unholy March and Healy thought; eventually you do end up letting Healy fuck you but March near tears up at the thought of being empty, so you peg him while Healy is inside of you
anon I was born to understand your visions. 18+. healymarch x afab!reader. pegging, p in v. yes I know soda cans were thinner in the 70s but stick with me on this one.
You're gonna fucking split in half. You're gonna fucking die. The police will find you actually fucked to death.
"Nah, you're gonna be just fine, baby," Jackson mutters in your ear, his voice a rough chuckle. You didn't realise you said that out loud, so lost in the feeling of his body against yours that your brain blurred the line between thoughts and words. How could you not be lost, though? He's the width of a fucking soda can. You don't know how Holland can take his cock so easily. Practice, you guess.
For you, though, this is entirely new. It's not like he didn't make sure you were prepared: Jackson had Holland eat you out until you'd come twice on his tongue, then pushed his partner to the side to take over, pumping you full of his fingers until you were nice and open. You were dripping down to his elbow, your slick getting caught in his arm hair like something out of a goddamn porno. It had made Holland whine it was so filthy.
Speaking of...
Jackson pulls out to his tip before sliding back inside, the thick vein on the underside of his cock pressing against your walls just right. The force of it pushes you forwards, pushes your fake cock even further into Holland's ass. Holland screams in that ridiculous way of his but you can't blame him this time. You purposely chose a strap that rivaled Healy's size. You wanted him to feel it when you fucked him. From the way tears of arousal stream down his face, you think you've achieved that and then some.
"You doing okay, March?" Jackson says through gritted teeth as his hips slap against your ass. The heft of his hairy stomach has your eyes rolling in pleasure. Your whole body moves with the force of his thrusts, nudging your silicone cock into Holland's prostate.
The symphony of skin-on-skin-on-skin is a sordid madrigal. Jackson's sweat drips off his chest and onto your back. It's like tiny sparks of electric.
"Peachy," Holland manages through his tears, and throws you both a trembling thumbs-up. You can't help but throw your head back and laugh, which allows Jackon access to kiss down the slick line of your throat, pulling drenched hair away from where it sticks to your nape. You groan as his stubble caresses your pulse point. Holland whimpers dejectedly.
"Pretty boys wait their turn for kisses," you state, sliding forwards off of Jackson's cock to punctuate your sentence with another thrust into Holland's gaping hole.
"Fuck, look at that," Jackson mutters, and you don't know if he means you, or Holland, or both, but either way... you agree.
summary: sometimes it's just nice to lend a helping hand.
word count: around 3.1k!
CWs: 18+ MDNI! this is literally just porn from beginning to end, holland march x fem!reader, established relationship, couple of spankings, dirty talk, no use of y/n, use of pet names, some dom/sub dynamics but nothing too major, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it!), finger sucking, edging if you squint, degradation if you squint, he's playful and so is reader, he's also a little pervy but is that really not expected for him?, kissing, spit play (?), cigarettes bc of course march would smoke during sex r u kidding me. i think that's the gist of it.
author's note: NO THIS ISN'T A REPOST BECAUSE I FORGOT TAGS IDK WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!!!!! sorry this was 10000000% self indulgent. i need this man more than i need air. anyway. i hope i nailed him?? i know he's a loser but even losers can be serious(ish) during sex. let me know your thoughts in reblogs and the comments below <3
"There you go," Holland purrs, low and deep and a little hazy, "just like that, baby."
His left hand, comfortably seated at the small of your back, trails up your spine before curving around your ribs. The calloused pads of his fingers brush over your flushed, sticky skin as they travel toward your chest. He smirks. Only takes a couple seconds for him to find and playfully pinch your sensitive, erect nipple adorning your right breast. Makes your body jolt and your head tilt back.
"My pretty girl."
If you weren't already making a mess on him before, you're definitely doing it now. Every shift of your hips produces a loud, filthy squelch that would make a pornstar blush. He feeds you praise and feels you up like no one else ever has or could. Simultaneously degrading and incredibly uplifting. Confusing, yes, but it makes you wetter than you ever imagined was possible.
It's not long before his hand slides back down and his fingers find your right hip. They dig into the soft flesh there, helping you keep your steady pace when you start to melt and stumble. Your thighs are burning while you rock back and forth on his cock. You've been going at it for what feels like an eternity. Slow and steady, just how he likes it when you're on top. Lets him eyeball and grope you.
World-class pervert. That's the next thing he needs to put in his ad in the paper.
Your hands find his shoulders as if they're meant to be plastered there. Even with him guiding your waist and your pace, you falter. Your hips stutter and you stop. You punch out a groan. In pausing your slow, borderline lazy movements, you ended up taking away your own pleasure.
The thick, overwhelming tension you'd been building in your lower abdomen with each shift of your hips begins to fade now that you've stopped moving them. At least it's a chance at gulping down deep, heaving breaths to prevent yourself from passing out.
It's frustrating to be so close to heaven and have it ripped away from you within seconds. It's even more frustrating when you're the one doing it to yourself.
With a set of pathetic, needy tears pooling in your eyes, you dig your nails into his shoulders and whine, "I—Fuck, I can't, Holland!"
How humiliating. And just after he praised you for doing so well, too.
"My poor baby," he murmurs. Adds a condescending little chuckle to it that has your cunt fluttering and your hips bucking. If you weren't so fucked out, you'd have made fun of the way his breath hitched in his throat when your pussy almost squeezed the life out of him.
He brings his right hand up to his mouth so he can pull a slow, deep drag from his cigarette. You completely forgot he was nursing that fucking thing. No wonder he's not playing with your clit.
Holland falls quiet for a moment. It's likely so he can let that smoke settle in his lungs. So he can let it burn a little bit. So he can feel alive.
Then, he exhales, the smoke curling upward toward the ceiling and clouding your senses. A lot of people don't like that smell. You don't mind it. Reminds you of him.
"Keep going," he mutters. "You wanna be a good girl for me, right?"
You nod. He hums. As he flicks off the ashes piling up at the end of his cigarette into the ashtray sitting on his bedside table, he continues, "Well, you can't be a good girl if you stop moving."
One little shift of your hips, a gentle roll against his, is all you can muster. It feels good; of course it does. Has you keening and digging your nails into his shoulders. That must have been the last of your energy. Holland picks up on it and raises one brow.
"C'mon, baby. You gonna make me do everything after I had such a hard day? I know you can do better than this."
He punctuates his chastizing by slapping your ass. A quick, harsh slap from his left hand that echoes through your bedroom and makes you squeal.
You whimper and lean forward, head falling into the crook of his neck and arms slipping around his torso. Your thighs start to shake when you try to lift and rock your hips; a pathetic little display of exhaustion that you'll end up feeling embarrassed about later.
"Sit up," he commands. Slaps your ass one more time.
Seeing this side of him is rare. Dominant and serious. Steady. His hands haven't trembled once since this has all started. That thought alone has your pussy fluttering again. Maybe if you think about all of this hard enough, you'll come from that alone.
But relief never comes easily to you on that rare occasion that he's like this. That much is clear when Holland kisses your temple and says, "I know you heard me. Don't make me tell you again."
You groan. Your hands trek up toward his chest, palms pressing against it so you can push yourself up and send him a glare. He laughs at you. Winks at you, too. Then he runs his tongue over his bottom lip and snarks, "You have two hands. You could always help yourself out."
"You have a fucking free hand right now!" you bite back while you reach back and smack the back of his hand where it sits on your ass. Has him huffing before he goes for another pull off of his cigarette.
Holland shrugs. Blows out his drag and clears his throat.
"Yeah, but I like to watch. You look real pretty when you play with yourself, sweetheart."
You roll your eyes. They're the only things that you roll.
"Pervert," you whisper while you lean in to kiss him. Your hips remain still, plastered on top of him and unflinchingly rigid. If you're gonna be tortured by a lack of stimulation, might as well take him down with you. What's the worst that could happen? He'll slap your ass again?
The kiss is desperate. Both of you are needy and frustrated, and that kiss is the result of that; deep, slow, and a little sloppy. He didn't waste a single fucking second when your lips hit his. His tongue found its way into your mouth almost immediately, pulling a whine out of you that you didn't know was tucked away in your throat. He tastes like cigarettes and a little hint of whiskey from dinner and although a lot of people might hate that, you find comfort in it.
The kiss is sinful, but not as sinful as the way you part. When you pull back, and there's a thin line of saliva connecting you both, and Holland's looking up at you like you're a thick cut of steak and he's a dog who hasn't eaten in days.
Something about that gives you a bit of a second wind. You start slow; a gentle, lazy back and forth shift of your hips. Just enough to give both of you some friction, to make both of you moan. To make him grab your hip again and probably leave bruises on your skin from how tight his grip is.
You slip your hand down to his while you continue to move. The burn returns in your thighs after only a few seconds, but it's manageable—anything that gets you closer to cumming is manageable, after all.
When your fingers curl around his wrist, you force his hand off of your hip and down toward where the two of you are becoming one. You refuse to lose this battle; this lazy bastard's gonna help you get there.
Holland cocks one eyebrow up and laughs at you when you try to guide his fingers toward your clit and start desperately rutting against them.
"What the hell are you doing? This isn't my dominant hand," he playfully chastises you through his panting. Couldn't hide the smile tweaking at the corners of his lips if he tried to.
You grumble, "You're such an asshole."
It makes him laugh. Again.
"That wasn't very nice."
You look down at his "dominant" hand—the right one—and feel an immense amount of hatred for the cigarette he's still got between his index and middle fingers. And maybe a little bit of jealousy. Those fingers should be paying attention to you.
You stop moving again, much to his and your own dismays. He groans and returns his left hand to your hip. Opens his mouth to bitch about how you're not moving, probably, but you cut him off before he gets the chance to do it.
"Why do I have to do all the work? Can't you just put that fucking thing out?" you whine. The frustration's hitting a boiling point, judging by how high pitched you got. He picks up on that almost immediately. Clicks his tongue at you and shakes his head.
"No," he counters, "'cause they're expensive. Thought you knew better than that."
He looks down at his cigarette and hums.
"But, if you really want my help, you can hold it for me."
His right hand slowly rises between you. The smoke billowing up from that lit cigarette follows it. Never one to back down from a challenge, you do as he says. You grab it from him, plant it between your own right index and middle finger, and pray that he'll keep his word.
He reaches up to grab your chin with that newly unoccupied hand. As his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, he mutters, "Open up."
And you do as he says. How couldn't you? It's an immediate reaction. Holland March might be an inelegant mess of a man, but he's dependable. You know what he's doing because he's done it before, and it was to help you out downstairs last time, too.
He slowly pushes his index and middle fingers into your mouth. Your lips wrap around them—an instinctual reaction, at this point—and you breathe out a soft hum while you gently suck on them. Something about the taste of the lingering smoke on his skin has your head spinning.
Holland smiles at you, a lazy and content lifting of the corners of his lips. Nods his head. You swirl your tongue around the tips of his fingers. He can't even act like he didn't like that. You felt his cock twitch while buried deeply inside of you. Has you giggling in the middle of sucking on his fingers.
"Shit," he groans. "There's my good girl. I missed you, baby."
He pulls his fingers out of your mouth a few seconds later. It's a gentle move; slow and easy, just after he'd made sure he had enough of your saliva on them to work with. He let you suck on them for longer than was necessary, though; had to really commit it to memory this time.
His other hand, the one already fused to your hip, forces you to start moving. You push out some sort of jumbled mess of a sigh, and a swoon, and a whimper. The friction feels so good. The way his bicep flexes with each forced roll of your hips looks so good. Your head aches, and it's not because of the cigarette smoke inundating your senses.
Oh, shit. The cigarette.
Seems like you both remembered it existed at the same time, because suddenly, Holland's gesturing with his head toward your right hand and saying, "I'll help you out, sweetheart, but you gotta help me out, too."
Is it degrading to have to hold your boyfriend's cigarette up to his mouth so he can pull off of it in exchange for him paying attention to your clit? Probably.
Oh well. The prospect was enough to make you do it, so you find your fingers shakily holding the end of it against his lips. He wiggles his eyebrows at you. You'd laugh if you weren't so focused on chasing your orgasm by any means necessary.
"Thanks, baby. Keep moving for me," he softly commands when he blows out his drag. Your right hand drops down to his shoulder. The gentle impact sees a few of the ashes falling off of the end of the cigarette and onto his skin and the sheets. Maybe you'll make him wash them this time.
Although your thighs are on fire, you keep going just like he told you to. Each movement is slow and heavy, but it's deliberate. You're both aching to get there but also desperate to keep this going as long as possible.
"Perfect," he whispers. Gives your hip a soft squeeze while his other hand slips down to your pussy. His fingers, slick with your saliva, gently press against your clit; the way your entire body threatens to go slack with relief has him laughing up at you.
"A little sensitive here, huh?" he teases. Then he starts rubbing soft circles on your clit. Your eyes roll back into your head before you squeeze them shut and nod.
"Yeah. Shut up and keep going," you sass when you finally regain your momentarily-lost concentration. That new stimulation was on track for knocking your coherent thoughts right out of your skull. Too bad your inability to let him come out on top is too strong.
"Anyone ever told you that have awful manners?" he snipes. Your left hand slowly trails up from his waist, fingers teasing the wisps of dark hair below his belly button and up toward his chest. He shudders at your soft touch, hips bucking and a gravelly little moan tumbling from his lips. It isn't long before you find his shoulder and dig your nails into it.
"I think you like my awful manners," you pant.
"Depends on the day," he pants back. The cheeky smirk on his face betrays the seriousness of his tone. If anyone has issues with manners, it's the man beneath you right now.
You lean forward to press a kiss on his lips just to shut him up. He's kissing you like he needs you more than air. As much as you hate to admit it, he's incredible with his fingers. He's got your thighs trembling and your chest heaving and noises coming out of you that you didn't even know you had in you. Each shift of your hips brings you closer and closer to the high you've been chasing all night, especially when you squirm just right and the tip of cock bullies against the soft, sensitive little spot inside of you that seemingly only Holland March can reach.
You break the kiss to breathe, but it's hard. Your ability to do so keep getting stolen away from you by how good he's making you feel. You squeeze your eyes shut and dig your nails a little deeper into his skin, enough to make him hiss. He buries his face in your neck and wraps his left arm around your waist. Pulls you even closer to him, almost as if he was trying to get into your fucking skin. His hips gently roll upward to meet yours as he continues tracing circles on your clit. They're quicker, now. A little sloppier. But they're doing the job.
"Come on, baby," he purrs against your jaw. "Give it to me. You're right there. You can do it."
You whine from the praise, high-pitched and breathy and humiliatingly desperate. Your left arm slides around his neck and curls up toward his head, fingers tangling in his hair and yanking on it a little harder than you intended. Holland moans between the kisses he's peppering on your jaw and neck, and that pretty little noise goes straight down to your pussy.
Your climax hits you like a fucking freight train; hard enough to make you black out for God knows how long. Maybe it was heavier because of how many times it was ripped away from you. Maybe it was the way he added a little more pressure and sped up a little more. Maybe it was the way he was still matching the roll of your hips every time you'd move.
Whatever it was, you explode. It's almost visceral when you let out the moan you'd been saving for your orgasm. Animalistic, even.
