I have been working on something lately, and it should be out soon, Iām sorry itās taking so long. BUT I have some fun news!!
I realized one of my favorite bands, the Wrecks, need some extra love, and in effort to spread some for their songs, Iām coming out with SIX fics based on some of my faves of theirs!
The first one is actually the one I am posting next and the other five are going to hopefully be out shortly after, though it may not be in this order.
I Hope itās Cold in New York, Brady Skjei angsty smut, āIād trade my soul // to get another night, give me one of yoursā
Sonder, Nathan Mackinnon angst with happy ending, āhold tight, weāll make it through // starlight, street signs // alright, itās all for you // long nights, our nights // soft like the month of Juneā
No Place Iād Rather Be, Matthew Tkachuk fluff, āi will be there when you call from that million dollar place // where we, we fell in love, looking over the waves // cause itās, itās only us, and thereās no other way // no matter where we are, aināt no place iād rather beā
Ugly Side, Quinn Hughes fluff, āI took your palm and read it clearly, explaining every line // but i donāt think you took it seriously // still i took my sweet time // cause i wish this could last forever // sitting here with your hand in mineā
Favorite Liar, Andrei Svechnikov smut, ācause Iām not buying the things you wanna say // Iāve heard āem all now anyway // youāre such a liar // my favorite liarā
Where are You Now?, Mason Marchment angst, āto hell with your closure // but i still want mineā
If you want to listen to the songs before the fics and wanna talk about them, please feel to message me!! And I hope you all enjoy them :)
omg this was one of the best nights of my life and I wish I could go back!! but literally every time I listen to gracie abrams I think of you and one of my best friends irl!!!
š§šØšš ā patrons know the chokehold this toxic sin-fest has on me and probably always will... in all seriousness, this is one of my favorite things i've ever published and i am so insanely proud of it. i hope you love it as much as i do <3
(spoiler ā not possible teehee)
18+ MDNI ā content warnings under the cut.
šš° ā profanity, innuendo, matthewās filthy mouth and lack of morals, cheating (not on matty or the reader), outdated/incorrect information about having sex for the first time, borderline too much degradation, some objectification to add a little spice, unprotected sex w a cheeky creampie (what did you expect from two morally bankrupt individuals written by me, a retired whore?), matthew being a noncommittal, possessive piece of shit joking about knocking people up for funzies
āāāāāāāāāāāā
āDāyou think youāre so addicted to my cock because you know I donāt give a fuck what you think about me? Or care if you think Iām a Nice Guy?ā
Even buried to the hiltābare with nothing between you and far too fucking close for comfortāMatthew Tkachuk runs his mouth like heās got nothing to lose and even less to prove. Heās insufferable, his only redeeming quality being the pulsing appendage threatening to split you in half as you buck in his lap.
With your hands braced against his hard chest for leverage, you drown out his grating voice, chasing the white-hot surges, bolts of lightning leading you to the brink of collapse with renewed vigor.
The sooner you come, the sooner heās gone.
āAll I care about, sweetheart, is fucking you good and hard. Giving it to you like the hungry, cockdrunk whore that you are.ā
You were warned about Matthew Tkachuck. Repeatedly. Warned about him and his complete lack of a filter, about his total disregard for anyoneās feelings but his own. His aversion to commitment, to monogamy, to propriety.
All the things that repulse you about the man lounging on expensive hotel sheets beneath youāas you do all the workālure you back to him in equal measure. He shouldnāt turn you on, but thatās exactly why he does. Heās all wrong, wrong, wrong.
Youāve been with Bill for nearly a decade, engaged for more than a year. Itāll be a spring wedding, probably. If the venue pans out, and the caterer finally calls you back with a final quote.
Perfect on paper.
He doesnāt pay attention to you the way he used to. Just throws money at the problem until he can bury himself in work again, undisturbed by you or nagging obligation.
Flowers for being three hours late, a necklace for missing dinner entirely. A trip overseas when he had to go into the office on your anniversary.
But heās nice, so fucking nice it hurts, and more loyal than the Golden Retriever he wants to adopt after the honeymoon. After youāre settled into a custom-build nestled comfortably in the suburbs and far away from the city. White picket fence, manicured lawn, barely-there speed limits.
It's all so nauseatingly idyllic. So perfectly attuned with what you thought you wanted, what you spent your childhood coveting.
All your single friends are jealous; your committed friends are resentful. Your family loves him, and even though youāve got a fucked up way of showing it, so do you.
And he loves you too. Heās just busy. Itāll be different once weāre settled, he says. You try to believe him, though not as hard as you should. You tell yourself it's because he doesnāt either.
Billās gotten lazy. Youāve gotten bored.
Youāre no angel, and never claimed to be. You just want to feel good.
Matthew barks out a dry laugh, almost like he can read your mind.
āYou havenāt been since I first got you on your knees at his birthday party. And definitely not after I popped that sweet cherry you were so adamant about saving for him."
Bill doesnāt fuck you. He never has.
He makes love to you. Itās that romance-novel tenderness that got you here in the first place. Slow, sweet, and nearly devoid of passion. Itās so gentle you have to think of him just to come.
How he fucks you.
How tightly he yanks your hair, craning your neck until it aches. How hard he kneads and smacks your ass, bullying the skin until you sob. How deep his cock reaches. And how he takes, takes, takes without forethought. How could you accept a lifetime of only tame rutting in the face of Pavlovian depravity?
Itās awful, and it's so profoundly selfish, but his everything has you in a bind.
Matthewās everything is ruining your life.
An uncharacteristic wave of guilt and sadness washes over you, and before you can catch yourself, youāre staring down at the engagement ring. The band constricts, digging into your finger like it's out for blood when you glimpse the indentation it left behind on Matthewās peck. You wince, then choke down the shame lodged in your throat, screwing your eyes shut to will it away.
āIf it's bothering you that much, take it off. Iāll keep it safe for you.ā āwinkā āI canāt imagine the weight of a rock like that, especially one you donāt even deserve. But, if you actually felt as guilty as you claim to, you wouldnāt be this wet on another manās cock. Donāt play saint now. Youāll ruin the fun.ā
You canāt do this right now; you canāt have this worn-out fight. So, you say what you always say even though youāve long since stopped trying to mean it.
āYou keep saying that, sweetheart. We should stop. This is the last time. But no matter what you say, you always come crawling back to me sooner or later because I have what you need. Because Iām not him. Because I fuck you better.ā
His words light you on fire. You hate it, but how deeply your body enjoys them is undeniable. How tightly you squeeze and flutter with every degrading line, choking his cock as you use him to satisfy your own perverted needs. How his brutal honesty, his refusal to let you forget your zealous participation in the affair for even a second, arches your back and hardens your nipples.
