🌲Luna 🌕 Skye🌲 @lunaskye999 - Tumblr Blog

May 29

Willard Russell is one of my absolute favorite characters played by Bill, and you are hands down one of my favorite authors. I was wondering if there’s a way to combine the two? I’d die to read some smutty smut featuring him. Absolutely no pressure, though! If you’re not into Willard (I noticed there is nothing about him in your masterlist), please feel free to ignore this request 🖤

Before and After (Willard Russell x Reader)

Summary: He’s your older brothers friend before he goes to war. A little teasing, a lot flirty. And you’re not like... waiting to him to get back or anything. But you miss him a whole lot when he’s gone and you can’t seem to get yourself going for any other boy that asks you. He comes home different. Quiet, haunted. When you overhear his momma say she’s scared he won’t come through it, you make it your personal mission to bring him back to life by whatever means necessary.

Word Count: 6246

Warnings: mentions of war/injuries, implied depression and PTSD, PiV sex, virgin!reader

A/N: GOSH, thank you so much for this request. The fact that I hadn't written for Willard before is frankly criminal, and I'm so glad I got to write this for him! Hope I did him justice and I hope you like it!

MDNI, fic under the cut

BEFORE

“I’ll get you for this Willard Russell! You hear me?” You shout out of the porch, watching his lanky frame retreat as he flees the scene of the crime. Your best baby doll hangs limp from your hand, its soft blonde curls streaked through with grey soot from the fireplace and its white nightgown smudged with black fingerprints. You hate Willard Russell. Oh, how you hate him and his constant teasing and his staring and the way he’s grown six inches in two months and his voice has dropped into a pitch that is too like a man’s.

Your brother returns for dinner when the sun goes down, unrepentant best friend in tow. He offers you a smirk. “Baby got a bath?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “She’s ruined, Willard. You owe me a new one.”

The smirk on his face only widens, sending a wriggle of heat through your body and electrifying between your legs in a way that makes you squirm. “You want me to give you a baby?” His voice has dropped low as he tilts his head to the side, eyes raking over your body, and you feel a blush stain your cheeks.

“That’s not… what I said.” You hate the way your own voice comes out breathy, like a whisper. Willard lifts a hand to your face, thumb brushing over your chin and grazing against your bottom lip. His skin tastes like salt, and he pulls away to show you the smudge of coal he’s scrubbed from your skin.

“Little dirt never ruined nobody.” He murmurs, eyes dropping to your bottom lip where it still juts out, tingling with the ghost of his touch. You don’t fight the impulse to lick your lip, and the phantom suggestion of a blush creeps across Willard’s high cheekbones as he swallows slowly.

“C’mon, Will. Marcy Delaney said she’ll show us her tits for a dime but we gotta catch her before her pa gets back from the f- what are you doin talkin to her for?” Your brother stops in the doorway, eyes sliding from you to Willard and back again. There’s no suspicion in face, just a confused frown.

“Wasn’t.” Willard says with a shrug, turning away from you and joining your brother by the door without a backwards glance. You hate the crawling feeling in your stomach, like worms burrowing and wriggling in your guts. You hate Willard Russell.

You hate him more in September, when school starts up again and he’s a senior looking down at you as you pass with an unreadable, infuriating smirk on his face. You’re late for class and humiliated tears prick at your eyes as you wobble on your tiptoes in front of him. “C’mon now, quit that!” You whine, jumping as though you can close the distance between your grasping fingers and his steady arm held so high above your head. Your book, the only one you need for the class you’re late for, looks almost small in Willard’s big hand as his eyes drop to your chest. You stop jumping then, stop giving him the satisfaction of watching you struggle. His friends laugh behind him, and you narrow your eyes into a glare to stop yourself from crying. “Why do you always pick on me?” You ask quietly.

Willard’s smirk drops, but he doesn’t return your book. “I don’t know.”

You shake your head. “Well I think it’s beneath you.”

He catches up to you half way to class, handing you the book back. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

You shrug like it doesn’t matter, like your heart isnt pounding at the way he’s looking at you with his big green eyes and his pouty mouth. “Ma says boys pick on girls cuz they like em.”

Willard licks over his bottom lip. “Your mama’s a smart woman, always thought so. Get yourself to class.” He vanishes before you’ve really processed his words, and you blush all the way through class like an idiot. But he couldn’t mean it, could he? Could he? You get a detention for daydreaming, and you think about how much you hate Willard Russell as you write lines on the chalkboard.

