind where no one could follow. This is what happens when the body survives, but the rest doesn’t.
And goddammit.
Goddammit, you didn’t want this.
Didn’t want some pretty, broken boy bleeding all over your couch. Didn’t want this guilt. This terrifying protectiveness. The quiet, suffocating weight of whatever this is clamping around your ribs like a trap you walked into willingly.
Didn’t want Steve fucking Harrington, of all people, to break your heart without saying a single word.
But he looks so young like this. Pale cheeks, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead. He’s curled in on himself like he’s bracing for another hit, one hand fisted in your throw pillow.
Without thinking, you lean forward.
Brush his hair back. Cool his skin with your fingers.
“Steve,” you whisper.
No answer. Just a tiny, broken noise. Almost a whimper, almost nothing.
Your throat tightens.
You reach down, and carefully, gently, pry his fingers free from the cushion. Thread yours through the empty spaces.
His grip grows impossibly tight, fingertips paling where they press between your knuckles.
“You’re okay. You’re safe.”
And slowly—like thawing ice, like a held breath finally let go—he stops shaking.
You stay like that, hand in his, until the sun starts bleeding through the curtains.
…
Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people.
She meant hearts. You meant bones.
You’re starting to think maybe she was right.
…
You wake to yelling.
Not normal yelling—whisper-yelling. The kind of frantic, hushed bickering that’s somehow louder than regular voices.
“…can’t just walk out, Steve!”
“It’s not that bad, just—give me a second—”
There’s the unmistakable rustle of struggling. A pained grunt. The telltale shuffle of someone stumbling sideways, seconds away from faceplanting.
“Oh my god, what is wrong with you?!”
“I’m fine,” Steve grits out, in the exact tone people use right before they pass out on you.
“And where exactly are you gonna go, huh? Enlighten me.”
“Just—I’ll go back and change, and then we’ll—”
“Nope. Absolutely not. You can’t even see straight, Harrington.”
“Yes, I can.”
“Really? Okay. How many fingers?”
“Why do you always do that?”
“Because it works!”
You groan loudly, dragging an arm over your face.
“Do I need to put you two in a time-out? Because I swear to god, I will.”
Instant silence.
When you peel your arm back, Steve’s frozen mid‑escape, one shoe on, looking like a kid caught stealing from the cookie jar. He glances your way, sheepish.
“Hey,” he says, like he didn’t just almost eat your tile. “You’re up.”
“Unfortunately.”
Robin flaps a dramatic hand at him. “Please, please talk some sense into this idiot before I duct tape him to the wall.”
You sit up, and immediately regret every decision you’ve ever made. Your spine crackles like bubble wrap. Your skull is pounding. The entire living room looks like a crime scene: blood-crusted towels, empty gauze packets, that one lonely vodka bottle rolling under the coffee table like a sad tumbleweed.
You squint at Steve. “Sit down.”
“I’m good.”
“You’re not.”
“I just need to—”
“Now, Harrington.”
You don’t raise your voice. You don’t have to. It’s the tone you’ve used on half-conscious college boys insisting they can “totally drive, man.”
Steve blinks. Then sighs, slowly lowering himself onto a kitchen chair.
Robin hovers like a human seatbelt, and he bats her away with a feeble flap of his wrist. Still, he grips the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him vertical.
You scrub a hand over your face. “Coffee? Or are we all just committing to bad decisions today?”
…
The coffee is yesterday’s.
Bitter, burnt, practically an oil slick in a mug.
You pour three cups anyway.
Steve drinks it black, which tracks. You clock the way his hands tremble as he brings it to his lips and file it away without comment.
Robin’s already rattling off the story again, filling in details she left out the night before. You get more names now. Places. Dates. Vines that slither like snakes. The gate under Lover’s Lake. You get the part where Steve dove in, headfirst, no hesitation.
Well, you already got that part last night, but Robin’s repeating it, and you’re starting to think maybe it’s not for you this time.
Steve just listens, quiet. Winces at certain beats—jaw tic here, hard blink there—but doesn’t interrupt.
You lean against the counter, sip your bitter sludge, and ask, casual as you can:
“So, you just jumped in. No plan? No backup?”
He shrugs, eyes on his mug. “Didn’t really have time to think about it.”
“Clearly.”
He looks up at you then. Runs a hand through his still-matted hair, blood-sticky at the roots, and releases a quiet breath.
“Thank you. For last night.”
You raise a brow. “Didn’t really have a choice, Harrington. It was either that or explain to the cops why there’s a dead body on my couch.”
He huffs a weak laugh.
“By the way,” you add, sipping again, “do your parents know about all this monster-hunting extracurricular bullshit?”
Robin makes a sound like a choked squirrel.
“Oh fuck! My parents! Shitshitshit.”
She’s already halfway out of her chair, tripping over her shoes while she scrambles for her jacket.
“Can you—?” she gasps, eyes wide.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll cover.”
“Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” She barrels over, grabbing your face and planting a comically loud kiss on your forehead. Then she turns and grabs Steve in the same breath.
Gives his face a little shake.
“If I come back and find out you even thought about sneaking out, I will tell everyone you still sleep with a nightlight. Got it?”
You snort into your mug. Steve glares at her. “Robin—"
“Got it?”
He scrubs a hand through his hair, rolling his eyes. “Whatever.”
She releases him, then points at you. “You’re in charge. Don’t let him do anything heroic.”
“Oh no,” you deadpan. “However shall I bear the weight of such responsibility?”
Robin snorts, slaps your shoulder, then bolts, keys jingling like cowbells as she shoots out the door.
“Wait—” Steve squints after her. “Are you—Robin! You can’t just take my car! You’re not even—”
Slam!
“—licensed.”
You both sit in the silence she leaves behind. Steve stares out the window, listening to the screech of his precious bimmer as it peels down the street.
Then he turns back, eyes flicking to the trauma floor that used to be your living room.
He clears his throat. “Sorry about your, uh… couch. And the carpet.”
You follow his gaze. The stains are bad, probably permanent. It stings a little, looking at them.
It hurts worse looking at him.
Steve Harrington, bruised and bandaged and slouched in your chair like he’s trying to disappear into the seams. His stupidly wide, puppy-dog eyes look like they’re about to apologizing for breathing your air.
You blink.
Then slowly, slowly, lean forward across the island.
“Harrington.”
“Yeah?”
“Stop apologizing for almost dying. It’s weird.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Lands on a sheepish smile instead.
You hate how it softens his face, how it creases the corners of his eyes.
“And for the record,” you mutter, lips concealed behind the rim of your cup, “you’re not the worst thing to stain that couch, so. You’re fine.”
He blinks, brow furrowing. “What’s… that supposed to mean?”
You shrug. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
It takes him a second to process it. Then he snorts quietly, eyes flicking to the side.
You take another sip, watching the pink rise in his cheeks as the sun filters in through the window.
And if you’re smiling too—well, he doesn’t have to know.
…
You try to make pancakes.
Try being the operative word.
There’s flour in your hair, batter on the counter. Somewhere, the smoke alarm is just giggling with anticipation.
Steve’s still in his spot behind the island, watching you glare down a lumpy pile of batter.
It’s distracting.
It’s fucking annoying, is what it is.
Pancakes aren’t hard. Whisking is not rocket science. And yet, it feels impossible with him sitting there, doing that thing with his eyes. All soft and brown and bruised, like you saved his life and now he doesn’t know how to deal with it.
“How’s it going?” he asks, voice pitched deliberately neutral.
You don’t turn around. “Fine.”
A beat.
“You sure?”
You slam the next pancake into the pan. It looks like something you'd peel off a sidewalk after a hot summer day. You stare at it, furious.
Behind you, there’s the scrape of a chair.
“I said I’m fine,” you warn.
He ignores that.
Limps over to you instead, his gaze finding you like a physical thing. Warm. Curious. You catch him in your periphery as he stops beside you, close enough that the heat from the stove mixes with the heat of his skin. Suddenly, the kitchen feels about fifteen degrees hotter.
“Here,” he murmurs.
Before you can object, his fingers wrap around yours, gentle and coaxing as he eases the spatula from your grip.
Then: flip.
One smooth flick of his wrist. The pancake lands perfect. All golden and fluffy.
You blink at it, betrayed.
“I was handling it.”
“Sure,” he says, lips twitching. “Looked like it.”
He flips another. Doesn’t even look this time.
You narrow your eyes. “Okay. How are you doing that?”
He shrugs, adjusting the burner dial like he’s lived here his whole life. “Cook for myself a lot.”
You pause. There’s something in the way he says it—off-hand, casual, but quiet enough to leave an echo.
You file that away, too.
“Of course you’re good at pancakes,” you mutter. “Probably make soufflés and like, caviar waffles or some shit.”
“Caviar waffles? That’s a thing?”
“I don’t know. You tell me, rich boy.”
He just snorts quietly at that, eyeing you sideways. “Well, my French toast is pretty solid. Could show you next time, if you want.”
You glance over, arching a brow. “Wow. Is that line always so subtle?”
He meets your gaze, smirk tugging at his split lip.
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
And fuck, it lands.
It lands hard, right in the soft space under your ribs. That warm, twisting feeling that makes your breath hitch and your stomach go stupid.
You turn away before your face can betray you, yanking open a drawer for a fork.
And then, as if the universe decided to throw you a bone, the kitchen landline starts to shriek like it’s being murdered.
You lunge for it like a lifeline.
It’s probably Mrs. Buckley, confirming her daughter crashed at your place, again.
“Hello? …You WHAT?”
Robin groans on the other end. “Yeah. Possibly until college.”
“Robin, you can’t—” You lower your voice, turning away from Steve and cupping the receiver like he’s not standing two feet away. “—you can’t be fucking grounded right now.”
“I know! But my mom saw the blood on my jeans and I totally panicked. I told her it was ketchup. Ketchup, dude. Now she’s got Toby posted outside my room. He’s just sitting there with his Legos, but he will scream if I so much as leave to go to the bathroom. So... yeah. It’s gonna be a while before I can sneak out. Are you… are you okay to stay with him for a bit? He’s trying to pretend he’s fine, but he’s definitely not.”
You glance back.
Steve’s standing at the stove, peering at his stomach while waiting for the next pancake to bubble. His hand drifts down and starts poking at one of the bandages under his hoodie. Slow and gentle, like it won’t count as touching if he’s polite about it.
You stretch the phone cord and smack his hand away.
He startles. Blinks at you like, Seriously?
You raise your brows like, Try me.
You sigh into the receiver: “Yeah. I got him.”
“Ugh, you’re the best. Just don’t let him—ohh, crap, I gotta g—"
Click.
Steve doesn’t turn when you pad back into the kitchen.
“She grounded?”
“Yep. Possibly until retirement.” You pause. “You don’t need to call your folks?”
He hesitates, just for a second. Then shakes his head. “They’re out of town.”
Then, with a one-handed spin of the spatula, he flips the pancake onto a plate.
You glance at the growing stack. They look obscene. You’d punch someone for a bite.
In your head, you run through the math.
Ten days. Minimum.
Ten days before the stitches can come out. Before he can walk out of here without ripping something open. Longer if he keeps poking at his bandages like that.
God help you. It’s gonna be a long week.
…
Breakfast is awkward.
No other word for it.
Steve eats like he’s on a timer. You eat like you’re trying not to notice.
Trying not to notice the way he keeps sneaking glances at you. Little flicks of his eyes over his plate, always quick, always subtle, never quite fast enough.
Trying not to notice the way he winces. Quiet flashes of pain, there and gone, just long enough for that crease to cut across his brow before he smooths it away.
When both your plates are emptied, he clears his throat.
“Hey, do you… you mind if I use your bathroom?” He gestures vaguely to his face. “Just need to clean up a bit.”
His hair is still matted. There’s soot smeared along his jaw, a faint line of red where the blood’s dried and half-wiped away.
You nod, mid-sip. “Sure. First door on the left. Just don’t get the bandages wet.”
“Got it,” he nods, starts to rise—then stops halfway, jaw flexing tight.
“Actually, uh…” His hand slides to the back of his neck. His eyes shut briefly. “Can you give me a hand with this? I can’t really…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t need to.
The white-knuckle grip on the hem of his hoodie tells you enough.
You blink, setting your mug down, and push your chair back without a word.
He doesn’t meet your eyes as you reach for the bottom of the hoodie.
The fabric peels up inch by inch, sticking to where the gauze bled through, catching where raw skin clings to cotton. He winces, raising his arms awkwardly, the stitches along his sides clearly pulling. So you move gently, painstakingly slow.
Your knuckles graze his stomach, and—
Jesus.
He’s warm. Muscle corded tight under skin that flushes easily, even with all the bruises blooming across his ribs like bad watercolors.
You get the hoodie off.
His chest is bare.
And now you’re standing close. Way, way too close.
His breath brushes your cheek when he exhales. You glance up, just on pure instinct, and find his eyes already on you.
You both freeze.
There’s a beat where everything narrows. Where sound drops out.
Your hands hover midair, still clutching the fabric, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin.
Close enough to trace the moles scattered across his chest.
You don’t.
You look away so fast it nearly gives you whiplash.
“Towels are under the sink," you mumble. "I’ll get you some new clothes.”
Then you take a quick step back. Like distance will save you from whatever the hell that was.
Steve blinks. Once. Twice. Then nods, eyes flicking away. “Thanks.”
He disappears down the hall, barefoot and bruised.
You stand in the silence with his hoodie clenched in your fists, your pulse trying to beat its way out of your throat.
…
There’s an old joke your friends like to make.
That you’re a sadist.
That you chose the EMT life because you enjoy it. The blood, the pain. The broken bones and the chaos. Things normal people flinch away from.
But in truth, they’ve got it backwards.
You’re not a sadist.
No. What you are is a fucking masochist.
Because there’s no other explanation for why you keep doing this to yourself. Why you let yourself get this close to people you shouldn’t. Why you torture yourself, again and again, with things you know better than to want.
Why you’re standing outside your bathroom door right now, ears tilted, listening to someone who shouldn’t mean anything to you rinse the blood off his skin.
You told yourself you were just finishing the dishes. That the stovetop needed wiping down. That there were chores to do, reasons to move around.
But your feet kept wandering. Back to the hallway. Back to him.
Back to this spot in the hallway, where you can feel the warmth bleeding under the door. Where you can hear the faucet running in short, irregular bursts—on, off, on again.
You picture him hunched over the basin. One hand braced against the counter, the other shaking under the strain of movement. Jaw clenched. Shoulders bowed.
Something twists low in your stomach.
You roll your eyes at yourself—because god, you’re pathetic—and raise a fist.
A light knock.
“You good?”