Even without all that evidence stacked against you, the blitzed-out look on your face says it all. One look at you and everyone would know just how right Matthew is.
āShut the fuck up,ā you growl.
You say it for the sake of saying it. To know, when you curl into Bill's side tonight, that you said something to deny his assessment of you.
But the last thing you want is for him to shut his mouth.
Not right now, not when youāre right thereā
āYou canāt hide from me, sweetheart, and you canāt lie to me. You canāt fool me, either. I see right fucking through you. It terrifies youāand you love it.ā
His raspy voice swims freely through your hollowed-out mind. It unwittingly thumbs through every unforgivable memory, like some sort of pornographic Rolodex.
Matthewās hips grinding against yours in darkened corners and dive-bar bathroom stalls and poker tables.
His hands fighting against hard-earned sweat in the foggy backseat of his car, battling to find purchase anywhere he can so he can keep rutting with reckless abandon before youāre expected home.
His fingertips burrowing into the sides of your throat, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to silence, hard enough to hurt.
Him spilling inside of you, ropes painting the sacred place white with no remorse or expectation of responsibility.
Mattyās hand over your mouth, urging you to be fucking quiet as he pistons in and out, in and out, keeping you pinned against the bathroom door, against the only thing standing between Bill and the worst discovery of his apple-pie lifeā
Old habits die hard.
Especially when itās one that always feels that fucking good. No matter how lecherous or immoral.
Or how badly the betrayal would hurt someone underserving and innocent.
āEven if you walk down that aisle and take his last name, youāll still belong to me. Wedding or not, this pathetic, weeping cunt belongs to me. But itās all gonna be okay, though. Donāt you worry that pretty, empty head. I donāt mind sharing my toys. Especially with someone who could never compete.ā
You can't compete where you don't compare.
He doesnāt want to be your boyfriend. He doesnāt want to be anyoneās boyfriend. He isnāt the Relationship Type. He doesnāt even want to be exclusive. Thatās part of his appeal, no matter how fervently you deny it. He doesnāt want more than pleasureāprimal, deviant pleasureāand thatās all you're looking for.
That's all you need.
āWhere do you want my load, dirty girl?ā
āInside. I-Inside me, please, Matty.ā
āRight answer.ā
The burst of warmth is like getting a perfect grade you didnāt earn. Or feeling the cash your sibling gave you in exchange for not ratting them out sitting in your back pocket. It's hard to feel bad about the wrong youāve done when the payoff is so deliciously worthwhile.
Matthew twitches, still hugged by your sensitive walls, and you shudder.
This is the high you chase every time you bend your morals until they splinter. The still nothingness that lays beyond the denouement, where everything is glowy and the pit inside you appears not-so-bottomless for once. The lack of expectations and obligations. The sheer freedom that stringless pleasure, that sensual self-indulgence provides.
Matthew doesnāt owe you anything, you donāt owe him anything either, and neither of you pretends otherwise.
And you sure as fuck donāt trip on his dirty laundry every time you walk into the bedroom.
āIf that doesnāt take,ā Matthew flicks his hips in emphasis, āā¦let me know when and where you want your wedding present, sweetheart.ā
You donāt answer. You push his hands away and roll off of him unceremoniously. But he keeps talking.
Matthew is always talking.
āOh, and before I forget, would you be a dear and let Billy know I wonāt be able to make it for his bachelor party? I donāt know why, but I have the oddest feeling that something desperately needing my attention will come up.ā
āāāāāāāāāāāā
All of the stories and fantasies written or discussed on this blog by the owner or by followers are purely fictional and are not intended to offend any parties.
āHe will understand when it is too late that it is easier to love.ā
- Dejan Stojanovic
ššššššš(š) ā fwb!andrei svechnikov x reader
ššššššš ā the reader is andrei's favorite girl, but she isn't his only. for awhile, the arrangement was comfortable. he'd show up whenever he was in town, they'd fuck, and then he'd leave. rinse and repeat. so how will andrei react when their routine comes to a screeching halt?
šš®š¦šš„š« š«ššŖš®šš¬š ā "fwb/hookup where the reader is in another city but she's his regular in that city when he's there on trips? could be some delicious angst and pining and smut obvi"
ššššššš(š) ā alcohol mention + discussion of it as an unhealthy/unsafe coming mechanism (ngl, our boy is at least tipsy for most of this because he can't do emotions like an adult), toxic relationship dynamics/behavior, jealous/possessive!andrei, emotional pain that i won't pretend to be sorry for, discussion of therapy. 18+ content - minors dni or you will be blocked.
šš āĀ 8k
gif credit āĀ @pyotrkochetkov
āāāāāāā IT BEGINS āāāāāāā
Andrei Svechnikov was five minutes away from putting his head through the nearest wall, concrete and brick be damned.
He had done everything right, and, still, it wasn't enough. It never was. Nothing stuck. Nothing worked.
Nothing, nothing, nothing.
More often than not, the game feels like he's just dragging his teammates through an endless pool of molasses, unassisted and unappreciated. He should be riding the high of last season, a career-best. Instead, he's nursing something bitter concealed by a crumpled paper bag.
He didn't plan on getting drunk, but he hoped that if he wound up with a bottle in his hand tonight, it would be of the celebratory variety. Not the pathetic, woeful sort that sent him stumbling down the sidewalk.
Earlier, he'd sat in the visitor's locker room until the lights went out, and then he sat in his hotel room sulking like he was in grade school.
Andrei stared at the wall, ignoring the incessant ringing of his phone until the awful minimalist pattern started to crawl up and bully the ceiling. By that point, his frustration had molted. The calloused exterior peeled away to expose pure fury. He stormed out of the building before he could do any serious damage.
Mindlessly, he found the closest liquor store, bought the first handle he saw, and then let his feet do all the thinking. And, soon enough, he was precisely where he needed to be; only one person could rectify his sour mood, and now she was just an elevator ride away.
When the doors pull open on your floor, Andrei abandons the half-empty bottle in the planter to his left, the one housing an obnoxious plastic ficus. He never liked the pretender plant and seldom passed up an opportunity to talk your ear off about how ridiculous he found it.
If the plant isn't real, then what's the point?
He smiles to himself as your phantom laughter tickles his ears. Andrei liked making you laugh, even if it was at his expense.
Memories of the last time he saw you dance through his mind, all blurry and hot. He'd never played with ice cubes in bed before, but he was dying to feel the satisfying chill again. Maybe, if he's feeling particularly adventurous, he'll finally dabble with the massage oil candle perched on your nightstand.
He's so preoccupied with his own mental filth that he doesn't considerāor hearāthat you have a guest until you crack open the door.
