Hi!! anon from heavenly hazards here <33. I am totally in for whichever decision you are comfy with!! I will still be reading it im 100% sure lol. 👀 I also write, so i understand the struggle to pick up some old WIP and would choose to rewrite it again (personally).
BUT LIKE
I am attached to the og storyline, but I AM TOTALLY LOOKING FORWARD to get ahold of more of ur Adam works whether you choose to pick up from where it was left off, or if you rewrite it 🤸♀️🧍♀️🧎♀️🤹♀️🏇🏌️♀️🤼♀️🤼♀️🏋️♀️
OMG STOP THE EMOJIS ARE KILLING ME!!! idk who you are, anon, but I love you 😭😭
But yeah!!! I think I’ll definitely rewrite it :O but I want to keep the same general plot! Just expand more! I’m still gonna keep the same light-hearted, stylized writing!!!! (If anyone wants reference for how my style has changed though…. I recently did just write my first chapter for a yuri radiostatic fic……. It’s on my main tho. The same one I wrote my Adam smut on LMAOOOOOOO no shame)
HEY EVERYONE!!! I keep taking breaks from this account 😭 genuinely so sorry. I’ve been so busy with school— majoring in theatre is HARD!!! But (not to brag) I’ve been getting some really good opportunities. A few weeks ago, I had my first ever paid stand-up gig!!! It was awesomeeeeeee.
My time away has been great, but something keep gnawing at me to come back to this account. I’m gonna go ahead and finish writing all the requests in my inbox— so look out for those!! It’ll take me awhile, but I want to give yall quality fics. :]
Will you ever update the Heavenly Hazards again? 😭 found the masterpiece in ao3 and i am hOOKED
Hey!!! I really appreciate you reaching out :D I’ve been writing for some other fandoms on my main account, but I’ve actually been thinking about this account a lot recently!! I miss writing for Adam and interacting with the awesome people. And I really think your message was the sign for me to do so 😭
So here’s a question for you!!! I’ve vastly improved from my beginner days and I think I can tell the story better. Should I try and rewrite it, possibly changing the plot a bit? But still keeping it light and silly!!!! Ofc ofc.
Can we get a little fluffy Dewey fic? 🥺🙏
Like, he's strumming on his guitar at night, and he teaches us a couple of small chords, and teaches us how to use the pick properly.
maybe a few kisses here and there-
Thank you!
(She/Her reader if that helps any)
I WANT TO WRITE A DEWEY FIC SO BADLY!!! This was a joy to write, thank you!
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Dewey always likes to tell me that music is about feeling, not theory. That sometimes, your hands will find the right chord before your brain does. That’s how he found me, he says. A mismatched note that somehow sounded better than all the right ones.
Glow-in-the-dark stars stick to the ceiling and reflect on the polish of Dewey’s acoustic guitar. He’s leaning against his bed’s backboard, jostling the sheets as his knee bounces to the rhythm. With each strum of the strings, Dewey ducks his head in a bob, hair flopping over his forehead. I am struck with the overwhelming desire to rake my hands through his curls, hold back the strands so I can make out the shine of his eyes, the purse of his lips as he hums along. Instead, I sit opposite of him, letting the music move me. I sway back and forth, like a snake to a charmer. My eyes stay locked on him, staring with an intensity that rattles even me to my core. Dewey, feeling the burn of my gaze, glances up. When he catches me, he smiles boyishly, the slope of his grin charmingly lopsided.
“You know,” he says cheekily. “There’s something kinda magical about playing guitar when the whole world’s asleep. Like the chords sound different. Quieter. More… romantic.”
He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. A laugh bubbles out of me. I feel like I’m floating, gently rocking on a hammock, swaddled in a sea of warmth. Something lodges in my throat, warm and overpowering. I swallow it, only for it to spread across my chest like a wildfire. It burns. It’s gentle. It’s so many things at once. I sit in it for a second, bask in the sensation. It’s sitting by the fire after playing in the snow. It’s applying aloe vera after spending all day in the pool with friends. It’s dancing with Dewey Finn in his kitchen while he croons in your ear.
“Romantic, huh?” I shoot back. “Is that part of your teaching technique, or are you just trying to flirt with your student?”
"Excuse you, this is professional music instruction. I happen to be a very serious educator." At that, he deliberately picks a sour note. When I snort in response, he perks up. Dewey preens under my positive attention and does it again. Soon, he begins strumming a horrible chord. It grates my ears, but I’m still smiling hard enough that my cheeks hurt. When he settles down, finished with his endearing comedy act, I lean forward.
“Okay then, Mr. Finn. Teach me something. Impress me.”
If possible, Dewey shines even brighter, fire crackling to life. It blazes in his eyes, flickers in his toothy smile. My heart constricts, a boa tightening its grip around it, clenching hard enough that I’m afraid to be sent into cardiac arrest. Everything feels light, like the wind itself is sweeping me off my feet. I float in space, untethered and free. A balloon in the vast atmosphere. Distantly, Dewey’s voice tugs on my leash. “Yes! Okay, okay, here. Come sit next to me.”
He shifts, scooting one side of the bed, the mattress dipping with his movement. Reaching from behind him, Dewey pulls a small pillow, and places it in the empty spot next to him, as if adorning a throne. He uses his hand to flatten the bedsheet, dusting off any crumbs or debris. I know there’s a silly smile splitting my face, but I can’t bring myself to tamp it down. A part of me wants him to see, to notice how he makes me feel. He steadily meets my eyes, patting the vacant area to encourage me to come and sit by him. Never one to say no to Dewey Finn, I comply, crawling my way towards him. When I’m situated, legs sprawled out in front of me, nestled against his side, he carefully hands me his guitar. It feels like a bigger deal than it is, like he’s letting me hold a part of him. I cradle the instrument in my lap like a newborn baby.
Dewey still holds onto the guitar. At first, I believe it’s because he’s anxious to part from it, nervous to see how I’ll treat it. But his fingertips stay brushing against mine. And then it clicks, that he’s flirting with me, and playing innocent about it. He seems to notice my revelation, because that gooey look in his eyes transforms into coyness. I playfully wrinkle my nose. “Stop that, and help teach me the pick thing. Properly.”
He softens into something more sincere, and hands me the pick. He adjusts my fingers, touch light, mind focused. There’s something thrilling about not only seeing him in his element, but being a part of it, too.
“Let it glide. Don’t force it. The guitar wants to sing, not be punched in the face.”
I snort a laugh. “How deep.”
He nuzzles his head on my shoulder. “Hey, music is like life, babe. Sometimes you just gotta strum and hope it sounds good.”
My tongue pokes out between my lips as I laser in on the guitar. I place my fingers on the fretboard in a position I recall Dewey doing, and hope for the best. Holding the pick the way he taught me, I strike the strings. A chord rings out, but it doesn’t sound exactly right. I try it again, but it sounds the same. Dewey clears his throat.
“That… was technically a G major. Technically. But also maybe a crime against music…?”
I push him off me, using my elbow to force him away. He lets me jab him, laughing all the while. “You’re the worst.”
He looks at me for a second, and I feel vulnerable, like he’s really seeing me. I have the urge to close off, to hide my face in my hands and hope he didn’t catch anything. But instead, I let him. I keep my head trained forward, eyes stuck on the instrument. All of a sudden, he leans in and pecks my cheek.
“Still your favorite teacher, though.”
I hum, pretending to think it over, before turning my head and catching him mid-grin. Our lips meet in a gentle kiss, unrushed and sugary sweet. When I pull back, he looks like he’s about to melt into the floor.
Whilst I work on some requests (IM EXCITED) here's a small tip. SUGGESTIVE THEMES!!
A tide receding from the shore, electric green ebbs from his hair, strands steadily replaced by a vivid magenta. It reminds you of melted crayons, the way the color seeps into his scruff and tie. It threatens to continue to creep its path downwards, to blush all the way down to his shoes, but you know Beetlejuice well enough to tell when he’s willing the overwhelming emotions away. He puffs out his cheeks and holds his breath. You have the desire to reach forwards, run your hand through his untamed punk curls, to tug and rake, see if he can cast the entire room in a soft pink glow. Your hand, from where it’s rested at your side, twitches with the need. You close your fingers in a fist and bump it against your thigh, restraining yourself. You want to touch him.
Beetlejuice curls his upper lip in a snarl, intense enough for you to make out the rotting of his gums. His incisors are dull, flat enough that you wouldn’t worry about him breaking your skin. It’s his canines that you’re worried about. They’re whetted, sharp in the same way a rose has thorns. A hiss breaks from his throat, and his fangs begin to take an unruly form, lengthening like a cat revealing its claws. You are the mouse willingly trapped beneath his paw, foolishly hoping for him to be gentle. To hurt, but not kill. You are offering him something foreign in the afterlife. Trust. Something that you humans take for granted, handing out that fragile gift like you would a pack of chewing gum. But here, with him, a demon, it’s something more intimate. Trust is handing someone a piece of you and hoping they won't set it aflame. Foolishness is knowing they will, and doing it anyway.
You’re not sure to which category you fall.
His forked tongue comes to taste the front of his teeth– a death row inmate looking at his last meal. As he licks a line across his incisors, something in his mouth catches the dim light. You blink. A barbell piercing. It makes you pause, shock seamlessly slicing through the haze in your mind. How long has he been hiding this surprise? It makes you wonder what else of him is pierced. Beetlejuice must sense this, because he bites down on the jewelry, toying with it between his teeth. He’s trying his best to redirect your attention. It feels more like a threat than a seduction method, though. Fear and arousal blend together like how dusk swallows daylight.
Adam presses his mouth into a thin line, tightly folding his lips together. You keep your eyes trained anywhere but his mouth. A woman possessed, you fight back the urge to reach your hand up and brush your thumb against his lower lip, to encourage him down until your mouth is melded against his. Temptation is a sin, and you are no better than any lowly demon. Darting your eyes from feature to feature, you find yourself tracing the bob of his throat as he swallows hard. Next to your head, his fist wrinkles the sheets, as if he’s having to physically restrain himself. He doesn’t seem much better off than you. A tide of heat washes over you at the thought, like seafoam on a wave, travelling straight south. Your toes dig in the sand as you let the imagined water wash over you, blanketing you in its warmth.
He lowers himself, chest flush against your stomach, his hot breath fanning across your sternum, like Summer’s winds. When he bows his head, his tousled hair flops over his forehead, hiding him from you. You want to brush the strands out of the way, to watch him, to memorize the way he looks as he kisses his way up your sternum, lips brushing lightly on your skin. As he carves his path towards your collarbone, kisses transform into tongue. Adam licks a wide stripe that has you whimpering, putty beneath him.
