- you and billy really wanna join the mile high club, but oh noo the flight is delayed… good thing the airport bathroom is open though.
• Bobby Campbell (FD6) •
Dessert redemption arc.
- bobby has an allergic reaction to a dessert. overall this one is short ‘nd fluffy <33
Held, loved, interrupted. ︎ ♡︎
- bobby and erik have a petty argument and, erik being erik, he tells bobby that his girlfriend is out of his league. cue to bobby showing up at your door like a kicked puppy.
NSFW Alphabet // Bobby Campbell. ♡︎
Paco 2.0.
- you get the human golden retriever a golden retriever puppy.
Poster girl.
- he’s been talking to a girl online for months without knowing who she is. they agree to meet and he comes to find out she’s the very girl he’s been staring at on his bedroom wall for years.
She told me… ♡︎
- you find bobby’s diary and you read it because you’re a nosy ass bitch (same). the first few pages start off sweet.. then it turns into him detailing his deepest fantasies and kinks. being an amazing girlfriend that you are, you decide to make his wet dreams come to life.
Spider 0 — Bobby 1.
- you save ur bf from a spider.
SFW Alphabet // Bobby Campbell.
Turtle dad, pillow prince. ♡︎
- your boyfriend’s house is finally empty. well, besides for a certain lil friend.
• Carter Horton (FD1) •
Fire with fire. ︎ ♡︎
- his gf doesn’t take his bs <3
• Erik Campbell (FD6) •
Clean cut. ♡︎
- you go get a belly piercing. ;)
Jerry fucking Fenbury.
- he cries. during sex with a sad song in the back
NSFW Alphabet // Erik Campbell. ︎ ︎ ♡︎
Permanently marked.
- he gets your name tattooed over his chest.
SFW Alphabet // Erik Campbell.
You didn’t see shit.
- you’re julia’s best friend.
• Evan Lewis (FD2) •
Sports car. ︎ ♡︎
- late night drive with your rich, asshole boyfriend.
• Jason Wise (FD3) •
Funhouse rules. ︎ ︎ ♡︎
- you make him jealous on purpose at a carnival so he rails you in an abandoned haunted house attraction.
• Rory Peters (FD2) •
coming soon <33
• Thomas Burke (FD2) •
coming soon <33
BONUS! • Death •
Sequence interrupted. ︎ ♡︎
- you get a premonition and manage to save your friends from a fatal bus crash. all of them die one by one and when you think its your turn, nothing happens. to you, at least. long story short, you come to realise death has another purpose for you to fulfil.
BONUS! • Erik Campbell x reader x Bobby Campbell •
Birthday boy. ♡︎
- bobby is a 19 year old virgin and erik, being the great brother that he is, decides that his girlfriend can help with that
summary — you make him jealous on purpose at a carnival so he rails you in an abandoned haunted house attraction.
warnings — 18+, p in v, unprotected sex, angry sex, teasing, edging, orgasm denial, rough sex, a bit of degradation, public sex, oral (f receiving), light marking/bruising, established relationship, spitting, boob worship (or is it), jealous jason, cursing
a/n — sorry for being inactive yall, exam season is whopping my ass. request from @h34rtsf0rianmckinley <33
The air crackles with light and movement, cotton candy haze drifting through neon, carousel music mixing with screams from the drop tower in the distance. It's late enough that the sky’s dipped into deep velvet, but the carnival’s still wide awake with lights flashing, games barking, crowds shifting.
You’ve been walking the fairgrounds with Jason for a while now, his hand’s locked in yours. He’s wearing that sleeveless red tee that clings just right, showing off the cut of his arms, that lean build that’s always coiled like he’s ready to fight or fuck. Low-slung jeans, a Varsity jacket, worn Vans, and that smug, sideways smirk that always curls deeper when he sees you looking.
You’ve caught him clenching his jaw three times already though. Once when a guy stared too long while you waited in line for funnel cake. Once when your top rode up on the swings. And now it’s just buzzing under his skin.
“You want a corndog or something, babe?” he asks, tone easy on the surface, but there’s tension beneath it.
You glance up, smiling like you don’t feel the static radiating off him. “Nope. Just thirsty.”
His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing with amusement. “For a drink, or for attention?”
You shrug. Don’t answer.
He huffs out a laugh but it’s tight, his thumb stroking once over your hand before dropping it.
You reach the ring toss stand, and Jason’s already sizing it up with a cynical eye. The kind of setup only idiots fall for. He mutters something under his breath about it being rigged, but before you can respond, the guy behind the counter catches your eye.
Backwards cap. White tee. Cocky little grin.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he says, handing you three rings without a glance at Jason. “First round's on me.”
You feel Jason still beside you. You part your lips just slightly, let that flirtatious smile ghost the corners of your mouth. Not quite committing. But not walking away either.
You take the rings slow. Deliberate. Bend a little too far forward, feel your ass brush against Jason's thigh, let the guy at the booth drink it all in.
“Thanks,” you say sweetly, batting your lashes as you glance up. “Hope I get lucky.”
Jason doesn't speak. His silence is loud. His arm is still, but not relaxed. That muscle in his jaw ticks, and you know you just lit a match. You toss your last ring, making sure it misses, and the carnie leans in, smirking.
“Almost, sweetheart. You want me to show you how it’s done?”
Jason moves immediately almost, hand at your waist. Fingers gripping tight, yanking you back so your body collides with his chest. He’s hard, tense, breathing through his nose like he’s deciding whether to slam your back against the booth or just drag you away and handle it elsewhere.
“She’s already got someone who shows her plenty,” he says. You can feel how pissed he is in the press of his hand, in the heat rolling off him.
The guy behind the counter blinks. “Dude—”
Jason doesn’t even look at him. His gaze is locked on yours. “She’s taken. Back off.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply. His mouth is suddenly right next to your ear, his voice nothing more than a sharp whisper. “You think that was cute?” he mutters, tone low as he drags you away from the booth. His hand stays on your waist.
“I thought it was fun,” you whisper back, breathless; half teasing, half daring. Jason’s grip on your wrist is tight, not painful, but definitely not gentle either. He’s pissed.
“You think that was funny?” he huffs, dragging you through the carnival crowds like he’s trying not to full-on throw you over his shoulder “Seriously?”
You stumble a little on the uneven pavement as he weaves you through the maze of food stalls, game booths, and wandering kids with balloons. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t look back.
“Jason, chill—”
“Don’t tell me to chill,” he snaps, not yelling.. and definitely not quiet. “You let that loser flirt with you right in front of me. Right in front of me, babe.”
And then, he sees it. That old haunted funhouse. It’s roped off, dark, half-abandoned. One flickering light over the entrance and a crooked wooden sign that says CLOSED FOR REPAIRS in faded red paint.
Perfect.
Jason shoves the caution tape aside like it’s not even there and pulls you through the side entrance, his hand locked around yours now instead of your wrist.
The door slams behind you with a hollow thud, and instantly it’s like stepping into another world—dim, warm, thick with the smell of dust, plastic, and whatever old fog machines leave behind. The walls are lined with cracked mirrors and dusty mannequins dressed in torn-up costumes. Red lights flash slowly overhead, like a heartbeat.
Jason turns to you, chest rising hard, eyes wild with frustration and something much deeper.
“I told you not to pull shit like that,” he says, voice lower now but still heated. “You know how I get.”
Before you can respond, he grabs you again. Backs you up into one of those warped funhouse mirrors. It’s cold against your back, your reflection broken up and twisted around you. Everywhere you look, you see his hands on you. Your mouth parted. His body flushed against yours.
His hands shoot up and pin your wrists above your head. His chest hits yours a little too hard, like he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to be right there, right on you.
“You like being looked at?” he says, breath warm, face close. “You want people staring at you? Watching you throw your ass around in front of some random dude like you forgot who you belong to?”
You smirk, just a little, because yes, you did it to get under his skin and it worked. His eyes drop to your mouth, and for a second, he just stands there. Then his grip tightens just a little and his voice drops again.
“You’re seriously gonna make me lose my shit in a funhouse.”
Your lips part like you’re about to say something snarky, another little tease, maybe one more push but Jason doesn’t give you the chance.
His mouth crashes into yours in a kiss that’s all teeth and frustration and heat. He bites down on your lower lip and pulls back just an inch, lips still brushing yours, eyes narrowed like he doesn’t know whether to kiss you again or throw you on the floor and fuck you.
“Well,” he pants, smirking but there’s nothing playful in it now. “Too bad. ‘Cause tonight? You’re mine.”
He grabs your hand and pulls you deeper into the funhouse, his fingers laced tight in yours like you might try and bolt. You stumble after him down a narrow hallway lined with cracked mirrors and old Halloween decorations, one of those spinning vortex tunnels tilting around you as you pass through it, the whole place groaning like it might fall apart any second.
Eventually, you reach an old back room behind a sagging curtain. There’s busted animatronics slumped in the corners, old fog machines, forgotten clown masks tossed in a bin.
But what really gets his attention? The couch.
“Sit,” he says and before you can sass him, he’s already pushing you down onto it, his body following yours like he can’t stay away from you anymore.
He crawls over you with that same look in his eyes you saw earlier at the ring toss booth. He’s already tugging at your top with one hand, just enough to expose the edge of your bra, just enough to make your chest rise up into him. Your breath stutters. Your thighs shift. And he sees it all.
“No distractions,” he says, voice low but breathless. “No more games. Just me. Just this.”
The couch creaks underneath you. Something hums behind the mirrors, old machinery or maybe the leftover life of this haunted place. But none of it matters. Because the only thing you can hear right now is Jason’s ragged breath... and your name on his lips.
“I’m not lettin’ you walk outta here,” he says, mouth right at your ear, hips already settling between your thighs, “until I fuck the idea of any other guy outta that pretty little head.”
He grins, flushed and out of breath, thumb sliding just beneath your bra. “Hope you’re comfortable, baby,” he whispers, voice teasing now. “You’re not goin’ anywhere.”
You barely settle on the couch before Jason’s all over you. His hands are everywhere, one grabbing your face, fingers spread across your cheek and jaw while his mouth slams down on yours. It’s teeth and tongue and heat like the previous one, his lips moving against yours like he’s punishing you for making him feel this way.
His body is hot and heavy and solid on top of you, pressing you into the ruined cushions like he’s trying to fuse your skin with his. Every movement is tense, urgent like he doesn’t know whether to kiss you or scold you or just fuck it all out of his system.
You rake your nails down his back and he groans, hips jerking into yours on reflex, grinding down with enough force to make the breath leave your lungs in a sharp gasp.
“God, fuck,” he mutters against your mouth, voice ragged. “You liked that, didn’t you?”
He drags his mouth down your neck, biting hard. Not enough to seriously hurt, but enough to make you gasp, your back arching up into him. His lips find that soft spot just above your collarbone and suck, tongue hot and sloppy and possessive, until he pulls back and sees the angry red mark bloom on your skin.
“You loved it,” he pants, his voice rough and way too close to a whine. “You liked him looking at you like you’re some fuckin’ prize.”
His mouth crashes back onto yours with a groan, his tongue forcing its way in. It’s messy. He’s panting into your mouth, breathing like he just ran sprints, like he’s sick with how badly he wants you.
His free hand slides down to your waist, tugging your hips up again to grind against him, his cock hard and thick in his jeans, pressing right into where you need him most.
“You are a prize,” he growls into your mouth, “but you’re mine. You get that? Mine, babe. I don’t give a shit who else tries. I’ll win every fuckin’ time.”
His grip tightens on your waist and he thrusts against you again, just enough to make you squirm. You feel it building already, the way his body’s so much on top of yours, the way his mouth won’t stop, his fingers bruising into your hip.
Your head tilts back as he kisses you harder, deeper, hands gripping your thigh, dragging it over his hip so he can slot himself tighter between your legs. The couch groans beneath you, old springs creaking as he shifts his weight, grinding down with ruthless precision.
His teeth sink into your collarbone and you whimper, hips lifting into him like your body’s already begging.
“You wanted a reaction?” he pants, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown. “You got one.”
Jason’s fingers fumble at the hem of your shirt, and there’s not a second of hesitation. He just grabs and yanks. The fabric bunches up under your arms, stretched and twisted, half-off your shoulders and exposing the top of your bra. He doesn’t fix it. Doesn’t even give you a second to adjust.
Your mouth parts like you might protest, tease him, say something bratty but all that comes out is a moan when his hand covers your breast and squeezes. Just a full, possessive grab that makes your body jolt under him.
“Yeah?” he growls, eyes locked on yours. His voice is rough and breathless, chest rising hard against you. “You like showing off like that? Walking around with your tits bouncing under that little top, like you forgot who fucking owns ‘em?”
His fingers dig into the soft flesh, making you gasp. Before you can answer, his hand slaps your chest just enough to leave a flash of pain that has you gasping and arching into him. Then he’s grabbing again, rougher this time, dragging your bra down so it’s twisted under your chest. Your breasts spill out, flushed and sensitive, nipples hard in the cold air and Jason doesn’t wait.
His mouth is on you in the next breath. Hot lips crashing down over your nipple, tongue flicking hard, fast, wet then he bites. Not deep, but enough to make your back arch and your nails scratch down his arms. You feel him groan against your chest, like the sound got ripped from his lungs just by tasting you.
“Fucking mine,” he mutters against your skin, not even pulling away to say it. His teeth drag across your breast, and then he sucks hard, lips sealing around that bruised, bitten flesh. He moans into it and you can already feel the heat between your legs pulse.
Sucking hard, dragging his tongue around your nipple, then biting again. He pulls back for a second to look at the mark blooming across your skin, deep red, maybe purple.
His mouth finds the other breast, this time starting rougher with no buildup, no warning. Just a sharp, open-mouthed bite that makes you cry out, and his hands pin your wrists back against the couch cushions before you can even think about touching him.
“You’re not moving ‘til I’m done,” he grits out, lips dragging across your chest. “You wanted attention so bad? Good.”
He switches to your other breast again, gripping it with his full palm like he’s trying to leave fingerprints. He leans in and sucks hard, messy and wet, his mouth pulling at you with that desperate noise like he doesn’t care how obscene it sounds.
Your back arches, body hypersensitive, nerves raw under the drag of his tongue. He pulls off with a loud pop, breath panting against your skin, and just stares.
“Goddamn,” he pants, dragging a slow stripe of his tongue up your chest, hot and slow. “You really thought you could flirt like that and not get fucked up for it?”
His hand hits your tit again, sharper this time. It bounces hard from the impact, and he is still grinding his thigh between your legs.
“Keep playing, baby,” he growls, grabbing both your breasts now, squeezing them together. “Go ahead. See what happens.” He leans in again, mouth against your ear, voice dark and breathless. “You’ll be walking outta here with bruises only I get to see.”
You can barely breathe. Your legs are trembling now, wrapped around his thigh, grinding without thinking because fuck, he feels good. The heat, the pressure, the way every move he makes lights you up from the inside out.
His mouth is everywhere. Your chest, your collarbones, the soft underside of your tits. He kisses hard and fast, then bites just to watch you squirm, groaning into your skin when your hips twitch against his leg.
He pulls back just long enough to look down at you; hair messy, lips red and shiny, his breath ragged. “Not done yet,” he says, almost to himself, before he starts tugging at the button of your shorts.
Jason’s fingers fumble at the button of your shorts, breath puffing hot against your chest. He’s not smooth with it. You squirm under him, hips lifting just enough to help, but he grabs you by the waistband and tugs hard.
The button pops. The zipper drags open with a hiss. He peels your shorts down your thighs, not bothering to be careful, dragging the denim past your knees, then all the way off and tossing them somewhere behind him like.
“Look at you,” he mutters, running one hand up the inside of your thigh while the other palms your ass. “All worked up from a few slaps and some attention, huh? That’s all it takes, babygirl?”
He grips your panties next, fingertips hooking into the sides, thumbs pressing into your hip bones and just stares for a second. At the wet patch between your legs. At the way your thighs twitch. At how ruined you already look.
“Fuck,” he groans, head tilting back for a second like he needs to breathe through it. “You’re soaked.” Then he rips them down in one smooth motion. He drags the damp cotton down your legs and off your ankles, eyes locked on your pussy the entire time.
“God, you’re so hot like this,” he pants, voice barely holding it together. “Flushed. Desperate. Fuckin’ dripping.”
He drops to his knees between your legs, hands spreading your thighs so wide it makes the couch creak, and his thumbs drag up the inside of them.
Your thighs are trembling, muscles clenching around nothing as Jason settles between them, his hands keeping you spread wide. His eyes are locked on your cunt, swollen and slick and pulsing from everything he’s done and everything he hasn’t.
He’s been teasing you for what feels like hours, fingers ghosting over your skin, tongue dragging slow and mean along the inside of your thigh, but never where you need him.
You buck your hips, chasing any kind of friction.
He just smirks. “You really thought I’d let you cum easy?” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement and sharp with that cocky, jock-boy edge that makes your stomach flip. “After that little show you put on out there?”
He leans in low, lips barely grazing your inner thigh, and his fingers slide up to the heat between your legs. Just knuckles. Enough to make you jolt.
“C’mon, babe,” he taunts, fingers trailing lazily through the wetness between your folds. “Bet he would’ve begged to eat this pretty pussy the second you bent over for him.”
You whimper, hips twitching. Jason huffs a laugh. He spits. It lands right on your clit, sticky and shining in the dark.
“Oops.”
His fingers immediately slide through the mess, swirling it in tight circles over your swollen bundle of nerves. Just one flick. One sweet, devastating flick that makes you arch off the couch with a gasp.
And then he pulls away. You cry out, wrecked and helpless, thighs still shaking as your orgasm slips just out of reach. Again.
Jason leans back on his heels, sucking the wet off his fingers like it’s nothing, grinning at the way your body trembles.
“Nah,” he says, voice low, cocky, breathless. “Not yet.”
He leans in again, tongue licking one long stripe between your folds, wet and hot and when he wraps his lips around your clit, you nearly lose it. Your fingers tangle in his hair, hips rocking up into his face but then—
He stops. Again.
You let out a strangled whine.
“Mm-mm,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s savoring you. “You flirted, remember? You made me jealous. So now I get to decide when that pretty little pussy gets to cum.”
He slaps your inner thigh, not too hard but hard enough to jolt you. “Lie still.”
And then his fingers are inside you—two of them, fucking up into you at a brutal pace that makes your eyes roll back. His thumb rubs lazy circles over your clit, pressure just enough to make your whole body tighten and just when you’re right at the edge, legs shaking, moaning his name—
He pulls out again.
“No—Jason—fuck—!”
“Uh uh,” he pants, leaning over you, mouth brushing your ear as his soaked fingers grab your throat. “You don’t get to cum until I say so. You don’t get anything until you learn to behave.”
He starts again, faster this time. Harder. Fingers curling right where you need them, his thumb grinding into your clit, lips kissing and biting your neck like he owns you and when you scream his name again, body clenching so close to the edge—
He stops. You sob.
“Please—”
Jason smiles, cock hard in his jeans, sweat dripping from his hair as he looks down at you.
“Not good enough,” he hums. “Beg like you mean it. Or I’ll keep doing this until the damn sun comes up.”
“Please—Jason,” you sob, voice cracked from moaning too hard, too long. “I-I need it—I need you, I can’t—please, baby, I’ll be good, I swear—just fuck me, please—”
That’s all he needed.
“Finally.” He grabs your hips, flipping you up higher on the couch with rough hands, your back hitting the armrest, legs thrown open.
His belt clinks, zipper dragged down with vicious speed. You feel him. Heavy against your dripping entrance. He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t warn you. He lines himself up and slams in, the stretch brutal, perfect, making your body jolt so hard you knock your head back against the couch.
“Fuck—Jason—!”
He groans deep in his chest, like it physically hurts to be inside you, he’s so pissed, so turned on, his fingers bruising your hips as he sets a punishing rhythm.
“You don’t get to flirt. You don’t get to fucking beg for it after acting like a little slut unless I say so,” he growls, snapping his hips into you with every filthy word. “This pussy’s mine. Got it?”
You’re crying now, half from overstimulation, half from how goddamn good it feels. His cock hits deep, relentless, dragging over that spot that makes your whole body lock up. He pins your wrists above your head with one hand, the other grabbing your throat; not choking, just holding.
His eyes never leave your face. “Say it.”
“M-mine—yours—it’s yours,” you sob, body trembling violently under him.
“Damn right it is.” He fucks you harder, all frustration and jealousy and weeks of pent-up need slamming into your core with every savage thrust. Your thighs are soaked. The couch is creaking. His sweat drips onto your skin and you don’t even care that your clothes are in shreds on the floor.
You feel yourself building again, right to the edge and you can’t even say a word. You just sob his name, legs tightening around his waist.
Jason feels it.
“Cum for me,” he orders through clenched teeth. Your whole body shakes, back arching, breath gone, nerves on fire. He lets out a strangled moan and follows, his hips stuttering, cock pulsing deep inside you as he buries himself to the hilt.
For a moment, there’s only silence. Only your breathless, wrecked body shaking under him. Only his weight holding you down, cock still twitching inside you.
Then he leans down, breath hot on your lips.
“Bet you won’t try that shit again after this.” he whispers, smirking now.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
You both come stumbling out of the haunted funhouse like nothing happened but it’s so obvious something did.
Your hair’s a mess. Your shirt’s pulled down but not quite right. Your shorts are twisted at the waist, Jason’s jacket draped over your shoulders. And he’s got that grin on his face.
That smug, post-fuck, victory lap grin.
He slings his arm around your shoulders, pulling you tight into his side as you head back toward the noise and lights of the carnival. You can barely walk straight and he’s clearly loving it. Every time you stumble, he tugs you closer, laughing under his breath.
And then of course you see him.
That guy from earlier. The one at the ring toss.
He’s leaning against the booth now, still handing out cheap stuffed animals, but his eyes lift when you pass,
Jason sees him too. And oh, he doesn’t let it slide. He leans down, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice low and laced with mock sympathy.
“Aw, look at that,” he whispers. “Your little fanboy’s still here.”
You elbow him weakly, but he laughs, loud and cocky.
“What? You wanna go back and thank him? Maybe bend over the booth again so he gets a better look this time?” he teases, bumping your hip with his. “Might as well. Not like he’s ever gonna see what I just saw.”
You glare up at him, flustered, cheeks burning.
Jason just grins wider, boyish and smug and way too pleased with himself.
“Nah,” he adds, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “You’re walking funny enough. He’ll get the message.”
Then he smacks your ass, quick and playful, right there in public, and keeps walking like he didn’t just say the dirtiest shit in the middle of a family carnival.
Yeah. He’s back in jock mode. And he’s never letting you live this down.
summary — late night drive with your rich, asshole boyfriend.
warnings — 18+, p in v, public sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, multiple rounds, very unsafe driving lmao, u flash ur tiddies, backseat sex, mentions of nipple piercings (on him), dirty talking, he’s an asshole, degradation, dry humping, collar & leash, he loves ur boobs, dom/sub dynamics, hair pulling, road rage, cursing, overstimulation, creampie, unprotected sex
a/n — i’m ovulating rn if u can’t tell by this demonic ff
It’s past midnight, and the city’s finally sleeping. The sky is a deep endless navy, starless but lit up by the soft buzz of neon signs casting their glow on the slick asphalt. Everything hums quietly; the streetlights flickering like lazy fireflies, the occasional distant bark of a dog, and then that sound.
The low purr of a finely tuned engine prowling down the avenue.
A sleek black sports car rolls into your view, its body gleaming beneath the lights, polished so perfectly it reflects the color of the sky. It slides to a stop in front of you with a low, throaty purr—sleek, black, and way too flashy for the neighborhood. Like everything about him, honestly.
Then he steps out.
Evan Lewis. Blonde hair a mess in the most intentional way like he ran his fingers through it five seconds before the door swung open. He’s got that half-grin already in place, the one that makes you roll your eyes and bite your lip at the same time. His white tee clings in all the right places under that worn-in leather jacket, gold rings flashing under the streetlight as he shuts the door with a lazy thud.
His eyes land on you and stay. Slow drag down your legs, up your thighs, pausing just long enough at the hem of your tiny dress to make your stomach tighten.
“Holy shit,” he says, low and unapologetic, licking his lips with zero shame. “You tryna get me in trouble tonight, or what?”
You push off the lamppost, hips swinging just to tease him, and his eyes damn near glaze over. His smirk turns cockier like you’ve already lost a game he didn’t even warn you he was playing.
“Trouble’s already here,” you murmur, stepping into his space, hands on his chest. His shirt’s warm, soft, and his heart’s racing just enough for you to feel it.
Evan grins wider. “Fuck, you’re cute when you talk back.”
He kisses you. Just a soft press of his mouth to yours, enough to make you chase more but he pulls back before you can.
“Mm-mm,” he teases, thumb brushing your lip. “You’re not gettin’ dessert before dinner.”
He opens the door for you, all smug, like he’s doing you a favor AND like he didn’t almost crash the car trying to pick the right playlist on the way over. His hand slides over your ass like it belongs there, giving a little squeeze as you get in.
“Jesus,” he mutters as you sit, shaking his head with a grin. “You’re seriously gonna make me spend money I don’t need to spend tomorrow.”
You blink up at him. “On what?”
He slides into the driver’s seat, engine already rumbling as he throws an arm behind your headrest to back out. “New seats,” he smirks. “You’re gonna ruin these.”
And just like that, you’re flying down the street with the windows down, his playlist too loud, his hand already creeping up your thigh, and that signature Evan Lewis cocky-ass laugh echoing into the night.
His fingers brush yours first like it’s nothing. A casual touch, a little whoops moment that doesn’t match the glint in his eye or the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
But then they slide lower.
He’s still looking at the road, one hand on the wheel, the other trailing over your thigh with maddening patience. Fingertips grazing your skin just under the hem of your dress. Barely there.
You glance over. Hw’s chewing gum, jaw tight, tongue flicking against the inside of his cheek like he’s holding back something way too dirty for daylight.
“Evan,” you breathe, shifting in your seat.
He hums. “Yeah, baby?”
But that hand? It doesn’t stop. He’s tracing shapes into your inner thigh now, knuckles brushing dangerously close to your panties, rings cold and teasing against your overheated skin.
So you uncross your legs and let them fall open. One leg stretches long across the console, foot hooking near the gearshift like you own the space.
That smirk deepens, but he doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t need to. His fingers slide higher. Higher. Until they’re dancing just along the edge of your panties, barely tugging them aside. Just enough to tease.
You turn toward him fully, dress slipping further up your thighs, hand diving into his messy blonde hair to pull him in for a kiss, despite the fact that he’s driving.
Tongues tangling. Teeth clashing. He moans into your mouth and it sends a jolt straight between your legs. He breaks the kiss just long enough to mutter, lips brushing yours, breath hot:
“You’re gonna get us killed.”
You grin, biting his bottom lip as you whisper, “You love it.”
And he does. You feel it in the way his hand grips your thigh harder now, his thumb brushing over soaked fabric of your panties. The way his cock twitches in his jeans. The way his foot hits the gas just a little harder sending the car surging forward.
The streetlights blur. Your body’s burning.
He’s driving like he’s chasing heaven, one hand on the wheel and the other about to wreck you.
His mouth’s on your neck before you even realize he’s leaned over. Soft bites and hot lips trailing from your jaw to your collarbone like he’s got all the time in the world and every inch of you is his favorite distraction.
You tilt your head back, sighing, your fingers tightening in his hair.
“Mmm, there she is,” he murmurs against your skin. Then he nips just under your ear, hard enough to make you gasp, and smirks against the sound. “You make that noise again, baby, I might crash this fuckin’ car on purpose.”
And then his hand’s back under your dress. No shame. No hesitation.
First it’s knuckles, slow and teasing over the top of your lace panties. Then fingertips. Stroking. Pressing. Until he slips under and feels just how wrecked you are.
He exhales sharp through his nose, tongue clicking behind his teeth.
“Fuuuck, all this for me, huh?” he chuckles, low and cocky, like he just hit the jackpot. “You’re soaked. Soaked for me and I’ve barely even touched you.”
You squirm under his hand, hips rolling up, desperate for more but he just keeps it lazy. Barely dipping between your folds, fingertips gliding so slow it’s maddening.
You arch into his touch instinctively, your thighs trembling as his fingers slide down again, slow and taunting. Two fingers circle your clit, barely touching, just the pads dragging lazy figure-eights over that aching bundle of nerves.
You moan, hips twitching, and his grin is wicked.
“Don’t move,” he mutters, voice low and smooth, eyes flicking from the road to your bare, trembling thighs. “Let me feel you like this. Legs open, seat soaked, and me still drivin’ like it’s just another Tuesday.”
Then, finally, finally he slips one finger inside.
You gasp. The sound is soft, broken, and it makes his jaw clench.
His golden rings glisten, catching the streetlight as his finger pumps slowly in and out, curling just right. You shudder, your back arching off the seat, your thighs threatening to close but he tuts under his breath and presses them back open with his free hand.
“Nuh-uh. Stay like that. Show me how fuckin’ messy you get for me.”
You choke on a moan. “Evan—”
And then he slides in a second finger, a satisfied grunt escaping him when you clench around the stretch.
He bites his lip, still watching the road but you can see how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he drawls, cruel and so fucking hot. “You’re dripping on my seats and I haven’t even unzipped my pants yet”
His fingers work deeper, faster, curling again, knuckles brushing your slick folds as he picks up the pace, just enough to drive you insane.
“You really this fucked out already, baby?” he whispers, leaning closer, breath hot against your neck. “Just from my fingers? You gonna cum with me drivin’ one-handed like this?”
He laughs, so smug and full of himself, and presses his palm hard against your clit while curling both fingers inside you. “C’mon, baby. Let the whole fuckin’ city know who owns that pretty little pussy.”
He doesn’t even glance at you, just smirks, voice laced with mock sympathy as he coos, “Aww, baby… you’re gonna cum without me even having to stop the car?”
The car swerves slightly as your hips jerk, thighs clenching around his wrist. He breathes hard, cock visibly straining against his jeans now, the tension in his jaw betraying just how close he is to losing it too.
His thumb circles your clit faster now, meaner, and he groans, “Shit, you’re gonna make me crash this damn car.”
You’re trembling, legs shaking so hard you nearly knock the gearshift.
But somehow, you manage a smile through the haze of pleasure, nails digging into his wrist as you gasp out, “Then maybe you better finish me fast… before we both go down.”
That grin spreads across his lips again, his voice going low and smug as he whispers, “Better scream my name, baby. I want people two cars over wonderin’ why the windows are fogged.”
Your body shatters around his fingers right there in the passenger seat—legs spread, moaning his name, back arching off the leather as he fucks you through every pulse of it, every gasp, every twitch of overstimulation.
He brings his fingers to his mouth, licking them clean with a satisfied groan as you slump back, ruined and panting.
“Jesus,” he mutters, glancing over at you with a grin so cocky it should be illegal. “You better hope we hit red lights… ‘cause if we don’t, I’m pulling over and bending you over the hood.”
Evan’s still riding that high, humming with leftover adrenaline, your taste still on his fingers, your slick clinging to the gold bands like it belongs there. He hasn’t even tried to clean his hand off. Hell no. He rests it on the wheel like it’s some badge of honor, flexing his fingers now and then just to feel the memory of how tight you were around them. He keeps glancing at it like it’s his trophy.
He shoots you a look, that smirk tugging at his lips. “You’ll be thinkin’ about this every time you sit in this seat, huh?”
But before you can sass him back, the universe gives him an opening.
Some lifted monstrosity of a truck with mud-caked tires, cracked tail light, probably compensating for a dick the size of a Q-tip swerves right into Evan’s lane. No blinker. No hesitation. Just daring someone to crash into him.
