Fille de Joie 🧚🏾‍♀️

He's totally just standing over his sister sleeping for like, a couple hours, matching his breathing to her own to try and calm the fuck down a bit. Clenching his fists repeatedly, paralyzed by his thoughts.

Where should I touch her first? Will I scare her? Perhaps her shoulder. How has she been without me? Worse? Better? Has someone been taking care of her? Or maybe hip? She looks so beautiful sleeping. I don't want to disturb her. But I've been away so long. I could caress her face? She'll understand why I have to wake her. I could wake her with a kiss! But what if she doesn't want me here? Her throat. What if after going away, she doesn't want him in her life? What if Matthew got to her? I could just wake her up with my mouth on her cunt. NO! No! Thays wrong! She needs to be awake for it. I need to look into her eyes. I need to wash my hands.

Is his last thought before he starts to move again. He can't be touching her with his soiled hands. He steps into the bathroom and washes his hands as quietly as possible while still being thorough. She doest have a nail brush for him to use, so soap and hot water will have to due.

It's when he turns the sink off and starts drying his hands that he hears a small noise from your room. After finishing drying he takes a deep breath and looks at himself in the mirror one last time before stepping into the open doorway, hands already raised as to show he's not a threat.

And there she is, his sweet baby sister, now half awake and raised by her arms. They both stay still for a moment, looking at eachother.

"Dex..." she whispers. He let's out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, closing his eyes for a moment to relish in hearing you speak his name again. When he opens his eyes, he feels more relaxed than he has in ages. A smile graces his face as he slowly steps towards her, lowering his hands. But she stiffens, causing him to stop in his tracks.

"Y-you shouldn't be here" he tilts his head to the side.

"I got out... I've waited a long time to see you, you're the first thing I came to. " he feels the anxiety start to creep in, she interrupts him.

"I-i know you got out, it's all over the news. But-"

"But you kept you window open." He interrupts her, causing her to freeze in place and stutter for a moment.

"What are you-"

"I watched you watch the news segment, and whatever that cartoon was. I watched you get ready for bed. I watched you double and triple check to make sure everything was locked." He takes another deep breath, steadying himself so he doesn't raise his voice or scare her.

"But you left that window unlocked." He emphasizes his point by pointing at said bedroom window. There is another moment of silence, his sister seems to be at a loss for words. Because truthfully, she did leave it unlocked, just for him. He closes the distance and towers over her. A hand reaches for her face before hesitating, he swallowas and eyes soften as they look upon her before his hand finally caresses her face. It's his first time touching her since he was sent to jail and it fills him with warmth, he can help but lean his forehead onto hers and bring his other hand up.

"You wanted me to come here... you know it. Whether you want it or not, there is something deep inside you that reaches for me." She tries to look away form him, but he just corrects it, squeezing her cheeks tighter as she tries to shake her head in denial. "I know you do, because I can feel it too. Okay, mhm." He starts nodding his head yes in retaliation. With their foreheads pressed together, she has no choice but to go along. He gets on the bed and strattals her waist. "I can feel it inside of me too. I need you all the time baby." Both of their eyes have gotten wet, some tears fall freely. "Okay. It's okay, you don't have to cry. We were made for each other. So you can't resist it. You don't have to cry, okay? Your big brother is here."

At some point she's started letting out little sobs, leaning into him as he starts wiping her tears away and littering her face with kisses.

"Big brothers here, it's okay. It's okay, I got you." He whispers to her, leaning her back to lay down. He presses a kiss to her forehead, longer than the other.

"It's okay sweet girl, big brothers here to take care of you again." Then kisses her nose. "Just let your big brother take care of you." He whispers into her open mouth before finally kissing her mouth. He can feel her body relax under him. And when she starts to kiss back, he takes that as a sign, and deepens the kiss. He pushes his tongue into her mouth, tasting and memorizing every crevice as his weight leans into her, pressing her deeper into the mattress. Her hands are gripping his shirt desperately before flattening to his chest, attempting to push him away while turning her head from the kiss.

"-no- dex, we can't-" she attempts to reason with him between kisses, but he cut her off.

"Sshhhhh, no one has to know." Another deep kiss. "No one will ever know."

And that's the last thing he says before taking the hands pushing on his chest and pinning them the the mattress beside his sisters head as he continues his attack on her mouth. A growl rumbles deep in his chest as she bucks her hips up into his. Whether this was another attempt to get away or her giving in, he didn't know, and he couldn't find it in himself to care as her hips rub against his aching crotch.

He starts trailing kisses down her neck, marking her as he relished in her tiny gasps and moans. He tastes the salt of her sweat on her skin and moans, the hands pinning her slide down towards her chest until he's cupping her breast's. Her hands find his shoulders as he gropes her breast's, pushing them together as he kisses her clavicle.

"So soft," he whispers into her skin as his thumb brushes over her nipples through her night shirt.

Suddenly, his hands are sliding up under her shirt, pulling it off her body and exposing her to her brother. He stares down at her in awe, causing her to cover herself on instinct. But her brother is faster, pinning her hands beside her head once again.

"No nono no no, don't cover yourself. I need to see you," he pleads, though he doesn't give her a choice as he stares down at her chest and groans. After taking a moment to admire her chest, he frantically takes his shirt off as well, wanting to be fair to his sister, and then returns his hands and mouth to her chest. He latches onto a nipple, causing her to gasp as his fingers tease her other nipple. Her hips buck on their owne from the pleasure, and his eyes roll back into his head at the sound. At knowing he's the one causing it.

He continues attacking her chest, swapping between breasts as his sisters hands combe through his hair, tugging it on occasion when he would nip too hard.

"Dex" she moans as his one hand slides down to cup her mound, grinding his hand down to apply pressure. His fingers trace over the wet spot forming on her underwear, and he moans desperately around her breast.

"Fuck, I can't wait any longer" he says to himself right before descending down the rest of her body, hands dragging her soaked underwear off her legs. He grips under her thighs and spreads her open before leaning in close to her center and inhaling her scent. Her legs attempt to close in embaressment, but it's worthless against Dex's strength.

"Been dreamin' bout this baby..." he mumbles into her core before finally closing the distance and diving straight in. He lays open mouth kisses to her hole, swallowing all she has to offer while his tongue slides through every fold, searing her shape into his memory.

Her moans and sighs are music to his ears as she writhes in pleasure beneath him, his nose pressing into her clit as he shoves his tongue in her hole. He wraps his arms around her thighs for a more stable grip as he stares up at her through her legs, watching every microexpression so he can pleasure her the best. His eyelids are heavy as he moves up to latch onto her clit, causing her to try and move away from him again. Hips bucking and legs kicking as he gets the perfect overwhelming rhythm to pleasure her, moans getting louder as her mind is too hazy to care.

Her first orgasam comes fast and hard, making her feel dizzy and sensitive as Dex takes the opportunity to drink more of her juices. One of her hands falls to his head and pulls on his hair in an attempt to get him to ease up, but he just groans into her cunt.

"Dex..." But he ignores her, the taste of her and the feeling of her thighs squeezing his head, hand gripping his hair. It was far too good to deny himself.

He continues to eather her out, though slower this time. Now that he's had a taste, he wishes to savor it for a while. He eventually pushes a finger in her hole, and then another, stretching her out some as he suchs on her clit. She attempts to get away again, pleas with him that she can cum again, but he takes it as a challenge.

Suddenly, Dex is lifting their lower haft off the be until he is sitting up on his knees, and they are nearly upside-down, balancing on their shoulders as he hungrily eats them out.

"mph, Dex..." she pouts, both in overstimulation and embaressment at the exposing new position.

But it doesn't last long, as dex is making her cum with his mouth once again. Only this time, she's forced to look up at him as he stares down at her between her legs, mouth latched to her mound while she pulls his hair and pleads.

"Dex please! It's too much! Too much!" She moans loudly as he laps up the rest of her.

When he finally eases up and lays her down flat on the bed once again, he quickly wraps his arms around her, locking her close to his chest as he desperately kisses her once again, forcing her to taste herself on his tongue. Meanwhile, his belt starts to clink as he unclasps it and rips it from its loops and pulls down his fly, pushing his pants down to his knees before grabbing his cock and lining it up with her centre. He doesn't give her time to refuse as he pulls away from the heated kiss and finally sinks into her warm core, moaning and shivering at the sensation as she gasps in surprise.

"Dex-" "oh fuck, baby..." he moans, head falling to her chest as he trys to collect himself. "You feel so good... it's like heaven, like coming home." His voice is strained as he attempts a shallow thrust, only to moan and shake again, on the verge of cumming just from eating his sister out. He holds them there for a moment, collecting himself so he doesn't bust embarrassingly early and ruine the experience for his baby sister. He keeps his head tucked in her neck, mumbling praises and thank yous into her skin as he feels her pulsing around him.

He eventually starts moving, both groaning at the sensation as he starts a steady, slow pace. He raises his head, believing he can finally look at her without cumming on the spot as he stares down, admiring how her face scrunches up in pleasure. He quickens the pace, egar to have his sister cumming on his cock as he targets that special spot inside her, never one to miss.

"Oh fuck, Dex!"

"Yeah? Does it feel good?!" He asks eagerly, not tearing his eyes from her face.she nodes desperately but it's not enough. "Uh uh baby, use your words. I wanna hear ya."

"Yes! Yes, it's so good! Uh fuck!" Her eyes squeeze shut tight in pleasure and she turn her head away, only for Dex to grip her jaw and correct her.

"Nu uh baby, need you to look at me. Look at your big brother while he makes you feel good, okay?" He instructs, holding her jaw so she faves him. She has no choice but to open her eyes, staring back up at him. Her brows furrow as she tightens around him, he can tell she's close to cumming with how her legs start to shake and her hands try to push him away.

"Dex! Wait, I'm gonna pee!" She warns in embaressment, not familiar with the new building sensation growing in her gut. But Dex only smiles and picks up the pace, nearly pulling all the way out before slamming back in.

"Yeah? Gonna make a mess? Go on baby, I want whatever you'll give me." He says as he pistons into her sweet spot. Her nails dig into his back as she tries to squirm away from the overstimulation, but he just hold her tight to him, staring into her eyes until her final release.

She let's out her loudest moan yet as her back arches off the bed, legs trying to find footing as her orgasam overwhelms her. Dex meanwhile is moaning at how tight her cunt is squeezing him and watching the mess she makes on his lower stomach as she squirms on him, triggering his own orgasam he's been holding off. His warm fluid fills her to the brim as he pumps her full, thrusts getting sloppy as he rides his orgasam before finally collapsing on top on her with a loud groan.

They both lay there for a moment, still stuck together as they try to catch their breath. His hands caress her body in an attempt to soothe her aching muscles, making their way to her shaking legs as he lays kisses to her chest. When the room falls quiet except for their breathing and the street sounds outside her window, he speaks up again, softly into her skin.

You tried to get past it, understand the situation you're in, but you can't wrap your head around it. How the hell did Garrett manage to convince seven people to squeeze into his car without holding a gun to their head?

The scene you're greeted with when you make your way downstairs is baffling, suffocating almost. 

Garrett and Hannah sit comfortably in the front, giggling over a stupid joke he made as Hannah presses some random buttons to get the music working. Your eyes drift to the back, and that's when you see the disaster.  

Jesus Christ. 

You can't even tell people apart from how cramped it is inside. Logan's sitting by the window, with Jules on the edge of his lap. Tucker sits next to him, tense and looking very uncomfortable. 

Beau is glued to Tucker's side, with Allie comfortably positioned on his lap. They're giggling together as she shows him something on her phone. It's a very warm sight, they've grown really close after their trip to New York together. 

As if things couldn't get any worse, Dean is here. His side of the car is definitely... emptier. He's positioned in the seat behind Garret with his legs stretched over the rolled down window. The door to his side wide open, letting in much needed air. 

He's busy scrolling on his phone, only noticing your presence when your voice erupts through the chaos. 

"Wow, you should've invited a few more people," your tone fills with sarcasm, statement directed towards your brother. "Too much space." 

An amused chuckle escapes Dean's throat at your snarky comment, legs back on the ground as his attention shifts to Garrett. 

"Haha, very funny, Graham." Garret rolls his eyes, causing Hannah to shove his side. "Get in, you kept us stalling forever." 

"Where am I supposed to sit?" You argue, pointing towards the rammed car. 

Your eyes flicker back to Dean, who adjusts his position at your question. His legs spread apart, fingers lightly patting his lap, the silent gesture an invitation, something he voluntarily did to catch your attention. 

The idea of straddling Dean's lap for the entire car ride makes your heart flutter, cause air to get stuck in your throat. You can barely act normal when he's around, turning into a stuttering mess as soon as he joins any conversation, and now you have to sit on his lap for the next thirty minutes. 

"You're the only one complaining," Garrett interrupts through your thoughts, gesturing for you to get in the car. "Quit being a baby and find yourself a place to sit." 

A sigh dreads past your lips, dragging a deep exhale out as you step towards the vehicle. Dean clears his throat, fumbling around to put his phone away and straighten his back. You almost scoff if not for how nervous you are. 

"Hi," you start, avoiding Dean's gaze. 

"Hi," he repeats, but his tone is teasing, amused by how flustered you seem. You pause for a second, mustering up the courage to ask him to scoot, but Dean beats you to talking. "What are you waiting for?"

"Huh?" You hum, caught off guard. 

"Sit," his voice lowers into a whisper, gesturing you to sit on his lap. Your stomach twists into knots, the demand carrying so much tension, it makes your knees grow weak. "Sit on my lap." 

You fight the choked breath threatening to leave your chest, flashing him a tight-lipped smile, but still doing as you're told. You shuffle around to get in the car, carefully propping yourself across Dean's lap. 

Your whole body's tense, and you're sitting uncomfortably at the edge of his lap, barely providing yourself any space. The length of his legs is of no help, unnecessary long, you're practically holding onto the headrest to keep yourself from falling. 

"I'm gonna fucking kill you, Garrett Graham." You mutter through gritted teeth, causing your brother to freeze in his spot.

"Alright, now that everyone's here," Hannah bursts into laughter at Garrett's change of topic, completely ignoring the threat you threw in his direction. 

Annoyance fades into surprise when Dean slings his arms around your waist, using your astonishment as an opportunity to tug you close. Your back hits his firm chest with a thud, the proximity of the touch overwhelming you in an instant. 

Your body radiates with heat, as Dean's breath fans over your ear, the feather-like sensation causing goosebumps to break out across your back. He's so close, you can smell his stupid cologne, the aroma intoxicating, it almost melts you in your spot. 

You try to shuffle back into your old position, in case you're too heavy or causing Dean any discomfort, but the hand he presses to your hips interrupts those thoughts from rummaging through your head.

"You should get comfortable," he whispers in your ear, drawing circular motions to the sliver of skin just above your skirt. "It's a long ride." 

Fuck. 

Heat travels to in between your legs, gaze lowering to the arms caging you in place. His grip is firm, unwavering even when you move around to adjust yourself into a comfortable position. 

Dean doesn't budge, he pretends you're not even in his lap. He laughs, makes jokes, sings along as Hannah plays music, and it's like you're not even there. Unlike him, you're having a hard time playing this off as casual, nothing about this is normal, you skipped from ground zero to a thousand in the span of minutes. 

You try not to pay him too much attention, or his fingers as they're tracing small patterns to your hips, or his breath gradually blowing over your neck. All of it is so overwhelming, you want nothing more than to break free and breathe. 

This feels intimate, maybe too intimate, even more so because you're aware his touches are for you only, everyone else is doing their thing, and you two are in your own little world. 

After a while of resisting, you eventually settle back and relax against Dean's chest, satisfied by the way he tenses beneath you. His breath grows ragged, but he doesn't let you have it, tightening his arms in response, his hold engulfing most of your frame. 

This is okay, it's totally fine that you're tangled in this position with your brother's best friend, whom you've had a crush on since forever. 

You can get used to it. 

But you can't. Not when he's pulling every string to get your attention and get a reaction out of you. 

A few minutes pass by, and your body feels stiff from maintaining the same stance for too long. You shuffle around to find a comfortable position, hips stuttering when you feel something twitch underneath you. 

You're mistaken, have to be. It's all in your head, there's no way what you felt just now is real. 

"Fuck," Dean grunts, confirming your suspicions. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

He sighs, very shaky, but delibaret, the sound ringing in your ear, and making you pulse in reaction. You can feel hie semi-hard erection growing beneath you, failing to keep it under control. 