When you come back to it, back down to your body, Holland's got both of his arms around you to keep you steady and he's pouring sweet nothings into your ear like it's his job. Although, you're not sure if they're nothing; every kind word that leaves his filthy mouth is usually sincere.
"Fuck," you sigh in relief, releasing your hold on his hair and straightening a little. He pulls back—but not before planting a soft kiss on the corner of your lips and telling you he loves you.
"I think you just love how I do things for you," you tease. "Like holding your cigarette for you while we're fucking."
"Yeah, sure," he laughs. "Maybe that's it."
You playfully roll your eyes. He leans forward. Kisses you again. You can feel that he's finished inside of you; it's warm and wet and you're certain that it's making a mess on the sheets as it drips down beneath you both. But you've got no urgency to get up. If you could stay here forever, you would.
You look down at your right hand and find that cigarette is somehow still in it. After he steals a quick peck from your lips and leans back against your headboard when he's certain you're steady, you huff.
"Why do you like these so much, anyway?"
You raise the cigarette up between you. He shrugs. His hands slide away from your back so he can get a good layout of your body. They slowly run over your sides, fingers brushing over each dip and curve of your frame. He gives both of your hips a soft squeeze. Settles at your thighs, where he caresses them and where his fingers draw random, gentle shapes into your sticky skin.
"Nicotine addiction, probably."
You laugh at him and shake your head.
"Idiot," you mutter beneath your breath, the insult tainted by how you've got a big smile playing on your lips.
He eyes that cigarette. The one that probably has one measly drag left on it, at best. You roll your eyes. Then you gently bring it up to his lips, let him take that last pull, and you wink at him.
It's nice to help him out every once in a while.
tags: @clarkscolumn @thceseus (sorry that i forgot to tag you guys lol)
› summary: in an effort to get over the end of a long term relationship, you go home with a handsome stranger. unbeknownst to you, he also happens to be your new coworker.
› tags/warnings: explicit mentions of smut (minors DNI!), language, alcohol use, reader is an english teacher, not beta read, reader has female anatomy, no use of y/n, strong language, one night stand to coworkers to lovers, reader used ryland as a rebound, reader was in a bad relationship before ryland, this would be right after he's kicked from academia, lots of exposition in this one sorry y'all
› wc: 4.5k
ᯓ★
The first thing you're aware of when you wake up is the headache.
It sits right behind your eyes, a dull pang that seems to heighten with every passing second. For several long, deep breaths, you keep them closed. It's easier this way, you think, as you're unwilling to confront anything more complicated than the dry scrape of your tongue at the roof of your mouth and the pleasant soreness in your legs. There's a faint, mechanical whir of an air conditioning unit nearby that's fighting a losing battle against the late August heat, the sounds of San Francisco coming to life outside of what must be an open window.
This is why you don't normally drink.
In your early twenties, you'd thought yourself impervious to hangovers. This was disproved shortly after your twenty-third birthday. The morning after a particularly vicious night out had been spent puking your guts up while Hallie stood behind you, pulling your hair away from your face and cooing comforting words that irritated you more than anything else.
Fuck.
Hallie. And Reagan.
You open your eyes. The room around you is both unfamiliar and startlingly intimate.
The ceiling above you is painted a nondescript white, fan rattling with every few turns. A thin blade of sunlight spills through the gap between a pair of cheap blue curtains, spreading over the rumpled sheets near your waist. There's a dresser against the opposite wall, its surface covered in trinkets, a half-empty glass of water, and a collection of books stacked horizontally. A framed print from a movie you've never seen before hangs above it.
You stare up at the ceiling for a few moments longer, trying to recollect the events from last night, but your mind is painfully blurry.
There are fragments. Lights flashing across a crowded dance floor. Reagan pressing a drink into your hand and insisting that you let loose. The sticky hardwood beneath your heels. A brunette sliding her hand down a man's arm with a grin before disappearing into the crowd. Blond hair. A crooked smile. Your own voice asking, with a confidence you certainly do not possess while sober, Tough crowd?
The mattress shifts beside you, and your whole body tenses. You wince. Slowly, carefully, you turn your head.
The man from the club is asleep on his stomach beside you, his face turned towards the window. He has one arm tucked beneath his pillow, the other sprawled out, close enough that the backs of his fingers almost brush against the bare skin of your hip. His hair is rumpled from sleep, the strands near his temple lit gold by the sun. His glasses are discarded on his nightstand, next to a few Advil laid out.
You don't remember his name.
You're not sure if this is your error or his, though. Did he ever give you his name? Had you given him yours? You can't recall.
What you do remember is giggling breathlessly into his mouth when he kissed you in the backseat of the rideshare, and laughing loudly when he dropped his keys outside the building. Heat licks up your neck, embarrassment and exhilaration replacing your stomach with butterflies.
What have you gotten yourself into? It was so irresponsible of you, going home with a stranger. What if he had kidnapped you? Or murdered you? This is exactly the kind of thing that ends with girls your age on the news.
You close your eyes again. Okay. Panicking is not helping. You're alive, you're well, not missing any vital organs or anything—at least, that you know of.
You inhale deeply. This is not a catastrophe. You are an adult (pushing thirty, to put it bluntly). A single adult, as Hallie had repeatedly emphasized on your way to the club. You're allowed to go home with an attractive stranger. You're allowed to do whatever you please, even if Anthony would have hated it.
Thinking of Anthony is the least helpful thing you can do right now, so you decide to finally get up. You peel the comforter off your body, unsurprised to find yourself naked. You'd be a little disappointed if the night had ended on the more PG-13 side of things, all things considered.
Your clothes are scattered across the room. You sit up, cringing at the wave of nausea that threatens to have you kneeled over a toilet for the next twenty minutes. Your headache blooms with fresh enthusiasm, throbbing slightly.
Your denim miniskirt and panties are discarded on your side of the bed. Slowly, you swing your legs over, wiggling back into your bottoms. You locate your black halter top on the other side of the room. You're thankful you had forgone a bra last night, as it's one less article of clothing you need to worry about. You tiptoe with such care that it's almost comical. The last thing you want is to wake this guy up and endure an embarrassing exchange that you'd really rather avoid.
A floorboard creaks under your foot, and the man behind you sighs and shifts in his sleep. You freeze, glancing over your shoulder at him. He makes a low, unintelligible sound, his hand moving across the mattress as if searching for something. As if searching for you, you realize with a sinking feeling. You don't dare exhale until his own breathing settles into an even rhythm again.
Then you tug your top on.
You find your purse on the floor by the door with a quiet sigh of relief. Your phone is inside, with less than ten percent battery left. The screen lights up when you pull it out. You have nine missed texts and three missed calls. You open the groupchat first.
Reg: Pls tell me ur alive
Halls: Tbh I wouldn't mind getting murdered by that guy
Reg: Not helping
Halls: Ur no fun
Reg: I rlly don't want to have to file a missing persons report
Halls: I think you need a break from true crime
Reg: It's called TRUE crime for a reason!!
Reg: How bad would her luck be if her first rebound after literal Satan is a psychopath murderer
Halls: Have you ever tried a more positive outlook on life
You can't help the silly grin that tugs on your mouth.
You: Alive and well
Typing bubbles pop up nearly as soon as you send your text confirming your continued existence.
Halls: Hooray!
Reg: Back at your place yet?
You: No. About to leave now
Reg: Good luck. Can I come over
You: Sure meet u there
Halls: No fair! I have work >:(
You lock the screen before Hallie can continue complaining, shoving your phone back in your purse and slinging it over your shoulder.
The bathroom is visible through the open bedroom door, directly across the narrow hallway. You slip inside, easing the door shut behind you. It's… cleaner than you'd expect from a single guy around your age.
You barely recognize yourself in the mirror. Your mascara is smudged, a few dark tear tracks running down your cheeks. Mortification coils in your gut. Had you cried in front of your hookup about Anthony? You wouldn't put it past yourself. The breakup is still fresh, tender and raw in all the wrong places.
Your lipstick has faded almost entirely, though it lingers around the edges of your mouth. Your hair is a tangled mess, and there's a darkening mark on your collarbone that has you shivering in the warm bathroom. You think of his mouth on yours, on your neck, your ear, trailing down in spite of the pathetic whimpers leaving your mouth.
"For fuck's sake," you mutter to yourself.
Cold water helps. You splash your face twice, scrubbing with your hands in hopes of getting rid of the evidence. You try to smooth your hair down, though it still looks a little rough, and try not to look around too much. As badly as your nosy self wants to snoop, peeking around feels too invasive.
When you're finished cleaning up, you spare one final glance into the bedroom. The man is dead to the world, but it does little to assuage your unease.
God, you feel guilty. What kind of asshole leaves without saying anything? You, you guess. But disappearing without a word sends the same message as explaining face-to-face that it was a one-time sort of thing, doesn't it? You can only assume so. This is your first one night stand. At least this way, you're saving both of you the time and awkward conversation.
It wasn't meant to be the beginning of anything. That had been the point. You had gone to the club because Hallie and Reagan insisted that getting over Anthony required you to remember that other men existed, that other men would be interested in you. You had spoken to the blond stranger because he was cute and because he hadn't been entirely repulsed at your terrible opening line and because, for once, you had wanted to do something for yourself without first imagining Anthony's reaction.
And you did it. You proved whatever it was you needed to prove.
There's no reason to complicate the matter now.
That's the mantra you repeat to yourself as you skulk through the apartment, finding your heels by the front door and slipping into them. You escape into the hallway and close the door quietly after you.
His apartment is only on the second floor, thank God, and before you know it you're on the street in yesterday's clothes, squinting up at the morning sun. You're dismayed to realize he only lives a few blocks away from you, but at least it makes your walk all the easier.
Reagan is waiting for you outside your apartment door. She's leaning against the wall, scrolling through her phone and smacking her gum. She looks great, you realize a little petulantly. Her nearly white-blonde hair falls over her shoulder in a loose braid, makeup done and a cute pair of jeans and a tank top thrown on. You must look like you've been hit by a car in comparison.
"Hey," you sigh as you approach her, shouldering your purse as it starts slipping down your arm.
"Hey," she greets coolly in return. She gives you an appraising look before adding, "You look awful."
"Thanks," you grumble. You jam your key into the lock with a little more force than strictly necessary.
Reagan follows you inside, shucking her boots off carelessly. "So, tell me about last night."
You shrug, setting your purse on the kitchen counter. It feels so good to be back home after the morning you had, surrounded by your plants and books and fuzzy rugs. You decide you're never going to try the one night stand thing again. Too much work.
"It was good," you say, heading towards your bedroom. Reagan tails you wordlessly. "I think."
"You think?" she asks. She sits on your bed, leaning back on her hands.
"Well, I don't know." You dig around in your wardrobe for a pair of sweatpants and a nice, big t-shirt. "I don't remember a lot of it."
"I always forget you have a shit tolerance."
"Yeah, laugh it up. At least it's cheaper for me to get fucked up."
She waves a hand. "But black out? I mean, yeesh."
"I remember the important parts." You roll your eyes and step into the bathroom connected to your room. You throw a towel over the shower rack, setting your clothes by the sink, and turn the dial. You undress quickly, eager to get under the hot water, and slip into the shower.
"Did you at least get his number?" Reagan's voice is closer now. You peer around the shower curtains to confirm that she is now in your bathroom, trying to pop a pimple near her hairline in your mirror.
"No."
"What?" Reagan turns away from the mirror so quickly you hear her socks squeak against the tile. "Did you leave him yours?"
You duck your head beneath the spray, combing your fingers through your hair. The water is almost painfully hot, but it feels amazing on your tense muscles. "No."
She whistles. "So you really went for the whole hookup routine."
"I guess," you say, starting to wash your hair. "Isn't leaving in the morning the whole point?"
"Depends. Was the sex good?"
You squeeze your eyes shut. The easy answer is yes, the sex was good, and you don't think you've ever come that hard or that many times in your life. A tingle in your stomach reminds you of his fingers; a thumb swiping over your overly sensitive nipples; his middle and ring fingers fucking into you mercilessly as he pet your hair and pressed open-mouthed kisses to your skin; his big hands wrapped around your wrists while his cock brushed your cervix with every drunk, sloppy thrust.
The more difficult answer for you to swallow was that it hadn't just been good. To say it was good felt like a disservice to yourself. It was the best sex you'd ever had in your life.
You had slept with Anthony countless times. Of course you did. You'd gotten together your senior year of college, dated him for nearly three years, and you aren't a prude. Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. At the time it had felt only natural to fall into bed with him. In the beginning it was passionate, maybe fueled by that infamous honeymoon phase, and towards the end…
You never hated it. Sometimes it had been nice, when he had kissed your neck in a way that made you inhale sharply, or ran his hand along your waist with a tenderness that made your heart swell.
But there had always been a set distance between your body and your mind. A sense that you were observing yourself, taking notes on your own performance. Were you moving enough? Making the right sounds? Taking too long? Not long enough? Was your face doing something weird?
Anthony never complained, but he hadn't needed to. He had a very particular way of sighing when you wanted something, a way of treating any attempt of explaining how you'd liked to be pleased: like it was a chore, a complicated set of instructions for a piece of furniture he didn't want all the much anyway. He would try, sometimes, but with a reluctant concentration that made you wish you'd kept your mouth shut.
Eventually you started doing exactly that. It was easier to let him finish and call it good; easier to smile when he asked if enjoyed yourself; eventually you began to assume that's what sex was when the novelty wore off.
Sex became something mildly pleasant that you did for the closeness of it, or because it had been a while, or because the person beside you reached for you in bed and saying no required more energy than saying yes.
Last night hadn't felt that way in the slightest.
The stranger you left the club with had paid attention to you with an intensity that was almost embarrassing. He watched and listened for your reactions to his touch, his mouth, and adjusted accordingly—as though every hitch of your breath and involuntary roll of your hips was something worth noticing for its own sake. He had asked you what you wanted, and listened.
At some point, you stopped worrying about what you looked like. That miserable, exhausting awareness of yourself had slipped away, and you were able to be present. Entirely.
Reagan picks up on your silence and treats it like an answer. "It was, wasn't it?"
"It was… fine," you say.
"You are such a bad liar," she snorts. "It's actually a little insulting."
"I didn't know." Your voice comes quieter now.
"Know what?"
You swallow. "That it could be like that."
There's a brief silence, and you worry for a moment that you've really overdone it, the whole pathetic ex-girlfriend thing, but then Reagan sighs. The sound is full of such fierce irritation that you can't help but smile.
"I hated Anthony."
"You say that about every guy Hallie and I talk about," you say, unable to hide your amusement.
"I mean it, too."
"Besides, he wasn't that bad. He just—"
You cut yourself short. You shouldn't be excusing him or his behavior. You know this. Reagan's told you so many times that you're sure she's sick of it, and for once you finally understand.
There was constantly something about you that Anthony felt needed correcting. Your skirt was a little short. Your friends are immature. Your apartment is too cluttered. You laugh too loud when you drink. You expect too much. You make things difficult.
"I don't know," you finish lamely.
Reagan doesn't answer immediately. When she responds, her voice is gentler.
"I'm sorry," she says. "I was on your ass a lot about breaking up with him, and I'm glad you did, but I know it's been hard."
You're not sure what to say to that. It has been hard, to be honest, but also freeing. Reagan has never kept a guy around for longer than three months (by her own choice, she claims men get boring and pushy after that), much less three years. How could she understand what it's like to lose such a big part of your life?
You shut the water off.