Evan slams on the horn, the sound sharp and angry over the growl of his engine. The car jerks slightly, and he has to yank the wheel to avoid kissing the truck’s ass.
“What the fuck is this guy doing?” he snaps, voice instantly ten shades angrier.
He throws his hand out the window, middle finger waving with flair, wrist adorned in his golden rings like he’s taunting fate. “You don’t cut off this car. This is a six-figure machine, you piece of shit!”
Evan is seething, that bratty, testosterone-laced fury rolling off him in waves you can feel through the cabin. One arm tensed on the wheel like he’s ready to put someone through it, the other flexing just from the tension alone. His jaw’s clenched so tight it might snap, and you can see his pulse ticking in his throat.
You peek over, one brow cocked, half-smirking, half... throbbing.
God, he looks good angry.
Muscles coiled under that tee, chest rising with each pissed-off breath, gold rings flashing as he flicks the blinker and changes lanes with unnecessary force. You don’t even know if it’s the same guy still ahead of you but at this point, Evan’s on a mission.
You drag your gaze down slowly, zeroing in on the way his thighs strain under those ripped jeans. That twitch in his leg? That’s not just rage. You know that twitch.
The dude is vibrating with anger.
“Baby…” you purr, playful, dragging the word out, “you’re gonna pop a vein.”
He doesn’t even flinch. Just shifts the gear harder than necessary, growling through his teeth, “I should pop his tires. Fuckin’ pull up beside him, spit on his mirror, let this beast of a car chew through his dad’s retirement fund on wheels.”
You snort, biting back a full laugh. “Sounds like someone’s compensating.”
“Oh yeah,” Evan snaps, the cocky edge already sliding into his tone like a reflex. “And now he’s gotta come for me? Me, with this car—” he gestures, almost offended, “and you sittin’ in the passenger seat lookin’ like a damn centerfold?”
You tilt your head, voice syrup-sweet. “You mean lookin’ like this?”
And then you reach for the thin straps of your dress. Tug them off one shoulder. Then the other. His peripheral vision catches it, but he can’t fully look yet. The neckline dips. Your tits spill out like a fantasy. No bra, nipples stiff from the A/C, catching the faint blue light from the dashboard like some pornographic art installation.
“Wanna see my tits?”
Evan whips his head toward you so fast the car sways.
“Wait—what?”
You lean closer, smiling way too sweet. “I said… I can distract you.”
He makes this broken sound, half moan, half disbelieving laugh. “You’re joking. You’re fucking joking.”
But you’re not. You sink lower in your seat, spine arched subtly, back pressing into the leather as you lift your arms and fold them behind your head, just enough to push your chest out like some vintage Playboy spread. You look at him through lowered lashes, bottom lip tucked between your teeth, like you’re offering up a goddamn offering.
He shakes his head like he’s physically trying to exorcise the thought. “You’re lucky I’m not rear-ending that guy and fucking you right here in the wreckage.”
Evan makes a sound somewhere between a growl and a desperate whimper.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he mutters. “You’re evil. You’re—you’re insane. You cannot do this shit to me while I’m driving.”
You bat your lashes. “Oh, this is too much now? Not fingering me? Not making me cum on your rings while you hit 80 on the freeway?” You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “You gonna crash, baby? Need a little help staying focused?”
You arch just slightly, the soft bounce of your breasts enough to destroy any restraint he had left.
His hand abandons the wheel entirely once more, palm cupping your breast with a groan, thumb brushing over your nipple in circles. Your breath catches, back pressing into the seat as you melt into the touch.
He licks his lips, blue eyes dark and dialed in. “Babe, I swear… I will pull over and ruin that pretty little dress if you don’t put those away.”
You pout, dragging a single finger along the thick muscle of his thigh, just over the seam of his jeans. “But I thought you liked reckless behavior,” you tease, purring. “Or is that only when you’re behind the wheel, big man?”
He slams the gearshift into a lower gear with a thunk, the sound sharp and final.
Then his hand slides right back between your thighs. No hesitation. He finds your soaked panties and presses against the wet heat of you, breathing like he’s seconds from losing it.
“Keep tempting me, and I’ll fuck you with the door open,” he growls low, close to your ear. “Let the whole street see what happens when you act like a whore.”
You moan, soft and breathless, as two fingers slip under the lace, teasing the slick entrance he already knows by heart. Your hips twitch toward him on instinct, your legs falling wider.
He barks a breathless laugh and rips the wheel sideways, jerking the car down the nearest gravel turnout without warning. Tires screech. Loose rock kicks up behind you. The brakes slam.
The car jerks to a halt, engine humming with tension as he throws it into park so hard you think the stick might snap. He looks at you, leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear, breath hot with intent.
“Backseat,” he growls. “Now.”
His fingers dig into your hips as you climb into the back, and he watches you move like it’s a private show he paid for. You hear the soft clink of his rings as he yanks the door shut behind him, shirt already discarded and left in the front seat, muscles flexed from the motion. He’s all golden skin and a little sweat, his necklace swinging against his chest as he stalks toward you like you owe him something.
“God damn,” he mutters, eyes raking over you like you’re his next party drug. “You’re sittin’ pretty in my backseat like I didn’t just finger you dumb ten minutes ago.”
His hands are all over you now. One yanks your hips into his lap, the other curls in the thin fabric of your panties and rips them aside without blinking.
His mouth crashes into your neck, teeth scraping hard enough to bruise, tongue dragging fire down your collarbone as you moan his name. You’re needy, dizzy and dripping for him all over again.
“You flash those tits at me one more time,” he growls into your throat, breath hot, cock grinding up against you through his jeans, “and I swear, baby, you walk right for a week.”
You roll your hips against him, dragging yourself across that hard ridge in his lap, breath catching at the friction. You slide your lips to his ear, voice sugar-sweet and smug as hell. “You promise?”
His grip tightens as he presses his cock against your soaked folds through his jeans, rubbing slow just to tease. “Oh, I fuckin’ swear. You’ll be limping into that campus café tomorrow. Eyes all glassy, legs shaking, can’t even sit right and everyone’s gonna know exactly why.”
You whimper and he just smirks. “Now be a good girl,” he whispers, popping the button of his jeans one-handed while the other forces your legs open wider. “And ride me like you want that shopping spree tomorrow.”
Your thighs wrap around him like you belong there, knees digging into the leather, dress shoved up high around your waist. Every grind makes your tits bounce against his chest, and Evan looks like he’s in heaven. Or hell. Or both.
His hands won’t stay still, one palm full of your ass, the other dragging up your spine, hot and greedy. His lips close around your nipple, sucking deep and hard, teeth catching just enough to make your back arch. He bites, pulls, then soothes with the flat of his tongue like he’s got all fucking night to play.
“You like that?” he mutters against your skin, voice rough, breath hot. “You like using me like your fuckin’ toy, baby?”
You grind down harder on him, dragging your heat along the thick length of his cock through his jeans, making both of you groan. His rings bite into your hips where he grips you, pulling you into every thrust of his lap like he’s trying to ruin you.
He shifts to your other nipple, sucking it deep, swirling his tongue until your head tilts back and your moans fill the fogged-up car. One hand fists the leather beside his head. The other is tangled in that messy blond hair, yanking just enough to make him groan.
“You think you’re the one teasing?” he murmurs, pulling back with lips wet, that smirk spread across his face like sin. The moonlight slices through the window and catches the gold rings in his pierced nipples.
Your breath stutters. “F–fuck… Evan…”
But he doesn’t let you say more. His fingers curl into your hair, tight and perfect, yanking your mouth toward his chest.
“Go on, baby,” he rasps, low and lethal. “You flash those tits like a pornstar and think I wouldn’t make you earn it? Use that pretty little mouth. Let me feel it.”
You whimper, lips already parting, and drag your tongue across one of the metal rings. It’s cold, shocking against the heat of his skin, and you feel the jolt of it shoot straight through your cunt. You suck around it, lips closing tight, tugging just enough to make him hiss.
“Fuck, just like that,” he groans, head dropping back, hips rocking up into yours. “God, you love makin’ me feel good, don’t you?”
You nod, still latched onto his chest, tongue curling around steel, breath fast. But you already know what’s coming from the shift in his grip, the way his fingers flex like he’s about to flip the script again.
His breath is ragged now, chest heaving under you, one hand still tangled in your hair, the other sliding down to your waist. You’re still licking and sucking at his piercing, dizzy on the taste of sweat and metal and him.
“You know what I want?” Evan mutters. “I want you to grind on my cock till you cum. Just like this.”
His hands clamp down hard on your hips, fingers digging into the flesh, dragging you forward, forcing you to grind against the thick bulge beneath his jeans. He hisses at the pressure, jaw clenched, eyes half-lidded but locked on you like you’re his only fucking religion.
“You feel that, baby?” he growls, rocking you along the hard line of him, letting the denim drag right across your soaked panties. “That’s how hard you make me. That’s what you do with one look, one fuckin’ whimper.”
You moan, high and breathless, your hands braced against his chest as he guides you over him, again and again, slower than you can stand.
“Faster,” you whimper, hips starting to move on their own. “Evan—”
“Nope,” he smirks, tightening his grip to slow you down. “You’re gonna take it my way. All slow, all needy, ‘til you’re beggin’ me to let you fall apart.”
The friction is maddening; denim rough, heat unbearable, every grind dragging your clit just right. Your thighs start to shake again, your body trembling as he grinds you down harder, his hips rising just enough to make it worse.
“Look at you,” he whispers, voice fucked-out and full of pride. “Soaking me through my jeans like a fuckin’ mess. You gonna cum for me like this, baby? You gonna cum from dry humping my cock like a desperate little thing?”
You nod, choking on a moan, nails digging into his chest as your body tightens, an orgasm crawling up your spine.
He leans in, lips brushing your ear, voice dark velvet. “That’s it, ride it, baby. Cum for me. Make a mess all over me, and I won’t even fuckin’ unzip.”
And then you're gone—crying out his name, grinding helplessly through the wave of pleasure as your body shudders, folds soaked, thighs clenching around his waist while he holds you there.
“Good girl,” he breathes, kissing your jaw as you fall against him. “Didn’t even have to take my pants off.”
He watches you come undone, breathless and flushed in his lap, and that cocky grin just deepens. His hands stay on your hips for a second longer, thumbs stroking your trembling skin like he’s memorising what it feels like when you fall apart on him.
One arm wraps around your waist, the other catches your thigh, and in a fluid, almost obnoxiously smooth motion, he flips you beneath him. Your back hits the hot leather seat, your dress bunched at your ribs, tits still out and glistening in the moonlight.
He settles over you, his jeans still tight and rough between your thighs, his bare chest brushing yours, the golden rings in his nipples cool against your skin.
Then his hand trails down your body.
Rings brushing your waist, then the curve of your hip, then lower until his fingers are sliding down between your legs, moving through your soaked folds with an obscene kind of reverence.
“Still fuckin’ dripping,” he murmurs, voice all smoke and smugness. “Goddamn, baby.”
You gasp as he sinks a single finger inside you. No rush. No rhythm. Just a lazy curl and drag, dragging it back out, then in again, deeper this time. His eyes are locked on your face like it’s his favorite fucking movie.
Your back arches, a whimper slipping past your lips. “Evan…”
“Oh, I know, I know,” he coos mockingly, adding the tiniest twist to his wrist that makes your thighs jerk. “So sensitive now, huh? And I’m just gettin’ started.
He leans in close, brushing a kiss against your jaw, then your neck. His breath is hot, his mouth smiling against your skin. His fingers work inside you, curling just right, dragging over that spot that makes you clench around him. But every time you try to buck your hips or speed up the rhythm, he slows down.
“You don’t get to cum yet,” he whispers, licking a stripe up your neck. “Not until you’re cryin’ for it.”
Your back arches off the leather, a choked moan spilling out as he sinks deep, pressing his palm against your pussy so you feel everything. The gold ring on his knuckle drags against your skin, cool and electric.
“That’s it,” he mutters, eyes locked on your face, watching every flutter of your lashes, every twitch in your lip. “Take my fingers, baby. Take ‘em like a good girl.”
He doesn’t even blink as you fall apart beneath him, just grins, unbothered. “You’re gonna cum again, huh?” he groans, his fingers never pausing. “Good. Because the second you stop shaking, I’m fucking you. Raw. I wanna feel this tight little pussy grip my cock the second I slide in.”
Your back arches like you’ve been hit with lightning, a cry ripping from your throat. You shatter around him, thighs shaking, fingers digging into the leather like it’ll hold you together. His name bursts out of you in a sob—Evan, over and over. But he doesn’t stop.
He fucks you through it with slow, deliberate strokes, two thick fingers curling just right, milking every last twitch and clench from your overstimulated body. You swear you black out for a second and still he keeps watching you like it’s the best goddamn show he’s ever seen.
When he finally pulls his fingers free, they’re drenched—your slick dripping down his knuckles, shining in the faint glow of the dash light. And he moans as he licks them clean, sucking them into his mouth like he’s starving, groaning deep in his chest.
“Fuckin’ heaven,” he mutters, lips wet, gaze never leaving yours. “You taste like sex and sin and everything I’m never gonna get tired of.”
Then he leans down, one hand gripping the side of your face as he kisses you like he wants you to taste yourself on him. His cock is already pressing hard against your thigh, straining his jeans, and he’s panting against your mouth when he pulls back.
“And baby…” he whispers, dropping his hips lower until the pressure of him is right there, pulsing against your slick entrance, “…I’m not even close to done with you.”
He grins, that cocky little smirk curling the corner of his mouth as the zip cuts through the humid air.
Zip.
Your head jerks up just in time, eyes locking on the flash of gold as his fingers slide through his belt buckle with maddening ease. It slips loose in one fluid motion, the sound of leather against denim sharp.
He sees your stare, your parted lips, the way your chest rises like you're trying to catch breath that won’t come. And then, like the devil he is, he raises a brow and says, all mock-sweet:
“You look thirsty, baby. Need a sip or just wanna stare?”
You don’t even answer. Your throat’s dry, your heart’s trying to punch out of your ribs, and your whole body goes still when he shoves his jeans down just far enough.
Just enough to free it.
His cock—thick, veined, flushed deep and glistening already at the tip—slaps against his stomach with a needy twitch. Your breath catches so hard it hurts, a noise stuck in your throat.
And Evan’s loving every second of it.
He strokes himself lazily, almost taunting. Your slick makes it easy, gliding over the length as he groans under his breath, head tipping back for a second, golden rings bright against flushed skin.
“Look at this,” he growls, voice low. “Look what you did to me. Look what you made.”
You reach out, desperate to touch, to wrap your hand around the heat of him, feel that weight, but he’s faster.
His hand catches your wrist mid-air, hard enough to make your breath stutter, but never rough. “No,” he murmurs. Then he pins your wrist to the leather above your head, pressing his chest to yours, thick and solid and radiating heat.
His lips brush your ear and he whispers, low and filthy:
“I told you. I’m gonna fuck you stupid.”
Then he shifts over you, knee pressing between your thighs to spread them wide. You’re already bare, slick, ready, but he still takes his time, hand dragging down your thigh to keep you open, exposed. You feel the heavy heat of him press against your folds, just the tip, sliding up and down through your slickness, catching on your clit with every teasing pass. Not giving you what you need. Not yet.
“Beg.”
You moan, hips lifting. “Evan, please—”
“Beg better.”
So you give him what he wants, voice breathless, desperate, soaked in need. “Please, Evan… I need your cock. I need you to fuck me. I need it deep.”
That does it. With one brutal thrust, he buries himself inside you.
You scream his name, a ragged cry that echoes off the windows and fills the car like lightning cracking through a storm. Your back arches, thighs clenching around him as he bottoms out. He doesn’t pause. Doesn’t let you adjust. He starts fucking you with a rhythm that’s pure punishment; relentless, hard, deep. Each thrust slams your body against the seat, the leather creaking beneath you, the car rocking on its tires.
The fogged-up windows rattle. Somewhere outside, a streetlight flickers. But in here? It’s just the sounds of sex and desperation, the wet slap of skin, the snap of his hips, your moans breaking into sobs.
His hand wraps around your throat again, thumb pressing beneath your jaw, golden rings biting into your skin as his other hand grips your hip, pulling you harder onto his cock with every thrust.
“This is what you needed, huh?” he grunts, sweat sliding down his chest, catching on his nipple rings as they glint with every movement. “Look at you now. Dumb on my cock. Can’t even speak.”
You can’t. You try, you really do but all that comes out is a shattered moan, your eyes rolling back, lips parted around sounds that barely make sense.
“Say it,” he growls, slapping your thigh hard enough to sting, the heat blooming across your skin.
“I’m yours!” you sob, legs locking around him. “I’m yours, Evan—fuck, I’m yours!”
He chuckles, leans in closer. “You’re not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever. I’m gonna fill you up so good, baby... you’ll still be leaking me in the morning.”
You can feel every inch of him, buried so deep you swear he’s carved himself into your body. Your walls clench around him, tight, trembling, the pressure building faster than you can control.
He thrusts faster, deeper, his hands everywhere—your throat, your hips, your breast, his thumb dragging across your nipple until you're gasping.
And then his breath catches. His thrusts stutter.
And he cums.
Hard.
Your name rips from his mouth, his whole body trembling as he spills inside you, cock twitching, thick heat flooding your core until it’s leaking out around him.
He collapses over you, still deep, panting against your neck as your bodies shake together. You feel his lips press to your collarbone, a soft, lazy kiss like a brand.
“Fuck,” he whispers, voice wrecked and warm. “You ruin me.”
And you smile, dazed and breathless, your fingers curling in his hair. “Good.”
You're still catching your breath, skin stuck to the leather from sweat and heat, when Evan shifts above you. His cock is still buried inside, still thick, still hardening again already. You blink up at him, dazed, glowing, but then his fingers slide into your hair and tug, just hard enough to make you gasp.
“Flip over,” he rasps. His breath is hot against your ear. “Now.”
You moan softly, but you don’t hesitate. You roll onto your stomach, letting your cheek rest against the seat, your bare ass lifting in the air for him.
Evan groans behind you, his hand sliding down the curve of your spine. He pauses at the dip of your back, lets his palm rest there, before reaching back and smacking your ass. The sound cracks through the car, your body jerking forward as a gasp tears from your throat.
“You’re fuckin’ perfect like this,” he mutters, voice dripping with awe and lust. “Tits against the seat, back arched, ass up... leaking my cum all over the fuckin’ leather. Just waiting for me to ruin you again.”
You whimper, shifting your hips back, presenting yourself like a needy little thing and he loves it. He spreads your cheeks with both hands, his eyes locked on the slick mess between your thighs.
He drags the head of his cock through your folds, still sticky with his cum, coating himself in it with a hiss. You’re already sensitive, still fluttering from your last climax, and the teasing alone makes you shake.
“Still so fuckin’ wet,” he groans. “So full of me.”
And then he thrusts in again.
He slams into you with one brutal stroke, your body jolting forward, a raw moan ripping from your throat as the seat squeaks beneath you.
“Evan—fuck!”
He wraps a hand around your hip, yanking you back into each thrust, his other hand gripping the nape of your neck, holding you down just enough to make you feel owned.
You can barely breathe. Barely think. Every movement sends shockwaves through your overstimulated body. It’s too much and not enough. It’s fire under your skin.
“You gonna take it all, baby?” he teases, panting behind you. “This what you wanted, huh? Gonna let me fuck you so deep it hurts?”
You cry out something between a sob and a yes, and that only spurs him on. His pace brutal, relentless, the sound of your bodies slapping together louder than the pounding of your heart.
“You wanted to act up in traffic, flash me, tease me like a little slut,” he snarls, thrusts slamming deep. “Now you’re gonna take every inch until you learn.”
His hand slips between your legs, fingers finding your clit with perfect precision, rubbing tight circles that make your knees buckle. You’re so sensitive it borders on pain but it’s the best kind.
“I can feel you clenching,” he pants, voice smug. “You’re gonna cum again, aren’t you?”
You nod frantically, tears pricking your eyes from the intensity. “Yes—yes, Evan, please—”
“Do it,” he snarls. “Cum while I fill you up again. I dare you.”
You fall apart around him, screaming his name, your body convulsing as your orgasm crashes over you like a wave.
Evan curses loudly behind you, hips stuttering as he thrusts deep one last time and stays there, buried to the hilt as his cock pulses, spilling hot and thick inside you all over again. You feel it flood you, feel it dripping out almost instantly, both of you a sweaty, ruined mess.
He leans over your back, chest heaving, mouth at your ear.
“…Round three’s gonna be worse if you keep lookin’ that fuckin’ pretty.”
And with your cheek against the seat, all you can do is moan.
You’re lying there, gasping against the leather, your thighs spread, soaked, twitching, every nerve still sparking. You’re filled with him, twice over, and your whole body feels like it’s floating.
He pulls out slow, a messy squelch echoing between your legs, and you whimper from the loss. You feel his cum drip down your thighs, sticky and hot, and that chuckle from behind you makes your toes curl.
“Oh, look at this fuckin’ mess,” he murmurs, almost to himself. You hear the sound of his zipper going up just long enough for him to reach over to the front seat and grab something from a compartment.
Your dazed mind barely has time to process before you feel it; his hand on your ass, spreading you again, then…
Click.
A soft leather strap tightens around your throat. Not choking, just claiming. You gasp, instinctively lifting your head, but he tugs it back down.
“That’s better,” he breathes against your ear. “Now you really look like mine.”
A collar. Thick, black leather. A silver ring at the front and way too flashy. You can tell it’s an expensive one. And you’re not even shocked. You’re soaked all over again.
Evan’s hand slides down your back, settling on the small of it like he’s steadying you before you hear another sound.
Clink.
A chain leash.
Your body shudders at the noise, heart thundering, and when he clips it to the ring on your collar, you whine. That low, needy, cock-drunk sound he lives for.
“Good girl,” he purrs, giving the leash a light tug. “Ready for my favorite part?”
You moan out something that sounds like please, but all that comes out is a wrecked whimper. Doesn’t matter, he knows what you want.
You feel his cock, hard again, pressing against your entrance. He grips the leash tight, pulls your head back just enough to arch your spine, and thrusts.
Your scream shatters into the leather as he fucks you like he’s trying to crawl inside you. Your hands claw at the seat. The collar bites softly into your throat with every pull of the leash.
“That’s it,” he pants, thrusts slamming into you. “Let me use you.”
You’re just bouncing under him, whining, whimpering, drooling against the seat as he rails you like an animal. The chain jingles with every thrust.
And then his fingers dip between your legs again, soaked and messy. He doesn’t tease this time, just rubs your clit with that perfect, brutal rhythm while he holds the leash like reins.
“Gonna cum with my cock in you and a collar around your throat like a good little bitch?”
You sob something close to yes, legs starting to shake again. He smirks. “Not yet.”
He pulls out but it’s only so he can slap his cock against your swollen pussy. Over and over, loud and wet and obscene. You're writhing now, whining like a desperate thing, grinding back against him in mindless need.
“Please, please, please—”
Then he slams back in, grabs the leash tight, and fucks you flat. Your face presses into the seat, ass in the air, chain clinking every time he moves. You’re screaming now. Crying out his name like a prayer.
He leans over you, voice feral in your ear: “Cum for me, you dirty little slut.”
You cum hard, violently, body convulsing, throat whining around the cold steel between your teeth. You go boneless beneath him as he growls and pumps deep one final time, flooding you with a third load, thick and hot, his cock jerking inside you as he holds your hips in place.
You’re left twitching, full, marked, panting against the seat with a collar around your neck and cum dripping down your thighs. And behind you, Evan smirks and tugs the chain just once more, making your hips twitch again.
“Next time,” he pants, “we’re bringing handcuffs.”
The car's gone dead quiet now except for the hum of the engine and your wrecked little gasps, barely audible under the thick fog of sweat and sex that clings to every inch of you. Your body’s sprawled across the seat, limp, twitching, drenched in his cum, your cheek pressed into the warm leather. There’s a collar around your throat.
He’s leaning back against the seat, smug as hell, his jeans half-done, chest still heaving, golden rings gleaming on his fingers as he watches you fall apart from round three.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, swiping a hand through his messy blonde hair, still trying to catch his breath. “Look at you…”
You make a soft, exhausted noise, and he smirks.
“Fuckin’ ruined. Can’t even talk, huh?”
He leans over, presses a kiss to your temple, then tugs the collar gently off of your neck. His lips brush your ear.“I warned you. Flash those tits, act like a tease in my car? I’m not just gonna let that slide.”
You let out a sleepy giggle, too fucked out to sit up, still full of him in every way.
He pulls your dress down over your hips, fingers lingering on the bruises forming along your thighs. “That pretty little dress is toast, by the way,” he says casually, like he's commenting on the weather.
Then he stretches and grabs his jacket from the front seat, draping it over your back like a blanket. His voice drops again, cocky and smooth.
“…Guess I’m taking you shopping tomorrow.”
You blink, dazed. “Wha…?”
You’re still trembling beneath him, flushed and glowing, body wrecked in the best possible way; makeup smeared, hair wild, your legs too shaky to move even if you tried. Evan’s breath is warm against your collarbone as he leans in, presses a kiss just below your jaw, then another, softer, to the corner of your mouth. You feel his smirk before you hear it.
“Damn,” he murmurs, voice low and lazy now, lips brushing your ear, “you really took it like a champ, didn’t you?”
You hum something between a laugh and a moan, dazed and melting beneath his weight.
He shifts back, dragging his hand down your thigh. His golden rings are still glinting with you, and he doesn’t even wipe them off, just holds his fingers up and grins like he’s proud of his own destruction.
Then he leans in again and kisses your shoulder, slow and deep this time. “I’m takin’ you shopping tomorrow.”
You blink up at him, still catching your breath. “What?”
He grins, eyes gleaming. “Yeah. You earned it. I’m talkin’ the works—shoes, lingerie, maybe a new dress I’ll end up ruining again. Whatever you want, baby.”
Your chest rises with a shaky laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m rich,” he corrects, smug as hell. “And you’re hot. I reward good behavior.”
Then he softens, just a little. One hand strokes your hair, fingers gentle as he brushes it back from your face. “Gonna get you cleaned up. Get some food in you. Hydrate that pretty mouth I ruined.”
You bite your lip, a sleepy smile tugging at the corners. “Is this you being sweet now?”
He leans in one last time, kisses you full on the mouth.
“Nah,” he murmurs, lips still touching yours. “This is me taking care of my girl.”
summary — you find bobby’s diary and you read it because you’re a nosy ass bitch (same). the first few pages start off sweet.. then it turns into him detailing his deepest fantasies and kinks. being an amazing girlfriend that you are, you decide to make his wet dreams come to life.
warnings — 18+, p in v, longing, romance, power play, bondage (you tie him up), he calls you ma’am, sub! bobby, face sitting, he cries, because of orgasm denial, praise kink, edging, unprotected sex, cursing, whimpering, aftercare ofc, breach of privacy ig but bobby doesn’t mind </3, HE’S A LIL DYSLEXIC BUT THAT’S OKAY
a/n — this man is so adorable nd i will not stop saying that.
You weren’t trying to snoop.
But Bobby was at practice and the late afternoon light was spilling into his room like honey. You came to his house a bit earlier than expected and his mom let you in. You were mostly on your phone in his bed, waiting for him and rolling your eyes at the way he never properly organized his drawers. The drink in your hand managed to somehow slip a bit out of your grasp, ending up in your shirt being soaked and a quiet “Fuck.” from you.
You decide to take one of his shirts and that’s how you find it, tucked under a stack of old shirts, navy blue cover, slightly frayed on the corners. A small, unassuming notebook, nothing labeled, nothing flashy. If it weren’t for the way it had clearly been shoved deep into the drawer, you might not have given it a second thought.
But it was his and Bobby wasn’t a notebook guy. He barely remembered to take notes in class. The boy lived in the moment, by instinct, sunshine and impulse.
So you paused. Sat down on the edge of the bed with it in your hands. Thumbed through the edge of the pages. You almost decided to respect his privacy but you were pretty curious.. And you opened it.
Page one.
Small, slanted writing. You recognized it immediately. His lowercase i’s dotted with soft little circles. The first sentence made your heart stutter:
“She’s so pretty I think my chest hurts sometimes.”
You blinked.
The page creaked as you turned it slowly.
Page two.
“Today we made pancakes and I forgot the butter but she kissed my cheek anyway. I think she likes the way I say her name. I hope she never stops saying mine. She told me I smell like summer. I almost said 'I love you' right then. I almost said it. what if she knew. what if she knows already."
Your fingers tightened slightly on the edges of the paper. You could hear his voice in your head, saying these things softly into the air, never brave enough to tell you aloud.
Page four.
There were doodles here. Little hearts. A sketch of your initials and his, inside a lopsided heart.
Page ten.
This one was more chaotic. Scratched-out words, half-sentences, like he’d been writing in a rush, mid-feelings.
“She wore that dress again. I coudnt stop stareing. I hope thats okay. I wanna tell her how much I think about her but— idk. What if its too much?? What if Im too much. I just... I think about her so much. Its probbly weird. GOD. Im so dumb.
That last one made your chest ache. You could see him writing it; brow furrowed, lip caught between his teeth, pen trembling slightly in his hand. You flip through the pages, staring at the messy scribbles. At all the pieces of him you hadn’t seen, his quiet wonder, his soft obsession, his boyish insecurities tucked behind every lovestruck line.
You should’ve put it down. Should’ve respected his privacy. Left it tucked under his shirts where he thought it was hidden.
But it’s Bobby.
Your sunshine-soft, broad-shouldered golden retriever of a boyfriend. The boy who looks like he got lost on his way to football practice and stumbled into your life instead—blinking, blushing, and absolutely at your mercy.
And he writes about you like he’s never loved anyone before. You flip ahead. Later entries. The pages are more worn there, messier. Like he couldn’t write fast enough.
“She wore those little shorts today. I couldn’t think straight for the rest of the afternoon.”
“She streched stretched and her shirt rode up. I almost moand moaned (I’m writing this fast, okay?) . What is wrong with me.”
“She sat in my lap and kissed me like she knew what it does to me. (She knows. She definitely knows.)”
You do. Of course you do.
You felt the way he tensed when your thighs brushed his. You heard the way his breath caught when your fingers slid into his hair. The little gasp when you tugged.
You flip again. This one’s messier with little hearts scrawled in the corner, your name in the margins like a chant.
“Last night we… god. I can’t even write it. I came so fast. She didn’t laugh. She just smiled. Like she liked it.”
“She said I sounded pretty when I whimper. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”
“She called me a good boy today and I got all flustured—flusttered?? flustered. That looks wrong. whatever. She made me dumb."
Another page. You’re in too deep to stop now.
“She sat on my face. I thought I was gonna die. (Best way to go.)”
“She said I was good. Said I made her feel amazing. I’ve never been prouder.”
“She tilted my face up and told me to look at her. I almost cried.”
You bite your lip. Hard.
Because God, this boy. This sweet, overstimmed, desperate-to-please jock who writes about you like you’re his religion.
He still hasn’t come into the room.
You can hear him come home though, footsteps in the kitchen, the soft clink of a glass, probably drinking straight from the jug like always. You’ve got seconds. Maybe a minute. And that diary? Still open, still bold, still begging to be read.
So you turn one more page.
It’s the last one.
No date. Just a smear of ink at the top where he must’ve pressed too hard with the pen. Like he sat there for a while, hesitating. Like he didn’t know how to start. Like the words felt too heavy to say out loud but not too heavy to bleed onto paper.
Eventually, he starts.