Fuck, Dean Di Laurentis is hard. 

You hate how much it's turning you on, your heat heaving with arousal when you feel another pulse through the thin fabric of his sweats. 

You angle your face towards the window, casually, without causing any suspicion, and Dean fights the embarrassment he feels to spare you a glance, regretting it soon as your hips move forward, instantly earning a choked breath out of him. 

It's not on purpose, you only realize what happens after he reacts. 

"Do you want me to–" he gives your hip another squeeze, locking you in place as the words die on your tongue. 

"Don't fuckin' move," he warns, practicing restraint. "Please." 

How can you not when his crotch is practically poking at your entrance, drenching your pussy from how tingly it's making you feel. 

"Dean," you whisper through a breath, causing his cock to twitch with need. The reaction you receive is immediate, anticipated, the only sign you need to grind down against his hardened length. 

His lips part in a hefty moan, barely dismissed by the loud music occupying everyone else. 

"You did that on purpose, didn't you?" He whispers, toying with the hem of your skirt, as his other hand caresses the exposed flesh around your stomach. 

"Maybe." You coyly offer him a response. 

This is your brother's best friend, someone way out of your orbit. You shouldn't cross the line, and let your lust drive you over the edge when you fought to keep yourself under control. 

Your brain short circuits, and panic rises in your chest before you can even stop it, but the pleasure surging through your body takes over when Dean's hips meet yours halfway, completely dismissing the guilt you're feeling. 

You've avoided Dean just fine till now, so why is it that you're involuntarily rolling your hips down for a mere fraction of his cock? 

Your pedicured nails dig into his arms, the force of the touch forming red marks all over his flesh. Dean smoothes out the fabric of your skirt to hide the circular motion of your hips. You ground him into place, repeatedly rubbing your wet cunt over his crotch. 

Pleasure builds through your insides, and you start to lose control over your grinds, messy and needy. Dean encourages you with a hand to your side, guiding you down to chase his own high, slowly building.

His cock aches, leaking with precum that stains a a patch in his underwear, wet and sticky, but he doesn't feel disgusted from it, but more so turned on because you're the cause of it. You're the reason he's in this mess, risking one of the most precious things to him just to touch you, feel you, even for a little. 

"I'm–" You fight the whimper threatening to leave your lips, leaning your head against the head rest to avoid locking eyes with anyone. 

Your pussy drenches in your arousal, thrusts growing sloppy as you feel your orgasm reaching its peak. Dean can almost tell that you're close, grip tightening around your stomach as he thrusts into you, rolling his hips once more before you came undone. 

Your legs shake from the overstimulation, Dean uses his hands to stabilize you in his lap. You ride him through your orgasm, sensitive, but desperate to please him and make him feel good. 

"You don't have to," he whispers, like he knows exactly what you're thinking. "I can take care of myself, darling."

"I want to," you reply, out of breath, with sweat forming at your forehead. Your face flushes with heat, and your energy goes down the drain in an instant, but you're persistent on making Dean come. 

His breath gets caught in his throat, and he uses your back as a shield to hide his expression as he reaches his own high. It only takes you a few more grinds for him to come undone. 

He releases into his pants, sticky stripes of semen coating a mess in his underwear. He stills your hips as he comes down from his high, a sigh of relief escaping his throat in the process. 

"That was– fuck." He chokes out, "So good for me, baby." 

You almost mewl at the praise but hold it back for the sake of not being caught. 

That was... insane. Probably the best orgasm you've had. 

The rest of the car ride seeps into silence on both your ends, too tired to engage with the rest of the group as they broke into a whole karaoke session.  It's not uncomfortable, nor is it unbearable, just... silence, you almost find it comforting. 

Garrett announces your arrival soon after, wrapping up the karaoke session as everyone engaged in another conversation.

You use their banter as an opportunity to pull at the strings of your thong, wiggling around on Dean's lap in an attempt to get them off. They slide down your thighs, bunching around your knees before eventually falling down your legs.

Dean doesn't do anything, simply sits back and observes you with a hint of confusion, eyebrows pinching as you bent down to grab it into your hold. 

And as everyone's busy getting out, you turn around and hand him the lacy material. 

"Huh?" He questions, taken aback by the sudden offer. 

You get off his lap, and land on the ground, smoothing down your skirt. Your gaze flickers back to him, a teasing grin smeared all over your lips. 

"A gift." You reply, attention shifting down to the mess on his lap. "Good luck cleaning that up." 

And with that, you take off with the rest of the group, barely sparing him a second glance. 

Fuck, now he has to deal with another boner. 

Not in a hygienic way. No, he showers—probably too often, given how his skin always looks stretched tight over his cheekbones, shiny and a little raw, like he scrubs himself bloody each morning to peel away whatever filth clings to him from the night before.

And his hair, while thick and styled with cheap gel that flakes off onto his shoulders, still somehow reeks of expensive cologne. The type that burns your nostrils with its sharp, synthetic sweetness, clashing horribly with the stale tang of sweat that seeps through by midday.

No, gross in the way he looks at you.

His gaze is… devouring. 

Like he’s trying to imagine exactly what you’d look like stripped bare, mouth parted, eyes wet—like he’s undressing you in his mind and finding ways to ruin you all at once.

His eyes dart over your body too fast, greedy, like he doesn’t want anyone else to notice what he’s doing but he also can’t control it. 

And when your eyes accidentally meet, he always smirks. That horrible, twitchy smirk that never reaches his eyes, his tongue running across his bottom lip as if tasting something only he can see.

Your friends noticed it immediately.

The first time he stumbled over to your group at a house party, a few beers deep, pupils blown wide and glassy, that grin split his face so wide it almost looked painful.

“Ladies,” he slurred, his voice thick with booze and something else, something sticky and leering, “what’s going on over here, huh? Talking about me?”

“Fuck off.” You snapped at him immediately.

You remember your immediate eye roll, how it only seemed to spur him on. His eyes snapped to you, laser-focused, pupils twitching like he couldn’t keep them still.

He let out a short, barking laugh, leaning closer, his free hand coming up to clumsily fix his fringe before it fell right back into his eyes.

“Or are we talking about you tonight?” he drawled, swaying forward so close you could smell the stale beer and cheap cologne mixing with his sweat. “God, you look—fuck— you know you look good, right? You’re like… fuckin’ dangerous.” He hiccuped, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re… Sam’s little pal, yeah? Bet she doesn’t even know what to do with you.”

You scoffed, looking away, refusing to give him the reaction he wanted. “Fuck. Off.”

But he didn’t. His gaze dropped to your chest, lingering there like he was etching every inch into memory, then dragged lower with a grossly audible sigh. He licked his lips, slow and deliberate, before leaning in, his mouth brushing your ear as he whispered, voice trembling with cocky desperation, “Bet you taste even better than you look, huh? Fuck… I’d ruin you.”

Then, like nothing happened, he snapped upright with that manic, boyish grin plastered back onto his face, eyes flicking around the group, manic energy radiating off him. “Anyway—who’s getting me another drink? I’m fuckin’ parched.”

He watched your reaction with a flicker of dark amusement, eyes narrowing slightly as his grin widened. It was like he was cataloguing every tiny twitch of disgust on your face, savouring it. 

But what really caught his attention—what made his pupils darken with something greedy and almost triumphant—was how you didn’t tell him to fuck off this time.

You just stood there, glaring, lips pressed tight, shoulders tense. 

And he liked that. He liked it way too much.

Chris had to drag him away by the elbow, muttering an apology under his breath as Josh twisted to keep staring at you, his eyes unfocused but hungry, like a stray dog seeing scraps.

As soon as he left, your friends circled up, wide-eyed.

 “Oh my god, what was that?” one asked, laughing nervously. “What’d he say to you?”

“Where do men get the audacity?” another chimed in, rolling her eyes. “He’s so gross.” 

Then they turned to you, eyebrows raised. “Did you see the way he was looking at you? Like he wanted to… I don’t even know. Eat you alive or something.” 

“Literally. He gives me the creeps,” one friend shuddered, sipping her drink. “Did you hear what he said to Anna last week? Told her she ‘looked like a pornstar from the nineties, in a hot way’. Who even says that?” 

“Ugh, remember when he asked Sarah if her boobs were real? At brunch? In front of everyone? He’s disgusting. You'd think all that money, he'd have some manners.” 

You just laughed along with them, cheeks burning, ignoring the way your stomach twisted at the thought of him wanting to ‘eat you alive’. 

Another time you’d mentioned to Sam offhand that you were cramping badly, and Josh, overhearing from across the kitchen, piped up: “That’s kinda hot though. Like… primal or some shit.”

You’d gagged into your cereal bowl.

Men like him have always existed.

Too cocky for their own good, a little unhinged, but never quite dangerous enough for anyone to actually cut them off. The type who toes the line with crude jokes and lingering touches, only to grin and apologise with that manic glint in his eyes, and somehow everyone just lets it slide. 

He’s funny, or at least loud enough to pass for it.

Charismatic in that slippery, suffocating way that keeps him invited to every party you go to, keeps him perched at the edge of every group dinner, leaning back with his arms spread across the seat like he owns the world. 

But it’s the way he looks at you that makes your skin crawl.

His gaze turns dark when it lands on you—hungry, feverish, like he wants to peel you open and crawl inside, nestle there and never leave. Like he wants to keep you all to himself, hidden away beneath his fingernails and teeth. 

And he never tries to hide it.

Not at parties. Not in the warm candlelight glow of a crowded dinner table. Not when you’re laughing with friends and feel his stare burn across your throat like a brand. 

You always catch it. 

The way his eyes slid over your body like oil, lingering a bit too long on your chest, your thighs, lips parted just slightly like he was already picturing what they’d feel like wrapped around him. 

He’s touchy, too.

Always brushing past you when there’s plenty of room, his palm hot against your lower back as you walk through a crowd. When he compliments a dress or shirt you’re wearing, he just has to know what it feels like, running his fingers over the material, dragging them across your skin beneath it if he can, even when your face scrunches up in disgust and your friends’ jaws drop at the sheer audacity of Josh.

The worst part is… you never really discourage him. You just roll your eyes, mumble a half-hearted “Stop it, Josh,” and move on. You never actually push him away when his hands settle near your midriff or drift up towards your collarbone, fingers gripping at the fabric like he wants to rip it away.

He’s just one of those guys.

He laughs too loud – breathy and obnoxious, echoing through the room.

He says things that are just a bit too sexual, even to his other female friends like Jess or Ashley, little comments that make them shift uncomfortably closer to their boyfriends, which he loves doing in front of them.

He jokes too much about wanting to roleplay or choke someone out, watching your face closely after he says it, eyes dark and mouth curled up in that stupid smirk.

He messages you at 3am, “u up? ❤️,” and when you don’t respond, he sends another. And another. 

Sometimes you wonder why he’s like that. 

His sisters seem totally normal – Hannah’s a bit naïve, sure, and Beth can be firm when she needs to be, but they’re normal. They’re just too rich for their own good. Their parents stopped caring a long time ago.

And Josh… Josh fucking loves that mountain lodge they own. He’s always talking about it, about how quiet it is up there, alone in the snow, how you could scream and no one would hear. 

He once told you, straight-faced, “You’d look so fucking hot crying. Like, properly sobbing. Bet your mascara would run all down your face.”

It wasn’t even during an argument, or after a joke, or anything that might have excused it. You’d just been sitting there on the back deck, scrolling through your phone as he smoked, the fading sun casting gold across the lake.

You hadn’t even been talking to him. You’d just sighed quietly to yourself at some sad video, blinking fast to keep your eyes from watering.

Josh exhaled a cloud of smoke, eyes locked on your face, studying every little twitch of your expression. Then he said it. Calm. Flat. Like an observation about the weather.

You looked up sharply, heart stuttering in your chest. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” you whispered, disgust curling thick and heavy in your throat.

He just smirked wider, tongue flicking across his bottom lip as his gaze flicked down your face, lingering at your mouth. “Nothing,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Absolutely nothing at all.”

Then he stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and walked back inside, leaving you there with your pulse pounding in your temples, your skin crawling so violently it felt like you might scratch it all off just to be clean again.

He’s pathetic. He’s gross. Weird. Perverted.

Which is exactly why nobody could know.

It happened at the lodge, of course. Where else would it happen? 

Just a winter getaway, late January. You’d come up with Sam, your duffel bag stuffed with sweaters and thick socks, expecting nothing more than hot cocoa, card games, and maybe a freezing dip in the lake for bragging rights. 

Josh called while you were halfway up the mountain road, the icy trees blurring past outside. The moment he heard your voice crackling through the car speakers, you swear he nearly came right then and there. 

“Fuck, yeah. Fuck. Yeah.” His breathing was ragged over the line, like he’d been running or… something else. “You’re gonna have the time of your life, babe, I swear. I’ve told you about how q—” 

“—I know, Josh. It’s quiet. Shut up now,” you snapped, cutting him off before his filthy mouth could say something else that would make Sam roll his eyes in disgust.

Too late, she was gagging at the ‘babe’ of it all.

Josh just laughed. That low, manic, bubbling laugh that always made your stomach twist, equal parts revulsion and dread. He was never put off by your impatience.

If anything, it only spurred him on. 

“God, you’re such a little bitch sometimes,” he chuckled, voice dropping low, filthy, almost fond. “Gonna be a fun weekend.”

“Watch it, Josh,” Sam remarked. “Seriously, she’s my friend, stop acting all… you.”

“She doesn’t mind, do you babe?”

“Fuck off,” Is all you say.

It started earlier that night.

You’re rummaging through your duffel bag looking for clean socks when you notice your folded underwear sitting a little off from how you packed them. Your stomach clenches cold. The lace is twisted around itself in a way you know you didn’t leave it. Wrinkled. Handled.

You frown, fingers brushing over the cotton, then glance up to see Josh standing in the doorway.

Watching.

He smiles slowly, eyes flicking down to your open bag before meeting yours again. His gaze is glassy, hungry, lips parted just slightly like he’s been panting. You notice then the way his hand flexes at his side, fingers twitching like they’re aching to touch.

“Need any help unpacking?” he asks, voice syrupy sweet, but there’s a rasp to it, raw and shaky, like he’s been breathing heavy for a while.

Your skin crawls. “No,” you snap, shoving the bag closed, feeling your cheeks burn with disgust and something shameful under his stare.

But as you walk past him, his arm brushes yours. He leans in close enough that his breath fans hot over your ear, and under his deodorant and sweat you catch a faint, bitter tang that makes your stomach flip—like he’s been working himself up alone in the dark.

“Cute panties,” he whispers, so low you’re not sure you heard it right. But then he laughs, a quiet, broken little chuckle, and you know.

You push past him, heart hammering, bile rising in your throat. But even as you leave, you can feel it. His stupid fucking staring.

The cabin was warm and golden with firelight, flickering shadows making everyone look softer, prettier, a little drunker than they really were. You’d spent most of dinner ignoring Josh’s gaze burning into your side profile as you laughed at Mike’s stupid impressions. You felt it – every time you tilted your head back, his eyes dragged down your throat, your chest, your arms. Devouring. 

He barely spoke through dinner. Just watched. Picking at his food with trembling fingers, flicking glances around the table to keep up the pretence of normalcy, then dragging them back to you like gravity.

Afterwards, he and Chris set up beer pong, coaxing everyone to join in with drunken cheers and clumsy bravado.

“You play?” Josh asks as he gets one in.

You stood beside the table, sipping on a beer yourself. “Not really. Can’t aim for shit.”

“I’ll teach you. C’mon, it’s easy,” He insists, waving you to come closer.

You sigh, feeling the glances of Emily and Jess, both of whom have mightily advised you to stay away from Josh.

“He’s a sweet guy, like, we wouldn’t be friends with him if he was a total dick, right? But like, you can do so much better, girl.”

Despite it, you agree. He smiles as you step closer, taking the ping pong ball out of his hand.

“What? I just bounce it right in?”

“Yeah. Yeah. You just- alright, maybe pick a cup you wanna get it in.”

“Fine. Um. Third row from the front, second from the left.” 

“Good girl,” he says without thinking, voice low and hoarse. Your stomach clenches at that, unbidden. 

You glance up sharply, but he’s already moving to stand behind you, big clammy hands coming to rest on your hips. You tense. His thumbs press circles into the fabric of your hoodie, squeezing like he’s trying to memorise the shape of your bones beneath it.

