an: took a nap and woke up with a new lease on life! iâm back in the game! most of this one is the pittlings but i was feeling silly :) also hellooo flirty jack! and tattooed jack bc i said so!! and a hucklerobby mention!! really hitting the big ones in this part! making myself giggle with the whitaker greys anatomy bit idc if itâs only funny to me sorry! as usual, lmk what you think! love ya!!
my requests are open!
comment to be added to the taglist! (itâs getting long so i might not keep it open for much longer so sorry)
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tonight iâm thinking about buck and bucky stealing a few moments to themselves on base, running off to a field somewhere, maybe slightly downhill or long grasses to protect them from unwanted eyes, and itâs early on in whatever it is that theyâre doing, and as long as theyâre fully clothed itâs not crossing the line gale promised himself he wouldnât cross, and the kissing gets more heated, theyâve both been on edge too much lately, and so gale doesnât squirm away when bucky pulls galeâs hips on top of his own, and then gale starts squirming for a different reason and all he can think about is how nice buckyâs lips against his and how nice the friction from his uniform slacks are against bucky and how big buckyâs hands are on his waist and hips and ass and itâs all so nice, all of buckyâs sounds are nice, that gale doesnât realise until it happens and heâs coming in his pants and heâs flushing red as he rolls off bucky and tries to figure out how to hide the wet patch and then bucky grabs galeâs chin for another kiss before using his grip to force gale to look down at buckyâs matching wet patch and the gale sees bucky is grinning like a fool and
benny wants to marry you sooooooo bad that it makes his fuckinâ heart squeeze. heâs never felt this way, not for anyone, so it must be right. he gets the idea the first time he gets you on his bike. youâve known each other for two hours, but itâs long enough. he loves how you tried to be so proper and hold his belt at first then threw your arms around him at the first rev of the engine. he had done it intentionally and now your vice grip latches above his belly button. he covertly smiles. he loves your giggles. theyâre adorable; all high-pitched and damn near insane from adrenaline. they turn nervous once benny rolls to a stop before a red light and says âmarry me.â he doesnât ask. he tells you wants you on the back of his bike forever as if that is more than enough explanation. but youâre laughing. do you think itâs a joke? he doesnât get angry. he couldnât get angry with you even if he tried. maybe you just donât feel things the way he does, so he shakes the thought away. the light turns green and the two of you disappear into in the night. he says nothing more about it until a week later. youâre on the phone having rambled about any and everything under the sun. you told him your nails are freshly painted, bubblegum pink, your favorite, and benny can envision them so clearly in his head and fuck what he wouldnât give to feel your hands on him. he suppresses a groan. static occupies the silence. youâre too talked out and tired now to say much more but he likes this. likes knowing youâre on the other end and safe. âwanna marry you,â benny says in one breath and you canât place his accent. southern, maybe? âcâmon, doll.â he drawls and you can hear the crinkle of his cut corrugating at his shoulders. you think about the position heâs likely in. leaning against the door frame, maybe. âmarry me.â he says and you wanna say yes, but what would your family think? fallinâ in love with a vandal? you could sense their disappointment already but you are in love. is it too soon? you donât even really know benny, heâs so damned quiet but your soul feels something when heâs around. warm tears slip down your cheeks as you cry to him. he shushes you like he would a frightened fawn. he tells you itâs gonna be alright, promises even. you believe him. why wouldnât you? benny waits two more weeks because by now youâve grown closer, given him your first kiss and god, youâre precious. itâs morning and heâs watching you. your eyelashes splay over the rounds of your cheeks, pert mouth opened ever so slightly. youâd die to know you snore, ever so quietly, so benny wonât tell you. you lied to your family, told them you were spending the night with a girlfriend then hustled down the block, pressing a kiss to bennyâs cheek before securing the helmet on your head (he wonât let you ride without one, damn him) and holding onto him tight. heâs happy youâre here. happy you feel safe enough to sleep in his arms and when you blink your bleary eyes open and smile so big upon seeing him, he canât help it. âgonna get you to marry me one of these days.â he promises, brushing his bruised knuckles so gently across your cheek it feels like a kiss from a ghost. and, eventually, he does.
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do you think ellie ever laid everything out on the table for abby? do you think she willingly spared no details, sickening description of how she mowed down everyone the other woman ever loved? do you think abby needed to hear it all just to be willing to let her in just that little bit more? full transparency of the absolute disparity commit all in the name of a revenge fantasy that ultimately amounted to nothing and everything all at once
Or: four conversations Billy Stebbins has with his completely casual, entirely chill, 100% no-strings-attached FWB/roommate situation. No, really.
(And one he has with someone else)
Word Count: 3.5k
Relevant tags: Billy Stebbins/Original Male Character, College AU, time period purposefully vague, no walk AU, hook up culture?, closeted characters, shame, guilt, emotional growth. There's a lot happening behind the scenes.
TW: swearing, rough sex aftermath, emotional constipation, semi-public sex aftermath, possessiveness, no actual on-screen sex (peep the sequel for that), side-stepping around important conversations, attempts at aftercare are made!
NOW HAS A SEQUEL/EXPANSION: HERE
1. The First Time
Itâs always a little awkward after the sweat cools. Endorphins can only do so much. Stebbins makes animals from the shadows on the ceiling, brain for once perfectly empty as his hands trace warm, bare skin. Itâs mindless; easy; an extension of the good feelings theyâd chased to their inevitable conclusion.