"Idk why Im writing this. maybe bc I cant say it. not yet. sometimes I think abt her tieing my wrists. I dont think she knows how bad I want it. I want her to pin me down. not like—rough, just… like, on purpose. the way she looks when she’s serious. fuck. I like when she tells me what to do. when she touches me like I’m hers. like I belong to her. I wanna beg. I think I’d be good at it. is that fucked up? I just— idk. I wanna be good for her. I’d do anything if she just told me to."
The same boy who blushes when you call him pretty, who can’t stop kissing your neck when he’s flustered and here he is, writing about being ruined with that same gentle reverence. Your fingers drift down the page, following the curve of his scrawl like a lover’s touch.
Then, another line, ink heavier here. Like he stopped, then came back, needing to get this next part just right.
“I think I want to call her ma’am. Just once. See what she does.”
You pause. Then grin. At the bottom, scrawled like he ran out of nerve halfway through:
“I hope she NEVER!!! reads this.”
Too late, sweetheart. But it doesn’t feel like crossing a line. It feels like entering a home you already lived in.
Because this isn’t snooping. This is knowing. And now you know it all; the want, the fear, the desperate little pieces of him he was too shy to say out loud.
And the best part?
He doesn’t know you want it, too.
Not yet.
You glance toward the door. Still no Bobby. Still distracted.
Good.
You reach for his pen, flip to the back page, and write in neat, steady script:
“You’re already mine. But if you call me ‘ma’am’ again, I’ll make sure every page you wrote turns into a memory you beg to relive. Sound fair?”
You place the book exactly where you found it and lie back on the bed like nothing happened. When Bobby walks in a minute later, hair tousled, cheeks flushed, hoodie clinging to his broad shoulders, unknowing.
A day later you’re in your apartment. It’s barely noon when you hear the knock. Soft. Hesitant. Like he considered backing out halfway through and only knocked because momentum carried him.
You open the door and there he is.
Hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, cap low on his forehead, cheeks burning red. He’s not even looking at you properly, just staring somewhere near your collarbone like it’s safer.
“Hey,” he mumbles. Voice thick, like it got caught in his throat on the way out. “Uh… hi.”
You lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, lips curled in something far too close to a smirk. “Hi, baby.”
That makes him flinch adorably.
He shifts his weight, sneakers squeaking faintly on your floor, and then lifts his hand to scratch the back of his neck. “I, um…” He swallows hard. “So. About the—the thing.”
You blink slowly. “The thing?”
His face goes redder.
“The… diary. I know you read it.” He glances up at you, then away again just as quickly. “The.. thing you wrote in it—I can’t stop thinking about it and I—uh. I just wanted to say—”
You tilt your head, pretending not to notice the way he’s squirming. “Wanted to say what, sweetheart?”
He whines. Not loud. Not on purpose. But it slips out.
“I wanted to say I didn’t mean for you to read all of it but I’m also glad you did and I’ve never been this embarrassed in my life and also you looked really good when I came in and then when you left I went to write something about it and then I saw it and I kind of haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”
It all spills out in a rush.
You watch him. Calm. Patient. Hungry, maybe, in that slow-burning kind of way.
Then you step aside.
“You wanna come in, baby?”
He nods. Fast. Practically trips over his own feet doing it.
You close the door behind him. Then lean close, breath warm at his ear.
“I liked reading it, Bobby. You write about me so pretty.” You brush your fingers along his jaw, feel the way he tenses. “Next time, don’t hide it in a notebook. Just tell me.”
He makes a sound. Something between a whimper and a sigh. His hands twitch like he doesn’t know whether to pull you close or bury his face in them and disappear entirely.
You take his hand instead. Lead him to the couch.
“Let’s talk, golden boy,” you murmur, tugging him down beside you. “Starting with that little ‘ma’am’ fantasy…”
And just like that, Bobby folds again; soft, sweet, and utterly yours.
The couch isn’t even that comfortable, but Bobby doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy looking at your mouth like it’s the answer to a question he hasn’t dared to ask out loud.
You’re straddling his lap now. Your fingers trace up under his hoodie, skating along the warm skin of his sides, and the way he shivers? Delicious.
“You sure you’re ready to talk, baby?” you murmur, voice low. “You came all this way blushing like I’d eaten you alive in your sleep.”
His breath hitches. “I—yeah. I just. You said—”
“I know what I said.”
You reach behind you, grab something from the little drawer by the couch. A soft length of black fabric. The moment he sees it, his eyes widen.
“Color?” you ask gently.
He nods. “Green.”
You take his wrists, bring them up above his head, and tie them. Not tight, not mean.. just enough. Enough to make his breath catch and his shoulders roll against the cushions like he’s already overwhelmed. He’s blushing so hard it reaches his ears.
“You think you’re good at begging, huh?” you tease, leaning down until your nose brushes his. “Wanna show me?”
But he can’t answer. Because the second your mouth touches his, everything else disappears.
It starts soft, just lips brushing lips, slow and lazy. But you deepen it fast, pulling a little whimper from his throat as you kiss him harder, as your tongue licks into his mouth like you own it.
His hands are twitching in the restraint, hips shifting beneath you, needy and trembling and utterly lost in the way you’re kissing him like you’ve been starving for this.
You pull back just a breath, barely enough to speak.
“You know what I read in that diary, Bobby?”
He nods, pretty green eyes glassy.
You press a kiss to his jaw. “I know everything you want now.”
Another to his throat. “And I plan to give it to you.”
Then you drag your teeth lightly against his neck, and he gasps; head falling back, wrists straining just a little, mouth parted like he’s waiting for more.
God, he’s beautiful like this. Tied up and melting for you.
Bobby’s wrists are still tied above his head, fabric snug but not cruel. He could pull away if he really wanted to. But he doesn’t. Not even close.
He’s flushed completely. Neck, ears, chest under that hoodie. You’re slowly grinding in his lap, one hand braced on his chest, the other cradling his jaw, keeping him right where you want him.
You murmur against his lips, “Such a good boy… letting me kiss you like this.”
He whimpers, tries to kiss back harder, but you pull away just enough to keep control.
“Ah, ah,” you whisper, pressing your thumb under his jaw to tilt his face up. “Let me lead, baby. That’s what you like, isn’t it?”
His eyes flutter, and he nods, whispering, “Y-Yeah.”
You kiss down his neck, slow and wet, just to hear the sounds he makes when you drag your teeth across his pulse point.
“You’re always so eager,” you murmur against his throat. “So soft for me. You wrote about it like it’s your biggest secret—but it’s written all over you, sweetheart.”
He lets out a shaky breath, tied hands flexing above his head. “I—I didn’t know you’d ever actually…”
“Oh, but I am.” Your voice drops, lips ghosting up to his ear. “And I want to hear you say it. That word you like. Come on, Bobby.”
He freezes. Swallows. Whines.
You kiss the corner of his mouth again, sweet and slow. “Say it, baby. Be good.”
His breath hitches. Then, barely above a whisper:
“…Ma’am.”
You melt.
“Good boy.” You crush your mouth to his again—hotter this time, rougher, your tongue licking deep and slow, like a reward.
He moans into you, every muscle under you trembling. You kiss him until he’s breathless, until all he can do is squirm and gasp against your mouth like he’s about to cum just from the way you’re talking to him.
And when you pull back, finally, you let your thumb trace his spit-slick bottom lip and say softly—
“Next time you say that, I want it with confidence. Understood?”
He nods fast, panting, wide-eyed, completely undone.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Bobby’s wrists are still snug in the soft restraint above his head, and when you guide him down so he’s laying on the couch, you do it slow like you’re tucking something precious into bed. Because you are.
He watches you with wide eyes, breathing ragged, lips kiss-swollen and still trembling from your last command. His chest rises and falls in quick, eager little stutters, and there’s this look on his face like awe.
You kneel over him, hands braced at either side of his head, letting your weight settle onto his stomach first. Testing. Teasing.
“Still with me?” you murmur, leaning in close.
He nods, quick. “Yes. Yes, ma’am.”
Oh, he’s learning.
You smile and kiss the tip of his nose. “Good boy.”
Then you shift. Just enough for him to get the idea.
And when his breath catches, when he finally realizes what’s happening, when his lashes flutter and he tilts his head back like he’s ready to *devour* whatever you give him?
You take your time.
You hover just above his face at first, one hand reaching back to stroke through his hair, the other resting on your own thigh for balance. His hands are still tied. His eyes? Blown wide. Pleading. Desperate.
“You wanna be good for me?” you ask, hips rolling slow and deliberate as you sink down just a little closer.
He gasps. “I do. I—please.”
You hum. “You know what to do.”
You give him what he’s been begging for, lowering yourself onto him until his lips touch your folds.
He moans into you, like he’s overwhelmed just by the taste of you, by your weight on him and the way your thighs frame his face. You keep your grip gentle in his hair, your voice a soothing rhythm of praise between every twitch and cry he lets out.
“Aah.. fuck— That’s it, baby,” you whisper. “So good. So eager. You were made for this, weren’t you?”
He nods into you and you smile. He’s eating you out like it’s his last meal; eyes closed, head tilted slightly back, his hands forming fists and his hips bucking up ever so slightly.
His mouth is a mess against you, so needy, like he’s trying to make up for every second he hasn’t been here. You’re calm. In control. Sitting pretty right over his mouth while your hand reaches down, trailing over his stomach until your hand goes into his boxers and your fingers wrap around his cock.
He moans against you at the first touch. The sound vibrates through you.
“Mm,” you murmur, voice smug. “You like multitasking, huh?”
His hips twitch up and you laugh softly, stroking him once from his base to his tip, slow.
“You’re doing so well down there,” you whisper, thumb teasing at the tip. “But don’t get greedy.”
He whines. You feel it in the way his mouth falters, like he can’t decide where to put all that desperation. It’s thick in his breath, in the tremble of his thighs, in the way his hips roll up into your touch like he needs more.
You stroke him again and again, just enough to push him to the edge and then let go.
He moans, frustrated, panting against you.
“Aww,” you coo, grinding your hips gently back down onto his mouth, “that close already?”
His reply is muffled, frantic. You can feel his tongue working harder, more desperate now, trying to stay useful even while you toy with him like he’s your favorite thing to play with.
“You know you’re not allowed to finish yet,” you say softly, reaching down again, stroking just enough to make him tremble. “You’ll wait. You’ll take care of me first.”
Another edge. Another release. His body arches, breath ragged, and still he keeps going, broken open beneath you with his wrists tied and his pride forgotten.
“Such a good boy,” you whisper, voice like velvet against the haze in his head. “You’ll keep going, won’t you? Even if I make you wait all night.”
And from beneath you, voice wrecked and whiny and so sweet:
“Yes, ma’am.”
You shift off of him slowly, lifting your hips with deliberate care. His lips are slick, his cheeks flushed, eyes wide and already glassy. Bobby’s a wreck beneath you, chest heaving like he’s been sprinting, not worshipping you for the last however many minutes.
You trail your hand along his jaw, tilting his face up so he can look at you.
“You did good,” you murmur, letting just a hint of sweetness slip into your voice. “Really good.”
He tries to say something; thanks, a plea, your name maybe.. but it comes out breathless and broken. He’s too far gone. Perfect.
You drag your hand down his chest, over his stomach, until your fingers wrap around him again, just a teasing stroke now, but even that makes him jolt. He’s right there. You know it. You’ve kept him teetering on the edge for so long, the tension wound tight in his body like a live wire.
And that’s exactly how you want him.
You rise up over him, straddling his hips and guiding him between your thighs as you sink down on him so he feels every second of it. His mouth falls open, a choked gasp slipping out as his head tips back against the couch pillow.
“Mm-mm,” you warn, your hands pressing gently to his hips to still him, “don’t you dare finish.”
He nods desperately, but you know better than to trust him now. He’s too wound up, too lost in you.
So you lean in, lips brushing his ear as you whisper:
“You don’t cum inside me. Understood?”
He shudders. Whines. Nods again, frantic.
“I mean it,” you murmur, rocking your hips just enough to feel him repeatedly twitch inside you. “You lose control, and we won’t continue. Understood?”
You sit up again, spine straight, thighs tightening around him as you start to move; measured, controlled, every motion designed to ruin him. His eyes roll back, his mouth drops open, and he’s already trembling like he’s going to break.
You know he won’t last long. You’ve got him wound tight, every roll of your hips hitting just right, every soft command dropping like lightning in that overheated head of his. And Bobby? He’s gone.
He’s moaning loud, not even trying to hold back anymore, gasping your name with that helpless, shaky edge. He knows he’s not allowed to finish and can’t do a damn thing about it.
“Please,” he whimpers, eyes glassy, blinking fast, “please, ma’am, I—I can’t, I’m—” His words dissolve into another moan as you move just right, and that’s it.
He’s crying.
Soft, desperate tears slip down his cheeks, frustration and need twisting through every line of his body. He’s still trying so hard to be good for you—tied up, trembling, flushed pink all over—but he’s breaking.
And something melts in you. You lean in, one hand brushing his damp hair back, the other resting over his chest to feel the way it rises like he’s just run a marathon.
“Hey, hey, look at me, baby” you whisper, voice gentling. “You’re doing so good. So damn good.”
His lashes flutter. His breath hitches.
You kiss his cheek, your thumb swiping away a tear as your hips keep moving but slower now, more intimate. “You wanna come, baby?”
He nods hard, almost frantic. “Yes, ma’am—please, I c-can’t hold it—”
You smile against his skin.
“Okay, sweetheart,” you breathe, lips brushing his ear. “You can come. Go ahead. Let go for me.”
The sound he makes isn’t even a moan, it’s a sob punched out of him as he finally, finally tips over the edge. His whole body arches beneath you, hands pulling against the restraints just for something to hold, and he shatters with your name on his tongue.
You ride him through it, tender now, holding him through every twitch and gasp, whispering praises into his ear.
“Good boy… That’s it. You did so good for me. So pretty when you cry, baby…”
He’s still shaking. Not from fear, not from pain but from the way you unraveled him. From how hard he came. From how deep you had him.
You’re already moving gently, even as his chest rises and falls in stuttering waves. You untie his wrists with careful fingers, not saying a word yet, just pressing soft kisses to the skin once it’s free. You bring his hands to your mouth and kiss each one, like you’re thanking them for holding on.
He blinks up at you, eyes still glassy. There’s tear tracks drying on his cheeks and the sweetest kind of vulnerability in the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the sun and he’s not sure if he deserves to be this warm.
“You okay, baby?” you whisper, brushing his hair back from his damp forehead.
He nods. Then hesitates.
“Yeah,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Just… holy shit.”
You smile, leaning down to kiss the tip of his nose. “Holy shit good?”
A soft laugh bubbles out of him, exhausted and wrecked and full of adoration. “Yeah. So good. I—I think I blacked out a little.”
You laugh too, pressing a longer kiss to his lips this time, slow and soft and full of promise.
You help him sit up, wipe him down gently, every touch a quiet reassurance. And when he starts to shiver, whether from the crash or the vulnerability, you don’t ask. You just wrap him in your arms and pull the blanket around both of you.
He clings. Melts into your chest like he always does, like your body is home and safety and everything good all at once. One of his hands finds your waist. The other tucks under your arm.
You rub slow circles into his back, nuzzling into his hair.
“You did amazing,” you murmur. “Took everything I gave you. So proud of you.”
He buries his face into your neck. “I just wanted to be good.”
“You were,” you say. “You are. Always.”
A beat of silence. Then, quieter:
“I cried.”
You smile into his hair. “I know.”
“You didn’t make fun of me.”
“Why would I?” you murmur. “It just means you trusted me enough to fall apart. That’s everything, Bobby.”
And for a while, you just hold him.
No teasing. No tension. Just skin and warmth and safety wrapped in the sheets between you… Of course, that didn’t last long.
He’s half-asleep when you say it and you’re playing with his hair, light little twirls between your fingers, when you lean down and whisper against his ear:
“So… gonna write about this one in your diary?”
Bobby stiffens. Just slightly.
Then he groans.
You feel it vibrate against your chest. “Oh my God” he mumbles, dragging a hand over his face. “Can we not talk about the diary right now?”
You smirk. “What? I’m just wondering if tonight’s going to get its own page. Maybe two. Little hearts in the corner again?”
“I knew you saw those,” he mutters, face burying deeper into your neck.
You laugh, absolutely delighted. “Bobby, you drew my name in the margins. With a crown on top.”
“I was feeling inspired,” he says defensively, voice muffled by your skin.
“Aww,” you coo, grinning. “You gonna write “she made me cry and then held me like a princess’ orrr…?”
He groans again, but you feel the smile he’s trying to hide against your collarbone. He’s blushing so hard it practically radiates heat.
“You’re evil,” he mutters.
You kiss the top of his head. “Yup. But you love it.”
summary — you and billy really wanna join the mile high club, but oh noo the flight is delayed… good thing the airport bathroom is open though.
warnings — 18+, unprotected sex, p in v, public sex, making out, cursing, on the sink, mirror sex, french kissing, he talks A LOT during the nasty
a/n — a request from @fapqueen <33
And there you were… Gate B17, a half-empty terminal lit in soft fluorescent doom. Somewhere between LAX and your vacation dreams. Billy’s bouncing his leg like the plane’s late just to spite him. And your skirt’s not exactly helping.
Billy’s sprawled across those cheap plastic airport seats, hoodie haphazardly slung around his shoulders, one hand clutching a drink he doesn’t even remember gettinh. His other arm’s looped around your waist, clinging like a koala that’s two seconds from passing out.
And he’s sulking. Full lip-jutted, wide-eyed sulk mode.
“They said boarding at ten,” he mutters, shooting another look at the monitor blinking DELAYED in big, unapologetic letters. “It’s eleven-freaking-twenty. I’ve aged. I’m gonna start college before this plane takes off.”
You lean into his side, pretending to check your flip phone, but mostly just enjoying the way his hand tightens on your waist every time your thigh brushes his. You’re in your little airport fit; skirt, tank top, lip gloss still sticky sweet. He’s been struggling to focus since TSA.
“Billy,” you say, slow and teasing, “you know once we’re on that plane, you’ve got a mission to complete.”
He blinks at you like a cat who’s just heard the treat bag crinkle.
“Mission?”
You glance around. Terminal’s still mostly empty, a few bleary-eyed passengers dozing, some Karen yelling at a gate agent across the hall.
He lets out this broken, fragile little sound. “You’re evil.”
“I’m giving you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
“You said it was a once-an-a-always-time. Like—like a bucket list thing.” His voice cracks on ‘bucket.’
You smirk, eyes glittering. “And yet... we're grounded.”
He groans, flopping backward across the seat, knees twitching. “God is punishing me.”
You nudge his shoulder. “For what?”
“For wanting to do the nasty at 36,000 feet with my hot girlfriend,” he grumbles, eyes half-lidded. “Is that so wrong? Is that not patriotic?”
You stifle a laugh. “You think doing me in an airplane bathroom is patriotic?”
He sits up fast. “There’s a flag in there, babe. It’s like... government-sanctioned.”
You’re wheezing now, biting your lip to keep from cackling.
Then he glances toward the empty hallway leading to the bathrooms and leans in close, whispering against your cheek, “We don’t need a plane to start the mission, though…”
You raise a brow. “You’re suggesting we christen the airport bathroom instead?”
His smile turns feral. “You ever seen those family restrooms? Whole room. Lock. Ventilation. Sink.”
“Billy.”
“I’m just saying, babe. God closes a gate, He opens a stall.”
And just like that, you’re yanking him up by the sleeve, both of you giggling like high schoolers sneaking out of detention, slipping toward the hallway with his hoodie barely disguising the chaos in his eyes.
You pause outside the family restroom, fingers on the handle, Billy behind you with that too-big grin.
“You’re an idiot,” you whisper.
“Your idiot,” he replies.
Billy hits the lock with one shaky hand and you’ve already got your fingers tangled in his hoodie, yanking him forward like you’ve been starving for him. Your bodies crash together in a tangle of lips, limbs, and adrenaline, his back slamming against the door with a muffled thud.
He gasps into your mouth but you don’t give him a second to think. Your lips crush against his, fast and full of teeth, all heat and hunger. He makes this sound, half-moan, half-whimper, as your tongue brushes his, his hands landing wild on your hips like he doesn’t know what to grab first.
“Holy—” he mumbles between kisses, “this is—insane—you’re insane—I love you—”
“Shut up,” you murmur against his lips, dragging your nails down the front of his hoodie.
And he does. For once in his life, Billy Hitchcock shuts up because your mouth is back on his, and you’re kissing him like it’s your only job. You shift your weight, pressing your knee between his thighs just enough to make him twitch, his breath stuttering as his hands grip tighter, sliding up your back and under your top.
Your bodies grind together in frantic rhythm, hips rolling, lips bruising, and it’s hot—not just physically, but in that all-consuming way, like you’ve both been waiting for this moment since the day you met. Every kiss is messy, desperate, like he’s trying to taste every single word you’ve ever said to him.
You pull back just long enough to smirk, licking your bottom lip. “Get me on the sink, Hitchcock.”
His jaw drops. “You—you wanna sit on the—”
You grab a fistful of his hoodie and spin the both of you, backing up until your thighs bump against the cold porcelain. You hop up like it’s nothing, spreading your legs with just enough of a slow, teasing flair to make his breath catch.
“Now get in here,” you whisper, voice a velvet threat.
Billy steps between your legs like a man walking into traffic, half-aware, fully willing. His hands find your thighs, then your waist, pulling you flush against him, and his mouth is back on yours in an instant. His hips press forward between yours, barely restrained, like he’s fighting the urge to absolutely lose it right here and now.
Your back arches slightly, lips parting again, your hand fisting the collar of his hoodie as he kisses you deeper. The sink is cold beneath your thighs, but everything else is heat—his breath, his tongue, the tremble in his hands as they slide up under your top, groping your breasts.
You moan softly into his mouth, and he makes this desperate, broken noise, pulling back just enough to look at you, his hair wild, pupils blown, lips kiss-swollen.
“You’re literally gonna kill me,” he breathes.
You drag your finger down the center of his chest, smirking. “Then die like a legend.”
He leans in again, kissing you so hard your head tips back, your spine pressing to the mirror behind the sink. His hands are everywhere now; your thighs, your waist, your jaw.
You’re all smudged eyeliner and parted lips, legs wrapped around his waist, owning every inch of the moment like you planned it all the second you bought the plane tickets.
It starts with his hands under your top; hot, frantic, thumbs skating over your ribs like he can’t decide where to touch first. You’re kissing again, deep and molten, your arms looped around his neck as you drag him closer by the collar of his hoodie. His lips are swollen, breath ragged, and when you nip at his bottom lip with a smirk, he just melts right into you.
“Shirt,” you pant against his mouth, and he doesn’t even question it.
He grabs the back of his hoodie, tugging it over his head in one clumsy motion that ruffles his curls and leaves him breathless. You help him with the T-shirt underneath, hands skimming his chest as it goes flying somewhere near the baby-changing station. He’s warm and flushed and looking at you like you just dropped from heaven onto his lap.
Then his hands are back on you.
He tugs your top up with a groan, lips catching yours again before it’s even off, and you giggle into the kiss—clothes getting stuck halfway, both of you laughing, panting, fumbling like this isn’t the millionth time you’ve been undressing each other. The second your top’s gone, he’s pressing kisses down your neck, all open-mouthed and desperate, like he needs to feel your skin under his lips or he’ll combust.
“God,” he mumbles against your collarbone, “how are you real—how are you real right now?”
“Billy,” you warn, grinning, tugging at his belt now.
“What?” he says, eyes wide, breath shaky. “I’m just saying you look like a fantasy and I’m—ow! Okay, okay!”
You’ve unbuttoned his jeans with a smirk and pinched his side for dramatic effect.
Then he’s kissing you again. Every piece of clothing that comes off is followed by another kiss. Your fingers tangle in his hair as he leans in, your lips parting for him automatically, and his hands are at your hips, slipping beneath the hem of your skirt.
You gasp into his mouth as he lifts you just enough to slide your underwear down, his fingers trembling, his lips chasing yours again like he can’t stand the thought of not kissing you while he undresses you. You kick them off, your legs tightening around his waist again as you yank his jeans down, his boxers following with a flick of your fingers.
“Okay,” he pants, resting his forehead against yours, “this is—the hottest I’ve ever felt in my entire life. Just so we’re clear.”
You kiss him again, fingers tangled in his hair. “Good. Now shut up and finish what we started.”
And he does, hands firm as he lifts you up higher onto the sink. His hips press between yours again, and there’s nothing left between you now.
Then you turn around so you’re on your knees. Your palms hit the sink with a sharp little slap, the porcelain cold under your touch, but it’s nothing compared to the heat crawling up your spine. You look up and meet your own eyes in the mirror.
And behind you?
Billy’s frozen.
Absolutely wrecked by the view.
You’re bent forward, skirt pushed up high, your body perfectly arched and he’s standing there, jeans shoved halfway down, one hand on your waist like he’s trying to remember how his knees work.
“Holy—” he breathes, eyes glued to your reflection. “I’m—this is—oh my god.”
You smile at him in the mirror, lips curved like you know exactly what you're doing to him. “Something wrong, baby?”
He swallows hard, eyes flicking from your reflection to the way your hips sway just barely back into him. “I’m gonna pass out.”
You laugh before giving him a little arch, a tilt of your hips that has him physically shuddering. His hands slide up your sides, he leans in.
His chest brushes your back, mouth ghosting by your ear. His breath is ragged, his lips just barely brushing your skin as he exhales like he’s been holding it in for minutes.
“You ready?” he whispers.
You nod once, slow and sure, pushing your hips back in silent invitation. He groans and you feel him line up behind you, one shaky hand at your waist, the other guiding himself with the kind of reverence that makes your heart stutter.
And then he sinks his dick in.
The slide of skin against skin, dizzying and warm. Your breath catches. His grip tightens.
“Holy—” he chokes out, like the sensation short-circuits every thought in his brain. His fingers dig into your hips, and for a moment he just stays there inside you.
You glance at him in the mirror.
He’s already looking at you.
“Good?” you murmur, smug and breathless.
He laughs, half-moan, half-disbelieving gasp, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, voice cracking as he breathes, “So good.”
And then he moves.
Slow at first, just a roll of his hips, a drag of his hands down your sides, his lips pressing to your shoulder, your neck, your spine. But it builds; fast, needy, chaotic. One hand on your waist to steady you, the other bracing beside yours on the sink. Your eyes stay locked on your reflections in the mirror; him behind you, head down, jaw tight, hair wild. You, breathless and undone, mouth parted, knuckles white against the sink’s edge.
Your moans bounce off the tile, quiet but sharp, like little sparks in the heavy air.
“God,” he huffs, sweat damp at his temple, “you look so—so hot like this. You’re gonna kill me. I’m gonna die in an airport.”
You manage to laugh, just barely. “You’re complaining?”
“I’m—bragging,” he grits out, fingers digging into your hips now, eyes watching every reaction spill across your face in the mirror. “Look at you. Look at us.”
You do.
And it’s a sight.
The mirror fogs at the corners from your mingled breath, your bodies moving in a rhythm that’s all hips and helplessness, chaos and craving. He shifts slightly, changes the angle and your head tips back with a choked gasp, your eyes fluttering shut—
“Keep ‘em open,” he pants, voice all breath and heat. “I wanna—I gotta see—just… just keep ‘em open.”
But his rhythm stutters a second later, and the words keep tumbling out, unfiltered, so him.
“Jesus, look at that… That’s crazy. You’re—God, you’re makin’ faces and I’m not gonna survive this,” he groans, eyes glued to the mirror like it’s showing him his favorite movie in real time. “You look so hot I might die. Like—I’m serious—this is like, cardiac arrest levels of hot.”
Your laughter comes in gasps, legs shaking, arms barely keeping you up, and he grabs your hips like it’s instinct, like he thinks you’ll float away if he doesn’t anchor you there.
“Dude,” he whines under his breath, like he’s actually overwhelmed. “Dude, you’re killin’ me. Why do you look like that right now? Why is your face doing that? I can’t handle this—I can’t handle this!”
You try to sass him, toss something over your shoulder, but all that comes out is a moan and that does it.
“Oh my god,” he wheezes, brain clearly short-circuiting, “you’re like—a video game cheat code. This isn’t even legal. This is—I’m gonna black out. I’m gonna straight up die in this airport.”
And then quieter, raw and too honest, like it slips out by accident:
“…You’re the hottest person I’ve ever seen. Like ever. And you’re letting me—this? Me? Right now? What is happening.”
Your grip on the sink tightens, knuckles white, arms trembling, as the rhythm builds to something reckless. You’re gasping and in the mirror, it’s all there: your flushed skin, his sweat-slick chest, the blur of his hair as he leans over you, his mouth open like he’s choking on every sound he can’t hold in.
“Shit—oh my god, babe—babe, I’m gonna—”
His voice breaks, and he lets out a sound that’s half-gasp, half-moan, high and ruined and so Billy, and then you feel him jerk forward, his body locking up behind you as he presses in deep. The mirror fogs hard, your reflection blurring just as your body starts to shake, a choked cry tumbling from your lips as you follow him over the edge of the orgasm.
Your back arches instinctively, your legs threatening to give out, and you swear you feel stars burst behind your eyes. The only thing keeping you grounded is his hand, tight on your hip, and the breathless way he whimpers your name like it’s the only thing he remembers.
“Holy—holy crap,” Billy huffs, forehead dropping to your shoulder, chest rising and falling against your back like he just sprinted a mile. “I—I think my soul just left my body.”
You let out a shaky laugh, trying to steady yourself on the edge of the sink as your heart hammers in your ears. “Yeah? Think you’re gonna make it?”
“No,” he groans dramatically. “Call the pilot. Tell him I can’t board the plane. I gotta be hospitalized. You just destroyedme.”
He eases out of you like he’s scared you’ll snap in half, hands tender now, fingertips skating over your hips like they’re his favorite possession. He pulls your skirt down with clumsy care, still dazed, still mumbling nonsense under his breath like “this is better than Disneyland” and “why do my legs feel like gelatin.”
He stares at you in the mirror as you fix your hair, awestruck and slightly unhinged. “You’re actually not real. You’re a government experiment. Some kind of perfect girlfriend weapon.”
You lean back into him with a satisfied little hum, kissing his cheek.
“And you,” you murmur, “are very lucky I like chaotic men with zero chill.”
Your bodies are still humming, nerves frayed and buzzing, when Billy leans back with a grin so dopey it borders on historic.
Then he throws up his hand.
“High five,” he says, breathless, triumphant, still panting. “C’mon. That was insane. We’re legendary.”
You blink at him, half-laughing, still struggling to catch your breath. “Are you serious—”
But of course you slap your hand into his anyway. Because you’re his girl, and this is exactly the kind of ridiculous moment the two of you were built for.
warnings — 18+, hand job, 69 with a twist ;), making out, grinding, u lq get manhandled, oral sex, cursing, he’s an asshole, toxic relationship, couple fighting
a/n — alas 🗣️ tmrw im gonna post a billy hitchcock request!!!
The slamming door nearly shook the house off its hinges.
Carter stormed into the living room like a thunderhead with a busted brake line, varsity jacket half hanging off his shoulder, fists clenched so tight his knuckles had gone bone-white. His jaw was locked, breath sharp and shallow, as if he’d just finished tearing through a fight or barely held himself back from starting one. Again.
He tossed his keys so hard they ricocheted off the kitchen counter and landed on the floor with a metallic clatter. The sound cut through the room like a gunshot.
You didn’t even flinch.
From your spot on the couch—legs crossed, posture unnervingly relaxed, reading some fashion magazine—you watched him like a mother watching her teenager throwing a hissy fit. His chest heaved.