“Okay, okay, relax,” he murmurs near your ear, breath hot and beer-sour. “Just… line it up. You wanna flick it, not throw it.” 

You can feel everyone’s eyes on you – Mike grinning drunkenly, Jess smirking, Emily rolling her eyes like she’s already written this scene off as pathetic.

But Josh doesn’t care, and maybe you don’t either. His entire body is pressed against yours now, his chest firm against your back. 

His fingers slide down from your hips to rest lightly on your thighs, the touch far too intimate for a party game. You feel him press in a little harder, the swell of his crotch flush against your ass, and you stiffen instinctively. 

“Josh,” you hiss under your breath, a light reprimand, but he just laughs quietly, his grip tightening like iron shackles. 

“Shh, babe, I’m just helping you aim,” he murmurs, voice dripping with fake innocence, though you can feel the twitch of his grin against your ear. “C’mon, focus for me.” 

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to raise your arm, wrist flicking as you send the ball flying in a clumsy arc. It hits the rim of your chosen cup and bounces out, clattering across the table. 

“Ah, so close,” Josh breathes, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs as he pulls you tighter against him. You feel him through the thin fabric of your leggings, and your cheeks burn with humiliation. 

He finally steps back, hands sliding back up to your waist, giving it a squeeze that makes you wriggle under him. “Good try. Keep going.”

You wriggle under the touch, shoving him off with your hip as best you can, glaring over your shoulder. But he’s already stepped back, watching you with that heavy-lidded stare, pupils blown wide, tongue flicking across his bottom lip like he’s tasting the moment.

You can’t believe you listen to him.

You do. You try again, shaking out your wrist, and he stays back this time, arms crossed over his chest. His hoodie sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, veins snaking down his forearms, hands twitching like he’s resisting the urge to touch you again. 

“Aim with your wrist, not your hand,” he mentions lazily, like it’s a casual afterthought, like he didn’t just grind himself against you in front of half your friends. 

“Fuck off,” you remind him flatly, eyes locked on the cup. But you take the advice anyway.

You flick your wrist, the ball arcs neatly, and lands directly in the cup you’d chosen before. 

Beer sloshes over the rim. Chris and Mike whoop, Ashley cheers, Emily claps sarcastically. 

“Babies first beer pong,” Jess teases, raising her cup to her lips. 

You smile despite yourself, feeling a flicker of pride, looking down at the ping pong table and shaking your head. Then you glance at Josh, expecting a cocky comment, and find him staring at you with an expression so intense it makes your stomach clench. 

You give him a small, reluctant smile, just a twitch of your lips. “Thanks, coach,” you mutter, sipping your beer to hide the flush in your cheeks. Then you add under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear: “Never touch me again, though.” 

He just grins at that, wide and twitchy and obscene, raising both hands like he’s surrendering to the cops. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he says, voice thick with mock innocence. 

You roll your eyes, but there’s heat rising in your chest that you try to shove down, turning away before you can think too much about it. As you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, you catch Emily watching you from across the table, eyebrows raised, an amused, questioning smile curling at the corner of her mouth.

Your smirk fades instantly. You duck your head, focusing hard on your beer, willing the flush on your cheeks to cool down before anyone else notices.

You’ve always heard nothing good happens past midnight.

You’d have to agree.

You slept too much on the drive over, and now you’re wide awake, curled up on the loveseat as the fire burns low, dying phone in hand. Chris had nearly lit himself on fire trying to get the thing started earlier, and everyone had laughed until their ribs ached.

Now it’s quiet. Everyone else has drifted off to bed, sprawled out in spare rooms and on couches, bodies heavy with beer and whiskey and shots of something sweet Josh found in the back of the liquor cabinet.

You sobered up a while ago, nursing a wine, staring into the embers as they collapsed in on themselves. 

Almost everyone had gone to bed. 

You hear the footsteps before you see him. Heavy, uneven, like he’s dragging his feet across the polished wood floors just to let you know he’s coming. You don’t bother turning. You already know. 

Josh stumbles in from the kitchen, hoodie unzipped, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair sticking up in greasy tufts like he’s been tugging at it all night. Like he’s been pacing and thinking and pacing some more. 

When he sees you, his whole face changes. That stupid grin unfurls across his lips, slow and twitchy, his eyes going soft and dark all at once. Hungry. Lazy. Like he’s just come home to something warm and waiting.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he wonders. 

You don’t look up from your phone. “Nope.” 

He chuckles under his breath, moving closer, the floor creaking under his weight. “Yeah. Me neither.” 

He exhales a shaky sigh, like the sight of you actually calms him, shoulders dropping as he steps around the couch to stand in front of you. The shadows from the fire flicker across his face, catching on the sharp plane of his cheekbones, the wet gleam of his lips. He smells like sweat and cologne and stale beer. Overpowering. Cloying. 

For a moment he just… looks at you, stood between the couch and fireplace. Like he’s drinking in the sight, pupils blown wide, tongue darting out to wet his lips. You flick your gaze up at him, and his breath catches, chest hitching like you just punched the air out of his lungs. 

“Stop staring at me like that,” you mutter, voice flat, phone now of no interest to you.

He raises his hands again, surrendering. “Like what?”

“Josh…” You sigh, tired, rubbing at your eyes with the heel of your palm. The fire crackles behind him, shadows dancing across his sharp cheeks, making him look almost skeletal. Gaunt. Haunted.

Because he knows. He knows exactly how he looks at you. Everybody does. He finally drops it.

“Oh, come on,” he scoffs, but there’s no real bite behind it. His words are low, slurred at the edges, eyes flickering over your face with something like pleading. “I’m— I’m nothin’ but a gentleman to you, aren’t I?” His brows twitch together, mouth twisting into something sour. “I… I keep my distance. I deal with your attitude, don’t I?” He chuckles, but it’s hollow, wet at the end like he’s swallowing back something desperate.

You stare at him, brows drawn tight. He’s rambling, voice dropping to a whisper. 

“Can’t I just— can’t I just have one thing?”

You blame the wine for how you don’t stop him as he takes a slow step closer, like you’re his prey. Except he just watches.

“Is that alright with you?” He mumbles. “If you’re not… gonna give me what I want.”

You can’t help it. “What do you want?”

He scoffs a dry laugh at that and points at you like you’ve just told a hilarious joke. “The playing dumb thing is cute. Real cute, you know?” He chuckles to himself.

God, if your friends knew you were even entertaining this.

A beat of quiet goes by till he takes a seat in the empty spot next to you. He spreads his legs wide, knee bumping against yours. You curl more into yourself, tucking your foot up onto the seat, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands as you inhale sharply, staring into the fire with him.

Yeah. He’s fucking weird.

And just… crude, and touchy.

But maybe you’re touch-starved. Maybe your ex was too nice. Maybe you’re bored. But he wants you. He’s never not shown that. Not like the others, who flirt when it’s convenient, whose eyes flick away the moment they’re bored of the chase.

He looks at you like he’s starving. Like he’d gnaw his own arm off if it meant getting to touch you for a second. 

And maybe that’s why you ask him— 

“Why do you like me?” you whisper, voice almost lost beneath the crackle of the fire. You stare down at your lap, fingers fidgeting with the fraying ends of your sleeves. 

Josh almost doesn’t hear it. His glazed eyes remain fixed on the fire, flickering orange reflected in his blown pupils. For a second, you think he’s not going to answer. But then he exhales, a shaky sound that rattles his chest. 

“You’re hot,” he says flatly. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but before you can cut him off he keeps going, words tumbling out clumsy and unfiltered. 

“You’re… nice. Not always to me, n’ all, but that’s usually ‘cause I’ve got it comin’,” he chuckles, rubbing a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to hide his smile. “But I see you with Sam. With the others. You… I dunno. You care about stuff. About people. You’re funny. And you’re just so fuckin’ sexy, you know?” 

He lets out a low, breathy laugh, shaking his head slightly. It sounds almost disbelieving, like he can’t believe he’s saying this and you’re actually listening. His knee nudges yours again, firmer this time, like he can’t help himself. 

“I mean—fuck—you’re sittin’ here lookin’ like that, and you’re talkin’ to me, and… shit, dude,” he mumbles, voice going quiet at the end. His gaze finally drags over to you, eyes half-lidded and heavy with exhaustion and liquor and that same disgusting, obsessive hunger. “It’s like… I dunno. You make me fuckin’ crazy.” 

Your chest tightens, stomach twisting uncomfortably. It’s pathetic.

He’s pathetic.

But there’s a part of you—some small, rotting part buried deep in your chest—that feels something warm curl through your ribs at his words. At least he wants you. At least he’s obsessed. And that’s worth something. Even if he’s gross.

Which is exactly why you lean in without thinking, pressing your lips against his cheek. Your cheap red gloss leaves a faint smear on his sharp bone.

You watch him twitch at the contact, squirming under your gaze when you pull back, still close, your body fully angled towards him now. 

He turns his head to look at you, eyes wide, confused, silent. 

Good. He should shut up more often, you think. 

Before he can say anything, you lean in again.

This time, your lips press against his. Soft at first – he goes completely still, frozen in shock, before his mouth starts to move against yours, clumsy and desperate. You can feel how plush his lips are, how they part under yours like he’s starving for it. 

You kiss him deeper for just a second, tasting stale beer and mint gum, before pulling away abruptly, leaving him panting.

He stares at you like you’ve just handed him the meaning of life on a silver platter. Like he might genuinely explode if you touch him again. 

“You can’t tell anyone,” you murmur, voice low and firm. 

He nods so fast it’s pathetic. 

“Answer me,” you demand, eyes narrowing. 

“I-I won’t tell anyone,” he blurts out, voice breaking at the edges. 

“You promise?” Your hand slides up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing over the faint stubble there, almost tender. 

His eyes flutter half-shut, lips parting like he’s about to say something worshipful. But he hesitates. “Well–” 

You fist your fingers into his hair and yank, hard enough to make him gasp, his head tipping back, mouth falling open in a silent moan. “Promise me,” you repeat, your voice like steel. 

He’s breathing heavy now, chest rising and falling fast, but a shaky smile curls at the edge of his lips. “Yes, ma’am,” he breathes out, half joking, half ruined already.

You don’t remember how his mouth ended up on yours, chasing it like you would vanish into thin air. How his fingers found their way under your sweater, rough and trembling against the bare skin of your waist. How you climbed onto his lap, straddling him without thinking, knees digging into the ratty loveseat cushions on either side of his thighs. 

His hands clutched at your hips like he was scared you’d slip away. His touch was desperate – not tender, not considerate – just greedy, fingers digging in so tight you knew you’d bruise. You felt his cock straining against his sweats beneath you already, pathetic, hard just from a couple of kisses. 

“Fuck…” he whimpered into your mouth, his voice breaking pathetically as his tongue licked at your bottom lip, sloppy and uncoordinated. “Fuck, fuck… you’re… you’re so fucking hot, oh my god…” 

You pulled back slightly, just enough to watch his face. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon. Sweat beaded along his hairline despite the chill in the lounge.

He looked… kind of beautiful, in a filthy, trembling way. Like something that shouldn’t exist, and yet there it was, all yours.

You remember his little noises – those quiet, broken whimpers into your mouth – and the way he said your name like it was the only word he knew. 

“You’re a fucking dick,” You muttered softly, but your hips rolled down against him anyway, feeling the way he twitched beneath you, how his breath hitched in his throat. 

His hands slid up under your hoodie, rough palms skating over your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra. He looked like he might start crying from how overwhelmed he was, lips pink and swollen, gloss smeared across his mouth and chin. 

“I’ve dreamt about this,” he whispered, his voice wrecked. “You can call me whatever you want. Just… please… please keep going.” 

Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. 

You leaned in again, your mouth ghosting over his ear. “You’re such a fucking loser, Josh,” you whispered, your tongue darting out to lick the shell of his ear. 

He shivered violently beneath you, hips jerking up against yours involuntarily. “Yeah…” he breathed out, his hands sliding down to grip your ass, squeezing like he was trying to memorise the shape of it. “I don’t care… don’t fucking care…” 

You kissed him again, harder this time, biting down on his bottom lip until he let out a strangled groan into your mouth. His hips were grinding up into you now, desperate little thrusts that made your stomach twist with disgust and reluctant heat. 

Because at least he wanted you. At least he was obsessed. 

At least when his eyes rolled back and his hands shook against your skin, it was because of you. Only you. 

God, you’re pathetic.

His hands slip out from under your shirt, fumbling down to grab at your ass, squeezing rough and greedy as you kiss him harder.

You move his hand lower, guiding it yourself until his fingertips brush the waistband of your sleep shorts. He lets out a ragged little gasp at the contact, the sound muffled by your mouth, and you can feel him twitch beneath you, pathetic. 

You drag his hand under the thin cotton, down into your panties. He hesitates for half a second, almost like he’s overwhelmed, before his fingers slip lower and finally swipe through your folds. 

You break the kiss with a shaky inhale, your forehead dropping to rest against his as you feel him touch your core, wet and hot against his trembling fingers. His breath hitches, chest rising sharply under yours, and his eyes flutter between your flushed face and the sight of his hand buried under your shorts. 

“Fuck… you’re…” he starts, voice hoarse with disbelief as he feels just how wet you are. 

“Shut up,” you mutter quickly, cheeks burning with embarrassment. 

He just nods, swallowing hard, but his mouth won’t stay shut for long. “I’ve… I’ve thought about this for so fucking long, you know,” he rambles, his voice cracking at the edges with desperation. “I… fuck, I can’t believe this is real…”

You’re about to tell him to stop talking again, but then his thumb brushes your clit, light and tentative. Your hips jolt forward involuntarily, a moan slipping from your parted lips. His eyes flick back to your face, pupils blown wide, drinking in the way you scrunch your eyes shut and bite down on your bottom lip.

His thumb starts circling your clit, slow at first, as his fingers dip lower, teasing at your entrance but never pushing in. 

“I jack off to you all the time,” he breathes out, his voice low and trembling. “In the shower. In bed. Fuckin’— even in the bathroom at work sometimes… You’re like… you’re a fucking dream, you know that?” 

You let out a shaky exhale, pressing your face into his shoulder to muffle your noises when he finally sinks a finger inside you, crooking it experimentally. It’s rough and clumsy, nothing like how you touch yourself, but his fingers are thicker, reaching deeper, the stretch making your thighs quiver around his hips. 

He chuckles low in his chest, dark and filthy. “I’ve thought… fuck… thought about putting you in so many different positions,” he murmurs, curling his finger inside you just right, making your breath stutter. “Thought about your mouth around my dick. Thought about what kind of noises you’d make when I fuck you. Bet you sound so pretty, don’t you?” 

He thrusts the single finger slowly, and it’s not enough. Not even close. You reach back, grabbing his wrist, guiding his movements. “Lower,” you pant out, voice strained, “and… another.” 

His eyes roll back at your words, a guttural little whine escaping his throat as he obeys immediately, pressing a second finger in beside the first. You let out a choked moan, your back arching as he scissors them open, finding the spot that makes your thighs shake. 

“Fuck… fuck, look at you…” he whispers, voice shaking with reverence as he pumps his fingers deeper, thumb rubbing fast, messy circles over your clit. “So good for me… riding my fingers like that…” 

You move against him, grinding down desperately, chasing the feeling, your breath hitching with each thrust. His fingers fill you perfectly, curling just right, thumb flicking your clit faster. Your vision blurs at the edges.  “Right there, right there…” You mumble.

“I’ve thought about tying you up,” he mutters, ignoring your praise, his voice wrecked, eyes glued to your flushed face and parted lips. “Would you… would you let me do that? Hm? Tie you up, spread you open… fuck, I’d ruin you.” 

You let out a shaky breath, pretending like you’re ignoring his words, but the flush that spreads down your chest gives you away. You can’t even speak, can only nod weakly, your hips rolling faster, thighs trembling around him. 

“Fuck… fuck, that’s so hot,” he groans quietly, his fingers thrusting deeper, thumb relentless over your clit. “God… you’re gonna come for me, aren’t you? Gonna come all over my fingers… fuck, please… please, baby…”

“Shit, that’s so hot,” He exclaims quietly, watching as you ride on his fingers.

Your stomach coils tighter, heat building fast, his filthy words spurring you closer and closer as you ride his hand, desperate little whimpers muffled against his neck. His thumb is relentless over your clit, circles sloppy and fast, his two fingers thrusting deep inside you, curling up just right, stretching you open around him. 