A pause, then:
“Uh, yeah. Just… hang on.”
There’s a clatter, a quiet shit. Then the door creaks open.
And Steve—
Well.
He’s wet.
And shirtless. And pink.
Flushed from the steam, maybe from embarrassment. Because his hair—The Hair—is half-lathered and sticking up in foamy tufts, like a soggy cat caught mid-bath. A single drop of water slides slow down the hollow of his throat.
Your gaze follows it.
The sweatpants you gave him ride low. Damp at the waistband, pulled snug across his hips in a way you’re absolutely not thinking about.
He gestures toward the sink, sheepish.
“I, uh… can’t really bend right now. Tried to rinse it out, but—” He winces, fingers grazing his sides. “The stitches are kind of a hard no.”
Your eyes drop, unbidden, to the bruises blooming purple-black across his ribs. The way his chest lifts a little faster when you step closer.
You should walk away. Turn around. Go wipe down the goddamn stove like you told yourself you would.
Instead, you say:
“Sit.”
He blinks. “…What?”
“On the floor. Back against the tub.”
There’s a pause. His brows draw together like he’s trying to figure out the punchline.
You don’t blink.
He exhales sharply, jaw flexing. “No, it’s okay, I can—”
“Steve.”
It lands heavy. The weight of it surprises even you.
His first name, in your voice.
You’ve only said it once before, when he was unconscious, twitching under bloodstained gauze, fists clenched against a nightmare you couldn’t reach.
But now, he hears it. And something inside him goes quiet.
He studies you for a second longer, then sighs, shoulders dropping.
Wordlessly, he lowers himself to the tile.
One hand braced on the edge of the tub, the other on the floor, every movement stiff. His back hits the porcelain with a soft thud.
You kneel beside him and roll up your sleeves.
“Lean your head back.”
He shifts, uneasy. “Seriously, you don’t have to—”
“I know.” You pick up the cup beside the sink and check the tap, waiting for the water to warm. “Just tilt."
There’s a long pause.
Then he does.
His head tips back against the curve of the tub. With his throat exposed, the worst of the bruising shines a mottled red-black beneath his jaw. His lashes flutter, lips parting just slightly.
The first pass runs slow and gentle down his scalp. He flinches.
“Too hot?”
He blinks, breath shallow. “No. S’fine.”
So you pour again. And again. Slow rivulets trickling through his hair, carrying blood and soap and grime down the drain. His hair start to fall naturally again, dark strands slicking to his forehead.
It’s just the water at first. Rinsing out grit, loosening stiff knots and matted roots.
Then you lather the shampoo between your palms, and sink your fingers into his hair.
And that’s when it happens.
The shift.
Steve Harrington—king of easy charm, Mr. Everything’s Fine—goes completely still.
Not in a relaxed way. Not in a sleepy way.
No, he goes rigid.
His breath falters. His jaw locks. You can see the muscles in his neck ripple with tension.
And when you sweep a thumb absently behind his ear, chasing a line of foam, he jolts.
A full-body shiver, running shoulder to spine.
You clear your throat, voice catching before you force it steady. “Been a while, huh? Since someone did this for you?”
His response is delayed, a low rasp. “Uh huh. Long time.”
Then, after a beat:
“Used to be my mom’s thing. When I was a kid.”
Your hands still in his hair. He goes stiff the second he says it—jaw clenched, lips pressed tight, hands curling in his lap.
You blink, then resume drawing slow circles over his crown.
“That must’ve been nice,” you say quietly.
He doesn’t answer. Just breathes through his nose and keeps still.
So you keep going.
Rinse. Lather. Repeat.
And with each pass of your hands, his breathing changes.
His head rests heavier against the porcelain. His lips part around soft, even breaths. His eyes flutter shut.
Then, he leans.
Barely enough to notice. But you feel it, the subtle tilt of his head toward your hands.
Like a plant bending toward light.
You wonder, not for the first time, how long it’s been since someone touched him like this. How long he’s gone without care, without softness.
And maybe that’s why this hurts so much.
Because you’d had him pegged, hadn’t you?
The hair. The charm. Pretty boy, ladies’ man, heartbreaker.
King Steve.
But this? This isn’t him.
This is the After.
The aftermath of Russians and monsters and lakes with no bottoms. The man who throws himself between danger and kids that aren’t his, time and time again. Like he’s got something to prove. Or maybe something to atone for.
The one who apologized for bleeding on your floor.
This is someone who’s forgotten how to be held.
And right now, he’s under your hands. Throat bared. Hair dripping. Leaning into your touch like he’s starved for it.
And that slow, sinking weight in your stomach settles for good. That gut-churn of realization that you barely know anything about the man who nearly bled out on your couch last night.
You try to swallow the feeling down. Try to keep your focus on softer things: dripping water, steam-soaked light, the silky-smooth slip of his hair between your fingers.
But every time your hands leave him, even for a second, you feel it. The tension in his frame. The hesitation in his breath. Like he’s bracing for it to end.
And each time you return—thumb grazing his temple, palm cradling the back of his neck—he breathes in. Relief, sharp and silent, tucked between the ribs.
You reach for the conditioner next, fingers trembling a little as you work it through. When you tip his head back, he goes easy. Pliant. Trusting.
And then a quiet thought hits you.
A hunch, really.
You let your fingers drift lower. Past the crown. Down to the nape of his neck. The hair there is softer, damp strands clinging to skin gone tight with tension and bruising.
You trace gently around the worst of it. Avoid the dark, angry lines where something had closed around his throat.
Strangled. That’s what Robin said.
You press into the muscle just beneath it, right where the pain likes to live.
Steve shudders. His head lifts from the tub with a breath, caught on something sharp.
But you don’t let up.
You continue pressing in slow, deep circles, growing firmer.
There’s a sound, then. Sharp. Brief. A strangled thing, torn between a groan and a gasp.
He tries to stifle it a second later, clearing his throat.
“Too hard?” you ask quietly.
His voice comes cracked. “N-no. Just—it’s fine. You don’t have to…”
The rest trails off when you move to his shoulders next, thumb kneading into the dense muscle. You’re not a massage therapist, but you know anatomy. You know where pain settles when it’s been left too long. How it tucks itself into the tender parts: the base of the neck, the hollow beneath the collarbone.
And god, he’s full of it. All the signs. All the tells.
He lets out another shaky breath, lips sealed around a sound he doesn’t let out.
And there, just for a moment, you let yourself look.
At the bruises. The thin cuts just beginning to scab. The water gliding over his collarbone, beading into the curve of his chest.
That thick, molten part of your brain—the masochist, the idiot, the one who says yes when she should absolutely say no—flares hot.
It wants to lean in.
Wants to touch your mouth to his skin, right there, at the slope of his throat.
Just to see if he tastes like lavender and heat. Just to see if he lets you.
To kiss him slow enough to wash the ache from his mouth. Replace every sharp thing he’s swallowed with something soft.
God, you’re losing it.
You drag your thumb again along the base of his neck. His lashes flutter.
Then, from the corner of your eye, you see it—his hands shifting in his lap.
Cross. Adjust.
You glance down without thinking.
And oh.
Oh.
The sweatpants don’t hide much. Not like this. Not with how he’s sitting, loose-limbed and open, the fabric soaked and clinging in ways it wasn’t meant to. They’re pulled taut across the breadth of his thighs, darkened in patches where the water’s seeped through.
And beneath that?
Yeah.
Your breath stutters. Heat rockets up your neck.
You yank your gaze away, fumbling for the faucet and filling another cup. Your hand trembles as you lift it, rinsing out the conditioner.
His hair sticks to his forehead. Without thinking, you smooth it back.
His eyes flutter open.
And the look he gives you…
It’s quiet. Devastating. Tucked somewhere tender and deep, pressed hard against bone.
Softer than longing. Sharper than want.
It's something that aches.
You don’t know what to do with it.
So you just keep your hands in his hair.
And you rinse.
…
You rinse long after the conditioner’s gone.
After his breath has evened out and the water’s cooled to a gentle trickle, steam curling around your ankles like fog.
The bathroom smells like lavender and heat and skin that isn’t yours.
When you reach for the towel and bring it up to his head, he leans.
Blot, pat, smooth. The towel’s too soft, your hands too careful. You graze the shell of his ear, the edge of his jaw, feeling the quick flutter of his pulse beneath your thumb.
His eyes are still on you.
“Thanks,” he says, quiet.
You nod, not trusting your voice.
The steam’s thinning now, but the air still clings.
Too warm. Too full of something unsaid.
His breath brushes your cheek.
You’re too close.
It’s too much.
You could kiss him.
God help you, you could.
Just one lean forward. That’s all it would take. His mouth is right there—slightly parted, pink and swollen in the middle where he’s been biting down.
And the look on his face isn’t just gratitude. Not just relief.
That’s want.
And worse? It’s yours too. It’s in the pit of your stomach, burning upward. It’s in your hands, your chest, your throat, curling behind your teeth like smoke with nowhere to go.
You pull back abruptly. The towel slips from your hands and lands in his lap with a soft thud.
“Okay,” you say, voice tight. “You’re good.”
Steve blinks, like you just dragged him up from underwater.
His throat bobs. “Cool. Yeah. Thanks.”
You stand too fast. Your knees pop. You don’t look at him when you speak next. “You should lie down for a bit. Keep pressure off the stitches.”
He nods, a little too slow.
You grab the towel again and press it against his chest. Not hard, but firm enough to make a point. Whatever it is.
Then you turn.
And you walk out.
You don’t need to look back to know he’s still watching you go.
...
It starts the way summer storms do.
Not with thunder. Not with rain.
With pressure.
The kind that presses close to the skin, wrapping around like a second layer. That hair-raising, skin-prickling tingle. Right as the birds go quiet and the trees hold still and the sky forgets how to move.
Stillness so absolute your skin buzzes with it.
The moment before it tips.
It’s here now. In this room.
In the narrow inches of couch cushion between you. In the weight of the blanket tangled over your legs. In the single, unspoken brush of his thigh against yours.
The TV plays to no one. A dull flicker of static and synth beats, some late-afternoon rerun neither of you are really watching. The glow of it pulses dim blue across his skin, the shadows deepening where his jaw tightens every time you move.
The room smells like clean skin and new sweat. Yours. His. Both.
His voice breaks the quiet.
“Hey, how long ‘til the stitches come out again?”
“Ten days.”
“Hm. I like this show.”
“Knight Rider?”
“Yeah. It’s cool.”
“No. It’s dumb.”
“What? C’mon, the car talks.”
“Exactly.” A beat. “How do the stitches feel?”
“Uh, good. Yeah. They’re fine.”
“You hungry?”
“No, you?”
“No.”
And it builds, again. That low, rolling kind of stillness.
Storm pressure.
It crawls up your spine. Pools hot behind your ears. You fidget with the hem of the blanket, rolling your shoulder back into the cushion like you can shake it loose.
You can’t.
The blanket’s too warm.
He’s too close.
And he’s watching you. You don’t have to look to know.
“…You’re doing it again.”
“Hm?”
You turn your head. Meet his gaze full-on. “Looking at me like that.”
His lips part. “Like what?”
Your eyes drop to his mouth.
His pinky brushes yours.
And just like that, the storm breaks.
…
Steve leans in first.
The same way he had in the bathroom, instinctive and unthinking. Like something inside him keeps tipping forward and you’re the only place left to fall.
Only this time, you don’t let him do it alone.
You meet him halfway.
His nose nudges yours. His breath fans hot across your cheek.
And then your lips meet.
A question and an answer, exchanged wordlessly.
There’s no clean edge between want and need, no way to separate gentle from hungry. One second, it’s the cautious warmth of shared breath, the next—
It’s the pull of his hands. The low, wrecked sound he makes in his throat when your fingers slide up his neck, threading into the damp hair at his nape.
Heat. Ozone. The bright-white zing of electricity rocketing down your spine.
You move forward without thinking. He shifts to catch you, hands spanning your hips, guiding you into his lap. You straddle him, careful to avoid the bruises across his stomach.
His breath is hot. His lips are plush, a little chapped from the way he’s been chewing on them all night.
Wordlessly, you reach for the hem of your shirt, tugging it over your head and letting it fall behind you. Cool air rushes over your skin.
Steve goes still. “God, you’re…” He breathes, throat working around the rest of the words when you take his hand and guide it upwards. Across your stomach, up your ribs. His thumb grazes over your nipple, soft and reverent, and your breath hitches.
You tug him back into a kiss, hips starting to drag across his lap. The hard press of him burns heat through the cotton of your sleep shorts.
“Good?” you breathe against his mouth.
“Yeah,” he rasps. “Fuck. Yeah. You?”
You nod, catching your breath.
But he doesn’t stop looking at you
And there’s something about the way his gaze lingers—soft, searching—like he’s waiting for more than just an answer to a question. Something he doesn’t know how to say out loud.
But you know.
You just… know.
The same way you knew when your hands were in his hair earlier. That quiet ache. That silent pull in him, desperate and soft.
So you give him what he doesn’t know how to ask for.
Your hand slides up to his chest, pressing over his heart. It’s pounding. So is yours.
“You feel so good, Steve,” you whisper, close enough for him to taste the words off your lips. “You’re so good. So fucking good.”
He shudders, pulling you in tighter, groaning with his lips buried against your neck like he needs to hide the sound somewhere safe.
Still, you don’t stop.
You reach for his hand and slide it lower, under the waistband of your shorts. His fingers slip through your slick heat and go still.
“Jesus,” he breathes.
You kiss his temple, then his cheek. Frame his jaw with both hands and lift his gaze to yours.
“Feel that?” you murmur. “That’s for you. All for you.”
He lets out a strangled sound, nearly pained, and surges up to kiss you again. His fingers start to stroke through your heat, finding the rhythm, learning you. When his thumb grazes your clit and starts to circle, you gasp, hips jerking into his touch.
“Shit, baby…” he breathes.
And that word—
It’s soft. Unconscious. Slipped out before he knew it was there.
You don’t think he even realizes he said it. His eyes are blown wide, focused only on you: the way your hips grind, the way you cling to him when his fingers push deeper.
Still, there’s that tremble in his voice.
Like that word came from somewhere deeper than he meant to reach. Like it cracked off the part of him that’s always waiting to be turned away but still dares to offer softness first.
You roll your hips again, chasing friction, but your focus has shifted now. You’re watching him instead—flushed and open beneath you, mouth parted, eyes locked to your face like you’re something he’s trying to memorize.
And it guts you. The honesty of it.
How easy it is to see now.
That this is someone who aches for closeness. Reaches for it before he even realizes he’s doing it. Who says baby like it’s the only word he knows for want.
Your chest grows tight. The heat in your stomach twists into something unbearably tender.