There arenât any words for it. His tongueâs made of lead, and the quiet settles like a blanket.
They lay like that for a while, just breathing and tangled up, but it doesnât last. Hendricks peels away first, while Stebbins is still catching his breath. He twinges a little at the loss but keeps it off his face. His fingers curl in the sheets instead; he allows himself that much.
Hendricks cleans up with a fistful of tissues and dresses like a man whoâs used to doing it quickly and in the dark. Thereâs a sureness to it. A looseness in his spine. Heâs humming a little snatch of something, some song Stebbins doesnât know.
âCasual?â heâd asked a few hours ago when Stebbins had finally finally bit the bullet, grew a pair, and suggested something. Heâd grinned crookedly, laughing at his own private joke, âYeah, B, I can do casual.â
Stebbins hadnât believed it until now. Hendricks is so emotional in every other circumstance; den-mother and mother hen, constantly checking in, every feeling showing in his big dark eyes. Itâs jarring to see something roll off his back without leaving a stain.
Well thatâs...convenient.
Hendricks zips his jeans and bends to grab his shirt off the floor. Thereâs a mark on his shoulder his t-shirt covers that Stebbins doesnât remember giving him. Embarrassment warms the pit of his stomach: usually heâs much better at controlling himself. Thatâs going to bruise.
âThis was fun,â Hendricks says. His hairâs more fucked up than normal, mussed from Stebbinsâ pillows and his hands, but he doesnât seem to notice or care. He grins, and heâs loose and easy and casual. âYou had fun?â
âYouâd know if I didnât,â Stebbins replies. Heâs dead serious, but Hendricks laughs like it was a gag.
âYeah, I figured.â God, he almost looks fond in this light. Itâs something about his mouth, and his eyes. All soft.
Sex makes Hendricks smiley, thatâs all, Stebbins decides. Smiley, and stupid. The same way it makes Stebbins pensive. Itâs good information to have.
Hendricks fetches Stebbinsâ water bottle from his desk and puts it in easy reach along with the Kleenex. His smile fades, even if the warmth behind it doesnât. His weight shifts, shoulders drawing up. His right thumb works at the ring he wears on his index finger.
âSo, til next time?â Hendricks is the one looming for once, but Stebbins has him in the palm of his hand. He tips his chin, half an acknowledgement, half a dismissal.
âYeah,â he agrees. âIâll find you.â
Hendricks doesnât kiss him before he goes, which is good. It wouldnât be casual of him at all. Hardly friends-with-benefits behaviour. Heâd probably bite, too, Stebbins thinks as he pushes himself upright as the door clicks shut. Alone again. His lips sting and throb, hot under his fingers when he touches them.
Yeah. Itâs a good thing. Heâs had enough of being gnawed on for one night.
2. The Night Out
His pulse races like theyâre about to be caught, even in the aftermath. His lungs heave for thin night air that reeks of hot garbage and Newport smoke. His knees hold, but it feels like a negotiation rather than a sure thing. He slumps back and lets the wall take his weight, sweat prickling under his arms and cold down his spine. The rough brick scrapes at his jacket and tugs at his hair when he turns his head.
Every sidelong glance he catches lands like a spark against his skin, a hot little jolt.
He looks away fast, but never for long.
Hendricks hums around a cigaretteâwhat the hell is that song?âand the only reason he isnât closerâtoo close, really, making Stebbinsâ personal space his own againâis because he knows Stebbins canât stand the stink of cigarette smoke. It makes his lungs itch.
He kind of hates that Hendricks knows that. That theyâve done this often enough that heâs being perceived at all.
Inside, their housemates are drinking and carousing and the music throbs loud enough to hear it in the alley out back. Itâd been easy to slip away unnoticed. But uncertainty niggles: someone could see. Worse: someone could come looking.
The thought had been thrilling ten minutes ago. Now it just sours his stomach. He smooths out his shirt. Neatens his hair with steady fingers. Checks his fly for the fourth time. What they did feels like a brand on his cheek for anyone to see, but at least he can look put-together at a glance.
âI canât believe we did that,â he says, and the disbelief still stewing in him irons it flat and harsh.
âI told you youâd like it.â Hendricks laughs. It pricks. Heâs always hated to be laughed at. Hendricks sounds raspy and smoky and unbothered. He sounds like he just had a cock down his throat. He sounds like he liked it.
Heat rushes under Stebbinsâ skin. He ignores it. Works his jaw. It twinges, sore from clenching. Theyâd had to be quiet, after all. Quiet, and fast. Anyone could have seen them.
âI didnât say that.â
âYou didnât have to.â Hendricks tips his head and grins, cut with shadow, sharp and vulpine. All-too-knowing. âYouâre easy to read.â
âWhat.â He bristles.
âI mean, you also came in, like, two minutes, that tends to tip a guy offâhey!â
Stebbins grabs the loudmouth by his jacket and throws him back into the wall. The leather creaks in his grip, but he barely hears it over his thundering pulse. Someone could hear him. Someone could tell. Theyâre in public.
âShut up,â he grits out.