He’s barely touched you, and yet you’re already a mess, a skein of yarn unraveled by his hands.
Your veins are electricity, currents dancing beneath your skin, as palms trek up your torso. His hands are rough, calloused, and all-encompassing. You are stone, and he is the carver, sculpting you however he sees fit. They slide to your chest, cupping the tender flesh. A shallow intake of air has your chest heaving into his hands. He kneads your breasts and you melt, like wax to a flame, as his tongue drags along the curve of your neck. Adam swallows, as if indulging the taste of you, and places a wet, open-mouthed kiss right below your ear, at your pulse point. Your heartbeat, pounding, stutters like the flap of a butterfly’s wings. He feels it, and impishly smiles into your skin. This is your only warning before he’s baring his teeth, a predator about to taste blood, and latches down.
Adam’s teeth rip into your flesh, easily breaking the surface as though it was wet paper. The pleasure steadily pooling in your core is rinsed away, sharp pain burrowing itself into your nerves. His name flavors your tongue, threatens to wrench itself from your throat. It would be like spurring him in the side, encouraging him to bite down harder until the only syllables you can cry out are his title. Your canine catches your bottom lip and the sounds slide back down.
He is a juxtaposition; his mouth rough, but his hands gentle. His palms lift from your breasts, hovering only an inch above, like a breath before a vow. Fingers brush against the buds of your nipples, coaxing for them to harden. They obey, stiffening under his touch. He pinches the peaks with his thumb and index, rolling the flesh between his fingers. Sensuality jolts through your spine like lightning to a rod. Your head is left reeling, toeing the line between pleasure and pain, until they blend together, paints on a canvas. His mouth releases from your neck, teeth scraping against the pulse point. Lips meet the freshly-formed mark branding your skin like a tattoo. Tender. Merciful.
Suddenly, his face floods your sight, greedily taking up every inch of your vision until he’s the only thing you can see. Gold drips from his mouth, the same honeyed hue as his eyes, your blood glistening on his lips. Desire, pure and honest, burns brightly in your chest, bubbling over like magma from a mountain. You want to run your tongue across his mouth. To trace the swollen shape of his cupid’s bow. To nip at his bottom lip until a shimmering yellow stains your teeth. Until you don’t know where your gore ends, and his begins.
Deft digits continue to tweak your nipples, tugging and toying with the sensitive buds. Something foreign builds in your core, threatening to erupt, a geyser dug into the ground. The only familiar sensation you can compare it to is the feeling right before a sneeze. It feels weird. Not bad, but weird. You drop your mouth to ask him to stop, to confess that something must be wrong. Instead, your lips circle the shape of a broken moan. Adam smirks, wide enough that you can make out the snarl of his gums. His fingers pinch and twist. Your eyes automatically shut close, darkness falling into place like a curtain call. In the velvety gloom, his smile is burnt into the back of your eyelids.
“Enjoying yourself there, babes?” His voice is rough, coarse like grits of sand, slipping through the webs of your fingers. It piles at your ankles, rising to your knees until you’re being dragged under like a snare. Everything is slow, muscles heavy in a way you don’t recognize. It’s the feeling of sleep paralysis, in that pocket between awake and asleep, where you just can’t seem to move. You whimper in response, which makes him laugh. The sound resonates in your chest, a pleasant buzz travelling to your limbs, like static and needles. “Yeah you fucking should be. I don’t do this shit for just any bitch.”
contains: smut, angst, fluff, possessiveness, oral, and penetration
9,000+ words
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You’re standing at the edge of the house’s designated dancefloor, idly swaying side to side to the music. The song’s bass is boosted so high that you can’t discern any of the lyrics. It doesn’t stop the drunken sea of people from yelling out their own guess of words. You leisurely sip on your drink, a flat soda, as your date rambles on and on about some random topic. He’s cute enough, you suppose. Dark hair and light brown eyes. You gulp down another mouthful of your beverage, ignoring the resemblance he bears. You let the guy– Brad? Braydon? You don’t quite remember– lean in close to whisper something in your ear. The pumping of the music engulfs whatever he’s said, so you just pretend to laugh. This seems to be the correct response as he leans back, a smug smile splitting his face.
Across the room, on the other side of the swarm of people, you’re being watched. In between bodies, you’re able to catch glances. Golden brown eyes. Messy tufts of curls. Stubbled chin. Everything you want your date to be, and everything he’s not. Adam stands with his arms crossed against his chest, forearms flexing deliciously. He looks pissed. But it’s not like he has a claim over you. Not anymore.
You pretend to not see him, focusing your attention on batting your eyes up at your date. You place a flirtatious hand on his bicep, ignoring the disgust jolting through your body when he reciprocates, placing his own hand over yours. This doesn’t feel right. His palm should be larger, his scent should be muskier, his touch should be rougher. You push it down and purr at him. Hopefully Adam is still watching– you’re giving him a real show right now. The guy smiles before removing himself from you. You tell yourself that you’re disappointed.
He says something, and points down the hall, towards the restroom. You nod in understanding, giving him a thumbs up. He waves you off, and wanders away. You’re left alone, drink in hand, as couples pair up in front of you. You look across the room to drink in the sight of Adam, but he’s gone. Left without saying a word. Humiliation creeps in. You swallow it down and head into the kitchen, to get away from all the noise.
You don’t get far. A large hand wraps around the width of your elbow, tugging you, encouraging you to spin around. You pull against them, trying to dislodge your arm from their grasp, but their hold is firm. They yank again, this time with more force. You do not appreciate being manhandled by some random person. Before you can think better of it, you find yourself allowing them to turn you. As you whirl around, you rear back your drink and throw it onto the person’s shirt. Someone in the crowd gasps. You don’t understand why at first– shit like this happens at house parties all the time– until recognition clicks.
Adam.
Your soda soaks his upper torso, spilling from the collar down. He drops his hand from where he’s grabbed you. Instead, his arms raise away from his sides, elbows in the same straight line as his shoulders. He’s looking down, taking in the quickly forming stain. Steam practically billows from his ears, fury wafting off of him in strong waves. Your own jaw drops, regret flushing the slant of your cheeks. You gape, mouth snapping open and close like a fish out of water. Adam’s head jerks up to look straight at you, eyes swirling with wrath.
“Are you serious, bitch?” he hisses, a cat threatening its claws. Your hands fly to cover your mouth as you wince.
“Oh my god. I am so sorry.”
“Yeah, you better fucking be!” Adam tugs at his collar, pulling the damp fabric away from his neck. “Now I need a new fucking shirt!”
Around you, people are beginning to stare, watching the exchange with a complete lack of subtlety. The crowd’s eyes prickle your skin, makes the air on the back of your neck stand. You know this is hot gossip– two exes duking it out in the middle of a party. The attention has your shoulders raising to meet your ears, head ducking down to hide your embarrassment. Adam either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care, too enthralled with yelling over how you ruined his clothes. Your hand automatically comes forward to placate, to comfort, but you close your fist and drop it back to your side. In a different attempt to de-escalate the situation, you lower your voice.
“Seriously, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was you.”
Adam, seemingly for once in his dense life, actually gets the hint. He glances around the room, taking in the watchful crowd, and huffs through his nose. This time, when he speaks, it’s softer. Just for your ears. “Yeah, fucking obviously . God, girls and their need to ‘protect themselves from big, scary men.’ Pathetic.”
You pointedly ignore that. “Really, I didn’t know it was you.”
“Yeah, well.” he sniffs. “You owe me.”
“What the hell?!” you grit out between your teeth, incredulous. You remember yourself and, with a quick sweep around the room, note that people have returned back to their own conversations. Your chest loosens, relieved to no longer be in the spotlight. You look around to see if what’s-his-name has returned from the bathroom, come to be your knight in shining armor and rescue you from this awkward situation. No dice. You turn back to Adam. He’s waiting with a raised brow. You frown. “What do I even owe you?”
“You can start by showing me to the main bedroom. Hopefully they have some spare fucking shirts. Or else I’m going to be real pissed.”
You exaggeratedly roll your eyes. “Whatever, you big baby. It’s probably upstairs. Go find it yourself.”
“Like hell I am!” Adam barks. He points a thick finger in your face, and you go cross-eyed to see it. “You threw the drink, you’re helping me search!”
“I’m not–” you use the back of your hand to slap away his finger, and pinch the bridge of your nose. There’s no use in arguing with Adam, not when he’s made up his mind. Once upon a time, his stubbornness and willingness to fight over his beliefs was an attractive quality. Except when it came to the two of you butting heads. He wasn’t ever trying to fix the problem in an argument, instead too focused on just trying to win. You sigh. “Fine. Whatever gets you off my ass faster.”
He visibly perks up at the mention of your ass, bending his neck at an awkward angle to try and get a good peek. Your hands meet your hips. You shoot him a scathing, pointed look until he relents with an annoyed grumble. You aren’t sure of what he said, but it was definitely something offensive. His lip twitches before breaking out in a plastic smile. He raises his elbow in offering, waggling his eyebrows, enticing you to take his arm. Now he’s really starting to get on your nerves. You shove his arm down and, without giving him a second look, begin walking.
You weave through the horde of people on the dancefloor, trusting Adam to be hot on your heels. A part of you wants him to lose you in the crowd. You’re tempted to do just that– duck behind the tallest people you can find and see if it works. But it’s Adam you’re talking about. He has a weird talent of being able to sniff you out like a bloodhound. Besides, he’d probably enjoy the chase, convincing himself that you’re playing hard to get for a reason.
Are you?
The ask has you halting in your tracks, heels digging into the floor. Are you? You frown, unsure of how to navigate the question. You broke up with him, why would you have any reason to get his attention? You’re jostled from your confusing thoughts at the feeling of someone ramming into you from behind. Grousing, you don’t even have to spin around to know it’s Adam. You’d recognize the stocky build of his frame anywhere. You hear him flounder, cursing under his breath, until his hands grab your hips in an effort to balance himself. Otherwise, he’d send you both toppling over. You would land with him on top of you. Although it’d definitely hurt, the idea of Adam’s body pinning you to the ground has your mind reeling.