Reagan gives you some privacy to dry off and change. You pad back into your living room to find her sprawled on the couch, texting, You sit beside her with a sigh, and she shoves her feet into your lap.
"I think," she declares, "that you're due some good karma from the universe."
"Yeah?" you say absentmindedly, grabbing the remote from your coffee table and flicking through streaming services. "Does the universe have Venmo?"
"Har har." She pokes you with her foot and you smack her shin lightly. "I'm serious. You're in for something good. Restorative. Something a little slutty, but in a healing way. You might even see your mystery man again."
A knot tightens in your throat. He only lives a few blocks south. It's a possibility, as much as you wish it wasn't. "I don't think that's how karma works."
"Maybe not," Reagan says, reaching forward to snatch the remote from you. "But wouldn't it be funny if it did?"
ᯓ★
The following Monday sees you in a rush. You're late to your staff meeting, again. This is thrice now, in the last month, but you can't help it.
Or, to rephrase, you absolutely can help it, you just hate staff meetings so much that dragging your feet in protest feels mandatory.
By the time you reach Grover Cleveland Middle School, you are sweating through the back of your blouse. Your phone and coffee balance precariously in one hand while you shoulder your tote bag and shove your way through the main entrance's heavy doors with the other.
The front office smells the exact same as it always does in the summer: floor wax, printer toner, coffee, and the faint tang of hand sanitizer. You inhale deeply, cherishing it one last time before it gets tainted with middle school body odor.
"Morning!" Mrs. Moreno chirps from behind the front desk.
"Morning," you grimace, glancing up to offer a tight smile. Someone has taped a cheerful paper banner above the mailboxes that reads WELCOME BACK, GCMS STAFF! in bubble letters. It's eight in the morning and you'd be damned if you said you don't want a drink right now. Such is the life of educators.
"You're just in time. Library."
"Thanks," you say, already moving.
The library doors are propped open when you arrive. Inside, the rest of the staff have already gathered around the long study tables, clustered loosely by departments, though a few stragglers sit in different groups. History near the windows. Math and science at the back. Electives closer to the computers. You take your place with the rest of the language arts department, along the sides across from physical education.
You slip into the empty seat at the end of the table beside Marisol Alba, who teaches sixth-grade ELA and, much to your envy, appears far more composed than your flushed face and heavy breathing.
She turns, glancing at you over the rim of her glasses. "Rough start?"
"Something like that," you huff.
You're relieved to find that you didn't miss anything. At the front of the room, Principal Alvarez stands beneath a blank projector screen, messing around with something on his phone. A few murmured conversations float around the room, coworkers catching up after the summer with polite small talk and meaningless questions. The assistant principal crouches near the laptop cart, sorting through the tangle of cords.
The week before school starts always feels like being slowly lowered into a pot of boiling water while someone self-important on the board describes it as professional development. You've only been teaching for four years, and when you were fresh out of college and starting at Grover Cleveland, you were so overwhelmed you had seriously weighed the options of gritting your teeth and dealing with it, or running away.
It's times like this you wish you had chosen the latter.
There are rosters to review, bulletin boards to finish, classroom expectations to go over, and at least one required meeting in which Alvarez goes over the year's vision, goals, updated policies, and that sort of bullshit. You're starting to suspect he's more in love with the sound of his own voice than anything else.
The projector finally flickers to life. A blue slide appears on the screen, titled Building Forward Together. Beside you, Marisol inhales deeply through her nose.
You nudge her and whisper, "Be strong."
"I'm trying."
Alvarez claps his hands once, looking supremely pleased with himself. "All right, everyone. Thank you for your patience. I know you're all eager to get back into your classrooms, so we'll try to move efficiently this morning."
You snort into your coffee, and Marisol rolls her eyes. You open your planner to a blank page and write Staff Meeting at the top, but you know before the meeting is over you'll end up with a whole page of doodles, little flowers and swirls.
"Before we get into our goals and some new updates," Alvarez says, "I want to start by welcoming a few new faces to our family."
Family. Ugh, you hate when people use that word. Nonetheless, you find yourself dragging your gaze up curiously. You know there's been a few new hires this year, one of which will be taking up residence in 214, the classroom right across the hall from yours. You hate to admit it, but you're excited. Your current "family," as Alvarez likes to put it, is a little lacking.
You clap politely for new office secretary and the paraeducator joining the seventh grade team, your eyes sweeping over the crowd in an effort to catch any unfamiliar faces that might be your incoming neighbor.
Alvarez checks the paper in his hand. "And finally, we are very excited to welcome the newest member in our science department, Ryland Grace. Ryland, if you could stand up, please?"
You—and nearly the whole language arts department—crane your neck to catch a glimpse of the man that stands from somewhere in the middle of the rest of the science teachers. No wonder you hadn't seen him earlier, tucked away like that.
He's tall, broad-shouldered, and Christ, he's handsome, but—
Oh, my fucking God.
You clap a hand over your mouth, turning your head away so fast that your neck pops, but it's too late. He saw you, you know it. His embarrassed smile had faltered, his eyebrows had shot up into his hairline. He fucking saw you, and recognized you as fast as you recognized him. How could you not? You were in his bed, only two days prior.
"What is wrong with you?" Marisol mutters at your desperate attempt to hide in the shoulder of her blazer. "He's not that ugly."
"Later," you choke out. You risk a glance back at the man from the club—at Ryland fucking Grace, your coworker that you slept with—and a small whimper escapes you when you see him looking back.
For a moment, you nearly convince yourself that you're imagining it. You were so drunk on Friday night, maybe he just looks really similar. But you know that's not the truth.
His blond hair is tamed, neater than it had been against his pillow. He wears a pale blue button-down tucked into dark slacks, the sleeves rolled to his forearms to combat against the heat. And those glasses—those stupid glasses. They'd gotten all fogged up from kissing, and you had plucked them from his face, admiring the way his pretty eyes went a little fuzzy, glazed over with need.
You think you might be sick.
He sits down, disappearing again behind your other coworkers, but you can feel the heat of his gaze pinning you down.
Or maybe you're imagining it.
Maybe, if there is any mercy left in the universe, Ryland Grace has already decided to be mature and professional about this; maybe he's looking at Alvarez now, taking careful notes on the district’s new instructional priorities; maybe he is not thinking about you at all; maybe, if you're lucky, he has forgotten the exact sound you made when he kissed down the side of your throat.
You press your pen so hard against your planner that the tip punches through the paper.
Marisol leans closer. "You're making me nervous."
"I'm fine."
She makes an amused sound. "You look like you need medical attention."
Your face feels too hot, your stomach twisting and rolling in nauseating circles. There's a nonzero chance that you actually do need medical attention, but you swallow it down with some coffee. "I said I'm fine."
At the front of the library, Alvarez clears his throat. “All right, now that introductions are out of the way, I want to shift our focus to this year’s building goals.”
A slide appears behind him.
BELONGING. CONSISTENCY. GROWTH.
Fine. Wonderful. All excellent concepts. You would love to belong somewhere other than this room. You would love some consistency in the form of never again seeing a man you slept with at work. You would love to grow into a new person immediately, preferably one with amnesia.
But alas.
You stare at the presentation slide while Alvarez continues speaking, his voice smoothing into the same distant, administrative hum as the air conditioner overhead. Around you, your coworkers nod along like normal people, people who have not recently discovered that karma has a staff ID and teaches eighth grade science across the hall.
Across the hall. You sink in your seat, wishing the floor would open up under you and swallow you whole.
You'll see him during passing periods, and at the copier. You'll see him during fire drills, staff lunches, parent nights, professional development days, and every other mandatory ritual this place invents to remind you that escape is an illusion.
Hell, apparently, is room 214 at Grover Cleveland Middle School.
Who would've thought?
ᯓ★
› A/N: hi hi! baby's first tumblr post omg. sorry for any inaccuracies as i'm not a teacher :( i'll make a masterlist for the series once i have some more parts out but enjoy this for now!! and if there's any tags or warnings or anything i'm missing pls let me know
Guards! Put the blond man in spandex in situations!
Welcome to the Star Spider Grace AU Pilot! Here’s the previous Initial concepts . Me & Sam have been brewing this concept and now we’re both into too deep. Dunno how many chapters I will draw but anyway-
ISSUE #1 / ISSUE#2 (already on my ko-Fi!)
Fics inspired by this concept:
Project Evolution by @sam-i-am-27 : THE fic. Sam and I have been coming out with most of the concepts together (both for the comic and the fic) but this is their own work so go check them out! Since we draw/write each at our own pace some stuff are/will be different.
Your Graceful, Neighbourhood Spiderman by @var1an-onl1n3
Friendly Neighborhood Star-Spider by Daisy_yellow
Uncover: to lay bare, disclose, reveal by @foxinsheepsclothing-ao3
Darn it, let’s do this one final time! By @therivergirl
One and Only Star-Spider by Finding_7th
If you find more let me know! I'm only tagging those who explicitly credited me, as there are other spiderman AU fics on ao3 not necessarely related to my version
Until the Wheels Come Off (John Walker / F!Reader / Bob Reynolds)
Summary: After an experimental weapon detonates on a mission, you are put into a very awkward, very steamy situation with your crushes. AKA The Sex Pollen One
(I tried to incorporate enthusiastic consent as much as possible in this but obviously the scenario does involve some dubious circumstances, so please keep that in mind.)
A/N: THANK YOU SO MUCH for 100 followers. Here is my gift to you all for the love you've shown my stories. I adore reading your comments and getting your requests. <3
Rating: 18+ MDNI
WC: 9.2k (complete)
CW: Smut just smut, porn with a soupcon of plot, three-way but the men don't get that touchy with each other, angst, tension, romance (yes, really), sex pollen trope, fuck or you die trope, reader is afab, reader is a thunderbolt/new avenger, reader is younger than john, reader is into both john and bob, reader swears, light dom/sub vibes, john is down bad, bob is down bad, john is bossy, bob is a freak, sentry makes an appearance, dirty talk, use of pet names (baby, girl), light hair pulling, pinv, oral sex (f receiving, m receiving), fingering, teasing, adult language, unprotected sex, creampie, cum play.
Suggested Listening: Goosebumps by Astrality
It was light work, that’s what you told yourself, light work because missions tended to wrap up quick when you were paired with two super soldiers, one of which was technically or not technically a god. You weren’t sure. It didn’t matter. The last scumbag trafficker had beat feet away from you, but that was fine; John’s shield sang as it flew by you on the right, slamming into the guy from behind and sending him sprawling to the ground. You ducked as the shield recoiled, steel whistling over your head as it ricocheted back to John.
“Time’s up, asshole,” you growled, grabbing the guy by the hood of his sweatshirt as he scampered upright and tried to resume the chase. Wasn’t going to happen. You were exhausted, and there was actually a pretty decently appointed safehouse on the other side of this mission, plus takeout from the pasta place you had already eyefucked when you first arrived. So no, this idiot was not going to prolong an already tiresome day.
You slammed your foot into his calf, making him stutter-step, stopping him long enough for the Sentry to arrive, a blurred ribbon of gold before he pulled up short, ripping the target off the ground. He threw him back down onto the concrete like he was an empty sack. The body rag-dolled, then rolled a few feet away, but he was alive. Alive enough.
John pelted up to you, not even winded. The Sentry floated gently down to hover between you and John, dusting off his hands.
“Thanks for joining us,” John muttered. There was something about them being together on a mission and Bob in the suit; the second he put it on, the old, scabbed wounds burst. Neither of them could resist school yard jabs, but John was usually the more aggressive offender.
“You had it handled,” Bob said mildly. His eyes, faintly gold, lingered on you, on where your chest pumped against your suit. Before it could become a tell, he met your gaze again. You never knew what to call him anymore—he was generally such a sweetheart, but something in him shifted when the suit went on. He stood taller. His responses were clear, fast, sometimes glib. “I did a sweep. Looks like we’re clear.”
“Smooth as silk, gentlemen,” you said, kneeling to check the guy for weapons. There was a suspicious keycard in one pocket, which you took, thanks much, before tossing his pistol somewhere he couldn’t reach.
“I just think you could contribute a bit more when we’re in the shit,” John was saying, launching in. “He was getting away. You can fly, for fuck’s sake.”
“Are you saying she’s slow?” Bob asked, and judging by his tone, with total knowledge that it would give John an aneurism. Either you were imagining things, or the vibe was particularly tense when it was just the three of you on missions. Like they were competing. Like every word of their charged exchanges was a fist beating on a chest.
“I’m not…no. Jesus, Bob, I would never say that.” John started pacing. He dodged closer to you, dipping down to make sure you heard the next bit clearly: “I would never say that.”
“It’s the Sentry,” Bob said, calm. You smiled down at your work; he never corrected you when you slipped up like that.
“It’s eat my fucking dick,” John snarled, arms crossed as he finished pacing, placing you directly in the crossfire between them.
“Down, boys,” you said. Your hands moved firmly over one pocket of the man’s cargo pants. Something bulged inside. They went on bickering. You dipped into the pocket, withdrawing a cylinder that looked like a cologne or spray. Before you could examine it further, the man lurched upward, hand closing over yours, forcing your fingers down around the latch mechanism. “Shit,” you managed to whisper. “Get back—”
The cylinder broke, the amber liquid inside exploding into gas as the dispersal apparatus fired.
Bob’s hands closed around your waist, yanking you away from the mushrooming cloud that erupted. John staggered out of that same cloud as Bob set you down gently a few yards away. Without hesitation, Bob went to collect John, too, carrying him back to where you waited. There was no point pretending you hadn’t inhaled the mystery gas; you could taste it in the back of your throat.
“What the hell was that?” John asked, wet coughing into his fist.
Bob frowned, backing away from the cloud as it thinned and spread, the color fading as it diluted. “Smelled like…turpentine,” he said.
“And cotton candy,” you added.
John stopped coughing long enough to turn pale and then slightly green. “Shit.”
“What?” you asked, following as he strode down the walkway between the old, moldering construction machines, double timing toward the arched doors leading out of the warehouse. “Do you know what that was?”
“We need to get back to the safehouse,” he said. “Now.” Then softer: “God, I hope I’m wrong.”
Minute by minute, John knew that the agent you had all inhaled was exactly what he feared it was. The smell, the symptoms, the method of deployment, it all added up. He was just trying to decide how to deliver the news to two colleagues that they were in for a very intense, very awkward night.
You and Bob went ahead into the safehouse, John lingering outside to grab a few more cold breaths of wintry air before barricading himself inside. His poker face was failing him, because you looked panicked as you swished the curtains aside on the front window and peered out at him. Just the sight of your face and how his body reacted was further evidence that his theory was right. He turned around, paranoid that you would see how tight his pants were becoming.
This is not how I wanted to do this.
For God’s sake, he had pictured a leisurely date, maybe a place with a dress code, flirting with you over a few drinks, a meandering stroll back to the tower with plenty of stops to make out like teenagers in the shadowy alcoves between buildings. Not this. Never this. You were going to turn into animals, all three of you; losing all inhibition with you was one thing, but now Bob was part of it. Fuck. His collar was choking him. The unnatural heat clawing its way across his chest was damn near unbearable. He scratched open the toggles on his uniform, pulling until he could expose his neck to the cool air.
