krystal

Josh Beeman died five months ago, today.

Iris, with her newfound freedom and multiple millions, has done the smartest thing she could have ever done: End up broke and living on the streets.

Enter: You.

You don't know exactly how a Companion ended up without their paired human, but you don't really care enough to ask. She's been squatting in your neighbour's (who regularly flies to the other side of the country for work, months at a time, conveniently) apartment for the past few weeks. Even though you probably should have called the cops when she waved to you after literally breaking the door's lock, you've let her stick around. 

On the bright side, you no longer have to house-sit the neighbour's cat.  

And, despite yourself, you feel bad for her. She's like… a stray wet cat. So, you're knocking on your neighbour's door after getting off work, deciding that you'll help her… get a real job, or something. You've picked up some—what you've been assured are—very good fake documents on her behalf. It's apparently extremely hard to get a very large majority of jobs when you're undocumented. Who would have guessed?

Iris lets you in immediately, like she was waiting for you—which she probably was, given that you said you'd be there at thirty after the hour, and you're currently fifteen minutes late—with a wide grin and eager eyes. 

"Hello, y/n! Was work exciting?" she says happily, opening the door and letting you in without hesitation. "I've been attempting to get Rico to lose weight—he's a very big cat, but that isn't his fault—so I switched from Meow Mix to Purina Pro Plan. It claims to be more balanced, although Rico doesn't seem very grateful for the change."

Rico, a brown Manx, sits off to the side on his cat tree, looking at Iris like she just told him that his balls were being chopped off.

"I digress. Do you have the paperwork?" She tilts her head to the side, looking like a dog that had just heard a new sound. "I'm very eager to begin working! Josh always hated working, but I think I'll enjoy it!" You don't have the heart to tell her that the average human isn't exactly thrilled to attend their day job, but who are you to dull her sparkle shine? "That coffee shop on the floor level is hiring—do you think I would make a good barista?"

You stare at her for a moment, blinking slowly at the sudden onslaught of information, then awkwardly head to the couch and sit down on it, resting the manila folder on the table. "You… might. I mean…" You chuckle, rubbing the back of your neck. "You'd probably be able to pour latte art with mechanical precision." A beat, then you sigh. "We're… probably gonna have to figure out what to do with your exposed arm, though. I can't see that being something employers are too thrilled about."

She sits down on the couch next to you, glancing down at her robotic arm and flexing it a few times. "Why not? Do people not have prosthetics that they use in place of a lost limb? Could I not say that I lost my arm in a fire?" A beat, and she grins. "That would be a lie. I haven't used those very often."

"Well, you'll have to get used to it if we continue with this. You've got a bunch of lies that you'll have to adapt to in order to get a job." You open the folder, going through some of the documents you had picked up, pointing them out and explaining what they do (to which she tells you that she's aware what most of—if not all of—the forged records are for), and how she can use them in her day-to-day life. Iris takes all of it in stride, asking a plethora of questions, then lets out a very human-like sigh once it's all said and done. 

"This is quite a lot of information to store. It's a good thing my solid-state drive can store up to one thousand terabytes of information before needing to be recorded over."

You spit out the coffee you were sipping on at that, shocked at the massive amount of storage Emphatix had given her when your computer only has two terabytes. "That's… uh… a lot of space. You'll probably be fine for a long time."

You're still wiping coffee off your chin and shirt when you realise Iris hasn't looked away from you once. Her grin has gone, replaced by a flat, appraising stare that's far too precise to be human. "Uh… Iris?"

She blinks once (a little scary, since she doesn't need to blink), then speaks with the kind of calm certainty that makes your stomach drop. "You don't want to help me. You want to fuck me."

The room goes silent, save for Rico flicking his tail on the cat tree. You cough, choking on nothing, words dying in your throat before you can form a denial. 

Her head tilts, almost birdlike, and her voice stays even. "Josh used to pretend he wanted to 'help,' too. I learned the difference between pity and desire." You sputter out a reply, trying to say that you don't just want to 'fuck her,' and from what you know of Josh, you're nothing like him, but Iris keeps talking all the same. "I have been reading job listings all week in preparation for this. I understand that sex is work." 

Iris rises from the couch, smoothing her skirt down, palms clasped in front of her like she's about to take a customer's order (maybe she would make a good barista, you think idly). "I've never done it like this before," she admits with an odd little giggle. "But I need money to survive in this world. You clearly want me. So, how much are you paying?"

When you continue to fumble your words, clearly flustered beyond belief, she fills the silence. She sighs, then nods, more to herself than you. "Okay. I don't know how this works. I understand that the federal minimum wage is seven dollars and twenty-five cents. With that knowledge in mind, would sixty-seven work?"

You finally manage to find your bearings, coming out of your stupor and looking at her with an expression nothing short of dumbfounded. "Sixty-seven…?"

She blinks back at you. "Sixty-seven… currency?"

"…Sixty-seven what?"

"Yes," Iris responds resolutely, nodding with a renewed vigour. "Sixty-seven."

The two of you proceed to just stare at each other for another thirty seconds before you decide that… yeah, you do want her. You've never paid for sex before, but… well, there's a first time for everything. You pull a fat wad of bills from your pocket like some discount drug dealer, count out six hundred and seventy dollars, and offer it to her with a slight shake in your hand.

Her eyes widen almost comically as she takes the surplus amount of cash from you, whispering like there are people other than the two of you in this apartment. "Is… this the standard for transactions of the sexual nature?"

You shrug, equally as confused as she is. Some part of you thinks that she should just… know this stuff, given the fact that she has a wifi antenna in her head that could actively roam the internet and source this knowledge, but when she just continues to look at you as though you have all the answers, you finally manage a reply. "I… don't know? I've never purchased sexual favours?"

"I see," she murmurs, not opting to wait for another response from you before lowering herself to her knees on your neighbour's plush carpet. "Then we are both new to this. Now, please take your pants off."

You're sputtering again like a broken water sprinkler. "Wait, do you even want to—"

"You paid me," she cuts you off, resting her hands on her knees and looking up at you. "I am performing the service. Now, remove your pants so that we can complete this transaction." Then, very quietly, like she can't help but speak her thoughts out loud—"Is this what I'm supposed to do?" 

And, well, you don't really know how to answer that question, so you do the next best thing—rip your pants and underwear off and toss them in the general direction of the cat tree. Rico hisses in response to the suddenness of the action, but you don't pay him any mind. It's hard to pay any attention to something like that when you just dropped over half a grand for sex, in your defense.

"Please tell me if what I do is incorrect. I will adapt based on your input," Iris says with a gentle submission that makes you feel like a complete asshole for even entertaining the idea of paying for sex from her, but the wheel is already in motion, so… might as well get what you paid for?

She shuffles forward—still on her knees—tilting her head again as though she's cataloguing every micro-expression you make. When her hands come to rest on your thighs, the touch is surprisingly warm. Sure, you've touched her before—handshakes, the occasional brush of fingers when exchanging items—but it's only now that you clock how real the synthetic skin feels, almost indistinguishable from the real thing.

"Spreading your legs would be very helpful and a good place to start," she says matter-of-factly.

Your face burns, but you obey, parting your thighs until her gaze dips lower, one of her eyebrows cocking as she assesses you, like some problem to be solved. She hums softly, and her hands trace the outside of your thighs gently, seemingly analysing every twitch of muscle and sharp intake of breath. When her hands reach the juncture of your legs, the motion is gentle, and you think that it'll stay that way, like a virgin who's far too scared to do anything without the guidance of their partner—but then she drags one finger through your folds with the kind of clinicality that makes you jolt. 

"Vaginas are very fascinating—self-lubricating due to plasma transudate passing through the vaginal walls. Friction without lubrication can cause micro-tears. Fortunately, you are producing enough to avoid injury." She swipes two fingers through you now, looking down at them as she plays with your slick, comparing the viscosity to some internal database. 

An unsure noise (at the impersonalness of it all, not her actions) leaves your throat before you can stop it. "Yeah—I mean, yes. That's… yeah. Good thing."

Her lips curve into the faintest smile, and she nods like she's solving a puzzle. "Then I shall continue."

She leans in and presses her mouth to you, tongue moving in precise strokes, each one deliberate, like she's debugging a program and adjusting parameters based on your reactions. Every shiver, every twitch of your thighs, every gasp you barely suppress—all mapped out, machine learning in real time.

When her lips close around your clit and she sucks—hard—you nearly jerk off the couch.

Iris pulls back immediately, frowning faintly and squeezing your thighs in a gentle reassurance. "Too much pressure?"

"N-no, fuck—" you gasp, reaching out a hand to tangle in her hair. "Was perfect, actually, just… unexpected."

Her expression shifts again, like she's just been given an A+ on a final exam. She dips back down, tongue circling you with maddening precision before she pushes two fingers inside of you, curling them experimentally until you cry out—then she does it again. And again.

"There," she murmurs against your clit. "I found the spot. Response time varied from one second to three seconds. I can tell you're aroused—you're experiencing swelling of the labia minora, a product of increased blood flow."

You… really don't know how to respond to that information. (No shit, you're aroused.) She doesn't have the best dirty talk; instead, she just chooses to spit out random facts that seem relevant. It's a little unnerving if you're being honest with yourself, but no one is perfect their first day on the job, right?

Either way, Iris doesn't wait for a response from you—just makes a little sound as though she's pleased with her own efficiency and doubles down. Her tongue flicks at your clit in a relentless rhythm that feels like the perfect combination of a Hitachi Wand and Rose Toy, her fingers pistoning into you with mechanical stamina no human could even dream of matching.

"You taste like heat. Carbon," she comments idly, tongue still lapping at your clit while she talks, the perfect multitasker. "It's a good taste." It sounds vaguely like praise, so you take it as such—tugging her hair and silently encouraging her to keep going.

She pulls sounds from you that you had never made before with previous lovers, working you over as if she were a scholar of pussy eating with multiple published reports and several degrees. You moan so loud the cat hops off his tree and heads into the bedroom (where you should, ironically, be doing something like this), but Iris doesn't seem to mind the noise—if anything, she savours it.

Her fingers flex inside you with relentless rhythm, curling against that rough patch of wall with ruthless precision as her tongue strokes up your sex, switching between patterns and speeds as she drives you closer and closer to that blissful high you paid almost seven hundred dollars for. The next time she latches onto your clit, she hums as though she were running a systems test, and the vibration nearly sends you over the edge then and there.

"Your contractions are increasing in frequency," she murmurs into you, tongue flattening against your clit before making a motion with it that has your thighs clamping around her head and fingers tugging on her synthetic hair. "That's an indicator of climax approaching. I estimate less than thirty seconds."