You make no effort to move away. He notices. Because of course he does. He pauses. Waits for you to protest. His hands linger, thumbs rubbing over your hip bones, gentle as if soothing a spooked animal. The loud music of the dancefloor pumps adrenaline through your veins, and gives you the courage to stay still, like moving would make him back off. You should want him to back off. You don’t. The realization has you swallowing hard, mouth suddenly as dry as the state of the Sahara. You feel him slowly press himself against you, chest flush against your back. Careful, testing the waters, he guides your hips to roll into his. You have the urge to throw your head back, let him grind himself into you, but you stop yourself.
Now you have an answer to your question. Your heart feels like it’s pounding out of your chest, threatening to break free from your ribcage and place itself into Adam’s waiting palms. You know he’d just crush it in his fist. You purse your lips and remove yourself off of him before he gyrates his hips against yours again. He lets you go too easily, like shrugging off a coat. You train your eyes forwards and keep walking.
When you eventually pop out the other side, pushing through the wall of sweaty college students, you find yourself at the bottom of the stairs. Adam isn’t far behind, his shoulder brushing yours as he stops beside you. You feel him turn his head and look at you. You don’t look back. He hums before pushing forwards, treading onto the first few steps. You watch him go, feet frozen to the floor, unsure of what to do. On one hand, you should probably get back to your date. You feel like a dick ditching him to go with your ex. Even if it’s just to find him a new shirt. But on the other hand…
Adam gets halfway up the stairs before turning to you expectantly. His eyes pierce straight into you. “Got cold feet?”
God, he’s so infuriating. You want to shut him up. Punch him until his lip is split open, kiss him until he’s dazed and speechless. You feel stuck in a game of tug-o-war, continuously torn between hating and loving him. You wish you were over him. Something burns in you when you admit it, doused in gasoline and flames. It’s a terrifying realization. Regret and relief over breaking up with him. He wasn’t good for you. You desperately wanted him to be.
“You wish.” you scoff, and march up the stairs. Adam dodges out of the way before you could purposefully ram your shoulder into him, elbows leaning casually on the rail. You step past him, ignoring how he checks out your ass as you walk. You also very much ignore how you arch your back just the tiniest amount to allow him a better view. You’re just a person, after all.
You both trek to the top. Waiting right in front of you is a door. You look to Adam, who’s still scanning your behind. You clear your throat, serving to both get his attention, and to dislodge the nervous lump blocking your airway. You hate that he has this effect on you– able to condense you down to some desperate schoolgirl. You broke up with him, for Heaven’s sake. He was a dick. Is a dick. You shouldn’t be preening under his attention. And you certainly shouldn’t be reevaluating if the break up was worth it.
You miss him.
Adam’s eyes trek up your body until he meets your eyes. He smiles shamelessly, not a lick of embarrassment at being caught. You tamp down a blush, refusing to let him know what he does to you, and force a flattened, unimpressed look. It’s not very hard to muster– you are unimpressed with him. Feelings be damned, he’s still a tier one douchebag. Adam scoffs, and without waiting for you, moves towards the door. He turns the handle, swinging open the door to reveal a bathroom. And– of course– in the bathtub, a couple is having sex, too enthralled to even realize they’ve been caught. Adam leans against the doorframe, watching them rut against each other. You squawk, averting your eyes, and grab the handle and swiftly shut the door.
Adam groans. “Oh, c’mon. Don’t be such a prude.”
You wrinkle your nose in distaste and instead of offering him a response, you move down the hall, onto the next door. When you open this one, it’s to a decently sized bedroom. You spot a closet, filled with an array of shirts. Thank God. You hold the door open for Adam to pass through. He struts in, not saying thank you, and barrels straight for the closet. You follow him in, closing the door behind you. You lock it, just for safe measure. When you turn around, your breath catches in your throat.
Back displayed to you, Adam’s fingers run along the hem of his wet shirt, lingering there. He grasps the sides, right under his ribcage, and tugs. The cotton peels away, inch by inch, the wetness making every movement deliberate. The first flash of his back, tan and taut, is enough to make your lungs stutter. Brown locks poke through the top hole as he drags the shirt higher, messy and untamed, clinging to his forehead. His shoulder blades are sharp, a contrast to the soft shape of his hips. The shirt finally gives, tugging off, baring him to you. A pang of desire strikes you like lightning. You have half a mind to strut over and run your hands down the length of his spine.
You wonder if he’d still be as reactive as he used to be– shuddering under your touch, red painting his cheeks, lust clouding his eyes. You wonder if he’d whine as you explored the expanse of his back, if he’d swiftly spin around to pin you against the closed door and envelope your lips in a kiss. You wonder if he’d want you too.
But you don’t. You keep your feet planted and your hands pinned to your side. That doesn’t stop your eyes from wandering, sliding from his messy curls, to his bare back, all the way to his ass. You did always like those jeans– it did wonders for him. Of course, you’d honestly prefer if he were out of those pants, stripped down to nothing, body on full display. You chew on your bottom lip, uncomfortably squirming as heat shoots to your groin. When you shift your eyes back up, you catch Adam’s eyes.
Busted.
He’s looking over his shoulder, face split with a grin. You’re a gazelle at a standstill, pinned under the weight of a lion’s hungry glare, waiting to see who will move first. You both stare at each other, until you finally relent, looking away to the floor. He softly chuckles, a warning, before you hear heavy padding against the carpeted floor. The toes of his shoes appear in your vision and, when you look up, Adam is standing right in front of you. He balls up his wet shirt and tosses it to the ground, watching it pool on the floor. You furrow your brows, but he’s not done.
He slowly moves his hands to his belt, carefully unbuckling it. With a dramatic click, it’s undone, leather straps loosely falling to the sides. Adam’s canine bites into his lip as he pulls the belt through the loops, until it’s free. He lifts his hand, elbow straightened, and opens his fist. You swallow hard and watch as the belt falls to the ground. It lands on his shirt. You blink, the fog of want lifting from your dazed mind. Your mouth snaps open in accusation.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Adam brings one shoulder to his ear in a careless shrug. You’d almost believe he was innocent, if it weren’t for the dangerous glint in his eyes. His eyes rake your body, just like yours had done to him moments before. “What? I’m just giving you a show. You should be grateful, slut.”
He hits the ‘t’ hard, spitting it out like venom; a reminder that no matter how you may be feeling right now, you are still both just exes. Indignation rumbles in your chest, humiliation burning behind your eyes. How could you forget? He doesn’t care about you, not anymore. You rise to the bait, grab it between your teeth and chew.
“Don’t call me that.” you grit out.
His smile widens, leaning in close, just as your date had done earlier that night. “Why not? You used to enjoy it, especially when I’d bend you over–”
You push him. You bring a hand to his chest and push him. Hard. Your palm burns, set alight by the contact. Adam goes stumbling backwards, clearly taken off guard by your reaction. He catches his footing and snarls, lip curling and nostrils flaring. He huffs, a bull about to charge. You’re the bullfighter, snapping the red fabric in his face, enticing him to attack. You know it’s happening, but you feel intense and out of control, just like you always do around him.
“Shut the fuck up, you prick!” You march towards him, herding him towards the bed until the back of his knees touch the mattress. He’s furious, face pinched tight, but you aren’t scared. Despite everything, you trust him not to lay a hand on you. And he doesn’t, even when you jab a finger into his bare chest, right over his heart. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”
“I can talk to you however I’d like.” he growls. “We’re broken up , remember?”
“And whose fault is that?”
He pushes your finger off of his pec, teeth clacking together as if he’s holding back from biting your head clean off. “ Yours, you stupid bitch! You’re the one who said it! Or can your tiny bimbo brain not recall?”
You gape in disbelief, before laughing– a nasty, bitter sound. “My fault?! If you weren’t such a raging dickhole, then I wouldn’t have had to break up with you! Ever thought about that?”
“Trust me, it’s all I ever think about!”
His mouth quickly snaps shut, lips thinning into a tight line. A piece of your heart crumbles, the part of you that will always have a soft spot for Adam, breaking in two. But you’re too wrapped up in the heat of the moment, drowning in an ocean of pain and heartbreak. You’re clawing your way out, paddling and pushing for any sort of reprieve, and all you can do is keep pressing. You hate how big of an effect he still has on you.
“Go fuck yourself, Adam! You don’t get to pull the victim card when you hurt me !”
He doesn’t respond, just frowns in response, jaw strained shut. You bulldoze past, continuing screaming at him. “I loved you! I loved you and you didn’t love me back! So fuck you! I hate you!” You sniffle, and repeat, softer. “I hate you.”
Your lip wobbles, and the corners of your eyes prick with tears, but you refuse to let them fall. Like hell that Adam is going to see you cry. You glare at him, mustering as much hate as you can, even when it feels hollow and misplaced. Behind his eyes, you see something snap in him. His brows soften and his mouth opens, though, the only sound that comes out is a sharp intake of air. His face twists from despair into something hardened.
And then he surges forwards.
Lips messily crash against yours. His hands are rough as they grab your cheeks, pulling you in. Noses awkwardly bump. Teeth clash. Drool dribbles. Something sharp pierces through the overwhelming hurt and rage lodged in your chest. Your nerves feel alight, burning with an intensity as he presses into your mouth. It feels right. It feels wrong. All too soon, it ends as quickly as it began, Adam pulling away and releasing your face from his hold. His expression is of complete shock– he looks as surprised as you feel. You wonder if he feels as out of control as you do, relying on your instincts.
“Adam.” you say.
He swallows. He has the decency to look ashamed, but his eyes stay glued on your lips. “I know.”
You’re at a crossroad. You should tell him off, scream at him for playing with you. Insist that you feel nothing for him except disdain. Admit that it hurts to even think about him. Confess that you miss him, but you can’t do this. Leave. Everything you should do, but nothing you do do. It’s like you're being pulled by a string, some apparition guiding your hands to lay on his pecs. His eyes slowly rise to meet yours, something guarded sparking in the iris. A beat. He shakily cups one of your hands in his palm, enclosing completely around the appendage, and moves it to rest over his heart. It pounds beneath your touch, stuttering as your expression softens. You open your mouth to say something, but he shakes his head.
You frown, reminded of a time when he was gentle, vulnerable in a way no one else has seen. Your hand applies pressure and pushes him, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed. Adam lets you, sinking into the mattress. You stay standing, nestled between his legs, and tentatively reach a hand. You cup his face, delicate. He pushes his cheek further into your palm, practically nuzzling it, and looks up at you. He looks pathetic and exhausted. Your fingers travel up his jaw, pushing a strand of hair behind his ear. A pained sound falls from his lips.