Hendricksâ eyes are wide and dark for a second. But only a second. Something passes over his face too small and fast to read. Then he laughs to himself and shows his hands up by his ears. Empty, mostly: Iâm no threat. Slowly, all flash, he takes a drag off his cigarette, cherry flaring like a dying star, and blows the smoke to one side. The line of his jaw cuts through the dark, rough with yesterdayâs stubble.
âOkay,â he says. âYouâre embarrassed. Noted. You donât have to get pushy about it.â
Hot withâshame? Guilt? Something worse?âfever, it must be fever, Stebbins lets him go and steps back. He flexes his hands. He shouldnât have done that. Heâs better than that. God, he has to be better than that. His Mama raised him better, didnât she?
He opens his mouth to say something. Anything. But away in the dark a door opens. Music and laughter and light spill out. Stebbins steps back into deeper shadow, heart hammering again, fear like ice-water in his mouth. The dumpster presses into his back, cold. Thereâs nowhere else to go.
âChance, you out here?â Baker calls. He sounds happy and hammered and on a different planet entirely. Just some friendly martian dropping by for a chat.
Hendricks looks at Stebbins. The shadows make a mask of his face. Stebbins sets his jaw and looks away. His teeth ache and his heart pounds caught caught caught in frantic double-time. What if Baker tells? What if his father hearsâoh god, his fatherâ
No youâre not. You already did. Made a fuckinâ mess of yourself with my dick in your mouth and a hand between your legs whining about how good it felt and how bad you needed itâ
The words rise up like bile. He swallows them. They settle viscous and mineral-flat in the pit of his stomach. The taste lingers.
Hendricks grinds out his smoke and flicks the butt away. He glances at Stebbins one last time; he smiles like nothingâs ever touched him. Like none of this matters at all.
Then he winks and walks away.
3. The Kinky One
âI didnât enjoy that,â he says into the quiet after. It feels like an organ tearing loose.
The quiet is the only familiar part: thereâs none of the usual release, the relaxation and mindless calm. His stomach churns, his jaw clenches. Clarity leaves him cold.
Hendricks hums sleepily and shifts, draped bonelessly across his stomach. He kisses Stebbinsâ chest, his collarbone, his shoulder. Each little peck seems to rouse him more and more, until heâs propping himself up on his elbows to look Stebbins in the face.
Thereâs no judgment in his expression; no mocking contempt when Stebbins makes himself really look. Thereâsâconcern. Maybe some curiosity. A furrow between his eyebrows, a quirk to his raw, red mouth.
âNo?â
âNo.â The words dry up behind his teeth.
Hendricksâ stare scours like August sunlight back home. Just staring at the ceiling doesnât help. He needs to cut it off; blot it out. He adjusts his grip and Hendricksâ moves like wet clay. He allows himself to be molded and reshaped, his face tucked securely into the curve of Stebbinsâs neck, his dark eyes shuttered.
There. Thatâs better. Stebbins breathes out.
Hendricks huffs a laugh. The fingers of one hand sink into Stebbinsâs hair at the nape of his neck between pillow and skin and stay there, twitching. Petting.
âOkay,â he hums. He hooks a knee around Stebbinsâ; catching his legs the way he couldnât his eyes. âYou didnât like it?â
âIt was fine in the moment,â Stebbins decides. The words come slow. He works to find more.
It had been...a long day. A long week. One thing after the other, heavier and heavier until his patience felt frayed to snapping in the summer heat and none of his usual tricks were working.
The sex had been an offering. An outlet. Hendricksâ cocky grin paired with the easy surety in his voice: âBad day? Take it out on me then. Iâm not gonna break.â
Stebbins had grabbed at the excuse with both hands, but in the aftermath heâs...unsettled. Bite-marks litter Hendricksâ shoulders and neck, bruises and scratches darken his hips and thighs and every other place Stebbinsâs hands fell, and thatâs only the damage he can see. Did he use enough lube?
Christ. He didnât even prep him, too worked up to bother with a shred of common decency or a scrap of patience once his pants came off. Heâd barely gotten the condom on, and even that had mostly been muscle memory.
âOuch,â Hendricks laughs, here and now. âDamned by faint praise.â
âYou were fine.â
âOnly fine?â
âStop fishing.â Hendricks grins against his throat, caught. Stebbins forces out some bare-faced honesty. His Mama would be so proud. âI donât like feeling out of control like that.â
Itâs more honest than he wanted to be. But Hendricks only hums, encouraging, and kisses his pulse-point. His lips linger. He really is all mouth.
There are more words but he canât say them. Even admitting it feelsâwrong. It had been good, in the moment. Better than good. Heâd been vicious and satisfied and every noise heâd yanked from Hendricksâ throat had been another little victory soothing his stung pride. In the moment he hadnât cared about anything but glutting the hunger that hollowed him out. Hendricks was secondary. He could have been anyone. Stebbins had reduced him to a wet hole and an eager throat and heâd felt good about it.
Am I a bad person?
Probably not. But the worry persists.
âOkay,â Hendricks says with a yawn. âSo we wonât do it again.â
âWhat?â
It canât be that easy. Hendricks had been into itâeager for it, even. It had been his idea in the first place. But he lets go of the possibility of a repeat performance as easily as he does anything, with an open hand and a shrug.
