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Summary: She shows up to her first group meeting, nervous and unsure if she belongs. But the moment the Moore twins lay eyes on her, the tone shifts. What starts as anonymous recovery becomes something else entirely: charged, intimate, and impossible to walk away from.
Warnings: SMUT. EXPLICIT. ONE-SHOT. Degradation. Cream pie. Dirty talk. Heavy sexual themes. Plus sized/dark skinned/baddie. Pet names used. Daddy Dom. Threesome. Slut praise. ⚠️
The smell hit first. Something between hospital soap and dollar store lavender. That overcleaned scent meant to mask something raw underneath. A man’s cheap cologne maybe. Old carpet. Last week’s potluck clinging to the walls.
She stepped inside, tugging her cardigan down over her hips, pretending she wasn’t already sweating through the satin beneath it. Of all the nights to wear satin. She’d stood in front of the mirror for twenty minutes before leaving the house, fighting with herself over whether to go at all. Face beat but not too beat. Black pants hugging a little too tight over her hips. Curves she’d tried to downplay, but they never really went anywhere. And now every inch of her felt too much for a room like this.
The community center was plain. Mismatched chairs arranged in a loose circle. Fluorescent lights overhead casting everyone in a cold, too-honest glow. A folding table sat near the wall with a half-empty coffee pot, powdered creamer, a crumpled box of tissues. Nobody looked up at first. One woman dabbed her eyes with a napkin. Another man stirred his cup too long, like he was buying time. She hesitated at the door, clutching her water bottle tight enough to bend the plastic. Her knuckles were stiff. She took a step inside.
“Come on in,” someone said. A woman. Middle-aged, soft voice, tight afro, gold hoops. The facilitator, maybe.
She gave a small nod and walked toward the only empty chair. It squeaked when she sat. Of course it did.
That’s when she saw them.
Two men, sitting across from each other with a few empty seats between them, but their presence filled the whole side of the room. Twins, clearly. Same bone structure, same rich brown skin, same wide chests that made folding chairs look like toys. But they held themselves different.
The one on the left—Elijah—sat still, forearms resting on his thighs, palms open. His face unreadable. Tall frame folded forward just enough to look like he was ready to pounce if needed. But the way his jaw was tight, his fingers twitching slightly against his denim, told a story. This was a man holding something in his mouth he didn’t know how to say. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The other one—Elias—had a lighter air to him. Still big, still coiled up with something, but he wore it behind a smirk. Spoke earlier, she could tell by the looseness in his posture. He leaned back, legs wide, one ankle hooked over the opposite knee. There was a small laugh line near his mouth, but it didn’t look fresh. Looked worn-in, like he’d been forcing that expression too long.
She tried not to stare, but they were fine in a way that made her chest tighten. Not just good-looking. Built. Cut from something that had seen damage and made it out, barely. And she felt that part of herself—the one that craved the wrong kind of comfort—stir. She didn’t like it. Not here. Not tonight. But there it was.
People spoke. She half-listened. Stories of things they lost. Wives. Control. Sleep. Dignity. One man had been clean for two months and said it like it was ten years. A woman spoke of silence in her house so loud she couldn’t breathe. A younger guy nodded through tears. Everyone took their turn, passing the talking stick—literally, a piece of driftwood polished smooth—and giving their name, what brought them here. A few people went before them. The stick passed to Elijah.
He exhaled once through his nose, slow, then looked up at no one in particular. Voice deep. Southern. Measured, “Name’s Elijah. I don’t usually talk in these.” His leg bounced once. He stilled it with a palm to his thigh, “I was over there twice. Iraq. First time I came back, I stopped sleeping. Second time I came back…I stopped speakin’. People thought I was just quiet. But I was trying not to feel nothin’. Couldn’t talk about what I saw. What I did. What we all did.”
Someone across the room nodded.
Elijah went on, “I got these dreams now. Loud. Bloody. Sometimes I wake up and don’t know where I’m at. Or I do, but I don’t feel safe in my own skin. So I started showing up here. I don’t need fixing. I just need…a place to sit where nobody’s lying to themselves.”
He handed off the stick. Straightened his shoulders. His fingers twitched again. The stick moved a few chairs over to Elias. He spun it once in his palm, like he was about to tell a joke. But his eyes weren’t laughing, “I’m Elias,” he said, “Most folks call me Stack.”
A few raised eyebrows. Someone chuckled, “Served too. Same as him,” he nodded toward Elijah. “Different units, same war. They sent us back out there after it was already bad. I tried to lighten it. Joked around. Played music. Bought everybody rounds. And it worked for a while.” He paused, looking down at the floor like something was still there, “Thing is, when it got quiet…that’s when it got dangerous. You ever feel like your body come home, but your mind still overseas? That’s me. I’m good at faking it. Still laugh. Still flirt. But inside? Everything’s stuck. Like time don’t move forward. Just flashes. Blood. Screams. That smell that don’t wash off, even when it’s just memory now.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, flexing his jaw, “So I come here. To try and unstick the reel in my head. Don’t know if it’s working, but I keep showing up.”
He passed the stick off with a wink, but it didn’t reach his eyes. And just like that, the weight in the room changed. The air shifted around their stories, drawing everyone in tighter. She hadn’t realized her thighs were pressed together or that she was holding her breath.
Eventually it landed in her lap.
The stick felt warm. Too light for how heavy her chest suddenly got. Her throat worked once. Twice. Her mouth opened but nothing came out right away.
She looked up.
Both of them were watching her. Elijah’s stare was direct. Not pushy, not soft. Just there. Like he was listening before she even said a word. Elias tilted his head, brow raised slightly like he was ready to crack a joke if she needed it. But he didn’t speak. Neither of them did.
She cleared her throat and tried again, “I’m here…because I got tired of lying to myself,” she said. Her voice sounded smaller than she liked, but it was steady, “I been putting this off for a long time. Told myself I didn’t need to be here. That I could handle it. But that was bullshit.”
A few people smiled at the word. She pressed on.
“I’ve used a lotta things to quiet stuff. Food. Sex. People. Guilt. I kept thinking if I just stayed busy enough or pretty enough or quiet enough, it would go away. But it don’t. It just sits. Right here.” She placed her hand over her chest, then her stomach, “And I’m tired. I don’t want to live like that no more.”
The stick trembled in her grip. She passed it quickly to the next person and dropped her gaze.
Nobody clapped. That wasn’t the kind of space this was. But the quiet that followed was different now. Heavier. Not judgmental, just full. Like her words had actually landed somewhere and made room. When she peeked up again, Elias was looking at her with a slight tilt to his mouth. Elijah hadn’t looked away once.
She shifted in her chair and pressed her thighs together, heart racing.
God, she hoped they didn’t see that.
The meeting wrapped without ceremony. Just a few nods, a chair scraping, a soft clap on the back from one man to another. Nobody hugged. Nobody rushed. That was the thing about rooms like this. People stayed behind as if walking out too fast might break the spell. Or worse, the silence outside wouldn’t feel as kind.
She sat still for a moment longer, pretending to organize her things. Twisting her water bottle cap open then closed. Tugging at the strap of her purse. She didn’t trust her legs yet. Her chest felt open, too exposed, like she’d peeled something back and forgot how to cover it.
Her eyes moved across the room, not meaning to search but doing it anyway. Elijah was still in his chair, leaned back now, one arm slung over the foldout beside him. His head tilted just a bit like he was listening to something nobody else could hear. His thumb tapped slow against his thigh. A steady rhythm. That same twitch from earlier. The man didn’t move much, but when he did, it felt like the whole room shifted to accommodate it.
Elias was already standing. Taller than she expected, broad and loose-limbed, like he’d filled out in all the right places and knew it. His voice floated across the circle in a low chuckle while he talked to an older woman with grey locs and a soft wheeze to her laugh. He said something else, made her smile wider, and then handed her a Styrofoam cup from the table. Gentleman. Charmer. That was the mask. But even behind that smile, his eyes kept darting back.
Back to her.
She turned quick, pretending to check her phone, though the screen was black. Her thighs pressed together under the table, not consciously. Her body moved first. It always did when something got under her skin like this. And they were under it. Those two fine-ass men who carried war in their shoulders and shadows in their throats. Everything about them was wrong for her healing. And everything about them made her mouth dry. The things they’d said. The way they’d looked at her while she spoke. The stillness of Elijah’s gaze. The slow drawl of Elias’s voice. It stirred up the part of her she tried to sit on like a live wire, the part that got her into trouble, the part she hadn’t satisfied in too long. She stood and reached for her bag, trying to move like nothing was happening. Like she wasn’t wet. Like her fingers weren’t trembling just enough to make her phone slip when she tried to slide it into her purse.
The sound of it hitting the floor felt louder than it should have. She bent to pick it up. Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. By the time she straightened, Elias was already a few feet away. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel. That grin sat lazy on his mouth, a little crooked, like it got there by accident and stayed too long.
“You did good in there,” he said, voice low, warm, and dipped in something syrupy.
She swallowed. Her lips parted, but the words got stuck.
“I’m serious,” he said, “Most folks come in and just say their name and bounce. You said something real. That shit matter.”
She finally found her voice, “I didn’t plan to say all that.”
“I know. That’s why it worked.”
He took a step closer. Not touching. Not even hovering. Just making her aware of his size, his scent. There was something peppery on him. A little citrus. And something underneath that made her stomach flip. Her response caught in her throat again, not from shyness but from the way her body reacted to him. She didn’t want to flirt. Not here. Not now. But her hips tilted, weight shifting to one side like it wanted to show itself off. Elias noticed. His eyes dragged down, slow, from her painted lips to the outline of her chest under that too-thin fabric. His gaze stayed there longer than polite. Longer than it should have. When it lifted again, he didn’t apologize.
That’s when she felt it—another presence behind her. Bigger. Hotter. Closer.
Elijah.
He didn’t say a word at first. Just let his body speak. The air shifted when he stepped up behind her, and her knees nearly gave. She didn’t even have to turn to know it was him. She could smell him—clean skin, cedar, that faint hint of something metallic like blood that never washed off war. He wasn’t touching her. Not even breathing loud. But the way he stood there, quiet and close, made her feel like he was reading everything in her pulse.
Elias glanced at his brother and smiled like he’d been expecting him, “Man always shows up when I start talking too much,” he said.
Elijah’s voice came soft. Low. Rough like gravel in molasses, “Because you always talk too much.”
That made Elias chuckle. Her eyes flicked between them. Mirror images. One warm. One cold. Both dangerous.
She opened her mouth to say something—anything—but Elijah finally looked at her, and her body short-circuited. His eyes were dark, still, focused. No smile. No lift in the brow. Just pure, concentrated attention like she was the only thing in the room worth watching. Her breath caught and her knees locked.
“You got a name, baby?” he asked. Slow. Careful. Like each word had weight.
Her name fell out in a whisper. She hated how breathy it sounded. Hated more how Elias repeated it, like he was trying it on for size.
“Pretty,” Elias said, “Suits you.”
Elijah just kept staring.
“Real pretty,” Elias said again, like he wanted to taste the name, roll it over his tongue.
She shifted her weight, nervous but not scared. She should’ve stepped back. Should’ve excused herself and walked out into the night, but something about the way they watched her made her feel still. Caught. Like a rabbit that wanted to be snared. Elijah stood behind her like a shadow, arms folded across his chest now. His shirt stretched over muscle that didn’t move unless he told it to. His silence didn’t make her feel unsafe. Just watched. Understood. Judged in a way that felt…thorough.
“You from around here?” Elias asked, eyes roaming again, but slower now. Not just looking—mapping, “Don’t think I seen you before.”
“Not originally,” she said, clearing her throat, “Moved here a couple years ago. Still feel new though.”
Elias nodded, “Welcome to the South Side. She’ll get in your bones before you know it.”
“She already has,” she replied, lips twitching, “Even the air here thick with attitude.”
Elias grinned wide, “That ain’t attitude, baby. That’s character.”
Behind her, Elijah let out a quiet sound. A breath that almost became a laugh, but didn’t. It brushed the back of her neck like wind. She stiffened, the heat crawling up her spine, flushing beneath her skin. She could feel the shape of his body behind her without even turning around. Felt the size of him. The quiet power. Like a wall with a pulse.
“What do you do?” Elijah asked finally, voice brushing low against her nape. It made her swallow too quick.
She tucked a curl behind her ear, fingers shaky, “Admin work. Office job. It’s decent. Pays enough. Boring enough.”
“You like it?” he asked.
She glanced over her shoulder and caught his eyes. Still dark. Still heavy, “Some days. Some days I just do it because it’s something to do.”
Elijah nodded once. Nothing else.
Elias leaned in a bit, hands in his pockets, “How’d you hear about this place?”
“My therapist,” she said, her voice softer now, “Been seeing her a minute. Kept pushing me to find community. Somewhere to say things out loud.”
“You picked the right spot,” Elias replied, tone dipping, “People don’t bullshit in here.”
“No,” she said, glancing between them, “they don’t.”
A pause stretched between the three of them. She could feel her pulse in places she didn’t want to admit. Her chest. Her thighs. Deep in the place she usually ignored unless it screamed. They were so damn close now. She hadn’t realized how much they’d shifted. Elias at her front, leaning just enough that her eyes landed on the line of his throat, the way his chain rested against brown skin. Elijah just behind her, not pressing, but her back tingled like it wanted him to.
She was sandwiched.
Soft and thick between two men who looked like they were carved from pressure and violence. Her body wasn’t small by any means—hips full, thighs plush, arms thick with the kind of softness that some men called too much and others never shut up about. But between them? She felt tiny. Felt like a marshmallow fluffed up in the middle of a storm. Like they could close in at any second and there wouldn’t be a damn thing she could do but take it. And the thought made her squeeze her thighs again.
“You really served?” she asked, trying to ground herself in words.
“Twice,” Elijah said.
“Same,” Elias added, rocking on his heels, “Army. First deployment was mostly patrol. Second was messier.”
“What’s it like…coming back from something like that?”
Elijah spoke first, “Noisy.”
Elias followed, “Then quiet. But not the good kind.”
They weren’t looking at each other. Only her. That twin language didn’t need glances. It moved through them like a current.
She nodded, not sure what to say to that, “And now? What do you do?”
Elias shrugged, “I bounce around. Security gigs. Freelance stuff. Keep a side hustle or two.”
Elijah answered with a slow blink, “I do less.”
“Less?”
He nodded, “I work when I need to. Sleep when I can. Stay out the way.”
She caught the flicker in his eyes then. That weight again. He didn’t need to explain it. She understood it in her bones. There was another long silence. Nobody moved. Not the inch that separated her from Elias’s chest. Not the breath that kept her from backing into Elijah’s frame. They were bigger up close. Broader. The kind of tall that felt supernatural. Her head barely grazed their shoulders. Her hips wide enough to brush both of theirs at once if she turned just slightly. She didn’t. Didn’t breathe too loud. Didn’t speak another word.
Just stood there. Between them. Feeling her control slip…one heartbeat at a time. A few more people filtered out. The room thinned until only a handful remained, lingering near the coffee table or shuffling their coats on. The facilitator gave her a wave, soft smile, then vanished down a side hall. The hum of the night slipped through the glass doors. She finally pulled herself back from the weight between them and exhaled slow. Her bag felt heavier now. Body slower. Skin more aware than it had any right to be.
“I should head out,” she said, forcing a light tone into her voice. “Thanks for, um…the company.”
Elias tipped his chin, “Anytime, sweetheart.”
Elijah gave one small nod. His arms still crossed, his eyes still on her like he’d memorized something. She stepped into the night with careful feet. The chill hit her arms through the cardigan, but it wasn’t the cold that slowed her. It was the tingle on her spine. The weight of their stares following her all the way across the parking lot. Her car sat crooked under a flickering streetlight. She unlocked it, climbed in, tried to start the engine, and of course, nothing.
Dead.
“God,” she whispered, slamming her head lightly against the steering wheel, “Not tonight.” She got out, phone in hand, already debating who to call. AAA? Her brother? A stranger?
That’s when she heard the footsteps again. Elias reached her first, holding up his hands like he meant no harm. That smile still tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Everything alright?”
She sighed, a little embarrassed, “Car won’t start. Battery’s been giving me problems.”
Elijah joined, hands in his pockets now, expression unreadable.
Elias turned to him, “You got the cables in the truck?”
Elijah nodded, “Pop the hood.”
They moved like it was nothing. Like it was routine. Elias leaned into the hood latch while Elijah walked back to the edge of the lot where his truck sat in a shadow. She glanced toward it—tall, matte black, tires thick, body clean but clearly used. A man’s truck. Practical. Solid. Powerful.
She didn’t hesitate long. Something about being told what to do, quiet and plain like that, flipped a switch she hadn’t touched in years. She climbed in and settled into the soft leather, the scent of them thick in the cab—cologne, sweat, weed, something metallic and faintly sweet. The seat was pulled far back, and she had to scoot up to sit right. The wheel large in her grip. The center console cluttered with small signs of life—a lighter, a receipt, a pack of gum, keys on a worn black loop. She let herself breathe there. Let the window fog a little while she watched them work. They moved in sync. No words needed. One connected clamps. The other leaned under the hood. That twin rhythm again. Like they were built from the same pulse. The truck rumbled to life under her touch. A few minutes later, her own engine followed, Smoke behind her wheel. Elias waved her out and she joined them again under the hood, heart warm now from something she didn’t have a name for.
“You good,” Elijah said, shutting the hood with one clean swing, “Let it run a few.”
“Thank you,” she said, hugging her arms, “I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome,” Elias replied, voice thicker now, “Still chilly though. You wanna sit a minute while it charges up?”
She hesitated—then nodded. This time, she climbed into her own car. They didn’t leave. They opened the back doors and slid in like it was theirs. Elijah stretched out behind the passenger seat, long legs knocking against the one in front of him. Elias settled behind her, quiet as always, hands on his knees. No fuss. No noise.
“You bring that indigo?” Elias asked.
Elijah nodded, “Always.” He pulled something from his jacket. Rolled tight. Green. Dense.
“Good. That’s that smooth shit. Not the kind that make your brain spin. The kind that just—” he whistled low, “—melts you.”
“Okay if we smoke a lil’ baby girl?” Elijah asked.
She gave them the okay. He sparked it up, eyes half-lidded as he pulled. The window cracked just enough to let the smoke drift.
“You smoke?” Elias asked her, eyes drifting over her lips.
She shook her head, “Nah. I’d be laid out in five minutes.”
Elijah almost smiled, “That’s the point.”
She laughed, “I’m tryna make it home in one piece.”
Elias exhaled and passed it to his brother, “Fair enough. We’ll keep it light then.”
The scent wrapped around her anyway. Thick, earthy, sweet. A deep floral note she hadn’t smelled before. Her eyelids lowered without her permission.
“What you do for fun?” Elias asked after a pause, head resting back.
She blinked, “Fun?”
“That thing people supposed to have in their lives.”
She gave a soft laugh, “I don’t know. Read. Cook sometimes. Go to movies alone like I got friends.”
Elias smirked, “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that. I like movies too. Especially the trash ones—Smoke, don’t,” he added.
Elijah replied without looking up, “Because most of them are trash.”
She grinned, “So what do you do for fun, then?”
A pause.
Elias shrugged, “I smoke. Eat good. Find soft places to land when life get heavy.”
That answer felt like it meant more than it said. She didn’t push it. Elijah said nothing. Just passed the blunt back and looked out the window. The red glow from the tip lit the edge of his jaw, the line of his throat. Her thighs shifted again. The air filled with silence and secondhand smoke. Her limbs started to loosen. The nerves she’d been holding onto fell away, one by one. They didn’t crowd her. Didn’t try to flirt. They just were. Letting her soak in the moment. Eventually she sighed and sat up straighter.
“I should head out,” she said, soft but certain, “Gotta be up early.”
They didn’t protest. Didn’t try to keep her. They opened the back doors in unison. She put her car in drive.
“Wait.” Elias asked.
She turned in the drivers seat, rolling down the window.
He held out his hand, “Lemme see your phone.”
She hesitated, “Why?”
“So you can text me when you make it home. That’s all.”
Her heart thudded hard in her chest. She handed it to him, screen unlocked. He typed something quick. Saved it. Before she could reach for it, Elijah took it next. Said nothing. Typed slower. Saved. When he handed it back, their numbers were stacked side by side in her contacts: Elias “Stack” Elijah “Smoke”
Two names. Two men. Two fires waiting to burn her in completely different ways.
“Drive safe,” Elias said, voice deep and easy.
Elijah didn’t speak. Just gave her a salute.
But she could feel both of them watching her as she pulled off. Still warm and lit up. Still trembling in the center of her seat. And she already knew next week wasn’t coming fast enough.
The apartment met her with stillness. Not peace. Not silence. Just the kind of quiet that made her too aware of herself. Of her breath. Of the damp place between her legs that hadn’t stopped aching since they left her. She locked the door behind her, turned the deadbolt, and leaned there for a second. Purse dropped on the floor like her fingers forgot how to carry anything else. Her keys hit the counter with a sharp sound, but it didn’t pull her out of it.
She could still smell them.
It wasn’t just fragrance. It was body and tension. The stretch of their legs in her passenger seat, the low drag of Elijah’s voice when he leaned in close. Elias laughing behind her shoulder, knuckles brushing her neck whenever he clutched her headrest like it was an accident. That scent had clung to the fibers of her shirt, soaked into the seatbelt, braided itself into her skin. She stood there, staring into the dark of her apartment, not moving. Her thighs shifted once, a slow grind as she exhaled hard through her mouth.
“Get it together,” she said, barely above a whisper.
But her body didn’t listen. She moved through the apartment like she was trying to walk off a fever. That worn black cardigan tugged from her arms and tossed across the back of a chair. Shirt peeled slow over her head. Her bra unhooked with a practiced twist, sliding off her shoulders and falling to the floor. Her breasts sighed when they were freed, heavy and soft, nipples dark and already pebbled from friction and memory. The cool air in her apartment kissed her skin, but it only made everything worse.
In the full length mirror, she caught herself. Curves stacked like survival. A body shaped by softness, by meals that soothed and touches that lingered. Breasts full and low, heavy with the kind of weight men either worshipped or shamed. Arms round. Belly warm and plush. Thick thighs that didn’t apologize for anything, always brushing when she walked. She stared at herself with a kind of quiet hunger, like she finally understood why men looked twice. Why they circled back. Why they didn’t leave empty-handed.
She looked like the kind of woman you lose your mind over. And she was still soaked. The drive home had made it worse. That long stretch of road. That last look Elijah gave her before he stepped out of the car. The way Elias leaned in and let his knuckles trace her thigh one last time before grinning and saying, “We’ll wait on you.” They hadn’t even touched her properly. Not yet. But her body had stored every sound, every shift of breath between them. Every moment of being surrounded by men who watched her like they already knew how she tasted.
She stepped out of her leggings and panties together, sliding them down her legs slow, bending at the waist. The air touched her pussy and she inhaled sharp, startled by just how wet she still was. Her thighs gleamed. Her folds were slick, swollen, open like a mouth begging to be fed. She climbed into bed without turning on the lights.
The sheets were cool at first, then too warm. Her skin felt tight all over. Too sensitive. Too much. She kicked the covers off, let her thighs fall open, and let her hand find that space that hadn’t been touched all night but felt used anyway.
She started soft. Just fingers tracing down her belly. Grazing the top of her mound, dipping slow through wetness that glistened even in the low light of the hallway lamp. She breathed out, slow and shaky.
It was Elias she pictured first.
His hands looked like they could hold her still by the hips and lift her off the bed if he wanted to. She imagined him between her thighs, chin glistening, one hand keeping her legs apart while the other pressed against the softness of her belly like he wanted to feel everything. He looked like the type to talk while he ate. Tease while he stroked. Thumb her clit while he said things like, You like that? You look good stretched open for me. Dripping all down your thighs, mama.
She bit her lip and let her fingers mimic his mouth.
Slow circles. Up. Down. Press. Pull. Her other hand came up and cupped her breast, tugging at the nipple until it ached. She pictured Elias pulling her down to ride his tongue, then spreading her lips wide with both thumbs just to watch her tremble.
But Elijah. Elijah came next.
Quieter. Hungrier. The kind of man who didn’t say much because he meant everything. She saw him holding her ankles in the air while he fed her strokes deep and slow, eyes locked on hers, jaw tight like he was fighting the need to break her in half. She saw herself pinned against the wall with her legs wrapped around him, nails in his shoulders, sweat on his neck. He fucked like he didn’t believe in breaks. Like he’d been hungry his whole life and finally got a taste.
Her fingers sped up.
She cried out once, head turning into the pillow, body arching into her own hand.
She didn’t slow down.
She kept going. Kept pushing. Kept pulling. Rubbed her clit like she was chasing something that had been running from her since sundown. Her body trembled under the weight of it. Her thighs clenched. Her pussy pulsed, slick spreading all over her fingers, leaking down into the sheets as her orgasm hit sharp, then melted.
But it didn’t stop there.
She rolled to her side, breathing ragged. One leg cocked up. Her hand still between her thighs. Her body wouldn’t quit. It wasn’t done with her. It needed more.
Needed them.
Guilt tried to creep in.
She pushed it away.
Instead, she reached for her phone, screen lighting up the shadows around her. Their names sat there, side by side. Still new. Still unfamiliar. But heavy with possibility.
She opened a new thread. Added them both. Typed slow.
hey. made it back safe. thanks again ❤️
Sent.
A few seconds passed. Then another.
No reply yet. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was the flutter in her stomach after pressing send. The thread was open now. The line was there.
She dropped the phone beside her on the bed and closed her eyes, Elijah’s silence still clinging to her skin. Elias’s smile burned into her thoughts.
Next week couldn’t come fast enough.
Sleep took her quick after that. Loose and full-bodied. Her hand still smelled like her own skin. Her mouth curved into the faintest smile, body stretched out like she’d finally let go of something that had been holding her tight for weeks.
She didn’t hear the buzz or feel the soft light flicker across the room.
1:12 AM – Stack: good. i was gon come knock if you didn’t text fr. sleep good, baby girl.
1:16 AM – Smoke: glad you made it. get some rest.
_______
The chairs were set up the same way. Metal legs scraping old linoleum. The circle slightly lopsided, like it’d been rearranged too many times by hands that didn’t care about symmetry. Same off-brand coffee scent hanging in the air, mixed with that generic floral lotion somebody always overapplied.
She stepped in quiet, scanning without trying to look like she was. The room wasn’t full yet, but it was more crowded than last week. More noise. A low buzz of nervous laughter, soft conversation, people catching up on things that couldn’t be said in daylight.
They weren’t there.
Her stomach dipped.
She kept walking anyway, choosing a seat near the edge of the circle, but not too far out. Close enough to be seen. Far enough to pull back if she needed. Her thighs stuck to the foldout chair a little as she sat. She adjusted her sweater. Re-crossed her legs. Tried not to fidget.
It wasn’t like she hadn’t heard from them.
The week had been full of light touches.
Morning, sweetheart.
Sleep good, mama.
Don’t let that job drain you.
Text messages.
Just enough to keep her in orbit.
Elias was the more consistent one. His texts came with emojis sometimes, made her laugh when she didn’t expect to. Told her when he was eating something good. Sent her a song link with a “this feel like you” attached. She didn’t tell him that she played it three times back-to-back before bed.
Elijah didn’t text often. But when he did, it was sharp. Clean.
You up.
You working today?
That picture you posted. You looked good.
That one stayed with her. Especially because he hadn’t liked the post. Hadn’t commented. Just sent the message with no fanfare and disappeared for the rest of the night.
But that was the thing.
They’d both found her socials.
Elias first. He followed fast. Liked a few photos in a row —one of her Sunday fit, one where she was laughing in the passenger seat of her cousin’s car, one full-body mirror shot she nearly deleted because her stomach looked soft. He left a comment on that one.
Curves sittin’ nice, baby girl
She had to sit down after reading it.
Then Elijah came. No follow. No likes. No comments. Just views. Story watches. Quiet profile visits. The kind of presence you didn’t see unless you were looking for it.
But she saw.
And if he was lurking, it meant he wanted to see. It meant he was curious. And that was worse than all the compliments in the world. She tapped her nails against the water bottle in her lap, pretending to focus on a crack in the wall near the clock. The facilitator was setting out the talking stick and a box of Kleenex like she always did. A couple she hadn’t seen before slid into the seats across from her. The woman looked anxious. The man just looked tired.
Still no Elijah. Still no Elias.
She took a breath, long and slow through her nose, and pushed it out through her lips. Don’t be pressed, she told herself. She came for herself. Not for them.
Then the door creaked open behind her. She didn’t turn around. She didn’t have to. Their presence moved through the room like gravity. She heard the shuffle of boots on tile, the low cadence of Elias’s voice as he greeted the woman by the coffee. Heard the silence that followed behind it. That still weight Elijah carried like a second skin.
She felt it before they even reached her.
“‘Scuse us,” Elias said, smooth as ever, stepping up beside her chair, “Traffic had me on ten. My fault.”
Then Elijah was on the other side of her.
Just like that, she was boxed in again. Elias dropped into the chair on her right with a sigh, knees wide, arms stretching back over the top rail like he was settling into his throne. Elijah took the one on her left quieter. Slower. The metal groaned a little under him, but he didn’t shift after. He just sat. Still as always.
They didn’t look at each other.
“Hey,” Elias said, voice pitched just for her now, “You good, sweetheart?”
She turned her head slightly, “Yeah. You?”
Elijah answered first, “Living.”
Elias nodded, “Week was long, but manageable. You?”
She hesitated, then let a soft smile curve her lips, “Same. Just trying to keep myself together.”
Elias’s eyes dropped to her legs for a second, slow, then back up, “You look like you holdin’ together just fine.”
She didn’t respond. Not out loud. But her thighs pressed together under the table again. Subtle. Instinctual.
“You ain’t text back the other night,” Elias added, voice dipping low, “We were waitin’.”
“I was sleep,” she said, “Didn’t see it till morning.”
“I figured,” Elijah said, “You needed it.”
She inhaled. Short. Sharp.
It was the way he said it. Not as some throwaway observation, but like he’d been paying attention. Like he’d been reading between her lines all week. Every good morning. Every late night response. Every gap between replies. Like he’d felt the weight in her texts even when she didn’t name it.
Elias leaned in a little, voice pitched low just for her, “So how you sleep, huh? One of them big ol’ t-shirts with a hole at the bottom? A moo-moo from your auntie’s drawer? Or…” His eyes dragged slow over her face, “Nothin’ at all?”
She turned toward him, lips parted just enough to let a breath out, “You askin’ for a mental picture or just tryna be messy?”
His grin curled, slow and wicked, “Both.”
She leaned in just enough to meet his energy—not more. Her lashes dropped a little as she let the answer roll off her tongue.
“For me to know, and for you to wonder.”
Elias let out a low laugh, that kind that comes from the chest, like she’d said something worth chewing on. His smile didn’t drop, but something in his eyes shifted. Like he’d just added her answer to a list he planned to revisit.
Elijah hadn’t said a word. But his hand had moved. Not toward her. Not obvious. Just from his thigh to his knee, fingers flexing once before curling into a loose fist. Like he needed somewhere to put all that stillness.
The talking stick passed. Another story started. This one from the young guy with the frayed hoodie and tired hands. He spoke with eyes on the floor, about a girl he used to love. About the way she left without saying goodbye. About how it wasn’t even the leaving that broke him, it was the way he’d never hear her voice again.
The circle went quiet. She tried to focus. But all she could think about was how Elijah shifted in his seat just enough that his shoulder grazed hers. The contact was soft. Unintentional. But he didn’t move away.
And neither did she.
The breath caught in her throat felt too heavy to swallow. Her eyes stayed locked on the middle of the circle, but her body…her body was answering to something else. Every inch of her was tuned to the rhythm of the men beside her. The way Elias moved when he crossed his legs. The way Elijah breathed through his nose. The low scent of weed on Elias’s hoodie. The faint cedar that clung to Elijah’s skin like it came from the inside out.
They were just sitting there. Doing nothing.
And she was soaked.
Her thighs flexed again. Slow. Deliberate. Just enough pressure to ground herself.
She could feel Elias glance at her.
Not with his head, with his mouth. The corner of it twitched like he was holding something back. Like he knew what she was doing. Like he approved.
Her fingers tightened around the water bottle in her lap.
The stick passed again. Someone else started speaking. A woman this time. Voice strong. Steady. Talking about learning to forgive herself. The word forgive echoed too loud in her head. Made her jaw clench. Because she knew damn well if she kept walking this edge—the edge she was on right now—she was going to need it.
Forgiveness. Grace. A reason to keep pretending this wasn’t getting out of hand.
The meeting ended like it always did. No applause, no hallelujahs, just a slow uncoiling. Chairs scraping. Deep exhales. People rubbing at their eyes, stretching their backs, pulling on coats heavy with memory.
She stood slower than usual. Took her time collecting her water bottle and slipping her phone into her purse. She felt Elias rise beside her first, his body heat peeling away like a layer of something she hadn’t realized was covering her. Then Elijah—silent, steady—pushed back his chair with a single sound and stood like a question she hadn’t figured out how to answer yet.
The three of them hovered near the exit, caught in that familiar float after hard truths had been shared and nothing felt quite real yet. The night air hit sharp when the door opened, cool on her cheeks, biting at her neckline. The parking lot looked quieter than it had last week. Streetlamp flickering overhead, pavement still cracked from some long-gone winter.
“You straight?” Elias asked, turning toward her.
“Yeah,” she said, pulling her sweater tighter, “Just waiting on my ride.”
“Uber?” Elijah’s voice was low, almost lost in the wind.
“Yeah. My car’s still on bullshit. Been giving me hell since last month.”
Elias nodded slowly, “You hungry?”
The question caught her mid-step. She looked at him.
“I’m starving,” he said, then glanced to Elijah, “You good to hit that spot on 63rd?”
Elijah didn’t answer with words. Just a short nod and a look that said always.
Elias turned back to her, shrugging one shoulder, “We were gon’ stop and grab something. Nothing fancy. Greasy spoon, hole-in-the-wall type. Good as hell though. You tryna come?”
She hesitated. Thought about her Uber being five minutes away. Thought about her fridge with nothing but condiments and regret inside. Thought about how warm Elias looked in his hoodie and how Elijah kept watching her with that still silence that spoke louder than anything Elias could say.
She said yes.
The black SUV sat in the lot like it had been waiting for her. Big, clean, lifted just enough that she had to brace herself with one hand on the console when she climbed in. The inside smelled like skin, cologne, and something earthy like smoked wood and something sweet left in the ashtray too long.
Elias drove. Elijah took the passenger seat. She buckled in behind them, legs pressed together, heart already beating too fast for no damn reason.
The music came on low. A bassline humming beneath a song she didn’t know but wanted to, the kind of track you only played when the night wasn’t over, just shifting.
“You picky?” Elias asked, turning the wheel with one hand, knuckles flashing under the dash lights.
“No,” she said, settling deeper into her seat, “As long as it’s hot and seasoned.”
Elias grinned, “You speakin’ my language.”
Elijah glanced back once, his profile sharp in the reflection of the side mirror, “That’s what she said.”
She rolled her eyes, smiling anyway, “Y’all are real smooth when you want to be.”
Elias chuckled, “Ain’t gotta be smooth when you tell the truth.”
They drove in silence for a few blocks. Not awkward, just quiet. Comfortable. The kind of silence that let her breathe, let her body loosen without realizing it. She felt herself relax into the leather seat, fingers idly tracing the stitching in the door, head tilted just slightly as she watched the city slide past.
“You always come alone?” Elijah asked after a while.
“To the meetings?”
He nodded.
“Yeah. Why?”
“Just wonderin’,” he said, “You don’t talk like somebody who’s been holdin’ it in.”
She considered that, “I been holding it. I just got tired.”
That earned a small nod from him.
The SUV eased to a stop under a flickering streetlamp, the faded sign overhead humming against the night. A red awning curled over the door of the diner, corners wind-worn and cracked. The building looked like it hadn’t been updated since the ‘90s — chipped paint on the bricks, yellow light leaking through blinds that were permanently tilted.
It smelled like fries and something fried in love. And that was enough.
Elijah got out first.
Before she could even reach for the handle, he was there —pulling her door open with one smooth motion, stepping back so she could swing her legs out. He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, holding the space like it was made for her. She placed a hand on the frame and began to step down, but Elias appeared, already reaching. His hands slid around her waist—not rushed, overdone—but steady and sure. His palms warm through her sweater. He helped her down like she weighed nothing.
“You got it?” he asked, low and close.
“Yeah,” she said. But she didn’t move right away.
Not until he released her. Slowly.
They walked up to the door, her in the middle again without thinking. Elias stepped ahead and pulled the door open wide. Elijah stayed at her back, a quiet presence that made the hairs on her neck rise.
She stepped inside.
The warmth hit immediately—fryer grease, old coffee, lemon cleaner. The lights were low, booths cracked in places, walls lined with faded pictures of food that no longer looked like the real thing. Two people sat at the counter, arguing softly over a plate of pancakes. The cook was behind the grill, face half-covered with a hair net over cornrows, eyes watching them from beneath a tangle of steam.
“Sit anywhere,” he called.
They chose the corner booth. The kind that wrapped around in a half-circle, all leather and low light, tucked away from the rest of the room. Elias slid in first, gesturing for her to follow. She eased in after him, letting the seat shift under her hips.
Elijah slid in from the other side.
And just like that, she was surrounded again.
Pressed in leather and warmth. Tension curling low in her stomach. Their bodies not touching hers, but close enough that she could feel the pull. The table had a paper menu under a glass top. Sticky in places. Two napkin dispensers. A cracked bottle of hot sauce.
Elias leaned his elbow on the table and grinned, “You look like you still don’t believe we can eat.”
She smirked, easing back in her seat, “Y’all don’t seem like the kind to get excited about greasy burgers and soggy fries.”
“Shit,” Elias laughed, tapping the menu, “This the kinda place that keep you grounded.”
Elijah picked up a napkin and wiped something off the table that didn’t even need wiping.
“They got peach cobbler here and 7-up cake,” he said, low, “Best in the city.”
She turned her head toward him, “That right?”
He didn’t smile. But the way he said it, like it was a fact, like he’d tested it and would stake something on it, made her thighs press together again under the table.
A server shuffled over. Young. Distracted. Took their drink orders—water for her, strawberry lemonade for Elias, a passion fruit lemonade for Elijah. No pen. Just memory.
The moment he walked off, Elias turned to her, “You don’t talk much outside of them text messages.”
“I’m observing,” she said, “Y’all are…interesting.”
“Interesting good? Or interesting like don’t-trust-that-man-with-your-wallet?”
“Still deciding,” she teased.
Elijah cut his eyes toward her, “You trust too easy?”
“Not even a little.”
He nodded slow, “Good.”
Elias reached over and adjusted the salt shaker like it was in the wrong place, but really, his forearm just brushed hers. On purpose. Not obvious. Not hidden either.
They settled into a silence that wasn’t really silence. The kind of stillness that hums. The kind that’s all breath and body and what-if.
The drinks came. The menus stayed unopened. Nobody was really hungry for food yet. Not with the way their knees brushed under the table. Not with the way her thighs were warm again, and she was right where they liked to keep her.
Between them.
The food came fast.
Baskets of fries steaming on contact, burgers stacked sloppy between toasted buns, syrup glossed over pancakes on a chipped plate. The kind of food that didn’t need to be plated cute just hot and greasy and worth licking off your fingers.
Elias clapped once when the server dropped off the tray, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Bless that nigga behind the grill.”
“Bless?” she teased, “That’s a strong word for a greasy spoon burger.”
“You ain’t tasted it yet,” Elias said, unwrapping his sandwich like it was holy, “You gon’ see.”
Elijah just reached for the hot sauce. Poured it slow across his plate like this wasn’t his first time doing it. His burger already sliced in half. Neat. Intentional. Just like him.
She watched his hands while he worked. He caught her watching.
Said nothing.
Just dipped a fry in ketchup and popped it into his mouth like he didn’t just catch her slippin’.
“Got you quiet now. Food must be hittin’.” Elias asked around a bite.
She sipped her water slow. “I’m savorin’.”
He licked a spot of sauce off his thumb, eyes still on her, “Yeah. That’s my kinda energy.”
“You tryna turn dinner into something else?” she asked, brows raised.
He smirked, “I ain’t tryna do nothin’ you don’t already want done.”
Elijah shook his head, low and dry, “Here you go.”
“What?” Elias grinned, “She grown. She got that look like her thoughts louder than her words.”
She smirked, “Maybe I just like the sound of my food more than your mouth.”
That got Elijah to smile. Not a full one. Just a pull at the corner. But it was there.
Elias leaned in a little, elbow brushing hers, “I like you. You quick.”
She dipped a fry in hot sauce and sucked the tip clean before biting, “You just slow.”
“Ooh,” Elias chuckled, “Okay. So you wanna go tit for tat tonight.”
She shrugged, “I’m just tryna eat.”
But she wasn’t. Not with the way her thighs stayed tight together and the way both of them kept inching closer— Elijah’s knee brushing hers every time he shifted. Elias’s arm resting behind her on the booth like it belonged there.
The jokes slowed. The food disappeared one bite at a time. Then the silence hit.
Not awkward. Just…loaded. The kind of quiet that made you breathe different.
Elias wiped his hands slow with a napkin, “Lap tense as hell. Thought this was just dinner.”
She turned her head, gave him a lazy look, “What makes you think it’s tense?”
He leaned in, “Cause you ain’t moved since we sat down. You sitting too pretty for someone who ain’t feeling it.”
Elijah’s voice came low beside her, “You been quiet ever since you slid into this booth.”
“I been listening,” she said.
“To what?”
She turned toward him, voice lower now, “Everything y’all not sayin’.”
Elias’s tongue wet his bottom lip. Elijah just blinked slow, like her words landed somewhere deep behind his eyes. Elias scooted closer. Not much. But enough that their thighs were flush now. His arm brushed hers when he moved. Rested heavy behind her shoulders. He didn’t touch her. Not yet.
“You cold?” he asked, voice softer now.
She looked straight ahead, “Not really.”
“You sure?”
“Why you askin’?”
He leaned in, mouth near her ear, “Cause you tryna sit still, but your body keep tellin’ on you.”
Elijah was still on her other side. Closer now. His hand resting on the table, close to hers. His fingers didn’t touch. But they were right there. His knee pressed against hers. Firm. Intentional.
And she felt it. She felt everything. The booth wasn’t that big anymore. The air wasn’t light anymore. Her breath wasn’t steady anymore. And nobody said a damn thing about what was happening.
It just was.
The diner noise faded into a soft background blur — plates clinking, somebody laughing near the back, an old radio humming from behind the grill. Her pulse throbbed in her throat. In her wrists. In the space between her legs.
Elijah tilted his head toward her, finally speaking again, “You sure you don’t wanna finish that cobbler?”
She didn’t look at the plate. She looked at him.
And her answer barely made it above a whisper.
“Depends how y’all serve it.”
The cobbler sat untouched.
Sweet peach halves, still steaming, rested beneath a golden crust glazed in syrup. It bled across the plate in amber puddles, warm and slow, curling into the corners like it had nowhere else to be. But nobody at that booth gave a damn about dessert anymore.
Not her.
Not Elias.
Not Elijah.
Not when Elias kept looking at her mouth every time she bit her lip. Not when Elijah still hadn’t moved his leg from where it pressed up firm against hers.
She shifted slightly, spine brushing back against the cracked vinyl of the booth. It hissed beneath her, hugging her wide hips, clinging like it didn’t want to release her. Space was tight. Too tight to run. Too tight to pretend she didn’t notice how Elias’s thigh was all up against hers on the left, and Elijah had boxed her in on the right. When she leaned, her shoulder slid across Elias’s chest, his shirt cotton-soft and stretched tight across a frame that didn’t give. Not one inch. She exhaled through her nose. Tried to focus on the table. The butter knife. The half-finished drinks. Anything but the way both men were just sitting there—still and quiet—like they didn’t already know what they were doing.
Until it happened.
Elias shifted his weight, leaned back, and let his hand fall beneath the table. Slow. Smooth. No rush. No warning. His fingers curved wide before settling heavy right on her thigh.
Not her knee.
Not the edge of her skirt.
Her thigh. The thick, bare meat of it.
Her body jerked slightly. Gasp caught somewhere between her throat and her lips. It was soft, almost inaudible—but he heard it. He felt it. Because his hand didn’t move. Just sat there like it belonged.
Warm. Big. Familiar.
Possessive without apology.
His thumb started tracing lazy circles, slow and low, like he was drawing something sacred. Her breath hitched. Her thighs tensed but didn’t close. She could feel the heat spreading beneath his palm, the way the skin there started to thrum with awareness.
“What you doin’?” she whispered. Tried to laugh. But her voice wavered—half-giggle, half-beg.
Elias’s grin spread slow, “What you lettin’ me do?”
She opened her mouth. Thought of a smart reply. A tease. A deflection. But nothing came. Not a word. Just a breathy sound that damn near sounded like she was already giving in.
His fingers squeezed with intention. Then he started to rub again. Up and down. Thumb grazing the inside edge. Not high enough to make her shift, but close enough to make her need to. She leaned back harder now. Not to stop it. To feel it more. Her thighs pressed together, soft skin flexing. Elias’s hand didn’t stop. Didn’t rush.
He just kept touching her. Calm. Playful. Confident.
“That’s wild,” she said under her breath. Her lip caught between her teeth now, “Y’all ain’t got no sense.”
“You laughin’,” Elias said, voice dipped low, “but your legs ain’t moved once.”
She almost answered.
But then Elijah moved.
His hand came down quiet, like he’d been waiting. His palm landed on her other thigh—same spot, opposite side. He didn’t tease. Didn’t rub. He just pressed his hand flat. Claimed the space. His touch ran cooler. Firmer. No play in it. Just pressure. A quiet grip.
“Yeah,” Elijah said, voice so close to her ear it made her stomach tighten, “She tense.”
Elias let out a low laugh, “Told you.”
Elijah slid closer, thigh against hers now. His fingers flexed once. Then again. Slow. Deliberate. His thumb dragged toward the inner edge of her thigh and stopped just shy of the warmest part. Just enough to make her blink fast. To make her thighs twitch.
“She so soft,” Elijah said, his voice steady, no teasing, “Look how she leanin’ into it.”
Elias leaned in, his lips ghosting near her jaw, “This what you needed, huh? Couple hands on you. Tight little booth. Not enough space to think?”
Her breath left her like she forgot how to hold it. She was full. Caught between them. Nothing but thigh, thigh, thick thigh, and the deep, syrupy ache building right between her legs.
They talked like she wasn’t sitting there pulsing.
Like they didn’t feel her squirm.
Like they weren’t making her come apart in public.
“Bet she act shy when she get out this booth,” Elias said. His hand moved now, rubbing tighter, slower, “But I bet soon as she get home, she gon’ lay back and think on this.”
Elijah didn’t blink. His palm tightened just a little, “She already wet.”
It wasn’t a question.
She gasped, sharp and soft. Her hand gripped the edge of the table, knuckles not white but clenched just the same.
Elijah tilted his head, “Ain’t you?”
She didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Her eyes dropped to the table, chest rising and falling quick now. Both their hands were still on her. Elias tracing his circles, slow and greedy, fingertips creeping closer to the place she was trying hard not to twitch toward. Elijah’s hand holding her steady, thumb tapping once, just enough to make her swallow hard.
They knew. They always knew.
Elias leaned into her shoulder, his breath kissing the shell of her ear, “Say the word.”
She turned her head toward him, lips parting, heart racing like somebody caught in the act. She wanted to say something. Anything. But all that came out was a low sound—guttural, helpless, and real.
And both of them smiled.
Because that was enough.
Her thighs stayed open. Her back arched just enough. The booth creaked low, wood groaning beneath Elias’s weight as he leaned in. The vinyl seat gave under him, guiding her thigh right over his without permission, without apology. Just presence. His other hand pried her open inch by inch, the hem of her dress slipping higher on instinct, breath catching in her chest before she even knew what it was reacting to.
Then Elijah shifted beside her—quiet but heavy, the kind of weight that didn’t need sound to make itself known. He did the same from the other side, trapping her in place. Boxed in. Legs spread. Palms resting casual on either side of his thighs like he wasn’t doing anything at all.
But she could feel everything.
The table shielded what eyes couldn’t see, but not what she could feel. Not the way the air changed. Not the way her breath grew tight in her ribs.
Elias moved first. His hand came low and slow, fingertips dragging up her bare thigh like he had all night to get there. He didn’t rush. He felt. Sank into every curve of her skin with the kind of appreciation that felt close to hunger. His thumb rolled slow as he moved higher, brushing that tender strip of skin just beneath her panties like it was his alone. And when he pressed, it wasn’t fast or frantic. It was mean. Curious. Dirty. His thumb rolled up and traced the soft, soaked fabric between her legs like he could read it. Like her body was saying something, and he was trying to catch every syllable.
Elijah followed, rougher but just as patient. His palm pushed her thigh wider, fingers spreading across the soft give of her skin, gripping the plush curve above her knee and dragging up. He felt for the thickness beneath his hand, rubbed his thumb over the seam of her panties and caught the way her muscles jumped. He didn’t pause.
She tried to breathe. Tried to laugh, “Y’all really wild,” she whispered, voice cracking from where it got stuck behind her teeth.
Elias didn’t laugh. He didn’t need to. He made a low sound in his throat, all gravel and approval, then dragged his thumb hard and slow across the full shape of her pussy again. “Mmm,” he grunted, voice dropped low, “You got a fat pussy.”
The words hit harder than she expected. Her laugh spilled out wrong—high and helpless, trying to escape the way her thighs clenched, the way her hips rocked forward without her consent. Her fingers twitched like she didn’t know where to place them. Lifted, dropped, useless.
Elijah’s voice stayed calm. Steady. Close to her ear like it was meant for nobody else, “That must mean you take well, huh?”
He didn’t wait for her to answer.
She couldn’t.
Her hips tilted just a little, but it was enough. That slow shift gave them everything they needed to keep going. Elias let his palm settle flat against her pussy, thumb still dragging slow lines up the soaked cotton. His hand was broad, heavy, unforgiving. His grip dared her to keep still.
“Don’t need your words,” he said, low and gravel-slick, “Your body loud enough.”
Elijah didn’t move fast. He just nudged her panties aside, slow and disrespectful. Didn’t ask or hesitate. Just let the pad of his thumb press right where she pulsed. His fingers spread across her thigh again like he was proud of what he found.
“Yeah,” he breathed, lips brushing her ear, “She feel ready.”
Her head rolled back against the booth wall. Her breath shook. The lights above blurred and scattered. She blinked, but it didn’t help. Her whole body was aware now. Too aware. Every nerve was standing up, every breath sounded too loud in her chest, and the slick sound of their hands working her over was starting to cut through the diner noise.
Elias didn’t stop. He cupped her pussy full in his palm, fingers sliding lower to press under, thumb circling up top, slow and nasty. Her thighs kept trying to close. He kept prying them back open. The strength in his hand was too much and just right. He dragged that cotton to the side harder to the point of shredding it and dipped his finger down, groaning low as he felt the mess she’d made.
“This how you act when we just touchin’? You gon’ show out when we fuckin’?” He rasped.
She swallowed a sound she couldn’t name. Her legs wouldn’t stop shaking. Elijah just looked down, eyes hooded, rubbing slow with two fingers now. Middle and ring. Up and down, steady pressure, tracing the shape of her without putting them in. Teasing. Watching her hips chase his hand. Watching her lose track of herself.
“Soft,” Elijah whispered. “All this thickness sittin’ pretty. She feel like she need breakin’ in.”
Her thighs jolted. Elias grinned wider.
“Yeah she do,” Elias said, his voice tight now, like his jaw was locked. “She need handlin’. Like a big ol’ plate. Meant to be held with both hands.”
Elijah leaned in again. His nose brushed her jaw. His breath fogged the shell of her ear.
“Or shared.”
She made a sound then. A real one. A whimper choked back behind clenched teeth. Her hand dropped under the table, fingers grasping Elias’s wrist. Not to stop him. Just to hold on.
Elias dipped his finger in.
Just one. Just enough to feel the slick, hot clutch of her wrapped around him. She pulsed. Squeezed. That warm, wet flutter that made his mouth twitch in a nasty smirk.
“You hear that?” he whispered. “She talkin’.”
Elijah watched. Lips parted. One hand still on her thigh, the other creeping up now, pressing low against her stomach like he needed to hold her down while she took it.
“You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he muttered, dragging her panties down slow. “Sit still.”
And she did.
Because she couldn’t move.
Not with Elias’s thick fingers pumping slow. Not with Elijah thumbing circles just above, steady and cruel. Not with both of them focused like that. Hungry. Calm. Dirty with it. Touching her like she was dessert and they had time.
They weren’t playing.
They were getting started.
Elias didn’t rush. His thumb worked over her pussy again, dragging lazy through the wetness that had already spread across his fingers.
“Still drippin’, girl,” he said low, voice thick with approval, “You like this nasty shit, huh?”
She clenched around nothing, her eyes fluttering half-closed.
Elijah touched next, smoother. His fingers pressed into her slick skin with a patient curiosity that made her pulse stutter. He slid upward, thumb grazing the soft shape of her lips, then dragged back down again, feeling how swollen she was. It made him shift in his seat, jaw tightening.
“My shit hard,” he said, almost to himself.
Elias grinned without looking up, “She makin’ my dick jump.”
Her thighs trembled between theirs. She tried to angle her hips, desperate for more pressure, more friction, anything. But they controlled the pace. The rhythm. They always did.
“You like fuckin’ this much?” Elias asked, voice unbothered, damn near thoughtful, “What made you like this?”
She couldn’t answer. Didn’t know how. Didn’t know what to say to a question like that with their thumbs working her slow, rubbing circles that got tighter each pass.
“Must’ve had dick so good it rewired your brain,” Elijah said near her ear, deep and calm, “Had you chasin’ the memory of that nut.”
Elias pinched lightly, right over her clit, and she jerked in place, hand slapping the edge of the table. He rubbed it right after, soothing it.
“Prolly pounded your thick ass so good,” he whispered, “left you seein’ stars. And now you out here tryin’ to find that same high.”
Her breath hitched. Her pussy ached. It throbbed under their hands, soaked through, lips plump and full against their fingers. Her head tipped back against the booth, eyes closed. They didn’t stop.
One rubbed. The other pinched. Then switched.
Elijah teased the lips now, his fingers spreading her, pressing in to feel the curve of her, the way she opened up, puffed and needy.
“Pussy got my dick on brick,” he said, barely louder than a whisper.
She whimpered. Tried to press her thighs together, but Elias nudged them wider with his knee again.
“Don’t run now,” he said with a laugh that held no mercy, “You sat your ass in this booth.”
Elijah leaned forward again, his hand palming her inner thigh, “Body beggin’ for it. You hear how wet this pussy is?”
He slid his fingers down again, pushed harder, rubbed those wet lips like he wanted it to stain the seat. Elias looked at her face, her mouth open and breathing shallow. He tilted his head.
“You ain’t answer me,” he said, “What got you like this? What made you crave it so bad?”
She blinked, then looked away.
“I don’t know,” she said, voice cracking, “I just…I just do.”
Elijah’s hand slid higher. He pinched her clit softly again between his fingers and tugged, just enough to tease.
Elias pressed his thumb down hard, slow circles now, grinding steady, “Nah. Somebody started it.”
Elijah leaned in closer, speaking into her ear, “Bet you let somebody tear it up real young. Fucked the sense outta you. Made you a fiend.”
Elias grinned, “A pretty little fiend with a fat-ass pussy. Got us sittin’ here rock hard in the middle of this booth.”
She whimpered, face buried in her elbow now, her thighs shaking from how much it all pulsed—pressure building, nerves lit. They didn’t stop. Didn’t let up. Didn’t let her breathe without feeling something.
Elijah rubbed lower, pressing through the folds, dragging slickness down, smearing it. Elias kept his circles going, pushing firm against that swollen spot until her body tensed all the way up.
“Don’t hold back,” Elijah whispered, “Go on. Let that pussy talk.”
Her stomach jumped. The tension broke.
She came under the table with her legs spread, hips rocking helplessly while they held her open.
Nobody in the room knew.
But they did.
And they weren’t finished.
-----
They left the diner under neon glare.
Elijah opened the door for her again. Said nothing, just stepped aside like he was used to making space for people who mattered. Elias placed a hand on her lower back. Just enough to say you feel good right here. She took the back seat without being told, thighs still humming, panties still damp from the booth.
They slid into the SUV like the night wasn’t over.
Elias behind the wheel again, one hand resting easy while the other adjusted the rearview mirror. Elijah climbed in and leaned back slow in the passenger seat, his profile catching the glow of the streetlight just enough to make her stomach flutter. The engine came alive with a low growl, and the music started up behind it—that same heavy-lidded rhythm from earlier, bass riding low, drums scattered like footsteps on concrete. Something Southern and slow.
They pulled off smooth, no rush.
The city slid past the windows in long strokes of orange and blue. Storefronts shuttered. Neon signs blinking through half-closed eyes. A couple sitting on the curb outside a corner store passed a bottle back and forth, laughing about something that would only be funny at 1AM.
Inside the car, the silence was thick. Not stiff—just aware.
She sat still, pressed against the door, watching the lights paint the leather seat beside her. Her legs stayed closed, but her breath told the truth. Shallow. Controlled. Like she was holding something down just to make it through the ride.
She felt them both up front, even without looking. Elias tapping his thumb against the steering wheel. Elijah shifting his weight slightly, just enough for his arm to flex against the window. Neither of them talked. Not yet.
But she knew they were waiting.
Waiting to see what she’d say. What she’d do.
The memory of their hands still lingered on her thighs. On her pussy. Their voices still curled behind her ears. That booth had stripped away something quiet in her. Peeled it back, opened her up. She hadn’t stopped shaking since. Not visibly. Not in a way anyone else would notice. But inside? She was trembling.
The car slowed at a light. The red glow painted the dashboard. Her building sat four blocks away now, tucked off the main road. No doorman. No security. Just her name on a mailbox and stairs that creaked when the wind hit wrong.
The closer they got, the harder it became to sit still.
Her fingers tapped softly against her thigh.
They turned down her street.
Elijah finally looked over his shoulder. His voice was low. Steady, “This it?”
She nodded once.
The car pulled up to the curb. The engine didn’t cut off.
She looked straight ahead. Stared at the entrance. The hallway upstairs would smell like bleach and old air. Her apartment would be quiet. Dark. Still holding her heat in the sheets.
And if she went in alone tonight, she knew what would happen. She’d lie there with her thighs tight and her breath ragged. She’d touch herself again. Maybe twice. Try to remember the way Elias’s fingers had circled her through her panties. Try to recreate the pressure of Elijah’s hand pressing her open. And it wouldn’t be enough.
Not this time.
Not after what they started.
She looked down at her hands. Then up at the mirror.
Elias met her eyes there. No smile. Just stillness.
She turned her head toward Elijah. His eyes held hers for a moment. Dark. Knowing.
She took a breath.
Then another.
And said it.
“I want y’all to come up.”
No giggle. No shy smile.
Just a truth laid bare in the space between them.
Elijah nodded once. His door opened. Elias put the car in park, engine still humming.
Her heart thudded in her chest as the back door opened. Elijah reached for her hand, helping her out like they were stepping into something sacred. She didn’t look around or check to see who might be watching. She just walked.
Elias stayed close behind. Elijah beside her, silent as ever.
And when they stepped into the building—one stair creaking under Elijah’s weight, the other catching Elias’s boot—she felt it rise in her like smoke.
Not nerves. Not fear.
Just need.
Real. Present.
Ready.
And she knew before she even reached her door…nothing about this night would let her go untouched.
The lock clicked with a hushed finality as she turned the knob and stepped inside first, the quiet shuffle of her shoes brushing the worn entryway rug. It was dim, only a small light on the kitchen counter glowed warm, catching the gold trim on a frame, the curved lip of a wineglass left to dry, the amber gloss of hardwood that creaked beneath her step. She didn’t look back at first.
She couldn’t.
Keys hit the tray on the table by the door. Her cardigan came off next, folded over the nearest chair. She walked slow, like her body had to remember it was her space, not theirs. The apartment wasn’t large, just a one-bedroom on the third floor of a brickwalk building with no elevator. The kind of spot you could fill with incense, sweat, and moans and it’d take days to air out.
But it was clean. Lived in. A throw blanket tossed over the couch, one corner half-folded. A half-dead plant leaning toward the last bit of light from the blinds. Some novels stacked on the ottoman like they’d been touched and abandoned in a hurry. There was a chipped mug on the counter. A faint scent of body lotion and something warm that clung to skin.
She felt them behind her before they even crossed the threshold.
Elias came in first, slow and wide-shouldered, eyes sweeping the space like he could already picture the places he’d fuck her. Elijah followed, silent, hands in his pockets, gaze tracking her legs as she walked toward the kitchen like they were guiding him somewhere he already knew. They moved smooth, but heavy. Like they didn’t belong inside something so soft and quiet, but they weren’t about to leave either.
Elijah pushed the door until it clicked again. Stack turned the lock. Then nothing.
No one spoke.
Just movement. Low, deliberate.
Elias slipped his jacket off. Set it over the back of the chair with hers. He scanned the space with his chin up, nostrils flaring once like he smelled her—beneath the fabric, in the air. His chain caught a flicker of that kitchen light, swinging slowly. Elijah leaned against the counter, his arms thick beneath a black long sleeve, one sneaker-clad-foot pressed to the cabinet like he owned the place.
“You live good,” Elias said after a beat. His voice held something low in it. Something that edged too close to approval.
“Cozy in here,” Elijah added, dragging his knuckles once across the counter before resting his palm flat. His eyes didn’t move from her, “Smell like you.”
Her hands reached for something—anything to do. She opened the fridge, grabbed a bottle of chilled wine and held it out without turning around.
“Wine?”
Elias gave a tilt of his chin. “Yeah I’ll take some. Thanks baby girl.”
She opened the cabinet. Pulled out glasses. Fingers trembled just slightly when they touched the base of the glass. Elijah noticed. Watched. The glasses filled, she turned, handed one to Elias, and placed the other beside Elijah. He didn’t drink yet. Just leaned closer. Close enough to smell the perfume layered in her clothes. Not sprayed. Rubbed in. Smeared into the inside of her elbow and that part behind her ear you only got close to during a kiss or while fucking.
Elijah pushed off the counter. Slow. He looked at the books. Touched the melted wax of the low-burned…light source on the shelf. Eyes landed on a framed photo, maybe a childhood shot or something sentimental. But he didn’t comment on it. Didn’t need to. He looked back at her instead.
Then he saw it.
The bedroom door.
He didn’t walk to it. Just paused long enough for her to notice where his eyes landed. And she did.
Elias caught that too. His lips curved a little.
“I been wonderin’ what it’d feel like,” he said, taking a sip from the wine glass, “Us. In a space like this. Real low. No lights. Just bodies.”
Her breath hitched. Barely.
Elijah still hadn’t said a word to her directly. The look in his eyes was doing all the work. He walked forward and leaned over the counter now, one hand down, the other inching toward her waist like he was daring her not to move. His voice dropped lower, a grind of gravel dipped in smoke.
“You nervous?”
She nodded again. Still no words.
Elias grinned like he’d won something. He came up behind her then. Not close enough to press, but close enough to feel the warmth from his chest behind her spine. His breath touched the shell of her ear when he spoke.
“We ain’t in no rush. Unless you want us to be.”
Her knees softened. She reached for the counter for balance.
“I…need to change.”
Elias stepped back slow, hands loose at his sides like they were waiting to touch something soft. Elijah tilted his head, jaw tight, eyes dragging over her like he was taking stock of everything—the sway in her hips, the bare press of her thighs, the hush of her feet against the floor as she eased away.
“Go on,” Elijah said, voice low.
She turned toward the bedroom.
Elias voice followed. Deeper. Rougher, “Leave that door open.”
She paused.
Then did.
But she didn’t need to change. For what? They didn’t come to see lace. Didn’t need no lingerie or frills. They wanted her just like this—skin bare, body honest. Whatever she had on could come off. Slow. In front of them. With that door wide open.
The space was dim. Soft light from a lamp in the corner made her skin glow deep. There was a full body mirror propped in the far corner, tilted just slightly. It caught the movement of her dress. The shape of her curves. The panic behind her eyes. The bed was king-sized. Dark gray sheets, fluffed comforter. Pillows stacked high, some shoved to the side like she’d napped there earlier. She stood in the middle, facing the mirror, breathing hard.
She paced like she couldn’t help it. Light steps at first, then a full loop near the bed. She rubbed her palms against her thighs, then pushed one hand into her hair like it might help settle her nerves. It didn’t. She kept talking. Nothing useful. A string of sentences that fell flat in the air. About the walk up the stairs. About how hot it was in the hallway. About how the wine must’ve gotten warm.
“Stop all that,” Elias said, calm but final.
They’d come in without a word.
Both of them barefoot now. Elijah’s shirt was gone. Elias had his unbuttoned halfway, showing thick brown skin and the wide shelf of his chest. They filled the doorway like a warning. Too big. Too built. Too much.
She swallowed hard.
“Go on,” Elias said behind her, “Take it off, baby girl.”
She blinked. Froze in place.
Elijah’s tone came next. Deeper. Meaner.
“You knew what it was when you let us come up.”
Her mouth parted. Then closed again. Like she was chewing on whether she could really say it out loud. She glanced at the floor. Then at Elias. Then Elijah. Like they were too much to take in at once. Like they weren’t gonna move until she did.
“I want y’all,” she said.
Low. But strong.
“I been wantin’ y’all.”
The air in the room turned dense. Every breath sounded louder. The quiet between them stretched long, thick, charged. She shifted like she wanted to walk again, wanted to hide. Her gaze slipped off their faces, down toward her feet.
Elias’ voice came slow.
“You sure you can handle that, baby?”
She nodded. It wasn’t confident, not all the way. But she meant it.
She swallowed hard.
“Go on,” Elias said behind her,“Take it off, baby girl.”
Her fingers moved slow at first. Reached behind to unzip her dress. Tugged it down her hips. The straps slid from her shoulders, and the whole thing pooled at her feet. She stood in her bra and panties, stomach rising with breath. Thick arms folded across her midsection, unsure.
Elijah moved first, “Uh uh,” he said, “Move them arms. Let us see what’s ours.”
She hesitated. Then dropped her arms.
She was thick all over. A deep brown beauty with stretch marks shining down her sides like they were drawn on. Her belly had a soft curve, a roll under the bra line and another where her panties hugged too tight. Her hips spread wide, thighs thick and touching. She had that kind of body that could ride dick without lifting a foot off the floor. Soft. Plush. Real.
Elias licked his bottom lip, “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
Elijah came closer, “Been wantin’ to see this body with nothin’ on it but sweat.”
Her legs pressed together, but it only made her hips bloom wider. Her panties were wet. The cotton clung to the split of her pussy like a mouth open, ready.
Elijah touched her chin. Tilted it up, “You still nervous?”
She didn’t answer. Just stared up at him, breath shallow, lips parted.
He touched the strap of her bra. Slid it down. Let it hang.
Elias came up behind her now, close enough to make her sway. His chest brushed her back. She felt his dick hard, thick, pressing into the curve of her ass through his jeans.
“You a lil’ slut, huh?” Elias whispered against her ear, “Standin’ there so quiet…drippin’.”
He ran two fingers down the center of her back.
“Go ahead,” Elijah said, still in front of her, “Take off them panties. Let big daddy see what you been hidin’.”
Her knees shook. But she obeyed. Hooked her thumbs in the sides and eased them down, slow. Her thighs jiggled. Her pussy came into view—fat-lipped, glistening. A perfect mess. Full. Bare.
Elijah grabbed himself through his pants, “Damn, mamas. You wet like this just from us talkin’?”
She looked away, embarrassed, but Stack caught her chin from behind.
“Look in that mirror,” he said, voice sharp, “Don’t run from it.”
She did.
What she saw made her gasp. Two tall, dark men on either side of her. Elias behind, dick throbbing against her ass. Elijah in front, chest bare, reaching for his zipper. Her body was thick between them. Dark thighs. Glossed lips. Nipples poking through her bra like they needed pressure.
“Say it again,” Elijah said.
“What?”
“That you want us. Say it again.”
She swallowed, “I want y’all. I want you in me.”
Elias growled low, mouth on her neck now, “Where you want us, baby girl?”
“Wherever y’all want to be.”
Elijah palmed her face, kissed her hard. Tongue deep, hand heavy on her jaw.
Elias pushed his palm down her spine. Then lower. One hand sliding between her cheeks.
“She talk like that again, I’ma nut before I even get in.”
“You gon’ get in,” Elijah said, “We both are.”
Elijah brought his hand up slow. The pads of his fingers touched her chin first. Then the rest of his hand cupped her jaw like it was made for it. His touch was warm. Steady. But his eyes? They burned.
“Look at me when you say it,” Elias said, deep and even.
She tried to blink, but he held her there. So she spoke, just above a whisper.
“I want y’all to touch me.”
Elijah made a sound behind her. Something like a groan, dragged low and heavy from the chest. She could feel him moving now. Closer. His body a slow, steady force until the front of him pressed right up against her back. His hands came to her hips, fingers spreading wide like he meant to hold her in place.
Elias leaned in closer, nose brushing her cheek, still watching her, “Where?”
Her lips parted again. Sound stuck in her throat.
“Where you want us to touch you first?” he asked, voice sticky with hunger, “Say it slow.”
Her chest rose, then fell. She breathed through it. Her legs started shaking again, but she didn’t move. Didn’t run. The words took effort. She had to dig for them. But they came.
“My titties,” she said, voice cracked open and real, “Wanna feel y’all on my titties.”
Elijah’s palm dragged up from her hip, grazing the underside of her breast. Not cupping it yet—just teasing. Elias moved his hand to the back of her neck, gripped it light.
“And after that?” Elijah’s breath hit the shell of her ear, “What you want us to touch next?”
Her eyes darted to the mirror. She could see all of it now. Her reflection between them, framed by two men with big hands and darker intentions. She saw her nipples stiff, her pussy leaking onto her thighs. She saw Elijah’s chest rising behind her. Elias’s bulge thick and long, pressing behind the zipper like it couldn’t wait to be free.
“My pussy,” she whispered, “I want y’all to touch my pussy.”
Elias exhaled, sharp and dark, “That’s right, baby.”
He stepped in, brought his mouth down to her neck. Licked slow from the edge of her shoulder to the space just under her jaw. Meanwhile Elijah’s hand moved higher, thumb brushing her nipple through the bra, then slipping under the cup. She gasped. It was rough. Not soft. Not delicate. They were done playing sweet.
“Take that bra off,” Elijah said, voice thick now, “Wanna see them titties when I suck ‘em.”
Her fingers fumbled at the back clasp. Elias helped, one hand sliding under to unhook it while his lips stayed close to her throat. The bra fell. Her breasts bounced free, full and plush, dark brown nipples stiff and swollen. Elias stepped back to look. Elijah stayed pressed against her, hands gripping both tits now, thumbs circling her peaks.
“She got fat ass nipples,” Elias said, licking his bottom lip, “They taste as good as they look?”
“Better,” Elijah muttered, then bent low and latched onto one. His mouth pulled deep, tongue swirling as he sucked hard. Wet sounds filled the room. Sloppy. Nasty. Her head dropped back onto his shoulder with a moan.
“Damn,” he breathed low, voice gravel-wrapped, dick hard as concrete behind his zipper, “These titties talkin’ to me.”
She chuckled, but it caught in her throat when he bent down.
Six feet and some change, folding at the waist, face first into her softness like he needed air and her titties were the only way to breathe. His mouth caught the left one first—wet, open, greedy. Lips pulled that areola in slow, thick and fat and sensitive. He wrapped his mouth around it, sucked until the noise echoed off the walls, let it slip out with a pop, then slapped the underside of it with his tongue. Dark brown nipple turned darker, swollen with his spit.
He took his time. Switched to the right. Left hand holding the left tit like it was his favorite dessert. He sucked hard, then soft. Fast, then lazy. Alternating patterns like a man who liked to test limits. She let out a sound that made his dick jump—deep, guttural, trembling from the base of her belly. Her thighs pressed tight. Her feet shuffled like she needed a wider stance just to keep standing.
His hand squeezed the weight of both, lifted them, bounced them just to feel the jiggle. “Shit…these titties got some bounce to ‘em. Gone make me lose my damn mind.”
He dragged his teeth slow along the curve, then bit. Not hard, just enough to make her hiss. His spit shined all over them now. He spread it with his palm, slicked that nipple up, then sucked it back down again like a man who couldn’t stay away.
“You like me tearin’ ‘em up like this?” he rasped against her skin, “Got me hard as fuck, girl. I could eat on you all fuckin’ night.”
His mouth stayed moving—sucking, licking, dragging across her chest like it was his playground. She swore, fingers trembling as they went to his head, palming the back of his head, guiding him back and forth across her breasts like she was trying to give him a map of pleasure and ruin.
He popped off one nipple and spit on it, slow. Let it drip. Watched it slide down her belly while she squirmed.
“Ain’t even slid my dick in you yet,” he said, rubbing the side of his face against her left tit, smiling lazy like a devil in the flesh, “But you drippin’, huh? Soaked already. That pussy clenchin’ on nothin’, just from me suckin’ these titties.”
She whimpered, grinding her hips on air.
She whimpered, legs tightening, hands braced against the wall behind her. Her body jolted when he tugged her nipple with his mouth and popped it free, just to lick it again in slow, wet circles.
“Damn, baby,” Elijah rasped, voice thick and low, “You feel that? Daddy suckin’ this big ass titty just like you need.”
Her head fell back. Her pussy throbbed.
Then Elias stepped in. Cool and slow, licking his lips, eyes locked on the untouched right titty like it was his turn to eat.
“You hold them titties up for us,” he said, voice deep enough to drop into her bones, “Hold ‘em up like a good lil’ thing. Let us feed.”
Her hands came up without hesitation. She cradled the weight of her tits and lifted them like an offering, her arms trembling from the size and weight of them, but more from the need. She looked down and watched both men dip low, faces vanishing into her chest.
Elijah on the left. Elias on the right.
Twin tongues—warm, slick, relentless. Suckin’ and flickin’, takin’ turns draggin’ their tongues over her swollen nipples. Long, thick lips pulled and twisted, mouths locking down with filthy, wet sounds that echoed in the quiet room. Her pussy pulsed, sticky and wet between her thighs, clenching on nothing.
“Shit…” she whispered, watching them, “Oh fuck…”
Elijah reached up, slapped the side of her thigh, “That feel good, baby?”
Elias followed it up with his own brand of filth, “These titties so fuckin’ good. Look at ‘em jump when I suck ‘em. You lettin’ both your daddies eat like this? Dirty lil’ fuckin’ girl…”
They had her trapped in the sweetest kind of way—two tall, broad-backed men bent at her chest, each with a mouthful of her. Saliva slicked her skin. Their hands came up, thumbing her nipples, pinching them while their tongues rolled across the tips again and again.
She moaned out loud, toes curling against the carpet, mouth open.
“That’s it,” Elijah growled, switching nipples with his brother so they could taste each side, “Let us feed, girl. Let us fuckin’ taste them titties. You know we need it.”
Elias licked her all the way around her areola, then sucked the nipple so deep into his mouth she cried out.
“Say thank you,” Elias said, tongue dragging wet across the underside of her tit, “Say thank you for both your daddies suckin’ on these fat ass titties.”
“Th-Thank you—fuck—thank you…”
They groaned in unison. Elijah reached down to grip her ass in both hands, fingers digging into the soft thickness there while he sucked again, hard. Elias pulled her nipple between his teeth and let it go with a pop, then dragged the flat of his tongue across both tits just to feel the weight of them bounce.
Her thighs were trembling now. Pussy soaked. Their breath hot against her skin. Her arms were getting tired but she didn’t dare stop holdin’ ‘em up. Not when they were still suckin’ her like she was dessert and they hadn’t had dinner.
“Lil’ nasty bitch,” Elijah mumbled, licking up her tit and circling the areola with slow precision, “Drippin’ all down your thighs while we feed on you.”
“You wet?” Elias smirked against her nipple, his teeth grazing just enough to tease, “You got that pussy leakin’ just from gettin’ these titties sucked?”
She nodded, helpless.
Elijah grinned, eyes sharp now, “You know what that mean, right? We ain’t even touched that pussy yet. But she ready for both of us. Ain’t that right, girl?”
Her voice barely worked, “Yes, Daddy…”
“Good girl,” Stack said, and sucked again.
her mouth parted, forming a moaning. And that’s when Elias leaned in from the right, one hand on her cheek, the other with a handful of her right titty, mouth crashing into hers with no warning.
He kissed like a man starved. No build up. No permission. Just hot tongue, lips parted, tongue sliding past hers with heat and pressure. Their mouths opened and met again—wet, sloppy, lips smacking. He licked deep into her like he wanted to taste the nut she still had in her throat. Their heads tilted, breath tangled, his hand wrapped in her curls, pulling her to stay on his mouth. She moaned into him, kissed him back messy, mouth greedy, spit thick between them.
Then Elijah grabbed her jaw and yanked her face toward him, “Uh uh,” he growled, “Mine now.”
He swallowed her mouth whole. Hot. Wet. Tongue pushing in deep, lips sealing around hers while his fingers gripped her face like he needed to hold her together. Their mouths moved fast—no rhythm, just hunger. Tongue twisting, licking the inside of her lips, lips slapping, breath hitching from how nasty it felt. He kissed her like her mouth was a pussy and he needed to fuck it slow.
Elias wasn’t having it. He grabbed the back of her neck, pulled her away from Elijah’s lips with a string of spit trailing, and kissed her again but harder.
“She mine too, nigga.” Elias said against her lips, then kissed her like he wanted to claim her taste. Mouth open. Teeth brushing. Tongue thick and wet, sliding along hers with no shame.
They kept switching her back and forth. Like a war. Like a game. Elijah slid his hand to her throat and kissed her sideways, taking her mouth from a different angle, swallowing her moan. Elias bit her bottom lip. Tugged it. Elijah sucked her tongue. Elias licked under it. Their lips kept smacking against hers, back to back to back, like a filthy rhythm section in a blues club nobody was supposed to talk about. One gripped her face. The other held her hips. One took her top lip. The other buried his tongue so deep she choked. Wet sounds filled the room—spit, lips, tongues, moans. Her mouth was soaked, her chin wet, her lips swollen.