Sympathy unfurls like a flower taking bloom. Letting it lead you, you paw at his chest, lightly scraping your fingernails up and down his torso. You stalk forwards, close enough that he has to strain his neck to look up at you. Adam closes his eyes, eyebrows pinch together in a conflicted expression. You take pity on him, and maneuver to place your knees on the outside of his thighs, effectively straddling him. You lean down and capture his lips in a kiss, soft and fragile. The delicate peck doesn’t last long, quickly transforming into something more heated when Adam tilts his head. You part your lips and he darts his tongue inside. Adam simply tastes of spit, underwhelming.
You suck on his intruding tongue, hard, just like he always used to like. His reaction is instantaneous, groaning into your mouth. He moves to lay on his spine, pressing against the flat of your back to encourage you to follow. You duck down, laying your weight on top of him without breaking the kiss. This is the most alive you’ve felt in months. For the first time in a while, it’s like the world slows down. You’re able to finally breathe, and you do. You pull back, just barely, enough distance to pant into Adam’s mouth. He’s not off much better, seemingly completely undone, unraveled below you, a single strand of spit connecting you two.
Something shifts in Adam, a predatory gleam, a sharp intake of breath, and manifests in him spinning to pin you against the bed. You yelp as you twirl, landing on your back with a huff of air, stolen straight from your lungs. Above you, Adam settles on his elbows, placed on either side of your head. He stoops down, nosing at your neck, planting hot, open-mouthed kisses in his wake. Your back arches off the mattress, thrusting into his chest. He wraps a hand around the dip of your back, holding you flush to his torso. You can’t help but ask.
“Adam,” you start, though it comes out as a moan, winded and dizzy. You swallow and try again. “Adam.”
“That’s right, baby.” he coos, nibbling right beneath your jaw. “Let ‘em know who’s about to make you feel real good.”
Your body betrays you, head tilting to the side to allow him more access. He takes territory of the slope of your neck, teeth scraping, but not quite biting. He leaves no marks. Leaves no claim.
“Wait, Adam, stop. For just one second.”
He curses a quiet ‘fuck,’ and lowers his face, resting his forehead on your collarbone. Adam breathes puffs of hot air. You can feel it through the thin fabric of your shirt. It makes you squirm, but he’s stopped kissing you. You can think, even if the heavy fog of lust hangs low in your brain.
“What are we doing here?” you ask, looking up at the ceiling. You feel Adam tense up, the arm around your waist freezing. He doesn’t have an answer for a second. What are y’all doing? You broke up with him for a reason. You can’t just throw all caution to the wind and sleep with him. You’ll never get rid of him. You tamp down the part of you that’s loud, screaming at you to take him back. Adam lifts his head, his typical plastic smirk etched on his face, a mask falling back into place.
“It’s just sex, babe. No need to get all clingy.”
“Just sex?” you echo.
“Yep.”
“Okay.” A pause. Then, quieter. “Cool.”
“Cool.” he repeats. His voice is tight, his eyes search yours.“...Now, can I keep kissing you?”
You grab his face and drag him up for a chaste kiss. When you try to pull away, he follows, keeping contact with your lips. He kisses your mouth, then the corner of your lips, your chin, the bob of your throat, your collarbone. He trails down until he meets the collar of your shirt, Adam peeks up at you through long lashes, and tugs on the bottom hem. You understand what he’s asking, and lift your arms. He swiftly strips you of it, tossing the article of clothing to pile next to his own shirt. You’re left in your bra, breathing shallowly. He takes you in, eyes sweeping over your form in deliberate strokes. In between looking from curve to curve, he always looks up to glance at your face.
“Pretty.” he mumbles. Despite the fact you were just obscenely sucking on his tongue, that’s what makes you blush, all the way to the tips of your ears. His hand, the one wrapped around your waist, rubs circles into your muscle, before snaking up to unhook your bra. He fumbles for a second, but eventually gets it. He unloops it from your arms and throws it over his shoulder. Adam ghosts his finger over your bare stomach. His feather light touches tickle, a prickly sensation, and you writhe under him. He chuckles, low and heated, before trailing his fingers up, up to your sternum. He rubs the flesh there, trying to get you to relax into him. You do, letting out a pleased sigh. His hands begin to wander, travelling to the peaks of your tits. He squeezes, molding your chest like putty beneath his hands. He’s a bit too rough. Too heavy handed.
“Ow.” you murmur. He looks up to you, pupils blown out so wide, you can barely see the ring of his iris. He looks positively wrecked. Heat floods your groin, slick soaking your panties. At your sound, his harsh touch transforms into gentle kneading, expert hands showing off. He circles the areola of your nipples, like the rim of a glass, until your buds begin to harden. He uses his thumb and index to roll your nipple between his fingers in small, rounded motions. Stars burn, a galaxy behind your eyes. Adam ducks down to your right breast, enveloping your nipple in his warm, wet mouth. Lapping at the bud with his tongue, a hint of teeth tease to bite. With his other hand, he continues toying, pinching and pulling. He eventually removes himself from your tit with a sultry pop.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asks. Yes. Before you can admit as much, he tightly pinches your nipple, eliciting a sharp gasp. Adam snickers, before placing a hot kiss between your breasts. The contrast makes your poor head spin, trying to catch up. You feel strung on the edge, unsure what his next move will be. It’s frustrating. It’s exciting.
Sweetly, he kisses down your navel, pulling the hem of your leggings down until he’s able to reach your pubic bone. A flash of teeth is your own warning before he nips at the sensitive skin. You release a moan, and he smiles against your flesh. Adam slithers downwards, bringing your leggings and underwear down with him. He reaches your feet, lets your pants pool at your ankles as he works on untying your shoes. He sticks out his tongue as he focuses, and a pang of desire shoots through your heart like an arrow. It shakes you to your core. Adam finally peels off your sneakers, your leggings and panties following close behind. You’re left laying bare naked, feeling underdressed as Adam’s still wearing his own pair of jeans.
Sensing your discomfort, he works on removing his pants. You furrow your brows, surprised at the notion that he’s still able to read you so easily. Surprised he even cares to. But tonight, he’s been proving you wrong on many fronts. Sitting up on his knees, Adam pops open the top button of his jeans, unfastening the zipper and tugging them off. He toes off his own shoes and tosses everything to the side. You note, with a stutter of your heartbeat, that his boxers have cute music notes all over them. It’s weirdly charming.
“There.” he says. “Better?”
You nod your head, not trusting yourself to speak. This seems to delight him, the power of having an impact on you. You give him this. He lowers himself to lay on his stomach, head right between your thighs. You bend your knees and slide them to split open as far as you can go. Adam shuffles forwards, and, without warning, licks a line up your pussy. You keen into him, a soft whine sounding from the back of your throat. You feel like you’ve just been struck, unable to grasp a full breath.
Adam laps at your clit like a deserted man offered water, fueled by desperation and thirst. He flattens his tongue and licks a wide strip up your pussy, one that has you biting back from moaning out his name. You know he catches on when his lips, wet with spit and juices, split into a pleased smirk. He continues, ignoring any of the techniques he’s droned on and on about to you in the past. Adam swirls his tongue and licks, sloppily so. When he pleasantly groans into you, you realize, with a jolt straight to your core, that he isn’t doing this for you. He’s doing this for him.
Your legs, from where they were cautiously thrown over his shoulders in haste, come to wrap tight against his head. Thighs muffle the wet squelches you’re trying to ignore, humiliation threatening to flood your already flushed cheeks. Your hips lift up off the mattress, desperate for more– and Adam answers, sliding his hands from your hips to your ass, pressing you further into him
You stay there, lower body suspended in the air, as you grind into his mouth. Eventually, he hums a deep, appreciative note, the vibration going straight to your nerves. A delicious static buzzes in your ass, slowly spreading to your front, right in your core. You’re riding on the edge of the cliff, about to take the final leap into the pleasurable abyss below–
–Only to feel a sharp throb blooming in your left calf, agonizing and twisting. The silent moan hanging from your lips quickly transforms into a hurt hiss, pleasure turns into pain. Adam, too absorbed in reverently worshipping your pussy, doesn’t even bat an eye. His head stays ducked, firmly planted between your legs. He doesn’t seem like he’s moving anytime soon.
The cramping in your calf screams at you, drowning out the blissed part of your brain begging to keep going. Eventually, the pain wins out. You snake your leg from where it’s swaddled around Adam’s neck, straightening it out before bending your knee to awkwardly touch your chest. You press the ball of your foot against his shoulder, toes curling against him in a weak, pleading nudge.
Adam glares up at you through his thick brows, clearly unhappy at the interruption of his meal. Your foot pushes against him once more with enough force to dislodge him from your aching pussy. You know better though, know he’s letting you push him around. He may not be going down on you anymore, but he still stays between your legs, looking up at you. He’s the definition of a hot mess– eyes blown out wide, cheeks a muddy red, chin dripping with slick.
He’s never looked better.
You nudge his shoulder again, and he catches your ankle, grasp loose yet sturdy. You note, hazy with desire, that his hand is large enough to completely encompass the joint, fingertips touching the pad of his thumb. Despite the terrible charley horse throbbing sharply in your leg, you gnaw at your bottom lip. The picture of those thick fingers sliding inside of you makes your mouth water.
You swallow down your excess saliva, Adam’s eyes tracing your throat as it bobs. He bares his teeth, as if toying with the idea to lunge forward and litter your neck in marks. The thought is appealing, adorning his bruises and bites as he uses his skilled tongue to circle his branding. But unfortunately, the pain in your calf makes itself known. Your eyes squeeze together tightly as you grimace, mouth dropping in a piercing curse.
When you muster up the strength to open your eyelids, Adam’s eyes have softened. Surprisingly, he even looks concerned. He rises to his knees, letting your right foot fall to the mattress, knee bent up towards the sky. Your other leg, crying out, is straightened, and moved to rest right where his neck meets his shoulder.
“What’s wrong, babe?” Adam asks. There’s no mistaking the worry in his voice, even as he hides behind his typical bravado. Your heart thuds, the reminder that yes, he still cares about you, fresh in your chest. His tongue pokes out to lick up the remaining juices on his lips, and suddenly your heart is pounding for a different reason. “Can’t handle the heat?”
“My– leg.” You spit out in between fitiful gasps. He raises an eyebrow. “--cramping.”
“Oh shit.” He sputters out. He rests a hand on the meat of your right thigh, gentle in a way you’re not used to, not with him. “This leg?”