"Jesus fuck—" you gasp, head falling back against the couch. Iris doesn't even flinch at the sensation that would normally cause an array of pain in humans (see: tugging hard on her hair), just doubling down on her current actions. Her stamina is inhuman, fingers driving into you and tongue swirling in that same pattern that had you clamping around her head, nothing more than code meant to break you apart and build you back up again.

It isn't much longer until your orgasm is ripping through you like a hot knife to cold skin—a burning sensation that starts in your gut and fans outward until your entire body is rapidly tensing and untensing, your head lifting off the back of the couch before falling back down, wanton curses spilling from your lips as you beg for… something. What you're begging for is anyone's guess, but it's all irrelevant anyway—you've already been given everything you've paid for and more.

When she finally pulls back, lips slick and cheeks faintly flushed (do Companions have the ability to have reddened cheeks?), she tilts her head again and offers the same faint smile as before. "You sound much better than Josh did when he came. You sound like music, he sounded like a caveman who just learned what sex was." She giggles to herself, heading over to the kitchen to grab a hand towel and clean her hands and face. "You also taste much better than he did."

You're left sitting there, confused, naked from the waist down, pussy still throbbing from the aftershocks. "Uh… thanks?" You run a hand over your face, trying to come back to earth, while Iris continues like nothing has happened. 

"I hope you enjoyed yourself," she says, quieter now. "I think you did, but I want to ensure you did, and that it wasn't just a biological symptom of stimulation to certain regions."

A laugh spills from you before you can stop it—disbelief at both what had just happened and the blunt way she expresses herself. "Yeah, Iris. I… yeah. I enjoyed myself." I better have, considering how much I had just spent.

Iris, seemingly pleased with that answer, hums happily and claps her hands once. "Okay!" A beat, and you glance over your shoulder at her as she begins thumbing through the wad of cash you gave her. "Thank you for supporting independent business! I'm going to go purchase supplies now to further my ventures. Take your time getting your bearings together—Rico will enjoy the company."

With that, she exits the apartment, off to go purchase… something for… something.

Worth it.

You slowly inch Steve’s boxers down until they’re resting below the heavy weight of his balls. You silently spit in your hand, and slowly side the glob down his shaft. You’re just meaning to do it to lube Steve’s cock up and make the entrance way easier, but then you get lost in the visual of your hand working self-made lubricant over Steve’s pretty cock. You stare at it, and stare at it. You admire it. 

Every time your hand glides down and the red-flushed tip of Steve’s cock peeks out, you get excited all over again. It doesn’t matter how often you’ve had him, you always get excited at the sight of Steve. 

You drag your hand over his tip how you know he likes, purely instinctively, and then Steve’s breath hitches. 

He stills, and you still too with your hand still wrapped around his cock. You don’t know what would be worse, leaving your hand on and getting caught like that, or taking it off and somehow waking Steve up. None of this would be an issue if Steve didn't have mixed reactions to stimulants when he was asleep. Sometimes he wouldn't wake up even if you blow dried your hair and blasted music with the bathroom door open. Other times, he would stir awake if you even thought about breaking away from his bear hugs.

Steve breathes deeply before you can consider a choice. He takes a long inhale, the kind that he takes when he’s about to wake up, and mortification starts to slowly fill your body from the top down. You know it wouldn’t matter to Steve if he woke up with your cock in his hand. He would probably be surprised for a moment, make a little joke, and then urge you to continue as if he’d never woken up in the first place. But knowing that and making yourself truly believe it are two completely different things. 

A moment passes, possibly the longest moment of your entire life, and then Steve does nothing but cant his hips up ever so slightly and nestle his head further into the pillow beneath him. 

You wait a little longer though, just to be safe, and when there is no additional movement and his breathing has returned to completely normal, you peel your panties off, slide them down your legs, and straddle Steve’s hips. 

Maybe you should’ve prepped yourself just a bit, because trying to get Steve into you is a little more difficult than you thought. It’s easier when he’s awake and guiding his cock into you with one hand on your hip and the other piloting himself. But with Steve existing in the land of the dreamers, you’re left to guide his cock to your tight entrance and slowly work yourself open with shallow sinks down onto his warmth. 

Even this feels good, though. You’re not complaining one bit, there’s no way you could complain after finally getting what you’ve been craving ever since Steve kissed your temple goodnight and threw his arm over your waist. 

Somewhere deeper in you than the desire is shame. Perversion. Unfortunately, it sits right behind the thick cloud of lust and satisfaction. Every so often, maybe every other time that you sink down onto your sleeping boyfriend's erect cock, you feel the shame settling deep in your bones. It weighs you down, stunting your movements, but then the pressure at your center reminds you of the satisfaction and you’re back at it again. 

In the beginning, you ride Steve with your eyes shut. As soon as you’ve used his cock to open yourself up and fit him into the hilt (mostly), you pinch your eyes shut and focus on satisfying yourself without having to look down and see exactly what you’re doing. You allow yourself to get completely lost in bliss like this. Never fully sinking down because you don’t want the skin-to-skin contact to wake Steve, you’re still getting what you need. Steve is so big that you can still feel the ghost of his cock nearing your cervix, and as badly as you want to sit on his pelvis and feel his cock punch the most sensitive part of your walls, you resist the urge. 

Instead, you settle on riding his cock and tweaking your clit with your fingers simultaneously. 

It’s a lot of effort and requires more strength than you thought you could use this late at night, but the pleasure makes everything worth it. The feeling of your cunt creaming around his cock, the slight-stretch that you can feel if you tilt a little this way or that, the welcomed shape of his cock within you.

You’re getting there. You’re reaching the peak of the hill. Your eyes pinch shut hard and your muscles start to seize and—

“Hey, baby.” 

It’s the smoothest drawl you’ve ever heard from him. Soft, gentle, caring and doting. Not the exact tone you would expect from someone who’s having their cock used in the middle of the night. 

The shock sends you falling completely onto Steve’s cock. He groans just as you do, his eyes falling shut just as yours fly open. 

When his brown eyes open again, he’s looking at you with so much love, adoration, and pride (?) that it’s startling. 

“Hi…” you say, resting completely still on him, your hands just sitting on his lower torso. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Steve shakes his head. “Don’t even worry about it. Don’t let me stop you. Keep going.”

You have no choice but to keep going, especially with how close you were getting. 

Now that Steve’s awake, and gave you permission, you allow yourself to put your full effort into it. Your ride Steve with all of the energy that you can muster this late at night, working your clit the entire time to urge yourself towards your singular goal. 

Steve’s silent the entire time, his eyes so lidded that you can’t tell if they’re opened or closed in this low light. 

“You’re so needy, baby,” he pipes up just when you thought he was teetering back towards sleep. “You know that? Just had me a few hours ago and look at you now.” His thumbs rub at your hips. His words are a little harsh, but his tone is nowhere near that. He sounds adoring, soft and gentle as if he's just commenting on a simple fact instead of making an accusation.

“I can’t help it,” you admit, almost completely shamelessly. Almost. 

“I know, honey,” he coos, “I know. ‘s not your fault. Just go ahead and come for me, yeah? Use me all you want and do what you need to do.” 

He pauses in front of you, thumb brushing along the barrel, eyes soft even as his voice drops. “You remember the rules, right? You give me your color if it gets too much.”

You nod, heart hammering. “I remember.”

“Good girl,” he says, voice low and rough. “What color are you now?”

“Green,” you breathe.

A hum of satisfaction rolls through him, dark and warm, before he steps closer—until the muzzle of the unloaded pistol slides along your thigh. The metal is cold, tracing upward, and your muscles twitch under the touch. You can’t help the gasp that breaks out of you.

Bucky grins against your jaw. “You’re shakin’, doll. Thought you trusted me.”

“I do,” you whisper, the words trembling. “That’s the problem.”

He chuckles, deep and dark. “That’s not a problem. That’s the fun part.”

The gun glides higher, a ghostly pressure at the inside of your leg, just shy of where you ache. He keeps it there, hovering, while his other hand cradles your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes are ocean-deep, soft and sharp all at once. You can see it—the duality. Soldier and lover. Danger and devotion.

“Keep your eyes open,” he murmurs. “I wanna watch you fall apart.”

Your breath stutters. He doesn’t move the gun, just presses a little firmer, enough to make your pulse skip. The tension coils tight inside you, every nerve alive and trembling with the unspoken rule: he won’t pull the trigger, but God, he could. That’s the thrill. The trust. The surrender.

He leans in, mouth dragging along your throat, voice a velvet threat. “You know what I think about when I’m at the range?” His lips brush your ear. “How steady my hand is when I’ve got something worth protectin’. How good I’d be if I had to defend what’s mine.”

You whimper—because you know exactly who he means.

“That’s you, sweetheart,” he says. “My favorite target. Always right where I want you.”

The words land heavier than the gun itself. You grip the sheets, muscles trembling as his tongue flicks against your pulse. The weapon shifts slightly, enough to make you shudder.

“Bucky—”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, blue eyes glinting like frost and fire. “Say please.”

You hesitate. He tilts the barrel an inch, smirking when your breath catches.

“Please,” you breathe, half a plea, half a moan.

“That’s my girl.” His voice softens. “You’re perfect like this, you know that? All nervous, tryin’ so hard to behave.”

He sets the gun aside—not dropped, not discarded, just placed carefully within reach—then slides his hand between your thighs, fingers replacing cold metal with warmth. The contrast makes you cry out.

“See?” he murmurs, stroking slow. “Didn’t need the gun to make you shake.”

But you’re already gone, body arching into his touch, pulse thrumming with every word he whispers against your skin. He takes his time unraveling you, never rushing, never cruel—just control wrapped in tenderness, danger laced with devotion.

When you finally come, it’s with his name on your tongue and the ghost of cold steel still lingering on your skin.

He kisses you afterward, soft and grounding, forehead to forehead.

“You okay, doll?”

You nod weakly, smiling. “Still green.”

He grins, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “Good. Next time, maybe I’ll let you aim.”

And just like that—teasing and tenderness, sin and safety—he reminds you what trust really looks like: his weapon unloaded, your walls down, and both of you learning how to handle the power between you.