They weren’t done yet.
Not even close.
Elijah straightened up slow, body pressed close. He grabbed his dick through his jeans, eyes still locked on her chest.
Elias dropped to his knees in front of her, hands dragging down her hips to her thighs. He spread her legs wider and leaned in close.
“Pussy still drippin’, ain’t it?”
She nodded, dazed.
“Let me see,” he said, “Let me see what kind of mess we made.”
Elijah let her go long enough for Elias to pull her forward, guiding her foot up onto the bed just enough for her folds to part. Below, Elias was already on his knees. Broad shoulders between her legs, eyes trained on the fat drip sliding down the inside of her thigh. His gold chain swung a little when he shifted, tongue wetting his bottom lip like he was staring down his next meal. Her pussy lips were thick and full, shining with slick. Cream lined the crease, dripping down to her inner thigh.
“Damn,” Elias said, “Look at all that. This shit glossy.”
He spit on it. Slow and wet. Dripping down his chin. Then rubbed his thumb through it. She jerked, almost buckled, but Elijah caught her.
“Stand still,” Elijah warned, hands gripping her waist.
Elias licked up the middle of her pussy like he had all night. Tongue flat and wide, dragging slow before circling her clit. She hissed through her teeth. His mouth locked on, sucking, licking, tongue dipping inside. Her legs trembled harder now.
Elijah held her tighter. One hand wrapped around her throat. Not choking. Just enough pressure to keep her from floating off.
He spit on it again—slow and messy—watching it roll down over her clit, catching on the curve of her pussy before dripping onto the hardwood. Thick, nasty. He rubbed his thumb right through it, pressed into the wet like he owned it, and she jerked forward. Her belly tightened, knees buckling for a split second.
Elijah gripped her harder, “Didn’t I say stand still?”
A soft whimper slipped from her lips. Her head fell back against his shoulder. His palm shifted from her throat to her chin, turning her head toward him.
“Keep your eyes open, babygirl. I want you to see what your nasty ass let happen tonight.”
Elias didn’t waste time. Tongue flat and wide, he licked her slow from the bottom up—long stroke like he was trying to taste the whole damn day off her. The tension in her belly snapped like elastic. Her hips twitched. A moan poured out, low and broken.
“Ohhh—shit—”
He licked again. This time slower. Then circled the tip of his tongue around her clit in a tight spiral, never breaking contact. His lips wrapped around it and sucked—sharp and wet—then pulled back to slap it with his tongue again. She trembled. Her legs were screaming now, body betraying her with every pulse and shake.
“Nah, keep still,” Elias said, voice muffled against her pussy, “You wanted this, right? Don’t run now.”
He gripped the backs of her thighs and pulled her down onto his face like he needed her seated there. Like she weighed nothing. Like she weighed everything. His mouth got filthy then—slurping, sucking, tongue dipping in deep and curling. He buried his nose, pushed his whole face against the fat of her pussy like he’d been starving for her. It was loud. Sticky. Echoing off the walls. That mix of spit and slick that sounded obscene, wet enough to make the room humid.
Elijah groaned behind her, “Look how she jumpin’. You feel that?”
She nodded, barely. Her throat was tight, her eyes glassy. She whimpered again, higher now. Her hands reached behind her, searching for him—fingernails digging into his wrist where it pressed to her stomach. He didn’t move. He just gripped her tighter.
“Talk to my bro,” Elijah said, voice in her ear. “Let him know what that mouth doin’ to you.”
Her lips parted. Soundless at first. Then breathy, “F-fuck, Elias. That feel so good…”
“Louder,” Elijah growled, “Let him know.”
Her stomach jumped, “Please. Please don’t stop.”
Elias cut in, voice slick with spit. “You gon’ stand here and take this tongue like the good girl you tryna be.”
He spit again, directly on her clit, and watched it run down like syrup. Then he closed his mouth around her whole pussy and sucked hard. Loud. The noise of it made Elijah chuckle low.
“That’s it,” Elias said, tongue darting between her folds again, “Don’t close them legs. Keep that foot up. Let me lick all this rich-ass pussy.”
He started stroking her thighs while he ate, dragging his nails gently along the crease where her body folded, tongue still swirling around her clit. Then down again. Inside. Fucking her with it. Curling it deep. Pulling moans out of her like she owed him sound.
Her eyes rolled. Her hands shook.
Elijah’s grip moved back to her throat, “Don’t you dare cum yet.”
She gasped. “But—”
“I said no.”
Her whole body was shivering now. Elias kept licking. Relentless. Like he was licking a memory into her skin. Like he wanted her body to remember this every night after. He pulled back for a moment, lips wet and glistening, beard soaked. He tapped her clit with two fingers, soft but fast, then leaned back in and sucked it hard again.
“Shit,” he groaned, “She taste like she been sittin’ in honey all damn day.”
Elijah laughed once behind her, dark and low.
“She been waitin’ for this. All that attitude, all that frontin’—this what she wanted.”
Elias eased a finger inside her—then another. Twisting them slow while his tongue teased the top. Her body stuttered. Hips jolted. She keened.
“Elijah—Elijah, please—”
He leaned in close to her ear again.
“Go ‘head, babygirl. Make a mess on your sheets. We gon’ keep eatin’ through every one you got.”
Elias buried his face again, one hand gripping her ass, the other working inside her like a key. She cracked. Her pussy fluttered around his fingers, then gushed. Hard. Messy. Loud.
She wailed.
Her knees buckled, and Elijah caught her just in time.
“That’s it,” Elias said, licking slow through her aftershock. “That’s that good girl nut.”
Elijah turned her chin toward him and kissed her lips—slow, with tongue—like he was tasting the mess on her mouth through her breath.
The room still carried the noise of her climax—wet, ragged, drawn straight from her gut. Her thighs trembled where they spread wide, and the dark brown of her skin glistened under the low gold lamp by the bed. One foot was still propped on the edge, calf twitching, nails digging into the sheets like she was scared to fall through the mattress. Elias backed up, mouth slick, beard damp, and gave her pussy one more drag of his tongue before smirking.
“She said my name,” Elijah muttered, kneeling low behind her.
Elias wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “She said it loud, too. Sounded pretty. You gon’ let her say it again, or what?”
Elijah didn’t answer. He just grabbed her hips and turned her, slow and firm, until she was on all fours. Her back dipped with the weight of what they’d done to her already, arms trembling under her. The curve of her ass rolled soft and wide, her pussy peeking back between her thick thighs—fat, swollen, and still leaking from Elias’s tongue.
“Arch that back,” Elijah said low.
She whimpered and pushed out, spine bending deeper. He gripped her ass, spread her open, and buried his face.
The first lick made her cry out. She dropped to her elbows, mouth open, body jerking forward like it was too much. Elijah held her steady, one hand wrapped around her waist while his tongue dragged from the bottom of her slit up to her clit. Long. Slow. Intentional.
“Good girl,” Elias said from the side, voice deep, low, proud, “Takin’ it like that.”
She let out a moan that broke halfway, breath hitching when Elijah pushed his face in deeper. His nose rubbed her hole, his lips wrapped around that puffy little pearl and sucked hard enough to make her ass clap back against him. He didn’t let up. Slurped loud. Ate like he was tryna make her cum again before she caught her breath.
“That’s it, eat that shit,” Elias encouraged, fisting his dick through his jeans slow while watching her melt.
Her pussy was a mess. Plump, dark lips glistening with spit and slick. Elijah tongued through every fold, licking so deep she buckled forward and tried to crawl away.
“Where you goin’?” he growled, dragging her back, “Didn’t fuckin’ say you could move.”
She gasped, knuckles white against the bed, legs trembling again.
“Keep it poked out. Just like that,” Elias told her, palming his shit and watching her arch back up like she needed it more than air. Elijah buried his face again, wet noises filling the room. His tongue pushed into her hole while his thumb rolled her clit in slow, filthy circles. Her whole body shook.
“You gon’ give me that nut, ain’t you?” he asked against her pussy, “This the one I want. From the back. Let me hear you cry when I suck it out.”
She choked on a sob, jaw hanging, body swaying. Elias got up in front of her, grabbed her chin, and made her look up, “Look at me while he suck that pussy,” he ordered. “You told me you wanted him. Say it again.”
“Elijah,” she panted, “Goddamn—Elijah…”
“That’s it,” Elijah growled, “Say my name while I drown in this shit.”
He sucked so hard she screamed. Spit ran down her thighs. Her clit pulsed like it was gonna explode. He spit on it, let it drip, and licked it back up with slow, thick strokes of his tongue. His fingers dug into her cheeks, spreading her wider.
Elias groaned and gripped himself harder, “She clenchin’ like she ready. You feel that?”
Elijah didn’t respond. He moaned into her pussy and kept sucking, tongue flicking against her clit like it was punishment. She bucked once, twice—then squealed. A high-pitched, broken sound that cracked the silence wide open. Her thighs locked around his head, her whole body convulsed, and her cum gushed straight into his mouth.
He didn’t stop.
Just stayed right there—face buried, nose pressed deep, tongue fucking her through every wave.
Elias laughed dark, “She squirted in your face?”
“Fuck yeah,” Elijah growled, pulling back just enough to talk, his mouth shiny, beard dripping, “She taste like fuckin’ heaven.”
“Flip her over,” Elias said, voice hoarse with lust, “She need dick now.”
“I want that throat first,” Elijah said, wiping his mouth and stroking himself hard.
“She gon’ take both.”
She was limp, wrecked, breath hitching in sobs that sounded like pleasure soaked in pain. But when Elias pulled her up, kissed her cheek, and whispered, “That’s my good girl,” she smiled through it.
And opened her mouth.
Elias stepped closer, his hand shooting out to grip her chin, tilting her face up to meet his gaze.
“Down, baby girl,” he commanded, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her core.
She sank to her knees without a word, her heavy breasts swaying with the motion, nipples hardening even more. Her pussy throbbed, slick and aching from the way their presence filled the space, demanding her submission. Elias loomed over her, his bulge straining against his jeans, while Elijah pushed off the wall, closing in from the side, his own arousal evident in the thick outline pressing forward.
“Get to work, little slut,” Elias growled, guiding her trembling hands to his belt.
Her fingers fumbled with the button of his jeans, popping it open with a soft click that echoed in the charged silence. She tugged the zipper down slowly, tooth by tooth, her breath coming in shallow pants as the fabric parted. Hooking her thumbs into the waistband, she yanked his jeans and briefs down in one motion, his big, fat, long dick springing free, heavy and veined, the dark shaft curving slightly, the swollen head already beading with precum. It slapped against his thigh before she caught it, her palm wrapping around the girth that her fingers couldn't fully encircle.
Elijah chuckled darkly, stepping right up beside his brother, “Don't forget Daddy number two, princess.”
She turned her head, eyes wide with that mix of nerves and raw need, and repeated the ritual on him—unbuttoning his jeans with shaky precision, dragging the zipper down to reveal the matching monster beneath. His dick was just as massive, almost as thick as her wrist and stretching long, the skin smooth and taut over rigid muscle, pulsing in the open air. She pulled it out fully, both hands now occupied, one stroking Elias's length from base to tip, the other doing the same for Elijah, feeling the heat radiate into her palms as they hardened even more under her touch.
“Look at you, handling this big dick like a good girl,” Elias praised, his hand tangling in her thick curls, not pulling yet but holding firm.
She leaned in toward Elias first, her tongue darting out to trace the underside of his shaft, licking from the heavy balls up to the flared head in one long, wet swipe. The salty tang of his skin exploded on her taste buds, making her mouth water as she swirled her tongue around the tip, lapping at the slit to collect every drop of precum. Slurping sounds filled the room as she sucked the head into her mouth, her cheeks hollowing with effort, lips stretching wide around his thickness. She bobbed slowly at first, savoring the way he filled her, her tongue pressing flat against the vein that throbbed along the bottom.
Elijah's patience snapped quick.
“My turn, baby doll,” he grunted, fisting her hair and tugging her head sideways with a firm yank.
She gasped, releasing Elias with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting her lips to his glistening dick, before her mouth engulfed Elijah's. She dove in deep, sucking hard on the head while her hand pumped the base, twisting slightly to add friction. Her tongue flicked rapidly under the ridge, then flattened to lick broad strokes along the length as she took more of him in, slurping greedily, the obscene noises mixing with her soft moans. Her big ass shifted, pussy clenching emptily, juices building as the tension built, her body screaming for more.
“That's it, suck Daddy's dick like you mean it,” Elijah rasped, thrusting shallowly into her mouth, watching her saggy titties bounce with each movement.
She gave it everything, hollowing her cheeks tighter, slurping louder as she worked her way down, gagging slightly when the head hit the back of her throat but pushing through, tears pricking her eyes from the stretch. Her free hand reached back to fondle his balls, rolling them gently while she licked and sucked, coating every inch in her spit until it dripped down her chin onto her cleavage.
Elias wasn't waiting idle. He grabbed her hair from the other side, pulling her back to him with a possessive tug.
“Share that nasty mouth, slut,” he demanded, and she switched again, her lips wrapping around his dick once more, sucking with renewed vigor.
She licked the shaft sloppily, tongue dragging in messy circles, then took him deep, her throat relaxing to let him slide further, slurping as she pulled back only to plunge down again. The swinging of her titties grew wilder with the back-and-forth rhythm, nipples tingling, sending jolts straight to her dripping core.
Elijah stroked himself lazily, smearing her saliva along his length, his eyes dark with lust. “Keep going, princess. Make that dick shine with spit.”
She alternated faster now, driven by their guiding hands in her hair, each tug switching her focus, her mouth a relentless machine of licking, slurping, and sucking. On Elias, she focused on the head, tonguing the slit relentlessly while her hand jerked the shaft in tight, slick strokes. Then Elijah pulled her over, and she deepthroated him as best she could, gagging wetly, saliva bubbling at the corners of her mouth as she sucked hard, her tongue undulating along the underside. Her pussy pulsed with every filthy sound, the ache building to a fever pitch, thighs pressing together for any friction.
“Fuck, you're a messy little thing,” Elias groaned, watching her work, “Dripping all over yourself for this fat dick.”
Elijah nodded, yanking her back to him, “Suck harder, baby girl. Show us how bad you want Daddy's load.”
She obeyed, redoubling her efforts, lips sealed tight around his girth, slurping voraciously as she bobbed, her head twisting side to side for extra sensation. Her titties heaved, swinging low and heavy, brushing her arms with each eager motion. The room pulsed with their grunts and her muffled whimpers, the urban night outside forgotten in this raw, gritty haze of dominance and surrender. They kept her bouncing between them, hair pulled taut, mouths demanding more, the tension coiling tighter toward the inevitable explosion of filth.
She was on her knees, thighs spread wide, soft stomach folding just right, titties hanging free—dripping from the sweat between her curves. Her mouth was glistening, lips swollen from working Elias over like she was born for it.
Elias exhaled through his teeth, head tilted back as he grunted through the rush building in his gut. She had both hands on his thighs, digging into that muscle like she needed anchoring. But her mouth? Her mouth was a problem.
“Fuck,” he growled, jaw locked tight, “Damn, she gon’ make me nut.”
He looked down at her, watched the way she took him in slow, then pulled back, tongue slick and eyes low like she knew what she was doing to him. Like she wanted him shaking. His thighs flexed. His whole face twisted up. He gripped the arm of the chair he was in, his voice rough.
“She keep suckin’, look at her,” Elias said low, voice full of tension, “Greedy lil thing…that shit buildin’ in my balls, fuck.”
She didn’t stop. Didn’t even blink. She made love to his dick like she was hungry and full at the same time. Like she was tryna prove she knew what men needed before they did. And that mouth? That damn mouth—warm, sloppy, obedient and filthy.
When she switched to Elijah, he was already standing close behind her, dick hanging heavy, glistening at the tip. He didn’t need no invitation. Just stepped forward and let her take him again. She opened wide and wrapped those lips around him like she was home.
“Damn,” Elijah groaned, his voice deep and jagged, “You can suck some dick. That what you love, huh? Love suckin’ dick? Fuck…”
He palmed the top of her head, that wide hand spreading over her scalp like a man possessed. She kept going, messier now, spit stringing from her chin down to her chest. She gagged a little but didn’t stop. Just breathed through her nose and let him push in deeper. Elijah didn’t give her no break. Not with the way she was suckin’ like she wanted every drop.
“Ain’t no way I’m stoppin’ you,” he muttered, voice shaking with need, “You want it? Here it go.”
He shoved in harder, whole dick damn near down her throat, holding her there like she was made for that. He watched her throat work, eyes damn near rollin’ back at the way she handled him. Like she didn’t need air. Like she didn’t care. He held her in place a little longer, watching her struggle and take it, eyes watering, tits bouncing from the motion.
Elias was watching the whole time, licking his lips, dick still wet and leaking from her earlier attention, “Greedy fuckin’ mouth. You suckin’ him like you sucked me. You tryna empty both us out, huh?”
She moaned around Elijah’s shaft and that shit sent a vibration straight through him. He groaned loud, hips jerking, slapping against her face. He pulled out for just a second, letting her catch one breath—just one—before shoving back in. She didn’t flinch. She welcomed it.
“Look at this nasty lil slut,” Elijah hissed, “Takin’ dick like it’s the last.”
“She don’t need nothin’ else,” Elias said, stroking himself slow, his tip still shiny, “Not when she suck like this. Got my dick twitchin’ again.”
Her knees were sore now. Thighs sticky from where her own arousal had leaked down. But she didn’t complain. Didn’t stop. Just kept working that throat like a profession. Like a mission. Like she wanted to wear them both out and still have ‘em beggin’.
Elijah yanked her off for a second, spit trailing from her lips, “C’mon now, say that shit. Say what you is.”
She looked up through those lashes, face slick, voice raspy, “I’m y’all’s nasty bitch tonight. Don’t want nothin’ else.”
Elias groaned. Elijah smirked.
“Open up,” Elijah said, tugging her hair, “We ain’t even started.”
They passed her back and forth like smoke and sin. One hand on her scalp, the other around the base of their dicks, guiding her mouth like it was theirs to use. Her throat stayed busy—raw, stretched, soaking wet—and she didn’t flinch. She took it. Jaw wide, spit bubbling, eyes glazed over like she was high off the taste of them.
Elias held her there longer this time.
Thick fingers gripped the back of her neck while his other hand rested on the slope of her back, keeping her in place. His hips rocked slow but deep, watching her throat flex around him. She gagged, eyes watering. He didn’t ease up.
“Yeah, hold that shit,” Elias growled, “Let it sit in your throat, baby. You know what you doin’.”
She whimpered around him, wet and choking, the sound only making him harder. He eased out with a groan, strands of spit clinging to the tip, and let her breathe. Just for a second.
Then Elijah stepped up. Already hard again, veins throbbing along the shaft, his whole body humming with tension. He grabbed the sides of her face, thumb rubbing a streak of wet from her cheek.
“Ain’t done with that mouth,” he rasped, before pushing in, slower than Elias but deeper.
He filled her up. Kept going until his hips were flush to her face and her nose was buried in his groin. She whimpered again, and his fingers tightened.
“Hold it,” Elijah ordered, voice low, “Greedy lil throat—keep it. I feel that shit squeezin’ me. Damn…”
She held him there. Shaking, drooling, thighs twitching. He stayed buried in her, his head tilting back as he hissed through clenched teeth. When he finally pulled out, her lips were red and swollen, chest heaving, whole face a wet mess.
Both men stood over her, breathing heavy, dicks dripping, watching her on her knees like a feast laid out and tasted, but not finished.
Elias stepped in first. Grabbed her by the arm and yanked her up to her feet like she weighed nothin’.
“Get on that bed,” he said, “Hands on the edge. Arch that big ass for me.”
She obeyed, stumbling toward the bed, legs shaky, throat sore but pussy throbbin’. Her hands braced the mattress, soft belly hanging, ass pushed out and wide like a gift unwrapped. The room was thick with breath and the musk of fuck.
“Ain’t even gotta ask if you ready,” he chuckled, voice dark.
------
The bed was wide, low to the ground, draped in wrinkled sheets that matched the state of her body—undone, slick, trembling. Her thick thighs trembled beneath two sets of hands. Her dark skin gleamed under sweat and spit, kissed raw from mouths that hadn’t stopped feasting.
Elijah was behind her again, kneeling deep in the dip of her lower back. His beard was glistening, gluing to her skin as he tongued the mess between her legs like he was trying to live in it. His arms flexed, forearms soaked from where her pussy kept leaking down them. He grunted into it, tongue slipping inside her, then dragging up to suck her clit hard.
“She talkin’ with this pussy,” Elijah growled, voice ragged from how long he’d been eating her, “Sayin’ don’t stop.”
Her body jolted each time he pulled her clit into his mouth again. Elias was in front of her now, holding her up by her big, soft breasts, his hands full and greedy. Her knees were shot. Her spine had no say in anything. She sagged between them, tears beading in her eyes from the intensity.
Elias let go of one tit to stroke his dick slow, watching her melt like butter. Her eyes drifted down, dazed and hungry.
“You ready to be filled, baby girl?” he asked low, his tone a warning wrapped in need.
She nodded.
He tapped the swollen head against her lips.
“Put it in your mouth then. Let daddy feel that throat again.”
She opened up for him, tongue flicking the tip first like she needed to taste every drop he gave. Then she pushed deeper, moaning softly as she let it glide across her tongue and past her lips. Elias groaned, deep and low, his hips shifting forward with rhythm, not force—just enough to sink in and stay.
Behind her, Elijah stood, eyes locked on her dripping cunt. He gripped his own dick, fat and smooth, veins like raised tracks against his brown skin. He let the weight of it drop across her back first, a thick thud that made her flinch. She could feel how solid it was—how long.
“You gon keep this pussy open like a nasty lil slut,” Elijah muttered, dragging the head through her folds, wet sounds loud in the room,,“Let me stretch you like you need.”
And then he pushed in.
Slow.
Mean.
No remorse.
He didn’t ease up. Didn’t tease. Just slid in with a steady press, dragging every inch until his hips met the curve of her ass.
Her walls stretched slow around him, swallowing dick like she was made for it, like her body knew exactly what to do with him.
Elijah paused once he was buried, groaning through gritted teeth as her pussy gripped him tight and hot. His stomach clenched. His jaw locked. He hissed out a breath.
“Fuck…”
Then he popped her.
A sharp smack to her ass—first one cheek, then the other. Her thick body jumped under him, skin jiggling with each slap. He did it again, just to watch the bounce. Then both his big hands came down to grip and juggle the flesh, spreading her wide so he could see the way her pussy stretched around him. Creamy and plush. Still leaking from the head of his dick.
“Goddamn, girl,” he rasped, voice getting rougher with every second, “You so fuckin thick I’ma lose my mind in this shit.” He slapped her again, rougher now, then gripped her deep, “Got this wide ass sittin’ up beggin’. Pussy all fat tryna hold daddy hostage.” He rocked into her once, just a grind, then dragged out halfway before sliding back in, “You feel me ‘bout to knockin’ a whole new hole in this pussy, huh? Stretchin’ it out ‘cause you too fine to be fucked soft. Big girl like you? You need dick that rearrange shit.”
She wailed into the sheets, body trembling. He caught her hips tighter.
“Uh huh. Take this shit. Let this dick sit up in you.”
He angled his hips and stroked deeper, long and slow, grinding at the end like he wanted to fuck her into the mattress. Like her body was a problem he planned on solving all night.
“Gon’ leave this pussy talkin’ different by the time I’m done,” he growled, balls slapping wet against her soaked folds as he started moving again.
Her throat let out a cry, muffled by Elias’s dick. Her walls clamped tight, tears slipping down her face from the stretch. Elijah hissed.
“This what you wanted?” he said, digging in deeper. “That full feelin’? All this dick sittin’ inside you?”
He started stroking, slow but with weight. Each thrust made her body rock forward, mouth sucking harder like the pleasure was too much and not enough. Elias grabbed the back of her head, moving in and out of her mouth steady, his grip firm but not rough.
Her moans were caught in both men, muffled, soaked. Elias was sweating, jaw clenched as he fucked into her throat.
“Nasty ass girl,” Elias groaned, “Letting us fuck you like this.”
“She wanted it though,” Elijah said from behind, hips slapping now, faster, “Brought us up here to do just this.”
She was gone. Eyes rolling. Pussy fluttering.
Elijah felt it.
“She close.”
“Let her cum.”
Elijah gripped her ass, pulled her back onto him harder, deeper. The sound of their bodies smacking was slick and loud. She moaned deep around Elias’s dick, body tensing. Her pussy clenched so hard Elijah stilled, teeth gritted.
“Fuck,” he breathed, “She creamy as hell.”
Elias pulled out her mouth, jerking his dick just inches from her swollen lips, watching her pant and drool.
She was bent at the center of the bed now. Arms limp. Face slick. Ass arched, spread open by the stretch of Elijah still inside her. Her pussy twitched around him, pulsing in aftershocks. His balls were sticky from how wet she was. He leaned forward, hands gripping her hips, and began to stroke again. Slow. Filthy. Deep.
Elias watched from the front, stroking himself harder now. The tip of his dick bounced against her chin, smearing precum across it. As Elijah pulled out, Elias stepped behind her, dragging the head of his dick between her folds.
She moaned, backing into him just enough to feel the weight of it.
“Hold still,” Elias told her, gripping her hips.
Then he pushed in.
All at once.
Thick, hard, stretching her walls around him, feeding her every inch like he meant to stay there. Her back arched, mouth open but no sound came. Just a sharp gasp as her pussy swallowed him whole.
“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling back slow then thrusting again, “This pussy too wet, too fat, fuck…”
She tried to breathe but couldn’t.
Elias had her bent just right—hands still braced on the mattress, back arched deep, stomach soft and hanging, while his thick dick dragged in and out of her with a purpose. His strokes were ruthless. No rhythm. Just raw need. Each thrust hit the back of her pussy with a sound that echoed off the damn walls. He had a fist wrapped tight in her hair, pulling her back into every stroke like he owned the whole lower half of her body.
“There you go,” he growled, sweat dripping from his neck down her spine, “Takin’ this dick like a real bitch supposed to.”
Her body rippled with every stroke—ass clapping back, thick thighs quivering, folds shaking from the sheer force of him. That pussy sounded like somebody stirrin’ macaroni in the next room. Gushy. Wet. Talkin’ back every time he slid in. She wasn’t saying much. Couldn’t. Just soft, breathless moans spilling from her lips like she was drunk on dick.
“Yes…yes…yes…”
Every word broke in her throat.
Elias leaned in, yanked her hair harder, hissed in her ear, “You feel that? That’s me fuckin’ the bottom out this big ass pussy. Tearin’ through it.”
Her eyes crossed. Her knees buckled.
But he held her up.
“Yeah, don’t run,” he said, voice heavy with sweat and dirt, “Don’t run from this dick, mama. I’m deep in your shit.”
Elijah was still standing at the edge of the bed, stroking his dick slow. It was shiny with spit and still heavy. Her mess was on it from earlier when she choked on him, and he wasn’t lettin’ that slide.
He grabbed her jaw and guided her mouth to him while Elias kept fucking from behind.
“Clean it,” Elijah said low, “You left all your nut on me, now suck it off.”
She opened her mouth without a sound. Eyes dazed, mouth open. She wrapped her lips around him, tongue working over the shaft while Elias punished her pussy. Every push forward shoved her mouth deeper onto Elijah. She gagged, drooled again, moaned around his dick.
“Look at this shit,” Elias groaned, hips snapping hard, “She suckin’ your dick while I fuck her? Fuck.” He let out a thick grunt, voice cracking from the pressure in his body, “She gon’ make me bust so deep in her, bro. Pussy so fuckin’ good…so fuckin’ good…”
His hand slid from her hair down to her ass, gripping it rough, pulling her cheeks apart so he could see her swallow him all the way. That good fat girl pussy was creamy, stretching around him with every inch. Warm and wet like heaven if heaven had a mouth and a grip.
Elijah hissed through his teeth, “She nasty, man.”
Elias snapped his hips again. The sound of it made Elijah groan.
“Nah, she somethin’ else,” Elias said, voice thick, “This big ass fuckin’ me back. You feel that? That pussy keep squeezin’. She fuckin’ love this shit.”
She was sobbing now—but from pleasure. From being too full, too stuffed, too taken. Her moans were high and soft, broken up by Elijah’s dick in her mouth and Elias’ dick in her pussy.
“Yes…yes…y-yes…”
Elias’ hand landed on her ass with a slap so loud it echoed, then gripped both cheeks, using them to pull her back onto him deeper.
“This what you want, huh? Gettin’ your plump ass beat out in front my brother?” He laughed, wild and messy, sweat shining on his chest and brow, “You gettin’ fucked like you supposed to. Like you need to.”
He didn’t stop.
Didn’t even think about stopping.
His strokes were deep, punishing, purposeful enough to make her feel every vein. He watched her ass jiggle with each thrust, the bounce hypnotic. He slapped it once, the sound loud and sharp.
Elijah was watching from the side, stroking himself again, eyes locked on where Elias disappeared inside her.
“Fat lil pussy eatin’ you up, huh?” he said.
Elias grinned through his teeth, hips snapping forward, “She fuckin’ back, that’s what she doin’.”
Elijah couldn’t wait any longer.
He walked over, hand on her lower back, pressing her down so she took it deeper. Then he leaned in close, voice gravelly.
“Soon as he bust, I’m feedin’ you next,” he said, “You gon’ take both our nuts tonight. Pussy thick enough for it.”
Elias picked up pace, slapping into her loud now, sweat dripping down his chest.
“Talk to her,” Elijah said, gripping her ass while she trembled under both their hands.
“You takin’ this dick,” Elias grunted, “Say it. Say you takin’ this fuckin’ dick.”
She cried out, legs shaking, voice hoarse. “I’m takin’ it. I want all of it.”
Elias growled, pulled her back on him harder.
“That’s it. That’s what I like. Greedy ass pussy, loud ass mouth. You gon’ get all this nut now.”
Elias let out a ragged groan, hips stuttering as he emptied himself deep inside her, his nut flooding her insides. His strokes got sloppier but the grip on her hips stayed firm—like he didn’t wanna leave that warmth just yet. He stayed buried, breathing hard, hands sliding up her back to palm those sweat-slick rolls with a low satisfied chuckle. He buried his face in the crook of her back, grip tight on her waist
Elias stayed in her for a beat, catching his breath, then pulled out slow. Her pussy pulsed around nothing now, fluttering from the loss of him.
“Shit…” he exhaled, pulling out slow, watching his nut spill from her like cream-filling, “Look what you done to me, girl.”
She collapsed forward, arms trembling, pussy still twitching from the onslaught. Her face was glazed, moaning soft into the sheets, legs shaking from being beat open so long.
But it wasn’t over.
Elijah was already there—grabbing her soft body with strong hands, flipping her over like she didn’t weigh a thing.
“Uh uh. Don’t get shy now,” he said, voice low, heavy, “You know what this is.”
He pulled her to the edge of the bed, hooked both thick thighs back, folding her into herself. Her knees were damn near at her chest, ass hanging off the mattress. She was all open now—pussy glistening, swollen, creamy from Elias. Elijah lined himself up and spit down on her, rubbing the head of his dick through the mess.
“You gon’ feel me now.”
And when he pushed in, it was slow and brutal. Her body stretched wide again, her mouth falling open, nothing but air leaving her lungs. Elijah wasn’t playin’. That first stroke went deep. Real deep. And he didn’t stop.
He adjusted his stance, knees bent, back tight, and drove into her.
Hard. Deep. Again. And again. And again. That pussy was warm and slippery, but he knew he had to put power behind it. She was a big girl—soft, thick, plush—and he needed her to feel everything. Every vein, every stroke, every inch like a damn lesson.
Her voice cracked under the pressure, “Ahh…ohh…yes…fuck—yes…”
She was gone. Mind gone. Just a mess of moans and sweet pussy sounds while Elijah worked her open from the inside out. Elias was off to the side, still stroking himself, watching her face, watching her body bounce under his brother’s weight.
“Look at her,” Elias grinned, “You got her folded like laundry, bruh. That’s how she like it.”
Elijah wasn’t saying much now. He was focused. Locked in. Sweat rolled down his chest, jaw clenched, brows furrowed. He was deep in it and hitting her so good she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t even hold eye contact. Her tits bounced with every slam forward. Her belly jiggled and her pussy gripped like it was tryna keep him in. He leaned in, body pressing down into her, her knees still pinned back, dick plunging deep.
Her mouth trembled, “Y-yes…oh God, yes…”
“Yeah,” Elijah grunted through clenched teeth, still drilling her, “Say that shit. Love gettin’ fucked, don’t you?”
She nodded fast, voice high and thin, “I love it—I love it—please—”
Elias stepped in, leaned down beside her ear and whispered dirty, “Don’t you ever be ashamed of needin’ dick, baby. Don’t you ever hide from that. You want it, we got you.”
He ran his tongue along her throat, then sucked one tit into his mouth while Elijah pounded her from below. That dick kept hitting the same spot—deep, deliberate, controlled.
“Fuck,” Elijah bit out. “This pussy too good. She ain’t gettin’ up right tomorrow.”
Her whole body shook. She was full. Fucked. Loved the way they handled her like she was soft and strong, worthy of being devoured. Elijah’s strokes slowed just a touch, then deepened again, hips clapping against her thighs with thick, meaty slaps.
“You feel that?” he groaned, “I’m in your stomach, girl. You gon’ remember this shit.”
And she would. She’d walk different. Think different. Dream different. Because Elijah Moore fucked her folded, made her pussy sing, and didn’t let her run from how bad she wanted it. Elijah Moore was deep. Hips grinding, sweat dripping, thighs flexing. His dick stayed inside her like it belonged there. And from the way her pussy clung to him, kept sucking him back in like it didn’t wanna let go—maybe it did. Her legs started shaking. Not just from the pressure of being folded—though one leg was tucked up high, damn near to her ear, the other held back by Elijah’s hand gripping her ankle like a damn handlebar—but from what was building. She could feel it rising. That rush. That quiver in her gut. But her mouth wouldn’t move. She couldn’t talk. Couldn’t get the words out. But Elijah knew. He could feel it. The way her pussy gripped tighter, got slicker, warmer. Like it was about to erupt.
“Oh yeah?” Elijah said, voice all grit and hunger. He slowed the stroke just for a beat, then slammed in again, “That’s it, baby? You bout to squirt for me?”
She whimpered. Nothing but air and moans coming out her mouth. Her eyes rolled back.
He smiled, “Uh huh,” he growled, picking up pace, “Gimme that shit.”
He yanked her ankle higher, pushed her knee deeper into the mattress, practically folding her into a pretzel. His body dropped over hers, and his dick drilled her—deep, hard, controlled chaos. Her tits bounced against her chest, stomach rippling with every thrust, whole body giving in. And then it hit. Her whole core tensed, mouth falling open—but still no words. Just that release. A gush of wetness sprayed between them, coating Elijah’s dick, her thighs, the sheets. She twitched, legs trembling like she was being exorcised by dick alone.
She pushed him out, body convulsing. Her pussy fluttered, still leaking. Elijah pulled back, dick glistening, shaking his head like he just got blessed.
“She fuckin’ soaked me,” he said low, lips curling, “She squirted all over this dick.”
Elias was already on the move. Dick back up like it owed him money. He stepped up behind Elijah, licking his lips, eyes on her still-twitching, messy pussy.
“Move, bro,” Elias said, “Lemme feel that shit.”
Elijah backed up with a laugh, wiping his chest off, “She still pulsin’. She gon’ do it again if you touch that spot.”
Elias climbed onto the bed, grabbed her by the hips, and pulled her down to the edge again. Her body was limp, brain foggy, pussy still drippin’. But Elias ain’t care. He lined up, rubbed between her creamy folds, and slid in slow.
She gasped. Loud. He was thick, heavy, fresh again. And her pussy welcomed him like it didn’t just squirt all over the last man.
Elias moaned, “Oh hell yeah…this what I’m talkin’ bout. This pussy still twitchin’. I’ma make it flood again.”
He gripped her waist and went in deep. No warm-up. No hesitation. Just ownership. Elias had a fist full of her hair now. Not gentle. Not careful. He pulled her head back just enough so he could see her face. That look told him everything. Eyes heavy. Mouth open. Lips wet. Body gone loose like she didn’t have a single thought left in her head besides what was happening inside her.
“That’s it, pretty baby,” Elias said, voice low and slick, “Look how fucked out you is.”
He kept her folded tight, one knee pressed up, her body bent back on itself while he drove into her with long, punishing strokes. His hips snapped forward with intention, every thrust landing deep. He wasn’t rushing. He was aiming. Making sure his dick hit that spot over and over again until her whole body reacted without permission. Her ass bounced with every stroke. Thick. Heavy. Rippling from the force of him tearing through her. Her pussy stayed loud, wet, greedy, squeezing him back like it needed that pressure to breathe.
“Yes…yes…yes…” she whispered, voice weak, broken, barely there.
Elias grinned and tightened his grip in her hair, “That’s all you got? That’s fine. I’ll do the talkin’.” He pulled her harder into him and slammed forward again, harder this time, making her whole body jolt, “This big ass made to take dick,” he said, breath hot against her ear, “I’m in here rearrangin’ shit. You feel me hittin’ that deep part, huh?”
Her answer was a shaky moan. Her pussy clenched hard around him. Elijah stepped in closer, hands sliding over her chest. He pinched her nipples between his fingers, tugging them slow, then harder. Her back arched instantly, mouth falling open.
“Uh-huh, just like that,” Elijah said, voice smooth and approving, “Good pussy bitch. You takin’ all that dick just like you supposed to.” He tugged again and she cried out, legs shaking, “Good girl,” Elijah added, “This pussy doin’ exactly what it need to do.”
Elias felt it then. That change. That slick heat turning into pressure. Her walls tightening, fluttering, gettin’ wetter by the second, “Oh hell yeah,” he growled, “It comin’ again.”
He didn’t slow down. Didn’t pull back. He leaned over her, chest to her back, hand still locked in her hair while he fucked her harder. Deeper. Each stroke pushed her closer to that breaking point.
“I’m right on it,” Elias said through his teeth, “I’m finna make this pussy squirt again.”
Elijah kept tugging her nipples, rolling them between his fingers, leaning down to whisper praise straight into her ear, “Let it go,” he said. “Don’t hold that shit. Give it to us.”
Her body locked up. Her toes curled. Her breath stuttered. Then she lost it. Her pussy clenched hard around Elias and pushed back, releasing in a gush that soaked his dick, her thighs, the sheets beneath them. Her whole body trembled as she squirted again, crying out loud this time, voice cracking from how hard it hit her.
“Fuck,” Elias groaned, “There it is.”
He rode it out, still stroking through the aftershocks, letting her pussy milk him while she shook and leaked around him. Elijah laughed low, pleased, hands still on her chest, “That’s my good pussy bitch right there.” He gave both big titties a playful slap.
She lay there wrecked. Open. Still dripping. Still twitching. But were they done with her? Nope. Elijah was laid back now, thighs spread, chest heaving, sweat streaking down the middle of his torso. That dick stood tall again, slick and waiting, glistening with her mess from the last round. He slapped it against his thigh once, twice, watching her crawl over to him on shaky knees.
“C’mon,” he said, voice flat, low, “Bring that big ass here.”
She moved slow, still trembling from Elias, still drippin’ from the last orgasm, but Elijah wasn’t feeling the delay.
“Nah. Don’t crawl like you scared. Sit on it.”
He grabbed the base of his dick, angled it up, and guided her over him. She hovered, thick thighs straining, trying to ease down slow, pussy lips brushing the head. Elijah sucked his teeth.
“Drop that fuckin’ weight.”
She whimpered, struggling to ease onto it—but he wasn’t in the mood for teasing.
POP. He slapped her ass hard. She jolted.
“Tryin’ to ride me like you a feather,” he growled, “You know better. Drop. That. Shit.”
She gasped, finally sinking down, that fat pussy swallowing him inch by inch until she bottomed out with a choked moan. Elijah threw his head back.
“Fuck…that’s what I’m talkin’ bout.”
She tried to bounce, but her thighs were trembling. Titties slapping together from the leftover tremors. Her rhythm was all over the place. Not enough force. Not enough pressure.
Elijah narrowed his eyes, “Aight. Bet.”
He planted his heels into the mattress, palms sliding up her sides, fingers digging deep into her waist — disappearing into the soft, slick folds of her belly and hips. And then he took over. From beneath. He fucked up. Hard. Deep. Repeated. Over. And. Over. Her mouth dropped open like she forgot what language was. Her whole body started to collapse, unable to control the shake. Elijah fucked her stupid from underneath, balls bouncing like ping pong under that phat ass, thighs slapping, bed creaking.
“This the ride I need,” he panted, jaw clenched, sweat dripping, “You feel that? You feel that dick knockin’ the soul out you?”
She couldn’t speak. Could barely sit up. Big titties bouncing wild, body jerking with every thrust like she was caught in a storm and he was the fuckin’ eye of it. Then Elias stepped in. Still hard. Still thick. Still greedy. He came around the side of the bed, grabbed a fistful of her hair, and yanked her forward. She had no choice but to open her mouth and he fed it to her.
“Put that mouth back to work,” Elias growled, pushing his dick between her lips, “Suck me while he fuck you.”
He didn’t let her find rhythm. He set it. Hand locked in her hair, he worked her head up and down, not caring how messy it got. Spit trailed down her chin, mixing with sweat and drool, while Elijah fucked her from below and Elias fucked her throat from the front.
“You hear that?” Elias said, voice full of filth, “That’s you. Gettin’ fed both ends. That’s what you need, huh?”
Her body couldn’t answer, just kept bouncing and choking and twitching. Elias stroked into her mouth slower, but deeper, letting the head hit the back of her throat over and over.
Elijah’s voice was darker now, guttural, “I feel her squirt buildin’ again.”
She started to shake. Again. That pressure building fast. Wet sounds. Moans. Slapping. Her body being used and praised and devoured like it was built for this exact moment.
Elijah pulled her down hard, “Gon’ make this pussy leak all over me again. Go ‘head, baby. Gimme that mess.”
And she did. Her body snapped, her pussy squirted again, flooding Elijah’s lap, soaking his abs, her thighs, the sheets, everything.
Elias pulled his dick from her mouth and groaned, “Fuck. She a fuckin’ fountain.”
Her body was trembling, soaked with sweat and spit and squirt, but something shifted. Something snapped. Like a switch flipped in her chest and lit up every muscle she had left. She was still on top of Elijah, his dick still deep, twitching, wet from the flood she’d just given him. But now? She started riding him like she was possessed.
No more slow. No more shy. She gripped the sheets with one hand, planted the other on his stomach, and bucked.
Hard. Over and over.
That fat pussy dropped down with weight and intent, clapping against his pelvis, wet and loud, thighs slapping, body rocking. Her stomach rolled with the rhythm, titties slamming together with every grind.
Elijah’s head snapped back. His jaw clenched. His hands gripped her ass, but he wasn’t controlling a damn thing anymore.
“Nnnghh—fuck,” he choked, voice rough.
Elias stood behind her now, one hand on her hip, the other raised high—smack—he slapped her ass, hard and sharp, watching that shit jiggle in time with her strokes.
“Goddamn,” Elias breathed, watching her bounce, “Look at this big bitch go…”
She gasped, still tossing that pussy down like it owed her money. Her knees burned. Her core screamed. Elijah was twitching inside her, hands now slipping from sweat and lack of control.
That’s when he sat up.
Smoke.
Elijah.
Whatever name she had in her throat—it didn’t matter.
He came forward, big hands gripping under her ass, helping her bounce while his mouth latched onto one of her soaked, bouncing titties. He sucked hard. Bit it. Growled into it. Then moved to the other. His tongue circled the nipple, then he looked up.
His eyes locked on hers.
Dark. Wild. Close.
“Pussy so good,” he said, voice shaking, “I’m right fuckin’ there.”
She rode him harder. He gripped the back of her neck, lips brushing her chin, his voice raw with filth.
“You want me to nut in this shit, don’t you? Want me to fill it.”
She moaned—loud.
“Yeah,” he hissed, licking sweat from her collarbone. “Gon’ be both our seed swimmin’ in there. You don’t even know which one of us knocked that ass up.”
She clenched hard around him. His whole body twitched. He pulled her down flush and held her there, dick buried to the base, thighs shaking under her weight. Eyes still locked on hers. Breath caught. Then—he came. Hard. With a deep, guttural grunt that dragged from his chest to her ear, he spilled inside her. His whole body rocked. Muscles clenched. Arms shook.
She could feel it. The throb. The warmth. The stretch.
Elias leaned in behind her, breath hot on her neck, voice slick and cruel.
“That’s my brother’s nut you sittin’ in…now it’s my turn again.”
Summary: Alanna thought she was just saying yes to a night out with Smoke—smooth, quiet, dangerously charming. But the club he takes her to belongs to his twin brother, Stack, a man with a silver tongue, a sharper smile, and secrets that sink in slow. As the night unravels in blood, music, and temptation, Alanna begins to suspect that not everyone in the room is human…and something dark has already set its eyes on her.
Warnings: SMUT, threesome, supernatural
Part One:
This is a request for @dashhoney25 !!! Hope you guys enjoy 😉
The city glimmered behind him as Smoke pulled up slow, his sleek matte-black ride humming low beneath the stars. The building before him wasn’t marked—no signs, no name—but its presence was unmistakable. Tinted windows. Subtle ironwork etched with ancient symbols. Gothic architecture fused with modern glass and steel. It didn’t need to announce itself. The wrong ones wouldn’t even see it. He cut the engine, stepped out smooth, black loafers hit the pavement with the weight of purpose. All-black everything—fitted slacks, long coat dusting his thighs, rings glinting like teeth under moonlight. He adjusted the collar of his jacket and looked up once.
The door opened before he knocked.
She stood there. Tall, fine, and faintly glowing.
Honey-brown skin, short blunt-cut bob, eyes rimmed with dark liner that made her stare hit like a blade. Her little black maid uniform was custom-fit: lace trim, deep neckline, white apron that didn’t hide a damn thing. Red-soled heels clicked against marble as she stepped aside to let him in, and Smoke didn’t miss the twin puncture marks blooming just beneath the curve of her neck.
Stack’s girl. A personal blood bag. Fine as hell.
“Been expecting you,” she said, southern drawl like melted wine, “He’s in the den.”
Smoke gave her a nod, eyes skating her figure with idle respect. He stepped inside. The place was ridiculous—vaulted ceilings, velvet curtains, exposed brick. Shadow and mood in every corner. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, but nothing felt cold. Stack didn’t do cold. He did intimate. Expensive. Old-world charm dripping in modern sex appeal. Down the hallway, smoke curled from a cigar already burning. And then—he emerged.
Stack stepped into view like something conjured. Dressed in black slacks and a wine-colored silk shirt, buttons open down to his chest. Gold chain catching candlelight. His skin was flawless—deep, smooth, kissed by something eternal. Eyes dark but amused. And those fangs… tucked away for now, but the threat lingered. It always did.
“Brother,” Stack grinned, arms wide.
Smoke smirked and met him halfway. They dapped up, hugged quick, shoulder to shoulder—an embrace deeper than most would understand.
“You look like money,” Stack said, eyeing him with that usual glint.
“You look like death.”
Stack bared teeth in a grin, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
They made their way into the den. Smoke settled into the low leather chair while Stack took the corner of the velvet couch. Another girl—same uniform, different body—glided in with a highball glass of something crimson and thick. She knelt gracefully beside Stack, offered the drink, and slid away without a word.
“Fresh?” Smoke asked, nodding at the drink.
“Few hours old. Still warm if you taste close enough,” Stack said, swirling it like it was wine, “Don’t worry. She likes it.”
Smoke lit a cigar. Sat back. Exhaled slow.
Stack sipped, “So. What brings you out here, brother? Ain’t like you to drop in without something on your mind.”
Smoke gave a low grunt, “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Stack raised an eyebrow, “Someone?”
“A woman.”
Now he had Stack’s full attention.
“Mm.” Stack took another sip, “She fine?”
Smoke smirked, “Finest thing I ever had.”
Stack leaned forward, interested, “Talk to me.”
Smoke took his time, “She sweet. Brown skin, soft as butter, but don’t let that fool you—girl’s feisty. Quick mouth. Keeps me on my toes. Got that fire but knows how to simmer it when I tell her to. Little waist, pretty thighs, real soft lips. She folds for me.”
Stack chuckled, low and devilish, “Why you telling me all this? You tryna get me hard, or you tryna share?”
Smoke met his brother’s eyes, calm, “She don’t know about you yet. But I’m planning to bring her to the club. Introduce her. Get her acquainted.”
Stack set his glass down slow, “You serious?” he asked, “She down to bounce like the others were?”
Smoke shook his head, “She ain’t like the others. Not broken. Not desperate. This one’s got a mind. A heart. And a body I ain’t trying to give away. But…”
“But you still want her to feel me,” Stack said.
Smoke pulled out his phone. Swiped. Turned it to face him. The screen glowed with photo after photo—candid shots, posed, thirst traps. All of her.
One in particular made Stack lean forward.
She was in a black two-piece set, waist beads low, thighs thick and smooth. Her mouth was parted like she’d just been kissed. Hair tousled. No makeup, just glowy. Just soft. Just…real. Warm-blooded. Tasty looking.
Another photo—her in bed. Sheets tangled. Smoke’s hand clearly visible gripping her hip. Bite marks on her shoulder—not fangs. Teeth. Love bites. Stack smirked.
“Damn,” he muttered, eyes locked on the screen, “She’s…tender.”
Smoke blew out a stream of smoke, “She mine.”
“And yet you bring her to me.”
“I want you to see what I see. Feel what I feel.”
Stack let that sit for a moment, quiet. The red drink untouched now.
Then, with a lazy grin and flicker of fang, “Bring her.”
Later That Evening...
The room still held heat.
Not just from their bodies, but from the way Smoke never rushed anything, even when he had already taken his fill. The sheets were rumpled and damp beneath them, cotton clinging to skin that had not yet cooled. Lamps glowed low on either side of the bed, casting amber light across dark wood furniture and the framed photographs that lined the walls. Their home always felt lived-in, deliberate, like every piece had been chosen with intention instead of impulse.
The bedroom opened into the rest of the apartment in an easy flow. Wide plank floors. Deep green walls softened by warm lighting. A low leather couch visible down the hall, throw blankets folded with care. Bookshelves packed tight with spines Smoke actually read. Vinyl stacked near the turntable. Plants that stayed alive because Smoke remembered to water them. The space carried his steadiness and her softness braided together.
She lay draped across him, cheek resting on his chest, one leg slung over his thigh. Her fingers traced idle paths across his skin, following familiar lines, pausing where she knew his breath would change. Smoke’s hand moved slow up and down her back, palm warm and grounding, like he was still keeping her close even though the moment had already passed.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then Smoke shifted beneath her, careful not to break the ease of it, and kissed the crown of her head. His voice came low and calm, the way it did when he had already decided something and was choosing the right moment to say it.
“I want you to meet my brother.”
She lifted her head slightly, enough to look at him. Her brows knit together as she searched his face, trying to place the tone. This was not casual. This was not offhand.
“Your brother,” she repeated, “You got a funny way of bringing family up.”
Smoke’s mouth curved, but there was no joke in it. His hand slid up to her neck, thumb resting just under her jaw, steadying her gaze.
“He ain’t like anybody you’ve met before.”
She pushed herself up onto her elbow now, sheets slipping down her back, “That’s not an answer.”
He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, “There’s some things about him I haven’t told you yet.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. Not angry. Just alert, “And you picking right now to start.”
“I didn’t want to spring it on you cold.”
She gave a soft scoff and shifted her weight, straddling his hips again without pressure, just closeness, “So you warm me up first?”
Smoke’s hand tightened at her waist, not rough, just enough to remind her where she was, “I want you to trust me.”
She studied him for a moment. This man knew her body in ways that made lying pointless. If something was off, she felt it immediately.
“What’s the real reason,” she asked, “Why you want me to meet him.”
Smoke did not answer right away. He ran his hand down her spine, then back up again, grounding himself in the familiar before stepping into unfamiliar ground.
“Because he matters to me,” he said, “And because what I feel with you is something I want him to understand.”
Her lips parted, “Understand how.”
“I want him to see what I see,” Smoke said, “Feel what I feel.”
The words settled heavy between them.
She shifted back, sitting upright now, pulling the sheet with her, “That don’t sound like just meeting.”
He reached for her hand, threading his fingers through hers, “It don’t have to mean more than you want it to.”
There was a pause. Long enough for her to weigh the way his thumb brushed her knuckles, the steadiness in his eyes, the fact that Smoke never asked for anything lightly.
“When,” she asked.
“Next Friday.”
She shook her head slowly, more confused than upset, “And you telling me this now because?”
“Because I don’t want secrets between us,” he said, “And because the living can’t just walk into his world whenever they want.”
That made her still.
“What you mean, his world.”
Smoke’s jaw tightened just enough to show the seriousness of it, “There’s rules. He’s bound to them. I’m not, but he is.”
She searched his face, heart picking up speed, “You saying this like he ain’t normal.”
“He ain’t.”
Silence filled the room again, thicker this time.
“You asking me to treat him how I treat you,” she said carefully.
“I’m asking you to be yourself,” Smoke replied, “Nothing more.”
She leaned back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling, “This feels weird.”
“I know.”
“You sure everything’s okay.”
“I wouldn’t put you in danger,” he said, “Ever.”
That much, she believed.
The Big Night...
Evening crept in slow, the city outside their windows deepening into blue and gold. The apartment filled with quiet movement as she got ready, the sounds of drawers opening, fabric shifting, the hum of the bathroom light.
She stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the straps of her black dress. The fabric clung like it was made for her, smooth and sleek, hugging her waist before skimming her hips. The neckline dipped just enough to feel bold without asking for attention. She leaned closer to the mirror, touching up her makeup, smoothing her lips, fixing her lashes.
“One night with your secret brother,” she said to her reflection, voice low, “What could go wrong.”
Her stomach fluttered. She stepped out into the main room and stopped short.
Smoke was already dressed.
All black. Tailored coat. Clean lines. Rings catching the light when he adjusted his cuffs. He looked composed in a way that made her feel suddenly underdressed emotionally, even if the dress itself did its job.
“You look good,” he said, eyes moving over her slow.
She crossed the room and pushed him back against the ottoman before he could take another step. His back hit it with a soft thud, surprise flashing across his face for half a second before desire took over.
“Sit,”she said.
Smoke laughed under his breath, “We gotta go.”
“Not yet.”
She climbed into his lap, fingers already working at his belt, mouth finding his without permission. The kiss was deep and urgent, her way of saying stay without using the word. Her hands moved fast, unbuckling the leather with a quick tug, then unzipping his pants. She reached inside, wrapping her fingers around his dick, feeling it thicken and harden under her soft touch. It was already half-erect, the fat shaft pulsing as she stroked it firmly from base to tip, her thumb circling the broad head where a bead of precum glistened.
Smoke’s breath caught, his hands coming up to her waist, but she batted them away lightly, taking charge. She shifted her hips, bunching her dress up around her thighs, exposing the smooth skin and the thin fabric of her panties. With one hand still gripping his now fully hard big dick, she used the other to shove her panties aside, revealing wet pussy, the lips already slick and swollen with the need for his dick. She positioned herself above him, the thick head pressing against her entrance, teasing the tight folds.
She sank down slowly at first, savoring the stretch as his big dick pushed inside her tight pussy. Inch by inch, she took him deeper, the girth filling her completely, her inner walls clenching around the veined length. A low moan escaped her lips against his mouth as she bottomed out, her ass settling against his thighs, his balls pressing warm and tight against her flesh. The sensation was intense, her pussy gripping his hard shaft like a pair of vice grippers, wet juices coating him as she adjusted to the fullness.
Smoke groaned, his fingers digging into the ottoman beside him, fighting the urge to thrust up, “damn, baby. Hold on—”
She rolled her hips in a deliberate circle, grinding her clit against his pubic bone while his fat dick stirred deep inside her. The movement sent sparks through her body, her tight pussy fluttering around him, but she kept the pace controlled, rising up just enough to feel the ridge of his dickhead drag along her sensitive walls before sliding back down. Each descent was firmer, her hips snapping with purpose, the slick sounds of her wet pussy taking his dick filling the room.
Leaning forward, she grabbed his wrists, guiding his large hands to her breasts. She pressed his palms against the soft mounds, making him squeeze through the fabric of her dress, his thumbs brushing over her hardened nipples. Then she shifted, turning her body while still impaled on him, her back now to his chest. The new angle let his curved dick hit even deeper, the tip nudging against her cervix with every downward push. She reached back with one hand, tangling her fingers around his tie to pull his face close to her neck, where she could feel his hot breath on her skin.
Her rhythm built steadily, hips lifting and dropping in a steady bounce, her ass cheeks slapping and rippling lightly against his lap. She rode him hard, controlling the depth and speed, her tight pussy milking his hard shaft with each clench. Wetness dripped down, soaking his balls and the base of his big dick, making every slide smoother, more obscene. She arched her back, pushing her breasts out as she worked him, her free hand sliding down to where they joined, fingers spreading her pussy lips wider to take more of him, feeling the stretch burn in the best way.
Smoke’s chest heaved behind her, his teeth grazing her shoulder as he held back, muscles tense under her. His hands roamed now where she allowed, one sliding up to cup her breast fully, pinching the nipple between his fingers, the other gripping her hip to steady her motions without interfering. He was rock hard inside her, that thick dick throbbing with restraint, veins pulsing against her gripping walls. She could feel him fighting not to buck up into her, letting her dictate every twist and grind.
She picked up the pace, slamming down harder, her tight pussy squeezing rhythmically around his length, chasing the building friction without letting it tip over. The ottoman creaked under them, her dress hiked up completely now, exposing the way her body moved, the curve of her ass rising and falling over his lap. Sweat beaded on her skin, mixing with the slickness between her thighs, her breaths coming in sharp pants as she controlled the ride, owning the moment before they stepped out into the night.
She lifted off him with a wet pop, his fat dick glistening with her juices, still hard and twitching in the air.
“Nah, get back on this dick,” Smoke commanded with a gruff tone, popping her on the ass, “You wanted it so fuckin’ much. Take it.”
She did not slow down this time. Instead, she sank back onto his fat dick with renewed determination, her tight pussy enveloping the full length once more in one smooth motion. The stretch returned immediately, her inner walls stretching around the thick girth, the veined shaft sliding deep until her ass pressed flush against his thighs. Wetness from before made the entry slicker, creamier, her juices coating him anew as she began to move, hips lifting and dropping with controlled force.
Smoke’s hands tightened on her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there, but he let her lead, his body tense beneath her. She rode him steadily at first, rising up until just the broad head of his big dick tugged at her entrance, her pussy lips clinging to the ridge before she plunged back down, taking every inch. The sensation built with each thrust, her tight pussy gripping him rhythmically, squeezing the hard length as she ground her clit against him on the downstrokes. Her ass cheeks jiggled slightly with the impact, the ottoman shifting under their weight as she picked up speed.
Leaning back against his chest, she arched her spine, her dress still bunched high around her waist, exposing the explicit union of their bodies. She could feel his fat dick throbbing inside her, the base slick with her arousal, his balls drawing up tighter against her skin with every bounce. Her hands braced on his knees for leverage now, she slammed down harder, the wet slap of her pussy meeting his lap echoing in the room. Each descent forced a grunt from him, his breath ragged against her neck, his cock swelling even thicker within her clenching channel.
She twisted her hips on the next rise, circling them to drag his big dick along different angles inside her, the tip pressing firmly against her front wall before she dropped again, chasing the friction that made her walls flutter without pushing her over the edge. Sweat slicked their skin where they touched, her thighs burning from the effort but she pushed through, owning the rhythm, dictating how deep and fast his fat dick filled her tight pussy. One hand slipped between her legs, fingers parting her swollen lips to feel where he stretched her wide, the obscene sight of his shaft disappearing into her wetness spurring her on.
“Fuck…Smoke…you feel that?” She moaned.
“Yeah. I feel it, baby. Don’t you slow down on me now. Keep that pussy right there.”
“Fuck,” She gasped when the tip of his dick nudged her spot.
“You shaking.” Smoke whispered, “you right where I need you. Don’t move. Don’t switch it. This pussy gripping like it mad at me.”
“Because you been teasing all day. Now stay right there and let me have this.” She cooed.
“You soaking me, shit.” Smoke grunted.
Smoke’s control frayed, his hips jerking up involuntarily to meet her halfway, but she pinned him with her weight, keeping him seated as she rode.
“Fuck,”' he gasped, voice strained, his hands roaming up to squeeze her breasts again, rolling the stiff nipples between his fingers through the fabric.
The added stimulation made her pussy clench harder around him, milking his hard length with deliberate pulses, drawing out low groans from his throat. She felt him thicken further, the veins pulsing against her sensitive insides, his big dick on the verge as she hammered down relentlessly.
Her pace turned punishing, hips snapping in quick, shallow bounces now, focusing on the upper half of his shaft to rub her clit while the girth kept her full. Wet sounds grew louder, her arousal dripping down to soak his balls, the pressure building in him until his thighs tensed beneath her. She ground deep one final time, rotating her hips to stroke every inch, and that broke him. Smoke's body went rigid, a deep growl rumbling from his chest as his fat dick pulsed violently inside her tight pussy. Hot spurts of cum erupted, flooding her depths, coating her walls with thick ropes that mixed with her wetness.
She kept moving through it, riding out his release with slow rolls, squeezing her pussy around him to draw every drop, feeling the warmth spread inside her. His hands gripped her waist bruisingly, holding her down as he emptied himself, the last twitches of his big dick making her inner muscles quiver in response. Only when he stilled, spent and softening slightly within her, did she lift off, his cum leaking from her pussy in a slow trickle down her thighs.
Without a word, she slid from his lap, dropping to her knees on the floor between his legs. His pants were still open, his dick glistening with their combined fluids, semi-hard and slick. She wrapped her hand around the base, stroking firmly to coax the last bits out, then leaned in, her mouth enveloping the head.
“Fuck—goddamn. You slid off just to suck it, huh? Greedy lil’ thing.” His voice gets lower, rougher as he grips the base of her neck, watching her lips stretch around him.
Her tongue swirled around the sensitive tip, tasting the salty mix of his cum and her own juices, sucking gently to pull more from him.
“You want all that nut, don’t you? You want me to bust in that pretty mouth? Fill you up? Make you swallow all that shit like a good girl?”
Smoke watched her, chest still heaving, as she took him deeper into her mouth, lips stretching around the fat shaft. She bobbed her head slowly, hollowing her cheeks to create suction, her hand pumping the length she could not fit.
“Don’t run. Stay right there. Let me fuck that throat.” He groans deep, thrusting harder as his jaw clenches, Mmhm. Just like that. Keep suckin’. Keep suckin’ til I nut in your fuckin’ mouth.”
The veins stood out under her tongue as she licked along them, cleaning every inch, swallowing the remnants of his load with deliberate gulps. Her free hand cupped his balls, massaging them lightly, feeling them relax under her touch as she worked him thoroughly.
“There it go—fuck, there it go—open up, baby. Take that shit. Yeah…swallow it. Swallow all that shit. Let me see your tongue.” He grabs her face after, thumb pulling her jaw down, “Atta girl. Nasty ass. I fuckin’ love you.”
She sucked harder now, drawing out soft hisses from him, until his dick was clean and twitching faintly in her mouth. Only then did she release him with a soft pop, licking her lips to catch the last traces, her eyes locking on his with a satisfied glint. Both of them flushed and breathing hard, she rose, straightening her dress while Smoke tucked himself away, zipping up with a shaky exhale.
Smoke steps in, big hands gripping her waist, dragging her back against him. His mouth already open as he catches her lips. Slow at first—wet, deep, tongue pushing in like he owned her mouth same way he just owned her throat.
“Open up, baby,” he rasps between kisses, “Lemme taste how nasty you been.”
He kisses her harder now, tongue sweeping over hers like he’s trying to claim every inch, groaning low in his chest.
“That’s my girl. Swallowed all that nut like you was starvin’ for it.”
Another kiss. Wetter. His teeth scrape her bottom lip.
“You know how fuckin’ good that mouth is? How good you make me feel?” He pulls back just a little, eyes hooded, thumb brushing her lips as they glisten from him, “I could tongue kiss you all night, just to taste myself on you.” Then, quieter, dirtier, “Next time I’m nutting in your pussy, and I want you lickin’ it off my dick after. You hear me?” He grins slow, pulling her back into another long, open-mouthed kiss, “Mouth too fuckin’ good to waste.”
She pulled her dress down slow, gave him that look over her shoulder, the one that always got him. Her voice was soft but sinful.
“We can stay home. You can nut in this pussy now if you want. We both know you got it in you.” She turned fully, smoothing her hands down her hips, “Ain’t gotta wait. I’m warm, wet, and beggin’. Right here.”
Smoke’s jaw ticked. He stared at her a beat too long, like he was this close to folding.
Then he exhaled rough, adjusted his coat, and licked his lips, “We still goin’,” he said, voice hoarse, almost growled.
She sighed—half annoyed, half aching—and followed him out the door anyway, thighs still slick.
Whatever waited on the other side of this night, she knew one thing.
This was not just a meeting.
The car was too quiet.
Not because the stereo was off, but because the silence inside her was louder than any music could fix. She sat low in the passenger seat, one leg crossed tightly over the other, the cool leather brushing her thighs where her dress had ridden up. Her heels clicked once against the floorboard when she shifted, but even that sounded too sharp. She stared out the window at nothing in particular, fingers resting lightly on her lap, nails tapping slow against her skin.
Smoke drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting in his lap. Calm as always. The dash cast a soft blue glow across his jaw, catching on his gold ring as he adjusted his grip. His profile was carved in stillness—stoic, composed, unreadable unless you’d memorized the map of his moods the way she had.
She watched the way his thumb tapped against the wheel. That rhythm. That calm. It irritated her tonight.
Her thighs were still tingling, a dull ache pulsing between them, and he was sitting there like she hadn’t just tried to fuck the whole idea out of him twenty minutes ago.
She reached over, let her hand rest lightly on his thigh. Her nails grazed the fabric first, then the warmth underneath. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop her. Just kept driving.
Her palm smoothed up, thumb circling, pressing slow. She wasn’t trying to start something—not really. But maybe she was. Maybe she just needed to feel like he was still hers.
“You ain’t said where we going yet,” she said, voice soft but lined with bite.
Smoke didn’t look over. “You’ll see soon.”
She clicked her tongue once, leaned back, hand falling away.
“That supposed to calm me?”
He finally turned his head, just enough to meet her eyes.
“I told you, it’s safe.”
“That’s not the same as saying it’s normal.”
Smoke’s jaw tightened, just a twitch. He wasn’t mad. He was patient. That was worse.
She let her head fall back against the seat. The car curved through a turn, the city falling away behind them. Buildings blurred into shadows, then into trees. Streetlights stretched thinner. The sky deepened, that dark velvet blue creeping higher, bleeding out the last light of day.
She hated how pretty it was.
Her mind kept circling back to what he’d said earlier. “Feel what I feel.” That was the part that stuck.
This wasn’t just about introductions.
He wanted to share her.
He hadn’t said the words that way, but she heard it clear. It wasn’t jealousy that twisted her stomach—it was confusion. She trusted Smoke. Trusted his hands, his voice, his grip around her throat when he told her she was good. But this?
Why now? Why him?
Her palm dragged down her own thigh. She crossed her legs tighter.
The car was moving fast, too fast for her thoughts to settle. Every tree that passed felt like it was watching. The night was getting thicker, quieter, heavier. She looked over at Smoke again. He hadn’t changed. One hand on the wheel. Calm. Sharp. Focused.
“You ever think about how this would make me feel?” she asked.
“I think about how it’ll change everything,” he said.
That wasn’t a no.
She scoffed lightly and looked out the window again. “This ain’t just a meet and greet.”
“No,” he admitted, “It’s not.”
“So what is it?”
“A bridge.”
His voice was steady, sure. Like that explained something.
She turned to face him fully, knee drawn up on the seat, angling herself toward him.
“I’m serious. You talking in riddles. And I’m supposed to be in this dress, all soft and pretty, when I don’t even know what I’m walking into.”
Smoke glanced at her then. Slower this time.
“You look more than pretty,” he said.
She didn’t smile. She didn’t even blink. Her eyes stayed on him like they were daring him to say something honest for once instead of slipping through her questions.
He sighed and rubbed his hand over his jaw, “It’s hard to explain until you see him.”
“Try.”
Smoke let the silence sit for a beat before speaking.
“He’s not like me. He’s not like you. But I see myself in you. I see you in him. That’s why I need this.”
She didn’t reply. Couldn’t. Because part of her understood. And that was what scared her most.
She turned her body forward again, arms crossing over her chest.
The road stretched longer now. Fewer signs. No turns. Just an endless path that felt like it had been waiting for them.
Something about it felt…final.
Like once they crossed whatever line was up ahead, there wouldn’t be a coming back.
The car slowed before she ever saw the building.
There were no lights, no neon signs, no velvet rope, no valet waiting to open her door. Just a long stretch of cracked blacktop, edged by trees that looked older than anything in the city. The road had narrowed into something almost forgotten—like it had once been paved, then buried under years of leaves and shadows. Ahead of them, a single iron gate stood half open, twisting vines woven through the bars like the land had tried to take it back.
She felt it before she saw anything else. A shift in the air. Not colder—heavier. Like the world beyond that gate didn’t breathe the same way.
Smoke turned the wheel and guided the car through without speaking.
On the other side, the landscape changed in slow motion.
First the smell—smoke, earth, incense, the ghost of something sweet like sugared tobacco and orange peel. Then the sounds. A low hum, not music, but movement. As if the ground itself buzzed with memory. As if something beneath the soil had started waking up.
The trees parted.
And there it was.
A building nestled into the hill like it had grown there, built from deep gray stone and black iron, smooth in some places and jagged in others, like it couldn’t decide whether to seduce or warn. Ivy curled thick up its sides, but the windows glowed—soft amber, flickering from inside like a hundred candles had been lit at once. It didn’t look old, and it didn’t look new. It looked timeless. It looked hungry.
Smoke parked near the front. No one else in sight. The gravel crunched under his boots when he stepped out and came around to open her door.
She hesitated.
That gut feeling hadn’t left her. In fact, it had only deepened. Something about this place prickled under her skin. Like she wasn’t supposed to be here, but someone—or something—had been waiting for her all the same.
Smoke extended his hand, “You with me?”
His voice was calm. Steady. His fingers looked warm.
She nodded once and slipped her hand into his.
The moment their palms met, the sounds intensified.
It wasn’t music at first. Just a hum that felt like it came from the walls. A heartbeat. A thrum.
As they walked toward the door, a low, haunting saxophone note curled out into the night. Then a drum, soft and slow, like footsteps over velvet. Then the voice.
It was low and honey-thick. A woman. Singing something old, something southern, stretched and drowned in blues. She sang like she knew things. Things that made your knees buckle. Things that made you forget your name.
The door opened before they reached it. Not by a person. It just…opened.
Smoke didn’t react. He guided her inside, his hand pressing at the small of her back.
The moment she stepped over the threshold, the temperature changed.
Inside, it was warm and dark, but not dim. The walls flickered with candlelight from tall candelabras and crystal chandeliers hung low from the ceiling. The air shimmered with gold and shadow, like dust suspended in honey. The floor beneath her heels wasn’t wood or tile—but some kind of stone, polished so smooth it almost reflected movement like water.
She turned her head and caught a blur of something—someone—floating past. Not walking. Floating. They moved like they were halfway between here and somewhere else, trailing wisps of smoke behind them like a train of silk. The figures were beautiful and strange, their features blurred at the edges, like they were wearing glamour made of light.
The singer stood on a small stage near the back. Barefoot. Deep red dress hugging her curves like it had been painted on. She swayed as she sang, voice sliding up and down like it was riding smoke trails.
The band behind her looked mostly human. Mostly.
The piano player had hands that moved too fast. The upright bassist didn’t blink. The drummer looked like he was playing underwater, every movement fluid and slow, like time worked differently behind the veil of that stage.
Smoke kept walking, hand firm at her back.
She tried to look at everything at once. Couldn’t.
The room was wide and open, but intimate. Velvet curtains draped down from high ceilings. Lounge chairs and low tables sat arranged in elegant clusters, most of them occupied. But no one stared directly. They glanced. They sipped. They whispered without moving their mouths. Some leaned too close. Some faded into shadow entirely.
But she could feel it.
Eyes on her.
And not just on her dress or her body—but on her pulse. On the way her chest rose with every nervous breath. On the color in her cheeks. On her blood.
She stepped a little closer to Smoke.
“Where are we?” she asked quietly.
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes scanned the room like he was clocking every shadow, every gesture.
“You won’t find it on a map,” he said finally. “This place finds you.”
That didn’t make her feel better. But it explained the ache building behind her ribs.
As they passed deeper into the club, she noticed the scent again—orange peel and warm spice, layered now with old wood, wine, sweat, and perfume. It smelled like history. Like bodies had loved and fought and fallen apart here for centuries. Like none of it had ever left.
They passed a corner booth where a woman sat with a glass of something black in her hand. Her skin shimmered like copper and ink, and her eyes glowed faintly violet in the low light. She tilted her head when they passed. She smiled—but not in greeting. It felt like a knowing.
Every table felt like it held secrets.
Every hallway looked like it led to a memory.
Every door pulsed with temptation.
“Breathe,” Smoke said softly.
She realized she hadn’t.
The singer hit a note so deep it made her thighs clench.
Smoke stopped in front of a long staircase. The railing curved like bone. Each step lit underneath with a soft glow, like the path had been waiting for them.
He turned to her, finally giving her the full weight of his attention, “You still with me?”
She nodded. Her mouth was dry, “Where’s your brother?”
Smoke didn’t smile. But something shifted in his face. Like the real night was just beginning.
“He’ll find us.”
He reached for her hand again. She gave it, slower this time.As they ascended, the singer changed her tune. The tempo lifted slightly, a dangerous kind of flirtation in her voice now. The crowd below began to move more. Laughter floated up—too light, too slow, like it had been stretched.
Halfway up the stairs, she turned to look back.
The lounge below pulsed with light and bodies. The walls breathed. The shadows curled like smoke around ankles and wrists. Everything felt alive and not alive at once.
And somewhere beneath the surface, she felt it.
He was here.
Watching.
Waiting.
She felt him before she saw him.
It started as pressure, subtle but unmistakable, like the air had thickened around her lungs. Her breath shortened, not from fear exactly, but from awareness. The kind that made the skin along her arms prickle and her scalp tighten as if someone had leaned in too close without touching her.
Smoke’s hand was still on her lower back, solid and familiar. He stood relaxed beside her at the top of the stairs, posture easy, shoulders loose, like this place answered to him in its own way. He looked unbothered, grounded. Present.
She did not feel grounded at all.
The jazz below softened, the singer’s voice stretching long and slow, syrup-thick and heavy with longing. The band shifted with her, tempo dragging like something was being pulled up from deep water. Conversations lowered across the room, not stopping, just thinning, like the crowd itself had leaned in to listen.
The lights flickered once.
Not out. Just a blink.
Then the shadows at the far end of the upper level moved.
They did not part like curtains. They folded inward, collapsing and reforming, darkness drawing tight into a shape that stood upright where there had been nothing a moment before.
He appeared.
No footsteps. No warning. One second the space was empty, the next it was occupied by him.
Stack.
He stood near the railing, hands resting loosely at his sides, head slightly bowed as if he had stepped out of a private thought instead of thin air. He was dressed in black like Smoke, but where Smoke’s presence felt steady and anchored, Stack’s felt fluid, dangerous, like a held breath that never quite released.
They were identical at first glance. Same height. Same broad shoulders. Same face carved with sharp jawlines and a mouth that knew how to smile without warmth.
But the longer she looked, the more the differences surfaced.
Stack’s skin caught the low light differently, smooth and luminous in a way that did not belong to the living. His eyes were darker, deeper, like wells instead of mirrors. There was a stillness to him that felt unnatural, like he did not need to shift his weight or breathe to remain balanced.
His gaze lifted slowly.
And locked onto her.
Not Smoke. Her.
The weight of it hit her low in the belly.
She swallowed.
Smoke turned his head slightly, already aware. His mouth curved into a small smile that held no surprise.
“There he is,” Smoke said calmly.
Stack’s lips curled in response, revealing the faintest glimpse of gold when he smiled back. He stepped forward, and this time she noticed it. The way his movement did not disturb the air. The way the shadows bent around him instead of away.
“Brother,” Stack said, voice smooth, rich, threaded with something old.
Smoke stepped forward and met him halfway. They clasped hands, pulled each other in close, foreheads nearly touching for a brief moment. It was intimate in a way that went beyond affection. It was recognition. Survival. Shared history layered too deep for words.
“You look good,” Smoke said.
Stack chuckled low, “You know how I do.”
They stepped apart. Stack’s attention returned to her immediately.
“So,” he said, eyes never leaving her face, “This is her.”
The words were simple. The way he said them was not.
She felt like she had been placed under glass.
Smoke turned slightly, hand sliding from her back to her hip, anchoring her without shielding her, “This is my girl. Alanna. Alanna this is my twin brother, Elias. But he prefers Stack.”
Stack took another step closer. Not invading her space, but close enough that she could smell him. Something dark and clean. Iron and spice. Night air after rain.
She shifted her weight closer to Smoke, fingers curling into his sleeve, “So this is the famous brother.”
“The only one,” Stack said, “And you must be the reason he’s been distracted.”
Smoke’s jaw flexed, “Watch it.”
Stack glanced at him, amused, “Relax. I’m appreciating.”
The word landed heavy.
“You’re prettier than I imagined,” Stack said.
Her spine straightened, “You imagined me?”
He smiled wider at that, clearly amused, “My brother talks.”
She glanced at Smoke, “Oh, I’m sure he does.”
Smoke laughed quietly, “She got a mouth on her.”
“I like that,” Stack said, “Means she’s not empty.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, “I’m right here.”
“Good,” Stack replied, “I would hate to talk about you like you weren’t.”
There was no malice in it. No mockery. Just interest sharpened to a point.
She felt it then. That pull. That strange draw that made her chest feel tight and warm at the same time. Her instincts told her to step back. Her body did not listen. Something about him felt wrong in a way that made her curious instead of afraid.
“Why does everyone keep looking at me like that,” she asked, voice steady even as her pulse raced.