You roll your hips one last time, savoring the drag of him against you, then shift off his lap. His hand slips from your shorts, reluctant, trailing warmth up your stomach.
His eyes follow you as you slide to the floor. Your knees sinking into the carpet, fingers hooking in the waistband of his pants. He lifts his hips and—
You blink. Your mouth goes dry.
Because he’s—
Wow. Okay.
Noted.
It’s not just the size—though, yeah, that’s definitely part of it. It’s the weight of him. The flushed color, the dusky warmth. Velvety skin stretched tight over thick veins. The way he sits heavy against his thigh, curved just slightly, leaking at the tip and twitching under your gaze.
You swallow hard.
“What?” He stirs, uncertain. “Is something…?”
You look up at him, eyes wide.
“Jesus, Steve…” you breathe. “Just. Holy shit.”
His brows pinch together, concern flickering across his face—until he sees your expression.
And there it is.
That grin. That stupid, boyish, shit-eating grin.
“Oh,” he says, trying to play it off. “Yeah?”
You narrow your eyes, desperately trying to hide your smile. “Don’t get cocky.”
He raises a brow.
You realize your mistake immediately. Your cheeks flare hot.
He laughs, breathless. Looks down at you all soft and pleased and fond. It makes you want to bite him until he forgets how to smirk entirely. Kiss him stupid and never let him go.
“Shut up,” you mutter.
“Didn’t say anything,” he says, still smiling.
You roll your eyes and yank his pants the rest of the way down.
He quiets instantly.
Because your hands are on him now.
You stroke his thighs first, warming up the sensitive skin there. Pressing soft kisses along the inside, inching higher and higher until he’s twitching under your mouth.
“You’re so pretty like this,” you whisper. “You don’t even know, do you?”
He makes a strangled sound, part laugh, part disbelieving groan. His hands flex where they rest against his thighs.
You reach up and guide one to your hair, eyes still on his.
“You can touch me,” you murmur.
His fingers curl, tentative. “You sure?”
You nod. “I want you to. Want you to feel this.”
Then, without looking away, you lower your mouth to him.
Slow. Wet. Base to tip, dragging your tongue along the underside. He jerks, whole body going taut.
“Jesus,” he hisses. “Okay. Okay.”
You take your time. Because no one ever has, it seems. Not like this.
Your fingers wrap around the base, tongue gliding along the ridge, licking the salt beading at the tip. Every twitch, every shudder, every wrecked baby whispered from above becomes something you file away silently, cataloguing the way he unravels.
And Steve unravels beautifully.
You glance up through your lashes, watching the way his stomach trembles, how his throat works. All the control he’s trying so hard to hold on to.
Then finally, you wrap your lips around him.
Just the head at first, sucking slow and sweet. You circle your tongue around the crown and let out a soft hum.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “Baby, your mouth—shit—”
His voice keeps catching like he doesn’t quite believe it. You get the sense he hasn’t been cherished in this way, either. Adored. Worshipped.
So you double down.
You ease off for a breath, kissing the flushed tip, thumb gliding over the sensitive skin there. Then you sink deeper, lips sliding lower, jaw loosening, tongue tracing the underside as you stretch around the thickest part of him.
You keep going until he’s pressed up against your palate, brushing the back of your throat. You breathe into it. Let the weight of him sit there, hot and thick and yours.
“Shit, shit—” he pants. “I’m not—not gonna last if you keep—"
You pull off with a soft pop, lips slick and swollen. A line of spit follows you from the flushed head of his cock.
“It’s okay,” you smile, breath warm against his skin. “Don’t have to. Just want you to feel good.”
He stares down at you, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy.
Then, suddenly, breathless and earnest:
“Wait, can I—can I get you off first?”
You pause, stunned.
You blink up at him, hand still wrapped around the base of his cock. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” he says, quick and pleading. He cups your jaw, stroking your cheek. “Please. Let me?”
You hold his gaze a moment longer, drowning in that quiet, unspoken vulnerability he carries, one you’re learning to name without words.
Then, finally, you nod.
“Okay.”
You crawl back into his lap, shorts discarded somewhere behind you, it doesn’t matter where.
What matters is the way his hands settle on you again, calloused palms sliding around your hips, drawing you closer. You feel the thick heat of him pressed between your thighs, sticky and flushed and aching.
You roll your hips teasingly, gliding against him before reaching down to line him up. The head of his cock nudges, presses, catches. Then slowly, inch by inch, you sink down.
The stretch is immediate. Hot and all-consuming. You clutch at his shoulders, mouth falling open as you let your weight sink deeper, not pausing until he’s fully seated.
Your thighs tremble where you straddle him.
Steve groans low, one arm tight around your waist, the other gripping your hip.
“Shit, are you—?”
“I’m okay,” you breathe, laughing softly into his skin. “Just… gimme a sec. You’re kind of a lot, Harrington.”
He kisses you, rubbing circles into your back while you adjust. The burn softens. The fullness remains.
And when you start to move—lifting your hips, rolling them back down—you feel him everywhere.
“God,” you pant, “you feel so good.”
You kiss his jaw, his throat, burying whispers between breaths.
“Can feel you so deep—fuck—”
The rhythm builds slowly. Wide circles, deep grinds, savoring the way his cock hits just right.
And the more you give him—You feel so good, Fucking me so well, Low how you feel inside me—he melts a little more beneath you.
“Shit, right there—” you gasp, hips stuttering when his hand slides between your bodies, pressing into your clit.
“Come for me,” he whispers, voice rough. “Please. Want to feel you.”
His fingers circle faster.
And your body breaks.
You cry out, nails digging into his shoulders, every muscle clenched and trembling as the orgasm crashes through you. You collapse against his chest, shaking, gasping his name, everything hot and white and so much.
He holds you through it, breathing hard against your temple.
“That’s it,” he pants. “That’s it, baby, I’ve got you—fuck—”
You’re still trembling in his lap when you feel him thrust up into you once, twice. He pulls out with a sudden gasp, groaning your name, spilling hot and thick across your stomach, shuddering with the force of it.
You kiss him through the haze of your own come-down, legs still trembling, fingers tangled in the sweat-damp hair at his nape.
“Just like that,” you whisper. “You’re perfect like this, Steve. So good.”
His breath stutters against your cheek. His body, still pulsing with aftershocks, presses into yours like he can’t stand the space between.
And even after the world goes still, after the stuttered breaths give way to silence and the hum of the TV creeps back in, you keep touching him. Stroking his hair, brushing sweat from his brow, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses anywhere your mouth can reach.
And in the hush that follows, you murmur things you’ve never said aloud. Not to anyone.
Things too raw for daylight.
Things meant only for him.
…
You never ask him to stay.
Not when he wakes beside you the next morning, bare-chested, sleep-warm, hair sticking up in a dozen directions. Not when he wanders into your kitchen wearing nothing but rumpled boxers, whisking eggs for French toast like it’s an inside joke you’ve shared forever.
Not when you start leaving the sugar bowl out because that’s how he takes his coffee: one teaspoon, no milk. Not when you slip a second toothbrush into the cup by the sink, bristles leaning together like they’ve been kissing too.
He never asks. You never offer.
…
You learn the little things first.
That he hums when he cooks, usually something dumb from the radio, sometimes dumber jingles from the worst commercials. That he wipes down your counters when he thinks you’re not looking. That he folds your laundry better than you do, big hands careful with worn-out cotton and delicate lace. It gets to you, the way he touches your things like they matter.
And sometimes, you catch him staring again.
Only now, you don’t look away.
You’ll be across the room, pretending to read, eyes dragging over the same sentence for the fifth time because you can feel his gaze on you. He’ll be leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed, wearing that stupid smug expression he pulls when he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Seriously, Harrington,” you mutter, eyes on the page. “Take a picture.”
He doesn’t blink. “I’m good. Like this view better."
You roll your eyes and throw a sock at his face. He catches it one-handed, smug.
Then he moves.
Three steps. That’s all it takes.
Three steps until your back’s against the mattress, his weight pressing you down, mouth dragging hot across your collarbone. His hands sneak under your shirt, warm palms sliding up your ribs. His lips chase yours like it’s a promise he’s been dying to keep.
“You’re annoying,” you whisper, breath hitching as he nips at your neck.
He grins into your skin. “Yeah? You gonna kick me out, then?”
You don’t.
You kind of never do.
…
The days bleed together after that.
A quick stop at his house to grab spare clothes turns into a silent pause in front of his dresser. His fingers hover over a framed photo: faces you don’t know, smiles frozen mid-laugh.
He doesn’t explain. You don’t ask. You just wait by the door until he turns and threads his fingers through yours.
He doesn’t let go the whole ride back.
A grocery run on day three turns into a dumb argument in the pasta aisle. You’re ranting about canned tomatoes; he’s trailing behind you like a sulking toddler, forearms slung across the cart handle, sneaking cookies into the basket when you’re not looking.
You scowl at checkout. He grins.
“You’re gonna thank me later,” he says.
You do.
First with a mouthful of chocolate and a grudging laugh.
Then again, ten minutes later, when your 'thank-you's come in the shape of his name and a fistful of his hair between your thighs.
…
Eventually, the domestic stops feeling borrowed.
It starts to feel owned.
You vacuum, he sweeps. You cook, he washes up. He steals bites of dinner while it’s still sizzling and you smack him with a spatula, pretending to be mad.
He says, “Ow,” even when it doesn’t hurt. You say, “Asshole,” even when it’s not true.
On the fourth night, you both sit cross-legged on the living room floor, scrubbing blood out of the couch cushions with baking soda and half-assed prayers.
He’s watching you. Again.
You glance up. "What?"
He shrugs, smiling a little. “Nothing.”
“Steve.”
“I just…” He hesitates. Looks down. “I like this.”
You raise a brow. “Cleaning your blood out of my furniture?”
He shuffles forward, bringing his cushion closer to yours.
“Yeah,” he says.
But it’s not what he means.
You both know that.
…
The sex changes, too.
In the mornings, it’s quiet. Slow. All languid stretches and sleep-warm skin, coaxing sighs from your lips as the sun peeks through the blinds.
But at night? He’s something else entirely.
He fucks you like he needs it to survive. Like you’re his last breath. Gripping your thighs, your hips—holding you open, holding you still, driving into you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you forever.
And as the bruises fade, so does his hesitation.
He knows you now.
Knows what makes you beg, what makes you break. Where to bite, where to suck, where to press until your voice is raw and your nails leave crescent moons down his spine.
One night, he pins your wrists above your head, breath ragged.
“Say it,” he murmurs, grinding deep. “Tell me who makes you feel like this.”
You break on his name.
He swallows the sound with his mouth and doesn’t stop until your thighs are shaking.
And afterward, he stays.
Inside you. Around you.
He never pulls away first.
…
Not all nights are easy.
Some nights, you wake alone.
You find him in the kitchen, framed by the glow of the open fridge. The light catches the tired slope of his shoulders, the untouched glass of water going warm in his hand.
You don’t ask. Just step in behind him, press your cheek between his shoulder blades, and wrap your arms tight around his waist.
He breathes out. Sets the glass down. Closes the fridge.
When he turns, he doesn’t speak. Just lets you hold him.
Lets you guide him back to bed.
…
Your mornings are different now.
You wake in shirts that smell like him. Brush your teeth while he showers, fog curling across the mirror. He laughs at something stupid from behind the curtain, and you laugh back, still half-asleep.
It all happens so slowly you almost miss it.
The toothbrush that isn’t yours. The second pillow with its permanent dent. The pair of shoes you stop tripping over by the door because you’ve learned to walk around them.
He’s etched himself into your life in the smallest of ways. Fit through the cracks with warm hands and boyish grins and quiet looks in the daylight.
Like maybe he was meant to be here all along.
…
Somewhere between day seven and eight, you stop keeping count.
Because every morning, you tell yourself he’ll probably leave soon.
And every night, he gives you another reason to believe he won’t.
…
Like tonight.
You’re wrapped around each other, skin still damp with heat, covers shoved somewhere near the foot of the bed. His hand rests on your back, fingers splayed. Yours curls against his chest, cheek pressed to the slow, steady rhythm behind his ribs.
It would be so easy to stay here.
To let the quiet stretch. To pretend the heaviness in your chest is just exhaustion, not the weight you've been carrying since the night you dragged his bleeding body across your living room. Since you sat awake beside him, watching every shallow breath, waiting for the next one to come.
But the question’s been sitting on your chest for days now. And with the weight of him beside you, it presses too hard to ignore.
“Why’d you do it?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and you wonder if he’s already fallen asleep. But then his chest rises under your cheek—a careful, deliberate breath.
“…Do what?”
“The lake,” you murmur. “You jumped in first. Why?”
He’s quiet for a beat too long. You glance up to find the tight underside of his jaw, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“I don’t know,” he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Someone had to go. And I was the best swimmer, so. Didn’t really have to think about it.”
And you believe him. It’s the part that hurts the most.
That he didn’t have to think. That throwing himself in came as naturally as breathing.
Because somewhere along the way, Steve Harrington decided that his pain was worth less than everyone else's.
You shift closer, hooking your chin on his shoulder. His thumb draws slow, thoughtful circles against your spine.
“Steve,” you say quietly. “You know it’s not about being a hero, right? You don’t have to keep throwing yourself in front of everything just to prove yourself.”
His hand stills.
“I’m not.”
“Not what?”
“A hero. I’m not.” He lets out a bitter huff, eyes looking at something past the ceiling. “I was… just kind of a selfish asshole for a long time. Didn’t care about much. Or anyone. And even after I tried to fix it, it just—it never felt like enough. Still doesn’t.”
You watch him, the weight of his words like pressing down on a bruise.
“So what, you jump into lakes now to make up for it?”
He almost smiles. “Kinda. Yeah.”
Then, quieter:
“I don’t know, it’s like, if I’m not the one stepping up, then… what’s the point, you know? What the hell am I even good for?”
Your heart aches. Because god, how long has he carried that? How many times has he thrown himself in just to keep from drowning?
You see it then, the fracture that runs through him. Spiderwebbed across everything he is, everything he was. A wound so old it’s fused to him. Clotted over, never cleaned.
The weight he carries isn’t something he puts on; it’s something that grew with him.
Years of being told he wasn’t enough. Not smart enough. Not serious enough. Just the boy with the car, the smile, the house too big for how small it made him feel.
That kind of doubt doesn’t heal. It burrows deep.
Sinks its teeth in. Festers.
Until guilt turns into remorse,
Remorse turns into habit,
And habit drags on as penance.
So he made himself useful.
Built his worth out of protection. Of stepping up, stepping in, taking the hit before anyone else could.
Diving first. Bleeding first.