"You wanna explain what the fuck that was back there?" Carter snapped, voice cracking under its own weight, spitting fire and gasoline. "You just walked away! In the middle of everything—like I didn’t exist!"
His sneakers stomped across the hardwood as if trying to shake the foundation loose. But even his rage tiptoed around your stillness. Like a storm that roared the loudest right before it realized the eye was dead silent and far more dangerous.
“Why are you yelling?” you asked, flipping the page of your magazine, like his outburst barely registered. The words weren’t cold. They weren’t even sharp. Just… plain. Observant. Like you were pointing out the weather.
Carter’s mouth opened. Then closed again, like his brain was still buffering. He paced once, dragging his hands down his face as he let out an exasperated sigh. But Carter Horton didn’t know how to leave things alone, not when they hit him where it hurt his ego.
“I’m yelling because you pulled that disappearing act in front of everybody—because you made me look like some whipped, lovesick bitch who can't even keep his girl from ghosting him in the middle of a party!”
You looked up this time. Eyes steady. Expression unreadable. He was unraveling in real time; veins twitching in his arms, jaw clenched, voice splintering under the weight of everything he didn’t know how to say the right way. Anger was easier. Anger was a language he spoke fluently.
“Why are you yelling,” you repeated, but not with edge. Just curiosity. Quiet. Patient. You were taking inventory, not arguing.
He let out a dry, bitter laugh. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“Because you do this shit! You act like none of it matters! Like you can just walk out, no explanation, and I’m supposed to sit there and smile like it didn’t hit me in the fucking ribs!”
You set the magazine down, folding it neatly beside you.
Then you stood. Not fast. Not loud. Just enough to remind him that, unlike him, you didn’t need volume to make a point.
Carter froze.
You looked at him for a beat. Not angry. Just tired. Like you’d seen this performance too many times and knew exactly where it ended.
“You felt stupid, so now I’m supposed to feel small. That’s what this is.” A pause. “You’re not mad at me. You’re embarrassed. That’s different. And you know it.”
The words didn’t slice. They didn’t need to. They just landed, heavy and clean, right in the center of his chest.
Carter stood there, jaw flexing like he was fighting the urge to argue just for the sake of it. But nothing came out. Because he knew. You were right. And he hated that you always were.
“…You scare the shit outta me,” he muttered.
Carter stood there, breathing like he’d just come out of something he wasn’t sure he’d survived. His fists were still curled, like his body hadn’t gotten the memo that the fight was over. But you weren’t yelling. You weren’t even looking at him.
You’d turned away.
Back on the couch, your fingers toyed with a loose thread on your jeans. Not anxiously. Just… to have something to do with your hands. Your eyes were fixed on the wall like it had said something out of line.
You didn’t speak. You didn’t move.
And that silence said everything.
Carter stayed where he was, stuck between standing his ground and realizing he’d already lost it. The heat in his chest was dying off, burning down to ash. His shoulders dropped, just slightly. His stance softened. The fight had drained out of him and left something smaller behind. Something quieter.
He stepped forward once, but it didn’t feel confident. It felt… unsure. Like someone approaching wreckage they caused with no idea how to clean it up.
You didn’t look at him. That was the part that hit hardest.
Because yelling, he could take. Screaming, slamming doors, fire and fury, that was something he understood. That was familiar terrain. But this? This quiet? This cold shoulder that didn’t come from anger but from sheer exhaustion?
That’s what cracked him.
Not your rage.
Your indifference.
Carter sank onto the couch like gravity had just remembered he existed.
Not close. Not far. Just enough space between you to say I know I screwed up without the guts to say it out loud.
The cushion dipped under his weight, shoulders tense, like even now he wasn’t sure if he should stay. He didn’t look at you. His hands sat in his lap, tangled in the hem of his shirt, pulling, twisting, trying to keep still and failing. Like he could undo it all with friction.
He didn’t speak. He wanted to. You could feel it in the air, the words pressing at the back of his throat like a headache he didn’t know how to get rid of. But Carter Horton didn’t do clean apologies. He did flare-ups. He did damage control.
Now? Now he just sat there, breathing hard like the aftermath was louder than the storm.
After a moment, he shifted.
Small movement. Careful. His hand crept toward yours, knuckles just barely grazing yours—testing the temperature, not assuming he was welcome.
He finally glanced over.
And this time, no swagger. No heat. Just those blue eyes; tired, heavy, holding something he wasn’t used to letting out.
“…I freaked out,” he muttered. Voice low. Barely there.“You disappeared, and I couldn’t get a grip on it. Thought you were walking away. So I lost it. That’s on me.”
He looked away again.
“I don’t know how to handle it when it’s quiet. When I can’t fix it by yelling louder.”
No excuses. No defenses. Just a boy chewing on guilt and trying to make sure the only person who ever saw through him didn’t decide to stop looking.
His mouth parted just slightly. The breath came in, but no sound followed. He was about to speak again, you could feel it; some sad half-measured apology trying to crawl out of the battlefield behind his teeth.
You stood.
No warning. No dramatic flair. Just the sharp scrape of denim as you rose to your feet.
Carter’s voice caught in his throat like gravel, the words he hadn’t yet said dying in the tension-choked air between you. His eyes followed you as if dragged by some invisible hook through his chest.
Your fingers touched his jaw. Just your fingertips at first, soft but firm, like a command he hadn’t earned but was already obeying. You didn’t jerk him or grip him tight. You didn’t need to. You tilted his chin upward with a quiet authority that made his entire body lock in place.
He looked up at you. And you looked through him.
All that wild, bruised-boy anger in him had evaporated. The bark was gone. The growl tucked tail.
You dragged your thumb just beneath his lip.
"You ever raise your voice at me like that again,” you murmured, barely louder than a breath, “and I’ll remind you exactly how replaceable your ego is.”
Carter didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. He just sat there with your hand under his jaw, face tilted upward like a man kneeling for execution and maybe, a little, like he liked it.
The silence cracked again, but it wasn’t from you. It was in him. Something uncoiled. Something that looked suspiciously like surrender.
And there his eyes softened. No pride. No posture. Just raw, cornered reverence.
“Okay,” he whispered.
Because what the hell else could he say?
You hold his face tilted up there a moment longer, feeling the way his breath catches like a trapped animal’s—quiet, tense, waiting for a command he can’t refuse. His eyes search yours, flickering between defiance and something far more vulnerable beneath all that fury.
When he doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even try to push away, you let your hand drop slowly, deliberately.
“Good boy.”
Carter stiffens like you cracked a whip beside his ear. His breath catches and the flicker in his eyes goes from guilt to something else so fast it’s almost dizzying.
His jaw flexes, like he wants to push back, make a joke, deflect, bark something but nothing comes out. Because his whole body’s betraying him, heat coiling low and hot, spreading through his stomach like your voice just lit a fuse under his skin.
He’s already half-hard, sitting there like the words alone knocked the fight out of him and replaced it with something hungrier. Something messier. Something that liked it way too much.
His tongue darts across his lower lip. Nervous. Turned on. Staggered.
You glance at him and the way his eyes drop, the way his shoulders pull in ever so slightly?
Yeah. He felt it.
And now he’s sitting there, painfully aware of how warm the room’s gotten, how tight his jeans suddenly feel, and how badly he wants to hear you say it again, even if he’d rather eat glass than ask for it.
You didn’t have to say anything.
His whole body gave it away. The stiff way he sat, the slight shift in his hips like he couldn’t quite get comfortable anymore, the way his eyes kept flicking anywhere but at you. Heat flushed high on his neck, crawling all the way up to the tips of his ears. His breathing was shallow, trying to play it cool, but he couldn’t hide the way your voice had rewired him.
Two words, and now he was sitting there with fire in his blood and need in his eyes.
You watched him for a moment, letting the silence stretch, letting the air between you hum with the weight of what he wasn’t saying. And then you stepped forward, slow and certain, standing right in front of where he sat.
You didn’t speak. You just reached down, fingers threading gently through his hair as you tilted his head forward and pulled him in, guiding him to rest against you. His forehead touched your stomach first, then his cheek, warm and flushed against the soft fabric of your shirt.
He let you.
Hell, he melted.
Big, brash Carter Horton, the one who never backed down from a fight, the one who yelled first and regretted later, now curled into you like you’d unplugged the whole damn world and left only this, his breath catching against your skin, hands gripping the edge of the couch like if he moved, he might fall apart entirely.
You stroked a hand down the back of his neck before you knelt, your knees settled between his, your hands resting on his thighs.
Carter moaned quietly as soon as your hand slid over his bulge. His whole body jumped, thighs tensing under your palms, jaw clenched.
“F-fuck—” It tore out of him, breathless, like he didn’t mean to say it but couldn’t hold it in. He gripped the edge of the couch with one hand, yours with the other, like he was bracing for impact.
His head tilted back, hitting the couch with a dull thud. “Shit. You—fuck, you can’t just—”
But you could. You were.
Every time your hand moved up and down his cock, he twitched; hips stuttering forward, breath catching in his throat. He couldn’t decide whether to moan or curse or laugh like he’d finally lost the plot.
“You think this is fair?” he choked out, voice wrecked. “You think I’m just gonna sit here while you—shit—while you do this and look at me like that?”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. The pace of your hand said enough.
His free hand ran through his hair, yanking it, dragging his fingers down his face like he couldn’t believe how fucked he was, how turned on, how loud he was getting over something so simple.
And then he looked at you. Eyes wild. Pupils blown. Lips parted.
“Say it again,” he rasped. “Don’t look at me like that and not say it again.”
You didn’t answer right away. Just leaned in, close enough to let your breath skim his jaw, close enough to feel him twitch under your palm when you slowed down just to torture him.
“Good boy.”
He broke right there. His hips jerked, breath hitched sharp in his throat, a moans ripped from his chest and he choked on it mid-way, trying to stay composed, trying to not give in to how badly he loved hearing that from you. It made him feel like a bitch, but at the same time—
“Fuck,” he groaned again, louder this time, like his body betrayed him before he could clamp it down.
“You like that?” you murmured, “Yeah, I know you do.”
“Shut up,” he muttered but it didn’t land. Not when he was still shaking, still grinding his dick against your hand. His fingers clutched your wrist, not to stop you. Not even close. The second he touched you, he pulled you up. One second you were kneeling between his legs and the next you were in his lap, straddling him, the heat of his breath crashing into yours like a tidal wave.
“C’mere,” he rasped, voice shredded. “Nah, nah, don’t look at me like that and just—” He kisses you. All teeth and tongue, messy and starving. His hands grabbed at your thighs, greedy, dragging your body flush to his like the space between you offended him. One hand clutched the back of your neck, the other sliding up under your shirt, across your back, holding you there, holding you close.
And then—
Rip.
The sound was sharp, savage, like a thread finally snapping. Your skirt, already riding high on your hips, was gone. He’d fisted the fabric, yanked it so hard the seam popped, tearing clean down one side without a second thought.
“You serious?” you gasped against his mouth, half-laughing, breathless.
“Dead fucking serious,” he growled, eyes blown wide, chest heaving. “You do that shit to me—say that shit—and then expect me to just sit here and behave?”
He leaned in, teeth grazing your jaw, lips dragging down your throat as he ground up against you, thrusting his hips up so his cock is rubbing against your clothed heat. His hands moved again, one on your ass, the other sliding up your side.
“I’ve been losing my mind all damn night,” he muttered against your skin. “You know what you do to me. You always fucking know.”
You didn’t get a second warning.
He stood with you in his arms, your thighs still braced around him, his hands locked under you. And then he moved, flipping you around in his arms until the room turned upside down.
Your gasp came out half-shocked, half-laugh, but he didn’t give you the chance to question it.
Your face was flush against his abdomen, mouth a breath away from the bulge pressed tight in his boxers, hot and hard and so obvious that it stole whatever comeback you were about to make.
He growled—actually growled—one arm banded across your thighs to hold you steady, the other running down your spine. His fingers spread wide at your upper back, anchoring you like he knew you might fight it and hoped you would.
“Still think you’re running the show?” he muttered, voice thick, breath hitching when your nose brushed against him by accident.. or maybe not.
You exhaled hard against the heat of him, and his whole body jolted like he’d been hit. His grip flexed, your skin under his hands, your hair brushing his thighs, you had nowhere to move unless he let you.
He laughed under his breath like he couldn’t believe the situation either. “You got me talkin’ like a lunatic, thinkin’ with my dick—you really wanna test me, baby?”
You tried to shift, but his arms locked tighter.
“Uh-uh, stay right there,” he ordered, jaw tight. “You made me lose it. Now you’re gonna feel it.”
Carter's mouth was already on your pussy, devouring, no patience, just raw hunger, all tongue and desperation like he’d die if he didn’t taste every inch of you.
His hand slid up your spine, rough and steady, until it curled into your hair. He pushes your face towards his bulge. He pulled back just enough to breathe, lips slick, chin glistening.
“Look at you,” he panted. “Dripping for me and I haven’t even gotten mean yet.”
You let out a moan and his laugh came out low.
“Nah, don’t get shy now. You started this.” He dragged his tongue up your folds. “You sat there lookin’ smug while I lost my goddamn mind. You knew what you were doing.”
He pulls your head towards his dick again. “Open your mouth, baby,” he whispered, “You wanna play games? Let’s play. Let me feel that pretty mouth while I devour you.”
You whimpered, couldn’t help it. You open your mouth and immediately go to deep throat.
And he groaned.
“Fuck. That sound,” he muttered. “Gonna have me coming undone before I even get to ruin you properly.”
His grip in your hair tightened just enough to make your knees shake. “Don’t stop,” he said, voice cracked and uneven. “Don’t you fuckin’ stop. I want you crying on my tongue while you choke on how much I want this.”
Your head was spinning, body arching, thighs clenching around him like it was the only thing keeping you from falling. Carter didn’t let up. Not for a second. His mouth was relentless, tongue moving like he was trying to memorize you from the inside out, like tasting you wasn’t enough and he wanted you to break on his tongue.
And above all that, the way he talked.. it was wrecking you.
“You feel that?” he murmured against you, voice vibrating through your skin. “You’re shaking. Fuck, you’re shaking so good for me.”
His grip on your hair tightened, holding your face right where he wanted it as he started thrusting into your mouth himself. He let out a breathless curse when you shifted, mouth dragging just enough across the shape of him to make his hips twitch.
“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, like it punched the air from his lungs. “That mouth—gonna lose it if you keep doing that.”
You couldn’t even answer, not with the way he was working you open, tongue flicking faster now, more desperate, more needy. One of your hands clawed at his wrist, the other tangled in his shirt, holding on like the entire world tilted beneath you.
And still he didn’t stop talking.
“I can feel you about to fall apart,” he said, ragged, breath catching. “Don’t hold back, baby. You give it to me. Give me all of it.”
So you do exactly that, cumming hard straight into his mouth as he groaned into you, like the taste of you was the only thing that ever made him believe in anything. He held you through it, grinding up against your cheek now, moaning, wild with it, whispering filth and praise in equal measure.
“That’s it,” he breathed, “that’s my girl—look at you—fuck, I could die like this.”
And then he followed with a curse and a gasp and your name punched out of him like it hurt. He held your mouth there until he made sure every drop of him went down your throat.
Everything went quiet except for the sound of your breathing tangled together, his hand sliding from your hair to cradle the back of your head, a quiet i love you in the way he kissed your thigh.
And when he finally lowered you down onto the couch, gently now, he didn’t speak for a long time. He just pressed his forehead to yours, still catching his breath, and whispered “You ruin me. You know that, right?”
You just smirked, voice still breathless and dizzy as hell.
summary — bobby and erik have a petty argument and, erik being erik, he tells bobby that his girlfriend is out of his league. cue to bobby showing up at your door like a kicked puppy.
warnings — 18+, body worship, praising, comfort, blow job, sad bobby, cockwarming, cuddling, a lil angst in the beginning but like erik immediately regretted it
a/n — my first request from @pinkberrymilkys! <33
The metal door to the tattoo parlour slammed open with the kind of force that rattled the hinges and echoed through the hollow brick walls. Erik didn’t even flinch. He just kept his back to it, hunched over his station, wiping down a machine he hadn’t touched in over an hour.
Bobby’s footsteps came in heavy. Guilty. Hesitant.
“I said I was sorry,” Bobby muttered, voice tight like a cord pulled too hard. “I lost track of time, alright?”
Erik let out a low laugh. Dry. Mean. “You lost track for four hours?” He turned now, slow, deliberate. His piercings caught the light like warning signs. “Must be some head she’s giving you, huh?”
Bobby stiffened, cheeks flushing. “Don’t—don’t do that. Don’t make it about her.”
“Why not? Seems like everything else is.” Erik stepped closer, tossing the rag onto the tray beside him with a wet slap. “I ask you to close for one night—one—so I can breathe for once, and you vanish off the face of the planet. No call. No text. Just Bobby, playing a bitch to Miss Perfect.”
Bobby’s jaw clenched. “You don’t know her.”
“I know you.” Erik’s voice was quiet now, which was worse than yelling. It felt colder. “You’re acting like some scared little lapdog, like if you stop kissing her ass for five seconds she’ll remember she’s outta your league.”
Silence.
It fell like a dropped weight between them.
Bobby blinked. Once. Twice. Shoulders locked. His throat worked around a response, but nothing came out at first.
“Wow,” he said finally. “Didn’t know you thought that.”
Erik’s jaw twitched. Regret flashed behind his eyes but he didn’t take it back. He couldn’t. That was the curse of knowing someone too well: you knew where the nerves were, but you also knew how to hit them without drawing blood. Just enough to sting.
“Bobby, I—”
“No. It’s fine.” Bobby’s voice cracked, just a little, and he shoved his hands into his jacket pockets like if he didn’t, they’d shake. “Guess it makes sense. Everyone else is just too polite to say it.”
He turned.
“Bobby.”
But Bobby was already halfway out the door. No yelling. No slamming. Just the jingle of the bell and the soft click of the door closing behind him.
Erik stared at it for a long moment, the shop too quiet now. The kind of quiet that made his skin itch.
He ran a hand through his hair.
Fuck.
The cold air bit at Bobby’s skin, but he didn’t zip his jacket. Didn’t call for a ride. Didn’t stop walking. He didn’t even realize he was heading to your apartment until he was standing in front of your door, knuckles red from the cold, breath fogging in little puffs.
He knocked once. Then again, softer.
You opened the door wearing one of his sweatshirts—the one that was his favourite in high school and he always said you could keep. You looked up at him and tilted your head, smile fading the second you saw his face.
“Bobby?” Soft. Careful.
He blinked at you like he’d just realized where he was.
You stepped aside without asking and he came in like a storm-wrecked thing, quiet, soaked in tension, eyes rimmed red like he’d been keeping something in for miles. He didn’t speak, didn’t sit. Just stood in the middle of your living room with his hands shoved deep in his pockets like he was scared they’d betray him.
You walked up, close enough to touch, but didn’t.
“What happened?”
He shook his head.
“It’s nothing.”
But you knew Bobby. You knew the way he carried his sadness like it was too heavy for his arms. You saw it in his hunched shoulders, in the way his mouth kept twitching like he was biting back everything that wanted to pour out.
So you didn’t ask again. You just stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.
And that’s when he cracked.
His whole body shuddered like a broken breath. He buried his face in your neck, arms locking around you too tight, like you might vanish if he let go.
“He said you were too good for me,” he mumbled, voice wrecked, muffled in your skin. “Like I’m just… like I’m just some dumb dog hoping you don’t leave.”
Your heart broke and swelled at the same time. You held him tighter, one hand threading into his hair, the other tracing slow circles against his back.
“He doesn’t get to say that, baby” you whispered. “And it’s not true.”
“But what if it is?” It came out like a whimper. Not a question. A fear. “What if you wake up one day and realize I’m not enough?”
You leaned back just enough to take his face in your hands. His eyes were glassy, wide in their pain.
“Bobby,” you said, firm and low, “if I wanted someone else, I wouldn’t be here in your old hoodie with your dumb cologne and your terrible taste in takeout.”
A half-laugh punched out of him, wet and broken. You wiped under his eye with your thumb.
“You think you’re not enough, but you’re everything. You show up. You try. You love like it’s the only thing you know how to do.” You pressed your forehead to his. “That’s more than enough. That’s everything I want.”
He let out a slow, shaky breath. Something deep in him loosened. Broke open and bled clean.
“Can I stay?” he asked quietly, voice small.
“You never have to ask,” you whispered, pulling him to the couch with gentle insistence, fingers laced through his. He sat heavy, like his body hadn’t caught up to the softness of your touch. Like Erik’s words were still echoing under his ribs, shaking loose all the things he was too tired to hold.
He tried to lean forward, elbows on knees, but you stopped him with a hand to his chest.
“Uh-uh,” you murmured, gaze steady. “Back.”
He blinked up at you, confused, but obeyed.
The second his back hit the cushions, you climbed into his lap, straddling him slow and easy, like claiming a space that already belonged to you.
“What’re you—”
You pressed your finger to his lips.
“Shut up. Let me love you.”
And then you started with slow, deliberate kisses. One to his cheek, warm and lingering. Another to the bridge of his nose. His temple. His jaw. The corner of his mouth. Each kiss was like a whispered word, a piece of a sentence his heart hadn’t figured out how to hear.
“You don’t have to earn this.”
A kiss to the center of his forehead.
“You don’t have to prove anything to me.”
One to the tip of his nose, which twitched adorably under your lips.
“You’re already everything I want, Bobby.”
You kissed beneath his eye, warm breath mingling with the salt of his skin.
“Exactly as you are.”
He exhaled shakily, hands settling on your thighs like he didn’t know where to touch. Like he was scared that if he grabbed too hard, you’d disappear.
You cupped his face, thumbs brushing the curve of his jaw, and leaned in to press your lips against his. This kiss didn’t ask for anything. It didn’t need fixing or fire. It just stayed. Certain. Safe. When you pulled back, his eyes were a little glassy again but not from pain this time. From the sheer weight of being seen.
“You think you’re lucky to have me?” you whispered, brushing his hair back. “Baby, I won the goddamn lottery. You’re mine. All of you. The anxious, self-doubting, overthinking mess. The sweet, sensitive, stupidly pretty boy who doesn’t even see how loved he is.”
A single tear slipped from the corner of his eye. You kissed that too.
He let out a little laugh—hoarse, soft, half-embarrassed “God, you’re gonna make me cry again.”
You smiled, nose brushing his. “Good.” And you kept going. Kissing every part of him like it mattered. Like it was holy. Like it was yours because it was.
Bobby laid back like he didn’t quite know how to. Like his body had forgotten how to relax after carrying too many words he never meant to believe. His hands hovered at your thighs, unsure, chest rising slow and shallow.
You just looked at him. All of him. His flushed cheeks, the guilt still lingering in the corners of his mouth, the nervous tension in his jaw.
“I want you to lay there and take it,” you murmured. Your voice was soft, not a command.
Bobby blinked up at you, throat bobbing in a swallow “Take what?”
You smiled as you bent down, lips brushing his collarbone. “Everything I give you.”
And then you began.
Your lips trailed along the curve of his throat, slow and reverent. You kissed just beneath his jaw, right where his pulse flickered too fast. Your hands traced his ribs through the thin fabric of his shirt, like you were learning him all over again.
“You’re handsome,” you whispered against his skin. “You don’t even know, do you?”
His breath hitched. His hands gripped the cushions, knuckles white like he was holding back.
You pulled his shirt up and off, slow and sweet, like unwrapping something sacred. He let you. His eyes flickered away but you brought his gaze back with a hand to his cheek.
“Look at me.” And when he did, nervous and vulnerable, you kissed the center of his chest.
“This heart? That’s not weakness. That’s gold.”
Your hands roamed his sides now, fingertips mapping freckles and faded summer burns. You kissed his stomach, the little dip beneath his ribs, the soft edge where muscle gave way to tenderness.
“You’re allowed to be soft. You don’t have to be anyone else when you’re with me.”
He let out a breath. One of his hands slid into your hair. “I don’t deserve you,” he said, voice breaking.
You kissed right over his heart. “You do. Every second. Every inch.”
And then you kissed down—over the stretch of his lower stomach, over the places he never thought twice about but you adored. You didn’t worship like he was an idol. You worshipped like he was human, fragile, flawed, divine in all the ways he didn’t see.
And through it all, he watched you with glassy eyes, body trembling under your love like it was too much to hold.
“Breathe,” you whispered, crawling back up to kiss his lips. “Just breathe, baby. You’re not going anywhere. Neither am I.”
He lay back, breathless beneath you, eyes wide and glassy, skin flushed in that vulnerable, golden way that only happened when he forgot to shield himself. Shirt gone. His chest rose and fell like he was still catching up to the reality that you wanted him like this—not for what he gave, not for what he proved but for who he was.
You slid down his body with the kind of reverence that made his hands twitch, trailing kisses along the path of his stomach, his hipbones, the sensitive crease where skin met denim.
“Every part of you, baby,” you whispered, lips brushing skin. “Every single part.”
Bobby’s breath stuttered.
You looked up at him from between his legs, and his whole body tensed like he might shatter from the sight alone. The way you touched him, the way you looked at him, like he was something rare, something precious that deserved to be adored without hesitation.
He tried to speak, tried to say your name, but it fell apart in his throat the second your hands moved to pull down his pants and boxers. His lashes fluttered, mouth parting in a soundless gasp, hips bucking just slightly before he caught himself. But you shushed him softly, your voice soaked in sugar and smoke.
“Don’t hold back,” you murmured. “I want to hear how good you feel.”
You took your time taking his cock into your mouth, slowly making your way from the tip to the base and then back.
You praised him between every movement, telling him how handsome he looked like this, how good he tasted, how much you loved seeing him fall apart for you. Your words were honey poured over fire. He was trembling under them, the sheer intimacy of your voice almost more than he could handle.
His hands threaded into your hair but never pushed, he didn’t dare guide you, didn’t want to break the spell. You had him. Body and soul.
“You’re so good for me, Bobby,” you breathed against him. “So sweet. So perfect. Mine.”
That last word made him whimper.
His head tipped back, one arm flung over his eyes like it was all too much. Your mouth, your voice, the way your tongue tracked the sensitive vein under his tip.
You didn’t stop for a bit even after he came, letting him ride out the waves of pleasure fully. And even then, you crawled back into his lap, kissed his lips slow, let him taste the aftermath of his own unraveling.
“You okay?” you whispered, brushing his hair from his damp forehead.
He nodded, barely. “I love you,” he whispered.
And you smiled against his mouth. “Good,” you said. “Because I love you too.”
Half an hour later, some movie flickered across the screen, but neither of you were really watching. You were curled on the couch, tangled together like something slow and inevitable, your bare legs laced with his under the blanket. Bobby lay behind you, chest pressed to your back, arms draped around your waist. His body was still warm from everything you’d just given him. His heart hadn’t stopped racing.
And neither had yours.
He buried his face in the crook of your neck, nose nuzzling the spot that always made you sigh. You could feel the heat of his breath, the press of his lips, the lazy drag of his hand over your stomach.
You shifted slightly, hips rolling back into his just enough. And you felt him still inside you. Not moving, just there filling you.
Bobby let out a slow, shaky breath.
“You okay?” you whispered, already knowing the answer.
His hand gripped your hip, grounding.
“M-mhm.” His voice was a bit shaky. “Just… don’t wanna let go yet.”
The connection was intimate, so slow and still it barely felt physical. It felt like a heartbeat. Like the space between breaths. Like two bodies wrapped in a silence that said more. You reached back, lacing your fingers with his. Pulled his arm tighter around your waist.
“Then don’t.”
He let out a soft laugh, burying his face deeper in your hair. You could feel the way his lashes brushed your skin. His hand splayed across your belly, warm and steady. You could feel his cock twitch now and then, just barely. You pressed your hips back into him with a teasing little smile.
“You’re not gonna make it through the whole movie, are you?”
He groaned against your neck, playful and helpless at once. “Not a chance.”
The credits rolled. You barely noticed. Bobby kissed your temple, his voice a sleepy whisper in your hair. “I wanna stay like this forever.”
BONUS!
You smiled, pressing your hips back just a little again, enough to make him inhale through his teeth.
“Careful,” he murmured. “You’re gonna get me in trouble.”
“With who?” you teased.
And that’s exactly when the front door flew open.
“Bobby, I knew you were here and I need to—”
Erik.
Erik fucking Campbell stood in the doorway, already talking mid-stride like he’d been rehearsing the apology out loud, jacket half-off and attitude full-on—
Until he saw you.
Until he saw Bobby, shirtless, flushed, blinking in dazed horror from the couch where he lay completely tangled around you under a suspiciously large blanket.
Until he saw the way Bobby’s arms tightened, just a second too slow.
Until he saw Bobby’s face go pale and bright red at the same time.
Erik stopped cold. Blinked once. Twice.
And then, with a sharp inhale—
“Oh my god, are you—” His voice pitched up like a record scratch. “—dude, is your dick in her right now?!”
Bobby froze. His whole body stiffened against yours. Not a word came out. He just made a strangled sound like someone had punched all the air out of him.
You didn’t move either. For one long, horrified second, no one did.
Then Bobby croaked:
“…Could you not be here right now?”
“Holy shit, man—I came to say sorry! I didn’t come to get visually assaulted!” Erik spun around so fast he nearly tripped over the rug. “Jesus Christ—next time LOCK the damn door!”
“We did!” Bobby shouted, still cringing, half-curled over you like his body could somehow shield you both from the embarrassment crashing down like a tsunami.
“Clearly not hard enough!”
Erik stumbled back through the door, grumbling something about “goddamn horror movie timing” and “emotional whiplash,” and slammed it shut behind him.
Silence.
Bobby let out a long, long breath and dropped his face into the crook of your neck. “…I’m never looking him in the eye again.”
You burst out laughing, even as you stroked his hair and tried to stifle it behind your hand. “Well, at least now he knows you’re getting taken care of.”
That got a huff of laughter from him. A little shy. A little smug.
He kissed your shoulder, breath warm and trembling.
warnings — 18+, unprotected sex, oral sex (both blow job and eating out), cursing, public sex, outdoor sex, you guys fuck on the hood of his car, he compares u to god at one point lmao, clothed sex
a/n — first billy fanfic i wrote!! hope he’s accurate personality wise <33
There’s a shimmer on the asphalt, molten patches of heat dancing like ghosts in the late afternoon sun. The parking lot outside Suncoast Video is nearly empty, save for a rusted-out vending machine humming like it's breathing and a few wayward shopping carts stranded like forgotten planets in the orbit of the shopping center.
Your platform sandals click lazily against the pavement as you walk, slow and sure, hips swaying like the beat of whatever Britney song is looping inside your head. Your crop top is a whisper of glittery mesh, clinging just enough to make Billy short-circuit when he thinks you're not looking. But oh, you always know when he’s looking.
And he is. Slumped against the hood of his mom’s beat-up Chevy Cavalier, a bag of sour gummy worms half-spilled in his lap, Billy stares like he’s watching a miracle in real time.
He’s in a faded baseball tee, sneakers dusty and unlaced. There's sweat on his temple, a curl of hair sticking stubbornly to his forehead. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, then tries to pretend like he didn’t just fumble the bag of candy for the third time. His whole posture says: I’m lucky she even knows my name.
But baby, you're not just his girl. You're the girl. The one with the butterfly clips that sparkle like tiny weapons in your hair. The one with cherry gloss lips and a closet full of every popular clothing piece popular in 1998–2000 and eyes that could make a boy forget his own damn name.