There was no point prolonging the inevitable. It was still possible, he thought, to get through this without detonating a bomb in your personal and professional lives. Maybe you could tie each other up, separate yourselves in different rooms of the house, figure out some kind of quarantine system. This wasn’t defcon, not yet. John strode in through the front door, closed it, and spun to engage every bolt and lock. He went window to window, making sure the curtains were tightly closed.
It was a quaint two-story cottage, nondescript, white plaster walls and black roof, a working fireplace, the first story dominated by a cozy sitting room with two sofas and a coffee table, and an adjoining kitchen with a farmhouse dining table. Nestled in the French countryside, it didn’t exactly scream orgiastic sex frenzy.
John told himself it wasn’t going there. It couldn’t go there.
“Guys,” Bob murmured, decidedly more Bob than Sentry as he smoothed his hands down the front of his suit, fingers spreading across his stomach. “I don’t feel right.”
“I know,” John said, massaging his temples. He threw you a helpless look, maybe a preemptive, silent plea for understanding. You hovered in the no man’s land between living room and kitchen. Nobody seemed willing to sit down.
“I feel…I feel like I need to barf or jerk off,” Bob continued, squeezing his eyes shut, swaying. “Maybe both.”
That didn’t draw a snarky response from John, which made you instantly suspicious. John never missed an opportunity to get a lick in. You rounded on him, marching over and poking him in the chest. There was already a glaze over your eyes, like you were halfway to wasted, but you were holding on, pushing through it. “John. What the hell is happening to us?”
“Rapid breathing, heart palpitations, fever, sweats, sweats and then chills, sensitivity to light and touch, did I miss anything?” John asked, listing out the symptoms. As he named them out, he watched you get more and more withdrawn.
“Feels like my dick is growing another dick,” Bob muttered.
“And that. Yeah. Whatever that is,” John said with a loose gesture. “Does anyone read the mission briefs? The addendums in the back? You know, we print those out for a reason.”
Bob said nothing, still holding his stomach like he might puke on himself at any second. You shook your head, blinking too fast, like you were having trouble following a simple question. That tracked. You had taken a full blast in the face of the stuff, and he had no idea if the serum would slow things down or speed things up. Either way, you stumbled forward suddenly, grabbing his arm to stay upright.
John held you by the waist, but loosely, aware that any touch at any time could make things descend into chaos. “Jesus, you two. It’s experimental chemical warfare. It depresses your central nervous system, inhibits memory formation, rapid GABA deployment, prioritizes blood to erogenous zones—”
“Erogenous zones?” Bob covered his mouth, laughing.
“Yeah. What? Is that not the right term?”
“No, it is, I just didn’t realize you were a grandma.”
John’s mouth fell open in exasperation. He considered how much torque would be required to tear off a god’s head. Probably more than he could generate just with his bare hands. “Okay, wise ass, try this instead: it’s fuck dust.”
That shut him up.
Your grip tightened on John’s arm. You stared up at him, dazed. “Meaning what?”
John’s tone softened as he addressed you, his heart pounding in his ears as his attention snagged on your beautiful mouth, the way your pulse fluttered in your neck, how lickable you had become all covered in sweat… He shook his head, fighting the urge to press you against his body. “Meaning we’re about to experience a real HR nightmare, that’s what. If the lab tests I’ve read are accurate, then the…the need for stimulation is going to become painful. It will feel life or death.”
The silence was almost comical. John usually yearned for a minute of peace with the two of you around, but now he was desperate for someone to fill the void with a genius solution.
“For how long?” Bob asked, frowning, brow furrowed. He was clawing at his suit like it was full of fire ants, tugging at the collar.
“Hard to say.” John wiped his hand down his face; it was getting tougher to form a clear thought. You smelled so fucking good, fresh meat to a starving man. “Depends on length of exposure, metabolic rate…” He trailed off, begging his last available brain cells to have mercy, cooperate. It felt like a veil was closing over his vision and all he could see was you. “If we’re lucky, twelve hours. If we’re not lucky—”
“Twelve hours?” Bob shouted, startling you. “I can’t do this for twelve more minutes.” Before either of you could tell him to calm down, Bob detached his cape, tore away his gauntlets, then flipped the latch on the back of his rubbery black neck guard, yanking it off and tossing it across the room. The lights overhead flickered ominously. He wrestled with the zipper on the back of his suit until it gave, and with a grunt, he pulled his suit down, letting it hang loose over his belt.
John felt you twitch in his grasp.
“Holy shit, Bob,” you murmured, glassy-eyed and gawking. You pointed first at his well-developed pecs, then his washboard abs. Even John could admit the definition was insane. “That was hiding under there this entire time?”
He absorbed your appreciation with a little toss of his hair, then flicked his gaze from your face to Johns. “Why?” he asked, voice rough with desire, full of the arrogance that the serum tended to bring out in him. “Like what you see?”
“Oh shit,” John groaned. Knowing it was fruitless to try and stop you as you tugged out of his grip and drifted toward Bob. “It’s starting.” He watched you cuddle up to Bob’s side, the other man’s hands immediately tangling in the zipper on the back of your suit, tugging it down. You didn’t notice or didn’t fight him on it.
“Whoa. Hey wait, okay? Are we not going to even try and figure out a way to fight this?” John asked, tearing his gaze away from the sight of you running your fingers up Bob’s ripped stomach. He paced back toward the door, hands in his hair, but each idea that sprang to mind was dumber than the last. “We could…we could find rope. Rope. Yes. Tie each other up. Do we have rope?”
Bob was listening but not looking. His attention was fixed entirely on you, his fingers catching on the open back of your suit, pulling until you wiggled and your arms came free. “Rope,” he murmured, laughing, eyes gold and hot as he leaned in to brush his lips across yours. “Do you think a rope will hold me?” He touched your chin with his thumb, the sheen of sweat across his bare chest so strong it looked like he had been dipped in oil. “I’d chew through it to get to you.”
You shivered, arching against him as he gave one more firm tug and stripped you to the waist. Like him, your skin-tight suit caught on your belt, but John wasn’t thinking about that, he was thinking about the big hand closing over your breast, squeezing it, testing the weight.
“I’d burn it to get to you,” Bob added, the fabric of your bra shimmering before it was incinerated off your body, there and then nothing, a whisper of ash scattering to the ground.
John knew he had to do something, but it was like every thought was on a five second delay. He had become a bystander. Incidental. A flurry of crucial memories passed in front of his eyes just then—you and Bob playing scrabble in the common room long into the night, bickering over whether or not bongwater was a playable word; Barnes taking Bob aside after one of his first missions back to lecture about not shattering anyone’s spine, which had been Bob’s enraged reaction after a goon got a clean punch on you; Bob hearting absolutely everything you said in the group chat, even things like okay; Bob bringing you back tiny mementos from his missions abroad…
John crossed the room in three immense strides, hooking his arm around your waist and spinning you until you squeaked and teetered against him, hands propped on his chest.
“Stop. Everyone stop. Slow down.” Maybe it was because he was the oldest, maybe it was because he was a father, whatever it was, he felt like it was his responsibility to protect both you and Bob. John wiped the sweat out of his eyes, holding up a hand toward the other man, who straightened up and grimaced like John had coldcocked him in the training room. “Don’t square up to me, Bobby. If we’re not going to sequester ourselves or…or…”
“Go ahead, man, sequester yourself,” Bob suggested lightly.
John was trying to be patient and fair, he really was, and this time out was as much for him as it was for Bob. But you were the one he worried about. It didn’t matter what the dust was whispering, you could get hurt, emotionally and physically, if they weren’t careful. You were trapped in a house with two of the most dangerous men on the planet, super soldiers who were about to lose all common sense.
John was trying to be patient, but Bob’s annoying little suggestion punctured his resolve. He wrapped you up in both of his arms, holding you tight to his chest as he leaned toward Bob over your shoulder. “If you have something to prove, that’s fine. I’m not letting her get hurt tonight.”
“I would never hurt her,” Bob whispered. He seemed to come back to himself all at once, noticing his own suit draped around his waist, then yours.
“I know we don’t always get along, Reynolds, but we set that shit aside here and now. She’s priority one tonight.” John said, using a tone of command he reserved for dire situations. The use of Bob’s last name seemed to reach him in a different way, like they were brothers in arms, maybe not friends but on the same side.
“Everything runs through you,” John continued, shifting you to stand at arm’s length. He winced. “Bad…bad choice of words, sorry. You get final say. On everything. We—” He glared across your shoulder at Bob. “—can’t let this spin out of control. We’re still a team.”
“Okay,” you said, softly, down toward John’s chest. You glanced up, nodding. “Okay. I say no and it all stops?”
Bob’s expression softened. He touched the back of your head, the gold fading from his eyes as he swallowed visibly. How the fuck would John make a god stop doing anything, he wondered, realizing their only hope was that Bob’s affection for you was strong enough to keep him in check. The Sentry with no inhibition, with the brakes off, scared the shit out of him.
You closed your eyes sleepily at Bob’s touch, then nuzzled forward into John’s neck, lips moving across his throat as you reached for the zipper on his chest. “And what if I don’t want to stop?”
Then we go until the wheels come off.
Bob had done a lot of crazy shit in his life, but this was right up there. He had never ingested an evil, experimental biological agent but there were times when he probably would have, if it meant a single night of numbed out bliss. But he was a different man now, in recovery, working on things, and Walker’s words of warning broke through the dark, thick haze that had hemmed him in on every side. Things could get seriously messed up if the three of you weren’t careful—he had seen significantly less complicated dynamics fracture just after a night of heavy drinking, and this was…this was…
“Can we at least do this in a bedroom?” John was asking, his huge hands wrapped around your wrists, stopping you from undressing him just feet from the front door of the safehouse.
Bob snapped back into himself, or as much as he could, the heavy, honeyed feeling sliding through his body making every non-sex related thought a chore. There were two bedrooms upstairs; the night before, you and Bob had each taken one and John used the hide-a-bed in the living room couch.
This was the first test. Bob could see John getting impatient for your answer, but he needed that answer. His chest was rising and falling like an overworked bellows, his throat bobbing around a cumbersome swallow as you looked at him and then Bob.
You nodded, unsteady on your feet.
“Words,” John grunted out.
“Take me upstairs.”
That was the gun firing at the starting line. John swept you into his arms, bridal carrying you out of the living room and to the narrow stairs, his boots thundering through the house. Bob stumbled after the two of you, noticing a weird, pink halo at the edge of his vision, a technicolor fog. His legs only cooperated when he began picturing what was waiting in that bedroom. Naked skin. Willing fingers. He groaned, shivering, pawing at the oversized S of his belt, unhooking it and letting it fall wherever. The hand railing creaked as he pushed his weight down onto it, pulling himself to the second level like it was a triumph of the spirit.
Time wasn’t making sense. He had no idea how long it took him to go from living room to bedroom, but it felt like hours, every minute without touch driving him a little crazier, making that fog creeping in denser, harder to push back. He paused at the top of the stairs, the sweat on his hands making the removal of his suit almost impossible. He had been on some serious drugs but this was something new. Just the feeling of his own hands sliding down his legs, peeling the suit away, pulling off his boots, made him want to fall to his knees and cry out.
He left behind a pile of clothing on the landing, ping-ponging against the hallway walls as he tried to remember the layout of the extremely tiny, manageable house. The dust wasn’t just settling in now it was taking hold, taking him by the throat and shaking. He slammed against the open doorway to the bedroom, hands curled into claws as he panted like an animal and watched the last of your super suit hit the floor.
“Jesus Christ,” Bob whispered, wiping the wet hair off his forehead and the sweat out of his eyes.
“Still with us, Bobby?” John asked. To his credit, he sounded genuinely concerned. His suit was gone, too, the towering V of his torso rising behind you as he held you lightly by the waist. The room was dark. That wasn’t good for Bob. He squeezed his eyes shut until two different lamps flickered on, bathing you both in wholesome, golden light. But what those lights illuminated was anything but wholesome—you, perfect and naked, head falling back against John’s shoulder as you reached for Bob, silently imploring him to join.
The amount of floor between the door and the bedside felt insurmountable. It was only the guarantee of skin to skin contact that got him there. Fuck, you were beautiful, held in the light, held by John, his scarred hands moving up your ribs to cup your breasts and pinch your nipples, pulling them toward Bob like you were an offering, an offering to a god.
That’s you, dingdong.
Bob raked his eyes up and down your body, taking in every delicious inch. He had pictured this many, many times, though admittedly never with John’s hands on your boobs. He hated it less than he expected. That was probably the dust talking, but the contrast between Walker’s huge, chiseled body and your softer curves made Bob’s head spin like a top. He dragged himself across the room, watching John’s calloused fingers tease your nipples into stiff, swollen peaks.
“This for me?” Bob asked, hands smoothing across your waist, head dipping to pull one of those buds between his lips. His tongue rolled out along with a groan; John hissed through his teeth at the contact, but he didn’t move his hand completely out of the way.
“Yes, for you,” you whispered, arching, fingers tangling in Bob’s hair, pressing him harder against your chest. He latched on, telling himself you had twelve whole hours of this to go, stuffing down the urge to disintegrate his own underwear and fuck you on the spot. No, he needed you to last.
John’s hands let go, scraping down your sides to your hips, one moved lower; Bob was only too willing to replace John’s hands with his own, squeezing and massaging you until your fingernails scraped across his scalp in response. He heard a soft, mouthwatering, wet sound as John started playing with your slit, dipping one finger inside, making it even clearer he had given up any pretense of trying to fight the dust.
Caught between them, your skin roared with heat, feverish to the touch.
“How does she taste?” John asked in a rasp.
“So sweet,” Bob murmured, eyes fluttering shut as he switched one from nipple to the other.
“Yeah?” John vented a wry laugh. “Bet I know something sweeter…”
His big hand slid into Bob’s hair alongside yours, jerking Bob’s head back and off of your tit until he released it with a reluctant moan. His disappointment didn’t last long; John slipped his fingers out of your body, offering a taste to Bob. If John was going to be a little bossy, Bob could put up with it if it was going to be like this.
“Words,” John prompted gruffly.
“Oh, hell yes,” Bob whispered, opening his mouth. Your eyes were wide and glistening, your lips parted in pleasurable wonder as John Walker painted your slick across Bob’s waiting tongue.
You watched Bob suck the shine off of John’s finger with a full body shudder. Holy shit. You had worried briefly about John’s ability to play nice and share, but whatever setting had clicked on in his head was exactly the right speed. Everything was moving forward, but not too fast, and even with the crazy-making dust screaming through your system, it quieted the panic in your chest to have John in control. The heat was building, but for now it was a controlled burn. You had no idea how he was managing, just gratitude that he was.
Bob slid down in front of you, knees thumping against the hard wood, hands clamping around your thighs as he pushed his chin between your legs. John met him there, fingers spreading, parting your folds, the combined pressure and presence of Bob’s mouth and John’s hand making you sizzle and buck.
“Oh my God,” you whispered, grabbing harder onto Bob’s hair. “No. No, no, no, too much, I can’t—”
“Actual no or good no?” John asked.
“Good no, so good.”
His breath warmed across your neck; those breaths came faster as you worked your hips against Bob’s face and back against the thick, heavy erection rubbing against your ass.
“Then you can,” John growled, biting the shell of your ear, tugging it. He laughed softly as you whined and twisted. “And you will.”