“That’s it,” he breathes out shakily, his lips brushing your ear as his voice drops low, dark, possessive. “So good for me… making those pretty little noises… can’t let anyone hear, can you?” 

You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut as the coil in your stomach snaps tight. Your body clenches around his fingers, a broken sob tearing out of your throat despite how you bite down on his shoulder to muffle it.

The orgasm rips through you, hot and fast, your thighs trembling violently around his hips as you cum hard on his fingers, grinding down desperately as if you could drag out every last wave. 

“That’s it… good fucking girl,” he whispers raggedly, his breath shaking against your cheek as he keeps thrusting his fingers, slower now, helping you ride it out. 

You pant into his neck, your forehead pressed to the sweaty skin there, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Your whole body feels loose, trembling with aftershocks, but you’re hyper-aware of the way his cock is straining hard against his sweatpants beneath you, pressed snug between your soaked core and his stomach. 

Even through the fabric you can feel how hot and hard he is, twitching with every tiny shift of your hips. He lets out a strangled little whine when your hips shift involuntarily, rutting up against you with desperate need.

His hands grip at your ass, holding you tight against him, grinding up into your clothed crotch shamelessly as he pants into your hair. 

“Please…” he whimpers, his voice wrecked, needy and pathetic. “Please… need you so bad… please let me…” 

His forehead drops to your shoulder, lips parted against your skin as he ruts up against you again, cock throbbing hard under his sweats, leaving a wet patch where precum soaks through. His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s scared you’ll pull away. 

You can feel his chest heaving against yours, his whole body trembling with restraint as he keeps himself from flipping you over and taking what he wants.

Because he knows – he knows he has to wait for you to give it to him. 

And maybe that’s what makes this feel so fucking good. Knowing how desperate he is. How completely and utterly at your mercy he is right now, shaking beneath you like a dog begging for scraps.

Without warning, you spit quickly onto your palm, the wet heat slicking your skin. Your hand slides between you both, bold and unhesitating, slipping beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, then under his boxers, curling around the length of his cock. 

His mouth falls open, a ragged breath catching in his throat before it bursts into a long, desperate groan—too loud, too raw. You clamp your other hand swiftly over his mouth, fingers pressing firmly against his cheek. 

“Be quiet,” you hiss, voice low and sharp. “Or I’ll fucking leave you here.” 

You see the flicker of genuine horror cross his face at the thought, eyes wide and glassy. His body tenses, trembling under your touch. He nods quickly, swallowing hard behind your hand. 

Still, the soft, pitiful whimpers press against your palm as his lips press and bite lightly, nearly grazing your skin. You grip him tighter, thumb stroking up and down, moving slow and deliberate, letting him drown in the feeling while you hold the reins.

Your hand moves carefully, almost possessive—like you’re trying to tame something wild and broken beneath your touch. His body shudders against you, tense but craving, the heat radiating through the thin fabric of his sweats.

He’s barely holding himself together, that desperate, hungry edge never leaving his eyes, even though his lips stay pressed beneath your palm, muffling his ragged breaths and quiet whines. 

You can feel the frantic pulse beneath your fingers, the slick heat that speaks of him straining on the edge. You don’t want to drag this out any longer than it has to.

You want one thing and he’s already got you there once, which is already more than you expected. 

You just keep moving your hand, slow and steady, fingers tracing the line between pleasure and pain, between control and surrender. 

Suddenly, you pull your hands away, leaving him trembling and exposed beneath your touch. His cock presses hard against his stomach, eyes wide and glassy as he watches you, dumbfounded. 

Without hesitation, you shimmy down your shorts and panties, the fabric slipping to the floor with a soft thud. His breath hitches, a string of low, shocked curses escaping his lips like he can’t quite believe this is really happening. 

His hand rises hesitantly, replacing yours, fingers wrapping around his own aching length, moving in a slow, desperate rhythm as his gaze stays locked on you. 

“Can you, um—” He gestures awkwardly toward your hoodie, hesitation thick in his voice. 

You freeze, a flicker of doubt flashing through your mind. Stripped bare before him, while he remains warm and clothed, the imbalance of power sharp as ever. But his eyes, burning with that twisted mixture of hunger and awe, drag you forward. 

With a reluctant breath, you tug off the hoodie, the cool air prickling your skin as you settle back onto his lap, careful to keep just enough distance to remind him this isn’t softness or tenderness—it’s control. 

He watches, hand moving faster now, slick with sweat, as you unclip your bra—revealing curves that have him practically swallowing his own breath. 

Your heart hammers loud in the stillness. Anyone could walk in at any moment. You pray the whiskey haze keeps the others oblivious, safe behind closed doors and heavy lids. 

“Holy shit,” he rasps, voice thick with disbelief and need. 

One hand never leaving his cock, the other tentatively reaching for your bare tits, fingers exploring, squeezing like he’s trying to memorise every inch. You shiver under the weight of his touch—equal parts revulsion and reluctant heat. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whimpers into your neck, voice ragged and wet. “You’re so fucking—god, you’re so warm, please, please let me—” 

You barely hear him. Your brain is cotton-wool fuzz, heat coiling tight in your stomach as you grip his hair, forcing him to look at you. His eyes roll back slightly, lids fluttering, mouth falling open in a silent moan as his hips jerk up again, desperate for friction, moving his hands to your waist, holding your back towards him.

“You’re pathetic.” you mutter, your voice flat, empty.

“Yeah,” he breathes, nodding into your grip, his fingers digging bruises into your hips.

You watch him for a second. Watch the way his chest heaves with each ragged breath, sweat dripping down his temples, gloss smeared across his swollen lips. You could almost laugh. This is Josh Washington. Rich kid. The Black Sheep, even in his own friend group. Reduced to a whining, trembling mess beneath you. 

You reach between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around his cock again. He sobs at the touch, forehead thunking forward against your collarbone. “Please, please,” he whispers, voice shaking so hard it cracks. “I need it, I need you, I need—” 

“Shhh,” you say softly, cutting him off. 

Your thumb brushes over the flushed head, smearing the precum down his shaft as his thighs twitch under you. You guide him to your entrance, sinking down slowly. The stretch burns and he’s not even all the way in, but the way he chokes on his moan makes the discomfort worth it. 

His hands fly to your waist, gripping hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Fuck, oh fuck, oh my god,” he gasps, eyes wide and shining in the dim firelight. “You feel—fuck—better than I ever imagined.” 

You roll your hips experimentally, feeling him twitch inside you. He’s thick, not huge, but big enough to make your eyes flutter shut as he fills you completely. 

“God, please,” he whines, thrusting up helplessly. “Let me, let me fuck you, please, I need to—” 

You slap your hand over his mouth again, silencing his desperate noises as you start to move. The couch creaks beneath you with every bounce, the springs whining under your combined weight. “Shut up, for fucks sake,” you hiss. “You want everyone to wake up and see what a pathetic little perv you are?” You spit. “Hearing about how you touch yourself to me, how you’re a fucking weirdo, going through my underwear, tellin' me how you wanna see me crying... making all those stupid, stupid jokes?”

He moans against your palm, eyes rolling back, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s holding on for dear life. His hips jerk up into yours in sloppy, uncoordinated thrusts, chasing the tight heat of your cunt like an animal. 

Tears are brimming in his eyes now, lashes wet and clumped together as he looks up at you like you’re the fucking messiah. 

“Shit. Shit. Fuck. I’m- Gonna cum—” he tries to say against your hand, voice muffled and broken. 

“Already?” you mock, leaning in close so your lips brush his ear. “God, you’re fucking useless.” 

That does it. His whole body seizes under you, back arching off the loveseat as he cums with a choked, pathetic sob. Hot, wet pulses fill you as his hips keep twitching, his entire body trembling like he might collapse if you let go of him. 

You don’t stop moving. You keep grinding down onto him, ignoring his whimpers of overstimulation, using his cock for your own pleasure. His eyes roll back, mouth open in a silent moan as his hips jerk involuntarily. He hits just the right spot, and you quickly move to shove your lips against his, moaning into his mouth to quiet yourself.

“Fuck, fuck,” you mumble, your stomach tightening dangerously. The heat coils low in your gut as you ride him harder, his cock stretching you open, every inch filthy and overwhelming. “Do you have any idea—” 

Your words cut off with a sharp whimper when his hands come up to your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples, sending electric shocks down your spine. He looks up at you like you’re god, eyes glazed, mouth falling open before he leans in, kissing across your chest, lips hot and wet as he wraps them around your nipple, sucking hard. 

“Any idea how… humiliating this is?” you pant out, voice trembling, breath coming in ragged gasps as you bounce in his lap, the slap of skin on skin echoing faintly over the crackle of the dying fire. 

He moans against your chest, tongue flicking over your nipple, drool and spit mixing with his feverish kisses. His eyes flick up to yours, pupils blown wide, glassy with tears from sheer sensory overload. He doesn’t stop. His hands squeeze your breasts tighter, thumbs brushing insistently as his hips buck up, desperate for more. 

“Have any idea how… if I was to tell anyone that I fucked—” you gasp, voice rising, heat building faster and faster, “fucking Josh Washington—” 

He groans at the sound of his name falling from your lips like that, filthy and ruined. 

“They’d think I’m a fucking weirdo,” you spit out, words dissolving into a breathy moan as he sucks your other nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing it just enough to make your hips stutter against him. “Oh—fuck, fuck, right there, fuck.” 

He stops for a moment, head falling back against the couch with a low, broken groan as your cunt clenches around him.

“Shit,” he breathes, staring down at where you’re joined, at the slick mess dripping down his cock, at the way you’re swallowing him whole with every desperate thrust. 

Your stomach tightens one final time before the coil snaps, pleasure exploding behind your eyes as you come with a shaking, choked moan. You bury your face in his shoulder, teeth sinking into the material of his hoodie, biting down hard enough to feel the sting in your jaw. 

He fucks up into you slowly, grinding his cock deep inside, moaning into your hair, his hands trembling against your ribs as he tries to hold himself back. When your orgasm fades, you lift your head slightly, breathing ragged, sweat dripping down your chest. Between your legs is a ruin of slick and cum, his cock twitching still inside you as your walls spasm around him weakly. 

Both of you look down at the mess, panting, the obscene sight making your stomach twist in disgust and reluctant satisfaction. “Fuck,” you mutter to yourself, a brief hit of clarity slicing through the haze, shame coiling around your throat like a chokehold. 

A few minutes pass in silence, only the sound of the dying fire flickering across the room, painting shadows across his ruined, flushed face. You gently pull yourself off of him, sitting besides him now, bare as ever. You lean over, grabbing your bra and hoodie.

Then, Josh chuckles. Quiet. Low. Almost thoughtful. His eyes stay fixed on yours as a twisted smile curls up at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe you are,” he says softly, voice raw, trembling with exhausted lust. 

Your brows furrow, confusion slicing through your afterglow as you reach for your bra, hooking it back around your chest with trembling fingers. “What?”

Josh just grins wider at your confusion, tongue darting out to wet his lips, eyes dark and glossy with exhaustion and something sharper. Something almost triumphant. He tucks his cock away slowly, hissing a little at the sensitivity, before leaning forward to grab your shorts from the floor, holding them out to you.

“Maybe you are a fucking weirdo,” he whispers, voice low and hoarse, “for wanting someone like me.” 

You blink, staring at him, feeling your chest tighten with something hot and shameful. He holds your shorts out closer, wiggling them teasingly between his fingers before letting out a quiet, broken laugh. 

“But… that’s kinda what makes you so fuckin’ hot, isn’t it?” he murmurs. “You could have any guy here, but… here you are.” He shakes his head, a breathy, disbelieving chuckle leaving his lips. “Here you fuckin’ are.” 

You snatch your shorts from his hand, cheeks burning. But you notice immediately—he’s handed them to you without your panties. You glance at the floor, searching, but he just raises his brows innocently, that twitchy smirk returning as he reaches down to his hoodie pocket, shoving the bunched-up cotton inside. 

“Don’t worry about those,” he mutters, voice smug, self-satisfied. “Souvenir.” 

Your mouth falls open slightly, rage and disgust flashing hot through your veins, but he just leans back against the couch, arms spreading lazily along the backrest, watching you with half-lidded eyes as you pull on your shorts, maybe accepting your fate a little too quickly. 

“This is a one-time thing,” you bite out, voice trembling with leftover adrenaline. 

Your hands feel clumsy as you tug your hoodie back over your head, trying to ignore the way his gaze devours the sight of you dressing. He tilts his head at that, studying you with a dark curiosity. 

“Yeah?” he hums, tongue flicking out again to wet his cracked lips. “You sure about that?” 

You glare at him, chest heaving, heart pounding so loud you’re surprised he can’t hear it. “Don’t push it, Josh.” 

For a second, something flickers behind his eyes—something almost genuine, raw, stripped of all his usual sleazy bravado. His lips twitch upwards into a broken smile, eyes softening as he watches you adjust your hoodie. 

“Hey,” he says softly, voice barely above a whisper. “I… I won’t tell anyone. Ever. You know that, right?” 

Your jaw clenches. You don’t answer, refusing to give him even that sliver of reassurance he craves.

You just turn away, stepping over empty beer bottles and discarded blankets as you leave him sitting there, panting quietly in the firelit dark, your panties hidden away in his pocket like a trophy. 

And as you step into the silent hallway, your chest tightens with something sickening and warm, something that makes your skin crawl—

Because you know he’s right. 

Not in a hygienic way. No, he showers—probably too often, given how his skin always looks stretched tight over his cheekbones, shiny and a little raw, like he scrubs himself bloody each morning to peel away whatever filth clings to him from the night before.

And his hair, while thick and styled with cheap gel that flakes off onto his shoulders, still somehow reeks of expensive cologne. The type that burns your nostrils with its sharp, synthetic sweetness, clashing horribly with the stale tang of sweat that seeps through by midday.

No, gross in the way he looks at you.

His gaze is… devouring. 

Like he’s trying to imagine exactly what you’d look like stripped bare, mouth parted, eyes wet—like he’s undressing you in his mind and finding ways to ruin you all at once.

His eyes dart over your body too fast, greedy, like he doesn’t want anyone else to notice what he’s doing but he also can’t control it. 

And when your eyes accidentally meet, he always smirks. That horrible, twitchy smirk that never reaches his eyes, his tongue running across his bottom lip as if tasting something only he can see.

Your friends noticed it immediately.

The first time he stumbled over to your group at a house party, a few beers deep, pupils blown wide and glassy, that grin split his face so wide it almost looked painful.

“Ladies,” he slurred, his voice thick with booze and something else, something sticky and leering, “what’s going on over here, huh? Talking about me?”

“Fuck off.” You snapped at him immediately.

You remember your immediate eye roll, how it only seemed to spur him on. His eyes snapped to you, laser-focused, pupils twitching like he couldn’t keep them still.

He let out a short, barking laugh, leaning closer, his free hand coming up to clumsily fix his fringe before it fell right back into his eyes.

“Or are we talking about you tonight?” he drawled, swaying forward so close you could smell the stale beer and cheap cologne mixing with his sweat. “God, you look—fuck— you know you look good, right? You’re like… fuckin’ dangerous.” He hiccuped, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re… Sam’s little pal, yeah? Bet she doesn’t even know what to do with you.”

You scoffed, looking away, refusing to give him the reaction he wanted. “Fuck. Off.”

But he didn’t. His gaze dropped to your chest, lingering there like he was etching every inch into memory, then dragged lower with a grossly audible sigh. He licked his lips, slow and deliberate, before leaning in, his mouth brushing your ear as he whispered, voice trembling with cocky desperation, “Bet you taste even better than you look, huh? Fuck… I’d ruin you.”

Then, like nothing happened, he snapped upright with that manic, boyish grin plastered back onto his face, eyes flicking around the group, manic energy radiating off him. “Anyway—who’s getting me another drink? I’m fuckin’ parched.”

He watched your reaction with a flicker of dark amusement, eyes narrowing slightly as his grin widened. It was like he was cataloguing every tiny twitch of disgust on your face, savouring it. 

But what really caught his attention—what made his pupils darken with something greedy and almost triumphant—was how you didn’t tell him to fuck off this time.

You just stood there, glaring, lips pressed tight, shoulders tense. 

And he liked that. He liked it way too much.

Chris had to drag him away by the elbow, muttering an apology under his breath as Josh twisted to keep staring at you, his eyes unfocused but hungry, like a stray dog seeing scraps.

As soon as he left, your friends circled up, wide-eyed.