You don't greet him with lace, velvet, or even a smile.
Face twisted in surprise, you swiftly maneuver your body between the living room and his rosy eyes. You don't look like you were expecting him at all.
Which is strange, considering the fact that he'd slapped a magnetized version of the team's schedule onto your fridge as he was slipping out a few months ago.
Sure, he hadn't called or texted beforehand, but you knew he was in town tonight. So, why were you dressed like you were going out on the town?
"You look nice," Andrei says through a lopsided grin.
You loved when he smiled like that, but he couldn't understand why. He thought it made him look like an idiot.
You glance over your shoulder so quickly he almost misses it. The pit in his stomach widens. You've never hesitated like this before.
Only some honeyed sentences of his are well-received. Most of his compliments felt like the most vulgar in his arsenal, and were met with sarcastic quips or a light shoveāboth rightfully warranted. But even when you can't stand the sound of his voice, or even bear the sight of him, you always say something.
"Thanks," you mumble, carefully monitoring the space behind you in your periphery.
Andrei peers over your shoulder.
There's an open bottle of wine on your coffee tableāthe bottle he sent last month when he royally pissed you off. Again.
(He still didn't understand what about his Vegas post ticked you off so much. The strippers were very classy, and the rest of it was relatively tame for him. It could've been worse and he's got a camera roll to prove that.)
And... there are two glasses.
One with your shade stamped along the rim and one without. Andrei would've assumed you invited a friend over after workāMaybe someone from the office? Or the graduate student down the hall you'd grown fond of?āif it weren't for the cagey look in your wide eyes and the way you instantly barred him from waltzing as was typical for him.
You're blinking too frequentlyāa nervous tick he knew you inadvertently adopted in grad school. Your breathing is erratic, full of half-inhales and sputtering exhales. And your shoulders are too tense for his liking.
Something's off. Wrong, even.
He won't ask what's going on. If you want him to know, you'll tell him. Until then, it's none of his fucking business.
Instead, he asks, "Did you catch the game? Scored twice in just over a minute in the second."
Andrei doesn't know why he's talking about hockey right now. Maybe the briny alcohol is starting to catch up with him, maybe not. You don't even care about hockey or that he plays it professionally. You don't give a shit about the Cup or his stats. Andrei could change the fabric of the game, and nothing would change between you two.
He always liked that about this thing. You didn't follow him like a lost puppy, or cart him around like a trophy; you just let him be. It's nice to have someone who doesn't see him as a cog in the machine or a rug on the ladder of social clout. At least someone sees him first and his occupation second.
"I did, actually. You had a nice hit in the third, too."
He wants to laugh. He didn't put the magnet on your fridge because he hadn't wanted you to miss a game. He can count the number of times you've sat through more than a period with one hand. And, to his knowledge, you've never been inside an arena.
Andrei put it up there so you'd know when to expect himāso you'd know which nights to keep open.
"Very funny," Andrei chuckles, but you don't join him. His face droops. "Wait, are you being serious?"
"It was already on when I got to the bar, so I caught parts of it," you explain with a shrug.
"Bar? What bar?"
His interrogation is making you antsy. You're rocking on the balls of your feet, an infuriating movement you only do when you're trying to hide something.
This only makes Andrei more irritated. Why the fuck is he still loitering in your hallway, and what the fuck are you stalling for?
What he's got planned for your body will take a couple of hoursāat least, and it's already a quarter past eleven.
If you dillydally any longer, the coffee shop down the street will be out of pastries before either of you rouses tomorrow morning, and he wasn't leaving the city without an almond croissant.
"Uh, the one we went to after that horrible New Years' party two years ago," you answer. The words are strained, as if being honest with him physically pains you. For all he knows, it might. "The one with $2 pitchers and the poker table in the back."
"You wore that," Andrew scoffs and lazily gestures to your clothes, "...there? I didn't give you a pair of thousand-dollar heels so you could wreck them in a shit-hole dive bar."
Your tongue pokes your cheek as you bite back every foul curse bubbling up your throat. Head cocked to the side, you push back. Though, not in the way he likes. "Oh, is that right? Normally when you give someone a gift for their birthday, they're freeĀ to doĀ asĀ they please with it. Especially if it arrived two months late."
"Not this shit again," Andrei groans as he massages the knots in his temples.
He thought you would be over this by now. He was busy. He forgot. He made up for it with absurdly priced shoes. (He overheard you gushing over them with one of his teammate's wives onceānot that it mattered.) Time to move on.
"Are you going to let me in or not? I don't mind taking you against the wall, but I don't think Mrs. Shipley would appreciate another free show."
His wink has no effect on you, much to his displeasure. None of his usual tricks are working tonight. It's making him feel more pathetic than before.
Then, he hears it. The nail in his coffin.
"Babe? Are you coming back to bed?"
The clarity he's overcome with is sudden and scalding. It burns the way his tongue did when he was eight and got stuck to the frosty pole of a street sign.
The radio silence, your peculiar behavior, the wineāthe nearly-faded bouts of discoloration peppering your collarbone, the fucked up buttons, the dress shoes parked neatly beside the door... it all makes sense now.
Andrei sees red.
"Too good for me now, are you? Found someone better than me, babe?" Andrei spits out the pet name like its rotten with a gust of disbelief.
It's wrong and juvenile.
His terms of endearment were leagues better than that generic garbage the boy in your bedroom levied on you, as was the man who called you them.
You sigh as if he's the problem.
Andrei mashes his teeth together.
"Please, can we not do this right now? We'll talk about this another time, I promise. Just... just not tonight, okay?"
He chuckles, bitter and dark, at your plea and steps forward, swallowing the invisible buffer you'd put up. "Why not, kŠ¾ŃŃŠ½Š¾Šŗ? Are you embarrassed by me?" (kitten/kitty)
Andrei knows he's being cruel, but he doesn't care. And even though your brow is crumpled and your lips are pressed into a sharp line, he knows you enjoy it.
He isn't sure you even realize, but you started clenching your thighs together before he finished his first question. Despite his white-hot temper, satisfaction bleeds through his chest. This isn't a "no," it's a "not right now." This is just how you got sometimes.
Though, it's still infuriating to be temporarily cast aside for someone who is undoubtedly average.
"Andrei, I didn't want to do this now or like this, but, since you've made it clear we can't handle anything like adults," you state in a voice he's never heard as you pull the door until it's almost closed.
It's firm and detached. Like you're passing an assignment off to your intern or dictating an email to your assistant, not addressing the man who has spent the better half of a decade memorizing your body inside and out.
He's holding you like water between his palms, and for the first time, Andrei's uncertain of where he ranks in your life, and the powerāor, rather, lack thereofāhe currently wields.
Your brow is furrowed, so at least he knows you're feeling as shitty as he is.
You continue, albeit begrudgingly, because you always need things to be your way, on your terms. "I met someone. He works on the floor above mine, and he's really sweet. Thoughtful, too, and I actually think it could be something someday. Something real. Which is why we can't do whatever we've been doing anymore. I didn't want to tell you like this, but at least we're both on the same page now, right?"
Andrei can physically feel his brain and body digesting your words. No matter how harshly or vigorously he chews, he still feels as though he's choking.
How dare you make it seem like he's forcing your hand? He isn't the one causing conflict by upending the well-oiled dynamic.
This has to be one of the most absurd things to ever spill from your pretty mouth. And that's including the time he flew you to Vail for the long weekend, and the altitude (and the expensive champagne) had you giggling nonsense into his chest for hours.
There was absolutely no way you could find someone worth giving him up for. Not ever, but certainly not in the small window of time since he fucked you last.
So, he rejects the information and trudges onward. Business as usual.
"I leave for Vancouver tomorrow night. Call me when you're done playing games, alright?" He grumbles with a petulant clench of his jaw.
He swivels on his heel and shoves his tense hands into his coat pockets. Andrei is halfway to the elevator when you call out to him.
"That's rich coming from you."
He hated when you were like this, all moody and vindictive. The sex spurned from hours of his screaming and your tears was undeniably addictive, as was the slow, apologetic rutting that inevitably followed, but sometimes it wasn't worth all the exhaustion. He much preferred when you decided to be agreeable.
You could be so good for him when you wanted to be.
Your hectic schedule and his unconventional job limited the time you could spend together, and yet, you insisted on wasting precious time on petty arguments and melodramatic ranting. For the life of him, he couldn't understand why you wouldn't just let anything go. Wouldn't leave him alone. Things are just fine the way they are. Why fuck it all up with accountability and commitment?
He doesn't dignify your outburst with a response.
As he steps into the elevator, he fully intends to make a show of avoiding your gaze, but when he looks up...
...your door is already closed.
Andrei tells himself he doesn't care. He pins his anger on your lack of courtesy; you should've told him you weren't available so he wouldn't have trudged over to your apartment for no god damn reason.
He wasn't angry about the loser in your apartment, making you laugh and drinking his wine after taking you to a grimy barāthe grimy bar he took you to first.
You weren't exclusive and never had been. You weren't his girlfriend. Not even close.
He had a "you" in every market, nearly one in every city. There wasn't anything you gave him or did that he couldn't get elsewhereāand easier.
You meant nothing. It was just sex. Strictly physical.
So, why is it your name he chants like a prayer as he spills himself inside your ill-fitting substitute not even an hour later?
āāāāāāā IT PERSISTS āāāāāāā
When a mutual friend told him, Andrei laughed.
Big and loud, till his stomach ached and his eyes were misty, because it was too ridiculous to be true.
He knew this guyāSteveāwas just a phase.
Before Andrei, you were Serious Relationship Girl. But, you'd made an exception for him. For the dashing Russian who eagerly paid your tab before he even knew your name, then won it in a game of pool.
You'd changed, and now, you were scratching an itch. You'd get your fill of dinner dates and cheesy Instagram posts and whatever else moronic people in relationships did, and be bored of him come spring.
Andrei was content to wait. No matter who you dated or for how long, you always came back to him. Without fail, Andrei would always trump any of the nameless, interchangeable chumps you entertained.
One photo flips that immutable truth on its arrogant head.
Andrei deletes his Instagram after seeing the wide grin on your tear-streaked face and the blinding rock weighing down your left hand.
The lips on your cheek send him back to the first time he saw the usurper. It was the morning after you blockaded the door and shooed him away like some pathetic Girl Scout who only had Toffee-tastic and TrefoilsĀ left.
He walked Maddie (Mandy? Melissa?) down to her Uber, lied through his teeth about calling the next time he was in town, and hopped into the shower. As much as he yearned to stew under the boiling water until it flushed the hangoverāand last night's clingy mistakeāout of his system and down the drain, he couldn't.
Andrei had a heaping box of baked goods to collect and a bridge to mend.
Looking back, Andrei should've realized when Rose, the teenaged barista who cared more for comics than customer service, asked him if you'd forgotten something before taking his order. He thought it was an odd, but he didn't have the energy to press. Or the time to spare, for that matter.
The seventeen year old offered up an explanation anyway; she assumed you sent him back to grab the almond croissant you left behind when you picked up two coffees just twenty minutes prior. He couldn't shake the strange twist in his gut, but wordlessly went along with it, figuring it was more efficient to chalk the unexplainable up as a case of mistaken identity.
He had the bright pink box balanced atop one hand as the other rapped against your door. He heard footsteps on the other side, but they didn't sound right.
Sometimes, usually in the morning, you'd add a skip or a hop to your gait because it "boosted circulation." Andrei never saw the correlation or tried it himself, but he did find it endearing. The steady thump, thump, thump that moved toward the front door lacked that jovial quirk, causing the knot in his stomach to tighten.
When the door swung open, Andrei considered storming straight through the living room to barrel into the back bedroom. He'd come here to woo you, not some douche-canoe in tailored khakis and a jewel-tone dress shirt.
He doesn't recall a fleece Patagonia vest, but he's sure there was one. If it wasn't layered over the gingham button-down, it was folded neatly somewhere, anxiously awaiting its equally predictable owner.
But, he reckoned his superficial assessment would've been more forgiving had you been the one to empty his balls last night. Instead of Raya Blonde #4, who insisted she call him "daddy," even though he noticeably recoiled each time she did.
"Hi, can I help you?" asked his adversary.
Andrei remained silent, blinking through his disbelief. He'd been kicked to the curb in favor of this nobody in a bow-tie? Un-fucking-believable.
The man sighed. "You look like a nice guy and all, but we didn't order anything and I have a deposition in thirty across town. So, I don't have time to participate in any polls or hear about the extended warranty on your newest home security system. But, if you need to circle back, we should be home around six this evening."
Since when had you become the better half of a royal We? And what right did this stranger have to refer to your apartment as his home?
This "nice guy" wanted to knock out his replacement's teeth. The headlines flashed across his mind, so he thought better of it.
Instead, Andrei painted a fake smile on his face and lied for the second time that morning. He feigned embarrassment and claimed he had the wrong apartment number.
Steve simply nodded and told him to "take it easy." Then, he shut the door in Andrei's face.
"Who was it?"
The guy who actually deserved to use your expensive shampoo and steal sips of your coffee, Andrei thought to himself indignantly.
"Just some guy with a box of donuts."
They were croissants, asshole.
Which, if Steve was as "thoughtful" as you claimed the night before, he would have deduced that from the stamp on the box. You whole-heartedly believed the almond croissants were the only thing worth consuming from The Early Bird. You talked incessantly about this to anyone who'd listen and to some who didn't.
It was basic shit. Foundational, even.
Tailored Khakis didn't know you at all and, yet, he was walking around your home like he owned the place. And, to make matters worse, every single one of the batch in Andrei's box had been stale.
Steve didn't understand you back then, and he didn't understand you now. That much was obvious, given his choice in restaurants.
A year ago, there wasn't a dollar amount great enough to get you to spend an evening at Art's. Andrei practically dragged you in kicking and screaming last time.
You hated the stuffy atmosphere and the minuscule dishes with exorbitant prices, mainly because both attracted a pompous crowd who mistreated the overworked, underpaid staff. Their disrespect made your skin crawl. And the parking situation was a circus.
Andrei knows he shouldn't be here, but he doesn't care.
Everyone's nauseatingly-perfect pearlescent invitations arrived in the mail just days after Steve announced your engagement, but Andrei's never came. The slight ate at him for weeks.
Eventually, he decided that you deliberately omitted him from the guest list. He couldn't really blame you for that. Seeing him would remind you of your shared belief that marriage was stupid. "An archaic, patriarchal institution," was your exact phrasing, if he was remembering correctly.
He lifted the date and time off of a friend's calendar and he got the location from the tag in your best friend's Instagram story. If anyone knew what Andrei had done in order to be here tonight, they'd accuse him of stalking (and Lawyer Steve would slap him with a restraining order faster than you could say the square's full name).
Once you understood Andrei was only acting in your best interestāand had ample time to cool down, you wouldn't be upset with him. You couldn't be. Rather, you'd thank him for saving you from making the biggest mistake of your entire life. Preferably with an evening of doggy style and reverse cowgirlāand a blowjob.
Definitely a blowjob.
God, he missed your mouth. It was like his own slice of heaven and he'd gone too long without. Andrei's gotten hundreds of blowjobs all over the continent, and even a few overseas, but they all paled in comparison to any of yours.
You did something marvelous with your tongue that made his eyes roll back into his skull, and you weren't afraid to explore and experiment. He could nut right here on the sidewalk imagining your nose nestling against the soft patch of hair at the base of his cock, your nails biting into his ass as he fucks your throat.
He groans as he slyly adjusts himself in his pants. Thankfully, he'd have your lips wrapped around himāwhere they belongedāsoon enough.
For all the planning he did, Andrei hadn't bothered to come up with an entrance strategy. Honestly, he assumed you'd see him through the frosted window and run straight into his arms. He was so sure of this that he only put enough quarters in the meter for twenty minutes, and he felt like that was being generous.
The betrayal in your pretty eyesāhe hadn't come up with a plan for that either. Watching his mere attendance suck the joy and levity out of your smile feels like someone scooping out his insides with a dull spoon. He could see your heart rate increase and your palms dampen from five feet away.
Andrei wants the cracks in the pavement to pull apart and drag him under. This was a horrible idea, maybe his worst yet.
He knew he wasn't a good person. He knows he should've treated you with more respect before you started slipping away, but he never, ever meant to make you hurt. Not like this. Not ever.
This was low, even for him. Pain overtakes your face wholly and knocks the air clear from his lungs.
But, you'd get past this. You always did. He'd fucked up in the past. Said terrible things when he was drunk, left without saying goodbye when he didn't think it mattered that much, and even floated the odd fling right under your nose. He might be a selfish pigāa moniker you'd bestowed upon him after he told a herd of puck bunnies you were nothing more than friendsābut he cared. Deeply.
Andrei wasn't good at showing it, but he'd do better in the future. He'd forfeit this round if it meant he'd have you again.
It's Steve who nudges you towards the door, though, his face full with recognition.
Andrei's eyes go wide. Was this his way of waving a white flag? He doubts you would've divulged the nature of your relationship to your husband-to-be, but from the looks of it, Steve's already put the pieces together on his own.
Maybe he was more observant than Andrei gave him credit for.
"What you doing here, Andrei?"
No pleasantries; you cut straight through to the point. Always a straight-shooterāat least that hadn't changed in his absence.
Andrei doesn't recognize the shade on your lips. There's a different charm on the chain looped around your neck. His gilded "A" is nowhere to be found and he hates it.
Your heart is deep blue, a frozen-solid rock in your chest. But, your pageant smile never slips. To the on-lookers passing by and party-goers gawking behind the window, you look like two old friends soaking up a pleasant happenstance.
Andrei knows better. The calmer you are, the more afraid he should be. His anger could be explosive in short bursts, but your rage was quiet and persistent. You could hold a grudge as long as you wanted. Forever, if need be.
You, an adult with immense professional power and a Roth IRA, still hated Jeremy Goodman from third grade, and Andrei's most recent crime was far worse than stealing a tub of blue sparkly Play-Doh.
"You can't marry him."Ā
That's all he wants to say. That's all he can say.
You can't marry Steve.
You can't throw everything away for a guy who plays disc golf on the weekends and "summers" in Montauk. You can't spend the rest of your life doting on someone who owns more than one pair of loafers and unironically enjoys Maroon 5.
You shouldn't be fidgeting with the collar of a modest white dress like it's choking the life out of you, shivering outside of the most pretentious restaurant in the city like you're eager to go back.
You should be straddling his lap on your couch with the insipid reality show he pretends to hate blaring in the background, but long forgotten. You should be fussing over the fresh cut on his busted lip while he lazily traces shapes and secrets in his mother-tongue onto your inner thighs. You should be badgering him about getting more sleep, all while burning the midnight oil to meet your next deadline. You should be on the roof, choreographing comically-bad dance numbers and sipping wine straight from the bottle.
You belong in the sacred oasis he fashioned out of your bed. You belong with him, ruling the kingdom inside the comfort of your bedroom. No pressure, no prying eyes. Not here, with Steve and a gaggle of vulgarians, the metal band wrapped around your finger like a noose.
Your question, small and reluctant, pushes forward. "Why not?"Ā
Andrei is terrified he'll move too fast or say the wrong thing, but he takes a step closer to you.
His heart leaps when you do the same.
The small gesture of reciprocity emboldens him, but not in the way it should. The wrong words escape before he can catch them. "Because he's not going to make you happy. You can tell just by looking at him. He's all wrong. He's boring. Marrying him would be a mistake, and I know you; you don't make mistakes."
"I hope you didn't fly all the way out here just to say that."
Relief bursts like a dam in his chest. He was 5,237 miles away five hours ago and you knew. You knew this grand gesture was inconvenient for him. You, standing stoic and cold, still kept up with his schedule.
So, for that meager bone and for what feels like the first time, he offers you a truth.
"Because I love you. Because I am in love with you."
You scoff, sharp and honest.
His face wilts alongside his fragile, deflated heart. You're looking at him like he's a bratty toddler whose frowning just because their wild demand couldn't be met, not as a vulnerable man venturing into the wild unknown. Sure, the stare is aggravating, but it's the flicker of pity in the corner of your eyes that sinks him.
"You don't love me, Andrei," you say, voice just above a whisper.
Tears well your eyes and his palms are itching to pull you close.
And he'll still want that, even after what you say next.
"You're selfish and you've always been selfish. You don't love me, you love having me to yourself. You love knowing that no matter what you do or say, you have somewhere to run to when your life's going to shit and you can't stand to be alone. You don't want me to marry Steve because you don't want to deal with yourself."
He opens his mouth to interrupt, but you silence him with your manicured pointer finger. You've had years to prepare for this unlikely confrontation. Years for your pain to fester and scar. Years of practice screaming at the sky and in the mirror before bed.
He's going to hear you now, and, then, he'll likely never hear from you again.Ā Andrei knows that, but he's still going to fight.
He may lose this battle, but he'll eventually win the war.
"I won't be your dirty little secret anymore. I won't hide in my apartment and I won't pretend we're "just friends" when you allow me to be seen with you in public. I can't let you bulldoze your way into my life when it's convenient for you, just for you leave without so much as a second glance once your bruised ego is all better. I deserve more than random midnights and an empty confession."Ā
Andrei's face pinches in a way he's never felt before. His voice is verging on collapse, but he keeps talking. Even if he can't win you back, at least talking keeps you here for now. "It wasn't empty. You of all people should know I don't say that shit lightly. Please, let me fix this. I will do anything, kŠ¾ŃŃŠ½Š¾Šŗ." (kitten/kitty)
"It must be easy for you to say shit now, when you don't have to act on it. You get to say anything you want, all without having to take any responsibility for how your inconsistency has wrecked me over and overāfor years. You can say whatever you want and just walk away. No consequences, just like always."
He knows it feels good to watch his confidence falter, sees that in the tilt of your mouth.
It's you who takes a step closer this time. Andrei struggles to enjoy it now.
"Like always, you waited until it was convenient for you to be honest. You waited until you felt threatened. You never intended on loving me. Not in any way that mattered. Not until you saw I could be loved by someone else. You want to make up for the pain you've caused? Find of shred of respect for me in that miserable head of yours and admit that you strung me along, knowing how much I loved you. Then, do what you do best; leave. Just go and let me enjoy my engagement party."
Loved. Past tense.
He wills his eyes to show his conviction. A clean window into his inner turmoil. He's caught between what he wants and what he's used to.
The unknown and the comfortable.
When things get hard, he flees. You're right about thatāyou always see right through him. When given the choice, he always choses himself. Risks are calibrated for his benefit, and his benefit alone.
You both know that, but you know that best.
Your candor stings, but it's real. He sees it every day in the mirror. His pride refuses to concede. His ego prevents him from agreeing where and when it matters.
He doesn't say anything else because he can't, though not from a lack of inner turmoil.
"God, you can't even do that, can you?" you huff, eyes trained on the velvety sky.
If this were any other night, you'd point out the constellations. He'd feign confusion, so you'd take his hand in yours and trace the luminous dots. You both would know it was an act. But, sometimes it was nice to pretend, even if for just a little while.
Tonight, on his darkest night, the sky feels daunting. It looms overhead like its waiting for the best moment to pull him into the vast emptiness. A moment that will never come; Andrei knows that would be a kindness he's underserving of.
"And you think you love me? You don't even know what love means," you mutter as you kick a stray pebble. It bounces off his shoe and lands in the murky gutter; how fitting. "I sincerely hope one day you do. I hope that you can't think straight whenever they walk into a room and that your body sings when they smile at you. I hope that you feel safe and understood, and then I hope she rips your stubborn heart out of your chest. Then, maybe, you'll understand how hollow you've made me feel."Ā
He wants to scream. He wants to scream until his lungs burn and his throat bleeds. You don't believe Andrei knows what love means, but he does. He knows he does.
He just didn't realize until this moment, unfortunately.
Violent clarity washes over him like a bucket of ice water.
He becomes too aware of how alive he once felt in your warmth, and that alone tears through his defenses.
He traces every waking thought he's had throughout the years, everyday from sun-up to sun-down, back to you.
He understands why he measures the passage of time with the nights you've spent together.
You're in his dreams and in his head; it's your voice he hears when he's on the ice and needs strength. You're everywhere.
He's wasted years stupidly trying to erase the marks you've made on him, only to realize now that they were what made him special all along.
A strangled sound precedes his final croak, "Just because you're hurting doesn't mean I'm not."Ā
"This is supposed to be one of the happiest nights of my life, and you can't even let me have that," you sob.
Tears streaming down your face. It'll be a bitch to fix. Hopefully, the happy couple and their gaggle of guests already got their photos.
Andrei's shell cracks and he's crying with you. But is he crying for the pain he's caused or the goodness he's lost?
"I wanted one night that didn't revolve around you." Your voice fractures. "Just one night where I didn't have to pretend to be shiny. I wanted fond, untainted memories. But you couldn't resist, could you?"
Andrei will carry this memory for the rest of his life. Your downcast eyes and trembling lips are burned in his mind.
But, a twisted part of his heart feels at peace. It's true what they say.
Misery does love company.
āāāāāāā IT ENDS āāāāāāā
ā FIVE YEARS LATER.
Andrei never thought much about having kids of his own.
He didn't hate them, that wasn't the problem. He liked his nieces and nephews just fine, and it wasn't the worst thing in the world when his teammates brought their own children around. He simply never had a reason to picture having any of his own.
That changed when he saw you across the crowded ballroom, a toddler on your hip and another safely growing beneath the swell of your protruding stomach.
He knew you had a little girl now and another on the way, but he hadn't anticipated how his heart would sink to his toes as he watched your husband smooth his hand over the bump. Nor had he mentally prepared for the existential crisis the sweet gesture would send him hurtling into.
A lot happened in your absence. He won the Cup he'd always wanted, built a home he wanted to grow old in, and even made a half-hearted attempt at dating that didn't turn into anything real.
Turns out, it's impossible to fall in love with someone when you can't fall out of love with someone better.
He could never moved on because he could never get over you. Andrei couldn't bring himself to, despite how badly he might've wanted that from time to time.
Desperately and fruitlessly, he clung to any glimmer of hope. Real or imagined, it didn't matter. It was enough for him. For the past five years, he's been content to live in delusion.
Judith, the therapist he's been seeing for close to a year now, thought seeing you settled would help him close that chapter of his life, but it only made things worse. Watching you at peace with how your life panned outāwithout him in itāfelt like a sledgehammer to his glasshouse fantasies.
As the newlyweds cut their cake, Andrei began inching his way to you. Your husband and daughter were nowhere to be found, which felt like an invitation, even though he knew in his heart it wasn't.
Something inside him cracks when he steps beside you. He can't tell if something crumbled or if it finally broke free.
For a long while, Andrei just stands there. He knows you won't be the first to speak, but he's petrified of losing the moment the second he opens his mouth. He's never been good with words or you.
You, the only person who's ever truly known him, have always been the most difficult person for him to talk to.
So, he nurses his cocktail and waits for the liquor to feel like courage.
"Does he make you laugh?" he ultimately asks.
The words quiver under the pressure of the interaction.
Andrei wonders if he missed out on hearing your heart stop at the sound of his voice because of the DJ's grating voice charging through the sound system. He'd never admit this to anyone, and only recently has he admitted it to himself, but he loves how your heartbeat sounds.
Your face might've remained a steel mask and your words may have upheld the facade you erected to protect yourself from him, but your heart never lied. Its homey thrum shed more light and revealed more secrets than your mouth ever did in the decade since that first night you spent together.
He'd give anything to hear it one last time.
"He doesn't make me cry."
Andrei doesn't know what he expected your reply to be, or if there would be one at all. He imagined whatever you chose to say to him would feel like you were wringing his heart out like a soggy towel, his adoration collecting in a pathetic puddle at your feet.
And, for once, his imagination matches reality.
Nevertheless, he persists. He's better about that now, fighting for things he cares a great deal about.
"If one thing had been different, would everything be different today?" He doesn't wait for your answer before rephrasing the question like he'd practiced with Judith during their session yesterday. "In another life, do you think it could've been me?"
"Who's the reason it's not you in this life?"
Your words are bitter, but your tone is kind and gentle. Even when you're hurting, you're still cushioning his fall.
That breaks Andrei's heart all over again.
"I never said this to youāat least, not with the right intentions, and I know it's already too late, but I need you to know that I do love you," he rasps, barely dislodging the last bit out from his molars.
He's grateful you're not standing face-to-face because he's doubtful his confession was formidable enough to push through his anxiety.
Propelled by Dalmore 62 and mounting, unadulterated desperation, he keeps speaking, "Maybe I always did, but I was just too wrapped up in myself to see it. I don't know. But, what I do know is that I will love you for the rest of my life, Š“ŃŃŠ° Š¼Š¾Ń." (my soul)
He doesn't need to translate for you to understand him. It was what started your biggest fight.
Andrei slurred it into your ear once nearly seven years ago. He'd gotten wasted downtown and someone called you to come to retrieve him. Apparently, he spent the entire night wallowing over you and your situationāthe one he trapped you both in, and only wanted to go home with you. Sometime between you scraping him off of the sidewalk and tucking him into your bed, he caved.
You were understandably upset. And so fucking tired of him tugging you around like a broken doll and expecting you to take the spoon-fed misery with a smile.
He behaved poorly and treated you worse because he knew you didn't have it in you to leave him.
But, it was one thing to dance around the truth and quite another to drunkenly confess it. The following day he denied itāeven went as far as to claim you only heard what you wanted to hearāand promptly stormed out of your apartment.
Andrei's fear and embarrassment kept you apart for five months. You never brought it up again. Neither did he.
Until now.
"Andrei, please don't waste your heart on me. Our time came and went. It's over now."
His composure is dwindling, but he needs to know one more thing. Just one more, and he'll put down the shovel. He needs to hear you say what he's only realized recently, then he'll leave well enough alone.
"But we were something, don't you think so?"
Over a thundering Top 40 remix, Andrei hears Steve calling your name. The summons is accompanied by adolescent giggles that sound too much like yours. The happy chime is suffocating and perfect all at once. He allows himself to indulge for a split second, imagining that the child is half of him instead.
"If my wishes came true, it would've been you. Goodbye, ŠŗŠ¾ŃŠøŠŗ." (kitten, masculine)
As Andrei looks through the window of the life he could've had if he'd only been brave enough to want it in practice, he recognizes that it would've been easier to have loved and lost you than to have never gotten to love you at all.
But, he can't change the past. The sun's already sunk behind that horizon.
He straightens his dinner jacket and downs the rest of his weeping glass. A wedding is the last place he wants to be while submerged in a sea of self-pity and heartache.
It takes every ounce of self-control to keep himself from reaching for your hand as he passes your family on the dance floor.
Your head doesn't even turn.
The subtle changeātangible evidence that he no longer matters the way he once didāfeels like a dagger straight through his chest.
Your husband catches his eye, though, and Andrei hopes Steve has the balls to sucker-punch him right here, right now. Lord knows he deserves it and more.
But, the other man simply smiles. As if he's thanking Andrei for giving upāfor setting you free.
Your husband's gratitude makes your old flame sick to his stomach with guilt.
Another revelation hits him like a freight train, but all he can do is stand there and submit to the collision. Helpless, and anchored in place with silvery rivers streaming down his flushed cheeks.
The only person who's been playing games is Andrei. It's only ever been him. This whole time, he'd been competing against himself. Locked in this one-sided war, each win was a thinly-veiled loss that he was too immature and selfish to see until this moment.
Shame bogs him down like a cinderblock.
Andrei prays his love for you will outlive his bottomless regret. He doesn't think he can survive his self-imposed sentence without it.
All of the stories and fantasies written or discussed on this blog by the owner or by followers are purely fictional and are not intended to offend any parties.