âMm. Yeah. If youâre not into it then we can skip it.â
âBut...â
The cold tip of Hendricksâ nose nudges the underside of his jaw. âWhatâs the point in doing it if weâre not both having fun?â
âYouâre not,â it doesnât make sense. Itâs like he doesnât care at all about being disrespected, being reduced. â...upset?â
âNo?â He shifts like he means to get up and Stebbins panics. He tightens his grip and keeps Hendricks where he put him in the first place.
Hendricks stays.
He goes boneless, actually, which sets a little satisfied flicker dancing behind Stebbinsâ ribs that he doesnât want to look at too closely. Or at all.
âI asked you to. It was fun, butâwhat?â
âFun.â Stebbins scoffs. âDid you even get off?â
Heâs expecting annoyance, a prickle of displeasure at the reminder. Hendricks withdraws when heâs upset. He withholds. Stebbins braces for the chill.
Instead, Hendricks laughs breathlessly and shoves his arm in his face.
âAre you kidding?â he asks. Thereâs a perfect ring of teeth going dark on his forearm, imprinted deep into the skin. Itâs already starting to bruise black and red. The arm drops. So does Hendricksâ voice when he tips his head and puts his mouth to Stebbinsâ ear. âI came hands-free on your cock, biting down so I wouldnât wake half the house.â Then a tease: the sting of teeth against the lobe before Hendricks drops his chin and tucks back into his neck.
âSo if thatâs whatâs bugging you, knock it off. I had a great time. Iâm a freak, but that doesnât mean Iâm an asshole. If you donât wanna do it like that again we wonât. Thereâs nothing wrong with the way we normally fuck. Obviously.â
Obviously.
He makes it so easy. Stebbins swallows hard.
âOkay,â he says. He starts to sit up, looking for his clothes. Heâd thrown them off to wherever-the-fuck before, and the oversight annoys him now. âIâll be right back. Stay here.â
Hendricks sprawls out like he owns the bed. He bled on it. Maybe he does. Heâs scratched and bitten and bruised and well-fucked, but he grins up at Stebbins, all teeth, like heâs won something. âAw, you wanna take care of me?â
âShut up.â
âYou doo-oo,â he sing-songs.
âJesus fuckinâ wept, Hendricks.â
His raspy laughter chases Stebbins from his own bedroom.
He doesnât entirely hate it.
4. The Afterparty
âDid Barko actually need help?â
Stebbins doesnât startle at the sound, just makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat without opening his eyes. Hendricks hadnât been sleeping, just curled boneless in their little blanket nest, so it was no surprise heâd broken the quiet. He doesnât move at all, except to open his mouth. His breath fans hotly against the hollow of Stebbinsâs throat, raising goosebumps.
His hairâs a soft mess against Stebbinsâs fingers. He closes his fist, tugging, thinking aimlessly of a second round. He could go again. Theyâve got time. They could make time.
Hendricks moansâfuck, what a pretty noiseâand refuses to be deterred.
âBarkovitch. Ye high. Bottle blond. Youâve met.â
âUnfortunately.â
Under the quilts, Hendrickâs back hitches in a quiet laugh. His palm slides along the curve of Stebbinsâ waist, heavy and sure. Even his rings are warm. âBefore. You said he was asking for me, but I couldnât find him when I looked.â
âOh. That.â
The sound of the party filters up through the floor, distant as stars. Something shatters. Someone laughs. Music throbs. The attic is a world unto itself, cool and quiet, dark but for the glow from the streetlights filtering in. Falling snow diffuses the light into something soft and hazy.
âHe didnât need you when I found you.â A pause. Someone screams like theyâve been shot on the ground floor. Itâs not Stebbinsâ problem. He just came so hard he canât feel his legs. He flexes his toes. Or at least, he hopes he does. He tries to count his toes. One, two, three... âHe might now.â
âNow why would you do that?â
âFigured itâd be true enough soon.â
âOkay,â says Hendricks. His chin digs into Stebbinsâs ribs. âAnd what happened to Jason?â
âWho?â
âYou know who.â
âYou sure?â
âThe one with the dark hair and dimples. And the arms.â
âYou liked his arms?â Stebbins opens his eyes just to squint at the ceiling. Shadows stretch long fingers into strange shapes. He frowns.
âHa. So you do know who Iâm talking about.â
Stebbins lets the silence settle. Hendricks scoffs wryly and starts to rise. The cold rushes in.
âCareful, B. Sending me on a wild goose chase to scare off the guy I was talking to doesnât seem very casual. Youâll make me think you actually like me or something.â
His throat clicks when he swallows. He burns every place they touch and freezes every place they donât.
âOr something,â he agrees.
+1: Whoops, Youâre Dating
The sheets are warm. He stretches out an arm hopefully across the mattress, searching. Realization comes too soon:
The bedâs empty.
Heâs alone.
Fuuuuuck.
âWell that was a poor showing,â he groans into the pillow. Humiliation washes him from the inside out. What am I, sixteen in the back of my momâs pick-up truck again? God. Fuck. No wonder he bolted.
âOh, I wouldnât go that far. I take it as a compliment, really.â
Stebbins rolls over. The clock says heâs been dozing forty-five minutes; the thought doesnât make him cringe for once. The curtains are still drawn tight, but rain taps at the window. Hendricks sits at his desk, jotting something down in a notebook with a chewed up pen. He takes up space like its his right; like heâs comfortable here; like Stebbinsâ things are his things.