You shake your head, and knock your left foot against the back of his head. He points an index finger towards that leg. You nod.
“Where?”
“My calf.”
Hands, calloused from his time spent strumming his guitar, dig into your leg. You instantly writhe, trying to shimmy away from the uncomfortable pressure. Adam persists, kneading into the muscle. He holds steady eye contact with you as he does so, manipulating the knot in your leg until it’s melting under his touch, soothing under his fingers. His eyes, boring into you, are burning with an intensity. You feel weirdly vulnerable under his gaze, the intimacy of the moment creeping up on you. It feels more personal than just sex. It makes you want to hide away, cover yourself with the duvet and run to the hills. But you don’t. Instead you sigh and relax into the bed.
Adam continues massaging you for a few moments longer, even though the throb in your calf has long since disappeared. You smile at him in silent gratitude, the corners soft and shaky. He looks down at you, and you imagine how you must look– disheveled hair splain against the pillow, hands tightly gripping the sheets, legs spread, with one hooked over his shoulder. You definitely look as wrecked as you feel.
Something unreadable passes over his face, eclipsing his expression. He used to be easy to read, something you both laughed and fought over. You wonder if you’ve lost your touch, if the months spent away have made you rusty in deciphering his large emotions. You don’t have much time to spend pondering, not when that odd look is replaced with a much more familiar impish grin. You pretend not to notice how it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Instead, you let hot flames lick at your stomach as Adam’s hands sneak forwards, moving to knead into your thigh. He runs his palms up and down the flesh, leaving behind a warm trail. You break the intimate eye contact, letting your head loll backwards on the pillow. He wraps his hands around the width of your thigh, lifting it off his shoulder and bending it around his waist. Your other leg automatically joins, together wrapping around his soft curves. You tighten your grasp around him, Rendering him trapped. As if he’d rather be anywhere else.
His fingers graze the plush of your quads before moving his hands in, onto your inner thighs. Adam only lets his finger tips brush against your skin, the touch tantalizing. Those flames transform into a burning bonfire as he comes dangerously close to your center, but never quite touching. A whimper falls off your lips on one particular teasing run of his fingers. Adam lets out a low whistle and grips his hand, grabbing the meat of your thigh.
“Damn, baby. Your muscles are pretty tight.” You raise your head off the cushion and trace the slope of that damned smirk. “You know what else is tight?”
Without warning, a finger pushes into your slit. Your breath catches in your throat, shallow enough that your shoulders shake. He presses the pad of his finger in and gathers your wetness. You keen into him, pressing your hips up for more, more, more, but he doesn’t give. Instead, all too quickly, he pulls out. Adam’s golden brown eyes squeeze shut as he pops his finger into his mouth, groaning appreciatively at the taste. You clench around nothing, head tipping back against the pillow.
Two fingers prod at your mouth. You part your lips and Adam pushes them in, resting them on your tongue. You begin licking and sucking them, as you would his dick. When your tongue makes an especially sensual pass against the underside of his digits, you hear his breath stutter. His eyes are half-lidded transfixed on the way you take him, no doubt imagining something else in your mouth. Because it’s Adam, he shoves his fingers further in, until you gag around them. His other hand comes to rest on your inner thigh, thumb tracing shapes in your skin. You doubt he even realizes he’s doing it. All the same, it makes your heart squeeze. When he’s gathered enough spit, he reluctantly removes his fingers.
“That’a girl.” Adam praises. His hand moves to your center, lazily circling your clit with his lubricated digit. Not quite touching, but pleasure shivers up your spine all the same. He drags his finger down, passing over your folds, before pressing into you, all the way to the first knuckle. A sharp inhale. He slowly pushes further in until you’re taking the second knuckle. Then he begins to pump his finger, in and out. When you begin to relax, he adds a second finger, curling it against your walls. You writhe beneath him, grinding into his palm until he’s forced to place a hand on your lower stomach, coercing you to stay still. You oblige, the pressure only adding to the euphoria.
You trail your hand, reaching down to toy with your clit, desperate and needy. You roll it between your index and middle fingers, letting out a soft mewl. This seems to spur Adam on. His breathing goes ragged, and the fingers inside you curl deeper, until he’s hitting a soft, spongy spot. You see stars, burning bright and loud, static enveloping your ears, molten lava running through your veins. It’s overwhelming. It’s not enough. Something builds within you, deep, rich. You pant, tongue sticking out in an obscene display, before biting your lip, stifling the noises threatening to bubble up. Adam watches, tutting, voice surprisingly steady.
“C’mon, pretty thing. Don’t hide from me. I want to hear you.” He coos.
Adam presses the tips of his fingers against that sweet spot, enticing you to let loose and give in. You fight against him, defiant, even in bed. It riles him even more than if you were obedient and listening to his every word. He always craved a fight, always picking one with you. It was tiring. It was exhilarating. It wasn’t good for you. You find yourself not caring. You bite down hard enough to make your lip bleed, but that coil in your gut is promising to snap. Your legs begin to shake. Your heart pounds. Your mouth drops open. You’re on the edge, about to absolutely explode.
Adam stingingly slaps your hand away from your clit, causing you to jolt in shock. His fingers freeze inside of you. Your orgasm, just about to crest, recedes like a tide sinking back to the ocean. You try to chase it, thrashing and bucking your hips against him, desperate for him to keep going. You were right there . Frustration wells in the corners of your eyes, blinking back bitter tears. You have half a mind to push him off and get the job done yourself. But Adam’s hand on your stomach keeps you pinned, at the mercy of him. You loathe to admit that it makes you pulse around him. You’d think the feeling would allure him to continue pleasuring you, maybe even pull his digits out and replace them with something else, but he’s a man on a mission.
“Who have you slept with since me?” he demands.
Your brain short-circuits, the words don’t compute. It sounds like you’re underwater, obscured, distorted, taking too long to reach you. You feel out of your body, on another plane of existence. You’re still left crawling towards the orgasm he snatched away. If you close your eyes and focus, you can still feel it, just barely there, evaporating. You chase it. Distantly, you hear Adam snarl at your silence. He must be unhappy at the implications. The thought makes you smile, loopy. You aren’t too sure why. Your neurons are misfiring. The hand on your stomach moves up to pinch your nipple, hard. You suddenly shriek, wound too tight, like a rubber band about to snap.
“No one!” you squeak out, honest and raw. “I haven’t slept with anyone else!”
“Not even that guy you were with tonight?” Adam spits out. You shake your head against the pillow.
“Just—” Another pinch. You gasp, blinking through sensitive tears. “Just wanted to make you jealous.”
He lets out a ragged groan. “Fuck. You got what you wanted.”
Almost as if it’s your reward for being honest, he begins moving his hand again. He slowly pulls his two fingers back, almost completely outside of you, only the fingertips remaining inside. Face pinching tight, you whimper, a meek, pained sound. Every inch of you is burning with need, all encompassing. It’s the only thing you can process. You feel swaddled in it, only able to think about Adam. To breathe him. To feel him. It feels like heaven. It feels like hell. He left no physical mark, but he’s still branded on your brain. You cling onto it, hissing when his digits thrust back in and curl against your g-spot.
“I was real pissed,” he growls. It’s like he’s unable to stop talking. Another thrust. “Thought you already replaced me.” Another.
The words tumble out before you can think. “Could never replace you. No one makes me feel this good.”
He freezes.“...You mean that?”
You whimper in pathetic agreement. At this point, you’re willing to say anything, to do anything, just to get him to keep going. Even if that means being embarrassingly sincere, baring your heart for him just to rip it with his teeth. You can be humiliated about it later, but not now, not when he seems crazed over your words, practically foaming at the mouth. It makes you wonder who’s really topping who. Two more thrusts. You feel yourself barreling towards your release. You’re tied to the tracks, the freight train about to hit.
“Fuck yes.” His voice breaks. “Oh, baby. There’s no getting rid of me now.”
He continues moving, building to an intense rhythm. His other hand, still resting at your breast, begins to gently tweak your bud. Pleasure erupts, buzzing beneath your skin. All too quick, you’re back to dangling off the edge, as if he had never stopped. A thin layer of sweat sheens on your body, your hair is all tangled up, and you keep suppressing mortifying sounds. By all means, you should feel gross. But Adam doesn’t leave much room for you to think that way, not when he stares up at you like he’s the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. You can’t remember the last time he’s looked at you like that. Before you had broken up, it was all annoyance and anger. It seems time has treated him well, made him oddly soft around the edges.
Then, quiet. “Say you’ll take me back.”
“What?” you pant, brain still sliding through pleasure.
“Say it.” He’s pleading now. “Say you’re gonna take me back.”
“Adam—”
He stops again. You groan, guttural and extended, body trembling. Frustration peaks, sick of all this pushing and pulling. You expect Adam to seem smug, delighted how he’s been edging you for the past however-long. But instead, he looks pitiful, begging and whining like a wet dog. He rises, hand still burrowed in you, and leans in close. He presses his cheek against yours, nipping your earlobe, before whispering. “I’ll let you come, I swear. As many times as you want. On my fingers. My tongue. My cock. I’ll ruin you for anyone else. Just say you still want me.”
You nod frantically. Whatever will get him to continue. “Okay!”
He moves, placing his face in your view until he’s all you can see, all you can smell, can feel, can hear, can taste. It’s overpowering. He’s smiling, seemingly thrilled.“Okay, what?”
“I’ll take you back!”
His whole body racks with a shudder, as if those words are the deepest form of erotica he’s ever heard. It makes you sober up, even if just for a moment. What did you just agree to? You heard his words, understood his meaning, and said yes . Are you insane? Adam wasn’t good to you, isn’t good for you. You know this. Fear slices through as you eye his crazed smile. He looks like an absolute madman, a wild glint in his eyes, seemingly seconds away from absolutely devouring you. He laughs hysterically. You seriously can’t imagine taking him back. But then his eyes crinkle, and his smile tilts into a lop-sided grin. He looks excited. Looks relieved. Looks happy. Suddenly, it’s all you can think about, even through the lust. A giggle bubbles through, and you’re laughing with him. It’s the kind of laugh that comes when your choices don’t make sense, but they feel good anyway. The kind of laugh that borders on tears.