Stack’s eyes flicked briefly to her throat. Then back to her eyes, “Because you don’t belong here,” he said, “And yet you fit.”
A chill traced her spine.
Smoke squeezed her hip once, firm, “You okay?”
She nodded, “I’m fine.”
Stack’s gaze softened at that, just a fraction, “She’s loyal.”
“Damn right,” she replied, lifting her chin, “My man.”
Smoke smiled then, pride plain on his face.
Stack watched the exchange closely. Something unreadable passed through his eyes. Hunger. Respect. Something more dangerous than either.
Stack leaned in close to whisper something to Smoke—something low and half-smiled that Alanna couldn’t catch. Then he looked at her, one hand briefly brushing her lower back in a barely-there touch.
“‘Scuse me a minute,” he said, voice dipped in syrup and dusk, “Got a little itch to scratch.”
Before she could ask what that meant, he was gone—vanishing into the crowd like water through fingers.
Alanna blinked, “Where the hell did he go that fast?”
Smoke didn’t answer. Just smirked, slow and satisfied, like he’d seen this play out before.
Up front, the jazz singer finished her number to light applause. Then, as the band played a bluesy vamp, she lifted her mic again.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she purred, dressed in deep plum satin that caught every light like liquid sin, “You know him, you love him, and if you don’t—you about to. The man of the hour. Stack Moore.”
The crowd stirred. Cheers. Whistles.
Alanna’s eyes flicked to the side of the stage—nothing.
Then suddenly—there he was.
Already at the mic. Guitar in hand. Like he’d been there all along.
No footsteps. No stage door. No time.
Just there.
She frowned, eyes narrowing, “Wait—what?”
Stack looked calm. Composed. Maybe even a little smug.
He tipped his head once in their direction. Not just to the room.
To her.
The club pulsed like a living thing—low and hot and thick with rhythm.
Stack leaned into the mic like it owed him something. Shirt open to the sternum, gold chain gleaming against his dark skin. Rings catching the light. He gripped the neck of a steel guitar, fingers loose, head bowed, lips brushing the mic when he finally spoke.
“Y’all feel that?” he said, voice soaked in wickedness and smoke, “That heat crawlin’ up your spine?”
A murmur rolled through the crowd.
“Good. Let it.”
She didn’t ask another question—not yet. Not when the sound of a single, sliding guitar string rang out across the club, casting a hush like a spell.
Then he played.
It wasn’t polished, wasn’t sweet—it was dirt and blood and the river’s breath, all twisted up into a slow, aching Delta blues riff that sounded older than anything Alanna had ever heard. His voice came next—low and rough, the kind that carried grit and desire and the ghosts of juke joints long gone.
🎶 “I had a woman in Clarksdale once…
She knew my name ‘fore I could speak…
Said I tasted like the moonlight…
And I touched her in her sleep…” 🎶
The room melted around him.
People swayed. Women rubbed their thighs together. Men closed their eyes like they were trying to drink the sound. Even the air shifted—grew heavier, stickier, like the heat of the Delta had crept in through the cracks and sealed the room shut.
Alanna felt her pulse climb.
Smoke’s hands didn’t move, but she could feel him closer—his lips near her ear.
“He ain’t bad, huh?” he spoke low, his voice deep and knowing, “Don’t even need to try.”
She nodded slowly, unable to look away from the stage. Stack opened his mouth again and let out a note that scraped the belly of the guitar like it had been pulled from a back porch at midnight, a note thick with ache and want and time.
And suddenly, Smoke was behind her. Arms sliding around her waist. His mouth brushed the curve of her neck. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. She just leaned into him and let the music wind through her spine.
His lips grazed her skin.
She felt his breath before she felt the kiss. Slow. Lingering. Right below her jaw. Her body swayed, unsure if it was the rhythm or his mouth guiding her. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe it was something else entirely.
On stage, Stack’s eyes opened—gold-flecked and glowing. For a split second, they met hers.
And in that moment, Alanna felt it. Something pulling. Something deep. Something not quite human.
But she didn’t know that yet.
Not fully.
The last note lingered in the air like smoke—curling slow, glowing red, then gone.
Stack stood still for a breath, then two. His guitar hung low against his hips, and when he finally lifted his gaze from the mic, he wasn’t scanning the crowd. He was looking straight at her.
Alanna.
Like he’d known where she was the whole time.
A flicker of something unreadable passed behind his eyes, and then he lifted a glass that someone—somehow—had already placed at the edge of the stage. Its contents were dark, almost black, but when the light hit it just right, it shimmered red.
Not wine. Not anything she recognized. But it looked alive.
He held it high. Toasted.
To her.
Then downed it slow.
Alanna’s breath caught, and she didn’t know why.
The crowd responded in waves—moans, laughter, bodies pressing closer. The beat returned, softer now, but still humming underneath everything. She didn’t even realize the music had never really stopped. It just lived here.
Stack stepped down from the stage like he’d never been on it in the first place. Smooth. Languid. Confident in that eerie, too-composed way that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. He walked straight toward them—straight toward her—and the crowd parted like they felt him coming.
Smoke leaned into her side again, exhaling slow, “You starting to feel it yet?” he asked, voice low, like he was asking about more than just the music.
She didn’t get a chance to respond.
Stack stopped in front of them, teeth flashing in that half-smile that never quite touched his eyes. “So?” he asked, voice a low rasp from the stage still clinging to his throat, “What y’all think?”
Smoke clapped his twin on the shoulder, “You already know. Shit was good.”
Stack chuckled once, then turned—slowly—to her.
Waiting.
Alanna tilted her head, arms crossed under her chest, “You tryna be famous or somethin’?”
His grin widened.
“I didn’t say it wasn’t good,” she added, eyes narrowing just slightly, “Just wondering who you were serenading exactly.”
“You,” Stack said plainly, “you’re my special guest. Had to give you a taste of what it’s like.”
And then he looked away, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Alanna blinked.
Before she could think of something clever, her gaze drifted across the room—and widened.
A couple near one of the booths was full-on grinding, his hand up her skirt, her eyes rolled back. In another corner, two women kissed feverishly while a third licked a slow path up one of their thighs. Everywhere she looked, people were touching—deeply, openly, without shame. There were sounds too—gasps, groans, the wet slap of skin. One man knelt in front of a woman like he was praying with his mouth, and she didn’t seem inclined to stop him.
Alanna turned back to Stack, eyebrows raised.
“So…is this a kink club?”
Stack laughed.
But it wasn’t mocking. It was smooth. Hot like bourbon.
“People come here to undress from the weight of what’s beyond these walls,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets, “So if they wanna fuck…” he leaned a little closer, voice darkening into something more primal—thicker.
“…let ‘em fuck.”
The word hit like a thud in her chest.
Fuck.
The way he said it wasn’t vulgar. It was beautiful. Dangerous. Like he’d invented it. Like he could write it across her skin and her body would obey.
Smoke didn’t say a word, just looked at her, as if waiting to see how she’d react.
Alanna blinked, steadying her breath.
Stack stepped back, tilting his head toward the darkened hallway behind him, “C’mon,” he said, “Alcove’s this way.” He turned, and just before they followed, he looked over his shoulder and said, “Ladies first.”
Alanna walked ahead of them, aware—painfully aware—that both men were behind her. Watching. Their silence spoke more than anything they could say. She didn’t need to turn around to feel it.
The hallway smelled like cedar, wine, and something deeper. Something old. And as she walked, her heels clicked slow on the worn black floor, her hips swinging with a rhythm she hadn’t meant to have. Something about the air made it hard not to move like that.
Behind her, the brothers said nothing.
But she felt them watching like hunger with hands.
Stack’s spot was hidden in plain sight. No signs. No name. Just a red light flickering overhead and a velvet rope that only opened for those who already knew how to ask. Inside, the air smelled like honeyed wine, sweat, and old wood lacquered in history. Every surface gleamed dimly, gilded by candlelight and the soft flicker of chandeliers that looked like they’d been stolen from a Delta juke joint in the 1920s and stitched back together with secrets.
The room was long and wide, sunken in the middle like a basin of sin. Tables and booths hugged the perimeter in plush shadows while the dancefloor shimmered, slick with bodies, skin against skin. Couples swayed, some slowly grinding, others tangled together in something far older than dancing. Some just stood—held still by some invisible rhythm only they could feel.
And scattered in the low light were pairs—human and not. Women with their heads tilted back in ecstasy. Men with mouths pressed to throats. Some of them looked drunk. Some looked…entranced. All of them were being fed from.
But Alanna didn’t know that yet.
She only saw mouths on necks. Soft moans. Hands slipping under dresses, past belts. The kind of feverish touch that made it hard to breathe.
Smoke walked with her, hand resting low on her back like he knew she’d need grounding. Every now and then, her body tensed against his palm.
“Well,” Stack said, stepping back slightly, giving her room without breaking the connection, “Welcome.”
They did not go far.
Stack led them along the upper level, past a series of heavy velvet curtains that swallowed sound as they passed through. Each layer muffled the club below a little more, until the music became a distant pulse rather than a presence. The air changed again, growing warmer, denser, laced with a faint metallic sweetness that Alanna could not place.
They stepped onto a private balcony overlooking the main floor.
It was framed by dark wood railings carved with intricate designs, old symbols woven into modern elegance. Plush seating curved around low tables set with candles that flickered without smoke. Gauze curtains drifted lazily in an air that moved though no windows were open. From here, the club looked unreal. Bodies moved in slow, fluid patterns below, some gliding rather than walking, others blurring at the edges like heat mirages.
Alanna stood still, absorbing it all.
Smoke moved immediately, his body fitting behind her without asking. One hand rested at her waist, the other slid up her arm, thumb brushing along her shoulder. The contact was grounding. Familiar. He kissed her cheek, then her jaw, then her mouth, unhurried. A reminder. A claim. Her shoulders eased despite herself.
A server appeared without sound, placing drinks on the table.
Smoke’s glass was clear, amber catching the candlelight. Normal. Comforting.
Stack’s was not.
His drink was darker, thicker, almost black, with a sheen that reflected red when the light hit it just right. It clung to the sides of the glass when he lifted it, slow and deliberate.
Alanna noticed.
She did not comment.
She wrapped her fingers around her own glass instead, the chill biting into her palm. She took a sip. Sweet at first. Floral. Then something sharper underneath. It loosened her tongue and softened the tight coil in her chest just enough to make the room feel slightly less oppressive.
Stack leaned against the railing opposite them, one elbow resting casually, glass cradled in his hand. He watched her openly now.
Not staring. Studying.
She felt it everywhere. Along her neck. Down her spine. Between her thighs. His attention was not aggressive, but it was thorough, like he was learning her shape without touching her.
She shifted closer to Smoke, instinctively. His arm tightened around her.
The alcove wrapped around them like a velvet hush. High above the rest of the club, it gave them a view that felt almost voyeuristic, like the gods looking down on mortal sin. Low lighting swirled with smoke and shadow, gilded edges flickering gold. Jazz curled through the air like perfume, breathy and slow, clinging to the walls. Down below, bodies moved in time with a rhythm that was older than the instruments playing it—hips rolling, hands wandering, mouths caught between glances and hunger.
Alanna sat close to Smoke on the crescent-shaped lounge, the curve of her body tucked neatly into his side like it belonged there. His arm was slung over her shoulder, casual in appearance, but his hand rested just beneath her collarbone—possessive in a way that felt deliberate. His other hand stroked slowly along her bare thigh, thumb gliding over her skin with idle, sensual attention.
She couldn’t stop watching the crowd below.
The way they moved.
How alive they looked.
But it wasn’t just the dancing—it was the energy. Thick. Drowsy. Feral. It felt like something was coiling beneath the surface of this place, like the longer you sat in it, the more it seeped into your bones. Lust without urgency. Hunger without shame.
She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbow on her knee, eyes trailing one of the dancers twirling in the arms of someone masked in silver.
The waitress appeared like as if out of thin air, all red lips and silence, and leaned in with a practiced smile, “Champagne, miss?”
Alanna nodded, her voice caught somewhere behind her ribs, “Yes, please.”
Smoke’s voice was low and easy behind her, “Bourbon. House-made. Neat.”
Then came Stack, seated across from her, lounging like a man born to shadows. He didn’t raise his voice. Just leaned in close to the waitress’s ear and murmured something quiet—too quiet for Alanna to hear. But she noticed the way the woman’s eyes flicked sharp, the slight hitch in her nod.
“Coming right up,” the waitress said, vanishing with a grace that unsettled her.
Alanna’s pulse thrummed louder in her ears than the music, and when the glass of champagne was placed in front of her moments later—light gold and fizzing—she took a sip to steady herself. It helped, but not much. The room felt like it was shifting. Or maybe it was just her.
“Beautiful view,” Stack said from across the low table.
Alanna didn’t answer right away.
She turned her head slowly, gaze flicking toward him.
He was watching her. Not discreetly. Not politely.
He was undressing her with his eyes, openly and without apology. Not just her body—but her ease, her resistance, the pulse at her neck. She felt it in her chest. In her thighs. In the air between them.
Stack leaned back, lounging in his seat like a king with time to kill. He sipped from his strange red drink, eyes never leaving hers.
“You’re a quiet one,” he said, voice low and silk-smooth, like he already knew what that meant.
Alanna raised a brow, “and you’re a nosy one.”
Stack grinned, “only when I’m interested.”
Smoke chuckled under his breath beside her, lips brushing the shell of her ear, “Told you she had a mouth.”
“Mhm,” Stack said, not breaking eye contact.
Stack’s gaze finally dropped, trailing the length of her dress, “What do you do, Alanna?”
She hesitated, torn between answering honestly and holding her cards.
“I work in marketing,” she said, “Brand strategy. Campaign building.”
His eyes lifted again, curiosity flaring, “So you sell fantasy for a living?”
She tilted her head, lips curling, “I sell what people already want.”
“That so?” Stack’s voice dropped half a note, tone brushing against something deeper.
Alanna looked to Smoke for a beat, searching his face, but he seemed content to let the moment unfold.
Stack continued, “And how’d you meet my brother?”
“She found me,” Smoke answered before she could. His fingers were tracing slow circles on her thigh, rhythm hypnotic.
Stack’s eyes flicked between them, “Is that right?”
Alanna nodded once, “He was quiet. Still is. But I liked the way he looked at me.”
“Like what he wanted already belonged to him,” Stack said.
She froze for a second. The way he said it—too precise. Too intimate. Her spine straightened just slightly. When she glanced back at him, his expression hadn’t changed. Calm. Watchful. But his eyes…God. She could’ve sworn—
Did they just glow?
It was only for a blink, but something in her stomach flipped.
And then she felt it. A chill. Or a shiver. Not on her skin—but through her. Like someone had whispered inside her head. Like a hand, cool and unseen, had grazed the inside of her thigh from across the room.
Her eyes snapped to Stack. He didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just sipped his drink and stared like he knew.
Alanna sat back slowly, crossing her legs, swallowing a breath she didn’t realize she’d held.
What the hell was this?
Smoke’s touch returned to her shoulder, steady, grounding, warm, “You okay?” he asked, his voice just for her.
She nodded. Too fast. Her thoughts were racing and she couldn’t name a single one of them.
They looked the same.
Same jawline. Same lips. Same thick lashes and dark eyes.
But Smoke’s touch was steady, anchored, familiar.
Stack’s presence was something else.
Not like a man.
Not even like a predator.
He felt like a question she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer to.
Still, she kept stealing looks. Trying to solve something with her eyes before her body betrayed her.
Stack asked another question—something about her favorite cities—but she barely heard it. All she could feel was the pressure building in the room, thick with silence and suggestion. She pressed her thighs together and hoped no one noticed.
The singer’s voice below swelled again, slow and deep, wrapping around the moment like velvet. She realized something then. This was not a meeting. This was an arrival. And whatever Stack was, whatever waited beneath the charm and the stillness and the eyes that did not blink enough, he had already seen her. All of her. And he was pleased.
Alanna stiffened.
Not out of fear—but because her body needed space to think.
The air between them had thickened, too warm and charged. Her hand found Smoke’s without thinking, fingers threading tight through his like a tether, like gravity, like truth. Her eyes stayed fixed on Stack.
He didn’t move. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t push. But his presence pressed against her skin was like heat from a nearby fire. Calm, composed, watchful. And still…she felt it. Something darker, deeper, hungrier than what met the eye.
She turned to Smoke. Her voice was low, “Can I talk to you,” she asked, “alone?”
Smoke gave a single nod, “Yeah.”
Stack’s mouth curved, but he stepped back with a slow drag of his drink, “Five minutes,” he said, amused, “Don’t take all night, sweetness.”
Alanna frowned, “You’re not helping.”
He winked, “Didn’t say I was.”
Smoke led her through a velvet-curtained arch toward a shadowed lounge alcove—rounded bench, dim amber light, thick privacy. The hum of music dulled behind fabric and walls, replaced by the flicker of candles and the hush of their breath.
Alanna sat. Stared at the room.
Then looked at Smoke, “What is this place?” she asked, “And what’s the deal with your creepy-ass twin brother? He said five minutes,” she added, “What happens after five?”
Smoke leaned back, resting one arm along the curve of the booth. He wasn’t offended. Just quiet.
“You gonna tell me what this is?” Alanna asked, eyes flicking to Smoke, “Because right now, it feels like I’m the only one without a rulebook.”
“This place,” he said, “is a safehouse for people who don’t belong anywhere else. A place for hunger. For curiosity. For truths that can’t survive daylight.”
She blinked, “That’s not an answer. That’s a riddle.”
“No,” he agreed, “But it’s the truth.”
He reached out, touched her knee gently—rubbed slow circles through the fabric of her dress, grounding her again.
“You don’t have to understand it all tonight,” he said, “But you gotta stop flinching every time the wind changes. Relax. Feel it. Let the moment speak to you.”
She swallowed, not answering.
Smoke leaned in, brushing his lips across her cheek before finding her mouth. He kissed her once—slow, grounding, unrushed.
“Stack’s intense,” he said softly when he pulled back, “Always has been. But he’s not gonna hurt you.”
Her brow furrowed, “And why did he wanna meet me so bad?”
Smoke smiled faintly, hand trailing along her thigh, “Because he’s curious. He’s been asking about you for months.”
She huffed softly, barely a laugh, “You both act like you’re not telling me something on purpose.” Alanna raised a brow, “The way he’s looking at me like I’m something to eat? Yeah. Real subtle.”
Smoke chuckled, deep and low, “My brother’s got a big appetite.”
She stared at him, “And why me?” she asked, “Out of everyone in this room…”
He let the words hang—then added with a crooked grin, “We’ve always had the same taste in women. Only difference is how we express that.”
back at the alcove balcony…
Stack leaned against the iron rail like he had all the time in the world. One hand rested on the curve of the balustrade. The other slowly swirled the half-empty glass of blood-spiked champagne he hadn’t sipped from in ten minutes.
Below, the club churned and throbbed. Bass lines rolled through bodies like seismic waves. Couples kissed hard in corners. Fangs pierced soft flesh in the open. Some fed discreetly—mouths grazing inner wrists or necks with affection. Others fed hungrily, knees spread, heads thrown back, blood and pleasure indistinguishable under the red haze of the lighting.
Stack didn’t see any of them.
His eyes were fixed on the hallway Smoke had just taken Alanna down.
He could hear her heartbeat. Loud as war drums. Thudding faster the closer she stood to his brother. The way her breath caught, the shallow gulps, the nervous swallow as she tried to say the right thing. Her voice was low—but not to him. Not to his kind.
Vampire senses were cruel that way.
“…just five minutes? Yeah, okay?” she whispered.
Stack’s jaw ticked. His teeth clenched behind his half-smirk. Five minutes.
He wasn’t just envious. He wasn’t just aroused.
He was aching.
From the moment she’d stepped into the alcove, her scent had hit him like a velvet snare. Honey-slick nerves. The sweetness of her sweat layered with notes of wine, want, and something else—something faint and floral, like jasmine pressed between book pages.
And those veins.
Fuck.
The ones that trailed along her cleavage, vibrant with every rapid beat of her heart. The swell of her breasts made the line of her cleavage a map of temptation. Her jugular visibly ticked when she looked at Smoke.
That pulsing rhythm. That wet, human throb.
He could hear the blood in her.
He could taste it in the air already.
And she was talking loyalty. Talking patience. Like he wasn’t starving.
Smoke had pulled her aside, further into the shadowed hallway where mouths couldn’t read lips and bass couldn’t swallow words.
Stack didn’t need to strain.
Not when her heartbeat gave her away.
Not when her breath trembled like something just waking up.
“You gonna tell me what this is?” Alanna asked, eyes flicking to Smoke. “Because right now, it feels like I’m the only one without a rulebook.”
Stack’s mouth curled.
“He said five minutes,” she added, “What happens after five?”
She didn’t sound scared.
Just…restless. Curious.
“And why me?” she asked, “Out of everyone in this room…”
Because you called to me before you ever stepped inside, Stack thought.
Because you’re standing there wondering if I can hear you. And I can.
She huffed softly, barely a laugh, “You both act like you’re not telling me something on purpose.”
That one made Stack chuckle under his breath.
“And I’m supposed to be okay with all this mystery?” she pressed. “With him watching me like that?”
With me craving you like that, he corrected silently. With me knowing how close your pulse runs to the surface. How warm your blood tastes just from scent alone.
He dragged a fingertip across his bottom lip.
Five minutes was up.
Actually—no, it wasn’t.
But he didn’t give a fuck.
Stack appeared at the end of the hallway like a shadow peeled off the wall. Silent, sharp, golden-eyed.
“Five minutes up,” he said dryly, “Though I was generous. Clocked it at three.”
His tone held something hot beneath the sarcasm—jealousy sharpened to a blade’s edge. But his mouth wore a smirk, smug and dangerous.
He didn’t look at Smoke.
He looked at her.
Eyes dropping to her neck. Her chest. The pulse he wanted to feel under his tongue.
“You ready to head back and enjoy the ride?” he asked, voice rich with something older than flirtation. His eyes dragged slow over her throat, down the line of her collarbone like a man memorizing his next meal, “Or you need a little more time to figure out why you’re trembling?”
They didn’t say much on the walk back.
Smoke held the curtain open, but it was Stack who leaned in first, voice low and velvet-rough:
“Ladies first.”
Alanna raised a brow at the formality, but stepped forward anyway—shoulders back, head high, trying not to let her nerves show.
They both watched her walk.
The sway of her hips. The dip of her waist. The soft roll of tension in her spine that told them she was still deciding if she should turn around and run—or keep walking toward whatever this was.
Stack’s eyes dragged down the length of her legs like he could taste them. Smoke’s gaze didn’t move at all. Just watched, eyes half-lidded, the corner of his mouth twitching as if to say I already know how she moves when she’s on top of me.
Behind the curtain, the alcove waited. Shadow-soaked. Hungry.
Just like them.
The jazz faded behind the velvet curtains. Smoke’s fingers traced idle circles on the inside of her thigh, but Alanna’s body was no longer paying attention to his hands. Her senses were on something else entirely.
He sat across from her, one arm resting on the back of the couch, the other loosely gripping his glass. The red drink swirled lazily in the crystal—too thick to be wine, too opaque to see through. His legs were parted. Posture relaxed. But nothing about him was casual.
He was watching her.
Not with hunger.
With certainty.
Like he already knew her.
Alanna took another sip of the chilled champagne, barely tasting it. The bubbles tickled her throat, sharp and effervescent, but it was the cool weight of the glass in her hand that grounded her. She sat back, spine taut, caught between Smoke’s quiet heat beside her and Stack’s relentless gaze across from her. It felt like a velvet-lined cage—luxurious, yes, but closed. She didn’t even notice she’d drained the glass until a silent waitress appeared at her side with a fresh pour. Alanna accepted it without a word, fingers curling around the stem a little tighter than before.
Alanna shifted slightly in her seat. Smoke’s thumb flexed gently against her thigh, grounding her—but her mind was slipping somewhere it didn’t belong. The more she tried not to look, the more her gaze wandered back.
And when their eyes locked again, Stack’s lips curved—just slightly.
“That quiet act supposed to keep me guessing?” he asked, eyes glinting, “’Cause it’s just making me want to know more.”
Alanna tilted her head, deflecting with a dry smile, “Maybe I’m just thinking.”
Stack leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His stare didn’t waver.
“You ready to talk, then?”
She blinked, “Talk?”
“You’ve had about a thousand questions dancing across that pretty face since the moment you stepped foot in this place.” His tone stayed smooth, but there was something heavier tucked beneath it. Something knowing.
Alanna glanced at Smoke, as if to check whether he noticed anything off.
He was calm. Too calm.
Stack smiled at that.
“I won’t bite,” he added, tilting his glass in her direction, “Not unless you ask nice.”
Her lips parted slightly—whether in amusement or something else, she wasn’t sure, “You always this forward?”
Stack’s eyes didn’t glow. Not fully. But they shimmered, just for a second. Like light bending where it shouldn’t.
“Only when I already know the answer.”
She stiffened.
He couldn’t know. There was no way he could know.
But her heart was already racing.
He sat back again, fingers dragging across his thigh, eyes still locked on her like a tether, “You’re curious. That’s good. Curiosity is honest.”
“I didn’t say I was curious.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Smoke shifted beside her—almost protectively—but he didn’t speak. His hand stayed on her leg, thumb still moving slow.
Alanna swallowed.
She wasn’t afraid. But she wasn’t calm, either. It was like standing at the edge of a deep pool, feeling the gravity tug at her calves, knowing the second she stepped in, she’d be pulled under something she wouldn’t understand.
Stack tilted his head, watching her process.
“Let me help you,” he said, “You got questions, sweetness. I can feel them. Let me give you the kind of answers only I can.”
Alanna met his gaze, defiant now, trying to gather what was left of her footing.
“And what kind is that?”
He smiled again, slower this time, “The kind Smoke can’t give you.”
The air tightened around her. Her mouth went dry. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, but deep in her chest, she knew...
This was the moment the night changed.
Stack said nothing.
He only held out his hand.
It hung there between them, palm open, fingers relaxed, unfazed by her hesitation. Smoke stood just behind her, close enough to steady her with his presence, but not pressing. His silence was a kind of trust. A vow to let her decide.
Alanna looked at Stack’s hand.
His fingers were thick, smooth, dusted with a few rings that caught candlelight along their beveled edges. His nails were clean, shaped. Everything about him was exact. Still. Waiting.
She stepped forward and placed her hand in his.
The contact was immediate.
Not cold, not anymore. But not warm either. His skin felt like it held temperature differently. Like whatever heat he absorbed, he stored it slowly, intentionally. His grip was firm without force. Her hand fit in his, and she knew somehow he’d already memorized the shape of it.
Stack didn’t speak. He simply began to walk.
And she followed.
His private quarters were hidden behind an archway draped in thick black velvet. The moment they crossed beneath it, the sound of the club dropped away entirely. No jazz. No laughter. No ghostly movement. Just quiet.
The hallway stretched long and narrow, lined with tall mirrors framed in ornate black and gold. The lighting came from wall sconces shaped like cupped hands, each holding a flickering flame no taller than a pinky finger. The air was scented—rich and woody, with something beneath it she couldn’t name. Not incense. Not perfume. Something darker, like amber cracked open under pressure.
She glanced at Stack as they walked.
He moved like he had all the time in the world. No urgency, no nerves. Each step measured. His posture wasn’t showy, but it commanded attention. Shoulders square. Chin lifted. He did not walk like a man—he walked like something that used to be one.
And yet…there was no cruelty in him. Not yet.
Just silence.
He hadn’t looked at her since they left the balcony, but she felt it in the space between them. That magnetism. That gravity. Like his body pulled at hers even without intention.
Her breath came a little shallower. Not from panic. From anticipation.
The dress she wore suddenly felt tighter. Or maybe it was the way his presence filled the corridor.
Her heels clicked softly against the stone floor. His loafers made no sound at all.
She noticed.
He led her to a set of double doors carved from deep walnut, each panel inlaid with more of those intricate patterns. Symbols that felt familiar even though she didn’t know what they meant. He pushed them open without effort.
Inside, the space stretched wide.
It was not a bedroom, not exactly—but a den of some kind. The ceilings were high, draped with sheer black fabric that hung in long waves. Candlelight flickered from the corners, reflected in glass and gold. There was a low sectional arranged near a hearth where a fire burned without smoke. Bookshelves lined one wall, tall and packed. A long table stood near the far end, crystal decanters and silver trays set out in perfect symmetry.
Everything was dark and lush and slow.
Stack let go of her hand.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said.
His voice was lower here, thickened by the hush of the room. It rolled down her spine like velvet tipped in heat.
She stepped forward and turned in a slow circle, taking it in.
There were no windows. No clocks. No doors visible beyond the one they came through.
Time had no weight here.
Smoke entered last, his presence re-centering her for a moment. He came to her side, his hand resting at the curve of her back.
“You still with me, baby?” he asked softly.
She nodded, eyes still scanning the space, “This feels like somewhere dreams get made…or broken.”
Smoke smiled against her temple, “Only if you let it.”
A tray appeared from the side, carried by someone who didn’t walk so much as drift. Another woman in black. Pale eyes, high cheekbones, lips stained the same deep red as the singer downstairs. She held the tray out between her palms, offering drinks without words.
Alanna reached for one.
The glass was thin and cold, filled with something golden and glimmering. It looked normal. She took a cautious sip—dry, sweet, touched with something floral. Smooth. Calming. She let it sit on her tongue before swallowing.
Stack took his own drink from the tray. A darker glass. No surprise. But this time, Alanna watched the way he held it. The way the liquid inside clung to the sides. Slower than it should have. Thicker.
He noticed her watching.
She didn’t look away.
“What is that,” she asked.
Stack raised the glass slowly, “What keeps me…steady.”
The answer was too clean. But he wasn’t hiding it.
She looked back at Smoke, “So…what now?”
Smoke didn’t speak.
Stack did.
“Now I ask,” he said, stepping closer, “if you’re here for him, or if you’re here for you.”
Alanna blinked, startled, “Excuse me?”
“This place doesn’t care what you do,” Stack said, “But you should.”
“I didn’t ask for any of this,” she said.
“I know. And yet you walked in.”
Her lips parted. He was right. But that didn’t make it easier. She crossed her arms lightly. Not defensive. Just gathering herself.
“I’m still figuring out how I feel.”
“Good,” he said, “Most people lie. You haven’t.”
She met his eyes fully now.
Something passed between them. Not quite heat. Not yet. But something sharper. Something that could burn if left untended.
“I just don’t want to get it twisted,” she said slowly, “What any of this actually is.”
Stack’s gaze flicked that way, “He knows the rules. He wrote them.”
“And you?” she asked.
“I don’t want to take,” he said, “But I know how to want.”
That stopped her breath for a moment. She took another sip and for the first time since they’d arrived, she let herself settle into the seat. Not because she felt safe. Because she wanted to feel something else.
And Stack saw it. All of it.
Alanna wasn’t sure when the air had changed.
The room hadn’t moved. No lights flickered. The walls hadn’t shifted. But something beneath her skin told her things had turned. The kind of shift you feel before a thunderstorm breaks. Before the water boils. Before the drop on a rollercoaster you didn’t brace for.
Stack had been watching her.
Not in the usual way. Not like a man watches a woman he wants.
This was older. Slower. Hungrier.
He stood a few feet away, drink in hand, his posture relaxed, but his attention was razor sharp. Every movement of hers—how her breath hitched, how her eyes kept scanning him like her body was trying to figure something out her mind hadn’t caught up to yet—he watched all of it.
“Alanna? You’re still with me, baby?” Smoke’s voice pulled her back. He was at her side again, fingers grazing the top of her hand.
She nodded. Once. Not convincing either of them.
Stack set his drink down on the nearby table, the soft click of glass on marble louder than it should have been in the silence.
Then he turned toward her fully.
And something changed.
Alanna’s breath caught.
His mouth parted ever so slightly, and when it did—
She saw them.
Fangs.
Not long. Not exaggerated. But sharp. Smooth. White as bone. Not prosthetic, not decorative. Real. Real in a way that hit her all at once like the air had been yanked out of her lungs.
Her body stiffened.
She couldn’t move for a second. Couldn’t blink.
And Stack smiled. Slow. Like he had been waiting.
Her mouth opened but nothing came out.
Then—barely audible—
“Y-you’re a…a…”
Stack chuckled, and God, even that sounded smooth, “A vampire?” His eyes glinted, and as if on cue, they began to glow. Not in a cartoonish, garish way. It was subtle. Beautiful. Terrifying. Like a candle lit behind dark glass, “That what you wanna say?”
She took a step back. Not far. Just enough.
Her gaze darted to Smoke.
But even he looked different now. Not dangerous—but not innocent either. The shadows on his face had shifted. The weight in his eyes was real.
“Smoke,” she whispered, “Tell me I’m dreaming.”
He stepped toward her slowly, hands open, calm, “You’re not.”
“No.”
“Alanna—”
“No.” She backed up another step. Her chest rose in quick, short breaths. Her voice cracked when she said it, “Maybe you fucked me into some deep sleep I can’t wake up from…this shit ain’t real.”
Smoke moved to her, cupped her face gently. His thumbs stroked beneath her jaw. She didn’t pull away, but her eyes were wide, wet, searching, “This is real,” he said quietly, “And you’re safe. You’re still you.”
“I watched you…” she shook her head, blinking, “He just…appeared out of shadows. His eyes—your eyes—but darker. And his teeth—what the fuck are his teeth?”
“Truth,” Stack said from behind Smoke, still leaning casually against the table, “You said you wanted it. This is mine.”
She stared at him again, her whole world shifting beneath her, “You’re serious.”
“Always.”
“And you drink blood?”
Stack tilted his head, eyes glittering, “What else would I drink?” he drawled, “I’m a vampire, sweetheart. We drink blood. Seduce. We fuck like we’re starving.” He didn’t blink when he said it. Didn’t smile right away either. Just let it sit between them—hot, heavy, and deliberate. Then came the grin. Slow. Knowing, “Sound like something you could survive?”
Alanna’s lips parted again, but she had no words.
Her knees felt weak.
Smoke noticed and guided her gently to sit. She lowered herself down, trying to breathe through it, the room spinning slowly, like her reality was rotating just off axis. She pressed her palms to her thighs, trying to ground.
“Alanna,” Smoke said, kneeling in front of her, his forehead nearly touching hers, “I know this is a lot. And I should’ve told you sooner. But I needed you to see it. Not just hear it. I needed you to feel it.”
She didn’t speak.
Stack stepped forward a few paces, slow and deliberate, “I’m not here to hurt you,” he said, “And I’m not some storybook monster. But I am what I am. And now that you know…”
He let the words hang.
And that—that—was the part that hit her hardest.
Now that she knew, there was no going back.
And for some strange reason…even as the fear curled in her gut and the questions beat against the inside of her skull, she realized something else.
Alanna’s fingers curled tighter around Smoke’s sleeve, her nails digging gently. She pressed in closer to him, almost chest to arm now, and she didn’t care how it looked. His presence was the only thing anchoring her in this room. Stack stood only a few feet away, posture loose, hands relaxed, but the way he looked at her was anything but casual. His eyes weren’t just admiring—they were studying. Licking over her skin without a single touch.
It made her insides tighten.
She wasn’t sure if it was dread or something far worse.
And he saw it.
That unnerved her more than anything.
Stack’s gaze moved from her mouth to her throat, then down the lines of her figure with no shame, like he was reading her pulse just by watching it beat under her skin.
“Damn,” he said low, his voice like thick honey poured slow over the rim of a glass, “He didn’t do you justice.”
Alanna’s body stiffened immediately.
She turned toward Smoke, incredulous, her voice sharp, “You just gon’ let him talk like that in front of you?”
Smoke’s jaw tensed. Not in anger—but restraint. He didn’t answer right away.
Stack smirked, “You actin’ like I’m being disrespectful,” he said, shifting his weight casually, “I’m complimentin’ the queen. Ain’t that right?”
She squared her shoulders and leaned in slightly toward Stack, voice cool but edged with fire, “First of all, I’m not interested in flattery from someone who looks like my man’s dark reflection. And second…I didn’t come here for all this smooth-talking, cryptic charm bullshit.”
Stack’s grin widened. He dragged his tongue lightly over the edge of his canine—subtle, calculated, “Dark reflection. I like that. You get poetic when you mad, huh?”
“I’m not mad,” she shot back, “I’m confused.”
Smoke stepped in, hand settling at the small of her back again, “Alanna—”
“No, for real,” she said, snapping her head to him, “What are we doing here? You been quiet this whole time while he’s out here talking like he’s picking out dessert.”
Stack let out a low laugh, “Baby, if you was dessert, I’d savor you slow.”
Her eyes narrowed, cutting right through him, “See, it’s that right there.” She took a breath and looked back at Smoke, but her voice cracked just slightly when she asked, “Why are you letting this happen?”
Smoke didn’t flinch. His thumb stroked across the dip of her spine in a way that always calmed her—but not tonight, “Because I trust you,” he said, “And I trust him. It ain’t about letting anything happen. You’re in control.”
“Then why does it feel like I’m the only one that didn’t get the script?”
That was when Stack took a step forward.
His body didn’t rush. He wasn’t imposing. But the air shifted when he moved, as if something unseen moved with him.
His voice dropped—smooth, direct, unfiltered, “So you still don’t get it, sweetness?”
Alanna blinked, “What exactly is this,” she asked finally, “Because nobody’s said it out loud yet.”
Stack took a slow sip of his drink before answering. His eyes never left hers.
“This,” he said, gesturing lightly around them, “is where things that don’t fit above ground come to breathe.”
Her brow furrowed, “Breathe?”
Smoke kissed her again, softer this time, “Just hear him out.”
She did.
Stack straightened, setting his glass down. When he stepped closer, she felt it again. That shift. The air tightening around him.
“My brother made a pact some time ago,” Stack said, “One that lets him move between worlds without paying the price I did.”
Alanna’s fingers curled around her glass, “And the price was?”
Stack tilted his head, “Death.”
The word settled heavy. Her breath caught before she could stop it. She looked at Smoke sharply, but he did not look away. He did not deny it.
“Stack,” Smoke said calmly.
“It’s fine,” Stack replied. “She’s already standing in it.”
Alanna swallowed. “You’re dead…”
“Yes.” The simplicity of it was unsettling., “And I can only touch the living,” Stack continued, “one day out of the year.”
Her stomach dropped, “Tonight.”
Smoke’s hand tightened at her waist, “I’m here. You don’t have to do anything.”
“But,” Stack said softly, stepping closer, “you already crossed the line just by walking in.”
She laughed once, sharp and nervous, “That doesn’t sound like a choice.”
“It is,” Smoke said quickly, “Always.”
Stack’s gaze flicked to his brother, something dark and amused passing between them, “What Smoke hasn’t said,” Stack continued, “is why you matter.”
Alanna’s pulse thudded in her ears, “Why do I?”
“Because you are alive in a way most people aren’t,” Stack said, “And because my brother is tethered to you.”
Smoke did not interrupt.
“Through you,” Stack said, “he can reach me. Share what he has.”
Her chest tightened, “You’re talking about me like I’m a door.”
Stack smiled, “A bridge.”
Silence stretched.
Stack’s fingers trailed the rim of his glass, slow and deliberate, as he looked at her. The club pulsed below, bodies swaying, velvet shadows moving like liquid, but up here, in the hush of his private alcove, everything stilled. Alanna stood across from him, close to Smoke, yet aware of Stack like a live wire just beneath the skin. His presence was impossible to ignore. She tried not to stare, but his eyes—deep, unreadable, full of things she didn’t yet have language for—pulled her gaze back every time.
“You feel it, don’t you?” he said softly.
Her brows knit, “Feel what?”
Stack leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His voice dropped to something intimate. Not flirtation now—but confession.
“This pull. The static in the air when I look at you. The way your skin knows something’s not right but doesn’t want to run.”
Alanna swallowed. Her heart beat louder in her ears.
Stack’s eyes never left hers, “You think it’s just curiosity. Maybe lust. Maybe nerves. But it’s more than that. You don’t even know what you’re carrying, do you?”
She didn’t speak.
He sat back, exhaling, glass still in hand, “My brother…he don’t share easy. But he shared you.” Stack paused, letting that land, “And not just because you’re fine as hell—though God knows, you are.” His gaze dipped, once, over her body before rising back to her face, “He shared you because you’re more than a lover. You’re his rhythm. His tether. You make him feel.” His voice sharpened, quiet but charged, “And I don’t get to feel much anymore, Alanna.”
Her lips parted, a breath catching in her throat.
Stack went on, “When we were younger, women came and went. But when we found one we both liked—really liked—it was sacred. Something pure. Something ours.” His jaw flexed, “But now? I’m stuck in shadows. Silence. I can’t touch the world without consequence.”
He lifted his hand, palm open, “But through you…I can reach him.”
Alanna blinked, confused, “Reach him?”
“Not just him. What he has.” Stack’s voice thinned, like he was trying not to let too much emotion slip out with the words, “The warmth. The breath. The ache of real skin under my hands. The heat of blood rushing under the surface.”
She sat still, caught in the gravity of it.
“I’m not asking for pity,” Stack added, softer now, “But understand this—through you, I get a taste of life again. I get to feel human. I get to remember what it means to want something that ain’t just about survival.”
He let the silence hang there. The heat of it. The truth of it. Then, his eyes dropped to her lips, “That’s why I want you,” he said, voice low as silk and shadow, “Not just because you’re his. Not just because you’re beautiful. But because something in you woke something in me. And if you let me touch it…” He leaned in slowly, just close enough for her to feel the cold edge of his presence across her neck, “…I promise I’ll make you feel everything he does. And more.”
Smoke turned her gently, forcing her to meet his eyes. “I would never offer you if I didn’t trust you.”
“Offer me,” she repeated quietly.
“Yes,” Stack said, unashamed, “One night. That’s all. I get to feel what my brother feels. You get to walk away untouched.”
Her skin prickled, “And what do you get?”
Stack’s eyes darkened, “Relief.”
Smoke leaned his forehead against hers, “You don’t have to decide right now.”
But the way Stack looked at her said otherwise.
The balance had shifted. She felt it clearly now. The way Smoke stayed close, protective but expectant. The way Stack stood just far enough away to let curiosity do the work for him. She was no longer just Smoke’s girl standing at his side. She was the center of something older, heavier, and far more dangerous than she had imagined. And both brothers were watching her to see what she would do next.
Stack tilted his head slightly, those shadow-rich eyes locked on hers, his fangs just barely visible now behind a slow grin, “My brother,” he said, “is offering you to me. For one night.”
Alanna’s breath caught in her throat.
Stack took another step, still a respectful distance—but it felt closer, “He loves you,” he continued, “and he wants me to find out how much.”
The words hung in the air, heavy as velvet soaked in wine. Alanna stared at him. Her lips parted, but nothing came out. Her chest rose slowly, breath trying to steady itself against the shock.
“You think this is a joke?” she finally asked, voice quieter now, but no less sharp.
“I think this is trust,” Stack replied, “And trust is rare. Even rarer when it comes wrapped in a body like yours.”
She hated how her skin reacted to that. The warm flush up her neck. The curl in her belly. Not from what he said—but how he said it. The calm. The confidence. The eerie certainty, like he knew she’d end up curious, if nothing else.
Smoke didn’t speak. He was watching her, quietly. His eyes weren’t pleading. They weren’t pushing. But he was waiting. Waiting to see if she’d leave. Or lean in.
Alanna lifted her chin again, eyes burning straight into Stack’s, “If I say no?”
Stack’s smile didn’t fade. It softened, “You walk,” he said, “I don’t touch you. You stay with him. Just like now.”
“And if I say yes?”
He didn’t answer. He just looked at her. And the silence answered for him.
Alanna’s voice didn’t tremble when she said it, “I need to go home.”
Stack didn’t move.
Smoke didn’t argue. He stepped closer, hand settling lightly on her lower back—never guiding, just there, “You sure?” he asked.
She nodded.
Her fingers tightened slightly on the stem of the half-finished glass still in her hand. She set it down carefully on the tray. Stack’s eyes followed the movement, then rose slowly to her face. She looked at him once more. Just a glance. And even that felt like too much. Because his eyes…didn’t beg. They didn’t plead. But they lingered—a heatless fire behind glass. Like he could see all the way through her, and he’d be waiting for what he saw to come crawling back on its own.
She hated how that made her chest ache.
Stack didn’t speak. Didn’t stop her.
And that, more than anything, made it harder to walk away. But she did. She walked out the way she came—in Smoke’s shadow, but on her own feet.
The Ride Home Was Quiet...
Too quiet.
The tires hummed against the road, and the city lights returned bit by bit, blinking like nothing strange had ever happened just beyond their reach. Alanna didn’t speak. She sat turned slightly toward the window, her body perfectly still, but her mind was clawing through everything. The smell of Stack’s drink. The flash of his fangs. The glow in his eyes when he smiled and said her name like he was trying it on.
One night.
She pressed her palm to her knee and dragged it down to anchor herself. She wasn’t afraid. Not of him. Not of what he was. She was afraid of how easily she had listened. And how hard it was to forget the way he looked at her.
The front door clicked closed behind them. Home.
Alanna slipped out of her coat and walked through the familiar hallway. The space was dim and quiet. Soft lighting spilled from a single lamp in the corner, casting warm shadows over the leather sofa, the record player, the folded blanket she always used. Safe. She sat on the edge of the bed without a word. Smoke followed her in silence. When he crouched in front of her, it startled her—not because she didn’t expect him, but because of how gentle it was. He reached for her foot and lifted it onto his thigh. Fingers unbuckled her heel slowly. Deliberately.
He didn’t look away once. His eyes stayed locked on hers, “You mad?” he asked, voice low.
Alanna didn’t answer right away. He slipped the shoe off and set it neatly aside, then reached for the other. She spoke as he touched her again, “Are you into sharing your woman?” Her voice wasn’t sharp. It was real. Raw, “Is that a kink for you?”
Smoke didn’t flinch. He didn’t drop his gaze. He took the second shoe off and let it fall beside the first, his hands now bare against her calves, moving up slow, resting just below her knees.
“It is,” he said, “But it’s not just that.”
Alanna stared at him, waiting.
Smoke exhaled slowly, “I knew Stack would love you.”
She blinked, “Love?”
His hands paused, “I didn’t mean that kind of love,” he clarified, “I meant…he’d get you. The way I do. I could see it from the beginning.”
Her throat tightened, “So this was always the plan?” she asked.
“No,” he said, “This wasn’t a setup. I didn’t bring you to him to trick you.”
She searched his eyes. He didn’t look like a man trying to lie his way out of something. He looked like a man who’d thought about all of this…and still chose it. Alanna shifted slightly, knees brushing against his shoulders. Her voice was quieter now.
“Have you two done this before?”
Smoke’s jaw flexed once. Then he nodded, “Yeah,” he said, “We’ve shared before. Not often. Not recently. But yeah.”
Alanna leaned back slowly on her palms, “Why? What else is there? Besides the whole supernatural stuff.”
Smoke stayed crouched in front of her, hands on her thighs, still keeping that eye contact that never wavered.
Smoke didn’t look away.
Not when she asked. Not when the weight of it sat between them.
He stayed crouched in front of her, hands still resting on her legs, thumbs pressing lightly into her skin like he needed to feel something solid while he said it.
“I’m not gonna dress it up,” he said, “I get off on it.”
Alanna’s breath stilled.
“On what?” she asked quietly, even though she already knew.
“On another man fuckin’ my woman,” Smoke said plainly, “On sharing what’s mine. On watchin’ her take somebody else and still come back to me.”
Her throat tightened, but she didn’t pull away.
Smoke continued, voice steady, unashamed, “And if I’m gonna explore that part of me, it ain’t gonna be just anybody. It’s gonna be my brother.” He shifted closer, lowering his voice, “Me and Stack might be on two different sides of the world, but the kind of women we like?” He gave a faint, knowing smile, “Same. Always been.”
Alanna searched his face, trying to find uncertainty. Doubt. Something softer.
There wasn’t any.
“I figured if I’m gonna enjoy it,” he went on, “I might as well enjoy it while I can. Vampire laws don’t play fair anymore. No human feeding. No human companions. Everything he does has to be quiet. Controlled. Hidden.”
His jaw flexed.
“He’s already had problems before. Crossed lines. Drew attention he shouldn’t have. So now? He moves careful. He moves alone.” Smoke’s hands slid slightly higher on her thighs, grounding but not possessive, “This,” he said, meeting her eyes again, “is one of the few ways he gets close without breaking the rules. And I’m not gonna lie to you and pretend I’m some kind of martyr about it.” He paused, then added calmly, “I like watchin’. I like knowin’ she’s wanted. And I like knowin’ she still mine when it’s over.”
The room felt quieter after that. Not tense. Honest. Alanna sat there, absorbing it, realizing that what unsettled her wasn’t the kink itself—but how clear he was about it. No excuses. No justifications dressed up as romance. Just truth. And somehow, that made it harder to dismiss.
He straightened slowly, rising to his feet.
Alanna looked up at him, heart aching and racing all at once, “And now through me,” she said quietly.
Smoke stepped closer, hands sliding to cup her face, “I’ll never let him have what’s mine unless I know she can handle it. Unless I know she wants it.” His thumb brushed her cheek, “And if she doesn’t…we leave it right there. No harm. No guilt.”
Her breath caught again. She felt like she’d been peeled open. But not violated. Not pushed. Just seen.
She reached for his wrist and held it, thumb brushing across the back of his hand, “I’m still thinking.”
Smoke nodded once, “I’ll wait.”
One Week Later:
The week passed like a fever dream she couldn’t sweat out. By day, she tried to stay busy—answering emails she barely read, cooking meals she didn’t finish, folding the same basket of clothes more times than necessary. Smoke gave her space, and that somehow made it worse. He didn’t push, didn’t crowd her. Just…watched. Waited. Sometimes touched her low on the back when he passed, or brushed his lips against her temple in passing, like he already knew what she was deciding.
And God, maybe he did. Because it wasn’t just the offer that haunted her. It was the look in Stack’s eyes. That knowing, ageless hunger that seemed to see straight through her skin and down to the pulse beneath. That crooked smile, those fangs slipping forward with deliberate ease. The way he’d looked at her like she was ripe fruit he’d waited decades to taste. She was scared. But not of Stack. She was scared of herself.
Of the way her thighs had clenched when he called her sweetness. Of how she kept replaying the moment he licked his teeth and said, “You still don’t get it, do you?”
She wanted to slap him and kiss him in the same breath. And that pissed her off more than anything. The nights were the hardest. She’d lie next to Smoke, curled against the familiar heat of his chest, and find herself wondering what his brother’s skin would feel like. Cooler? Rougher? Would he grip her the same way? Would it hurt? Would it change her? She hated herself for wanting to know.
Until she didn’t.
By the seventh day, she cracked.
The house was quiet. Rain tapped against the windows in slow rhythms. She lit candles, poured a glass of wine—red, almost black in the low light—and sank into the tub. Bubbles lapped at her collarbones. The water was hot enough to flush her skin, to make her limbs loose. And still, she couldn’t relax. Her mind wandered. Stack, in the shadows. Smoke, behind him. Watching. Wanting.
She closed her eyes, letting the water rise over her chest, her neck. She ran her fingers slowly down her stomach, imagining what it would be like to have both their hands on her. One warm, one cool. One familiar, the other forbidden.
What does it feel like to fuck a vampire?
The question echoed. Not whispered in shame—but bold, sensual, pulsing. She’d only seen it in movies. Pale fangs, dramatic moans, red lips, necks bitten in ecstasy. She always rolled her eyes. Now she couldn’t stop imagining it. Stack’s voice in her ear. Smoke’s weight behind her. The air electric. Her body torn between fear and need. She didn’t even realize she was trembling until she took another sip of wine to calm herself. And in that moment—warm, wet, buzzed, aching—Alanna made her choice. She knew Smoke would feel it the moment she made the decision. He’d come to her. And she would let him know.
She was ready.
The air was still heavy with warmth and lilac-scented bathwater. Soft neo-soul played low from the corner speaker, and the candlelight danced against the tile walls, casting shifting shadows over Alanna’s skin. She sat curled in the deep porcelain tub, knees drawn in, wine glass balanced on the lip behind her, her hair damp, her body glistening.
The door opened with a subtle click.
Smoke stepped in, slow and unhurried, as if he’d already known she’d be here—waiting, soaking, thinking.
His eyes found her first. Then the tub. Then the wine.
And then, her eyes.
“Hey,” she said softly, voice slightly hoarse from not speaking.
He didn’t answer at first. Just walked over and sat on the edge of the tub, arms resting on his thighs. Watching her.
“Was wondering where you disappeared to.”
Alanna looked up at him. Her gaze didn’t flinch, “I needed to think.”
He nodded once, “You land on something?”
She breathed in. Out. Steam rose up between them like smoke.
Then—finally, steadily—she said, “I want it.”
Smoke’s brow arched slightly, but his face remained unreadable, “You sure?”
Alanna nodded, “Yeah.”
He leaned in, elbows on his knees, studying her like he was watching the truth rise from her skin, “What made you decide?”
She shifted in the tub, water rippling gently around her thighs. Her eyes dropped—bashful, almost embarrassed—but when she looked back up, it was there. The quiet confidence. The pull she could no longer ignore.
“I don’t know,” she admitted, “It’s just…something about him. The offer. The way he looks at me. I shouldn’t want it. But I do. I’m curious.” She lifted a shoulder, lips twitching faintly, “And maybe I wanna know what it’s like to fuck a twin.”
Smoke gave a low, wicked laugh. His grin was slow, crooked, and too fine for his own good, “Vampire twin,” he corrected.
She smiled then—genuine, soft, “Right. Vampire twin.”
Smoke leaned forward just enough to trail a finger along the rim of the tub, letting the tip skim through the bubbles, “You ever gonna ask me if I’ve done the same?”
Alanna tilted her head, “Have you?”
His eyes found hers again, “Yeah.”
“Really?” she said, teasing, “You’ve fucked a vampire woman before?”
Smoke smirked, “That bother you?”
“I’m not,” she said quickly, “I just—wanna know what I’m getting into.”
His voice dropped an octave, velvet-thick, “It’s an out-of-body experience,” he said, “Literally. Like your nerves split open and something else slips inside to feel it for you. Every stroke feels like a current. Every orgasm feels like it’s made of light…even in the dark. You’ll understand…soon enough.”
Alanna’s breath caught just a little. The room grew warmer.
He leaned in and kissed her forehead—soft, grounding—and then whispered, “Just remember what I told you, baby. You call for me? I’m there. He’s only got what you give.”
She nodded.
And somewhere in the rising steam, in the flicker of candlelight on tile and skin, her choice began to feel less like falling—and more like being pulled somewhere she was always meant to go.
Smoke didn’t rush. He never did. He stood from the edge of the tub and peeled off his shirt slow, letting it drop to the tile without a second thought. The flicker from the corner caught his gold chain, casting light across the ridges of his chest. His pants stayed on, but the imprint of him—thick and ready—pressed bold against the fabric. Alanna watched him move, mouth parting as he reached for the towel, unfolded it with quiet purpose, and held it open.
“Come here.”
She rose without protest, water sliding down her body like it didn’t want to let go. Smoke extended his hand, palm up, waiting for her to take it. Alanna placed her fingers in his grip, the warmth of his skin contrasting the cooling water around her. He pulled her up slowly, water cascading down her body in rivulets, soaking the bath mat beneath her feet. She stood there, naked and exposed, droplets clinging to her breasts, her nipples tightening in the humid air. Smoke's gaze traveled over her, lingering on the curve of her hips, the soft mound of her pussy, already showing a hint of slickness from the tension building between them. He wrapped her in the towel, pulled her close, dried her gently, slowly, like she was something worth preserving. His hands skimmed her back, her thighs, the swell of her hips.
Then he reached for the body oil. Thick. Gold-toned. Warm in his palms. He poured it, rubbed his hands together, and started with her shoulders. Worked it into her skin, watching the gloss spread beneath his touch. Down her arms, across her collarbone, between her breasts. he worked the oil into her skin with firm, deliberate strokes, massaging down her arms, then across her collarbone. His hands glided over her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they pebbled harder, sending sparks through her core. She shivered when he slicked over her stomach—when his thumbs dipped below, grazing the tops of her thighs.
“You have no idea how long I've waited for this,” Smoke said, his breath brushing her ear as he spoke, “To see you give in completely. Experience every bit of it with him. The way he'll stretch you, fill you up until you're shaking. And I'll be right there, watching you surrender, your body arching, begging for more.”
His words wrapped around her like a promise, stirring the ache low in her belly. She could see the bulge in his pants, his dick straining against the fabric, thick and insistent, as he continued rubbing the oil lower, over her stomach, then her thighs. Alanna's breath quickened, her skin tingling under his touch. He knelt slightly to coat her legs, fingers tracing inward, brushing the sensitive skin near her pussy but not quite touching yet. The oil made her glow, slick and inviting, every inch of her body humming with anticipation. Smoke stood, wiping his hands on a towel, but his eyes stayed locked on hers, dark with desire.
“You ready for what’s coming?” he asked low, “For how he gon’ pull sounds outta you you didn’t even know you had? You sure about this?”
She nodded. Barely.
He smiled at that—but there was nothing soft in his gaze now. Just a slow-building hunger, “Good. I want you to remember how you felt right now. Want dripping down your legs, body soft, chest rising like you already halfway gone. I want you to remember I saw it first.”
He directed simply, taking her hand again. They moved into the bedroom, the air cooler but no less charged. He guided her to the bed, the sheets crisp and waiting. Alanna lay back as he positioned her, legs parted just enough, her oiled body sinking into the mattress. Smoke stood above her, her eyes taking in the defined lines of his chest and abs, then he knelt between her thighs, his erection tenting his pants even more prominently. He started slow, pressing a gentle kiss to her inner thigh, lips soft against the oiled skin. Alanna sighed, her hands fisting the sheets. Smoke's mouth moved higher, tongue flicking out for a wet lick along her outer lips, tasting the faint salt of her skin mixed with the oil. He parted her folds with his thumbs, exposing her clit, swollen and pink, and leaned in to deliver a soft suck, drawing it between his lips with just enough pressure to make her hips twitch. Another lick. A thick one—up and flat. Tongue pressing heavy as it slid over her clit. She let out a soft whine. Fingers curled into the sheets.
He took his time. Didn’t rush, didn’t talk. Just stayed focused on the mess she made for him, mouth working like a man who knew exactly what he was doing. His tongue circled slow, then sucked. Just enough to make her toes curl. And then he did it again. And again. Wet licks, soft sucks, mouth greedy. He flattened his tongue and dragged it up through her center, then back down, collecting everything. Cream thick on his chin. She bucked. He held her down. Her legs trembled. He didn’t stop. When she moaned louder—he pulled her closer, one arm locked around her thigh, lips sealed over her clit now. Sucking soft. Pulling slow.
“That's it,” he breathed against her, the warmth of his words vibrating through her core.
His tongue delved deeper, a long, slow lick from her entrance up to her clit, lapping at the gathering wetness. Alanna's pussy responded immediately, juices starting to flow, coating his tongue as he munched gently, lips nibbling the sensitive flesh. He took his time, alternating wet licks that flattened his tongue against her slit with hungry slurps that pulled her arousal into his mouth.
“That's it, spread for me, let me tear this sloppy pussy up,” Smoke rasped, his words vibrating against her core as he flicked his tongue faster, alternating with hard sucks that made her thighs quake.
He slurped up the flood of her arousal, lips smacking greedily, tearing at her with fervent laps that left her pussy throbbing and raw.
“Goddamn, you're so fuckin’ nasty, creaming on my face like a desperate slut. Keep leaking, I wanna drown in it.”
Smoke had her legs open wider, ankles resting on his shoulders, her back arching just slightly off the bed as he settled between her thighs. One strong hand gripped her waist, the other palming under her ass, tilting her up to his mouth just how he wanted. Smoke stopped to stare at her pussy for a moment, glistening, twitching, lips parted soft and creamy. Then he leaned back in.
First kiss was light. A tease. The second? Open-mouthed. Wet. He licked flat and slow, bottom to top, tongue dragging thick and hot through her folds until her thighs jumped and her toes curled.
“Mmm,” he breathed against her, licking again, “Keep them fuckin’ legs open.”
Alanna gasped, thighs quivering as he spread her wider with his hands. His thumbs pressed into the creases of her hips, holding her down while his mouth worked deliberate and slow. He latched onto her clit, sucking gently, then flicking with the tip of his tongue. Soft. Rhythmic. Her hips rolled up, but he pressed her back down.
“Nuh uh,” he warned, pulling back to speak directly against her swollen flesh, “Stay still. Let me eat it how I wanna.”
He spit slow against her pussy, then spread it in with his tongue, sloppy now, audible, his mouth working like he was tasting the last meal of a man about to die.
He groaned low against her, tongue dragging slow through her folds, “Yeah,” he said quietly, “Just like I knew.”
Alanna moaned, hands reaching for his head, fingers curling into his short twists. He let her, just for a second. Then he pulled her closer, burying his face deeper.
“Say my name when I do that,” he growled against her clit, tongue swirling, “Yeah. Right there. Say it again.”
“Smoke…Smoke…Smoke—” She cried out. Not a scream, not a whisper, just raw need, her hips fighting for more friction.
He groaned into her. A deep, hungry sound, “You clenchin’ like you bout to cum. Go ‘head. I want it on my tongue.” He flattened his tongue and licked her in long, slow strokes. Then sucked her clit just once—hard and wet, “Fuck,” he groaned, jaw moving with lazy hunger, “You feel that? That’s you, baby. Creamin’ like a slut.”
She whined his name now, legs shaking. He didn’t stop. His fingers gripped her ass, tilted her up, mouth sealed tight around her clit again, sucking rhythmically until her body writhed under him.
Then, she came.
Hard.
He stayed down, riding the wave, tongue flicking through her aftershocks, lips still working like he was addicted to the taste, “I’ll stay down here all night if you keep feedin’ me like this,” he rasped when he finally pulled back, mouth glistening, beard wet, “You gon’ let him hit after I done opened you up like this?” He leaned over her now, cock bulging behind his zipper, thick and aching, “After I done made you cum just from my mouth?”
She was too breathless to answer.
He smirked, dragged his fingers through her slick, rubbed it against her own lips, “Keep runnin’ from it if you want. Still mine.”
Then he slid two fingers in slow, curling them deep, and lowered his mouth again—ready for another taste.
“Round two,” he said softly, “you ain’t ready for him yet, But you gon’ be.”
Alanna’s legs trembled around Smoke’s shoulders, slick with oil and sweat, her back arched off the bed as his mouth stayed buried in her pussy. No words. Just the sound of him.
Lips suctioned to her clit. Tongue dragging through her folds. The soft slurp of wetness, the heavy breath through his nose. The slow stretch of two thick fingers sliding deep inside her, curling just right —over and over. She choked on a moan, fingers tangled in the sheets, her thighs shaking like a live wire. Her stomach clenched, hips twitching. He didn’t stop. He didn’t stop.The drag of his fingers matched the rhythm of his tongue —slow and deep, then fast and tight, rolling her clit between lips slick with her cream. Her body jerked when he sucked harder, a sudden pulse of pressure that made her cry out.
“Ah—Smoke,” she whimpered, voice breaking.
She couldn’t see his face, just the top of his head between her legs, shoulders flexed as he held her down with strength and hunger and control. His fingers fucked her in steady rhythm, knuckles deep, thumb spreading her folds open while his mouth took everything. Her sounds turned soft and wet, little whines, breathless whimpers, a shaky gasp that turned into a sob.
She was crying now.
Tears slipping from the corners of her eyes as her body locked up. As the build overtook her. He licked deeper. Pressed harder. Sucked like her pussy owed him something. Fingers pumped faster.
Her hands clawed at the bed. One reached down to push, pull—she didn’t know—but he growled low, and her hips dropped again. His mouth sealed tighter. The orgasm hit like a slow collapse.
Her legs gave out. Her body convulsed, locked, shuddered in his grip. Her pussy clenched around his fingers, leaking all over his hand, into his mouth. He held her through it. Licked her through it. Didn’t come up for air. Didn’t move an inch until she was wrung out, boneless, soaked and sobbing, her breath catching on the aftermath of what he just did to her.
Smoke didn’t need to speak. He let her body say it all. He pressed kisses to her pussy like it was his, tongue still flicking lazy against her sensitive bud, drawing every aftershock out until she gasped. Smoke finally rose from between her legs. His lips glistened with her, beard wet, jaw locked with control. He didn’t speak right away. Just wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes fixed on her ruined body sprawled across the sheets.
She was still twitching. Breathing hard. Thighs trembling where he’d left her wide and wet. Then, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats and slid them down slow. Let gravity do the rest. His dick sprang free, thick and heavy, veins bold down the shaft, the tip slick with his own need. He gave it a slow stroke from root to crown, breathing deep through his nose as he walked back to the bed.
Alanna’s eyes dropped instantly. He caught it. She wasn’t ready. Not fully. But she would be.
He climbed up slow, knees sinking into the mattress. One hand stroking his dick, the other pressing soft between her thighs, parting them again. She opened like she belonged that way. He rubbed himself against her. Up and down. Through the mess he made. Her slick coated his shaft in slow, gliding strokes. He dragged the tip from her clit to her entrance and back again, not entering—just teasing. His eyes never left hers.
“You sure you ready to handle my brother?” he asked, voice low, “This dick already got you cryin’.”
She blinked up at him, chest rising. Mouth open. Legs wide.
He smirked.
Then he gripped behind her thigh, pulled her closer, and shifted her body where he wanted her—hips tilted just right, knees up, feet flat.
His dick pushed forward, parting her slow.
One long, smooth stroke.
Deep.
Her mouth dropped open. A small cry escaped. Smoke’s brows lowered, jaw flexed, eyes fixed on where they met. He bottomed out, holding still for a moment, feeling her stretch, feeling her flutter. Then he started to move. Slow at first. Then deeper. He wasn’t giving her anything to hold on to. Just the weight of him. And the quiet promise that no matter what came next, he was the one who’d be inside her first. Inside her best. Inside her always.
“That’s my pussy he gettin’ to fuck,” he said, licking his lips,“I just wanted her nice and full before I shared.”
Smoke stayed deep for a breath, letting her feel the weight of him and every inch. His hands gripped the backs of her thighs and pushed them closer to her chest, bending her easy, folding her open. Then he pulled back slow. All the way to the tip.
Paused. And drove back in.
The sound of it was thick and wet. A deep glide that made her body jolt and her chest rise. Her lips parted around another moan, quiet at first, then louder, strung out by the stretch.
He pulled out again. Slid in deeper this time.
Long strokes. Unhurried. Heavy. Like he was carving his name inside her. Her hands gripped the sheets but didn’t pull. Her eyes stayed locked on where their bodies met, mouth open in a dazed moan that never stopped. She couldn’t look away. Smoke grunted low, rolling his hips forward again, pace steady. He started working a slow rhythm—in and out, in and out—dick dragging along her walls, dragging her moans out with it.
Her pussy made wet, sucking sounds with every push. He tilted his hips on the next stroke, angled just enough to grind deeper. She whimpered. Her eyes rolled halfway back but landed again on his dick, hypnotized. She wasn’t moving. She couldn’t. Just breathing, watching, moaning like a girl possessed. Smoke leaned in, hand slipping under her knee to press it higher. Her thighs trembled. Her mouth dropped wider. Her breath hitched. He smiled, then fucked deeper.
Harder.
She mewled when he hit that spot again. She tightened around him like her body was begging. Her lips shook. But he never stopped. Never changed the pace. Thick. Slow. Deep.
He pulled out almost fully, then glided back in, hips flush, balls tapping the curve of her ass. She whimpered again, breathy and soft like she was about to break. He dropped one hand to her stomach, palm flat, pressing down just enough to feel himself inside her.
Smoke stayed deep. Buried to the hilt.His hips rolled slow, smooth, steady like the rhythm of a man who knew he wasn’t in a rush to finish. Just to feel. Just to own the space inside her.
Each stroke was thick. Full. Controlled. The drag of his dick pulled moans from her that sounded almost involuntary now, soft, breathless, fluttering at the edges. Her eyes fluttered too, lids heavy, lashes wet. She was losing track of time, of breath, of herself. He held her bent and open, legs pushed high, body folded under the weight of his pace.
And still he rolled. Still he fucked.
Still he watched her come undone beneath him, every thrust hitting deep and slow, like his dick was coaxing her into submission. Not with force. With fullness. With rhythm. With pressure. The bed creaked soft beneath them. The air felt hot and close. Her chest lifted in quick, shallow breaths. The kind that couldn’t quite keep up.
Her arms were loose now. Her grip on the sheets had gone slack. Her moans turned weaker. Then smaller. Then faded into tiny gasps. Barely there. Her eyes rolled back, unfocused, fluttering closed for a moment—then again. And he was still fucking her. Still there. Still grinding. His hands moved up, one pressing lightly on her hip to hold her still, the other dragging over her belly, slow and firm, like a reminder that he was deep. That he wasn’t done. Her mouth parted once more and no sound came.
She was gone. Fucked to sleep. Fucked silent.
Her legs fell open wider as her body went limp, her breath evening out into slow, steady exhales. And Smoke gave her a few more strokes, slower now. A final roll of his hips, pushing all the way in and staying there. Watching her. Feeling her. Then he pulled out gently, eyes still locked on her twitching thighs, her leaking pussy, her wrecked body sinking deeper into the sheets.
No words. He didn’t need them. She’d feel it when she woke up. Her body was attempting to give up to sleep—slow breaths, parted lips, thighs still open, glistening and twitching from the stretch. His cum didn’t fill her yet, but she was leaking something rich and messy just from the way he’d worked her open. Her pussy still fluttered in aftershocks, swollen and slick.
And she took it.
The sheets were still damp with sweat and the mess from her pussy when Smoke finally eased away from between her thighs, his tongue and dick leaving her fluttering and wrung out. He kissed her stomach, her hip, her inner thigh, and slid beneath the covers, pulling her close until her body fit into his like a final exhale. Even as her eyes closed. Even as Smoke’s breath steadied beside her. Her body wouldn’t settle. Her mind was adrift. Something in her pulsed too loud beneath the surface. And when sleep finally came, it didn’t come gently.
It opened her.
The sheets still held the scent of her. Smoke’s mouth had been between her legs not long ago, and his tongue had left her trembling and glassy-eyed, her body drenched in a quiet kind of aftershock. He’d kissed her thighs, her belly, the slope of her hip, and then folded her into him beneath the covers like a secret tucked away in warmth. His breathing slowed. His grip around her waist settled into something tender.
But Alanna’s body didn’t quiet. Her skin still tingled. Her pulse dragged slow and thick through her limbs, like a storm hovering just off the coast.
She closed her eyes.
But sleep didn’t soothe her.
It seized her.
And took her somewhere else entirely.
She stood naked in front of a tall mirror that glimmered like a pool of obsidian. Her skin glowed bronze beneath the low, golden light of flickering candles. Her nipples were taut. Her petite frame reflected back at her as though the mirror wanted her just as much as the man behind her did. Her hair spilled over her bare shoulders in loose waves, still wild from earlier, and her thighs gleamed like polished silk, as though someone had already touched her there. But it wasn’t Smoke.
Not here.
The room shimmered. The air was thick and warm, perfumed with jasmine, ripe blood orange, something smoky, and something older—leather damp from rain. The floor beneath her was dark wood, cool against her feet. Behind her, walls loomed deep blue, almost black, hung with heavy drapery that moved as if it breathed.
Can you make a story where reader moan another man’s name while in bed with her boyfriend. But the name she moaned was his best friend since prek. Black reader x toji
You can make any changes you see fit
cw : dom!toji + mean!toji :( , bāckshōts + bathroom/mirror!sex + a teensy bit of prōne bōne, toji bottoming out! + not proofread (sorry luvs)
❤︎ wc: 913
“mm’jii! too much!” your nails dig into the sheets below you for leverage. subconsciously moving your hips forward away from toji’s hellish hips.
“nuh uh, don’t run mama. take.it.” you feel his large hand grip the back of your neck, pushing down and locking you onto the bed. his other hand giving generous cracks on your ass.
you really don’t remember how you got into this position, but, who cares because when toji’s rearranging your guts, your world goes blank. your eyes are locked in the back of your head, lips parted while saliva runs down your cheek to the bed, legs loosing their sense of feeling due to you being locked in toji’s grasp.
“hey, don’t go passing out on me just yet baby.” you felt slight slaps across your cheek, bringing you back to reality. his vicious pounding continued sending you into a daze that you could never escape from.
one thing toji fushiguro likes to do is fucking tease.
his fake pity tones, mocking your whines and whimpers when you tell him “it’s t’much!” or “take some outt!” he always expects those cute tears to run down your cheeks by the end of the first round.
but today’s different, you were tired of him always getting a laugh when he sees you take him. so why not give him a taste of his own medicine!
“o-oh shit. i’m close ‘fuck’ take this f-fucking cum.” toji groaned. his hips faltered in speed, your pussy sounding sloppier and sloppier with each thrust. his hand behind your neck loosened as he started to pushing his weight onto you.
“oh fuh-huck!” he bottoms out, he’s fully rested on top of you now, his warm ropes of cum decorated your pretty walls. his head rests on the side of your cheek, one of his hands still wrapped around your wrist to keep you from running, like you could go anywhere. his other that previously rested on the back of your neck, now in the front.
this was the most vulnerable he was, meaning all he was focused on was unloading in your pussy. this was your opportunity!
“mm-fuck! shiu- tojii!!” it was faint and muffled in the bedding underneath. it didn’t take long until toji fully registered what you moaned out, it wasn’t just the typical babbling you did when he bottoms out in you, no. more like a name that didn’t belong to him.
“what was that princess? w’nna repeat that f’me?” his tone was stern, it was a demand. “what? fuck you so dumb you can’t here me?” his fingers tighten around your throat, coaxing a silent moan out of you.
“i-i said m’fuck ‘oji!” you fibbed, feeling toji’s eyes piercing through your soul. he shook his head gave a low dangerous chuckle.
“y’know i don’t like lies 𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི, repeat what you said.” his hips started to grind against the fat of your as, now painted with light maroon bruises and bite marks. done by yours truly.
“m’n-not lying jiji!” fibbing again!
toji shook his head again.
not even a second passes before toji’s roughly picking you up off the bed, carrying you to the bathroom mirror. forcing you to bend over the sink. your trembling legs being the only source of support you have keeping you up.
“ill give you one last chance baby.” he loomed over your trembling body, large hands gripping the edges of the sink and the sides of your waist. you whine as you felt his cum drizzle down your thighs to the floor, elbows starting to to sore as they propped you up. fearful of what would be your punishment if you told the truth.
“m’not! oh — fuhhck!” his grip makes home under your chin has he thrusts in you. his hips slamming into the plush of your ass, reciprocating loud smacks bouncing off the bathroom walls.
“think shiu could fuck you better than this? cryin’ like a bitch on this f-fucking dick.” he forced you to look up into the mirror, tear stained cheeks welcoming more as they prickle from your glossy eyes.
“w-was joking jiji’! y’er always s’mean t’meee!” the elongated whine rolled off your tongue, digging your nails into the marble sink. your eyes rolled to the back of your head, tongue lolling out of your mouth. “look at yourself or ill stop”
another harsh slap cracked against your cheek, his grip switched to your cheeks. forcing your lips to pucker and and eyes to squint.
his much larger figure towers over you as he continued to pound into you, his tongue brushing against your earlobe as dirty teases fun off of it.
“yea keep cryin’ princess. you can take this shit.” ❤︎
“this is what you wanted yea? get me riled up so i can fuck you till you’re cryin’?” ❤︎
“who does this pussy belong to?” ❤︎
you don’t know how many times you’ve came, maybe one or four times? a messy puddle forming on the tiled floor. another crack came across your cheek. “answer me baby.” halting his harsh thrusts bottoming out in you, grinding himself deeper and deeper into your sore pussy.
“y-yourssuhh!” you whine. being so tired and dumbed out. “i don’t know a ‘yoursuhhh’ baby, try. again.” those last to words followed with two deep thrusts, inducing loud squeals out of you.
“y-yours toji! mmgh! it’s your f-fuhcking pussyyyy!” you whined, squirting all over him and the bathroom floor.
“that’s right princess, fuck, don’t get it twisted.”
Summary: You will forever be grateful for the opportunity to reconnect with a childhood friend.
Pairing: Cameron Cade x Black f!reader
Warnings: smutty smut, cursing, use of n-word, unprotected sex, rough sex, dirty talk, praise, come play, slight public sex
Word count: 3.7k
Part two | Part three
Kinktober 2025 Masterlist
The clock above the reception desk ticked past twelve-thirty, the only sound in the wide, empty studio apart from the clink of iron and the dull whir of the ceiling fans.
You had already turned off the front lights; only the emergency row remained on, a pale sliver of light breaking through the darkness.
Cameron Cade was still in the weight room; you could see him through the glass. His white tank top was stuck to his back, each repetition a slow roll of muscle and breath. The man didn’t work out for fun; he worked out like he had something to prove. You knew from the beginning that it was due to the unrelenting pressure of his father. That man pushed Cam too much. You brought it up to your father once, but of course he told you to stay in a child’s place. Still, Cam always had to go the extra mile. It wasn’t surprising that now you both were in your early twenties that his determination was the same, if not worse.
You drummed your coffin-shaped nails against the countertop, trying your best not to look as irritated—or as distracted—as you actually were.
"Cam, nigga, you know I close at midnight!"
He grinned without looking up. "Clock says twelve-thirty. That's still tonight, right?"
You crossed your arms. "You're lucky you family; if you weren't, I'd have locked yo beige ass out already."
"I'm not family," he replied, chuckling softly while racking the barbell. "Not by blood anyway."
That line made your pulse spike for a beat or two or three. He was right. His dad and your dad were best friends. You two would hang out a lot as kids, but your mom got full custody of you in eighth grade, so you didn’t see him as much after that. The fact that you two went to different high schools didn’t help either. Still, the unspoken tension between you two was getting harder and harder to ignore. At least on your part.
He turned and wiped the sweat from his jaw with the edge of his shirt, and the grin turned into something almost shy.
Almost.
You snatched a towel and tossed it in his direction. "You smell like sweat and stubbornness."
"And you love my sweat and stubbornness," he retorted, catching it easily with one hand.
The silence filled with the sound of his breathing—slow, heavy, and too loud in the near-empty space.
He was leaning on one of the benches, big hands braced, head tipped slightly forward; a droplet of sweat slid down his neck and disappeared below his collar.