Heâs still wearing that old shirt, washed thin and soft and shapeless. Property of Jefferson Athletics Department faded across the chest. Itâs too big on him; the stretched-out neckline sags to reveal a lovebite on his collarbone and a nicotine patch nearer to his shoulder.
It doesnât spark the same frenzy it did earlier: Stebbins, blindsided; Hendricks sleep-rumpled, in Stebbinsâ bed, wearing his clothes. But, Christ, heâs only flesh and blood.
âYou look cold over there.â
âDo I?â
âFreezing.â
âItâs May.â
âRecord snowfall last week.â
âYeah, in Montana.â
âArenât you the one that says that sickness abides no man?â
âDoesnât sound like me.â
âYou sure?â
Hendricks grins down at his notes like Stebbins canât see him. Itâs such a stupid smile it drags at the corners of Stebbinsâ own mouth in sympathy.
âChance,â he rasps.
âNo.â
âWhat do you mean, no?â
âI mean no. You have a look.â
âWhat look?â
âYou know what look.â
âI have no idea what youâre talking about.â
âA scheming look. And Iâve got stuff.â He gestures with the pen, then puts it back in his mouth.
âStuff.â He will not be jealous of an inanimate object. He will not. He has standards.
âUh-huh.â
âSounds important.â
âYouâre such a dick,â Hendricks laughs. âDrink your tea and leave me alone, Romeo. Iâve got a sonnet to finish.â
Thereâs a mug on the bedside table, still steaming. A lemon-wheel bumps against his lip when he drinks. Itâs bitter and sour and perfect. He settles against the headboard, pleased. Cradling the tea between his hands, he slowly shifts the blankets down his legs. The doorâs locked and the airâs warm, the knot of tension pulsing behind his right shoulder-blade has unravelled entirely. Heâs as close to relaxed as he ever gets.
He lets his attention settle where it wants. Hendricks doesnât look up from his notebook. Thatâs okay. Stebbins can wait.
Stebbins can be excruciatingly patient, if the need calls for it. If grinding himself down to the bone canât get him what he wants, sometimes waiting will do the trick. In the mean time, he drinks his tea, and shifts minutely to the best possible angle to lounge comfortably. Could he be doing something else? Yeah. But he wants to be doing this instead. Free will, and all that. Maybe living with these lunatics is rubbing off on him at last.
The thing is:
He knows exactly what he looks like naked. Better than that, he knows exactly what it does to Hendricks to see it displayed.
The mugâs half-full by the time Hendricks glances up, stops, and blinks. He wets his lower lip, all eyes.
Stebbins smirks. He shifts his knee a fraction. Hendricksâ gaze lights on his ankle, touches his knee, drags up the length of his thigh, up and up, and it takes an age to catch him. He bites his lip.
Hendricksâ eyes are very dark, when they eventually pour into his.
âHowâs the sonnet?â Stebbins asks.
âOh, fuck you.â
Hendricks tosses aside the pen and rises. He crosses the room in three strides, and seeing him worked up about anything is always entertaining. The smirk Stebbins wears flickers into something shit-eating and undoubtedly pleased. He sets aside the mug before a lapful of Hendricks can knock it out of his hand entirely.
âSuch a dick,â he mutters and drags Stebbins into a kiss.
Heâs had worse.
Credit to Walker House as a concept goes HERE. Dividers are from HERE, thanks a million to my wonderful beta @rat-with-a-cup-of-soup - love ya, Syd!
| WLW Post | 18 + | NSFT | Minors and CisHetMen DNI |
Content: 3.8k words
smut, wlw, a club, threesome, an*l, c*cking, exhibitionism, degradation, bdSM-ish?, dom, sub, verse, switch, partnerâs bestfriend x partner, no cheating, implied consent
A/N: an excerpt or two is posted on my page from earlier this week because I didnât think iâd realistically write/finish all of this, but here we are. If you saw them before and catch it in here iâll come give you a forehead kiss. Enjoy!
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Being an attention whore isnât for the weak.
Thereâs nothing more Iâd rather be than yours. And yet, toeing that line in 5-inch heels and a mini skirt is almost as heady an experience as belonging to you.
First, it was the club. 2 am with a purple haze over the room that complements the eyeshadow I picked out, already knowing of the barâs atmosphere long before you committed to going with me. Iâm two shots past when you cut me off, and the edges are lightly faded because of the hit I took. Itâs not my fault; being crossed has always been a vice. Iâm only having fun.
I barely noticed when some dark-haired, light-eyed somebody slid beside me while you got my water. It was innocent, I swear. She said she liked my style, the black eyeliner and my mini skirt - I really wore it for your easy access ⊠I was wet before we left home, watching you clasp the chain that dangles past your sharp collarbones down into my mouth when youâre on top me, so Iâm certain Iâll be soaked by the time I watch you reverse out of the parking lot, leaving the club - looked great on me. I was always a social butterfly after the 3rd shot, so naturally, I had to return the compliment.