When the sound eventually tapers out, he leans forward and places a light kiss on your forehead, lips barely brushing your skin. He lingers there, and you can feel him still smiling. You smile back, but something twists in your stomach. Your eyebrows furrow at the sensation, but your mind is quickly dragged to the empty feeling as Adam pulls his fingers out. You shiver. He makes a show of licking a stripe up the length of his digits, slick with your juices. Under the spotlight of your attention, he sends you a sultry wink. That same empty feeling blooms across your skin when he pulls away completely, stumbling off the bed. Did you do something wrong? You flush when you think back to agreeing– he was probably just being a typical dickhole, trying to feed his ego and get you to admit you miss him.
But then he reaches for the waistband of his boxers, and you understand.
Adam slides his underwear down past his knees, letting it pool at his ankles, and steps through. His dick, now on delicious full display, bobs. It looks painfully hard, flushed with such an intense red, it almost seems purple. Pre-cum beads at the slit of his tip, dripping down his shaft. He lays his palm in front of his face and spits, collecting right in the middle of his hand, and begins pumping his cock, trying his best to lubricate it with his saliva. If you were patient enough to wait to be filled, you’d drop to your knees and beg him to let you do it yourself. Plead for him to fuck your face, to let you choke around his dick. Ask nicely if he could tug you by your hair, and force you to take the whole length of him. Instead, you prop yourself up, shakily leaning back on your elbows.
“How do you want me?” you ask, tongue darting out.
“On your back.”
Your eyebrows raise in surprise. Usually, he’d prefer you on all fours, back curved to the shape of his body, yanking you by your hair. He’d slam into you, and you’d meet him halfway, pressing your ass into him. Sometimes, even when he was feeling too prideful to give you complete control, he’d let you ride him, his cock splitting you in two as you bounce up and down. He’d eventually lose patience and grab your hips, moving you at his own pace. Missionary was saved for softer moments, when he’d muster up enough courage to look you in the eyes as he displayed his heart for you. At your expression, he continues.
“I want to see your face–” He swallows. “when I push into you.”
It’s a weak excuse. You know it. Since when has his intentions been as simple as that? But you find yourself not caring as he kneels on the bed and crawls towards you, like a predator stalking its prey. You curl your finger, teasingly beckoning him to come closer, spreading your legs far apart to give him a full view. He greedily drinks it in, settling right between your thighs. He runs the head of his cock up and down your slit, teasing like he’ll give in, but he displays an out-of-character strength of discipline. You groan, out of annoyance and lust. You try to grind against him, to get some sort of friction, but he places his hand on your stomach to hold you down. In a different attempt to entice him, you jut your lip out in a pout.
“Please, Adam, I need you.” you whine. He eats it up, practically lapping it out of a golden spoon.
“Yeah?”
You nod frantically. “I want to feel you inside me.’
“Fuck. Who am I to deny my girl what she wants?” Adam inserts his head, slowly sinking into you. The stretch of your pussy, molding around the length of him, sucking him in, feels overwhelming. You crave more. And you’re fed it, though, at a steadier pace than you desire. You know he’s trying to be gentle, to not hurt you, but you can’t help but be tetchy. You need him, and you need him now. Eventually, he bottoms out into you, pelvis flush against your center. He lets out a tight groan like he’s been struck, head falling forwards, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. You aren’t much better off, eyes rolling to the back of your head.
“Shit– baby. I missed you.”
His hips rock into you, fucking you with an intensity so strong, it shakes you from bottom to top. You throb around him, walls clenching his cock as you gladly take it. His balls slap against your ass as he pulls out and pistons forwards. On one particularly harsh pass of his hips, his dick rubs against that sweet spot. Suddenly, you’re out of your body, swimming in an endless galaxy, where the only thing you’re aware of is pure pleasure. Your hands find his back, clawing and scratching hard enough to barely break the skin. The first mark of the night. Adam pathetically keens into it before pouncing forward. He curls his lip, showing off his sharp canines, and bites down on your neck. Your mouth drops in a loud, broken sob.
“Adam!”
“Yeah.”
“Adam–”
“Yeah–”
You’re coming. You’re coming and it’s never felt so good, nothing has ever felt so good, and all you can feel and think is pleasure, pleasure, pleasure until your brain melts into a puddle of goop and distantly you’re aware that Adam is still pounding into you and licking at the bruising skin and you can sense it but you can’t feel it and, and, and–
When you finally come down, Adam’s pace has slowed into a lazy roll of his hips. He’s saying something, but you can’t hear anything, your heartbeat thick in your ears. Your throat feels hoarse as if you’ve been screaming. Embarrassment floods through you– everyone in the party has definitely heard you. But then his cock brushes against your g-spot, and you’re jolting with oversensitivity. Adam smirks, crooked and smug, before leaning forward and catching your lips. He kisses you sweetly while he burrows into you harshly. The contradiction has you moaning all the same.
He rips himself out of you, your walls squeezing around him as he exits as if trying to keep him in. He takes his cock in hand, aiming it over your abs, and begins feverishly pumping it. It doesn’t take long before he’s whining your name, jaw dropping and eyes squeezing tight. Thick ropes of come land on your stomach, warm and sticky. His breathing evens out, slowing down enough to expand his diaphragm. Adam, still lazily thrusting into his fist, drags a finger through the pool of his release and, just like before, pressing it to your lips. You part your mouth and he slips it inside. Your tongue swirls around it, lapping up his seed. When his finger is clean, he removes it from your mouth, and lets it drop to his side. With a loud ‘oomf,’ Adam flops himself onto the mattress next to you. Wrapping a protective arm around you, he drags you close.
“Adam.”
He gently shushes you, causing your eyes to narrow. You thrash against him, twisting and pushing to escape him. To insist he cleans you up from his quickly-drying come. To at least let you use his wet shirt to wipe it up. But Adam’s grip around you tightens, almost painful. It makes you wince, makes you take in a sharp inhale of air. In contrast to his rough handling, his chin gently comes to rest on the top of your head. He nuzzles into your hair, humming happily.
Adam’s fingers run along the hem of his wet shirt, lingering there. He grasps the sides, right under his ribcage, and tugs. The cotton peels away, inch by inch, the wetness making every movement deliberate. The first flash of his back, tan and taut, is enough to make your lungs stutter. Brown locks poke through the top hole as he drags the shirt higher, messy and untamed, clinging to his forehead. His shoulder blades are sharp, a contrast to the soft shape of his hips. The shirt finally gives, tugging off, baring him to you. A pang of desire strikes you like lightning. You have half a mind to strut over and run your hands down the length of his spine.
You wonder if he’d still be as reactive as he used to be– shuddering under your touch, red painting his cheeks, lust clouding his eyes. You wonder if he’d whine as you explored the expanse of his back, if he’d swiftly spin around to pin you against the closed door and envelope your lips in a kiss. You wonder if he’d want you too.
But you don’t. You keep your feet planted and your hands pinned to your side. That doesn’t stop your eyes from wandering, sliding from his messy curls, to his bare back, all the way to his ass. You did always like those jeans– it did wonders for him. Of course, you’d honestly prefer if he were out of those pants, stripped down to nothing, body on full display. You chew on your bottom lip, uncomfortably squirming as heat shoots to your groin. When you shift your eyes back up, you catch Adam’s eyes.
Busted.
He’s looking over his shoulder, face split with a grin. You’re a gazelle at a standstill, pinned under the weight of a lion’s hungry glare, waiting to see who will move first. You both stare at each other, until you finally relent, looking away to the floor. He softly chuckles, a warning, before you hear heavy padding against the carpeted floor. The toes of his shoes appear in your vision and, when you look up, Adam is standing right in front of you. He balls up his wet shirt and tosses it to the ground, watching it pool on the floor. You furrow your brows, but he’s not done.
He slowly moves his hands to his belt, carefully unbuckling it. With a dramatic click, it’s undone, leather straps loosely falling to the sides. Adam’s canine bites into his lip as he pulls the belt through the loops, until it’s free. He lifts his hand, elbow straightened, and opens his fist. You swallow hard and watch as the belt falls to the ground. It lands on his shirt. You blink, the fog of want lifting from your dazed mind. Your mouth snaps open in accusation.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Adam brings one shoulder to his ear in a careless shrug. You’d almost believe he was innocent, if it weren’t for the dangerous glint in his eyes. His eyes rake your body, just like yours had done to him moments before. “What? I’m just giving you a show. You should be grateful, slut.”
He hits the ‘t’ hard, spitting it out like venom; a reminder that no matter how you may be feeling right now, you are still both just exes. Indignation rumbles in your chest, humiliation burning behind your eyes. How could you forget? He doesn’t care about you, not anymore. You rise to the bait, grab it between your teeth and chew.
“Don’t call me that.” you grit out.
His smile widens, leaning in close, just as your date had done earlier that night. “Why not? You used to enjoy it, especially when I’d bend you over–”
You push him. You bring a hand to his chest and push him. Hard. Your palm burns, set alight by the contact. The first time you’ve touched him in months. Adam goes stumbling backwards, clearly taken off guard by your reaction. He catches his footing and snarls, lip curling and nostrils flaring. He huffs, a bull about to charge. You’re the bullfighter, snapping the red fabric in his face, enticing him to attack. You know it’s happening, but you feel intense and out of control, just like you always do around him.
“Shut the fuck up, you prick!” You march towards him, herding him towards the bed until the back of his knees touch the mattress. He’s furious, face pinched tight, but you aren’t scared. Despite everything, you trust him not to lay a hand on you. And he doesn’t, even when you jab a finger into his bare chest, right over his heart. “You don’t get to talk to me like that.”
“I can talk to you however I’d like.” he growls. “We’re broken up, remember?”
“And whose fault is that?”
He pushes your finger off of his pec, teeth clacking together as if he’s holding back from biting your head clean off. “Yours, you stupid bitch! You’re the one who said it! Or can your tiny bimbo brain not recall?”
You gape in disbelief, before laughing– a nasty, bitter sound. “My fault?! If you weren’t such a raging dickhole, then I wouldn’t have had to break up with you! Ever thought about that?”
“Trust me, it’s all I ever think about!”
His mouth quickly snaps shut, lips thinning into a tight line. A piece of your heart crumbles, the part of you that will always have a soft spot for Adam, breaking in two. But you’re too wrapped up in the heat of the moment, drowning in an ocean of pain and heartbreak. You’re clawing your way out, paddling and pushing for any sort of reprieve, and all you can do is keep pressing. You hate how big of an effect he still has on you.
“Go fuck yourself, Adam! You don’t get to pull the victim card when you hurt me!”
He doesn’t respond, just frowns in response, jaw strained shut. You bulldoze past, continuing screaming at him. “I loved you! I loved you and you didn’t love me back! So fuck you! I hate you!” You sniffle, and repeat, softer. “I hate you.”