You found yourself staring and turned quickly toward the hallway. "I’m lockin’ up."
“Gimme five, Y/N,” he said, voice still that deep roughness.
“Mannn,” you rolled your eyes again and kissed your teeth. “You said that shit forty-five minutes ago.”
"Maybe I say a lot of shit I don't mean."
Oop, you weren't touching that one with a ten-foot pole; that could mean anything. That was too loaded.
You huffed, faking annoyance, but the corner of your mouth curling upwards betrayed you.
You walked across the hall and turned up the thermostat for the sauna—your little sanctum, especially after a sixteen-hour shift. The steam system hissed faintly from the back corridor.
You loved to decompress in the sauna after hours for an hour or so. Especially after long-ass days like today. It was hard work owning a gym, but you wouldn’t trade it for the world.
You took off your t-shirt and gym shorts, leaving you only in a black two-piece bathing suit. Normally you’d go naked in just a towel, but since Cameron was still there, you decided to at least keep something on. You unsnapped your smartwatch and set it next to your phone and other belongings in the cubby.
Cameron casually sauntered up behind you, his short hair damp and a fresh shirt slung over his shoulder. His whole body glistened from residual sweat and the wet veiling of eucalyptus oil from the towel rack in the weight room.
“Damn, Y/N. You ever get tired of the sauna?”
“Damn, Cam.” You retorted, mockingly throwing your arms up. “You ever get tired of elevated goblet squats?”
He threw his head back and laughed. “Damn, girl. You been comin’ for me all day.”
His laugh was so contagious you couldn’t help but let out a laugh of your own as you kicked off your shoes and socks. “Because you’ve been a pain in my ass since we were 11 years old!”
“Aight. Mind if I join you?”
You pinched the bridge of your nose and sighed deeply. “I just need one hour of quiet.”
“I can keep quiet.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, right. Come on, I guess.” And you shook your head, grabbing a towel off the rack.
He laughed again, low and effortless. The sound followed you as you pulled the door open; a surge of heat washed out, thick and aromatic. You could feel him behind you, still smirking as he quickly stripped down to his briefs and grabbed another towel himself, still too close.
“You really cool with me comin’ along?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you can behave or not.”
“Well, we’ll see,” he murmured.
The door clicked shut behind him, and the heat enveloped you both instantly. The steam unit began to hiss in the small cedar room, a steady exhale that seemed to make everything else silent.
You moved over to the control panel and tapped it down a few degrees; the numbers glowed orange through the haze.
"You sure you don't mind it this hot?" you asked, glancing back toward him.
"Two-a-days in August?" Cam let out a quiet snort. “Shit. This is a damn vacation."
You found a seat on the lower bench, towel tied around your hips, head back with your feet out. He sat down on the other bench, fists clasped around his knees, already beginning to glisten on his shoulders with sweat.
For a moment, neither one of you said anything. Just enjoying the sounds of slow breaths and the slow drip of condensation off the ceiling. The quietness between you felt familiar yet charged.
He was the first to break the silence.
“You still with that hoe-ass, septum-piercing-havin' ass nigga, Lorenz?”
It took everything in you not to laugh, so you quipped back. “You still with that self-hating, blue-eye-contact-wearin' ass hoe Katina?”
After staring at each other for a record-breaking four seconds, you both burst into laughter, leaning forward with your hands clutching your bellies.
“Man, you should’ve seen her when she switched to the green ones.”
You threw your head back, cackling.
“And that is why I used to close my eyes during missionary. I just couldn’t take that shit anymore,” he added.
“Nigga, shut up! My stomach hurts!”
He slapped his knee, still laughing.
Eventually, both of you composed yourselves, the air still buzzing with amusement.
You leaned back and sighed deeply. “But nah, I ain’t with him no more.”
“What happened?”
“He broke up with me last Christmas,” you said with a shrug. “Gave me some lame-ass excuse that I put more effort into this gym than I did into him…”
“Fuck that,” he shook his head. “His lame ass should’ve been proud of what you built. I know I am.”
You smiled softly at him, heart racing. “Thanks, Cam.”
He nodded back with a smile. “I’m not with Kat anymore either; she said I had more love for the game than her and dumped my ass four months ago via text message.”
You scoffed, shaking your finger, “If she knew you at all, she’d know you actually fuckin’ hate football.”
He didn’t agree or disagree. The heavy look he gave you said enough. You were one of the few people who saw through his father’s bullshit. Still, he wasn’t ready to admit the true reason he actually played, and you didn’t blame him.
After a few more seconds passed, he asked another question, changing the subject.
“How’s the gym been treatin’ you?”
“Good. I can’t complain, really. I hired a couple of new trainers. They'll be startin’ next week.”
“Still runnin’ those free Pilates classes?”
“Yup,” you nodded. “Every Monday and Wednesday. You could show up sometimes instead of comin’ in after hours like a ninja.”
He smiled. “But then I’d be missin’ out on all this peace and quiet.”
You rolled your eyes. “Mmhmm.”
The heat made everything slower and softer. He leaned back, stretched his legs out, the corners of his mouth twitched as if he was about to say something and decided better of it.
"What?" you asked.
"Nothing. Just... crazy seeing you again after all this time."
"You've been comin’ to my gym for months now."
"Yeah, but every now and then it still feels like we’re twelve, arguin’ over whose turn it was to feed that pregnant stray cat."
That got a delightful laugh out of you, bright, sudden, filling the shared space. You shifted to stretch your calf, and that's when he saw it.
"Ayo, hold up." He frowned. "What is that ink on your ankle?"
"What?" You grumbled, trying to hide it.
"That little shape—don't tell me that’s—" He leaned forward more, squinting through the steam. When you didn't say anything, he stood, crossing the short distance between the two benches. His hand found your shin before you thought to stop him, and he lifted it with ease, causing your towel to loosen up.
"No way." He breathed, pushing the towel at your ankle gently aside. "Is that... peanut butter?"
You winced, a little embarrassed. "I kept my promise."
A little over a decade ago, you both were preteens, promising each other that as soon as you turned eighteen, you’d get matching PB&J tattoos. He’d get the jelly half, and you’d get the peanut butter.
"You actually did it?"
"Five years ago."
He shook his head, a grin breaking through the disbelief. "You got the peanut butter and never told me."
"We lost touch after eighth grade..."
"Yeah, I know, but—damn, that was our thing. PB & J forever."
"I just assumed you forgot."
"Forgot?" He said, still holding your ankle like it was evidence, his thumb rubbing absent-mindedly in the beads of sweat. "I've been carryin' the sketch for the jelly part in my wallet since high school."
That admission sat between you two in the heat—sweat, steam, and a hundred unsaid memories wrapped around the two of you.
He finally looked up at you, eyes soft, wondering. "Guess we were always meant to finish what we started, huh?"
You smiled, heart tripping over itself. It was right at that moment when the air turned from nostalgia to something that felt heavier. The heater hissed, filling the quiet. Almost as if it was warning you of what was to come.
"Umm...you can let go of my leg now, Cam."
He raised an eyebrow and tightened his grip around your ankle. "What if I don't want to let go?"
You inhaled sharply, and your stomach jerked as if you were on an 80 foot rollercoaster drop. "Cam—“
"—And you don't want me to let go either."
You didn’t even have time to fix your lips to lie before he moved. With an athletic quickness, he snatched your towel and removed his own before he plopped back down on the bench, pulling you into his lap.
You could feel his erection through his briefs as you straddled him, your anxious hands resting on his pecs.
He looked up at you, sporting that small grin you couldn't resist, his palms now resting on your thighs. "Feel what you do to me?"
You failed to suppress your whimper. "Cameron, I think we should talk first before we—"
"We can talk later,” he dismissed calmly. “I'm ready for us both to finally find out how good I can stretch that pussy."
That last sentence was more than enough to ruin your restraint. You leaned down, crushing your lips to his in a long-awaited kiss. He cupped your face, deepening the kiss, while his free hand slid up to your waist, pulling you down against him into a slow grinding motion.
You’d imagined how your first kiss would be too many times to count. Still, your imagination didn’t have shit on reality.
You moaned softly as his tongue slipped past your lips, curling against yours. He grunted softly as you ground down harder, bikini bottoms no longer damp from just the steam and sweat.
He broke the kiss and leaned back, gaze never leaving yours as he freed himself. Your eyes flickered down, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you watched him stroke himself lazily.
“Hmm,” you hummed curiously. “I always wondered why you stopped wearin’ the jersey with the number eight. Got tired of advertisin’ what you was packin’ in them football pants, huh?”
He chuckled softly. “Shut yo ass up, Y/N.”
You giggled softly as you smacked his hand away, gripping the base of his dick and squeezing as you stroked up and down his length.
“Shit,” he cursed under his breath.
His hand slithered between your thighs, long fingers finding your clit with ease. His thumb circled your clit slowly through your bathing suit, and your eyes fluttered closed, grip tightening as you stroked him faster.
“Uh-uh,” he admonished. “Let me see those pretty eyes.”
You opened them as soon as the command fell from his lips, brown eyes locking onto his again. He didn’t have to say a word. His eyes were loud enough. Warm hazel with teeny flecks of green that caught the light just right, like a secret only you were meant to unfold.
He free hand pulled your bottoms to the side as his thumb continued to make circles against your clit. His middle finger swiped up your slit, coating the digit before he slipped it inside you.
You gasped, “Cameron—“ jacked movements paused at the base of his length for a second or two as he inserted a second finger without warning.
“Mmhmm,” he smirked, curling his fingers to a deliberate angle before he set a skilled pace, hard and deep. “I gotta stretch you a little bit more, baby.”
You didn’t even bother responding. You just nodded and moaned louder.
“You got a condom?” He asked.
You bit the inside of your cheek, but your sarcastic response escaped anyway. “Oh sure! I always bring a magnum into the sauna!”
He shook his head, smiling fondly up at you. “I walked right into that one, huh?”
“Just don’t come inside me, and we should be good.” Your laugh trailed off into a high-pitched moan as he fingered you faster, adding pressure to the circles on your clit.
That tight coil in your belly started to unravel. Your hand movements slowed as you tried to warn him. “Cam—shit—wait a sec, baby. I’m gonna—“
“I’m not stoppin’ until you come on my fingers,” he said. “Give it to me.”
He curled his fingers just a little more, the wet squelching sounds of his fingers stretching you filled the sauna, and before you knew it you were coming. A small shout escaped your throat as he continued fingering you through your orgasm.
Eventually he slowed, fingers slipping out of you when you let out an overstimulated whimper. His gaze stayed locked onto you as he brought his fingers pushed into his mouth, sucking your wetness clean off, moaning loud as if it were the best thing that ever happened to his taste buds.
You took two more deep breaths before asking as you pulled at the knot tied on the side of your bikini bottoms. “You want to put it in, or should I?”
“Uh-uh,” he smacked your hand away. “I want to do the honors.”
You couldn’t help but snort. He was just so damn goofy. Genuinely, one of your favorite things about him.
With a flick of his wrist, your bottoms were off and tossed to the floor. You lifted your hips slightly so he could push his underwear down past his knees, kicking them to the side once they fell to his ankles. You raised your arms and pulled your top off, hands coming back down to rest on his chest as he lined the tip of his dick with your entrance.
He pushed inside, and you inhaled sharply. You had to take a deep breath, reminding yourself to relax.
He grunted, one hand moving to your waist as the other helped push past your tight folds. “Goddamn, baby. Relax,” he groaned deeply. “Stop pushin’ a nigga out.”
“Stop splittin’ me open!” You retorted as you sank down further, ass seated against his thighs. “Big dick havin’ ass nigga,” you mumbled lowly.
“What was that?” He raised an eyebrow.
You shrugged, “I ain’t even say nothing.”
You rocked slowly until you opened up more, completely adjusting. You began to bounce, and he threw his head back. “I’mma tell you now. You got about ten minutes before I come. That pussy tight as fuck.”
You giggled. “I’m cool with that cause my knees got about eight minutes left before they give out.”
He chuckled loudly, cupping the back of your head and pulling you down into a kiss.
Your head felt light from the heat and exertion, but you weren’t going to let that stop you. You bounced harder even though you knew your knees were going to curse you; smooth the fuck out in the morning.
Oh, well.
You leaned back up, eyes fluttering closed as you tilted your head back. His large hands cupped your breasts, fingers teasing at your dark nipples.
“Goddamn,” he groaned. “You know how many times I imagined this?”
“I doubt as many times as me.”
“So pretty bouncin’ on this dick.” He praised, one hand dropping from your breast and sliding down your stomach to your wet pussy. He circled your clit hard and fast. “Give me another one.”
You whimpered as you felt another orgasm approaching, your body tingling all over. “Please don’t stop.”
“Come for me again.” he inhaled sharply as he felt your walls squeeze his dick even tighter.
Your second climax surged through you like a lightning strike. You yelped, coming harder than the first time.
“I can’t take it anymore.” He said as he gripped both sides of your hips, thrusting up into you like a madman as he chased his release.
“Fuuuck! Cam—” your breathy moans broke off into a choked sob, fingernails digging into his shoulders.
“You feel so fuckin’ good,” he praised. “Shit, shit, shit. I’m ’bout to come. Where you want it?”
“C—come on my fa—face!” you managed to get out in between harsh pants. He let out a noise that sounded like a growl and whimper as he pounded into you a few more times before pulling out.
“On your knees.”
You hopped off him, dropping to the floor, sticking your tongue out as he stood above you, jacking his dick once, twice, before coming all over your face with loud curses and groans.
The warm come painted your cheeks, and a few drops landed on your tongue, so you swallowed, surprised that he didn’t taste as salty as you imagined. That high-protein diet he was on had you worried for a moment.
His dick was still hard as he stood there, panting harshly while he looked down at your come-covered face as if you hung the moon.
“How in the fuck are you still hard after that?” You asked, fingers scooping some of the come off your cheek and licking it.
He laughed breathlessly. “I knew you’d match my freak.”
You blinked at him, still licking your fingers.
“Fuuuck. I can come again—just really fast,” he grunted softly as he began to stroke himself again. “Where do you want it this time, baby?”
“On my tits.” You smirked.
You counted each stroke. Once he got to eleven, he gasped sharply, reopes of white coating your nipples as he spilled all over your chest. Not as much as the first time, but enough to make you a mess.
He dropped to his knees, crawling closer to you, analyzing all the evidence he left on you. He cupped your face, rubbing his come into your chin.
You laughed, “If you fuck up my skincare, I will sue yo ass into a new millennium.”
He threw his head back and laughed loud as hell.
Eventually he stood up, pulling you with him. “Let’s hit the showers.”
“Give me a sec. My legs clocked out five minutes ago.”
He scooped you up, carrying you out of the steamy room and down the back hallway to the showers as if you weighed nothing. Your legs were out of commission. It had been over a year since you last had sex, let alone rode a dick. Your legs were sore as if you just finished 100 reps of Bulgarian split squats.
20 minutes later you were both clean, come and sweat-free. You just stood under the spray, hugging each other.
You finally had the courage to say to him what you’d been wanting to for a long time.
“Your father,” you started, voice soft but sure as you looked up into his eyes. “You need to tell him that football is not where your heart is and it never has been.”
He huffed out a short laugh, looking down at you, his jaw tense now. "Yeah, right. You know he ain’t exactly the listenin' type."
“I don’t care,” you said, your tone sharpening. “Make him hear you. It’s time for Cameron Cade to walk in his own shoes.”
That landed. The defensive edge in his posture eased; shoulders relaxed, jaw unclenched.
He closed his eyes for a few seconds and sighed deeply, considering your words. When he opened them, his eyes were glassy with determination. “You always did talk to me like I was worth a damn,” he acknowledged.
“You are,” you answered simply. “You always will be.”
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Since I’ll be in the hospital for a while, I figured I’d post some my drafts for entertainment :)!
Summary: You and a troublesome man you like more than you let on…in the end it’s easy.
Contains: smut, a dash of degradation, established enough relationship, fat d!ck Stack because LOOK at him, country accents, rough s€x, manhandling, multiple ørgasms, overstimulation, he puts it zowwwwnnnn, gives you some of that “move yo hand”, mating press dirty talk, petnames, fucking filthy kissing, cuddles, and as per usual- this is for the ✋🏽 strictly for the ✊🏽
Stack purrs out against the bare leg that’s currently hiked over his broad shoulder, voice dripping with condescension that’s a lot sweeter than the way he’s fucking into you.
The question is mean but it has its intended effect.
Goosebumps break over the surface of your flushed skin, choking on a whiny moan, cunt pulsating so tightly around him that he can feel you in his bones. A flurry of hiccuping sobs pour from your mouth cause you’re close. Again. Ordinarily, you’d try to defend your good name since you really were in fact not easy…or at least not until you’d met Stack. You’d heard of him before but never had the pleasure of making his acquaintance until he came strolling through your moms shop one day and found you instead.
At first you were stunned just making eye contact with him. Lidded brown eyes, dimples, plump lips- the gold on his teeth glinting at you and damn he was tall. Strutting up to introduce himself to you, accent thick with charm. However, you’d already heard of him and his way of giving women the roundabout and you’d decided right then and there that you’d be damned 11 ways to Sunday before you ever caught yourself on your back or knees for him.
Unfortunately, he was as relentless as he was gorgeous. Steadily pursuing you with the devil in his eyes and a grin on those full lips. Always hanging around- then, he’d disappear. As indifferent as you tried to be, dancing around his advances with light giggles and playful hands, when he’d vanish, you’d find yourself missing his face- or rather- his way of being, more like. See, Stack had this carefree almost cavalier demeanor but he was firm too. To you, that was his most attractive quality.
And he’d picked up on it. That you liked when he was a little firm with you.
From there all it took was a kiss.
Just barely brushing your lips when he leaned down, whispering teasingly against your lips, finger underneath your chin and you couldn’t keep the want from dripping out your eyes if you tried.
“Stop playing with me.”
To your surprise but not his- you listened.
Funny how you were so determined not to fall into his gravity and now look at you; sweat out hairstyle, sheer stockings ripped to hell along with your bra and underwear, being manhandled every which way, stretched out and creaming around the fattest cock you’ve ever had in your life as you moan in bliss- loving it.
Stack’s thrusts are deliciously brutal, hips snapping into yours while your legs hang over his shoulders like some harlot and sounding just like one, mouth dropped open while you cry and whine real pretty for him. Hissing through his teeth at the sight you make, Stack wedges his hands underneath the arch at the base of your back and grips tight- using your body as leverage to fuck into you even deeper. If the heat of the room wasn’t making you delirious then the way the fat head of his was smushing rough kisses into that soft patch of nerves would definitely do the trick. If this is what playing hard to get gets you then you’re seriously considering becoming a professional.
It gets to the point where your pussy is almost as loud as you are, prompting Stack to look down. A loud whistle barely makes it through the fog in your head and you try to bring your vision to focus. Your heart is going at least 100 miles per minute and you squeak as your legs are pushed so far back that your knees are touching your ears, Stack moving directly on top of you. Where the sudden flexibility came from you had no clue- but your awe is almost immediately overtaken by how full the new position has you feeling.
“O-oooh!”
Stack bites his lip as he watches your pretty face melt in pleasure, your normally sleepy eyes pop wide open, brows drawn together like you’re about to cry, lips forming that sexy ‘o’ as he slows down his strokes- letting you feel every inch of him. You were so gorgeous. Naked curves and soft skin crashing and rolling back into him then wrapping around even though you initially wanted damn near nothing to do with him. The thought makes him smirk in satisfaction until he’s brought out of his thoughts by the feel of your trembling hand just above where your bodies are connected. He pulls out halfway nice n slow, looking down to see what the fuss is and his heart almost pounds out of his chest.
Slathered all over his dick, is milky white. It streams out generously from your hole around where he’s stuffed in and Stack feels himself start to lose his mind a little bit as he moans out,
“Yeahhh mamas, she’s real easy f’me…”
He doesn’t take his eyes off your cunt as he slams back in with a wet ‘plap’- throwing his head back with a deep groan. The sound is so primal it sends nasty shivers up your spine but you don’t move your hand and he’s folding you even deeper, lowering his upper body almost completely against yours, pelvis grinding against your clit and you gasp wetly. Stack is wild, sucking bruising kisses into your neck, tongue trailing hotly up to your mouth to claim it in a deep kiss. It’s consuming. His big tongue flattening against yours in maddening swipes, sucking the muscle sloppily into his own mouth making you lightheaded- blood rushing through your ears as he starts his hips up again, grinding away at that spot inside you but not quite as deep and he pulls away.
He watches you gasp desperately, moving not even an inch away from your face as he nips at your bottom lip, soothing the sting with his tongue before whispering inside your mouth- eyes glazed,
“Move that hand, baby.”
Your name might as well be Sunday morning cause that’s exactly how easy you are, body obeying him before you even tell it to. As soon as you do, he doesn’t waste a second, big hands hook underneath your knees- railing you stupid. He’s not even trying to think straight, caught up in in not just the heat but how tight- how creamy- you are. Letting out a string of swears, he captures your mouth in another overwhelming kiss, cock aching while he swallows your wails as you twitch and shake around him.
You can’t take anymore. Stack gives another harsh, slick roll of his pelvis into your swollen nub while battering that tender spot inside you and you’re coming. And Jesus Christ on a bike- you’re coming hard. Clawing at Stack’s beefy muscles, a swarm of stars completely eclipse your vision while you’re shocked with wave after wave of vicious pleasure. You’re so loud you struggle recognize your own voice but Stack’s is clear as the ecstasy pumping through your body. Filthy words of praise and encouragement directly in your ear, prolonging your orgasm.
“Thaaat’s it, dollface.. aalll over me…”
Tears spill from your eyes and you’re close to tapping out when Stack buries his head into your chest, taking one of your puffy nipples into his mouth, thrusts slowing as he shoots deep inside your heat with a muffled groan, stuffing your hole to the brim until he pops off your tit with a satisfied sigh.
You’re tired, your back is killing you, and your shaking like a baby deer but a grin makes its way onto your lips regardless as Stack kisses all over you, pulling out slowly, warm eyes checking over your form for any sign of discomfort while you bask in the coziness after, closing your eyes to enjoy a much needed break until he interrupts it. Kissing your cheek in that tender way he does when he’s fixing to look after you.
“You okay? Ain’t hurtin’ none?”
You shake you head, eyes closed even as he pats you dry gently with his shirt, tossing on the floor when he’s done. Less sweaty, it’s easier for you to nap but something was missing. Reaching up, your hand swipes though the air as you blindly reach for him, eventually catching his chain as you yank him down next to you with a soft pleased little hum. Yes, you’d sleep just fine now.
And when you wake up?
You’re face to face with a big rock on your finger.
D.W 𓂃 explicit sexual content, prone bone position, rough sex, dirty talk, dominance
You can barely breathe.
Not because Dean's hand is pressed between your shoulder blades—though it is, firm and possessive, keeping you pinned to the mattress—but because of the angle. The depth. The way he's got you completely trapped beneath him, his weight pressing you down into the bed while he drives into you from behind.
"Fuck, sweetheart," Dean groans above you, his voice rough and strained. "You feel that? Feel how deep I am?"
You can't answer. Can't do anything but whimper into the pillow, your fingers clutching at the sheets as he pulls out slowly and then pushes back in, the angle making you see stars.
"Asked you a question," he says, and there's that edge of command in his voice that makes your whole body clench around him.
"Yes," you gasp out. "God, yes, Dean—"
"That's my girl."
His hips roll forward again, and the pressure is overwhelming. With your legs stretched out flat beneath him and his body covering yours completely, there's nowhere to go, no way to escape the relentless pleasure. Every thrust hits deeper than you thought possible, and you're so full you can barely think.
Dean's hand slides from your back to your hip, gripping hard enough to leave marks. His other hand tangles in your hair, not pulling, just holding, keeping you exactly where he wants you.
"Love having you like this," he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. "Completely at my mercy. Can't move, can't do anything but take it."
A broken moan escapes you because he's right. You're utterly helpless beneath him, pinned by his weight and his strength, and it's the hottest thing you've ever experienced.
"Dean, please—"
"Please what, baby?" He punctuates the question with a particularly deep thrust that has you crying out. "You want more? Want it harder?"
"Yes, fuck, yes—"
He doesn't make you ask twice.
The pace changes, becomes rougher, more demanding. The sound of skin against skin fills the room along with your desperate whimpers and Dean's low groans. His weight presses you deeper into the mattress with every thrust, and the friction, the pressure, the impossible depth—it's too much and not enough all at once.
"So fucking perfect," Dean growls. "Taking me so well, sweetheart. Look at you, pinned down and loving every second of it."
Your response is incoherent, just a string of broken pleas and his name, over and over.
Dean's hand releases your hair to slide beneath you, finding where you're most sensitive, and the added stimulation makes you sob into the pillow.
"That's it," he encourages, his fingers moving in tight circles while he continues to drive into you. "Come on, baby. Want to feel you come like this. Want to feel you fall apart while I've got you pinned down and helpless."
The combination of his words, his touch, and the relentless pressure of him inside you is devastating. Your orgasm builds fast and hits harder, crashing through you in waves that have you shaking beneath him, crying out his name.
"Fuck, yes," Dean groans, his rhythm faltering as you clench around him. "That's my girl. So fucking good—"
He follows you over the edge moments later, his weight pressing you completely flat as he buries himself as deep as possible, his own release shuddering through him.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. You're both breathing hard, Dean's forehead resting against your shoulder, his body still covering yours completely.
"Jesus," he finally mutters, pressing a kiss to your neck. "You okay, sweetheart?"
You manage a breathless laugh. "More than okay."
"Good." Another kiss, this one to your jaw. "'Cause we're definitely doing that again."
You don't argue.
When he finally shifts his weight off you, rolling to the side and pulling you with him, you're boneless and satisfied. Dean tucks you against his chest, his hand running soothingly up and down your spine.
"You're incredible, you know that?" he murmurs into your hair.
You smile against his skin, still catching your breath, still feeling the pleasant ache of him everywhere.
thinking…about divorced!dilf!old men sam and dean w reader 🤤
mmm yes yes
˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ ⌇DEAN WINCHESTER.
warnings 𖨂 NSFW. MDNI. fem!reader, au: divorced!dilf!dean, age gap (reader in her 20s), p in v, doggy style, daddy kink, light choking, squirting, fauxcest
“So fuckin’ tight,” Dean Winchester breathes into your ear as he laces his hand around the front of your body and lets his palm rest at the base of your throat. He squeezes his hand, pulsating his fingers on your skin until he hears you sputtering beneath him. Your hole tightens every time Dean wraps his hand around your throat, the control he has over you erotic and all consuming. As soon as Dean lets go of your neck, he presses his hand into your hips, steadying you as he plows you from the back, his pace quick and calculated.
“Dad-!” You can’t even finish the word “daddy” as he rams into you, the tip of his cock pressing against the sweet spongy spot that makes your back curl and eyes roll. You want to tell him to slow down, that you’re not going to last if he keeps fucking you like this, but the words are caught in your throat, and each time his cock kisses your g-spot, you feel like you can’t breathe.
“Dad?” Dean mocks, though, that word rolling from your tongue made his stomach tighten, and caught him off guard just enough to stutter the pace. “That gets you off, huh, baby? Calling me dad, knowing I’m way too old for you?”
The way your walls clench around his cock is proof that you get off on his— what Dean would call— ‘dilf status.’ Your body goes limp beneath him, the rush of liquid shooting out of you as he finds that beautiful rhythm once more. Even though you can’t see Dean’s face, you hear the smile in his voice, “atta girl. Makin’ a mess. That’s okay, I’ll fix you up, princess.”
˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ ⌇SAM WINCHESTER.
warnings 𖨂 NSFW. MDNI. fem!reader, oral (m receiving), au: divorced!dilf!sam, age gap, deep throating, sam calls himself “old man”
“Hey,” Sam threads his fingers into your hand, slowing your pace as you bob your head up and down on his cock. He’s too big, too girthy, the size of his cock is intimidating, and Sam isn’t very smug about it, but he’s wary about actual intercourse until you get used to his size. “Slow down, honey. You’re taking too much.”
“Mmm,” you mumble, acknowledging his words, but the feeling of his tip rocking against the back of your throat is too nice and you want to deep throat him. You know how he feels about it, training you to take his length obediently, but every time the tip angles itself into your gag reflex and you gag around his cock, you’re sure you could cum from just the feeling of losing control of yourself. Without hesitation, you do it again. Your nose caresses Sam’s pubes as you pull his length into your mouth as far as you possibly can. The sputtering if different this time, and spit gets caught in between your throat and Sam’s tip. You cough, choking just enough that you’re gasping for air, and Sam frantically grips your head so you can’t take him any further.
“Listen to your old man,” Sam scolds, pulling you off his cock by jamming his fingers into your cheek and pressing the tissue against you molars. You whine in discomfort, and Sam takes this as an opportunity to slip his length out of your mouth. You marvel at it— wet, the tip and perfect pink color, and suddenly you want to cry at the fact that Sam took his cock away from you. He notices the frustration in your face, and places his hand around your chin, moving you closer to him by your jaw. He pecks your lips and as you climb against his lap, hoping he’ll offer more. The feeling his hardened dick underneath you is torture.
“Oh,” you whine, your core tightening around nothing, but desperately wishing Sam’s length was tucked deep inside you. “I want it…” you say sheepishly, referring to his cock.
“I know, sweetheart. Patience is key. You can play it with your hands, though. I know girls like you need a little stimulation.”
cw: 18+ smut.ᐟ hunter x prey kink.ᐟ hide & seek.ᐟ mask kink.ᐟ hair pulling.ᐟ rough man handling.ᐟ kinda eiffel tower position.ᐟ cum on face.ᐟ threesome [if you don’t like the idea of them both doing you don’t read].ᐟ mild knife play.ᐟ humiliation.ᐟ lots of degrading and name calling.ᐟ unprotected p n v [don’t be silly guys].ᐟ creampie.ᐟ
word count: 3.4k
“three, two, one… run.” the lights went out, leaving only the dim red emergency lighting and sam’s low voice bouncing off the bunker walls.
you ran, like your life depended on it.
the rules were simple – you hide, they seek.
but once they do find you, they get to do whatever they please with you. you weren’t going to make it easy for them, just like they asked. and they definitely weren’t going to be soft on you.
this was a thrilling game that had only one ending, you getting your holes stuffed with the winchesters.
oh and let’s not forget the fact that both sam and dean have a knife at their disposal while wearing a ghostface mask and cloak during this twisted little game of hide and seek.
you managed to find a decently good hiding spot before they finished counting. under your bed – classic yet painful obvious.
you were honestly hoping that they weren’t gonna start with the obvious hiding spots, you know, the whole reverse psychology thing.
you laid flat on your stomach under your bed, hand over your mouth so that your breathing wasn’t the thing that gave you away, although you fear that wasn’t what’s the give away, your heart rang in your ears, feeling like it was away to jump out your chest.
was it because of running? sure. but fear and arousal had a play in it too.
“come out come out wherever you are” you heard sam’s taunting voice echo through the hallway, he was close. of course he was, you wouldn’t be surprised if he cheated.
the question now is, did they split up or team up? guess it’s for you to find out.
your bedroom door swung open with a big thud as sam’s biker boots kicked it open, you let out an involuntary gasp from the sudden scare.
unluckily for you – sammy heard. a smirk grew behind his mask.
you heard his footsteps, heavy and deliberately slow, making your heart beat increase even more. you seriously thought it was that loud that everyone could hear it.
the knife he was holding, scrapped against the concrete wall of your room, making you aware of it’s presence.
you watched as the pair of boots stepped closer to the bed, you knew you were fucked, but still, you had the fight in you.
like sam and dean wanted, don’t make it easy for them to catch you.
and you weren’t planning on it.
the big black boots stopped at the foot of the bed, a sudden silence falling in the room. you covered your mouth to mute yourself, but sam could already smell the strong feminine perfume that gave you away.
“thought we all agreed to make this game interesting, but you’re just making it too damn easy for us” sam chuckled in a sinister way before you suddenly felt both your ankles being grabbed by big strong hands, then got pulled out from under the bed, you couldn’t help but let out a scream trying to grab onto the bed leg but sam was too fast.
you thrashed around before turning onto your back to face him, the ghostface mask looking much more scarier in the dull red light than you expected.
your instincts kicked in and so did your legs, landing a couple of shots to his abdomen, which made sam stumble back into your desk, pens and papers falling to the floor, you gave yourself just enough time to get up and bolt out the door.
as you ran through one of the long hallways of the bunker, you noticed just how loud of a noise your shoes were making, which gave you a disadvantage.
so you stopped for a second, throwing them off your feet, along with your socks, leaving you completely barefoot. the cold concrete floor waking up a new sensation in you.
you heard sam’s heavy footsteps getting closer, very quickly. he was running, which meant you had a better chance at hiding than outrunning him. without much thought you started running the opposite direction from where your room was.
as you were away to turn left on the corner, you bumped into dean’s tall and broad figure, ghostface mask, black cloak and a knife in his hand. it’s shouldn’t be turning you on, but by god it did.
it didn’t take even a second for him to grab a hold of you, his deep chuckle vibrating against your back.
“come on now little one. we don’t wanna hurt you” dean cooed into your ear.
you squirmed around in his tight grasp, grunting softly when he tightened his grip. your brain told you to bite – so you did.
after all you weren’t supposed to make it easy for them, remember?
you sank your teeth into his arm, which made him drop his knife and shout in pain. “auh you bitch!” dean growled, his grip loosening for a split second which you used to your advantage.
slipping yourself loose and sprinting down the hallway as he was too occupied cussing under his breath.
sam caught up to dean, “what happened?”
“the little brat bit me” dean massaged his arm.
sam chuckled out. “clever little minx”
“shut up and get her” dean barked, then both the predators started chasing you, the prey, down the hallway.
your footsteps were much quieter now without shoes but sadly it didn’t help with running any faster. you could feel them both catching up to you and you panicked.
running into the kitchen which didn’t exactly have any good hiding spots, only an entrance and an exit door.
you were out of breath, your heart felt like it was away to stop any minute and to your misfortune, sam stood at the entrance door and dean blocked the exit door.
leaving you completely cornered, like a little bunny that’s hunted by big hungry wolves. both of them wearing masks that covered their faces, but you could feel their smirks radiating from beneath.
“give it up sweetheart, you’re cornered. you have nowhere to run-“ sam spoke, satisfaction in his low voice.
“-nowhere to hide.” dean added.
your legs went weak, cotton like.
you leaned against the sink, trying to keep them both at the same distance. your brain was going through all the possibilities of running away, fighting even.
you looked around to notice a clean pan that was on the drying rack, you had a lightbulb moment.
you grabbed the pan and planned on using it against them as a weapon, will it work? you didn’t know, but you had to try.
“and what are you gonna do with that? fry some eggs?” dean mocked, stepping closer to you, with that slow predatory step.
sam followed his older brother’s actions, doing the same.
you felt as if like the walls were closing in on you, your eyes jumping from one winchester to another. “get back!” you warned, swinging the pan back and forth.
fortunately for you, you landed a good hit on sam. the pan making a massive bang sound. sam let out a groan and curled up a bit, holding his abdomen. “i’ve had it up to here with you, you little-!”
you threw the pan at dean and took the gamble, pushing past sam’s broad body, aiming for the entrance door that he was blocking literally a second ago.
“not so fast, little mouse” dean growled from behind you, gripping you by your hair and pulling you back.
you let out a yelp, falling onto your ass. “n-no!!” your body tried to fight him, tried to crawl away but the grip on your hair was harsh, his fingers deep in your curls, he wasn’t afraid to yank them.
dean chuckled lowly, waiting for sam to straighten out and join his side, while you were struggling like a mouse caught in a glue trap.
dean gave sam a quick head tilt, a silent signal to follow him.
dean walked out the kitchen first, his fingers never leaving your hair, he dragged you by your hair, manhandling you like a goddamn savage.
you let out soft whines, trying to hold onto his wrist so it wouldn’t hurt so much. sam followed behind, keeping an eye on you, giving you unlikely chances of getting away now.
the three of you eventually reached your bedroom door, but once the three of you stepped afoot inside, you were fucked.
literally and figuratively.
“it’s game over sweetheart, no more running” dean explained.
“or you will have extra consequences” sam added.
and with that, dean dragged you inside and sam locked the door behind.
you were locked in one room with these two scary and heartless hunters. with sam having no soul and dean being a demon, their level of empathy was basically the same – which was zero. nil. nada. absolutely none whatsoever.
you crawled backwards as both of them stood above you, your back hitting the foot of the bed. you breathing uneven, you did not know what to expect from them now, and that made you feel very uneasy.
both sam and dean looked down at you with their masks still on, knives still in their hands. you didn’t know whether to get wet or pee yourself right there on the spot.
“what do you think we should do with her first sammy?” dean asked his younger brother.
sam chuckled at the idea that popped into his head, “i think her face needs a bit of color, don’t you? thinking.. white” dean smirked at his brothers answer, you on the other hand did not understand the cryptic tone.
“that’s a perfect idea, little brother” dean commented, already starting to unbuckle his belt.
your puppy eyes went wide in shock, seeing both of them unbuckling their leather belts. something deep inside you was screaming, butterflies erupting in your tummy.
the sound of the metal clinking was enough to make you wet.
“on your knees” sam ordered, but you were heavily hesitating. a little scared even.
“he said, on your knees. slut” dean barked as he noticed you not listening to his brother.
you weren’t going to lie, his tone made you jump, lowkey afraid. you got on your knees, not wanting them to get mad or anything, punishment from them would be diabolical, to say the least.
“there we go, that wasn’t so hard to do now was it? or is our little cum guzzler simply deaf?” dean cooed, taking out his already hard cock out his black cargo pants and pumping himself a couple times in front of your face, a juicy vein decorating his shaft.
you looked sam’s way, noticing him pulling out his cock too, his cock longer but not as thick as his brother’s.
both equally pretty and yummy looking though.
“from what i recall you’re a big fan of double cream and all that, so let’s see how well you can handle this type” sam spoke cockily, stroking himself off in front of your face.
both men stood inches away from you, you knelt in front of them, your face at their crotch level so you got to see all the details. from their flushed tips and the pulsing veins to their pearly precum dripping down their piss slits.
you felt nothing short of a whore, a sex toy of theirs to play with as they wish. it felt demeaning, embarrassing, degrading, humiliating – but at the same time you could not help but get turned on by watching those two huge guys jerking off in front of you like that.
both sam and dean’s breathing got heavier, your eyes blown out as you switched your stare from one cock to another, and all you could do is just kneel there on your knees with puppy eyes.
“open your mouth” dean hissed through gritted teeth.
your eyes looked up at him, that ghostface mask staring back at you. you didn’t dare to disobey dean, his short temper scared you and you wouldn’t want him to throat fuck you just to prove a point, so you opened your mouth nice and wide.
and just like that he stuck the tip of his cock in your mouth, “suck.” he ordered, leaving no space for ‘but’s.
you flicked your tongue over his tip before taking more of him in your mouth, humming a soft moan that sent vibrations down his spine.
you looked up at him, with your mouth full of his cock, dean couldn’t stop himself from chuckling at the sultry view in front of him.
his hand went into your hair, guiding your head up and down his cock before forcefully pulling you away, your mouth making a pop sound, a string of saliva joining at the corner of your mouth and his cock.
you looked at him with lustful puppy eyes, slightly embarrassed at how much this was turning you on.
sam tapped your cheek with his cock, “my turn, open up.”
your gaze shifted to the younger winchester, opening your mouth to let his cock slide into your mouth. “so fuckin eager” he chuckled lowly.
meanwhile dean continued jerking himself off watching his brother make you take his inches. “i know right? told you she’s a cumslut” dean grunted, feeling himself getting closer, but his hand kept a steady pace.
sam’s hand held the back of your head, pushing your head down making you gag on his cock, tears welled up in your eyes and drool dripped down your chin.
“she may be a cumslut but she definitely gags like a fucking beginner” sam laughed, mockery in his voice as his hips moved forwards, you tried to breathe through your nose but couldn’t help letting out a choked whimper.
sam suddenly pulled out, feeling himself on the edge.
both the brothers pumped themselves quicker, their cocks practically touching your face.
“tongue out.” dean ordered, you could hear both of them softly panting under their masks.
you stuck your tongue out, your eyes dark and blown out, darting from one cock to the other, ready to taste them.
one after another, their cocks shot out hot sticky semen, covering your pretty little face. sam and dean pumped themselves dry onto your face, admiring the filthy view in front of them – your lips, tongue, cheeks and even your forehead covered with their dna.
you managed to lick the cum off your lips before the rest dripped down your face and neck.
“bet that was better than those oreos you eat” dean chuckled, his cock still hard in his hand.
so was sam’s.
of course this wasn’t the end of it – you would be stupid to think that.
both of them took their masks off, having enough of wearing it. both their hair messy in their own unique ways. dean pushed a hand through his hair.
“aww look at those tear stains, such a poor little thing~ drooling, covered in cum” sam gently petted your head, smiling softly with his signature puppy stare.
you were gullible enough to believe he was gonna be gentle now, but to your surprise he grabbed you by your hair and lifted you up like you were just a toy.
“up up up.” his voice filled with faux friendliness, you had no choice but to get up from your knees with the way he was pulling on your hair.
“on the bed, all fours. we are not finished with you yet” sam commanded, basically throwing you onto your own bed, and standing in front of you with his cock still up right, in front of your face.
dean walked over to the back of you, his hands already on your ass, strong fingers tearing your fishnets open at the crotch and ripping your panties with it. you gasped at dean’s strength, or more like that fact he didn’t even need to use much of it.
your pussy now fully exposed, glistening and dripping from how aroused you were. dean let out a low wolf whistle, “well i’ll be damned, you’re fuckin dripping wet… pathetic little thing is clearly enjoying herself” he let out a gravelly chuckle, his thumb sliding up and down your slick slit, making you squirm under his touch.
“so wet” dean chuckled, amused at just how wet you actually were already.
your mouth agape, a soft moan haunting your lips. your back arched slightly, seeking more of the feeling, but dean pulled away in an instant when he noticed you doing so, i mean what do you expect from a mean fucker like him?
you looked up at sam, your eyes meeting his dark, empathy lacking ones. his stiff cock at your eye level, “open up.” sam commanded, tapping the tip of his cock on your lips.
dean wasted no time whatsoever and pushed his cock inside you, inch by inch. his thick cock sliding in with ease and stretching you out, making you open your mouth and let out a strangled moan.
sam took that opportunity and shoved his cock half way down your throat, making you choke on him as he without a second thought started thrusting in and out your mouth, holding you by your hair, his grip harsh. “that’s a girl~“ he faux praised, the mocking tone never leaving him.
dean’s big calloused hands gripped your asscheeks and started thrusting his length in and out, in and out. your pussy making squelching sounds every time he pushed his cock deep inside you, filling you up to the brim.
“so full of cock, but i can feel just how much you’re into it you little freak, clenching that pussy tightly around my cock- you can’t fool us sweetheart” dean chuckled, increasing the speed of his hips, pulling out nearly all the way before slamming back in, balls deep, impaling you on both the cocks.
your pussy did indeed clench around him, subliminally wanting to milk him dry, for him to empty himself inside you. “jesus fuckin christ, what a tight little thing you are, gotta start stretching you out more often.” dean grunted in between thrusts.
both the winchester’s worked on you from both ends, it was almost overwhelming so you let them use you the way they wanted. you let out muffled moans as the two of them sped up their movements, chasing their highs.
a creamy ring formed around the base of dean’s cock, all thanks to you shamefully being into this, into being used and stuffed by them both.
both sam and dean let out grunts and strangled growls as they got close, unconsciously competing with each other to see who gets to fill you up with their seed first.
the way your throat clenched as you gagged continuously on sam’s big cock, stimulated his tip. sam threw his head back, letting out a moan as his cock spewed out thick ropes of white.
your mouth flooded with drool and his cum, tears and cum dripping down your face as he pulled out his cock.
“swallow.” sam growled, his fingers still deep in your hair, you wouldn’t dare to do other wise, swallowing his seed right in front of him and sticking your tongue out for proof.
“very good.” his other hand tapped your cheek harshly in a degrading manner.
dean on the other hand was hanging on by a thread, your pussy eagerly swallowing his cock each time he pushed deep inside you, his tip kissing your cervix.
he gave you a couple sudden spanks on the ass before finally giving you his seed, shooting his hot cum deep in your womb.
as he pulled out slowly, his pearly white cum dripped out your hole, down your thighs and onto your bedsheets.
“now that’s what i call double-stuffed, ain’t that right sammy?” dean laughed, collecting some of his cum onto his finger and pushing it back inside you, making you cry out a moan.
“just how she likes it.” sam added, smirking down at you, brushing his thumb against your plump bottom lip.
for a long second, the three of you try to catch your breaths.
until sam lifted his head up, looking at his older brother. “switch?” sam asked casually.
“now that’s what i’m talkin ‘bout” dean chuckled, rubbing his hands together before getting off the bed and switching sides with sam.
this was going to be a very long and messy night.
but a deal is a deal – you fought well during the twisted kids game of hide and seek, but in the end you lost.
and losers take their punishment like champs.
thank you so much for reading it literally means the world to me! believe it or not, this piece of writing took me a couple months to finalise so i am so happy yall can finally see it, i am defo proud of this baby!
jealousy, jealousy -- Ex!Hotch x Fem!Reader x Gibbs (Kinktober 2025)
Look at me. There was no world in which this was going to be a short fic. Yes there is a bit of build up but it is worth it. This is so self-indulgent it's insane!! NCIS and BAU headquarters both being in/near Quantico sent my head spinning and this was the result. You're welcome 😋
Warnings: 18+ only mdni!!, threesome, oral (m + f receiving), thigh riding, fingering, unprotected p in v (wrap it irl!!! do not be like them!!!), manhandling, facefucking, double penetration, jealous!gibbs and jealous!hotch, i'm prob forgetting some
Summary: You and Hotch used to date when you worked at the BAU. You broke things off before you transferred to NCIS, but remained on good terms. What happens when your ex (and former boss) is called in to consult on a case, and your new boss realizes he has feelings for you? Can you choose between the two? Do you have to?
WC: ...9.8k don't look at me
It starts with the ding of the NCIS elevator.
Gibbs turns his head toward the sound because he isn’t exactly expecting anyone. There’s four -- yes, four -- dead Marines in the past two days, so the bullpen has been void of any witty banter and for once all of you, including DiNozzo, have had your heads down working hard to find any leads. So much so that it’s only you and Gibbs at your desks right now. McGee is helping Abby in the lab, and DiNozzo is chasing up a lead with Ziva.
Then, a gasp. From your lips. Gibbs doesn’t realize that it’s coming from you until you’re standing up and rounding your desk, a smirk on your lips as your arms cross over your chest.
“Well, well, well,” you shake your head, and the playful nature of it all has Gibbs’ head spinning.
You’re never like that with him. With Abby, all the time. With Ziva, occasionally. With DiNozzo and McGee, most of the time. But never Gibbs. And now this stranger has you biting back a grin?
Gibbs doesn’t know who the man is, but he hates him.
The tall man in question -- who definitely has at least an inch on Gibbs, not that he’ll admit it out loud -- smiles and extends his hand toward you, saying your name with a smile just as fond as your eyes. “How’ve you been?”
“Great” comes your reply, and you forgo shaking his hand to pull him into a hug instead. “How’ve you been, Aaron?”
Aaron. So that’s his name. Gibbs hates it. It’s a stupid name. It has nothing to do with how light your voice sounds when you say it, or the way your arms wrap around him so tight. Like he’s a lifeline of yours.
“Good, you know how it is,” Aaron replies easily. “I wondered if I’d still find you here.”
“And here I thought you’d be keeping tabs on me,” you joke, “since you were oh-so reluctant to let me go.”
The man rolls his eyes at you and Gibbs balks. The one time he did that, you glared at him for a week straight.
“NCIS is very lucky to have you.”
You laugh loudly at that, punching Aaron’s shoulder good naturedly. “You could at least try to sound sincere!” You pause, glancing to the side and catching Gibbs’s eyes.
“Wanna introduce us?” The question flies from Gibbs’s lips before he can help it, and sounds a lot more condescending than he means it to. “Or am I interrupting?” He definitely didn’t need to add that, but Aaron has an FBI badge that Gibbs has just noticed, and now he wants to know why the hell the FBI is in this building without his permission.
“My apologies,” Aaron says, stepping over and extending his hand to Gibbs. “I’m Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner. Agent Fornell said he would meet me here.”
Gibbs shakes Hotchner’s hand, nodding once. “I’m Agent Gibbs,” he says. “Should’ve known Tobias was behind this.”
“I’m always by your side, Gibbs,” Fornell calls from the elevator. “Sorry I’m late.”
“I wanna know why you’re here at all, Tobias,” Gibbs deadpans. “We’re busy, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“Four dead Marines in forty-eight hours,” you fill in quietly for Hotch.
“I know,” Aaron replies, though not rudely. “That’s why I’m here.”
“What?” Gibbs snaps, exasperated as he gives Tobias his best what the fuck is wrong with you look.
“He’s from the Behavioral Analysis Unit, Jethro,” Fornell lets out a laugh. “You need his help.”
Like hell I do, Gibbs wants to say, but instead he nods toward the elevator. “A word.”
Fornell gives Gibbs a look before turning, leading the way. Gibbs stalks past you and your new best friend, trying not to look Hotchner up and down with threatening intent.
Once inside the elevator, he waits a few seconds after the doors close before flipping the emergency switch.
Fornell chuckles. He’s actually laughing.
Gibbs doesn’t even look at him. “Something funny, Tobias?”
“You’ve got it bad, my friend.”
“What?” Gibbs swings his head toward Fornell, eyes narrowed.
“Don’t what me,” Tobias warns. “We married the same woman, Jethro! You think I can’t tell when the love bug has crawled up your ass?”
Suddenly, Gibbs doesn’t want to discuss any of this at all. He flips the switch.
Tobias flips it back. “Oh no, we are talking about this,” he stands in front of it. “You’ve got it so bad that she smiles at an old coworker and you’re so pissed off you have to come yell at me in the elevator?”
“Coworker?” Gibbs asks. He knew you used to work for the FBI, but that was about as far as he got in your personnel file. He didn’t care where you used to be; he cared how you were here, as an NCIS agent.
“Yeah,” Fornell shakes his head. “Best damn agent the FBI has seen in a long time. You wouldn’t believe the hoops we tried to jump through to keep her. But she was insistent on leaving.”
Gibbs frowns. That doesn’t make much sense to him, but he supposes it won’t, since the two of you hardly ever talk about anything personal. He’s always thought that’s why he could tolerate you the most out of everyone; you never ask anything personal. You keep to yourself and keep focused on the case at hand.
“And Hotch in there,” Fornell nods back toward the bullpen. “The phone calls we got, he was trying so hard to keep her in the BAU, or in another department, but to keep her in the FBI. But again, she wanted to be somewhere new.”
“And she chose NCIS?” Gibbs asks. You’ve been here a little over a year now and he still hasn’t wrapped his head around it.
“Listen, we were just as shocked as you when she accepted the offer from Vance,” Fornell says, shaking his head. “Anyway. Why don’t we focus on the dead Marines you’ve got?”
“Why the hell did you send him here?” Gibbs counters, still unhappy. “If you know they’ve got history.”
Fornell raises an accusatory eyebrow. “Never said they have history. I just said they used to work together.”
“Same difference.”
“You need to pull yourself together, Jethro,” Tobias laughs. “Seriously, when was the last time you were like this?”
Tobias concedes after a moment, sighing heavily. “You’ve got a serial killer on your hands. We both know it. And we need to figure out if he’s targeting Marines, or if it’s just a coincidence.”
“It’s definitely not a coincidence.”
“Well, that’s what we need to figure out,” Tobias continues. “And that’s what Hotch can help with.”
Gibbs scoffs, glaring at Fornell as he reaches around him to flick the switch again. Tobias lets him.
“You really should pull yourself together, Gibbs,” Fornell says. “I thought dating a coworker went against one of those rules of yours.”
Gibbs says nothing. He can’t say anything. Because the second the elevator doors open again, he hears you laughing.
Fornell doesn’t even have time to get through his warning before Gibbs is stalking over, standing just in between the two of you. “Why are we laughing when we should be working?”
Your reply is immediate and not at all full of any of the joy he just heard. “I wasn’t sure if he was cleared or not, boss. Since you ran off with Agent Fornell.”
“He’s cleared,” Fornell supplies. “And Gibbs is happy to accept the help.”
You snort.
“Something funny?” Gibbs asks, cocking his head at you.
“Nope,” you shake your head, staring him down just as unflinchingly. “Shall we get Hotch caught up to speed? Or do you want to continue wasting time by invading my personal space?”
Gibbs’s eyes narrow. He glances between your eyes, dares a glance at your lips that are just barely hinting a smirk, before he nods. “Let’s get started.”
+++
You’ve got no idea what is wrong with your boss, but it’s starting to get old.
It’s been barely a day of having Hotch here and Gibbs’s mood has only gone further and further south.
You think solving the case will help, but when he doesn’t even show a hint of improvement after the arrest, you’re ready to lose it on him.
Hotch takes the unsub, as he calls them, to the Quantico FBI office, which you’re surprised Gibbs agreed to, but he seems so resigned to it all now.
“Looks like I’m riding with you,” you quip, yanking on the passenger door. “Unless you want me to walk back to the navy yard.”
Gibbs just barely smiles. “Get in.”
It’s more than he’s given you in a day, so you’ll take it.
His mood lightens more as he drives, and you realize it’s because Hotch isn’t here. It’s because it’s just you two, and Hotch is busy for the next few hours at least.
You’ve had your suspicions about Hotch being the cause of Gibbs’s bad mood, but for the life of you, you can’t figure out why. It can’t be that you and Hotch used to date because, well, why would that matter to Gibbs? You don’t even think you’ve mentioned that to him, though, knowing Gibbs, his gut probably told him.
You and Hotch dated for a bit when you were at the BAU, but it never went anywhere serious. You were looking into a transfer completely of your own volition when Hotch told you he wasn’t sure he was ready to take your casual dates to the next level. You didn’t blame him; you had kind of expected it. His wife died just a year prior. You were happy to go on dates and help him feel normal again, get his footing in the dating world, and for what it’s worth, you had a great time. There was no bad blood between the two of you when it ended.
So it can’t be that Gibbs is doing his weird overprotective thing that he sometimes does, and it can’t be that he’s interested in you because that’s just absurd -- Gibbs, of all people?
Unless it’s not?
“Can I ask you something?”
“Just did,” Gibbs replies, just as you expected.
“What’s the matter with you?”
He laughs, “A--”
“A lot, yeah, I know,” you cut him off, and his laugh stops abruptly.
He glances at you, then back at the road, lifting his hand off the wheel in surrender. “Alright. What did I do this time?”
“What haven’t you done, Gibbs?” you say back. “You’ve been in a foul mood -- worse than usual -- and it didn’t get this bad until Aaron showed up--”
“You know I don’t like the FBI--”
“Bullshit, Gibbs, you put up with Tobias, you took me in--”
“Yeah, because we stole you from the FBI--”
“I wanted to transfer!”
“Why?” he yells. “Tobias tells me you were the best agent the FBI has seen in a long time and you what? Wanted to leave?”
“I needed a change of pace--”
“Why?”
“Why are you so interested all of the sudden?” you shout back at him, turning in your seat to face him. “Is this about Aaron?”
“Is it?”
You scoff, pissed off and turn to face forward again. “I didn’t leave the FBI because of a man.” You cross your arms over your chest, muttering, “Might leave NCIS because of one though.”
You don’t mean it. He knows you don’t mean it. The statement hangs heavy between the two of you all the same.
Your jaw ticks from clenching it so hard. “Since it’s so interesting to you, yes, Aaron and I briefly dated. I was already looking into a new job when we decided it had run its course. It wasn’t anything bad, he didn’t cheat or break my heart, so you can stop acting like you need to intimidate him.”
“I’m not--”
“You are,” you cut him off again, at this point just because you know how much he hates it. “And I don’t know what’s the matter with you, but you need to quit it. I don’t know why you’re acting like-- like you’re jealous or something, but it’s ridiculous.”
“Jealous?” Gibbs’s voice raises an octave.
“What else am I supposed to think?”
“Maybe I’m just in a bad mood.”
“Right. A bad mood that so conveniently started when you saw me greeting an old friend.”
“Well, as you said, the two of you weren’t just friends--”
“Oh my god,” you laugh because really, this can’t be happening again, but it seems it is. He has feelings for you. He just won’t admit it. Almost exactly what happened with Hotch, though you forgave him long ago for it given the circumstances. Gibbs is just being difficult for the sake of it. “I have a type. Or a magnet attached to me somewhere that pulls men like you.”
He parks in the lot outside NCIS, aggressively shoving the parking break into place. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Figure it out, Jethro,” you snap, throwing the door open and stepping out. “I’m going home.”
“Hey! I didn’t say you were done for the day!”
You lean your head back down, smiling at him sweetly. “I didn’t ask.” You slam the door so hard that it makes Gibbs curse.
But he doesn’t go after you. He’s really done it this time, so he lets you go, while he figures out how to fix it.
+++
God, you don’t know what’s gotten into him.
You’ve had some feelings toward Gibbs for a while now, but you resigned yourself to never acting on them, especially not after Aaron.
But damn if it isn’t hard to not think about it, especially when Gibbs gets jealous.
Which he obviously is. You don’t care what he says. You’ve always suspected your feelings might be mutual but that he had resigned himself in a similar way, so you never thought much of it. But after that conversation in the car?
He is jealous. And he can’t stand it.
It might be more amusing than it is if he isn’t such a dickhead about it all, but you digress.
You make it home just in time to see a text from Aaron. All finished up here. Still on for dinner tonight?
You bite back a grin as you reply. Always.
If Gibbs won’t get his head out of his ass, you will at least do yourself the favor of chasing the high you’ve found these last two days with Aaron. Time has passed, and if you’re reading things right, it seems like he wants to try again. Or, at the very least, wants to try again for tonight, and you’ve been without for so long that you’ll take it. Happily.
You hurry inside your apartment to shower and change into your most subtle-not-subtle ‘I want to have sex with you’ outfit and start perusing what food to order in. You don’t have the energy (or resources, your fridge is bare) to cook, so takeout it is.
You’re midway through scrolling an online menu when you hear knocking.
You check the peephole and try not to grin. “Hey stranger,” you say as you pull open the door.
“Hi,” Aaron replies, eyes immediately darting to your chest before back up to your face. “You look nice.”
“Thank you,” you reply. “Come on in. I see you brought something.”
“You think I’d come over empty handed?” He shuts the door behind him and shrugs his suit jacket off his shoulders, hanging it on one of the hooks. “I know better than that.”
“I know you do,” you murmur, taking the flowers from him. “Thank you.”
“It’s the least I could do,” he says, and for some reason, you think he means it for many things.
As you work to arrange them in a vase, he settles himself against the counter next to you.
“What’s on the menu for tonight?”
“Takeout of some kind,” you chuckle. “I’m way too tired to cook.”
“Fine with me,” he says, pulling out his phone. “Craving anything specific?”
You hum, looking up at him through your eyelashes, in the way you remember always used to get to him. “Surprise me.”
You don’t miss the way his eyes darken as he nods. “Okay.”
You have no idea what he orders, but after a minute or so, he sets his phone down, and goes back to watching you.
“You’re staring again,” you say, trying not to smile down at the flowers. “You only do that when you’ve got something on your mind, so. What is it?”
“The BAU wants you back.”
“Oh,” you raise your eyebrows. The double meaning isn’t lost on you. “The BAU wants me back now, do they?”
“They do.”
“Well then,” you turn your head, looking up at him with a smile. “What’s their offer?”
“Dinner,” he says simply. “Flowers.”
“I think they can do better than that.”
“I think so too,” he says softly, hand sliding along the counter until it meets yours, lacing your fingers together. “I’ve missed you.”
You smile. “I’ve missed you too,” you admit. “Probably more than I thought. Working together the past couple days brought back a lot of memories.”
He hums, pulling you closer, settling his hands on your waist. “Yeah? Like what?”
“Remember that case in Alaska?” you whisper, moving your hands across his chest, up to his shoulders, feeling the warmth of him through his dress shirt. The warmth you’ve craved since the last time you touched him. “That little inn was tiny.”
He smirks. “And you took one for the team by rooming with me.”
“Someone had to,” you chuckle, tipping your head back a little, looking up at him, practically goading him. “That was our first night together.”
“Purely for survival,” he reminds you. “It was cold.”
You nod seriously. “Oh, yes, I remember. But you’re practically a human furnace.” One hand slides from his shoulder, up his neck, cupping his jaw. “The BAU doesn’t want me back, do they?”
He shakes his head. “Just me. They don’t get to have you like this.”
You raise an eyebrow. “And you do?”
His hands squeeze your waist, and he’s already leaning in. “For tonight?”
“Tonight,” you promise, breath hot as you meet his lips halfway.
It takes only seconds for your bodies to remember one another. For you to remember how he likes to be kissed, for him to remember how you like to be lifted onto the counter, with him crowding between your legs.
He’s already hard, grinding into you and you gasp, spreading your legs wider to accommodate his frame. Your hands are all over him, reacquainting yourself with his arms, his shoulders, his hair that you love to pull because of the growls it earns you from the back of his throat.
Aaron pulls back from your lips to latch onto your throat, to that spot that he knows will elicit a whimper, and it still does. He gets high off it, off of all your noises, off of the way you lock your ankles around him, canting your hips into his like you can’t get him close enough. He wants this to last, but God, he’s missed you.
You tug on his hair until he’s back in front of your face, pupils dilated, lips already rosy and spit-slick. You crack a smile, seeing him like this, and he’s dazed, already leaning back in, wanting to taste that smile and store the memory forever.
“I want you,” you whisper to him in between kisses. “I want you, Aaron, it’s been too long.”
He inhales sharply, squeezing your body against his. “I’ve thought about you every day,” he admits. “Every day I’ve wondered why I didn’t tell you we should keep seeing each other since you weren’t going far--”
His words end there, abruptly, because someone is knocking on your door.
“Is that the food already?” you ask. There’s no way you two have been making out for that long.
The knocking only grows louder. And more familiar.
“Want me to answer it?” he asks.
“No, no, I’ve got it,” you mutter, hopping off the counter, hoping to God that it is not who it sounds like. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he says, watching you as you walk away. He lingers in the kitchen, just within earshot, so if the person turns out to be a nuisance, he can step in. If you need him to.
You clumsily try to fix your clothes and face before looking in the peephole and-- Fuck.
“I know you’re right there,” Gibbs’s voice calls from the other side of the door. “And I know you’re mad at me.”
Aaron’s voice from the kitchen “Is that--” just as you pull the door open with a slight grimace.
“Jethro,” you greet him dryly. “What now?”
“Peace offering?” he asks, holding up a bouquet of flowers in one hand and bourbon in the other. “I’m sorry for being an ass today. And yesterday. And all the time.”
You can’t help it, you smile, taking the flowers from him. “Thanks.” You pause. “Look, this is-- Well, this is sort of awkward--”
Gibbs interjects. “What the hell is he doing here?”
You sigh, knowing that must mean Aaron has moved into view behind you. “He’s here for dinner. And…”
“And?” Gibbs presses, and then starts laughing, mostly at himself. “God, I show up with your favorite flowers and the only bourbon you like and he’s fucking beat me to it.”
“Don’t be like this,” you hiss, only feeding off of his attitude. “You’ve had plenty of time to bring me flowers and you never did--”
“He let you walk away once and what? Now you’re just gonna go right back to him?”
“I’m not going back to him,” you snap, feeling Aaron’s presence looming closer behind you now. “And even if I was, it’s not your business.”
“What does he have that I don’t?” Gibbs asks, and for a moment it sends you back on your heels. He sounds so desperate. “He touch you better than I do?”
“I wouldn’t know,” you whisper. “You’ve never touched me the way I want you to.”
“Do you want me to?” he whispers back, a dangerous look in his eyes. “Because I will.”
You nod slowly.
Gibbs shakes his head at you. “I need words, sweetheart.”
“Please,” you can barely get it out. “Come inside.”
It feels like some twisted fate, that when you finally have Gibbs at your door, confessing his damn feelings, you already have your ex in your kitchen, and have already had his tongue in your mouth.
But Gibbs comes in anyway, he shuts the door and flicks the deadbolt. He won’t be leaving soon.
“Is everything okay?” Aaron asks, with an edge to his voice that you know well, but you don’t want right now.
“Both of you, in the living room,” you instruct, moving past them to set the flowers in the kitchen. “Now.”
Both men share a look before doing what they’re told, while you busy yourself with finding another vase to put this bouquet in. You can hear them both pacing in the living room, but they aren’t saying a single word to one another. Which is fine. You don’t need them to speak to each other. You just.
You need a moment to figure out if what you’re about to suggest is such a wild, crazy idea that you’d be better off just kicking them both out.
But that’s the thing. You want both of them. You don’t want to choose. Why should you have to choose?
You fill a glass with water and guzzle it down, taking a deep breath. Worst case scenario, they say no. Or one of them does, and leaves, and you still get the other. Or they both leave.
Christ.
You take one more breath to compose yourself before you head into the living room. Neither of them are sitting, but they both come to a standstill and face you when you enter. They’re so similar in that respect, it almost makes you smile. If you weren’t so nervous.
“Okay,” you begin, wringing your hands. “I’m about to suggest something, and you can tell me no if it’s too crazy or if you just don’t want to do it. Got it?”
“Got it” and “Okay” echo from them.
You stare at them both, raking your eyes over their frames. You really do have a type, and that revelation would be embarrassing if you didn’t have a bigger issue on your mind.
“I want both of you,” you blurt. “I think I’ve made that much obvious. But,” you pause when you can see their confusion brewing, “I don’t want to choose.”
Gibbs shifts on his feet. “What?”
Aaron’s eyebrows furrow. “What are you saying?”
He, of all people, knows exactly what you’re saying, but you know what he’s doing. He’s making you spell it out.
“I want both of you,” you repeat. “Tonight. At the same time. All three of us.” You pause again, trying to gauge their reactions, but in typical Aaron and Jethro fashion, you don’t get much. “I know it’s weird--”
“It’s not weird,” Gibbs stops you there. “You’re sure this is what you want?”
“I don’t know how to make it any clearer,” you chuckle, the nerves starting to melt away since neither of them seem upset or look like they’re about to run. “I didn’t expect you to come here tonight, Gibbs, but with both of you here, I don’t want to choose.”
“You want us to make the decision for you?” Aaron prompts.
Gibbs smirks. “Like a competition?”
You roll your eyes, starting to lose your patience. “If that’s the only way you two pigheaded alpha males will agree to it, then fine.”
Gibbs whistles and Aaron’s eyebrows raise sky-high. The men share a similar look, somehow having a silent conversation with one another.
“Did you hear that?” Gibbs asks Hotch, nodding his head toward you.
Aaron nods slowly, his eyes starting to grow darker again. Fucking shit. You’re in for it now.
“That’s no way to talk to the men you’re practically begging to touch you,” Gibbs continues, slowly stalking toward you.
“I don’t beg for anything, you know that,” you snap, hoping you come across as unbothered, but your body betrays you as your feet take steps backward.
“Maybe not right now,” Gibbs says. “But you will.”
You don’t make it far, and Gibbs cracks a smile when you stumble into the wall, giving him easy access to pin you there, both hands on either side of your shoulders. You swallow thickly, your breaths coming shorter now. He’s been this close to you before, but never like this, never had you licking your lips. His eyes follow the movement.
But still he doesn’t kiss you. The bastard backs away from you.
“I interrupted you earlier,” Gibbs says to Hotch, waving him over. “It’s only fair that you pick up where you left off.”
Not that you don’t want that, “But--”
Gibbs holds up his hand, silencing you only for a moment before you come back to yourself, the foggy haze fading. “But you were supposed to kiss me!”
“No, because that’s what you want, and you’re not going to get what you want with the attitude you have right now,” he says simply, stepping aside and shrugging his coat off his shoulders, folding it over his arm. “Go on, Hotch. Go back to what you were doing.”
Gibbs leaves the room, heading back into the hall to hang up his coat. You hope.
Aaron crowds your space again, holding your chin gently in between his thumb and forefinger to guide your eyes to his and away from glaring at Gibbs. “Are you sure about this?” he asks.
You nod furiously. “I am.”
“Okay,” he says. In one swift movement, he’s lifting you into his arms and backing you against the wall again, kissing you sweeter this time. It’s intoxicating. You roll your hips against his abdomen as you tug at his hair, his hands wandering all over your back, but keeping you secure.
You think you’ve got their number, that Gibbs is going to essentially be the mean one and Aaron the sweet one, but then Aaron is putting you back on your feet too soon and stepping away from you. Gibbs comes back into the room, rolling his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, sharing a look with Hotch.
You look between them, bewildered, chest heaving. “What?”
Gibbs chuckles. “She is so impatient.”
“Tell me about it,” Aaron agrees with a smile, undoing his tie and tossing it on the chair. “What do you think?”
“Hello?” you huff, annoyed that they’re having a full conversation as if you’re not standing right here.
“I don’t know, I was thinking we could--”
You tune out the rest of Gibbs’s words with another eye roll, deciding to take matters into your own hands once again. If they want to act like you’re not here, then you’re going to act like they aren’t here.
You reach for the hem of your shirt and tug it up and over your head, tossing it onto the chair with Hotch’s tie. Both of their words stop abruptly, but you don’t even grace them with a look as you hum to yourself and work your pants down your legs.
You’re just about to reach for the clasp on your bra when you’re practically manhandled into their space, Aaron’s chest against your back with his arms wrapped tightly around you, pinning your arms to your sides.
“Are you finished?” Gibbs asks, leaning down to meet your eyes.
“Depends,” you squirm, but Aaron’s hold is too strong. “Are you two going to start paying attention to me?”
“Oh, is that what you want?” Gibbs smirks. “Fine.” He nods toward the couch and it’s all Aaron needs before he’s walking you over.
It sends a thrill up your spine, sitting in Aaron’s lap on the couch, still firmly pinned. He works his knees in between your thighs before spreading his legs, which in turn only spreads yours impossibly wide and Gibbs--
Gibbs kneels before you, looking up at you with a hunger in his eyes that you’ve never seen before. It only makes you squirm more, though you know it’s useless.
He doesn’t immediately put his mouth where you want him the most, and you don’t know why you even expected him to, considering he’s so dead-set on teasing you. Instead, he presses the gentlest kisses to your inner thighs, one hand wrapping securely around your ankle while the other toys with the edge of your panties.
You toss your head back onto Aaron’s shoulder, hoping you don’t headbutt him in the process.
“Something wrong?” Aaron chuckles into your ear. “I thought this was what you wanted?”
Your back arches when Gibbs mouths at your core through your panties, and you swear you can feel him smiling. “It is, I just--”
“What do you want him to do?” Aaron presses. “Tell him. Use your words.”
“Put his-- Gibbs, put your mouth on me--”
“Already am, sweet girl.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I really don’t.”
“You’re being a bastard on purpose.”
“I always am.”
“Just-- Fucking--” You fight weakly against Aaron’s hold. “Not through my panties--”
“Ohhh,” Gibbs acts like it’s only just dawning on him as he hooks his thumb into the fabric and pulls it aside. “You mean like this?”
You lift your head to look down at him, nodding frantically. “Like that.”
What you don’t expect is for Gibbs to keep his gaze locked in yours as he leans forward, his tongue darting out to massage your clit. It sends such an electric shock through you that your hips buck involuntarily, chasing his mouth, and he just laughs, leaning away from you.
“You are wound up, Jesus, how long has it been since you’ve been with somebody? Don’t answer that.”
You chuckle, your head lolling back onto Aaron’s shoulder so you can turn and whisper to him, “No one since you.” Because it’s true.
But you hadn’t told Aaron that, and the shock is evident on his face. Gibbs senses the moment though and ruins it promptly, finally latching onto your core and flicking your clit with his tongue.
He starts at a rapid pace, one you aren’t prepared for, and you cuss into Aaron’s neck. You have no idea how he knows it, or what tells you give off, but at the exact moment when you feel it, Aaron says, “She’s close.”
Gibbs pulls back from your core, licking lazily as he goes. “Already?”
“Well not anymore,” you grumble, glaring up at Aaron’s jaw. “Asshole.”
“You have a smart mouth on you today,” Gibbs says, pinching your thigh just enough to sting. “Up.”
You’re surprised when Aaron’s arms go lax and he pushes you onto your feet before following you. Gibbs takes Aaron’s spot on the couch and then motions for you, but you don’t move.
“Come here,” Gibbs reaches up and tugs you back down, positioning you so you’re straddling his thigh and facing away from him. “Here’s what you’re gonna do,” he pauses, untwisting the strap of your bra in a sweet gesture that doesn’t match his words, “since you desperately need to cum but need something to do with your mouth, you’re going to ride my thigh and suck him off. How does that sound?”
Euphoric. Surreal. You cannot believe your ears right now.
Gibbs’s hands squeeze your hips. “I said how does that sound?”
“G-Good,” you squeak out, your hands already reaching for Aaron’s hips to pull him closer. He smirks down at you, cupping your jaw as you unbuckle his belt with ease and work his pants and boxers down as far as they need to go. His erection springs free and it’s just as you remember, with the same vein you love to run your tongue over, and the same slight curve to it that your vibrator doesn’t have.
Aaron thumbs at the corner of your mouth. “You’re drooling.”
“Sorry,” you say instinctively, and behind you, Gibbs lets out a laugh.
You’re too entranced to even be angry at him for laughing at you.
“Come on, honey, there you go,” Aaron says, voice syrupy sweet as you open up for him and take him into your mouth. “That’s my good girl.”
Your hips instinctively rock on Gibbs’s thigh at that, searching for some friction, and again, he laughs. “Of course you like being called a good girl when you’ve been nothing but a brat since we started.”
You hum around Aaron’s length, not even caring that Gibbs is taunting you because his hands are on your hips, helping you move, and you can feel him flexing his thigh.
Aaron lets you take as much as you want at first, but you feel it when he starts wanting more. His hand that was once cupping your jaw slowly moves to the back of your neck, just resting there at first. You take more of him, letting the tip hit the back of your throat before backing off and doing it again. His fingers tighten against your skull and you open your eyes, looking up at him, giving him the permission he needs.
“Fuck” is all he gets out before both hands are on your head, guiding you, not forcing, but helping. You hold onto his thighs and pull him in more, taking him down your throat and holding him there when he tries to move you away. You can feel his legs trembling in your hold before you finally back off, just to take him deeper again.
Gibbs’s hands never leave your hips, rolling you right where you need it most, wishing you were riding his cock right now instead. He can’t decide if he wants to feel your mouth on him next or if he wants to go straight to being inside you. But the noises you’re making-- You’re enjoying this, giving Aaron head while letting Gibbs maneuver your body against his thigh. He has no doubt you’re soaking through your panties and probably leaving a wet spot on his leg, but he doesn’t have it in him to care.
“Close, honey,” Aaron warns. “If you want me to stop--”
Your response is to pull him in tighter, refusing to let him leave your mouth until he cums down your throat.
The second you feel him twitching in your throat, your hips start moving at a frantic pace, and Gibbs lets you chase it, wants to feel you come undone like this, just from rubbing on his thigh. When Hotch spills down your throat, you feel yourself shaking with your own orgasm, nowhere near as powerful as his, but enough that you’re taking him deeper into your throat, relishing in the feeling.
Hotch pulls back so just the tip rests on your tongue, letting you gently suck him clean, until he can’t take it anymore, hissing from the sensitivity. You’re licking your lips, smiling up at him lazily while still feeling Gibbs’s hands roaming your body.
“Is that what you needed?” Gibbs asks.
You nod, turning around in his lap so you’re straddling him and the obvious bulge in his pants. “Wanna do the same to you.”
Gibbs smirks, stroking your cheek. “Oh, no, sweet girl, I think I wanna be inside you first.”
A flash of surprise crosses your eyes, but you nod. “Kiss me first?”
“Alright,” Gibbs relents, cupping the back of your head and pulling you in.
You get lost in it, in the feeling of Gibbs’s lips finally on yours after almost a year of teasing one another, a year of him getting up in your face and you wondering just how bad the consequences might be if you closed the gap. Now, it’s finally happening, and you don’t want to miss a single second.
Aaron flops into the chair beside the couch, spent and in a daze after having your mouth on him again.
You’re too busy kissing him, sloppy, hazy, like you want to eat him, to notice Gibbs has cracked an eye open and started smirking at Hotch.
“Need a minute, big guy?” Gibbs chuckles, letting you kiss all over his face instead.
“Once you feel her mouth, yeah, you’ll need a minute,” Aaron says, all breathy the way you remember him being.
You pull your lips away from Gibbs’s jaw to smile lazily at Hotch. “Still good?”
Aaron nods seriously. “Of course, honey.”
Something about it makes you feel downright giddy, being the one to make Aaron Hotchner of all people have such a dazed look on his face and taking heavy breaths to regain his composure.
Your attention is on Aaron for a moment too long, though, and Jethro wants it back. He turns your head back to him and claims your lips again, licking inside your mouth and swallowing your moans.
Without another moment’s hesitation, Gibbs spins you and has your back to the couch, his body hovering over yours. He presses his erection down into your core, barely keeping his eyes from rolling in the back of his head at the feeling. As much as he’s been teasing you, he’s been edging himself, too.
Your legs instinctively wrap around his hips, pushing yours up to meet his and he groans, both hands darting out to pin you down.
Your hands have a mind of their own, reaching for his belt and yanking it open so quickly that he hardly realizes what you’re doing until you’ve done it. Clearly you’ve had a lot of practice, no doubt with the man sitting beside you with his head tossed back and his eyes closed, and the thought makes Gibbs’s blood boil again.
So what if he’s jealous? So what?
He lets you work his pants down before he finishes the job, shoving them aside onto the floor, but leaving his boxers, much to your annoyance. One hand snakes down to your core, into your panties, and you’re squirming again.
“Sit still,” he chides.
“I don’t want your hand, Jethro.”
“Well, too bad,” he snaps back. “I’m not a moron. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“You won’t hurt me,” you whine. “I like the stretch.”
A chuckle leaves Aaron’s lips, and Jethro’s eyes snap to meet his, daring him to say something.
He does. “She’s a menace. She hates it, but you just have to finger her first while she squirms all over the place.”
You pout. “You’re supposed to tell him it’s fine and that I don’t need it.”