You lean against the car next to him, arms crossing under your chest just enough to make his throat catch. “You spacing out again?” you murmur, head tilted, voice laced with amusement. You don’t have to raise your voice; your presence is already loud enough to make the air tremble.
Billy blinks like he’s just remembered how to breathe. “Nah—I was, uh—just thinking about… how the sun, y’know… reflects off your hair. Like, kind of blinding. In a good way.”
You don’t answer right away. Just slide your hand along the warm metal of the car, fingers grazing his wrist. He shudders a little at the touch. It’s adorable. You live for it.
There’s a low hum of cicadas in the distance, a dog barking somewhere across the street, the occasional groan of a skateboard wheel over cracked concrete. The world feels like it's holding its breath around you.
Billy sits up a little straighter, trying to play it cool. He offers you a gummy worm, fingers smudged with sugar. “Want one?”
You lean in while looking him right into the eyes, let your glossed lips brush his knuckles as you grab it. His face goes beet red in an instant. It’s almost cruel how easy it is to fluster him but you never push too far.
The sky above is going lavender, streaked with tangerine and cotton-candy pink. Somewhere in the car, a mixtape is still playing, probably something dumb and sweet he burned for you: Third Eye Blind, maybe, or Smash Mouth if he was feeling brave.
Billy shifts again, this time sliding a hand along your thigh, tentative but desperate to anchor himself somewhere real. You don’t stop him.
“I still can’t believe you said yes to me,” he mumbles.
You tilt your head, eyes gleaming. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Oh, the way he looks at you then.
He leans in, not for a kiss, not yet, but just to rest his forehead against your temple. He smells like sun and sugar and the faint trace of the gas station cologne he always puts on when he’s trying to impress you. His breath catches against your cheek.
You let the silence stretch, long and golden, until it wraps around you both like summer air.
✧˚ · . ✧˚ · . ✧˚ · .
The Chevy Cavalier’s engine rattles like it’s just barely holding on but it moves, and that’s all that matters. Billy's hands are on the wheel, knuckles pale, one moment his eyes are on the road, the other flicking toward you when he thinks you won’t notice.
The sky outside is violet now, bleeding into navy at the edges. Streetlights flicker to life like fireflies caught in glass cages. You’ve kicked off your sandals and tucked your legs up on the seat, body twisted slightly toward him, your back resting against the passenger door.
His mixtape spins lazily in the stereo, “Semi-Charmed Life” fading into “Crash Into Me” like the soundtrack of a dream you forgot you were having.
Billy reaches over, fingers tracing a line up the inside of your thigh like he’s not entirely sure if he’s dreaming. He glances at you, a quick, questioning look and you give him that little smirk, the one that says I own you and you love it.
“Where we going?” you ask, dragging out each word like you already know there’s no real answer.
Billy shrugs, eyes forward again. The wind from the half-cracked windows flutters your hair like a music video from 1998. “Nowhere,” he says. “Just… somewhere that isn’t here.”
You hum, lashes low. “Good. I hate here.”
He grins, nervous and proud all at once, like he just passed some invisible test. “Me too.”
The road curves, leading you both past the outskirts of town, past shuttered gas stations, fields soaked in moonlight, the rusted carcass of an old playground where ghosts of your childhoods still swing when no one’s looking. The city noise fades into crickets and the thrum of wheels on asphalt.
Your hand finds his on the gearshift, fingers tangling without ceremony. His thumb brushes yours in these soft little stutters. He doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t need to. He just drives, just touches, just burns in that quiet, trembling way that sneaks up on you.
And you? You're half-curled beside him like a wish he didn’t dare make out loud. Your head finds his shoulder as the car dips into a long, low stretch of road framed by trees. You close your eyes and listen to the sound of the tape flipping sides, the soft hitch in Billy’s breath, the way the road hums beneath the wheels like a lullaby for the lovesick.
You feel his lips brush the top of your head, feather-light, almost scared to exist. A kiss not meant to be seen. A prayer.
Your fingers curl tighter around his.
And for a moment it feels like you could drive forever. That if he just keeps the wheel steady and you keep breathing into the space between his heartbeat and the music, maybe nothing else will catch up.
Not time. Not reality. Not the end.
Just you and him.
The Chevy growls to a stop at the edge of the woods, headlights casting long shadows over wild grass and rustling leaves. Billy kills the engine, and the sudden silence feels thick, like the air just got heavier with whatever’s about to happen.
You swing the car door open and step out into the night like you own it. The gravel crunches under your shoes as you walk, the hem of your denim skirt catching the breeze, the chain around your hips catching the moonlight.
Billy’s slower to exit. Not because he’s unsure, he just needs a second. To breathe. To process.
Because you look like a damn fever dream under the stars, silhouetted in moonlight, a soft curve of danger and desire that keeps tugging at the part of him that never learned to play it cool.
He stands by the front of the car, nervously running a hand through his hair. “So, uh… what’s out here? Just trees and, uh… bugs? Maybe like, a serial killer or two?”
You smile—that smile. The one that says oh, baby, I’m the most dangerous thing out here. You step closer.
“Don’t worry,” you say, voice sweet. “You’re not in danger.”
His eyes flicker to your lips, then back to your eyes, like he’s not sure if he should be scared or grateful.
He opens his mouth to say something, probably something awkward, maybe a nervous joke but you don’t give him the chance.
With one smooth, intentional motion, you press both palms against his chest and push him back. He stumbles, backs of his legs hitting the hood of the car with a soft thump, a startled little breath leaving his lips as he fully sits back on the hood. He’s half-laughing, half-stunned. “Whoa—uh—hi?”
You plant yourself between his legs before he can recover, hands sliding up his chest, nails grazing the thin fabric of his shirt. He’s frozen, like his body’s trying to keep up with how fast his brain’s short-circuiting. You tilt your head.
“You always talk this much,” you murmur, “or is it just when you’re trying not to lose your mind?”
He lets out this nervous little chuckle, all breath and panic and boyish sweetness, like he’s not sure if he’s about to die or pass out or both. “I mean, technically, I’ve, uh… already lost my mind? Pretty sure you stole it. Like, weeks ago.”
You shut him up the only way he deserves.
Your mouth crashes into his, all lip gloss and heat and control. He makes this sound, a low, breathy gasp like he didn’t know it would feel that good.
His hands scramble for somewhere to land, your waist, your back, then finally your hips, holding on like you’re the only thing tethering him to reality.
The hood of the car creaks beneath him as he shifts, trying to pull you closer. He’s kissing you like it’s the first time and the last time all at once—messy, desperate, so full of feeling it almost trips over itself.
Your fingers curl into his hair, tugging just enough to make him whimper. He pulls back for half a second, eyes wide, lips kiss-swollen and glossy.
“Holy shit,” he breathes. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
You grin, leaning in close, lips brushing his jaw. “Better me than Death itself.”
That makes him laugh and you kiss him again just to shut him up, teeth grazing his bottom lip, tongue slipping past his defenses like you own him.
Because you do.
The hood of the car is still hot beneath him. Your lip gloss is smeared across both your mouths. The world has shrunk to the space between your bodies and the taste of cherry and want.
And god help him, Billy wouldn’t trade this for anything.
Billy’s hands are still on your waist, but he’s not in control, not even close.
He’s flushed to hell, blinking like he’s drunk on you, like his brain is buffering while his body spirals. His back’s pressed against the warm curve of the hood, legs slightly spread, fingers digging into the denim of your skirt like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
Your hands are on his chest, slowly sliding upward, teasing, pausing at the collar of his tee before tugging it down just enough to expose that pale skin at the base of his neck. The moment your lips graze it, he lets out this breathy "oh god"like a prayer and a warning all in one.
“You always make those sounds,” you murmur, voice low, lips brushing his throat.
“Y-yeah, I—uh—I make sounds,” he stammers, already breathless, already wrecked. “You’re—you’re making me make sounds—”
You cut him off with your mouth again, this time not to kiss, but to bite. Soft at first, teasing. Your lips press a slow, deliberate kiss to the hinge of his jaw, and he leans into it like a sunflower chasing the sun. Then your teeth graze, your tongue follows, and your mouth seals over him like you’re about to leave evidence.
He gasps, head tipping back, hands tightening. You suck, slow and deep, drawing that perfect flush of purple to his neck like a signature, and when you finally pull back, he’s got the audacity to whimper.
“Holy shit,” he chokes out, voice cracking. “That was… that was something.”
You don’t even give him a chance to recover.
You go lower.
You pull the collar wider, exposing more of that soft skin along his shoulder, and you mark him again. A little higher. Then one under his jaw. A small cluster, blooming like stars just under his skin. He’s squirming now, equal parts overwhelmed and addicted, legs shifting as he tries to keep from sliding further up the hood.
“You’re killing me,” he mutters, eyes fluttering shut, breath hot and fast. “You’re actually, like—killing me right now.”
You pull back, admiring your work. Red, raw, messy proof of exactly who he belongs to. Your fingertips trace the newest hickey just to make him shiver.
“You’re still breathing,” you smirk, licking a spot of gloss off your lip. “Barely.”
His hands move suddenly, trying to gather you closer, like maybe if he kisses you again he’ll stop feeling like he’s about to dissolve. But you don’t let him, not yet. You push him back with just your fingertips against his chest, eyes dark with heat and power.
“You’re not done,” you whisper, leaning in again, mouth skimming the shell of his ear.
Billy’s entire body trembles.
“Do whatever you want,” he breathes, voice shaking, half-laughing from how overwhelmed he is. “I’m—I’m just gonna lie here and, y’know, ascend or something.”
You chuckle before ducking down again to paint another kiss just below his collarbone.
And just like that, his world goes fuzzy. The woods could burn. The stars could fall. The whole damn car could roll into the trees. But none of that matters. Not when you’re leaning over him like a storm in lip gloss and heat. Not when your mouth is leaving galaxies across his skin.
Billy’s practically melting, sprawled back against the hood of the car like his knees won’t work anymore. His hands are still gripping the edge behind him, knuckles white, like if he lets go he might just float off into the stars overhead.
You slide down in front of him, your knees in the gravel, looking like a vision lit by moonlight, lip gloss a little smeared, eyes hooded, and a smirk that’s half-angel, half-devil.
“Whatcha doing down there?” he asks, voice rough and frayed, breath catching halfway through. He’s trying to sound casual, but it comes out cracked, like he’s not sure if he’s terrified or thrilled.
You glance up at him through your lashes. That slow, heavy look that makes his whole body jolt like a static shock. “Just taking care of you,” you murmur, fingers already dancing along the edge of his waistband.
He gulps, mouth dry. “You, uh—you don’t have to—”
You tilt your head, pressing a kiss to the soft skin just above his waistband. He lets out a sharp inhale, hips twitching instinctively. “I know I don’t,” you whisper. “That’s what makes it fun.”
And Billy loses every last brain cell in his pretty little head. You pull down both his pants and his boxers in one go.
His fingers curl tighter on the hood as he throws his head back as soon as you take his cock into your mouth, letting out this sound—half-gasp, half-swear. The stars above blur in his vision, his chest rising and falling too fast to keep up with. You’re slow, deliberate, teasing every little sound out of him like you’re playing a song only you know the chords to.
“F-Fuck,” he breathes, voice barely there. “You’re gonna—you’re gonna kill me, oh my God—”
You hum around him, lips never lifting. The vibration alone sends another full-body shudder through him. He’s mumbling now, nonsense compliments and strangled moans, every muscle in his body locked and trembling, eyes squeezed shut like he can’t look at you doing this and still remember how to speak.
One hand slides down to tangle in your hair, but he doesn’t push, he just holds, like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this planet.
The sound of the forest has vanished. There’s only the soft rasp of your subtle gagging and sucking, the little sounds he can’t help but make, and the low groan of the hood beneath his weight.
And when it’s all too much, when his whole body arches, when he gasps your name like it’s the last thing he’ll ever say—you finally ease off, slow and sensual, lips brushing over skin like a promise kept.
He collapses back, panting, utterly ruined.
“You okay?” you ask sweetly.
Billy looks up at you like you just parted the damn sea.
“I—I think I met God. And she had butterfly clips in her hair.”
You laugh, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you climb onto the hood beside him. He immediately pulls you into his chest, still shaking a little, heart pounding so fast you can feel it even through his shirt.
“You’re unreal,” he whispers into your hair, kissing your temple like you’re too precious to touch and too dangerous not to.
You grin, curling into him. “Told you you weren’t in danger.”
You slide off the hood, legs still trembling slightly from the last time you made him forget how to breathe. He’s still recovering, sitting slack-jawed on the edge like someone just dragged him out of his body and whispered your name into his soul before stitching him back together.
But you?
You’re not done.
Not even close.
You stretch like a cat, slow and languid, letting your back arch just enough to let him see the curve of your waist and the way your skirt rides up when you move. His eyes follow every motion like he’s hypnotized. You catch his gaze and smirk.
You pause right at the center of the hood, look back over your shoulder, and give him that dangerous little grin. The one that says don’t blink, baby boy, or you’ll miss it.
Then, slow and deliberate, you bend forward, palms flat against the metal as your skirt hikes up just enough to make him swear out loud.
“Well,” you murmur, voice playful but edged with allure, “what are you waiting for, Hitchcock? Get in there.” And boy, does he.
You hear gravel shift as he drops behind you to his knees, breath catching in his throat like he’s seen divinity and it's got glitter on its thighs. His hands land on your hips, warm and reverent, thumbs tracing circles like you’re carved from marble and starlight. He pulls your lace panties aside in no time.
You gasp the second his mouth meets your pussy, hot, open, greedy. He grips your thighs tight, like he’s scared you’ll change your mind or disappear. But you won’t. Not when he’s making you tremble like this. Not when the cool air meets the heat of your body and his tongue is tracing shapes that make your breath hitch and stutter.
He moans against you—yes, moans—like he’s the one being touched, like this is something he needs to survive. And you? You’re a mess of breathless laughter and broken whimpers, your fingers gripping the hood like it might float away.
“God,” you manage to gasp, “you’re so—fuck—so good at this.”
He hums in response, smug and smugger, and you almost cum from the vibration alone.
The car rocks slightly beneath your hands. The woods hum around you. And somewhere in the back of your mind, you think: if anyone finds us out here, they’re gonna need therapy.
But that thought vanishes the second Billy pulls you back onto his face more firmly, adjusts his grip, and doubles down like he’s on a mission. Like you’re the only thing that exists. Like he wants to make you remember this every time you close your eyes for the rest of your life.
And when you finally fall forward with a gasp, thighs shaking, lips parted around his name.
He stands up behind you slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, flushed and wrecked and smiling like he just won the damn lottery.
“You good?” he asks, panting, cocky and a little dazed.
You look over your shoulder, hair wild, eyes heavy-lidded, a satisfied smirk painted across your face.
“I’m still not done.”
His grin fades into awe.
“Oh, f—okay. Okay. I need to hydrate. I need electrolytes. You’re gonna kill me.”
You pull him by the collar and whisper, “Die pretty, then.”
He grabs your waist and lifts you instead, spinning you around like you don’t weigh a thing and setting you on your back against the hood.
The metal is cool under your bare thighs, but the look in his eyes? That’s fire.
He leans over you, forearms bracketing your head, breath ragged and lips parted. You’ve never seen him like this before—eyes dark, mouth twitching at the corners, and a kind of shaky boldness that makes your pulse spike.
“You can’t just—like—do all that to me and think I’m not gonna, like… do something back,” he stammers, eyes flicking down to your thighs like he’s already forgotten how to blink. His voice is rough, caught between awe and pure chaos, like he doesn’t even fully grasp what’s about to happen but knows he needs it.
You smile up at him, slow and knowing, spreading your legs in one smooth motion that leaves him wrecked. The skirt shifts up your thighs like it’s part of the plan, moonlight kissing every inch of exposed skin.
“Well?” you murmur, smug and sweet. “Get to it, Hitchcock.”
Something in him snaps clean in half like a rubber band stretched too tight and then he’s on you, hands gripping your hips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. His mouth crashes into yours, sloppy and hungry, teeth clashing, lips desperate. The kiss is less about finesse and all about want—raw, clumsy, real.
He pulls back, panting, eyes scanning your face like he can’t believe what’s happening. “Tell me to stop,” he says, but it’s weak, already unraveling, already gone.
You lace your fingers behind his neck, dragging him down until your lips ghost against his.
“Billy,” you whisper, breath warm against his mouth, “shut up and ruin me.”
You feel the shift in him, the way his body presses between your thighs, one hand fumbling at his waistband, the other steadying himself above you.
He sinks into you in one fluid motion, and the breath punches right out of your lungs. Your back arches against the hood, your mouth falls open around a gasp, and your legs wrap instinctively around his waist, locking him there.
He groans—loud—like your name just ripped out of his chest. “Oh god—I—shit—I’m gonna—this is—” He doesn’t finish. He can’t.
Because you’re already rocking up against him, matching his rhythm, dragging nails down his back through his shirt, moaning shamelessly into his ear. Every movement is wild, graceless, full of fire. The car creaks beneath you both, the metal dipping with every frantic thrust, headlights still dimly glowing across the grass.
Billy’s all panting and whimpering and praise, whispering things he probably doesn’t even realize he’s saying.
“You feel so good—baby, you’re so—can’t believe you’re mine—fuck—”
You dig your heels into his back and pull him deeper.
“Harder, Hitchcock.”
He swears, a full-body shudder rolling through him, and then—he delivers.
The pace gets frantic, borderline unhinged. You’re both barely holding on. Sweat, breath, the rhythmic slam of hips into hips. It’s a storm of sensation and noise and need.
There’s just you, Billy, and the hood of a car somewhere deep in the woods where nothing else matters.
And when the orgasm hits, when it crashes through both of you like a wave that doesn't ask permission, he collapses forward, face buried in your neck, his whole body trembling. You’re breathless, trembling, boneless beneath him, your hands stroking his hair as his chest heaves against yours.
No words. Just gasps and the thundering beat of two hearts that just barely survived each other. Finally, after what feels like forever, Billy lifts his head, eyes glazed, lips parted.
“Okay,” he pants. “I—holy shit—I blacked out. Did I cry? I might’ve cried.”
You laugh, voice hoarse but warm, brushing his messy hair back from his forehead. “You’ll live.”
“Debatable.”
He buries his face in your neck again, and you both lie there, tangled and breathless, under a sky full of stars and a hood full of memories.
pairing — erik campbell x fem! reader x bobby campbell
summary — bobby is a 19 year old virgin and erik, being the great brother that he is, decides that his girlfriend can help with that
warnings — 18+, explicit sexual content, virginity loss, cursing, mentions of body piercings (erik ofc), oral sex, mentions of weed, smoking cigarettes, threesome, erik just watches at first, unprotected sex, creampie
a/n — lord this one is wild and i genuinely hope this doesn’t count as inc3st
Bobby’s 19th birthday party was somehow already a disaster and a success at the same time. The house smelled like dollar store candles, pizza rolls, and Axe body spray. Music thumped too loudly through the old speakers Erik had found in someone’s garage last week, and the couch was half-covered in streamers and a suspicious stain no one had dared address.
There were too many people in the kitchen, the lights were too bright, and the snacks had long devolved into chaos, but Bobby? Bobby was thriving.
Wearing a backwards snapback that didn’t match his outfit, sunglasses inside, and a white tee a size too tight, he moved through the crowd like a human Labrador. Slapping backs, flexing biceps, waving a half-eaten slice of cake around like a sword. His voice boomed every few seconds—laughing too loud, misquoting memes from 2017 like they were hot off TikTok.
You were nursing a red solo cup of something too sweet, sitting on the arm of the couch when Erik came up behind you. You felt him before he even spoke, his hand sliding around your waist, breath warm near your jaw, always too close, too cocky.
“Dude, look at him,” Erik muttered, tone just low enough to make it feel like a secret. “You’d think we were celebrating his retirement.”
You turned your head, letting your temple graze his. “He’s happy.”
Erik made a face. “He’s a virgin.”
You snorted. “So?”
“He’s nineteen. And still a virgin. You know what happens if that doesn’t get handled soon?”
You raised an eyebrow, swirling the drink in your cup. “He turns into a werewolf?”
“No. Worse.” Erik took a long sip from his drink like it physically pained him to continue. “He develops an ego complex, falls down a Reddit hole, and two years later he’s blaming women on the internet for the fact that he can’t find the clit.”
You stared at Bobby, watching him bump chests with a guy he just beat at beer pong. His eyes sparkled like a puppy who just got told he was a very good boy.
You leaned a little closer to Erik, voice dropping into something silkier. “He is kind of hot, though.”
Erik stopped breathing. You could feel the shift in him—shoulders tensing slightly, head turning toward you in slow disbelief.
“What.”
You licked your lips, playing it up just to get a rise out of him. “I mean, he’s got those jock arms. Dumb energy. Big heart. Zero clue what to do with it. I could fix him.”
Erik just stared at you like you’d grown horns.
“You wanna cheat on me with my brother?”
“Not cheat,” you corrected sweetly, dragging a nail down his arm. “Help.”
He ran a hand down his face, visibly spiraling. “You are deranged.”
You leaned into his space again, lips grazing the shell of his ear, voice a teasing purr. “You’re hard, aren’t you?”
“Shut up,” he hissed, way too fast. His jaw twitched.
You leaned back just enough to see the look in his eyes—half disbelief, half Oh no I’m into this. The kind of chaos only Erik could embody: territorial and turned on, pissed and amused all at once.
“So?” you prompted.
He stared at the floor for a beat, then the ceiling, then you. You watched his tongue press against the inside of his cheek before he exhaled like he was selling his soul to the devil.
“Alright. Let’s go help him.”
The house was quieter two hours later.
Empty red solo cups littered the counters. Someone’s jacket was crumpled over the microwave. A balloon floated lazily against the ceiling like it, too, had given up. Erik sat at the kitchen table, slouched back in a chair with one leg kicked out and a cigarette dangling between his fingers. Smoke curled lazily toward the overhead light, casting everything in a hazy yellow glow.
Bobby stumbled in, hair a mess, shirt rumpled, cheeks still flushed with leftover adrenaline. He looked like someone who had just been told he was awesome twelve too many times.
“Dude,” Bobby said, breathless, opening the fridge like he was searching for buried treasure. “That was the best party of my life. Did you see Trevor let me carry him up the stairs? I mean, I dropped him on the third step, but like… he laughed.”
Erik didn’t look up from the cigarette. “Congrats, man. You peaked.”
Bobby grabbed a bottle of something halfway expired and twisted off the cap, chugging like he was in a college movie.
“You’re in a good mood,” Erik muttered, finally meeting his gaze.
Bobby leaned against the counter, sipping more slowly now. “Yeah, well. It’s my birthday. Also, I think your girlfriend winked at me.”
Erik exhaled a long stream of smoke and tilted his head. “She did more than that, bro.”
Bobby blinked. “...What?”
Erik tapped the ash off his cigarette, watching the ember glow. Then he glanced up again, expression unreadable.
“She thinks you’re hot.”
There was a pause. Bobby frowned.
“Wait, like… joking hot or like—”
“Like she offered to take your virginity as a favor to society.”
Bobby’s jaw dropped, a bottle of Sprite halfway to his mouth. “What?!”
“She said you’ve got dumb energy,” Erik added, deadpan.
Bobby blinked. “I mean… I do, but—”
Erik pointed the cigarette at him like it was a moral compass. “Listen to me. I don’t know what kind of glow-up puberty gave you, but if you’re gonna start pulling that kind of attention, you need to know how to handle it.”
Bobby squinted. “Handle what? You’re not seriously saying—wait. Wait, are you mad?”
“Mad?” Erik scoffed. “No. I’m your older brother. I’m here to guide your dumbass into manhood.”
“That sounds like a cult pitch.”
“Shut up.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, cigarette balanced loosely between two fingers. “Look. You’re nineteen. You’ve got that whole boy-next-door thing going for you. Girls love that shit. But if you start swinging your dick around like a prize, you’re gonna crash and burn.”
Bobby raised a brow. “...This is weird advice coming from you.”
“Yeah, well.” Erik gave him a tight smirk. “That’s why I’m not telling you to be me. I’m telling you to take the shortcut. You wanna lose it? Fine. You want her to show you the ropes? Great. Just don’t be a creep about it. Don’t fall in love with your first lay. And never tell Julia.”
Bobby made a choking noise. “Jules would literally kill us all.”
“Exactly.” Erik stood up, stretched his arms overhead, his tank top riding up just enough to show a hint of ink. “So if anything happens… it didn’t.”
Bobby nodded slowly. “Right. Operation: Denial.”
Erik clapped a hand on his shoulder, smirking. “That’s my boy.”
And with that, he walked off down the hall, dragging smoke and bad ideas behind him.
Bobby stood there alone for a second, holding the bottle and blinking at the dark kitchen.
“…Wait, am I about to lose my virginity?”
The next day, you were on the porch, sunglasses on, coffee in one hand, phone in the other. Your legs were kicked up on the railing, Erik’s hoodie slouched over your frame like it lived there now. Hair a little messy. A smudge of something pink on your cheek. You looked like the aftermath of something that left a mark.
Bobby hovered in the doorway like he was approaching a tiger in stilettos.
“…Hey,” he said finally, voice cracking halfway through it.
You lowered your glasses just enough to look at him. “Morning, birthday boy.”
He swallowed. “So. Uh. Last night.”
You took a slow sip from your mug. “Mhm.”
“Did that… like… happen?”
You tilted your head, watching him squirm. “Define that, sweetheart.”
Bobby flushed. “The part where you and Erik were… talking about… you know.” He gestured vaguely at the universe. “Helping me.”
You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him for a moment, amused, your tongue pressing into your cheek like you were deciding how much chaos to unleash before noon.
“Yeah,” you said finally. “We were.”
Bobby blinked. “You were serious?”
You raised an eyebrow. “You think I wink at people as a joke?”
He made a small, confused hand motion. “I don’t know, I just figured it was like… ironic flirting. Y’know, like when people flirt with customer service workers so they don’t feel like dying?”
You leaned forward, placing your coffee down with a soft clink. “Bobby. You’re hot. Tall. Built like a linebacker. Dumb as bricks in the most adorable way possible. You think I wouldn’t want to ruin you a little?”
He stared at you like you just told him he was actually descended from the heavens. “Oh my God.”
You smiled slowly. “Still want my help?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then—softly, earnestly, with a kind of sacred awe—“I think I’d let you run me over with a truck.”
You laughed. Really laughed. Then stood up and ruffled his hair with both hands. “Good boy.”
Just then, Erik stepped onto the porch, shirtless, yawning, with a cigarette tucked behind his ear.
He paused. Squinted at the two of you.
“…Are you guys flirting?” he asked, deadpan.
You didn’t miss a beat. “No.”
Bobby, nearly vibrating: “YES.”
Erik looked between you both, eyes narrowing. “Do not bang my brother before breakfast.”
You raised your mug in salute. “No promises.”
Later that day, Bobby found you alone in the living room. Erik had just left to pick up some tattoo supplies and probably a breakfast burrito the size of his ego. You were sprawled across the couch in biker shorts and a crop top, one leg hooked over the armrest, flipping through a magazine like you weren’t plotting a moral collapse.
Bobby hesitated in the doorway like his conscience was still buffering.
You didn’t look up. “You gonna hover or sit?”
He obeyed immediately, flopping onto the couch cushion beside you like he’d been waiting for permission to breathe. “Okay, so—hypothetically—if this were to happen…”
You turned your head, one brow raised. “If?”
Bobby flushed. “When. When. Sorry. I’m still, like, mentally short-circuiting.”
You smirked. “Cute.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “So… Friday— Julia’s still on that cabin trip with her friends. Mom and Dad are outta town… So the house’ll be empty.”
“Except for us,” you said, giving him a slow, deliberate look.
He gulped. “Okay. Yeah. That’s… That’s good.”
You tilted your head, pretending to think. “What time do you usually wake up on a Friday?”
“Uh. Ten?”
“Make it nine. I want you showered. Teeth brushed. Hair fluffed.”
He blinked. “Fluffed?”
You leaned in slightly, voice dropping into something warm and smoky. “Bobby, this is a once-in-a-lifetime event. You’re about to be ruined for other women. The least you can do is smell good.”
He made a small whimpering noise. “Oh my God.”
You sat up and leaned toward him, eyes playful but sharp. “No breakfast burritos. No garlic. No Axe body spray. And wear those grey sweatpants.”
He blinked. “You noticed my sweatpants?”
You just smirked. “Everybody noticed your sweatpants.”
Bobby looked like his soul had momentarily left his body. “Okay. Okay. I can do this. This is fine. I’m fine.”
You reached over, gently tugged the drawstring of his shorts. “You better be.”
He swallowed hard. “Wait—where’s it gonna happen? My room? Living toom?”
You chuckled. “Please. The living room’s sacred ground. We’re using Erik’s room.”
His eyes widened. “Dude. That feels… wrong.”
You grinned. “Exactly.”
He choked on his own spit.
You leaned back again, casual and predatory all at once. “So. Friday. Nine a.m. Clean, quiet, ready. You knock once and Erik will open the door. And then…”
“Then?” he asked, eyes huge.
You smiled like a cat with a mouse under her paw. “Then I make you forget every crush you ever had.”
From the hallway, the front door creaked open.
Erik’s voice called out. “Yo! You guys better not be doing bonding shit in there!”
You called back smoothly. “We’re just talking!”
Bobby, under his breath, lips pale: “I think I’m gonna die.”
You glanced at him, tossed your hair back, and whispered, “Not before Friday, you’re not.”
Friday. 9:03 AM.
Erik’s room smelled like him—cologne, smoke, leather, and something distinctly male and reckless. The kind of scent that stayed on your skin, even after a shower. You were perched on the edge of his unmade bed, legs crossed, nails painted and gleaming under the soft morning light that filtered through slatted blinds.
Bobby stood in the doorway, looking like a crime about to happen. Grey sweatpants. White tee stretched over his chest. Hands fidgeting at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with the sudden weight of his body. He looked at you, then glanced toward the corner chair.
Erik was already there. Slouched back, legs spread wide, black joggers riding low on his hips, coffee in one hand and a cigarette burning in the ashtray beside him. His gaze was unreadable, flicking from his brother to you like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or light the match.
“You’re late,” you said, lifting an eyebrow as Bobby stepped inside.
“I—I had to shave. I didn’t want to be prickly. Or sweaty. Or like, too… I don’t know, eager.” Bobby’s voice cracked halfway through and he winced.
You smiled slowly, rising from the bed. “Relax. You’re not being sacrificed.”
Bobby swallowed hard, eyes wide as you walked toward him. He looked like he’d never seen a woman walk in his life.
You hooked a finger through his waistband and gently tugged him closer. “Let’s start slow.”
He nodded so fast it looked like a glitch.
You cupped his jaw, thumb brushing across his cheek, and leaned in, your lips ghosting over his before you pressed into him. His mouth opened on instinct, unsure and eager, but you kissed him like you had all the time in the world to teach him.
His hands hovered at your sides, too polite, too careful.
“Touch her,” Erik said from the corner, voice low and unbothered.
Bobby jerked slightly, blinking at him. “W-What?”
“Jesus, man,” Erik exhaled, eyes sharp but lazy, “you think she’s gonna bite?”
“She will,” you murmured, nipping Bobby’s bottom lip. “But only if you’re lucky.”
That seemed to short-circuit him. His hands slid to your waist, trembling a little, and you kissed him deeper, guiding him backward until the backs of his knees hit the bed. You pushed him down gently, straddling him, hands in his hair, hips rocking just barely to test him.
And oh—he was already getting there. Poor boy was flushed, pupils blown wide, already hard against the thin barrier of his sweatpants.