I was too far gone to pay much mind to the hand that neared my exposed skin, or how close we were speaking, so I could hear over the music. It wasnât until I could feel the sobering chill of your watchful eyes on me, coming back from the bar. Thereâs always a vivid moment of clarity for me in a night out, a moment where it feels like my head has broken past the layer of smoke fogging the moment. Before I could acknowledge the whiplash from sobering up and finding myself in a situation I had undoubtedly put myself in despite explicit instructions discussed before we arrived, Iâm dragging behind you, trying to keep up in the shoes you put on my feet only a short while ago.
I feel guilt, remorse, and all the expected emotions. But, less because of what happened and more for why the adrenaline burning under my hot skin was pooling at the pit of my stomach, flowing straight down my inner thighs. Feeling wanted by a stranger and owned by you is like a drug far more intoxicating than the shots I had been downing or the faint taste of watermelon smoke in my mouth.
When we pulled up to the house, your grip whitened from how hard your ringed fingers gripped the gear shift, and I awaited impact. It never came. You opened my door and even gave me your hand to steady me as I got out. But with you so close and peering down at me, not even your assistance could help me hide the portion of my thighs on display as they rode up with my movements. The hem was only one wrong move from displaying my dark red thong. Your piercing stare locked onto the glimpse of red before dragging your line of sight back up to mine. Itâs ice water after a burning night. I didnât need to hear it be said to know this âskirtâ would be missing from my wardrobe by the morning.
The rest is a blur; my breaths are shallow as you move efficiently, albeit silently, through our room. I wonât be the one to break the quiet, even if it feels way rougher than any manhandling could right now. Youâre gentle, feeding me, removing my makeup, washing my body, dressing me, and placing the softest kiss goodnight on my forehead. If I werenât so sleepy from the adrenaline rush wearing off, Iâd remember to be scared.
The next morning is soft. All worn cotton sheets and warm light peering in through the curtains. Itâs a bliss I donât deserve. The previous night escapes me. Your soft breath warms the back of my neck until your phone rings. You donât look; reach your arm to the nightstand, pick up the device, and bring it to your ear. I can hear your best friend on the other end. Cursing about something or another, I really donât care. I almost fall back asleep before your retreating form brings a chill into the sheets. Itâs later than it feels, and your best friend, along with one or two others, is an hour out. A Sunday hangout that had been planned over a week ago, the reason we werenât supposed to go out yesterday, the reason my bed was now missing half its warmth. Presently, I resent your friends for ruining my morning.
Thereâs a whirlwind following you as you prep for their arrival, and I watch, refusing to leave the comfort of our bed. Maybe, if I close my eyes, Iâll wake up again, rid of the social commitment. The yelp I let out as you pull me out of bed is my waking nightmare. I have 20 minutes now to get ready, but my petty irritation at the impending guests makes me move sluggishly through my routine.
âChange.â is the last thing I hear before you descend the stairs to answer the trilling doorbell. âChange,â what the fuck is that supposed to mean? In the comforts of my own home, why should I change? The outfit wasnât necessarily considered âoutside clothesâ, but I wasnât going outside, was I? The unresolved tension from Monday's disagreement over you wanting to host a hangout on our first free weekend in forever, and my wanting to spend a night out for my friend's birthday, followed by no responsibilities the next day, was lingering in the recesses of my mind. Fuck that. I didnât want to host, and I donât want to change. I adore your friends, but I cherished my comfort more. Iâm not hurting anyone.
The thin, cropped, black tank top with a lace stitched neckline and black shorts with a plain silk robe thrown over top it is then.
As I walked down the stairs, breaching the portion that was now visible to you from the couch, I could feel the same icy, piercing stare from last night, which brought all the memories rushing back. Maybe I turn back, no one else has - âFINALLY. We were starting to wonder if you were too wasted to join us!â - seen me. Fuck. Avoiding your gaze, watching my every move, as I proceed to greet everyone. Despite the rude wake-up call, I love spending time with them.
Soon, the group's attention and the constant flow of conversation had dissolved any lingering irritation on my part. I had thought the feeling was mutual. Your best friend was the only one who noticed the balled-up fist at your side. Inside was a now crumpled section of my robe. It was evident that something was amiss. The suspicion arose when their messages sent between last night and this morning had gone unanswered until they finally called. Worried weâd forgotten.
It wasnât until the discussion shifted to how everyone spent their weekends so far. The group listed their Saturday activities until it came to us. Before I could respond, your voice cut through the bubbly atmosphere, sharp, âWe spent the night at a club so she could be a slut.â Face? Deadpan. I almost choked on my own spit as you casually took a sip from the water bottle you had sitting at your side. It was silent.
My disregard for your ârequestâ to change was resulting in your disregard for our privacy. You know that on a 1-10 masochism scale, I easily place at a 9. The greatest manifestation of my masochistic streak? Degradation. Iâm speechless, frozen in the previous 60 seconds where the conversation felt light. This is apparently the moment you decided you would voice all your thoughts on the past 24 hours.
You monologue for 5 minutes straight, detailing points of the evening I never thought youâd so intently bookmarked. How my skirt was stripper esq, the shimmery purple makeup and thick black eyeliner that made my eyes siren-like, my heels that made my legs look even longer, and my skirt even shorter. The person who had been chatting me up and gone as far as writing their number down on a napkin while I was focused on your approaching figure. The napkin was almost slipped into my open bag before you snatched me away. Iâd been terribly, awfully naive.