John held you open, Bob went to work, eating you like he was born to do it. You felt the atmosphere charge around the three of you—before it had been foreplay, but now the room filled with the wet sound of Bob dragging his face against you and you sighing at a higher pitch; his tongue speared up into you; there was no going back. Even if you wanted them to stop, you weren’t convinced you could dredge up the words.
Every part of you was too sensitive. It usually took much longer to get where you wanted to go, but now just the lightest graze of his nose across your clit pinched the world into a single, narrow slice. You could see the open door and Bob’s trail of clothing out in the hall, and if you glanced down, a pair of liquid fire eyes gazing up at you, half-lidded and dust-addled. He was watching you intently, keen on every new sound and every twist of your hips.
“Keep going,” you heard John mumble. His left hand slid from your hip, disappearing to tangle in his shorts, push them down, free the hard column of heat he had been pushing against your ass. You felt the thick, weeping tip dodge lower, nudging against your entrance. “I’m going to fuck you now, baby,” he whispered, gasping, probably to keep from tackling you to the ground in a blind heat. “And Bobby’s going to make you cum, isn’t he? He’s going to suck your little clit until you scream.”
Bob logged no complaints at that, hands gripping your thighs tighter as he licked a broad stripe up your slit to refocus on just your aching clit. He held you there while you shook, grabbing Bob’s head with one hand, the other reaching back to hook around John’s neck. He bent low to get the angle right, rearranging his hold on you until you could lean onto his forearm.
“You have to tell us,” John said, words a jumble as he pulsed against your entrance, his cock twitching in anticipation, jumpy, needy. “Have to say it.”
It was the dust. Had to be. You would never do this otherwise, never let one of your crushes eat you out while the other fucked you from behind. “Please, yes, please,” you whined, so wet you could feel yourself opening for John despite his brutish size. Maybe because of it. Fuck, he was gigantic, it was going to change everything, satisfy the burn, satisfy the dust, satisfy you. Then the pounding in your head would go away and the voice shrieking at you to screw everything in sight would be silenced.
“Please, please, god, fuck me, make me cum,” you moaned, half-swallowing the last word as John pressed forward, his teeth closing over your shoulder as he roared out the sound of a man in agony.
“She’s tight, Bobby, fuck, she’s tight,” John whispered, broken, hips stuttering as he worked you open. You could imagine the immense restraint required on his end to keep from ramming into you like a freight train because you were faced with the same brutal gambit—obey the insane demands of the dust and potentially hurt yourself or focus harder than you had ever focused in your life and wait.
John caught his breath, sweating against your shoulder, easing forward on another controlled thrust, claiming more ground. But even as you wanted to concentrate your entire being on the feeling of that glorious stretch, Bob wouldn’t let you forget he had been given orders. His thumb joined his mouth, circling your clit with firm strokes, tongue handling the more direct stimulation. Whoever had taught him to do that deserved a hundred million dollars.
Bob’s hungry little hum, the vibrations, undid what weak shame remained. You couldn’t hold on, and John was right—you couldn’t control what came out of your mouth. For a terrifying second you thought you were losing your vision entirely. The room bent inward, squeezing until you couldn’t breathe, and without air, without sight, there was warmth and pleasure, the shocks of stimulation and the pressure of John filling you up. You felt him slide deeper, hilting you, just as your orgasm shuddered from your navel to your throat.
The relief was incredible, but painfully short. You slammed back down to silence, both men watchful and still.
“Are…are you okay?” Bob asked, gazing up at you with wide, terrified eyes. “Did we kill her?”
“She’s breathing,” John said, his hand closed over your chest, over your heart.
“I…I…” You had gone completely boneless in John’s grasp, your toes dragging against the floor. You stirred upright with a shudder, clenching around John’s dick with a gasp. “Fuck, I’m good. So good. Don’t stop.”
With Bob sitting back on his haunches, chin slick and shiny, John took advantage, turning you to the right, toward the bed, hauling you onto it until you were on all fours. He did it so fast, so easily, you didn’t have time to overthink it or even react. John shoved his knees against the edge of the mattress behind you and fisted his hand in your hair, pulling just enough to send electricity across your scalp.
“God, you’re beautiful like this,” he rumbled, stealing your breath away with a dragging thrust in and out. “Can’t…can’t last, not when you look like this…”
The dust was hitting him as hard as it was hitting you. Your ass slapped against his thighs as he drove home once, twice, a sound of strangled surprise preempting what felt like a volcanic eruption, his fingers tightening in your hair as he burst against your depths. You didn’t expect it to feel like that, but then you’d never been fucked by someone juiced to the gills with serum. You cried out too, shocked by the sensation, he let go of your hair and your head dropped forward. It was so warm inside, so good; you squeezed around his half-limp dick, milking it, gifting yourself another little whined out orgasm.
John staggered back from the bed on heavy steps, shaking the house, leaving you sensitive and swollen but nowhere near satisfied. Your knees buckled; you rolled onto your side, eyes closing on heavy blinks as Bob gave John a good natured shove and climbed onto the bed beside you. He smiled at you, gentle, hand smoothing down your cheek, stroking away tears you hadn’t realized had slipped out.
“How’s my girl? Happy?” he asked, smile deepening at your frantic nod. You didn’t know how you could still want more, but Bob was so beautiful, shining with sweat, eyes deep and blue and sweet as he stroked his hand down your face to your shoulder, tracing the lines of your arm, transferring to your hip, over the curve of your ass before his fingers danced between your thighs. He rolled you onto your back carefully, shifting closer. At some point he had taken off his shorts. His dick was hard and throbbing, curved against his stomach, pulsing faintly with his heartbeat.
You heard John sink onto a chair somewhere behind Bob with a fwoomp and a groan. Bob didn’t notice, his eyes following your line of sight. He looked down at himself, fisted his cock, gave a few lazy pumps while you watched. He read the hunger in your gaze, fingers pushing between your thighs and dipping into your cunt, fingering you with the same unhurried pace of his jerking off.
“Is this okay?” he asked, shivering as he stroked himself faster, still watching you closely.
“Mmhm.”
“Words,” John grunted from across the room.
“Don’t stop touching me there,” you told them both, opening your thighs to give him better access. “I want it. I want you.”
Bob nodded, licking his lips, trying to gather his next thought into something coherent. “John got you all messy,” he said, fingers sliding deeper, fucking John’s cum back into you. “Are you our messy girl tonight?”
You closed your eyes, circling your hips and humping against his hand. “Yes.”
“You’re going to get a lot messier,” Bob murmured, but he sounded pleased about it. Excited. Curious. “Want to taste me? I’m kinda messy, too.”
His cheeks darkened, deep pink as he showed you how much precum was bubbling out of his tip. You whimpered, pulling yourself closer to him by his knee, flopping up partially onto his lap, resting your head on his thigh. Bob didn’t pull his fingers out of you, just shifted you around so he had a better vantage. With his free hand, he drove his thumb into your mouth, opening it, then urged his cock toward your widened lips, feeding himself to you.
Just the smell of him made your body flutter, made it feel like you could cum again. His salt musk taste pooled on your tongue while you licked him like a sweet. He groaned, abs clenched, stomach tensing while he let you take him in at your own pace. And your pace was eager but fascinated, tongue mapping the ridges and veins, the delicious length. You craned up suddenly, licking a smeared wet spot off of his stomach.
Bob laughed at that, cupping your cheek, just holding you, not pressuring you to go back to what you were doing. He knew you would; the crazed heat that burned in him still flamed high in your chest, in your abdomen. He inhaled through his teeth as you closed your lips around his tip, gliding over him, hollowing your cheeks and sucking experimentally, tongue rolling back and forth, teasing him.
“Shit,” he whispered, caving in slightly, shoulders slumping forward as he fought something off. “This is…I could fire off right now…shit.”
John huffed out a knowing laugh.
“Not yet, not yet,” Bob cautioned, shaking as he gently pried your jaw open, easing out of your mouth with a sigh. He pulled his fingers out of your puss and almost wiped his hand on the coverlet, then thought better of it and offered his hand to you. His eyes gleamed as you wrapped your lips around his fore and middle fingers and cleaned off your own arousal and what John had left behind.
“God, fuck yes,” he murmured, pulling his lip between his teeth. “Taste good?”
“Mmhm.”
“Want more?” he asked, scraping his fingers along your lower teeth as he shifted to reposition you on the bed, draping you across the mattress the short way, ass toward him and the wall, head dangling toward the rest of the room.
“Yes,” you said, knowing John would bark at you if you didn’t vocalize the answer. “More. I’m not…I can’t…”
“I know,” Bob said, voice full of sympathy. “It’s eating you alive.”
You whimpered, nodded, heat rocketing down toward your core as Bob settled on his knees between your legs, teasing his cock head up and down your sex. His gaze flicked from your heaving tits to the chair across the room, where John was seated beneath the glow of a golden and green stained-glass lamp.
“Look at that,” Bob whispered. “You’ve got Walker all worked up again.”
Upside down, you took in the harrowing vision of John Walker fisting his dick from base to tip, using a bruising grip as if punishing himself for liking what was happening on the bed. His face was red, his hair slick with sweat, eyes blue flames as he nodded and groaned with you as Bob dipped lower and fucked into you.
His path was smoother than John’s, your body so relaxed and ready for him, lubricated with your seemingly endless hunger and John’s cream. That didn’t lessen the pleasure, in fact, you couldn’t keep your eyes open or your mouth shut as Bob took his time on each devastating pump, fists pushed into the mattress on either side of your waist. What he lacked in sheer girth he made up for in length. And you felt it, scratching your fingernails across the blankets, meeting his thrusts with desperate shakes of your hips.
“More. Please more. Fuck me,” you urged him, a stranger to your own voice. Something deep inside you still longed to be dealt with, fed. If anything, your grip on sense and reality was only loosening. You didn’t know if this was the apex of the drug; you trembled to consider there was worse to withstand and what you would do to survive it.
“You heard her.” John’s voice was closer now, much closer. He had crossed the distance from the chair to the bed. Even before you opened your eyes, you knew he was close—you could smell yourself on him, and the heady scent of your mingled sex clinging to his skin. When you did open your eyes, you were greeted with the underside of John’s hard dick. His head tilted to the side in playful inquiry as he took up one of your hands and brushed your knuckles across the heated flesh.
“More,” you said, both to him and to Bob. Your hand closed around him, John’s fist still closed tightly around the base as he fucked against your palm.
“Give it to her, Bobby,” he said through clenched teeth. “She wants it. Give her—fuck—give her whatever she wants.”
“More, yeah, sounds good,” Bob repeated, prompting himself. He leaned down, taking your legs and bending them back until your knees almost touched your tits. You cried out, struggling to catch your breath as he opened you up and found that much more of you to pound. “How’s that? Is that the spot?” he asked, eager, giving you a taste of the angle. Your eyes rolled back, hand numb around John’s dick as Bob lowered his weight onto your thighs; your hamstrings burned as he leaned down to kiss you, folding you into the mating press.
“I’m gonna die,” you whispered, laughing.
“Relax, baby, he’s going to make you feel good,” John said, smoothing the hair back from your face. Something about his encouragement made you shiver and loosen, another wave of honeyed pleasure rolling up from where your body met Bob’s. John gazed down at you so lovingly, eyes watery as if he had never been this proud of anyone in his life. “He’s gonna fill you up again, is that what you want? Is that what you need?” John’s pale eyes flickered as he glanced down your sweaty torso to Bob. “It’s what he needs. It’s what we both need, to fill you up until you can’t take anymore, until you tell us to stop.”
“Don’t stop, John,” you said, so fast it made them both chuckle.
“No, baby, nobody’s stopping,” John assured you. Bob started dragging himself in and out, groaning like he was in pain. “Bob’s not going to last very long in that tight pussy.”
“N-No,” Bob muttered, shaking the wet strands of his hair as he almost collapsed on his next thrust. He kept going somehow, brushing an absent kiss across your lips, eyes screwed shut as he picked up speed. “Shit, John, she’s soaking.”
As if to prove him right, his next thrust came with a filthy squelch. You arched, your own slick and John’s dripping down between your cheeks, pooling on the bed.
“Jesus Christ, did you hear that?” John worked himself against your hand faster, moving his fist up to tighten around your fingers and make a combined sleeve for him to fuck. You could feel him swelling, getting close…
“Wet, tight, fuck,” Bob whimpered, lost, somewhere else entirely as he rocked into you. He dropped his hips lower, angling his dick to scrape a spot you could feel in your teeth.
“Oh god, Bob, oh god, oh god—” You blurted out words to the rhythm of his thrusts, sawed back and forth by the snap in his hips. John ran his thumb along the seam of your lips.
“Can you open up for me, baby? Wanna cum, wanna cum right now…”
You groaned, doing as he asked, drunk and dazed and fucked as Bob seized up, still for an instant before pounding into you on three quick strokes. Thick, salted heat poured down your throat from John as Bob finished, his face pressed against your throat as it worked to swallow John’s release. You felt Bob’s as the head rush ebbed, as you sputtered and coughed, John holding your head up and steady while Bob’s dick jerked against your depths. It was too much heat. It was just the right amount. It was on you and inside you and incinerating you from the inside out.
The come down nearly plunged you into a blackout. You couldn’t remember how all three of you wound up in the bed together, one bedraggled sheet slung over your bodies, Bob curled around your back, spooning you, the furred wall of John’s chest against your cheek. You could feel Bob’s erection pulsing against your lower back, his fingers toying idly with your nipples, his lips worrying along the ridge of your shoulder.
“Just relax, that’s it,” John was saying. You didn’t know what had come before that. Had you fallen asleep? It could be midnight or dawn, you had no idea. The burn in your chest was a simmer, but not completely gone. John reached down, feeling between your legs; you shivered, rubbing your face back and forth against his chest. “Are you done?” he asked, almost shy.
You tossed your head.
“Are you sure?”
“Come on, man, don't be an asshole, just give it to her,” Bob said, half impatient, half annoyed. “She likes it, she’s our messy girl. Aren’t you?” His tone changed, light and loving when he nuzzled into your neck, rutting slowly against your back. “If he won’t help you I will. I can go again. I can go again right now—”
John’s hand closed over the back of your head possessively, his long fingers still exploring you, as if searching for some physical sign it was time to call it quits.
“She gets to decide,” John said, firm. “Not you.”
You wiggled closer to John, hooking your thigh around his, inviting him in.
It just felt good when he slid into you, his erection as hard as the first time, far more controlled now, easy, like you were two lovers alone, tangled up in bed before going to sleep. He kissed you deeply, holding on like you could slip away. Time warped around you again, you remembered that kiss, not tipped with drugged fire but romantic, full of longing. And Bob’s steady heat against your back, his kisses along your shoulder tickling as his evening stubble scratched your skin. John held your waist while you ground against his pubic bone, shuddering and blissful and full.
When you opened your eyes again, John was holding your back to his chest, the steel bands of his arms anchored around your waist. Bob was crawling down the mattress, kissing his way down your body, detouring to suck and bite your nipples for so long John grumbled something at him.
“It’s all coming out, can’t have that,” Bob was saying, three fingers pushing into you like it was nothing. “Gotta keep us inside, can you do that?”
You wanted it, you supposed, anything to keep the pleasure coasting through your body. Anything to satisfy the demon, even if it was getting quieter, going to sleep. You came back to yourself minutes later, Bob fucking you against John’s chest. It felt like you were going to break, but it was too much in all the right ways. Every thrust sent you closer to yourself. Your arms fell back, looped loosely around John’s neck.