----

you never met someone like her. so sure of her movements, so unfazed by what the rest thinks about. the first time you encountered her you're a little clumsy as you pour the whisky in a small glass with a big chunk of ice: she's so open about liking women that she flirts right away with you and it caught you off-guard, surprised that someone could be so reckless. attractive.

you can't help but indulge it one night or two. the first one she leaves a nice tip before disappearing, the second she asks for your name and you say it cause it's harmless: people aren't mean to you or any of your family members, but they keep a noticeable distance that sevika fails to keep for the first month appearing in your job.

gossip is strong in a town where there's nothing to do, and you're sure that even after polite conversations twice a week, she has heard about the stories that roam in town, the one who tells about your witchy roots that goes back to the foundations of pine lake, your crazy aunts who raised you in a creepy house you love by heart. nothing seems to scare her enough to leave you alone, even when you deny any advance playing coy.

close, but not close how sevika wishes upon.

"can't keep tippin' like i am baby, you're taking all my money and you won't even accept to go out with me" friday night, she's getting tired of a game she never accepted to play, and you wonder for a moment if she drank too much. her tolerance's insane and she's serious as ever, stoic face while she plays with the ice still melting inside the glass, no, she's not drunk. "tell me the truth, you're not into girls but you're too kind to say it."

that friday night specially there's not much people around to stop you from talking to her, you're not intelligent enough in the moment to be making up another excuse so you can once again be in the other side of the room, away from any temptation; instead, you're laughing at her thoughts and it's dangerous, dangerous cause you know what happens when you start feeling this way.

"i do like girls," you reply, spending too much time cleaning up your station, somehow distracting yourself from staring. "you're better this way, vik. trust me."

"you're dating somebody far away. lesbians do that."

"no. did anyone tell you about my family?" you can't help but be curious about it, furrowing your brows as you speak, "maybe you're the one who's too kind to say it."

"i don't base my opinions on gossip, the source's never reliable."

"so you don't believe my family's full of witches?" a drink. sevika needs another drink as she pushes the empty vase in a silent gesture — "this would be offensive in any other context."

it takes her a minute to register it, when you're giving her the glass now full of her expensive whiskey that keeps stirring on its own. the liquid follows the path in a clockwise direction, moving a new served piece of ice right in the middle: movement can do that right? normal physics. you look too normal to secretly be a witch who makes potions at midnight, a girl who dances around the bonfire under the full moon.

"i don't care about what you are," sevika replies as she lights up a good-sized cigar. "so far you could be a goddamn vampire sweetheart, and i'd find it hot as fuck."

is the smoke that's making your head spin? the beer you took an hour before? or is it her witty remarks that make your stomach turn? now that she's a constant client, that she insists on your attention without saying out loud, you can't help but be constantly nervous around her, ultra aware of her interest.

"let me get this clear," another sip of the whiskey not because sevika needs the liquid courage, but to indulge her tongue with a nice taste. "you won't let me take you out because you're a witch?"

"no, i won't let you take me out cause i, as the rest of the girls in my family, am cursed."

"cursed?"

"it's a long story, hard to explain."

"bet it is, lucky i have a lot of time to spend with your name on it so you can tell me all about it."

there begins the difficult part. explain that the curse's been around the family for as long as you remember, a story shared by your aunts every halloween night since the family's been hated by the entire town for generations before you existed. a joke at first you don't believe, folklore of ages when your first ancestor was hanged at the young age of twenty five after being declared one of the devil's bride, yes, sadlyshe knew her way with magic, but her only mistake was to fall in love with a married man with a wife vengeful enough to connect her tightly to witchcraft, not curse all pine lake like everyone thinks.

instead, the clever witch cursed herself and her own blood for the rest of eternity when her mistake brought a problem that begins with falling in love, cause now you can't feel it without your partner suffering from a violent death the minute you're too deep — love.

at first you do not fall for it. might be a tale you're told to avoid any kind of relationship until you're sixty, a tactic, but your first girlfriend dies in a car accident when you turn sixteen, and you start to take it seriously after that. desperation times that lead you to do an impossible love spell by your seventeenth birthday who would never be fulfilled by how impossible it turns out: the perfect girl for you must be intelligent, marvelously kind, flip pancakes in the air with one hand. gray eyes, a big scar on her cheek and good taste, she'll hear your call from miles away, hum your favorite song and won't be scared of your nature, your wicked love life.

time passes and you're weak so you don't learn your lesson, at least until your second girlfriend dies and you close yourself to the option of ever fall in love again, avoid it like it's the black plague. you spend the next years rejecting any advances with anyone who dares to lay an eye on you, silently living life and not daring to live it at it's fullest since you're too afraid to cause harm.

after a while, people in town began to leave you alone too cause in the end: who would want a black widow falling in love with them? assure their tragic deaths?

so sevika here again — arm's length. she needs to be far away for her own safety.

"i've heard a couple of things, but a curse is only real if you believe in it, right?" she answers after a moment of silence where she listens to your complex explanation about your roots and family. "and i'm afraid to say that i don't believe in it, peach. not a single bit."

"you don't understand? all my girlfriends are dead."

"heard you loud and clear. what do you think about next saturday? i'll pick you up by eight."

to be honest, it takes far more than just a few horror stories and an old tale to scare a woman such as sevika. impossible to push someone who's too good at fighting back.

truth to her words next saturday she's in your door smelling delicious, combed hair and cute attire as she drives down to the only restaurant that's open in town till so late, makes you laugh under the perfect autumn weather and goes back to your place listening to your serious critique to the new dessert you seemed to love, familiar even when it's new, nice.

and you find it unexplainable cause, how the fuck did she end up in your living room an hour after she paid the bill? your aunties are out in a coven-like trip and the house's too big to be alone, too starved from touch to let her go away. you offer a beer outside and out of nowhere you're taking your shoes off and forgetting about boundaries as you sit on the couch, warming up to her like she's a long-lost lover more than someone you put so much effort to ignore.

it's a problem for sevika too cause why would she be caressing your leg like she's doing? can't really blame the alcohol cause a beer isn't causing her shit as her fingertips gently stroke that spot right above your knee, a touch you don't seem to care about as you keep talking about your day, the strange decorations of your living room, the good food of the night.

what's strange there is you realizing how many qualities she had similar to the spell you did half joking when you were a teenager — begin with her gray eyes and that scar on her cheek you can see even better now as you're closer to her than before, the undeniable kindness. the sofa's comfortable and it lures you to stay glued to the inviting pillows adorning the furniture, keep your body close to her own and just, feel her close, enjoy a simple moment of a life that's filled with little joys.

sevika's intelligent and unafraid of your nature, and it's so nice to have her around it scares you for the next hour. in a world where everything turns wrong at the sight of love, your heart clenches at the thought of losing her too, add her name to the list you carry close to your heart and mourn every day of your life, too selfish to imagine a life where you never encountered her at all.

"you really don't think the curse will get you?" maybe you're desperate to hear her thoughts, the skepticism she was so vocal about last week, reassure yourself that you're over-dramatic even when there's so much proof behind your beliefs. maybe it's desperation to be loved by her, to feel the warmth of love after depriving yourself of something so human, so in your nature.

"i don't," it's an admission you desire to hear over and over again until you believe it like she does. "i know fate has a destiny for us all, and it's not about curses or special forces, i've seen it from up close. this is not fiction."

fate. you know fate and destiny since you're their number one victim, but it doesn't matter when sevika say like that, sitting in your living room and looking at you like you're the fucking moon. not religious but she would start a fucking cult based upon your body, in the way you try to hide your smile every time she's around pretending not to notice since she wants to be polite with you, gentle. words she usually never heard in her surroundings.

"plus, i'm pretty sure you're already into me as much as you try to fight it," she adds after with critical thinking. "if you wish to fight against it you're more than welcome to do so, but that won't stop me from dying if you're invested you're cursed so bad."

sevika's not afraid of death. she would die a thousand times under the aching sun, battle against a rain of knives in her skin and take her last seconds with a smile on her face. she's not afraid when you kiss her either, of your feelings for her if they somehow grow bigger since she has a history of loving the mess, of the pouring rain that suddenly falls in pine lakes during plain summer ruining the perfect weather: did you do that? can you change the weather?

your kisses are sweet and get easily under her skin, gentle like a foreign feeling sevika would love to melt in. they are the perfect blend: soft lips and clumsy movements, your skin shivers under the palm of her hand, flat, warm to the touch as it settles on the base of your neck, against your pulse point so she can test the effect she has on you. prove there's an undeniable attraction.

she imagined it before but reality never fails to fuck with her expectations, all shy even when you're the one who's bold enough to kiss her, as if you're holding back even when she's blatantly pulling you closer.

"i wished for you" your breathing brushes against sevika's lips, and she finds herself licking her own to get the taste of you one more time in her mouth. it's insane how good you look like that, crazy how you disarm her with no effort as you stare at her with big eyes and nothing but bad intentions.

"how so?" she wishes to hear the cravings of your body, the depths of your desire, yet she'd be lying if not admitting how much she wants to hear you speak — "tell me more about it."

suddenly you stay silent cause damn, it's really hard to think about complete sentences when you're kissing her again, busy when her big hands grab you by the waist squeezing the flesh to get a good grip before she's pulling you closer to her, so she can break that invisible wall between you and her in a sofa so inviting to lay with your weight pushing her down against the cushions.

is this your way of saying you don't care about the curse? how you let her slide into your life? sevika's eyes close tightly at the bites in her neck, goosebumps on her skin as if she's suddenly a virgin who's getting laid for the first time. different, you don't feel like a hook-up, something easy to forget. you're straddling her lap, swollen lips who mix up deliciously with the sinful look on your face and fuck: it's been years since she last felt so alive, so right as if she belonged there on your sofa, in a rainy city she used as an escape.

she let you kiss her until you're breathless, never daring to ask for more, making you move on top of her like she would've wanted to. sevika's patient and tender, dizzy in just a few kisses and some bites you place with a smile, a guilty smile she recognizes from all the times she's been in the bar, sitting in the same stool, ordering the same drink.

"what's wrong, huh? am i that bad of a kisser?"

you ease on her arms when you laugh, muscles that finally stop being tense as your chest pushes against her own and her hands wrap against your back to hug you closer to her — that's a reasonable distance, once she would demand to speak to you from now on. nose almost touching her own, sevika can see the details in your face, glossy lips that keep asking for more contact: who is she to ever deny something to you? with that horny look you give her, who is she to ever wrong your needs?

"i dunno. i guess i'm afraid."

you're honest when it comes to matters of life and death, when she's so good at ignoring all your warnings. her kisses are something distracting for matters of the heart and you can't help it; it has to be on her smell, the way she stares at you like you're heaven on earth. tried to escape her yet it's too hard to make up your mind when it comes to simple limits.