Erik leaned back, elbow resting on the arm of the chair, watching. Not leering. Not possessive. Just… invested. Smirking. Maybe a little impressed.
“You’re really doing this,” he muttered, voice coated in lazy amusement. “Can’t say I didn’t think about it. But damn.”
Bobby pulled back slightly, panting, lips kiss-bruised. “Is this… like, is this weird? That you’re—”
“I’m here to supervise,” Erik said, deadpan. “Making sure you don’t cry or nut too fast.”
You bit back a grin. “Yeah, baby. This is hands-on mentorship.”
Bobby let out a strangled sound that might’ve been a laugh or a prayer.
You leaned down again, this time slower, with a little more weight in it, your tongue sliding over his as you kissed him like he was something you’d waited for. Like ruining him was a favor you were doing for both of you.
Erik stretched, muscles rippling, his eyes dark now. “Don’t let him get lazy,” he said, voice molasses-slick. “If you’re gonna teach him, teach him.”
“Oh,” you purred, rocking your hips against Bobby’s slowly, “I plan on it.”
You pulled back from Bobby just enough to meet his gaze, your thumb brushing his swollen bottom lip. He looked wrecked already, chest rising and falling too fast, eyes dazed like he couldn’t believe this was real.
You dipped your head again, but instead of kissing him, your lips grazed his jaw, down to his throat, and then to the collar of his t-shirt.
“Take this off,” you murmured.
He obeyed immediately, tugging the shirt over his head with a clumsy kind of urgency. You didn’t rush. You just sat back and watched the reveal—broad chest, soft tan lines, that little trail of hair disappearing into his waistband. He looked like a boy trying hard to be a man, and that innocence made your mouth water.
You slid your hands up his stomach, nails grazing skin just enough to make him twitch. “Not bad, birthday boy.”
He swallowed hard. “Should I—uh—should I take yours off too or—”
Erik cut in from the chair, voice like dry smoke. “Ask permission first, dumbass.”
You turned to shoot Erik a look, half grin, half warning. “He’s learning.”
Bobby blinked up at you. “Can I—can I take yours off?”
You tilted your head, teasing. “You gonna be gentle?”
He nodded so fast it made you laugh softly.
“Then go ahead.”
His hands were hesitant at first, brushing your hips, sliding up your sides to the hem of your crop top. You raised your arms for him, and he peeled it off slowly, like he was unwrapping something forbidden.
His eyes widened as you sat there bare above him—no bra, no shame. You leaned forward and tugged his hands up to your chest.
“Touch,” you said, tone low and warm.
He did. Carefully. Reverently. Like he wasn’t sure if it was a dream. From the chair, Erik exhaled a breath through his nose, blue eyes focused.
“You’re shaking,” you murmured, kissing Bobby’s jaw. “Still scared?”
Bobby let out a breathless little laugh. “Kinda.”
“Good.” You nipped his ear. “Means you’ll remember it.”
Your fingers slipped down his torso, grazing the waistband of his sweatpants.
“These go next,” you whispered. “But you’re not the only one losing layers.”
You stood slowly, watching his eyes follow every movement. You hooked your thumbs into your shorts and shimmied out of them, one side at a time, until they pooled at your feet. The air kissed your thighs, and Bobby’s mouth parted slightly when he saw your panties.
You stepped out and climbed back onto the bed, straddling him again.
“Okay,” you said softly, fingers ghosting along his waistband. “You ready?”
He nodded, almost too fast again.
Erik leaned forward slightly in his chair, elbows on his knees, that lazy smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Don’t pass out,” he muttered. “We just got to the good part.”
You slid closer to Bobby, breath warm against his skin, fingers tracing the line of his jaw before settling at the base of his neck. His pulse hammered beneath your touch, every nerve begging for something, anything, from you.
Without hesitation, you dipped your head, lips ghosting down his collarbone, pausing just above the waistband of his sweats. Your hands cupped his hips as you leaned in, eyes locked with his for a heartbeat before you let your mouth do the talking.
Slow, deliberate kisses trailed lower, teasing, coaxing, until you were tracing the edge of the fabric. Your tongue flicked out, slipping beneath the band, drawing a soft gasp from him that made your pulse quicken.
“Fuck... shit,” Bobby breathed out, voice trembling like it caught him off guard.
You worked with patience, hands sliding up his thighs as your lips parted around the tip, gentle at first like you were savoring the taste, learning every curve. His fingers tangled in your hair, breath hitching, eyes fluttering closed as you took his cock deeper into your mouth, slow and sure.
“God, that’s... fuck, yeah,” he gasped, hips pushing forward with a shaky urgency, desperate for more even as you kept him on the edge.
The heat between you spiked, his hips rolling forward on instinct, pressing closer as you took him in, careful to keep the pace just right—teasing enough to drive him wild but not so fast he lost control.
You looked up through your lashes, lips slick and swollen, and caught the raw need in his gaze. He was already undone, every breath shallow, every muscle tense.
“You good?” you murmured, voice thick with promise.
He swallowed hard, voice rough and ragged. “Never... never been better.”
You’re lost in the moment, every slow, teasing motion drawing Bobby deeper, his breath hitching and his hands clutching your hair like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. His eyes are half-lidded, desperate and stunned, like you’re literally stealing the air from his lungs.
From the corner, Erik’s voice cuts through the haze, low and sarcastic, like he’s calling the play-by-play on a goddamn championship game.
“Alright, folks—Bobby’s in the danger zone now,” he drawls, eyes locked on the scene like he’s got front-row seats. “Slowing the pace, but the crowd’s on edge. Can he handle the pressure?”
Bobby groans, muffled against his hand. “Dude... c’mon, s-stapH.”
Erik smirks, lighting a cigarette. “Oh, he’s begging already! That’s gotta be a first.”
You glance up briefly, biting back a grin before diving back in. Bobby’s hands grip tighter, hips twitching like he’s fighting a losing battle.
“Bobby’s defenses are breaking down—full surrender imminent,” Erik narrates like it’s the final seconds of overtime. “Can he hold out? Or is this gonna be a quick win for Team ‘Girlfriend’?”
“Dude—fuck—c’mon, man!” Bobby whines, voice shaky, lips pressed hard against you, eyes squeezed shut as if that’ll save him.
You hum against his skin, teasing just enough to drive him crazy, fingers threading through his hair, grounding him even as his world spins.
Erik leans back, blowing out smoke, eyes gleaming. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you seal the deal. Bobby’s officially outplayed.”
Bobby groans again, breathless and defeated but grinning like a kid caught stealing cookies.
You finally pull back, letting him catch his breath, his chest rising and falling fast, cheeks flushed like a champ who just scored. You lay back on the bed, parting your thighs for him. He takes a deep breath before climbing on top of you so he’s hovering just above your pussy.
Bobby's inexperienced but eager movements sent tingles through you, his warm breath ghosting over your sensitive skin. You watched him, heart fluttering at the sight of him, lost in concentration as he explored your body with tentative touches.
His tongue darted out tentatively, brushing against your folds, making you gasp softly. He looked up at you, eyes wide and questioning, clearly unsure if he was doing it right. You gave him an encouraging nod, threading your fingers through his hair gently.
"You're doing great, Bobby," you reassured him, voice breathy. "Just follow your instincts."
Emboldened by your praise, he leaned in closer, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs. His hands gripped your hips, thumbs rubbing soothing circles on your skin. He seemed to be figuring it out bit by bit, his movements becoming more confident as he tasted and teased you.
"Tell me if I'm hurting you," he murmured against your skin, glancing up at you with a blend of trepidation and yearning. "I don't want to mess this up."
You smiled softly, cupping his cheek. "Just relax and enjoy this."
He nodded, determination settling in his gaze as he returned his attention to pleasuring you. His tongue delved deeper, not quite finding your clit yet.
Bobby looks up at you nervously, his eyes searching yours for guidance. You give him an encouraging smile, reaching out to run your fingers through his hair reassuringly.
"It's okay, you're doing great," you murmur softly, arching your back slightly to press your hips up towards his face invitingly.
Bobby takes a deep breath and closes his eyes briefly before diving in again. This time, his tongue glides across your slick folds with a bit more confidence, circling your entrance before darting inside teasingly.
Bobby’s doing his best. Honestly. He’s trying so hard, and you can feel the effort in every careful movement, every awkward adjustment like he’s solving a Rubik’s cube with his tongue. You let him keep going, because it’s sweet… but that sweetness doesn’t do much when it’s not quite hitting the spot.
From his place nearby, Erik’s been watching with a cigarette half-lit and an eyebrow cocked so high it might fly off his face. His arms are crossed, lip twitching like he’s been holding back commentary for a solid minute.
Finally, he exhales a sharp breath through his nose, flicks the cigarette into a tray, and stands up like a guy who's had enough of watching a YouTube tutorial done wrong.
“Okay,” he says, clapping once like a disappointed professor. “Move over, Bobby. That’s enough community service for one night.”
Bobby looks up, lips wet and confused. “Huh?”
Erik’s already kneeling down next to him, rolling his neck like he’s about to crack his knuckles and fix your entire day. “You gave it the ol’ college try, man. Really. I’m proud of you. But I can’t sit here watching you treat her like a Sudoku puzzle any longer.”
Bobby frowns. “I wasn’t—wait, is it that bad?”
You bite your lip, torn between laughter and arousal. “It’s not bad, it’s just… not illegal either.”
Erik grins, wicked and sure of himself. “Don’t worry, rookie. This is a team sport.”
And before Bobby can protest, Erik’s got one hand sliding over your thigh, the other brushing Bobby’s shoulder like a tag-in at a wrestling match.
“Pay attention, kid,” he murmurs against your skin, voice dark and low. “Class is in session.”
With practiced ease, Erik guides Bobby’s hands, adjusting the angle, encouraging the right touch. His voice drops low and teasing as he coaches, “Not too hard, don’t forget to listen. You feel that? Good. Keep that up.”
Erik's guidance transformed Bobby's touch from uncertain to confident. Under his brother's steady hand, Bobby found a rhythm, alternating between long, slow licks and quick, focused flicks of his tongue.
"That's it, just like that," Erik encouraged, a predatory gleam in his eye as he watched Bobby work. His own arousal was evident, straining against his jeans as he knelt beside you both.
You found yourself lost in the sensation, back arching off the bed as Bobby's tongue circled your clit with growing skill. Erik's fingers dug into Bobby's shoulder, urging him on, his own breath coming faster.
"Fuck, you're doing so good," Erik groaned, his other hand skimming up your thigh, teasingly close to where Bobby's mouth worked. "Keep going, just like that. Make her cum all over you."
Bobby groaned against you, the vibrations sending sparks of pleasure racing through your nerves. Erik's filthy words and the knowledge of them watching you together pushed you closer to the edge, your hips rocking instinctively against Bobby's face.
Erik watches intently from his position behind Bobby, his hand guiding the younger man's head as he whispers words of encouragement.
"That's it, just like that," Erik praises, his deep voice sending vibrations through Bobby's mouth directly to your core. "Use more pressure, and focus on her clit."
Bobby follows Erik's lead, latching onto your sensitive bundle of nerves and suckling gently. His inexperienced enthusiasm is actually quite endearing as he explores your body with growing fervor.
Your breathing hitches as the dual sensations of Erik's guiding hand and Bobby's eager mouth overwhelm your senses. You thread your fingers through Bobby's hair, pulling him closer as your thighs begin to tremble.
"F-fuck..." you gasp out, your hips bucking involuntarily against Bobby's face as he brings you closer to the edge with every swipe of his talented tongue.
Erik leaned down, capturing your lips in a hungry kiss, swallowing your moans as Bobby brought you to a shattering climax. You came apart between them, tremors wracking your body as Bobby lapped up your release, guided by Erik's knowing hands and gravelly praise.
Erik’s hands are already on your hips, mouth hot on your neck, when he starts shedding layers like he’s got somewhere better to be, but clearly, this is the main event. Shirt flung over the back of a chair, belt clinking as it hits the floor, boots kicked off without a second thought.
Bobby’s still sitting beside you, wide-eyed, probably rethinking every decision that brought him here, especially when Erik’s boxers hit the ground with zero hesitation.
And then—
“Bro,” Bobby chokes, voice cracking halfway through. “You have a piercing on your—on your dick?!”
He’s blinking like he just saw a crime scene. His hand lifts automatically, like he’s about to cross himself or call the authorities.
Erik doesn’t even flinch. He just smirks, one brow raised, stepping fully into view like a man very proud of his hardware.
“Prince Albert, baby,” he says casually, as if it’s just another tattoo. “Adds a little extra sparkle to the family jewels.”
Bobby’s still frozen, blinking rapidly. “Why would you do that to yourself?”
Erik shrugs, not missing a beat. “Because I like making people believe in God again.”
Your laugh breaks the tension, breathless and sharp, and Erik shoots you a wink before crawling back onto the bed like a performer who’s just dropped the mic.
Bobby’s still staring, somewhere between traumatized and deeply curious.
Erik throws an arm around his shoulders as he settles in. “Don’t worry. By the end of this, you’ll be grateful for every disturbing thing I’ve ever done.”
The air in Erik’s room is thick with heat and breathless energy, music humming low in the background like a pulse neither of them can ignore. You’re lying back, already flushed, your skin slick with anticipation, heart thundering like a drumbeat that only speeds up when Erik settles on one side of you and Bobby hesitates on the other.
“Come on, Bobby,” Erik murmurs, voice rough like gravel and whiskey, leaning over you to flash his brother a grin that’s half taunt, half dare. “Don’t get shy now. You’re not gonna break her.”
Bobby looks torn between holy awe and cardiac arrest, his eyes flicking from you to Erik and back again, lips parted as if searching for words but forgetting how they work. Still, he moves closer, drawn like gravity, and when his hand brushes your hip, it’s tentative, reverent.
You reach for him, fingers curling around his wrist, guiding him in with a soft, sultry pull. “You’re doing good, Bobby,” you murmur, and that’s all it takes.
His mouth crashes against yours, all nervous energy and clumsy hunger, but it works and you let him press you down into the sheets as Erik watches with that signature smirk that says he knew it would go like this.
“Christ,” Erik mutters, jerking himself off lazily as he sits back and watches. “This is better than pay-per-view.”
You arch into Bobby’s touch, and Erik finally pushes himself onto his knees with that casual confidence, settling near your face. Bobby turns his head for a split second—and freezes.
“Bro—” he chokes out, face going red. “You’re really just gonna let her suck you off? With that thing?!”
Erik just stretches, shameless and proud. “What, the piercing? You’ll thank me later. She definitely will. Besides do you think she never gave me a blow before?”
He slides behind you now, his chest warm against your back, lips grazing your shoulder. “Mind if I take over for a sec?” he murmurs, voice low enough that Bobby has to lean in to catch it. “You can watch and learn.”
You can feel Bobby nod before he even says anything, his eyes wide, lips wet and slightly parted. Erik’s hands ghost along your sides, slow and deliberate, and Bobby’s still kneeling at your thighs, his breathing uneven, like he’s caught between fascination and overload.
Then Erik reaches forward, guiding Bobby’s hand like he had earlier, but this time it's different—hungrier. More intimate. His voice is a murmur against your ear as he whispers instructions, half for Bobby, half for you.
“Just like that. Feel that?” He smirks as your body reacts, your breath catching. “She likes that. You’re doin’ alright.”
Bobby groans softly, his voice raw. “This is insane…”
“Yeah,” Erik says with a grin, “but you’re not tapping out, are you?”
The silence stretches and then Bobby shakes his head very eagerly, breathless. “Hell no.”
You pull him back to you with a smile that says good, your hands tangled in his shirt, Erik’s body flush against yours, all heat and teasing fingertips and tangled limbs.
And when you moan just loud enough, Erik lets out a laugh, smug and sinful.
“Happy birthday, baby brother.”
It’s happening—really happening—and Bobby’s frozen for a beat, like his brain just blue-screened mid-installation. One second he's hovering, nervous as hell, heart rattling in his ribs like a caged bird, and the next...
He sinks into you.
And that’s when his soul momentarily leaves his body.
His breath punches out of him like he’s been socked in the chest. His hands immediately grip the sheets like he’s trying not to float off the planet. Green eyes wide, jaw slack, a raw, involuntary noise tumbles out of his throat—somewhere between a gasp, a whimper, and a desperate "holy sh—"
You’re warm and tight and real, and for Bobby—who’s only ever known the cold, pixelated touch of incognito mode—it’s too much and not enough, all at once. His whole face flushes a deep, beet-red, and he literally pants over you like he just ran five miles barefoot uphill.
“Oh my god—oh my god,” he stammers, completely wrecked already. “It feels—this is—you’re—”
Erik just leans back against the headboard, grinning like he just sold front-row tickets to the most dramatic moment of Bobby’s life.
“Bro,” Erik says with a laugh, “You look like you just saw the second coming.”
Bobby can’t even look at him. His head dips, breath hitching, forehead brushing your shoulder as he moans, shaky and ruined. “I’m not gonna last—I can’t—dude.”
Erik smirks. “Nah, nah. You’re doing great. Just… maybe think about your taxes or baseball or something.”
“Why would I think about baseball?!”
“Exactly.”
You bite your lip to stifle a giggle as Bobby fumbles, overwhelmed and stunned and completely consumed. He looks up at you, eyes blown wide, voice breathless and reverent.
“You’re so perfect, I swear I’m—this is—thank you, oh my god—thank you.”
Erik just claps once from the sidelines like a proud coach watching his underdog score.
“Look at my boy. Whole personality rewiring in real-time.”
Bobby’s barely hanging onto reality at this point, he’s fully gone, moving with raw instinct now, like something ancient and primal just got lit up inside him. Every thrust is wild and needy, like he’s chasing something he doesn’t even have words for yet. He’s panting against your skin, muttering breathless nonsense like “so good, so good, I can’t—” over and over, caught somewhere between prayer and delirium.
Your nails dig into his shoulders, grounding him as much as they’re clinging for dear life.
And Erik? Oh, he’s collected. Too collected. The exact opposite of his little brother’s desperate rhythm. He’s kneeling above you, mouth twitching into a smirk as he slides two fingers beneath your chin and tilts your head just the way he likes it.
“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice velvet-draped danger. “Don’t forget about me now.”
His hips move with an infuriating sort of control, slow and deliberate, as if he’s got all the time in the world to teach you exactly how he likes it. One hand holds your jaw steady, the other stroking over your hair like he owns the moment, because he does.
“Goddamn,” he groans as you take him into your mouth, eyes fluttering shut for a second before snapping back to you with laser focus. “You’re filthy. Look at you—wrecked on both ends.”
Behind you, Bobby moans—a high, desperate sound that he clearly didn’t mean to let out. “I—I’m gonna—oh my god—”
Erik tilts his head, peering over your shoulder like he’s checking in on a toddler making a mess. “Bobby,” he calls out, voice calm but amused. “Buddy. Pace yourself. This isn’t a sprint.”
Bobby’s too far gone to listen, though. He mutters something incoherent and doubles down, rocking into you with a groan that practically trembles in his throat.
Erik watches the two of you, biting down a grin. “Jesus. He’s like a damn dog in mating season.”
Then he looks back at you, voice dropping to something low and wicked. “Good thing I know how to take my time.”
Then—
Bobby cums. Hard. Inside of you.
Bobby’s still inside you, frozen like a statue, lips parted as his brain slowly catches up to what his body just did. He blinks. Once. Twice.
Then he breathes, “...Oh my god.”
You hum, turning your head to look at him over your shoulder, eyes still glazed with pleasure. “That good, huh?”
He looks like he just committed a crime in three states and turned himself in. “I—I didn’t mean to. I mean, I did, but I didn’t—Erik’s gonna kill me.”
For a second, no one says anything.
The air is thick, sticky with sweat and something heavier, Bobby’s breath caught in his throat, your body still twitching with the aftershocks, and Erik?
Erik is staring.
Not blinking. Not speaking. Just… staring.
Bobby’s eyes widen, panicked. “I came in her.” Like it wasn’t obvious.
Erik tilts his head.
“Dude. You lasted two and a half minutes, blew your load in my girl?” Erik stops. Looks at him. Then at you. Then shakes his head with a low whistle. “The audacity…”
You shift, propping yourself up on your elbows. “I mean, you could at least pretend to be mad.”
“I was mad,” Erik says, starting to smirk like the devil. “Until I saw the look on his face. He came like a choirboy seeing heaven for the first time.”
Bobby groans and drops his face into the pillow, mortified. You giggle, fingers running lazily through his hair. “You okay down there?”
“No,” he says, voice muffled. “I just committed emotional incest.”
Erik snorts. “Relax. If I was gonna lose it, I’d have done it the second you started moaning like a Disney prince in heat.”
Bobby peeks up, cheeks still flushed. “You’re not mad?”
Erik’s eyes flick toward you, his smirk softening for just a moment. “Nah. I’m territorial, not jealous. She’s still mine.”
You blink up at him, breath caught somewhere in your chest. “You’re definitely not mad?”
“I’m insulted,” he mutters. “But mostly turned on. That’s the problem.”
You're lying in the wreckage of what used to be a bed—sheets twisted, limbs sprawled, the air still heavy with sweat and something else too wicked to name. Erik's arm is slung across your waist like a claim, thumb idly stroking your skin. Bobby’s somewhere at the foot of the bed, looking like he just won the lottery and got hit by a bus at the same time.
It’s quiet.
Too quiet.
You stretch, all faux-innocent, and murmur into the air, “Y’know… Bobby’s kind of a natural.”
Both men freeze.
Erik’s thumb stops mid-stroke. His head turns, slow, eyes narrowing with surgical precision.
“I beg your pardon?”
You blink up at him, biting your lip, oh-so-casual. “I’m just saying. He was surprisingly good for a first time. Like, if I didn’t know better, I’d think he’s done this before.”
From the foot of the bed, Bobby perks up. “Wait, really?”
Erik sits up like he’s been electrocuted.
“Oh my god,” he mutters. “You liked it?”
You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I mean… the enthusiasm? Immaculate. And he—”
“Don’t,” Erik cuts in sharply, holding up a finger. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence unless you want me to take your legs off at the knees with my mouth.”
You snort.
“Bobby, put some clothes on,” Erik barks suddenly, not even looking at him.
“Why?” Bobby asks, confused and still very much not moving.
“Because if you don’t, I might black out and do something unspeakable out of pure rage,” Erik hisses.
You hum, still wicked. “Jealous?”
Erik rounds on you with that devil’s grin curling at the corner of his mouth, the kind of look that promises vengeance and velvet sin. “No, sweetheart,” he murmurs, crawling over you like a storm rolling in. “Jealous is what I’d be if you didn’t scream my name louder.”
You smile sweetly. “I don’t remember whose name I screamed louder.”
Erik pauses.
Stares.
And then?
“Okay. That’s it.”
Suddenly you’re flipped onto your stomach with a low growl and a slap to your ass that echoes.
“Bobby, out.”
“Wait—”
“NOW.”
Bobby scrambles off the bed, dragging the sheet with him like a panicked toga. “I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“You didn’t,” Erik calls after him. “She did. But now you both suffer.”
Erik watches Bobby stomp toward the door like he’s just been sentenced to exile, but the second Bobby’s hand hits the handle, Erik calls out, his voice rough but low, almost reluctant.
“Hey, dumbass… come back here.”
Bobby pauses. The door’s still cracked open, the hallway light spilling in, but he hesitates like he’s been yanked back by some invisible leash.
“You really wanna go out there alone after all that? You look like you’re about to pass out.”
Bobby’s eyes flicker, and for a second, he looks like he wants to argue.
Erik holds up a hand, cutting him off. “Nope. Come here.”
Bobby gives a shaky breath and turns back.
Erik opens his arms with a grunt, pulling him into this unexpectedly tight, almost protective hug. His chest rumbles low as Bobby melts into the embrace, the tension draining from his shoulders before Erik pushes him into your arms.
“Dumbass,” Erik mutters, the edges of his lips twitching into something like a smile. “You’re lucky you got me. Nobody else would’ve put up with your shit today.”
Bobby laughs softly, voice muffled against your bare skin. “Thanks, man.”
Erik pulls back, brushing a stray hair from Bobby’s forehead, rolling his eyes.
“Yeah, yeah. Now go put some clothes on before I change my mind and kick your ass again.”
warnings — cursing, making out, getting caught by ✨bobby✨, erik bribes him to stfu tho
a/n — i have one more idea for an erik ff after this one and then i will do billy and carter from fd1 <33 yall are free to message me requests for characters tho, js put a summary of what you want the fanfic to look like. all final destination characters are welcome!!
You were halfway through laughing at something Julia said when Erik sauntered into the room like he wasn’t the human equivalent of a traffic violation. That cocky smirk already plastered across his stupidly punchable (and unfortunately hot) face.
“Damn,” he muttered, eyes dragging from your thighs to your lips like he was trying to memorize your measurements by sheer force of will. “Didn’t know Julia had hot friends. You always look like that?”
Julia groaned instantly. “Erik, no.”
He leaned on the kitchen counter like he owned the place, tossing an apple from hand to hand like he was being casual, but everyone knew better. His voice dropped into that low but casual tone he used when he was being deliberately inappropriate. “I’m just saying. If I knew this one was around, I would’ve stayed home more often.”
Julia’s face scrunched like she’d eaten a lemon. “She’s not interested.”
“You sure?” He glanced at you, grin slow and lazy. “Doesn’t look like she’s complaining.”
You fought the smile tugging at your lips. Erik caught it, winking at you. Julia stood between you two now, arms crossed. “Literally go die.”
Erik snorted. “Can’t. I’m the cool sibling. I’ve got plot armor.”
Julia threw a spoon at him. He caught it midair, didn’t blink. Still smirking. That smirk that said: I definitely mean it.
Later that day, Julia had gone upstairs to grab something later that day, promising she’d “be back in two seconds,” which was apparently all the time Erik needed to find his way back in your personal space.
He leaned forward, palms flat on the counter on either side of you, his breath hitting the curve of your neck like something deliberate.
“I’m gonna say something,” he said lowly, his voice rough like it’d just rolled out of bed, “and you’re gonna tell me to fuck off.”
You turned slowly, finding him closer than you expected, close enough to see all the tiny healed scars from the piercings he changed his mind about and took out.
“Didn’t Julia already tell you to leave me alone?” you asked, but your voice betrayed you, just a little more curious than cold.
“She did,” he said. “But I’ve got this thing where I don’t listen to her.”
“Oh, shocking.”
“Look, you’re her best friend. You’re sweet. Smart. Probably way too good for the kind of thoughts I’ve been having since you walked in.”
Your breath caught, barely but enough for him to notice. His grin curved, slow and shameless.
“See?” he said softly. “You felt that too.”
You shook your head, stepping back until your hip hit the counter. He followed, didn’t touch just looked. Held your eyes like he was trying to find the flicker of permission. Like he was testing the line to see if you’d let him cross it.
“And what if I told her?” you asked.
He laughed, one of those careless ones that made your stomach flip in a good way. “You won’t,” he said, certain. “Not unless you want her to know how long you let me stand here.”
You exhaled, smiling a bit. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re still not walking away.”
He leaned in, slow enough to give you time to stop him—which you didn’t—and brushed his lips against your jaw, just a ghost of contact. Barely anything. But it burned.
“You tell me when to stop,” he murmured. “Or you don’t.” Before you could answer, footsteps pounded on the stairs.
Julia.
He pulled back in an instant, grabbing a slice of pizza off the counter like nothing had happened. Smirking to himself like he’d won something. And when Julia walked back in and rolled her eyes at him, he just said, through a mouthful of crust. “We were just talking about you.”
You decided to sleep over for whatever reason that night, too lazy to walk back home and Julia gave you her bed.
…
Jk, she would never, she made you sleep on the couch like she was punishing you for indulging her brother.
The living room was half-dark, lit only by the blue glow of the muted TV and the tiny strip of moonlight bleeding in through the blinds. You were on the couch, curled under a blanket, phone long forgotten at your side. Tank top loose, one strap slipping just slightly. Legs stretched out, bare and warm against the worn leather cushions.
You hear someone coming downstairs and, of course, it has to be Erik. No shirt, all tattoos on display. Hair tousled like he hadn’t even tried to sleep. Those damn silver piercings glinting faintly in the dark.
He stood at the edge of the couch, eyes skating down the length of your legs without shame, his jaw slack with something both lazy and playful.
"You're in my spot," he said finally, voice lower than usual, like the hour required secrecy but his intent didn’t.
You didn’t move. "You weren’t down here."
“Doesn’t mean I wasn’t planning to be.”
He dropped onto the other end of the couch like he owned it and stretched his legs out until his foot casually nudged yours. The contact was small, insignificant. But he didn’t take it back. He just let it linger.
You shifted under the blanket. He watched that too.
“You always stare like that?” she muttered, trying to keep her voice level.
His head tilted, one arm thrown over the back of the couch, muscles lazy, confident. “Only when I wanna see what you’ll do about it.”
There was a beat of silence. Heavy. Tense. Loaded.
Then he moved slowly, like the moment had been waiting on him, until he was closer. Close enough for his knee to bump your thigh. Close enough that she could smell him, faint cologne and the stubborn smoke that always clung to his skin. His fingers ghosted along the blanket near your hip, barely brushing fabric, but intentional.
You should’ve shifted away. Should’ve told him to back off. Should’ve said Julia’s upstairs. But your body betrayed you… okay, it didn’t, he was hot as fuck.
He leaned in, slow enough to be deliberate, lips brushing just shy of your jaw. His breath hit warm and even across your skin, his voice a whisper now.
“You gonna tell me to leave?”
Your fingers curled into the blanket, tighter.
He chuckled under his breath, low and full of mischief. His hand came up, brushing your thigh through the blanket, fingers spread like he needed to feel just how warm you were under there.
“You’re real quiet now,” he said, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “That mean I can stay?”
Your breath caught. And then you nodded. He dipped closer. His mouth brushed the line of your collarbone, lips soft, breath hot, his hand sliding just beneath the blanket now.
The couch groaned softly beneath you as you shifted, and your knee bumped his thigh, bare skin on bare skin. That was all it took for Erik to settle his hand at your waist, pulling gently, testing you.
And he kissed you. Not all at once. He started near your throat, barely-there kisses that felt like secrets, like confessions. Then up along your jaw, near the corner of your mouth, just hovering, giving you time to pull away.
You didn’t.
So he claimed your lips like he meant it.
It wasn’t gentle. It was heat and hesitation, all twisted up. Teeth. Tongue. The press of his body against yours, as if he’d been holding himself back all night and finally got permission to start losing control.
And even in the middle of that kiss, Erik smirked against your mouth. Because he knew he was winning.
He eventually pushed you back, climbing on top of you. You were soft under him, lips flushed, eyes dazed, that little noise you made when his teeth caught your lower lip nearly making him lose the last ounce of restraint he had. Erik wasn’t good at waiting. Not when he wanted something. And right now?
He wanted you under him, under that stupid blanket, moaning his name like it meant something.
Your legs shifted to either side of his hips, his hand sliding under the hem of your tank top, palm hot on your stomach as your breath hitched. You tugged him closer by the waistband of his pants, and he groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he laughed through it.
“Fuck, if you keep doin’ that—”
Footsteps.
The stairs creaked.
Erik froze. You froze.
And then—
“…Hey?”
Erik looked up like he’d been shot. "No."
Bobby stood in the hallway in basketball shorts and a hoodie, hair a mess, holding a half-eaten Pop-Tart and blinking like he just walked into a war zone.
Erik was still on top of you. Your tank top was wrinkled halfway up your chest.
Bobby just blinked again.
“...Are you guys wrestling or something?”