Hurt first. Hurt worst. Hurt instead.
That’s where his value lives. Not in being loved, but in being needed.
You lift yourself up until you're eye to eye, cupping his face, thumbs brushing the tops of his cheeks.
“You’re for you, Steve.”
He blinks, brows knitting.
“You don’t have to earn it. Being loved. Being cared for. That’s not something you have to prove.”
His eyes search yours, like he’s trying to make sense of the words.
Then, slowly, his shoulders ease. He cups the back of your neck, drawing you in. His exhale against your lips sounds like a weight being untethered.
You stay like that for a while, breathing together, fingers laced at his chest.
Eventually, he sleeps.
You don’t.
You stay awake, tracing the lines of his face in the dark. The peace that sleep gives him. The stillness that never lasts.
You watch as his brow smooths. As his lips part. As his lashes flutter once, then settle into stillness.
You stay up.
Because someone has to.
…
You get used to the quiet.
Used to Steve padding around the house in socks, humming half a tune under his breath.
To the way he opens every cupboard before finding the cereal that’s been in the same spot for days.
To the way he claims half your couch, half your bed, half your toothpaste.
You get used to someone else’s heartbeat in your space.
So when the knocking starts—three sharp raps that rattle the wood—it takes you both by surprise.
Steve’s already halfway to the door when you follow, tugging your sweatshirt over your head.
You’ve barely turned the knob before the door bursts open.
“Guess who’s officially un-grounded and here to collect her idiot boy? Oh, and look—I brought backup!”
Robin barrels in first, followed by two figures: a curly-haired kid drowning in a bright yellow baseball cap, and behind him, a taller shape in black denim and leather. Eddie Munson, wearing that same smug grin you remember vaguely from high school.
You’ve heard about them, of course—Steve’s strange little apocalypse crew—but hearing about it is one thing, seeing it is another.
“He’s alive!” Robin crows, flinging her arms around Steve.
“Took you long enough,” he mutters into her shoulder.
“Uh, excuse me. Your fault,” she shoots back, jabbing a finger in his chest. “Grounded, remember?” Then she turns to you, eyes sharp with curiosity. “So? How much trouble was he?”
You glance over at Steve. He’s already looking back, mouth tugging at the corner like he’s daring you to say something first. There’s a kaleidoscope of memory that flashes between you in the space of a blink.
You look back at Robin and shrug, casual as ever. “Not much. He folds my laundry now.”
Robin gasps. Eddie lets out a low whistle.
“Well, shit,” he drawls. “Steve Harrington, domesticated. Didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “You guys are hilarious.”
But his ears are pink by the time you close the door.
…
After a round of burnt grilled cheeses, the kitchen’s a mess of crumbs and chatter.
Robin perches on a stool, slurping tomato soup straight from the pot. Eddie’s straddling a chair backwards, drumming on the counter. Dustin paces, orchestrating what sounds like a full-scale military operation using a butter knife and a salt shaker.
“—I’m saying if we shift the rendezvous point closer to the treeline, we can cut our response time in half. Minimum.”
Steve leans against the fridge, nodding like he’s catching every third word.
You’re at the sink, rinsing dishes, the voices behind you fading into a comfortable hum—until Dustin steps in beside you, tone low and careful.
“So… he’s okay to come back now, right?
You glance over your shoulder.
Steve’s got his shirt hiked up for Robin and Eddie to see, scars catching the kitchen light—pale and raised, still tender from where you pulled out the last stitch two days ago. Robin wrinkles her nose, groaning about how she's lost her appetite.
You turn back to Dustin. “I mean, no fever, no infection. Doesn’t seem to be actively dying. So yeah, I’d say he’s good.”
Dustin beams. “Awesome.”
You hesitate. Then, before you can stop yourself:
“Actually… I was thinking I could come with you guys this time.”
The room goes still.
Robin lowers her spoon. Eddie looks up. Even the sink seems to hush.
Steve’s voice breaks the quiet.
“No.”
You turn, incredulous. “Excuse me?”
“No way,” he says, pushing off the fridge, crossing the kitchen with that particular brand of determined worry you’ve come to recognize. “You’re not going.”
You blink at him like, Seriously?
He raises his brows like, Try me.
You sigh, turning off the water. “I wouldn’t be going in. Just close enough to help. You know, in case someone ends up bleeding to death again?” You shoot him a pointed look.
He ignores it, jaw working like he’s gearing up to argue again. But Dustin cuts in.
“Wait, that’s actually kind of genius,” he mutters thoughtfully. “You could be our medic. Like—Eddie, dude, she could be like our cleric!”
You frown. “Our what now?”
“D&D thing,” Eddie smirks. “Healing spells. Keeps the rest of us idiots alive.”
You laugh softly. “Sure. Okay. Cleric.”
But Steve isn’t laughing.
“Wait, just—hang on,” he steps forward, catching your wrist. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
…
The hallway is narrow and dim, lit only by the slant of light spilling in from the kitchen.
You lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching him pace three slow steps before stopping, running both hands through his hair.
He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak.
You wait.
Finally, quietly: “You can’t come with us.”
You narrow your eyes. “You’re not the boss of me.”
“I mean it.” His voice is low. Firm. But it’s not angry. Not that sharp, flinty tone you remember from high school, when he used to wield confidence like armor. No, this is something else.
Fear.
You tilt your head, voice softening. “Steve…”
He exhales through his nose, more of a tremor than a breath. “You heard what it’s like down there. You saw what happened last time.”
“I did. That’s why I’ve decided to go.”
His eyes snap to yours, incredulous. “And you didn’t think to talk to me about it before?”
“Why? So you could freak out and tell me no?”
“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing. “I just can’t ask you to risk that. It’s not fair.”
“You’re not asking,” you say quietly. “I’m offering.”
For a moment, neither of you moves. He stares at you like he’s searching for something—some argument, some loophole that’ll make you stay here while he walks back into hell. Like if he keep fighting back, maybe he won’t have to admit what this really is.
But when he speaks, his voice isn’t tense anymore. It just trembles.
“I can’t—I can’t lose you in there. You get that? I can’t. I just…” His eyes flicker away, toward the shadowed doorway behind you. He swallows hard.
“...I just got you.”
The quiet stretches. You gaze at him, heart heavy.
His shoulders are tense when you reach for his hand. His fingers twitch in yours, like he’s ready to pull away—but he doesn’t. He never does.
“Steve,” you start gently. “I know you’re scared. I am too. But I can’t just sit here and wait while you...” you take a breath, squeezing his hand. “If there’s a chance I can help, I’m taking it.”
He looks down at your joined hands, your fingers laced tight. His thumb drags slow, absent circles against your skin—once, twice, like he’s trying to memorize the feel of it. The fight drains out of him with a sigh that sounds too big for his chest.
He steps forward wordlessly, and pulls you into his arms. His chin drops to the top of your head. You press your cheek to his chest, feeling the wild rhythm of his heart start to slow.
“Fine,” he murmurs. “But you’re staying up here. Radio only. And you’re not going anywhere near the gate, you hear me?”
You smile into his shirt. “Deal.”
…
It’s almost 3 p.m. when he stirs.
The sunlight’s lazy this time of day, all thick and golden, caught in the slow spin of dust motes above the coffee table. The air smells like coffee and the lavender candle you lit this morning. You’re curled sideways on the couch, a book open but long forgotten on your chest.
“Jesus,” comes a voice beside you, rough with sleep. “How long was I out?”
You smile, already watching. “Couple hours.”
He squints at the light. “You let me nap that long?”
“You needed it.”
Steve rolls up from where he was buried in the couch, a soft pillow line stamped across his cheek. His hair’s flattened on one side and sticking up in the back. You reach out and comb your fingers through the mess. It fluffs up worse for it, but he sighs and leans into your hand anyway.
He trades the throw pillow for your stomach, draping a heavy arm across your waist. You rest your palm on his shoulder, thumb tracing the ridge of his collarbone.
The house hums around you: the low buzz of the fridge, the steady tick of the clock, the soft creak of settling wood. It’s a silence that no longer feels hollow.
You let it breathe.
It’s been three weeks.
Three weeks since you stood on the other side of a collapsing gate, heart in your throat, waiting for their silhouettes to break through the mist.
Three weeks since the air finally stilled, the ground stopped shaking, and the last portal sealed itself shut behind Eddie, behind Robin, behind all of them.
Three weeks since you checked every pulse, cleaned every wound, counted every head, and realized, miraculously, that no one was missing.
That everyone made it out. Alive. Together.
Three weeks since Steve stumbled out of the wreckage and into your arms and didn’t let go.
The bruises have faded since then. The stitches dissolved. The nightmares are fewer now, further between.
And Steve hasn’t left. Not once.
You're not sure when it stopped being temporary. When duffel bags became dresser drawers, when his shaving cream started living on your bathroom counter, next to the ceramic dish that holds your rings. When the dent in your couch, the dip in your pillow, stopped feeling like borrowed space and started feeling like home.
He still has his edges, the instinct to fix, to shield, to throw himself in front of the next disaster before it happens. But you’ve learned how to slow him down. To be the hand that pulls him back before he burns himself out.
And he’s learning to let you.
You’re halfway lost in that thought when he pokes your side.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “You okay?”
You hum. “Just thinking.”
“Uh oh,” he teases, voice still scratchy with sleep.
You smile, ruffling his hair. He groans and nips playfully at your stomach. When your laughter settles, you say it, quietly:
“I was just… thinking about what you said.”
He stills, blinking up at you. “Yeah? What’d I say now?”
“At the gate.”
That’s all you have to say. You both remember.
The roar, the smoke, the sting of blood and dirt. The ground giving out beneath you when he finally made it out—only to tell you he had to go back. One last time. To help the others out. To step into the jaws of a place that wanted to claim him for good.
I know! I know! Just—I need to tell you something. No, I know, just listen—
You remember the chaos closing in, the sky fractured by fire and screaming metal, and his hands—steady, impossibly steady—as he caught your face. His voice cracking on the words:
I love you. I need you to know that, okay? I love you.
You stare at the book laying on your chest, swallowing hard. “I never said it back.”
Steve looks at you for a long moment.
Then, softly: “Yeah, you did.”
“When?”
He smiles, tracing a quiet pattern along your waist.
“Not out loud. But you did.”
You think back.
To the tremor in your hands as you let his fingers slip away. The hitch in your breath when the walkie crackled with his voice. To how tightly you held on when he staggered out with the others, bruised and shaking and breathing, and realized you could finally breathe too.
Every heartbeat since has felt like a promise.
Maybe words would’ve failed then. Maybe he heard it in all the ways you refused to let go.
Your fingers find his jaw.
“Still,” you whisper. “I want to say it now.”
He tilts his head, waiting.
And you do.
Softly, firmly, the words falling easy like they’d been waiting inside you all along.
And when he says it back, you feel it in your chest long before you hear it.
…
The house is still too small. The front door still sticks when it rains. The couch still carries the faint stain from that first night.
But it’s home.
More than it ever was. More than it ever could’ve been without him.
The proof is everywhere: his Ray-Bans next to your keys, a battered boombox on your plant windowsill, the Polaroid Robin took where he’s smiling at you instead of the camera.
Some nights still weigh heavy on him. When even rest won’t stay kind.
But on those nights, he finds you. He always will.
And somewhere between the grocery runs and movie marathons, between loud songs in the kitchen and quiet kisses before bed, it stopped feeling like borrowed time.
It’s just time, now.
Yours.
Together.
…
Robin once told you that you get off on fixing people.
She meant hearts. You meant bones.
Maybe she was right.
But maybe that’s not such a bad thing.
You've named it something else now, anyway.
…
epilogue
You stretch, set the book aside, and head for the kitchen.
You’ve got prep to do for night.
Steve moves in behind you, hair still rumpled, sleeves pushed to his elbows. He leans his hip against the counter, flipping through the Player’s Handbook Dustin left last week, brow furrowed like he’s cramming for a test.
“I swear,” he mutters, squinting, “you need a math degree to play this game.”
You laugh, laying a neat row of apple slices beside a bowl of pretzel sticks and M&Ms—fuel for the chaos to come. “You’ll live.”
“Not if Eddie's dragon eats me.”
“Well, maybe you should listen to your cleric tonight, then.”
He grins, stealing a slice from the tray, then slides closer until he’s flush against you. His hips trap you against the counter, chest warm against your back. He leans into the crook of your neck, lips grazing your ear.
“You know it's kinda hot when you boss me around, right?”
Before you can roll your eyes, he catches you by the hips and spins you around, grin breaking wide and easy. You love how it softens his face, how it creases the corners of his eyes.
Soon, the party will be here—arms full of sodas, dice clattering in boxes, voices overlapping in familiar chaos. The house will fill with laughter, with the easy rhythm of shared lives.
But for now, it’s just him.
Rumpled hair. Soft smile. Apple-sweet kisses and the honey-gold hush of afternoon light.
And the sun keeps pouring in.
rise n shine
oct 11 ⋆ somnophilia
james potter x reader
summary: james wakes you up with his head between your thighs ♱ 879
warnings: 18+ mdni, somnophilia, marking, nipple play, oral f receiving
kinktober masterlist
James counts himself lucky that he wakes with the sun. Because you don’t, and he loves waking you up. Ever since you told him about that dirty little fantasy you have of waking up to his touch, it’s become his favorite thing to do.
The morning light is barely shining through the curtains, and James would guess it’s not even 6 a.m. yet. You have to be out of bed to get ready for work at 6:30, which makes the timing perfect.
James blinks, his cheek resting against the same fluffy pillow your pretty head lies on. He admires you while he waits for his eyelids to get a little less heavy. He studies your features as if he’ll be quizzed on them, his eyes trailing over every contour and curve. He’s got that look on his face. That lovesick look that always turns you into a flustered mess. If you were awake, you’d be burying your face in your hands, and he’d be prying them away, citing that you’re “too pretty” to hide.
He inches closer, gently brushing his nose against your skin and pressing a barely there kiss to your cheek as he slowly pulls the covers off your body, revealing your skin inch by delicious inch. Goosebumps decorate your arms and legs as he exposes you to the cold morning air. He bites his lip to keep from making a sound at the sight of your nipples poking through your thin camisole.
He leans over you, careful to spread his weight accordingly so the mattress doesn’t dip too much as he presses featherlight kisses to your skin. Peppering them on your face, along your jaw.
He takes his time with you this morning, treating you with as much tender care as he does when you’re awake. Kissing and caressing your body like you were made to be worshiped, and he was born to be your devotee.
His lips reach your collarbone, where he darts his tongue out to taste you. He blows on the wet patch he leaves behind, and a reflexive shiver runs through your resting body. Every little reaction your body gives him has him pulsing with desire. Even in your sleep, you’re perfectly attuned to him.