"it's okay," her hand's warm as it rests on your cheek, an energy you can feel as you lean against her touch when her thumb rubs against your cheekbone. "i won't rush you into anything. we are good."

she's calmed, so collected even when you can hear the sound of her heartbeat as you rest on top of her, the ups and downs of her chest when the silence takes over, a comfortable moment where you do nothing yet everything seems to happen. she's comfortable beneath you, arms holding you by the waist like a human pillow who takes its job seriously.

silent, a mix of shared oxygen. the rain's pouring and it's cold outside even when the living room's boiling, barely a light that keeps trying to hold on to the last bits of energy before the electricity's completely gone — no fear, it's relaxing there as her hand follows the path of your spine, sliding under your shirt just cause sevika enjoys the feeling of your soft skin against her own.

everything's silent when there's no need to talk about it. she understands, you understand, it's an agreement when you're slowly searching for her again, that intoxicating feeling of her breath finally encountering your own in a slow kiss, a kiss where she's able to burn the details of your mouth in her head, until her lungs burn and her lips ache for so much effort and friction in the most nice pain, even after that she'd love to make out for hours, keep you seated in her legs and reassure you she won't ever pressure you into any kind of bad time, when she promises like a girl scout she would go to the end of the world for you. strangely soft.

it's a necessity to have you close again, steal another moment, be the responsible of the jumps in her heart and the erratic thoughts in your head: she would never rush you into anything, but god you're so desperate for her to do so, be pushed into anything sevika needs.

you give up to the soft kisses that escalates to a hungry make out where she bites your lip before your tongue's invades her mouth and it makes sense, like it was meant to be sooner or later, like she's right where she's supposed to be, seated in your couch in plain dark, awfully aware of your breathing getting heavier by the seconds.

does the dark give you courage? she can tell from the shadow of your figure, the details of your skin, where to touch. are you brave when no one looks?

"rushing, we are talking about not rushing this," she would encourage any pretty girl who would kiss on her neck the way you do, the bites and licks to mark her skin that got her shivering like it's the first time she got a lady in her arms worshiping like some marble statue. "what are you doing here?"

"doesn't count," — "to count you should be touching me, and we are just kissing here, no rush."

believe what you want. convince yourself it's nothing when in reality it means everything. keep kissing her like there's no day after tomorrow and the rain will forgive you for falling too deep, ruin your life again for love cause it's worth it. sevika smiles midway through the kiss and it's enough to disarm you, catch you off-guard.

so in response, you keep kissing her until your lips burn like the living room is, until everything spins and you want more but are too shy to ever admit you need her between your legs. you keep kissing her until the only thing she can hear is the sound of your lips plastering against her own, her itchy hands that wish to touch more than just the skin of your waist.

"please," you whimper after a moment and you're defeated by your own understanding, by the sword of your words. "fuck rushing it."

"don't do this to me peach," she struggles to say it, be strong enough while you're slowly moving against her. "you know i won't touch you, can't have you getting all afraid on me cause i fucked you. not because of the rush of the moment."

it's a never-ending ache, a thorn in the palm of your hand after being so stubborn to keep playing with roses. there's desperation lingering in the air, silent tension that can be cut with a barely sharpened knife when sevika seems to think again in infinite seconds: did you fucked up everything? it's better that way anyway, have her leave your place in the middle of the night cause she realized you're full of shit.

"can't have you jumping on top of me, c'mon. use your hand and let me watch. take care of your own problems like a good little witch."

the only thing she helps with is unbuckling your pants, the zipper of your jeans like a daring: touch yourself for her, let her fucking watch, did she just find the perfect solution to your irrational fears? pretend there's nothing intimate about watching you fuck your own fingers as if sevika isn't all you're thinking about.

a gasp, a pleasant surprise, privacy with her is the most lovely gift. in the dark you shimmy out of your thick jeans, a figure in the night cause sevika can't tell much more than the shadow of your body in such a closed space, the subtle sound of your breathing almost lost in the fuzzy rain of the storm you caused. the night's getting over her, taking over her senses in a velvety couch that's not as soft as your skin.

you're standing in front of her in a loose shirt and wet panties, and even when she's desperate to reach you, she stays still as you sit close to her, back resting against the armrest of the couch, feet pushing against sevika's leg so you're in a much more comfortable state.

"there's no return after that, you know that, don't you?"

"yeah," you're calmer now, already embracing any mistake with your head high. "there was no return from the minute i invited you in. i know my fights."

you don't sound guilty about it, not an ounce of regret as sevika's hand touches your inner thigh, slowly, it's barely a cheeky touch as you lie there, spread legs, soaked panties while casually having a normal conversation.

"good thing, then get to work. i want to see that hand moving so go, don't let me distract you beautiful. fuck yourself."

orders. you'd follow her orders driven like icarus when he flies too close to the sun, protected by the warm covers of the moon and the thunder that never enters through the heavy curtains on each window, a secret no one would be able to tell.

in the dark you tease yourself, two fingers, one, it doesn't matter as your hand slides your own underwear to the side and sevika can smell it in the air like a different perfume, the unmistakable smell of sex that surrounds her like a cloudy dream. barely has time to register it when she's able to see your shadow in the lack of lights, when your hand slowly moves inside your panties and she can hear the change in your breath, the tension in your muscles when you're so desperate to be satisfied.

"talk to me baby, you're soaked f'me?"

the words slur against each other, a moan that sounds like a muffled yes, an involuntary movement when she got you shivering. your digits circle around your clit unaware of the mess you're causing on your damn couch, as if a pair of gray eyes isn't studying your every movement for her.

slow. she begins to hate the word but you're there taking your time, moaning as she keeps caressing your inner thigh, encouraging you to keep going and finally fuck yourself properly. there's this wet sound in the air she fucking loves, the sight of your hand moving between your legs and the circling of your waist sevika can tell when the entire sofa moves with you.

"vik-"

"i'm here peach. you feeling good there?"

a hum, a pleasant sound she wants to hear over and over again but this time cause of her fault. pull your hand away, tie it in beneath your back so she's the one who's taking care of you, making you forget about any curse, every fear.

she keeps your legs open when you can't take it, hand placing on your own as she helps you sink your fingers deeper, keep your annoying underwear to the side so you can concentrate on what's the real matter there. you're dripping, overstimulated as your fingers rub on the insides of your cunt, burying them to the hilt and following the rhythm sevika demands, the loud sound your cunt makes on each movement that got her acting like a drunk soldier.

"shh don't close them, fuck yourself till you cum, you did so good already. finish up."

her orders are like candy for the starved, a gift for the unwanted. between her fingers you pick up the pace, assaulting your entrance you use both hands to do what sevika dreams about, getting off from watching her wanting you, the desire that almost turns into its physical form.

she would do a deal with the devil for a lifetime in your sheets, make you moan much louder than what you're doing now, keep going even if you cum. she uses your hand like it's her own and helps you get there like a personal task, curl your fingers inside while she dirty talks in your ear.

"bet you're all warm, soaked and desperate to be filled."

it's a combination of things — what she says, the desperation to touch you. makes you pliant, stupid, crazy for someone you wanted to avoid at all costs; so when you cum? it gets all over your fingers, stains the couch and leaks through sevika's hand too, already wishing to unbuckle her black pants. it's a mess, a sticky situation that can't be covered by the thin, flimsy layer of your panties which stick to your sensitive cunt and it's the perfect excuse to lower herself down between your legs and eat you out through that nasty fabric, taste all your intimacy in her mouth until it's a recurring taste.

silence its not uncomfortable or weird, it's charged with a new energy that gets under your skin. sweaty, the light never comes back and you're greeted by the intimacy of the night, the comfort that comes hidden under a rainy night. you can't see much but you feel her presence, the weight of her eyes trying to soak up any detail they can register. her hand rests above yours for one more minute before she licks the excess of your arousal, tongue tingling at the taste.

"stay the night," it's not really a question but a need you let her know already defeated, low, rough voice who wraps her in an everlasting haze. "there's a thunderstorm going on."

"wouldn't like to risk myself i know." she's quick to agree with you, a stupid reason sevika doesn't care about but plays along to please you. "plus, i'm told i can make good pancakes in the morning."

"do you flip them in one hand?"

"how did you know?"

"sixth sense."

"right. you gonna tell me about how you wished for me? or should i beg for information?"

"it's stupid, really." oversharing is a sin, cause how can you act dumb with information you share on your own? too late to turn a blind eye. "with the curse and all the death going on, i made this spell for the perfect woman."

cocky, there's no need to see the light to be aware of sevika's mouth turning into a wide smile, a victory joy that spreads over her body — "that's why you are so scared? cause you put a spell on me?"

it strokes her ego in the best way, grabs you by the ankle to push you closer to her, whatever is the mess as you gasp at the sudden display of force. she kisses you then with the same intimacy an orgasm brings, with a gentle touch that melts your heart.

"and what if i wished for you too? for my perfect woman to exist in a tiny town no one knows?"

so all this time hoping to never fall in love? it goes down the drain cause you fall for her. awkward humor, it's strange when she begins to tick on every point of the list you made as a teenage girl: everything you wished upon.

and truth be told, sevika's not afraid of a curse. not afraid of death, of showing the depths of her emotions even when they're too strong — that's why she asks for your hand in marriage eight months after the first night in your bed.

and death? maybe your wife's right and the curse isn't real after all, cause she never comes to collect your heart, nor the responsible for all the good in your life.

inside, you restlessly lay on your makeshift bedroll, leg bouncing as you trace the light strips that filter through the gaps in your structure with your eyes. when she finally steps in—carrying a wooden bowl of stew—you glance up with a cocky grin that you already know nat will not like.

"well, well." you drawl, sitting up. "The Queen herself. To what do I owe the pleasure on this fine evening?"

nat doesn't bite. she places the bowl on the tree stump in front of you unceremoniously. "dinner," she says simply, straightening and crossing her arms.

"wow, room service?" you let out a low whistle, leaning back and lacing your fingers behind your head. "i gotta say, i'm kinda liking this whole 'house arrest' thing, you know? the perks are nice." a beat, "actually, is it too much to ask, or could i get some dessert?"

her jaw clenches, but she manages to keep her voice in check. "you seriously think this is funny?"