The smirk spreading across your best friendâs face made me feel sick. I am well aware of the role your shared sadistic tendencies have contributed to your bond. I was royally fucked. âAre you feeling okay? You look a little pale.â The pseudo-concern from you both was such a 180 that it almost seemed genuine to the others. âI donât know, baby, you werenât feeling too good the day before yesterday either.â I was and am perfectly fine. âMaybe you should take a minute? Lie down?â If everyone werenât so busy looking at me with sudden concern, theyâd see the smirks havenât fallen from either of your faces since your response that changed the trajectory of the night.
The combination of two hours of talking, your calling me a slut in the same way youâd read the forecast, and my illness, your best friend had so seamlessly concocted, made the rest of the group's departure seamless and without much protest. What was left of my instinctual self-preservation wanted to slip out with the rest of them. As the door clicked shut, the room became suffocating with the predatory energy radiating from you and your beloved best friend. Maybe if I break out into tears, youâll reconsider? Crying in front of two sadistic fucks would be like candy to a toddler. Shit.
Delusion and denial are all I have left at the moment, so I commit. If I could sink any further into the couch, Iâd be on the hardwood. The windows have never been so interesting. Floor to ceiling with a city view, Iâd let justify the atrocious rent. Two birds on the railing are my sole witnesses.
âLetâs see the million-dollar dress.â If looks could kill, your bestie would be 12 feet deep. I donât bother looking for your saving grace. Right now, you two might as well be one. Thereâs only one person other than yourself youâd trust with my safety and comfort, and they requested to see the infamous outfit Iâd worn during what is turning into the worst night of my life. Disobeying them would carry the same weight as disobeying you, and even I can admit I've done enough of that for a month lifetime.
I approach the stairs slowly, both wanting to postpone the inevitable and relishing the moment alone Iâd get to breathe. Before I fully escaped, âBring the chest on your way back.â
I have approximately 5 minutes before one of them comes to get me, and Iâve already spent 2 pacing. I fucked up so bad, and thereâs not a miracle that could save me right now. Your best friend had made it clear theyâd found me attractive for about as long as weâve known each other, but itâd only gone so far. Teasing, light touches, taunting ft calls where I was more than occupied, you two are competitive, slightly sadistic, yet the boundaries were clear enough. Now, those boundaries were long, long forgotten.
Time was moving faster than I could process. It wasnât until the door creaked open that you both walked in one after the other and I looked up. I only made it through putting on the red set and the heels I had worn, meaning I'd already failed to complete both given directions in one foul swoop. The look you exchanged was wicked. I watched as you casually strolled into the corner seat in our room, feet propped up, giving you a perfect view of the bed. I let out the faintest whimper, knowing the night would be long; I couldnât cum without your touch, and sitting all the way over there, the chances of contact were slim to none.
âStrap.â You ordered flatly, sounding almost uninterested and inconvenienced by the situation. I dragged my feet going to grab the strap I had gotten hundreds of times before, but never for someone else. Kneeling in front of your best friend, I struggled to adjust the harness to their body. My hands trembled slightly, and they offered no help in making the process easier, relishing in my reddening cheeks and quickening breaths. Iâm drenched. My slick was undoubtedly forming a puddle in my already ruined underwear, and knowing that would inevitably reveal how much I was enjoying the humiliation and degradation of a small audience.
To earn brownie points and to make the penetration smoother, I spit the saliva that had been pooling behind my lips onto my hand and then the tip. Languid strokes followed my lips that were slowly swelling from the repetitive motion and suction. It mustnât have been up to standard because they firmly gripped my scalp, dragging me up and down faster. The tears that began to collect on my waterline quickly ran down my cheeks, making both my vision and pace dizzying. Something about being looked down upon, tears overflowing, thighs drenched, and me so desperate to please was enough to cum untouched. Trying to breathe through the pulsing rhythm of my orgasm while still ensuring my cheeks remained hollow was near impossible.
âShe came,â you brought to their attention; your head now resting on your fist as you leaned onto the arm of the chair. Iâd truly believe you were unaffected if I hadn't spent hours committing your every reaction to memory. Your leg betrayed you as I could see the subtle clench and release of your muscle. Almost like when I get unbearably needy, and you let me ride your thigh, not paying me much attention. âYou really are a whore, so fucking easy. Sucking my dick made you that desperate?â The tone was mocking, and the grip was rough as I was dragged me off their length. A string of saliva connecting us until it broke along with the moan that slipped out.
Our position was shifted as I was placed manhandled with my head hanging off the edge of the bed, to make direct eye contact with you. At some point, your hand had slipped past your waistband, using your fingers to create stimulation. Your body betrayed you as the faint squelches of your fingers dragging against your walls were just loud enough to reach my ears. What I wouldnât do to sit you on my face.
I feel the faint chill of an untouched pillow as it's slid under my lower back, deepening my borderline painful arch as though the higher I rise, the more relief and closer to you I'd get. They waste no time, and I feel a rushed sigh leave their mouth, now pressed into my neck, as the strap bottomed out against my cervix in one thrust. The force forced a cry out from my throat, and they let out a moan as though the silicone was real and theyâd just felt what the pressure of my warm walls felt like on their dick for the first time tissue-deep. The tears came full force, the gravity pulling them straight down the sides of my face. The combination made all the blood rush to my head, behind my ears. I couldnât see you clearly if I tried.