You scrambled back, yanking the blanket up to your chin like you were about to enter witness protection. Erik nearly tripped over his own legs as he got up, adjusting his waistband like it owed him money.
Bobby squinted. “Wait. Is that Julia’s—”
“NOPE!” Erik bellowed, launching himself across the room so fast he almost tripped. “Bobby. Bobby, look at me. Right here. Look in my eyes. You didn’t see shit.”
Bobby backed up, Pop-Tart still in hand, eyes wide. “Dude, I literally just came in for water, what the hell—”
“Shut up,” Erik hissed, grabbing his brother by the shoulders. “Listen to me. I will buy you so many protein shakes, you don’t even know.”
“What were you—were you guys hooking up?!” Bobby’s voice cracked halfway into the question.
Erik slapped a hand over his mouth. “She fell. I was catching her. With my mouth. Shut up.”
Bobby made a strangled wheeze. “Jules is gonna kill you—”
“No she’s not,” Erik said quickly. “Because you’re not gonna tell her. Because you love me. Because I gave you your first beer. Because I didn’t tell Mom when you got that illegal tattoo that looks like a bruised banana.”
Bobby was still blinking, still confused, but Erik could see the cogs turning, gears clicking into place.
“Are you gonna bribe me?” Bobby asked, hopeful.
“Yes. I will bribe you so hard, you’re gonna forget you even have a sister.”
There was a long beat of silence.
Then Bobby shrugged.
“Okay. I want the good chicken nuggets. And your Netflix password.”
“Done.”
Bobby beamed. “Love you, bro.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Erik shoved him back toward the stairs. “Don’t come back for water. Dehydrate.”
As soon as Bobby disappeared upstairs, Erik turned back to the couch, hair disheveled, still a little breathless, and fully flushed from the chaos.
You were still under the blanket, staring at him like he was insane.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said, flopping down beside you again.
“You bribed your brother with chicken nuggets.”
“I bribed him with silence and loyalty, thank you very much.”
You snorted, and he smirked, his fingers already sliding under the blanket again.
“Now,” he said, voice low and smug, “where were we?”
warnings — 18+, p in v, sex, unprotected sex, piercing play (nipple + prince albert), degradation kink, praise kink, impact play (belt, spanking, paddle), smoking, choking, breath play, orgasm denial, temperature play, knife play, marking, semi public, dirty talk, masturbation
a/n — i got invested in this one
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
— He acts like he doesn’t need it—“I’m fine, what are you looking at?”—but will immediately collapse next to you and drape himself over your chest.
— Always helps clean you up. Always. Might even mumble something sweet if you catch him in the soft haze. (Clean you up with a towel or his tongue? Your choice.)
— Chain-smokes afterward. He loves when you light one for him, especially if you smoke too. (bonus — he finds it hot as fuck when you take a puff, kiss him and let him inhale it out of your mouth. Instant boner.)
— Would love to go to a late night drive after to get take out or park somewhere secluded and just talk.
B = Body Part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
— On himself? His tongue. Or his hands. He knows what they do. He’s smug about it.
— On you? Your thighs. He’s obsessed. Bites them. Leaves bruises. Makes homes out of them. Bonus if you straddle his lap, he’ll never shut up about it.
— Also loves your mouth. Especially when it’s full. Or smirking like you’ve got him wrapped around your finger (you do).
C = Cum (anything to do with cum)
— It’s a whole thing with him. He likes mess. Marking. Ownership. Watching it drip.
— Loves leaving evidence. On your stomach, chest, tongue, he doesn’t care. You’re art. He’s just signing his name.
— Loves to hit it raw. Any hole, he’s down. Seeing it leak out after does something to him.
— Bonus: he does have a Prince Albert, so yeah… the sensations? Unhinged. He watches your reaction like it’s a religious experience.
D = Dirty secret (a dirty secret of theirs)
— He’s a perv in denial, and the secrets he keeps? Filthy. Starting with the fact that he’s definitely stolen your underwear.. more than once. The first time, it was “by accident.” You left them at his place, and they ended up balled in the pocket of a hoodie he refused to wash. But the second time? He took them on purpose. Stuffed them into his back pocket when you weren’t looking. He keeps them in his nightstand and jerks off with them clenched in his fist when he misses you too much to pretend otherwise.
— One of his lowest moments? He got off to a voicemail. Not even a sexy one. You were just half-asleep, whispering something about picking you up, soft and breathy and warm in a way that wrecked him. He listens to it on repeat when he’s desperate, biting his fist to keep quiet.
— He’s thought about you tattooing your name on him more times than he’ll admit. Not in some subtle hidden spot either. No, across his ribs. Over his heart. Down his thigh. Somewhere that screams taken. He wants it to hurt. Wants it to be permanent. He won’t ask, though, not yet. Not until he’s sure you’d like that kind of ownership. Not until you say it first.
— He’s filmed himself once, moaning your name, fingers tight around the base of his cock, whispering all the things he’d never say out loud. Never sent it. But it’s in a locked folder. Just in case.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
— He talks a big game and, unfortunately for the world, backs it up.
— Not just physically experienced, but emotionally reckless. Knows how to tease, edge, manipulate every sound out of you like a symphony of sin.
— And he learns you fast. Obsessed with what makes you twitch, beg, break.
F = Favorite Position
— Erik’s a greedy little sinner when it comes to positions, he wants you laid out like a work of art, and he wants every inch visible. Anything with a mirror involved? He’s obsessed. Bent over the bathroom sink, legs shaking, while he watches your expressions shift with every thrust? Chef’s kiss.
— You on his lap in the tattoo chair, knees pressed into the leather, his ink-stained hands gripping your hips while you grind down on him? He lives for it. He’ll growl things like “this chair’s seen pain, baby—go ahead and make it feel something else.”
— He’s a sucker for taking you against the wall of the studio after hours, shirt half-off, hair a mess. One leg hitched around his waist while he bites your neck and thrusts up into you like he’s got something to prove.
— Prone bonEEeeE.
— But also face-to-face? That’s when he lets it get real. Chest to chest, tangled fingers, forehead pressed to yours, he’ll go deep. Snarling one second, kissing your tear-streaked cheeks the next. He loves that contradiction.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
— He’s got a wicked sense of humor, even when things get heated. Biting remarks. Snarky moans. “You like that, sweetheart? Thought so.”
— Will laugh if something goes wrong, gets even hotter when you laugh with him.
— Calls you obscene pet names just to make you blush. Then backs it up like the menace he is.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they?)
— Grooming is chaotic. Sometimes he trims, sometimes he forgets, sometimes he shaves just because you joked about it.
— And yes, the carpet matches the drapes. Dark. Thick. Wild.
— Sometimes shaves it in the shape of a star or something else.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
— He’ll fuck you like he’s mad at the world, like you’re the only soft thing he’s ever had and he doesn’t know how to handle it. But then he slows just enough to let his fingers thread through yours, to breathe your name against your collarbone like a prayer.
— Eye contact ruins him. He’ll hold it, even when he’s red-faced and breathless, because he needs to see what he’s doing to you. Needs you to know it’s not just about getting off, it’s about you. About this unspoken thing that he’s too emotionally constipated to name.
— His version of "I love you" comes out in other ways. The way he pulls you close after, rubbing lazy circles into your back. The way he kisses your temple mid-thrust.
J = Jack Off (masturbation headcanon)
— Rarely does it anymore, he’s addicted to you.
— But when he does? It’s filthy. Loud. Desperate.
— He keeps something of yours nearby. Shirt. Panties. A necklace you forgot. He’s down bad. He likes it there.
— Has an album of your nudes he uses. He also jacks off to the amateur sex tapes you two filmed together.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
— Piercing play is his holy grail. Loves when you pull them, bite them, suck on them like it’s a challenge. The way he twitches when you flick them with your tongue? It’s practically a reward. And his Prince Albert? His favorite party trick. He lives for the look on your face the first time you realize just how intense it makes everything feel. He’d get another piercing—a ladder, a reverse PA, whatever—if you so much as murmured you liked the current one. No hesitation.
— Impact play is a language, and he speaks it fluently. He gets off on the sounds you make when he spanks you raw, the fingerprints blooming into bruises. He keeps a paddle and belt in the bottom drawer of his dresser, “just in case.”
— Praise kink meets degradation kink in a chaotic, addictive cycle. He’ll call you filthy, stupid, a brat right before whispering how perfect you feel, how he’s never wanted anyone the way he wants you. He doesn’t even realize how raw he sounds half the time, his voice breaking on “mine,” or “look at you taking it so good.”
— Control play. Choking. Overstimulation. Orgasm denial. If you give him the green light, he’ll keep you teetering on the edge just to see you beg. Loves to tie your wrists with his belt and make you ask, not because he wants to withhold, but because he wants to hear you want him.
— Biting is his second love language. Your thighs, your shoulder, your neck, especially if he’s marking you up before a night out. You’re his canvas, and he paints in bruises.
• Temperature play, knife play, breath play—he’s curious, and shameless about it. If you say yes, he’ll explore everything with you. If you say no, he’ll still fantasize about it when he jerks off later. With teeth in his lip and your name on his tongue.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
— His tattoo shop after hours is the #1 spot. Ink-stained counters, mirrors smudged with your handprints, your back arched over the very same chair he pierces clients on—it’s ritualistic to him.
— Anywhere with risk. A public bathroom, the back of his beat-up car, or a stockroom at someone else’s workplace. He gets off on the tension. The eyes that could see but don’t.
— Loves catching you off guard in non-bedroom places; kitchen, stairwell, the floor of your apartment. Messy. Unplanned. That’s his thing.
— If you ever let him take you on the rooftop, under the sky, he’ll genuinely believe you’re trying to kill him—in the best way.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
— Your attitude. Mouthy, bratty, sarcastic? He thrives on it. If you roll your eyes at him, congrats, you’re getting railed.
— Clothes you stole from him. You in his shirt = feral Erik. You in only his shirt = he’s already pulling your panties to the side.
— The way you look after a fight. Tears on your cheeks, biting your lip, glaring at him? Yeah. He’s painfully hard.
— Piercings. Yours, his, doesn’t matter. Tug his nipple rings while he’s inside you and you’ll ruin his whole life in seconds.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
— He won’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Period. If you say no, it’s off the table, no teasing, no pouting, just full respect.
— Not into extreme humiliation. Light degradation? Hell yes. Calling you worthless or hurting your self-esteem? Not a chance. He’ll slap himself for even thinking it.
— Silence. He needs noise. Needs your sounds, needs to hear you fall apart. If you go quiet, he’ll literally stop and ask what’s wrong.
— Absolutely not into denial without payoff. He’ll edge you, sure, but if you’re crying and begging and earn it? You’re getting everything.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
— Obsessed with giving. Utterly obsessed. Goes down like it’s his dying wish and you’re the pearly gates.
— He doesn’t stop until your thighs are shaking and you’re clawing at his hair. Might pin your hips down just to watch you struggle.
— Receiving? Oh, he loves it. A lot. Especially when you’re looking up at him with those eyes. But if he had to choose? He’d live between your legs forever.
— And yeah, that PA piercing? You already know. When he’s on the receiving end, the sounds he makes will haunt you in delicious ways.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
— 90% of the time? Fast. Rough. Relentless. He grabs, bites, slams like he’s trying to etch your name into his bones.
— But if you ask nicely? Whisper in his ear? He can go slow. Real slow. Cruel slow. Dragging it out until you're clawing the sheets and sobbing his name.
— He’s a rhythm guy. Knows how to build, how to hold you on the edge, how to destroy you when the moment hits.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
— He lives for quickies. Pulls you into a bathroom stall like he’s a high school delinquent. Unzips his jeans like he’s been waiting all day.
— Can make it quick and dirty or dangerously intense depending on the mood. Either way, you leave shaking.
— Doesn’t care where. Doesn’t care when. If he’s hard and you’re there? Game on. Bonus points if you wear a skirt.
— Secretly gets off on the idea that someone heard. Or might see you after. Legs wobbling. Makeup smeared.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
— He’s a freaky little gremlin. Will try anything once. Twice if he liked it.
— He’s got a thing for risking consequences. Getting caught, getting dirty, doing it somewhere or somehow he shouldn’t.
— But if you ever say stop, or hesitate? He’s shutting it down, no questions asked. Only plays wild if you're both locked in.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
— Ridiculous. Stupid. Unholy. Man has the stamina of a demonic rockstar on espresso.
— One round? Never enough. Two? Still warming up. Three? That’s the baseline.
— Can go for hours. Especially if you tease him first. He’ll make it a mission to ruin you completely before he even finishes.
— Sweaty, panting, grinning like the devil by the end. You’ll be begging to tap out. He’ll pretend not to hear.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
— Yes. Yes. Yes. Entire drawer of them. Some handmade. Some custom. All used on you.
— Vibrators, plugs, restraints, clamps—he has no shame. Will strap one to you and watch.
— Will also use them on himself if you’re not around. He says he doesn’t, but he does. Maybe even sends you a video if he’s feeling reckless.
— And if you’re open to it? Toys + PA piercing + Erik’s filthy mouth = you seeing God. Twice.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
— He’s the king of teasing. Emotionally, physically, verbally, you name it. He’s the kind of bastard who’ll edge you with a vibrator and say it’s “for your own good.”
— Loves seeing you frustrated. Squirming. Begging. Gets off on dragging it out just to see you fall apart.
— Will finger you under the table at a dinner party, whisper filthy things in your ear when you’re trying to focus, lick your lip and then walk away.
— The kind of menace who stops right when you’re about to come and says “Say please.” But god—when you do? He devours you.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
— He’s a noisy little freak. Growls, grunts, breathy curses, full moans if you really get him going.
— Dirty talk on overdrive. He can’t shut up—calls you baby, brat, sweetheart, slut—depending on the mood and what you’re doing to him.
— If you’re on top, you’ll hear the filthiest whines ever. His voice breaks. His breathing gets ragged. He’ll curse through clenched teeth like he’s barely holding it together.
— And if you do anything to his piercings? You’ll hear a choked-off moan that sounds like sin incarnate.
W = Wild Card (a random headcanon for the character)
— Erik has definitely gotten off to the thought of you riding him while he’s tattooing someone. No one else would know. You’d look so sweet perched in his lap, clenching around him while he keeps his poker face. It’s 100% unrealistic but whatever gets him to nut.
— He has a tattoo on his thigh that’s an inside joke between you two. Most people think it’s just a weird design. You know it’s a sketch you doodled on a napkin after sex.
— Keeps a secret photo of you on his phone, not even nudes, just you in one of his shirts, smiling half-asleep. That photo has saved his life on bad days.
— He loves to have sex with music in the back.
— Sends you dick pics. Every single damn day.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
— He’s lean, cut, and covered in ink. Veins on his arms. Abs you can trace with your tongue. Every tattoo tells a story he won’t talk about unless you kiss it first.
— As we know, nipple piercings. Silver hoops that clink when you bite them. He loves when you suck on them, tug them. Treat him mean, he’ll melt.
— And yeah, the Prince Albert. Silver. Thick. Curve-hugging. He knows exactly how to use it, how deep to go, how to tilt his hips until you're gasping. He watches your face every time it slides in.
— Average length but girthy. Feels like he was built to ruin you. And when he’s hard? Yeah. You’ll feel it before you see it. Through his jeans.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
— Sky high. Unreasonable. He’s constantly thinking about you, what you’d sound like, taste like, how you’d look on your knees.
— You touch his thigh and he’s hard. You kiss his neck and he’s already planning how to flip you over.
— He’s got this lowkey desperation he hides under all his snark. But when you say his name just right? All bets are off. He’ll throw you over the couch and take you right there.
— If he hasn’t had you in a while? He gets mean. Restless. Grabby. The kind of guy who’ll pull your panties down before you even shut the door.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
— Depends. If it was quick and rough? He’ll still be riding the high, sweaty, out of breath, probably smirking and teasing you.
— But if it was slow and intense? If you kissed him and whispered sweet things while he was inside you? He’s gone. Asleep instantly, wrapped around you like you’re oxygen.
— Snores. Lightly. Face buried in your hair, arm over your waist, legs tangled in yours. He might even mumble something like “mine” before he knocks out.
— And if you try to move? Good luck. He’ll drag you right back, even in his sleep. He needs you like a lifeline.
A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)
— Not openly mushy. If he hugs you in public, he's probably bleeding or drunk.
— But privately? He’s all hands, forehead kisses, brushing your hair out of your face like he hates how soft it makes him feel.
— Calls you annoying while pulling you into his lap. Sends you memes at 3AM like it’s a love letter.
— Shows up with coffee he swears he didn’t buy “for you,” but it’s your exact order down to the oat milk and double syrup.
B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)
— Started with him making fun of your shirt or your music taste. You snapped back. It’s been soul-bonded bickering ever since.
— Your biggest bully in a loving way.
— Would sneak you out of boring parties, start fights with guys who talk over you, and give you his last cigarette like it’s no big deal.
— He won’t say it, but you’re the only one he trusts with the ugliest parts of himself. Ride or die, even if he acts like he's being held hostage.
C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)
— Acts like cuddling is for losers. Then spends the night with his face buried in your chest.
— Has to be the one holding you. Wraps an arm around your ribs, throws a leg over yours, and traps you like you’re trying to escape (you’re not).
— If you get up to pee? He complains. Grabs your pillow. “Where the fuck d’you think you’re going?”
D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)
— Doesn't dream of white picket fences, dreams of a crash pad with blackout curtains and a you-shaped dent in the couch.
— Can’t cook for shit. Once lit a Pop-Tart on fire. But he will try if you’re tired or sad.
— Cleaning is rare, but if you’re overwhelmed? He’ll scrub the tub while blasting Misfits and muttering about the government.
— Secretly loves the idea of cohabitating. His toothbrush next to yours? Gets him right in the chest. He won’t say it, but he likes coming home to you. Especially if you're wearing one of his ratty band tees.
E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)
— Messy. Quiet. Self-sabotaging. He’d pull away first, hoping you’d do the hard part.
— If you called him on it, he’d say something cruel and hollow to make it easier for you to leave. Pretends like he doesn’t care.
— And if you ever came back? He’d take you back without hesitation, pretending like he didn’t cry into his pillow listening to The Cure.
F = Fiancé(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)
— Commitment? Terrifying. The mention of him in a wedding makes him physically recoil. But when it’s you, it doesn’t feel like chains, it feels like gravity.
— Wouldn’t talk about marriage, but he’d wear a ring if you gave him one. Not on his finger through, on his necklace. Touches it when he misses you.
— He’d propose in the dumbest way. Probably mid-argument. “Whatever. Marry me then, if you’re so smart.”
G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)
— Physically? Depends on the moment. He’s rough around the edges, but with you? He’s got this soft touch he only uses when you're sad or sick.
— Emotionally? It takes time. He doesn’t know how to be gentle with feelings but he tries. Clumsily. Sincerely. It’s either doing something impulsively or being sarcastically jokey with them.
— If you cry, he gets weirdly quiet and just holds you. Doesn’t talk. Just exists there with you, maybe offers you a cigarette. It’s his way of saying I’ve got you.
H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)
— He pretends to hate hugs, then melts when you give him one.
— His hugs are tight. All-consuming. He smells like leather and smoke and faint vanilla if you’re lucky.
— He’s a back-hugger. Sneaks up behind you, wraps his arms around your waist, mumbles “what’re you doing?” into your neck and acts like he didn’t miss you. Does that pretend hump thing so the moment doesn’t get ‘too serious’.
I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)
— Would rather chug battery acid than say it first.
— But once he says it, it’s like a dam breaks. Suddenly you’re getting half-drunk “I love you”s whispered into your shoulder at 2AM.
— His version might be “You’re it for me.” or getting your name tattooed.
— First time he said it, he swore it slipped out. It didn’t.
J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)
— He says he’s not the jealous type. He’s lying.
— Tries to act unbothered “Yeah, go flirt with that guy, see if he can handle you.”
— The second someone even looks at you wrong, he’s glaring daggers. He gets touchy when he’s jealous, arm around your waist, pulling you closer, whispering stuff like “Mine, remember?”
— Might act extra smug when he kisses you in front of them. Petty king.
K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)
— Messy. Intense. He kisses like he fights—rough, breathless, sometimes a little too much. And then pulls back like he’s scared he went too far.
— Loves kissing your neck. Will press his lips to your pulse like he’s trying to memorize it.
— Likes being kissed on his jaw or his forehead. Pretends it annoys him. Secretly melts every time.
— First thing in the morning, last thing before bed, halfway through arguments, he’s always finding excuses to kiss you. It’s his grounding wire.
L = Little ones (How are they around children?)
— Terrified. Absolutely horrified by kids. They’re loud, sticky, and ask too many questions
— But when one shyly hands him a drawing or calls him “mister”? He softens. Like, visibly. Grits his teeth and goes “cool, kid,” but he’s folding it into his wallet later.
— Would never admit it, but he kind of… respects them. They’re brutally honest and slightly unhinged. Just like him.
M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)
— He’s a complete zombie in the mornings. Mute. Hair a wreck.
— The kind of guy who doesn’t function until caffeine and kisses hit his bloodstream. But he also makes killer coffee.
— Grumpy as hell. Looks like he got hit by a truck and swears the sun is out to kill him.
— Sleeps shirtless, hair a mess, glaring at you from one eye like “why are you vertical?”
N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)
— Total night owl. Chaos. Loud music, dumb jokes, feet in your lap while he picks at old scabs. Or total silence while you both scroll through your phones under the same blanket.
— Nights with him mean takeout on your floor, bad horror movies, deep conversations he pretends he doesn’t care about but always initiates.
— Sometimes he won’t sleep until he knows you’re curled up safe next to him. He’ll pretend he just “wasn’t tired” but really, he can’t sleep without you anymore.
— When the lights are off, he gets softer. Traces circles on your skin, kisses your collarbone like it’s a habit.
— Night is when he talks the most. Late-night honesty hits him like a truck, and suddenly he’s telling you stuff he’s never said out loud.
O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves?)
— Slowly. Painfully. He opens up like a locked box, and you're the crowbar but only for certain things.
— For small things little things like what music he likes, why he hates certain holidays, gossiping etc. he opens up pretty fast. One of those was probably even a conversation starter.
— Weirdly enough, the only things that are slow for him to open up about are like… his hamster falling off the table and dying when he was 6. Or his emotions, he says something raw and quiet like, “I used to think no one really gave a shit about me.” late at night.
— The traumas, the childhood stories, the sexual things—he’s an open book.
P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)
— Quick temper. Erik is the definition of “bite now, apologize later.” Not in an aggressive way, he’s more sarcastic and passive aggressive.
— He’s impulsive, reactive, and cursed with a sharp tongue. Snaps fast, especially when he feels embarrassed or cornered.
— But with you? Way more patient than anyone else. Still grumbles and rolls his eyes, but he reins it in when it counts.
— He hates making you upset. If he yells and sees your face drop, he’ll feel like shit for a week and apologize with a tattoo idea he’s been saving just for you.
Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you?)
— Weirdly good memory. Doesn’t look like he’s paying attention? He is.
— Remembers the name of your third-grade goldfish. Buys you that one brand of lip balm you casually mentioned liking six months ago.
— If you think he forgot something important, he probably didn’t—he just panicked about getting it wrong and stayed quiet.
— Will bring up something you said two months ago like it was yesterday: “Didn’t you say this place makes the best fries? Yeah, I listen. Shocking, I know.”
R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)
— That night you both sat on the roof in the cold, wrapped in one too-small blanket, drinking cheap beer and talking like nothing else existed.
— You said something dumb that made him laugh so hard he snorted. He pretended to be mad, but he couldn’t stop smiling.
— He thinks about it when things get dark. How you looked under the stars. How for once, everything felt okay.
S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)
— Crazy protective. Not in a possessive way, just a very “you’re mine and I will take a pipe wrench to the face for you” kind of way.
— He walks you to your car even when you say it’s fine. Sleeps closest to the door. Memorizes all your coworkers’ names just in case.
— As for being protected? Oh, he’ll squirm. He’s not used to being taken care of. But when you stand up for him or when you defend him? That’s how you unlock the softest, most fragile parts of Erik. He’ll never say it, but it means everything.
— Gets a bit annoyed if you’re too protective though. He doesn’t like being told what to do.
T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)
— He plays it cool, but he tries. Maybe too hard. Buys you weird presents like a dagger you said was “pretty” once.
— Dates are chaotic but memorable. Midnight fast food runs. Breaking into an abandoned amusement park “for the vibes.”
— He’ll never say “I wanted to make it special.” He’ll just say, “Figured we needed a night. Don’t make it weird.”
U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)
— Avoids serious conversations until they explode. Picks fights just for shits and giggles.
— Smokes too much when he’s stressed. Gets self-destructive when he’s overwhelmed.
— Pushes people away just to see if they come back. It’s not pretty, and he knows it.
— His room is a warzone. Laundry chair, takeout boxes, mystery socks.
— Late-night impulsiveness. Might cut his own hair at 2 a.m. or get a bad tattoo just to “feel something.”
— Refuses to go to therapy. (Until you beg him.)
V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)
— Acts like he doesn’t care, but spends twenty minutes getting his hair “messy just right.”
— Obsessed with his piercings and tattoos. Will flex them in the mirror with you watching. “What? I look hot. Admit it.”
— Loves when you look at him. Makes him feel like he’s not a walking disaster.
W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)
— He wouldn’t say it out loud, but yeah, he’d feel hollow.
— If you left, he’d pretend he’s fine. Talk trash, make jokes, but inside? Crushed.
X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)
— He absolutely collects weird little trinkets. Bottle caps, torn concert tickets, broken jewelry. Keeps them all in a box labeled “Don’t Touch.”
— Once gave you a rock he found because it “looked like your attitude.” You still have it. He still doesn’t admit he meant it romantically.
— Erik has a secret soft spot for old cartoons. Like 1930s black-and-white, weirdly disturbing stuff.
— Makes a shit ton of playlists for you.
Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)
— Fake people. He can smell it a mile away and it makes his skin crawl. He prefers someone blunt like himself.
— Overly tidy perfectionists. If you judge the mess in his room, he’ll judge your soul.
— He hates feeling censored. If he has to tiptoe around you, he won’t stick around. He wants something real, even if it’s messy.
— Looord, anyone who tells him to take out his piercings or cover his tattoos. Instant no.
Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?)
— Sleeps like the dead, sprawled out like a starfish. Always takes up too much space.
— Sometimes mumbles in his sleep. Has said “I’ll kill you” and “babe, five more minutes” in the same night.
— If you leave the bed, he’ll groggily wake up and mumble, “Where’d you go?”
warnings — 18+, p in v, mentions of hand jobs, mentions of blow jobs, face sitting, begging, using ropes, orgasm control, praise kink, teasing, mentions of semen, dom/sub dynamics, sub! bobby, mentions of masturbation
a/n — i know yall were waiting for this one, ya nasties. me too.
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
— The most cuddly thing you’ve ever experienced. He doesn’t let go for a solid 15 minutes after, it’s full-body clinging, face pressed against your chest, arms around your waist like a lifeline.
— Whispers little “thank you”s into your skin. “That was so good… you’re so good to me…” He’s dazed, floaty, and completely pliant.
— He lives for being stroked afterward. Hair, back, thigh, he’ll nuzzle into your palm like a sleepy puppy.
— Also? He’s obsessed with praising you. “You took such good care of me,” he mumbles, still red in the face, “I don’t deserve you.”
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
— On himself? His arms but only because you like them. He flexes when you’re watching, loves the way your fingers trace his biceps and make him blush.
— On you? Your thighs. Whether they're thick or lean, soft or strong, he’s just obsessed. Loves resting his head there, being pinned between them, whining into them. He calls them “his favorite pillows,” and honestly? He’s not joking. He’d fall asleep in your lap any day.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum)
— So messy. The kind of boy who apologizes while whining through an orgasm—“Sorry, I can’t—can’t hold it…”
— He’s sensitive. Like, twitching from overstimulation after one round, but ready to go again if you even look at him the right way.
— Loves it when you control when and how he gets to finish. Whether you’re edging him or coaxing him through it—he’s your good boy, just trying to please.
— You could absolutely get him off just from praise and some slow strokes. He’s that desperate for you.
— One thing he loooves is when you ride him raw but you make it clear he can’t finish inside and no matter how close he is, you just keep going without a care. He’s in tears, gripping the nearest solid surface while trying to hold his orgasm back.
D = Dirty secret (a dirty secret of theirs)
— He’s fantasized about you tying him up. Not even in a scary way, just soft ropes, wrists above his head, thighs spread while he looks at you like you’re divine.
— Has definitely stolen one of your panties and gotten off to your scent. He hid it under his pillow for a week.
— He gets off to the idea of you scolding him. Not cruelly, just dominant, teasing, telling him what a needy, whiny mess he is for you. It wrecks him.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)
— A virgin before he met you.
— What he lacks in technical skill, he makes up for in enthusiasm and responsiveness. He listens to your body. You teach him, and he learns fast.
— He’s the kind of boy who moans just from pleasing you. Watching your face twist in pleasure? He gets addicted to it.
— Within a few months, he’s a certified whimpering mess who knows exactly how to beg just right.
F = Favorite position
— Missionary, but with you on top. Watching you ride him while he pants and grabs at your thighs like he’s trying not to pass out? His idea of heaven.
— Also loves when you sit on his face. He’ll whine when you pull away, hands clutching at your hips, eyes begging for more.
— He’ll let you fold him up, pin his wrists, anything, he just wants to feel yours.
—Loves positions where you can pin him down and make him watch you take what you want from him.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
— Normally a little goofball, but in bed? It’s like his brain switches to soft, overwhelmed sub-mode.
— He’ll whimper and whine, blush and babble. sometimes he says the dumbest, sweetest things. “You're so hot—like, scary hot. Like villainess-in-an-anime hot.”
— Occasionally a little clumsy (bumping heads, fumbling with clothes), and he apologizes profusely, face flaming red. You just laugh and kiss it better.
— Still giggles if something silly happens. He’s serious when it counts but always with that golden retriever warmth behind it.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they?)
— Natural blonde, slightly darker down south—still golden though, like spun honey.
— Keeps himself surprisingly well-groomed. Nothing fancy, just neatly trimmed, clean, and soft to the touch
— Once let you shave him while he laid back in the tub, eyes closed, trusting you completely. He moaned when you stroked lotion in after.
— The kind of guy who uses whatever shampoo you use just to smell like you later.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
— Insanely romantic. Makes eye contact that burns. Whispers, “You’re so beautiful,” like he’s seeing you for the first time every time.
— Kisses every inch of you before anything even begins. He wants you to feel adored, worshipped, completely cherished.
— He’s not just into the sex, he’s into making love. Wants you to know how much he needs you.
— Will cry if it gets intense enough. Real tears. He’ll hide his face in your neck and sob your name, overwhelmed with how good it feels and how deeply he loves you.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
— He tries not to. He prefers saving it for when you’re the one touching him, your hands, your voice, your control.
— When he does do it, it’s always thinking about you. Whining into a pillow, hips bucking up into his hand, your name muffled between panting breaths.
— Has definitely moaned your name out loud. Once. Loud enough for Erik to knock on the door. He didn’t make eye contact for days.
— Likes to hold something of yours while he does it—your shirt, your panties, even your lip balm. It’s pathetic and adorable.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
— Praise kink is at the top. Tell him he’s your good boy, your pretty boy, and he’ll melt literally. Might finish just from that.
— Power play. He lives for the switch—being manhandled, bossed around, pinned. He might look like he’s in charge, but the moment you pull his hair and growl, “Be good for me,” he’s gone.