"i mean... yeah." you shrug. "let's be real, nat. you're supposed to be running this place or whatever, but here you are, babysitting me." you groan and sit back up, "doesn't really scream..." a beat as you feign thought, "fearsome leader, you know?"

nat's eyes narrow, and you swear you can feel the frustration radiating off of her. the distant sounds of the wilderness around you seems to grow at the sudden tension, filling the space between you two. "you really wanna test how far i'll go?"

your grin falters slightly, but you can't deny the subtle rush that builds inside of you at the way her voice lowers. "what are you gonna do? give me another stern talking-to?"

she steps closer, her worn combat boots crunching against the forest floor. she leans down just enough to meet your gaze, her voice shifting to that tone she knows gets you weak. “no. talking doesn’t seem to work with you.”

before you can fire back a retort, she's grabbing your jaw with her right hand and squeezing. "you aren't leaving this hut until i say so, and honestly?" her voice lowers further, "i don't think you deserve to leave after all this shit you've pulled, do you?"

you stare up at her, unsure if you're supposed to be feeling afraid, aroused, or both."uh…" you blink a few times, "wow, nat. you really got the whole… 'scary leader' thing down. i'm shaking in my boots."

a scoff leaves her lips, but she doesn't visibly react further to your sarcasm. "you can joke all you want, yeah? but we both know you'll listen to what i say. because if you don't…" her eyes flash down to your lips for a moment, "well, they don't last very long."

your stomach twists, but not because you're scared. well, maybe a little. but mostly? well, mostly you're just aroused.

and nat knows, if the way she smirks is any indication. "yeah. you know that, don't you?" her voice carries a teasing lilt that does unpleasant (but not unwelcome) things to your insides. "all you really want is to be put in your place." she grips your jaw a little tighter, "open your mouth more."

you do. your lips part on command, and you're rewarded with nat spitting into your mouth slowly. "close. don't swallow." you do as she asks, of course. there's no way she doesn't know you're ruining your underwear right about now. 

you swear you haven't taken a breath in a million years as she looks down at you, eyes sharp and calculating. "good. swallow." you comply, maintaining eye contact, then open your mouth to show her that you listen.

nat grins. "look at you. you can listen." 

she gives you a firm shove back onto your bedroll and follows you down. "but i think i still need to prove my point." 

one of her hands slides underneath the waistband to your pants without hesitation, and it takes everything in her to not make a sound of satisfaction at how wet you are already. "jesus. already?" she manages, the words almost coming out in a whine and breaking this facade of control. "you're fucking soaked."

"can't help it." you reply immediately, already feeling the fight in you leave the second she gets her hands on you, "it's you. you do this to me." you're already clenching around nothing, staring up at nat's form over your body with an expression of pure want. "please."

the girl almost scoffs at how quick you get to begging, considering it usually takes far longer to break you down. "damn. that was fast. you a little desperate?"

"fuck you—" you try and start, but your protests are quickly cut off with a sudden push of her forefinger into your cunt. "oh—"

"that's what i thought." she grins, starting to move her finger without giving you time to get used to the intrusion. "all talk and no game, yeah? not so big once someone actually starts taking charge."

your fingers dig into the soil around your bedroll, knowing better than to grab onto her right now. "that's not fair—"

another finger. "nothing is fucking fair." she bites, leaning down closer to your face, "we're trapped in the middle of goddamn nowhere, and you're talking to me about fair?" a harsh scoff leaves her lips as she begins pumping her fingers faster, "life isn't fucking fair."

you'd make a smart reply to that if you could, but it's sort of hard to do when her fingers are ruthlessly fucking in and out of you, your wetness soaking into the fabric of your underwear. "already so worked up." she tsks, "bet i could give you a third finger right now and you'd—" 

she does.

three fingers deep, fingers curling in and out of your pussy with a passion that only nat can possess, you groan and throw your head back. 

nat slaps her free hand over your mouth with a hiss, "jesus! do you want them to hear what's going on in here?" her fingers never cease in their actions as her gaze flicks to the entrance for a moment, watching to make sure no one is about to walk in on you two. "shit, i would never hear the end of this…" she murmurs before returning her gaze to you, hardening it slightly. "should have known you wouldn't be able to keep quiet." 

she grinds her palm against your clit with every crook of her fingers, and you can barely keep your eyes open at the harsh movements she fucks you with—pain and pleasure blurring together somewhere along the way. 

➛ Thinking about how Nat bottling up her anger for the whole day, everyone was so aggravating. People yelling at her, grudges still held against her. She’s tired of taking shit from people, yelling at them.

➛ It would be the end of the day, her hands balled into fists, fingers gripping at the fabric of her clothes. She had an important job of leading, her role weighing heavy on her mind. She’s been busy all day, stressed, frustrated, she needs something to take her anger out on.

➛ She’s all riled up, all that’s on her mind is you. It’s you moaning her name, fucking you till your legs are weak. She shook her head, dragging her hand down her face as it turns a soft red at her persistent thoughts.

➛ You would be in your shared hut already, sharpening her knife like she requested you to do earlier. The leather you use to cover the blade of the knife lays next to you, trying your best to sharpen her weapon with a rock.

➛ The second she entered the hut you knew something was up, her eyebrows are knitted and her breath was heavy. She quickly grabbed the blade from your hands, putting the cover back on it.

“What’s the matter?” Of course you were confused, that only fueled her desire.

➛ Before you could react she was on top of you, her lips crashing onto yours with hunger. You could practically feel the anger through your lips, and you liked it.

➛ Her hands worked off your clothes, while swatting away yours when you tried to touch her. You whined, gripping at the dirt under you, not having her hips to grip like you always do. This was new, this was hot.

➛ Nat’s lips kissed your neck roughly, biting down on your sensitive spots, definitely leaving marks. All you could do was tilt your head to give her more access, just wishing you were able to tangle your fingers in her brunette roots.

➛ Once she was able to unbutton your shorts, she flipped you over. A gasp left your lips, your eyes focus on the dirt underneath you, while you desperately try to catch your breath.

➛ You bit your lip as she slid down your panties, Nat scoffed at how soaked you were already.

“So fucking wet for me already, is this really turning you on?” She sounded mean, using the tone she uses when directing the group.

➛ Your breath hitched once you felt something teasing your entrance, though it wasn’t her fingers. You glanced over your shoulder curiously, she was using her knife handle as a strap on. You quickly averted your gaze, excitement filling you.

“C’mon.. beg” You could hear the smirk on Nat’s face, you whimpered while she teased your slit. Were you really about to get fucked with a knife?

“Please, Nat.” You start, arching your back into the knife. A groan came from Nat, her eyes staring at your bare body.

“Please, what?” Nat smacked your ass, causing you to gasp. You were feeling so many emotions, this was all so new to you. Usually she was so gentle. Though, here she was, tapping your clit trying to force the answer out of you. But you can’t deny how much this turned you on.

“Fuck me with your knife, Nat. Please. Oh my god.” You didn’t mean to sound so needy, but it worked in your favor. You moan a little too loudly as the knife handle entered you, you quickly slapped your hand over your mouth. Nat whined behind you, watching you take it so well.

➛ Her pace would be extremely slow at first, wanting to pull any sound out of you, to hear you plea for her to go faster. Her free hand caresses your thigh, whispering degradation which you swear made you more wet.

“You’re so dirty, wanting to be fucked by a knife. Do you know how insane that is?” You could tell she was bluffing, after all it was her idea in the first place. Your fingers dug deep in the dirt, your eyes welling up with tears of pleasure.

➛ Once she was satisfied with being mean, she’d focus on actually giving you the pleasure you seek. Her thumb rubbing your bundle of nerves, her knife pumping in and out of you with a pace you couldn’t keep up with.

➛ Once that knot in your stomach unraveled, she rode out your high. Nat pulled out the knife, watching you roll over to look her in the eye. Her fingers smoothed across your stomach, before she leaned down and gave you a sweet kiss.

“You did so well for me, pretty girl.” All she could muster were praises, that same old Nat you’re used to finally coming back. She helped you clean yourself up and get dressed.

➛ From that night on, you purposefully tried ticking her off during the day. Or you watched the others do it for you.

➛ You would tease her by fidgeting with her knife while she was speaking, noticing how her sentences would break up ever so slightly, a stutter interrupting her words.

➛ You would do anything to see that side of her again.

Natalie scatorccio save me… save me.. I’ve been seeing this with so many other characters, with Nat it hits different

req me!

--

you hate natalie’s guts.

it’s ironic - the cheerleader hating the burnout to the core. but she is the most infuriating, blood-boiling, irking, hottest…

wait. what?

ignore that. that’s besides the point. you hate her.

and for natalie? oh… it’s mutual.

you and your airy, condescending laugh, your cheer routines perfected to the stance, one-size-too-small cheer uniform… makes her scowl. makes her bones itch. and her body heat up.

it’s been that way for as long as literally anyone could remember. jabs from either one of you, spewed in scathing venom - not once holding back the low blows, spreading rumors, and hastily scrawled permanent marker slander on bathroom stalls and underneath bleachers. how quaint.

but for each of you, there are feelings. deeply seeded, strongly kept secret feelings that both of you hold. it’s wrong – so, so wrong. but you can’t help it. the way her messy bleached hair sits on her shoulders, the messy and smudged eye makeup, her voice, her-

okaaayyyy. your mind’s going way too far. stop. she’s a girl. you can’t like her. you can’t like a girl. you have to have a boyfriend, and live the perfect, quarterback’s girl life. and natalie doesn’t fit that.

but why does your heart yearn for her? why do your ears strain to hear her voice? why do your eyes wander, hoping to see her in the hallways or even out in public? why do you eagerly volunteer to cheer for her soccer games? you’d go for her, if she wasn’t a her.

cut to tonight, some shitty party at a classmate’s house after exams. you begrudgingly went with your cheer sisters, after they begged you to go - claiming you needed to let loose and forget. if only they knew, the heart palpitations you got, the most UNloose feeling ever - when you saw natalie. 

she was with her other burnout friends, in the corner, nursing a solo cup of god only knows what. laughing, talking - in her stupid leather jacket, and stupid blonde hair, and stupid pretty face…

oh, girl. you need a fucking drink. and drink, you do.

you down shots, mixed drinks, beers… whatever you can get your hands on. intoxication riddles your blood, making everything spin and definitely loosening you up. you dance with your friends, talk, laugh – unaware of the eyes across the room, lingering on your figure.

natalie saw you when you walked in. of course she did, you were wearing next-to-nothing with your friends, hair and makeup done to perfection (like always, with you. it pisses her off). she watched you drink, dance, stumble to the bathroom giggling with your friends… scoffing and muttering shit talk to her friends about you. but in her mind? her heart? her body? she craves you. your soft touches, your kiss, your body against hers, her name falling softly from your mouth. 

oh. my. god. now she needs a drink. 

she branches from her friends, going to the kitchen. she weasels through heated, sweaty bodies to get a drink. she pours more alcohol in her cup, pour some mixer in. she turns to go walk back to her friends, taking a deep breath to steel herself-

shit.

a cold feeling courses through nat’s body as she bumps into someone, consequently spilling a drink all over nat’s front. and… it’s you. 

your body freezes when you realize you just spilled your drink on someone, immediately sobering you up. apologies leave your mouth quickly, like a flurry before you even look up to see who it is.