“One more time,” John murmured, nose against your temple as Bob shuddered and bucked. “Let us take you there one more time, baby. Have you ever been fucked like this? Have you ever felt this good?”
You shook your head, whispering nonsense.
You remembered a light clicking on, brighter. Someone carrying you. The cold bite of tiles on your bare feet. Soap that smelled like rosewater. Two hard bodies holding you up in the shower, gentle hands touching you everywhere, washing, caring. The towel was like a cloud. The bed was different, smaller, but you didn’t ask about it or complain.
Morning crackled behind your eyes like a seam of sunlight on the horizon.
You breathed into consciousness with a gasp, warm as bread in a toaster. You groaned; it felt like you had gone ten rounds with a grizzly bear. There was a persistent, intense ache between your legs. Someone had put your panties back on, but you could tell the crotch was wet. Fear lanced through you like a cold spike as you realized this wasn’t your bedroom back in the Watchtower.
What was the last thing you remembered? John and Bob fighting, bickering on the job. A white house with a black roof. France. Right. You tried to move, finding it very difficult indeed with two bodies pressed tight against you on either side.
What. The. Fuck.
Your bleary eyes traveled up a column of skin dusted with freckles, landing on a russet beard and the calm, angelic face of John Walker fast asleep. His arm was slung across your waist. It felt like a barbell pressing you into the mattress. Judging by the way your nipples were pillowed against wiry hair, he wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing.
“No, I’ll do it tomorrow,” someone slurred behind you.
Bob.
You carefully turned your head like a turret on a wheel, catching sight of Bob’s golden brown hair mussed against your shoulder. His nose was buried between your shoulder blades, his arm nestled just under John’s. They were naked. They were naked and they were touching.
The hyperventilating had just begun when John’s eyes blinked open.
“Whoa. Whoa. Look at me. Breathe.” He lifted his hand from your waist, cupping your jaw firmly until you did as he instructed. Worry tugged his brow down as he inspected you. “Do you remember last night?”
“N-No. John. John. What the fuck is going on?” you asked, trying not to scream. This was insane. A disaster. You were in bed with both of your crushes, with absolutely no memory of how things had progressed this far.
“When we were in the warehouse, when you chased down that guy, do you remember the cannister in his pocket?” John asked.
The specificity of the question lowered your panic. “I…Yes. Yeah. Something exploded. There was gas everywhere, it smelled like shit.”
“It was a chemical agent,” he explained, slow and clear. His thumb stroked gently across your cheekbone. “We all inhaled it. There’s really no professional or easy way to say this, but it made us all want to…” He closed his mouth, opened it, closed it, tried again. “We had a lot of sex. A lot.”
Memories started to percolate. Bob mumbled in his sleep, restless and shifting against you. His morning wood poked against your back. You closed your eyes and told yourself to breathe exactly sixteen times before saying anything else.
You remembered Bob’s suit piled in the hallway. The tremor in the usually unflappable John Walker’s hands as he helped you undress. Your own voice begging for more, more, more.
“Oh my fucking God,” you whispered.
“Yeah. Yep.”
“John, this is a catastrophe,” you added. Your eyes filled with tears as you forced yours to meet his. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t…I don’t know…”
“Sh-hh, hey, don’t apologize,” he said, voice just as careful and low. What was with him? Why did he care or not whether Bob Reynolds of all people had his peace disturbed? Bob was drooling down your back in his sleep. You were going to puke.
“No, you don’t get it,” you hurried on, scalding tears blistering down your cheeks. John hurried to wipe them away. “I…like both of you. Fuck. Like is such a stupid word. I mean I respect both of you, too, although I’m sure that’s fucked now…”
John suppressed a rumbled laugh. “Nothing is fucked.”
You stared at him. “How? You must think I’m some crazed slut…” You got up the courage to slip your hand down between your legs. The evidence was actually confounding. How was that possible? “Jesus Christ, John, how much sex did we have exactly?”
“A lot,” he said, cryptic, clearing his throat. His blue eyes searched every inch of your face. “Do…do you want the details? You’re owed them, obviously, I just--”
“How do you remember it all? My memory is gone…”
“The serum, I would guess,” he said. “Which, uh, means Bobby over there will also probably remember.”
“Oh my God.” You couldn’t breathe. You actually couldn’t breathe. “Yes. Details. Now. Tell me.”
John sighed, gathering himself. “You and me, um…” He turned a shade of red you weren’t sure until that moment was biologically plausible. “Four times, although once was—fuck, okay this is harder than I thought—”
“Once was what.”
“Once was in your mouth,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut.
“You and I had sex three times?” Your heart sank for reasons that were perhaps more embarrassing than the effects of the sex gas. Now you would never remember your first time with him. Them. More tears slipped down your face. John, as ever, was ready to catch them. “I don’t remember. I don’t…I can’t…”
“Hey, hey, hey.” John surged against you, pressing his forehead to yours. “Breathe. You have to breathe. You have to breathe and you have to believe me when I say that this doesn’t change anything between us, I’m still—” He caught himself, biting off the end of that confession.
“You’re still what?” you asked, hands curling against his chest.
“I’m still crazy about you,” he said. “Crazier, maybe.”
“Yeah, last night certainly sounds like it was fucking crazy.”
John laughed, and you thumped your fist on his chest. “I’m not going to speak for Bob, but I bet he’s going to say the same thing.” His eyes fluttered over your shoulder to where Bob was still peacefully drooling on your back. “We’re both crazy about you. I thought I was going to tear him in half when he touched you, but…I don’t know. I don’t know anything yet, I just know I’m not going to forget the way you said my name. And if you tell me to fuck off and die, I will, but I’m…here. Here and not going anywhere.”
It didn’t fix everything, but at least you could breathe again.
“Are there pancakes?” Bob asked in his sleep, flopping away from you and into the wall so hard he hit his head with a wheezed: “Ow.”
John looked at the ceiling for help, sighing. “Guess you can ask him yourself. Good morning, Bob,” he said, exasperated.
“Whoa. Hey. Morning?” Bob rolled back toward you both, his face appearing next to yours as he propped it on your right shoulder. “Is this, uh, the debrief? Does she—”
“She doesn’t remember much,” John said, and you were grateful for the assist. “I was just telling her how much we are not judging her for what occurred here.”
Bob snorted, ruffling your hair, his strong hands smoothing down your side to curve over your hip. “You were incredible.”
You raised your eyebrows at John, who raised his right back.
“Say: I told you so,” you muttered. “I dare you.”
“How’s our messy girl this morning? Sore? Tired? Fuck, you’re so beautiful…” Bob kissed your neck, hand sliding down your hip to your stomach, lower, playing in the absolute filth they had left inside you the night before. Judging by how otherwise pleasant you all smelled, they had tried to clean you up and done a very half-assed job of it. “God, you’re wet again, or is that us? Both, maybe? Shit, my dick has been poking you all morning, hasn’t it?”
“Bobby.” John’s voice sliced through the horny stream of conscious monologue Bob had decided to unleash first thing in the morning. “She’s still…figuring this out. Give her a break for God’s sake.”
“S-Sorry.” Bob’s hand stilled, his jaw tense against your neck.
But the fucked up part was, you didn’t want him to stop. Your mind raced, your traitorous fucking nipples hardening against John’s chest, your stomach unwinding, pooling toward the sensation of Bob’s hand cupping your sex.
“No, it’s okay,” you stammered out, licking your lips nervously.
John studied you, brows still at his hairline. “Baby—”
“Baby?” You snort-laughed, sizing him up. “Is that what you like calling me?”
His next blink was drowsy, his lips parting. “Next best thing after mine.”
“Ours,” Bob suggested, hand flexing around your pussy. When you twitched your thighs apart, his fingers slid right in. He groaned. “You’re ours.”
John leaned down to kiss your forehead, hands closing over yours where they rested on his chest. Bob went to work, John held you tight. “Everything runs through you,” he whispered. “Just say the word and it all stops.”
Your voice was your own voice as you arched against him, against Bob’s sweet touch, murmuring, “Don’t stop.”
in regards to the whole incestgate thing, and don’t worry this is the LAST time i’ll be touching base on this bc bitch, i’m tired. But an argument i’ve seen is that fiction is a healthy outlet for victims who want to consume that kind of material blah blah. And yeah i agree it’s good to guardedly channel those suppressed feelings. HOWEVER, that should be on AO3, an actual ARCHIVE. Bc what about victims of interfamilial sexual abuse and things alike who ARENT actively seeking that out. Are they supposed to just simply ignore potentially triggering and nocuous material at the means of other people’s comfortability? That’s why everyone should A) TAG THEIR SHIT CORRECTLY and B) Condense it into one app so that others feeds aren’t tainted with that BULLSHIT.
I don’t agree with it at all but if you are going to write or read about it, it should be on ao3.
So, I love Lewis much as the next guy, but please leave the attaboy discord alone with that. His friends are active in the chats, and this is a server about their band, not about Lewis Pullman/his characters.
If you’re gonna hate me for saying that, maybe you’re the problem. Harassing, sending hateful messages, sharing 18+ servers on a place you know damn well minors are on, spreading gossip, spreading HATE, it’s bullshit, and I think a lot of people need to learn that it’s not appropriate. Everyone needs to take a step back and remember that this type of behaviour RUINS good things. This was a good thing initially but within half an hour it basically turned into something out of everyone’s control.
That discord is a band server. That’s that. Talk about the band, enjoy their music, ask questions about the tour, share YOUR OWN ART, share book recommendations etc. but for the love of god, be mindful, be kind, and keep FANDOM separate from THE REAL PEOPLE ITS BASED AROUND.
people assume loneliness creates the same shape in everyone; it does not. lars became untouchable, and you became desperate for warm in ways that embarrass you sometimes. ۶ৎ
pairings ! lars lindstrom x fem! reader
warnings ! reader can be read as neurodivergent, mentions of dementia in family, mentions of death, pain idealization, mentions of depression, ooc lars maybe??, angst/comfort, fluff. part two here ! title from: misuse oh — ethel cain
author's note ! that awkward moment when you want to write something happy and it ends up being almost an autobiography... yikes! just kidding (´ . .̫ . `) hope you like it!! the ending was going to be different but i'm a sucker for fluff. i watched latrg years ago so some things might be blurry!! sorry for that!! my requests are open for any ryan gosling character!!
word count ! 2,5k words
people like to say loneliness makes people alike.
karin says lars changed after meeting you. she says it casually, in the middle of folding laundry or when you rock her baby to sleep, like change is something visible. as if she could pinpoint the exact moment he changed the way he stands now. less rigid at the shoulders, less afraid of rooms with too many people in them. you suppose she’s right. you suppose you changed too.
but similarity has always been a much more difficult thing to measure.
the human body recognizes warmth immediately; nerves react before thought does. touch is one of the first languages learned; infants deprived of it fail quietly, organs slowing under the absence of affection. skin remembers what the mind tries not to. you read that once on the paper and carried it around for weeks like a diagnosis.
lars hates being touched. his body recoils from it like a bad burn. a brush of fingers, a shoulder against his, even the most featherlight touch burns him and leaves him stiffened for minutes after, jaw tight and eyes closed.
you've never experienced that; on the contrary, you spent mornings holding mugs of tea long after they stopped steaming just to keep your hands from feeling dead, or a cold waffle heated directly over the stove, with a hand pressed too close to the metal because pain was still proof of sensation, and sensation was better than emptiness. you never cared enough to move your hand immediately; the thought frightened you sometimes.
people assume loneliness creates the same shape in everyone; it does not.
lars became untouchable, and you became desperate for touch in ways that embarrass you sometimes.
his mother died while she was giving birth to him. yours stayed alive long enough to make her mind disappear slowly instead. memory leaving piece by piece until the house looked less like a home and more like those silly boards in crime shows full of evidence. post-its covering cabinets, mirrors, and doors. instructions everywhere: how to use the microwave, not to open the knife drawer alone; reminders written in frantic handwriting, a museum dedicated to forgetting, you suppose.
you think grief is divisible like that.
lars doesn’t know about the time you almost submerged your hand into boiling water because you’d been staring at the steam too long, wondering if warmth could travel deeper than skin. you remember standing there motionless, exhausted, winter pressing against the windows, your body so unbearably cold that the idea almost felt reasonable.
you don’t think you’ll ever tell him; you don't think he'll judge you, but you're more afraid of seeing his understanding face.
breakfast always felt lonely to you. church did too, eventually. winter turned everything into something quieter and sadder.
you started measuring your days by how long you could remain under blankets before guilt finally forced you upright. work became the only thing capable of dragging you out into the cold, and even then your body resisted it.
one little shop filled with fabric and buttons and soft measuring tapes hanging like loose ribbons from hooks on the wall. it was a nice place.
not beautiful in any remarkable way, but warm, warm enough that your fingers hurt during the first few minutes inside because circulation was returning again.
your boss was kind in the persistent way some people are.
“you should meet lars,” she said one afternoon while reorganizing spools of thread by color. “you two are very much alike.”
people said that often about lonely individuals, as if isolation were a personality trait instead of a condition.
you nodded anyway. lars, a strange name.
“i dunno,” you answered, half joking. “where exactly does one find a lars?”
she looked at you over the top of her glasses with the patience of someone humoring a sad puppy.
“church, with karin.”
the name meant nothing to you.
“you remember karin,” she continued. “she bought a baby blanket here once.”
you don't, but politeness has always been easier than honesty.
“i do, yeah.”
your boss immediately smiled.
“you don’t remember her at all.”
“i don’t,” you admitted quietly. “sorry.”
she gave you a look, not mad, but curious.
“and i’m still not sure about the church thing,” you added afterward, already defensive.
church had begun to feel strange to you months ago. too full of people singing about hope with complete certainty in their voices. winter made certainty unbearable somehow.
“it’s okay,” she said, though disappointment still lingered faintly beneath the words. she’d invited you enough times now that refusal had become routine between you. “but you should meet him. really. you’re similar people.”
you hummed, not really paying attention to her anymore. your eyes are starting to close slowly…
“maybe i could ask karin to introduce you both.”
your back straightened immediately, eyes opening so quickly it almost gave your brain whiplash.
“fine. i’ll go to church with you.”
your boss’s entire face lit up with triumph.
“ugh,” you groaned the second you saw it. “don’t look so happy about it.”
but she was already smiling to herself again, folding fabric carefully at the counter while outside snow was starting to press quietly against the windows.
——
your mirror is too small to show your entire body at once, so getting dressed in winter becomes an act of approximation. a sweater beneath another sweater. tights beneath jeans. layers piled over layers until your body looks softened around the edges, blurred by fabric and bulk.
you suppose you look fine. and still, despite all the layers, there’s always that lingering draft beneath your ribs.
you’re beginning to suspect it doesn’t come from winter at all.
the walk to church is quieter than expected; snow crunches softly beneath your shoes, your hands shoved deep inside your pockets. you wish you’d found your gloves before leaving. you’d searched every box in your apartment twice already, winter clothes tangled together in old cardboard and bags, clothes smelling faintly of dust and humidity.
your boss is waiting near the parking lot when you arrive. even bundled in layers, she somehow looks cheerful, her scarf covering half her face, her eyes barely visible beneath the dim yellow glow of the church lights.
the second she spots you, she waves enthusiastically.