“Sorry honey,” Hotch says, leaning over to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
You relent, not that you have much choice, as Jethro works two fingers inside you to start. There’s a slight stretch, the pressure utterly delicious as he thrusts them slowly. He waits a second before adding a third and your back arches into him. You hear him grin.
“She really does like it,” Gibbs says, in awe. He teases you by adding his pinky, and the moan you let out practically echoes off the walls as you clench around him. “Atta girl-- Oh you liked that. I’ve said that to you at work, and the whole time, you’ve gotten off on it, huh?”
You nod against the couch cushions, too blind with the pleasure from his fingers and just the thought of him being inside you soon.
He leans over you, surprising you since your eyes are closed, his lips finding yours and kissing you hot and heavy. He can feel your walls fluttering around his fingers and he knows then that has to make you cum again. His thumb circles your clit and your body jerks, a moan ripping itself from your chest.
“Come on,” he whispers against your lips. “You can do it. There you go, there you go.”
You shatter around him just as he curls his fingers just right, his mouth covering yours to taste the whimpers that leave you, to keep the sounds secret, as if they’re just for him, as if the man beside you hasn’t heard them before.
He slowly slides his fingers out, working his boxers down and away, pulling your panties down and gently laying them on the floor. There’s a question in his eyes, about whether to go search for a condom, and you shake your head. It’s enough to undo him.
Just as Gibbs nestles the head of his cock right where you want him, someone is knocking on your damn door again.
You jolt, eyes going wide and Gibbs stilling above you. Aaron, on the other hand, is calm.
“I’ll get that,” he says casually, standing and adjusting his pants. “Dinner.”
Your eyes fall shut as you curse under your breath. You fucking forgot he ordered dinner.
Half of you expects Gibbs to move off of you, but he doesn’t. He readjusts. He pushes the head inside and your eyes fly open, gaze locking with his. There’s another question in his eyes.
When your gaze doesn’t waver, he presses forward, and your eyes roll back. Your jaw drops open in a moan that Gibbs covers just in time with his hand.
You hear Hotch at the door, chatting so casually with the delivery person as he accepts the food. You bite down on your lip to stifle your moans as Gibbs settles inside you, pressed against the deepest parts of you.
He rocks his hips experimentally, listening for your breaths and taking note of when you clench around him. He keeps his movements slow because he can tell you are loud and he doesn’t exactly want the delivery person hearing you.
Once the door shuts and Aaron walks back into the kitchen, though, all bets are off. Gibbs pulls nearly all the way out before practically slamming back into you, so much so that you see stars from pure pleasure. The head of his cock nudges against your g-spot with every pass and it’s too much--
“It’s not too much,” he chuckles, making you realize you’d said that out loud. His hand slides from your jaw to gently rest around the side of your throat, just holding you. “You can take it.”
Your head thrashes against the couch cushion as the pleasure builds and builds. You grip his arms tightly, trying to warn him but no words come out, only mindless mumbles and whines.
“I know, I know,” he soothes, one hand snaking down to rub circles on your clit. The touch practically lights your body on fire and then you’re clenching around him so hard that his rhythm falters. “Jesus.”
“Cumming,” you try to warn him, but it’s already happening.
“I can feel it-- Jesus, you’re trying to--” Gibbs doesn’t get to finish his sentence before his orgasm takes over, his hips pressed against your pelvis as he lets go inside of you. You squirm against the feeling, the warmth only prolonging your orgasm as you grind your hips down onto him, milking him for all he’s worth.
He grips your hips in both hands, forcing you to stop. “Sit still,” he says through gritted teeth. You feel another twitch as more cum leaks into you and you groan.
“Feels good,” you whine, trying to roll your hips again, your body not done yet, wanting to chase that feeling and have more. “Please?”
“Seriously?” he laughs above you, kissing your jaw, under your ear, your lips. “Give a man a minute to recover.”
“She wants more, doesn’t she?” Aaron’s amused voice comes from the kitchen.
“Y-Yeah,” Gibbs’s voice is shaky from feeling you clench around him. “Is she always like this?”
“Usually,” Hotch says, no doubt smiling.
But you’re not amused. Gibbs is still half hard inside of you and pressed right against your g-spot, and you want another. You want more.
“Please,” you pout. “Please, keep moving.”
He pulls out.
You have to fight the urge to dig your nails so hard into his shoulders that you draw blood.
“You gonna help me?” Gibbs calls out to Hotch. “Or are you tapping out?”
“I’m not tapping out,” Hotch says, deadly serious, and voice sounding closer now. “I was putting the food away for later. Move over.”
Gibbs puts up no fight (surprisingly) as he shifts off of you, gesturing for Hotch to fill the space. Your legs are a little numb from how hard Gibbs fucked you, so you don’t even bother trying to move.
A lazy smile flirts on your lips when Hotch hovers over you. “Hey you.”
“Hi honey,” he smiles. “Doing okay?”
You nod, reaching up to hold his face, pulling him down for a kiss. “Doing great.”
“Need a break?”
You shake your head.
“Need some water?”
You start to shake your head again, but Gibbs calls out from the kitchen, “Got it.”
You roll your eyes. “C’mere.”
Aaron lets you pull him down for more kisses, his tongue moving languidly against yours. Your arms loosely hook around his neck, back arching into his touch as his hands squeeze your waist, your breasts, thumbing over your nipples, fanning the fire already once again.
“Alright, get off her,” Gibbs’s words are gruff, but there’s a hint of teasing in them, too.
Aaron smiles into the last kiss before backing off, pulling you up with him. “You need to rehydrate.”
You roll your eyes but accept the glass of water anyway. “What about you guys?” you say in between sips.
“Don’t worry about us,” Gibbs says, hand stroking your knee.
“This is about you,” Hotch adds.
You smile around your next drink of water. You weren’t expecting to get the best case scenario out of tonight, but clearly you are.
“Since this is about me,” you say, feeling a little bold now that they’re both clearly here to stay, at least for tonight, “I’m gonna go pee, and when I’m done, the both of you better be in the bedroom. Got it?” You raise your eyebrows at them, waiting for their answers.
They share a look and a smirk.
“Yes ma’am,” they reply at the same time, heads snapping to one another when they realize they’ve echoed each other.
You leave them in the living room, knowing their eyes are on you as you walk down the hall.
You take your time in the bathroom, staring at yourself in the mirror for a moment, wondering how tonight is real. You never fantasized about having them both. You thought about having Hotch again; you thought about having Gibbs. But never at the same time. Until you had them both within arms’ reach tonight.
Now you don’t know how you never thought of this, even just to fantasize.
You wait and listen for any movement outside the door to indicate that they’ve followed into your room, but you hear nothing. Not that this surprises you because both men have an affinity for walking quietly and sneaking up on everyone -- though Gibbs does it more intentionally than Hotch, you think.
After giving it a few more moments, you open the bathroom door, coming face to face with Hotch who wastes zero time in lifting you over his shoulder.
“Excuse me!” you laugh, playfully hitting his back. “I can walk just fine.”
“Ohhh, then we haven’t been doing a good enough job, sweetheart,” Gibbs says from beside your bed.
Hotch tosses you onto your bed gently, though it is hard enough to make you bounce. You grin when Gibbs hovers over you with a wolfish grin.
“We’ll do better,” Hotch says, kneeling onto the end of the bed, stroking your calves. “Want to tell Gibbs about something we used to do?”
You see the dark green envy flash across Gibbs’s eyes, and you know it was intentional on Hotch’s part. It makes heat flood your entire body, the way Gibbs stares you down, eyes raking over every part of your face.
“What?” Gibbs says, all heat directed to Hotch but the word is spoken barely an inch from your lips. “What did you do?”
Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately, because it makes the envy flare in Gibbs’s eyes), you have no idea what exactly Hotch is referring to because the two of you did a lot when you were sleeping with one another. The panic is clear in your body to Hotch as you squirm a little, your legs trying to wriggle out of his grasp.
Aaron’s hand circles your ankle, holding you in place. “Well, Gibbs, sometimes when I’d be inside her, she’d want something in her mouth too, but fingers just weren’t enough. Were they, honey?”
Your eyes go wide with the memory of Aaron’s hips slamming into yours while he guided one of your dildos down your throat.
“Won’t need to use one of your toys this time,” Hotch continues. “Will we?”
You watch, slightly mortified, as it dawns on Gibbs what exactly Hotch is implying. And then he’s covering your lips with his, groaning into your mouth.
“Where do you want us?” Gibbs whispers against you, tugging on your bottom lip.
“I want to taste you,” you smirk. “You didn’t let me earlier.”
He chuckles at that. “Alright, you win.”
You yelp, neither of them offering any warning before you’re tugged sideways on the bed so your head hangs slightly over the edge. Gibbs stands in front of your mouth and it sends a thrill through you, hands automatically reaching for him.
Hotch kneels between your legs, spreading your thighs and hooking them over his hips. “Ready, honey?” His thumbs stroke your calves gently, a stark contrast to what you know is about to happen.
You nod furiously, trying to tilt your head to taste Gibbs, but he bats you away again.
“Hey, eyes on me,” he orders, waiting for you to look up at him.
Aaron easily slides home just as you meet Gibbs’s gaze, your eyes rolling in the back of your head. Your mouth falls open in a moan that makes Aaron chuckle, hands palming your hips to lift them, meeting his slow thrusts.
Gibbs strokes your face gently, your eyes fluttering open. “Tap me if it’s too much, got it?”
You nod, eyes lighting up now that he’s offering you what you’ve wanted all night. You reach for him again to wrap your hands around him, but he shakes his head, grabbing your wrists. He places your hands on his thighs with a stern look.
“I’m doing all the work, you just hold on,” he says, lips twitching. “Got it?”
You nod again, relishing in the feeling of Aaron’s deep thrusts, how gentle he is despite how far he reaches inside you. And then, finally, Gibbs guides his cock into your mouth.
Your eyes instantly roll back when you feel him on your tongue. You don’t know what it is, why you’ve enjoyed having something in your mouth at the same time as your pussy, but it’s addicting. You forgot how much you loved it, even though you only did it a handful of times with Aaron, always a little too embarrassed to ask for it again. But clearly he noticed how much you enjoyed it.
It’s pure bliss for you, feeling the weight of them both inside of you at the same time, matching each other’s thrusts. The steady grip of Aaron’s hands on your hips paired with the gentle hold Gibbs has on your head to support your neck. Both caring for you while they fuck you into oblivion.
Gibbs pulls back only for a moment, Hotch slowing down as well so they can ask if you’re still with them.
“I’m great,” you say, voice hoarse, a lopsided smile crossing your face. You rock your hips up when Aaron slows down too much, whimpering when he pins you down. “Want to feel you guys cum in me.”
“You first, honey, you know the rules,” Hotch coos, one hand splaying over your stomach so he can rub circles on your clit. “Then we’ll give you what you want.”
You’re close already just from feeling them in you and all over you and hearing them lose their composure because of you.
“Can you do that?” Hotch asks, knowing damn well that you can. You know he can feel you clenching every time he applies just a bit more pressure to your clit.
You squirm against him all the same, nodding. “Y-Yeah, I can, just-- Need you to move.”
The two men share a silent conversation before Gibbs is tipping your head back again, feeding his cock back into your mouth.
This time, they start talking. Not to you. To each other.
“I’ve never felt her like this,” Aaron says through a groan, pressing as deep as he can into you.
“You’re welcome,” Gibbs says, so smug while he hits the back of your throat just as Aaron grinds against your g-spot, both motions making your eyes roll. “God, I thought she had an oral fixation, didn’t realize it was this bad.”
“Best thing in the world, isn’t she?” Aaron replies, and the sweetness has your lips twitching into a half-smile around Gibbs. “Prettiest girl.”
Gibbs pulls back just to hear your little whine before he cuts it off by thrusting back in. “How does she feel? Close?”
“Right on the edge,” Hotch sings, still rocking into you, still thumbing your clit. “Come on, sweetheart.”
You’re squirming more and more, like you’re trying to run from them and pull them closer at the same time.
Gibbs feels it in your throat when you cum because all of your muscles relax and he slips impossibly deep, head falling back as your body shakes. He pulls back until his head is on your tongue, not wanting to cum down your throat in this position.
“There she is,” Hotch breathes, still circling your clit, still thrusting right against your g-spot to prolong your orgasm. He doesn’t stop until you’re pushing his hand away from your clit. “Okay, okay,” he whispers, soothing you by lacing your fingers together. “Had enough?”
You nod, then shake your head, then nod again. “Wanna feel you guys first.” You pause, head tipping back, baring your throat to him.
Gibbs bends down first for a kiss, checking in, thumbing the tears from the corners of your eyes. Hotch readjusts, lifting your legs so your ankles are over his shoulders, so he can press a kiss to the joint before continuing.
When they start again, you’re not so sure you’ll be able to come again after so many times. Your body is beginning to feel entirely wrung out, limbs going limp.
They play you like a fiddle, but take care of you even while they chase their own highs. You hear them talking to each other again, but it quickly devolves into them talking to you, praising you.
“So good, asking us to do this,” Aaron coos.
“So good for letting us do this,” Gibbs echoes. “Feels amazing.”
“Always feels like Heaven, honey.”
You preen into their touches, into Gibbs’s gentle hands on your neck, into Aaron’s soft touch on your thighs. Maybe it’s the new position, maybe it’s their sweet talking, but it gets you there once again.
Feeling you spasm around him has Aaron shuddering through his orgasm, pressing his hips against yours as close as they’ll go. Gibbs basks in the warmth of your throat for a moment longer before pulling back, spilling over your tongue, then your chin, neck, and chest.
You let out the happiest, content sigh when you feel both of them reach their own release. The two men share a mystified smile.
Your legs shake as Hotch lowers them, your core fluttering around him as he pulls out gingerly, smoothing his hands over your stomach, shushing you.
You let them manhandle you one more time, but now so you can curl up in between them on the bed. You bury your face in Gibbs chest the second he lays down, and you tug Hotch’s arm further around your waist as he settles in behind you.
You’re a smiling mess as Gibbs presses a kiss to your forehead, just as Hotch kisses the crown of your head.
“So…” You pause, unable to stop the mischievous giggle that leaves your lips. “I think that was a tie.”
“A tie?” Gibbs is so incredulous that it makes you laugh harder, hysterical now.
Hotch tightens his arm around your waist. “We’ll just have to try again.”
“She’ll pick the right side,” Gibbs says, kissing your forehead again. “Won’t you?”
He looks deep into your eyes, but all you do is smile at him, giving him no sort of answer that he wants.
“She will,” Hotch says from behind you, possessiveness dripping from his words. “She knows where she belongs.”
Yeah, you think with a smug smile. Right in the middle.
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Pairing: Elijah “Smoke” Moore x Lyric (Best Friend’s Dad AU)
Series: Mr. Smoke — Part II
Summary: It started in the guest room. A door that should’ve stayed closed, a secret pressed into the walls while his daughter slept down the hall.
Now Lyric walks back into Elijah’s house like she never left, whispering the line that seals their fate: “I’m ready for the rest of the tour.”
Room by room, he claims her — kitchen, living room, even the forbidden bedroom that isn’t hers. Each wall remembers. Each breath risks being caught.
But when the storm clears and the night settles, what lingers isn’t just filth. It’s the dangerous truth: they can’t stay away.
Warnings: 🔞Taboo age-gap dynamic. Filthy language. Risk of being caught. Rough sex. Possessive undertones. Praise/degradation mix. Creampie + cum play, Best Friend’s Dad (taboo, forbidden), Praise + degradation, possessive daddy vibes, Almost caught tension / high risk, Room-by-room conquest (kitchen, living room, best friend’s room, his room, etc.), Emotional undercurrent creeping in (they’re starting to fall)
Word Count: ~14.5k
Part 1
The guest room still smelled like them.
Not in a way anyone else would clock—fresh sheets had been stripped and washed, a candle had been burned down low, windows cracked for “night air”—but the walls had a memory and it kept telling on them. The kind that lived under paint and behind picture frames. The kind that woke up when the air went still and the house went silent.
Elijah Moore—Smoke to just about everybody who mattered—stood in that doorway long after he should’ve gotten in his truck and gone for a drive. The hall was dark, the single sconce throwing a far-reaching amber over the carpet. Down the hall, his daughter’s door sat quiet, a slice of girlish posters and string lights tucked behind wood. He didn’t look at that door. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
He looked at the bed instead. At the slight dip in the mattress where a smaller body had once arched and trembled for him while the whole damn house slept. The sheet had no right being that innocent.
He dragged a palm over his jaw. The scrape of his beard sounded loud in the hush. He should’ve been done with this—should’ve buried the night and let it decompose like every other bad decision a man learns to outlive. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw the way Lyric had gone quiet for him. Not shy—quiet. That dangerous, willing quiet that said do it again even when her mouth shook around the word don’t.
He took two steps in and stopped himself from taking a third.
“Get out the doorway, Smoke,” he muttered under his breath. “Before you make a habit you can’t break.”
He left anyway. He was good at leaving when people were awake.
He was terrible at living in the dark.
Lyric learned that about herself the same week.
She lay on her own bed across town, legs slick under the thin throw blanket, the ceiling fan carving the room into slow circles. Her phone had been face-down on the nightstand for exactly eleven minutes. She’d counted. She’d tried to read, tried to scroll, tried to watch that show everybody kept telling her to watch—none of it stuck. Her brain kept snapping back like an elastic band, flinging her into that guest room, into his hands, into the kind of breathless hush that turned the world into a secret.
She flipped the phone over, pretending she wasn’t hoping.
One new text: Smoke.
Get some sleep. Stop thinkin’ about me.
She smiled before she could stop it. The smile curled into something she’d never admit out loud.
Too late.
Bubbles appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again, like he was arguing with his better self.
You trouble.
Her thumbs moved without permission.
You started it.
Long pause. Then:
Go to sleep, Lyric.
She turned the phone face down again. Turned it back up. The clock read 12:41 AM. She could hear Tasha’s voice in her head—the daughter voice, the best-friend voice, the we don’t keep secrets voice—and pushed it aside with a practiced flick. Tasha slept like she did everything else: fully, loudly, without second-guessing. Lyric wanted to be that kind of sure. She used to be—about grades, about plans, about the kind of man she’d end up with.
Then she met the man she wasn’t supposed to want.
She threw the blanket off, sat up, and padded to the window. The apartment complex was quiet this time of night—just the hum of a distant highway and the glitter of somebody’s porch light two buildings over. She pressed her forehead to the cool glass and let the memory of his voice roll through her head like smoke under a door.
Be still for me, baby.
She closed her eyes. Her breath fogged a small circle on the pane.
No one had ever made her feel like a decision and a sin at the same time.
Her phone buzzed again.
You still up?
She didn’t even pretend to wait this time.
Yeah.
Call me.
She did. The ring didn’t finish its first loop.
“Thought I told you to sleep,” he said, low and dry, the shape of a smirk folded in the words.
“And I thought I told you I couldn’t,” she whispered. She kept her voice soft, like the word Moore might leak through the drywall and into somebody else’s ear if she wasn’t careful.
“Lyric,” he warned, and somehow her name in that tone felt like a hand around her ankle under a bedsheet.
“You started it,” she said again, half a laugh tucked in the pocket of the words. “You sent the text.”
“You know that’s not what I started.”
Silence. It wasn’t empty. It was full of everything they didn’t say in daylight.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Truck,” he said. She could hear the window cracked, the little spit of wind blowing the ash off the end of a cigarette. “Tryin’ to talk myself out of driving over there and messin’ up both our lives.”
The blunt honesty caught her off guard. It shouldn’t have. He lived in straight lines and sharp truths. But it opened something in her chest anyway, the kind of opening that made a person reckless.
“Then don’t drive,” she whispered, smiling into the dark. “Just talk.”
He huffed a soft laugh that sounded too much like surrender. “Ain’t safe neither.”
“Why not?”
“Because your voice sound like a green light.”
Her stomach dropped in that small, pleasurable way a roller coaster does it. The kind you pretend you hate while you’re standing in line, but you came to the park for it.
“Say something nice then,” she said, bold all of a sudden. “Not filthy. Nice.”
He took too long to answer. When he did, it wasn’t what she expected.
“You made a mess of me in that little bed,” he said quietly. “Quietest mess I ever made.”
Lyric’s knees bent, her back found the wall. Her free hand slid down her thigh and came back damp.
“That supposed to be nice?” she asked. Breathless came out cocky.
“Supposed to be true.”
They stayed like that—between breath and confession—for a long, long time, until the fan made five more lazy revolutions and the window fanned cool air across the sweat at her hairline. He didn’t tell her what to do. He didn’t walk her to an edge with orders she couldn’t say no to. He just stayed on the line, steady, while her breath went ragged and her mouth went quiet and the words please and more did not have to belong to anyone else.
She fell asleep to him saying her name like he was smoothing her hair off her face.
He fell asleep to the memory of how she’d looked at him in the dark—like she’d found something she didn’t plan on wanting and wanted it anyway.
Dinner at the Moore house always looked simple on the outside. A spread of food across the table, Elijah posted at the head like he was born to it, Tasha talking fast with her hands while Lyric chimed in like the sister she’d unofficially become over the years. The radio hummed low in the background—some old R&B Elijah always insisted on instead of Tasha’s playlists. It was all picture-perfect. Normal.
Except normal didn’t account for the undercurrent.
Lyric sat angled across from Elijah, one knee tucked beneath her, pretending she was more focused on her plate than the weight of his eyes. Tasha was in her own world—telling a story about work, about some girl who had tried her patience that afternoon, fork clinking against her plate between animated bursts of laughter.
Lyric laughed too, but it was delayed—half a beat late, because Elijah’s gaze had caught her like a hook. She felt it before she looked up, and when she did, it was already there: that slow, steady drag of his attention that burned hotter than any spotlight.
It lasted too long. Long enough for her to feel her pulse flutter at her throat. Long enough for her to remember the guest room, the hush, the way he’d told her to be still for me, baby while the whole damn house slept.
She broke eye contact first, jabbing at her food like it required sudden concentration. Tasha didn’t notice.
“Daddy, you hear me?” Tasha nudged, halfway through her story.
Elijah’s eyes left Lyric, easy as if nothing had happened. “Yeah. I’m listenin’,” he said, tone even, that quiet father’s authority rolling under every word.
Lyric swallowed a sip of water and tried to convince herself she hadn’t just been pinned to her seat by nothing more than a look.
The food went around again. Tasha’s laughter filled the gaps. And still, every so often, Lyric would glance up and catch him watching her—just a flicker, never long enough to get caught, but enough to make her press her thighs tighter under the table, as though the pressure might hold her together.
When she reached for the hot sauce, their fingers brushed across the glass neck of the bottle. She could’ve let go. He could’ve, too. Neither did. Not right away.
The drag of his skin against hers was brief but deliberate, and it shot heat straight up her arm.
Tasha’s voice cut through the moment like a snapped twig. “Lyric, pass me the hot sauce. You hoggin’ it.”
Lyric startled, blinked, and let the bottle slip from her hand. Elijah passed it down with his usual calm, no hitch in his movements, as though her pulse wasn’t still rattling from the contact.
Dinner stretched on like that—mundane on the surface, dangerous underneath. Every bite, every clink of a glass, every shared laugh between her and Tasha layered itself over the fact that she and Elijah were stealing looks like they had no right to.
By the time Tasha stood to clear the table, Lyric could feel the heat building low in her stomach, coiled tight from the restraint. Elijah rose too, collecting plates, his movements steady, unhurried. He brushed past Lyric on his way to the sink, the faintest graze of his shoulder against her back—nothing Tasha would notice, everything Lyric would.
“Don’t just sit there,” Tasha teased, snapping Lyric out of her daze. “Grab the cups.”
Lyric stood quickly, clutching at the glasses like they were lifelines. She followed into the kitchen, pulse unsteady, and when she glanced up, Elijah was already looking again. Only this time, the corner of his mouth curved like he knew exactly what she was feeling.
She dropped her gaze before Tasha turned around.
And just like that, the night carried on. Tasha clueless, Elijah calm, and Lyric trembling beneath the quiet weight of a secret only two of them carried.
The first hard line Elijah drew for himself broke at 2:07 AM three nights later.
He was in his truck, seat reclined a notch, window cracked. The neighborhood was asleep in that way only certain neighborhoods sleep—confident, heavy, as if everyone had handed their keys to the night and told it to be careful. He’d driven around the block twice, swearing he wasn’t going to stop. Then he stopped.
He wasn’t outside her place. He wasn’t that careless. He’d parked a block over, under a tree that dropped leaves that looked like little hands.
The radio was off. His phone lit the cab with a soft square of light.
He scrolled.
Lyric’s name sat high on the thread. The last thing she’d sent was a picture of the paperback on her lap—one knee tucked up, bare skin catching the lamp—captioned I can’t concentrate. You’re noise in my head.
He’d replied nothing. Not because he didn’t have anything to say. Because he had too much.
He flicked ash out the window. The ember pinwheeled, a red eye blinking shut.
“Be a grown man,” he muttered. “Do the right thing.” A beat. “Take your own advice.”
He stared at the phone until it blurred. Then he typed anyway.
You sleep?
The three dots came up instantly, like she’d been waiting with the phone in her hand, like she’d been hoping for exactly this kind of weak.
No.
He leaned his head back against the headrest and spread his fingers across the steering wheel to keep from touching himself at the idea that she was awake because of him.
Don’t be up for me.
That’s exactly why I’m up.
He swore under his breath. The word sounded good in the empty cab, like it had weight and teeth.
You tryin’ to make me the bad guy.
You already are, Mr. Moore.
He laughed, low and helpless, the sound coming from a place between shame and want.
Go to sleep, girl.
Tell me to.
He closed his eyes, shook his head like he could rattle the ache loose.
Sleep, Lyric. Now.
A minute passed. Then:
Okay. Night.
The phone dimmed. The truck went quiet again. He should’ve felt in control. He didn’t. He felt owned—by restraint, by impulse, by the idea of her, by the yes he was trying to sit on like a man sits on a live wire.
When you feed a fire in only little breaths, it learns how to live on less. It also learns how to wait.
They called more. Not every night—just enough to make the nights in between feel like punishment. They argued about nothing and everything. They told each other things they had no business telling. He learned the way she cleared her throat when she was about to say something dangerous. She learned the way his voice dropped half an inch when he wanted to see if she’d follow him somewhere she shouldn’t.
She sent pictures that stopped just shy of obvious. He sent none. His replies made the pictures feel like a dare anyway.
“Bet you can’t go a week without touching me,” she whispered one night, the grin soft in the words.
“Bet you can’t go a day without thinkin’ about it,” he said, and knew he’d just cursed himself along with her.
At church the next Sunday, he saw her with her hair pulled back and her mouth set the way a woman’s mouth gets set when she’s decided to forgive herself for things other people will make her apologize for. He sat two pews behind. He did not look away when she glanced over her shoulder, quick like a thief, soft like a promise.
Afterward, in the bright crush of hallway chatter and ushers’ white gloves, she moved past him close enough to be rude.
“Evenin’, Mr. Moore,” she said, sweet as pie, not even turning her head.
“Watch yourself,” he murmured, lips barely moving.
She did not. Not that day. Not any day after.
The night she finally broke the rule of don’t ask, it was raining.
Not hard—just the kind of soft, steady rain that makes everything feel like it’s happening inside a secret. She was in bed again, Tasha out with friends, the apartment quiet enough to hear her own heartbeat. The fan was a small airplane overhead. Her phone was a small sun on the nightstand.
She picked it up and didn’t pretend this time, didn’t frame the truth pretty, didn’t pack it in bubble wrap.
Mr. Moore… I’m ready for the rest of the tour.
He didn’t answer right away. The rain filled the room with a patient drumming. She pulled the blanket to her waist. Her own smile surprised her—shy and sharp at once, a blade in velvet.
When his reply came, it wasn’t words. It was a location pin. His house.
Then, a text:
Tasha gone till late. Front light’s on a timer. If you come, you don’t knock. You walk in like you belong.
She stared at the screen until her pulse climbed to meet the rain.
She typed nothing, because there was nothing left to say.
She got up. She brushed her teeth and laughed at herself in the mirror for doing it. She pulled on a dress as if the decision were a dress too, as if she could zip it up and it would hold. She stood at her door listening to the hallway, then stepped into it anyway.
Her phone buzzed one more time before she hit the stairs.
You sure?
She didn’t text back. She sent him a short video instead—just the hem of her dress, the bare line of her thigh, her hand smoothing over the fabric like a palm over a promise.
He watched it in his kitchen, one hand flat on the counter, the other fisted uselessly at his side. He closed his eyes and let the rain and the ticking oven clock and his own breath count down something he knew he could no longer stop.
When the front door eased open on its soft hinges, he didn’t move to greet her.
He wanted to watch her cross the threshold like she’d been here all along.
And the house—traitor, witness, accomplice—held its breath right along with him.
The door whispered shut behind her, softer than the rain still kissing the porch. Lyric didn’t bother pretending she was here for Tasha anymore. The lie had already been burned through by the way her dress clung damp to her thighs, by the way her hand still trembled from hitting “send.”
Elijah stood in the kitchen, just as he had when the video came through, his palm still pressed flat to the counter as if bracing himself against an impact. His eyes tracked her like a shadow made flesh—slow, heavy, claiming without permission.
The house knew this game already. Every creak of the floorboard, every low hum of the fridge, every tick of the oven clock—silent witnesses, recording sin.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Elijah said at last, voice low, more warning than welcome.
Lyric tilted her head, water still catching on the lashes she hadn’t bothered to wipe. “Then tell me to leave.”
He didn’t.
She crossed the space between them on bare feet, her heels left abandoned near the door. Her dress whispered around her thighs with each step, the hem she’d sent him in the video riding higher, taunting them both.
Elijah’s jaw clenched. He looked away, then back, and that look alone was a whole argument—age, loyalty, danger stacked up against hunger.
Lyric smirked like she’d already won. She set her palms on the cool edge of the counter, leaning close enough that her perfume rose between them like smoke.
“Mr. Moore,” she murmured, the words a tease and a dare in one. “I’m ready for the rest of the tour.”
Elijah’s hand moved before his mind caught up. He caught her wrist, firm but not rough, pinning it against the counter as if holding her in place might hold time itself. His eyes burned into hers, and the space between their mouths shrank, then vanished altogether.
The kiss wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful. It was teeth and tongue and four years of swallowed-down want all snapping loose at once. Her back hit the counter edge, and she laughed into his mouth even as she arched against him, her body all spark and gasoline.
“Thought you’d never ask,” he muttered against her lips, dragging his hand down the side of her dress until his knuckles found bare thigh.
Lyric bit his bottom lip hard enough to sting. “Thought you’d never stop pretending.”
That did it. That was the line that snapped something taut inside Elijah Moore.
For weeks, he’d let her flirt, push, smile with those knowing eyes whenever Tasha’s back was turned. He’d swallowed down the fire that burned hotter every time she tilted her head at him like she was testing gravity. He’d convinced himself that one night in the guestroom—one night of breaking every line in the sand—could be folded up and forgotten if he just clenched his jaw hard enough.
But now, in his kitchen, with her wet mouth curling into that dare, he finally let go.
He had her against the counter in less than a second.
The sound was brutal, the thump of her back hitting wood and the scrape of metal knobs rattling. One of his hands framed her throat, thumb pressing into the hinge of her jaw so she couldn’t look anywhere but at him. The other yanked her dress up with no finesse, no patience—just tearing it over her hips in one sharp drag.
Her laugh trembled into a gasp. “Elijah—”
“Shut it.” His voice was gravel dragged across heat. “You walk in my house with no fuckin’ panties, you don’t get to say my name sweet like that. You came here beggin’.”
The dress slipped higher, higher, until the straps gave way and the whole thing whispered down her body like smoke curling to the floor. She was left in nothing but her bra, nipples stiff under thin lace. His palm splayed low across her stomach, thumb tracing down, down, finding her slit bare and wet.
“Goddamn.” He dragged two fingers across her folds, slow just to punish her. “You wet already. You came here drippin’ for me. Say it.”
Her breath stuttered. Her hips betrayed her, rocking into his hand. “I—”
“Say it, Lyric.” His grip on her throat tightened just enough to make her eyes go glassy. “Tell Daddy you came here soaked for him.”
Heat flushed all the way up her chest, shame and want tangled so thick she could barely breathe. “I came here for you,” she whispered.
“Not good enough.” His fingers dipped lower, teasing her clit with cruel circles but not slipping inside. “Say it right.”
Her voice cracked, high and broken. “I came here wet for you, Daddy.”
His grin was pure sin. “That’s my girl.”
The counter dug into her spine as he bent her forward with one hard shove. Her cheek met the cool granite, her ass angled up. He kicked her legs apart with his knee, spreading her wider.
“You know what I see when I look at you right now?” His voice rumbled low, close to her ear as his fingers spread her folds wide, glistening under the kitchen lights. “I see a little slut who don’t even care that the whole damn neighborhood could see through those windows.”
Her eyes flicked open—he was right. The blinds were tilted half-shut, but not enough. Anyone walking past could catch a glimpse of her bent over, bare ass arched, Elijah’s broad chest pressed to her back.
Her stomach flipped, molten with risk. “Then close the blinds.”
He slapped her ass, hard. The crack echoed. “No. You wanted dangerous? You gon’ take dangerous. You wanted Daddy’s dick? You gon’ feel it right here.”
She whimpered, and the sound made him curse under his breath. He unzipped his pants fast, dragging them down his hips with no care, baring himself thick and hard. The blunt head pressed against her entrance, wet already from his teasing fingers.
He didn’t push in. Not yet. He slid it along her slit instead, up and down, letting her feel how ready he was. His voice was poison-laced honey.
“You feel that? That’s what you came beggin’ for. You gon’ taste it, you gon’ take it, and you gon’ remember that in this house—” His teeth sank into her shoulder, a rough bite. “—you only open your legs for me.”
She tried to push back, desperate to feel him split her, but his hand clamped down on her hip, keeping her still. “Not until I hear you ask.”
Her nails scratched at the counter. Her pride fought with the ache burning between her legs. Finally, broken and breathless: “Please, Daddy. Please fuck me.”
The growl he gave could’ve cracked the floor. “Good girl.”
He shoved inside in one sharp thrust, deep, the sound filthy—wet and heavy. She screamed against the counter, his forearm pressing her neck down so it came out muffled.
“Oh my God—”
“That’s it,” he groaned, hips grinding as he bottomed out. “Take it all. Take Daddy’s dick like you was made for it.”
He pulled almost all the way out, dragging slow, then slammed back in harder. The counter rattled. Her body jolted forward with each brutal snap of his hips. He had her pinned, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
Her bra scraped against the granite with each thrust. Her tits ached, her throat was caged by his arm, but all she could think about was how deep he was, how he stretched her open until she could feel him in her lungs.
“You hear that?” His voice rasped against her ear. “That’s your pussy talkin’ back to me. So wet it’s beggin’ Daddy not to stop.”
She cried out, legs trembling, the mix of degradation and praise unraveling her. “You’re—oh fuck—you’re ruining me.”
“That’s the point.” His pace quickened, punishing. “I ruin you here, every other room just gon’ be dessert.”
Her orgasm hit hard, wrung out of her by his merciless rhythm. She clenched around him so tight he cursed viciously, hips stuttering for the first time. He fucked her through it, grinding deep, filling her with every inch until she shook against the counter.
When he finally pulled out, slick dripping down her thighs, he turned her around by the throat and kissed her—messy, filthy, full of teeth.
Her dress lay forgotten on the tile. She was half-naked, bra strap falling down her shoulder, flushed and panting.
He looked at her like she was prey he’d already caught but wasn’t finished with. His hand squeezed her chin.
“Kitchen’s mine now,” he said, voice low. “Next room.”
He didn’t give her time to answer. His hand stayed firm on her chin as he bent down, biting her bottom lip hard enough to sting before pulling away. She gasped, unsteady, but his other hand was already circling her waist, guiding her away from the counter.
Her bare feet hit the tile, cool against her skin. The house was quiet, only the sound of them breathing. It felt obscene, almost criminal, that silence wrapped around them while her thighs were slick and trembling, while her bra sagged loose against her chest.
Elijah bent, scooping his pants off the floor with one hand. He didn’t bother pulling them back on—just held them over his shoulder like he owned the place, like he owned her.
“Move.”
It wasn’t loud, but it carried the weight of command. Lyric obeyed before she thought to argue, bare legs unsteady as she stepped into the hallway. He walked behind her, close enough that his heat pressed against her back, his hand sliding up her spine to the back of her neck.
The floor creaked under them, the kind of sound that made her stomach tighten. Every step was risk, every shift of shadow on the wall a reminder they weren’t supposed to be here like this. Her pulse pounded in her ears.
Halfway down the hall, he pressed her to the wall again. His body caged hers in, broad chest against her back, his mouth hot against the curve of her shoulder. He bit hard, dragging a groan out of her throat she tried to swallow down.
“Can’t even walk straight,” he muttered, voice gravel low. “Already weak for Daddy.”
Her breath hitched. She tried to throw something back—some sharp edge of defiance—but all she managed was a shaky laugh that gave her away.
He chuckled darkly. “That’s what I thought.” His hand slid under her bra, cupping her breast, squeezing until she whimpered. Then he let go as abruptly as he touched, guiding her forward again. “C’mon. Couch is waitin’.”
The living room opened before them in shadow. The only light bled from the streetlamps outside, striping the walls with thin gold lines. The couch sat deep in the center, familiar and wrong all at once—suddenly a stage for something that should’ve never been allowed here.
Elijah shoved her until her knees hit the edge of the cushions. She stumbled, catching herself on the backrest. Before she could straighten, his hand pushed between her shoulder blades, bending her over.
“You know what this is?” he asked, voice rough against her ear.
She shook her head, her breath quick and shallow.
“This is me takin’ my house back. One room at a time. And you—” His hand smacked her ass, hard, making her yelp. “—you’re gonna help me.”
He didn’t let her move away. His grip on her hair tightened, dragging her down until her knees hit the carpet. Her face hovered inches from his lap, from the hard line already straining heavy in the dim light.
“Open.” His thumb dragged across her lips, pressing past them like he already owned her mouth too.
Lyric’s pulse thundered, but she obeyed, lips parting, tongue sliding out just enough to tease the tip. His hiss filled the quiet, sharp and satisfied.
“Atta girl,” he muttered, pushing deeper until the head of his dick glistened wet against her tongue. “Show me you can behave.”
She wrapped her hand around the base, heavy and thick, stroking slow as she sucked him in. Her lips stretched, spit slicking her chin as she bobbed her head, taking more with every push. His hand guided her pace, buried in her curls, keeping her right where he wanted her.
“Look at you,” he rasped, watching her through half-lidded eyes. “Down there like you can’t wait to swallow Daddy whole.”
Her eyes lifted, meeting his. That heat, that defiance, still flickered there even with her mouth stuffed full of him. He groaned low, hips jerking forward until she gagged around him. He didn’t apologize—just dragged her closer, held her there a beat longer, his breath ragged.
“Messy as hell. Just how I like it.”
Her throat flexed as she pulled back, spit stringing between her lips and his dick. She caught her breath only to take him again, faster now, sucking hard, stroking what she couldn’t fit. His chest heaved, sweat beading at his temple.
When her free hand slid lower, teasing the base of his balls, his curse cracked into the dim room.
“Fuck, girl… gonna have me forget we got more rooms to christen.” His grip tightened in her hair, forcing her to pause, head pulled back, lips glossy and swollen.
He dragged his thumb across her spit-slick mouth, his chest rising heavy. “That’s enough. Not blowin’ my load on your pretty tongue tonight.”
He stood, towering over her, stripping his shirt off slow, deliberate. The sight of his bare chest in the low light made her mouth go dry, every cut of muscle shadowed sharp. He tossed the shirt aside, the last barrier gone, until it was just him towering over her, naked and merciless.
“On my lap,” he ordered, sinking into the couch.
Her bra hung loose, straps sliding down her arms as she turned to straddle him. His dick stood heavy, slick from her mouth and pussy both, the head brushing against her thigh. She gasped at the heat of it, how it pulsed against her skin.
“Look at me.”
Her eyes met his, wide and uncertain, and that was exactly how he wanted her. His hand closed around her throat, steadying her, reminding her who controlled the pace.
“Now ride Daddy. Slow.”
Lyric straddled him, the heat of his body soaking through her skin before he’d even slid inside her. His hand on her throat was steady, anchoring her, forcing her to keep her eyes on him while she lined herself up.
The head of his dick pressed hot and thick against her entrance. She shivered, thighs trembling where they bracketed his hips.
“Do it,” Elijah ordered, his thumb brushing the hollow of her throat. “Take Daddy in nice and slow.”
Her breath hitched, and she sank down. The stretch made her moan immediately, raw and needy, his size splitting her open inch by inch until her ass met his thighs.
“Fuck…” she gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.
Elijah’s jaw flexed, eyes locked on hers. “That’s it. Look how full you are already. Tight little pussy grippin’ me like it don’t wanna let go.”
Her hips shifted, a small, experimental roll, and both of them groaned at the drag. He held her still for a second, fingers biting into her waist.
“Slow. I said slow. You gonna follow directions tonight, or you want me to show you what happens when you don’t?”
Her smirk wobbled under the weight of his grip, but her body obeyed. She started to move, a long, deliberate grind forward and back, her slick dragging every nerve across his dick.
Elijah’s head fell back for half a second, eyes squeezing shut, but he forced himself to meet her gaze again. “That’s my girl. Workin’ for it. Fuckin’ beautiful.”
The praise made her shudder. She leaned forward, her tits brushing his chest, lips parted against his. Their mouths crashed together in a messy kiss, all tongue and teeth and spit. His hand stayed locked around her throat, guiding her rhythm even while his tongue tangled with hers.
Her pace quickened without thinking, and his grip snapped tight again.
“What’d I tell you?” he growled against her lips. “Don’t make me flip you over and remind you who’s in charge.”
She whimpered but slowed again, the tease of control still hers but only because he let it be.
The living room air was heavy, thick with sweat, sex, and the faint hum of the television left on mute. The couch creaked under them, each drag of her hips loud in the quiet house.
“Daddy…” she breathed, her voice breaking, “feels too good—can’t—”
“Yeah, you can,” he interrupted, cutting her off with another hard squeeze at her throat. His other hand slid between them, thumb circling her clit. “You can and you will. You gon’ sit there and milk me like you were made for it.”
Her thighs shook. She tried to keep the slow grind, but the extra stimulation shattered her control. Her hips stuttered, her pussy clenching around him hard enough he cursed again.
“That’s it. There you go.” His words turned rough, but his tone dripped with pride. “My nasty girl, fuckin’ herself dumb on Daddy’s dick.”
Her head fell forward onto his shoulder, moans spilling into his ear. He whispered filth right back, every syllable sinking into her bones.
“Don’t run. Don’t you dare run from it. Take every inch, let it break you open.”
Her orgasm ripped through her. It hit sharp and sudden, wringing her out, her whole body tensing as she clamped down around him. Her cry was muffled against his skin, but he felt it in his chest, raw and desperate.
Elijah held her there, letting her grind through the aftershocks, her pussy spasming around his length. His thumb kept circling, slow and punishing, wringing every last spasm out of her until she collapsed against him, drenched in sweat, trembling and fucked-out.
He kissed the side of her head, lips dragging over her damp hair. His voice was quiet, ragged, but still unshakably in control.
“Good girl. That’s Daddy’s girl.”
She sagged against him, catching her breath, but he wasn’t done. His dick still throbbed hard inside her, wet with her release, and he shifted his hips just enough to remind her of it.
When she tried to push back up, he gripped her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes again.
“You think we stoppin’ here?” His smirk was dangerous. “Nah, baby. I told you—I’m takin’ my house back. One room at a time.”
Her body still quivered, but heat sparked again in her belly at his words. She started to ask which room was next, but he was already moving, lifting her effortlessly from his lap.
Her bra strap slipped down again, hanging useless. Her dress lay forgotten in the kitchen. Now it was just her in her bra, him in nothing, and the shadowed house around them.
He carried her a few steps before setting her down, lips brushing her ear.
“Tasha’s room,” he said, the words hot and low. “You ready to play with fire for real?”
Her breath caught at the sound of it. He didn’t wait for her answer. Elijah hooked an arm under her thighs and lifted her like she weighed nothing, his other hand pressing firm into her back to keep her close. The suddenness made her gasp, her arms clutching around his neck as her legs dangled bare against his side.
The house seemed to lean in with them. Every creak of the floorboards under his feet was a shot of adrenaline through her chest. Every shadow at the edge of the hallway felt like it might suddenly lurch forward, exposing them, dragging their secret out into the open.
He carried her slow on purpose, each step deliberate. His body was heat and muscle wrapped tight around her trembling limbs, She could feel his dick, still heavy and wet from her, nudging against her hip when he shifted her higher in his arms.
“You hear that?” he whispered against her hair, the rumble of his chest vibrating against her ribs.
She froze, holding her breath. Somewhere upstairs, the old pipes groaned, water moving through them like a warning.
Her nails dug into his shoulder. “What if—”
“Shhh.” His hand slid lower, squeezing the curve of her ass until she gasped into his neck. “Ain’t nobody comin’. Just the house watchin’. And I told you already—this house is mine. Every room. Every corner. Tonight, you just along for the ride.”
Her skin burned at his words. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, not to hide but to inhale him—soap, sweat, and the faintest hint of smoke still clinging to his shirtless skin.
The hallway stretched forever, lined with doors she knew by heart. Family photos blurred in the dark, snapshots of birthdays and graduations—reminders that this wasn’t where this should be happening, that every step took them deeper into the forbidden.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. His grip only tightened.
Halfway down the hall, the floor groaned loud under his weight. They both stilled instantly, breath caught like a snapped string.
Silence.
Her wide eyes flicked up to his, searching, terrified and thrilled. He smirked, the corner of his mouth curling wickedly as if the risk itself made him harder. He shifted her again in his arms, deliberately grinding his swollen length against her thigh.
“You feel that?” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “That’s what danger does to me. Makes me want you deeper.”
Her thighs clenched around him. She was trembling, but it wasn’t fear—it was hunger sharpened by risk.
They moved again, slower now, each step careful. His bare feet whispered against the carpet. The house exhaled in shallow creaks and sighs, old wood settling as if listening in.
When they reached her best friend’s door, he stopped. The handle gleamed faint in the dim light from the hall window, waiting, daring.
He set her down on her feet, her legs shaky from the weight of the moment. His body stayed pressed into hers, towering, caging her between the door and his chest.
One large hand slid down her arm until his fingers laced with hers, guiding her hand to the knob.
“You gon’ open it?” he asked, low and taunting. His lips grazed her jaw. “Or you want me to break every rule for you?”
Her hand trembled on the knob, but she turned it anyway. The latch gave with a soft click, the door swinging open into the hush of Tasha’s bedroom.
The air felt different here—sharper, charged, like even the shadows knew they were trespassing. Posters still clung to the walls, perfume bottles lined neatly on the dresser, a half-open notebook on the desk. It smelled faintly of vanilla lotion and fresh laundry—innocence, untouched.
Elijah nudged her inside with his body, then shut the door behind them with a quiet finality.
“You understand where we are?” he asked, his voice rough velvet, hand at the back of her neck steering her deeper into the room.
Lyric nodded, breath shallow.
“Say it.”
She swallowed hard. “Tasha’s room.”
The way his mouth curved at her answer made her knees weaken.
“That’s right.” He pressed her against the dresser, the sharp edge biting into the small of her back. “The one place I shouldn’t even be thinkin’ about you. And the one place I’m gonna make sure you never forget.”
He caught her chin between his fingers, tilting her head back. His kiss was hard, consuming, teeth grazing her bottom lip until she whimpered into his mouth. His other hand tugged at the straps of her bra, sliding one off her shoulder, then the other. The straps slipped down her arms slow, deliberate, like he was unwrapping something sacred.
“Been waitin’ on this,” he murmured, pulling the clasp loose with a snap. The bra gave way, falling into his hand before he tossed it to the floor. Her breasts spilled free, nipples tight in the cool air.
Elijah groaned low, his palm cupping her, thumb brushing over the hardened peak until she shivered.
“You walkin’ through my house with no panties, little dress on, bra just beggin’ to be torn off.” His voice was pure filth, but beneath it burned something heavier. “You knew exactly what you wanted when you showed up.”
Her back arched into his touch. “I wanted you.”
That was all it took for him to snap. He lifted her onto the dresser, shoving her thighs open until the wood dug into her skin. His mouth found her breast, teeth grazing, sucking until she cried out, his beard scraping soft against her flesh.
The room itself seemed to recoil and lean in all at once—her best friend’s bed in the corner, the walls decorated with secrets she was betraying, the sheer wrongness of it all making every touch hotter, filthier.
He pulled back, eyes burning into hers. “You realize this is the one place you never speak on. This stays buried. Not a whisper.”
Lyric bit her lip, nodding quick. “I know.”
“You better.” His hand wrapped around her throat, holding her steady as he lined himself against her slick heat. He pushed in slow, inch by inch, stretching her until her nails clawed into his shoulders.
Her gasp was sharp, broken, as he bottomed out, his hips flush against her.
“This room,” he whispered, grinding deep, “ain’t hers tonight. It’s mine. And so are you.”
The dresser’s edge pressed into the backs of her thighs as Elijah lifted her, setting her bare ass against the cool wood. The straps of her bra slid loose, dangling at her elbows, and her breasts brushed against the hard plane of his chest.
He held her steady with one arm braced across her waist, his other hand guiding himself lower. The thick heat of him rubbed against her folds, slick already from the kitchen and the couch, dragging slow enough to make her shiver.
“Look at you,” he muttered, eyes locked on hers, his voice dropping into a growl. “Already wet for me—already beggin’ without sayin’ a word.”
Her thighs quivered as the swollen head of his dick teased her entrance. He didn’t push in right away; he slid against her, up and down, letting the friction drag over her clit until she gasped, nails biting into his shoulders.
“Elijah—”
He cut her off with a kiss that was more bite than anything, his teeth catching her bottom lip as his hips surged forward. The head breached her slow, stretching her open, and she cried out into his mouth, every nerve snapping alive.
He pulled back just enough to watch her face when he sank deeper. Inch by inch, until her eyes rolled back, until her mouth fell open and her back arched off the dresser.
“Yeah,” he rasped, holding her jaw with one hand, keeping her locked in place. “Take it all. Every damn inch. That’s it—good girl.”
Her legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, ankles locking at his back as he bottomed out, their bodies flush. The dresser rattled against the wall with the force of his final push, the mirror above trembling in its frame.
Lyric gasped, the sound sharp and broken. “So deep—”
“That’s the point.” He pulled out slow, making her feel the drag of every inch, then drove back in harder, sharper. “Gonna remember this every time you walk in her room. Gonna sit on her bed and feel me still inside you.”
Her head tipped back against the mirror, breath fogging the glass as he set a brutal, deliberate rhythm. Not fast—never fast—but controlled, relentless, designed to make her feel every stroke. The dresser groaned beneath them, bottles clinking with each thrust.
His hand slipped up, closing firm around her throat, his thumb brushing the flutter of her pulse. “See yourself?” he demanded, nodding at their reflection. “See how you look when you’re mine? That’s my pretty little slut starin’ back at us.”
Her moans broke against his grip, choked and desperate, but her eyes never left the mirror. The sight of him behind her—broad shoulders, jaw clenched, every muscle in his body straining—sent her spiraling.
Her orgasm ripped through her before she could brace for it. Her body clenched around him so tight he hissed through his teeth, his rhythm stuttering as she shook against him.
He fucked her through it anyway, each thrust harsher, messier, until tears streaked her cheeks and her legs trembled around his waist.
“Say it,” he ordered, voice rough, fucking her so deep she could barely speak. “Say this room’s mine now.”
Her voice cracked on the words, ragged but clear enough. “It’s yours. All yours.”
The dresser rattled once more as he slammed into her, the sound loud in the stillness of the house.
When he finally pulled out, slick dripping down her thighs, she sagged against him, chest heaving. Elijah caught her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes in the mirror one last time.
“You think we done?” His voice was low, a rough scrape that vibrated through her bones.
Her lips parted, but she didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.
He didn’t give her the chance anyway—he hauled her off the dresser with a grip bruising her waist, spun her, and half-walked, half-dragged her to the bed that sat just feet away. The mattress dipped as he pushed her onto it, her body bouncing lightly against the soft quilt, hair spilling wild over the pillows.
The air in the room seemed thicker now, charged, as if the walls themselves knew what they were about to bear witness to. The mirror across from the bed reflected the both of them: him looming, her sprawled, bra dangling loose around her elbows.
“Open those legs,” he ordered, stripping the last of the fabric from her body. Her bra hit the floor with a muted thud, leaving her bare in the low lamplight.
She obeyed, thighs falling apart with a trembling surrender that lit a fire in his chest. He crawled onto the bed after her, his weight sinking into the mattress, broad frame caging her in.
Elijah gripped her thighs and pulled her to the edge of the bed until her knees bent awkwardly, feet flat against the sheets. His dick, heavy and slick, pressed back against her folds.
“You know where you are, baby?” His words ghosted against her mouth.
She swallowed, her voice a bare whisper. “Her bed”
“That’s right.” His hips rolled forward slow, the blunt head teasing her entrance again. “And you lettin’ me fuck you here says what? Say it.”
Her eyes fluttered as he pushed an inch inside, stretching her raw all over again. “It’s yours,” she gasped.
“Say it louder.” He shoved deeper, half his length buried in one stroke.
“It’s yours!” she cried, nails sinking into his back.
That was all he needed. His forearm braced against the mattress beside her head as he drove the rest of the way in, bottoming out with a groan that shook his chest. The bed groaned too, the headboard bumping faintly against the wall, every thrust a punctuation mark carved into the silence.
Her voice broke in short, desperate cries, each one louder than the last. He swallowed them with his mouth, biting her bottom lip until it bruised, tongue sliding in deep.
“Look at me,” he demanded, pulling back enough to frame her face with one big hand. His thrusts slowed, brutal in their depth, forcing her to feel the drag of every inch. “Eyes on me. Don’t you dare close ‘em.”
Her gaze clung to his, wide and shimmering.
“That’s it,” he praised, a dark rumble against her ear. “Good girl. My nasty little good girl, lettin’ me claim this bed the way I just claimed the dresser.”
She arched beneath him, body breaking open with another climax, her pussy tightening so hard around him he hissed, his rhythm faltering for the first time. He ground deep, grinding her down into the mattress, refusing to let up until her back bowed, her scream muffled against his shoulder.
Elijah slowed then, his strokes measured, dragging the moment out, keeping her trembling beneath him. He kissed her throat, her jaw, her ear, each touch a contrast to the ruthless grip of his hand fisting the sheets.
“This room’s mine now too,” he told her, voice steady, possessive, final. “Every time you step in here, you gon’ think about me in this bed, balls-deep, makin’ you beg.”
She whimpered, nails scratching down his spine in helpless agreement.
And then, finally, he pulled out, leaving her messy and shaking on the sheets that didn’t belong to her, the air sharp with sex and sweat and the dangerous knowledge of what they’d just done.
He stood, grabbing her by the wrist, pulling her up onto unsteady legs.
“Hallway,” he said, voice rough but calm, as if there had never been a choice.
Elijah didn’t let her get her footing. He dragged her off Tasha’s bed with one hand clamped around her wrist, the other steadying the small of her back, as if she might try to run. Her legs wobbled, thighs still slick and trembling, but he walked her anyway, guiding her toward the door like she was something he owned.
The air in the hallway was cooler, still smelling faintly of lemon cleaner and candle wax. The shift in temperature hit her skin sharp—her body bare, flushed, marked from his mouth and his hands. She shivered, but it wasn’t cold that made her tremble.
The house was too quiet. Every step felt like a betrayal, the soft creak of the floorboards under their weight like a warning. If Tasha walked in now, if anyone walked in, there would be no hiding what they were doing.
Elijah stopped halfway down the hall and pressed her against the wall, hard enough that a picture frame rattled above her head. His body caged hers, chest to chest, his breath heavy and hot against her ear.
“You hear that?” he whispered, low and dangerous.
She swallowed. “What?”
“The house. Listen close. Floorboards groanin’, walls breathin’. This place knows what we doin’.” His hand slid up, wrapping around her throat with a slow, steady squeeze. “You think you gon’ walk these halls again without rememberin’ me pinning you right here?”
Her breath hitched, her back arching off the wall when his hips pressed forward. His dick, heavy and leaking, slid between her thighs, grinding against her swollen folds. He didn’t push in. Not yet. He just moved slow, controlled, letting the friction drag against her clit until her knees threatened to buckle.
She whimpered, biting down on her lip to keep quiet.
“Uh-uh.” He caught her mouth with his thumb, tugging her lip free. “Don’t hide it. You know I like hearin’ how bad you need me.”
Her hands clutched his shoulders, nails digging crescent moons into his skin as his hips rocked harder, grinding against her until wetness slicked down his shaft.
“Elijah—” she gasped, voice breaking.
He smiled dark against her cheek. “Say it again.”
“Elijah,” she whispered, louder this time, trembling.
“That’s it.” He kissed her jaw, her neck, biting just enough to make her cry out. “My name in this hallway. Markin’ it like the rest.”
Her thighs tightened around him, desperate for more, but he held himself back, keeping the tension taut like a wire. His forearm pressed across the wall beside her head, caging her, his free hand sliding down to grip her ass, pulling her tighter against him.
“You want me to fuck you here, don’t you?” he asked, voice low, filthy.
She nodded frantically.
“Too bad,” he growled, pulling back just enough to make her whine. “This wall don’t get to have you. Not yet.”
He shoved his dick harder between her thighs, grinding rough, teasing himself on the brink of losing it. His forehead pressed to hers, sweat dripping down his temple.
“Fuck,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You gon’ make me break my own rules.”
Her hand slid down between them, wrapping around his shaft, slick with her wetness. She guided him toward her entrance, tip pressing, just barely breaching.
“Elijah, please—”
He snarled, grabbing her wrist and slamming it back against the wall above her head. “Not here,” he snapped, voice ragged. “You don’t get fucked against no damn hallway wall. Not you.”
Her breath stuttered, eyes wide, pupils blown. The refusal was its own form of possession.
Instead, he kissed her again, bruising, stealing her breath as his hips rocked one last time, grinding her pussy raw against him without giving her the satisfaction of more. She sobbed against his mouth, needy, undone.
Then he pulled back, chest heaving, his hand wrapping around her throat one more time.
“My room,” he said, voice final. “That’s where I wreck you. That’s where I finish what I started.”
And without waiting for her answer, he lifted her arms under her thighs, her body pressed against his chest—and carried her down the hall, each step sealing the promise.
The door shut behind them with a quiet click that carried the weight of a slammed gate. Elijah didn’t put her down. He stood there in the middle of his bedroom, bare chest heaving, Lyric in his arms like she was something he refused to let the world touch.
The space was darker than the rest of the house. No streetlamps bled in here. The only glow came from the thin crack in the blinds, slicing his dresser, the foot of his bed, the pictures on the wall into narrow strips of silver. His room smelled like cedar and smoke and him—warm, masculine, lived-in. It was a place no one but him ever belonged in.
Now she did.
Her breath caught when his hands tightened under her thighs, holding her up, pressing her back to the wall just beside the door. His forehead leaned against hers, his voice low and rough, softer than it had been all night, but heavier too.
“You feel that?” His hips rolled, the thick head of his dick nudging against her pussy lips, sliding through the slick she’d already drenched him with. “Every step we took… every room in this house… all of it leadin’ here.”
Her hands cupped his jaw, nails scratching through his beard. She nodded, unable to trust her voice.
“This my room,” he whispered, grinding again, slow, deliberate, pulling a gasp from her throat. “Ain’t nobody else ever seen me in here like this. Ain’t nobody else ever gon’ know how I’m about to fuck you.”
She whimpered, head tipping back, giving him her throat. He kissed the line of her neck, soft, reverent, then bit down until she moaned ragged.
“You’re mine in every hallway, every corner of this house,” he said, voice a dark vow against her skin. “But here? Here, you don’t just belong to me. You become me.”
Then he slid into her.
The push was slow, controlled, but her body was so slick, so ready, that he bottomed out with one deep thrust, his forehead dropping to hers when her gasp broke into a cry.
“Elijah—”
“Yeah,” he groaned, voice cracking. “Say it. Call me while I’m buried in you.”
Her arms locked around his shoulders, nails dragging across his back as he started to move—grinding her up the wall, pulling her down onto him, fucking her with nothing but the raw power of his arms and his hips.
She sobbed against his mouth, wrecked already, and he kissed her through it, messy, open-mouthed, tongues clashing.
“Poison and cure,” he whispered into the kiss. “That’s what you are, girl. Wreckin’ me while I ruin you.”
Her thighs tightened around his waist, her moans getting higher, faster. His rhythm picked up, each thrust rattling the wall, her back thudding against it in time.
“You gon’ break me,” she gasped, eyes wide, lips swollen.
He looked at her like a man who’d already broken and didn’t care. “Good. Then we break together.”
He spun with her still in his arms, walking them both the short distance to his bed. He laid her down on it finally, his chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temple.
“On all fours,” he ordered, voice shredded and low.
She moved without hesitation, hair falling forward, ass arched high for him. He knelt behind her, dragged the wet head of his dick across her folds, and slammed into her with a groan so guttural it shook her bones.
The bedframe groaned under the force of his thrusts. His hand pressed into the small of her back, the other tangled in her hair, yanking her head back so her cries filled his room.
“Look at you,” he panted, every word timed to his thrusts. “In my bed. Screamin’ my name. Ruined for anybody else who ever think they can touch you.”
Her answer was a strangled moan, body shuddering under him, pussy fluttering tight around his length.
“You mine now,” he snarled, voice breaking with it. “No matter who lives under this roof, no matter what you try to tell yourself—this house gon’ always belong to you. ‘Cause I’m always gonna be buried inside you.”
Her orgasm ripped through her first, violent and unstoppable. She clawed at the sheets, screaming into the mattress as her body convulsed, her pussy milking him hard.
He didn’t last another stroke. With a final ragged thrust, he pulled out just enough to spill across her ass and thighs, hot, messy, marking her skin. Then he shoved it back inside, grinding deep, making sure every drop stayed with her.
She collapsed forward, trembling, body wrecked and shining in the silver light.
Elijah hovered above her, chest pressed to her back, lips brushing her ear.
“You’ll remember this bed every time you close your eyes,” he whispered, voice softer now, but dangerous still. “You’ll remember me inside you—always.”
And with that, he kissed her shoulder, slow and tender, the softest touch after the hardest ruin.
The room had gone quiet but for the sound of their breathing. The walls still carried the echoes of what they’d done, the bed frame still shuddered in protest under their weight, but between them—silence. The kind of silence that felt alive.
Lyric lay half-sprawled across the sheets, her body humming, slick thighs trembling where he’d left his claim. Her hair clung to her damp skin, wild strands tangled across her cheek. She looked wrecked, undone, exactly how he wanted her—but she also looked at peace.
Elijah leaned on one elbow beside her, sweat beading along his temple, his chest rising heavy. He dragged the back of his knuckles down her spine, slow, reverent, like he was tracing out ownership in invisible ink.
“You feel me still?” he asked, voice low, almost calm now, the fire banked but not gone.
Her eyes fluttered open. She swallowed, lips raw, voice a rasp. “I don’t think I’ll ever stop.”
That hit him harder than her body ever could. For a second, his hand stilled on her skin, jaw tight, like he’d let her see something he wasn’t ready to admit.
He recovered with a crooked smirk, but his tone gave him away. “Good girl. That’s what I want.”
He reached down, tugging the sheet up to cover her, but not before pressing a kiss to the small of her back. Soft, almost delicate—contradiction to everything they’d just done.
Lyric rolled to face him, tucking into his side. For a moment, she didn’t say anything. She just stared at him, her hand splayed across his chest, fingers brushing the thud of his heartbeat. The weight of it all pressed in: whose bed this was, whose house they’d just burned down room by room, who might walk in tomorrow and sit at this very kitchen table, never knowing.
“Elijah…” she whispered, unsure if she meant it as a question, a confession, or a warning.
He turned his head, met her eyes in the dark. His thumb swept across her bottom lip, gentle. “Don’t think,” he said. “Not tonight. Tonight, you just remember who made you come apart. You remember whose house this is. You remember me.”
Her chest tightened, the words sinking somewhere deeper than she wanted to admit. She nodded, barely, then curled closer.
He wrapped an arm around her, possessive, pulling her in until her ear pressed to his heartbeat.
The night stretched, heavy and slow. Neither of them said what they were really thinking. Neither of them named what had just happened as anything other than what it was.
But the way she clung to him like sleep wouldn’t take her unless he held her, and the way he kissed the top of her hair before letting his eyes close—those things said everything.
The house was still thick with the scent of them—sweat, sex, the faint trace of her perfume tangled into his sheets. Lyric lay tangled in Elijah’s bed, body heavy, lips swollen, skin marked in places she wouldn’t be able to hide tomorrow. Her chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm, like she was still trying to come down but her nerves wouldn’t let her.
Then the shrill ring cut through the quiet.
A phone. Not hers. His.
Elijah cursed under his breath, chest rising as he pushed off the bed. The mattress dipped, cold air rushing in where his body had been, and for the first time that night, Lyric felt the risk curl like ice in her veins.
He grabbed the sweat-darkened tee from the floor, pulling it over his shoulders as he stalked out. She listened to the sound of his bare feet on the stairs, the muted clatter of him searching the counter, the muffled sound of his voice answering.
She held her breath.
When he came back, the phone was still pressed to his ear. His face was composed, but there was a sharpness to it, a tension riding under his control.
“Yeah,” he said, low, steady. “You good?”
Lyric’s heart lurched when he slid back into the room, his eyes finding hers instantly. He didn’t look nervous, but she knew. He was talking to her.
Tasha.
She shifted on the sheets, tugging them higher up her chest even though he’d already seen every inch of her. She felt suddenly exposed—not by his eyes, but by the weight of his daughter’s voice floating through the speaker.
“Yeah, I’m good, Daddy,” Tasha’s voice said, light with the buzz of background chatter. “Just letting you know I’m not coming home tonight. We’re crashing at Kayla’s, probably won’t head back till tomorrow afternoon.”
Lyric froze. Her pulse thundered in her throat so loud she swore it carried through the phone. Elijah’s gaze didn’t waver. He reached down, turned the phone face-up, and tapped it onto speaker.
Her heart stopped.
Tasha’s voice filled the room, bright, oblivious, dangerous.
“Don’t wait up, okay? Promise I’ll text if anything changes.”
Elijah sat on the edge of the bed, casual in a way that made her ache. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, eyes cutting to Lyric with a look that was both warning and promise. His other hand smoothed over her bare thigh under the sheets, deliberate, dragging slow.
“You grown,” Elijah said into the phone, voice calm as ever. “Handle your business. Just don’t make a habit of leavin’ me an empty house.”
Lyric’s breath hitched. The double edge of it—his voice low, steady for Tasha’s sake, but his hand slipping higher between her thighs, tracing the mess he’d left inside her—made her whole body shiver.
Tasha laughed, clueless. “Yeah, yeah. Love you. If Lyric comes by in the morning, tell her I’ll be home later.”
Lyric’s blood went hot and cold all at once. Her hand flew to her mouth, trying to hold back the gasp that almost tore out of her. Elijah’s smirk curved slow, dark, his thumb pressing harder against her heat under the sheets.
“Mm,” he hummed, eyes locked on hers. “I’ll do that.”
And then he hung up.
The silence that followed was louder than the phone’s ring had been.
Elijah set the phone face down on the nightstand, then leaned in until his mouth brushed her ear.
“You hear that?” His voice was gravel and smoke. “We got till tomorrow afternoon. You know what that means?”
Lyric’s body clenched around nothing, her legs tightening under the sheet. She nodded before she could stop herself, wide-eyed, trembling.
Elijah’s chuckle was low, dangerous. He pulled the sheet down in one smooth drag, baring her completely again to the night air and his gaze.
“It means this whole house is ours.”
The room still hummed with the echo of Tasha’s voice when Elijah’s hand slid from Lyric’s thigh to her wrist, firm but unhurried. She blinked up at him, lips parted, chest rising fast. He didn’t say a word—just stood, tugging her gently until she had no choice but to follow.
The sheets slipped from her shoulders. She gathered them at first, instinctively trying to cover herself, but Elijah’s sharp look cut through the gesture. He plucked the fabric from her hands and tossed it back onto the mattress.
“Nothin’ to hide here,” he murmured, voice still rough from everything they’d done. “Not from me.”
The air shifted as he guided her a few feet away. Bare feet on wood, house creaking with each step. Lyric’s pulse stayed high, adrenaline mixing with the raw ache in her body, the reminder of how deep he’d already taken her. She watched the back of him—broad shoulders, every muscle cut hard beneath his shirtless frame, jeans still riding low from when he’d yanked them on to answer the phone.
By the time they stepped into the bathroom, steam already curled from the edges of the glass shower door. Elijah reached past her to crank the handle. Hot water burst against tile, filling the room with a hiss.
“Inside,” he said simply.
Lyric stepped in, the heat swallowing her whole, water streaming over her skin, plastering her hair to her back. Elijah followed close, shutting the glass door behind them. The space shrank, every inch filled with him—the heat, the scent of soap mixing with the musk of their bodies, the sound of water hitting skin.
He reached for the body wash, lathering it slow between his hands before pressing them to her shoulders. The pressure was firm, massaging the knots she didn’t even realize she had. His hands slid down her arms, across her ribs, circling her waist.
“You feel that?” he asked, his mouth close to her ear, voice vibrating against her. “That’s me takin’ care of what’s mine.”
Her breath caught. She nodded, though her legs trembled.
His palms flattened across her stomach, slick with soap, before drifting lower. She pressed back into him without meaning to, the hard heat of his dick already nudging her ass, thick and heavy even before he moved.
“Elijah—”
The name broke in her throat when his hand spread across her lower belly, guiding her into a bend against the fogged glass. Her palms braced there, steam curling around her arms.
“Hold it right there.” His other hand gripped her hip, anchoring her in place.
The blunt head of his dick pushed between her folds, the slide made easier by the mix of water and the mess he’d left inside her earlier. He didn’t ease in slow this time—he sank deep, all at once, filling her to the hilt.
Lyric cried out, forehead pressing against the glass. His forearm hooked around her chest, pinning her back against him.
“That’s it,” he growled into her ear, his thrusts quick and hard, splashing water with every movement. “Take it. Don’t run from it now.”
She was wrecked, trembling, her voice breaking against the tile. “Elijah—”
His hand came up, palm flat against her chest, forearm locking her tighter to him, his dick buried so deep she swore she could feel him in her heartbeat. His mouth grazed her temple, voice rough and low, not just filthy but carved from something rawer.
“You think this ends when the water stops?” His words bled into her, thick with heat and warning. “Nah, baby. You walk out that door, you still mine. You close your eyes at night, I’m the one you dream. Every time you open ‘em, you gon’ remember this—how I fucked you into every corner of this house till there was nothin’ left untouched.”
She gasped, clenching hard around him, and it dragged his release out of him, a groan ripped from his chest as he spilled deep inside her, messy and unrelenting. He held her there, cock pulsing, cum leaking, water running slick over their tangled bodies.
For a long moment, he didn’t move, just pressed his forehead to her wet hair, breathing her in like she was the only air left. His voice when it came was rough, almost broken, barely above the steam’s hiss.
“This house ain’t the only thing I claimed tonight.”
The shower beat didn’t end when the water did.
Steam clung to the glass like a second skin, beading and sliding in slow trails while Elijah held Lyric up with the same hands he’d just used to hoist her, pin her, keep her together. The bathroom light was low; the mirror a fogged blur of two bodies fused at too many points to count. His chest pressed to her back, heat to heat, slick to slick. Her palms were spread on the tile as if the room might move and she had to steady it.
He was still inside her, buried to the root, his breath damp against the curve where her neck met shoulder. Every exhale grazed her like a secret.
“Breathe,” he said, voice roughened to gravel. He didn’t lift his mouth from her. “You hear me, Lyric? Breathe.”
She did, shaky at first, diaphragm fluttering against the solid plane of his forearm where it banded her waist. The water hissed its constant whisper. Somewhere beneath, the house clicked and settled like an animal in sleep.
Her thighs trembled. Not from fear. From the mess of it. From how deep he sat in her—still thick, still pulsing, still an iron brand of a man who had decided to leave nothing for later.
“Can’t… feel my knees,” she managed, a laugh and a gasp braided into one thread.
His answer was a low sound that might have been a chuckle if it hadn’t rumbled so close to a growl. “Good. Then hold on.”
He drew back a fraction—just enough to make her body yell, cells and nerves reaching for what they’d learned in one night to need—then surged home again. It wasn’t a thrust so much as a promise hammered into place. The slap of wet skin on wet skin echoed off tile; the steam turned their heat into weather.
She reached back, fingers fumbling, until they found his hip. He was carved hard as a long fight. She dug in. He moved again. The rhythm wasn’t fast. It didn’t need to be. He set it like a heartbeat, like a metronome meant to keep time through a storm.
“Listen to that,” he murmured against her ear, words blurring with water and want. “That sound when I hit it right. That sticky, pretty sound. You gon’ hear that in your head when you try to sleep.”
“Don’t—” She swallowed, lips parting on a soft, helpless note when his hips rolled. “Don’t talk like that.”
“Why not?” He rocked again. Her breath hitched. His hand slid up, found her throat, didn’t close—just held—so she could feel the weight of his palm while he kept her wide for him. “Because it makes you clench on me? Because I make you feel a little shameless?”
She tried to shake her head; he held her there easily, mouth at her jaw. “Because I’ll never sleep again.”
He smiled against her skin. “Who said I wanted you rested?”
Her laugh was wet, wrecked, disbelieving. She felt the smile even as his hips found a new angle and her laugh tore in half. Sound bled into the steam—little catches, half-words, that sound people make when they realize their body can hold more than they thought.
He didn’t rush her. He didn’t let her drift either. He carried her right there, on the narrow line where sense and sensation argued about who got to drive.
“Say my name,” he said quietly.
She shook her head again, eyes squeezed shut the way people do when the light is too bright.
“Lyric.” His voice threaded through the spray, low enough to be a vibration. “Say my name and let go.”
“Elijah,” she breathed, and then said it again, louder, because it felt like the only thing she had left that was hers.
He held her with everything he had—forearm across her ribs, hand anchoring her throat, body braced, legs planted—and let her break on him. It was full-body, involuntary, mean with relief. Her knees gave; he didn’t let her fall. The sound she made was the soft wail people think they’ll be too proud to let out until the right pair of hands proves them wrong.
“Yeah,” he said, almost gentle, almost unbearably tender through the grit. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
She shook against him. He didn’t pull out. He rode the aftershocks with her, not to wring more from her, but to make sure she didn’t float away.
When it passed—when she came back to herself in a shower turned humid chamber, tile warm beneath her palms—he still hadn’t let go. He kissed the side of her neck, slow. Kissed the hinge of her jaw. Kissed the back of her shoulder like it mattered.
“Don’t move,” he said, and it wasn’t a command. It was care.
He slipped from her, the loss a tender ache, then turned her in the circle of his arms. She let him. She would’ve let him do anything in that moment because he hadn’t just taken—he’d held. He’d held when she melted and when she bowed and when she forgot what her name was. He’d held like he meant to be the ground she could fall onto and the wall she could push against.
He tucked wet hair behind her ear. Water traced the line of her throat like a finger that belonged to them both.
“You good?”
She nodded. It didn’t say enough. The nod was the little word; the look she gave him was the novel.
“Again,” she whispered, and then she laughed, because honesty sounded ridiculous spoken that plain.
His mouth crooked. “Later.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He shut the water off. The world changed. The hiss died; the house’s quiet came back like a held breath let go.
He toweled her off slow, like she was a ritual he wasn’t rushing. Shoulders first. Arms next. The curve of her back, the weight of her breasts—he didn’t ogle like a boy and he didn’t hurry like a man with something to hide. He moved with reverence and possession, like she was something he had every right to praise and every responsibility to care for.
She watched him watch her. It did something to the space behind her ribs.
He rubbed the towel over her thighs until heat bloomed back where the water had cooled it. When he knelt to do her calves and feet, she pressed a hand to the top of his head, fingers in the short-cropped hair, a tiny shake in the touch that had nothing to do with being cold.
“Come on,” he said, voice gone quiet again. He wrapped the towel around her, then another around his own hips by habit more than need, and led her out.
The bedroom felt larger now, the bed a dark bay in a warm harbor. He pulled the covers back, guided her into the center, and climbed in behind her. Bodies found those easy places they decide are made for them: the curve of his chest to her spine; his thigh to the back of hers; his arm beneath her head and the other draped over her like a lock.
Silence settled. Not empty. Full.
She drew lines on the back of his forearm with her fingertips. He tracked her path with his breath.
“What are we doing?” she asked into the dark. It wasn’t a challenge. It was a confession that she cared enough to want a name.
He could have dodged. He could have made it a joke, or turned it back into heat. He didn’t.
“Tried to make it nothing,” he said, the words humming into the pillow, into her hair. “Tried to be the man who keeps his lines drawn. But I’m checkin’ my phone like a damn teenager. I hear you in rooms you ain’t in. Can’t sit in this house without thinkin’ about you in every room now. That’s not nothing.”
Her breath stuttered. She couldn’t have smiled wider without crying too. “Every room, huh?”
“Every single one.” He pressed his mouth to her nape. “Kitchen. Living room. Hallway. That was me being nice. You don’t even want to know the rooms I ain’t introduced you to yet.”
She laughed, soft and stunned. The sound folded into his chest. “You’re insane.”
“Probably.” He caught her wandering hand, laced their fingers. “But I ain’t confused.”
“What about Tasha?” The name floated between them like a reminder that the world existed outside the bed. “What about… everything else?”
“We don’t do stupid,” he said, blunt truth in a low tone. “We do careful. Respectful. But I ain’t goin’ to pretend this ain’t what it is just because it’s messy. You feel me?” He nudged her chin with his knuckles until she turned her face enough that he could see the wet glint of her eyes. “You feel me, Lyric?”
She nodded. Then she said it. “I feel you.” A beat. “I feel you when you’re not here.”
His breath left on a sound that wasn’t a laugh or a sigh. It was something you make when you realize the thing you hoped is true came from somebody else’s mouth first.
“You ever try not to text me?” she asked, the smallest smile on her lips.