You aren’t so sure you hate him in December, when he watches you pocket a piece of molasses candy from the drugstore and he follows you outside. He waits until the candy is in your mouth before he approaches, mocking lips fixed with a knowing smirk as he brackets his arms either side of your head and cages you against the wall. “I should tell on you.”

You swallow hard, sugared spit sliding down your throat as your cheeks hollow around the candy. “I’d get the belt.”

Willard’s mouth twists to the side. “And we wouldn’t want that pretty ass all bruised up, would we?”

You poke your tongue out at him, just for something to do. Something to focus on that isn’t the slick heat pooling in your underwear or the way your fingers itch to feel the suggestion of stubble on his face. “On second thoughts,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to your mouth for a beat. “Maybe you need it. Pokin your tongue out at me like that.”

You roll the candy on your tongue, humming low. “My fate sealed then? Or can I convince you not to?”

You don’t know where the bravado comes from, but it works. Willard’s green eyes darken as he bites his bottom lip into his mouth. “You could give me a little taste of that candy. Might sweeten me up to you some.”

Your heart hammers so hard against your chest you’re certain he can see it through the thin cotton of your blouse, as you stick your tongue out again. Willard’s smirk drops a little as he dips his head, his breath tingling against your parted lips as his own tongue licks carefully at the candy dissolving on yours. You stop breathing altogether as his tongue glides against yours and his lips connect with your own, a low groan loosing from his throat as he kisses you.

The chime of the bell over the shop door has you breaking apart, Willard rubbing his hand over his mouth like he’s trying to erase the evidence of the taste of you on his tongue. Your stomach douses icy, and you feel tears prickle at the corners of your eyes. When he looks back at you, his frown only deepens the regret churning in your guts. “Don’t think nobody saw.” He says.

You spit the candy on the ground, not caring that it’s uncouth or unladylike or anything. “I hate you, Willard Russell. You stole my first kiss and I hate you for that.”

By the following Spring, you only wish you hate him. He’s shirtless as he wades out of the lake, water running down his toned chest and sliding into the waistband of his underpants, and you couldn’t look away if you wanted to. You should look away, considering Tommy’s watching and you know he’d tell pa just to spite you. Willard drops onto the packed earth beside you, shaking his head and showering you with icy droplets of lake water. “You’re like a wet dog, Willard Russell!” You squeal.

“Everybody likes dogs,” he replies with a wink, and you feel your face heat under the tiny rivulets of water slipping over your cheeks.

“Well maybe I prefer cats after all.” You reply, and Willard’s mouth curves into a smirk.

He drops his voice an octave, the words coming out in a lilting, teasing rumble that vibrates through your body. “Scratch behind my ears and I’ll purr like one.”

“Why do you talk to me like that?” You ask, your own voice thick with how lightheaded you feel. “It isn’t proper.”

Willard’s smirk falters. “Why should I be proper if it’s just you?”

There’s silence in the house when you get home from school. Both ma and pa are at the table in the kitchen, staring at nothing. “Who died?” You ask carefully, thinking about the two living grandmas you have and wondering if your black dress from two winters ago still fits even though you’ve grown three inches and a heap of new curves. Your anxiety only grows as they ignore you, the silence stretching heavy across the room as a tear rolls down your ma’s cheek and you feel the air pressing in on your lungs. You drop your school bag by the kitchen door and head out back, where Tommy’s smoking on the porch. No one’s come to give him hell about that and you wonder whether someone else has died, someone young and tragic or something. You sit beside him, wrinkling your nose as smoke chokes your lungs. “What’s up with them?”

Tommy doesn’t answer right away, sucking on his cigarette until the end fizzles. “I enlisted.”

Your vision tunnels onto nothing as the words sink into your skin. Enlisted. To get on a plane and fight the Japanese. To join a war that was claiming lives on all sides. “No.”

“Yes.” He says sharply. “I got it from them already. Don’t need to hear bout how you disapprove and all.”

You swallow down the words you want to say. “Then I won’t say anythin’.”

Tommy turns his head then, a small smile pulling one side of his mouth up lopsidedly. It makes your heart hurt to think you might not see it again.

“We go on Tuesday.”

“This Tuesday?” Your own voice sounds faraway.

“Yep.” He breathes in a lungful of smoke and exhales in a plume. “They’re sending a bus for us.”

“Us?”

You know what he’s going to say before he says it, and you wonder if it makes you a bad person that hearing his name hurts you worse than knowing Tommy would be beside him. “Me and Willard. And a couple of the guys from school. Ten total, I think.”

AFTER

News travels fast in small towns, carried on the wind with the tumbleweeds. It’s whispered across church pews and grocery aisles. You hear it from behind the door of your locker, as your friends catch the words out of the hall and relay it back to you. “Friday. They’ll be home by Friday.”

You let the words settle over you. Your brother has survived the war, and he’ll be home on Friday. You’d mourned him for the better part of a year, but he had survived and he’d be back by Friday.

“Oh, you must be so thrilled,” your friend smiles. “Tommy, back home at last.”

“And Willard Russell. They went together, of course.”

You nod at this, at your two best friends as they study your face. “Both of them, back by Friday. I thank God for it.”

“Only seven coming back at all, mind.” Beth’s voice is low, her eyes downcast. Three Knockemstiff boys coming home in wooden boxes, or as memories stamped on dog tags and wrapped in a flag. And when you think about that, about their mothers and their sisters and their… friends… you can’t be anything but grateful that your boys are coming home.

Friday comes with the closest thing to a parade that the town can muster. The high school marching band plays and the county sheriff offers a handshake to each man as he climbs off the bus. Tommy’s enveloped by ma the second his feet touch down in the dirt, and he wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her neck and you think you maybe see his shoulders shake like he’s crying. He looks older, lines around his eyes that weren’t there before, and you feel almost shy when it’s your turn to greet him. But his eyes spark with familiar affection as he ruffles your hair and drags you against his chest. “Never been so glad to see you,” he mutters.

You grin as you pull away. “Not as glad as me, not by half.”

You only see the back of him, but you’d know his frame anywhere. Broad across the shoulders and almost too tall, he rounds his shoulders as he climbs into his daddy’s truck and they take off. You hadn’t seen his face, not even for a moment, and you look at Tommy as he watches his best friend leave without so much as a smile.

“He… alright?” You ask carefully.

Tommy’s mouth twists to the side. “He’ll be fine. Nothin to concern yourself with.”

And you try really, really hard to not concern yourself with Willard Russell. You’re painting your mouth red to meet a boy from church for milkshakes in town when you hear the chatter of voices in the kitchen, and you creep to the end of the hall to listen.

“He just needs time Emma, I’m sure of it.”

The other woman sobs, her anguish drowning out the clink, clink, clink as she stirs a lump of sugar into her tea. “It’s been weeks. I’ve barely seen him at all, he only comes out of his room at night and creeps about like a ghost.”

“We… Tommy’s havin a hard time too. All we can do is be there if they need us.”

There’s a thump as Emma slams her fist down on the kitchen table, sending the chinaware clattering. “He isn’t himself. I’m tellin you, a mother knows. He doesn’t sleep much, won’t eat. And he drinks like a fish. War killed my daddy and it’s gunna take my boy too.”

Your heart aches in your chest, and you grip onto the corner of the wall until your knuckles are bloodless. Willard Russell will not die. You’re not going to let the cutest boy in town, the only one to ever turn your head, fade away into nothing. You’re just not.

The frosting is already sliding off the cake in the baking heat, but you try not to think about it as you balance the plate on your arm and lift your hand to knock on the Russell’s front door. Emma Russell answers, her face pinched and pale. “Oh! Did your mama send you around?”

You clear your throat. “Uh, no, mam. I was wonderin if Willard was around. I haven’t had a chance to see him since he got back.”

Emma’s brows furrow as she takes you in. The soggy sponge cake sliding around on the chipped plate, the way your dress hangs on your frame. “I’m not sure he’s up for a visitor. I’ll check.”

You stand awkwardly on the porch, the sun cooking the sensitive skin on the back of your neck and sending itching trails of sweat down your spine as you wait. Emma reappears after a few minutes with an apologetic smile, and you already know what she’s going to say. “He isn’t feeling well, dear. He’s very touched you stopped by, though. And thank you for the…”

“Lemon cake.” You supply, holding the plate out to her.

“Lovely. And so thoughtful. Give my regards to your mother, would you? Oh, and to Tommy of course.”

You nod, ducking your head as you step off the porch. You think the curtains in a far window twitch as you walk away from the house, but you don’t turn back to check. If he’s watching you want him to know you were here. And if you put a little extra sway into your hips as you go, so what?

Three days later you’re back, with bread that is decidedly more summer-proof and a pot of sticky jam in a reused jar that you’ve labelled in your loopy handwritten scrawl. His mother answers the door again, looking even more tired and drawn than the last time you saw her. “Ah, back again.” Her words come out like a sigh, like she’s too exhausted to form proper speech, and you wonder whether it would be inappropriate to hug her. Probably yes.

“I know he doesn’t want to see me… or anybody. But could you give these to him? I think I’m getting the hang of the baking thing.”

Her eyes slip to the side, back into the house, and her lips part around a surprised ‘oh’ as she steps away and Willard’s tall frame dwarfs the doorway. “Thank you.”

It isn’t likely that his voice is actually deeper, but it reverberates through you like he speaks on a frequency your body has been intimately tuned to. You swallow hard as your eyes rake over him. His button-down shirt is rumpled, his pants stiff and stained, and his hair hangs lank against his forehead. You wonder when he last had a bath as you hand him the jar and the wrapped loaf, noting the dirt under his fingernails and the shake to his hands. “I can’t bake like my mama, but it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it?”

Willard doesn’t smile. His mouth quirks at the corners like he’s trying to, but it’s either too hard or he can’t remember how to do it. “It’s awful nice of you to stop by. Send my regards to your brother.”

And then he steps back and closes the door, and this short, civil interaction is worse than when he was hiding in his room.

There are sharp sugar burns on your wrist, the flesh cooked and aching as you wrap the last piece of molasses candy in wax paper and scoop them into a little basket. You wedge the fresh packet of cigarettes that had cost you your entire allowance in beside the candy, and wrap your coat tightly around your torso to hide the sheer nightgown beneath as you slip out of the house. The moon is high and the night is mercifully warm as you walk quickly towards the Russell house, your heart thrumming anxiously in your throat as your eyes dart side to side. It isn’t natural or safe at all to be out alone at night, certainly not with nobody knowing where you are. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and the completely polite, vacant look on Willard’s face had scared you worse than the threat of bandits in the bushes.

You take a guess that the window with the twitching curtain had been the right one, and you’re dizzyingly relieved to find him sitting up on his bed when you climb in through the low window.

Your foot catches on the sill and you fall to the floor with a squeak, your carefully wrapped candy pieces scattering across the wooden boards.

“What in the-“ Willard pushes to a stand, crossing the room in two long strides and stopping short when you lift your head. “What are you doin?”

You shrug, trying to look nonchalant even as you grope blindly for your scattered candy. “Didn’t seem likely you’d invite me in the front door.”

Willard scoffs, shaking his head. “So you thought I’d be welcoming you in the window?”

“Not really.” You say, straightening and holding out the basket. “I made these for you.”

Willard’s eyes drop to the basket, his mouth tugging up into that almost smile again. “Molasses candy?”

“I got the sugar burns to prove it.” You say softly, turning your wrist upward to show him the scalds on your skin from spitting molten sugar.

Willard swallows, his hand lifting to wrap around your forearm so he can inspect the injuries. “I seen worse. You’ll live.”

“Never said I wouldn’t.” You mumble, extracting your arm from the heat of his grip and plucking the cigarettes from the basket. “These, too. Didn’t make em myself, mind.”

Willard’s smirk is genuine this time as he takes them from you. “Ma won’t let me smoke in the house.”

“I know it.”

His eyes lift to meet yours. “Tryin to lure me outside, then?”

You shrug, stepping closer to him, so close the basket is pressed between your chest as his stomach as you look up at him. “Getting a little sun couldn’t hurt.”

Willard’s smirk drops as his eyes lower, watching the movement of your mouth. “You shouldn't be in here you know. It isn’t proper.”

You swallow. “Why should I be proper if it’s just you?”

Willard’s eyes darken. “I never shoulda said that to you.”

You can’t keep up the façade of nonchalance any more, not with your heart in your throat and not with him looking at you like that.

“Because it was mean or because it wasn’t true?”

Willard steps backwards, sitting carefully on the edge of his bed. It’s easier to look at him now, you don’t have to crane your neck back and the heat of his body isn’t making you so dumb. “Both. I never been good at bein good around you.”

You’re absolutely dizzy with it as you step closer, dropping the basket onto the bed beside him and stepping in between his legs. “That why you never said goodbye?”

Willard closes his eyes as he leans forward, and your breath hitches as his nose brushes against your sternum, against the thick wool of your coat. “Doesn’t matter anymore.”

“No?” Your voice comes out as a whisper.

Willard hums as he nuzzles gently against your clothed chest. “No. I’m not who I was. Don’t got it in me no more.”

You lift a shaking hand to his face, and Willard freezes at the brush of your fingers against his jaw. “I don’t expect anything from you.”

He pulls away from your chest to look up at you, as if noticing for the first time just how close you’ve gotten. “You shouldn’t be here.” He says again, like he’s trying to convince himself of it more than you.

“I’m right where I wanna be, Willard. Where I always wanna be.”

Willard’s eyes shutter closed as your fingers glide down his jaw to his chin and then up over his mouth. His full lips part, letting your fingers brush against the slight dampness of his mouth before he presses a kiss against them. “I’m… in need of a bath,” he says, huffing a half-laugh.

“Little dirt never ruined nobody.”

You’re not sure whether it’s the memory of his words from a lifetime ago, or simply the permission you’re giving him now, but Willard’s hands slide up your thighs to grip your hips as he pulls you between his legs, and you dip your head to catch his mouth with your own. The breath sighs out of you and into him as you wrap your arms around his neck, your soft body melting against his hard one as his tongue grazes along your bottom lip and you open your mouth to taste the stale whiskey on his tongue.

His hands reach for the fastening on your coat and pause for a moment before unhooking the clasp. You shrug out of your coat, and Willard breaks the kiss then to rake his eyes down the form-fitting sheer nightdress covering your body. His eyes darken, pupils expanding as his hands hover over your stomach like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch you.

You take the decision from him, planting your hands on his chest and climbing into his lap to straddle his thighs. His hands lift to your waist automatically, steadying you in place before his fingers splay wide against your hips and he squeezes. “You came here for this?” He asks, his voice rough and low as his eyes search your face.

“I came here for you. Couldn’t stay away. Never stop thinking bout you.”

Willard groans, one hand leaving your hip to tangle in your hair as he drags your mouth back to his, licking against your tongue as his hips lift to grind his hardening cock against your core. With your nightdress hitched up around your thighs there’s nothing but the thin barrier of your panties between you and him, and you gasp into his mouth at the friction as your arousal pools in your underwear. Willard feels the heat of it, rutting up against you and pinning you to his lap with the press of his hand on your hip as he swallows the gasps and moans slipping out of your mouth.

“You’re the prettiest thing I ever saw,” he murmurs, untangling his fingers from your hair to trace down your chest, between the swells of your breast and lower. His hand disappears under the rumpled fabric of your skirt and he rubs you over the damp fabric of your underwear, tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip as he feels how wet you are already. “Couldn’t stay away from you neither.”

His fingers tug your panties to the side and dip into your folds, brushing low against your entrance before pushing inside you. It stings a little as you stretch around the intrusion, and you wince.

Willard’s fingers flex apart as he withdraws them and pushes back in, his cock twitching in his pants at the hot, wet, tight feeling of you around him. But at the discomfort on your face, he pulls his hand away with a frown.

“You haven’t…” he trails off, eyes dropping to your clothed core where you rest across his lap.

“No. Never wanted anybody but you.” You murmur, feeling your cheeks heat.

He smiles softly, tilting his head to the side to press kisses along your jawline. “You got no idea what that does to me,” he groans against your skin before pulling back. “But I can’t. Can’t be the first, I won’t take that from you.”

A lump begins to form in your throat, and you feel horribly exposed as you lean away from him. “Why not? Because you know you ain’t gonna marry me after?”

He doesn’t respond right away, and you slip from his lap and scrabble backwards away from him on your ass, scooting towards the window. “I didn’t mean to make you-“

“You can go to hell, Willard Russell!” You spit, your voice a little too loud and shaking with the force of your hatred. “I wish you never came back here.” The terrible words are out before you can stop them.

Willard smiles sadly. “I’m not so sure I did come back. Don’t feel like it.”

Your breath is ragged, chest rising and falling rapidly as your pulse spikes with adrenaline. And you force yourself to look at him, to really look at him even though it hurts. To look at the deep shadows around his eyes, the too-sharp concaves of his cheeks. The way his hands shake a little. The hunch of his shoulders, like he’s scared to straighten his spine. “Oh.” The sound leaves you like a sigh, and you cross the room without thinking about it, stepping back between his legs and cupping his face in both hands. “You’re here, Willard. You’re here with me.”

He leans into the touch, resting the weight of his head in your palm. “I’m not right. I can’t burden you with it.”

You hum, dipping your head to brush your lips against his. “I love you, Willard Russell. I loved you since I was ten years old. Ain’t nothin you can do to stop that. You can love me back or not, and that’s just fine. But you can’t stop me from tryin.”

Willard hums, fingers deftly unwrapping a piece of molasses candy and popping it into his mouth. You watch the way his cheeks hollow around it as he sucks the caramelized sugar, and heat unfurls in your core. “You keep showin up with cookin people are gunna think we’re courtin.”

“Rumors already spread round the church ladies.” You say with a shrug. “And I’m glad of it.” You press your thigh between his legs, kneeling on the edge of the bed and grinding the top of your thigh against his cock. “I don’t want anybody else, Willard. Do you?”

“Doesn’t matter what I want. You should go marry one of the boys from town.”

You scoff, grinding your leg against his cock firmly until you feel him twitching against you and a small damp spot appears on the front of his pants. “People will know I came in through your window in the middle of the night and left in my nightgown. Boys from town won’t want me after that anyhow.”

Willard moans softly, hips lifting to chase the friction of your thigh against his cock. “How would anyone know?”

You lift your free hand to the buttons on the front of your nightdress and begin to slip them open, exposing your breasts. “Because I’ll tell everyone. I’ll start the rumour myself.”

Willard freezes, heat flushing through him at your words. He seizes your wrists, rising from the bed only to spin you and shove you roughly down onto your back, pinning your hands above your head as he settles the weight of his body over yours. His eyes drop to your chest, his breath huffing out of him and his cock straining at the way your nipples pebble. “You’d be ruined.”

“Yeah,” you breathe, lifting one leg to hook over the back of his thigh. “And I’d be yours. If you’d have me.”

Willard groans, even as he drops his hips to yours and grinds against the soaked cotton of your panties. He can smell your arousal, thick in the air and it makes him dizzy. “And if I say no?”

You smirk, lifting a hand to cup his cheek again. “I’d still be yours. From a distance.”

Willard gives in with equal parts relief and regret. Because he’s loved you for as long as he can remember, and finally peeling your panties down your thighs and spreading your legs is all he’s ever wanted. But he’s half a haunted man, the bloody corpses of his brothers-in-arms are crowding out the sides of his vision even now, and by taking what he wants he’s damning you to live with all that fucking death, too.

But he’s powerless to stop it now, nestled between the softness of your thighs and with you looking at him like that. Like you love him. Like nothing’s changed. He feels your palm against his crotch, and he pushes up onto his knees to undo his belt and push his pants down his legs. Your mouth falls open at the sight of his hard cock, flushed and leaking at the tip as it curves up towards his stomach.

“I’m not gunna hurt you,” he mumbles, dropping back onto his heels and running two fingers through your slick to part your folds. “This is gunna feel good.”

You nod breathlessly, body jolting as his thumb circles a sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. “Oh!” You squeak, and Willard grins.

“There it is.” He smirks, and your eyes roll back as zings of pleasure shoot down the backs of your legs and you feel your arousal dripping out of you.

“Feels so good,” you whimper. “Willard I-“

“I know,” he coos, his middle and ring fingers grazing lower to press just inside your entrance and back against your sensitive walls. “I know, darlin.”

You hum, eyes fluttering closed as your hips begin to lift off the bed to meet the friction of Willard’s rough thumb rubbing over you again and again. His fingers probe a little deeper into you, and you wriggle against the intrusion. It doesn’t hurt this time, your muscles are loose as pleasure rolls through you from the attention he’s giving your sensitive nub, but you still feel the stretch as he scissors his fingers inside you as he pushes them in and withdraws them, over and over again.

“Please,” you whisper, and Willard’s eyes lift from your pussy to your face, his bottom lip pressed bloodless under his teeth as he focuses hard on not cumming in his pants at the sight of you spread for him.

“You want me to make love to you?” He asks quietly, and you moan, clenching unconsciously around his fingers so hard his hand is forced to stop moving, swallowed up by you. “Goddamn,” he whispers, eyes full of wonder as he finally pulls his fingers out of you and spreads your arousal down his shaft.

You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him fist his cock, your cunt fluttering around emptiness as his hand glides up and down his long cock and he squeezes a bead of pearly liquid from the tip onto his thumb.

“Can I?” You ask, and Willard frowns before his mouth falls open as you wrap your hand around his wrist and guide his thumb to your own mouth, sucking down on the digit and laving your tongue against the salty pearl of liquid.

Willard growls low in his throat as he snatches his hand back and wraps his fingers around your thighs, spreading your legs wider and nestling himself between them. The head of his cock presses lightly against your entrance, and your eyes widen at the slight stretch of just the head against your virgin hole. He lets go of one of your legs, wrapping your shin around his hips before gripping the base of his cock and easing it into you.

You suck in a breath as he fills you, gritting your teeth through the slight sting as you’re stretched open farther than ever before. He moves slowly, filling you inch by careful inch even as your walls flutter and squeeze around him in a way that has him on the edge of insanity. “God, you feel perfect around me.” He almost sobs the words, the pressure of your cunt around his cock almost too much. “You tell me when you’re ready for me to move.”

You nod, shifting your hips a little side to side to get used to the feeling of being so full. “Willard?” You whisper, and he tilts his head to the side. “Would you kiss me, please?”

His expression softens as he dips his head and brushes your lips with his own, pressing your mouth open and locking his lips against yours over and over in gentle, chaste kisses that set a smoldering fire low in your belly. You shift against him, squeezing around his cock, and he moans into your mouth. You break the kiss to whine “please, you can move. I wanna feel you fuck me.”

Willard’s eyes roll back at the filth of your words and the flutter of your cunt, and he pulls half out before pushing back in, setting a steady rhythm that brings him to the edge of his orgasm without tipping him over it. He’ll be damned if your first time is over so quick, even if he hasn’t had anyone touch his cock in over a year.

You spread your legs impossibly wider, wrapping your hands around the backs of your own thighs to give him better access, and Willard’s cock slips up further inside you, every inch of him enveloped in heat and tightness. “God, darlin,” he whimpers, feeling his cock twitch and thicken with his impending orgasm. He reaches between your legs to rub circles on your clit again, and your jaw goes slack as you moan his name over and over, hips lifting and cunt pulsing in time with his thrusts.

Willard feels the moment you cum, the erratic clenching of your walls around him as you writhe against the sheets and buck into his hand. The feeling of you cumming on his cock and the sight of your face, the mix of shock and awe on your lovely features as you come undone for him sends him over the edge, and he snaps his hips savagely against yours as he fucks you through your orgasm and rides out his own, shooting hot ropes of cum into you.

You lace your fingers into his hair and drag his face to yours, kissing him desperately in a clash of tongue and teeth and desire, and it’s the closest Willard Russell has felt to alive since he got on that godforsaken bus out of town and lost pieces of himself across the ocean.

Even though his cock is soft and sensitive and you’re still too tight, he doesn’t pull out of you right away. You feel so good and so warm and so right, and he isn’t ready to part from the warmth of your body or the feeling of your chest rising and falling against his own as he butterflies kisses over your cheeks and nose and forehead. “Was that… for your first time…”

You hum, leaning away from his face enough to look in his eyes. “You askin me if you did a good job? You need that reassurance from me? Soaked sheets not enough for you?”

Willard smirks, feeling the cooling damp beneath his legs where you’d cum. “No, I guess not. But are you… glad you did? With me?”

Your smile softens as you kiss the tip of his nose. “Like I said, never wanted anybody else but you.”

Willard sighs, finally pulling out of your heat and wincing at the grip of your muscles around him as he does.

“I do have one regret though,” you muse, and Willard rolls onto his side and up onto his elbow to frown at you. “Wish we’d done that sooner.”

Willard laughs. “If we’d done that sooner I’d never have enlisted.”

“Yeah,” you say softly, curling against his body and pressing your lips to his chest, over the hammering of his heart. “I know.”

Tag list: @coryoslut @thewolfcubofkaermorhen @elyseesarchive @nqarxne @brightnessluvworld @loushaw131460 @stvalent

lunaskye999

An absolutely stunning Willard Russell one shot. It went straight to the heart. Beautifully written, sweet, tender and smutty. @thedevotchka never ceases to impress me.

Go on, give it a read. You won't be sorry 💕

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