— Overstimulation. He’s so sensitive, you can tease and edge him until he’s crying and he loves it.
— Hair pulling. Pull his blonde strands and he’ll whimper with glossy eyes, clinging to you harder.
— Begging. He’ll beg with shaking thighs and flushed cheeks, desperate for your touch. It’s his favorite game—“How long can I take it?” The answer is always not long enough.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
— His bed is his sacred temple of worship—soft sheets, dim lights, the scent of your perfume clinging to the pillow. He loves the intimacy of it, being tangled with you in a place that feels like home.
— The shower comes in at a close second. All that steam, water running down his flushed chest, your hands sliding over him? He’s already hard just thinking about it.
— But the naughtiest one? The backseat of his car. He gets flustered just reminiscing about that time you climbed into his lap and rode him until the windows fogged.
— He’s also kinda into semi-public stuff, not where anyone would see, but somewhere risky enough to make him squirm and ask, “Wait—here?”
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
— Your voice. A soft command, a teasing whisper, a moan anddd he’s gone. You could get him hard just by saying, “Good boy.”
— Seeing you confident. Dressed up, straddling his lap, looking at him like you own him? He’ll melt. Every single time.
— Hands. Yours on his jaw, in his hair, pinning his wrists. He’s absolutely feral for it.
— Getting praised while he’s being used, he thrives off that emotional cocktail of submission and affection. It gets him trembling.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
— Anything degrading or cruel. You could call him a slut in a sweet, brat-taming kind of way, and he’ll whimper but if it’s genuinely mean? Instant mood-killer because it would kind of hurt him.
— Humiliation that feels like rejection. He needs to feel wanted, even when he's being teased or edged or absolutely ruined.
— Not into sharing. All loyal, all yours, and very possessive in his own soft way.
— No pain play that draws blood or leaves serious marks. He’s down for hickeys and love bites, but nothing harsher.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
— Loves giving. Like, adores it. Will literally drop to his knees with wide puppy eyes and whine, “Please?”
— He’s so eager when he’s between your legs—messy, moaning into it, gripping your thighs like he’ll fall apart if you pull away.
— Lowkey whimpers when he’s receiving. Very reactive. You wrap your lips around him, and he’s panting and gasping, trying not to buck.
— The eye contact kills him. If you look up while sucking him off? He’ll lose all brain cells instantly.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
— Slow and sensual is his default. He likes to savor it. But if you take the lead and pick up the pace? Rough, dominant, riding him until he’s breathless and begging? Oh, he lives for that.
— He never initiates the rough stuff himself, but the moment you take charge and use him a little? He’s gone. Whining and squirming, all red in the face, completely wrecked.
— He doesn’t have the control to stay rough so he just melts into your rhythm, no matter what speed it is.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
— Nervous at first but once you showed him how hot a desperate, hungry moment could be? He was hooked.
— Now he gets needy in the car, the laundry room, even halfway through a study session. “Just real quick? Please?”
— He’s still a little flustered about getting caught but that’s half the fun, right? Especially when he can’t stop moaning.
— Post-quickie, he clings. Even if it was rushed, he wants a soft kiss, a hand on his back, something to remind him it wasn’t just physical.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
— Eager, curious, and completely willing to try anything once especially if it’s your idea.
— As long as he trusts you? He’s putty. Tie him up? Okay. Spank him a little? Nervous giggle, then yes. Tell him to be quiet while you tease him in a semi-public place? He’ll try, but fail.
— His biggest thrill is doing something new that makes you smirk and go, “You liked that, didn’t you?”
— The more praise he gets for being brave, the more he’ll let you push his boundaries.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
— He’s quick to blow, especially when you tease him or talk dirty but give him a breather and he’s good to go again.
— After the first round he’s even more sensitive. You ride him again and he’s shaking, begging, barely holding on.
— Usually good for 2–3 rounds, depending on how much aftercare he gets in between. And if you overstimulate him during the second? You can definitely get a third while he’s whining your name.
— Doesn’t last super long but you make it so worth it, and he lives for making it up to you in every other way.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
— Before you? Maybe a fleshlight and the occasional curiosity scroll through online shops.
— After you? Oohhh boy. You’ve got him squirming under a vibrator, moaning while you milk him with a stroker, panting when you deny him with a cock ring.
— He doesn’t use them on his own often, he waits for you to bring them out and tell him, “Be still.”
— Will blush so hard when you call it his “training.” But he secretly loves it.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
— He thinks he’s teasing you when he tries to act cocky, flexing shirtless, leaning in close, whispering “you like that?”with his dumb sweet smirk.
— The reality? You’re the true menace.
— You teasing him? That’s his kryptonite. Soft grinding, whispering in his ear that he’s doing such a good job, dragging your fingers just above where he wants them… He shakes.
— If he ever gets bold enough to tease—grabbing your thighs during a kiss, maybe mouthing at your neck—he breaks the second you push him down and say, “My turn.”
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
— He’s so vocal.
— Whines. Moans. Choked-off gasps when you thrust deep or tug his hair.
— Soft little “please?” sounds when he wants more—please touch me, please keep going, please don’t stop.
— He’s especially loud when you overstimulate him. Like, squeaky and incoherent, clutching the sheets while you work him through a second or third orgasm.
— If you're riding him and lean in close? He whimpers directly into your ear. It's a full-body sound.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
— He’s tried to keep a sex journal, like a cute little notebook where he writes down things you did that made him fall apart, or ideas he wants to try.
— He’s too shy to show it to you, but you found it once, and the pages were filled with scribbles like:
“she tied my wrists today—thought I’d explode.”
“she told me I was good. almost cried.”
“idea: try collar?? what if she calls me pet?”
— He’s secretly a huge romantic, even when he’s being absolutely wrecked.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
— Built like a Greek god who drinks chocolate milk.
— Broad chest, soft golden happy trail, strong arms but a shy posture when undressing. He glances at you like, "Is this okay?"
— He’s big. You already knew that from the way he bulges in his boxers when you tease him just a little.
— Cut, flushed pink, curves slightly upward, and gets so hard it twitches when you praise him. Veins along the sides, ridiculously sensitive tip.
— Solid 6.5 inches
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
— High but sweet. He’s not pushy, not demanding. He just gets needy and blushy and curls up around you with a hopeful look.
— Morning wood? He’ll try to be subtle, but he keeps grinding into you in his sleep.
— He gets turned on so easily, just you changing clothes in front of him, or softly whispering something spicy while you’re out together.
— Will politely wait until you initiate things, but he’s practically vibrating with want most days.
— If he hasn’t gotten touched in a while, he gets adorably pouty and clingy. His hands wander, his eyes go soft, and you know he needs it.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
— He’s out. Like, snuggle-you-until-he’s-snoring levels of passed out.
— He clings to you like a sleepy koala, burying his face into your neck or chest, murmuring how much he loves you while his heartbeat slows.
— Post-orgasm Bobby is a melty, sleepy puddle of limbs. You stroke his hair, and he goes limp.
— But even in his sleep, he keeps his arms around you. There’s no escaping, he’s your cuddle trap for the night.
— Will wake up the next morning with messy hair and sleepy eyes, kiss your shoulder, and ask “Did I do okay?”
A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)
— He is so sweet. He's the sweetest boy you've ever met, and it shows every time you’re with him. He shows affection in little, constant ways. Forehead kisses when you're tired. Bringing you snacks because “you looked snack-deprived.”
— He’s super physically affectionate, always touching you, pinkies linked when you walk, a hand on your thigh in the car, absentmindedly stroking your back while watching TV.
— Gift giving is a huge love language for him. If he sees something that reminds him of you, it’s in his hands within 0.2 seconds. Hair clips, socks with frogs, keychains shaped like tiny sandwiches—he brings them all like a lil penguin giving you pebbles.
— He writes your name on everything he loves. His water bottle has a heart with your initials on it in Sharpie. His controller that you use when you come over? Same. The back of his notebook? Covered. Subtle? Never.
B = Best Friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)
— The friendship probably starts from him defending you in the most unexpected way. Someone says something annoying and Bobby just blurts out, “Hey! Don’t be a asshole!” and suddenly he's sitting next to you like you're besties.
— He’s the type to remember your favorite chips and buy it every time you hang out. He will absolutely show up at your house just to ask how your day was.
— He sends you memes at 2 a.m. that are so dumb they're funny. He is also a sucker for wholesome memes from 2020.
— He’d be loyal to you even if you lost touch for months. One message from you and he’s back in your life like you never left.
C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)
— He was made to cuddle. He needs cuddles like oxygen.
— He likes to lay on top of you like a koala, all limbs and sleepy weight, humming softly when you run your fingers through his hair.
— He’s especially clingy in the mornings. He’ll whine if you try to leave bed early. "Five more minutes," he mumbles, then wraps around you tighter like he’s Velcro.
— Movie nights turn into snuggle piles, head on your chest, legs tangled, one hand holding yours while the other absentmindedly pets your thigh or stomach.
— Post-nightmare? He clings to you like his life depends on it, whispering little thank-yous for being there until he falls back asleep.
D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)
— He wants the house, the dog, the lazy Sunday mornings, all of it. The idea of building a little world with you? That’s heaven to him.
— Cooking? He tries, bless him. You’ll come home to something that vaguely resembles pancakes and him proudly saying, “I used a whole egg this time!”
— He’s a cleaning chaotic neutral. He tries, but he’ll get distracted halfway and you’ll find him lying on the floor with a broom across his chest whispering “this is my final form.”
— Laundry is a mystery to him. He once washed an entire red sock with your white clothes and now refers to it as “The Pinkening Incident.”
— But he’s got the heart. He’ll bring you breakfast in bed (even if it's just toast), and he’ll fold your clothes wrong but kiss your forehead when he hands them to you. He’s trying.
E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)
— He would be heartbroken. Even if he’s the one initiating it, you’d see the pain all over his face.
— He’d do it face to face. Eye contact. Voice shaking. Trying not to cry. He’d constantly reassure you that you’re not a bad person, that it’s not because of anything you did. He’d be big on “I still care about you, even if this isn’t right anymore.”
— And oh, he’d probably keep something of yours, quietly tucked in a drawer. Not because he can’t let go but because he’ll always have love for what you were.
— You’d probably hear from him on your birthday. He’s the kind of ex who still hopes the world treats you gently.
F = Fiancé(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)
— He’s so down. He falls hard, and when he knows, he knows.
— The moment he realizes you’re his forever person, he starts planning. Not the wedding, the life.
— He doesn’t need a huge ceremony. Just you, a ring, and the promise of always waking up next to each other. He proposes clumsily, probably with a speech he forgets halfway through, dropping the ring box because his hands are shaking from excitement.
G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)
— He’s so gentle with you. Like you’re made of stardust and warm cotton.
— He gets clumsy sometimes, knocking things over, tripping on his own feet, but when it comes to your heart? He handles it like it’s fragile and precious.
— He’s the kind of guy who cups your face in both hands before kissing you, just to look into your eyes first.
— He’s soft. He’ll cry if you cry. He feels deeply and wants to know everything you’re thinking, always trying to make you feel safe.
— He apologizes when he raises his voice even if it was just during a video game. “I wasn’t mad at you, I promise,” he’ll say, nuzzling your shoulder.
H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)
— He lives for hugs. No greeting is complete without one. Big, strong arms wrapping around you, lifting you slightly off the ground like you weigh nothing.
— He’s the kind of guy to hug you from behind while you’re brushing your teeth or doing dishes, burying his face in your shoulder and swaying slightly.
— His hugs are warm, grounding. When you’re upset, he holds you like a shield. When you’re happy, he lifts you up and spins you.
I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)
— It slips out way earlier than he planned. Maybe you did something small like laughed at one of his bad jokes or touched his hair in that way he loves and he just breathes it out.
— “I love you.” Cue him freezing. “Wait. Wait—I meant—*no I meant it but—*crap.”
— He panics for half a second until you say it back. Then he melts.
— From that moment on, he says it constantly. In texts. In whispers. Shouted from another room. Drawn on foggy mirrors. Scribbled in the margins of his notes.
J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)
— He gets puppy jealous. Not possessive—but adorably pouty. If someone flirts with you, he’ll cling to you more after. Stand a little closer. Hold your hand tighter. He’ll quietly sulk on the couch, arms crossed, until you cuddle into him. Then he softens. “You still like me the most, right?”
— He trusts you entirely, but sometimes his brain goes “what if I’m not enough?” and you have to smother him in kisses until he believes you again.
— Honestly? He loves when you remind him he's yours. It turns the puppy pout into full-on golden retriever tail-wagging mode.
K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)
— His kisses are soft, a little eager, a little messy but always full of love. He kisses your cheeks when you're sad, your forehead when you're sleepy, and your lips when he just can’t help it anymore. He loves kissing the tip of your nose, it makes him laugh every time you scrunch it up.
— He absolutely melts when you kiss his neck or his jawline. Will literally groan and go boneless like you cast a spell on him.
L = Little Ones (How are they around children?)
— He’s adorable with kids. Like full-on jungle gym level of adorable. Kids climb him like a tree and he just laughs, giving piggyback rides and letting them tie his hair up in little bows (even though it’s barely long enough). Not to mention that he would 100% be doing whatever the kids are. ESPECIALLY trampolines ;)
— He makes silly faces, plays pretend with zero hesitation, and is somehow always the monster or the horse—roles he commits to like he’s winning an Oscar.
— If a kid is shy? He gets down to their level and gently offers his hand like they’re meeting royalty. “Sir Bobby, protector of snack time, at your service.”
— You once caught him showing a five-year-old how to do a secret handshake he made up on the spot. It was twelve steps long.
— He’s in love with the idea of being a dad someday. Probably doesn’t say it out loud at first, but when he holds a baby, that soft, reverent look in his eyes says everything.
M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)
— He’s not a morning person, he’s a morning cuddler. You’ll wake up before him and be trapped under 190 pounds of clingy affection, his arms around your waist, face smushed into your neck.
— When he does wake up, he’s soft and raspy and kiss-happy. Kisses your temple, your shoulder, your back, any part he can reach.
— He makes a mess of the kitchen trying to make breakfast for you. Pancakes are burnt, the bacon is questionably crispy, but he brings it to you proudly on a tray with juice and a flower he picked from outside.
— Sunday mornings with him are sacred: cozy clothes, lazy music, newspaper comics, and his head in your lap while you play with his hair.
N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)
— Evenings are for unwinding. After a long day, he wants nothing more than to be tangled up with you under a blanket.
— You’ll watch movies, usually comedies or action movies, because he likes seeing you laugh. He rubs your back while you drift off, pressing lazy kisses to your hair.
— Some nights, you two have deep conversations in the dark, your fingers laced, voices barely above whispers. Other nights? He just wants to hold you and hum a random tune until you’re both asleep.
— He snores a little but it's cute. You can bury your face in his chest and feel the way his heartbeat slows with yours.
— Every night ends with him murmuring, “G’night, babe. Love you so much.” Sometimes he says it two or three times, just to make sure you heard.
O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)
— He’s surprisingly open, but in a gentle way. He doesn’t unload everything all at once, he waits until it feels safe and the moment is right.
— The first time he tells you something serious, it’s probably during one of those quiet night talks. He stares at the ceiling, voice soft, words careful.
— He tells you about the weird things that hurt him as a kid, about his biggest fears (like disappointing people), and about the dreams he doesn’t tell anyone else.
— He doesn’t like seeming weak, so he’ll try to joke sometimes when he’s nervous but one look from you and he folds, eyes getting glossy.
P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)
— He’s not quick to anger at all. He’s got the patience of a saint especially with the people he loves.
— If something frustrates him, he gets more puppy sulk than rage monster.
— He does get overwhelmed sometimes, especially when he feels like he’s failing, but he’ll step outside, run a hand through his hair, and breathe before ever snapping.
Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)
— He remembers everything. Even stuff you don’t remember telling him. You mention once that your favorite candle scent is jasmine? Boom. Jasmine-scented candle shows up next week.
— You told him when you were five you wanted to be an astronaut? He brings you a plushie in a tiny space suit “for your childhood dreams.”
— He knows the date of your half-birthday. He remembers your go-to boba order. He’s memorized which days you’re most likely to get overwhelmed and sends you comfort memes on those days.
— His notes app is full of “Things She Likes” and it’s just… pages of tiny details. Songs you hum. The color you wear when you feel confident. That one tea that helps when you get headaches.
— He may seem ditzy, but when it comes to you? He’s tuned in 100%.
R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)
— It’s the first time you looked at him like he was your entire world. He remembers it in vivid detail. Maybe you were sitting on a park bench, and you turned to him mid-conversation with this look of awe.
— He swears time stopped. The sun caught your hair just right, and you smiled at him like he was the best decision you ever made.
— That moment lives rent-free in his mind. He thinks about it when he’s falling asleep, when he’s missing you, when he’s doubting himself.
— Nothing will ever top that memory except maybe when you say “I do.”
S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)
— He’s incredibly protective but never overbearing. It's not about control, it’s about care.
— He protects with warmth. He’ll hold your hand when you're anxious, walk you home at night even if it’s out of his way, and always, always double-checks that you’re okay even when you say you are.
— As for being protected? He lives for it. If you gently tug him behind you or speak up for him in a tense moment? Boy melts. Fully gooey-eyed.
T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)
— He tries so hard. Like it might not always be Pinterest-perfect, but the love is bursting at the seams.
— For anniversaries, he hand-makes you something. A playlist. A scrapbook. A list of all the reasons he loves you written in glitter pen on notebook paper.
— Dates range from elaborate picnics under the stars to surprise pizza nights with handmade menus.
— Gifts? Thoughtful as hell. He once bought you socks with little suns on them because “they remind me of how warm you make me feel.”
— He’ll fold your laundry while humming, cook you badly scrambled eggs with a proud grin, and always carries your bags without being asked.
— He’s all effort, no ego. It’s messy sometimes, but he just wants you to know he cares every single day.
U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)
— He leaves socks everywhere. Like... everywhere.
— He eats way too fast. Like, blink and his plate’s clean. It’s barbaric and kind of terrifying. That being said, he also forgets to check what has peanuts and what doesn’t.
— He hums constantly. Even in quiet moments. Even at 3AM. You’ll be spooning and suddenly hear “Sweet Caroline” hummed into your shoulder.
— He’s bad at texting back. Not because he doesn’t care, he just forgets. He’ll open your message, smile at it like a dope, and then put his phone down without answering.
— When he's nervous, he bites his nails and pulls at his sleeves like a kid. He doesn’t realize he's doing it until you gently stop him.
V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)
— He pretends he’s chill about his looks, but he totally flexes in front of the mirror when he thinks you’re not looking.
— He’s lowkey proud of his arms. And his jawline. And his hair (especially after you ruffle it and call him handsome).
— He doesn’t care about being flawless, but he does care if you think he’s hot.
— “Do I look okay?” he’ll ask before a date, cheeks pink, hands tugging at his shirt. He always looks good but your compliments make him stand taller.
— His guilty pleasure? Skincare. He lets you do face masks on him and he loves it. Bonus if you massage in the moisturizer.
W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)
— Without you? A puppy in the rain.
— You’re truly his best friend, his safe space, his therapist when he loses Mortal Combat.
— He doesn’t cling in a toxic way, but the thought of losing you is his worst fear. He’d miss the way your voice sounds when you’re sleepy, the smell of your shampoo, the way you always stroke his hair before falling asleep.
— If he ever lost you, he’d still talk about you like you were the best thing that ever happened to him.
X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them)
— He has a playlist called “Songs That Remind Me of Her” and he updates it weekly.
— He also has a habit of doodling your name in notebook margins. Sometimes surrounded by hearts. Sometimes in bubble letters.
— When he’s sad, he wears your hoodie. Even if it’s tiny on him. He’ll stretch it over his broad frame and bury his nose in the collar like it’s holy.
— He keeps a Polaroid of you two in his wallet. He looks at it when he’s nervous. Once he pulled it out before a presentation just to feel brave.
Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)
— He hates cruelty. People who mock others for being vulnerable? Instant ick.
— Like, if someone thinks they’re too good for cartoons or cry-laughing at dumb jokes? Bye.
— He’s also sensitive to yelling. If someone raises their voice just to intimidate, it rattles him.
— He doesn’t vibe with coldness, he needs warmth, laughter, touch. Someone emotionally distant would make him feel unwanted.
— Also: he physically can’t handle scary movies. Once screamed and threw popcorn in the air during a jump scare.
Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?)
— He’s a blanket thief. You start the night tucked in and wake up shivering while he’s rolled up like a human burrito.
— Sleeps with one arm over your waist at all times. If you move away, he instinctively pulls you back in like a sleepy magnet.
— He talks in his sleep. Half the time it’s your name.
— He has a habit of kissing the top of your head while still asleep.
— You are his favorite pillow. Full stop. Chest, thighs, belly, wherever you are, he’ll be on top of it.
— And his favorite position? Koala-mode. Arms and legs wrapped around you like you’re his emotional support tree branch.
summary — you get the golden retriever human a golden retriever puppy
warnings — shortfic, this one is pure happiness aka what bobby deserves<3
a/n — i may bs spamming with fanfics abt bobby BUT thats purely bcs my brain works overtime with ideas when im maladaptive daydreaming while listening to music
The morning started like most others. Bobby stayed over at your place once more (he might as well move in at this point) and ended up sleeping in late, hair a complete mess, mumbling something about pancakes and “why is the sun yelling.” He wandered sleepily into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes, shirtless and barefoot, scratching at his abs like a boy who hadn't yet remembered how to function in daylight.
You were waiting. Barely holding it in.
Tea poured. Mug handed. A kiss to his jaw that made him smile against your cheek. And still he didn’t notice the small bundle of chaos hidden just beyond the patio door, tail already wagging so hard it could've powered a turbine.
You waited until he took that first sip. Until he leaned his hip lazily against the counter and grinned at you like you were the only thing in the world worth being awake for.
Then you cleared your throat. “I have a surprise for you.”
His brows raised instantly. He looked like you’d just told him Christmas came early and you were Santa. “Is it food? Is it a nap? Did you make one of those cakes shaped like me again?”
You only smirked, taking his hand and leading him toward the back door. “Better.”
You slid open the glass and let the puppy, tiny, golden, clumsy feet slapping against the deck into the house like a little hurricane of joy. A fluffy golden retriever with floppy ears, soft eyes, and a big pink tongue already hanging out of its mouth.
Bobby froze.
Like, actual full-body pause.
The puppy skidded to a stop in front of him, tail going at light speed, letting out a happy bark before immediately tripping over its own feet and rolling onto its side.
Bobby made a noise that could only be described as a mix between a gasp and a high-pitched “no way.”
“You got me a puppy?” he whispered, looking at you like he couldn't believe you were real.
You nodded. “You always said you wanted one. Someone Paco could mentor.”
As if on cue, Paco—yes, Bobby brings him over to your place with him—peeked out from his tank in the corner like a silent judge, completely unaware his quiet kingdom had just been invaded by zoomies.
Bobby crouched down, scooping the puppy into his arms like he was holding the Holy Grail. “Look at you, buddy,” he whispered, letting the pup lick his jaw and nose. “You’ve got paws the size of dinner rolls. You’re gonna be a unit.”
You leaned against the doorframe, watching the way Bobby’s face softened, lit up, melted into pure joy. That kind of unfiltered happiness, the kind that makes your chest ache because it’s just so him.
“What are you gonna name him?” you asked gently.
Bobby blinked down at the dog, then glanced at Paco. Then back to the dog.
“Pico,” he said instantly. “Like Paco... but little. Or spicy. Or both.”
You laughed, and Bobby just beamed, hugging Pico like he was already the best thing that had ever happened to him (next to you, obviously). “He’s gonna sleep in the bed,” Bobby added firmly. “Right between us. Every night.”
“He’s gonna snore.”
“Good. So do I.”
Pico barked again, then licked Bobby’s ear. Bobby giggled—actually giggled—and looked up at you like a boy who just got everything he ever wanted.
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he said quietly, eyes still shining.
The late afternoon sun poured golden streaks across the kitchen tiles, casting long shadows from the fruit bowl and the pile of laundry that Bobby had promised to fold three hours ago. The house was quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the ceiling fan and the faint sound of a sitcom rerun playing in the background. You were tucked on the couch, lazily flipping through a magazine, when you heard it.
A thump.
Then another. A frantic shuffle. Something ceramic skidded.
And then—
“Baaaabe!”
The elongated whine had panic threaded into it. You looked up, only half-alarmed. Bobby only used that tone when he was really distressed. You barely had time to swing your legs off the couch before he came barreling into the living room, blonde hair disheveled like he’d just run a marathon through a wind tunnel, his blue eyes wide with horror. His gym shorts swayed around his knees as he skidded to a stop in his socks, gripping the doorframe like it was all that stood between him and the abyss.
“There’s a spider,” he whispered like it was a secret the government didn’t want you to know. “It’s huge. It looked at me.”
You blinked. “It looked at you?”
Bobby nodded furiously, his hands fluttering like he was trying to shake off the memory. “It has, like, knees. I didn’t know spiders had knees. It moved its legs like it was plotting something. I can’t go back in there.”
You bit your lip to hide a smile, pushing up from the couch. Bobby watched you like you were walking to war, his expression torn between awe and guilt.
But then, right as you passed him, he grabbed your wrist. “Wait,” he said, more quietly now, “don’t squish it, okay?”
You turned to him with a raised brow. He looked a little sheepish, shoulders shrugging slightly as he rubbed the back of his neck.
“I mean, it’s just vibing. I think. It’s probably scared too. It’s just... eight-legged and horrifying. But like—it didn’t ask to be here. So maybe just... let it outside?”
You nodded with a sigh, amused and charmed in equal measure. Because only Bobby could be so utterly terrified and still worry about the spider’s emotional well-being.
You made your way to the kitchen, where the villain in question sat in the corner near the trash can. It wasn’t even that big but you could imagine how Bobby had exaggerated its size in his mind. A mug lay sideways on the floor, one he’d clearly attempted to use as a shield before fleeing.
You moved slowly, careful not to startle the little creature, finding an empty Tupperware container and a piece of mail to guide it inside. It scuttled for a moment, fast and jerky, and you half-wondered if maybe Bobby wasn’t completely overreacting. Still, you got it safely enclosed without issue, carrying it to the back door with delicate hands like it was made of glass.
Behind you, Bobby peeked from behind the hallway wall like a child watching a scary movie through their fingers.
You stepped out, released the spider into the grass, and closed the door with a quiet click. Only then did Bobby step fully back into the kitchen, still watching the now-empty corner like the thing might respawn.
You turned to him, hands on your hips. “You gonna survive, baby?”
He let out a big exhale, like he’d just lived through a natural disaster. “Barely. But thanks to you, I live to tell the tale.”
Then he crossed the room in a few long strides and wrapped you in his arms, lifting you slightly off your feet in a tight, grateful hug. His scent was warm—sun and shampoo and just a little sweat from earlier—and his heart still beat a little fast beneath your cheek.
“You’re my hero,” he mumbled into your hair. “My brave, badass spider-rescuing hero.”
Instead of releasing you, he stayed there for a moment longer, swaying slightly with you in his arms. Then he pulled back just enough to take your hand and tug you back toward the couch.
“You’ve earned a lifetime supply of cuddles,” he declared as you both flopped down—only, before you could even get comfy, Bobby sprawled across you like a human-sized golden retriever. His legs tangled with yours, his chest pressed against your side, and he rested his head right on your chest with a dramatic sigh of contentment.
“I’m not moving,” he mumbled, voice muffled against your shirt. “I live here now. You’re the couch.”
You let out a soft laugh, threading your fingers through his hair. The minute your nails scratched gently against his scalp, he practically melted. His whole body relaxed, a sleepy hum escaping his throat as he nuzzled closer, arms tightening around your waist like he was afraid you’d float away.
“See?” he said sleepily. “Spider tried to kill me, but I ended up like this. Totally worth it.”
You kept stroking his hair, watching the rise and fall of his chest slow, his lashes fluttering closed as he settled into a warm, safe doze against you like the world had narrowed down to just the sound of your heartbeat and the comfort of your touch.
If there was anything softer than Bobby Campbell, it was Bobby Campbell in cuddle mode.
summary — he cries. during sex with a sad song in the back
warnings — cursing, sex, erik being emo
a/n — best moment in the movie i fear
It started out normal. Well… normal for you two.
Clothes half-off, your thighs around his waist, some song from his “Songs To Be Toxic To” playlist humming in the background.. until it shuffled, cruelly, to something devastatingly sad. Like Phoebe Bridgers at her most lethal. You thought he’d skip it.
He didn’t.
Instead, mid-thrust, Erik fucking Campbell froze. Just stopped. Entire body locked up like a glitching NPC.
You looked up at him, breathless. “What—?”
His head dropped, forehead thunking against your shoulder. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
You blinked. “What? My tits? My—?”
“No.” He sniffed. Sniffed. “Jerry.”
You stared. “Who the fuck is Jerry?”
“My boss.”
A beat. “The one you hate?”
“Yeah.” He shifted, pulled out halfway, and just hovered there, eyes weirdly glassy. “Turns out he’s not just a dick. He’s my biological dad. Found out yesterday. He banged my mom at some biker rally in ‘99.”
The song shifted to something even sadder.
You blinked. “Are you… crying?”
He shook his head, violently. “No. Yes. Shut up.”
He buried his face in your neck and tried to thrust again but let out a broken little groan that was way too emotional for what was happening.
“I hate him,” he mumbled. “I hate him and now I’ve got his nose and apparently he also has a fucking Prince Albert so that’s just—why is this my life—”
You were frozen underneath him, unsure if you should laugh or comfort him or just, like, call a therapist mid-ride.
But all you could say was: “…So, are we still…?”
He didn’t answer. Just sobbed once—once—then muttered, “Keep going. I wanna dissociate.”
You thought after the crying, the climax, and the 7-minute silence while Phoebe Bridgers whispered emotional damage into the air, things would calm down.
Wrong.
He was now sprawled across your bed, one sock on, pants unzipped, legs wide like modesty had officially clocked out. His phone was at 4% and overheating in his hand as he rage-scrolled through Reddit threads like “My boss is my dad: r/familydrama edition.”
His head was in your lap. A little sweaty. Still damp from the tears. Eyes bleary. Voice flat.
“I found an article called 'Trauma Bonding in the Workplace,’” he muttered. “That’s what this is, right? He yells at me, I yell back, and secretly I just want him to teach me how to fix a carburetor and tell me he’s proud of me.”
You ran your fingers through his hair. “Baby, I don’t even think he knows how to fix a carburetor.”
He blinked. “He doesn’t. And he called Blink-182 ‘cringe’ the other day, which should’ve been my first clue that something was off.”
He held up his phone, showing you a stock photo of two dudes arguing in a garage. “This is what I wanted. Instead I got his hairline and unresolved rage.”
“Erik…”
“I let that man schedule my lunch breaks.”
You bit your lip.
“I’ve seen him eat mayonnaise on pizza.”
You nodded sympathetically.
“And now I’m stuck with his DNA and his wrinkly ass scowl.”
His voice cracked a little and he looked up at you with those messed-up blue eyes. “Do you think it’s like, inevitable? Like am I just gonna morph into him one day? Start asking people for their ‘TPS reports’ and firing interns for sport?”
You leaned down and kissed his forehead. “I mean… maybe. But at least you’ll be hot doing it.”
He stared at the ceiling, dazed. “I was inside you while mourning the loss of my father figure. That’s gotta be a Greek tragedy or some shit.”
“You were also listening to Phoebe Bridgers.”
“I know. It was spiritual.”
He sighed, tossed the phone to the floor, looked at his tattoo business card and whispered like a man accepting death:
