lloyd hansen's cottage wife

Better yet, you shouldn't reply at all. You should leave him on read, let that little notification sit there unacknowledged while he spirals for once, wondering if you've finally moved on.

Best option - the one that would require something adjacent to self-respect - you should block his number. Should have done it weeks ago, when you'd seen him out with another girl and your friends had spent the entire cab ride home telling you what you already knew. He's never going to commit. He's never going to change. Block his number.

You'd promised you would.

You hadn't, obviously. Instead, you’ve had Ari Levinson saved as “DO NOT ANSWER” for the past four weeks. Like seeing those words flash across your screen would be enough to override six months of muscle memory and bad decisions.

But it hasn’t helped even once. And it doesn’t help now, at 2:47 in the morning, when your phone buzzes again because your hand moves before your brain can interfere.

I know you're awake | 2:49 AM

Arrogant bastard. He doesn't know anything. Except he does, doesn't he? Knows you like he's mapped you from the inside out. Knows the glow of your screen is already bleeding blue light across your rumpled sheets. Knows you're staring at his text with your heart doing that stupid hummingbird thing it does whenever he reminds you that he's out there, somewhere in the city, thinking about you.

yes. | 2:52 AM

Three dots appear immediately. Disappear. Appear again. He's typing, deleting, retyping. The hesitation should comfort you - evidence that maybe he's nervous too, that maybe this costs him something. But you know Ari well enough to recognize the tactic. He's drawing it out. Making you wait. Building the tension because he knows exactly what those little dots do to your pulse.

Your heart hammers against your ribs and you hate him for it. Hate that your body is already ahead of you, already warm and restless, muscle memory doing the work your dignity should be doing. But six months of Ari has ruined you for anything or anyone else. 

Ruined you for anything that isn't his big hands on your hips holding you exactly where he wants you, his thick cock filling you up so perfectly your eyes roll back, his voice low in your ear talking you through it until you're shaking. Ari Levinson is a lot of bad things. But between your thighs he is devastatingly, infuriatingly good.

Good | 2:53 AM

Been thinking about you. | 2:53 AM

The ease of it makes you want to scream. Been thinking about you. As if that explains the two weeks of silence. As if that justifies showing up in your notifications like he still has the right.

You should ask where he's been. Who he's been with. If she knows he's texting you at three in the fucking morning.

But your thighs clench anyway, because your body doesn't care about your pride. Your body remembers what been thinking about you means in Ari's vocabulary. Remembers the last time he'd said it, three weeks ago when he'd shown up at your apartment after midnight. You'd barely gotten the door open before his mouth was on yours, walking you backward into your apartment with his hands already sliding under your shirt.

“Been thinking about you all fucking day,” he'd growled against your throat, and you'd melted like you always do, let him peel you out of your clothes and fuck you against the kitchen counter.

You'd had bruises on your hips for a week after. Had pressed your fingers into them whenever you needed to remember that you were real to him, that you weren't just imagining the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

yeah? | 2:55 AM

what about? | 2:55 AM

There's a pause. Longer this time. You can picture him so clearly it hurts. Sprawled in his bed, chest bare, all that dark hair dusting across muscle and tapering down his stomach in a trail your tongue knows by memory. The broad sprawl of his shoulders. The thick arms. The heavy muscle of his thighs. The kind of body that makes you feel small in ways you've stopped pretending you don't love. 

And already half-hard just from the anticipation of watching you slowly give in via text message.

You know what about | 3:00 AM

You do know. God help you, you know exactly what he's thinking about and your body has already started making decisions without consulting you.

that's not an answer | 3:00 AM

ari | 3:00 AM

You add his name in a second text, and you realise you’re already chasing. That’s what he does. He texts you first, casts the line, and then sits back and watches you swim toward him every time. 

I'm thinking about the way your thighs shake when you're trying not to cum before I say you can | 3:01 AM

Heat floods through you, pooling low in your belly and spreading outward until your skin feels too hot. Your free hand slides under your waistband without a second thought, fingers slipping through how wet you are and your hips tilt up into your own touch. But all you can think about is how much better he feels. 

you're an asshole | 3:02 AM

I know | 3:03 AM

Let me come over anyway | 3:03 AM

And there it is. The ask that isn't really an ask because you both know how this ends. The presumption that should offend you but doesn't because he's earned it, hasn't he? Six months of this dance, of you saying no and meaning yes, of drawing boundaries and then opening the door anyway when he shows up with that look in his eyes.

You stare at the message until the words start to blur. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, trembling slightly.

This is the moment. The fork in the road where you prove to yourself, to your friends, to your therapist, to everyone who's watched you self-destruct over Ari fucking Levinson that you're capable of choosing yourself. That you're more than the girl who waits for 3 AM texts. That you deserve someone who doesn't make you feel like a toy he keeps on the shelf until he wants something warm to sink into.

i'm not the one you should be texting at 3am | 3:05 AM

There. Boundaries. Self-respect. All the things you're supposed to have.

Probably not | 3:06 AM

But you're the one I want | 3:06 AM

Four words and you feel them everywhere. The lie tastes bitter even secondhand, transmitted through pixels and cellular data. The one I want. Not the only one - you're not quite delusional enough to believe that. But the one he wants right now. 

Presumably she's asleep, blissfully unaware that her—what? Boyfriend? Situationship? Whatever Ari is to her—is currently sexting his other whatever-the-fuck-you-are. Maybe she's in the bathroom. Maybe she's asleep next to him and he's doing this anyway, getting off on the proximity of the secret. The thought makes you nauseous and aroused in equal measure.

You should say to fuck off. Should tell him to lose your number, block him for real this time, delete the photos from your phone and burn the clothes he's left in your closet. Should pull your hand out from under your waistband and go to sleep. Should feel literally anything other than the dark, sick satisfaction currently unfurling in your chest at the thought of him choosing your bed over hers. 

fine | 3:09 AM

You send it before you can talk yourself out of it. Then you drop your phone face down on the mattress like you can't stand to look at what you've just done. Three seconds later you pick it back up.

One word. All that internal warfare and it comes down to four letters and no punctuation, casual as anything, like your heart isn't hammering against your ribs. Like your fingers aren’t still moving absently between your thighs because your body made the decision before you even sent that text. 

20 minutes | 3:10 AM

Be ready for me | 3:11 AM

The command in those last four words makes your stomach flip. You drop your phone onto the nightstand and stare at the ceiling, your heart still racing, your body already preparing itself.

Twenty minutes to shower, to shave, to make yourself into the version of yourself that he wants. Twenty minutes to pretend you haven't been wanting this every single night for two weeks. Twenty minutes to become the girl who's winning, even though you both know she's losing.

Your phone buzzes twice more, and you grab it so fast you nearly drop it.

Wear that black set | 3:13 AM

You know the one | 3:13 AM

You do know. Of course you know. The lace set he'd bought you a month ago, presented in expensive tissue paper after he'd cancelled dinner plans for the third time. “Let me make it up to you,” he'd murmured, watching you unwrap it with heat in his eyes. 

You'd worn it for him that same night. Had modelled the set while Ari sat on the edge of your bed watching you with dark eyes and that infuriating half smile, turning you with one finger like you were something he'd commissioned. Had ended up on your back with the lace pushed aside and his mouth on your throat while he fucked you slow enough to make you beg for it.

The sick satisfaction blooms darker, spreading wider through your chest like poison ivy.

── ⟢  ₊ 🌙 ˚・🥀 ⊹ 

The knock comes at exactly 3:32 AM. Three sharp raps, confident and unapologetic. The knock of someone who has never once considered that he might not be welcome.

You've been perched awkwardly on the arm of your couch for the last three minutes, fingers worrying the tie of your robe into knots. The black lace sits against your skin like a reminder of every bad decision that's led to this moment, delicate and expensive and utterly wasted on what's about to happen. The set and the silk robe thrown over it feels like costuming, like you’re playing the part of someone in control.

You're not in control. You haven't been since the first time Ari Levinson looked at you like you were something worth ruining himself for.

Padding over to the door, silk robe whispering against your thighs, you take one steadying breath before you open it. And there he is.

He's devastating. That's the only word for it. Big in a way that makes your apartment feel like a dollhouse. Shoulders broad enough to block out the hallway light, and tall enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. 

The t-shirt stretched across his chest leaves nothing to the imagination, which is almost funny because your imagination doesn't need the help anymore. You know that body. Know it embarrassingly well. Know exactly how it feels to be underneath it - small, delicate and so deliciously overwhelmed by the sheer size of him. Your thighs press together involuntarily at the thought.

His hair is slightly mussed, falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look softer than he is. And the beard - god the beard - is fuller than the last time you saw him, framing a mouth that knows exactly how to destroy you.

But it's his eyes that do the real damage. Blue enough to drown in, they rake over you with a possessive appreciation that’s entirely unapologetic. 

“Look at you,” Ari rumbles, voice already rough, deeper than usual. His eyes linger where your robe has fallen open just enough to reveal the black lace underneath, tongue flicking out to brush his bottom lip. “You trying to kill me?”

“You told me to wear it.” You lean against the doorframe, trying for casual, but your pulse is hammering visibly in your throat and you know he can see it.

“I did.” He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, and the smile that crosses his face is slow and pleased and entirely too satisfied with itself. His eyes sweep over you once again, like he's taking inventory of something that belongs to him. “And you listened, you’re always such a good girl for me.”

His praise unfurls something warm and pathetic in your chest. You hate how much you want to be his good girl, how desperately you crave the affection he'll give you.

The door clicks shut behind him and suddenly your apartment feels too small, the air too thick. He shrugs his jacket off, tosses it somewhere without looking. Underneath, the sleeves of his t-shirt are pushed to his elbows, revealing his thick forearms, corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair. And attached to those big hands that know exactly how to take you apart. 

You make yourself look back up at his face. It doesn't help. His eyes are already on you, full of heat and already dark.

“Hi,” you say, and it comes out quieter than you meant.

“Hi, baby.” His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. His palm spans from your chin to your ear, and you feel small in a way that makes your stomach flip. He could break you so easily. In some ways, he already has. “Missed you.”

The words land like a gut punch. “And whose fault is that?”

“I know.” His thumb traces your bottom lip and your breath catches. “I'm sorry.”

He's not, though. You both know he's not. Sorry would mean changing, would mean choosing you in daylight instead of just in the dark. But then his hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back further, and his mouth hovers just above yours. Waiting. The bastard is waiting for you to close the distance, chase it, prove how much you want him.

“You're an asshole,” you whisper against his lips.

“You said that already.” His breath mingles with yours. “Say it again. I like when you're mean to me.”

You should. Should call him every name you've been saving up for two weeks. Should ask him where he's been, who he's been with, if she knows he's here. Should demand answers or respect or literally anything other than this.

Instead you kiss him.

His hand tightens in your hair the second your lips touch his, taking over immediately, changing the angle to deepen it on his terms. Your mouth opens instinctively when his tongue presses against your bottom lip, and he licks into you like he owns it. You whimper into it and he swallows the sound whole, pulls back just enough to drag his teeth across your bottom lip before coming back deeper. Tasting you. Taking his time. His other hand grips your jaw, holding you steady, and the message is clear - you're not going anywhere, and you both know it.

“Fuck, I missed this,” he groans, punctuating it with another kiss. “Missed those pretty noises you make for me.”

Pulling back just enough to breathe, eyes dark, he swipes his thumb across your swollen bottom lip, dragging it down. Without thinking, your tongue dips out and chases his thumb. He notices. Of course he notices, the corner of his mouth curving as he steps back and drops onto your couch. One arm stretches along the back it, the other rests on his thigh, and his legs spread wide in an easy sprawl.

“Come here, baby.”

He tilts his head at the space between his knees, one finger curling in a single lazy beckon, and your feet are moving before your brain has any say in the matter.

You stop between his thighs and his hands find your hips immediately. Big, warm, and immediately possessive, settling on your hips with a certainty that makes your breath catch. You make the mistake of looking down at him and catching those deadly blue eyes looking back up at you through thick lashes, and your stomach drops straight through the floor. Standing between his spread thighs you feel it acutely, how much larger he is. How solid. His hands nearly span your entire waist and something about that, about being held so easily, makes heat pool low and insistent.

His fingers find the tie of your robe and toy with it, unhurried, knuckles grazing your stomach through the silk.

“This is pretty,” he murmurs, tugging one end of the belt slowly until the bow dissolves. Your robe falls open and his eyes drop, taking in the full view of black lace underneath. “But I like what's underneath better.”

The silk whispers off your shoulders and pools at your feet, leaving you in nothing but scraps of lace while he remains completely, infuriatingly dressed. And that thought alone - the disparity of it - sends heat rushing straight between your thighs. His eyes devour you slowly, like you're something he's very pleased with himself for having.

The thick bulge straining against his jeans suggests he's more than just pleased.

A sharp inhale escapes you when his hand palms your ass, tugging you closer between his spread thighs until his mouth finds your midriff. Warm lips press against your skin in lazy kisses as your hands slide into his hair. His hands smooth up the backs of your thighs to grip your hips, anchoring you in place, and his mouth moves across your skin slow enough to make you dizzy.

“Do me a favour, babygirl,” he rumbles against you, thumb tracing the lace at your hip, light enough to make you shiver. “Give me a little spin, yeah?” The timbre of his voice has dropped somewhere sinful. “Want to see all of you.”

Your face flushes but you obey, turning in the circle of his thighs while his hand guides you. You feel his gaze like a physical touch, lingering on the curve of your ass where the lace cuts high, on the line of your spine, on the backs of your thighs.

“God, I missed this view,” he groans. “Come back here.”

When you complete the turn, both his hands reach for you, gripping your hips and pulling you forward into his lap in one smooth motion that steals your breath. You end up straddling him, thighs spread wide over his, the rough denim of his jeans against your bare skin. His mouth finds yours immediately, greedier this time, more demanding, tongue sliding against yours while his hands roam. Your waist, your back, your ass, mapping you like he's reminding himself of everything he's been missing.

One hand cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple through the lace until it peaks, and then he pinches lightly. You gasp into his mouth, hips grinding forward instinctively. 

“That's it,” he breathes. “Fuckin’ love the sounds you make. Love feeling you respond to me.”

His hips roll up slightly and the pressure against your clit makes your head fall back. He takes advantage immediately, mouth moving to your throat, beard scraping sensitive skin as he kisses and bites his way down to your collarbone.

“Ari—” Your hands fist in his hair, needing something to hold onto.

“I've got you baby.” His hands slide to your hips, guiding you into a rhythm, encouraging you to grind against him. “That's my girl, take what you need. Use me.”

So you do. Hips rolling, chasing the friction, grinding down against the thick ridge of him while his mouth stays greedy on your throat. His hands guide you, encourage you, grip harder when you hit the right angle. The lace between your thighs is soaked through, dragging against denim with every roll of your hips.

“Soaking these pretty panties,” he rasps against your collarbone, like he can feel exactly how wet you are through his jeans. “Love having you like this. Love watching you fall apart. All for me.”

The praise washes over you, warm and devastating. He's always been good at this - making you feel seen, special, like you're the only person in the world who matters. It's intoxicating and dangerous and you can feel yourself getting lost in it, in him.

Your hips are moving faster now, chasing more friction, and he matches your rhythm with slow, controlled rolls of his hips that drag against your clit through your panties and make your eyes flutter shut. Your lips part around a needy little sound you have absolutely no control over, hips stuttering forward greedily as your head tips back.

“Fuck, look at you. So beautiful when you're desperate for it.” His hand slides up to cup your face, thumb pressing against your parted lips and tilting your chin back down until you meet his eyes. They're dark, pupils blown wide, and the heat in them makes your breath stutter. “You have any idea what you do to me babygirl? How fucking crazy you make me?”

You want to believe him. Want to believe that this means something, that you're not just convenient and willing at 3 AM. But the wanting is what breaks you. His hips roll up and pleasure spikes through you sharp. You're so turned on it aches, so close to the edge already, and underneath all of it is the creeping, horrible feeling of wanting this to mean what it doesn't mean.

“My girl.” His mouth brushes yours as he says it, barely a kiss. The hand on your cheek slides into your hair as his hips keep moving. You can feel how hard he is, how much he wants this, wants you, and for a moment it's so easy to believe that wanting and choosing are the same thing.

“You'll always be my girl, won't you? You know that.”

The thing is, you do know. That's the problem. You know it in the way his name in your phone makes your stomach drop. In the way you put on the black lace without hesitating. In the way your body has been his since the first time he touched you and has never quite figured out how to belong to itself again. You know it in your bones.

But knowing you're his and knowing he's yours are two very different things. And only one of them is true.

The first tear slips free before you can stop it and you instinctively try to hide your face in his neck. Seeking his warmth, his scent and the solid size of him, because he has ruined you so thoroughly that even now, even like this, he’s what your body reaches for. He’s the reason you’re crying and he’s who you want to cry into and that’s the most pathetic part of it.

But his hand catches your face before you can, palm curving around your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks. Your lips pucker involuntarily into a helpless little pout, fresh tears spilling over his fingers as he forces you to look directly at him. 

“Oh baby,” he coos, soft and devastating and not entirely kind. His hips roll up and you whimper through the pout he’s forcing on your lips, grinding you against his erection in a rhythm that makes your body sing even as your heart splinters “What’s this? What’s going on in that pretty head?”

His thumb swipes at your tears almost lazily, eyes tracking each one with a toxic mix of heat and hunger and satisfaction barely concealed beneath concern. The humiliation and the pleasure coil into something indistinguishable from each other, and the need between your thighs deepens with every tear he collects.

“I cant do this anymore,” you manage, small and pathetic and entirely unconvincing. 

More tears follow, hot and wet against your cheeks. Beneath you he's harder than before, thick and obvious through his jeans, his free hand pressing your hips down into a rhythm you're helpless to resist. The friction drags a moan out of you that breaks halfway into a sob, messy and humiliating, and you're still pouty-lipped and crying in his palm. He watches it happen with those dark, greedy eyes before schooling his expression back into something that looks like concern. 

He tilts his head, blue eyes wide and earnest, and you feel insane. Like you've invented the problem out of thin air. “Where’s this coming from?”

The gentleness of his tone is pure performance. Like he has no idea why you'd be falling apart in his lap. Like he isn’t the architect of every wound he’s now pretending to care about. Like your tears aren’t exactly what he came here for.

“You know where.” You try to pull away but his hand tightens on your cheeks, keeping you seated firmly in his lap, keeping the thick ridge of his cock pressed right against your clit through the soaked lace.

“I really don't, baby.” His thumb swipes another tear, slow and unhurried, and his hips roll up just enough to make your breath catch mid-sob. “Talk to me. Let it all out.”

But you can't. Can't articulate the war happening inside you. The way your body is screaming yes while your heart is screaming no. Can't explain that you're furious and desperate and so far gone for him that the anger only makes you want him more.

More tears spill over and you watch his pupils dilate, watch his breath catch.

“We're done,” you finally say, the words muffled and graceless against the pout his fingers are still forcing on your lips. “I mean it this time.”

For a second he just stares at you, and then his expression shifts into something that makes your stomach drop. Not surprised - of course not - just entirely indulgent like you're a child throwing a tantrum.

“Aww, baby.” His voice goes soft, syrupy, as though he's talking you down from something small and silly. “Hey, hey. It's okay, good girl. Let it all out.”

“I'm serious—”

“Shh, I know. I know you are.” His thumb traces your bottom lip, wet and trembling, and his tongue drags slowly across his own like he's already thinking about tasting your tears. “You're upset. You've got all these big feelings and nowhere to put them, yeah? Go on baby, show me how much you're feeling right now, cry because it’s over.”

The patronizing tone makes you cry harder, which seems to be exactly what he wants. His eyes track each tear with rapt attention, that small smile playing at his mouth. Your face is still caught in his grip, bottom lip still protruding in that humiliating little pout, wobbling with each wet sob

He uses that grip on your face to pull you forward into his mouth before you can reply. The kiss is messy and wet and salty with your tears, his tongue licking into you like he's tasting the evidence of everything you feel for him, everything you just tried to end. You moan into it despite yourself and he swallows that too, hips rolling up beneath you slow and deliberate, keeping the rhythm, reminding your body what it wants even as your heart tries to want something else.

He pulls back only to drag his mouth across your cheek, your jaw, following the wet trails your tears have left behind. His tongue collects them one by one and the groan that rumbles out of him against your skin makes your thighs clench around his, as he keeps you pressed against the hard length of him that proves he's not taking any of this seriously.

“So fucking sweet,” he rasps, mouth moving to find more, greedy. “My pretty little crybaby.”

Once satiated with your tears, his hand finally releases your cheeks and you collapse forward immediately, face buried in the crook of his neck where you wanted to be ten minutes ago. Your arms loop weakly around his broad shoulders, breath ragged and wet, nose pressed into his skin. You're still crying - soft, hiccuping sobs you can't quite get a handle on - yet your hips continue to grind desperately against him because your body has clearly given up on listening to your better judgment.

His other hand slides down between your bodies, palm grazing your stomach, the lace at your hip, and then the soaked fabric between your thighs. The first brush of his fingers against the soaked lace makes you moan into his throat before you can stop yourself, hips bucking helplessly into the contact.

“Ari, I said—I ended it—” But your protest is weak and entirely unconvincing because the rest dissolves into a moan that you muffle desperately against his neck.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans. “You're drenched.” 

His fingers trace the wet fabric, and another wet moan escapes you as he presses against your clit. “See? Your body knows what it wants even if you're confused up here.” His thumb taps gently at your temple, patronising and tender all at once.

Pushing the lace aside, the first stroke of his thick fingers through your wetness makes you moan into his neck. He hums his approval into your hair before sinking two fingers into you in one slow stroke, and your whole body shudders.

“Ari, you're not listening,” you manage between ragged breaths, hips grinding down onto his hand despite every word coming out of your mouth. “I ended it. I told you I—” Another moan chokes off the sentence as he curls his fingers deeper, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit.

“I am listening, babygirl. I hear you,” he soothes, infuriatingly gentle. “You're very upset. Very hurt. And you're handling it by making a big declaration at four in the morning while you're sitting in my lap in that lace I bought you.” He keeps pumping his fingers into you as he talks, and your whole body jolts, hips grinding down into him. “While you're soaking my fingers and grinding on my cock.”

He works you slowly, deliberately, fingers curling with the kind of patience that feels like torture. Your protests dissolve into something more honest - desperate little whines against his neck, mewled into his neck because that's the only place you can hide. Your tears keep falling even as your hips chase his hand, even as your fingers claw at his shoulders, even as every coherent thought you had about ending this burns away to nothing.

“Please, please, please—”

You’re so close, desperately close, trembling on the edge of it when he pulls his fingers free. The sound you make is pathetic and defeated, and goes wilfully ignored. 

Ari brings those same fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with a groan that vibrates through his chest. 

“Fuck, don't know what's sweeter, baby.” His eyes track between his fingers and your wet cheeks, dark and considering. “You or those pretty tears.”

He sucks them clean one more time like he can't help himself, then reaches down.

The zip of his jeans is the loudest sound in the room. He frees himself and an eager moan actually escapes you because god, his cock is so pretty. Thick and hard and flushed dark, the swollen head already glistening, a drop of precum sliding down to streak against your inner thigh.

The kind of cock that's ruined your standards permanently.

Those big hands close around your hips with that ease that always makes you feel like a doll he's positioning. And he uses every inch of those broad shoulders and corded forearms to drag your soaked pussy along the length of him without pushing in. Just sliding you over him, painting himself in your wet heat while the lace stays bunched to the side and you make needy little sounds against his throat.

The fat head of his cock catches your clit and you gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Ari,” you whine, a desperate little plea. “Please.”

“Please what, babygirl?” His voice is pure honey, dark and indulgent. “Tell me what you need.”

“Need you to—” Another gasp as he catches your clit again. 

“Use your words, c’mon, know you can do it.” He guides your hips forward again, achingly slow, the thick head of him nudging against your entrance before he pulls you back. Not pushing in, just making sure you know exactly what you're begging for.

“Inside,” you sob against his neck. “Please, I need your cock Ari.”

“Hmm,” he teases, almost thoughtful as he tilts his head. His hands still on your hips, holding you hovering right there, right on the edge of it. “I would, baby. You know I would.” He pauses, and you feel your heart drop into your stomach. His thumb strokes your hip in possessive circles. “But I thought you ended it. Thought you meant it this time.”

Your face snaps up to his, panic and need crashing into each other behind your eyes.

“Ari, please, no—I need you, I need—”

“Aww.” His voice softens, faux-tender, that infuriating little crease appearing between his brows. “Baby, no, I'm just doing what you asked me to do. It’s over, right? We’re done. That's what you said.” He drags you slowly over him again and the head of his cock catches your clit and you sob, fresh tears spilling hot down your cheeks. “Wouldn't want to take advantage.”

“I didn't mean it.” The words tumble out of you in a desperate rush, choked and wet and humiliating. “Ari I didn't mean it, I'm sorry, please, please I'm sorry—” You kiss him before he can answer, messy and needy, lips chasing his, hands fisting in his shirt to keep him close. “Please, I need you, I need it, please don't stop—”

You feel his cock twitch against your folds. Hot and obvious. A pulse of want he can't hide. He hums against your mouth, low and pleased, and you can feel him smiling.

“Shhh,” he breathes against your lips between kisses, voice dropping to something dark and pleased. “Look at you. Crying and begging and apologising. So fucking pretty when you're like this. Gone all dumb for my cock, haven't you?”

He drags you over him again, slow and torturous, the slick head of him catching your clit and making you whine.

“Yes,” The word falls out of you broken and grateful. “Yes, please, Ari—”

“Yeah?” His mouth moves against yours, almost amused. “You want me to take care of you? Even after you tried to end it?” Another devastating drag. “Even after you broke my heart?”

“Please, I'm yours, please—” Your hips are still chasing him, still desperate, every word collapsing into the next.

“Okay, baby. Okay.” His tone is generous now. Magnanimous, like he's bestowing something. “I'll give it to you because that's what I do, isn't it? I take care of my girl.” His hand slides to grip the base of his cock, the other tightening on your hip. “This is why you're mine, crying so pretty for my cock.”

He lines the thick, swollen head of his cock up at your entrance, and guides you down with his hand on your hip. The first inch of him has your eyes rolling back already, stretching you open with that familiar fullness that your body has been craving for two weeks.

“Shit, baby,” he groans, head tipping back briefly. “Tightest little cunt I've ever felt. Made for me, isn't it?”

You try to chase his mouth, desperate to keep kissing him, but your jaw won't cooperate. Instead, it keeps falling slack with every inch you take, lips parting uselessly around the moans pouring out of you. By the time you're fully seated your forehead is resting against his, your mouth hanging open against his lips.

“Dumb already,” he rumbles, watching your face with dark amusement, watching your wet, glassy eyes blink slowly back at him. “What am I going to do with you, baby?” His thumb finds your bottom lip, slipping into your open mouth and pressing down on your tongue. “Suck. Good girl. Keep that mouth occupied.”

You close your lips around his thumb obediently, sucking, eyes fluttering shut around the dual fullness of him in your mouth and inside you. His hips give a small, lazy roll beneath you and you whimper around his fingers.

“Go on, show me how much my little crybaby needed this.”

You find your rhythm slowly, hips rolling, chasing the friction, thighs burning with the effort of it. Ari watches you from beneath heavy lids, enjoying every second of making you work for it - not helping, not even a little. Just watching you ride him like you’re entertainment, thumb still pressed to your tongue, free hand coming up to pop the clasp of your bra like he has all the time in the world.

It falls away and his hand cups your breast immediately, squeezing, thumb dragging over your nipple before pinching it sharply. You whimper around his thumb, drool clinging to his knuckle, trailing down your chin in thin little strings.

He pinches harder and you clench around him hard enough to make him hiss, so he does it again just to feel you grip him. You're close. So desperately close you can feel it shimmering just out of reach, coiling tight in your belly with every roll of your hips. Soft whining sounds escape around his thumb with every breath.

“You getting close, baby? Want to cum?”

You nod frantically, eyes wet and pleading, drool slipping down his hand. A thin string of it pulls from your lips as you try to form the word yes.

“Then beg for it,” he purrs, lazy and mean. “You want it so bad? Let's hear it.”

You try. You really try - tongue working uselessly around his thumb, shaping syllables as best you can. What escapes is something that vaguely resembles please, mangled by saliva and his cruel pressure on your tongue, deliberately obstructing the attempt.

His grin is slow and wolfish. “That supposed to be begging?”

A desperate whine vibrates against his thumb. He presses it deeper in response, just to feel you gag, just to watch your lips stretch wider around him, and your eyes well with fresh tears.

“Nah.” His mouth drags to your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Not good enough, babygirl. All I hear is spit and nonsense.” His free hand drops between your bodies, fingers brushing your clit - just a mean, fleeting touch - and you sob desperately. “Drooling all over my fingers like a needy little thing. Can't even beg right - guess you don't want it that bad, huh?”

A pathetic cry claws its way out of you, half-strangled by the thumb still in your mouth. You shake your head wildly, eyes glassy and wide. So you try harder. Put everything you have left into it, hips still rolling desperately, thighs shaking.

“P-plea'—Ari—please—wan'—wan'—cum—”

Slurred, barely English, mangled around his thumb. But desperate. Unmistakably desperate.

He groans - deep, hungry and satisfied - hips finally snapping up to meet yours. He drags his thumb from your mouth just long enough to hear the broken sob of relief that breaks loose from your lips before his mouth crashes against yours.

“Good girl,” he breathes against your tongue. “Fucking good girl.”

He fucks up into you hard, one big hand gripping the curve of your ass to slam you down to meet every thrust. The other stays between you to circle you clit with perfect pressure. Every snap of his hips hits you so deep you can feel it in your teeth. The sound of it is filthy, slick and wet and rhythmic, your apartment filled with the obscene slap of skin and your broken, mindless cries.

“Fuckin' look at you,” he growls against your jaw. “That’s my fucking girl, riding my cock so pretty.”

You can't answer. Can barely hold yourself upright. His name is the only word left in your mouth—Ari Ari Ari Ari—a desperate, broken loop as he drives into you.

“That's right.” His thumb works your clit faster, mouth dragging across your jaw. “Say it. Whose are you? Whose pussy is this?”

“Ari—” you moan. “Ari, Ari, Ari—”

“Yeah, that's right. Mine, so let me feel my pussy soak my cock.”

You break apart. Your whole body convulses, walls clamping down around him so hard he hisses, the orgasm tearing through you in wave after wave while his hips never stop, never slow. His name is still falling helplessly out of your mouth in a broken chant as he fucks you through it, hips snapping up into you while you sob and shake and clench around him.

“Fuck—fuck, baby, just like that—strangling my cock.”

His rhythm goes sloppier. Hungrier. His hand leaves your clit and his arm wraps around your waist instead, holding you against him, pinning you in place so he can fuck up into you with everything he has left.

“Gonna fill you up, baby. Fill this perfect pussy with my cum.”

You nod helplessly, squeezing around him and he loses it. His hips drive up one last time, burying himself deep, and groans against your skin as he spills inside you. You feel every pulse of it. Every hot, possessive flood while you tremble in his lap, his cock still twitching, his hand still gripping your ass like he can't quite let go.

You come down slowly, in pieces, his arms still locked around you and his cock still buried deep. His mouth moves over your throat, your jaw, your tear-tracked cheeks. Soft, sweet kisses that are a complete contrast to what he just did to you.

“My perfect girl,” he murmurs, voice gentle and warm. “Always so good for me. Always so fucking perfect.”

You can't even respond. Just whimper against his shoulder while his hand strokes up and down your spine, gentling you, his other hand cradling the back of your head. You're floating somewhere between exhaustion and bliss, and he holds you through all of it, patient and warm and impossibly tender. 

Praise pours out of him in a low, constant stream, and you let yourself sink into it, let yourself believe in it, just for a minute.

When he finally pulls out you feel his cum start to slip out of you immediately. Hot and slick, sliding down between your thighs onto the warm wet head of him still pressed against you. He glances down and tuts, both amused and disapproving.

“Mm. Look at the mess you're making, baby.” His thumb catches some of it where it's beading on his cock and brings it back up to your bottom lip, smearing it there, watching your face. Your tongue darts out before you've made any conscious decision about it. He hums, deeply pleased. “You made the mess, reckon you ought to help clean it up.”

He guides you off his lap slowly, careful with you, until your knees meet the floor between his spread thighs. You look up at him from there - face wet, lips parted, cum running down the insides of your thighs onto your apartment floor - and the expression on his face stops your breath in your chest.

That undone, almost tender expression he never wears anywhere but here. Only ever when he thinks you can't tell, when his guard has slipped, when you've fucked him past the point where he can keep the walls up.

It's the drug. It's always been the drug. It's why you didn't block his number when you said you would. Why you opened the door at 3:32 AM. Why you let him talk you out of ending it without ever actually arguing. Why you'll do the same thing the next time, and the time after that, and the time after that. Because no one else has ever looked at you the way Ari Levinson looks at you right now.

His thumb traces your bottom lip, possessive yet tender. “Open up, babygirl.”

more mads: honestly, i'm not entirely sure that's what the request meant, but i started listening to "don't smile" to get inspo for the fic and my mind immediately went to dacryphilia and that was it really, so um, sorry if this isn't what you meant anon, but i hope you, and anyone else who read this enjoyed anyway!! if you did, please hit like or, even better, please consider leaving a comment/reblog bc it would genuinely make my whole day. my leo moon means i will literally perish without external validation. i’m tinkerbell coded. love u <33 <33

“I’m a bit cooked out.” Jake says at last.

“Wanna visit my island? I rebuilt the tea shop.” You offer.

He clucks.

“Okay…maybe I can try one of your gun games. I’m warning you, I’m not very good.”

Jake hums. He’s uncharacteristically quiet today. And when he does speak, he sounds upset.

“Hey, uh, is everything okay?” You ask.

More shifting and scratching on his mic. You push the buttons mindlessly on your controller. Is he mad at you?

“Sorry I couldn’t make the weekend. My other friends wanted to go to the cafe bookshop.” You say.

“It’s not… that.” He forces out tightly. “Can we talk?”

“Sure. I’m listening.”

“No, I mean… can I call?”

You squirm. What’s going on?

“Are you sure you’re okay?” You ask.

“Yeah, I just… I want to show you something.”

“Erm, right. Okay. Let me just get my phone.” You say.

He ends the session as the headphones click. You remove the headset and put it aside. You grab your phone and it chimes. You nearly drop it. A video call? Okay…

You answer and prop your phone against the bottom of your monitor. You sit back so your face is fully in frame. Jake’s glasses reflect the glare of his computer screen. You’ve seen his pic in his gaming icon but he looks different. His hair isn’t all spike, his goatee is surrounded by stubble, and his shoulders are exposed as he wears only a muscle shirt that hangs low to show the top of his hair chest.

“Um… how are you?” You ask awkwardly.

“Is that a new lip gloss?” He asks.

You rub your lips together at the bubblegum glisten. “How… yes?”

“Sorry, sorry. I’m… easily distracted.” His voice eases as he grins. “Especially by cute girls.”

You swallow, confused. “Jake, what’s up?”

He sighs and stares at you. He adjusts his glasses and his jaw squares. He pushes his shoulders wide. His eyes flick between the camera and his screen.

“What did you want to show me?” You ask, nerves quavering in your voice.

“Right, right…” He claps his hands. “Let me just share my screen.”

You tap your fingers together as you lean in and wait. He disappears and a new image appears on the screen. You gasp and cover your mouth with both hands. It takes a moment for your brain to process what you’re seeing. It’s… you?

Not really. Because you’ve never taken any pictures like that. You would never. You shudder and cover your face entirely.

“Jake!” You shrill.

“Don’t look away.” His voice drops.

A chill scatters over you and you part your fingers, looking through them at the edited image. It looks so real. The pose is so lewd that your face burns.

“Why– Jake, please, stop. I don’t want to– Why would you do that?” You squeal.

“Amazing what you can do these days, huh?”

“Stop,” you beg.

“Convincing…”

“Please. It’s not really me.”

“Uh huh. It’s not, but who would know the difference.”

“What do you mean?” You squeak.

“Do you think you can be a law clerk and a porn star?” He asks.

The breath rushes out of you and you drag your hands down to your throat. You bat your eyes at the screen and gulp. “Please, I don’t want to see it anymore.”

“I can even make it a video. Wanna see?”

“Jake–”

He taps a key and the picture disappears. He’s in frame again. Smirking.

“That’s why. That face. You saying my name like that.” He pauses and likes his lips. “I’m done playing games.”

“Jake, why?”

He scoffs. “Because you’re just like every other one. Teasing me. Stringing me along. I’m not doing it anymore.”

You pout. “No, we’re friends. I never–”

“Shhh,” he puts a finger up. “Sweetheart, we’re not bargaining. This isn’t a dialogue.” He leans forward as he crosses his arms on his desk. “I’m going to give you your first assignment and you’re going to deliver. You have until midnight.”

You shake and hug yourself, rubbing your arms as your eyes prick with hot tears.

“I thought you wanted to be my friend–”

“I want to be more. Isn’t that better?” He slithers. You stare. “So, your first assignment is to give me a picture just like the one I showed you. And it has to be real.” He tilts his head. “And trust me, I’ll know if it’s not.”

“I… I can’t do that.”

“You can. Or you know what I can do?” He bites his lip and snickers. “Send your boss a copy of your extensive resume. Head to toe.”

“Jake,” you whimper.

You shiver and clasp his wrist as he squeezes your neck. He inhales your scent and nuzzles your ear, teething the tender brim. You close your eyes as your muscles knot.

Fear courses coldly beneath the tide of heat flowing from your core. His hand slips down your pelvis and toys with the curly hair there. You tense even tighter as he inches closer and closer to his need.

His roughened fingers dip between your folds and you gasp past the vice of his other hand. He rubs you, lightly at first, then presses firmly and drags across your clit. You whine and bite down.

“Shhh,” he hushes you as his naked torso grazes your back.

He plays with you, deliberate and determined. He swirls and twirls his fingers, changing his motion each time you make a noise or twitch. Your insides clench over and over as you fight the rising pressure deep inside.

You squeeze his forearm and bite your tongue as you drone. Your body shakes and spasms as your voice flows out of you with the tension, the release trembling in your thighs. You gulp and gasp as your orgasm storms through you.

He doesn’t stop. Not even as you beg. His fingers are so certain, so adept, that it isn’t long before you're cumming again, thighs pressing against his large hand.

His fingers glide back and he delves inside you. One finger, into its limit, then out. A second, down to the knuckles, several thrusts of his hand as you whimper. Then a third, forced past the tight resistance until you wail.

He hushes you again, sniffing the back of your neck, his nose tickling you. He extends his tongue and licks the drop of sweat as it trickles down your nape. You roll your head over his locked hand and let it hang forward.

He slides his fingers out of you and smears the wetness up your cunt and pelvis. He snarls and shifts behind you. He pushes his fingers between your folds again and spreads them. You twitch as he angles you up.

His tip flicks down your cunt and he catches himself in the crooked of two fingers. He guides his dick to your entrance and wiggles, teasing you as he growls. He pushes his tip into you with his fingers as you groan.

He holds himself there, just inside you, as you squirm. He pushes his nose into your hair as he slowly enters you. You tighten around him and writhe. He stills you with a squeeze on your throat and rubs your clit.

You heave and dangle from his embrace as he bottoms out. You squeal as your insides tremble. Your arms fall straight and you clutch at the barren mattress. He rears back, slipping out inch by inch, then thrusts back in with a single sharp thrust.

You wail and slap the sides of his thighs. “Please, ow–”

He shushes you a third time. He picks up his pace with each delve inside of you until he’s in full rut. The friction and impact of your flesh echoes through and around you. You hang weakly as he fucks you without relent.

He falls on you with his full weight as his voice rumbles in his chest. His head hangs down next to yours and a roar breaks free like thunder. His hips pump relentlessly as he shakes the creaky metal frame.

He cums as he smothers his voice in the crook of your neck. You can feel it inside, spilling out around him as he keeps thrusting through his climax. When he finally stops, the world seems to as well. He pants heavily beside your ear as his weight crushes you.

You don’t move. Not even as he slides out of you. He kneels over you and plays with the cum leaking out of you. He pushes it back in with a hum, spreading his fingers wide as he stretches you, then pulls out gruffly.

He shoves off and the bed lurches. His footsteps slap away. You bury your face in the bed as your heartbeat steadies. You wait.

He doesn’t return. Slowly, you roll over. It takes some time to find the strength to sit up. You look down at the gush that spills out between your legs. You quiver.

A hand claps down on your shoulder and pushes you to your back. Curtis is behind you, snarling down as his dick bobs above your head. He bares his teeth.

“You really thought you could leave me?” He grits.

“No, I was–”

Curtis’ fingers flexed around your throat, each digit pushing into the column of your neck. Your fingers wrapped around his wrist as your lungs constricted and begged for air, but the ache between your legs cried for him to squeeze harder.

Your lips parted, letting a needy whimper escape. Curtis chuckled darkly as he bent to press a wet kiss to your open mouth before he pulled back slightly and you watched with wide eyes as his jaw slightly moved, hearing the saliva gather against his tongue as you were forced down onto your knees.

You knew better than to close your mouth, so with the aid of the hand still tight around your throat you tipped your head back. His spit landed with a sick muted slap against your tongue as you were about to swallow, two thick fingers toyed with your parted lips before sliding to the back of your throat.

Curtis’ fingers flexed around your throat, each digit pushing into the column of your neck. Your fingers wrapped around his wrist as your lungs constricted and begged for air, but the ache between your legs cried for him to squeeze harder.

Your lips parted, letting a needy whimper escape. Curtis chuckled darkly as he bent to press a wet kiss to your open mouth before he pulled back slightly and you watched with wide eyes as his jaw slightly moved, hearing the saliva gather against his tongue as you were forced down onto your knees.

You knew better than to close your mouth, so with the aid of the hand still tight around your throat you tipped your head back. His spit landed with a sick muted slap against your tongue as you were about to swallow, two thick fingers toyed with your parted lips before sliding to the back of your throat.

The guy had come in with the wrong attitude right from the start. Stomping loudly into your club, along with his hoard of men, spoke down to Ari, and sat way too close to you. Continuously made flirtatious, skin-crawling comments, eyes gawking over your curvy frame; just generally being a fucking creep while trying to take you for fools.

Ari watches the guy as his eyes pass over your body, how he licks his lower lips as he glazes over every curve of your body; how he would slide closer in the booth and creep his hand towards the one you have resting on the table while he drones on about his proposals.

Ari's waiting on the edge of his seat for this motherfucker to dare to make the wrong move, say the wrong thing; and when finally does, by placing a hand on your thigh and leaning in close to your ear, Ari's reaction is instant. He knocks the table with the speed at which he stands on his feet, grabs the man hauls him up with a tight grip on his throat with ease. Men on both sides draw their guns and have them pointed in the direction of the other's while Ari snarls out,

''Don't you fucking touch her!” and squeezes his hand tighter, his teeth on show, and enjoying the sounds of struggling breaths coming from the man.

''Shush, shush, shush, it's alright,'' you begin to coax, lifting up onto your knees on the velvet booth cushion, reaching out a hand to your man in an attempt to gather his attention. ''It's okay. Take it easy, boy. Drop him, that's it, let him go.''

Ari considers ignoring your instructions, thinking you're being too easy on parasites like the one he's holding in his hand. They don't deserve to sit near you, look at you, touch you. They don't deserve to breathe the same air as you, but he knows better than to defy you and reluctantly releases his grip and lets the man thud to the floor as he gulps down air like it's water.

Ari fights back a snarl as he turns to you as you relax into your seat, swishing your legs to the side and pointing to the ground in front of you. Ari sits on the floor, facing you and curling his arms possessively around your waist as he lays his head on the meat of your thigh. His eyes flutter closed as you begin to comb your fingers through his hair, massage your fingernails against his scalp softly and pet the nape of his neck in an attempt to soothe the rage inside him.

''Aw, that's my good boy, there he is, so perfect and protective,'' you coo softly as he nuzzles his cheek against your thigh and lets out a deep sigh before opening his eyes to look back at the man who's clutching his throat while he coughs and stares at you both in fear of making another wrong move and upsetting the hound once again.

Ari would happily sit at your feet forever, protect you forever. Kill anyone for you, burn the world for you.

“You’re gonna get 5%, and you’re gonna take it with a smile on your face and lots of gratitude or, I’m gonna let him finish what he started,'' you say firmly before nodding your head towards the exit. ''Leave,'' you finish sternly before turning your attention back to Ari after the man nodded with a nervous smile and bolted from the club along with his men.

You snapped your fingers to clear the room, your men quickly making their way out, leaving you and Ari alone.

Ari doesn't need you to say a word, he manhandles your legs, lifting them with hands under your thighs, granting him access to nose at your throbbing cunt before mouthing over damp panties. Seeing him almost choke a man to death for simply placing a hand on your thigh lit a fire in your core, making you ache to feel his mouth on you.

''Ah, ah, ah, drop your hands. Dogs don't have hands, silly boy.''

Ari lets his hands fall to his lap, knowing better than to palm at his hardening cock as he laps over fabric; his moans and hums of pleasure sending faint vibrations over your clit until the point you can't hold back any longer.

You hook your arms over your thighs to help keep them up and hook a finger under your panties to pull them to the side, gasping as Ari's breath ghosts over your soaking cunt. Your heavy-lidded eyes watch as Ari licks a slow stripe from your leaking hole to your engorged nub, pulling a strung-out moan from within you.

It doesn't take Ari long to bring you right to the edge, his skillful tongue flicking quickly, rolling and waving over your clit, dipping down to lap the juices dripping from your hole, making you sing out loud, whining moans as you grip and comb through his long locks. Your thighs twitch, your breath hitches, rocking your hips against his tongue. His brows pulled together and groaning deep in his throat as he works hard to pull you over the edge.

He makes you cum with a shout of his name, tipping your head back and your back arching off the back of the booth as you roll your hips against his mouth as he moans triumphantly. You look down and your eyes lock together as he smirks and laps up every drop, making you twist and whine and push against his forehead with the palm of your hand.

''Ah, ah, sensitive- That's enough, puppy,'' You say breathlessly, dropping your legs as Ari sits back with a whine, not without stealing one last taste before doing so. Your heels click loudly against the floor, your legs still parted widely so you can stoke softly over your mound as you bite your lip and tip your head back, chest rising and falling heavily.

''Go on,'' you sigh out, sliding your foot between Ari's parted legs and pressing against his hard, clothed cock. ''You know what to do. Your turn, puppy.''

Ari doesn't need to be told twice, he gets himself comfortable, leaning forward to rest his forehead against your thigh as he begins to rut against your lower leg. Lips parted, soft gasps starting to fall from his lips. You tip your head back up to look at him, your fingers still stroking over yourself softly as you slowly watch your hound come apart.

“Such a good boy, that’s it, puppy. Oh, that feels good, doesn't it? So good for me, aren’t you? Yeah~”

It's not long before Ari's rutting furiously against your leg, mouth parted against your thighs, his deep moans filling the room, his eyes screwed shut with concentration before soon letting out frustrated, desperate whines because it's just not enough, he can't seem to find the right pressure, the right stroke, the right speed and it's becoming overwhelming and he's so wound up from the need to cum. He needs your hands on him, or to be fucking himself inside you, but he's too far gone to form the words.

He looks up at you hopelessly, unable to stop the rolls and snaps of his lips and he pleads through pitiful whines and sobs as you stroke his cheek and smirk down at him.

''You can do it, puppy, you're so close, you can do it-'' Ari lets out a loud, choked cry and shakes his head. He can't do it, he needs more. ''Yes, you can, puppy. You can do it for me, baby, you're right there. Be a good boy, be a good boy, and cum for me.''

You continue to talk him through it, hands roaming over his shoulders, through his hair, you pushing your lower leg to help with the friction until he finally cums, hips stalling and his body tensing up sharply as he comes apart.

''That's my good boy, I told you you could do it, you did so well, so good for me,'' you coo as you move your leg away and slide into his lap to wrap your arms around Ari's broad shoulders, feeling him pant against your neck and still letting out gasps and whines as you roll your hips down against his sensitive, spent cock until he can't take it no more and grips your hips to stop your movements as you chuckle lowly in his ear.

''Such a good boy. Let's get you home and cleaned up, hmm?''