 “Oh my god, what was that?” one asked, laughing nervously. “What’d he say to you?”

“Where do men get the audacity?” another chimed in, rolling her eyes. “He’s so gross.” 

Then they turned to you, eyebrows raised. “Did you see the way he was looking at you? Like he wanted to… I don’t even know. Eat you alive or something.” 

“Literally. He gives me the creeps,” one friend shuddered, sipping her drink. “Did you hear what he said to Anna last week? Told her she ‘looked like a pornstar from the nineties, in a hot way’. Who even says that?” 

“Ugh, remember when he asked Sarah if her boobs were real? At brunch? In front of everyone? He’s disgusting. You'd think all that money, he'd have some manners.” 

You just laughed along with them, cheeks burning, ignoring the way your stomach twisted at the thought of him wanting to ‘eat you alive’. 

Another time you’d mentioned to Sam offhand that you were cramping badly, and Josh, overhearing from across the kitchen, piped up: “That’s kinda hot though. Like… primal or some shit.”

You’d gagged into your cereal bowl.

Men like him have always existed.

Too cocky for their own good, a little unhinged, but never quite dangerous enough for anyone to actually cut them off. The type who toes the line with crude jokes and lingering touches, only to grin and apologise with that manic glint in his eyes, and somehow everyone just lets it slide. 

He’s funny, or at least loud enough to pass for it.

Charismatic in that slippery, suffocating way that keeps him invited to every party you go to, keeps him perched at the edge of every group dinner, leaning back with his arms spread across the seat like he owns the world. 

But it’s the way he looks at you that makes your skin crawl.

His gaze turns dark when it lands on you—hungry, feverish, like he wants to peel you open and crawl inside, nestle there and never leave. Like he wants to keep you all to himself, hidden away beneath his fingernails and teeth. 

And he never tries to hide it.

Not at parties. Not in the warm candlelight glow of a crowded dinner table. Not when you’re laughing with friends and feel his stare burn across your throat like a brand. 

You always catch it. 

The way his eyes slid over your body like oil, lingering a bit too long on your chest, your thighs, lips parted just slightly like he was already picturing what they’d feel like wrapped around him. 

He’s touchy, too.

Always brushing past you when there’s plenty of room, his palm hot against your lower back as you walk through a crowd. When he compliments a dress or shirt you’re wearing, he just has to know what it feels like, running his fingers over the material, dragging them across your skin beneath it if he can, even when your face scrunches up in disgust and your friends’ jaws drop at the sheer audacity of Josh.

The worst part is… you never really discourage him. You just roll your eyes, mumble a half-hearted “Stop it, Josh,” and move on. You never actually push him away when his hands settle near your midriff or drift up towards your collarbone, fingers gripping at the fabric like he wants to rip it away.

He’s just one of those guys.

He laughs too loud – breathy and obnoxious, echoing through the room.

He says things that are just a bit too sexual, even to his other female friends like Jess or Ashley, little comments that make them shift uncomfortably closer to their boyfriends, which he loves doing in front of them.

He jokes too much about wanting to roleplay or choke someone out, watching your face closely after he says it, eyes dark and mouth curled up in that stupid smirk.

He messages you at 3am, “u up? ❤️,” and when you don’t respond, he sends another. And another. 

Sometimes you wonder why he’s like that. 

His sisters seem totally normal – Hannah’s a bit naïve, sure, and Beth can be firm when she needs to be, but they’re normal. They’re just too rich for their own good. Their parents stopped caring a long time ago.

And Josh… Josh fucking loves that mountain lodge they own. He’s always talking about it, about how quiet it is up there, alone in the snow, how you could scream and no one would hear. 

He once told you, straight-faced, “You’d look so fucking hot crying. Like, properly sobbing. Bet your mascara would run all down your face.”

It wasn’t even during an argument, or after a joke, or anything that might have excused it. You’d just been sitting there on the back deck, scrolling through your phone as he smoked, the fading sun casting gold across the lake.

You hadn’t even been talking to him. You’d just sighed quietly to yourself at some sad video, blinking fast to keep your eyes from watering.

Josh exhaled a cloud of smoke, eyes locked on your face, studying every little twitch of your expression. Then he said it. Calm. Flat. Like an observation about the weather.

You looked up sharply, heart stuttering in your chest. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” you whispered, disgust curling thick and heavy in your throat.

He just smirked wider, tongue flicking across his bottom lip as his gaze flicked down your face, lingering at your mouth. “Nothing,” he said softly, almost to himself. “Absolutely nothing at all.”

Then he stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and walked back inside, leaving you there with your pulse pounding in your temples, your skin crawling so violently it felt like you might scratch it all off just to be clean again.

He’s pathetic. He’s gross. Weird. Perverted.

Which is exactly why nobody could know.

It happened at the lodge, of course. Where else would it happen? 

Just a winter getaway, late January. You’d come up with Sam, your duffel bag stuffed with sweaters and thick socks, expecting nothing more than hot cocoa, card games, and maybe a freezing dip in the lake for bragging rights. 

Josh called while you were halfway up the mountain road, the icy trees blurring past outside. The moment he heard your voice crackling through the car speakers, you swear he nearly came right then and there. 

“Fuck, yeah. Fuck. Yeah.” His breathing was ragged over the line, like he’d been running or… something else. “You’re gonna have the time of your life, babe, I swear. I’ve told you about how q—” 

“—I know, Josh. It’s quiet. Shut up now,” you snapped, cutting him off before his filthy mouth could say something else that would make Sam roll his eyes in disgust.

Too late, she was gagging at the ‘babe’ of it all.

Josh just laughed. That low, manic, bubbling laugh that always made your stomach twist, equal parts revulsion and dread. He was never put off by your impatience.

If anything, it only spurred him on. 

“God, you’re such a little bitch sometimes,” he chuckled, voice dropping low, filthy, almost fond. “Gonna be a fun weekend.”

“Watch it, Josh,” Sam remarked. “Seriously, she’s my friend, stop acting all… you.”

“She doesn’t mind, do you babe?”

“Fuck off,” Is all you say.

It started earlier that night.

You’re rummaging through your duffel bag looking for clean socks when you notice your folded underwear sitting a little off from how you packed them. Your stomach clenches cold. The lace is twisted around itself in a way you know you didn’t leave it. Wrinkled. Handled.

You frown, fingers brushing over the cotton, then glance up to see Josh standing in the doorway.

Watching.

He smiles slowly, eyes flicking down to your open bag before meeting yours again. His gaze is glassy, hungry, lips parted just slightly like he’s been panting. You notice then the way his hand flexes at his side, fingers twitching like they’re aching to touch.

“Need any help unpacking?” he asks, voice syrupy sweet, but there’s a rasp to it, raw and shaky, like he’s been breathing heavy for a while.

Your skin crawls. “No,” you snap, shoving the bag closed, feeling your cheeks burn with disgust and something shameful under his stare.

But as you walk past him, his arm brushes yours. He leans in close enough that his breath fans hot over your ear, and under his deodorant and sweat you catch a faint, bitter tang that makes your stomach flip—like he’s been working himself up alone in the dark.

“Cute panties,” he whispers, so low you’re not sure you heard it right. But then he laughs, a quiet, broken little chuckle, and you know.

You push past him, heart hammering, bile rising in your throat. But even as you leave, you can feel it. His stupid fucking staring.

The cabin was warm and golden with firelight, flickering shadows making everyone look softer, prettier, a little drunker than they really were. You’d spent most of dinner ignoring Josh’s gaze burning into your side profile as you laughed at Mike’s stupid impressions. You felt it – every time you tilted your head back, his eyes dragged down your throat, your chest, your arms. Devouring. 

He barely spoke through dinner. Just watched. Picking at his food with trembling fingers, flicking glances around the table to keep up the pretence of normalcy, then dragging them back to you like gravity.

Afterwards, he and Chris set up beer pong, coaxing everyone to join in with drunken cheers and clumsy bravado.

“You play?” Josh asks as he gets one in.

You stood beside the table, sipping on a beer yourself. “Not really. Can’t aim for shit.”

“I’ll teach you. C’mon, it’s easy,” He insists, waving you to come closer.

You sigh, feeling the glances of Emily and Jess, both of whom have mightily advised you to stay away from Josh.

“He’s a sweet guy, like, we wouldn’t be friends with him if he was a total dick, right? But like, you can do so much better, girl.”

Despite it, you agree. He smiles as you step closer, taking the ping pong ball out of his hand.

“What? I just bounce it right in?”

“Yeah. Yeah. You just- alright, maybe pick a cup you wanna get it in.”

“Fine. Um. Third row from the front, second from the left.” 

“Good girl,” he says without thinking, voice low and hoarse. Your stomach clenches at that, unbidden. 

You glance up sharply, but he’s already moving to stand behind you, big clammy hands coming to rest on your hips. You tense. His thumbs press circles into the fabric of your hoodie, squeezing like he’s trying to memorise the shape of your bones beneath it.

“Okay, okay, relax,” he murmurs near your ear, breath hot and beer-sour. “Just… line it up. You wanna flick it, not throw it.” 

You can feel everyone’s eyes on you – Mike grinning drunkenly, Jess smirking, Emily rolling her eyes like she’s already written this scene off as pathetic.

But Josh doesn’t care, and maybe you don’t either. His entire body is pressed against yours now, his chest firm against your back. 

His fingers slide down from your hips to rest lightly on your thighs, the touch far too intimate for a party game. You feel him press in a little harder, the swell of his crotch flush against your ass, and you stiffen instinctively. 

“Josh,” you hiss under your breath, a light reprimand, but he just laughs quietly, his grip tightening like iron shackles. 

“Shh, babe, I’m just helping you aim,” he murmurs, voice dripping with fake innocence, though you can feel the twitch of his grin against your ear. “C’mon, focus for me.” 

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to raise your arm, wrist flicking as you send the ball flying in a clumsy arc. It hits the rim of your chosen cup and bounces out, clattering across the table. 

“Ah, so close,” Josh breathes, his fingers digging bruises into your thighs as he pulls you tighter against him. You feel him through the thin fabric of your leggings, and your cheeks burn with humiliation. 

He finally steps back, hands sliding back up to your waist, giving it a squeeze that makes you wriggle under him. “Good try. Keep going.”

You wriggle under the touch, shoving him off with your hip as best you can, glaring over your shoulder. But he’s already stepped back, watching you with that heavy-lidded stare, pupils blown wide, tongue flicking across his bottom lip like he’s tasting the moment.

You can’t believe you listen to him.

You do. You try again, shaking out your wrist, and he stays back this time, arms crossed over his chest. His hoodie sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, veins snaking down his forearms, hands twitching like he’s resisting the urge to touch you again. 

“Aim with your wrist, not your hand,” he mentions lazily, like it’s a casual afterthought, like he didn’t just grind himself against you in front of half your friends. 

“Fuck off,” you remind him flatly, eyes locked on the cup. But you take the advice anyway.

You flick your wrist, the ball arcs neatly, and lands directly in the cup you’d chosen before. 

Beer sloshes over the rim. Chris and Mike whoop, Ashley cheers, Emily claps sarcastically. 

“Babies first beer pong,” Jess teases, raising her cup to her lips. 

You smile despite yourself, feeling a flicker of pride, looking down at the ping pong table and shaking your head. Then you glance at Josh, expecting a cocky comment, and find him staring at you with an expression so intense it makes your stomach clench. 

You give him a small, reluctant smile, just a twitch of your lips. “Thanks, coach,” you mutter, sipping your beer to hide the flush in your cheeks. Then you add under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear: “Never touch me again, though.” 

He just grins at that, wide and twitchy and obscene, raising both hands like he’s surrendering to the cops. “Don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he says, voice thick with mock innocence. 

You roll your eyes, but there’s heat rising in your chest that you try to shove down, turning away before you can think too much about it. As you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, you catch Emily watching you from across the table, eyebrows raised, an amused, questioning smile curling at the corner of her mouth.

Your smirk fades instantly. You duck your head, focusing hard on your beer, willing the flush on your cheeks to cool down before anyone else notices.

You’ve always heard nothing good happens past midnight.

You’d have to agree.

You slept too much on the drive over, and now you’re wide awake, curled up on the loveseat as the fire burns low, dying phone in hand. Chris had nearly lit himself on fire trying to get the thing started earlier, and everyone had laughed until their ribs ached.

Now it’s quiet. Everyone else has drifted off to bed, sprawled out in spare rooms and on couches, bodies heavy with beer and whiskey and shots of something sweet Josh found in the back of the liquor cabinet.

You sobered up a while ago, nursing a wine, staring into the embers as they collapsed in on themselves. 

Almost everyone had gone to bed. 

You hear the footsteps before you see him. Heavy, uneven, like he’s dragging his feet across the polished wood floors just to let you know he’s coming. You don’t bother turning. You already know. 

Josh stumbles in from the kitchen, hoodie unzipped, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair sticking up in greasy tufts like he’s been tugging at it all night. Like he’s been pacing and thinking and pacing some more. 

When he sees you, his whole face changes. That stupid grin unfurls across his lips, slow and twitchy, his eyes going soft and dark all at once. Hungry. Lazy. Like he’s just come home to something warm and waiting.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he wonders. 

You don’t look up from your phone. “Nope.” 

He chuckles under his breath, moving closer, the floor creaking under his weight. “Yeah. Me neither.” 

He exhales a shaky sigh, like the sight of you actually calms him, shoulders dropping as he steps around the couch to stand in front of you. The shadows from the fire flicker across his face, catching on the sharp plane of his cheekbones, the wet gleam of his lips. He smells like sweat and cologne and stale beer. Overpowering. Cloying. 

For a moment he just… looks at you, stood between the couch and fireplace. Like he’s drinking in the sight, pupils blown wide, tongue darting out to wet his lips. You flick your gaze up at him, and his breath catches, chest hitching like you just punched the air out of his lungs. 

“Stop staring at me like that,” you mutter, voice flat, phone now of no interest to you.

He raises his hands again, surrendering. “Like what?”

“Josh…” You sigh, tired, rubbing at your eyes with the heel of your palm. The fire crackles behind him, shadows dancing across his sharp cheeks, making him look almost skeletal. Gaunt. Haunted.

Because he knows. He knows exactly how he looks at you. Everybody does. He finally drops it.

“Oh, come on,” he scoffs, but there’s no real bite behind it. His words are low, slurred at the edges, eyes flickering over your face with something like pleading. “I’m— I’m nothin’ but a gentleman to you, aren’t I?” His brows twitch together, mouth twisting into something sour. “I… I keep my distance. I deal with your attitude, don’t I?” He chuckles, but it’s hollow, wet at the end like he’s swallowing back something desperate.

You stare at him, brows drawn tight. He’s rambling, voice dropping to a whisper. 

“Can’t I just— can’t I just have one thing?”

You blame the wine for how you don’t stop him as he takes a slow step closer, like you’re his prey. Except he just watches.

“Is that alright with you?” He mumbles. “If you’re not… gonna give me what I want.”

You can’t help it. “What do you want?”

He scoffs a dry laugh at that and points at you like you’ve just told a hilarious joke. “The playing dumb thing is cute. Real cute, you know?” He chuckles to himself.

God, if your friends knew you were even entertaining this.

A beat of quiet goes by till he takes a seat in the empty spot next to you. He spreads his legs wide, knee bumping against yours. You curl more into yourself, tucking your foot up onto the seat, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands as you inhale sharply, staring into the fire with him.

Yeah. He’s fucking weird.

And just… crude, and touchy.

But maybe you’re touch-starved. Maybe your ex was too nice. Maybe you’re bored. But he wants you. He’s never not shown that. Not like the others, who flirt when it’s convenient, whose eyes flick away the moment they’re bored of the chase.

He looks at you like he’s starving. Like he’d gnaw his own arm off if it meant getting to touch you for a second. 

And maybe that’s why you ask him— 

“Why do you like me?” you whisper, voice almost lost beneath the crackle of the fire. You stare down at your lap, fingers fidgeting with the fraying ends of your sleeves. 

Josh almost doesn’t hear it. His glazed eyes remain fixed on the fire, flickering orange reflected in his blown pupils. For a second, you think he’s not going to answer. But then he exhales, a shaky sound that rattles his chest. 

“You’re hot,” he says flatly. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but before you can cut him off he keeps going, words tumbling out clumsy and unfiltered. 