James pulls your camisole down, exposing your breasts over the lacy neckline. He sucks pretty, barely there bruises on your chest. A surprise for you to find when you take your morning shower. James watches your face closely through his eyelashes as he flicks his tongue over one of your hardened nipples. Your features twitch as your body responds to the pleasure, but you don’t yet stir.
He places a final kiss on your breast before he adjusts your top, covering you again. His hand slides down your body until he reaches your thigh, curling his fingers around it and pulling your leg to the side, making room for himself. He’s careful with his movements as he climbs between your legs, not wanting to wake you with something as mundane as him crawling over you. He freezes every time the mattress squeaks, watching your face for any sign of disturbance.
James presses more kisses to your hips and thighs before he finally reaches the place he’s been aching for. He doesn’t take your panties off, just pushes them to the side lazily. He admires your puffy cunt, gently running his thumb over the length of your slit. Restraining himself for a few more minutes, granting you a little more sleep, before he dives in, sticking his tongue between your sweet folds. You’re already wet, like you knew this was coming, and he groans against you.
Breakfast truly is his favorite meal of the day.
It takes a few seconds for you to wake up. His tongue diving into your hole while his nose bumps your clit being what roused you with a sharp inhale. You’re moaning before you really know what’s happening. All you do know is that you're warm all over and you feel fucking good.
“Jamie,” you murmur sleepily, your hand finding its way into his messy curls. You clench his head between your thighs when you realize that’s where he is. A sleepy whine is pulled from your lips as he sucks your clit between his pursed lips.
“G’morning, love,” he says, the words muffled by your delicious cunt.
“I was dreaming about you,” you mumble, voice rough around the edges from sleep. You keep your eyes closed, still tired, hips slowly rocking against his face. The movement lazy and involuntary.
James can’t help but smile as his tongue laps against you and he slurps your juices. He works you a bit rougher now that you’re up, sliding a finger in, then another. Curling them to stroke your spongy walls. He thinks about how, after he makes you cum for the first time, he’ll get to ask you all about that dream you had while he sinks his cock into this perfect pussy. He almost can’t wait, and he starts desperately grinding against the mattress.
But for now, he takes his time, savoring the taste of you.
summary: james and sirius have shared everything - detention slips, cigarettes, secrets - but there’s one thing sirius hasn’t shared… until now. with you in the picture, maybe it’s finally time he shares you with james.
word count: 8k (and yes, all of it is smut)
warnings: threesome (m/m/f), oral sex (male and female receiving), spit play, cum play, choking, light gagging, praise kink, degradation kink, hair pulling, cream pie, blindfold, bondage. fingering, jealousy as foreplay, corruption, humiliation, possessive behavior, exhibitionism, unprotected sex, anal sex, cunnilingus, squirting, james is in love w reader, overstimulation, double penetration, reader being very into it, they fuck on a piano (?), consensual from all sides, some messy emotions between the smut.
This is a dream. This must be a dream. Otherwise, how could you explain it?
There’s no other way to explain it—how else could you make sense of being pressed between two boys whose names alone make people turn their heads, whose reputations precede them in every hallway at Hogwarts?
Sirius Black is on your left—your boyfriend, your beautiful, reckless mistake of a love—and James Potter is on your right, with those golden brown eyes and that effortless grin that always lingers a moment too long.
They’re dressed for the party, both of them in open-collared dress shirts, ties loosened, cloaks discarded somewhere on a dusty sofa in the abandoned Astronomy classroom Sirius had dragged you into after the Gryffindor common room had become too loud.
You’d barely had time to ask what he was doing before he kissed you, hard and fast, only to pull away and glance behind you.
That’s when you saw James, closing the door with one hand, his mouth parted in disbelief.
Now, you’re caught between them in the dim candlelight. Sirius’s lips claim yours, hungry and territorial, while James trails soft, burning kisses down your neck, right where your pulse betrays you.
The thudding in your chest is deafening. The cool air of the castle seeps through the cracked window nearby, but your skin is flushed, feverish from the heat of their bodies.
Sirius still wears his signet ring, the same one he twisted nervously the first time he asked you out under the Quidditch stands. His all-black attire makes him look like sin wrapped in velvet.
James is the opposite—white button-down, sleeves rolled up, maroon tie hanging loose around his neck. He smells like firewhisky and something sweet, like the fruit punch he swears he didn’t spike.
You remember the party. You remember laughing with Lily, music pulsing through the common room, someone shouting about a drinking game.
But you don’t remember how you got here—back pressed to cold stone, breath stolen by Sirius’s kiss, hands fisting into James’s shirt as he groans softly against your collarbone.
Are you drunk?
You don’t feel drunk. You feel alive, aching, suspended in something you don’t quite understand. Your body moves like it remembers something your mind hasn’t caught up with yet—how it feels to be desired by both of them at once. How easy it is to let go of reason when Sirius is biting down on your lip and James is whispering something sinful against your ear.
You’re the center of their attention. Of their hunger. Of their want.
Their beauty is almost unearthly, and some part of you—hazy and overwhelmed—thinks maybe they don’t belong to this world. Maybe they’re not boys at all, but something else entirely. Maybe they fell for you like stars crash through the sky—bright, brief, and destined to burn.
And now they’re burning you from the inside out.
Wicked, beautiful, untouchable. Except you’re the one they’re touching now. The one they want. The one Sirius called mine before he looked James in the eye and whispered, only if you’re gentle.
And Merlin help you, James said yes.
“Keep your voice down,” your boyfriend warns in his gentle, seductive husky voice. “You can do that for us, can’t you, love?” His teeth grind against the skin of your neck, tasting the scent of your perfume with his tongue while his best friend goes down to his knees before you.
A pair of warm hazel eyes, flecked with gold and honey, look up at you through a tousled mess of dark curls.
James, cheeks tinged with rose like the first bloom of spring, gazes up at you with a longing so deep it steals the breath from your lungs—years of affection, buried and burning, now surfacing all at once.
His fingertips trace your thigh with a reverence that borders on worship, each touch sparking heat beneath your skin.
“Sweetheart…” he murmurs, voice thick with awe, his lips brushing the inside of your thigh as he wraps one arm around your leg, grounding himself in the moment.
“My beautiful, beautiful girl…”
The words fall from him like prayer—soft, aching, and meant only for you.
You chew on your lip to refrain yourself from making sound, giving your boyfriend two tiny nods to his earlier question.
Sirius chuckles, his hand sliding down to cup one of your breasts over the fabric. Though your dress spills down to the floor in elegant waves, the high slit running along your thigh offers James easy access to you—something he takes full advantage of.
He kneels before you, eyes gleaming behind his glasses, and presses a trail of feather-light kisses along the length of your exposed leg.
“Merlin,” he breathes against your skin, voice low and reverent, “you’re so soft…”
His hand glides slowly up your thigh, fingers splayed, teasing, as if he's memorizing the feel of you—every inch, every breathless shiver under his touch.
before he settles his head between your thighs. “Your body is a dream. So beautiful…” His breath fans your skin, elevating the tiny hairs on your nape.
“You’re like an angel.” The pet name and the praises he gives you feel just as foreign as the way he touches you, but James is only eager to make you feel at home.
“An angel?” Sirius snickers, his lips grazing your earlobe, his fingers curling around your throat. “What kind of an angel, are you, Sweetheart? Wanting another man’s face between your legs when you already have your boyfriend satisfying you all night. What, one cock isn’t enough for you, baby? Want my best friend to fuck you too, is that it?”
You can’t answer, your thighs quivering when you feel James kissing you over your underwear.
You’re much more sensitive as you never fantasized to be in such a position with the boy you shared hours of conversations with about your favorite books and he spilled his Quidditch strategies to you.
James has always been attractive. You noticed that from the start—he was all charm and careless smiles, with eyes that lingered a little too long when he looked at you. It wasn’t exactly a secret, either.
Everyone knew he had it bad for you, and James was never subtle about it. But you never paid it much attention. Not because you didn’t see it, but because Sirius knew—and didn’t care. If anything, he liked it.
There was something twistedly satisfying to him about watching his best friend want the one thing only he could have.
You never thought of James that way before. He was always sweet, almost boyish—blushing at the idea of holding your hand. Innocent, in his own eager, golden-hearted way.
And yet now… now he’s on his knees in front of you, hands reverent, eyes dark with want. And there’s nothing innocent about him anymore.
“I’m gonna make you feel good, okay?” James says, professing the words like it’s a form of reassurance.
Your high heel slides down the floor when he separates his lips and presses his mouth hotly against the lace of your panties. You would’ve lost your balance if your boyfriend wasn’t there to catch you.
“Sensitive, are we?” Sirius croons, purring delightfully next to your ear as he moves to stand behind you.
“What is it, honey? Does it feel good?” You weakly nod, biting the corner of your lip to contain your whimper.
Sirius’s eyes glaze, his voice drops a pitch lower as he takes in your expression, loathing the fact that another man can make your face contort in pleasure. “He hasn’t even started yet.” He holds you close, his face hovering past your shoulder to lock gaze with the shorter male.
“Isn’t that right, James?”
James, keeping his eyes on you, hugs your legs close and does a little mm-hmm as he mouths against your clothed heat. You softly whine, leaning your weight on your boyfriend’s chest.
It’s funny how responsive you are right now, acting like this is the first time someone has performed oral sex on you when your boyfriend has done that almost every day since you started dating.
“Sirius…” you moan, your body flinching when you can feel the shape of James’s tongue gliding over the cloth. “What are we—What is happening?”
“We’re making your dreams come true,” he answers, his arm shifting down to grapple your leg. Lifting it high enough for your dress to slide to the side, Sirius exposes your thigh and your center at once.
“Show him, baby,” Sirius tells you. “Show him how fucking wet that pussy is.”
Your heart is hitched in your throat but you follow nonetheless. Reaching down, you push your panties to the side.
“Good,” your boyfriend says. “Now, spread them apart.” With your cheeks burning brightly, you bring your other hand down, spreading your lower lips apart until James can see your dripping cunt, your entrance twitching in anticipation.
“Take a good look, James,” Sirius utters, his tone conceited and cold. “This is what you want. Been thinking about fucking my girl behind my back for a while, haven’t you, Prongs?”
James has the hardest time tearing his gaze away from you, but he manages. Exchanging stares with your boyfriend, he solemnly utters, “I wouldn’t have done this if you didn’t give me permission to touch her.”
“That’s right,” he smiles pompously, shooting one hand down to join your fingers, putting you on display.
“This pretty cunt here belongs to me. You don’t get to taste it. You don’t get to fuck it unless I let you to. You’re only here because of me.” He dips his index finger deep inside your hole before he retrieves it and plunges it into your mouth.
You whimper around his finger, tasting your own slick. “You better take good care of her. Better make her cum and lick her clean. Do that, and maybe I’ll forgive you for this. After all…” Sirius turns his face to the side, the tip of his nose nudging against your cheek.
“I’m just here to please my girl. If she wants to be a fucking slut and have her holes stuffed with our cocks at the same time then I would gladly do it.”
Your boyfriend spreads your legs as wide as possible with one hand circling your waist protectively to keep you standing on your feet. “Go on,” Sirius urges, eyes gleaming dangerously as he peers down at the other man.
“You want to fuck my girl’s cunt with your tongue, don’t you? Do it before I change my mind.”
James breathes out heavily. His fear, desire, and overwhelming thrill add pretty colors to his pale face. Sirius tells you to keep your hands where they are.
James tentatively darts out his tongue, licking a stripe from your entrance to your clit, his nose bumping against your finger. He removes your hand, placing them on his head so you could guide him.
His moan reverberates to your skin when he feels you tightening your hold around his curly strands, leaving his hair all disheveled. Now that he has more room to reach, James eagerly latches his mouth against your folds, tongue flicking obscenely before his lips close around your clit.
Your body jerks. “Ah—mmph!”
Sirius slaps one hand over your mouth, stopping your voice from thundering down the hallway. “Shhh,” he titters, stuffing two of his fingers inside and pressing them flat against your tongue.
“You want people to catch us like this? I won’t mind if you ask me. I would love to fuck my girlfriend in front of everyone. Want them to see how good I am at making you cry out my name like a fucking little bitch you are.”
Moments like this make you realize that your boyfriend was never an angel. He’s been the devil, Lucifer himself, from day one.
James’s little grunts are muffled against your skin, his cerulean eyes turning hazy as he watches your expression twist in pleasure.
He sneaks one hand behind your leg, palm splayed against your calf before he guides you to rest your thigh on his shoulder.
You’re now lifted off the ground, trusting your bodyweight entirely on the two males to fight against gravity. “sweetheart…” He bestows a gentle kiss on your clit, pulling away slightly just to replace his mouth with two of his fingers.
Gliding them down over your folds, there’s a hint of curiosity and nervousness as he speaks his sentence. “Do I make you feel good?”
You’re not sure what to say. No, you’re not sure if you should speak at all as your boyfriend is right behind you. But Sirius removes his fingers from your mouth, your saliva dribbling down your chin as he frames your face and forces you to look down at James.
“He asked you a question.” Sirius’s voice is just as melodious as it is perilous. You sink your teeth on your bottom lip, too afraid to be honest. “It’s only polite to reply.”
“B-but–”
“Answer him.”
“Yes,” you vocalize in a tattered breath. “Yes, it feels good.”
You expect your boyfriend to be upset, maybe curling his fingers around your throat a little harder to remind you who owns you but Sirius chuckles, saying, “That’s my good girl,” as he grants you a soft kiss on your shoulder. “Now, relax, love. I want you to enjoy everything while it lasts.”
James, encouraged by your answer, dives down to taste you again, this time focusing more on abusing your already swollen clit. Your hand tugs harder against his roots as your hips start to move on your own.
“Aah, look at you,” Sirius says, drawing your earlobe between his teeth. “Riding his face like that… Just how much you’ve been thinking about this, hmm?” His hand slips under the garment of your dress, taking possession of your breast and squeezing it until your whole body jolts.
“Filthy whore,” he growls, teeth-gritting as he says it.
He’s angry. Even if he pretends he isn’t, there’s no denying it. He’s swallowed by the rage of seeing another man pleasuring his girlfriend right before his eyes but he doesn’t do anything to stop it.
He keeps holding one of your legs in the air, commanding him, “Fuck her with your tongue. If you can’t make her squirt, I won’t let you fuck her.”
James groans, the dazed look on his face morphs slightly into a glare, vexed by his words. He retracts his fingers, stretching your pussy’s lips as wide apart as possible, tongue darting out to tease your entrance before he plunges it inside your hole.