“Every day,” he admitted. “Always lose that fight ‘round noon.”
“Coward.”
“You like it.” He squeezed her fingers. “You be waitin’ on it. Soon as that bubble pop up, you already smilin’.”
She didn’t deny it. “We’re ridiculous.”
“Speak for yourself. I’m dignified.”
She snorted so hard he had to press his mouth to her shoulder to smother his own laugh. The bed shook. The room felt human—two people stupid for each other in a world that would not make it easy.
He sobered first. “You know I risked somethin’ tonight.” Not an accusation. Not even a warning. A simple fact that deserved respect.
“I know.” She rolled to face him, propping on an elbow so she could see him. The lamplight from the corner painted his cheekbone, his mouth, the lines a hard life and honest work carve into a good man’s face. “Me too.”
His hand slid to her face, thumb stroking the damp flare of her cheekbone. “I ain’t riskin’ it for a phase.”
Her throat tightened around a truth that scared and satisfied her in the same breath. “Neither am I.”
He kissed her. Not hungry. Not soft. Something in between that said I’m here in a language mouths learn when talking doesn’t cover it.
When he broke it, he didn’t move far. “You tired?”
“No.” She blinked. “Yes.” She laughed at herself. “I don’t know.”
His smile returned, smaller and more dangerous because it held patience. “That’s alright.”
They lay like that a while—listening to the rain’s last fingers tap the gutter, to the neighborhood’s hush, to the slow normalization of two fast heartbeats.
The only sound was breath — hers ragged, his low and steady, both of them straining to believe what they’d just done in every corner of this house.
Finally, he kissed her once more. Not desperate. Not claiming. Just soft. A kiss that said stay in this moment, don’t look ahead yet.
But her stomach betrayed her, a low grumble in the silence. Lyric groaned into his chest, mortified.
Elijah’s laugh was husky, still ruined at the edges from how hard he’d been fucking her minutes ago. “C’mon,” he murmured, brushing damp hair from her temple. “Let’s feed you before you pass out on me.”
He tugged on his sweats, handed her his t-shirt. It swallowed her frame, hem brushing mid-thigh, smelling like him already. She tried not to think about what it meant that she liked it so much.
The house was quiet when they eased into the hallway, Elijah’s hand firm at the small of her back. She felt the risk of it — bare legs, no panties, his shirt clinging to her in the cool draft — as if the walls themselves could judge. But he guided her down the stairs like he always walked her through fire: steady, unbothered, daring the house to speak.
The kitchen was half-dark, only the hood light above the stove glowing. He moved easily in the space, opening the fridge, pulling leftovers like it was any other midnight. Except it wasn’t. Not with her perched on his counter in nothing but his shirt, thighs still tacky with his cum, watching him move like she’d never get tired of it.
“You always this domestic after you…” She trailed off, biting her lip.
“After I what?” His smirk was sharp, dangerous.
She rolled her eyes, cheeks heating. “You know.”
He leaned against the fridge, carton in hand, looking at her like he wanted to pin her again right there. “After I ruin you?” His voice was velvet wrapped around gravel.
Her breath caught, but she forced a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
He set the food down, stepped between her legs. His hands bracketed her knees, spreading them until she had no choice but to feel the heat rolling off him. He kissed her — softer this time, almost reverent, as if the counter wasn’t the same place he’d bent her hours ago.
“Hungry?” he asked when he pulled back.
“For food?” She teased, though her body answered otherwise, shifting against him.
“For both,” he said simply. Then he fed her, lifting a fork to her lips, watching her take every bite like it meant more than it should.
They talked in low voices while the storm hummed outside — about nothing, about everything. Music. Work. The way Tasha had left the fridge stocked but messy. He teased her for being a picky eater. She teased him for acting like her plate was his responsibility.
But beneath the banter ran something heavier.
At one point, she looked up and caught him watching her too long. Not like she was trouble. Not like she was just temptation. Like she was something he hadn’t meant to need and now couldn’t stop.
“What are we doing?” she whispered finally, setting her fork down, her throat dry in a way food couldn’t fix.
He didn’t dodge. Didn’t laugh it off. Elijah stepped closer, one hand sliding up her thigh, not for filth but for weight. For emphasis.
“We’re past pretend, Lyric.” His voice was low, cutting through the hum of the fridge. “You feel me in your phone when I text. You hear me when I’m not in the room. You’re in my head every time I walk through this house now.” He cupped her jaw, thumb dragging slow across her cheek. “That’s not just a fuck. That’s a hold.”
Her breath stuttered. “And you’re okay with that?”
He bent until his forehead pressed to hers. “I’m too far gone not to be.”
Silence stretched — the kind of silence that makes or breaks. She leaned in first, kissing him. It was messy and sweet and dangerous, all at once.
When she pulled back, she whispered against his lips, “Then you better not let me go.”
His smile curved against her mouth. “Not a chance.”
They stayed there, in the kitchen glow, feeding each other forkfuls and stolen kisses, the storm easing into nothing outside. For the first time, it didn’t feel like running or hiding. It felt like something beginning.
Summary: Lyric never should’ve let herself get this close to him. Her best friend’s father, her safe place for too many summers, now a man circling her like temptation draped in smoke. What started as stolen looks in the living room spills into a dangerous night of aching touches, forbidden kisses, and quiet moans muffled through walls that aren’t thick enough. It’s tender. It’s filthy. And it’s a line neither of them can uncross.
Warnings: 18+ only, explicit sexual content, forbidden romance, best friend’s dad trope, unprotected sex, oral (m + f receiving), cum play, cockwarming, multiple positions, praise, rough pace, aftercare, risk of being caught, heavy tension, filthy wordplay, cussing.
Part 2
Lyric hadn’t planned to be here.
It started with a lazy afternoon, her best friend dragging her out for errands and then disappearing upstairs when they got back—mumbling something about a shower and a nap. That left Lyric downstairs, sprawled across the couch in her cutoff denim shorts and thin tank top, sipping lemonade that tasted more like melted ice than citrus.
She told herself she was just killing time. Just waiting. But the truth was, she noticed when the air in the house shifted—when the quiet turned heavier, like someone had walked in who didn’t belong to silence.
Elijah.
Most people called him Smoke, but Lyric had only ever heard her best friend call him “Dad.” That was still strange to her—this man with shoulders wide enough to block out the sun, with a presence that seemed to rattle doorframes, attached to the word Dad.
He came in through the back door, work boots heavy against the tile, filling the doorway like he owned more than the house—like he owned the ground it was built on. He didn’t notice her at first, or maybe he did and just didn’t let it show. Either way, Lyric’s eyes were already on him, sliding slow from his forearms to the line of his jaw.
“You always walk heavy like that, Mr. Elijah?” Her voice carried, lazy but sharp, cutting through the hum of the TV. “Or you just tryna make sure nobody misses you?”
That made him glance up, finally locking on her stretched-out frame on the couch. His gaze didn’t skim. It stayed—on the smooth line of her thighs, the rise and fall of her chest under cotton too thin to hide much. Not subtle. Not apologetic.
“Ain’t gotta try,” he said, voice like smoke itself, curling low. “You hear me whether you want to or not.”
Lyric sipped her lemonade, lips wrapping around the straw slow, then let it clink back into the glass. “I hear you. Question is—do you always stare this long too?”
He didn’t move closer, but he didn’t look away either. The pause stretched, weighted, like the kind that makes the air itself complicit.
“You think too much,” Elijah murmured, tilting his head, eyes locked on hers. “Don’t overthink it. Just feel it.”
The words dripped heat straight down her spine. Lyric tilted her head, mouth curving sly even as her pulse betrayed her. “Careful. You sound like you tryna start somethin’.”
A low laugh broke from his chest, not loud, not kind—something heavier. “If I was, little girl, you’d know. Believe that.”
Her glass wobbled when she set it down, her hand less steady than her face. He turned away before she could craft a comeback, boots thudding down the hall, leaving his presence pressed thick into the air.
Lyric leaned back against the couch, exhaling slow, lips pulling into a grin meant for no one but herself.
“Feel it, huh? Guess we’ll see who feels who first.”
The air in the living room had weight now, heavier than when she first sank into the couch. Lyric scrolled slow on her phone, pretending distraction, but every sense stretched toward the sound of his boots crossing back from the hall.
He didn’t stop moving at first. Just let his presence drag across the room as he headed toward the kitchen, his shadow passing over the edge of the couch.
“You get real comfortable in other people’s houses,” he said, voice low, amused.
Lyric smirked without looking up. “Maybe your couch is just too soft.”
He chuckled, a deep, quiet rumble that rolled through the walls more than the air. His footsteps paused near the threshold, like he was giving her the chance to fill the silence—or trip on it.
“You talk like that to her too?” he asked after a beat.
Her head tilted, eyes lifting toward him, catching the way the corner of his mouth tugged with something half-playful, half-warning. “No,” she said, leaning back, stretching one leg out along the cushion. “Just you.”
That pulled his full attention, heavy and unblinking. He leaned against the doorframe, broad shoulders filling it up like the house had been built around him. The heat of his stare pinned her where she sat.
“You ain’t scared easy, huh?”
“Should I be?” she asked, quiet but steady.
The edge of his laugh was sharp, more teeth than humor. He pushed off the frame and took two slow steps closer, close enough for her to see the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his temples from whatever work he’d been doing before.
“You keep throwin’ sparks like that,” he said, voice dropping, “you gon’ see what catches.”
Lyric’s lips parted, but no words came. She let her gaze fall down his chest, then back up, holding it longer than she should’ve. Testing him.
The corner of his mouth curved. “That’s what I thought.”
He turned toward the kitchen like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just shifted the floor out from under her. But the trail of his cologne and sweat lingered heavy, and she sat on the couch staring at the doorway, pulse quick in her throat, already wondering how long she could play this game before one of them stopped pretending.
The kitchen light was softer than the living room’s—yellow, warm, spilling over black marble counters and polished wood cabinets. It was too clean, too still, like it hadn’t been lived in much. The hum of the refrigerator filled the silence as Lyric followed the sound of his footsteps.
She hadn’t meant to trail him, not really. But when her body rose from the couch, it felt like the decision had been made for her, as if her pulse tugged her along by a thread.
He was already there when she stepped through the archway, back to her, tugging a glass from the cabinet. The stretch of his shirt over his shoulders, the way his forearms flexed as he reached—it was enough to make her toes curl in her sneakers.
“You followin’ me now?” he asked without turning, voice steady as poured water.
“Maybe.”
The single word hung in the air, fragile and reckless.
He turned then, slow, holding the glass like it wasn’t just water but proof he had the upper hand. His gaze landed on her first—steady, burning—before it slid down to the way her arms crossed under her chest.
“You thirsty?” he asked, raising the glass slightly.
Her mouth curved, a soft almost-smile, one that gave nothing away. “Depends on what you’re offering.”
His laugh was low, a sharp scrape that caught at the edges. He set the glass down on the counter with a click and leaned back against it, arms folding across his chest. He didn’t have to move closer—the kitchen was small enough that his presence filled it.
“You talk slick for somebody sittin’ in my house, eatin’ my food.”
“And yet,” she countered, lifting her chin just a little, “you haven’t told me to leave.”
Silence stretched again. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just enough to cut. Then he pushed off the counter and stepped forward. One. Two. Each step deliberate until there wasn’t much room left between them.
Lyric’s back brushed the counter edge. Her breath hitched, but she held his gaze, her heartbeat loud enough she swore he could hear it.
He dipped his head, close enough that the faint scent of soap and smoke tangled with her perfume. His voice was a whisper, rough at the edges:
“You like this little game?”
She swallowed, throat dry, words catching. “Maybe.”
His grin was slow, dangerous, curling like smoke. He placed his hands on the counter on either side of her hips, boxing her in without touching her. “Then you better know somethin’…” His voice dropped even lower, chest brushing hers with each word. “Games don’t stay games forever.”
Her lips parted, caught between a breath and an answer, but the words refused to come. Instead, her body leaned just a fraction into the cage of his arms, betraying her before her mouth could.
His eyes flicked down to catch it. Satisfaction sharpened his grin. “That’s what I thought.”
The hum of the refrigerator deepened in the silence that followed, the air thick and pulsing. Lyric stayed still, pulse rushing like water in her ears, while Smoke’s presence bent the space around her tighter and tighter—like sooner or later, one of them was going to break the tension in half.
The hum of the refrigerator lingered after he stepped back. Elijah didn’t break her gaze right away—just let the space hang heavy, charged, before finally straightening to his full height and pulling his hands from the counter.
“You know where the guest room is,” he said, voice steady again, like the moment hadn’t happened. “Door’s open.”
Lyric nodded, trying to look unbothered. But her hands were warm where they brushed against the counter, her pulse still skittering too fast in her chest. She pushed off and slipped past him, the brush of their shoulders sparking heat like static.
The hallway stretched long and quiet, walls lined with family photos she didn’t stop to study. Her sneakers tapped soft against the hardwood until she reached the guest bedroom. She closed the door behind her, exhaling like she’d been holding her breath since the kitchen.
It was a simple room: pale sheets, dresser pushed against one wall, a lamp casting warm light in the corner. She sat on the bed, legs crossed, palms pressing into her knees. From the outside, she knew she looked calm. But inside, her mind replayed the kitchen—his arms braced on either side of her, the scrape of his voice when he leaned close.
“Games don’t stay games forever.”
The line sank into her bones like a promise and a warning. Lyric leaned back on her hands, staring up at the ceiling, lips pressing together in something that wasn’t quite a smile. She was young, sure—just barely past twenty. But life had forced her to grow up fast, and she’d learned early how to read between silences, how to hold her ground. That was why she didn’t scare easy. That was why she hadn’t stepped back in that kitchen, no matter how her pulse tried to convince her otherwise.
⸻
Elijah’s steps carried him down the opposite end of the hall. He paused at his daughter’s door, the faint sound of her breathing soft and steady behind it. He eased the door open, peeking in.
She was curled on her side in bed, a thin blanket pulled to her shoulder, her hair fanned against the pillow. Still asleep. He let the door rest against the frame but didn’t close it all the way. For a moment, he just stood there, hands braced on his hips, chest rising and falling slow.
He wasn’t blind to the tension sparking in his kitchen. He’d felt it like a live wire under his skin, the kind of charge that didn’t fade even when you walked away. And he knew better—should’ve let the silence drown it, should’ve put more distance between them instead of closing in. But he hadn’t.
His jaw tightened as he dragged a hand down his face.
Lyric was too young. Early twenties, still at the start of everything. But the way she carried herself… it wasn’t naïve. Life had carved sharp edges into her, the kind that matched his in a way he didn’t want to think too hard about.
He shut her door softly and walked back down the hall.
The house was quiet again, but the quiet didn’t soothe him. It just left him alone with the echo of her voice and the flash of her eyes.
The guest room light hummed faintly, throwing soft shadows across the pale sheets. Lyric lay sprawled on her back, one arm flung above her head, the other resting against her stomach. She stared at the ceiling, unblinking, her mind a restless loop of the last hour.
The kitchen. The way he’d leaned in, the counter boxing her in, his breath cutting the air between them. Elijah Smoke. Her best friend’s dad. A man who should’ve stayed a shadow at the edges of her life—but who felt impossible to ignore when he was that close.
Her lips parted, breath shallow.
She knew the boundary. Knew she should’ve pulled back, should’ve laughed it off, should’ve walked away when his eyes lingered too long. But she hadn’t. And now her body wouldn’t let her forget it.
Her thighs pressed together, the friction barely enough to take the edge off. She let her fingers trail across her stomach, lower, testing herself. Just a touch, just a brush. Her body jolted anyway.
“Don’t overthink it. Just feel it.”
The words echoed in her head like they were stitched into her skin. She dragged her bottom lip between her teeth, eyes shutting tight, her own hand moving slow as if daring herself to follow through.
⸻
Down the hall, Elijah paced the living room like a man trying to outwalk his own thoughts.
He’d checked on his daughter again—still asleep, oblivious. But it didn’t ease the storm brewing inside him. He poured himself a glass of water, downed half of it, set it aside. Then picked it up again. Anything to busy his hands.
But it didn’t work. The image kept replaying: Lyric at his counter, her chin tilted up, eyes sharp even while her body betrayed her nerves. The press of her shoulder when she brushed past him down the hall. The way she looked at him—curious, steady, unafraid.
Too young, his mind warned. A line he had no business crossing.
But his body didn’t listen. His jaw flexed, broad shoulders rolling tight as he exhaled through his nose.
She was temptation dressed soft, carrying herself with the kind of maturity that made it hard to remember the gap between them. And the worst part? He knew she was probably in that guest room right now thinking about the same thing he was.
Elijah braced his hands on the back of the couch, head dropping forward. A low curse slipped through his teeth.
He could feel the heat of it already, the pull in his chest that told him this wouldn’t stay unspoken forever.
The house was too still. Too quiet. Elijah could hear the creak of his own footsteps as he moved down the hall, the low hum of the AC rattling through the vents. He wasn’t even sure what pulled him there—only that his body moved before his mind caught up.
The guest room door was cracked. A sliver of light spilled across the floorboards.
He should’ve turned back. Should’ve walked outside, smoked a cigarette, driven to the corner store—anything but this.
But then he heard it.
A soft sound, faint but sharp enough to still him where he stood. A whisper of breath, the catch of a moan muffled into the back of her hand.
Lyric.
Elijah’s chest tightened. Heat crawled up his spine, settling in his gut. He pressed a hand to the doorframe, head tipping forward. For a second, he told himself he’d leave. Just back away. Let her have her private moment.
Then she gasped again. Softer. Sharper. Her bed creaked under the faint shift of her body.
That was it. His control snapped.
The door opened slow, deliberate. She froze when she saw him—a deer caught in the amber glow of the lamp, hand still tucked between her thighs like she hadn’t had time to pull it away.
Her lips parted, breathless. “Mr. Smoke—”
“Don’t stop.” His voice was low, gravel grinding against the quiet. His broad frame filled the doorway, one hand braced high, the other flexing at his side like it was itching to touch. His eyes burned into hers, steady and unflinching.
Lyric’s chest rose hard, her hand still caught where he’d found it. The defiant edge in her softened under the weight of his stare, nerves flickering, but she didn’t move.
Elijah stepped inside, closing the door with a soft click that sounded louder than thunder.
He didn’t touch her yet. Just stood close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off him, close enough for her breath to stutter. His gaze dropped—her flushed face, the slip of her tank top strap, the tremble of her thighs under her shorts.
His jaw worked once before he finally spoke. “You gon’ lay here makin’ them sounds and think I ain’t gon’ come see about it?”
Lyric swallowed, her throat tight. “I didn’t—”
“You did,” he cut in, sharp but low, voice thick with something dangerous. He leaned down, one hand finally pressing into the mattress beside her hip, his weight tilting the bed. “And you wanted me to hear it.”
Her breath faltered, but her hand didn’t move away.
Elijah’s lips curved into something between a smirk and a snarl, his voice dropping into a rasp that felt like it came from his chest alone.
“Don’t overthink it, Lyric. Just feel it.”
The room seemed smaller now, the air heavier. Shadows stretched long across the walls from the single lamp on the dresser, and every shift of Lyric’s chest made the bed creak louder than it should have.
Elijah didn’t move his hand from the mattress. He leaned over her, his presence swallowing the space, his shadow falling over her bare legs. The sharp scent of his cologne—smoke, cedar, something darker underneath—wrapped around her like another set of hands.
“Go on,” he murmured, voice low, vibrating down to her bones. His eyes dragged over her hand tucked into the waistband of her shorts, the way her knuckles flexed as though her body couldn’t decide whether to freeze or keep moving. “Show me how you touch what you think I ain’t already claimed.”
Her breath caught, lashes fluttering, but she obeyed. Her fingers trembled as they slipped deeper, dragging through slick heat that made her thighs tense. A faint wet sound broke into the silence, obscene in how soft it was.
Elijah’s jaw flexed, his nostrils flaring as if he could scent her arousal in the air. He didn’t blink, didn’t look away.
Lyric’s eyes darted up to him, searching for softness, for mercy—but found none. Only the weight of his stare, pinning her as surely as his body would have.
“Mm,” he hummed low, dragging the sound like gravel. “Already wet from playin’ with yourself. Or is it ‘cause I’m standin’ here watchin’? Which one is it?”
Her lips parted, a shaky exhale tumbling free. She tried to swallow the truth, but her hips gave her away, rolling up into her own hand.
“That one.” His voice sharpened, pleased, like a wolf catching prey in its teeth. “You nasty for me, Lyric.”
Her fingers worked faster now, slick gathering, the slide louder in the heavy quiet. Her head tipped back against the pillow, braids spilling wild, lips parting on a moan she couldn’t bite down in time.
Elijah caught it—he caught everything.
“That’s it,” he rasped, leaning closer until his breath ghosted hot over her cheek. “Don’t choke it down. Let me hear what you sound like when you think about me.”
Her thighs trembled, muscles locking as the pleasure built sharp, quick. Her eyes squeezed shut, but his voice caught her again, pulling her back.
“Look at me.”
It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. His words dragged her eyes open, glassy and frantic as she met his steady, unrelenting stare.
Her fingers circled her clit now, fast, desperate. The wet slide of it filled the room, mixing with her broken breaths.
Elijah’s lips curved slow, dangerous. “That’s a good girl. So pretty when you break for me.”
Her body arched, a soft cry tearing from her throat as she came—hard, sudden, her hand jerking frantic against herself until she stilled, trembling, thighs clenching around her wrist.
Elijah didn’t move back. His eyes stayed locked on hers, watching her ride out every wave, taking in the sweat sheen on her skin, the flush in her cheeks, the wet that coated her fingers.
When her hand finally stilled, he reached, slow and deliberate, wrapping his broad hand around her wrist. He pulled her slick fingers free, lifted them between them, and let his gaze cut through her.
“Messy little thing,” he rasped. His thumb pressed over her knuckles, dragging through her wet before he lifted her hand higher. His tongue flicked out, slow, obscene, tasting the fingers she’d just had inside herself.
Her whole body jolted, breath stumbling out of her lungs.
Elijah groaned low in his chest, deep satisfaction rumbling like thunder. His eyes burned into hers as he licked her clean. “Sweet as I thought.”
The silence after was suffocating, thick with everything neither of them said—but everything both of them already knew.
The room was too still after her climax, silence thick like a held breath. Elijah hadn’t stepped back; if anything, the heat rolling off him felt closer now, wrapping around her skin like smoke. Lyric’s chest rose and fell uneven, lips parted as if she wanted to speak, but no words came.
He still had her wrist, her slick fingers warm in his palm, and neither of them moved to break it.
“Elijah…” she whispered, so soft it almost disappeared.
His head tilted, eyes dragging over her face like he was memorizing every flicker, every tremble. The sound of her saying his name like that—half fear, half hunger—curled something sharp in his chest.
“Don’t say it like you scared,” he said, voice a low scrape. “You call me like that, I’m gon’ give you somethin’ to be scared of.”
Her breath hitched, the words crawling through her like heat. But instead of pulling back, she shifted closer. Their knees brushed. Her free hand lifted slow, almost shaking, until it pressed flat against his chest. She felt the hard muscle under his shirt, the steady thrum of his heart.
“Elijah…” she tried again, this time steadier.
His jaw flexed, teeth grinding as if he was holding back a growl. His hand slid from her wrist to her arm, dragging up until his palm framed her shoulder. His thumb stroked once, rough and tender all at once.
“You know we ain’t supposed to,” he muttered, so close his lips grazed her temple. “But you sittin’ here lookin’ at me like you already made your choice.”
Her hand clenched in his shirt, pulling him a fraction closer. Her eyes flicked toward the door—closed, but flimsy, a reminder that his daughter, her best friend, was just down the hall. The risk made her stomach twist, her thighs press tight together again, but the thought of stepping away was worse.
The first kiss wasn’t clean. It was hesitant, almost clumsy in how both of them leaned in at once. Their mouths brushed, broke apart, then crashed together again harder, hungrier. His beard scratched her chin, her lips, his tongue sweeping past hers like he’d been starving for the taste.
Lyric’s fingers fisted in his shirt tighter, and Elijah groaned into her mouth, a sound deep and low, like it had been caged too long.
He shifted, pushing her back gently until she lay against the pillows, his weight braced on one arm above her. His other hand dragged down her side, gripping her hip, holding her in place as if she might vanish if he didn’t.
She gasped into his mouth when his hand slid lower, tugging at the hem of her shorts. Not pushing, not yet—but testing.
“Elijah,” she breathed, pulling back just enough to look at him.
His eyes burned down at her, searching, warning. “One tug, Lyric. That’s all it take. You stop me now, or you don’t stop me at all.”
The words wrapped tight around her chest, squeezing. She bit her lip, trembling, but she didn’t move to stop him.
His hand slipped beneath the hem, palm rough against her bare thigh. Her nails dug into his shoulders, her own hand trailing down his chest, daring to slip lower. The bulge in his jeans was hot and heavy under her palm.
He groaned again, head tipping back as if her touch scorched him. “Shit,” he hissed, grabbing her wrist—not to pull her away, but to hold it there, pressing her hand harder against him. “You gon’ make me lose every ounce of sense I got.”
Their mouths met again, slower this time, their tongues tangled, their breathing ragged. Clothes became something fragile between them—his hand inching under her tank top, hers sliding under his shirt.
Her nails skimmed his skin, and he shivered, eyes dark as he stared down at her. “You feel that? Every line you cross with me gon’ stay crossed. We don’t go back after this.”
She nodded, throat tight, the forbidden weight of it all pressing heavy—but her body only arched closer, desperate to fall further.
The sound of footsteps creaking faintly in the hall made them both freeze. Elijah’s hand stilled against her skin, his breath rough against her ear.
Neither of them spoke. The footsteps passed, fading toward the back of the house.
Lyric’s heart slammed, every nerve lit with danger and desire. Elijah’s grip on her hip tightened, his forehead pressed to hers, his voice a ragged whisper:
“See what you do to me? Got me losin’ sleep in my own house, hopin’ my daughter don’t walk in while I’m two seconds away from ruinin’ her best friend.”
Her lips brushed his, a reckless answer. “Then ruin me quiet.”
The silence after her whisper was a blade, sharp enough to cut. Elijah didn’t move right away—just breathed against her mouth, heavy, unsteady, like he was trying to hold the line that had already vanished under their hands.
Then he kissed her again.
It was slower now, but no less desperate, his lips dragging over hers, tongues tangling in a wet slide that left her dizzy. His hand at her hip shifted, tugging her shorts inch by inch down her thighs.
She lifted her hips without thinking, and that was all the permission he needed. The denim peeled away, rough against her skin until it hit the floor. She was bare underneath, nothing hiding the heat between her legs.
Elijah’s breath caught. His eyes dropped, dark and hungry, before climbing back to hers. “You knew what you were doin’,” he murmured, voice husky. “Walkin’ ‘round my house with nothin’ under these.”
Her pulse fluttered wild at her throat, but she smirked faintly, defiant even under his stare. “And you kept lookin’.”
His laugh was low, dangerous, more growl than humor. “Yeah. I kept lookin’. Still lookin’.”
His shirt was the next casualty. She tugged it up, her fingers sliding along the warm stretch of muscle across his stomach, his chest. He raised his arms and let her strip it off, tossing it aside. The sight of him bare like that—ink across brown skin, broad shoulders, the raw weight of him—stole her breath.
Her tank top came next, slow, trembling hands pulling it over her head. She dropped it beside the bed, leaving her naked beneath him, her skin goose-pimpled from the cool air and his burning gaze.
Elijah froze, chest heaving, his hand hovering inches from her breast like he didn’t trust himself to touch.
“Fuck…” he whispered, almost reverent. His thumb brushed the swell of her breast at last, circling until her nipple peaked tight. “You gon’ be the death of me.”
Her laugh cracked soft in the quiet, nervous but hungry. “Maybe I’ll keep you alive if you keep touching me.”
That broke him.
Both hands covered her breasts, kneading rough, his thumbs rolling her nipples until she gasped and arched into him. His mouth followed, dragging down her throat, over her collarbone, teeth grazing before his lips closed around one peak, sucking until her nails raked down his back.
“Elijah—” his name tore out of her, unrestrained.
“Shh.” His voice was muffled against her skin, his mouth moving lower, kisses burning across her stomach. “Quiet, Lyric. You want the whole house to hear?”
Her thighs trembled, opening wider under him. He groaned, dragging his lips back up to her mouth, kissing her hard as if he needed to swallow every sound she made.
Then her hands slid lower, bold and trembling at once, brushing over the bulge in his jeans. His whole body jolted, hips pressing into her palm like instinct.
She worked at his belt with shaky fingers. He didn’t stop her. Didn’t help, either—just watched her, eyes heavy-lidded, jaw tight, like he was testing how far she’d push.
When she got it undone, she tugged at the denim. He hissed through his teeth, reaching down to shove them off with rough urgency until they pooled around his ankles. His boxers followed, stripped down in one sharp tug.
And then he was bare above her.
Her eyes dropped, widening, breath catching at the sight of him—thick, heavy, the tip flushed and wet. For a moment, everything stopped.
Elijah caught her staring, caught the way she bit her lip, and smirked, leaning close until his mouth brushed her ear. “Scared?”
Her gaze snapped back to his, sharp and daring even with her body shaking beneath him. “Not scared. Curious.”
He groaned, forehead pressing to hers, their bare skin hot everywhere they touched. His dick pressed against her stomach, hard and throbbing, marking every breath they shared.
His hand framed her face, thumb stroking her cheek with rough tenderness. “We right at the edge, baby. One more step and I ain’t lettin’ you turn back.”
The words hung between them like fire. Lyric’s chest rose fast, her hand sliding up his back, nails dragging over skin, pulling him closer still.
“I know,” she whispered. “And I’m still here.”
The weight of it sat thick in the room—the danger, the hunger, the closeness. Every inch of them was bare now, pressed skin to skin, but still teetering at the line neither dared to cross yet.
And the door just down the hall remained their razor-thin tether to reality.
The room was thick with heat, with silence sharpened by the thrum of their breathing. Every inch of them was bare now, pressed into the soft sheets of the guest bed, but neither moved for the longest moment—like if they shifted too fast, the whole house would collapse on top of them.
Then Elijah kissed her again. Slow. Deep. A pull and drag of lips, tongue, teeth, until she melted beneath him. His hand moved, heavy and deliberate, sliding down her chest, down the curve of her stomach, until his thumb grazed the soft curls at her center.
Lyric’s breath caught. Her thighs parted on instinct, the forbidden weight of it hitting her all over again.
“Shhh,” Elijah murmured against her lips, his voice low, gravel wrapped in velvet. “Don’t make me cover that mouth, baby.”
Her smirk trembled, but it was there, daring him. “Then maybe you should.”
That broke something in him.
He kissed down her throat, licking a path across her collarbone, then lower—her breasts, her stomach—taking his time, leaving bites that burned. Her body twisted under him, hips shifting, a soft moan slipping out before she could choke it down.
“Elijah—”
His hand pressed flat against her hip, holding her steady. He glanced up, eyes burning in the dim glow of the lamp. “Quiet now. Don’t forget where we at.”
Then his mouth dropped between her thighs.
The first lick was slow, deliberate, from the base of her pussy up to her clit. Her back arched sharp, teeth clamping down on her lip hard enough to sting. She grabbed at the sheets, fists twisting in fabric, fighting to keep the cry locked in her chest.
Elijah groaned against her, the vibration dragging through her clit. “Goddamn, you sweet,” he muttered, almost to himself. His tongue circled, steady, then flattened against her, his beard rough against the tender inside of her thighs.
Lyric’s hand flew to her mouth, pressing down to smother the sound that broke loose anyway. Her legs trembled, closing in around his head, but he grabbed her knees, spreading her wider, pinning her to the mattress.
“You gon’ let me taste you proper,” he whispered against her, hot breath fanning over slick heat. Then he sucked her clit between his lips, sharp and greedy.
Her moan cracked through the air. She slapped her hand harder over her mouth, shaking. Her eyes darted to the door. Just down the hall—her best friend, his daughter, sleeping.
“Elijah—” it was half-gasp, half-warning, muffled behind her palm.
He lifted his head just long enough to smirk up at her, chin wet, eyes dark. “Ain’t nobody gon’ hear you if you do it right. Stay still. Stay quiet.”
And then he went back in.
This time, he slid two fingers inside her, slow, thick, stretching her open as his tongue worked her clit. She broke apart under him, every nerve lit. Her muffled cries filled the room, small, desperate sounds behind her palm.
Her thighs shook harder, pressing against his shoulders, grinding against his face despite herself. He growled low, the sound feral, vibrating into her clit until her vision blurred.
“Elijah—oh my god—” she choked, voice cracking despite the hand clamped over her mouth.
“Say my name softer, baby,” he murmured, fucking her with his fingers, curling them just right. “I still hear you. I always hear you.”
Her orgasm hit like a storm breaking. Her back arched, her hand slipping from her mouth to clutch the sheets as her cry ripped free, sharp and breathless. She tried to bite it back, tried to swallow it down, but the sound filled the room anyway.
Elijah didn’t stop. He kept licking, kept thrusting his fingers, dragging her through the high until she shook apart beneath him, her body slick and trembling.
When he finally pulled back, his beard was wet, his fingers glistening. He kissed her inner thigh, then climbed back up her body, his hand gripping her jaw, slick fingers smearing across her lips.
“You taste that?” he asked, voice rough, eyes drilling into hers.
Her tongue darted out, trembling, licking his fingers clean. Her chest heaved. Her eyes burned into his like fire.
And all she could whisper, still breathless, still shaking, was: “Don’t stop.”
The clothes were gone. All of them. Scattered somewhere on the floor like casualties. The only thing left in the room was skin and heat, the air thick with everything they hadn’t said but kept circling.
Elijah lay back against the pillows, naked and heavy in the half-light, every line of him carved deep by shadow. His chest rose slow but hard, the tension in him vibrating through the mattress. His dick curved up thick against his stomach, already wet at the tip, throbbing like it was waiting on her.
Lyric hovered on her knees between his legs, breath shallow, hair falling loose around her face. The forbidden weight pressed down harder now—her best friend’s father laid out before her, and still her body trembled with want instead of fear.
Elijah’s eyes tracked her, dark and burning. His voice cut low. “You sure about this, baby? ‘Cause once you put your mouth on me…” His hand brushed along his own thigh, teasing the edge of a threat. “…ain’t no turnin’ back.”
Her lips parted, but she didn’t answer with words. Instead, she leaned forward, her breath warm against the head of his dick, tongue flicking across the bead of precum.
Elijah’s curse broke the silence, guttural and sharp. “Shit.” His hand caught in her hair instantly, fingers tightening.
She pressed further, her lips sliding over him, tongue dragging the length as she swallowed him deeper. The stretch burned, tears prickling her eyes, but she kept going—her hand wrapping around the thick base, stroking in rhythm.
“Goddamn,” Elijah growled, hips shifting once, sharp, before he forced himself to still. His grip in her hair tightened, holding her steady. “You feel what you doin’ to me? You gon’ ruin me with that little mouth.”
Her moan vibrated against his shaft, and he hissed, the sound cut from his throat. His abs clenched, dick twitching deep against her tongue.
She pulled back with a wet gasp, spit trailing from her swollen lips down his length. “Maybe that’s what I want,” she whispered, voice rough.
His eyes narrowed, hunger flaring. “Keep talkin’ like that, and I’ma fuck your throat till you forget what universe you’re in.”
Her smirk was shaky but bold, and then she sank down again, taking him deeper, gagging soft around the girth but refusing to stop. Spit slid over her chin, dripping onto his thighs, her hand twisting faster at the base.
Elijah’s head tipped back into the pillows, his chest heaving. He tried to stay still, tried to control the roll of his hips, but the slick heat of her mouth dragged him to the edge. “Lyric,” he rasped, raw warning in her name. “You don’t even know—fuck—”
Her nails dug crescents into his thighs as she pushed herself harder, her throat tightening around him. The sound of it filled the room—wet, obscene, echoing like sin.
His grip snapped, dragging her head up with a sharp yank. His dick slipped from her mouth with a messy pop, spit and precum shining across her lips.
Elijah stared down at her, chest rising like a storm was caught inside him. “If I let you keep goin’, I’m puttin’ it all down your throat.” His voice cracked, half-growl, half-prayer. “That what you want?”
Lyric swiped her spit-slick chin with the back of her hand, eyes locked on him. “I want you to lose it on me.”
The look on his face then—half fury, half worship—promised the line they’d just crossed could never be undone.
Her words lit something reckless in him. Elijah’s jaw clenched, his grip in her hair brutal now, no hesitation left.
“You want me to lose it?” His voice cracked into a growl, thick and raw. “Then open wide, baby. Take all of it.”
Lyric’s lips parted again without pause, her tongue curling out, greedy. She leaned in, swallowing him back down, wet heat wrapping him to the base.
“Fuck,” Elijah hissed, hips snapping once, then again. Control shattered. His hand held her in place as his dick pulsed on her tongue, sliding deep in slow, relentless strokes. “Just like that—don’t you dare pull back.”
She gagged soft, eyes watering, spit streaming from the corners of her mouth, but her hands anchored him, one stroking what her throat couldn’t take.
The sight alone—her on her knees, naked, mouth ruined for him—was enough. His groan tore out of him as he spilled, hot and sharp, down her throat.
“Swallow,” he ordered, voice shaking with the force of it. His fingers dug into her scalp as he throbbed inside her. “All of it. Don’t waste a drop.”
Lyric obeyed. She swallowed hard, messy, the taste of him thick across her tongue. Some of it slipped past her lips, dripping down her chin in thin streaks. She wiped it with her hand, then dragged her tongue across her palm, licking it clean.
Elijah’s chest heaved, his body trembling under the strain of holding back too long. The sight of her swallowing him down—licking like she wanted every last trace—made his dick twitch again, still hard, still ready.
He yanked her up in one motion, spit and sweat slick between them as he pressed her body flush to his. His lips crashed against hers, tasting himself on her tongue, devouring her gasp.
“Good girl,” he rasped against her mouth, his voice like broken glass wrapped in velvet. “You take my cum like you was made for it.”
Lyric’s thighs tightened around his hips, her body melting into his hold. She could barely breathe between his kisses, but her whisper cut through, shaky and daring: “Then fuck me like I was made for it.”
Elijah growled low, almost animal, and shifted, pushing her back onto the mattress beneath him. His weight caged her in, his dick slick and heavy against her stomach as he ground down slow, dangerous.
And with that, he slid lower, lining himself up to finally push into her—slow stretch, no barriers left.
Elijah didn’t rush. Couldn’t. Not with her laid bare beneath him, eyes wide and lips parted, her skin glowing in the low lamplight. Lyric was all trembling nerves and sharp want, and he wanted to brand every second into her body so she’d never forget who touched her first like this.
He pressed the head of his dick against her slick entrance, heavy and swollen, sliding it through her folds first. Back and forth. Letting her feel the weight of him before he gave it. Each pass dragged a whimper from her throat, her hips rocking up to chase him.
“Mm, you needy,” Elijah murmured, dragging his lips down the column of her throat, teeth catching delicate skin. His voice rumbled low, close to her ear. “Don’t rush me. You gon’ feel every fuckin’ inch.”
Her nails sank into his shoulders, sharp crescents pressing deep. “Please,” she whispered, her breath shaky, already breaking.
He smirked against her skin, positioning himself. And then, slow—agonizingly slow—he began to push inside.
Lyric gasped, back arching as his dick stretched her open, the pressure sharp and hot. The slick from her earlier orgasm helped, but he was thick, and the pace made her feel every ridge, every vein dragging through her walls.
“Breathe, baby,” he coaxed, his forehead pressed to hers. His thumb stroked her cheek, tender even as his other hand pinned her hip down hard. “Yeah, there you go. Nice ‘n easy.”
She exhaled in shaky bursts, whimpers spilling out with each inch he buried deeper. Her body fought to adjust, the sting blurring into a deep, molten ache. Her legs shook against his sides, thighs trembling as he filled her.
Elijah groaned low in his chest, biting back curses as her tight heat gripped him. “Goddamn. You tryna choke me out, huh? This little pussy so tight…like it never wanted nothin’ but me.”
Her eyes fluttered, tears pricking at the corners from the intensity, but she didn’t look away. That was what undid him—their eyes locked, her breath stuttering while he claimed her slow.
He stopped once he was halfway in, forcing himself to still. He kissed her jaw, her ear, whispering filth that hit like velvet knives.
“Halfway,” he told her, his voice ragged. “That’s just half of me, baby. You sure you can take the rest?”
Lyric’s answer came with a desperate roll of her hips, her body trying to pull him deeper. “Don’t stop. I want it all.”
Elijah groaned, dragging his lips across hers, swallowing her confession like it was meant for him alone. And then, with one long, claiming thrust, he sank the rest of the way in.
Her cry split the quiet, muffled quick as his mouth crushed hers.
He held there, fully inside, filling her so deep she could feel him everywhere. Neither of them moved. Just the pulse of his dick inside her, the tremble of her walls trying to adjust, the shared heat of two bodies finally snapping the line they’d danced for weeks.
“Shit,” Elijah rasped, his breath hot against her mouth. “You feel that? That’s me inside you, baby. Ain’t no comin’ back from this.”
Elijah didn’t move. Not yet.
He had Lyric spread beneath him, her body stretched wide and trembling around the thick weight of his dick buried deep. Her chest rose in shallow bursts, breasts pressing soft against his chest, nipples peaked tight from the strain and the heat. Her lips parted, glossy from his earlier kisses, her eyes dazed but fixed on him like he was the only thing holding her together.
Every muscle in her body quivered, and still he held her pinned—one hand wrapped tight around her thigh, the other gripping her jaw so she couldn’t look away.
“You feel that?” His voice was a low growl, vibrating through her chest where their bodies pressed. His forehead leaned to hers, breath hot. “That’s what it mean to be filled proper. You been fucked before, yeah…” His thumb stroked slow across her bottom lip. “But you ain’t never been handled. Not like this.”
Lyric whimpered, the sound raw, caught between ache and need. Her hips tried to shift, desperate for him to move, to give her friction. He only pressed her harder into the mattress, holding her stuffed on his length.
“Nuh-uh,” he whispered, the grit in his tone filthy-smooth. “Don’t run. Don’t rush. You gon’ learn to sit in it. Feel all that stretch, all that weight. Let your body melt around me till it ain’t fightin’ no more.”
Tears pricked her lashes, not from pain but from the overwhelm of it—the stretch so deep it made her toes curl, the way his voice wrapped her tight as his body did.
“Elijah…” Her whisper cracked, needy.
His mouth brushed hers, close enough for the heat but not the kiss. “Say it again,” he urged, his hips rolling slow, grinding just enough to make her gasp. “Say my name while I’m sittin’ this deep inside you.”
Her nails carved red crescents down his back, her voice breaking as she obeyed. “Elijah…”
“Mm, that’s it.” His teeth caught her earlobe, gentle but claiming. “You sweet when you beg. But you ain’t beggin’ me to fuck yet. Not yet. You gon’ sit here stuffed till you can’t take it no more. Till that mouth too busy moanin’ my name to talk back.”
She bit her lip, shaking her head, but her body betrayed her—the slick pooling around him, wetness dripping down between her thighs, proof of how much she wanted more.
He felt it, grinned dark against her throat. “You hear that?” His hips rocked again, shallow, making the wet squelch loud in the quiet room. “That’s your pussy tellin’ on you. Leakin’ all over me. You ain’t used to a man holdin’ you still, makin’ you take his time.”
Her eyes fluttered closed, overwhelmed. He gave her chin a gentle squeeze, forcing her gaze back to his.
“Keep ‘em open,” Elijah ordered, tender but firm. “Look at me while you cum sittin’ stuffed on this dick. Let me see you break.”
Her whole body shivered, his words hitting deeper than the stretch itself. She didn’t even realize she was grinding her hips in tiny circles until he chuckled low, chest vibrating against hers.
“That’s it, baby. Chase it. Show me how bad you need it.”
And with nothing but his weight holding her full, his dirty rhythm of words in her ear, Lyric’s walls fluttered tight around him. Her first orgasm hit hard, wracking her body as she gasped out his name, the sound muffled against his lips when he finally kissed her.
Elijah groaned, savoring the way she clenched, savoring the way her body gave in. “Mm. There you go. First one don’t even need me to move. That’s how I know I own every inch of this pussy already.”
Elijah held her through the aftershocks, lips brushing damp across her temple as her chest shuddered beneath his. Her first orgasm had wrung her out, left her soft and pliant, but he wasn’t close to finished.
His hand slid from her thigh to her hip, grip steady, anchoring her as he finally pulled back—just an inch, just enough to make her gasp at the loss. Then he sank back in, slow, deliberate, savoring the way her walls stretched around him again.
Lyric’s head fell back against the pillow, a broken whimper spilling from her throat. “Oh, my God—”
“Nah.” His teeth scraped her jawline as his hips pressed flush, his dick bottoming out inside her, deep enough to steal her breath. “Ain’t no God in this. Only me.”
He rolled his hips slow, grinding deep, not thrusting yet—just making her feel every inch of the drag, every pulse of his thickness inside her. The wet sound between them was filthy, slick from how much she’d already soaked him.
“Elijah…” Her nails scraped down his shoulders, frantic, searching for something to hold onto.
He groaned at the sound of his name in her mouth, low and needy. “Mm. That’s it. Say it like you mean it. Say it like you know what’s inside you right now.”
His pace stayed slow, relentless, fucking her like he had nowhere else to be. Every withdrawal was an ache, every push back in a claim. Her pussy clutched around him like it already knew to hold on.
Lyric’s thighs trembled around his hips, toes curling against the sheets. “It’s—too much—”
He kissed her hard, swallowing the words, tongue claiming her mouth the same way his body claimed hers. When he pulled back, his forehead pressed to hers, his voice cracked filthy and soft.
“You feel that? That’s me teaching your body how to remember mine.”
Her eyes flew open at that, pupils blown wide.
“That’s what I want,” he whispered, hips dragging slow, deep, and unhurried. “Every time you close your legs after tonight, you gon’ feel me there. Every time you try to sleep, you gon’ hear the sound of me inside you.”
Her chest heaved, words dying on her tongue, her body answering for her as it clenched tighter around him.
“You gon’ cum again,” he murmured, hand sliding up to cradle her jaw, thumb brushing her trembling lips. “Not fast. Not rough. Slow. Until you can’t stand it. Until you know you’ll never forget me.”
Lyric gasped, clung tighter, and obeyed. Her gaze locked to his as her body buckled beneath the pace he kept, each thrust deliberate, each roll dragging her closer to the edge.
And when the orgasm tore through her again, her moans shivered against his mouth, Elijah swallowed them like a vow, pressing it deeper with every push of his hips.
Her orgasm clung to her body like wildfire—shaking, rippling, leaving her pliant and wrecked beneath him. Elijah stayed buried deep, chest pressed to hers, his hand cradling her jaw as if she might slip away if he let go.
But then her pussy fluttered tight around him, greedy, and the last of his restraint cracked.
“Fuck,” he growled against her throat, teeth grazing her skin. His grip on her hip shifted, harder now, fingers digging deep enough to bruise. “You squeezin’ me like you tryna keep me here forever.”
He drew back—this time not slow. His hips snapped forward, sharp and punishing, the wet slap of his thrusts filling the quiet room. The change punched a gasp out of her, her legs flying higher to lock around his waist.
“Elijah—”
He cut her off with another brutal thrust, driving her into the mattress, making the headboard thud against the wall in rhythm. “Nah, don’t say my name like you scared,” he panted, sweat dripping from his temple to her chest. “Say it like you beggin’. Say it like you know who the fuck ownin’ this body right now.”
Lyric’s nails clawed red trails down his back, her cries spilling uncontained now. He fucked her through them, hips pistoning deep, grinding the base of his dick against her clit just to hear her pitch climb higher.
Her breath hitched, caught between sob and moan. “Please—”
Elijah’s hand wrapped around her throat, not tight, but enough to tilt her head back so her eyes had no choice but to meet his. His stare burned through her, wild and unflinching.
“That’s it,” he rasped, pounding harder, his thighs slamming into hers with each stroke. “Don’t hide. Don’t run. Take it. Take all of it.”
The wet slap of their bodies filled the room, obscene, her slick running down his length, smearing across his thighs. Her walls fluttered again, and he knew she was breaking. He doubled down, growling into her mouth as he thrust her closer to the edge.
“You gon’ cum for me like this. Wrecked. Screamin’ into my chest so she don’t hear you. You hear me?”
Lyric’s moan broke on his shoulder, her body arching up to meet the punishing pace.
And when she shattered, her cry muffled against his throat, Elijah didn’t let up. He fucked her through the quake, every thrust stamping his claim deeper, every groan vibrating with the kind of hunger that wasn’t ever gonna let her go.
Elijah barely gave her time to breathe before he flipped her. One hand pressing between her shoulder blades, he dragged her ass high and buried himself in one brutal stroke.
The sound that left Lyric was muffled against the sheets, a strangled cry she tried to swallow down. But Elijah wasn’t having her hide. His hand tangled in her hair, yanking her up until her back arched, her chest heaving as he slammed into her from behind.
“Let it out,” he growled in her ear, the rhythm sharp, relentless. “Ain’t no hidin’ from this.”
Her nails clawed uselessly at the mattress, thighs trembling under the force of his pace. Each thrust slapped wet and hard, obscene in the dim quiet of the guest room. He bent her forward again, his dick dragging so deep she could feel him throb against her spine.
When she whimpered his name, Elijah pulled her upright, hauling her by the waist until her back hit the wall. Her legs instinctively wrapped around him, his weight pinning her there as he drove up into her.
The plaster rattled with every thrust. His teeth scraped her shoulder, his hand gripping her thigh so tight it burned. Lyric clung to him, half in desperation, half in surrender, her moans spilling freely now.
Then—a sound.
Footsteps in the hall. A door creaking open. His daughter’s voice, soft, groggy: “Dad?”
Lyric’s eyes went wide, her hand flying to cover her mouth. Elijah froze just long enough to press her harder into the wall, his chest shielding hers, his lips at her ear.
“Don’t move. Don’t make a sound,” he breathed, hips grinding slow but still inside her, keeping her stuffed and throbbing with the risk of being caught.
They waited, every muscle tight. The footsteps paused, lingered, then faded back down the hall. A door clicked shut again.
Lyric’s chest heaved, panic and arousal colliding so sharp it made her clench around him. Elijah smirked dark, dragging his hips deeper, slow enough to punish.
“See?” he whispered, his teeth grazing her jaw. “Even with her right there, you still ain’t lettin’ me go.”
Her moan broke against his shoulder.
He pulled her from the wall, carried her down onto the floor, laying her flat against the rug. His body pressed hers into the fibers as he fucked down into her, harder now, sweat dripping onto her skin. The slap of his thighs against hers filled the room again, reckless and raw.
“Gon’ keep fuckin’ you everywhere till you can’t stand straight,” he snarled, grinding so deep her toes curled. “Bed, wall, floor—don’t matter. Long as you takin’ it.”
Her body answered with another quake, her cries muffled against his lips as he kissed her through the orgasm, never letting up.
Elijah’s rhythm turned feral—hips crashing into hers with a pace that shook the floor beneath them. His grip never wavered, one hand locked around her throat, the other holding her thigh wide open so he could watch every wet slide of his dick sinking in and out of her.
Lyric’s voice was gone—reduced to wrecked whimpers and sobs that spilled against his jaw every time he kissed her. Her nails dragged hot lines down his back, clinging like she was scared he might vanish if she let go.
“You feel that?” he rasped, teeth gritted as he drove deeper, harder. “Every time you squeeze around me like that—you tellin’ me it’s mine. Don’t matter if you say it or not. Your body already chose.”
She cried out at that, her body trembling as another orgasm rolled sharp through her. Her walls clenched down, strangling his dick in pulses that made his hips stutter.
Elijah snarled, forehead pressed to hers, sweat dripping into the kiss he stole from her lips. “Don’t run from it—fuckin’ take it. Take all of me.”
Her legs locked around his waist, dragging him deeper, her whole body opening under the weight of him. The friction built unbearable, every drag and grind sharper than the last.
“Fuck—” she gasped, her eyes rolling back, the sound torn from her chest like confession.
He crushed her lips again, the words breaking against her mouth as his thrusts went ragged. “Yeah, baby—yeah, give it to me. Cum with me. Right fuckin’ now.”
The dam broke.
Lyric shattered beneath him, body arching off the rug as her climax tore through her, a cry ripping loose that she couldn’t contain. Elijah followed with a guttural groan, his thrusts slamming deep one last time before he spilled hot inside her, every pulse marking her with his release.
They clung together through it, shaking, their bodies locked and wet, neither willing to let the other go. The world narrowed to heat, breath, sweat—the wreck of them written across every inch of the room.
When it finally ebbed, Elijah stayed buried inside her, his chest pressed hard against hers, lips brushing her temple with a softer growl:
“Told you. We gon’ break together.”
The room was thick with heat, air heavy with sweat and the scent of them. Lyric lay on her back, body still trembling, her breaths shallow as if she hadn’t yet returned fully to herself. Elijah hovered over her, one arm braced against the mattress, the other stroking down the damp slope of her thigh.
“Look at you,” he whispered, voice low and reverent. His thumb traced the outline of her hipbone, slow, almost worshipful. “Took every bit of me and still so fuckin’ pretty.”
Her lips parted, a shaky sound slipping free. She turned her face toward him, but his gaze pinned her in place before she could answer. His eyes were softer now, heat dulled by something deeper—something that felt too much like care.
“You did so good for me,” he murmured, brushing his lips across her temple. “Held me like you was made for it. Like you knew I needed you just as bad as you needed me.”
Her throat worked, words caught there. Elijah kissed her again, this time at her cheek, then her jaw, until finally his mouth lingered at her ear.
“I got you, Lyric. You hear me?” His voice was silk wrapped around gravel, steady and sure. “You safe with me. Always.”
Her chest ached at that—more than it should’ve. She nodded, pressing her face into the warm curve of his neck.
But Elijah wasn’t done. He shifted, his hand slipping down between her thighs again. She flinched at the tenderness—still sore, still stretched—but he only gathered the wetness there and brought it up to her lips.
“Open.”
She obeyed without hesitation, tasting him on his fingers again. The praise came immediately after, his voice thick with pride.
“Good girl. Sweetest mouth I ever touched. You gon’ keep me comin’ back for more.”
Her laugh was quiet, almost breathless. “You already knew that.”
Elijah smirked, kissing her forehead. But the softness didn’t erase the danger curling under his words. “Then you already know this ain’t over. Not even close.”
The silence pressed in again—warm, forbidden, and thrumming with risk. His daughter still asleep down the hall. The weight of what they’d done hanging sharp in the air.
Elijah pulled the sheet over her body, curling in beside her, voice dropping into her ear like a promise carved in stone.
“Next time,” he murmured, thumb stroking her jaw, “I ain’t stoppin’ till you forget every rule that told you I was off limits.”
And with that, the night left its door wide open—for whatever came next.
You’re a thick, soft little enchantress with perfect makeup, 6-inch heels, and a wand you bedazzled with rhinestones. Your tits jiggle when you cast. Your spellbook’s pink. And you don’t have a care in the world—until you go into the rotting catacombs and find him. An orc warlord cursed into stillness. The spell broke the moment your perfume hit the ward.
♡•2,770 words, smut/explicit sexual content(18+), Orc x Blackfem!reader, Dubcon(just to be safe), Size kink, Bent over a tomb->Carry fuck, Oral(m), Praise & degradation, Dirty talk, Crying due to sexual intensity, Choking, Kissing, etc•♡
❤︎18+ 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓸𝓻𝓼 𝓓𝓸 𝓝𝓸𝓽 𝓘𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓬𝓽 ❤︎
The dungeon smells like sweat, mildew, and old copper.
And you don’t belong here. Not in these shoes. Not with this face.
Six-inch patent leather heels click against stone, loud and glossy. A tight little robe, fuchsia silk clinging to your waist like it owes you rent. Gold bangles chime when you raise your wand. Your lips are lined, glossy, perfect.
You look like you came to hex a sugar daddy into submission. Not break a thousand-year curse on a buried warlord.
You blow a pink bubble, pop it with a snap. “Ugh, this place is like… sooo gross.” You roll your eyes and fluff your hair with your free hand. “Let’s make this quick, okay?”
The crypt yawns open at your feet.
You descend.
-
You feel him before you see him.
Old magic coils around your ankles, thick and sticky like spit. The kind of enchantment that wasn’t built to ward or protect. This wasn’t holy magic. This was warning. Repulsion.
But you keep going, swaying your hips with each step. “Ew, it’s sticky and gross.” You squeal under your breath. “Hope it’s not bad for my shoes.”
Candlelight doesn’t reach the last stair. You cast your own—lazy, one-handed. Your fingers sparkle with pink-glittered glow as you twirl the wand. Light blooms in a slow drip down the corridor like syrup.
You feel it pulse in response.
The weight of something waiting.
Something hungry.
-
At the end of the hall: a shrine. Black stone. Gold rot. A throne carved from animal bones and war banners. And there—slumped forward, still and massive—Him.
The warlord.
You pause in your tracks.
Seven feet at least. Broad across the chest, gut thick with power, thighs spread like a goddamn altar. His green-gray skin shines wet in the heat, tusks exposed in a mouth slightly ajar. His black braids are crusted with dried blood, and his hands—still bound in rusted iron shackles—rest against his knees.
He doesn’t move.
Not yet.
Your heart thumps once.
You twirl your wand. “Just need the relic.”
You lean in.
Take a single step forward.
The wards break with a crack like bone under heel.
He lifts his head.
Just a little.
And grins.
Teeth. Thick, sharp, and yellowed from time and meat. His tusks gleam like fangs.
“Well fuck me,” he says, voice like gravel dragged down your spine. “A little pink thing come to unwrap me?”
Your stomach flips.
You scowl, put on a pout. “Excuse me? I’m like—totally powerful, okay? Don’t be gross.”
You raise your wand again, fast. “Stay over there.”
He doesn’t move.
He doesn’t need to.
The space is already his.
He licks his teeth.
You circle him cautiously, pretending you don’t feel the heat radiating off his body like a furnace. Pretending you don’t notice how his cock—half-hard—rests heavy against his thigh, thick as your wrist and still growing. He watches you the way a starving man watches a plate.
He snorts. “You’re trembling.”
“I’m not,” you say, voice pitched high, breathless. “I’m just—um—hot in here. It’s the dungeon, not me.”
“Right,” he rumbles, unconvinced, eyes pinning you where you stand. The sound scrapes low in his throat, slow as gravel. He tugs at the chains—lazy, testing—and they groan in protest.
You flick your wrist, sharp and practiced. Magic swirls between your fingers, sour pink and pop-berry sweet. It hisses through the air, sparks off his chest then fizzles out, useless.
His eyes gleam gold.
The chains fall off.
Not broken.
Just let go.
Your throat dries.
He stands up slow. Rolls his shoulders. Cracks his neck. The sound is obscene. Then he’s in front of you.
“Go ahead,” he grins, looming. “Tell me again to back up.”
You press the wand to his chest.
He leans into it.
His breath is rank. Sweat, hunger, musk, and blood. You’re already wet and furious about it. Your thighs press together. He sees it. Smells it.
You wrinkle your nose. “Wow, somebody needs a mint and a shower.”
He chuckles low. “You talk a lot for someone shaking in heels.”
“I’m not shaking,” you say. “These are stilettos—they wobble. It’s called balance, duh. Oh, and if you try to hurt me, I’ll turn you into a nasty purple jelly-bean!” the confidence in your voice is ill-placed—particularly since your first spell failed.
His smile goes nasty.
He steps closer, and you don’t move. Just tilt your chin up, eyes fluttering, smirking when he stops a breath away.
“I ain’t gonna hurt you,” he says.
He steps in close. “But I’ll use you.”
You tense.
Not from fear.
From how fast your cunt clenches.
He leans in—nose to your throat—and inhales. His hands hover, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch.
“Pretty little thing in pink,” he rasps. “What’re you hiding under all that glitter?”
You don’t answer.
He laughs. Slow and deep.
Then circles you like meat.
“You ain’t here for relics,” he says. “You’re here ‘cause you wanted a monster to fuck it outta you. Magic girl with pretty tits and a mean mouth. You cast dumb little spells and call it power. I’ll show you what power is.”
You swallow.
He stops behind you.
“Say no.”
You don’t. Not when he presses his hips to your ass and grinds up slow. Not when you feel his cock, hard now, thick and heavy and ready. Not when he groans in your ear, low and primal and real.
You don’t moan.
You don’t gasp.
You clench your teeth and twist your wand in your palm and glare at him like you’re still in control—even as he leans into you, his dick hot and heavy and thick as a club between your thighs.
“You smell like sugar,” he grunts against your ear. “You’re gonna break on my cock, ain’t you?”
Heat rushes through you. You can feel his eyes on you—on the swell of your breasts nearly spilling from your robes, on every soft, greedy curve. His gaze drags over your mouth, your ass, slow and heavy, like he’s tasting you from where he stands.
And for one dangerous second, you wonder how he’d feel inside you. How it’d feel to be split open by someone that big. He’s all muscle and rough edges, green skin slick with sweat, and gods, you hate that it turns you on.
You shake your head hard. No. You’ve dated orcish types before—they’re all bastards. Every single one.
But you’re just a girl, and your feet ache from hours in these damn heels. You didn’t even want this mission. You tried to seduce a warlock into doing the heavy lifting, like usual—but of course, everyone had run off to that stupid festival.
You sneer.
"Ugh, your breath smells like ass.”
He grins wider.
Your thighs tremble.
He runs a hand down your side, thick fingers skating over silk, then lace, then skin. He lifts the hem of your robe with a curl of two knuckles and whistles low.
“You came down here with no damn panties?”
You scoff. “Didn’t expect to be molested by a talking ham hock.”
His hand freezes.
Then grips your hip tight enough to bruise.
He leans in closer. “Keep talkin’, cupcake. I’ll fuck that mouth before you can say abracadabra.”
This is bad, you think. Really bad. If word got back to the council—another one of your scandals—they’d have your head. You’re supposed to be better than this. You curse under your breath. You shouldn’t even be thinking about it. About him. Gods, you’re so stupid. Well...only one thing to do now. You twist, break out of his grip, and run.
Your heels scream against the stone. The walls blur. Your tits bounce wildly beneath the ruined robe, makeup smudged, breath ragged, wand clutched tight in your shaking hand. You don’t cast. You don’t even look back.
Until your heel slips—
And you go down.
Hard.
Face-first into cold stone.
Your wand clatters away.
The silence that follows is thick and awful.
You roll over, heart pounding. Completely embarrassed. One of your bra straps has snapped. There’s a cut across your knee. You don’t move.
Because you hear him breathing.
He walks up slow.
Deliberate.
Feet heavy. Steps wide. He doesn’t run. Doesn’t need to. He’s a fucking wall.
You sit up fast and try to get to your knees, but he’s already above you. Already looking down at the little pink mess you’ve become.
His cock hangs half-hard again, drooling from the tip. Your mouth goes dry.
And he laughs.
“Aw, baby,” he growls. “That run got your pussy hotter?”
You slap at him. “Ugh, shut the fuck up!”
He steps closer. “You shaking.”
“I’m not scared.”
“You should be.”
You try to crawl back, but he crouches low, one thick hand curling around your ankle.
He drags you back like you weigh nothing—thighs sliding open, robe slipping off your shoulders until it hangs useless at your elbows. Tits out, lipstick smeared, eyes stinging with tears. Not fear—anger. That robe was expensive. Silk from the southern ports. You didn’t pay for it, obviously, but still. It was yours.
You twist, try to kick, but it’s weak.
You’re wet and mad about it.
“Get off me,” you spit.
He grins again, licking his tusk. “You gonna hex me with your glitter wand, sweetheart?”
“You smell like graveyard dick.”
“Oh, I’m gonna make you cry.”
He rips the rest of your robe open.
Gone.
Torn off like tissue paper.
Now your whole body’s exposed—soft and glistening. Your stomach jiggles when you breathe, tits heavy and bouncing as you squirm. Your thighs are thick and smeared with slick.
He doesn’t even touch your pussy yet—he just looks at it.
Long.
Grinning.
“You been this wet the whole time?”
You lift your chin and pout. “You think that means anything? You’re ugly and old. You look like a bloated toe!”
He snorts, growls—and bends you over the nearest tomb.
He bends you over the tomb like a doll. Cold stone kisses your tits, your cheek, your belly. You try to push up, scramble off, but his hand plants you there—thick and calloused, the weight of it flattening your back, forcing your ass higher.
You whimper.
He grunts.
“Stay just like that, pretty meat.”
Your thighs tremble. You want to fight—but you’re slick and bare and soaking the top of the fucking crypt.
You pout over your shoulder. “Fuck you.”
“You will,” he growls.
His fingers spread your ass open.
You feel the air on your cunt. Humid. Hot. His breath hits your slit and you jerk—shivering, humiliated, soaked through.
Then—
He spits.
Right on your pussy.
The warm slide of it drips down your folds. You gasp, biting your lip, legs twitching.
He watches it drip.
“Dumb little pussy’s hungry already,” he laughs.
“Choke on a tusk,” you snap.
He slaps your ass hard.
You yelp.
Then he’s there—cock thick and drooling—rubbing the head against your pussy like he’s lining up for a meal, not a fuck. He teases the head up and down your slit, slow and deliberate, coating himself in your slick.
You twitch.
Try to bite down another whimper.
He catches it.
Smirks.
“You scared now?”
You turn your head, eyes glassy, gloss smeared, and snarl: “Do it, you ugly fuck.”
He growls—deep, primal—and thrusts in.
You scream.
No prep.
No warning.
Just the massive stretch of his cock forcing your cunt wide, burning through you like it’s splitting you in half.
Your nails scratch stone.
You can’t breathe. You clench around him without meaning to, and he moans—low and filthy, hips stuttering forward until he bottoms out. Balls against your clit.
Your walls shake and your voice breaks: “F-Fuck—”
“That’s it,” he grunts, rutting in tiny, brutal thrusts. “Fuckin’ melt on it.”
You sob.
He leans over your back, mouth at your neck, and licks the tear off your cheek.
“You cryin’ already?” he whispers. “Pretty thing, all painted up, but you break so easy.”
You don’t answer.
You can’t.
He grabs your breast, hard, twisting the nipple until you gasp. Then he lowers his mouth to it, sucks hard, tongue dragging over the metal bar through the skin.
You moan. Loud.
Your cunt pulses.
He groans against your chest.
“Dumb magic bitch. Got all wet for the monster. You wanted this, didn’t you?”
You shake your head—but you’re dripping, your thighs sticky and trembling, your pussy clenching around him like it’s begging to keep him in.
“Liar.”
He slams back into you again. Harder.
You scream. Every thrust knocks your tits into the stone, your knees sliding, body helpless under the size of him. Your cunt’s raw, but the slick just grows. You cum—loud, sudden, shaking—and he doesn’t stop.
That’s when he really starts.
He fucks you harder. Faster. Louder. Grunting, slapping your ass, calling you his soft little spellslut. He chokes you, bends you lower, licks the tears from your lips and tells you he’s gonna fill you up like you’re a breeding trough.
“Say thank you,” he growls.
You try. It’s broken. “Th-Thank you…”
He moans. “Fuckin’ pretty meat.”
Then he cums inside you. Hot. Heavy. Too much. You scream again, body convulsing, walls milking every drop. He doesn’t pull out. He just breathes.
Then grabs your hair.
And starts grinding into you again.
-
You’re limp against the tomb—legs jelly, face smeared with tears and spit, your pussy still twitching from the first load he dumped inside you.
Your voice is gone.
You whimper, head lolling to the side, breath ragged.
And he picks you up.
Not gently. Not tender.
He grabs you by the thigh and the small of your back and lifts you like you weigh nothing—just a warm, fucked-open hole and pretty tits for him to bounce on his cock.
You gasp.
He’s still hard. Still thick. Still slick with your cum and his.
You try to say something—
He pushes you down on it.
You scream. High and cracked.
You feel every inch all over again.
Your cunt stretches wide—again—your pussy squelching around his cock as it slides back in. You cry, hands clutching his shoulders, nails digging into muscle that’s too big, too hot, too real.
He groans. “That’s it.”
One hand supports you under the thigh, the other grabs your hair, pulling your head back so your throat’s exposed.
He fucks you like that—standing, lifting you, bouncing you on his cock with one massive hand yanking your scalp back, the other flexing your leg open to take every brutal thrust.
Your mouth falls open. You make noise. Loud, wet, high. Your body bounces. You drool. You break.
You look at him. Eyes glazed, lips parted, and you kiss him. Sloppy. Deep. Tongue curling into his mouth.
He freezes for half a second.
Then he groas into it. His tusks scrape your lips. You moan into his teeth. Your hips roll into his thrusts now—needy, mindless, fucked out and happy for it.
He pulls away, panting against your mouth.
“Pretty little toy,” he snarls.
You whimper. “Mmhm…”
“You like this cock now, huh?”
You nod, glossy eyes wide. “Y-Yeah… s’too big… hurts…”
“Still takin’ it.”
You cling to him.
“Feels s’good… you’re…” You blink. Slur. “You’re kinda cute. For an orc…”
He laughs—a harsh sound.
“You’re dumb as bricks.”
“Mhm,” you sigh, drooling on his shoulder. “M-More.”
He fucks you deeper. Adjusts the angle—tilts your hips with one hand and slams up until he hits that sweet spot that makes your legs twitch and your moans break into high, squeaky ah-ah-ah sounds.
You wail.
He bites your shoulder. Hard.
You cum again. No warning. Just gushing, twitching, eyes rolling, lips parted in a silent scream.
He doesn’t stop. He fucks through your orgasm, rutting deeper, faster, cock pistoning into your spasming cunt until it’s raw and slick and full of sound.
Your hands dangle. Your voice cracks.
You babble. “L-Love this—y-you fuck so good—feel full—can’t think…”
“That’s ‘cause I fucked the smarts outta you, cupcake.”
You nod like it’s a compliment.
He kisses you again. Harder this time. Hungry. You moan into it. Sloppy tongue, lips bruised, spit everywhere.
He groans and then—He cums inside you again. Hot, thick, pumping deep.
You moan. Body convulsing as the heat floods you, cunt milking him, belly swelling from the pressure.
He holds you through it—fucked limp and breathless in his arms, twitching, ruined.
Then leans in close, nuzzles your cheek, and mutters: “Mine now.”
You can’t walk. Your thighs are shaking. Your cunt is leaking, sore and stretched wide. Your robe’s in pieces. Your mascara’s down your neck. Your own spit’s on your tits.
But your lips are still glossy.
And your mouth is still wet.
He notices. Grins. Grabs your chin. Tilts your head.
“Get on your knees, pretty meat.”
You slide down like you’re made of syrup. Legs folding under you. Face flushed. Eyes glazed. You smile up at him like a good little thing—so sweet, so dumb, already opening your mouth as his dick slaps against your cheek.
It’s still soaked. Still twitching. Still leaking.
You whimper. Then lick. Long, slow, tongue dragging up the vein on the underside of his shaft. You moan. He groans. Your hand wraps around the base and your lips slide down—soft, plush, trained.
You gag on it fast. You can't even take a half of this length down your throat.
Tears start again. He groans louder.
He fists your hair and uses your throat.
No rhythm. No mercy. Just him, standing wide-legged in front of you, thrusting what he can fit into your mouth with both hands on your head, muttering how good your throat feels while you cry on his cock.
You choke. Slobber. Breathe through your nose, just barely.
He snarls.
“Dumb lil slut,” he pants. “Makin’ a mess. Look at you—fuckin’ beautiful like this.”
You blink up at him. Make eye contact.
Then hollow your cheeks and hum.
He shudders.
“You’re gonna fuckin’ ruin me,” he rasps.
You nod with his cock in your mouth.
He cums in your throat.
You try to swallow. Fail. It spills out the corners of your lips, sticky and hot, splashing down your chest, into the valley of your breats. He twitches again, moaning, holding your face to his base.
You gag once.
Then suck, sweet and slow, like you’re thanking him.
He lets go of your hair.
You slump forward, lips still parted, drooling.
He wipes your chin with his thumb.
Then picks you up like you’re weightless. You melt in his arms. Thighs open. Face nuzzled against his chest. Sticky, wet, and soft all over.
He doesn’t say much.
Just grunts once, thick fingers curling around the fat of your thigh as he starts walking—carrying you through the tunnel like you’re treasure.
You murmur into his neck.
“I’m your favorite now, huh…”
He snorts. “You’re my only.”
You pout. “Gonna fuck me again?”
“Whenever I want.”
You smile.
And whisper, “Good.”
Then pass out in his arms.
Still leaking.
Still his.
❤︎𝓟𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓮 𝓢𝓾𝓹𝓹𝓸𝓻𝓽 𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓒𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓽𝓸𝓻𝓼 𝓫𝔂 𝓡𝓮𝓫𝓵𝓸𝓰𝓰𝓲𝓷𝓰 ❤︎
Constructive criticism is welcome!! I feel like this could have been way better...
fluffy lighthearted!
have you seen those videos where the ladies film their boyfriends/husbands looking very >:| as theyre in public until they spot their lady and turn into :3 :D and make their way to them?
yeah, that.
softened at the sight
that is SO aaron 🥰 cw; fem!reader, established relationship and domestic fluff <3
Each Saturday morning, for the past few months, had started with soccer.
They quickly became your favorite part of the weekend. Waking up not too early, not too late. Heading to Jack's games, admiring Aaron as he coached, followed by going out to brunch or bringing takeout back to their apartment.
And most importantly, supporting and spending time with the two people who meant the most to you.
By the time you parked and made it to the field, the grass was already filling with participants and spectators alike. Players were beginning to warm up, families were unpacking at the sidelines.
You spotted Aaron immediately. In a t-shirt and jeans, he was standing at the team's bench, David Rossi beside him. His eyes were following the team, ensuring they were running drills and not goofing around - too much. You could faintly hear him calling out to the kids, "Great work!" "Keep hustling!"
Every so often, his eyes would leave the net, scanning the premises in search of you. The start of the game was quickly approaching, and you never missed kick-off.
Even from a slight distance, you could see that Aaron's face was set in his signature scowl. His eyebrows were drawn hard over his eyes, his jaw set and rigid. Hands on his hips. Nurtured by FBI experience, habit, and lack of you.
But when his sight landed on you, his expression changed entirely.
Aaron's features softened; the tension in his brow melting away, his eyes lightened with unmistakable warmth. A smile also formed onto his lips - unforced, instant, like it had been waiting specifically for your arrival.
His posture shifted as well, freely relaxing and ready to make contact with you - like his body was ready to meet yours halfway without hesitation.
You eagerly picked up your pace.
"Hi sweetheart." Aaron happily greeted. He smelled like sunshine and sweat, already perspiring a tad at the early hour.
"Hi," you laughed gently, leaning into Aaron as he pressed a quick kiss onto your lips.
His eyebrows crinkled adorably above his face, his hand finding your waist. "What's so funny?"
"You." Reaching up, you brought a hand to his cheek, brushing your thumb against it for a moment. You brought your lips to his again, "you're funny."
"Aaron? Funny?"
"I don't think I asked you, Dave." Aaron quipped back as he crossed his arms, his eyebrows raised. As you shot Rossi a playful glare, you untangled Aaron’s arms from their interlocked state, holding onto his hands instead.
"Eh, it went without saying."
Aaron rolled his eyes, before bringing his sweet gaze back to you. They were lined with adoration and amused question. "Should I be worried?"
"No," you answered breathlessly, a content sigh leaving you. "I just hope things never change."
"And what would that change be?"
"The way you light up when you look at me."
Surprise flashed across his face, not expecting that answer. But before he could respond, your legs were enveloped in a sudden hug.
"Hey number four!" you grinned, crouching down to meet Jack at his level. "Good luck today."
"Thank you." Jack smiled, wrapping his arms around your neck in another embrace, now that you were more accessible. "I'm happy you came."
You've been to numerous games and without fail, Jack relayed the same statement every week. Your heart swelled with love; you truly felt like a part of their family, the one they both kept guarded and close. You were so lucky they had let you in.
"Me too."
"Me too." Aaron's voice echoed from above, ruffling Jack's hair.
You peered up at him; the earnest expression was back on his face, only it was softer. The corners of his mouth lifted in a gentle, almost shy smile. His brown eyes shimmered, as if he still couldn’t quite believe you were real.
You couldn't help but grin, igniting his heart more.
How in the world did he end up with someone like you?
synopsis: You spend the summer at Maren’s beach house, expecting nothing more than pool days and late nights. But the longer you stay, the harder it gets to ignore the way her dad looks at you—and the way you look back. Not just out of dislike as you assumed but one of holding back. One night, everything snaps, and you find out just how much he’s been holding back.
wc: 7.1k
cw: Smut, Age gap, Best friends dad (mentioned), Post BAU spencer, dom! spencer, pervert spencer!, spencer cannot shut up like at all, vulgar language, dirty talk!! like a lot, fingering, unprotected p in v, praise.
a/n: I’mmm baaaack.
Masterlist Best friends dad masterlist
You’d practically begged your best friend Maren all semester long to take you to her family’s beach house across the country in the sunny, golden stretch of California—well, not hers technically. Her father’s. The elusive Dr. Spencer Reid. Retired federal agent. Genius. Widower. The man who could quote entire Shakespeare sonnets and probably didn’t own a single pair of swim trunks that weren’t some shade of muted gray.
Maren had wanted you to come since the beginning of the semester, but it wasn’t her you needed to convince. No, the problem had been her father, the brilliant Dr. Reid who’d made it very clear from the first weekend you’d visited that he didn’t like you. Not in a loud or obvious way, but in the subtle, clipped comments. The way he never smiled at your jokes. The way he’d told Maren—in a voice he must’ve thought you couldn’t hear—that you were “immature” and “not a good influence..”
You hadn’t let it get under your skin. Not really. You knew who you were. You were smart enough, got good grades, held yourself with plenty of grace, thank you very much. So what if an old, retired… ridiculously good-looking federal agent thought less of you?
It didn’t matter.
At least, that’s what you told yourself.
But when you walked into class on the very last day of the semester, coffee in hand, Maren was already at your usual table, practically bouncing in her seat, grinning like she’d just won the lottery.
You slid into your chair, eyeing her suspiciously over the rim of your cup.
“What has you grinning like the cat that caught the canary?” you asked, voice muffled by a sip of coffee.