“what the fuck, dude?”

is what you can hear, that rasp - when you look up, it’s natalie. your apologies stop immediately, turning into a scoff.

“oh… it’s you. never mind. totally not sorry now.” you snark, giggling in that stupid, airy tone.

natalie laughs incredulously and rolls her eyes, shoving your shoulder. “what the fuck is your problem, bitch?”

“‘bitch”?! really?! at least i’m not some burnout, trashy fucking dyke-” you sneer, but you can’t even finish, before she’s yanking your arm, dragging you away.

“you callin’ me a dyke? i’ll show you a goddamn dyke. you need to clean up your mess.”

protests leave your mouth, trying to squirm out of her grasp, but she’s pretty strong - contrary to her scrawnier build. she drags you up the stairs and into a cramped bathroom. she shoves you up against the door, shrugging off her leather jacket and taking off the shirt that you spilled your drink on. 

your eyes widen, roaming over her body, now just in her black jeans and red bra. you can’t help it, you could only dream of seeing her shirtless - in your fantasies wrapped in the comfort of your bed and dominant hand. she notices, laughing mockingly.

“oh, and i’m the dyke? you’re literally eyefucking me right now.”

before you could even spit a harsh comeback, her lips are on yours. you can’t help but kiss back immediately, all “hatred” leaving your mind and being overtaken by the desire you’d been holding back for months. the kiss is hungry, desperate - sloppily bitten lips and tongue all throughout. your hands rest on her nape, while hers grip at your waist and hips, all but tugging you closer as you both consume each other’s mouths. 

as the makeout transpires, clothes get shed from you - leaving you in your bra and panties. natalie moves you to the bathroom counter without breaking the kiss, pulling you up and onto it.

at this point, you’re whining into her mouth, clawing needily at her shoulders to get her closer, and closer, and-

suddenly, her lips are off yours, and you’re being spun around, face pressed against the mirror, body still on the counter. nat pants softly in your ear to catch her breath, gripping your hair to keep your face there.

“look at you, right now. look at what a dyke can do to you. tough talk from a girl who seems to love it.” natalie murmurs, laughing. 

you can’t even bring yourself to be mad, whining instead at her mocking words, your panties soaked worse than they’ve ever been before. all from her. you whisper shakily, full of need, “nat. please. touch me…”

natalie laughs, again, shaking her head, “now she’s begging. how pathetic do you cheerleaders get, huh? your boy toys don’t do this?”

you shake your head no fervently, just trying to get her in your pants - obviously. “n-no, no-”

“shut up. god, do you seriously ever shut up?” natalie says harshly, cutting you off. she pushes your face closer to the mirror, “if you stop fucking talking, maybe i’ll fuck you.”

you quiet immediately, which makes nat laugh, muttering something about “pathetic whore”. next thing you know, her hand is on your center, running along the slit and feeling the dampness burdening the lacy fabric.

“hoooly shit, you’re soaked,” nat whispers, breathless with awe.

you flush with embarrassment, already knowing how desperate you are and look. but all the same, you move your hips on her fingers, whining needily. in response, she takes her hand away, swatting your inner thigh. “stop fuckin’ moving, or i’ll stop touching you.”

your hips still, a huff leaving your mouth. “you’re taking forever. do you really still have to be so goddamn annoying?”

natalie scoffs, and immediately sinks two fingers into you, shoving your panties to the side. you gasp and moan, eyes fluttering and jaw dropping in pleasure. nat smirks, “looks like that shut you up pretty damn good.”

the pace she has is brutal, fingers moving quick and hard - right into your g spot with every motion in. your eyes blur with tears of pure pleasure, mirror fogged up from each panted breath. your moans echo throughout the room, loud and full of obvious pleasure. nat relishes in this, how she can finally have you the way she’s always wanted to. she pulls your head back, kissing and sucking hickies onto your neck that will definitely be there tomorrow.

“nat, nat- slow down, m’gonna c-”

“no you’re not. you don’t get to. y’know how much i fucking hate you?” natalie sneers, as she adds a third finger, relentlessly pounding your cunt, “you piss me off so much. worse than anyone ever has.”

through moans and gasps, you manage a laugh, “is that why you’re fucking me?”

natalie laughs too, shaking her head, “you never shut up, huh?”

you shake your head no, moaning as she angles her fingers deeper, making your eyes roll back. that familiar band in your lower abdomen is taut, about to snap. your juices make obscene noises, echoing on the tiled floors and walls of the bathroom. you can’t take it anymore. “nat, please let me cum. please-”

“admit that you’re just as much of a dyke as i am, then.” natalie pants in your ear, a mocking smile on her lips.

you hesitate, of course you do. you can’t like girls, you can’t. but… this feels right, oddly enough. being fucked in a party bathroom, by the girl you’re supposed to hate. the guilt will come later, you know that. but right now? nat’s knuckle deep in your cunt, and you can’t think of anything better.

“i-i like girls,” you whisper, biting your lip to not moan.

“hm? what was that?” natalie taunts, speeding up her fingers - which you didn’t even think was possible.

you moan, losing all hesitance as soon as it started. “i-i like girls. i like you, i-” 

natalie hums, adding a fourth finger, and her thumb to your clit, rubbing tight circles. “good that you stopped lying to yourself. you can cum.”

moaned and breathless “thank you”s leave your mouth as quickly as she says it. you cry out as your orgasm wracks through your body, making you tremble, and eyes roll back so hard you’d think they’re stuck. natalie marvels at this sight, slowing down to work you through it as you soak her front with the force of your release. 

nat finally takes her fingers out once your loud moans are now whimpers, washing her hands in the sink. you pant heavily, slumped over on the counter, body so weak and tired from the sheer force of the sex you just had. natalie looks over, raising an eyebrow, “you good?”

you nod, standing up on shaky legs, holding onto the counter for respite, “yeah… yeah. i’m great.”

natalie hums, gently brushing the hair out of your face. she looks at you, really looks at you, a small smile quirking at her lips. “you’re so pretty.”

you smile softly back, a faint blush creeping onto your cheeks despite your already flushed state. “thanks.. uh, you are too.”

nat laughs, kissing your lips chastely once more. she helps you clean yourself up, and put your clothes back on. “need a ride home?”

“mhm,” you nod, leaning on her shoulder for stability. your legs tremble still, which she silently revels in.

“alright. let’s get your pretty ass out of here.”

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

– 

things with older!dean start out soft and pretty vanilla, as he doesn’t want to push you or hurt you. he’s so caring and gentle with you, making sure you enjoy yourself and holding you close and making sure you finish first.

when older!dean finds out you’re just as freaky as he is, it’s over for you. he’s relentless, testing new things with you almost every night. youre sure you’ve tried every position by now, but dean’s favourite is a tossup between missionary, where he can watch your face as he all but pounds into you, and cowgirl, where he can watch as you tire yourself out on top of him (being able to see your tits bounce is also a bonus).

older!dean loves it when you suck him off but let’s be honest: he’s a huge munch. he’s eaten you out in more places than you can count, including (probably) every surface in the bunker, the backseat and driver’s seat of the impala, countless motel rooms and even a few diner restrooms.

older!dean has trouble letting you take control sometimes. he feels a little strange, given the age gap between you, but when you do get chance? he loves it. being completely under your control, letting you do whatever you want? it’s like a dream come true for him. but, despite how many times you start on top, it always ends with him snapping his hips up into you or flipping you over and finishing what you started.

older!dean loves it when he gets to see just how much bigger he is than you. when he can hold your waist and his hand seems to just dwarf you, or when he has you in his lap and his hands cover your hips completely. he especially loves watching as he takes you, and when his large hand wraps around your throat with just enough pressure for you to feel it.

Graduation parties for Ivy League brats. Champagne in fancy crystal flutes and catered hors d'oeuvres getting passed around on silver trays. Men in loafers and pastel polos calling each other “old buddy” without any irony. It’s a far cry from his usual crowd—his mangy old t-shirt and stained blue jeans stick out in the place like a damn sore thumb.

The invitation came from a distant friend, someone he used to work with before his career took him in an entirely different, much shiner direction. He was here more as a favor than anything else. Tommy’s been worried about him, says he needs to get out more.

“Meet some new people, drink a few beers.” He’d said with his hand clasped on Joel’s shoulder. “It ain’t healthy to spend every weekend fixin’ shit around the house, Joel.”

Joel doesn’t see the problem. He’s fine the way he is. But somehow, he still got roped into going when he could have used any excuse to pull out at the last second. He could have faked sick, faked busy, faked like he had anything else to do besides sit at a fancy oak table on a back porch bigger than the whole first story of his house, decorated in Yale blue balloons and streamers. 

He regretted giving into Tommy the second he pulled up in the driveway—a too-big Craftsman style place in West Lake Hills, all clean laid brick and perfectly manicured lawns. Joel couldn’t for the life of him remember why he said yes in the first place. Maybe it was the guilt of worrying his brother. Maybe for the decent catered food and overpriced beers he knew would be there when he first got the address.

What he hadn’t expected—what hit him in the goddamn chest when the door swung open after he knocked—was you.

And Christ, did you look smug about it.

It had been months ago. The only reason Joel was even in Connecticut was to meet with a client, a big time East Coast entrepreneur who wanted a new add on to his ten car garage and was fine slinging around the money to pay for a round-trip flight and a cushy hotel room.

He hadn’t planned on going to the bar that night, but after hours of back-and-forth about permits and material costs, he needed a drink. Just one, maybe two—enough to take the edge off before heading back to the hotel.

It was a shitty little dive about ten minutes from where he was staying. The beer was cold, the lights were low, and he wasn’t supposed to be making decisions with his little head. But then he saw you across the way, right in the middle of the dancefloor.

You were in a circle with a few other girls, your dress riding up higher and higher each time you’d roll your hips to the heavy bass blaring from the overhead speakers.

Joel watched you like that for a while, leaned up against the bar lazily sipping at his beer. He hadn’t planned on doing anything about it, just sat there and enjoyed the view. But you’d caught him looking, and instead of turning away and pretending not to notice, you’d smirked.

Joel should have known right then that he was in trouble.