Your body lurches forward, eyebrows stitched together in pleasure. You have one hand clawing against your boyfriend’s shirt, your reaction fueling the jealousy raging in his chest but Sirius simply tilts up his chin, an arrogant smile breaking upon his lips.
“That’s the spirit, James,” he says, a moment before he sinks his teeth against the spot that connects your neck to your shoulder, rewarding you with the pain while James tortures you with pleasure. “Keep it up. I want to see her cum all over your face.”
James doesn’t have Sirius’s practiced touch—the kind born of years of experience and confidence—but what he lacks in finesse, he more than makes up for in sheer, devoted eagerness. There’s something dangerous in that kind of want. Desperate to please, desperate to unravel you.
And when he slides two fingers inside you, thrusting with an intensity that betrays how badly he’s imagined this, how long he’s wanted it—it takes no time at all before your body begins to tremble.
“Ah—Sirius…” you gasp, voice catching as your knees buckle beneath the weight of pleasure. Your hand shoots out blindly, grasping at Sirius’s arm like it’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth.
“I’m—I’m about to cum—James—“
Sirius grabs your face, smashing your mouths together and kissing you harder than he’s ever been before you can finish pronouncing the word.
“Don’t say his name,” he growls, squeezing your cheeks together with one hand as the knots inside your belly grow taut. “You either scream my name or nothing at all. Understand?” The sudden drop in his pitch makes your skin crawl in both fear and excitement.
You’re breathing hard, fogs clouding your thoughts as James drives you closer to the brink. “I—Sirius—”
“Answer me.”
“Yes,” you sob out. “Yes. Only you, Sirius.”
Satisfied, he kisses you again, whispering between the collision of your mouths, “Good. Now, cum, baby. Give him what he wants.”
Not two seconds later, you reach your high, your scream strangled in your throat as you give in to the blind pleasure. Your orgasm hits you so hard that you end up squirting.
James’s eyes shut close in reflex when your cum stains his face, a little bit of your juice dripping to the floor before he catches the rest of your essence in his mouth, lapping you clean and swallowing everything you give him as promised.
Sirius sneers, the tip of his nose brushes against your ear. “Squirting on another man’s face,” he titters mockingly, “I can’t believe it.”
James returns to his feet, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His chin still glistens with your slick, your taste sitting thickly on his tongue.
He offers you his usual angelic smile, the adoration he holds for you never falter even if you’re his best friend's girl. “Let’s move somewhere else,” he says, his thumb sliding across your lips as he holds back the temptation to kiss you. “The party will be over soon. I don’t want anyone to see us like this.”
Sirius untangles his arm from your leg, letting you stand on your own. Your knees still wobble from the aftershock of your orgasm, leaving you with no choice but to have your body pressed flat against his chest.
Despite the terms he used to degrade you a moment ago, your boyfriend soothes you down with a little kiss on the side of your temple, his arm holding you still by your waist.
“You okay?” He asks, genuinely concerned.
Turning bashful, you respond with a timid smile and a weak, “Yeah, umm… I think I just pulled a muscle from the way you were holding me.”
Sirius laughs, landing a playful peck on your cheek. “Not as flexible as you were before, huh, grandma?”
“S-shut up.”
James watches with his jaw clenched, jealousy starting to gnaw at him just as much as the one that was blazing inside Sirius’s chest. “Come,” he says, pivoting on his heels and leading you down the hallway. “I know a place we can use.”
***
You’ve been in this room before.
It’s tucked away in one of Hogwarts’ forgotten towers—a space James had claimed long ago as his own. He called it his sanctuary. With its high, arched windows and shelves crammed with weathered spellbooks and Muggle novels alike, the room feels more like a secret study than a part of the castle.
The stone walls are softened by old rugs and scattered cushions, a few armchairs charmed to stay warm no matter the season.
At the center sits a white grand piano, slightly out of place in the magical chaos—its ivory surface gleaming in the candlelight, its lid closed, waiting.
You remember the last time you were here. It was his birthday. He’d snuck you away from the party in the common room, tugging you by the hand through secret passageways only he seemed to know.
You’d sat beside him on the piano bench, close enough to feel the warmth of him, and listened as his fingers danced across the keys. That was the night James declared his love for you, but you could’nt seem to be able to return it.
Because even then, with all that tenderness spilling from him, you couldn’t give it back. Your heart already belonged to someone else. And he knew it.
But that was then.
Right now, you’re lying down on the same piano, your dress thrown away haphazardly on the floor, your chest exposed and your legs opened wide with no fabric covering your skin.
It’s been an hour since you started this. You’re in a haze, your body enervated after your boyfriend gave you your second orgasm that day only by using his fingers.
The two handsome men now stand tall before you, their eyes still fixated on the way your bare chest is heaving up and down as you try to catch your breath.
Sirius had shed his formal robes long ago, trading them for something far more him—a loose black button-down, completely undone and hanging open over his bare chest, the fabric slipping off one shoulder like it had given up trying to contain him.
His white undershirt is nowhere to be seen, tossed somewhere across the room, and his sleeves are rolled carelessly to his elbows.
He smirks, eyes dark and wild as ever. “I hope you’re not tired yet, love. We’re just getting started.”
James, dressed in nothing left but a shirt and slacks, unfastens the three top buttons of his shirt with a little tremble in his fingertips. He’s visibly nervous at what your boyfriend has planned for the rest of the evening but he doesn’t file a word of protest.
The curly-haired boy still feels jittery even after he was holding you close from behind as your boyfriend fingered you until you drenched his fist with your juices. Sirius tells him to take off his robe and he follows, sliding it away from his collar.
“Let’s play a little game,” Sirius announces with mischief in his tone, walking to the other side of the piano where you have your head resting a few inches away from the edge.
His sensual, devilish smirk is the last thing you see before your boyfriend covers your eyes with his tie. He lifts your head, knotting the tie securely behind your skull.
“Sirius—”
He lowers his head to close the gap and kisses you upside down, silencing you at once. “Relax, love,” he coos, the shape of his smirk pressing against your lips.
“I’m gonna take care of you real nice, okay?”
Now that you’ve lost your vision, you rely heavily on your ears to figure out what’s going on. You can hear James’s footsteps closing in at the same time you feel Sirius moving away from you.
“Lift your hands, sweetheart,” his honeyed voice echoes near, a lot gentler than how your boyfriend spoke to you. “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.”
Trying not to tense so much, you raise your hands in the air. James wraps his tie around your wrist, careful not to hurt you, unlike your boyfriend who always loves to tie it hard enough so it will leave angry marks on your skin for him to marvel in the morning.
Once the fabric wraps around your wrists, binding you gently, James guides your arms down to rest across your stomach. His touch is patient, reverent—like he’s memorizing every inch of you with his hands alone.
He leans forward, fingers tilting your chin toward him, and kisses you upside down—mirroring the way Sirius had kissed you just moments earlier.
But James kisses differently. He kisses like you’re fragile, like pressing too hard might break you. There’s something achingly soft in the way his lips move against yours, careful and searching. You exhale quietly through your nose, letting yourself fall into the simplicity of it—just breath and warmth and the subtle hum of magic in the air.
Then you feel it—his tongue, timid and slow, tracing along the seam of your lips as if asking permission, tasting you like you’re something sacred. Your heart stutters in your chest, racing in time with his, even though the kiss is barely there.
Time feels suspended—like the world has curled in on itself, quiet and dreamlike—until—
“James.”
The boy stiffens, breaking off the kiss at the sound of your boyfriend’s voice rumbling through the air.
He raises his face, a muscle in his jaw twitches as he sees Sirius’s eyes turn dark and piercing. Both males are jealous of one another.
James wants you for himself, while Sirius, despite giving him his permission, grows even more resentful in sharing you with another man. The tension between the two is enough to smother you but fortunately, you’re too distraught by your own thoughts to notice.
What are they planning to do to me?
You take a deep breath, trying to unwind your muscles as best as you can as you wait. You can hear footsteps again, Sirius and James circling your body before they stop.
There’s a silence where you can hear nothing but your thundering heartbeats in your ears.
There’s a sound of belts being pulled away from their loops, zippers being tugged down. None of the men make a sound. When two pairs of lips begin their journeys from your ankles to your thighs, you realize one thing.
It’s a guessing game.
Sirius doesn’t have to tell you the rules for you to know how to play, or maybe this isn’t a game at all.
Maybe he just wants to fuck with your mind, injecting more thrill into your veins at the thought of being embraced by two males without knowing who’s doing what to you. But if this is a game, then you know how to win.
You’ve been dating your boyfriend for years. You know how rough he is–you love how rough he is–how sinful and obscene his touches are, how he clamps his mouth against your own or your clit—you’ve memorized everything.
Plus, Sirius and James are two different species. While Sirius is the fire that burns you with his passion, James is the salve that soothes you down. The devil and the angel are not the same. It’s easy to differentiate the two, even if you can see or hear a thing.
The two males have their heads settled between your legs, fighting for space and a chance to please you.
Each man is pinning one of your thighs on the piano, wanting to spread you apart as much as possible so they can taste how sweet you are.
You can tell almost immediately that it’s your boyfriend who is now latching his mouth on your clit, sucking hard enough until your hips buck forward.
The other man—James—takes his time kissing the sensitive skin on the inner part of your thigh, his hand stroking and kneading soothingly.
“Ah, Sirius—” You squirm, hands going down to his head, tugging on his bun.
Your boyfriend laughs, his voice dulled by your sensitive parts. “How can you tell it’s me?”
You always do that, doing as you please, overstimulating me. But you don’t voice your thoughts out loud. No, you can’t, as you feel James joining in, their tongues dart out eagerly to lap at your wetness at the same time.
You’re being pulled to the edge of the piano to make it easier for them to share space.
“Oh—” Your whole world shakes. The mental image of two pairs of eyes looking up at you with their desire blazing inside, hungry and lustful, occupies every part of your mind.
It’s too much. The sensation is too much.
“Relax, sweetheart,” James says, circling his tongue around your nub as your boyfriend lowers himself enough to plunge his slick muscle into your hole.
“Please, I’m—” You whine, your nails digging into your palms, “I’m about to cum—“
“Again?” Sirius jeers as his sinful smirk resurfaces. “Well, then, allow me.” Pushing James to the side, he pushes two of his fingers inside his mouth, making them wet before he drives them inside you at the same time. “You know what to do, baby,” he coos.
He wants you to squirt just like before and with the way he works his fingers, thrusting them in and out of you in a come-hither motion, he’s leaving you with no other choice.
As embarrassing as it is, you find your body doing exactly what he wants, cumming hard with a silent cry until the trickle of your juices drenches his hand all the way to his wrist.
Sirius retracts his fingers, licking each digit clean while his eyes traverse down your body. “That’s fucking hot,” he says, while James dives down to lick your pussy’s lips clean from every bit of your cum.
“You taste amazing,” James breathes out in bliss, kissing your clit and slowly eating you out to soothe you down from your crashing orgasm.
You’re all spent, eyes turning vacant as they’re transfixed on the ceiling but they don’t stop. One of them walks away to the other side of the piano, stopping once they stand on the other side of your head.
He hovers above your face, refraining himself from leaning in for another inverted kiss, afraid that the sweet taste of his mouth would reveal his identity too soon.
Instead, he frames your face, angling your head to the side so he can latch his mouth against the side of your neck. He uses his teeth almost instantly, suckling hard on your skin, marking angry bruises for everyone to see.
“Siri—”
He clasps his palm against your mouth before you can finish pronouncing his name, knowing that the game would be over once you guess it correctly.
He then slides two of his fingers inside, forcing you to part your lips wide so he can see the shape of your tongue as he presses his digits flat against your slick muscle.
Sirius thrusts his fingers inside and you know what he wants you to do. You suck on them, in the most obscene way possible as if you were treating them as something else.
Your boyfriend always loves to do this. Loves enjoying the look on your face when you hollow your cheeks around his fingers, giving him a vivid image of how pretty your lips are going to look when you wrap them around his cock later on.
You flinch when you feel the other man leaning half of his body forward over the piano, peppering soothing kisses on the inner part of your thighs just in the way James did a few moments ago.
His soft lips, the way he’s still a bit awkward and shy as he tries to please you, send goosebumps breaking all over your skin.
James can’t seem to get enough of your taste. Knowing that this could be his only chance at having you in such a position, he places his mouth on your center again, kissing you down there so languidly as if he had eternity to please you.
He hugs you close by your thighs, his nose pressing against your pelvis. You can’t hear his soft groan but you can feel its vibration directly on your clit.
You moan between sharp gasps when the man—Sirius—who’s standing over your head starts to clamp his hot mouth around your breast, rolling your nipple between his teeth before he sucks hard.
He grabs a hold of your mound, squeezing it hard enough to make you squirm then he flicks his tongue around the bud. The material of his shirt grazes your face when he pulls back, pushing down his pants to break himself free.
You’re being tugged forward, your head falling over the edge of the piano with the head of his cock pressing against your lips.
Your boyfriend doesn’t do anything. He wants you to do all the work. With your hands tied, you reach up and circle your fingers around his cock, kissing the head and tasting the salt of his pre-cum.
He’s hard, throbbing and twitching in your hands at the slightest touch. Exhaling sharply, you take his tip into your mouth, and Sirius, without warning, shoves everything inside at once.
You choke, groaning around his dick as he lands both palms on the piano to balance himself, trapping your body between them as he rocks his hips forward.
Your throat constricts around his length and he can see how far he goes from where he is looming tall above you.
James’s patience is starting to run thin as well. He starts using both hands, stuffing three of his fingers inside you while his other one abuses your clit with his thumb.
He pumps you hard and fast, perfectly imitating the way Sirius did to you a few minutes ago.
You mewl, moaning around Sirius’s cock, your legs sliding down until they fall onto the keys.
The sound of broken notes fills the air, startling you enough that you pull your mouth away from his cock, coughing and gasping frantically as you try to refill the air in your lungs.
James suddenly grabs you by the back of your knees, yanking you down until you’re close enough for him to seize you by the waist.
He hoists you away from the piano, forcing you to return to your feet and turning your body around. Your vision is pitch black, your hands still bound together, reaching out blindly for support until you find yourself balancing your weight on the keys.
James lowers his trousers to his mid-thighs, his cock springing free out of his briefs. Spitting onto his palm, he lathers himself quickly with his saliva before he nudges his tip against your entrance.
Despite his nervous, awkward demeanor, James is not taking it slow, propelling inside you with one hard thrust until your entire body is pushed forward, a strangled cry stuck in your throat.
He’s being uncharacteristically aggressive, stretching you out almost in the same way as your boyfriend does.