Her grin widened, and she leaned forward like she was about to let you in on the secret of the century. “He said yes,” she whispered, all giddy and conspiratorial.
You frowned. “He said yes?”
She gave an exaggerated sigh. “My dad! He said yes to the beach house in California!”
Your eyebrows shot up so fast they nearly hit your hairline. You almost choked on your drink. “Wait. Your dad… said yes? Seriously? You didn’t like—threaten him or something, right?”
“Maybe,” she said with a grin that was far too smug for comfort. “But he said yes. All you have to do is show up.” She did a little victory wave with her hand like this was some kind of sacred mission accomplished.
“Show up?” You tilted your head, incredulous. “You mean I don’t have to pay to get there? Nothing?”
“Nope,” she said, popping the p with delight. “Apparently he’s flying anyway for some conference thing, so he just said, ‘Don’t worry about it.’” She reached over and stole a sip of your coffee like she hadn’t just shattered your entire world with that sentence.
You blinked. “Wait. He’s gonna be there?”
“Uh… yeah? It’s his house.”
You set your cup down slowly, brain short-circuiting just a little. “How am I supposed to get my tan on in my teeny-weeny bikini with your dad lurking around?”
Maren wrinkled her nose and gave you a horrified look. “Ew. Gross. He’s my dad. He doesn’t… he won’t look. He barely likes people.” She said it with a laugh, like the idea was absurd.
But the thought lodged in your brain anyway.
Because you remembered the first time you met him: how he’d barely looked at you, how his voice was low and thoughtful, like everything he said had been filtered through ten layers of logic before leaving his mouth. You remembered the quiet intelligence in his eyes—and how, annoyingly, he looked nothing like someone’s dad was supposed to look at forty-something. He was all sharp cheekbones, lean lines, a little too much height for his own good, and forearms that had no right looking like that when he rolled his sleeves up.
You didn’t like him, obviously. He didn’t like you.
But you weren’t blind.
Now, though? Now you were thinking about him seeing you stretched out on the poolside chair, sun dripping across your skin, your bikini the color of his favorite cup of chamomile tea if he even drank anything so frivolous.
You imagined him seeing the tiny bead of water running down your stomach after a swim, the baby-blue strings tied at your hips.
You shook your head, forcing your brain back to reality as the professor finally strode into class.
Focus.
You were going for the beach, for sun, for sand, for Maren.
Not for her dad.
Right?
After class that day, you went home with one thing on your mind: California.
Specifically, a sun-drenched beach house that belonged to none other than Dr. Spencer Reid, retired FBI agent, brilliant mind, and full-time thorn in your side.
You should’ve been finishing your last bit of coursework or maybe calling your mom to let her know you wouldn’t be home for the first half of summer break. Instead, you were on your bedroom floor surrounded by chaos—suitcases open, clothes everywhere, holding up bikinis to the mirror with the kind of seriousness usually reserved for job interviews.
You packed all your cutest swimwear. The barely-there black bikini that tied in neat little bows. The white one-piece that was technically a swimsuit but clung like lingerie. The baby blue one—your favorite. The one that made your skin glow and felt like trouble just waiting to happen.
Not that you’d actually… do anything. Right?
You told yourself that as you tucked matching lingerie sets into the side pocket of your suitcase. Just in case. Not because of him. Definitely not because of him.
Maren had texted you mid-packing frenzy:
Dad booked flights for tomorrow morning. You’re coming, right??
You grinned down at the message before firing back:
You mean he booked flights?? He’s serious?
Yep. 9:30 flight. Be ready.
The man hadn’t even asked if the time worked for you. Typical. A very this is my schedule, keep up kind of deal.
Jokes on him—you were free.
The next day came fast. You showed up at the airport buzzing with energy, hair done, wearing your best travel outfit—linen trousers, little white crop top, sandals. Casual but cute. Maren squealed the second she saw you, throwing her arms around you like you hadn’t seen each other in, what, two days?
“You have no idea how excited I am,” she gushed, pulling back with bright eyes. “We’re gonna swim, we’re gonna tan, we’re gonna drink margaritas—”
“Margaritas?” you grinned.
She winked. “Dad doesn’t need to know about that part.”
And speaking of…
He was there.
Dr. Reid himself. Standing off to the side in a soft gray button-down with the sleeves rolled up, dark slacks, hair a little longer than last time you saw him, a messenger bag slung over one shoulder. He looked… tired, maybe. Or maybe that was just how his face was shaped, all sharp cheekbones and thoughtful eyes like he carried the weight of entire galaxies behind them.
“Hi, Dr. Reid,” you said, polite, like you hadn’t heard him once tell Maren you were “immature.”
“Morning,” he said simply, voice even, expression unreadable as he handed you your boarding pass.
No smile.
No real eye contact.
Then he was already moving toward security like you weren’t even there.
Maren rolled her eyes. “Don’t take it personally. He’s like that with everyone.”
But you knew he wasn’t. You’d seen him smile at waitresses, cashiers, neighbors. He was choosing not to like you. Which only made you more aware of him.
On the plane, Maren snagged the window seat. You took the middle.
Dr. Reid—Spencer—sat across the aisle and two rows back, about as far away as possible while still technically traveling together. He had a book open before the seatbelt sign was even off, long fingers holding the pages like he couldn’t stand to waste a second.
Not a single glance your way. Not even when you laughed at something Maren whispered to you about California boys or when the flight attendant offered pretzels.
Nothing.
It bugged you more than it should’ve.
At one point you craned your neck slightly, just enough to see him over the seat. He didn’t notice—eyes on the page, brow furrowed, jaw tight like maybe the words weren’t sinking in as easily as he wanted them to.
Maren elbowed you lightly. “Why do you look like you’re plotting something?”
You blinked innocently. “I’m not.”
She gave you a look. “My dad doesn’t bite, you know.”
“Sure,” you said lightly, leaning back, trying to shake the thought of him. “He just glares silently from across the plane. Totally normal.”
The flight dragged and yet flew by. California sun hit your face the moment you stepped off the plane, warm and sweet and nothing like the city air you’d left behind.
Spencer was already striding ahead through the terminal like he had somewhere better to be, Maren jogging to catch up, chattering about beaches and ice cream and late-night swims.
You wheeled your suitcase behind you, sunglasses perched on your head, trying not to notice the way his shoulders shifted under that stupid gray button-down or the way his hair fell into his eyes before he pushed it back absently.
This was fine.
Totally fine.
Just a family trip.
Nothing more.
The beach house was even prettier than you’d imagined.
A white, weathered bungalow perched above the sand like something out of a postcard. Blue flowers lined the small porch railings, their petals nodding lazily in the warm coastal breeze. The ocean was right there—close enough that you could hear the waves sliding in and out like some soft heartbeat.
You and Maren both stopped on the porch to stare, but her father didn’t even glance at the view. It was his, after all. He just unlocked the door with the same quiet efficiency he seemed to do everything with, shouldered it open, and stepped inside.
The place smelled faintly of salt and cedar.
Spencer dropped his keys in a bowl by the door, voice low and even when he finally spoke.
“Bedrooms down that hallway,” he said, pointing vaguely to the right. “No noise after ten p.m. No drinking. I don’t care that you both legally can.” He said it like it was a speech he’d prepared on the plane, rattled off in that matter-of-fact cadence that sounded both awkward and unyielding at the same time.
You nodded, polite. “Of course. And… thank you. For letting me come.”
He gave the smallest nod back—like maybe he hadn’t expected you to thank him—before disappearing down the opposite hallway. You assumed that was his room, his part of the house, the invisible line you weren’t supposed to cross.
The second he was gone, Maren turned to you, eyes bright. “Bikinis on. We’re tanning before the sun sets.”
She was halfway down the hall before you could answer, all excitement and plans.
Your room was small but perfect—white sheets, one open window letting in a breeze that carried the faint sound of gulls. Maren’s room was right beside yours. His was at the other end of the house. Far enough that you wouldn’t have to think about him unless you wanted to.
Which you didn’t. Obviously.
You shut your door and stripped out of your travel clothes, digging through your bag until you found the tiniest bikini you’d packed. Black. Tied at the hips, barely there on top. You caught sight of yourself in the mirror as you fixed the straps.
You looked… good.
Dangerously so.
Not that you cared what he thought.
You stepped back into the hallway just as Maren called through her door, “Five minutes! Go out without me, I’ll catch up!”
You knocked anyway. “Hurry up! I’m already wasting tanning time.”
“Then go tan!” she yelled back. “The pool’s clean, Dad always has someone check before he comes out here.”
You huffed a laugh, shaking your head as you wandered toward the kitchen.
The place was open-concept—living room flowing into kitchen, all windows and sunlight. The fridge was stainless steel, big enough to hold half the state of California inside.
You pulled it open, scanning the shelves until you found bottled water.
And that’s when you heard it.
A small sound behind you—almost like someone choking back a cough.
You turned, two bottles in hand, and froze.
He was standing there.
And not like he had on the plane in his gray button-down, all bookish and tired. No, now he was in a pale blue linen shirt, loose white pants, hair still a little messy from the flight but somehow better for it. He looked… young and not young at the same time.
But what got you wasn’t the outfit.
It was the fact that he’d very, very obviously just had to drag his eyes up from your ass to your face when you turned.
You saw the guilt in real time.
He swallowed hard, throat working, before managing, “I—uh… I was just—”
“Getting some water,” you finished for him lightly, holding up the bottles. “Yeah. Me too. Sorry, didn’t mean to be in the way.”
He shook his head too fast. “No. No need to apologize. It’s… good. It’s good to stay hydrated.”
His voice cracked on hydrated.
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling.
He was trying so hard not to look. You could feel it, like a second sunburn prickling over your skin—the way his eyes darted anywhere but the tight triangles of black fabric covering you.
“Right,” you said slowly, leaning one hip against the counter, handing him one of the bottles. “Wouldn’t want to faint or anything.”
He took it, fingers brushing yours for half a second too long. “No. Definitely… not.”
His eyes flicked over you again before he snapped them away, jaw tight, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, fuck’s sake.
“Sorry, what was that?” you asked, all faux-innocence.
“Nothing.” He twisted the cap off the bottle like it had personally offended him. “Just… shouldn’t you be wearing sunscreen?”
You raised a brow. “Why? Worried I’ll burn?”
“Worried you’ll get skin cancer,” he said flatly, but his ears were pink. “The sun here is… strong.”
You smiled slow, wicked. “Thanks for the tip, doctor.”
His mouth opened like he had something to say to that—something he probably shouldn’t—but Maren’s voice came down the hall just then, yelling about the pool and music and something about making margaritas later.
You saw the way his fingers flexed tight around the water bottle before he turned sharply toward his room, muttering, “Christ,” under his breath as he disappeared down the hall.
That night and most of the next day blurred into sun and water and drinks Maren swore were “virgin” cocktails. They weren’t. You knew it. Spencer definitely knew it. He just didn’t fight it—like maybe the battle wasn’t worth it.
But you noticed it.
The way his eyes lingered now. Not openly—never openly. Always quick little glances, like he didn’t mean to look but couldn’t help himself. Like seeing you in a bikini the first time had rewired his brain, and now every time you walked past in a sundress or shorts, he couldn’t stop imagining what was underneath.
The next day the heat rolled over the house like a blanket.
You picked your baby-blue bikini this time. The one that made your skin look sun-kissed and glowy.
By early afternoon, Maren was floating lazily in the pool, half asleep on one of those ridiculous flamingo floaties, while you lay sprawled on a lounger. Book in hand. Sunglasses sliding down your nose. The sun warm and heavy on your skin, water still beading down your stomach from the last swim.
The sliding door opened behind you with a low shhhk.
You looked over lazily.
And there he was.
Spencer Reid, former FBI golden boy, now standing barefoot on the patio in a half-unbuttoned white linen shirt and tan shorts that did unholy things to his legs.
Hello thighs…
You had to drag your eyes back to your book before you embarrassed yourself, but not before you caught him looking at you.
No, not just looking.
Lingering.
Like his eyes couldn’t decide which part of you to settle on first.
He cleared his throat, too quick, glancing toward the pool instead. “I—uh… Maren?”
She looked up, water dripping from her hair. “Yes, father dearest?”
He sighed. “I’ll be back later tonight. Don’t… wreck the house. Please.”
Maren gave a lazy salute. “Yep, yep, no crazy parties, go to your boring things.” She waved him off and went back to floating.
You didn’t even know why you opened your mouth.
“Where are you going?”
He turned his head slowly toward you, eyes dragging over your bare legs before meeting your gaze. His voice was flat, but there was something under it. “Bit personal, isn’t it?”
And then he turned on his heel and went back inside.
Just like that.
Shut down.
You stared after him, heat creeping up your neck—not from the sun this time.
Fine. Whatever. You didn’t care.
Right?
Time passed.
The sun dipped low. Maren eventually gave up her floaty kingdom and stumbled off to bed, mumbling something about sunstroke and too many not-so-virgin cocktails.
You stayed outside, sprawled on the lounger, book in hand. The air had cooled, the breeze carrying the faint sound of waves against the shore. The backyard was lit only by the glow of the pool lights and the warm spill from the house.
The sliding door opened again.
You didn’t even look up at first, expecting Maren coming back for her phone.
But it wasn’t her.
It was him.
Spencer stepped outside, same clothes as before, hair a little mussed like he’d run his hands through it too many times. He looked… tense.
“It’s late,” he said finally, voice low.
You sat up slightly. “Sorry.”
He shook his head. “Where’s Maren?”
“In bed,” you said, watching him. “Out cold.”
He gave a small nod like he’d expected that and then, to your surprise, sat on the lounger beside yours. Not laying back—just sitting, elbows on his knees, water bottle in his hands.
Up close, you could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. The tiredness that didn’t quite hide the way he kept… glancing at you.
You cleared your throat. “Sorry about before.”
His brows drew together. “Before?”
“When I asked where you were going,” you said, shrugging.
“Oh.” He hesitated, then gave a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah. I was being a… jerk, so to speak.”
You smirked faintly. “So to speak?”
His eyes slid over to you, then down—quickly—to the thin straps of your bikini top before he looked away just as fast, like the sun might burn him for it.
“I had work stuff,” he muttered finally. “Doesn’t matter now.”
You studied him for a moment. The tight set of his shoulders. The restless way his fingers tapped against the bottle.
“Do I make you nervous?” you asked suddenly.
His head snapped toward you so fast you almost laughed. “What? No.”
But his voice cracked just slightly.
You leaned back on your elbows, the motion arching your back enough to make his eyes flick down before he caught himself.
“You seem nervous,” you said lightly, like you weren’t noticing the way he was gripping that bottle like it might save his life.
“I’m not nervous,” he said flatly, but his voice had gone rough, lower than before. “I just… Christ.”
He rubbed a hand over his face, then through his hair, like he was trying to physically scrub thoughts from his brain.
“Just what?” you pressed softly.
His eyes cut toward you.
Dark.
Frustrated.
Hungry.
“Just trying not to stare at you like some fucking creep,” he muttered finally, so quiet you almost didn’t catch it.
The words hit like a punch low in your stomach.
You smiled slow, wicked. “And how’s that working out for you?”
He let out a sharp laugh—short, humorless. “Terribly.”
You huff a laugh, shifting slightly on the lounger so your knee brushes his thigh.
“Terribly?” you repeat, teasing just a little.
“Yes. Terribly,” he mutters, taking a long swig of his water like maybe hydration could wash away the thoughts running through his head. His jaw works as he swallows, a vein standing out at the side of his neck like even drinking water was putting him under pressure.
You tilt your head, studying him. “Ah… because you don’t like me,” you say. Not petty. Just matter-of-fact.
His head snaps toward you like you’d just accused him of committing a federal offense. “Don’t like you?”
You shrug, a tiny smirk tugging your lips. “Yeah. You don’t—”
“What? No. No, I—” He shakes his head too fast, the words tangling in his throat. “I… I like you. I don’t dislike you.”
Oh, he was panicking now. You could see it in the way his hand rubbed over his jaw, his hair, like he didn’t know where to put his nervous energy.
He muttered something under his breath.
“What was that?” you pressed, eyes narrowing slightly.
He let out a sharp, self-deprecating laugh, still staring straight ahead like maybe if he didn’t look at you, this wouldn’t feel as dangerous as it was.
“I like you too much,” he blurted suddenly. “More than I… more than I definitely should.”
Your throat went dry.
“Wh–what do you mean?” you asked softly.
His eyes flicked over, down the length of you stretched out on the lounger. He tried to catch himself halfway through, but his gaze lingered anyway—on the thin straps of your bikini top, the slope of your stomach, the beads of pool water that still glimmered faintly under the patio lights.
When his eyes finally met yours again, they were darker. Tighter.
“You’re…” he started, then stopped, then dragged a hand through his hair like he was angry at himself. “You’re tempting.”
The word hung there, heavy as the air around you.
You shifted slightly, sitting up now, the space between you narrowing.
“Tempting?” you echoed, tone softer.
“Yes,” he said, voice low like it scraped his throat on the way out. Then, faster, panicked, “It’s—I mean, it’s wrong. God, it’s so wrong, you’re Maren’s friend, you’re—hell, you’re twenty-one, and I’m—I’m twice your age, and this is insane, and I’m clearly losing my fucking mind because I can’t stop looking at you, and—”
“Spencer.”
His mouth shut with an audible click.
You’d never said his first name before.
Not like that.
His Adam’s apple bobbed hard. “What?”
“Stop thinking so much,” you murmured.
He let out a laugh that was mostly air, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You have no idea how impossible that is for me.”
“I think you just admitted you can’t stop looking at me,” you said lightly, even though your pulse was thundering.
He groaned softly, dragging his hand down over his mouth this time, voice muffled. “Christ, you’re—”
“What?”
He looked at you then. Really looked.
“You’re driving me fucking crazy.”
It was the way his voice cracked slightly at crazy that made you move.
Just a little—just enough that your bare thigh pressed against his where he sat on the edge of the lounger.
“Spencer,” you said softly, almost testing the name again.
His breath hitched.
And then, like he was finally losing the battle with himself, his hand lifted—hesitant, trembling slightly—and his fingertips brushed the side of your thigh.
The smallest touch.
But it felt like a match dragged across dry wood.
You didn’t stop him.
He dragged his hand higher, slow, fingers tracing the curve of your skin until they rested dangerously close to the thin tie of your bikini bottoms.
“This is…” He shook his head, voice dropping. “This is so fucking bad.”
“Then stop,” you whispered.
You could see his jaw tighten. “I can’t.”
The kiss wasn’t sweet.
It was desperate.
He leaned in suddenly, one hand cupping your jaw like he’d finally broken whatever leash he’d kept on himself. His mouth crashed against yours, hot and frantic, tasting of water and panic and something far dirtier underneath.
You made a sound low in your throat that had him groaning, his tongue sliding against yours like he couldn’t get close enough fast enough.
His hand on your thigh gripped tighter, thumb brushing the inside now, so close to where you wanted him it made your stomach twist.
When he finally tore his mouth from yours, he muttered against your lips, “You have no fucking idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”
You laughed softly, breathless. “Tell me.”
His mouth hovered over yours, eyes wild now, words spilling like he couldn’t stop them.
“Since the first time you came over,” he admitted, voice rough. “In those stupid little shorts, acting like you weren’t the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen, and I just—God, I wanted to bend you over my desk and fuck you until you couldn’t even think. And now you’re here, in this—” He glanced down at the baby-blue bikini, groaning softly. “Christ, this is torture.”
His hand slid up, finally, brushing the edge of the fabric at your hip.
“Spencer,” you whispered, half-warning, half-plea.
He smirked faintly against your mouth, the first sign of anything cocky in him all night. “You say my name like that again, I’m gonna lose it.”
You smirk faintly, breath still uneven from his confession.
“Lose it?” you murmur, teasing.
His lips hover against yours. “Tell me to stop.”
“Don’t stop,” you whisper back.
He freezes for half a second—like maybe he was waiting for that permission—and then it’s like something snaps in him.
“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself, and suddenly you’re airborne.
You squeal, startled, as he scoops you up bridal-style with surprising strength, your book thudding to the floor forgotten.
“Spencer!” you gasp, laughing despite yourself, arms instinctively looping around his neck.
He actually laughs softly at your surprise—low and rough like he hasn’t laughed in a while—and you feel it rumble through his chest as he carries you inside.
But instead of your room, he heads down the opposite hallway.
You know exactly where you’re going.
He kicks his door shut behind him with one sharp push of his heel and then throws you—not hard, but definitely not gentle—onto the bed.
You bounce slightly against the comforter, half propped on your elbows before he follows, crawling over you like something feral.
“Fuck…” His eyes drag down your body like he doesn’t even know where to start. “Do you always wear such… such tiny fucking bikinis?”
His mouth is already at your neck before you can answer, kissing, nipping, leaving heat trailing down your skin as his hand settles on your thigh.
“Packed them for you,” you hum, smug.
He freezes mid-kiss, groaning low against your throat like you just punched the air out of him. “Jesus Christ—don’t… don’t say shit like that.”
“Why?” you smirk, tilting your head so he can kiss lower.
He lifts his head, eyes dark now, a faint smirk twisting at the corner of his mouth.
“Cause it’s gonna make me fuck the hell out of you,” he says, voice rough, low, vulgar.
The words alone make heat pool low in your stomach.
“Please,” you whisper, and it comes out more like a whimper than you mean it to.
He groans—deep, guttural—and then he’s gone. He sits back just enough to yank at the ties on your bikini bottoms, cursing under his breath when the knot doesn’t give immediately.
“Who the fuck invented these stupid little strings,” he mutters, voice sharp with frustration before he finally rips the bow loose.
Your top comes next, sliding off in his hands as his eyes drink you in.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes, running a hand down his face like maybe he can’t believe this is actually happening. “So much prettier than I imagined.”
That makes you blink.
“Imagined?” you repeat, watching him start unbuttoning his linen shirt, fingers clumsy like he can’t get them open fast enough.
He glances up, smirking faintly.
“Yeah. After I saw you in the kitchen yesterday?” He shakes his head like he’s scolding himself, shirt falling open to reveal the sharp lines of his chest, the faint trail of hair disappearing under his waistband. “Couldn’t exactly… leave the house like I planned. Had to, uh… take care of a situation first.”
The confession makes heat spike low in your stomach.
“You jerked off to me?” you ask, voice half-teasing, half-breathless.
His smirk is crooked, self-deprecating, filthy.
“Twice,” he admits shamelessly, leaning back over you, the fabric of his pants straining now as his cock presses hot and hard against your thigh.
“Spencer,” you whisper, fingers sliding into his hair when his mouth returns to your neck, hungrier now.
He groans into your skin, muttering against your pulse, “Been wanting to taste you since the second I saw you in that stupid bikini—fuck—you have no idea how bad.”
His hand drags down your stomach, slow, fingers shaking slightly before finally sliding between your thighs.
“Jesus,” he mutters when he feels the damp heat there, middle finger stroking through you slowly. “You’re so wet already. Fucking soaked. Did I do that?”
You nod breathlessly, hips jerking as he circles your clit lazily.
“Use your words,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.
“Yes,” you breathe. “You—fuck—you did that.”
“Christ,” he groans, lips finding yours again, messy, open-mouthed as his fingers slide lower, teasing at your entrance before pressing in slowly.
One finger. Then two.
You whimper into his mouth, clenching around him as he pumps them deep, curling just right, his thumb rubbing your clit with maddening precision.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, kissing you hard. “Can’t wait to feel this on my cock—Jesus—you’re gonna ruin me.”
“Tell me…”
It comes out of you soft, shaky—your voice splintering on a moan when he curls his fingers just right inside you.
He smirks against your neck, lips grazing your skin as he keeps moving those long, clever fingers in a slow, maddening rhythm.
“Tell you what?” he murmurs, feigning innocence even as his thumb circles your clit with precision that makes your thighs shake.
You swallow hard, hips jerking against his hand, too far gone for pride.
“Tell me what you thought about,” you gasp, “when you… when you jerked off to me.”
That makes him groan low in his chest—like he wasn’t expecting you to actually ask for the details—and his pace quickens without him even meaning to.
“Hm?” His mouth curves against your jaw as his fingers work you faster, harder. “You want me to tell you? Tell you exactly what I was thinking? What I wanted to do to you while I was getting myself off?”
You nod frantically, a broken moan spilling out as his fingers hit that spot inside you that makes your breath catch.
“Yeah?” He breathes out a laugh, almost disbelieving, like he can’t believe you want this filth out loud. “Jesus Christ… okay.”
He kisses you once—hard, messy—before leaning back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide, lips slick from kissing you.
“First time?” He pauses, curls his fingers deep inside you again. You whimper and nod for him to keep going. “First time was after I saw you in that little black bikini in my kitchen, drinking out of my water bottle like you fucking owned it. Thought about getting on my knees right there on the tile and tasting you until you couldn’t stand.”
Your eyes flutter, head falling back as heat burns through your stomach.
“Spencer—”
He keeps talking, rambling now, like the words can’t stop coming out of him.
“Second time,” he continues, voice rougher now, “I imagined you in my bed. Just like this. My hand between your legs, you soaking my sheets while I made you come on my fingers first… so tight and wet for me, fuck… just like you are right now.”
His thumb presses harder on your clit like punctuation, making your hips jolt.
“God, you feel even better than I thought you would,” he mutters, almost to himself, eyes locked on where his hand disappears between your thighs. “Thought about spreading you open, fucking you slow first… making you beg for it before I gave you what you wanted. Did you want that? You want my cock the way I thought about it?”
You whimper something that might be “yes,” but he’s curling his fingers so deep and fast now it barely comes out at all.
“Yeah, you do,” he says, voice low, filthy, lips brushing your ear. “Wanted to fuck you so hard this whole fucking house heard you screaming my name. Wanted to fill you up so bad you couldn’t walk straight the next morning.”
“Spencer—” It’s almost a cry this time, your walls tightening around his fingers as you feel the edge creeping closer, hot and relentless.
He kisses you again, swallowing the moan that slips out of you when he adds a third finger, stretching you open, fucking you rougher now.
“You close, sweetheart?” he murmurs against your lips, pace unrelenting. “’Cause I’m not stopping until you soak my fucking hand. You hear me?”
His mouth moves to your throat, sucking bruises into your skin while his fingers drive you closer and closer to the edge, the filthy words spilling from him in a constant stream.
“Gonna make you come so hard on my hand first… then I’m gonna fuck you stupid just like I thought about. God, you feel like heaven around my fingers, can’t wait to feel you on my cock—“
You break apart under him with a sharp cry, back arching, thighs trembling as the orgasm rips through you.
He groans into your neck when he feels you clench and pulse around his fingers, fucking you through it slow, drawing it out until you’re panting beneath him.
“Good girl,” he mutters, voice low and rough, kissing you like he can’t help himself.
He pulls his fingers from you slow, watching the way your slick clings to him before he lifts them to his mouth.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, licking them clean, groaning low in his throat like he can taste your orgasm on his tongue. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever fucking had.”
Your thighs squeeze together instinctively, still trembling from what he just did, but then he’s sitting back on his knees, shoving his linen shorts down fast.
And—oh God.
His cock smacks up against his stomach, big and flushed and hard as hell, thick enough to make your pulse skip.
You stare. Can’t help it.
He notices instantly, smirking faintly as his hand wraps around himself, giving one slow stroke.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice dark but amused.
Your eyes drag back up to his, lips parting. “Can you blame me?”
He huffs out a laugh, leaning over you again, his hands coming up to squeeze your breasts roughly before his mouth crashes to yours in a wet, messy kiss.
“God, you’re a bad girl,” he mutters against your lips, cock dragging through your soaked folds now, teasing you until your hips are moving on their own. “A bad… bad… girl.”
He hooks your legs wider, lifting them up around his waist, adjusting until his tip catches right where you need him.
“Fuck… you gonna take it?” he smirks, the head of his cock sliding through your slick, coating himself in you.
“Yes… yes…” you whimper, fingers twisting in the sheets.
His jaw tightens, breath heavy. “I won’t be gentle. Fuck, I can’t. Even if I wanted to—”
“Be rough,” you interrupt, voice cracking on the plea.
That’s all the permission he needs.
He grips your hips, groaning loud as he pushes into you in one hard, deep thrust, bottoming out so fast your back arches off the bed with a broken cry.
“Jesus fuck,” he snarls, head dropping to your shoulder as he feels you clench tight around him. “You’re gonna kill me. You’re so… fucking… tight.”
He doesn’t move right away, like he’s holding on by a thread, his fingers digging bruises into your hips while you adjust around him.
“Spencer,” you whimper, legs tightening around his waist.
He groans, lips dragging along your neck. “You feel even better than I dreamed about. Every single night since you walked in my house with that sweet little ass and those tiny fucking bikinis… been thinking about this. Thinking about splitting you open on my cock till you scream for me.”
Then he pulls out nearly to the tip and slams back in, hard enough to make the headboard crack the wall.
You moan loud, gripping at his shoulders.
“That what you wanted?” he growls, fucking you deep now, rough and fast, every thrust punching out moans you can’t hold back. “Wanted my cock? Wanted me to lose my fucking mind over you? ‘Cause congratulations, sweetheart, you did. Been jerking off in my shower every night since you got here—thinking about bending you over my counter, this bed, the fucking pool if I’m honest—fuck—you feel so good—”
His pace turns brutal, hips snapping into you hard, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room mixed with his filthy words.
“Such a perfect little pussy,” he groans, sucking a mark into your neck before his mouth moves to your breast, biting lightly around your nipple as he slams into you. “Gonna make you come on my cock. Wanna feel you squeeze the fuck outta me while I fuck you stupid.”
“Spencer—”
“Yeah, say my name just like that,” he pants, his hand leaving your hip to rub your clit fast, rough, timed with each hard thrust. “God, you’re taking me so good, baby. Like you were made for it. You like it rough? Hm? Like me ruining you for anyone else?”
You nod frantically, nails dragging down his back as the coil in your stomach snaps tighter and tighter.
“Gonna fill this perfect little cunt up,” he growls in your ear, fucking you so hard the bed shakes. “Make you drip with me all fucking night.”
And you’re gone—shattering around him with a sharp cry, your whole body tensing as you come hard on his cock, clenching so tight he swears loud, head dropping to your shoulder as his thrusts turn desperate, ragged.
“Fuckfuckfuck—” he groans, rutting deep, spilling into you with a low, broken moan as he jerks through it, grinding you down into the mattress until you’re both panting messes.
The room was still thick with heat, the air buzzing with it, your body still trembling faintly under him. The only sound for a moment was both of you breathing—ragged, uneven—like you’d both just run ten miles.
He shifted just enough to press a kiss to your shoulder, lips soft, lingering there like he didn’t want to pull away yet.
“You okay?” he asked, voice low, rough around the edges.
“Yes… I’m okay,” you whispered, still catching your breath. “Are you?”
He gave this soft, almost incredulous laugh against your skin, shaking his head slightly. “I’m so… so okay,” he murmured with a grin you could feel against your shoulder. “Like… dangerously okay. Probably the best I’ve been in a while, actually.”
His hands were still on you, palms big and warm as they dragged slow over your sides, your hips, your thighs—touching like he didn’t want to stop, like he couldn’t.
You huffed out a disbelieving laugh, covering your face with one hand. “Oh my God… I can’t believe we did that.”
That made him laugh softly too, kissing the spot just under your ear. “Do you regret it already?” he teased, voice playful but with this undercurrent of something real in it, like he actually wanted to know.
You shook your head instantly, meeting his eyes. “Absolutely not… felt too good to regret that.”
Something about that made his mouth curve into this crooked little smile as he exhaled a soft, “Jesus.” He bent to kiss you again—slower this time, messier too, like he was trying to taste the words right out of your mouth.
And then you felt it—his hips shifting.
Not pulling out. Not yet. Just this slow, lazy roll forward, his cock still deep inside you, making your breath hitch at the stretch all over again.
“Spencer…” you whispered, half a moan, half a plea, but you didn’t tell him to stop.
“You feel…” He groaned, trailing off like he couldn’t even get the sentence out properly. His hand slid down your side again, over your stomach, to hold your thigh open wider. “…so fucking amazing. Like you were made for me or something. Tightest, sweetest little thing I’ve ever been inside, swear to God.”
The words were filth but his voice was soft, reverent even, like he couldn’t help it.
He stayed buried deep, hips moving in these slow, shallow thrusts that weren’t really about getting off again—just about staying connected, about feeling you everywhere.
“Did you know,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple as he talked, “there’s, um… actual science… about how long-term physical closeness releases oxytocin, lowers stress, even boosts immunity? Like technically… me staying inside you right now could be improving both our immune systems.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You’re such a nerd.”
He smirked, kissing you again before whispering against your lips, “Yeah, but I’m your nerd now, right?”
He didn’t give you time to answer before his mouth started trailing down your neck again, slower this time, almost lazy with it, kissing and nipping gently like he was memorizing you.
One of his hands drifted up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple while his other hand kept stroking your thigh softly.
“You’re gonna make me obsessed with you,” he admitted against your collarbone, voice low but serious now. “Already feel like I am, if I’m being honest. Haven’t stopped thinking about you since you got here. Kept telling myself not to touch you, that you were off-limits, that I was too fucking old for you, but Jesus Christ—then you had to go and wear that baby blue bikini…”
You smirked faintly, running your fingers through his hair. “So this is my fault?”
“Absolutely,” he said without hesitation, lifting his head to kiss you softly, slow this time, a stark contrast to how he’d just fucked you into the mattress.
When he finally did pull out, he cursed softly under his breath at the mess between you, grabbing a towel from the chair nearby. He cleaned you up carefully, almost tenderly, like he wanted to make sure you didn’t move a muscle you didn’t have to.
Then he crawled back over you, laying down this time, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you against his chest.
“Not done with you,” he muttered against your hair, voice already sounding drowsy but hands still roaming your back, your hips, everywhere he could reach.
“Good,” you whispered back, smiling faintly into his neck.
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You send the guy you were dating pictures of you in lingerie by accident.
cw: 18+, smut, accidental 'nudes', colleague!reader, clark jerks off to your pictures, m!masturbation, soft dom!clark, rimming, f!receiving oral, clark uses his arctic breath on you, temperature play, p-in-v, overstimulation,clark's all freaked out in this fic, he eats you from the back, doggy, belly bulge, possessive!clark (4.4k wc)
You were halfway through tugging your jeans back on when you realised something was terribly off.
Cat should've been blowing up your phone in all caps by now — a 'GODDAMN BABE YOU LOOK HOTTT', or at the very least, 'buy both, coward'. But your screen remained stubbornly silent. Save for one text you didn't get a good look at.
Weird.
You yanked the curtains open, lingerie draped over your forearms as you shuffled out of the fitting rooms. Swiping your lock screen to open the most recent message. Your thumb hovers over the opened chat and you choke on your breath. No. Oh no. No no no no.
It's staring right back at you. In unforgiving grey & white. Clark Kent. Packaged with two little blue check marks sitting all innocent underneath what you'd consider the most unsexy tit and rump pics of what you'd tried on earlier.
"H-Holy shit," you croak, all too dramatically slumping into the mannequin beside you. You tossed your phone into the clearance panties basket as if that would've reversed the crime scene.
Your heart's slamming out of your ribs when you shakily grab for your phone, hoping it was a hallucination that you hadn't sent racy pics to a man you'd barely been on two dates with. Mr Small-town-farm-boy. The same man who would pull away burned the second your tongue met his lips.
This was it. You were drafting your obituaries in your head — local woman perishes after sending unsolicited boob pics to the most pure adult male alive.
A buzz from your phone nearly has you whipping it, you shakily look down at the thread.
[6:05PM]
You: Blue or purple??
You: [4 Attached Images]
[6:18PM]
Clark Kent: I think the blue one looks lovely on you. 🙂
You're staring at your phone like he'd send you a response in a different language. Lovely. He said you looked lovely, with a freaking millennial smiley face. Your insides do a somersault. Did he like it? Or was this a pity 'lovely' like he was trying to be nice?
You dial Cat's number before you spiral any further.
"Kill me," you breathe out all at once. Clutching the mannequin next to you, staring face-first at the green crotchless underwear in your eyeline.
"Hello to you too," there's an amusement to her voice, replying coolly like this was a regular occurrence, "what did you do this time?"
"I messed up. Big time."
"Easy, babe. What'd you do? Need me to bail you out of jail or something?"
"Worse. I sent Clark Kent boob pics."
There's a beat of silence across the line, and you yank your phone away from your ears when a loud cackling rings out. "No, you didn't."
"I so did!" You whine loudly, resting your forehead on the mannequin. "And it wasn't even hot. I look like….like I'm posing for an overtly-sexualised pudding commercial — CAT. STOP. LAUGHING. Tell me what to do!"
"Okay, okay. Breathe," she's still wheezing between syllables, "what did he say?"
You pull your phone back to squint at the text, and then hold it to your ears. Biting on your thumb. "He said I looked…lovely."
Another round of shrill laughter explodes through the speaker, "girl, GIRL. DO NOT tell him you sent them by accident. Don't you break his cotton candy heart."
"He's gonna think I'm some stupid over-eager slut, Cat!" You're pacing back and forth like a crazy person, gripped around the mannequin for emotional support.
"Oh please! He's still a man. Just roll with it. Let him think you sent them purposely."
"That's insane." You mumble, thumbs already hovering over the keyboard.
"That's how you're gonna get laid."
You're about to argue, but you type out a draft message, thinking more through your pussy than your mind. And then…you click the send button.
"Did you do it?"
"Yeah. I'm just gonna wai—"
Your phone buzzes damn near in seconds.
[6:38PM]
You: You really think so?
[6:38PM]
Clark Kent: ues you look perfecft
Clark Kent: perfect.
You're frowning at your phone at the uncharacteristic typo, and then you screenshot the thread to forward it to Cat.
"Oh hon he's one hundred percent typing with his dick in his hand."
"Shut up," you manage through a grin, "okay, bye bitch, I'm gonna go pay for the blue one."
"Over-eager-slut."
You roll your eyes, hanging up while you're smiling your way to check out.
Clark had been palming himself for the past five minutes. Or at least, he was, until it got way too painful to just rub at his hard-on. He fully had his cock in his palm now, pumping himself slow, with the picture of you on full screen, splayed on his device.
It wasn't a sexy picture — not really, you thought. But the half smile on your lips? The soft curves of your chest he'd been fantasizing seeing, in a lacy blue fabric?
You devastated him.
He tried to type something sweet back, something that wouldn't expose the fact that he was stroking his cock silly like some easily excitable hormonal teenager. He settles for something safe, because that's what you looked like to him always, lovely. Oh..so lovely.
Clark's thumbs rub at the leaking tip of the slit on his cock head. Eyes unfocused, he zooms in on your tits, noticing a glimpse of your areolas. "…!"
He could feel you on his tongue, rolling the shy nubs until they hardened. He wanted to suck around the fat and….And…it's too much. It was too much.
"Oh…mygosh —" He clicks the side button of the phone. Nothing but the black screen reflecting his still throbbing cock, now bubbling over with thick spurts of pent-up cum. It dribbles over his thumbs, landing onto the device. Clark's panting roughly, rubbing it clean clumsily with the waistband of his pants.
And because Clark Kent was the way he was? With restraint barely carved into his DNA? He does the only thing that's sensible. Especially after violating your likeness.
[7:10PM]
Clark Kent: I'm sorry.
Clark Kent: I can't make it to dinner tonight.
His pulse was hammering in his throat. Leaning back in his armchair to set his phone down. He couldn't face you like this, not when just the sight of you now was enough for him to want to pounce on you and fuck you senseless.
Clark's phone began to ring the tune of one of The Mighty Crabjoys songs. He froze at the incoming call that flashed a picture he took of you, smiling while holding one of your very first articles making headlines on the paper.
He hesitated for a second, but picks up after the second ring.
"Hello?" His voice was terse.
"Clark? Why'd you cancel? Did I do something wrong?" Clark's groaning internally at the worry in your voice. "I — It's not that, It's not you, I just —" His voice is faltering, hesitating.
Your brows knit into a furrow. Something was wrong. With the way he was stuttering at every word, "Clark." You repeat, softer. Heart racing with Cat's teasing words from earlier.
He grits his teeth, head rested on the edge of his chair, your voice settling in his ears like honey. His hand moves downward to idly rub at his still half-hard cock. "Y..Yeah?" He grunts softer and his tip twitches beneath his palm.
Your breath hitches, "…am I interrupting something?"
Clark goes radio silent for far too long and you hear it — his breathing, slow and strained. Inhaling, then exhaling like he was pained.
Finally, he speaks, low, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Ever since you sent me those pictures — I-I'm such a sleaze. It's not anything you did wrong, I swear."
Your lips part with a stuttered breath. Cheeks warming instantaneously at his admission. You're setting your keys down by the doors.
The silence stretches uncomfortably, and he's calling your name, hesitant.
You swallow thickly, the words spilling out before you could consider them.
"You jerked off looking at me?"
There's a sharp inhale at the other end of the line, and then he cuts the call.
You stood there for a solid minute and a half. Staring at your phone.
He hung up.
He hung up in your face.
Offence prickled potent in your chest, but it doesn't last all that long. Your thighs squeeze tighter at the ringing revelation that he'd jerked off to you. Looking at pictures of you. It feels far too hot and heavy in your entryway suddenly.
Your screen lights up with another text.
[7:15PM]
Clark Kent: I know an apology won't cut it.
Clark Kent: I violated your trust.
Clark Kent: I understand if you no longer wish to see me.
[7:20PM]
Clark Kent: I'm sorry.
You hadn't replied, of course you hadn't. Why would he have thought that pathetic apology would've cut it? Nearly thirty minutes had passed since then. Clark lay face down in his sheets, mumbling to himself, mostly things about how he'd let down his ma by treating a girl he really fancied like this.
Idiot. He was such an idiot. You probably thought he was disgusting, and probably regretted ever even giving him a chance.
Bzzztt.
Clark shot up right like the vibration from his phone had shocked him. He sat up on his thighs, palms flat down on his bed with his phone between.
A message notification, from you.
He's clicking on it with shaky hands. Ready to see you sending a text to end things with him officially.
But it wasn't.
[8:02PM]
You: [1 Attached Video]
It was blurry at first, shaky. The frame tilted like you were fumbling trying to prop it against something. But the moment it eased? Clark was zeroing in on you. You, in that blue set, perched on your bed.
You were looking into the camera, biting down on your lips with a shy smile. Head tilted to look down as you smoothed the lace on your thighs. Then, you hook your fingers at the thin band of the thong to adjust it higher onto your hips.
Clark's hand snapped to his mouth. Muffling a curse he'd never say out loud. All blood rushing down south when you pick up the camera, angling it down to run your fingers over the thin lace covering your tits, shy areolas peeking through from the near translucent fabric.
He thought the picture alone was enough to wreck him. But this? This was you saying, it's okay, use me.
Your phone rings even before Clark can finish the video you'd sent him.
The first thing you hear isn't even a hello, it's the muffled click of his door, followed by a slow exhale.
"I don't deserve you."
Your lips twitch, fighting back a slow smile at the way his voice trembles. You drag your fingertips down your belly. Toying with the heart-shaped charm attached to the seams of your underwear.
"Did you like it?" You finally say, featherlight. Clark audibly groans at your voice. There's a pause, and then a laugh tumbles out, breathless at its edges. "I — I did. — Yeah. Gosh, I did. You're unreal. So…so insanely stunning."
He hears a rustle on your end. You shuffle up your bed, wetting your lips, "…are you hard?
Clark hums a stuttered mhm. You hear him adjust, and he's rubbing at himself again, sighing, "I feel like some teenager. It's so…embarrassing."
There's a slow boyishness to his tone, and you're giggling, tracing your fingers over your nipples. "I really…liked how you sounded earlier." You admit.
"Yeah?" He laughs, palming his bulge a little harder, "you liked hearing me sound all pathetic, stroking myself for you?
You let out a stuttered breath, fingers rubbing down and beneath the lace covering your pussy, the sound of his voice teetering you over the edge to slip your fingers into you. Clark's listening to the dull schlick's of you touching yourself. He shuts his eyes, timing his idle rubs to your soft moans.
"I wish…you were here."
There's a sudden silence after your honest whisper. "…Clark?" You frown, looking at the line that wasn't hung up yet.
And then, there's a pounding at your door, like whoever behind was about to rip it off its hinges.
You jolt. Fumbling to grab the silk robe abandoned over your chair. The knocking all but grew more impatient, knocks reminiscent of someone trying not to break the door down. You barely make a proper knot at your hips as you open the door — eyes widening.
Clark Kent stands there, hunched over in your hallway. Panting like he'd just run a goddamn marathon. His hair was messy, glasses sitting crooked on his nose. His white shirt clung to him, sweaty particularly at the chest, wearing what seemed to be printed plaid pyjamas.
"Clark," you breathe out, hands stunted at your door frame. "I was just on the…phone with you. How did you get here so qui —"
"I was already in the area." He blurts out all too quickly. Chest still heaving with effort.
You look at him suspiciously, obviously still in what seemed to be sleep clothes, and sounding far too much like he was lying. But then you see how he's boring holes into you, at your robe. Gaze turning feral by the second as if he could see what was underneath the maroon silk.
Before you're able to press a little further, Clark's figure hunkers in. Forcing you to stumble backwards as he shuts the door behind him with a resounding click.
It's quiet, other than the sounds of his still-heavy breathing.
"You said…you wished I was here." He says, voice cracked and barely restrained.
"…I did."
The air whizzes at the speed of him closing the distance before he's on you — mouth crashing into yours, desperate and messy. His glasses bump into your nose, but he readjusts quickly. Kissing you like a man starved, hands trembling as they cup your jaw. His thumb steadied, feeling the way your cheeks hollow to keep up with him. When your tongue grazes over his lips, he doesn't pull away this time.
Instead, he groans into your mouth. His tongue licking into yours, and then over the softness of your lips. Clark walks you backwards and then lifts you up, like your weight didn't even matter. You squeak into his mouth, arms clambering to hook over his broad shoulders. You knees lock around his hips and he's walking ahead, not knowing his destination while he kisses at your neck.
"Where's — where's your bedroom?" He mutters low, the need in his voice sinking deep into your skin.
Your nose bumps into his glasses, chasing his lips. "D-Down the hall. Second door."
His hair feels wild beneath your fingers. Within barely a second, the walls blur, and he slams your room door open. Your breath catches in your throat at what seemed to be a crackling noise when the door hits your closet. You aren't able to see how the wood splintered beneath, and the hinges now creaked raw.
Thankfully, you're far too hazy to question it.
Clark tumbles into your bed, kissing down your collarbone and down to your sternum. "Mmh—…" He sighs into your chest at the sweetness in your satisfied hums. Your robe snaps open, and you jolt. Staring down at your exposed body and up at Clark, who was pulling back, looking down at you with a slow shake of his head.
"The real…thing…far..far better." He mutters more so to himself. Clark pulls his shirt over his head in one fluid movement, letting you marvel at his body. He smiles shyly, lifting your hand up. Looking at you now, he finds enough control in him to savour the sight.
He kisses at your knuckles, soft pecks travelling up your palms as he twists your wrist slightly. Trailing kisses up to your elbows. "I've been wanting to do this with you…for far too long." He admits, breath ghosting your cheeks when he leans over.
You're squirming at the sensation, curling your head into your neck. "I-It didn't seem like it.."
Clark's shaking his head, burying his face into your pulse. Your fingers card through his curly locks. "That's not it. I've been going insane." You raise your brow at his exaggerated hand gesture, "I want to touch you, all the time, every time."
He pulls away, gazing at you. "But then you send me something like that…how could I not?"
Your eyes are wavering, looking at the scrunch of his features. You drag your fingers down his dimples, and he tilts his head to kiss at your fingers once more.
"Mmm. It wasn't meant for you." You say softly, with a teasing edge. Clark's expression twists, grabbing your wrists.
"Don't even joke about that. I'm barely holding back as is."
"I still don't get why you're trying to be gentle, Clark. I-I want you. Can't you see that?" You finally huff out, a slight resentment building in you at how long it took for you to get to this point.
"I don't want to hurt you." He finally admits after a beat.
"Hurt me how? I want this."
Clark exhales slow, and his hold on your wrists loosen, to guide you to rub at the length of his cock. Your breath stills, and you squeeze at the girth.
"Ngh—that's…that's why." He grits, seeing the way you were rendered silent just by feeling how big he was.
"O-Oh.." You murmur. Clark lets your wrists go, but you don't release him. Watching his lips press taut as you curiously venture, squeezing and rubbing at his more than impressive length in your softer hands. It wasn't a reaction he'd anticipated.
"You're okay? With this?" He manages through a strained pant. Hips bucking to your steady strokes of his clothed cock.
"Are you kidding? Why the hell would I not be? My boyfriend is hung, I'd be an idiot to complain."
Clark groans and lets out an embarrassed laughter, covering your mouth with the expanse of his palm. "G-Geez... Don't…say stuff like that." He mutters, head falling flush onto the sheets. You smile into his hand, and your hand wanders beneath his waistband.
He lets you touch him, rubbing his thick, throbbing length. Clark groans the second your fingers roll beneath his balls, "…o-ohmy— g-gosh." His head goes dizzy, and he's blinking at you. "Where did you learn how to do that? Wait — no. Do not tell me." He warns, tugging his pants off quickly.
You grin, pecking at his jaw, ghosting a whisper, "college boyfriend."
Clark pulls back slowly, expression turning all serious. He didn't utter a single word.
Your bed frame groans when he flips you to your tummy all of a sudden. You gasp, perking up to look back at him, not seeing much but the intense look on his face. Clark's palm lay flat at your lower back, dragging his fingers over the pretty lace that curved around your hips and thighs.
You let out a shudder, trying to peek a glance at him. "Clark?" You try, growing worried that you might've upset him for real.
He doesn't answer you, and you soon understand why.
Your hips jump when he presses a kiss on the inside of your thighs. Then, he licks a stripe dangerously close to your puckered hole. "Mmn?!" You all but let out a stuttered gasp when he probes his tongue into your ass. Lips curved around it entirely, sucking and licking. The grunt that leaves you isn't something you recognise.
He holds you in place, tongue flicking over the ring. You don't fully process it, still breathing heavy at the aftermath of a pleasure you were not familiar with.
It's simple in Clark's mind though. He wanted to have the remainder of all your firsts.
He feels your hips tremble, and he soothes around the fat, head dipping lower to tug at your thong. You whimper at the string rubbing at your clit. He nudges his nose up your slick pussy, already wet from the stimulation so far. Your hips lift when he licks up your folds, his tongue poking into your pussy nice and slow.
"D-Didn't think….you had that in you."
Clark laughs, the vibrations sending an electric sensation of desire in you. "Yeah…" And he sucks at the softness, tongue grazing your clit. Your eyes roll back. You're close.
"Clark…" you whine, he hums in response, already aware —diving back in. "Give it to me." He mutters, continuing to tongue fuck your pussy with a blinding pleasure. Your hips are writhing, but he keeps up, knowing you were so goddamn close with just how your pussy was trying to clamp down on his tongue and nose.
He must've been there forever, but he doesn't rise up, not even once, not even to take a breath. It was insane. It's like he didn't even need to. That man was giving your vibrator a run for its money, and you were feeling the full force of his apparent expertise in pussy eating. Something you didn't even anticipate him to be this frighteningly good at.
It takes you a second to register the strange shift in sensation, more importantly, the temperature. His mouth felt so hot — and suddenly, there's an icy chill. Grazing your pussy in a way that has your cunt clench. A startled shiver takes you, and you look over your shoulder.
"W-What the hell was that?"
Clark flinches for a second. Lifting his head. "I — uh…" he begins, brushing his messy curls away from his face, "…I was chewing mints earlier. Do you feel uncomfortable?" he manages, voice strained.
You blink at him, not sure what to actually say. But it felt….good. "No…d..do it again."
His lips quirk into a smile, seeing the curiosity on your features. Clark leans back down.
"O-Oh my—..fucking…god, Clark!" You scream out, muffled into the sheets.
He takes his time, and like clockwork, you feel the familiar build. Your hips are nudging backwards, rubbing, grinding back into his face. And you cum. Hard.
Clark doesn't relent, licking you even as your thighs spasm through your release. He's suckling at your folds, kissing, flicking at your clit until you've pulled all stops, palm slapping onto the sheets.
He pulls away then. Licking his lips, watching you shake beneath him. Clark hooks his arm around your hips to turn you on your back. He leans down to kiss you, sucking your tongue with a gentle ease until you taste yourself. A heavy palm steadies on your head, soothing your hair down. "Easy, easy, baby. You're okay."
You're muttering incoherently into his neck, thighs shaking still from your come down. "I c-can't..s'too..much. It's—…can't.."
Clark rubs at your hips, humming. "Mmhm. I know. I know." He peppers kisses down your cheeks, picking you up in his arms, rubbing you nice and slow. For a second, you actually think he would give you a break. But instead, his own legs pushes yours impossibly apart. His cock rests idly on your pussy.
You blink at him confused, and Clark guides your hand to rest at your belly. "I promise you." He murmurs, interlocking his fingers where it lay on you.
"You won't ever need to think about your college boyfriend when you're with me."
The possessiveness in his tone catches you off guard. "H-Hrrk!" Clark notches his cock into you, and then pushes in, slow, inch by inch. You grab at his forearm that rests beside your face, the other, glued to your belly. He's watching you, watching as your expression turns to utter shock when his cock presses, pokes where he held your palm steady.
Clark looks at you, panting heavily. The suction of your cunt, squeezing at his cock with a pleasure unmatched. "You're so…incredible.." He mutters, burying himself into you to the hilt. You groan loudly, fingertips tracing over the bulge on your belly. Clark presses down on it further, and your eyes roll back.
He leans down, breathing against the column on your throat. His hips pick up the pace, starting off with slow, yet hard rocks into you. "Mm—..myg-gosh…so…tight." Your thighs squeeze around his hips, rocking to his movements. "N-No other…no other guy will ever…have you like this. You..hear me?"
You're nodding, through the tears prickling at the side of your cheeks. He was fucking you so full, so deep, you aren't sure if you'll ever be able to recover from this man. Your grip around his arm turns into a claw. You're about to cum again, you feel it.
But Clark tuts, his hand moving off your belly to hold your jaw in place. "Don't…cum." He mutters with a punishing edge, licking up your jaw slow. Your expression twists, and you clench instinctively around him.
"W…What?"
He groans when you somehow get even tighter around him, and he slumps over you. Grinding slow and deep into you. The wind is knocked out of you by the weight on your chest. But the sheer suffocation of his heavy body only served to drive you even more dumb.
You bite at his shoulder, arm slung loose around his back. "Claaark…" You whine his name out, muffled. Tasting the saltiness of your own tears at his relentless thrusts. He's nosing at your jaw, thumbs tracing over the lace on your neglected tits.
"Gosh..even wore this..all…for me.." His thumb rubs over the band, snapping it apart, earning a shocked gasp from you. You'd be angry at him for that later, but now? Now you were far too fucked out with how your pussy was throbbing, begging for release that he didn't allow you.
Clark leans down, massaging the softness he'd been fantasizing ever since you'd sent the pictures to him. His nose drags over the already hardened nubs, groaning into it, groping them with both his palms. His balls tighten when you mewl as he suckles around the fat.
He breathes your name out, reverent, panting until he tenses. Clark pulls out at the very last second. You blink hazily to see his thighs at the other side of your chest. He pumps himself once, then twice. Hot cum sputtering over your tits in jolts.
You're transfixed at the pearlescent white land on your chest. Wincing when some lands on your cheeks. Clark's eyes are fluttered shut, stroking and squeezing at the head, resting his cock on your sternum until the rest of his spend dribbles onto your collarbone.
He looks at you, with his head tilted. A lazy smile creeping on his lips when he spots you gathering some of his cum off your cheeks to lick your fingertips.
summary: clark has the perfect plan to get to know the love of his life. it consists of eight dates, eight carefully crafted steps, and if all goes well, a happily-ever-after. but when jimmy sets him up on a blind date with you, sticking to the plan turns out to be a lot harder than he thought.
word count: 21k (i’m so sorry… the plot was plotting)
warnings/tags: 18+ mdni, tooth-rooting fluff, comfort, banter, slight angst if you squint, strangers to lovers, idiots in love, slow-burnish, clark’s pov, teacher!reader, reader’s in her late 20s, reader is shorter than clark, reader is skeptical of superman, kissing, cursing, introspection, miscommunication, fingering (f receiving), oral (f and m receiving), multiple orgasms, doggy style, missionary, unprotected p in v, creampie.
a/n: i’ll admit i went a little off the rails diving into clark’s head and writing from his pov. i really took my free will to the next level, but i hope i managed to capture him and his essence. special mention to @sai-int for helping me edit this fic!!! she was so supportive and kind, and made me feel like a professional writer <3 dear angel: you’re a mastermind, and i’m beyond grateful you took the time to engage with my work!!! and thank you all for reading :) likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated!!!
Over the years, experience has taught Clark that whenever Jimmy labels one of his ideas as brilliant, it’s usually the complete opposite.
Which is why, the moment he approaches his desk first thing in the morning, Clark’s already saying, “No. Thank you.”
“Hello to you, too,” Jimmy notes, rolling his eyes and watching as Clark drops into his chair, adjusting his tie. “You haven’t even heard what I was going to say.”
“I don’t need to, because I have the feeling it involves me in some type of way.”
“Well, aren't you smart?”
“If smart means being your friend long enough to know you, then yes.”
Spreading his arms wide, Jimmy smiles as if he were a kid about to ask for a pony. “Come on, Kent! You’re going to love this brilliant idea I had yesterday.”
Were there a hidden camera in the office, Clark would be staring straight into it right now, like they do in The Office. Instead, he just glances at Jimmy while unpacking his bag. “Your brilliant ideas are never to be trusted.”
“Now why would you say that?”
“It’s just that you always find a way to put me in the thick of it.”
“That’s not true. Name at least one time something like that happened.” As Clark inhales to list a dozen examples, Jimmy stops him by holding up a finger. “Never mind. But you have to trust me on this one!”
Clark blows out his cheeks, peering up at him over his glasses. “Alright. What is it?”
“So there’s this girl—”
“Here we go again.”
“—which is totally your type.”
“You said that last time.”
“But this time I mean it.”
“You said that the time before last time.”
“Well, I’m not perfect, you know? Neither am I a certified matchmaker. This is a hobby, which I do out of pure affection for you.”
“I don’t recall ever asking you to do this.”
Jimmy shrugs, inspecting the coffee Clark had set on his desk as if it belonged to him. “Technically, you did. You said, and I quote: Oh, it’d be nice to have somebody. I’m all alone. I’m miserable.” He drops his voice into a deep imitation of Clark’s, hunching his shoulders in an exaggerated way.
For the record, he hadn’t exactly said it like that. Jimmy just loves being dramatic.
Clark clenches his jaw the moment Jimmy lifts the cup closer to his mouth. “Buddy, that’s mine,” he mutters, though he makes no move to snatch it back.
Completely unbothered, Jimmy takes a trial sip, smacking his lips together as he drifts his eyes shut. “God bless caffeine.”
Clark sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Just because you heard me saying it once doesn’t mean I was explicitly asking you to get me a girlfriend.”
“I still wanna do it,” Jimmy argues. “I’m telling you, that girl’s out there, and it’s my duty as your best friend to find her.”
That last bit has Clark shaking his head. When put that way, what he wants sounds stupid, even childish. The whole relationship thing, falling in love. The white picket fence and the late nights in.
It had been around the time Jimmy introduced his current girlfriend, Molly, to both Lois and him that Clark found it all so endearing he actually snorted and patted his friend on the back.
They were at a bar, drinking with the ease of a Friday night, and despite not being able to get wasted, he felt tingly all over. Perhaps it was because the mere image of love was standing right in front of him, this time personified in a couple he knew.
“It must be nice to be in a relationship,” he had mused, without meaning to say it out loud. It was meant to stay a thought, but it had slipped past his lips, and immediately three pairs of unrelenting eyes were scrutinizing him. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to ruin the mood. I’m really happy for you guys.”
Lois, it seemed, had only heard the first part. “You want to date?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“And here I thought you weren’t the dating type,” Jimmy said, raising his eyebrows and taking another sip of beer. “I mean, you never have any free time outside of work. You’re constantly in a rush. In fact, I’m surprised you’re even here tonight. How would you even manage to fit in a girlfriend with your schedule?”
In moments like those, Clark wished alcohol would have an effect on him. “I’d figure it out. But of course I’d like to be with someone.”
If other people could have it, why couldn’t he? In his mind, he deserved it as much as anyone else. Though again, he wasn’t like anyone else. He wasn’t even a person to begin with. He might look like one, but his DNA was far from normal.
As obnoxious as Jimmy was, and still is to this day, once he got something in his head, it was as good as done. “Babe, don’t you have, like, a hundred friends who are single?” he asked Molly, intertwining their fingers, and she pursed her lips, thinking.
Molly ran a hand through her long red hair, toying with a specific strand. “A great deal.”
Jimmy’s gaze slid back to Clark, a smirk plastered across his features. “Then consider it done, mister. You may start calling me Cupid from now on.”
Fueled by desperation and maybe a little fear, Clark almost choked on his own saliva. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to! It’ll be fun.” Jimmy clapped a hand on Clark’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “You leave it to me, and I’ll set you up with the love of your life.”
That night, promises were made, and days later, Jimmy had put together a PowerPoint presentation, each slide featuring a different woman, along with her job and hobbies.
In the end, Clark ended up going out with several of Molly’s friends and work colleagues. One would think that, with this much help, he would’ve had better luck, but none of those dates were of his liking.
The ones at the forefront of his memory were the following:
Alexandra: sweet, but her ex-boyfriend had cheated on her just two weeks before their date, and she was still in love with him. He spent the entire evening listening to her cry and handing her tissue after tissue. They decided to stay friends.
Casey: tried to convince him to take off his glasses, insisting that they looked ‘unconventional’. She said she often wondered why natural selection didn’t eliminate poor eyesight before glasses were inverted. He faked a call from his mother twenty minutes in and ran to his apartment.
Emma: claimed Superman was a government-made hologram designed to control and terrorize human beings. He didn’t stick around to hear the rest of her theory.
Not just finding someone, but actually connecting with them, was becoming harder than he’d thought. Jimmy often tells him he’s too particular when it comes to meeting new people, although Clark doesn’t consider being meticulous a flaw.
Years ago, he’d come up with what he believed was the perfect plan to get to know someone. It consisted of eight dates, eight carefully crafted steps.
Dates 1 and 2: Minimal physical contact. A handshake or a kiss on the cheek at most, but a first kiss that soon was off the table.
Dates 3 to 5: A real kiss was allowed, but nothing more. Hugging was fine. Still in the getting-to-know-her stage. Visiting each other’s apartments was too risky, though small gestures were encouraged. Conversations could start leaning toward future relationship prospects.
Dates 6 to 8: Resist the temptation to go further. Make sure the other person was as invested as he was. If all is still going well by the eighth date, tell her the truth, and hopefully think about marriage someday.
The problem is that Clark has never made it past the first date with any of Molly’s friends, and it’s starting to get on his nerves. How difficult could it be to find someone even a little like him?
Jimmy snaps his fingers in front of his face. “Earth to Clark. Where’d you go?”
“Sorry,” Clark says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”
“I can always create you a Hinge account—”
“We’re definitely not doing that.”
Jimmy raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright. But please, you need to trust me on this one. I have a really good feeling about this girl.”
Clark’s expression sours, going poker-faced. “Is it because she’s the last option you have?”
Jimmy clutches his chest, pretending to get offended. “You always think so badly of me.”
Scowling, Clark sighs for the hundredth time this morning, and the clock hasn’t even struck nine-thirty yet. “Can I at least see a picture of her?”
“Nope. It’s a blind date. Exciting, right?”
A crease forms between Clark’s brows. “You can’t be serious. How am I supposed to recognize her if I don’t know what she looks like?”
“That sounds like a you problem,” Jimmy replies, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. “Does tonight work for you?”
“Well—”
“Perfect. I’m so glad you’re not busy saving the world or whatever. I’ll text you the details. And hey, if everything goes according to plan, maybe you can even tell her about… the thing.”
Clark hooks two fingers into Jimmy’s sleeve, tugging until he’s leaning down so they’re eye-to-eye level. “We said we wouldn’t talk about the thing at the office.”
“I know. I just still can’t believe it! You’re Sup—”
“—Super committed to my job? Yup. Love it. I’m a big fan of newspapers,” Clark interrupts, his voice an octave too high.
Across the bullpen, Lois asks, “What are you two whispering about over there?”
“Someone’s got another date lined up!” Jimmy chirps, now popping around behind Clark to give his chair a spin.
“Poor thing,” Lois says, crossing her arms over her chest. “I thought you were done with those.”
“Me too,” Clark mumbles, palming his cheek flusterdly.
Grinning, Jimmy adds, “I could help you next time, Lois.”
“I’d rather die alone, but thank you.” At that, she strides off, and Jimmy’s mouth downturns, resembling something that looks a lot like a pout.
Before strolling off toward his desk, he gives Clark one final glance. “Just imagine the double dates we’ll go on, CK!”
Clark forces a smile to appease his friend.
Perhaps being single wasn’t the worst fate after all.
While getting ready, he finds himself torn between restless anxiety and utter resignation. It’s a strange combination, to say the least. Both feelings coexist tensely inside him, neither winning out over the other.
You’re ten minutes late to the date, which isn’t much, not really. After pacing the block twice, he’d arrived half an hour early to the restaurant Jimmy sent the location of, hoping nothing in the world would go wrong and force him to abandon the establishment and leap up into the air.
Already, he’s read the menu more times than he can count, memorizing each dish with its ingredients and price. He knows the chicken parmigiana comes with a chicken breast that can be topped with mozzarella, Parmesan, or provolone, and that the garnish—
“Clark?”
His head snaps up from the menu, and he sees you standing there with an apologetic smile, holding out your hand in greeting.
“Hey,” he says, standing so fast his chair nearly tips. He grips your hand, enveloping it, and swallows like his throat has gone dry, suddenly parched. “I’m—Yes. Hi. Hello.”
Golly.
He’s temporarily lost the ability to speak coherently. No longer does he know which letters go together to form the words he wants to say. It’s beyond incredible, the effect your beauty has on him.
You tilt your head, studying him before giving him your name. “Jimmy said I should look for a guy who looks tall even when he’s sitting, but you’re way taller than I expected.” Your nose wrinkles immediately after hearing yourself. “That sounded weird, didn’t it? Sorry. I swear it sounded less awkward in my head.”
A nervous laugh escapes his throat. “It’s alright. I’ve been mistaken for Bigfoot a handful of times now.”
Usually, when he jokes, the response he receives is no more than a polite chuckle. He’s convinced he has no sense of timing, no instinct for delivery, but now you’re genuinely laughing at what he’s just said. It feels authentic, and for him, that’s unbelievable.
Then he realizes he still hasn’t let go of your hand. He drops it like it burns, wiping his palms on his black slacks as he sits again, silently chiding himself for how much he’s sweating.
“I’m so sorry I arrived a bit late. I couldn’t find a place to park.” You hang your purse from the back of the chair as you sit, the corner of your mouth quirking up. “Did I make you wait too long?”
Clearing his throat, he lifts the menu and waves it awkwardly. “I, uh, had plenty of time to learn all the dishes.”
“Then I suppose you’ll have no problems ordering for me.”
He’s left flabbergasted. “But—How?”
“I like almost everything, that’s why it always takes me forever to choose. Trust me, you do not want to be stuck here with me until closing,” you explain, lifting your shoulder in a half shrug.
A distorted echo of his own conscience cuts through his thoughts: who says I wouldn't want that?
Soon you’re talking, the conversation unspooling. You tell him you’ve known Molly since primary school, and that when she initially asked if you wanted to go on a date with one of Jimmy’s friends, you turned it down.
“—So I thought I’d try to navigate the dating world on my own, but months passed without much success and I lost motivation.” You lace your fingers together, setting them neatly on the table. “Then Molly asked to meet, and this time she brought Jimmy, and… well, here I am.”
“I’m glad you didn’t lose all your hope,” he rejoins before realizing the hidden meaning of his words. He steers away from that subject. “Jimmy’s a pretty… chatty guy, don’t you think?”
“He’s great! Plus, I’ve never seen Molly this happy.”
“You’re right. They look good together.”
“And he talked a lot about you. Said some very nice things.”
“Does that mean you know more about me than I know about you?”
“Maybe.” Your eyes wander around the room before returning to his. “Besides, he paid me to be here, so this date better be a success.”
His expression falls. There’s a sudden tightness that creeps into his chest, and he can’t help but blink owlishly. “Wait, did… did Jimmy actually pay you?”
“I’m kidding!” you clarify, stumbling over your words as you lean forward, your knuckles brushing his across the table. His shoulders loosen, and he exhales. You continue with a soft chuckle. “That was my best attempt at breaking the ice. I don’t think I’ll ever be good at jokes.”
“I’m no better. Want proof?”
“Go on.”
“Why are colds bad criminals?”
You lift your brows. “Why?”
“Because they’re easy to catch.”
Propping your chin on your hand, you shake your head with a crooked smile. “That was… terrible.”
“Oh come on, you could at least pretend it was funny.” Clark laughs.
“And lie to you? Never.”
“You’ve crushed my dreams of following my true passion.”
“… Which is?”
“Pursuing a career in comedy, obviously.”
You’re laughing. Again. He thinks he’s never managed to make someone laugh this much in such a short span.
Once the laughter dies down, you offer up another question: “So, you work at the Daily Planet, right?”
He nods. “Mostly reporting. Some articles and interviews as well—”
At that moment, a waitress interrupts before he can continue, carrying a notepad in her hands. After she finishes listing off tonight’s specials, he blurts out both orders: the same dish, because panic takes over. He then asks you to choose the drinks; you settle on water, and he echoes your choice without thinking.
Once the waitress is gone, you continue your thought. “I’ve read some of your pieces—Some of the interviews with Superman, for instance.”
“Oh.” He hums, with an air of shock.
“Sorry. You’re probably tired of people bringing him up.”
His pulse quickens in the blink of an eye. “No, not at all. It’s just that I sometimes forget people are meant to read what I write, you know? It still amazes me.”
“Well, you’ve got an avid reader here.” Your lips curve knowingly. “So… is he cool? Nice? Or does he think too highly of himself?”
That last part catches him off guard. He fumbles with the napkin in his lap, mindlessly tearing it into smaller pieces. “What makes you think that?”
You ponder, wrinkling your nose. “Well, when someone has that much power, it’d be easy to slide into arrogance.”
His voice, when it comes, is so subdued that he can barely hear it. “I believe he takes what he does very seriously. I wouldn’t say he’s arrogant.”
You rest your chin on your palm, studying him. “He’s not so fond of the media, though, right?”
“That’s because some have chosen to distort his image.”
“I see you’re a Superman apologist,” you tease, tapping the table with two fingers. “So tell me: if he’s not exactly approachable, then how did you manage to land all those interviews with him?”
In situations like these, Clark realizes he’s been taking air for granted. How do you know which buttons to push to make him sweat?
“I just…. happen to be in the right place at the right time. That’s all.”
You give him a lopsided grin. “Don’t be so modest! Give yourself some credit. You’ve given him a voice no one else has. I think it’s admirable.”
There’s a fleeting moment when he falls silent, partly blinded by your radiance. He feels as though he can’t look at you properly while speaking, as if he’s staring straight into the Yellow Sun.
It seems almost unreal that you’re here, sitting across from him, breathing the same air, your shoes only inches away from his under the table.
You’re beautiful. And he’s petrified of making the wrong move—of saying the wrong thing and scaring you off forever.
“I wouldn’t say we’re friends or anything like that,” he adds after a beat. “It’s strictly professional. He wants others to hear his side of things, too.”
He isn’t too sure what he just said, too stuck on the fact that he could really be falling for you after knowing you for less than half an hour. It sounds absurd—Gosh, it is absurd. That he knows for sure.
But what role does absurdity play when it comes to love? Aren’t those the very things that can’t be logically explained? The unreasonable acts?
Stick. To. The. Plan. You big poet.
Cutting off Clark’s mental spiral, the waitress timely returns with both of your drinks, placing them carefully on the table. He takes a sip, the water cold and numbing against his throat, though it does nothing for the heat rising in his cheeks.
He sets the glass down. “Anyway, enough about me. Tell me something about yourself.”
“I teach,” you say, your tone softening. “Primary and high school. For my older students, I focus mostly on literature.”
“That sounds like a lot of responsibility.”
Your eyes brighten a little. “It is. It can be incredibly exhausting at times, but I wouldn't change it for anything in the world. Teaching is my calling, you know? What I’m meant to do.”
His lips quirk before he even speaks. “Should I confess then that I haven’t read a fiction book in years?”
“How are you still going on with your life?” You jest, taking a sip of your water.
“I manage just fine.”
“Lucky you, I can recommend you something whenever you want.” It’s like you’re half hoping for a denial, because then you clarify, “Not like I’m forcing you or anything. Not everybody enjoys reading. I’m only saying that if you’re interested—”
Jimmy won’t believe it, Clark thinks, that he set him up with someone who overthinks their words just as much as he does.
His heart sings as he answers, “That’d be nice.”
While you eat, Clark starts memorizing all these details that you mention, storing them in the back of his head:
You’ve trained yourself not to curse, thanks to all the hours spent surrounded by children, though every once in a while a bad word sneaks out, especially when you stub your little toe on the edge of your bed.
He learns that you’re not much of a drinker. You’ll take a gin and tonic every now and then, but you refuse to accept beer, wine, or anything too sugary.
As a kid, you dreamed of being a librarian, and you even worked in one through college.
When the check is paid and his cheeks ache from smiling more than he has in weeks, he insists on holding the door open for you as you step outside.
The moment he turns back, you’re holding your phone out toward him.
“I’d really like to see you again, if you want to,” you murmur, fluttering your eyelashes with a hopeful grin on your lips. “Think you can—Would you give me your number?”
His mouth hangs agape briefly before he shuts it tightly. His eyes gloss over you once more. “I’d love that. Of course. I mean, you’re great, and I think—”
A giggle escapes you as you perceive him to be just as nervous as you are, and you give the device a playful shove back into his chest.
He takes it, pressing each number with practiced delicacy while trying not to waste the little time you had left. He hands the phone back, rocking on his heels, searching for the right thing to do with his hands.
“It was a good first date,” he admits at last.
The silence between you deepens, and then you say, “I’m glad I accepted Jimmy’s offer.”
“He’ll be all over me at work tomorrow.”
You beam at him, your eyes crinkling at the corners. “Tell him I said hi.”
“I will.”
Even so, there’s a part of Clark that doesn’t want to leave. He wants to know more about you, despite having already memorized all those little details you shared throughout the night.
You both have responsibilities, and he knows he can’t ask for too much when you’ve only just met, but he would stay up all night if it meant spending just a little more time with you.
God, he’s already in so deep.
You tighten your grip on your purse strap, slinging it over your shoulder. “Okay, then… bye. I guess I’ll see you around.”
You shift closer, rising on your toes, and judging by the way you’re tilting your head, he’s pretty sure you’re planning on kissing him on the cheek.
He suddenly remembers his plan, panic kicking in before common sense, his hand shoots forward to hold yours, stopping you.
Startled, you slip your hand into his, saying, “A true gentleman.” You give it a firm shake. “Noted.”
“Sorry, I just—”
“Don’t worry.” You offer him another one of your earth-shattering smiles. “Goodnight, Clark.”
He waves, and so do you, but neither of you moves right away. He gestures toward the sidewalk. “I’ll go first.”
You take two steps backward. “Yup. Fine.”
Needless to say, when he’s a block away and risks glancing over his shoulder, he finds you already looking back at him.
“I need all the details!”
“Jimmy, I swear to God—”
“You’re entitled to tell me! I was the one who set you up!”
Clark shushes him, pressing a hand over his mouth. They’re right by the printers, and he flashes an innocent smile at a woman passing by on her way to the break room, concern flickering in her eyes.
“Stop yelling, man!” Clark hisses, his gaze boring into Jimmy’s as he all but slaps his large hand over his mouth. “You’re scaring people, and you have—What the hay, dude?!”
Clark yanks his hand back, staring at his palm in disgust. His skin is wet and sticky.
“Did you just lick me?” Clark grimaces, wiping the saliva on Jimmy’s shirt. “How old are you? Three?”
“I will not be silenced.”
“You’re gross.”
“And I’ll continue to be if you don’t tell me how it went last night,” Jimmy presses excitedly, giving a light punch to Clark’s chest.
Clark sighs, looking around to make sure no one’s eavesdropping their conversation. “I already told you it was fine. What else do you want to know?”
“Did you kiss?”
“What?! No!” Now Clark’s the one yelling.
“Relax. It’s not like I asked if you two reenacted the Kama Sutra.”
A rush of heat prickles at the back of Clark’s neck. The newsroom feels stifling, and he tugs at his collar, aiming to keep his voice even. “Why are you more… unfiltered than usual?”
“Kissing isn’t a sin, pal. Stop treating it as if it were,” Jimmy explains, and with a shake of his head, he drifts toward the coffee machine, leaving Clark even more confused.
He quickly follows after him. “But it’s too early for a kiss. We’ve only been on one date.”
Steam curls from the machine as Jimmy fills his cup. The vapor fogs Clark’s glasses, blurring his vision for a second.
“You notice how you're trying to control the situation? It’s like you want to structure every single thing,” Jimmy says, stirring in sugar, clinking a spoon against the ceramic. “You need to just let it flow. See where it takes you. Forget about that stupid eight-dates thing.”
Taken aback, Clark’s brows snap together. “I don’t ‘go with the flow’. And my plan’s not stupid. I just… put a lot of thought into it,” Clark laments.
“How many times did you shake her hand last night? Five?”
“In my defense, she did it first.”
“Oh! Fantastic. Looks like I’ve found someone who matches your freakiness.”
Clark opens his mouth to argue, but the unexpected buzz in his pocket derails his train of thought. As his heart hammers, he fishes out his phone. His lock screen lights up with a new message from an unknown number.
He can’t help the way his lips twitch upward, betraying him. He’s been waiting all morning for this.
Jimmy leans in, trying to angle the screen toward himself. “Oh, man. Is it her? Tell me it’s her.”
Clark pivots the phone away trying to use his size to his advantage, but Jimmy cranes his neck anyway, squinting at the text that’s popped up:
I really hope you didn’t give me a fake number last night.