“ah, wasn’t sure you’d actually come.” her voice sounds muffled through the scarf. “i was this close to dragging you out of bed myself.”
you look at her expression carefully. she’s joking, probably.
“i try not to break promises,” you mutter. your breath clouds instantly in front of your face, disappearing just as fast.
“that’s a good trait.” her eyes crinkle warmly. “lars’ll appreciate that.”
lars again. you still don’t even know what kind of person lars is supposed to be.
“i still don’t know who lars—”
you stop abruptly because your boss is already waving excitedly at someone behind you. your stomach sinks immediately; you turn your head almost in slow motion.
a woman approaches through the parking lot, brown hair tucked into her coat collar, a baby bundled sleepily against her chest. karin.
oh, you think instantly. fucking traitor.
you shoot your boss a betrayed look. she specifically promised this wouldn’t involve introductions. you hate introductions. hate the awkward feeling that settles deep in your chest when meeting strangers. the forced smiling, the sudden awareness of your own body, your voice, your posture. the feeling of your clothes, the color of your teeth, if you look pretty enough, sound funny enough. it settles deep in your chest: the unbearable feeling of being perceived incorrectly within seconds.
your boss ignores your glare completely.
“karin!” she calls brightly. “here’s the girl i was telling you about. isn’t she adorable?”
you close your eyes briefly.
you've once read that the body experiences embarrassment physically. the nervous system reacts as though social discomfort were genuine danger. maybe once, evolutionarily, it was.
when you open your eyes again, karin is already watching you curiously.
“hi,” you say quickly, before your irritation settles visibly on your face. “nice to meet you, really. i just—” you hesitate, trying to soften yourself again. “i wasn’t informed there’d be people involved.”
you offer your hand politely anyway.
karin giggles. “oh, this one?” she says, pointing affectionately toward your boss. “she does this to everyone.”
she takes your hand, then instantly startles, hissing.
“oh my god, your hands are freezing.”
the embarrassment arrives so fast it almost burns. you pull your hand back immediately, shoving it deep into your pocket again.
“yeah, sorry,” you mumble awkwardly. “i lost my gloves recently.” you laugh softly afterward, but it comes out strained.
you cough awkwardly.
“so… lars?” you ask, trying to understand where he fits into all this.
karin blinks, then bursts into another laugh.
“oh! lars, no.” her face softens instantly as the baby makes a tiny sleepy noise against her coat. “i’m his sister-in-law.” she looks impossibly gentle as she nudges her nose softly against the baby’s.
it felt unfair to witness it, like you were taped in a photo that wasn't yours.
“i was thinking,” karin continues, adjusting the blanket around the baby carefully, “maybe you should come over tonight. we could play scrabble or something. i'll convince lars to be there.”
your boss looks at you expectantly, with a hopeful smile on her face.
you stare down at the pavement; there’s salt scattered over the asphalt in uneven little crystals. you nod once.
“that’d be nice,” you say quietly, finally looking up again. “i’d like to meet him.”
lie, you don’t even like meeting people.
“i’m gonna take a walk.” you point vaguely toward the wooded path beside the church before your boss can stop you.
“what about service?” she asks immediately, disappointment visible in her expression.
you shrug.
“not really in the mood today. maybe another time.”
your boss knows it’s a lie because she knows you by now. there probably won’t be another time. you see her wanting to argue, but before she can open her mouth, you’re already walking away.
cold air fills your lungs; the path behind the church winds deeper into the woods than you expected. gravel crunching beneath your shoes in soft, uneven rhythms.
there’s a lake nearby. your boss mentioned it once while talking too enthusiastically about summer picnics and ducks. you want to see it now for reasons you can’t fully explain.
the body responds strangely to cold for prolonged periods. blood retreats inward toward vital organs. extremities sacrifice themselves first. fingers numb and toes ache. you think maybe your brain works the same way, and some parts of you have already gone numb entirely.
the lake appears gradually through the trees. dark brown water, thin ice collecting around the edges.
then you notice a man standing near the shore.
you pause completely. being alone with strangers has always frightened you a little, your first instinct is to turn around.
but then you imagine your boss and karin still outside the church doors, waiting to pull you back into conversation.
so instead, against your better judgment, you walk closer.
“cold, huh?” your voice comes out louder than intended.
the man startles visibly. he turns towards you quickly, eyes wide for a second before his expression closes back up again. he’s dressed warmly, layers upon layers, scarf pulled high against his face, thick gloves covering his hands.
you feel a sudden embarrassing stab of jealousy towards the gloves.
“sorry,” you say quickly. “didn’t mean to scare you.”
“i wasn’t scared,” he says too fast.
“yeah, sure.”
you crouch near the edge of the lake instead of fully sitting down, too aware of your clothes touching damp ground. a wind passes through the trees, and the cold cuts instantly; the shiver that leaves you afterward is violent enough to make your teeth ache.
“god,” you mutter. “it’s freezing.”
the man looks at you, his eyes move over your coat, your sleeves, and your bare hands shoved halfway into your pockets.
“you’re not wearing gloves.” he says, confused.
“lost them,” you admit.
the embarrassment arrives automatically now whenever someone notices, as though coldness itself is a personal failing.
“it’s okay, though,” you continue quickly. “i’m used to it.”
but the sadness slips into your voice anyway. you hear it immediately after speaking, apparently he does too.
“you should buy new ones.”
“i should,” you nod, agreeing.
warmth has become emotionally complicated to you somehow. you miss touch in embarrassing ways. small accidental moments of contact that linger too long afterward, someone brushing your shoulder passing by, fingers grazing yours while handing over change at the register. gloves could fix the cold. you’re not sure you entirely want that.
the man keeps watching you quietly. normally prolonged attention would make you nervous. but there’s something strangely gentle about him despite the awkwardness. he seems uncertain in the same way frightened animals do. he's cute.
“okay,” he says after a moment, voice quiet again. “i should go.”
you offer him a crooked little smile. “bye. good luck with… whatever you were doing.”
he turns and takes two steps away, then stops. you watch him hesitate.
the man turns back around abruptly.
“you can take these.”
before you can even react, he’s already pulling off his gloves.
“oh— no, that’s okay—”
“here.”
he presses them awkwardly into your hands anyway, and one of his fingers brushes briefly against your skin. the reaction is immediate. he stiffens and pulls away with fear. embarrassment crashes over you instantly.
“sorry,” you blurt out. “my hands are cold.”
“no.” he shakes his head quickly, staring at you strangely now. “that’s not—”
he swallows once.
“your touch burns,” he clarifies.
your expression softens before you can stop it. a smile settling against your face.
“that’s a first,” you say quietly.
the man stares at you for half a second longer, like he isn’t entirely sure what to do with himself. then he turns again, shoulders tense beneath all those winter layers, and starts walking away.
you realize that you don’t want him to leave yet.
“wait—” your voice catches him before he gets too far. “i didn’t catch your name.”
you stand there awkwardly near the frozen edge of the lake, his gloves still warming your hands little by little. wool scratching faintly against your palms, carrying traces of someone else’s body heat inside them.
“lars,” he says. “lars lindstrom.”
“that’s a strange name,” you say lightly. you extend your hand towards him again before you can overthink it. this time his gloves protect both of you, acting as a barrier. he looks down at your outstretched hand first, visibly preparing himself before finally taking it.
his hand is warm even through the fabric. yours probably isn’t.
“nice to meet you, lars.” you realize suddenly that you’re smiling like an idiot, but you don't care anymore. “do you like scrabble?”
Summary: Childhood friends reunite after fifteen years when you return to Wabang as a vet. Rhett is stunned by your transformation, and old crushes ignite into a slow-burning, irresistible passion that finally erupts in the barn.
Warnings: childhood friends but reader moved away, romantic longing, they are in LOVE, oh mannnn, SMUT (extended warnings under the cut)
Author’s note: this story is inspired by i saw this edit on tiktok of Lewis and in combination with this song, it was chef's kiss. Rhett is the king of YEARNING in this <3 hope you enjoy and if you have any requests, lmk. divider by: @chrisssiren and @cafekitsune
Extended warnings: no foreplay, kinda!public sex, unprotected piv (stay safe), creampie, no aftercare—Rhett is very sweet to reader though
The dust hadn’t even settled in the arena when the crowd erupted. The clang of the gate still rang in the air, and Rhett Abbott tugged off his gloves, chest rising hard with the aftermath of the ride. He tipped his hat to the stands, that easy half-smile of his, sweat and grit catching the light, muscles flexing as he shook out his arms. Another ride, another win, another reminder that he still had the fire.
But then he saw you.
At first, he thought he was imagining it—like the heat or the roar of the crowd had tricked his eyes. You were leaning casually against the fence, arms folded just so, the faintest smirk tugging at your lips. Your hair caught the late-afternoon sun, glinting gold, and your eyes sparkled with that same mischievous glint he remembered from his childhood.
Fifteen years. Fifteen long, slow years since you’d left Wabang, your family moving away just before you both hit that awkward stretch of adolescence. He’d thought he’d gotten over it—or at least tucked it away—but seeing you now, fifteen years older, impossibly radiant… it felt like someone had yanked a thread he hadn’t realized was still hanging loose.
He blinked, nearly did a double take. Fifteen years since you’d left Wabang. Fifteen years since the two of you had been kids chasing each other barefoot through the fields, dust kicking up behind you as you raced toward the creek, both swearing you’d touched the fence post first. Afternoons had been measured in grass-stained jeans, dares to climb higher into the cottonwood tree, scraped knees and shouted laughter echoing over the wide Wyoming land.
He could still see you perched on the wooden fence with a Popsicle melting down your wrist, daring him to catch a frog with his bare hands, both of you shrieking when it jumped higher than expected. Summer nights had ended with fireflies in mason jars and whispered promises under the stars—childish, unsteady vows that you’d never let life pull you apart.
And then came the day you moved away. You were only ten, him barely eleven, but he remembered it with a clarity that still ached. The packed boxes in the back of your dad’s truck. The way your mom’s smile trembled as she waved goodbye. You’d stood there, chin wobbling but determined, promising to write letters, to keep calling, to never forget.
He hadn’t said much—words never came easy to him, even then—but the moment the truck pulled away, he’d felt it. Like something had been carved out of his chest and carried off down the road with you. That dull ache had followed him for weeks, months, until time smoothed it into a quieter kind of missing. And yet, standing here now, staring at you after all these years, it came rushing back, sharp and alive as if no time had passed at all.
Here you were. Not a memory. Not a screen pixel. Real. Right in front of him.
And God help him—you were stunning.
The kind of stunning that made his mouth go dry, his pulse spike, and his carefully guarded composure teeter on the edge. You’d grown up in ways he hadn’t imagined, yet there was that spark of the kid he’d known, flashing in the curve of your smile, the tilt of your head, the subtle laugh that hit him straight in the chest.
“When did you get hot?” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head as if that alone could make the sight disappear.
By the time he’d hopped the fence and walked toward you, you were laughing—bright, warm, the same sound that used to undo him back when you were kids.
“Nice ride,” you teased, tilting your head at him, that hint of mockery making his chest tighten. “Didn’t get thrown once.”
“Guess I had to impress the hometown vet,” he shot back, the words slipping out quicker than he meant them to. His tone was teasing, sure, but his eyes gave him away—lingering just a little too long, running over you like he was trying to match the memory of the kid he’d known with the woman standing in front of him now.
As soon as it left his mouth, he tugged at the brim of his hat, half-hiding the grin that threatened to give him up entirely. He hadn’t planned on saying it, hadn’t planned on letting you see even a flicker of the pull you had on him already. But the truth was, you’d knocked the wind right out of him just by being here, and for the first time in years, the rodeo wasn’t what had his pulse racing.
Your brows lifted, amused, and your eyes danced with that old teasing light. “So you heard.”
“Small town,” he muttered, tugging at the brim of his hat, suddenly restless. “Word gets around fast.”
And his eyes couldn’t stop tracing you—like he was trying to memorize you all over again, only this time with no kid’s naivety to soften the edges. The sunlight kissed your skin in a way that made you glow, a warm gold that clung to your shoulders and neck, catching in your hair like fire. There was a rhythm to the way you moved now, an effortless sway, every step measured and sure, nothing like the gangly kid he used to chase through fields. You carried yourself with the kind of confidence that only came from years of living, of becoming, and it tugged at something deep in him.
Then there was your mouth—God help him, your mouth. He remembered it laughing wide at some dumb joke he’d told when you were ten, grinning around a Popsicle stick, muttering secrets that weren’t supposed to matter but somehow did. Now, though? That same curve was sharper, fuller, shaped by time in ways that made his chest go tight. Every thought he’d been suppressing since you left, every pang of what-if and maybe-someday, rose to the surface with a heat that made his pulse stumble.
He’d had a crush on you back then—sweet, harmless, the kind of affection that belonged to childhood. But this? This was nothing like that. This was deeper, sharper, hotter, threaded with an ache that felt like hunger. You weren’t just the memory of scraped knees and fireflies anymore. You were standing in front of him, grown, breathtaking, and more than he’d ever let himself imagine. And it hit him all at once: he’d never really stopped wanting you. He’d just been waiting without realizing it.
“I figured I’d surprise you,” you said softly, a little shy now, the easy confidence of the vet he’d heard about mingling with something vulnerable in your voice. Your voice had changed, the faint lilt of your old Southern drawl has significantly softened over the years, yet he could still hear it threading through your words in the most captivating way.
“You sure as hell did,” he said, voice low, his gaze dropping just briefly to your lips before snapping back to your eyes.
The words weren’t about the rodeo. They weren’t about the win. They were about right now. About the electricity crackling in the air between you, the tension that had been simmering for years, the unspoken pull that made his heart hammer in ways that had nothing to do with riding bulls.
You stepped closer, and Rhett’s breath hitched—just slightly, just enough. He could feel the heat radiating off you, the magnetic draw that had been building silently through your texts and online chats, through old memories he’d tried not to dwell on. He remembered every detail of you—your laugh, your stubborn streak, the way your hair would fall into your eyes when you were concentrating—and now, standing here, fifteen years older, impossibly beautiful, the old crush had ignited into a wildfire.
“I… wow,” he finally said, voice rough, catching on the weight of the moment. “You look… you’ve always been… damn.”
You laughed softly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, that self-conscious little gesture that had never changed. “Still stuttering, Abbott?”
He smirked, though it faltered as he tried to focus. “Guess some things never change,” he murmured, stepping just a fraction closer. The smell of sweat, and leather clung to him, making the tension between you all the more palpable.
“I’ve… I’ve been meaning to come to a game,” you admitted, voice softer now, vulnerable in a way that sent a jolt straight to his chest. “Wanted to see you ride. And… maybe see you.”
“See me?” His chest rose a little faster. “You’ve been seein’ me plenty online.”
“Not like this,” you said, eyes locking on his. “Not in person.”
The old childhood familiarity, the comfort, the teasing—it all tangled with this new current, the yearning, the fire. Rhett felt it deep in his chest, a pull he couldn’t resist. His hands flexed at his sides, wanting to reach for you, to hold you, to bridge the fifteen-year gap in one impulsive motion.
He wasn’t letting you slip away again. Not now. Not ever.
“You’ve… you’ve changed,” he murmured, voice low, filled with something raw, something he hadn’t meant to let surface. “But… in all the right ways.”