“You’re… nice. Not always to me, n’ all, but that’s usually ‘cause I’ve got it comin’,” he chuckles, rubbing a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to hide his smile. “But I see you with Sam. With the others. You… I dunno. You care about stuff. About people. You’re funny. And you’re just so fuckin’ sexy, you know?” 

He lets out a low, breathy laugh, shaking his head slightly. It sounds almost disbelieving, like he can’t believe he’s saying this and you’re actually listening. His knee nudges yours again, firmer this time, like he can’t help himself. 

“I mean—fuck—you’re sittin’ here lookin’ like that, and you’re talkin’ to me, and… shit, dude,” he mumbles, voice going quiet at the end. His gaze finally drags over to you, eyes half-lidded and heavy with exhaustion and liquor and that same disgusting, obsessive hunger. “It’s like… I dunno. You make me fuckin’ crazy.” 

Your chest tightens, stomach twisting uncomfortably. It’s pathetic.

He’s pathetic.

But there’s a part of you—some small, rotting part buried deep in your chest—that feels something warm curl through your ribs at his words. At least he wants you. At least he’s obsessed. And that’s worth something. Even if he’s gross.

Which is exactly why you lean in without thinking, pressing your lips against his cheek. Your cheap red gloss leaves a faint smear on his sharp bone.

You watch him twitch at the contact, squirming under your gaze when you pull back, still close, your body fully angled towards him now. 

He turns his head to look at you, eyes wide, confused, silent. 

Good. He should shut up more often, you think. 

Before he can say anything, you lean in again.

This time, your lips press against his. Soft at first – he goes completely still, frozen in shock, before his mouth starts to move against yours, clumsy and desperate. You can feel how plush his lips are, how they part under yours like he’s starving for it. 

You kiss him deeper for just a second, tasting stale beer and mint gum, before pulling away abruptly, leaving him panting.

He stares at you like you’ve just handed him the meaning of life on a silver platter. Like he might genuinely explode if you touch him again. 

“You can’t tell anyone,” you murmur, voice low and firm. 

He nods so fast it’s pathetic. 

“Answer me,” you demand, eyes narrowing. 

“I-I won’t tell anyone,” he blurts out, voice breaking at the edges. 

“You promise?” Your hand slides up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing over the faint stubble there, almost tender. 

His eyes flutter half-shut, lips parting like he’s about to say something worshipful. But he hesitates. “Well–” 

You fist your fingers into his hair and yank, hard enough to make him gasp, his head tipping back, mouth falling open in a silent moan. “Promise me,” you repeat, your voice like steel. 

He’s breathing heavy now, chest rising and falling fast, but a shaky smile curls at the edge of his lips. “Yes, ma’am,” he breathes out, half joking, half ruined already.

You don’t remember how his mouth ended up on yours, chasing it like you would vanish into thin air. How his fingers found their way under your sweater, rough and trembling against the bare skin of your waist. How you climbed onto his lap, straddling him without thinking, knees digging into the ratty loveseat cushions on either side of his thighs. 

His hands clutched at your hips like he was scared you’d slip away. His touch was desperate – not tender, not considerate – just greedy, fingers digging in so tight you knew you’d bruise. You felt his cock straining against his sweats beneath you already, pathetic, hard just from a couple of kisses. 

“Fuck…” he whimpered into your mouth, his voice breaking pathetically as his tongue licked at your bottom lip, sloppy and uncoordinated. “Fuck, fuck… you’re… you’re so fucking hot, oh my god…” 

You pulled back slightly, just enough to watch his face. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon. Sweat beaded along his hairline despite the chill in the lounge.

He looked… kind of beautiful, in a filthy, trembling way. Like something that shouldn’t exist, and yet there it was, all yours.

You remember his little noises – those quiet, broken whimpers into your mouth – and the way he said your name like it was the only word he knew. 

“You’re a fucking dick,” You muttered softly, but your hips rolled down against him anyway, feeling the way he twitched beneath you, how his breath hitched in his throat. 

His hands slid up under your hoodie, rough palms skating over your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra. He looked like he might start crying from how overwhelmed he was, lips pink and swollen, gloss smeared across his mouth and chin. 

“I’ve dreamt about this,” he whispered, his voice wrecked. “You can call me whatever you want. Just… please… please keep going.” 

Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. 

You leaned in again, your mouth ghosting over his ear. “You’re such a fucking loser, Josh,” you whispered, your tongue darting out to lick the shell of his ear. 

He shivered violently beneath you, hips jerking up against yours involuntarily. “Yeah…” he breathed out, his hands sliding down to grip your ass, squeezing like he was trying to memorise the shape of it. “I don’t care… don’t fucking care…” 

You kissed him again, harder this time, biting down on his bottom lip until he let out a strangled groan into your mouth. His hips were grinding up into you now, desperate little thrusts that made your stomach twist with disgust and reluctant heat. 

Because at least he wanted you. At least he was obsessed. 

At least when his eyes rolled back and his hands shook against your skin, it was because of you. Only you. 

God, you’re pathetic.

His hands slip out from under your shirt, fumbling down to grab at your ass, squeezing rough and greedy as you kiss him harder.

You move his hand lower, guiding it yourself until his fingertips brush the waistband of your sleep shorts. He lets out a ragged little gasp at the contact, the sound muffled by your mouth, and you can feel him twitch beneath you, pathetic. 

You drag his hand under the thin cotton, down into your panties. He hesitates for half a second, almost like he’s overwhelmed, before his fingers slip lower and finally swipe through your folds. 

You break the kiss with a shaky inhale, your forehead dropping to rest against his as you feel him touch your core, wet and hot against his trembling fingers. His breath hitches, chest rising sharply under yours, and his eyes flutter between your flushed face and the sight of his hand buried under your shorts. 

“Fuck… you’re…” he starts, voice hoarse with disbelief as he feels just how wet you are. 

“Shut up,” you mutter quickly, cheeks burning with embarrassment. 

He just nods, swallowing hard, but his mouth won’t stay shut for long. “I’ve… I’ve thought about this for so fucking long, you know,” he rambles, his voice cracking at the edges with desperation. “I… fuck, I can’t believe this is real…”

You’re about to tell him to stop talking again, but then his thumb brushes your clit, light and tentative. Your hips jolt forward involuntarily, a moan slipping from your parted lips. His eyes flick back to your face, pupils blown wide, drinking in the way you scrunch your eyes shut and bite down on your bottom lip.

His thumb starts circling your clit, slow at first, as his fingers dip lower, teasing at your entrance but never pushing in. 

“I jack off to you all the time,” he breathes out, his voice low and trembling. “In the shower. In bed. Fuckin’— even in the bathroom at work sometimes… You’re like… you’re a fucking dream, you know that?” 

You let out a shaky exhale, pressing your face into his shoulder to muffle your noises when he finally sinks a finger inside you, crooking it experimentally. It’s rough and clumsy, nothing like how you touch yourself, but his fingers are thicker, reaching deeper, the stretch making your thighs quiver around his hips. 

He chuckles low in his chest, dark and filthy. “I’ve thought… fuck… thought about putting you in so many different positions,” he murmurs, curling his finger inside you just right, making your breath stutter. “Thought about your mouth around my dick. Thought about what kind of noises you’d make when I fuck you. Bet you sound so pretty, don’t you?” 

He thrusts the single finger slowly, and it’s not enough. Not even close. You reach back, grabbing his wrist, guiding his movements. “Lower,” you pant out, voice strained, “and… another.” 

His eyes roll back at your words, a guttural little whine escaping his throat as he obeys immediately, pressing a second finger in beside the first. You let out a choked moan, your back arching as he scissors them open, finding the spot that makes your thighs shake. 

“Fuck… fuck, look at you…” he whispers, voice shaking with reverence as he pumps his fingers deeper, thumb rubbing fast, messy circles over your clit. “So good for me… riding my fingers like that…” 

You move against him, grinding down desperately, chasing the feeling, your breath hitching with each thrust. His fingers fill you perfectly, curling just right, thumb flicking your clit faster. Your vision blurs at the edges.  “Right there, right there…” You mumble.

“I’ve thought about tying you up,” he mutters, ignoring your praise, his voice wrecked, eyes glued to your flushed face and parted lips. “Would you… would you let me do that? Hm? Tie you up, spread you open… fuck, I’d ruin you.” 

You let out a shaky breath, pretending like you’re ignoring his words, but the flush that spreads down your chest gives you away. You can’t even speak, can only nod weakly, your hips rolling faster, thighs trembling around him. 

“Fuck… fuck, that’s so hot,” he groans quietly, his fingers thrusting deeper, thumb relentless over your clit. “God… you’re gonna come for me, aren’t you? Gonna come all over my fingers… fuck, please… please, baby…”

“Shit, that’s so hot,” He exclaims quietly, watching as you ride on his fingers.

Your stomach coils tighter, heat building fast, his filthy words spurring you closer and closer as you ride his hand, desperate little whimpers muffled against his neck. His thumb is relentless over your clit, circles sloppy and fast, his two fingers thrusting deep inside you, curling up just right, stretching you open around him. 

“That’s it,” he breathes out shakily, his lips brushing your ear as his voice drops low, dark, possessive. “So good for me… making those pretty little noises… can’t let anyone hear, can you?” 

You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut as the coil in your stomach snaps tight. Your body clenches around his fingers, a broken sob tearing out of your throat despite how you bite down on his shoulder to muffle it.

The orgasm rips through you, hot and fast, your thighs trembling violently around his hips as you cum hard on his fingers, grinding down desperately as if you could drag out every last wave. 

“That’s it… good fucking girl,” he whispers raggedly, his breath shaking against your cheek as he keeps thrusting his fingers, slower now, helping you ride it out. 

You pant into his neck, your forehead pressed to the sweaty skin there, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Your whole body feels loose, trembling with aftershocks, but you’re hyper-aware of the way his cock is straining hard against his sweatpants beneath you, pressed snug between your soaked core and his stomach. 

Even through the fabric you can feel how hot and hard he is, twitching with every tiny shift of your hips. He lets out a strangled little whine when your hips shift involuntarily, rutting up against you with desperate need.

His hands grip at your ass, holding you tight against him, grinding up into your clothed crotch shamelessly as he pants into your hair. 

“Please…” he whimpers, his voice wrecked, needy and pathetic. “Please… need you so bad… please let me…” 

His forehead drops to your shoulder, lips parted against your skin as he ruts up against you again, cock throbbing hard under his sweats, leaving a wet patch where precum soaks through. His hands tighten on your hips, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s scared you’ll pull away. 

You can feel his chest heaving against yours, his whole body trembling with restraint as he keeps himself from flipping you over and taking what he wants.

Because he knows – he knows he has to wait for you to give it to him. 

And maybe that’s what makes this feel so fucking good. Knowing how desperate he is. How completely and utterly at your mercy he is right now, shaking beneath you like a dog begging for scraps.

Without warning, you spit quickly onto your palm, the wet heat slicking your skin. Your hand slides between you both, bold and unhesitating, slipping beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, then under his boxers, curling around the length of his cock. 

His mouth falls open, a ragged breath catching in his throat before it bursts into a long, desperate groan—too loud, too raw. You clamp your other hand swiftly over his mouth, fingers pressing firmly against his cheek. 

“Be quiet,” you hiss, voice low and sharp. “Or I’ll fucking leave you here.” 

You see the flicker of genuine horror cross his face at the thought, eyes wide and glassy. His body tenses, trembling under your touch. He nods quickly, swallowing hard behind your hand. 

Still, the soft, pitiful whimpers press against your palm as his lips press and bite lightly, nearly grazing your skin. You grip him tighter, thumb stroking up and down, moving slow and deliberate, letting him drown in the feeling while you hold the reins.

Your hand moves carefully, almost possessive—like you’re trying to tame something wild and broken beneath your touch. His body shudders against you, tense but craving, the heat radiating through the thin fabric of his sweats.

He’s barely holding himself together, that desperate, hungry edge never leaving his eyes, even though his lips stay pressed beneath your palm, muffling his ragged breaths and quiet whines. 

You can feel the frantic pulse beneath your fingers, the slick heat that speaks of him straining on the edge. You don’t want to drag this out any longer than it has to.

You want one thing and he’s already got you there once, which is already more than you expected. 

You just keep moving your hand, slow and steady, fingers tracing the line between pleasure and pain, between control and surrender. 

Suddenly, you pull your hands away, leaving him trembling and exposed beneath your touch. His cock presses hard against his stomach, eyes wide and glassy as he watches you, dumbfounded. 

Without hesitation, you shimmy down your shorts and panties, the fabric slipping to the floor with a soft thud. His breath hitches, a string of low, shocked curses escaping his lips like he can’t quite believe this is really happening. 

His hand rises hesitantly, replacing yours, fingers wrapping around his own aching length, moving in a slow, desperate rhythm as his gaze stays locked on you. 

“Can you, um—” He gestures awkwardly toward your hoodie, hesitation thick in his voice. 

You freeze, a flicker of doubt flashing through your mind. Stripped bare before him, while he remains warm and clothed, the imbalance of power sharp as ever. But his eyes, burning with that twisted mixture of hunger and awe, drag you forward. 

With a reluctant breath, you tug off the hoodie, the cool air prickling your skin as you settle back onto his lap, careful to keep just enough distance to remind him this isn’t softness or tenderness—it’s control. 

He watches, hand moving faster now, slick with sweat, as you unclip your bra—revealing curves that have him practically swallowing his own breath. 

Your heart hammers loud in the stillness. Anyone could walk in at any moment. You pray the whiskey haze keeps the others oblivious, safe behind closed doors and heavy lids. 

“Holy shit,” he rasps, voice thick with disbelief and need. 

One hand never leaving his cock, the other tentatively reaching for your bare tits, fingers exploring, squeezing like he’s trying to memorise every inch. You shiver under the weight of his touch—equal parts revulsion and reluctant heat. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whimpers into your neck, voice ragged and wet. “You’re so fucking—god, you’re so warm, please, please let me—” 

You barely hear him. Your brain is cotton-wool fuzz, heat coiling tight in your stomach as you grip his hair, forcing him to look at you. His eyes roll back slightly, lids fluttering, mouth falling open in a silent moan as his hips jerk up again, desperate for friction, moving his hands to your waist, holding your back towards him.

“You’re pathetic.” you mutter, your voice flat, empty.

“Yeah,” he breathes, nodding into your grip, his fingers digging bruises into your hips.

You watch him for a second. Watch the way his chest heaves with each ragged breath, sweat dripping down his temples, gloss smeared across his swollen lips. You could almost laugh. This is Josh Washington. Rich kid. The Black Sheep, even in his own friend group. Reduced to a whining, trembling mess beneath you. 

You reach between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around his cock again. He sobs at the touch, forehead thunking forward against your collarbone. “Please, please,” he whispers, voice shaking so hard it cracks. “I need it, I need you, I need—” 

“Shhh,” you say softly, cutting him off. 

Your thumb brushes over the flushed head, smearing the precum down his shaft as his thighs twitch under you. You guide him to your entrance, sinking down slowly. The stretch burns and he’s not even all the way in, but the way he chokes on his moan makes the discomfort worth it. 

His hands fly to your waist, gripping hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Fuck, oh fuck, oh my god,” he gasps, eyes wide and shining in the dim firelight. “You feel—fuck—better than I ever imagined.” 

You roll your hips experimentally, feeling him twitch inside you. He’s thick, not huge, but big enough to make your eyes flutter shut as he fills you completely. 

“God, please,” he whines, thrusting up helplessly. “Let me, let me fuck you, please, I need to—” 

You slap your hand over his mouth again, silencing his desperate noises as you start to move. The couch creaks beneath you with every bounce, the springs whining under your combined weight. “Shut up, for fucks sake,” you hiss. “You want everyone to wake up and see what a pathetic little perv you are?” You spit. “Hearing about how you touch yourself to me, how you’re a fucking weirdo, going through my underwear, tellin' me how you wanna see me crying... making all those stupid, stupid jokes?”

He moans against your palm, eyes rolling back, fingers digging into your flesh like he’s holding on for dear life. His hips jerk up into yours in sloppy, uncoordinated thrusts, chasing the tight heat of your cunt like an animal. 

Tears are brimming in his eyes now, lashes wet and clumped together as he looks up at you like you’re the fucking messiah. 

“Shit. Shit. Fuck. I’m- Gonna cum—” he tries to say against your hand, voice muffled and broken. 

“Already?” you mock, leaning in close so your lips brush his ear. “God, you’re fucking useless.” 