He bends himself down, wrapping his hand around the front of your throat and pulling you up until your back is plastered against his chest.
The butterflies inside you flutter their wings, a sob of pleasure threatening to break free. “James—”
“Wrong.”
Your heart plummets to your stomach, the fingers he has around your neck threaten to crush your windpipes.
“You’re breaking my heart, love,” Sirius chuckles right next to your ear. “How could you forget your boyfriend filling you up like this? I thought I’d fucked you hard enough for you to remember the shape of my cock.”
It’s Sirius? Your heart palpitates fast, panic rising to the surface. The one who was inside my mouth before was James?!
“You seem surprised,” your boyfriend laughs mockingly, ramming his hips against yours over and over again with his nails digging painfully into the flesh of your waist.
“You thought I was him, didn’t you? I treated you gently and you started thinking about another man. Can’t say I’m not hurt.”
“Ah—Siri—” You’re breathing fast, your cheek pressed against the closed lid as Sirius pinned you down to the piano by your nape.
Your stomach is bumping against the keys with each thrust, both of you making music of your own, accompanied by the sound of his pelvis slapping against your behind.
James watches you from the other side of the piano with his cock pulsating hard in his hand, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he tries not to make noise.
It feels terrible, humiliating even, to pleasure himself as he watches you being taken hard by your boyfriend but he can’t restrain himself.
At the sound of your name escaping his lips in a breathy, longing moan, Sirius’s eyes dart to his face, the corner of his mouth twitching into an impish smirk at the sight of another man masturbating to his girlfriend being fucked. “There’s room for one more if you want to join, Potter,” he arrogantly says, “That is if you can’t stop yourself from cumming within seconds.”
The thought of you being watched by your best friend caused warmth to pool in your belly.
Taking off your blindfold with one hand, Sirius grabs a fistful of your hair, hauling you up until he can hug you close as he stands. He rests his chin on your shoulder, his long fingers framing your face.
He forces you to look at the man who’s fisting his dick in one hand, while his other one grips tightly against the edge of the piano.
He’s giving himself a string of pumps that matches the way Sirius is driving himself inside you.
“Y/N…” He sighs in yearning when your eyes meet, absolutely wrecked from how much effect you have on him, turning a shade redder than he already does. “You’re beautiful…”
“Yeah,” Sirius sneers, whispering in your ear, “My beautiful, beautiful slut.”
He penetrates you with aching shallowness between your legs, teasing you, moving with a rhythm like an inevitable sea tide.
You squeeze around him, keening as your body starts to crave more. “Fuck, taking my fucking dick so good,” your boyfriend hisses, drowning in rapture.
“Sirius, please…” You glue your thighs together, clenching your walls around him.
“What, honey, do you want more?” Sirius questions melodiously, even when he knows you want him to lose control. “Want me to give it to you harder? Or do you want James too? Maybe find out if he can fuck you as good as I can.”
He must have been fucking you so good that your brain turns all mushy because right now, you want to turn his teasing words into reality.
You’re not sure how you’re able to find the bravery within you to answer but your lips form the words before your mind can finish your thought. “Yes,” you whimper, and James almost moans at the sound. “Yes, please, I want him too—”
Sirius stops. For a moment, the smirk falters from his face, before— “Is that so?”
Siriu’s thrust turns forceful within an instant, pouring all his rage and jealousy in every plunge of his cock inside you. Your jaw turns slack, mouth wide open in a silent scream with your eyes rolling to the back of your head.
He’s fucking you to prove a point, one hand rubbing furiously against your clit, slapping and abusing it until you cry out.
Sirius keeps his gaze on James, his eyes glowing menacingly as he growls out the words, “You think he can fuck you like I do?” He pulls himself out without giving you a chance to answer.
Before you can groan at the loss of the delicious frictions he gave you, your boyfriend whirls you around until you’re face-to-face.
“He can’t,” Sirius says, squeezing your face with one hand.
“No one can fuck you like I do. This fucking cunt won’t be satisfied until I fill you up.” He emphasizes by slapping a hand over your heat, making you jump and whine at the pain before your whole body shakes at the way he’s pumping his fingers into you again. “I’m the only one who can please you this way, Y/N. You got that?”
“Yes,” you reply in a faint cry, getting lightheaded as if he’s blocking oxygen to your head.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Sirius.”
“Good.” He retracts his fingers, shoving them inside your mouth so you can taste yourself as he nudges his head, telling James to come close. “Let’s move to the couch. I want to fuck her mouth.”
Sirius sweeps off your feet, carrying you in his arms before he forces you to go on all fours on the couch.
He tells James, whose shirt is sliding off his shoulders and his pants hanging low on his hips, to get into position as your boyfriend moves to stand on his knees before you.
“Show me how much you love me,” your boyfriend purrs as he unfastens the tie around your wrists.
Obediently, you curl your fingers around his shaft and start your ministrations by giving him lazy strokes. Sirius threads his fingers through your hair, pushing back your hair as he thrusts himself into your mouth.
“Pretty girl,” he praises, watching you flick your tongue over his tip. “I love you so much. Can’t go on a day without you. Need you so fucking bad.” He hypnotizes you with his words, your insides melting as they resonate through your brain.
James, settling himself on your other end, bends down to spit onto your cunt, spreading his saliva all over your lips with two of his fingers before he does the same to his cock.
He prods his tip along your folds, breathing hard in anticipation with his tongue darting out to wet his lower lip.
You both groan at the sensation of his head passing your entrances just slightly the second you push your hips back. Fuck me, James can hear the unspoken words and he’s ready to oblige.
“Y/N” He paints soothing kisses along your spine, one hand splayed against your stomach. “I’m putting it in.”
Unlike Sirius, James moves slow, taking his time and waiting for you to adjust until he’s fully sheathed inside.
Though he’s an inch shorter than Sirius’s, he’s wider in girth, rubbing against your walls and stretching you out in a way that has you whimpering around your boyfriend’s cock.
You can hear James taking a sharp breath, and a low, “Fuck…” It’s the first he ever let expletives depart from his pretty mouth, his silvery voice turning guttural.
“Tight, isn’t she?” Sirius asks him, pride sitting thick on his voice.
“Y-yeah…” James rocks his hips once, feeling your walls tighten even more at the friction. “And so… hot inside too…”
You slide Sirius’s cock out of your mouth, taking a breath and a moment to relish in the sensation of having another man fucking you in front of your boyfriend but Sirius’s not having it.
He slaps his dick against the side of your face. “Who told you to stop?” He says.
“Pretty little whore wants to be filled in two holes at once, doesn’t she? Come on, baby.” You take him back—no, he shoves himself inside your mouth, making you gag around his length.
He buries himself to the hilt right at the same time James does the same. Tears start to prickle at the corner of your eyes.
“Ah,” James breathes out as he picks up his pace, giving you shallow, pointed thrusts that hit your spot just right. “Wish I could see your face… Wish I could see how pretty you look as you take me in…” He closes the spaces between his chest and your back, kissing you softly on the nape. “You feel like heaven to me.”
An idea submerges in Sirius’s mind. Telling James to pull out, Sirius flips you over to your back, his cock hovering above your face as you take him in one hand.
“There you go, Potter,” your boyfriend says.
“Now you can fuck my girl as you watch me fuck her mouth.”
James, now seeing you spread your legs for him, your pussy dripping and waiting for him to fill it up again, is on the verge of turning absolutely feral.
The juvenile, innocent side of him has disappeared — replaced by a man with his blood boiling with desire.
He pushes your legs forward, his hands gripping tight at the back of your thighs as he pushes back in — his cock standing hard enough that he can slide in without using his hands.
He folds your body in half, knocking you forward and robbing a moan from the back of your throat.
Gasping in surprise, you throw your face to the side, your filthy moans are spoken against the side of Sirius’s cock. You try your best to bring him back into your mouth, not wanting to upset him as you can see his rage flaring in his eyes.
“So good,” James grunts, his hips swaying obscenely. His shirt slides off his shoulders, stopping to pool around his elbows. “You’re perfect, so perfect, I love you—ah—”
At his confession, your walls flutter around him and you release Sirius from your mouth, shifting your gaze down to see James watching you with sentiment in his eyes, your stomach flipping in delight at the sight.
It’s true that he can’t fuck you as good as your boyfriend can, but at the moment James exudes more feelings, pulling more emotions out of you. It pleases you just the same in such a different way.
Sirius, unsettled by the chemistry between you, clamps one hand around James’s throat and yanks him forward until their lips collide above you.
Sirius kisses him forcefully, tongue thrusting inside, sloppily moving together inside James’s mouth until he has his drool dripping down his chin.
James thrusts begin to stutter as Sirius breaks his concentration, mewling helplessly against his mouth. James had never been kissed this hard, never felt like his oxygen was stolen right from his lungs.
When Sirius breaks away, a string of saliva connecting their lips, he tightens his fingers around James’s throat, making him wince from the pain.
“You get to fuck my girl,” Sirius growls. “But you don’t get to have her heart. It belongs to me. She belongs to me. Know your fucking place, Potter.”
“Sirius—” he chokes, one hand curling around Sirius’s wrist in an attempt to loosen his grip.
The brunette kisses him again, hard enough to turn James’s lips all swollen before he tells him, “Lie down.”
James, receiving a hard shove on his chest, falls on the couch, his limbs all tangled with yours as he’s pressed flat on his back.
Sirius lifts your body, grabbing you harshly by your hair as he forces you to lie down on top of James, your face hovering above his.
James gulps at the sudden proximity between you, shaky eyes peering into yours.
You look breathtaking with your lips all bruised and your lipstick smeared to your cheeks, your chin wet with saliva, and Sirius’s pre-cum.
You’re so beautiful and dirty at the same time, reek of purity and sensuality.
“Sit on his cock, baby,” Sirius says, and with wobbly legs, you position yourself on James’s length, sinking agonizingly slowly onto his dick until he’s buried deep, your clit grazing the trimmed hairs on his pelvis.
“Ah—mmm,” James turns into a moaning mess, his cock pulsating hard inside you. Your body is weak but you still find the strength to smile when he gently strokes your face.
“Feels good?” He questions which you reciprocate with a feeble nod, your eyes shifting to his lips and James gets the message.
You meet each other halfway, lips molding, slow dancing with one another. For a moment, serenity hugs you both, moaning softly against each other’s mouth with him whispering praises between kisses, “Sweet… You taste so sweet… I can kiss you for eternity and it won’t be enough…”
You’re about to move your hips when Sirius stands on his knees behind you, each hand on your ass cheeks, spreading them apart.
Your body jolts, almost accidentally biting on James’s tongue when you feel Sirius spitting harshly onto your hole.
Shock runs like electricity through your veins. “Wait—Sirius—”
“Relax, baby,” he says, closing his eyes as pushes his face forward, his tongue circling the rim of your hole, giving you the sensation you’ve never felt before in your life.
“Oh—God—” You cry out, both thrilled and a bit terrified from how strange it feels.
James, aroused by your expression, slightly bucks his hips upward, thrusting into you. “sweetheart…” he whispers, “Pay attention to me too…”
At the feeling of Sirius’s tongue probing against your hole, James’s hot, throbbing length rubbing against your walls, you can barely think about anything but you try your best to comply.
You lean down to kiss him again, your eyebrows furrowed as you feel James driving himself a little further inside you. You both muffle each other’s moans, soft lips hugging another pair in a way that can only be described as romantic.
Sirius glides one finger inside you, doing as gently as he can to not hurt you. Your body turns rigid in discomfort and your boyfriend calms you down by placing open-mouthed kisses on the skin that covers your tailbone.
“Love, relax,” he says, losing the venom that once coated his tongue. “I won’t hurt you. I promise I’ll make you feel good.”
“We’ll make you feel good,” James corrects, casting a smile too innocent to be thrown in this situation as he pushes a lock of your hair behind your ear. “We love you. All we’re trying to do is to please you.”
“That’s right,” Sirius chuckles, dipping his tongue inside your heat this time before he licks a stripe up and returns to your rear. “So be a good girl and relax for me, okay?”
You draw a deep breath. “Okay…”
James props one elbow on the couch, raising his body slightly so he can whisper in your ear, “Just focus on me. Focus on the way I’m sliding inside you. Can you feel it? Can you feel where we’re connected?”
You shakily nod, feeling his smile pressing against the contour of your jawline.
Now that you’re loose enough to take one finger inside, Sirius spits onto his hand again before he brings another one of his digits, scissoring you wide open. Every time you flinch, your boyfriend would reward you with another tender kiss on your skin. “I won’t rush,” Sirius assures you. “I’ll wait as long as you need until you’re ready.”
The sudden change of his attitude works perfectly on calming your nerves, and once your body relaxes, Sirius pushes his third fingers inside. “I think you can take me now, baby,” he says, rising tall on his knees. “I’ll take it slow, okay?”
James holds you close, shrouding you with his arms. “It’s okay, sweetheart, I’m here.” He kisses your ear, murmuring, “Just focus on me…”
Sirius pushes his length into your rear as slowly as he can, muttering a gravelly, “Fuck, you’re even tighter this way,” under his breath.
“Ah,” you whimper, fingers clenching into fists. “Sirius, I can’t… It’s too much…”
“You can, baby,” Sirius replies in a guttural moan, leaning forward to mouth his words against your nape. “Just a little bit more–ah, Christ–”
“Siri–”
“I know,” he swallows his breath. “I swear I’ll make you feel so good after this, baby.”
The friction burns to the point that you almost feel like giving up but Sirius is trying his best to be gentle. James kisses you to swallow your groan, distracting you from the pain.
It takes another few seconds before Sirius is fully enveloped by your warmth, just like James is and he chuckles, rewarding you by showering kisses down your back. “You’re doing so well, pretty girl. I’m so proud of you.”
Having two men inside you at the same time is something you wouldn’t even have the bravery to imagine and yet here you are.
“I’ll start to move, okay?” Sirius says after giving you a moment to catch your breath, and you spin your head to the side to slant your lips together with him.
“Okay…” you breathe out. Your boyfriend rewards you with a smile and one last kiss on your bare shoulder before he straightens his back, places his hands on each side of your hips, and begins to move.
“Ah—fuck—” You can feel tears stinging your eyes, from pain or pleasure, you’re not sure, probably both.
With every drive of Sirius’s hips, you’re sinking lower onto James’s cock, the three of you grinding against one another — it’s awkward for the first few seconds, each of you trying to match your rhythm but once you find it, waves of pleasure start to come crashing in.
“How do you feel?” Sirius asks, uncharacteristically solemn as he’s worried of your well-being. “Does it hurt?”
“N-no.”
“Does it feel good?” James chimes in, peering into your eyes.
“Yes,” you exhale in bliss. “I feel so… full.”