You stepped closer, and the space between you shrank until the world narrowed to the two of you, the dusty arena, and the sound of your hearts pounding in sync. That smirk, that mischievous glint in your eye, made him inhale sharply. “I could say the same about you,” you teased, though your pulse betrayed you, quick and wild.
The sun dipped lower, shadows stretching long across the arena, but neither of you noticed. Years of waiting, of memories, of half-formed crushes and missed opportunities, condensed into this one electrifying moment. Rhett’s hand twitched, yearning to brush your cheek, to take your hand, to pull you close.
“You know,” he finally said, voice low and rough, “I never forgot you.”
“I didn’t either,” you admitted, a whisper, and the heat in your chest flared, unstoppable.
And in that dusty arena, with the crowd dispersing and the roar of the rodeo fading into the evening air, Rhett realized—this wasn’t just a reunion. This was the start of something impossible to ignore, a pull fifteen years in the making.
And it set his intention in stone, he wasn’t letting you slip away again.
The thought stayed with him long after the rodeo dust settled—after he brought you home. He brought it to his own home, to the shower, where the sting of hot water did nothing to quiet the memory of your smile, the way your eyes had lingered on him. Fifteen years of distance couldn’t undo what had been there, not for him. Seeing you again only set it all ablaze.
He found excuses to stop by the vet clinic. Pretended his mare needed a checkup more often than she did, or that one of the cattle had a limp. You didn’t call him out on it—not directly—but he caught the amused little glances you tossed his way. And every time your hands brushed his, every time you leaned close to check a bandage or hand him paperwork, Rhett felt his resolve slip a little further.
He didn’t need an excuse to linger nearby, but somehow he always found himself there. You were rearranging the books in the veterinarian section in Wabang’s little library, fingers brushing over spines, hair falling into your eyes as you leaned forward.
You, absorbed in the quiet task, unaware of him tracing every line of your profile.
You, laughing softly at a silly passage you’d read aloud, cheeks flushed.
You, tilting your head as sunlight spilled across your face, that spark he remembered from childhood now blazing in a whole new, devastating way.
He stayed back, pretending to browse the shelves, but every so often his gaze drifted to you, heart thudding, pulse rising. Every subtle movement of yours—the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the curve of your smile—made him ache in ways he couldn’t ignore. Fifteen years of waiting, fifteen years of distance, and it all came rushing back, hotter than ever.
He never spoke, not yet. Watching you like this, feeling the pull between you, was torture—and bliss.
Every damn thing about you made his chest ache. Made his body burn.
At night, he couldn’t stop thinking about you. The way your hand had felt when you shook his—warm, steady, lingering just long enough to make him feel it in his chest. The way you’d tilted your head when you teased him, that soft curve of your smile that had never really left his memory.
He’d lie awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, your laugh echoing in his head until his body ached with it. He’d picture you close—your breath against his cheek, your lips parting as he kissed you slow, deep, the kind of kiss that unraveled him. His sheets tangled around his legs as he shifted restlessly, every nerve alive with wanting.
Most nights, he’d give in, closing his eyes, letting his hand move as he imagined the weight of you straddling him, your body pressed flush to his. He’d picture the way you’d sound whispering his name, breathless and broken against his ear, and it made his chest tighten, his heart race. His release always came hard, leaving him trembling, but even then it never felt like enough.
Because it wasn’t just your body he wanted. It was you. Your laugh against his skin, your hands tangled in his hair, your eyes meeting his in that unguarded way that had always undone him. No matter how many nights he reached for you in the dark, it only ever left him more certain—he needed the real thing. He needed you.
But Rhett wasn’t reckless with you. Not this time.
He wanted more than just a quick fling. He wanted years—hell, forever. Which meant he waited. Smoldered. Yearned in silence, letting his touches stay fleeting, his looks go unanswered. Letting the tension coil tighter and tighter, until one day, it would have to snap.
And you felt it too. You couldn’t deny it—not when the air around him seemed to hum, pulling you closer without effort. Your laugh softened whenever he was near, warmer, quieter, like it was meant only for him. Your hand would linger on his arm when you passed by, fingertips brushing against muscle in a way that lasted a second too long, just enough for the contact to leave an echo.
And sometimes, when you thought he wasn’t looking, your eyes would drift. To the line of his jaw, the curve of his throat, and, more often than not, to his mouth. You’d catch yourself staring, heartbeat tripping, and quickly glance away as though the heat of the thought hadn’t already given you away.
It was subtle, unspoken, but it lived in every glance, every brush of skin, every second that stretched too long. A slow, smoldering pull you couldn’t resist—didn’t even want to.
You knew. And he knew you knew.
And still—he waited.
Because when he finally let himself have you, when he finally let all that pent-up hunger loose—he wanted it to be all-consuming. He wanted it to be something you’d never forget.
It happened on a night that wasn’t supposed to mean anything. You’d come by the ranch after a long day, saying you had paperwork for him about one of the horses. He’d invited you to stay for dinner—casual, nothing more—and you had.
But casual didn’t explain the way he couldn’t stop looking at you across the table. Or the way you licked a smear of sauce from your thumb, and his breath caught like he’d been sucker-punched.
After, you followed him out to the barn, both of you laughing about something Amy had said earlier that week. But when you reached the doorway, the laughter fell away, leaving only silence. The kind that buzzed with unspoken things.
You turned, caught him watching you with that unreadable expression. Except this time, it wasn’t unreadable at all. This time it was raw want, blazing clear in his eyes.
“Rhett,” you whispered, like you weren’t sure if you should.
And that was all it took. The leash snapped.
He had you against the wall in two strides, his mouth crashing down on yours like he’d been starving. And maybe he had been—fifteen years of it, all breaking loose at once. His hands cupped your face, then slid lower, gripping your hips, dragging you against him.
The kiss was hungry, messy, teeth clashing until it softened, deepened, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that stole your breath. You moaned into his mouth, and the sound nearly undid him.
“Been thinkin’ about this—fuck—since you came back,” he rasped against your lips, forehead pressed to yours. His voice was rough, wrecked with restraint. “Can’t stop wantin’ you.”
Your fingers fisted in his shirt, tugging, urging. “Then don’t.”
He groaned, like you’d given him permission to unravel, and his hands roamed—up your back, down to cup the curve of your ass, pulling you tight to the hard line of him. You gasped, heat flooding you, your own hands sliding under his shirt, greedy for the feel of warm skin stretched over muscle.
His breath stuttered when you touched him, and he kissed you harder, desperate. One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head to his mouth, while the other slipped beneath your blouse, fingertips brushing bare skin.
“You’re drivin’ me crazy,” he murmured, teeth grazing your jaw, down your throat. “Fifteen damn years, and you come back lookin’ like this… how’m I supposed to keep my hands off you?”
You shivered, nails dragging across his chest. “Maybe you’re not.”
That broke him. His laugh was low, shaky, before it turned into another hungry kiss, heat rolling between you like wildfire.
He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed you back against the wooden beam. His hat fell to the dirt, forgotten, his mouth never leaving yours. Every grind of his hips left you both trembling, breathless, desperate for more.
“Tell me to stop,” he groaned, voice rough in your ear, though his body made it clear he didn’t want to. “Tell me—or I’m not stoppin’.”
But the way you kissed him back, the way your nails dug into his shoulders, the way your hips rolled against him—it wasn’t stop you wanted. It was everything.
His warning fell apart in your mouth the second you pulled him closer. No hesitation, no pause—your kiss was your answer.
And Rhett lost whatever hold he’d had left.
He hauled you tighter against him, one hand braced against the beam, the other sliding under your blouse until it palmed bare skin. His thumb dragged over the curve of your breast, tentative for half a second, and then you arched into his touch with a gasp. That was all the permission he needed.
“Christ,” he muttered, kissing down your throat, sucking at the soft skin until you whimpered. “You’re gonna kill me.”
Your hands scrabbled at his shirt until he yanked it over his head, tossing it aside. Heat radiated off him—every inch of him solid muscle under rough skin, his chest rising hard and fast against you. You touched him like you had a right to, nails scraping lightly over his stomach, and his hips jerked into you, grinding you against the thick press straining his jeans.
“Feel what you do to me?” His voice was broken glass, rough and desperate. “My whole life of wantin’ you, and now—fuck, darlin’, I can’t stop.”
“Then don’t, please don’t,” you whispered again, breath hot against his ear.
He groaned, low and guttural, before his hands went to your thighs, hitching your skirt higher as he lifted you. Your legs locked around him instinctively, and he pinned you against the beam, rutting against you hard enough to make you both cry out.
You fumbled at his belt, clumsy with need, and he cursed, helping you until the buckle clattered loose. The sound of his zipper lowering was drowned by his mouth finding yours again, hungry, consuming, while his fingers shoved your underwear aside.
The first slide of him against you tore a moan from your throat—wet heat against aching hardness. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath ragged, holding back even now. “Tell me you need it.”
“I need it,” you gasped, grinding against him shamelessly. “Need you, Rhett—please.”
That was it. That was the last tether snapping.
With one rough thrust, he pushed into you, stretching you, filling you until your nails bit into his shoulders. You cried out, head falling back against the beam, and he groaned, the sound raw, like he’d been starving and finally got a taste.
“Fuck—you feel so good,” he panted, hips pulling back only to slam forward again, harder, deeper. Each thrust knocked the air out of you, heat pooling low and tight until you thought you might shatter.
The barn smelled of hay and sweat, but all you could taste, all you could feel, was him. His mouth on your neck, your shoulder, his teeth catching on your skin as he drove into you with a rhythm that left you trembling.
Your moans echoed in the rafters, mixing with his rough curses, his voice breaking every time he whispered your name. His hand slid between you, finding that bundle of nerves with calloused fingers, circling until your whole body arched.
“That’s it,” he urged, breath hot against your jaw. “Come on, darlin’—wanna feel you lose it for me.”
And you did. The wave hit hard, crashing through you, your cry muffled against his shoulder as you clenched tight around him. That almost ended him.
“Where, baby, where can I—”
“Inside, Rhett baby, please, inside.” At the desperation in your voice, Rhett felt his thrusts faltering, stuttering, until he buried himself deep with a groan that shook through both of you. His release tore from him, hot and heavy, his forehead pressed to yours as if anchoring himself in you.
The first few minutes are just breathing—chest to chest, foreheads pressed together, feeling the tremor of each other’s heartbeat settle. Rhett doesn’t let go. His hands stay on you, cradling your back, brushing your hair from your damp face, as if he wants to memorize every inch of you in this moment.
“You good?” His voice is rough, low, almost a whisper, but every syllable carries weight.
“I’m… yeah,” you murmur, still trembling, knees weak, fingers clutching his shoulders.
He chuckles softly, shaking his head, a sound full of disbelief and something softer—wonder, maybe. “Damn. Thought I might’ve broken you.”
“Just… stunned,” you breathe, letting a laugh slip through despite yourself. “In the best way.”
Rhett dips down, lips brushing your temple in a gentle kiss, then your forehead. His fingers trace down your spine slowly, deliberately, grounding you. “C’mon,” he murmurs. “Gotta get you sorted before we end up like this forever.”
You stumble slightly, half from weakness, half from the lingering tension in your body. He catches you instantly, arms wrapping around your waist, holding you tight enough that you’re supported but not trapped. The heat between you hasn’t vanished—it hums, quiet now, like embers in the hay—but his touch is calming, steady, making the barn feel less cavernous, more intimate, more yours.
He guides you toward a stack of hay bales, gently helping you sit. He sits beside you, close enough that your thighs touch, your hands finding his again naturally. He brushes his thumb over the back of your hand, slow, deliberate.
“You okay?” he asks again, softer this time, almost shy. His earlier hunger has melted into something warm and real.
“I am,” you whisper, leaning into his shoulder. “Thanks… for… everythin’.”
“Always,” he murmurs, a low chuckle slipping past his lips before he can stop it. You lift your eyes to him, curious, and he just shrugs.
“Your accent,” he says, voice husky, teasing, his fingers brushing lightly over yours.
One brow quirks, playful but curious. “My accent? What about it?”
“When I first saw you at the rodeo… it had softened over the years. But now…” His gaze drops to your mouth for a heartbeat before returning to your eyes. “…it’s slipping back, little by little. And it’s driving me crazy.”
You bite your lip, a shiver running through you at the husky tone, and grin, a flush rising to your cheeks. “Guess… you’re bringin’ out the best in me.”
He smirks, leaning closer, the warmth of his chest brushing yours. “The absolute best,” he murmurs, fingers curling around your wrist, tugging you just slightly nearer, like he can’t resist it.
One of his hands cups your cheek, tilting your head toward him for a slow, lingering kiss that tastes of sweat, hay, and desire—but now it’s sweet, intimate. A quiet affirmation that you’re here, together, and this… whatever this is… isn’t going anywhere.
Minutes pass in silence. Your breathing slows, the tremors fade, and you finally allow yourself to sink into the comfort of his arms. Rhett’s hand slides around your waist, holding you like he’s afraid to let go, and you press closer, realizing for the first time that the fire between you isn’t just physical—it’s something deeper, something that’s always been there, waiting.
After you’ve both calmed down and gathered everything again, the two of you make your way out. The barn door creaks as Rhett pushes it open, letting in the cool night air. Stars sprinkle the sky, endless and bright above the prairie. You squint for a moment, adjusting to the light, but it hardly matters—the world feels smaller, more private, because his hand is still wrapped around yours.
He leads you down the dirt path toward the farmhouse, boots crunching against the gravel. Every step feels deliberate, measured, as if he’s memorizing the moment, the way your fingers curl into his, the way your shoulder brushes against his chest. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, steady and grounding, like you’ve been carried on a current that’s finally reached shore.
“Do you know,” he murmurs, voice low and husky, “I never stopped thinkin’ about you? Never stopped wonderin’ if… if you’d come back, if you’d still be you, if you’d still make my chest ache just by smilin’ at me?”
You squeeze his hand, unable to speak for the lump in your throat. “I came back,” you whisper, “I’m here.”
He stops, pulling you closer, thumbs brushing over your knuckles. The way he looks at you—it’s not lustful anymore, not just that fire from earlier—it’s something deeper, something permanent. Like he’s looking at the one person he was always meant to find. “Here you are,” he repeats, like a prayer. “And I… I’m never lettin’ you go.”
You smile, a little breathless, a little dizzy from the years of waiting compressed into this single night. “Never,” you echo.
He chuckles softly, tilting your face up to his, lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s gentle now, tender, full of promise. Not hurried. Not desperate. Just… sure. Anchored in everything that’s come before and everything that’s yet to be.
“Tomorrow,” he says against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you fully, “I’m takin’ you on a proper first date. No rushin’. No distractions. Just you and me. Startin’ the life we’ve been waiting for.”
You laugh softly, and it’s the happiest sound he’s ever heard. “I’d like that,” you murmur, still pressed against him, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your chest.
He dips his head, resting his forehead against yours, holding you there for a long, quiet moment. The prairie stretches out around you, but for the first time in fifteen years, it feels like home. Not the house you grew up in, not the town you left behind—but here, with him, right now.
“Forever, then?” he whispers, voice rough with emotion and certainty.
“Forever,” you confirm, and it feels like the simplest, truest answer you’ve ever given.
Hand in hand, you step out into the cool night, hearts aligned, leaving the dust, the rodeo, and fifteen years of waiting behind. Nothing else matters. Not the past, not the distance, not the time lost. All that matters is here, now—and the life you’ll build together from this moment forward.
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