The strokes gradually increased to a maddening pace, only hindered by my fluttering walls that arenât gonna last long. Denying how good it was would be impossible with the volume of moans and groans tearing my throat raw. They placed a hand deep into the place below my stomach, above my folds. The bottom half of their palm was angled down, applying pressure to my spot from the outside while it was also repeatedly massaged from within. Stars were all I could see and feel as I broke. It was far too much all at the same time, and yet I physically couldnât cum again until I felt your touch on my skin. Iâd never admit out loud, but Iâd realized youâd trained my subconscious to need you. It wasnât until we spent time apart due to schedules that I realized.
I begged in some broken place between Spanish and English for you to let me finish. Not being able to let go left my body trembling and my breath shallow, gasping for air. Something about missionary with a helping hand pressed into my pelvis always made me have to squirt, which ached 10 times worse than if I had a simple orgasm. By my millionth plea, I heard you start to rustle as though Iâd finally done something right and you were willing to sympathize. You untucked the pillow from behind my back and eased under me, supporting me upright this time. I let out a sigh of relief before I felt your dick resting against my lower back like a promise. Too overwhelmed, I couldnât focus on it any longer than the second it took me to feel it against me.
The pleasurep from being pressed against your front while you whispered terrible promises in my ear and your best friend between my legs was suffocating. As I teetered on the edge of passing out, I heard you whisper, âCum for me, pretty girl,â against the shell of my ear as your fingers circled firmly on my clit. Iâm pretty sure I stopped breathing, and all I could hear was the white noise created from my heartbeat thudding against my chest, rapidly pumping blood through my body. Iâd never had an orgasm last that long or feel like a spiritual mind body experience before you.
I was damn near hyperventilating as I came back up for air. I could feel the soaked sheets underneath me and both of your calming rubs against my skin while you reminded me to breathe. Neither of you moved your bodies an inch, knowing any sudden movements would push me beyond the point of pleasure. I hate to say I love yous during sex because I never want the two to feel overly connected or dependent on one another, but thatâs all I felt as the oxytocin flooded my system.
You gently slid me further up your chest, now sandwiched between the two of you; I remembered what your strap was for. This was still a punishment at the end of the day. Less dazed, I heard the lid of the lube flip open and shut, and then the slick sound of your dick thrusting inside your hand as you coated the full length. You separated my cheeks before sliding against my entrance in the Eiffel tower weâd formed. A firm grip was on my chin as I felt your best friend bring my lips to theirs in an attempt to distract me from the stretch as you pressed inside. My mouth was in a wide O as you fully inserted, and the kiss was now just them sucking firmly on my tongue and bottom lip.
I began to fold forward with the fullness extending to my brain, wiping all coherent thoughts I may have had left. You both reached a complimentary pace, sinking your thrusts, stealing my breath away. They have their head pressed into one side of my neck as the coolness of your mouth moved against the other. My hand snaked into the scruff of your hair, tightening to hold you there. Iâd wear your hickeys like fine jewelry any day. Public appearance be damned.
After my second orgasm, the third took little to no effort. It came hard and fast, my sounds muffled as you angled my head to the side, latching our lips and using your tongue to taste the inside of my mouth. The overstimulation was at the far back of my head because it felt too good to stop. As I neared my third, I could tell you were right behind me. I could feel as your once perfectly timed thrusts turned sloppy and more into ruts. I could see your best friend looking up, interested, as a puppy-like look took over your eyes. Your dominant presence was failing quickly, and it was the first time theyâd seen the softest part of you surface. Their pupils started to dilate almost entirely black now. I knew exactly what was happening and what they were seeing; it was nice to have someone else witness and appreciate the beautiful sight of you falling apart.
I couldnât help the sense of pride that bloomed in my chest, having them watch in wonder, your perfect state. âYouâre doing such a good job letting us play with you, our little toy, my doll. Give it to me, angel,â you cooed into my ear. Your kiss had faltered minutes ago, but I kept my head turned toward your side profile, occasionally glancing at our partner from the corner of my eye. As much as this had been about me, the sense of responsibility I felt towards you was also shared with our third. Like this, here, Iâd never let you be hurt.
Not lasting much longer, I felt someoneâs fingers press against my clit to send me over. I wasnât sure who, as my eyes had slammed shut with the sensation bringing me back into the moment so suddenly. Your whimpers were the final straw that sent me over the edge. Your grip was so tight on my side, I knew the bruises would be fully formed by tomorrow, a pleasant reminder. Your humping from the back and their grinding on my front slowed as we came down from the climax.
We were a mix of limbs as we collapsed onto the sheets. Having made a mess we couldnât account for at the moment. My heart rate was easily at 100 coming down, and both of you were barely still with me. Embracing the skin-to-skin moment a little longer, I eventually got up to clean us up. I felt surprisingly light as my feet padded against the floor. It was obvious now that the desire to disobey and provoke was really just pent-up energy I hadnât been aware of to communicate. Your lack of engagement made it clear you could read me like a book, understanding me long before I did. I hadnât been the one in control at any point, and youâd played me like a conductor. If I were with anyone else, Iâd be more concerned.
I took some time to watch you, laid out and at peace, before disturbing you, knowing youâd be thankful for the Epson bath in the morning. The soreness would be enough of a distraction as it is.