Sirius smiles, exhaling in relief. “Well then, how about we take it up a notch?” He adds more force into his thrust, sending you toppling down with your head landing on James’s chest.
James can feel it too, the snap of his hips and the way your walls are hugging him tightly. Sirius is in control, leaving both of you under his mercy.
“How is it, baby?” Your boyfriend speaks between his labored breathing. “Feels good?”
“Yes,” you answer breathlessly, clawing against James’s chest as you feel like you’re trapped between heaven and earth. James’s thick hardness opens you up while Sirius’s penetrates deep inside your body.
“Wanna fuck you harder,” your boyfriend says once he feels your muscles unwinding, your tight hole finally adjusting to his size. “Wanna fuck you so hard until I cum, baby, can I?”
“Me too.” James takes one of your breasts in his hand, tongue circling your nipple. “I want it, sweetheart.” He mouths against your skin. “Want to feel you clench harder around me.”
You bite the corner of your lip, nodding your head as your heart rate escalates fast. “Ah—mmm, yeah.”
With your permission, both men hastily pick up the pace, robbing a scream from the back of your throat when James lifts his hips at the same time Sirius pushes forward.
You feel like floating — it’s insane how your body can still handle this instead of breaking apart. Sirius penetrates deep but James grazes the spot that makes your vision turn white.
Gasping in surprise, you blurt out his name. “Ah, James—”
Sirius’s hand slithers from behind, clasping firmly against your mouth. “I’ve told you,” he snarls, “You either scream my name or nothing at all. Don’t piss me off.”
Sirius never hurts you, he would rather die than lay a finger on you but at that time, anger radiates off of him in a way that sends fear crawling on your skin. You nod your head, eyes wide open in shock, “I’m… I’m sorry.”
“Now what do you say?”
“I want you, Sirius.”
“Want me to do what?”
“Want you to fuck–ah–want you to fuck me–”
“Scream for me, baby.” Sirius turns to hard, pitiless thrusts, grabbing one of your hands and pinning it against your back.
He snaps his hips, once, twice, emphasizing his next words. “Scream. my. fucking. name.”
He’s forcing it out of you, making you cry out his name in such a pathetic way, you turn the other man jealous.
James, now wanting nothing more but to get your attention and reach his high, starts to abandon his effort in being docile. “I want you to look at me,” he begs, rutting his hips harder against yours. “I want you to look at me as I cum—”
“Cum inside her and I’ll kill you,” Sirius growls, his nails digging painfully into your hips.
“But—ah!” James throws his head back, feeling like he’s already on his limit. “I can’t—I can’t hold it—”
Sirius breaks away, wrapping an arm around your stomach and yanking you close to his chest until James has no choice but to slide out of you. “On your knees,” Sirius orders him. “You can cum in her mouth.”
It wouldn’t feel as delightful nor as satisfying compared to shooting his seeds inside your walls, but James — knowing his position — takes what he can get.
You return to your hands and knees as James stands before you, the tip of his cock, coated with your slick, hanging a few centimeters away from you.
Sirius pushes himself inside your pussy this time, sending your body forward right at the same time you’re taking James into your mouth.
He fucks you fast, knowing that he doesn’t have to be gentle this way. James winces at the vibration your mouth gives him, his hips slowly moving on their own.
He lands one hand on your hair, stroking your strands first and tugging at the roots when you moan harder around him at the feeling of Sirius pulling out only to slide his dick inside your ass.
“Goddamn, I love this,” Sirius rasps, giving one thrust inside your hole, and another one in your cunt next. “Both your ass and your pussy feel so good. So fucking tight. All for me.”
Your face is burning, your heart soaring high, and you’ve been standing on the edge for so long, your body can’t keep up with this any longer. Stroking James’s cock in one hand, you plead, “Fuck, Sirius, don’t play around—I—I need to cum.”
“Yeah?” He chuckles, still constantly changing from one hole to another. “You want it, baby? Tell James who’s making you feel good right now.”
You chew on your lip, your hazy eyes drifting up to meet his azure ones. James’s face is set in resigned sad lines, his heart breaks in his eyes when you say, “Y-you, Sirius!”
Sensing the hesitation in your voice, Sirius fills the dip of your spine with his chest, his hand sneaking to your throat before his fingers frame your jaw, forcing you to whirl your head around to face him as he hovers right above your shoulder.
“I can’t hear you,” he says, “Who fucks you the best?”
You put more pressure on your words. “You, Sirius.”
Sirius fixates his gaze on James’s face, smirking both contemptuously and arrogantly. “Louder, Sweetheart.”
“You, Sirius!”
Keeping his eyes on the other male’s face, he croons, “Well, I guess I have to live up to my name then.”
Sirius moves back and forth, burying himself so deep in your cunt that you can feel his tip kissing your cervix.
He’s urging you on to your ecstasy, giving you a glimpse of what heaven feels like, by brushing his fingers over your sensitive clit and then presses, over and over again, teasing and taking as he claims your everything.
James flinches when your grip around him gets a little too tight, your orgasm approaching fast that you forget to pay attention to the man kneeling before you.
“Fuck my mouth,” you tell him, as you have no strength to spoil him any longer. With your hands balancing yourself on the couch, you relax your jaw and let him push in as much as he wants into your mouth.
A sudden snap of Sirius’s hips makes you moan louder and James gasps, the muscles in his abs tautening as he’s drawing closer to his climax. “Ah, —I’m gonna cum—“
“What about you, love?” Sirius’s breathing turns labored. “Gonna cum too? Gonna cum hard on my cock while he cums in your mouth?” He lands his palm on your head, shoving you harder onto James’s cock.
“Do it then, you filthy whore.”
James moans loudly, his blush spreading to his ears. “G-God,” he nearly whimpers as he hits the back of your throat. “sweetheart–”
Within seconds, the waves of pleasure inside you crest higher and at last, your orgasm crashes over you, stealing your breath and sending the roar and rush of blood ringing in your ears.
You have no choice but to pull away from James and thankfully, he lets you even when he was so close to achieving his ecstasy.
“Ah, I can feel it,” Sirius chuckles, his hips moving erratically as he’s nearing his brink. “Squeezing around me like that. Been my girl for so long and you still have the best fucking cunt in the world, baby.” He keeps moving his hips, overstimulating you until you let out a spurt, drenching the leather material of the couch with your juices.
“Wait, Sirius—” You sob out, your thighs trembling. “I’m still—”
“I know, baby, just give me a few seconds more,” Sirius says, panting hard, losing his rhythm. This aural evidence of his impending orgasm triggers another for you—smaller, but no less intense.
“Gonna fucking cum—I’m gonna—ah, fuck—” You can feel it exactly the moment he hits his orgasm, giving a forceful thrust one last time before he slows down, a drawled-out moan fleeting from his lips.
He still rocks his hips, fucking his seeds back into your hole, his head thrown back as he relishes in the sensation.
Dazed and wrecked, you watch James going down to his knees before you, one hand stroking his shaft while his other one finds your face, pulling you into a kiss.
He lays his temple against yours as he closes his eyes, nibbling on his lower lip as he pumps himself faster.
Seeing how rough Sirius fucked you earlier sends his blood pumping and James needs his release. “Touch me, please…”
Sirius, hearing his words, untangles his fingers from your hair. He pushes you down by the nape until your closed lips are pressed against the head of James’s cock, his pre-cum staining your mouth.
“Take care of him, baby,” your boyfriend says and in your haze, you separate your mouth, taking him in as much as you can. James groans, your mouth feels scorching hot and wet compared to his cold hands.
“Mmh—” you moan around him, giving James the final touch that he needs to send himself to cloud nine. James ejaculates inside your mouth with his lips — his hand lands on your shoulder, conflicted between pushing you away so he won’t stain you with his essence more than he already does, or keeping you still so you can swallow everything down your throat.
None of you are given any chance, however, as your boyfriend says, “Keep it in your mouth.”
Sirius pulls you up, your back flush against his chest as his face hovers above you, staring at you upside down.
“Open up,” he commands and you do, parting your lips to let him take a glimpse of James’s thick, white semen pooling inside your mouth.
Sirius smirks. “He came a lot, didn’t he?” Before you’re given a chance to respond, your boyfriend spits into your mouth, his hand pressing against the underside of your jaw. “Now, swallow.”
James watches the scene with his jaw hanging slack, unable to believe that this is the reality he’s seeing. He watches you share another inverted kiss with your boyfriend, with Sirius moaning against your mouth as he tastes the rest of James’s cum on your tongue.
James finally snaps out of the haze—though just barely—after watching you kiss Sirius like your life depends on it. His eyes are still glazed over with lust, lips parted, chest rising and falling a little too fast. He looks like he’s forgotten where he is—forgotten everything except you.
Then Sirius leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice is dark silk. “What do you say, baby? To Potter?”
You turn your head slowly, gaze locking onto James’s. There’s no teasing in his expression now—just raw want, wide and open. He’s still watching you like he can’t believe you’re real.
Your voice is soft, shaky. “Thank you, James.”
A slow, crooked smile pulls at his mouth. “Anytime, sweetheart.”
Satisfied, Sirius peels himself away from you and strides toward James, the tension between them simmering just beneath the surface. The space narrows until it vanishes altogether—Sirius grabs James by the throat, rough but controlled, and drags him forward.
It’s James who breaks first—slamming his lips into Sirius’s like he’s been waiting years for this. The kiss is wild and urgent, all teeth and tongues and barely restrained need.
You feel the heat rise again in your chest, between your legs, just watching them.
When they finally part, their lips are swollen, breaths ragged. James leans in close, voice low and reverent, and whispers against Sirius’s mouth:
“Thank you for sharing your girl, Black.”
-
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a/n: shit, that was filthy. also, if you know me, no you don't!
I think Jason is the type of wedding guest to only look at you throughout the entire reception. And oh, if you’re a bridesmaid, you’re in trouble because he’s locked in on you everywhere you go. You in your pretty dress, hair styled perfectly- even when you cry at the exchanged “I do’s”, you look so pretty. And as the groom and bride are reciting their vows- and your eyes start to well up with tears, you turn your head in search for the pair of pretty bluegreen eyes to find them already watching you. This look he’s giving you, it almost knocks you off your feet- the intensity of it. You feel caught in his gaze. He looks absolutely gone, like he’s just realized something you haven’t yet. His eyes, usually so guarded, now full of awe and devotion as he mouths “I love you”. Meant for you and only you.
anymore judd fics in the works??? i loved your other stories about him 🫶
Thank youu.
I do have 1 fic in the work, since I got another ask for jealous!Judd. If you have any ideas on what you'd like feel free to send an ask and I'll do my best to give you what you'd like!!
The only problem is that I'm very much in a writer's block right now and have little to no motivation </3 I'm in a slump.
Obviously I'm on my holiday now and I'd love to start writing more, especially now that the new Big Mouth season is out (which I definitely didn't cry to at the end). But, I'll have to see if some motivation comes to me..
I rewatched Big mouth season Six, and seeing Elioth Dad's and how he make his relationship with Diane strained, made me think of how innocent Reader would be uncomfortable and didn't want to be in the birch house with Judd's grandpa there 🫂
What do You think of Judd and his grandpa dynamic? I really love how You write him🫶
I think that Judd finds his grandpa funny sometimes.
Judd's a sucker for funny insults, whether they're directed at him, his friends, or even his family.
Though, the moment he knows they're making you uncomfortable? That's a different story. He can handle the insults, he knows that he can, and he knows his family doesn't take them to heart either. But you? Sweet, innocent you? Lovely, sensitive you, who could do no wrong in his eyes? Well, he can’t have that.
Judd’s a fan of violence, and well, so is his Grandpa. Maybe Judd’s not big on the ‘nipple twisting’ gig, but he’s definitely a fan of the tension it brings to the house. He finds it amusing how riled up his dad gets, and well, he enjoys seeing Nick squirm too, with his father and grandpa’s focus on him. Judd and his Grandpa get along on a surface level.
But, it’s not like Judd cares for his company. He couldn’t care less whether his Grandpa stays or goes… Either way, Judd’s usually alone in his room when he’s home, so he doesn’t have to worry about his grandpa’s controversial personality.
That is, until you come over.
Maybe you’d be having dinner with the family, and his grandpa makes a comment about how timid and quiet you are, how painfully shy you can be. And well, Judd knows how insecure you can get. He can tell from then on that you’re uncomfortable, even quieter than you usually would be. He hates that. For the time being, he’d simply tell the old man to shut up, maybe hold his knife in a ‘threatening’ way. Of course, his grandpa couldn’t care less.
He continues to make comments throughout dinner, and Judd has to do his best to keep some control. If it wasn’t for your sake, he would’ve jumped across the table hours ago and knocked the old man out, even worse than his father had. But he knew you wouldn’t appreciate that, knew it’d only make you feel worse.
Instead, he whisked you up to his room the moment dinner was over. He was always clingy with you when nobody else was around, but even more so now. His hands didn’t leave your body, and he spent hours worshipping you, letting you know how much he loved you, no matter how shy or timid you were. Those were some of his favourite things about you! Judd has never been good with words, usually relying on his actions to communicate, so that’s what he did.
Of course, he did his best to speak with you, asking if you were alright, coaxing you into communicating with him. But when you were like this, you seemed to just shut down; you didn’t want to come between him and his grandpa.
So, you stopped coming around so much. You’d come up with an excuse whenever he invited you over, insist he came over to your house instead. That broke his heart. The last thing he wanted was for you to be uncomfortable in his home. You were best friends with his sister, you even loved his overbearing parents and ass-hole little brother. You’d integrated yourself into their family, and now his Grandpa was pushing you away.
Judd… He wasn’t the kind of person to just sit back and let others ruin everything he’d worked for. It had taken a lot of work to get you out of your shell, to get you to warm up to not only him but his family too.
So maybe his raccoon’s had randomly started sneaking into his grandpa’s room, tearing up what little possessions he had and even leaving the old man with some scratches of his own every now and then. And maybe Judd had started coming up with all kinds of plans for how to get rid of the old man. He had plenty of ideas, but a lot of them weren’t legal, and he didn’t plan on going to prison. At least, not this early on in his life.
The very day his grandfather had left, he'd made sure to invite you over. You'd been somewhat weary at first, timid and silent. But, after a while around his parents, there was a limit to how quiet you could really be. You were comfortable again soon enough, the dynamic returning to the way it had been before. Everything in his world was right again, and he couldn't be happier, even if he doesn't really show it on his face.
This isn't very good, but I'm really struggling with any writing motivation now. I WANT to write, especially now that the new/final season of Big Mouth is out and everybody has interest in Judd again, but I've just really hit a block </3