Your lip wobbles, and the corners of your eyes prick with tears, but you refuse to let them fall. Like hell that Adam is going to see you cry. You glare at him, mustering as much hate as you can, even when it feels hollow and misplaced. Behind his eyes, you see something snap in him. His brows soften and his mouth opens, though, the only sound that comes out is a sharp intake of air. His face twists from despair into something hardened.
this is my first time ever writing smut. so if it sucks... IDK WHAT TO SAY. I TRIED.
Adam laps at your clit like a deserted man offered water, fueled by desperation and thirst. He flattens his tongue and licks a wide strip up your pussy, one that has you biting back from moaning out his name. You know he catches on when his lips, wet with spit and juices, split into a pleased smirk. He continues, ignoring any of the techniques he’s droned on and on about to you in the past. Adam swirls his tongue and licks, sloppily so. When he pleasantly groans into you, you realize, with a jolt straight to your core, that he isn’t doing this for you. He’s doing this for him.
Your legs, from where they were cautiously thrown over his shoulders in haste, come to wrap tight against his head. Thighs muffle the wet squelches you’re trying to ignore, humiliation threatening to flood your already flushed cheeks. Your hips lift up off the mattress, desperate for more– and Adam answers, sliding his hands from your hips to your ass, pressing you further into him
You stay there, lower body suspended in the air, as you grind into his mouth. Eventually, he hums a low, appreciative note, the vibration going straight to your nerves. A delicious static buzzes in your ass, slowly spreading to your front, right in your core. You’re riding on the edge of the cliff, about to take the final leap into the pleasurable abyss below–
–Only to feel a sharp throb blooming in your left calf, agonizing and twisting. The silent moan hanging from your lips quickly transforms into a hurt hiss, pleasure turns into pain. Adam, too absorbed in reverently worshipping your pussy, doesn’t even bat an eye. His head stays ducked, firmly planted between your legs. He doesn’t seem like he’s moving anytime soon.
The cramping in your calf screams at you, drowning out the blissed part of your brain begging to keep going. Eventually, the pain wins out. You snake your leg from where it’s swaddled around Adam’s neck, straightening it out before bending your knee to awkwardly touch your chest. You press the ball of your foot against his shoulder, toes curling against him in a weak, pleading nudge.
Adam glares up at you through his thick brows, clearly unhappy at the interruption of his meal. Your foot pushes against him once more with enough force to dislodge him from your aching pussy. You know better though, know he’s letting you push him around. He may not be going down on you anymore, but he still stays between your legs, looking up at you. He’s the definition of a hot mess– eyes blown out wide, cheeks a muddy red, chin dripping with slick.
He’s never looked better.
You nudge his shoulder again, and he catches your ankle, grasp loose yet sturdy. You note, hazy with desire, that his hand is large enough to completely encompass the joint, fingertips touching the pad of his thumb. Despite the terrible charley horse throbbing sharply in your leg, you gnaw at your bottom lip. The picture of those thick fingers sliding inside of you makes your mouth water.
You swallow down your excess saliva, Adam’s eyes tracing your throat as it bobs. He bares his teeth, as if toying with the idea to lunge forward and litter your neck in marks. The thought is appealing, adorning his bruises and bites as he uses his skilled tongue to circle his branding. But unfortunately, the pain in your calf makes itself known. Your eyes squeeze together tightly as you grimace, mouth dropping in a piercing curse.
When you muster up the strength to open your eyelids, Adam’s eyes have softened. Surprisingly, he even looks concerned. He rises to his knees, letting your right foot fall to the mattress, knee bent up towards the sky. Your other leg, crying out, is straightened, and moved to rest right where his neck meets his shoulder.
“What’s wrong, babe?” Adam asks. There’s no mistaking the worry in his voice, even as he hides behind his typical bravado. Your heart thuds, the reminder that yes, he still cares about you, fresh in your chest. His tongue pokes out to lick up the remaining juices on his lips, and suddenly your heart is pounding for a different reason. “Can’t handle the heat?”
“My– leg.” You spit out in between fitiful gasps. He raises an eyebrow. “--cramping.”
“Oh shit.” He sputters out. He rests a hand on the meat of your right thigh, gentle in a way you’re not used to, not with him. “This leg?”
You shake your head, and knock your left foot against the back of his head. He points an index finger towards that leg. You nod.
“Where?”
“My calf.”
Hands, calloused from his time spent strumming his guitar, dig into your leg. You instantly writhe, trying to shimmy away from the uncomfortable pressure. Adam persists, kneading into the muscle. He holds steady eye contact with you as he does so, manipulating the knot in your leg until it’s melting under his touch, soothing under his fingers. His eyes, boring into you, are burning with an intensity. You feel weirdly vulnerable under his gaze, the intimacy of the moment creeping up on you. It feels more personal than just sex. It makes you want to hide away, cover yourself with the duvet and run to the hills. But you don’t. Instead you sigh and relax into the bed.
Adam continues massaging you for a few moments longer, even though the throb in your calf has long since disappeared. You smile at him in silent gratitude, the corners soft and shaky. He looks down at you, and you imagine how you must look– disheveled hair splain against the pillow, hands tightly gripping the sheets, legs spread, with one hooked over his shoulder. You definitely look as wrecked as you feel.
Something unreadable passes over his face, eclipsing his expression. He used to be easy to read, something you both laughed and fought over. You wonder if you’ve lost your touch, if the months spent away have made you rusty in deciphering his large emotions. You don’t have much time to spend pondering, not when that odd look is replaced with a much more familiar impish grin. You pretend not to notice how it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Adam x reader one-shot (Aka you and Adam practice kissing.)
Entranced, you hold steady eye contact with Adam. His pupils are completely blown out, wide enough that the gold of his iris is basically invisible. The sight of it makes you swallow harshly. His eyes fall downwards, tracing your throat as you do so. You nervously press your tongue against the back of your teeth, mouth suddenly as dry as cotton as he glances back up. He already looks wrecked.
This is something friends do, right?
Adam runs the pads of his fingers down your arm, tracing a path downwards. Goosebumps bloom like flowers unfurling under Persephone’s feet. His touch brushes the top of your hand, running the length of his index finger down, until he loosely hooks yours with his. Warmth spreads in your stomach, like roses taking root. Slowly, as if to not startle him, you move to entangle your hand with his, fingers lacing together. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and the sheen of his spit actually looks appetizing.
This is stupid. You know that if you kiss, he’s immediately going to know how you feel. And then he’ll never want anything to do with you. Or worse: you’ll be his flavor-of-the-month, tossed to the side as soon as he’s bored of you. But you still flutter your eyes closed as he begins to lean in.
You aren’t quite sure what to expect. Tongue, maybe? He’s not exactly known for being patient. But instead, you feel a gentle brush of lips against yours. There isn’t any pressure, no pushing forwards, just a barely-there sensation.
“Still sure?” he mumbles against your mouth, the movement grazing the bottom of your lip. You feel suspended in the air, like a roller coaster cart about to drop.
“Yeah.” you whisper back. Your tone is more airy than you’d like to admit, breathless as if you had just ran a marathon. You’re hyper aware that with each gulp of oxygen, you’re recycling the same air as him.
You wait. When he doesn’t move, you open your eyes, just to see him already looking back. His lids are heavy. It reminds you of an adorable puppy, trying his best to stay awake. But you know better. He stares at you, darts his eyes between both of yours, and smiles. The roller coaster cranks forward by an inch.
Then he leans in.
The coaster cart comes crashing down, bending and twisting, wind pleasantly nipping at your skin. Your stomach follows, flipping and tumbling as his lips fully meet yours. Your lashes tremble against your skin as your eyes come to a close. You gasp into his mouth. He grins, the slope of it shooting a pang of electricity down your spine.
Your hand squeezes tightly. He squeezes back. His free hand travels up to rest at the nape of your neck. Despite himself, he doesn’t forcefully push you in to deepen the kiss. Instead, he runs his fingers up to entangle themselves in the roots of your hair.
Waves roll over your head. You’re drowning in a sea of Adam, his taste heavy in your mouth. When your lungs begin to ache, only then do you pull away. He tries to chase you, ducking his head forward, lips still parted slightly. You swing a hand and place it on the middle of his chest, right over his pounding heart. Adam stills, like a dog trained well. His eyes are still shut, brows pinched together in a dazed expression. In the privacy, you school your expression. When his eyes finally open, it’s to a calculated smile.
A pang of pain makes itself known in your chest. It constricts your throat and your heart. You want to tell him how you feel, and you almost do. But it’s stupid. So you don’t.
“Thanks.” You say. ‘Please kiss me again. Kiss me like you want me,’ You think.
Adam owlishly blinks once, twice, before clenching his jaw. He lets go of your hand, lets it drop back to his side. Looking at anywhere but you, he dips his head down in a nod. “What’re friends for?”
A flash of a memory bares its teeth like a wild animal, snapping and snarling as it herds you into a corner. You see a crowd of people, perfectly weaving in between each other and around you like a colony of ants, faces smudged like charcoal on a page. Body moving on its own volition, your hands raise up towards your face. Colors swirl in the lines of your palms. Every time you blink, a different pigment unravels from your wrist and travels towards the tips of your fingers. Your hands slowly lower themselves back to your sides.
The people are gone now. You stand alone in a street. Lights shine above you, flickering in and out like lanterns. One by one, they each give out. It is dark. Until it’s not. Two headlights pierce through the void. An arm automatically raises to shield your eyes. The lights get closer and closer until you can practically feel the artificial warmth radiating off the headlamps. For a second, it’s almost comforting. Like slipping into a hot bath.
The warmth is quickly stripped from you, replaced by a cold sensation. Suddenly, you’re underwater, wading through the waves. The tides come crashing over your head, burying you into the icy water. Your body sinks, feet as heavy as anchors, until your toes are digging into the ocean’s floor. It’s cold. So fucking cold, and you can’t move, you can’t breathe, and you can’t even think. Fear blossoms in your stomach, an invasive flower taking root in your soil, and spreads through your veins.
You are dying.
.
.
.
A finger twitches. All too soon, your lungs bloom to life with oxygen, expanding wide enough to shake your shoulders. Your heart follows next, a steady thrum in your chest. It pounds senselessly, like rain against a window, begging to be heard. It pumps a stream of blood straight into your brain. Suddenly, it’s like the porch light has flicked on. Your eyes swing open, mouth gaping, as you jolt. Nausea swirls in your gut like water in a toilet bowl, moving too quickly for your brain to catch up. One second, you were laying down, lifeless. The next, you’re standing, organs crying out, but working.