Clark’s thumb hovers over the screen, debating his next reply. Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy remains grinning next to him, taking a long sip of coffee before nearly hollering, “Remember that sexting in public is gross!”
He walks away after that, and a few heads turn in Clark’s direction as he jerks upright, almost dropping the device. “He’s joking, obviously,” he sputters, his head bent. “I’d never do that. You’re all… safe.”
Retreating to his desk, he sinks into his chair, hiding his face behind the glow of his phone screen. He creates a new contact under your name.
Clark: What kind of person do you think I am?
The typing dots appear right after.
You: I barely know you. Why should I trust you?
Clark: I can’t think of any good reason right now.
You: Well, if you want to prove your identity, tell me the color of the jacket I wore yesterday.
Clark: It was blue… and you paired it with a black sweater and a pretty pair of earrings.
You: Your eyes do work wonders.
Clark: It’s the glasses. They take all the credit.
You: But is your memory always this good?
Clark: Only on important occasions.
Your second date comes a few days later at a bookshop café you’ve been meaning to try. Clark’s determined to leave with at least one book under his arm, and after debating his choices with you, he ends up choosing Atonement.
Turns out you don’t talk much. You mostly read, and yet the silence between you feels natural, almost familiar. Most people don’t consider Clark’s quiet nature much of a virtue, but he’s never seen it that way.
He thinks back to his parents on the Kent farm, sitting side by side on the porch. They wouldn’t speak, only stare at the horizon, steady and unflinching.
He wonders if this is how they felt when they were younger, or how they still feel after so many years of being together.
It’s too soon, and he knows it. Still, the thought lingers, stubborn as ever: if that kind of comfort was supposed to take years, why is he already finding it with you?
As with most things in life, Clark has always believed that something very good is inevitably followed by something very bad. After the date, a thousand excuses run through his head, all the things you could say to ghost him.
I don’t think we really connected. Maybe we could just stay friends.
Actually, I’m not single. I have a boyfriend and two dogs in another city, waiting for me to come home.
You’re kind of boring, your relationship with Superman is concerning, and I never want to see you again.
All his doubts fade the moment you text him before going to bed, reminding him to send you his thoughts after finishing each chapter of the book.
The third date happens almost a week later, when both of you finally manage to carve out the time. You’d mentioned a certain movie you’d been wanting to see, and now that it had finally hit theaters, Clark wasn’t wasting the chance.
You’ve taken your seats in the designated theater. The movie, Materialists, won’t start for another ten minutes. You’re devouring the popcorn he bought, tossing kernel after kernel into your mouth, while he steals a handful whenever you pause.
“I didn’t know you liked popcorn so much,” he says, laughing softly at the way you pop them into your mouth.
“I love it, but I’m starving, too.”
“Guess you’ll have to survive on popcorn for now.” He stretches his legs, sinking deeper into the seat. “By the way, what’s this movie about?”
He can't tell you that he got these tickets online while he was in Europe just a few hours ago, and that's why he didn't have time to read the plot.
“A love triangle,” you explain, crossing one leg over the other. “I hope it’s good. I’ve heard all kinds of opinions.”
It starts off promising. When Pedro Pascal’s character, Harry, flirts with Dakota Johnson’s Lucy at the wedding, he spares you a quick glance, noticing how your gaze is fixed on the screen. You partially cover your face each time they get too close.
About halfway through the film, there’s a scene where Harry and Lucy start making out in his apartment. It’s heated, and now Clark finds himself picturing doing the same with you, which isn’t helpful at all.
The safest distraction, he decides, is eating. He dips his hand between the two seats, where the bucket of popcorn should be wedged.
Except it isn’t there anymore. Somehow, in that moment, it’s gone, and instead of buttery kernels, his hand brushes against yours.
Driven by reflex, you jerk it away, nearly jumping in place. Clark turns to you, and an expression of perplexity settles on your features. A thousand thoughts race through his mind.
He wants to say he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean to be so forward, that he was only reaching for the popcorn to derail thoughts of which you were the protagonist.
What he doesn’t know, because that would require slipping inside your head, is that you’re forcing yourself not to turn and stare at him. Every so often your control falters, and you steal a glance from the corner of your eye, grateful for the excuse of being seated so you can drink in his profile unnoticed.
His nose, the soft fullness of his lips, the line of his chin. The way his glasses slip down and he pushes them back up, how the flickering scenes from the film ripple across the glass in short fragments.
He’s everything you ever wanted, and more. Your friends would probably tell you you’re rushing, that you should be more objective, keep a cool head. But nothing feels cool beside Clark. Your emotions turn visceral, heat rises under your skin, and logic abandons you exactly when you need it most.
From then on, it all happens in slow motion.
Your hand goes back to the armrest, palm tilted upward, as though waiting for something from his side. He notices the faint creases of your skin, the twitch of your wrist as you squirm.
The most primal part of him aches to grab your face and kiss you until you’re breathless. But that’s not something he can do, something he should do. It doesn’t go according to the plan.
Instead, he makes the choice to take your hand deliberately. He intertwines his fingers with yours, no inch of skin apart. Warmth radiates from you, seeping into him where you’re joined as his thumb brushes along your knuckles.
There’s a moment when the movie fades into background noise for him, and he can’t help catching every small disruption in the theater. A woman a few rows down chewing with her mouth open. A young couple kissing like the world’s about to end. A phone that buzzes and refuses to be ignored.
And yet, the sound he picks out most clearly is your heartbeat as it drowns out the rest. It echoes in his ears so loud, so frantic, that he feels as if it belongs to him.
Clark tests his luck, as though this were an experiment, and squeezes your hand. The effect is immediate; your pulse stumbles, skips, and the rush of it startles him enough that his knee jerks, knocking into the seat in front and making a stranger yelp.
The man turns around in an instant, forehead wrinkled in annoyance. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Clark swallows hard. He hadn’t meant to hit him that hard. “I’m so sorry. I think I got a cramp,” he whispers, hoping that he’ll take pity on him.
All he gets in response is a grunt, which sounds like a curse, but he couldn’t care less.
He hasn’t been this buried in work in months. If he had to lay the blame on someone, he’d have to call it quits and tell Superman he’s not doing any more interviews.
In other words: no more referring to himself in the third-person.
Defending himself against every critic and headline is one thing, but doing it disguised as a reporter is entirely different.
He’s afraid the people who read his articles will eventually start thinking he’s losing his objectivity. But given the circumstances, and since Lex Luthor appears to be on every TV program calling Superman a filthy martian, it’s not like Clark can stay silent.
His stomach’s been growling for the past hour. It’s officially lunchtime. He should put something in his body before hunger drives him to slam his keyboard against his desk, though the thought of abandoning the draft in front of him makes him itch.
Good gosh. Perhaps he should start writing under a pseudonym.
When he checks his phone, there’s a message from you. You’ve got a long break between classes, and you’re thinking of grabbing lunch. The mere thought of food makes him fantasize about gnawing on anything remotely edible.
Clark: Think I’ll just skip lunch today. There’s so much I have to get done.
He sends the text without waiting for a reply, sets the phone down beside his computer, and goes back to work.
From behind his back, a hand waves a Pop-Tart in his direction, waggling it. A theatrical voice murmurs, “Eat me.”
Clark lets out a laugh, swiveling just enough to see Steve smirking as he leans on the edge of his desk.
“I’m serious. Take it. You look like you need it more than me.”
“It’s fine, I’ll just eat later,” Clark retorts, rubbing at his temples and sinking back into his chair.
Narrowing his eyes, Steve says, “You look stressed.”
“Well, I most certainly am.”
“Is it about all the hate your little friend’s been receiving lately?”
On any other occasion, were he not this tired, he’d have corrected him, insisting they’re not friends. But today, he lets it slide. “It’s draining. Collecting all this information and then—having to ask—”
His own sigh cuts him off. There’s a weight pressing on his chest he can’t shake, and he peers up to stare at Steve.
Steve bites into the Pop-Tart, chewing it with a thoughtful expression. “I wonder if this is the end of Superman.”
Clark tries to keep his voice level. He really does. “What?”
“I mean, he’s constantly being criticized. Sure, most people still like him, think he’s great, but—”
“He’s not gonna stop helping others just because there’s some… bald guy on TV who lives to antagonize him. His entire purpose on earth is to be helpful. It’s what drives him. It’s—He’s not giving up.”
Startled, Steve tilts his head. “Did he tell you all that?”
Clark stammers, “He didn’t, but I—I know that’s what he’d say if I were to ask him.”
After that, Steve appears to have decided to drop the subject, finishing what’s left of his snack. Clark assumes that’s the end of their conversation, which had been long enough to exasperate him anyway, even though he considers himself to be patient.
But then—
“So… I’ve heard you’re going out with this girl.”
“You mean Jimmy told you.”
Steve shrugs. “Same thing in my book. When are you seeing her again?”
Clark stiffens, stretching his arm to grab a pen and rhythmically clicking the end of it. “I don’t know. We’ve both been busy the last few days.”
You? Busy teaching, preparing lessons, and correcting assignments.
Him? Busy juggling two lives. When he tells you he’s exhausted and heading to bed early, it’s often a lie. Later, you’ll catch him on TV, throwing himself at some gigantic creature, and text him a picture of the screen: Unlike you, your friend’s not getting much sleep tonight.
“Got a picture of her?” Steve asks out of nowhere.
Studying him for a moment, Clark draws his brows together. “I’m not showing you—”
“Kent,” a voice cuts through, calling his attention. Nino, the security guard from the entrance, stands a few meters away, and he looks irritated to have been sent upstairs. “There’s someone waiting for you outside.”
That’s weird. “For… me? Are you sure?”
“It’s a girl. Says she’s looking for Clark Kent.” The man’s voice thickens with annoyance. “As far as I know, you’re the only Clark Kent in the entire building, so unless you’ve got a secret twin brother or something—”
Clark’s already rising to his feet before the guard finishes. “Alright, alright. I’m coming.”
He doesn’t expect to see your face when the doors open and the rush of cooler air spills in. His heart jolts inside his chest as he steps toward you, and that’s when it hits him.
He had actually missed you more than he realized. What stage of the plan was he in now?
“What—I don’t—You’re here?”
“I texted you, but you weren’t answering, so I figured I’d just… drop by,” you begin, slightly breathless. “You said you were skipping lunch, and I brought you food, and—”
Looking down, he catches a glimpse of the paper bag you’re clutching. The smell alone makes his stomach rumble in betrayal. “You didn’t have to.”
“I was getting something for myself as well.”
“But—”
You take one step closer, a grin tugging at your lips. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“Don’t play that card with me. You know I am.”
That makes you laugh. “Then take this, and tell me if you like it.” You press the bag into his hands, and your fingers brush against his. Neither of you pull away. “It’s a sandwich and fries. I got myself the same thing, so I’m counting on it being good.”
I missed you. I missed you. I missed you. I missed—
“I’m sorry I didn’t check my phone. I just… there’s a lot going on at the moment.” His pinky hooks against yours, and you glance down for an instant. “I wasn’t avoiding you or anything.”
Nodding your head, your eyes twinkle with something he can’t describe. “I know. I didn’t think that, and I—”
You quiet down when a crowd of people interrupts your moment, the murmur of voices overlapping, making you grimace.
“I'd better be going,” you say, jerking your thumb toward the street. “My next class starts in about half an hour, so—”
“Makes sense,” Clark answers, though his words don’t match the way his throat tightens, wishing he could disappear into the crowd with you instead. He massages the back of his neck, scanning the sidewalk like he’ll lose you if he looks away. “I’ll head back inside.”
You sigh, shoving your hands into your pockets. “And I’ll go back to dealing with eight-year-olds.”
Would now be a good time to ask when he can see you again? The thought burns on his tongue, when—
“Kent, are you coming in?” Nino’s holding the glass door open with one hand, and he seems to be seconds away from letting it slam shut.
“Right. Sorry,” Clark murmurs, clearing his throat. “Yeah—Bye.”
He lingers until you vanish from sight before stepping back inside. The moment Jimmy spots the bag, he’s immediately smirking, but Clark walks straight past him, setting it beside his keyboard and reaching for his phone.
You: Want me to grab you something? I’m nearby anyway.
You: Hello?
You: Well, now I’m just getting you food.
You: Would it be weird if I dropped it off at your office?
You: I’m trusting my instinct.
All the while he eats the sandwich, he can’t stop beating himself up for not telling you how much he’d been wanting to see you. He rubs his fingers together, the salt of the fries clinging to his skin, and he gets the best idea he’s had in weeks.
There’s a chance Perry will scold him for leaving earlier than he should, but he’s willing to take the risk.
Hours later, he finds himself at a florist's, buying you flowers. He waits outside your work longer than he expected, watching as each child is picked up one by one.
Eventually, as the last of your students leaves, he watches as you descend the steps. Your face lights up as you catch sight of him.
“Clark?” You’re smiling now, walking faster. Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline when you notice he’s hiding something behind his back. “What is it?”
You reach out, but he dodges. “Easy there.” He thinks about teasing you a little longer, but the way you’re looking at him makes him weak in the knees, and he brings the flowers out from behind him. “This is my way of thanking you for today’s lunch.”
“Oh my God!” you squeak, taking them into your hands. You bury your face in them, smiling wider. “These are so pretty! Thank you, thank you, thank—”
Before he can react, your arms loop around his neck. Your chest collides with his, and he stumbles back, losing his balance for a brief moment. He circles your waist, lifting you off the ground. You laugh against his ear, the flowers brushing the back of his neck, while his nose sinks into your hair as he breathes in.
How is he supposed to go slow when being with you feels like a dream?
That’s it. He’s gone. Completely head over heels for you. You could do anything to him, tear him apart and piece him back together, and he wouldn’t even try to stop you. He can’t understand how someone who was a stranger just weeks ago can now make him feel a hundred different things at once.
A month ago, if he’d seen you on the street, he would’ve glanced twice and kept walking.
Today, he’s terrified of losing sight of you.
The hug lasts only seconds, but for him, it stretches into years. As he sets you down, he notices how close you are.
His breath comes unevenly as you curl your fingers into his tie. You’re staring at him, deeply, though you make no move, and he offers you a crooked smile.
“I take it you liked the flowers?” he asks, his voice pitched a little higher than usual.
Your answer doesn’t come in words, but in a kiss.
Your lips fit against his perfectly. The kiss is sweet, fleeting, and gentle. You pull away, and he follows your mouth instinctively. You throw your head back, laughing, so that he’s met with your cheek instead.
He noses your skin, eyes fluttering shut. “Are you free tonight?”
For the sake of his sanity, he counts both encounters as the fourth date.
Tonight, you’re having your fifth date. This event marks the end of stage two of his plan.
Everything feels like it’s moving too fast. He has to remind himself that sex is absolutely off the table for a fifth date, even if he’s stepping into your apartment for the first time.
“It won’t happen.” He’s talking to his own reflection now as he fixes his hair in the mirror. “You’re strong. You’re… committed to the plan.” Tapping his finger into the glass for emphasis, he says, “Stick to it. Think about the final outcome.”
This plan wasn’t something he came up with overnight. Its roots go back to when he was sixteen, when his friends first started dating and fumbling through romance—a life he thought was reserved for everyone but him.
Clark believed he was a danger to others if he wasn’t careful. For the longest time, he smothered every feeling that even brushed against love, locking it away before it could grow. He was afraid of hurting someone.
He never quite stopped feeling like an infant in the body of a man, learning his limits piece by piece. He knows he has two arms and two legs, two eyes and a mouth. He knows that when he grips something, it stays there.
But then there are the gifts. The strength, the senses, the heat in his blood; powers he never asked for, but could never escape. With Ma and Pa’s help, he learned how to live with them, though the process was frustrating, sometimes terrifying.
At the age of seventeen, he didn't know what was destined for him. He was just a boy who wanted to hold a girl’s hand without worrying about burning holes in the ground with his heat vision.
He always knew his life would be complicated. He knew finding someone who could stand beside him, someone willing to accept his calling, would be nearly impossible.
That’s why he couldn’t just let things happen. He didn’t trust fate. He didn’t want to wait for love to stumble across him by chance. He had to find it, not wait around for fate to find it for him.
His phone rings, pulling him from his thoughts, and he realizes he’s been standing in the bathroom for almost five minutes. He accepts the call without checking the screen.
“Hello?”
“Well if it isn’t my favorite lovebird. How are you doing?”
“Jimmy, I’m leaving in ten minutes. Be quick.”
“Are you nervous?”
He is, but Jimmy doesn’t need to know that. “Why would I be?”
“You’re finally getting laid!”
Clark stops buttoning up his shirt. “Wait. What? Why are you even saying this?”
“Because—aren’t you going to her place?”
“Yeah. And?”
“Well, do the math, dude!”
“You’re trespassing all my limits. Please, Jimmy.”
“Look, it’ll do you good. Even Superman needs to copulate sometimes.”
“Copulate?! I don’t—That’s it. Goodbye, Jimmy.”
The state in which he arrives at your apartment is far from what he’d hoped. Hair toussled, cheeks pink with windburn.
His hand trembles slightly as he knocks, checking his phone for the fifth time to confirm the hour. He’s not early, nor is he late, but right on schedule.
He’s really doing this, standing outside the apartment of the girl he fancies. He tells himself it’s simple: come in, talk, share dinner, leave within the span of two hours. Easy-peasy.
Only nothing about this feels ordinary. One single line of his plan won’t leave him alone, and it flashes every time he closes his eyes: visiting each other’s apartments was too risky. Now, with his pulse racing and nerves gathering tight in his chest, he knows exactly why he wrote that.
Dear Clark from the past: you were wise beyond your years.
When you finally open the door and invite him in, he has to remind his lungs how to work, forcing in a breath. Crossing the threshold feels less like walking into a room and more like stepping into uncharted territory.
His eyes roam over the portraits on the wall, the small decorations, the ceramic sculpture of a dog perched on a shelf. It hits him only then how desperately he’s been avoiding your gaze.
“You have a really nice place,” he murmurs at last, forcing himself to turn back. It would feel wrong not to.
You surprise him with takeout from a place he’d mentioned once in passing. They sell these wraps you can customize to your liking, and he doesn’t remember ever telling you his exact dream order, but you’ve nailed it anyway.
His has pulled beef, cheese, and a rich dressing that overshadows every other flavor. Salsa slips from the edge of the wrap, trickling down his chin as he takes a big mouthful, and you laugh, cheeks full, still chewing.
“What?” he asks, the word muffled, and it’s almost as if he’d momentarily forgotten the first rule of table manners his parents had taught him. He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, a clumsy but effective maneuver to deal with the greasy mess on his fingers.
You sip your water, pressing a napkin to your lips. “Since when are wraps so messy to eat?”
“Mine’s about to explode, but it’s worth it,” he replies, and you nod.
You lean back in your seat, scratching your chin in thought. “Hey, remember the other day you said you were staying late at the office?”
Clark hums, his eyes fixed on his wrap. Better to stay absorbed in his food than risk betraying the truth. That he hadn’t spent his Wednesday night typing, rereading the same sentences until they blurred into nonsense.
“Did you manage to finish that article?” you ask, now resigned to using a knife and fork instead of wrestling with your wrap.
“Oh, yeah. I just… had to check some minor details with… my source,” he says, hoping the conversation won’t make the food turn in his stomach.
Lifting your fork, you point it at him. “Let me guess. Does his name start with an S and end with -man?” He doesn’t bother answering, because it isn’t necessary. “Don’t even say it. I already knew I was a mastermind.”
“He told me all about his fight with the Kaiju,” Clark tries.
You chew slowly on a carrot, thoughtful. Your gaze narrows on him. “Do you agree with everything he does?”
Clark nearly bites his tongue. “What—what do you mean?”
“When you’re writing about him, quoting him, making references to all his rescues, don’t you ever feel like… maybe your opinion might differ from what he did? That you might disagree with his actions?”
Why did it feel like tonight you were the journalist and he was the one on the record?
“I get what you’re saying,” Clark answers, straightening in his chair. “But yeah, I agree with what he does.”
You arch your brows. “With every single thing? Really?”
“I wouldn’t interview him if I didn’t.”
“I don’t believe you.” Your tone is teasing, playful, but under it runs a thread of sharp skepticism. “There’s gotta be something about him you don’t like.”
Clark pretends to think, then shakes his head. “Not that I can remember.”
You ball up your napkin and toss it at him, laughing. “Come on!”
“What?” He catches it and tosses it back with no real effort. “I’m being honest. He gets me exclusives, front page spots. What’s not to like about that?”
You click your tongue and wave him off. “See? You’re biased. You’re not thinking straight. If you were, you’d find something unlikeable. Everyone has flaws.”
Clark attempts to shift the focus of the conversation. “So does that mean I’ve got something you don’t like about me?”
You bite your lip, glance up at the ceiling as though calculating. “You could say that.”
His interest sparks immediately. “What is it? Now I have to know.” He scrapes his chair across the floor until he’s sitting at your side, facing you directly. “You’re not getting out of this.”
“I’m not roasting you for free!”
“I’m literally asking you to!”
“Clark—”
“I’ll just keep going until you break,” he teases, leaning in closer. “You’ll get tired of me eventually.”
With him this near, your eyes betray you, flicking from his gaze to his mouth before you catch yourself. Clark notices. Of course he notices. He watches as you squint, weighing whether or not to give in to his persistence.
Finally, you decide to, because the next thing you say is: “You never question him, not even once.”
He had been waiting for you to say something untrue, something easy to laugh off. But your words catch him off guard. He leans back slightly, needing that extra inch of distance to really look at you.
Your gaze softens as if you regret pushing too far. Rising from your seat, you gather both your plates and glasses. “I’m sorry. I was just—I was joking. You know I’m terrible at that, right?”
You’re trying to dissolve the tension, to make it vanish into the clatter of dishes. He can’t blame you for it.
“Yeah, now I remember,” he says quietly, watching the curve of your shoulders as you walk toward the kitchen. “Please, never give up teaching.”
He trails after you. You’re at the counter, cutting squares of the brownie you baked earlier. You take the first bite, humming at the rich taste as your foot taps the floor, and he can’t stop watching the way your face relaxes with delight.
“Good?” he asks, folding his arms. Despite your recent exchange, he can’t avoid getting lost in your beauty.
It’s a fact that you always look pretty, but tonight there’s something different he can’t quite place. Maybe it has to do with the way you carry yourself, more at ease, a little less preoccupied.
You’re glowing, and it has nothing to do with a physical change, but with something harder to name, something more intimate.
You answer his question with a small, “You have to try it,” and then you’re holding out a piece to him, the same one you’d bitten into seconds ago.
His eyes flick to yours, then down to the brownie, then to your fingers, and back to you.
“Come on,” you insist, swaying the piece a little. Your tongue darts out to lick the chocolate at the corner of your mouth. “I swear it’s not poisoned.”
This is the end of him. Who would’ve thought, out of all possible scenarios, that he’d die right here in your apartment?
He inches forward a little, carefully biting into the brownie, hyper-aware of how close his teeth are to your fingers. He braces for you to look away, to break the tension, but you don’t, and neither does he. His gaze stays locked on yours as he literally eats from your hand.
Don’t get hard. Please, just don’t.
“It’s… delicious,” he manages after a beat, clearing his throat. “Can you make, like, a whole batch for me?”
Rolling your eyes, you say, “Sure.” You finish the last bite yourself, brushing crumbs from your fingertips. Then your brows knit together, like a thought just struck you. “By the way, how’s Atonement going? You like it so far?”
He scrambles in his mind for the last place he left off. “I reached the part where Robbie and Cecilia are… well, you know.”
“You mean the library scene?”
“Yeah.”
“They recreated it so well in the movie. I still remember it to this day.”
“I had no idea there was a movie.”
“It’s from 2007. We should watch it someday… or perhaps tonight?”
There’s no way he’s surviving you, not with the way you’re looking at him now, the way you’re leaning back. You tilt your head to the side, the movement shifting your shirt just enough to reveal the faintest strip of skin. His breath catches before he can stop it.
Your lips part slightly, as though you’re about to speak, but the silence stretched instead.
“Darn it,” he mutters under his breath, and he’s sure you’re about to ask what he said, but you never get the chance, because he cups your face and kisses you.
His mouth crushes onto yours, and it takes you a few startled seconds to catch up before you melt into it, fingers clawing at the collar of his shirt to drag him closer. You climb higher, nails raking against the sensitive skin at his nape, and he shudders under your touch.
Without drawing away, he makes a sudden movement and lifts you onto the counter. Your lips break apart for just a gasp, and you’re immediately tugging him back down, kissing him harder.
As your tongue slides against his, a moan dies on his throat, caressing your hips through layers of fabric. He can even taste the chocolate from the brownie you both just shared.
Your legs part instinctively, and he looms forward, fitting himself between your thighs. You feel the unmistakable hardness against you, and the sound that escapes you is closer to a whine. Hooking your ankles around him, you lock him there, grinding just enough to drive him nuts.
Any other man in his shoes would be floating. Ecstatic. But he isn’t, not fully, because beneath the fever of it all lies the stinging edge of guilt.
He’d sworn to himself he wasn’t here for this, that it was too soon. He’d promised. Yet what you two are doing couldn’t be further from just talking.
The back of your head bumps against the cabinet, making you wince, and instantly he adjusts, pulling you tighter into him, angling your body until you’re practically perched on top of him.
His senses are overstimulated, beyond heightened. He swears he can hear the rush of blood in your veins, the frenzied beat of your pulse. Outside, cars pass, sirens wail, horns blare. Tires screech against concrete, and voices rise and fall.
He presses his hand more firmly to your skin, needing to feel the weight of flesh beneath his palm to remind himself that this, what he’s living right now, is real.
He’s here with you, though at the same time he feels like he's everywhere all at once.
The moment your hand slides even an inch lower, this will all be over too fast. He can’t stay still. He can’t think, because doing so would mean putting a stop to this madness. And the truth is, he doesn’t want to. He knows he made a vow to himself, but—
Your phone starts ringing somewhere down the hall. Your room, or maybe the bathroom. Once his ears catch it, it’s not like he can unhear it. That insistent sound drills through everything.
His hands freeze at your sides, his voice coming out rough. “I think your phone’s… ringing.”
Between kisses, you reply, “I don’t care.”
“What if it’s important?”
“I’m sure it’s not.”
“But what if it is?”
Finally, you break away, drawing in a long breath. His lips chase yours for just one last kiss before he moves aside to let you slip down from the counter.
Clark takes a step back. The second you’re gone, he’s leaning back against the wall, his head thudding against it. He drags in a shaky breath, noticing how fogged his glasses are, and then his eyes peer down at the front of his tented pants.
In a rush, he drops onto the couch, grabbing the nearest cushion to shield his lap, shifting uncomfortably as he adjusts beneath it. Even though his cheeks feel warm, the guilt burns worse than the ache.
You come back with your phone in hand, shrugging, and you drop it onto the table. “Wrong number. Told you it wasn’t important.”
Sinking onto the couch beside him, your gaze flickers down before you can help.
He drags a hand over his face, desperate to find a way out from your unrelenting stare without having to meet it. “Please, just ignore it. It’ll go down. Eventually.”
“Clark, it’s normal.”
“That doesn’t make it any less mortifying.”
“I actually feel flattered.”
Silence envelops you both. He can feel himself relaxing.
Then you speak again. “I’m sorry. Was that too much?”
His head jerks toward you. “What do you mean?”
“Like… the kissing. I feel like I got carried away.”
“I didn’t think you were too much. I—I liked it,” he admits, scratching the side of his nose. “I think you were able to see that clear as day.”
That has you exhaling a breathy laugh, and he tries to shake off the discomfort weighing down on him.
There’s a question he knows he should wait to ask you. It's been playing in his mind, formulating itself at odd hours of the day. Normally, he's able to suppress it, to file it away in a mental junk drawer, but he must be too affected to tell right from wrong.
“Are you seeing someone else?”
“No,” you answer quickly, a puzzled frown on your face. “… Are you?”
“No.” He also shakes his head to make his answer more emphatic. “But would you want to? See other people?”
“Oh, no.” You keep quiet for a moment, your lips pressed into a thin line. “Why are you me asking this? Do you want to?”
He snorts. “Gosh, no.”
“It’s always a possibility.”
“Trust me, it isn’t.”
“You could want to explore other connections.”
“Are we on Love Island?”
“You get what I’m trying to say.”
In fact, he does. Sliding the cushion back where it belongs, he turns to face you. “I like where this is going.”
What he’d meant to say was: I like you. He only reformulated it at the very last second.
The next time you kiss him, it’s different. Slower, softer as your nose brushes his, and he wonders if he’s still in control of the plan.
You wake up with the flu on the day you were supposed to have your sixth date.
You: I must’ve gotten it from one of my students.
You: I feel like crap. I’m so sorry, I really wanted to see you :(
Clark leaves the sentence he was typing half-written, fingers abandoning the keys. He pushes his chair away from the desk with his feet, staring at his reflection on the phone. The white glow of the computer screen casts shadows across his jaw and under his eyes.
Clark: At least let me cook for you.
You: Nooooooo!!!
You: I don’t want you to get sick.
He wishes he could tell you that you're not passing him any germs; not today, not ever.
Clark: I won’t stay for too long.
Clark: I know a soup recipe my mother taught me. I haven't made it in a long time.
That should be enough to soften you.
You: Alright…
When night comes around, he’s in your kitchen, chopping vegetables on a wooden board. The TV hums faintly in the background, interrupted every so often by the sharp sound of you blowing your nose.
The soup is simple, just as it’s always been. His Ma used to make it for him whenever he was sulking as a boy, a cure for bad moods as much as for colds. He only hoped his came close.
Steam curls upward as the vegetables start getting tender, and he keeps one eye on the pot while stirring. You’re standing beside him, watching the procedure.
“I’m sure it smells great,” you mumble, congested. “I mean, I wouldn’t know, but it looks like it does.”
Clark lowers the heat, sets the spoon down. His thumb grazes your cheek before he pulls you into his chest, whispering, “Come here.”
You let out a disapproving sound, but your body doesn’t offer any resistance as he hugs you. “You’re going to end up catching what I have.”
“No, I’m not.”
“That’s how contagious illnesses work.”
“Turns out I’m the exception.”
His arms wrap around your shoulders, palm smoothing circles into your back. You lace your fingers behind his waist, muffling your face against his shirt with a pleased noise.
“You’re so warm,” you say groggily, like you might fall asleep standing there. He kisses your forehead and goes back to stirring with one hand, not letting you go.
Later, after you’ve eaten and declared that the soup made your stomach feel simultaneously more full and leagues better, you put on a random movie to pass the time. Clark actually tries to follow the plot, but you don’t.
Your attention keeps drifting toward him, more interested in the man sitting beside you than in the film.
“You never take them off?”
“Take what off?”
You say it like it’s obvious. “Your glasses.”
Subtly, he adjusts them out of pure instinct. “I can’t see much without them.”
“Have you ever tried contacts?”
“Oh, no. My eyes are too sensitive for that.”
“Everybody’s eyes are, in fact, sensitive.”
“I can’t handle them,” he insists, shrugging. “They feel weird.”
Another minute passes without you uttering a word.
But you won’t drop it. “Can I try them on?”
“Some other day. They’ll make your headache worse.”
Blowing out your cheeks, you hug a cushion to your chest, propping your chin on it. “You keep talking to me like I’m a child.”
He picks up the remote to pause the movie. “I’m just answering your many questions.”
“Curiosity is one of my best traits.”
“I know.”
“Which is why I keep wondering why I’ve never seen you without your glasses.”
“Because I wouldn’t be able to make out your gorgeous face without them.”
“Touché.” You lean against his shoulder, stifling a yawn. “Let’s save this debate for another night.”
“Want to call it a day?”
“No, I can stay up for a little longer.”
Your eyelids end up betraying you ten minutes later, fluttering shut as your head tips against him, your body pressed firmly into his side.
By the time the credits roll, you’re fast asleep. He takes a slow breath, carefully gathering your frame in his arms, and you stir just enough to mumble something about being fine, but you don’t fight him when he carries you to bed.
Clark sets you down gently, covering you with the blanket, smoothing it over you and tucking it along your shoulders. You sink deeper into it with a soft sigh.
“Clark?”
“Tell me.”
“There’s a spare set of keys on my nightstand—”
He freezes. A key? Sixth date. Sixth. Date. What does this mean?
“—so you can lock the door on your way out. I don’t want to get up anymore.”
Sinking to his knees, he lingers at your bedside for a moment. His hand hovers before caressing your cheek, and then he gives a feather-light kiss to your forehead.
You try to hide from his gaze, but it’s nearly impossible. You bury your face into the pillow. “Stop looking at me like that.”
Clark can’t help the smile tugging at his lips. “Like what?”
“Like I’m dying and you don’t have the cure,” you mutter, peeking through one eye. “I know I look bad, but don’t make it so obvious.”
His brows knit in concern. “You don’t look bad at all.”
Attempting to shove him away, you lift a hand from under the sheets to push at his chest, though he doesn’t budge an inch. “Oh, you’re too sweet.”
“I mean it,” he says, voice steady, eyes holding yours. “You’re beautiful. Can’t you see it?”
The certainty in his words makes your smile falter. You don’t miss the confidence in the way he stares at you, the weight behind his honesty. In a sudden urge of truth, perhaps fueled by your discomfort, you ask him, “Where have you been all my life?”
He can’t think of anything clever to say, because he’s afraid of making a false move.
“Why don’t you try to get some sleep, huh?” His lips brush your forehead again, this time scattering delicate pecks across your skin. “I’ll call you in the morning to check on you.”
You nod, surrendering to exhaustion, your eyes fluttering shut as your body relaxes. “Don’t forget to call me,” you whisper, rolling onto your side to fully face him, curling against the sheets.
He huffs out a quiet laugh. “I promise I won’t.”
When he rises, he stills, watching you without realizing it. Your face has softened into pure calm, the rise and fall of your chest unchanging, your lips parted in a quiet breath. The sight disarms him.
“What are you doing, giving me your keys?” he whispers into the room, as if someone might answer.
He finds them right after that, not daring to make noise, and only exhales once he’s outside your apartment, the door clicking shut behind him.
His first loss shouldn’t look like this.
As he plummets from the sky, body tossed by the Hammer of Boravia as if he were nothing but a ragdoll, Clark tries to frame the fall as a lesson.
All heroes who wear capes face a moment they don’t win. They fall, they falter, but they always get back on their feet.
Sooner or later, that would happen to him, too. Just not now.
He’s driven into the ground once more. He can’t stop it this time, can’t even shift the angle, so he braces himself for whatever comes. His back collides with the pavement, and it shatters beneath him.
The debris pulverizes into dust, thickening the air, and it scrapes his lungs as he breathes. He’s got a rib, maybe two, fractured. He’ll have to check at the Fortress.
All around, screams erupt and people scatter. He’s 99% sure no one got caught under him. A burst pipe sprays water across one side of his suit, and as flexes his wrist, he tries to mask the pain and fails in the process.
Tiny voices start murmuring all sorts of things. Even tinier shadows edge closer.
“Is he dead?”
“He can’t die, you dummy.”
“My dad said he could beat him up.”
A little girl points straight at him, her tone squeaky with awe. “ARE YOU THE REAL SUPERMAN?”
Blinking slowly, Clark realizes they’re all wearing the same clothes.
It’s a school uniform.
He crashed outside a school. Fantastic.
“Kids? What did I say about not overwhelming him back in the classroom?”
Is that your voice? Maybe he’d hit his head harder than he thought.
“But Miss—”
“No buts. Move a bit further away. Give him some air.”
Oh, God. It’s definitely you.
He attempts to sit, but the pain rips through his ribs, pulling a wheeze from his chest. His vision steadies in flashes, until finally, there you are, standing at the edge of the crater, eyes wide.
From high above, the Hammer’s deep voice pours into Clark’s ears, saturating him.
The United States will continue to feel the wrath of the Hammer of Boravia…
“Are you okay?” Your soft voice cuts through the chaos. You descend through the debris, your focus seemingly fixed on helping him. Even though the crowd swells around the scene, you’re the only one moving. “Can you stand up?”
When he looks up, the sights hit him. Dozens of phones are raised, their lenses all aimed at him. Clark swallows, hearing the strain in his own voice when he manages, “Ma’am, you’ve got to get out of here. It’s not safe.”
You shake your head, determined, and you offer him your hand. He takes it, barely, and with your help he staggers upright, your shoulder slipping under his arm for support.
The absurdity of it all. You've been in this exact position before, only last time he wasn't wearing the suit.
The Hammer speaks again, hovering high above, his voice reverberating across the city. “This is your last warning,” he roars, vanishing into the sky, leaving the street shaking.
Clark's instincts urge him to follow him, to continue the fight. But he’s too weak, and as he intends to move, he collapses again, groaning as if his entire body’s crumbling with every effort.
“Don’t force yourself right now,” you scold, slipping an arm under his to steady him. “You can’t… fly in these conditions.”
Of all the people to see him like this, it had to be you. His luck is unbelievable.
The crowd begins to thin, and by the time you help him to a bench, fewer eyes linger. The city seems eager to swallow the moment whole and move on.
Another ordinary day in Metropolis.
He presses a trembling hand to his side, each breath stabbing his ribs as they expand. You stand in front of him, arms folded, watching him closely without taking a seat.
He needs to recover fast, but his strength keeps slipping away.
“So… Superman in the flesh,” you say, tilting your head. “Funny thing. I know someone who knows you.”
“You’ll… have to be more specific than that,” he murmurs, keeping his gaze low, afraid the dizziness will swallow him if he looks up.
“Clark Kent,” you reply, tipping your chin up. “He’s my—well, it doesn’t matter.”
That makes him tense, pulling himself upright despite the pain. “Your… what?”
“We’re seeing—” You stop, narrowing your eyes. “Wait. Why do you care?”
If he weren’t certain the laugh would tear his ribs apart, he’d laugh at the absurdity of it all.
He ignores your question, his gaze drifting past you to the school. Children are filing back into their classrooms. “I wouldn’t want to take up more of your time,” he says quietly. “Your students must be asking for you.”
You follow his line of sight, then back to him, your brows knitting. “I don’t know if you’ll find this disrespectful, but—maybe you shouldn’t have done that thing in Jarhanpur.”
It’s the last thing he needs. Pain gnaws at his body, but the sharper sting comes from hearing you dissect his choices to his face.
He pushes himself up, almost limping, his hand dragging across his shoulder. “Thank you for the constructive criticism, ma’am. But I have to go now.” His eyes catch yours for just a beat. “Stay safe.”
Then he’s gone, vanishing into the sky.
When he checks his phone hours later, he finds a message from you waiting for him.
You: I think now I’ve got beef with Superman. Call me?
Clark gets Jimmy a last-minute birthday gift. A dumb, cheap disposable camera despite the fact that he has tons. But it's the thought that counts, right?
Yeah, blame him. He’s definitely not getting the best-friend-of-the-year award. He had almost forgotten about the whole event, until Jimmy approached him at work that Friday before they parted ways.
“See you later!” Jimmy had said, and Clark had stood there, his eyes locked with his friend’s for a solid half-minute, trying to understand why they’d be seeing each other in just a few hours.
Right. The party.
Clark had forced a smile. “Sure.”
The party’s at the bar where Molly works. This is her night off, but she still manages to score him a huge discount, which is the only reason Jimmy’s picked this place.
The bar’s already buzzing by the time Clark slips inside. He spots Jimmy instantly, his laughter carrying above the noise. Clark shoulders his way through the crowd, tapping him on the back. “Hey, buddy.”
Jimmy turns, face lit up red by the neon bar lights. His grin grows even wider when he sees Clark. “Man, you came! I wasn’t sure—”
“Of course I came. Got you something, but don’t open it yet.”
Jimmy nods, taking the small ‘Happy Birthday’ bag from Clark’s hands. Molly drifts by and he loops an arm around her waist. “Babe, can you put this with the other gifts?”
She says something Clark doesn’t quite catch. A guy nearly barrels into him, waving a tray of free shots. Clark thanks him but refuses to grab one, stepping aside.
For a fleeting second, he thinks Jimmy and Molly are staring at him, but then he realizes their gaze is aimed past his frame. “What is it?” he asks.
He follows their line of sight, and there you are, standing in the doorway.
Jimmy slings an arm around his neck. There’s sweat trickling down the sides of his face. “I know it’s not your birthday, but I also got you a gift,” he murmurs into Clark’s ear. Meanwhile, Clark can’t stop staring at you, waiting for your eyes to find his. “It just arrived.”
It takes you a full minute to reach them, murmuring apologies to the people you brush against. You’re wearing a denim skirt and a long-sleeve top. He reminds himself not to stare too long, not to look at you as if no one else exists.
Clark’s been having a problem. Actually, he has many, scattered across cities, countries—even galaxies. He’s had them for many years now.
But lately, one specific problem has been bugging him, and it’s solely your fault.
Ever since you kissed for the first time, he hasn’t stopped thinking about it—dreaming about the feeling of your lips on his, the taste of you on his tongue, waking up hard and aching. Nearly every morning, still half-lost in a dream, he finds himself rutting into the mattress, moaning your name.
The worst moments are when his phone lights up with your messages. Sometimes you’re up before him, and you send him voice recordings, your voice still thick with sleep. He places the phone on the cold pillow beside him, turns the volume up, and pretends he isn’t waking up to an empty bed.
When he says it out loud, in the privacy of his head, it sounds pathetic. Creepy, even.
And then he texts back, Good morning! Hope you have a wonderful day at work! You’d never guess that just minutes before, he’d been in the shower, stroking himself to the thought of you.
It’s become a ritual now: open his eyes, get out of bed, jerk off, shower, Daily Planet.
At present, you give him a quick hug, and you seem shy, almost hesitant. He understands the feeling, since it’s the same one running through him. The first time you’re together in front of mutual friends. The very friends who set you up.
“I didn’t know you were coming.”
“It was a surprise,” you reply, a delighted smile breaking across your face. Your eyes crinkle at the corners with a playful sparkle. “Are you surprised?”
Your smile is so contagious it gets to him. “Very much surprised, yeah.”
He hasn’t seen you since that morning, since the fight he lost against the Hammer of Boravia. That day he wasn’t Clark for you; he wore another name, another face, a cape heavy on his back.
The urge to kiss you rises fast, blocking out everything else. He lowers his head, holds his breath—
But before he can, Molly tugs at your shoulder.
Clark steps back and watches the two of you lean in, whispering. You glance at him as she points toward the bar, mouthing a sorry.
“You mind if I steal her for a bit?” Molly asks.
He shakes his head, and you catch the small gesture he makes.
With a beer in hand, he engages in small talk with half the bar. He ends up the listener, executing a series of practiced moves, because his body may be there, keeping him present in appearance only, but his mind and heart are elsewhere.
He nods at the right moments, shakes his head in disbelief when needed, parts his lips when the other person’s excitement spikes. Even mutters “Jeez, that’s tough” if the story calls for sympathy.
He slips away from one of Jimmy’s cousins, who probably managed to utter a hundred words per minute, and paces through the crowd. He expects to find you with Molly, but instead you’re alone in a booth, circling the rim of your glass with your finger.
He takes the opportunity and slides in beside you. “Did it hurt?”
You squint at him. “What?”
“When you fell from heaven, did it hurt?”
That elicits a low chuckle from you. “You’re real smooth.”
His shoulder brushes yours as he leans closer. “You having a good time so far?”
“Yeah,” you breathe into his ear, raising your voice over the music. “Even better now that you’re here.”
He doesn’t miss the way your gaze flicks to his lips. He tilts his head, breath grazing your cheek, lashes fluttering—
Someone clears their throat, and you pull away.
Lois slides into the seat opposite. “Kent, I see you’ve decided to invade female territory.”
Under the table, his knee knocks yours. “It’s not my fault you left her alone, Lois. What else was I supposed to do?”
“I didn’t leave her alone! I was just getting more of this,” she says, lifting her drink and taking a sip of it. “So, where were we? Oh, yes! Superman.”
Clark nearly chokes, coughing hard. You rub his back, concerned. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” he rasps. “Just choked on my saliva.”
“You should see how flustered Clark gets at work whenever we talk about his most beloved friend.” Lois beams at you, setting her palms down flat on the table.
You let out a quiet laugh. “Oh, I can imagine.”
“He gets pretty defensive,” she presses.
He lifts a finger, calling her attention. “I don’t.”
“You totally do.”
“I just give my opinion,” he counters, raising his brows. “It’s literally our job.”
Lois rolls her eyes, her hair flicking over her shoulder. “Don’t do that. You’re changing the topic.”
“I’m not—”
“What do you think about what Superman’s been doing lately” Lois turns to you, the corners of her mouth quirking up, turning the spotlight on you.
You toy with your glass, your expression dull. “I guess some things could’ve been avoided if done differently.”
“Like what?” Lois inquires, leaning forward.
“The fight with The Hammer of Boravia. Entering a country without first getting permission.”
Clark downs the last of his beer in a single motion. He needs to do something with his hands. At his sides they feel strange, unfamiliar, like they’d only just been stitched onto him a moment ago.
Lois reclines in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest, a smug smile stretching on her features. “This is what I was talking about! He’s dying on the inside.”
“Don’t you think he had… fair motives?” he turns to you, gesturing too broadly. “It’s not like he thought it would make things worse.”
“Well, then maybe he should think twice before acting,” you reply, straightening. “I’m not one of those people that think he’s being dishonest. I believe he wants to do good, but he interfered with international affairs. He knew the authorities weren’t going to give him a medal for it.”
“But he was stopping a war,” Clark insists, his voice tighter than he means it to be.
“I’m not saying what he did was wrong, Clark. Regardless of his intentions, he should reflect on his actions no matter what they are. Everything he does ripples across the planet,” you continue to explain, your eyes locked on his. “He might be morally right, but he has to know any intervention he makes on another country will be questioned.”
A sickness twists in his stomach. Between the thrum of music, the clatter of glasses, the press of bodies, and voices overlapping like static, a dizziness blooms at the base of his skull.
At that moment, Lois cuts through. “He crashed outside a school the other day, didn’t he?”
Your head snaps in her direction. “I work there.”
“And how was he? Got his ass kicked?”
“Excuse me,” Clark begins, adjusting his glasses, “but he didn’t completely get his ass kicked.”
“He was pretty hurt,” you argue, your nose crinkling. “I saw him. I helped him get up.”
As if sent from God above, Jimmy bursts into the booth wearing a birthday hat crooked over his hair. “Okay, enough chatting. Less than thirty seconds until my birthday. Dance floor, now!”
Lois trails after him when he disappears back into the crowd, but you stay seated, and so does Clark.
The countdown begins in the background. His chest is tight, and it would be an outright lie to pretend the conversation hasn’t rattled him. He sizes you up. “I didn’t know you hated Superman.”
You exhale a long breath. “When did I say that? Honestly, what part of what I just said gave you that impression?”
“You took the opportunity to rip him apart.”
10…
“I’m being critical, Clark. We all need to be—even you.”
9…
He can’t control the way his face twists with each passing second. He must be watching you without a shred of remorse, because then you’re saying, “Can we talk like adults without you looking at me like I’ve murdered someone?”
8…
He averts his gaze. Holds his tongue.
7…
You catch your lower lip between your teeth. “Are we really fighting over this—”
6…
“—over Superman?”
5…
“Clark, will you please look at me?”
4…
He does, but stays silent.
3…
“Why do you care so much about what I think of him?”
2…
His tongue feels heavy in his mouth as he intends to speak. “I—I don’t—Can we—”
1…
The look on your face is beyond devastating.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JIMMY!
The bar explodes with cheers. Lights dim, the room falling almost entirely into shadow. Even in the half-dark, Clark notices the tight line of your jaw, how tense it is. You don’t meet his eyes when you ask to slide out of the booth to go congratulate Jimmy.
When he rises, it’s slow, like his muscles are made of lead. His legs feel numb, his fingertips burning. He watches you cross the room, sees you touch Jimmy’s back before hugging him briefly.
Molly arrives and folds you into a hug too. You shake your head, adjusting the strap of your bag. A moment later you step back, and Molly turns her attention to Jimmy, arms looping around his neck, pressing a kiss to his lips.
Clark realizes you take that as your exit. You’re leaving without even glancing back at him. Panic flares, and he strides toward Jimmy, interrupting a conversation to pull him into a hug.
“Happy birthday,” he murmurs as he pulls away.
Jimmy smiles, though not fully. “Thanks, man. I appr—”
“I got you a disposable camera, hope you like it, happy birthday!”
Clark rushes out of the bar, nearly stumbling onto the sidewalk in his haste. He scans both sides of the street and spots you nearly at the end of the block.
“Wait!” he shouts.
You turn, startled. “I’m heading home,” you say. Your apartment is only four blocks away.
“Let me walk you.”
It isn’t necessary. He knows you’ll be fine. The streets on a Friday night are crowded, buzzing with life. But the most profound part of his being needs it. He needs it.
You hold your hand up. “Don’t—just don’t,” you say, frowning. “It’s no use.”
“Please, let me.”
“I’m tired.” You rub your eyes, letting out a shaky breath. “I should—My head’s a mess right now.”
He takes a step forward. You’re still too far away. “I just want to make sure you get home safe,” he says, opening his heart to you. “You can kick me out later, but—just let me do this one thing.”
You tilt your head back toward the sky as if searching the stars for an answer. It takes you some time, but you end up sighing, giving a small nod. He jogs up to you, and together you start down the street toward your building.
When you slip the keys into the lock, you ask if he wants to come in for a minute. It goes without saying it won’t be a minute. It won’t be two, not even five.
A sixth sense isn’t among his powers, but he knows that once he steps inside, once he breathes the air of your home and the door clicks softly shut behind him, it will be almost impossible to leave.
The first thing you do is toss your purse onto the counter. He doesn’t move past the doorway. He just stands there in silence, coat still on. His eyes follow you as you turn your back on him, and then you spin around, forcing the confrontation.
“What was that back in the bar?”
The question cuts straight through him. Clark had improvised answers before: quick excuses about why he stayed late at the office, why he never took off his glasses, why Superman, of all people, chose to grant interviews only to a soft-spoken reporter like him.
Yet this is different. What’s about to happen feels inexplicable, and has no easy exit.
“I got carried away,” he finally says, burying his hands in his pockets to prevent you from seeing how hard his skin is burning, knuckles white from balling his fists too tight.
“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Don’t do that.”
“What exactly don’t you want me to do, Clark?” You take a step closer. Your lips are trembling, he notices that. “I don’t know what happened there. I don’t know what got you so… defensive all of a sudden.”
In his mind, he compares this moment to the first time he ever saw you. Maybe you were standing at the same distance back at the restaurant Jimmy had picked that night. Maybe you were even wearing the same shoes you have on now.
But everything feels different tonight. He can’t deny it, can’t cover it up with anything.
“I was asked for my opinion, and I gave it, and then you suddenly changed completely. You’re stiff, you didn’t talk to me. You didn’t even look at me.”
Clark struggles to meet your eyes. Every time he does, he sees the lie he’s been weaving for nearly two months.
“Even still, you won’t look at me.”
He knows he’s here to talk. You want answers; you deserve them. But even though he understands that, sees it as rational and appropriate, it doesn’t mean his body comprehends it the same way his mind does.
You continue, each of your words is punctuated by a wild movement of your hands. “Why does it bother you that I don’t agree with every single thing he’s done?” Your mouth opens and closes before you find your voice again. “Last time I checked, I was dating you, not him.”
There are a million clever things he could say, but the only thing that comes out is: “The Boravian government isn’t well intentioned.”
A humorless laugh bursts out of you, almost leaving you breathless. “You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “Did he tell you that?”
“Yes. I asked him.”
“That’s right. You seem to have unlimited access to his knowledge.”
“What are you implying?”
“Does he pay you for the interviews?”
The question made his head snap back, as if dislocated. “You think Superman’s bribing me?”
“I don’t know! You’re just so—loyal to him!”
“He’s not a bad person.”
“Nobody’s said that, Clark! You’re putting words in my mouth. All I said is that he should’ve considered the consequences of his actions.”
“You believe he had the time for that while trying to save a whole country?”
“Why don’t we call him and ask, huh? Do you have his number? Does he own a phone? Does he—”
“People were going to die!” Clark’s shout rips through the room, his throat raw with the effort. Heat surges through his veins, rushing outward until every nerve is thrumming. He feels both more alive than ever and completely paralyzed.
You take a step back, stunned. His voice still echoes in the room, and shame rises in his chest. He’s never known where his breaking point was until now.
“Okay,” you say slowly, steadying yourself. “What is it that you’re not telling me?”
Should he leave? Vanish? Hand back the spare key you offered him one late night?
You continue to stare at him. “There’s something more to this. I know there is.”
It’s over. He can’t undo what just happened, so why not risk the last chance he has with you?
His fingers close around the edge of his glasses, pulling them from his face. At first, you don’t register what’s happening, until your hand flies to the wall, bracing yourself.
“Holy fuck.”
It’s the first time he’s heard you curse.
You blink furiously, chest tightening with every breath. No sound comes out at first.
“You—What? This… this whole time, you—WHAT?!”
“Please, don’t freak out.”
“I’m not freaking out. I’m fine,” you snap between gritted teeth, though your expression betrays you. “I only had one drink.”
“I know.”
“I’m not drunk,” you insist.
“I know,” he repeats, softer this time.
Your eyes don’t leave him, even as your breathing slows. “You look… different. How?”
He holds up the glasses between you. “They’re called hypnoglasses. They—they alter the way people see me.”
You swallow hard after a while, brow furrowed, like you’re working out impossible math in your head. “Were you going to tell me, or are you doing it out of—what, guilt?”
“It was supposed to happen after our eighth date.”
You stop dead in your tracks. “Excuse me, eighth date? Have you been… counting them?”
Something good was supposed to happen tonight. That’s what he’d thought initially.
He feels stupid as soon as the words leave him. “That—You didn’t have to know that.”
“Why after the eighth date? Why only eight?”
“I don’t know! I like even numbers.”
“Clark, I swear—”
“I thought if we got that far, then… then it meant you really liked me,” he mumbles, heart clenching in his chest. “That you liked me as Clark. And then—well.”
Now it’s your turn to be speechless. He pushes forward anyway.
“I care about what you say about Superman because I’m him. I’m sensitive. I speak before I think. I took matters into my own hands because I believed it was the right thing to do, and I don’t regret it. I wasn’t representing anyone except myself.”
His voice softens, almost breaking.
“And for the record, I like you. A lot. I know I’ve never said it out loud, and I know that it’s late for a confession like that, but I think you deserve to hear it.”
He’s afraid you might slide down the wall, that everything he’s said has been too much. That tonight has shifted something in you. He tells himself he’s half-ready to face another loss, and though it wouldn’t be fought with fists, it would still break him all the same.
“Please, just—just tell me you want me to leave and I’ll go.”
“I don’t want that.”
Perhaps he’s heard you wrong. “What?”
“I said I don’t want you to go.”
He can’t answer in any form other than monosyllables. “Why not?”
You gather your courage and step closer, tilting your chin to meet his eyes. “You have to be more careful. I know you’re—bulletproof, but you still need to take care of yourself. Take care of what you do. Think things through.”
“I seriously don’t understand—“
“What I’m trying to say is that—that I like you, too.” You cut him off, voice rising just a little. Those four words undo him. “I—I really do.”
“Even after all this?”
“I guess I’m really stubborn.”
“So… you don’t want me to go?”
“No.”
“You don’t hate me?”
You touch his forearm gently. “I’d never be able to hate you.”
“You don’t hate… Superman?”
“We may not see eye to eye on everything, but that shouldn’t be an issue,” you counter. “We’re both adults. We can deal with it.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Holding his gaze, you whisper, “No. I don’t hate him, and I don’t hate you.”
Clark pulls you into his arms, tucking his chin near your neck. He hugs you with unguarded enthusiasm, your hands stroking small circles along his back. He breathes in your perfume, closing his eyes briefly, as if he could keep you there forever.
“You know what I would hate?”
“What?” His answer is muffled against your shoulder.
“Not knowing more about your dating plan.”
He draws back just enough, still holding you close, your faces inches apart. “Forget about it.”
“Impossible.”
“It’s—not worth it. Trust me.”
“Please, tell me.”
“You’re gonna make fun of me.”
You narrow your eyes, lips curving into a pout. “I promise I won’t.”
For an instant, Clark thinks about changing the subject, but he gives in.
“It consists of eight dates. Divided into three parts—” He cuts himself off when your lips quiver, fighting a smile. “That’s not fair! You’re already laughing.”
You have to bite your lip to stifle your grin. “I’m sorry. It’s just that—you had it all planned. It’s cute.” Your hands slide up to link behind his neck, and a flush creeps across his cheeks. “Okay. You may continue.”
He clears his throat. “Right now, if we count tonight as our seventh date—”
“Are you sure you want to count our first argument as a date?”
“—we’d be in the last stage,” Clark finishes. “Then one more date. After that, if everything went well, I’d tell you the truth, but I—I got ahead of myself. For obvious reasons, of course.”
“Does each stage have… its own conditions?”
“Sort of.”
“Is not touching me one of them?”
“S-sorry?” he stutters, ears going red.
“It’s just that your plan sounds a lot like a chastity one.”
Clark sputters, looking down. “I mean—I never specified such a thing. It’s not prohibited, but—No, I wouldn’t say engaging in that kind of activity was written into the actual plan.”
You hum thoughtfully, nodding. “And would you like it to stay that way?”
“I’m the one who made it, right? So… theoretically… I’m allowed to make a few changes here and there.”
“How interesting.”
His thumb grazes the strip of bare skin between your top and your skirt. “It depends on what you want to do tonight.”
Your chest rises with expectation. You wet your lips, and Clark sees how your pupils expand until they nearly eclipse the rest of your iris’, as if the Yellow Sun had been replaced by an overwhelming moon. “I want it all.”
A tempered heat begins spreading through his limbs. “All as in… all of it?”
“Why don’t you start by kissing me first,” you murmur, rising onto your tiptoes to hover your mouth over his, “and then we just… see it as we go?”
Clark nods as though you’ve given him a concrete assignment that he must now accomplish.
And suddenly, he has a goal.
This is really happening. He knows it doesn’t exactly fit the plan he drafted for himself. If he were following it, he’d wait. But circumstances have shifted.
Again and again, life has pulled the ground out from beneath his careful steps, and strangely enough, he can’t complain.
It’s hard enough to control his own feelings, but trying to rein in someone else’s is nearly impossible. And he can see it, that you want this as much as he does. There’s a yearning, something raw and real, sparking between you.
Maybe Jimmy was right. Maybe he should… go with the flow. At least for once.
RIP Clark Kent’s dating plan. You were a loyal ally through all these years of restraint and abstinence, but your time is up.
Clark kisses you, slowly at first. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, and the way you kiss him back sends a deep shudder through him. At some point, his glasses slip from his pocket and clatter to the floor, but he hardly notices.
The sweetness doesn’t last. That first careful kiss soon spirals into something more frantic. You tug at his hair, drawing involuntary sounds from him each time your mouths break apart by the barest inch. Like magnets, you find each other again and again, tongues clashing, your teeth knocking into his.
He’s already hard. It hasn’t been long, barely anything at all, and yet his body is betraying him with a raging boner. Every time you brush against him, he shifts his hips back, desperate not to let you feel it. He doesn’t want to push too far or make you uncomfortable.
But you notice, and before you can speak, he blurts out, “I’m sorry. It’s just—you’re… so pretty, and I’m—”
Your lips are swollen, flushed from kissing. “You shouldn’t apologize for being aroused,” you say, the corner of your mouth lifting in a brief smile. “Besides, you’re not the only one.”
You pull away just enough to unbutton your skirt, sliding it down the length of your legs. He stares, entranced, before shrugging off his jacket and tossing it aside with his glasses.
Eyes locked on his, you take his large hand and guide it between your thighs, pressing it lower until he cups you. Even through the lace of your black thong, he feels it: the undeniable slickness clinging to his fingers. You’re wet.
No, scratch that—you’re beyond wet.
His breath hitches at the scent of you. You gasp when his fingertips trace your folds over the thin fabric. “See?” you manage, your voice trembling despite your attempt at calm. “I’m just as—as affected as you are.”
Something in that moment snaps him out of restraint; it’s as if a hand has struck his cheek, jolting him awake.
He devours your mouth this time, pushing you backward until your shoulders hit the wall. His strong thigh wedges between yours, prying them apart and holding you there.
One hand braces the wall beside your head, while the other hooks your underwear aside. He’s transfixed by the sight of you: glistening and inviting in equal quantities.
His fingers skim you at first, his knuckles grazing your stomach as he lifts your top. His mouth wanders down your throat, and you throw your head back, hips canting up instinctively. “Clark—please—”
You sound so sweet, so needy, that he can’t make you wait any longer. He pushes a finger inside, achingly slow, your slick guiding him deeper. You’re tight and warm, and he swears he can feel the pulse of your heartbeat.
You moan, and the sound elicits a groan from him, his mouth ghosting over your jaw as he curls his finger inside you.
“Shit,” you mutter, eyes squeezed shut, hands fluttering helplessly with nowhere to hold on. Not that you could fall, because Clark’s holding you as though the world itself depends on it. He pumps his finger a few more times before easing it out of you, instead focusing on rubbing your clit with earnestness.
He captures your lips again, angling your face with a firm hand on your chin to deepen the kiss. All the while, his ministrations on your clit don’t falter, and you can’t help but whimper.
“You’re—God, you’re killing me with these sounds,” he rasps. You melt against the wall, chest heaving, and he inhales unsteadily, peering down at where his hand moves against you. “I’ve been dreaming about this. About you. I can’t—believe you’re mine.”
He fears that last word carries more meaning than it should, but it’s the only truth he knows. He wants to be yours as wholly as you are his; he wants to give you his time, to learn every last detail of who you are.
You nod as best you can, your fist curling into his shirt. “I’m—I’m yours,” you coo, voice thick with desire. Between kisses, you add, “And… you’re… mine.”
Another moan bubbles up in your throat as he sinks two of his fingers into your heat, stretching you even further. The wet sounds each time he draws them back and forth captivate him.
“Are you close?” he asks, though he already knows, but you still whine in agreement. “Oh, I know. You're shaking so bad. You wanna come?” Your nails rake over his arms, clutching at him. “Alright. I got you.”
He works you toward your peak, and moments later, you break, coming around his fingers. Your thighs clamp around his hand, hips twitching with aftershocks. His own moan muffles against your cheek as he peppers it with sloppy kisses, drinking in every one of your mewls.
When you come back to your senses, you kiss him languidly, your tongue sliding against his. “That was… amazing,” you breathe into his mouth, giggling as you attempt to catch your breath. You tangle your fingers in his hair. “I want to touch you.”
He stills. Clark carries so much pent-up tension that it might work against him. He’s pretty certain that the moment you put your hand on him, he’ll finish embarrassingly fast, and he can’t let that happen.
So instead, he drops to his knees.
Your brows lift in surprise. There are beads of sweat clinging to your temples, and Clark parts your thighs with his hands, positioning himself between them. Your cunt, still dripping, is right before him.
He hears you swallow, suddenly shy with him this close to such an intimate part of you. “You don’t have to—”
“But I want to taste you.” His thumbs spread your folds as his mouth waters, and his gaze flicks upward, asking for permission. “Can I?”
You nod frantically, panting, and he settles in. His tongue slides into your entrance, savoring you, before laving over your folds. He closes his mouth around your clit and sucks with intent, and you can’t keep watching him. It’s too much.
“So—fucking good,” you stutter, threading your fingers in his black curls. Your hips rut instinctively against his face, chasing the friction when he eases back a little. “I don’t—I don’t even want to know where you learned all this.”
Clark slips his digits back inside you, plunging them to the hilt. He’s not used to this loss of control, this need to consume, but he doesn’t know how else to do this. If he stops, he fears you’ll vanish, leaving him to wake from the same cruel dream where he’s helplessly humping his mattress.
“You taste like heaven,” he purrs, pulling back with a string of slick connecting his mouth to your pussy. His hand slides higher, palming your breast through your bra. It’s as if the rawest part of him, which is usually buried beneath restraint, has broken loose, and now he only craves more.
“Please, don’t stop.” Your voice is barely a whisper. Your eyes are teary, and for a moment he worries, but then you look at him, pleading. “Keep—keep going, just like that—”
Your flesh is soft beneath his grip, and he squeezes your thigh, grounding you as his fingers piston in and out of you. His tongue draws the same pattern again and again over your nub, and he can feel your whole frame trembling.
As you experience your second orgasm of the night, you don’t make a sound. Your knees buckle, and Clark has to press you against the wall to keep you upright.
With broad strokes, he continues to drink from the nectar between your thighs, enamored with the taste, the scent, the feel of you.
He lets go only when you tap his shoulder, your eyes half-lidded. He rises, making sure to steady you with a hand at your waist. You cradle his face, wiping the spit running down his chin.
You kiss him, softer than before, standing on top of his shoes. “Why are you still wearing clothes?” you ask, your hand slipping down to tug at his belt. You unbuckle it as you lead him toward your bedroom, and he follows without a word.
He sits at the edge of your bed, touching you wherever he can while you undress him. You pop each button of his shirt with ease, taking your time, leaving a kiss here and there before trailing lower. Your fingers caress his chest, and your gaze meets his.
Your voice carries a strained edge when you speak. “Clark?”
“Yeah?”
You’re looking at him with so much affection he could cry on the spot.
“I—I think—” The words die on your tongue, and after a beat you say. “I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as you.”
His heart stings. For a moment, he’d thought you were going to say those three words he’s been biting back.
Nevertheless, his lips cover yours gently, smiling. “Oh, I have.”
“Yeah? Who is it?”
The answer is simple. “You.”
You stifle a laugh. “That’s very cheesy,” you murmur, kissing him shortly. Your fingers unbutton his pants, lowering the zipper, your eyes searching his. “I want to take care of you.”
He draws back a little, takes a deep breath. Again, he’s nervous, as though you aren’t both already half-naked. “There’s something I need to tell you.” You hum in encouragement, and he clears his throat. “Well, I—Gosh, I don’t know how to say this.”
“Just… say it however it comes.”
“I’m not going to last long,” he admits, heat prickling at the back of his neck. You blink, brows furrowing. “I’m not being modest or anything. I—I just know it. I know my… body.”
You take a moment to think. “And what’s the problem with that?”
“Well, it’s certainly not… what you’d expect from me.”
You shake your head. “You’re overthinking it.”
He swallows, lifting his hips so you can tug his pants down. You sink to your knees on the carpet, kissing him again, your nails scraping lightly at the skin just above the waistband of his boxers.
“I don’t care how long you last.” You lick into his mouth, swallowing his whimper. “I just want you to feel good. That’s all.”
Pressing his forehead against yours before straightening, he observes as you push his boxers down. His cock springs free, unashamed, like every other time he’s thought of you alone in his apartment.
The only difference tonight is that it isn’t his hand that grabs it, but yours.
You stroke him once, tentative, studying every vein. Your mouth hovers over the tip before your tongue darts out to taste a bead of precum, moaning at the taste. Clark fists the sheets beneath him, peering up at the ceiling.
“Hey,” you whisper, urging him to look at you. Your hand glides up and down his length, and you chuckle. “Eyes here.”
Clark plants both hands on the mattress, leaning back, his gaze locked on yours.
“That’s it,” you coo, flattening your tongue along his shaft as your hand works him. “Is this okay?”
“Feels… nice,” he manages, attempting to come up with coherent sentences. “It feels—Oh, Jesus.”
His tip disappears behind your lips, and you suck dutifully, making his thighs twitch. He tries to even his breath, but it comes in rapid exhales.
As you hollow your cheeks, he slides a hand down, feeling the outline of himself through your skin. A choked moan rumbles in his chest when you take more of him, your throat tightening around his length. Seconds later you pull back, eyes watery, stroking what you can’t fit into your mouth.
The knot in his lower stomach is becoming unbearable. At times, his knee jerks with small motions. He can’t remain still, about anything but you and the hot paradise of your mouth.
His eyes flutter shut for an instant, and then you pinch the skin above his navel, startling him back, almost tickling him. You bob your head, trying to keep eye contact, but even you have to take a break sometimes from the intensity.
That’s when your free hand slips between your legs, pleasuring yourself too.
“Oh, baby,” he groans, barely registering the pet name. It only spurs you on, and a little saliva begins to drip from your lips, sliding down the side of his shaft, making a mess in his trimmed hair.
And now he’s close. So close he could come any second. He drags a palm over his face, holding his breath, and—
The pleasure disappears. He blinks once, twice, unsure if he’s lost what was left of his sanity or if you’re having fun edging him.
Sort of breathless, you sit back on your knees, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, and it only takes one look at you for him to know exactly what you’re thinking.
For a moment, he swears he blacks out. He feels as if he’s outside himself, disoriented, like a runner who has to reach the finish line at all costs. Except here, the goal waits between your thighs.
Then the haze clears, and he’s back in the bedroom with you. You’re on all fours before him, back arched, presenting yourself. His hands knead the flesh of your ass, and he gnaws at his bottom lip before the urge overpowers him.
He bends, tongue sliding through your slit and tracing it along your folds, tasting you until your voice breaks, pleading for more.
At long last, the moment of truth has arrived. He fists himself, lines up, and notches his tip at your entrance, slowly pressing in.
Don’t come. Don’t come. Don’t—
“Fuck,” you keen, wriggling your hips, quivering. “You’re—you’re splitting me in half.”
“Don’t… try to rush it.” He pulls back a little to push in again, then pushes deeper, growling through clenched teeth. “It’s gonna take a while, sweetheart.”
He doesn’t miss the way you clench around him. His knees buckle and he has to steady himself with a bruising grip on your waist.
“You like that, don’t you? You like it when I call you those names?” Clark asks, voice rough, desire thick in his throat. “That’s why you’re clamping down on me?”
He watches as you nod, the gesture nearly imperceptible. “Please, move.”
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he blurts, “Can’t. You’re—really tight.”
“I wanna feel you,” you retort, your hand groping back, searching for his thigh. Your neck twists so he can cast you a glance: you look already wrecked, mascara smudged under your eyes, lips swollen and parted. “It’s okay. You won’t hurt me. I can take it.”
He knows you can. He repeats it all along as he continues to feed you his cock, storing all the noises you make and the responses you have to his touch in his memory.
Once he bottoms out and can’t go any further, when his balls are flushed firmly against your cheeks, he pulls out until only the tip remains, and slams back inside.
The sound alone is pornographic. Your inner walls stretch to adjust to his size, welcoming him in, and you mutter something about feeling him in your stomach.
“Y-you hear that?” Clark asks, voice breaking. To prove his point, he rolls his hips, the obscene squelch filling the void. He does it again, and again, each thrust making your breath hitch. “She’s crying for me. Wants me to keep her full.”
With a whine, your arms finally give out, and your face sinks into the pillow. That change in angle drives him mad. Clark spreads your cheeks wide, watching the way he disappears into you as he ruts harder into you. He pounds against your sweet spot, the room echoing with the lewd slap of skin meeting skin.
Chest flush to your back, he buries himself even deeper, one arm curling around your breasts to pull you upright as he jackhammers into you, giving you no chance to recover before he’s plunging forward again.
“C-Clark, oh my God,” you wail, clutching at him, trying to turn your face to catch his eyes. “You’re fucking big, you’re—you’re everywhere.”
He licks a stripe along your shoulder blades, tasting salt, and then drags his mouth along your damp skin. “You feel so good, baby. So good, so warm—I never wanna leave you.”
His own pace is killing him. It’s too fast, too deep, too erratic, but he can’t stop. He’s far too caught up in the moment to think of a way to make it last. His body, acting on instinct, moves on its own, leaving him behind.
You’ve told him before that you’re on the pill, that it’s safe, but he still needs to hear it again.
“I’m—I’m close,” he whimpers into your ear, twitching, working every muscle he has. “Can I—I’m just—Please, let me. I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you, but p-please.”
“Come inside me,” you breathe, arching your back. “I want it. You can let go.”
And with your permission, he does, spilling inside you. His hips falter, driving in short thrusts as he spills inside you, pumping his release deeper with each spasm.
His heart hammers like it’s going to burst free from his chest, tearing out of his ribs, beating hard against your spine as he clings to you. He chokes on a sob against your nape, mouthing at your hair, feeling a surge of blood rushing through him.
Your body lies flat against the mattress, his last brain cells fighting not to crush you with his full weight. He braces himself on his forearms, the fire in his abdomen slowly ebbing.
He thinks he’s spent, but then another hot spurt escapes him, and he tightens his grip on the sheets.
Your walls flutter around him, and you crack one eye open, trying to glance back. “How are you still—”
“I have no idea,” he replies, nosing your cheek. “There’s probably a Kryptonian anatomy book somewhere that could explain it.”
You chuckle, exhaling as your body softens beneath him, getting comfortable. Maybe you think that’s it, that the two of you will collapse into bed, or shower, or do anything other than keep going at it.
But Clark gets hard… again. He never fully softened in the first place. Now, buried deep inside you, he feels himself swelling again, his length hardening back to steel.
After a couple seconds, you notice it. “Are you—are you hard again?”
“Looks like it,” he husks, hips shifting before he even realizes it. “Feels even better now.”
He’s still sensitive from his first orgasm. He can hardly believe either of you are ready for more, but his body isn’t listening.
You wince when he pulls out, clenching around nothing. You try to push yourself up, but your arms refuse. “What are you doing? I wanted you to stay.”
No answer. Just pure silence.
You twist your neck, brows knitted. “Clark? Is something wrong?”
He’s too entranced by the sight in front of him. His essence leaks out of you, and he surges forward to glide his fingers through the mess, gathering it to smear it along your folds. You moan low in your throat as he pushes it back into your hole, your body greedily swallowing two of his fingers.
“You’re—much kinkier than I thought,” you mewl, and then he presses his arousal flush against your lower back, making you chuckle. “Second round?”
He hums, kissing your neck, then your jaw. In one swift motion, he flips you onto your back, pinning you to the mattress. His lips claim yours as his palms slide down to your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers before replacing his touch with his tongue, lavishing attention on each hardened peak in turn.
You rake your nails against his scalp, squirming beneath him. He kisses his way back up to your mouth, biting at your lips.
“I can see you better this way,” he rasps, rubbing the head of his cock through your folds, sighing when he catches your entrance. “You’ll tell me if it hurts?”
Looping your arms around his neck, you tug him closer, kissing him shortly. “I will.”
This position grants him the privilege of watching your eyes widen as he sinks into you, inch by inch, until you’re filled to the brim again. Your nostrils flare, your mouth falling open in silent pleasure. His forehead drops to yours and his eyes roll back, high on the sensation.
He braces both arms on either side of your face, and you lock your ankles at the base of his spine, urging him on. Clark starts a slower rhythm this time, his only focus now to pull you apart.
His balls swing and impact rhythmically against the curve of your ass. You tilt your pelvis on each of his thrusts to help him reach deeper, telling him to go faster, harder.
“You’re so beautiful,” he chants between ragged breaths, whatever thought crosses his mind spilling out unchecked. You’re pinned beneath him, his sheer size overwhelming, like he could consume you whole without much effort. You tilt your head back, turning to putty. “I’d do anything for you. Just say the word and—and I will.”
His eyes fall closed as he inhales deeply, only reopening them once he’s expelled the breath.
“I love you,” he confesses then, voice wrecked, each word punctuated by a jerk of his hips. Any sort of reaction involving coherent speech appears to be beyond you. You just take what he’s giving you, your tits swaying as he pounds into you.
“C-clark, I—” You can’t finish your thought. He can almost see the gears turning in your head, how your face scrunches in ecstasy and the words tangle in your throat. “I—”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to say it back just because I did,” he answers, sneaking a hand between your bodies to rub at your clit, circling it with precision. “I just wanted you to know it. I can wait.”
Your breathing staggers. You grab his face to kiss him, tangling your tongue with his. His gaze flicks between your blissed expression and the place where your bodies meet. His own orgasm creeps closer, though he’s determined to wait until you’re there with him.
The headboard keeps rocking against the wall, and you’re murmuring his name like it's the only word you remember of the English language. By the look on your face, he knows you’re close, that you just need a little more pressure for the knot in your stomach to snap.
“I’m gonna get you there, don’t worry,” he promises, rutting harder into you, never letting up on your clit.
“I—I’m so close,” you whine, sucking in a sharp breath, your thighs tightening around his frame. “Don’t stop.”
“Never,” he pants, holding himself on the edge of the precipice. “I’m right here, honey. I’ve got you.”
You come with a cry, shockwaves wracking your body as your walls clamp and flutter around him. Clark follows instantly, shuddering as he spills deep inside you for the second time, his whimpers muffled by your neck.
He doesn’t pull out until he’s sure you’ve milked every last drop. When he finally does, it’s reluctant, wishing there could be a way to live his whole life buried inside you without facing any consequence. He drops onto the mattress at your side, tugging you into his chest.
To his surprise, he actually feels tired. He’s sticky, sweaty, and madly in love with you.
Wait. He told you he loved you while still inside of you.
Romanticism isn’t dead, ladies and gentlemen, because Clark Joseph Kent is the living proof of it.
Your hand traces absent shapes on his chest, your breath warm near his ear. “I think we need to shower.”
“Yeah,” Clark mutters, staring up at the ceiling. “With holy water.”
You both laugh at that, and he holds you closer, stroking up and down your arm. After a while, he realizes you’re not tracing nonsense on his skin.
You’re writing the same letters, over and over.
I. L. O. V. E. Y. O. U. T. O. O.
“Oh,” he breathes, capturing your fingers and tilting your chin until you’re looking at him. Your lashes flutter, your face glowing with a pleased expression. He can’t stop the smile pulling at his lips. “Really?”
“Yes.” You kiss him softly, brushing your nose against his. “I love you, Clark.”
He seals his mouth with yours. “I think we should start saving to gift Jimmy and Molly a trip somewhere nice.”
“That’s your way of saying thank you for setting us up?”
“Exactly.” He gives you another peck. “I’d suggest preparing yourself for the double dates. I’ve already made my peace with the idea.”
The mere thought doesn’t unsettle you in the least. If anything, it only widens your smile, and your eyes crinkle at the corners.
Clark’s duty on Earth had always been clear. He came from a distant planet called Krypton, and despite the circumstances, his life’s purpose was to serve humanity, to make the world a better place.
What he never expected was that, beyond that destiny, he would find someone who would make his time on Earth feel greater than any calling ever could.
Over the years, experience had taught Clark that whenever Jimmy labeled one of his ideas as brilliant, sometimes… he was right.
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