#ep40 x reader

you remember exactly how he sounded the first time you made him moan. not just some breathy exhale, not just a nervous laugh, but a real fucking moan. summer in växjö, both of you seventeen, parked out by the lake where no one would bother you, cicadas screaming in the trees while elias sat back in the passenger seat of his dad’s old volvo with his hands gripping his knees like he was trying to be good. like he thought maybe you’d stop if he moved too fastf.

but you didn’t want him to be good. you wanted to hear him lose it.

"lita på mig," you had murmured, sliding your palm up the inside of his thigh, watching his adam’s apple bob. "du behöver bara slappna av."

his pupils had swallowed up all the blue in his eyes, jaw clenched so tight you could hear his teeth grind, and when you brushed your fingers up against the front of his shorts, just teasing, not even wrapping around his cock yet—there it was. that moan. raw and sweet and needy as hell.

he'd learned fast. what you liked, how to get you there. how to move his fingers just right, how to angle his hand so his knuckles rubbed against your clit when he fucked you open, how to keep his lips on your neck and mutter the dirtiest things he could think of in that messy, jumbled mix of swedish and english that made your stomach drop every damn time. you never actually had sex, but you came on his fingers more times than you could count, grinding against his hand in the backseat, in his bedroom, on his stupid twin mattress with blue and yellow tre kronor sheets bunched up under your knees.

then hockey got serious. then he left. then you both got older.

now, years later, you’re in vancouver.

and he’s already balls-deep when you catch your breath enough to realize he’s fucking you exactly how you taught him.

hips rolling slow, teasing, just enough pressure to keep you right on the edge but not enough to push you over, just enough of a drag that your cunt grips him every time he pulls back, slick and tight and desperate. his cock stretches you open in the filthiest way, thick and hot, every ridge and vein rubbing up against that perfect spot inside you like he’s mapping you out all over again. like he’s remembering you in real time.

"jesus fuck, elias," you gasp, nails biting into his shoulders, dragging down the hard muscles of his back.

"det är så jävla tajt," he groans, voice wrecked, forehead pressed against yours. "det är fan—"

he chokes on his words when you clench around him, just to be mean, just because you know it’ll make him whimper. and fuck, it does. he shudders, whole body locking up for a second, abs flexing hard under your hands, and then he growls something unintelligible and grips your thighs tighter, snapping his hips harder, making you cry out.

"don’t," he pants, words tangled between swedish and english, so wrecked he barely makes sense. "don’t fucking—jävla—don't do that if you don’t wanna get—fuck."

you grin, breathless, digging your nails in deeper. "don't wanna get what?"

elias hisses, shakes his head like he's trying to keep control, but you can feel it slipping through his fingers. he's already right there, cock twitching inside you, thrusts going sloppy, sweat dripping down his temple. and god, the way he's looking at you—like he's about to fucking ruin you, like he’s back in that volvo at seventeen, learning how to make you come apart under his hands, except now he's not fumbling, not hesitating, not holding back.

"du vill ha det, va?" he rasps, gripping your jaw, tilting your face up so you have to look at him. "du vill att jag fyller dig?"

fuck.

your stomach twists, your whole body flushes white-hot, the words shooting straight to your cunt. he knows it, too. feels the way you squeeze him at that, smirks all smug and cocky, dragging his thumb over your bottom lip.

"say it," he breathes, voice rough, shaky, but his eyes burn with something dark, something possessive. "say you want it."

you swallow hard, licking your lips. "i want it."

elias groans deep in his chest, presses his forehead against yours, murmuring curses under his breath, and then he’s fucking you faster, deeper, grinding his hips down every time he thrusts in, like he’s trying to get as deep as fucking possible.

you’re gone. you’re a mess. your whole body’s burning up, shaking, your nails raking over his back as the heat coils tight in your stomach, tight and pulsing and so fucking close. he knows. he feels it. his hand drops between you, finds your clit, rubs perfect, tight circles, and you fucking wail, arching up, thighs trembling.