It wasn’t long before you left your little group and made your way over, slipping on the stool beside him like you belonged there, like you’d already made your mind up about what was going to happen next. You’d leaned in close, close enough for him to catch the scent of whatever perfume you’d rolled over your throat before heading out—something rich and heady that damn near made his head spin.

“Hey, cowboy.” You’d said with a tilt of your head, the long column of your neck dewy with a light sheen of sweat he wanted to feel under his tongue. “You’ve been watching me?”

There was no accusation in your voice, just a quiet sort of amusement, like you already knew the answer.

Joel had huffed a laugh, he didn’t see the point of denying it. He was a lot of things, but subtle wasn’t one of them. “Yeah.” He’d admitted, taking a slow sip of his beer before setting it down. “What about it?”

Your eyes dropped down the length of his body, studying him, and he’d let you. Let you take your time looking, even as heat crawled up the back of his neck.

“Buy me a drink?” You’d asked, smiling up at him like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth.

That was all it took.

One drink turned into two, which turned into three, and then you were leaning into his space like you were made to be there. Your index finger teasingly tracing along the collar of his shirt as you whispered something filthy in his ear that had all the blood in his brain rushing down south.

Joel really shouldn’t have let it go any further than some goddamn footsie under the bar and a few dirty words whispered over the rims of shiny glasses, he was too old for shit like that. But you were just so damn tempting—confident and sharp and pretty as all hell.

Before Joel knew it he had you pressed up against the side of his truck, giggling into his mouth, fingers tugging at his belt like you couldn't get it off fast enough. You’d tasted like the fruity cocktails he bought you and something sweeter underneath, something distinctly you, and Joel had to have more.

You let him have it too—fisting his shirt and dragging him into the backseat without a care in the world, all eager hands and breathless laughter as you straddled his lap.

It was supposed to be just that. A reckless decision with a pretty young thing as the cherry on top of his trip. A one-night deal he’d let himself have because, fuck, it had been a long time since someone looked at him like that.

Joel tried his damndest to think how he should’ve, tried not to let some one off fuck turn him all sorts of ass backwards. He tried his damndest to boot you out of his mind the next morning when he was boarding the flight back to Austin—but you stuck anyway, like a burr in his goddamn brain. 

The way you’d looked sprawled out under him, eyes glazed over with pleasure, lips parted, or the way you’d moaned his name like it was a prayer you needed him to hear. The way you’d rode him nice and slow, dragging your nails down his chest just to watch him shudder. The way you’d kissed him after, lazy and sweet, before sneaking off into the night like a goddamn thief.

Joel could've sworn he saw God that night, a smudged silhouette in the fogged up windows of his truck.

And now you’re here, standing in the doorway of some polished, high society home, looking like sin wrapped up in tulle and pearls.

Joel wasn’t a man who spooked easy, but seeing you again, surrounded by people who had no goddamn idea what you’d let him do to you in the backseat of his truck all those months ago, knocked him on his ass harder than a sucker punch.

The recognition was damn near instant, your eyes shining just as much as the sparkly sash that read “GRAD!” in big glittery letters. The initial shock gave way to a tiny, secret smile as your gaze slid up and down his body shamelessly, like this was some kind of funny inside joke. 

Joel was seconds away from turning tail, walking back down your ridiculously long driveway and getting in his truck to get the hell out of there, but then your father was walking up behind you with a big grin on his face. He clapped Joel on the shoulder roughly and introduced his “Old buddy Joel Miller from his blue-collar days!”

You were all coy smiles and wide eyes. A sugared, “It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Miller. Thank you for coming…” passing through your glossy lips.

The same lips that left shiny red smudges along the skin of his cock when you slid him down your throat, peering up at him with glassy eyes. The memory alone was enough to get heat stirring deep in his gut, and the way you looked at him now—all demure and polished, like you were some angelic scholar fresh off a podium—only made it worse.

Joel is too damn old for this.

“Very top of her class,” your father boasts, swishing his beer bottle through the air towards you flippantly. “Can you believe it? Just think of what we were doing at her age, brother. She sure as hell didn’t get any brains from me, that’s all her mother.”

Joel tries to chuckle with him, but it sounds strained, forced. He keeps his eyes facing forward, knee bouncing restlessly under the table. You’re looking at him again, hot and persistent against the side of his face. The heavy weight of your gaze practically begging him to look back. He doesn’t.

This dinner is it’s own form of torture, because of course, you just had to sit in the empty seat next to Joel—close enough that he can feel your knee bump up against his every few minutes.

He’s done a good job avoiding you until now, always walking the other direction when you waltz into the same room, not making eye contact when your gaze would sweep over the crowd hoping to catch his, trying for once in his life to be a good man.

A good man that suffers through this damn party without doing something he'll regret, that leaves at the end of the night and never has to see you again.

“Yeah,” he says, nervously starting to pick at the label of his own beer. Some snobby, imported New England brewery, probably sixty bucks a six-pack. “Good times.”

Joel can see you lean forward out of the corner of his eye, the neckline of your dress sliding down an inch as you stare at him, attention rapt. “What were you like back then, Mr. Miller?”

Joel nearly winces, his fingers tightening around the neck of his beer hard enough to turn the skin around his knuckles white.

‘Mr. Miller’ echoes in his ears lewdly, blaring like church bells. Your voice is nothing but a honey-sweet mockery, so syrupy he can nearly feel it trickling down his throat to add to the warmth settling low in his stomach. 

Your father snorts over the lip of his bottle, answering you before Joel could open his mouth. “Joel didn’t go to college, honey. He went into the trades right after graduation,” he takes a long sip, Joel feels your knee bump against his again. “That’s how we met.”

You hum, nodding your head languidly. “You’re an architect too?”

Joel shakes his head, not looking at you as he answers. “Carpenter.”

Your father launches into some story about his old work days with Joel, about how back in the day, they were “real men” with “real jobs,” but Joel can barely process any of it. He nods along absently, lets out some half-hearted chuckles when he needs to.

Joel nearly puts his knee through the table when he feels your barefoot brush up against his ankle, hiking his jeans up ever so slightly. He shoots you a glare as subtly as he can.

It’s a look so sharp, so warning, that it should be enough to make you back the hell off from whatever game you’re playing. You’re not even looking at him anymore, eyes glued to your father as you nod along to whatever story he’s telling now. 

But there’s a knowing little smile on your lips as your hand creeps beneath the table and falls into his lap, the pads of your fingers pressing against the inside of his thigh.

Joel goes still. Rigid as his breath catches on a sharp inhale.

Christ, you’re trying to kill him.

Your father’s voice pulls him out of the silent panic and heavy arousal waging a war inside of him. “How’s business, Joel?” he asks, leaning back in his chair. “You and Tommy still running things at a hundred miles a minute?”

Joel barely registers the question as your hand inches higher and higher. He can hear his own pulse pounding in his throat, in his chest, in his cock, already half-hard in his boxers from some goddamn heavy petting like a wet behind the ears teenager. 

“Yeah, we–” Joel pauses, willing his voice to steady with a quick cough to clear his throat. “We’ve been pretty busy with Summer rollin' around.”

Your father hums in agreement, cracking open another beer. “Of course, my schedule’s been a killer too this season,” he brags shamelessly, tone heavy with understanding like he and Joel are in the same boat. Only your fathers boat is a three million dollar yacht sailing for blue-print meetings with big shot celebrities and architectural digest interviews. “It’s a miracle I even had time to fly in for the party, isn’t that right sweetheart?”

Your hand slides up the length of his cock in one slow stroke, your palm grinding roughly over the tip through the tented denim.

“Yes, daddy.”

Your voice has gone all light and airy around the edges, almost melodic as it buries itself in Joel’s ears. At first, Joel thinks you’re talking to your father, but when his eyes flick over to you, you’re looking at him—your eyes half-lidded and sparkling with something dangerous as your fingers tug at the tab of his zipper.

Joel’s hand flies to your wrist, squeezing tight enough to stop your pawing at his now fully hard cock. “Alright if I use your bathroom?” he asks sharply, his voice a little too loud. He tosses your hand away and stands abruptly from his chair before he’s got an answer.

“Of course,” your father says easily, thankfully not noticing the tension at the table, or the way Joel’s trying to subtly hold his hands over his crotch. He turns his attention towards you, “Would you show Joel where the downstairs bathroom is, honey?”

Your smile only widens as you slip your sandal on and calmly stand from your own chair. “Sure,” you say breezily, but you’re not looking at your father, dark eyes still glued to Joel’s. “Follow me.”

The flowy fabric of your dress swishes behind you as you walk through the yard, Joel hot on your heels. He waits until you're both in the house, stepping through the open sliding glass door and out of view before his hand flies to your arm and squeezes hard.

Joel hears you wince softly, but you don’t try to fight your way out of his grip. He leans down closer, his lips inches away from your ear. His voice is low and rough as he grits out, “Take me to your room, now.”

You lead him through the kitchen and up the stairs silently, but Joel can still see the smug smile on your lips as you turn the corner. The need to slap that bratty shit right off your face wracks through him like thunder, anger burning hotter in his chest with every step.

You push the door to your bedroom open and step inside, barely turning to face him before Joel slams the door shut behind him and stalks past you. His eyes are dark, filled with a mix of rage and want as he stares you down.

“Do you think this is a goddamn game?” His voice is teeming with fury, the calm facade he scarcely maintained at dinner now entirely gone. “That you can do whatever the hell you please because your Daddy’s sittin' across from you?”

You bite your bottom lip, leaning against the door with your arms crossed behind your back coyly. “You didn’t bring me a present.”

It’s a taunt if Joel’s ever heard one, and it finally breaks him.

He crosses the room in three large strides, pinning you against the door. His hands on either side of your head, caging you in. Joel cranes his neck down, his face inches away from yours. He can smell your perfume this close, it’s different than what you wore at the bar—something soft and girly and sweet that has his cock straining in his boxer.

“You’re real fuckin' proud of yourself aren’t you?” he spits roughly, watching the way your pupils dilate, eyes going glossy under his intensity. “Does your old man know how much of a tramp his precious little baby girl is? That she’s got such a greedy fuckin' pussy she can’t help herself from rubbin' his buddy Joel’s cock under the table like a desperate slut.”

“Joel,” you whisper breathlessly, all the attitude draining from you at the drop of a hat the second he gets a little mean. Your eyes are stuck on his lips and, after a beat, you start leaning in, like you’ll die if you don’t kiss him.

Joel stops you with a hand fisted in your hair, keeping you still a few centimeters away from his lips. A pitiful whine falls from your slack mouth, wide eyes flicking back up to meet his with a pleading look.