That does it. His whole body seizes under you, back arching off the loveseat as he cums with a choked, pathetic sob. Hot, wet pulses fill you as his hips keep twitching, his entire body trembling like he might collapse if you let go of him. 

You don’t stop moving. You keep grinding down onto him, ignoring his whimpers of overstimulation, using his cock for your own pleasure. His eyes roll back, mouth open in a silent moan as his hips jerk involuntarily. He hits just the right spot, and you quickly move to shove your lips against his, moaning into his mouth to quiet yourself.

“Fuck, fuck,” you mumble, your stomach tightening dangerously. The heat coils low in your gut as you ride him harder, his cock stretching you open, every inch filthy and overwhelming. “Do you have any idea—” 

Your words cut off with a sharp whimper when his hands come up to your tits, thumbs brushing over your nipples, sending electric shocks down your spine. He looks up at you like you’re god, eyes glazed, mouth falling open before he leans in, kissing across your chest, lips hot and wet as he wraps them around your nipple, sucking hard. 

“Any idea how… humiliating this is?” you pant out, voice trembling, breath coming in ragged gasps as you bounce in his lap, the slap of skin on skin echoing faintly over the crackle of the dying fire. 

He moans against your chest, tongue flicking over your nipple, drool and spit mixing with his feverish kisses. His eyes flick up to yours, pupils blown wide, glassy with tears from sheer sensory overload. He doesn’t stop. His hands squeeze your breasts tighter, thumbs brushing insistently as his hips buck up, desperate for more. 

“Have any idea how… if I was to tell anyone that I fucked—” you gasp, voice rising, heat building faster and faster, “fucking Josh Washington—” 

He groans at the sound of his name falling from your lips like that, filthy and ruined. 

“They’d think I’m a fucking weirdo,” you spit out, words dissolving into a breathy moan as he sucks your other nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing it just enough to make your hips stutter against him. “Oh—fuck, fuck, right there, fuck.” 

He stops for a moment, head falling back against the couch with a low, broken groan as your cunt clenches around him.

“Shit,” he breathes, staring down at where you’re joined, at the slick mess dripping down his cock, at the way you’re swallowing him whole with every desperate thrust. 

Your stomach tightens one final time before the coil snaps, pleasure exploding behind your eyes as you come with a shaking, choked moan. You bury your face in his shoulder, teeth sinking into the material of his hoodie, biting down hard enough to feel the sting in your jaw. 

He fucks up into you slowly, grinding his cock deep inside, moaning into your hair, his hands trembling against your ribs as he tries to hold himself back. When your orgasm fades, you lift your head slightly, breathing ragged, sweat dripping down your chest. Between your legs is a ruin of slick and cum, his cock twitching still inside you as your walls spasm around him weakly. 

Both of you look down at the mess, panting, the obscene sight making your stomach twist in disgust and reluctant satisfaction. “Fuck,” you mutter to yourself, a brief hit of clarity slicing through the haze, shame coiling around your throat like a chokehold. 

A few minutes pass in silence, only the sound of the dying fire flickering across the room, painting shadows across his ruined, flushed face. You gently pull yourself off of him, sitting besides him now, bare as ever. You lean over, grabbing your bra and hoodie.

Then, Josh chuckles. Quiet. Low. Almost thoughtful. His eyes stay fixed on yours as a twisted smile curls up at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe you are,” he says softly, voice raw, trembling with exhausted lust. 

Your brows furrow, confusion slicing through your afterglow as you reach for your bra, hooking it back around your chest with trembling fingers. “What?”

Josh just grins wider at your confusion, tongue darting out to wet his lips, eyes dark and glossy with exhaustion and something sharper. Something almost triumphant. He tucks his cock away slowly, hissing a little at the sensitivity, before leaning forward to grab your shorts from the floor, holding them out to you.

“Maybe you are a fucking weirdo,” he whispers, voice low and hoarse, “for wanting someone like me.” 

You blink, staring at him, feeling your chest tighten with something hot and shameful. He holds your shorts out closer, wiggling them teasingly between his fingers before letting out a quiet, broken laugh. 

“But… that’s kinda what makes you so fuckin’ hot, isn’t it?” he murmurs. “You could have any guy here, but… here you are.” He shakes his head, a breathy, disbelieving chuckle leaving his lips. “Here you fuckin’ are.” 

You snatch your shorts from his hand, cheeks burning. But you notice immediately—he’s handed them to you without your panties. You glance at the floor, searching, but he just raises his brows innocently, that twitchy smirk returning as he reaches down to his hoodie pocket, shoving the bunched-up cotton inside. 

“Don’t worry about those,” he mutters, voice smug, self-satisfied. “Souvenir.” 

Your mouth falls open slightly, rage and disgust flashing hot through your veins, but he just leans back against the couch, arms spreading lazily along the backrest, watching you with half-lidded eyes as you pull on your shorts, maybe accepting your fate a little too quickly. 

“This is a one-time thing,” you bite out, voice trembling with leftover adrenaline. 

Your hands feel clumsy as you tug your hoodie back over your head, trying to ignore the way his gaze devours the sight of you dressing. He tilts his head at that, studying you with a dark curiosity. 

“Yeah?” he hums, tongue flicking out again to wet his cracked lips. “You sure about that?” 

You glare at him, chest heaving, heart pounding so loud you’re surprised he can’t hear it. “Don’t push it, Josh.” 

For a second, something flickers behind his eyes—something almost genuine, raw, stripped of all his usual sleazy bravado. His lips twitch upwards into a broken smile, eyes softening as he watches you adjust your hoodie. 

“Hey,” he says softly, voice barely above a whisper. “I… I won’t tell anyone. Ever. You know that, right?” 

Your jaw clenches. You don’t answer, refusing to give him even that sliver of reassurance he craves.

You just turn away, stepping over empty beer bottles and discarded blankets as you leave him sitting there, panting quietly in the firelit dark, your panties hidden away in his pocket like a trophy. 

And as you step into the silent hallway, your chest tightens with something sickening and warm, something that makes your skin crawl—

Because you know he’s right. 

he wasn't your boyfriend but he'd kissed you on a number of occasions. he's not your boyfriend but he kissed below your panties too.

you didn't seem to care much about the whole 'boyfriend' title. besides, everyone in alexandria seemed to know that you were his and he was yours, perhaps they even knew before you two did.

"i'll see you two in the morning." rick grimes, carl's father stood in the doorway. lately, you couldn't seem to look him in the eye. perhaps that had something to do with the fact that last night, his son's hand was down your pants and the night before that, it was up your skirt.

it seemed like you weren't the only one who couldn't stop thinking about it, carl couldn't seem to keep his hands to himself.

"night dad." carl pretended to be uninterested, flicking about a comic book in his hands.

"goodnight, rick." you and carl's sleepovers were becoming much more of a regular thing. rick said nothing but he looked at you with this certain smirk that made you think he knew everything and that was pretty scary.

you didn't get a second to think before the door was closed.

carl was swift in his movements. he discarded the comic book within seconds, tossing it onto the beside locker as he leaned over and pressed his lips on yours.

your eyes fluttered shut with the featherlight feeling, heavy breath falling through your nose. but carl didn't stop with just a kiss, slowly, the boy lowered your body so that your back was flat against the mattress of his bed and those god awful navy bedsheets.

for a moment, your mind went foggy. the pretty kiss of carl grimes was enough to have your head spinning but the sound of distant footsteps was enough to have you spinning all the way back to reality.

"carl." you mumbled in hesitance once his kisses reached the side of your jaw. though his name came out as more of a strangled breath than a word.

"mmhph." he hummed into your neck as he placed hot wet kisses against it, he was aching to kiss you further, to suck the supple skin of your collarbones. he'd showed you what a hickey was not too long ago but he was sure not to leave the evidence on your neck, per your request. you couldn't imagine trying to explain to maggie or glenn how you'd come back from carl's with a hickey on your neck.

"carl." as good as the feeling felt, you sucked in a breath and placed your dainty hands upon his shoulders. he stopped almost immediately, leaning over you to look at your face. "your whole family's here." you absentmindedly picked at the loose thread of his shirt. "they'll hear us."

carl's lips fell into this pitiful smirk. "yeah? well by all means, sweetheart, tell me to stop." you felt his knee buck slightly, rubbing against your clothed cunt that was covered merely by your panties and your pyjama trousers.

carl knew you too well.

matter of fact, carl knew your body too well.

you felt his hot breath against your neck and his lips reattatch to your skin, leaving a trail of sloppy kisses in his wake.

you couldn't help the scratching feeling in the back of your throat, the knawing knot in your stomach that had your hands pawing at his long sleeved shirt, it was difficult to stop when he was making you feel so good.

"carl..." you were in two minds, ask him to stop or ask him to keep going. you felt one of his hands trail down, the soft feeling of his fingers working against your pyjama bottoms, lowering them but not enough to show your panties.

you decided against asking him to stop.

besides, you trusted him. carl knew what was best for the both of you.

"please." you bucked your hips forward, feeling a longing for his fingers all over again. you couldn't get rid of the knawing feeling, his fingers pounding in and out of you, his tongue lapping up your juices and his voice whispering pretty things in your ear.

"yeah? want me to keep going?" you could only nod breathlessly at his words. "tell me how badly you want it, pretty girl."

didn't carl just love to hear you beg.

he'd gotten you to a point where he could mold you to whatever way he wanted you, and hearing you beg for him instead of imagining it in his own mind was something he'd never cease to adore. "please, carl, want it so bad―need it."

"poor girl." you knew his words were nothing short of mockery but you couldn't help but nod anyway. "jus' wants to be touched huh?"

all the while, your hand had attached itself around his wrist, leading it down to where you needed him. "please, carl."

you let out a breath of relief as his hand passed your panties, fingers gently circling your clit. "you're such a good girl, aren't you, using your manners 'n all?"

you felt him kiss against your cheek but all you could think about was his hand working magic against you. "uh huh." you breathed out.

"yeah, my good girl." you felt his fingers collect the wetness from your sopping hole, gently pushing them into it and watching as you gasped and writhed. "think you need something extra special tonight, hm?"

you nodded, half humming, half whimpering.

carl's fingers felt euphoric. after he had touched you the first time, you went straight home and tried to do the same over and over again. you tried to capture the same feeling he had given you but you couldn't do it, not without his hands and his voice whispering to you. which is exactly why you came back with fustrated bed head and teary eyes.

carl was more than happy to help his poor girl out.

all he wanted was for you to feel good.

like now, as your back arched against the mattress of his bed, warm and sticky juices coated his fingers that he pumped in and out of you, palm against your clit every time he brought it back.

"feel good, huh?" your nod was enough of an answer, cheeks hot and teeth piercing your bottom lip. "you're so good." and as badly as you wanted to whimper and whine, you restrained. you were well aware of the family in the room over, you couldn't help but let out a small noise from behind your closed lips.

perhaps this was exactly where carl wanted you.

your breath stuttered. "i―nghh." you tried to force the words out. that familiar feeling in the bottom of your stomach was knotting, you found it rather difficult to tell him you were close when you also felt so ecstatic.

that was the benefits of carl knowing your body so well.

"you're close, yeah?" he knew without you having to utter a word. he was leaning over you, close as your head lay near his shoulder, your heavy breaths in his ear. "'s okay, jus' say my name, baby."

unsure, you didn't give it a thought. instead, you breathed his name passed your lips. "carl." though it was more of a quiet whine than anything else.

"again, angel." his lips kissed against the nape of your neck, hearing your breaths get heavier.

"carl, hmph, carl―" you spoke his name like a prayer against your lips. all you could feel, all you could see, all you could think. carl.

the feeling of knowing that he was the only thing on your mind... well it was enough for carl himself.

"gonna cum?" he didn't leave much room for you to shake your head. instead you nodded quickly, needily. "yeah? cum all over my hand, sweetheart, that's it."

and you did exactly what he'd told you to.

you found your lips shoved against the shoulder of his top, silencing the whimpers that left your lips as your back arched and your hips bucked into his hand. with his pumping fingers and thumb that had reached up to your clit, helping you ride out your high... well it was almost impossible not to cum.

when it passed, you laid against the bed with heavy breaths falling from your lips.

he still kissed at your neck, gently nipping at the skin as he helped pull your shirt above your head.

you felt sort of dazed, almost dumb. carl always left you feeling like this. you followed his movements, pulling his own shirt above his head while his lips reattached to your own.

carl began pulling down his jeans and your hands reached out to his hips.

before you could touch him, though, his hands stopped you. "doin' something a little different tonight, okay baby?"

your confused face looked up at him but you didn't question it. instead, you nodded and allowed him to help you discard of your own pyjama pants, allowing him to trail your soaking panties off your frame, tossing them somewhere on the ground that no doubt would be gone by morning, you'd find him with a guilty but amused face as you searched high and low for them.

he began to pull down his boxers and you held your breath.

carl was big.

though, it were true that you hadn't really seen anyone before in the way you saw carl but you knew from the mere imprint of his jeans that he was bigger than quite a lot of others. not that you ever found yourself looking...

you'd seen him many times, touched him even but every time you saw him again it was like you'd forgotten all over again. he was obviously hard, judging by the way his dick stood out. your eyes trailed back up to his face, though he was already watching you, curiously.

you were stumped.

he'd stopped your hands before, not wanting you to touch him, he was doing things 'differently' but he seemed to know an abundance more than you because you couldn't think of anything else to do other than touch each other.

"carl, what are we―"

the boy cut you off with a gentle shushing. "jus' relax baby, trust me." you felt his gentle but large hands grasp at your thighs, pushing them upwards. you felt your sensitive but needy cunt jut forward while he placed both your legs flat against his chest.

this was certainly a position you'd never been in before.

you watched as he pressed gentle kisses against your ankles, a hand gently grasping your sock-covered foot.

you watched in anticipation, confusion and excitement. carl had a way of making you feel all those three at once.

he moved his hand back down to his dick, you held your breath as he rubbed up and down his shaft lining it up with your entrance. as his cock pressed against your sensitive clit, you whimpered, moving away slightly.

carl was quick to move you back. "i know, i know, you're all sensitive but you'll feel good okay? gonna make you feel good." you nodded hesitantly. "everything okay down there, huh?" he gently tapped against your head, bringing you back to reality.

you found it difficult not to hold your breath. "nervous." is all you managed to muster up. you'd both touched each other before but he'd never had you like this.

the way he leaned over you was sort of scary but he also gave you this loving gentleness that made you feel almost protected. "don't be, angel, 's just me." you nodded as his thumb ran down your cheek softly. "yeah? not nervous?"

of course it wasn't that easy, but you nodded anyway, feeling somewhat comforted.

"c'mere, you're gonna be in control too." you felt his larger hand grasp your own. he led it downwards and placed it on his practically throbbing cock. you felt bad for carrying this out, he was probably hurting. "might hurt a little bit, bunny, okay? but just give me a few minutes, make it feel so much better."

"okay." you voiced, shakily, dumbly. his hand was wrapped around yours which was wrapped around his dick. he helped you maneuver it towards your sopping wet hole and you felt his tip insert itself inside.

you let out a noise of slight pain. "i know, baby, 's gonna take a minute." he was being oh so lovely, as gently as he could as he pushed himself inside. he was almost at the end when his two hands came to grab at yours, pulling them flat above your head against the mattress. "'s gonna feel good."

as soon as carl pushed himself completely in, he was reminded to control himself.

his eyes fluttered shut. he'd been dreaming, fantasizing about this moment for too long. it took everything in him not to take you right there and then, fuck you into the mattress until there was nothing left of you. but he couldn't. your twisted up face was a reminder that while he was excited, he must take his time.

you were getting used to his length which was... a lot.

your own eyes were fluttering shut but they opened at the feeling of his dick leaving you, pulling out but just as you felt him almost leave, he rutted his hips right back in until his dick was fully inside again.

"fuck." he let out a grunt while you squeezed your face up with a noise.

you felt him move again, ready to slide out but your mind was too focused on the pain of it all. "carl, i don't―" you were cut off with an embarrassing moan as he pushed himself back inside.

suddenly, the pain feigned itself as pleasure.

the stinging stopped and you were met with a feeling you'd never quite felt before.