šš° ā hospitals + health-centric fear, unnamed and undisclosed injury, josh throwing a pity party for one, angst to fluff, and oblivious idiots in love
gif creds ā @chabots
JOSH NORRIS doesn't know how long his phone screamed in his stall, and, frankly, he doesn't want to.
the too many missed calls crowding his lock-screen is more information than he can stomach. josh already has enough guilt weighing down his pockets.
he can't remember the last time he felt this helpless. he wants to do something ā anything, but, in this situation, he's useless.
you should've listed someone else as your emergency contact. someone reliable, who has a conventional job and predictable hours. someone who could've answered the first call on an early ring and been in the car before he was off the ice.
josh listened to a voicemail.
the twelve minutes on 417 were an agonizing blur that crescendoed into deafening silence after the automatic doors parted to reveal a desolate lobby; visiting hours ended six hours ago.
josh netted a power-play goal while you lay in a hospital bed, alone in an empty room. some best friend he was, jesus.
you drop everything for him. even the stupidest shit, like salvaging his poor attempt at fettuccine alfredo or standing in line for his eggroll on a stick so he wouldn't miss the opening of FGL's final concert. and in your time of need, he was celebrating.
even the tidal wave of relief that crashed over him after the night nurse finally updated him on your status ā non-life threatening, quick recovery, stable and sleeping ā couldn't wash off the gooey remorse.
he knows if you could hear his thoughts you'd smack him upside the head. josh would pretend it hurt just to watch your eyes roll, and he'd milk it simply to hear your arid scoff. his grief sits like a cheap halloween mask and, historically, only your belly-laughter can peel it off. even after the roughest night of your life, regardless of how much pain you might be in you would make him laugh; josh is sure of it.
in life, you are the only thing josh is sure of. your presence in his life a certainty he could hang his hat on.
it's something he's been aware of for over half his life but consciously watered down for fear of ruining his one good thing with feelings he wasn't ready for. only when that coveted consistently was jeopardized did josh understand the magnitude of his omission.
he's done being tardy to his own life.
josh can't go another day without you knowing how much he loves you. how he can't breathe when you're around sometimes because you make him that nervous; how badly he wants the first and last thing he sees each day to be your pretty face; how he can't picture a world without you in it or even one where you aren't his.
when you wake up, he's going to tell you everything he's bottled up and then some.
I want ratty to talk about knocking me up while fucking me soooo bad
i would apologize for this but i'm not sorry
cw ā do i even need to put anything here? (okay fine: dumbification, allusion to sub drop (reader), degradation, dom!ratty being filthy and wanting to be a real daddy, breeding kink, referenced lactation kink, implied age gap, one very light cheek slap and another swat to an inner thigh, oh and tummy bulge <3)
"i said 'more,' sweet thing. what part of that don't you understand?"
clearly, everything.
over a minute, and it still hasn't clicked. you don't even react. his pretty little idiot. you just keep on batting those heavy lashes over empty eyes, sprawled out on his bed with your legs limp and parted. partedānot wide open.
herein lies the crux of the issue.
"i know it's hard, but i'm sure there's enough brain cells rattling around up here," he taps your temple, the skin damp with tears and perspiration, "āfor something this simple."
at the cruel condescension, your blank stare glazes over completely.
matty knew it would happen, that's why he did it. for him, there's no better aphrodisiac than dumbing you down only to turn around and mock you for going stupid.
and still, there's nothing. no movement. and it's got nothing to do with bashfulness or propriety. things just aren't... clicking. (they seldom do when you've slipped this far.)
"c'mon now, quit being difficult." your boyfriend pins you with a hard look and a smack to your inner thigh. you yelp, but remain useless. he sighs, "sooner you spread 'em, sooner i fuck you full. and that's what you want, right? t'be full of my cumāfull with my kid?"
at that, you light up like a christmas tree. brought back to life by the promise of his cum. you nod frantically. well, at least, that's what you think your body's doing. you can't be sure, you took backseat some time ago.
matthew groans as if the feigned frustration isn't of his own invention.
"have to do everything around here, don't i?" he then takes hold of your ankle, squeezing it tight to his warm palm for good measure, before eventually pulling it as far from your midline as it could go. all the while, he's shaking his head in a way that makes your stomach summersault, like some disappointed authority figure. "jesus, how're you gonna take care of my baby when you're one, too? maybe we should wait... don't think you're ready for the responsibilityā"
fear blows your droopy eyes clear open. a little color drains from your tear-soaked face at the prospect of waiting a moment longer.
he's dangled this over your empty head for well over a year now. you've been patient, and you want your reward. now.
so, you kick the other leg open. an unnecessary thing, one that only makes your muscles burn. always the overachiever.
it's worth it to stare up at his megawatt grin.
"that's right, honey, show daddy that tight pussy. go on, hold it open for me. gotta get a nice, long lookā"
you're buzzing with anticipation, drunk on his filth. a sucker for his sweet cajoling, that's what you are and what you've always been. and, if you get your way, that's what you'll beāforever.
with a lax hand on either side of your weeping folds, you use your fingers to pull them apart. a rush of air chills you to the bone as the slick pouring from you drops in temperature, no longer safe and shielded by your warm idiocy.
"āand that's daddy's wet little pussy, ain't it?"
you nod as he leans down by the edge of the bed. eye-level with your most intimate place, he subjects you to a beat of silent scrutiny. "look at that cute hole, honey... messy thing's winking at me."
a bolt of lightening courses down your back.
everything gets fuzzy around the edges.
an achy stretch is how you know he's slid home. you can feel him in your throat.
"look, sweet thingālook how well you take daddy..." matthew cups the back of your heavy head, pushing forward until your chin tips down. even with your vision cloudy with yet-to-be-spilled emotion, you see itāsee him. he's so fucking deep in your guts that low on your stomach a little bump vanishes and reappears with the push and pull of his hips. "look atālook how good you're being f'me, being such a good girl, huh?"
more nodding. more tears. more pitiful whines.
"god damn, i can't wait to knock you up. everyone's gonna know what you didāhow easily you opened your legs, how easily you let me turn you into a whore."
you preen.
his head dips. kneading your chest, he takes a tender bud between his teeth. matthew nibbles until you scream.
"y'gonna let daddy suck on these? let him help yaālet him take care of ya when they're swollen and sore? āleaking?"
he's bulling your puffy clit like he has no interest in your repliesābecause he doesn't. truthfully. he already knows. you're a fucking broken record. spacey and needy; it's a good think you're pretty.
and you're prettiest when you unravel...
"go on, mommy. daddy wants to see you squirt around his cock."
back again! i loved all the fics i got last year so i thought, why not? don't feel pressured to participate or feel bad if you can't finish the fic or anything like that. if it happens, yay! if it doesn't, that's okay!
my birthday is November 25th but feel free to publish anytime before or during that month!
try to aim for bingo! i once again set up the board so it would all make sense!
no word count minimum or maximum
i like reader insert and oc so whatever tickles your fancy
i'm open to read for most players! but if you are uncertain, shoot me an ask! the only limitation - no players under 21
tag me in your creation & tell me which squares you chose!
i promise to read and reblog all with feedback because like, obviously!!
i need to forget, so take me to florida. i've got some regrets, i'll bury them in florida. tell me i'm despicable, say it's unforgivableā¦ what a crash, what a rush, fuck me up, florida!!!
congratulations to the 2024 Stanley Cup champions, the Florida Panthers!!!
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