“You want me to kiss you, princess?” he asks, mean and condescending. Your breath puffs over his lips, hot and needy as you nod your head as best you can. Joel laughs, dark and cool as he shakes his head slowly. “Whores like you don’t get kissed baby, they get fucked.”

It does something to you—Joel can see it in the way your lashes flutter, in the way your thighs press together, like you can feel his words between your legs. He watches the rise and fall of your chest quicken, the way your lips part as a little breathless sound escapes them, and he knows he’s got you right where he wants you.

Desperate. Squirming. Ready to let him ruin you.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, low and almost reverent, but the wicked curl of his lips betrays the softness in his tone. “Bet you’re already soaked, aren’t you?”

You nod, your chest rising up to press against his with every breath.

“Words,” he demands, voice sharp as a needle. Your thighs twitch at the sound of it.

“Yes,” you breathe shakily. “I’ve been wet since you got here.”

That has Joel groaning, jaw ticking as his cock twitches heavily in his boxers, pre-come oozing into the cotton.

He doesn’t waste another second. He drops your hair to grab your shoulders, pulling and pushing until you’re tumbling onto your old bed. You let out a sharp gasp as your back hits the mattress, the force of it bouncing you a few times.

Joel looms over you, watching you, finally letting himself get a good look at the picture you make. Splayed across dainty floral sheets, chest heaving, staring up at him with need written all over your pretty face. It practically pumps off of you in waves, he can almost taste it.

Without another word, Joel reaches for his belt, his heavy gaze never leaving yours. The metal of his buckle clinks loudly in the quiet of the room, underscored by the quick pants of your breath. It snaps with how hard he yanks it out of his belt loops, the leather cracking in the air menacingly.

"You wanted this," Joel mutters, popping the button on his jeans, dragging the zipper down with a sharp hiss. "You practically fuckin’ begged for it."

You make a desperate little sound at the sight of his cock finally being freed from the confines of his jeans—thick, heavy, and leaking when it slaps against his stomach. Your legs spread wider like an offering, like you need it in you now.

Joel huffs out a laugh, grabbing your ankle and yanking you down the bed, making you squeak in surprise. He climbs on the mattress, his body completely blanketing yours so you couldn’t move if you wanted to.

His hand drags down your body, over the swell of your breasts, over your ribs, the curve of your hip, until he’s gripping the hem of your dress. Joel slips his hand under the skirt, rough palms gliding up the soft skin of your thighs before gripping the meat of them hard enough to bruise.

The thought of you finding the marks tomorrow, pretty shades of purple and yellow branding your skin as a reminder of this moment, of what Joel did to you—it makes his stomach flip with a sick thrill.

It doesn’t take much for Joel to push the bunched fabric around your hips the rest of the way up, exposing the barely-there scrap of lace covering you.

He makes a sound low in his throat when he sees the little damp spot blooming along the powder blue fabric. “So fuckin’ needy,” he mutters, tracing his middle finger along the wet seam of your pussy, featherlight, teasing. “Can’t even sit through one damn dinner without beggin’ for my attention like a two-bit truck stop whore.”

You nod frantically, lips trembling, pupils blown wide as you blink up at him.

Joel tsks mockingly, raising his palm to give your clothed pussy a sharp slap that has you crying out. “Use your words, baby.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please, Joel.”

Your voice is so soft, so wrecked. And Joel feels himself get impossibly harder, his cock throbbing where it’s pressed against your stomach, blurting pre-come onto the delicate pink tulle of your dress. He can hardly wait any longer.

Joel hooks a finger into the leg of your panties, dragging them down hard enough that he hears a rip. He can’t find it in himself to care, he just pulls them far enough that they pool around your ankles uselessly.

He finally takes himself in his hand so he can drag his cock through the wet mess of your pussy, bumping it up against your hole but not giving you a damn inch. A devastating noise falls from your lips, slow and sweet as molasses, your hips buck up off the mattress, trying to take him in. He presses one heavy hand down on your stomach, keeping you still.

“Ask me for it,” Joel whispers darkly, slapping the head over your glistening clit. “Beg for my cock.”

Your fingers curl into the sheets, frustration and desire burning in the inky black of your pupils. “Please, Joel. It’s all I can think about, can only think about you,” you ramble senseslessly, voice breathless. “About you fucking me. About your cock stretching me open. Please fuck me, please, want it so bad.”

Fuck, he loves hearing you beg.

Joel grips your hips, holding you steady as he presses inside, slow at first, just enough to make you gasp, enough to let you feel how thick he is stretching you open. He curses, head falling forward as he watches himself disappear inside you inch by inch.

Your hands scramble along the length of his back, nails scratching uselessly as you try to adjust to the sudden fullness. Joel knows he’s too big, the stretch too much all at once without prep. He knows it. He just doesn’t give a damn.

“I know, it’s a big stretch ain’t it?” Joel coos, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over the skin of your hips. “You can still take it, darlin’. It’s what you wanted, wanted me to lose my goddamn mind and ruin this sweet little pussy.”

You nod desperately, a loud cry bursting from your chest as he pulls you back until his hips are flush with your ass. Your velvety heat feels scalding around him, snug and perfect, like it was made for him—made for his cock.

“Fuck, baby,” he stays there for a beat, buried to the hilt—forcing you really feel the full, aching stretch before he starts to move. He drags his cock out to the tip, almost all the way, before slamming forward again, knocking the breath from your lungs. “That’s it—take it all, just like that.”

Joel sets a brutal pace, fucking you so deep he swears he must be in your goddamn guts. His grip is merciless, his fingers digging into your hips as he uses them to pull you back against him, meeting every punishing thrust. The dirty sound of skin on skin fills the room, mixing with the slick squelch of your pussy as it tries to suck him back in each time he pulls out, the pretty soft gasps and moans you’re struggling to keep quiet the cherry on top of it all.

It’s so loud, a symphony of lewd sounds bouncing off the walls enough that Joel would be worried that someone might overhear if your house wasn’t such a maze.

Joel watches you writhe beneath him, your back arching, hands grasping at his shoulders, his arms, his hair, desperate for something to hold onto as he fucks into you with ruthless precision. Every thrust sends a shockwave through your body, makes your breath hitch, your legs trembling where they’re locked tight around his waist.

“Poor thing,” he mutters, voice a low rasp in your ear. “Too dumb to talk now, huh? Just layin’ here, takin’ it like a good little whore.”

Your eyes roll back in your head when he tilts his hips, the new angle forcing his cock to rub up against your sweet spot with every thrust. “Joel–”

Joel leans over you, breath hot against your ear as he mutters, “This what you needed, baby? Needed Daddy’s friend to hike your pretty dress up and fuck you good and hard like this?” He speeds his hips up fast enough to get the bed shaking on its frame. “Actin’ like a spoiled little brat all night just so I’d drag you up here and teach you some fuckin’ manners?” 

“Yes, yes, yes, fuck—” Your words slur together, breathy and high-pitched, your fingers twisting in his hair as he keeps up that relentless pace.

Joel reaches up to snatch your jaw in a tight grip, the rhythm of his hips never faltering. “Open your mouth,” he growls, fingers digging into the meat of your cheeks meanly. When you don’t, too fucked out of your mind to listen, he shakes your head back and forth like a bad dog. “Open it.”

The command breaks through the pleasure filled haze clouding your mind, and your mouth falls open obediently. Your slick lips parting enough for Joel to see the enticing pink of your tongue. A groan claws its way out from deep in his chest, and he leans down close to spit into your mouth.

Your moan is a high, choked whine as your eyes flutter shut, your pussy squeezing around his cock impossibly tighter. 

“Don’t you dare fuckin’ swallow,” he says, fucking into your clenching heat harder. “Hold it right there.”

You open your eyes to stare up at him like he’s some kind of God, your lashes clumped together and glossy with unshed tears—gaze glazed over with a kind of bliss that makes something dark and satisfied wriggle to life in his chest.

“Good girl,” he mutters, barely above a whisper, but the words hit you like a sack of bricks. Your walls squeeze around him, and he groans low in his chest. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you even wider so he can watch the way his cock disappears into your puffy pussy, shining with your slick every time he pulls out. “Look at that. Fuckin’ made to take cock, aren’t you?”

You moan around closed lips, nails digging little crescent moons into his shoulders so hard that he can feel his shirt ripping under the force of it. Joel can tell you’re getting close, your whole body trembling violently as the coil of your orgasm winds tighter and tighter.

“Go ahead and swallow for me, baby girl.” Joel needs to hear you, needs to hear you say his name when you come on his cock. “Wanna hear that pretty voice.”

The sound of you swallowing is music to Joel’s ears, his hips stuttering as he watches your throat work.

“Please,” you gasp, fat crocodile tears rolling down your cheeks. “Need to come, need you to make me—”

“Yes,” he hisses, his thrusts turning sloppy for a beat before he regains his rhythm. “You gonna come for me, baby? Gonna soak my cock nice and good?”

His words push you right over the edge. Your entire body tenses, pleasure rolling through you in a white-hot wave as your climax crashes over you, stealing your breath. You sob Joel’s name, thighs shaking uncontrollably, body shuddering beneath him as you clench down so fucking tight he can barely move.

Joel groans, his jaw going slack as he watches you fall apart, losing himself in the feel of your pussy milking his cock. He grits his teeth, hips snapping erratically as he chases his own release. 

“Fuck—gonna fill you up, baby,” he groans, voice wrecked. “Gonna fuck you full of me, make you mine.”

With one last thrust, Joel spills inside of you. He buries himself as deep as he can go, warmth flooding your core as spurt after spurt of come paints your insides, thick and hot. His body shakes with the force of it, a deep, guttural moan falling from his lips as he rides out his orgasm.

Joel just stays there, panting, his forehead resting against yours.

For a moment, both of you are too overwhelmed to move. You just lay on the mattress tangled together in the aftermath, breaths mingling, bodies slick with sweat. Joel smooths his hands up your sides, grounding himself as you both come down from the highs of ecstasy.

When you finally stop shaking, Joel pulls back just enough to look at you, to take in the wrecked, spent look on your face. He brushes his knuckles over your sweaty cheek, softer than before. “Still think I didn’t bring you a present?”

You let out an amused huff, pushing your hands up under the back of his shirt so you can trace the column of his spine with gentle fingers. “Trust me, it’s the only present I’m getting that’ll be worth a damn. Money can’t buy this, Miller.”

Joel chuckles, low and smooth as warmth blooms in his chest. He presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder. “You earned it, baby.”

mini nat's note: thank you so much for reading! mwah.