Eyebrows pinch together as you take in your surroundings. Your toes wriggle against the bleak white, tiled floor. It’s pleasant under your skin. There isn’t much to see past that; You only get around twenty-something feet in front of you before it’s blanketed in a thick fog. There’s a familiar desire to reach forward and slice your arm through the thick of it, watch as your limb disappears into the smog, see if your whole body will too.
You feel small again, drowning in your hand-me-downs as you rush outside to play. To try and manipulate the street's fog to your will, swirling it around your hands like some knock-off air bender, as your mom watches from the porch. You try to think of her now, to imagine her face, and come up empty handed. Her features are smudged and drawn over in crayon, warped into some shitty smiley face.
You're back to now, staring down the smog. Why can't you remember your mom? Static floods your ears, rising above you like an avalanche threatening to fall. Why can't you remember anything? The thought buzzes, circling your mind, a lion about to pounce. What happened to you? Where are you? Why can't you just remember–
Someone awkwardly clears their throat.
You startle, back arching like a threatened cat, hair bristled and claws raised. You spin on your heel. Knees threatening to buckle, your body quivers violently, wound as tight as a rubber band about to snap. You expect to meet the face of danger, not the kind eyes of a stranger. His lanky figure is obscured from where he’s perched behind his pedestal, a giant book placed on the stand, larger than his torso.
The stranger thins his lips in an uncomfortable smile, as if timidly testing the waters. You feel akin to a fish thrown bait– unsure whether or not it’s safe to take a bite. What if you’re wrong to trust him, and you wind up reeled in on a hook? You have no idea who you are, let alone where you are. But something warm nestles in your chest. You strangely feel safe.
…And then feathered wings unfurl from his back and holy shit. That warm feeling ignites into something burning, a flickering flame, as brilliant and bright as this stranger’s halo. Your eyes snag back onto his book– his book of names. Recognition clicks in your brain, the last puzzle piece falling into place.
This is Saint Peter.
Your face tugs into a frown. Saint Peter traces the dip of it, and politely averts his eyes, busying himself with tucking himself between the book’s pages. His wings twitch before folding back between his shoulder blades, revealing the looming set of Pearly Gates behind him. You blink. Look to Saint Peter, who is not-so-subtly watching you in his peripheral vision, and look back to the Gates. Oh. Well. At least you were well behaved enough in your life to make it to Heaven. The title alone feels heavy on your tongue, but not overwhelming. It’s the feeling of dawning a weighted blanket, the pressure surprisingly comforting.
That fire licking at your chest, lapping through your ribcage, it pulls you forwards, towards his pedestal. Your legs limply follow, heels dragging behind you. Saint Peter looks back up from his book, and offers one more tentative smile. You muster up the energy to smile back, purposefully crinkling your eyes, trying your best to make it convincing. Saint Peter seems pleased, and somewhat relieved you've eventually addressed him.
"Hi!" he greets, tone casual, as if greeting you at a coffee shop and not the afterlife. His teeth clack together in a toothy grin. "Welcome to Heaven! Can I get your name, please?"
–
As Saint Peter kindly leads you in through the gates, you catch a glimpse of gold, stark against the repetitive white backdrop. Distantly, it reminds you of sick days, swallowing back spoonfuls of honey, letting it pool and drip from your chin. It reminds you of Spring, spending your time playing in the flowerbeds, and emerging with pollen stuck to every hair strand. Of your favorite nights, hearing the rain come rolling through your neighborhood, peering out your window to spot a caramel moon hung in the sky.
You swivel your head to catch sight of the gold, yet when you look, there’s no hint of that rich color. All your eyes snag on are whites, off-whites, and baby blues. Disappointment surprisingly wrings your heart like a wet towel. You keep your eyes locked forward for the rest of the tour.
–
Your hand aches, cramps and curls, a dull throb branching through your wrist. As it turns out, entering Heaven isn’t all shits and giggles– it requires a lot of paperwork. You slowly rotate your joint, leaning into the uncomfortable stretch, until it releases with a disgusting pop. Satisfying, but disgusting. Across the table from you, hands folded and resting on the wooden surface, an angel smiles patiently.
When you finally finish, you slide the thick stack of papers forwards. The angel graciously takes the paperwork from you, skimming through the pages. They tap the stack against the table to perfectly align all the edges, before placing it back down.
“Everything seems in order!” They exclaim. “Thanks so much! And, here–”
They reach over into the file cabinet next to them, opening the top drawer. Their tongue darts out as they push their whole arm into the cabinet, shuffling papers around as they seemingly search for something in particular. With an excited ‘aha!’, their hand pops out with a brochure. “--This is for you, specifically designed for you and only you! It’ll include details on Heaven, and provide the address of where you’ll be staying. Hope you enjoy your first day in Heaven!”
You gingerly reach across, snagging the pamphlet from their outstretched hand. The angel turns their attention to some sort of laptop, fingers clacking against the keys. Now out of the spotlight, you look down at the brochure, thumbs caressing the cover page. There are multiple angels decorating the paper, all beaming toothily as if there’s nowhere else they’d rather be, smiles shining brighter than their hovering halos. At the reminder, you gently tap the edge of your own halo, shivering at the odd feeling.
You see people. Then headlights. Then cold darkness.
Poking your tongue against the inside of your cheek, you flip open the pamphlet, only to be greeted by a rich,velvety black paper. A breath catches in your throat, a mouse in a mousetrap. You peel the paper from the pamphlet, taking a closer look. There’s a hastily-drawn signature in a golden marker. At least, you think it’s a signature? If anything, it more closely resembles a stickman drawing, as if doodled by some petulant child. You have half a mind to flip the page and show it off to the angel sitting mere feet across from you. Is this something all new and incoming angels receive with their brochure?
“Excuse me?” You lean forward in your seat. At your voice, the angel perks up, fingers frozen in mid-type, inches away from the keyboard.
“Is there a problem?” They ask, tilting their head in question. They look as innocent as a puppy.
“I was just wondering if you have any spare brochures– in case I lose my first one. I’m… very clumsy…?” You punctuate the question with a timid smile. The angel blinks before chuckling. The action makes the tips of your ears burn. They reach back into their cabinet, pulling out a second brochure with much more ease than the first time.
When they hand it to you, you nod appreciatively, and open it up. Just as you had expected, there is no black sheet of paper to catch your eye. Your lips thin into a line, but you remain quiet, unsure if you should speak up. But what if it’d just get you in trouble? Instead, you excuse yourself and stand, making your way to the door. The angel politely waves you out. Before you leave, you look over your shoulder, making sure the angel isn’t looking. When they’re not, you throw out the spare pamphlet.
You walk the pavemented streets, brochure in one hand, black paper in the other. The closer you study it, the weirder it gets. In that same golden marker and awful handwriting, your name is written at the top. Well, okay, it might be your name. The harder you stare at it, the more it looks like a second stickman, somehow worse than the last. The whole situation is making your palms sweat. So, as soon as you pass by the nearest trash can– something they keep every few feet. Guess Heaven is really against littering– you toss out the black page.
You wipe your hands clean and open up the pamphlet to try and find out where you’ll be staying. Your finger is tracing over the numbers to your address when your vision is flooded by black. You yelp, scrambling to reach for your eyes, only to find something covering them. You peel it off, staring back at none other than that stupid freaking paper. You grit your teeth, ball it up, and toss it back into the trash can. Your jaw drops when the paper stops mid-air, unfolding and straightening itself out, and flies back into your hand. It obviously wasn’t alive, so maybe it was enchanted? Either way, it was weird as hell.
(Can you say that here?)
You decided to pocket the paper, seeing as you couldn’t exactly get rid of it. Looking up, you realize you’ve stumbled upon a populated area. It weirdly resembled a boardwalk or something. You stagger forwards, taking in the beautiful sights of it. There were many angels scattered about, all peacefully enjoying the company of another. It sends a pang of loneliness through your heart. You can’t remember your loved ones, so you can’t even try and find them. But you can try and make new friends. Hopefully.
You avert your eyes, instead glancing towards a giant map displayed on a nearby wall. According to the big red star marked “You Are Here,” you had found yourself at the Promenade. There were places to relax, and places to eat. At the thought, you grab your stomach as it grumbles. The idea of food doesn’t sound too bad. Your eyes dart around the area, looking for a food vendor with the shortest line.
Which, according to the giant sign, happened to be a vendor for smoothies.
I know I already posted a Heavenly Hazards WIP, but I completely changed my style so like....... here's the very beginning paragraphs:
--
A flash of a memory bares its teeth like a wild animal, snapping and snarling as it herds you into a corner. You see a crowd of people, perfectly weaving in between each other and around you like a colony of ants, faces smudged like charcoal on a page. Body moving on its own volition, your hands raise up towards your face. Colors swirl in the lines of your palms. Every time you blink, a different pigment unravels from your wrist and travels towards the tips of your fingers. Your hands slowly lower themselves back to your sides.
The people are gone now. You stand alone in a street. Lights shine above you, flickering in and out like lanterns. One by one, they each give out. It is dark. Until it’s not. Two headlights pierce through the void. An arm automatically raises to shield your eyes. The lights get closer and closer until you can practically feel the artificial warmth radiating off the headlamps. For a second, it’s almost comforting. Like slipping into a hot bath.
The warmth is quickly stripped from you, replaced by a cold sensation. Suddenly, you’re underwater, wading through the waves. The tides come crashing over your head, burying you into the icy water. Your body sinks, feet as heavy as anchors, until your toes are digging into the ocean’s floor. It’s cold. So fucking cold, and you can’t move, you can’t breathe, and you can’t even think. Fear blossoms in your stomach, an invasive flower taking root in your soil, and spreads through your veins.
You are dying.
.
.
.
A finger twitches. All too soon, your lungs bloom to life with oxygen, expanding wide enough to shake your shoulders. Your heart follows next, a steady thrum in your chest. It pounds senselessly, like rain against a window, begging to be heard. It pumps a stream of blood straight into your brain. Suddenly, it’s like the porch light has flicked on. Your eyes swing open, mouth gaping, as you jolt. Nausea swirls in your gut like water in a toilet bowl, moving too quickly for your brain to catch up. One second, you were laying down, lifeless. The next, you’re standing, organs crying out, but working.
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