"that’s it," he pants, voice all hoarse and fucked-out. "kom för mig, älskling. just like you used to."

and fuck, you do.

it hits like a fucking freight train, like a punch to the gut, pleasure ripping through you in waves, thighs clamping around his waist, cunt fluttering around his cock as you gasp, moan, whimper his name like a prayer. elias groans like he’s in pain, fucks you through it, hips jerking, losing rhythm, breath catching—

and then he’s coming too, burying himself deep, spilling inside you, whole body shuddering as he grinds through it, panting curses into your neck.

for a long second, you both just breathe.

then he laughs, weak and wrecked, presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder.

he picks you up in something expensive, blacked-out, silent on the inside but that kind of expensive where even the damn steering wheel smells rich, leather fed cologne-drunk, and elias sits behind the wheel like it’s his throne and you’re not even surprised he’s early again. you come down the stairs of your building and his buzzed head tilts slow, like he’s scanning you top to bottom just to confirm you’re real, even though he’s the one who texted bring that tight little thing you wore last time with a half-assed emoji. the door’s already unlocked. heat blasting just the way you like it. your favorite stupid song playing through speakers that probably cost more than your entire rent.

you barely get the seatbelt on before he’s leaned over, pale fingers on your thigh, thumb dragging beneath the hem of your dress like he’s pricing it.

“this shit’s new?” he asks, voice low and sharp like he’s already imagining tearing it in half.

“you bought it, remember?” and you grin, because of course he doesn’t. elias buys so much shit for you it’s all a blur—charges hitting his card like love taps.

he hums, that deep-in-the-chest sound, and pulls away from the curb without another word.

the thing about elias being your sugar daddy isn’t even the sex. you could fuck him or not, and he’d still be wired into spoiling the hell out of you like you’re a custom-built obsession. every pair of heels you’ve ever looked at, every piece of jewelry you only double-tapped on instagram, every shade of lipstick that made your mouth look like something he wanted to ruin, they all end up on your vanity or your floor or shoved in some box from chanel with a receipt you’re not allowed to see. he never asks your size, never needs to—you say you like something once and it appears.

and when you say you’re cold? next day, cashmere. say you’re tired? he wires you ten grand and tells you to take a week off. say you’re hungry? he’s ordering food before you even finish the sentence, asking if you want a private chef to swing by.

tonight he takes you to this spot downtown that doesn’t even have a menu. people inside look like they drink gold. the host clearly knows him, grins too wide, says his name like it’s a password. elias walks in with one hand on your lower back, guiding you in like he owns you, like he’s daring someone to stare too long just so he can gut them politely with a look. and you love it. you love the way people’s eyes slide from you to him and back like they’re trying to figure out what the hell kind of game this is, what you did to get him.

“you need anything?” he murmurs once you’re seated, already flipping over the wine list with all the calm dominance of a guy who’s never once glanced at a price tag.

“nah. just you.”

he smirks, short-lived, the corner of his mouth barely twitching before he waves the waiter over. a bottle appears before you finish your first sip of water. oysters, then steak, then something creamy and decadent you don’t remember ordering. he cuts your meat for you when you pause too long, forks it onto your plate, watches your lips when you chew. he doesn’t talk much. just watches. listens. lets the world buzz soft around you while he keeps one palm splayed flat against your thigh under the table, slow stroking with his thumb like he’s keeping you grounded.

after, the valet pulls up the car again and he presses something velvet and small into your hand without explanation. you open it and there’s a necklace glinting like it’s illegal to wear something this pretty.

“match your earrings,” he says simply, not even looking at you when he says it, like it’s nothing, like it’s casual.

you don’t know what the hell he does on the ice to afford this, but you know he plays like a goddamn ghost—there then gone, pale flash of fury, jaws clenched like he’s got a whole history tucked in his mouth and every time he scores it’s like he’s saying fuck you to someone.

when you get back to your place, he doesn’t ask to come up. just pulls your hand into his lap while the car idles, lets you feel how hard he’s been since halfway through dinner, cock thick in his jeans and twitching under your touch like it’s got its own thoughts. you jerk him off right there, slow and nasty, your fingers gliding under his waistband while his eyes stay locked on yours, glassy with the kind of control that only makes him twitch harder. he comes into his own designer briefs with a hiss through his teeth, hand fisted in your hair like he’s blessing you for the favor.

after, you wipe your fingers on one of his unused napkins. he kisses you once, slow, deep, tongue nudging into your mouth like he owns that too.

“don’t spend all the money,” he says as you’re opening the door, and you’re not sure if he’s joking or challenging you.

you plan to do both.