"there you go." his own breath was heavy as he repeated the action, this time quicker. "good girl, see 's not so bad?"

you could only nod with a moan. your eyes shut again and you willed your mouth closed.

carl began moving his hips rather quickly. all the running he'd been doing his whole life was finally beginning to pay off, his stamina was unheard of. you found yourself writhing beneath him, mouth almost sewn shut while he pushed in and out of you, his cock filling you up completely.

you began to get nervous, though. the sounds coming out of you were only going to get louder and the last thing you wanted to do was alert anyone downstairs what you and carl had been doing in his bedroom.

but like always, carl was ten steps ahead of you.

his hand entrapped both your hands above your head but he used his free one to trail downwards. you felt his hand move over your mouth, holding it closed while he pumped his dick in and out of you, watching as your eyes screwed shut in pleasure.

"oh, fuck, you're doin' so well, sweetheart." he did his best to keep up his praise, he loved watching your cheeks go pink and feeling your pussy tighten around his cock the minute the words 'good girl' left his lips. but it was hard to think of anything while being inside you.

your gummy walls kept him close, tightening around him. it was almost impossible to keep rutting in and out of you but he couldn't stop, he was like a starved man, addicted to your body. you were gushing at him, wetness creating a white creamy ring at the base of his cock.

your eyebrows were pinched, tears of only pleasure beginning to sting at your eyes.

he was leaning forward, one hand holding your wrists which so desperately wanted to throw themselves forward to paw at him. his other hand held itself tightly around your lips, your sounds were muffled against the skin but he kept his ear close, straining them to listen to the pretty sounds you could make.

you felt his entire weight on you and oddly enough, it made you impossibly more wet.

the feeling of him practically on top of you was surreal, you could feel the sheets beneath you go damp, you were making such a mess.

"'s right, angel, make a mess f'me, good girl." carl didn't seem to care. on the contrary, it was only motivating him further.

it was a sudden realization, he was fucking you. he'd been waiting for this moment for too long. it was everything he'd ever dreamed of. no, it was more.

a sharp cry from you was muffled by his hand but he knew what it meant. "someone's close again, huh?" you nodded so quickly, tears springing at your eyes while your mind seemed cloudy, blank even. you were gone completely and utterly dumb, you couldn't even think.

carl would be lying if he said he could last much longer.

he'd bathe in this feeling forever if he could but he could feel the knot in his stomach too, willing to unfold.

he was going to cum inside of you.

"fuck, that's it angel, doin' so good. wanna cum on my dick, huh?" his voice turned a little more high pitched, a neediness that you both shared, both searching for your highs. his lips quirked. "say please." he teased, knowing you couldn't utter a word.

you only whined against his hand, a whine telling him that you couldn't deal with his teasing, not now.

"come on, pretty, cum on my dick." and like every other time, you'd complied almost instantly.

he pushed his hand harshly against your mouth, roughly holding your head close to the mattress as he felt your walls squeeze against his length. you gushed, wetness pushing around his cock while he felt himself unfold at just the same time.

he fucked his cum into you as he rode out his high, curses and swears falling from his lips while your eyes rolled backwards, dumb and empty minded.

when he finished, all he could think was you.

"fuck." heavy breaths as his hands loosened against you, you took in heavy breaths as you could breathe again, his hand moving away and your wrists suddenly free. they fell on your waist, gently holding you so he could pull his dick free from your hole.

as he looked down, all he could see was both he and your cum mixing together, coating his dick and pouring out from your hole.

all he could say?

"holy fucking shit."

your shirt’s shoved up over your tits, bra tossed onto the bed, nipples sensitive from your own fingers, which keep toying and tugging no matter how many times he tells you to leave them alone. your skirt and panties are crumpled on the floor, forgotten when he told you to “be a good girl and open your legs for the person who does your homework.”

now you’re laid out across your twin bed with your knees pulled up and spread wide, your cunt glistening and twitching while remmick licks into you like he’s got all l night.

his voice is calm, even, like this is nothing new. “identify three structural consequences of the 1965 immigration and nationality act.”

your breath hitches. his tongue presses flat against your clit, unmoving. 

you blink hard, brain scrambling, tits rising and falling fast with every shaky inhale. you know this. you do. he helped you write your essay on it. “it—uh—it abolished national origin quotas,” you start, voice thin and high.

he hums in approval. “one.”

“uh—um—it increased immigration from asia and latin america,” you rush, fingers tightening in your sheets.

“two.” his tongue flicks once against your clit, slow and precise, like a reward. you moan softly.

you squeeze your tits tighter and gasp, “and it shifted the focus to family reunification and skilled labor preference—fuck—three.”

his tongue glides up through your folds and sucks at your clit just hard enough to make your back arch. “good girl,” he praises, low and smug, before flipping to the next card with one hand while the other grips your thigh.

“next question. compare the federal strategies used during reconstruction with those of the civil rights era in dismantling systemic white supremacy.”

you almost choke. “you’re such a fucking—”

smack.

his palm lands sharp on the outside of your thigh, making your whole body jolt.

“wrong answer format,” he says coolly, hand smoothing the spot he just popped. “start again.”

your cunt clenches around nothing, throbbing, already dripping down onto the sheets. you force your brain to work, even as he spreads your folds with his thumbs and blows softly over your clit.

“uh—reconstruction used occupation… amendments… the thirteenth—fourteenth—fifteenth—” the words crumble around a breathy gasp. “civil rights era was more… legislation… the acts… and people in the streets… cameras… protests…”

“mmm,” he muses, tongue trailing lazy patterns against your slit, his nose nudging your clit with every pass. “good comparative phrasing.”

“can i come now?” you whimper.

“nope,” he says easily. “i didn’t say synthesize. i said compare. keep going.”

you groan, nearly sobbing, hips squirming against his mouth. he flattens his tongue and holds you there with firm hands, licking through your folds as if he’s studying you now, soaking in the way you shake and moan and beg.

your orgasm builds sharp and fast, heat curling deep in your belly. you claw at your own chest now, pulling your nipples tight between your fingers, panting hard through your nose.

“remmick, please—”

“answer one more and you can come,” he says, voice muffled against your cunt.

“fucking—ask it,” you cry, thighs trembling around his shoulders.

he doesn’t miss a beat. “critique the historiographical debate surrounding the new deal’s effectiveness in alleviating systemic poverty.”

you blink through the haze, tears brimming, lips slick and raw from panting. “some say it helped… safety nets… federal expansion… others say it… kept things the same—oh my god—"

“there it is,” he grins against your clit, then devours it—flicking and sucking and grinding his mouth into you with no mercy.

you break.

your orgasm rips through you, toes curling, thighs clamping tight, a hot gush of slick spilling out against his face as your body trembles from the inside out. your hand flies to his hair, grippinng tight, your mouth dropped open in a silent cry as he keeps licking, pushing you past it, until you’re gasping for air and twitching from overstimulation.

when he finally pulls back, your cunt’s soaked and messy, your thighs shiny with spit and cum, your chest heaving. your chest rises and falls with every breath, your nipples still hard and throbbing in your hands.

remmick sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “history major,” he smirks. “tastes like extra credit.”

you’re still trying to blink straight when your phone buzzes beside your head.

you reach for it, limbs heavy, and flip it over.

baby 🏈 : do u remember the touchdown last night ??? 😁

baby 🏈 : coach said it might make highlight reel lol

your lip twitches.

remmick’s hand moves up your thigh again, thumb pressing lightly over your sensitive clit.

you don’t reply.

━ TAGLIST ˋ°•*⁀➷

“I miss the sweet taste of your nectar. I miss the smell off your cunt after you peak. The smell of your sweet cunt in the morning when I wake you with my tongue. The taste of you after a day in the hot sun of the reach where I have forbidden you to wash and the musk of your cunt overwhelms my senses. The taste and scent of you when I drop to my knees and bury myself between the soft plush of your thighs. I miss you my sweet wife, I miss your face, your voice and most of all your sweet scent.”

Ormund was never a sentimental man, never did he care for the idea of carrying objects meant to symbolise meaning or memory of a loved one. That was until he took you to wife, and suddenly the idea of keeping something to remind him of you filled him with complete and utter lust. And he supposed love but the mere thought of you made his blood pump and his cock grow hard.

You rarely parted from one another but when you did Ormund made sure to leave a part of him with you, whether a babe in your belly or some extravagant gift that had the envy of all the ladies of your court. And you always made sure to give your husband ample gifts in return. Weather a miniature of your naked form. Letters full of each and every thing you desired to do to him and he to you upon his return in excruciating detail. And he loved each gift you gave him, but his favourite kind was when you gifted him your small clothes.

The first time he had asked you had been hesitant. Not over the action of sending your small clothes, no Ormund often stole yours, whenever he would drop to his knees and burying himself under your skirts to lap at your cunt, your panties always ended up in the pockets of his doublet, where he would reach for them as the day went on sniffing them when the stresses of the day got to him.

But the idea of sending them, of them being intercepted or the men of the camp seeing your panties in your husbands hand as he sniffed them? That had made you hesitant. But ormund already kept a vile of your perfume to sniff when he felt like it, panties where not much different. At least that’s what he reassured.

So you had sent them, and he had sent them back you ruined and covered in his cum. The fabric torn from the endless rutting of his cock against the delicate fabric.

He had done that after three days apart. And now with this godsforksane war he had been parted from you for three moons. Three moons of lust filled letters, three moons of you depicting the most sinful of words on paper that would no doubt get your both exiled from old town and excommunicated from worshiping of the seven. Three moons before Ormund snapped and his requests grew into pure filith.

Panties where before you would wear them for perhaps an hour before rolling them in your letter to him and sending it away. Now ormund grew depraved in his requests.

Asking you not to bath for days, wearing the same pair of underwear each day before sending it to him. Begging you to touch yourself and coat your panties in your silk before gifting them to him. And you complied, even when your maids whispered about your lack of hygiene and the growing amount of underwear missing in your draws.

You cared not, not when your husband would detail exactly what your underwear was used for.

My dear wife,

I must thank you for the small clothes you gift me, for the it has allowed me to dream once more of you and to know what the musk of your cunt smells like.

The sweet aroma of your cunt fills me with undying lust my sweet wife. Dreams of you riding my face fill my slumber, as I lick and feast upon the delicious aroma of your small clothes. My hand fisting my cock as I imagine you riding my face with recklass abandon, my tounge fucking your cunt with a passion no man has ever known. I cum each night with your panties wrapped around my cock, wishing it was your cunt, wishing I was fucking into you and not the mattress if my tent. Each night when I sniff your panties, the husk of your cunt lingering even days after their arrival, each night I feast upon them with more hunger than a starved man.

I crave you and your cunt, I crave to sleep by your side, where my cock can rest and soften within your warmth. To fill you with my cock every moment of every day. I wish for you to ride my cock as I work through the endless paperwork that no doubt awaits me upon my return. I wish to stuff your mouth with my cock and fuck your full of my cum. I wish for you to ride my cock with your small clothes stuffed into my mouth, were all I can feel and taste is you.

I need you my sweet wife, I crave the very air your breath. I crave your cunt, your taste I crave you. Fucking my fist each night hardly compares to the warmth of your cunt. To the feel of your lips in my mouth, and your small clothes hardly replace the want that pumps from my heart down to my cock.

I write this with love and leave you the knowledge that I fuck my fist with your newest panties wrapped around my cock as I write this, staining them with my cum.

Though my love, my sweet wife, this shall be the last pair of panties you should need to send to me, the last time I wait days to smell the aroma of your cunt, to know that you wear the very panties I will demand to smell and taste upon my arrival.

I shall be home by weeks end, do not wash.

Yours, Ormund

Lyonel

With Lyonel I can imagine it going two ways. The first would be him stumbling across you in the arms of your lover, shock clear on his face until a loud laugh would fall from his lips before he would join you. Later he would tease you about it snd insist any future marital exploits include him aswell.

The second way I see it going for him is definitely more angst. Lyonel would not take kindly to you sleeping with another person. You are his and he doesn’t like to share. So I definitely imagine he would be angry and hurt. He’d want to know why you did it, if it was because of him or your own selfish or insecure reasons. If you said him, that you felt unsure of yourself with him, that you thought it best to cheat before he did. Well he would’ve 10x more hurt and make sure to show you he would’ve never hurt you as you did to him.

Lyonel would definitely struggle to forgive a lover, a wife I believe he would forgive eventually but it would take a lot of work and I feel like he is the type to hurt you back.

It would be a struggle to regain the trust you had before and a very hurtful journey but I believe eventually you would forgive him and he you.

Either way after getting caught he’d have the most possessive with you. He’d make you scream his name, edge you all night and only let you cum when you swear to never cheat again and that you belonged to him and only him.

Maekar

Maekar would be very angry. I do not see any situation where he would be okay with it. But he wouldn’t necessarily be angry at you, more himself.

Of course Maeker hates what you’ve done and seeks to understand why you’ve cheated on him. But growing up the youngest, in the shadow of all his brothers he would find blame in himself somehow.

He would believe he failed you as a husband, believe he was to cold or standoffish. That his reluctance to take a second wife would have driven you away before he ever truly got you. I don’t believe you would cheat after Maekar has stepped up and done his husbandly duty, it would definitely be early on in the marriage when he’s going through the “I don’t need another wife” so you cheating on him when he’s been nothing but cold and miserable, definitely gives him a reality check.

Now cheating is never okay so it’s something you have to work through to get her but he would definitely step up and be a better husband and you would definitely work to earn Maekars forgiveness. He never forgets a grievance eve if this one is understandable, he still needs to rebuild any trust he had with you.

Definitely would have some possessive sex once you’ve regained trust, he would only let you cum with his name on your lips. You wouldn’t be allowed to touch yourself, only he could touch you after that stunt. And if he so much as caught you looking at anyone with list you are being bent over and soaked until your name was red raw.

Baelor

Baelor would definitely struggle to understand why you had done it. He wouldn’t easily move on from it nor would he easily forgive. But he is definitely someone who would sit you down and make you explain what your reasoning is for it.

Honestly he wouldn’t be angry just disappointed. Maybe in himself but definitely in you. If it was because you felt neglected and alone, that his duties came first and you were never a priority. That touch was something you craved now he denied you, the realm denied you. So finding comfort and touch in someone else was your only solution.

I think in that case Baelor would understand. He would not forgive it, would help to find solution that could have and would work in further for you both.

He probably would have some possessive sex with you, though I believe he’d need you to show him that you did care about him, showing him love and working entirely in his pleasure as yours goes ignored. He wouldn’t touch you till you had earn this forgiveness.

Baelor

Baelor would be mad at his child being insulted and furious at them being attacked. But to him he has always seen a need to act judiciously. So despite his anger over your child being hurt he would want the offender to be tried and punished correctly.

But you, where he see a need for order and process you see a need to act.

One second you were beside him as he listened to the offender explain there actions the next rage festered in you and the dagger he kept at his side was missing and you were charging towards you child’s attack with the fury of the gods.

He would of course be concerned. Your rash decision had startled him. Worried him not only for you and fear of you getting harmed but the consequences of it.

He would hear you explain yourself, a soft sigh of disappointment on his lips but understanding on his face.

He too in angry at your child being hurt. But he would hate the rashness of the attack, hate that you forced yourself in danger from rage.

And though he understood “an eye for an eye” Baelor stood true in belief of a proper trial and would see it that if it ever happened again you would not do the same again.

Maekar

Makear would find the thing laughable. He is fiercely protective of his children and would no doubt do the same.

He would take his own revenge if you or his children were hurt.

So watching you raise a dagger, his dagger, to your child’s attacker, he is proud.

Though he would find the whole deal a joke, hence why he finds it laughable.

But he would do the same as you, would defend the honour of his children even if it meant taking the eye of a child. He see it’s as fair and though the image of you storming the halls, dagger in hand, he is proud and only scoffs when protests are heard too it.

Valarr

Valarr is shocked to say the least.

He like his father belives in proper order and judicial practices. So when he hears of your child’s injury and that another was to blame for it he calls a council to discuss the actions.

And you tired of hearing men treat your child’s attacker as if he were innocent, reach for your husbands dagger and march towards your child’s attacker.

Valarr is taken aback, shocked by your actions.

But he would also be worried he’d hate to see you harmed so would instantly march after you, pulling you back and holding you to him, whispering sweet nothings in your ear as the council agrees your child’s attacker is guilty.

He would after worlds make sure you never out yourself in harms way again, and make sure his dagger is always on the side opposite you.

Aerion

Aerion would be as angry as you. No one touches the blood of the dragon let alone hurts it.

In truth you beat him too it, attacking your child’s attacker with your full might.

And he just looks in with a proud smile, and if anyone where to pull you away he would knock the out cold and relish in the sight of his wife defending her kin.