Bad Reputation (Ain't Shit Series)

older art x younger black reader sugar daddy aspect... short lil smut included with breeding kink... art is grown and tired as ever but the most alive when he's with you.

older! art + younger black reader is something so sacred like. he's absolutely smitten by you, obsessed, and not shy about showing it. your laugh is like tinkling bells to him, and you laugh a lot. you're so innocent in the sense that you haven't been marked with the scar of age that mars your joie de vivre. each time you laugh, really laugh with the full force of your body, throwing your head back so your nose aligns with the stars, he just grins up at you in pure bliss.

you're so gentle with each other – when you're out walking together he always holds your hand, pulls you gently aside when a bike whizzes by. when he's tired after a day of training you straddle his lap on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around his neck and pressing your forehead to his, like you're trying to telecommunicate a feeling of calm. you never fight, at least not the way art used to in his past relationships. if you're upset about something, you listen to each other. you come to a compromise. you sleep on it and revisit it the next day with a fresh mind (but you never go to bed angry). he speaks to you in dulcet, crooning tones — "you okay honey?" "i know baby."

he buys you whatever you want. if you're out with him you might as well leave your wallet at home. art is your wallet. he knows it and doesn't even think twice about it. even when you do try to pay for something, he's already taken care of it or he's stepping in front of you wordlessly and tapping his card. if you want something, it's in your hands in a heartbeat, no matter how expensive. if you even mention a bag you’ve been eyeing, it’s at your doorstep the next day.

you've introduced him to so many new things aligning with your generation. sometimes it's hard not to feel like an old fogey, but he takes a genuine interest in filming your tiktoks, brainstorming instagram post captions, and rating movies on letterboxd with you. his latest favorite has been watching reels and tiktoks of wig installs with you. he's practically begging you to let him do your braid down. you settle on letting him do the voiceover for your grwm tiktoks instead. you even enrich his taste palate — he'd never had or heard of seafood boil before you and now slapping on a pair of plastic gloves and getting king crab legs is your favorite thing to do on date nights.

you've taken to your own nicknames for him — "artie", "pookie", "my love." the most curious one though, and possibly his favorite — is "baby daddy."

you'd said it one time casually in conversation after he bought you a dress you'd tried on in the airport before your flight to fiji, hugging him close at the register and doting on him,

"thank you baby daddy!"

he stills when he hears you say it, swipes his card wordlessly and heads out of the shop with you still clung to his hip. while you're sitting in the lounge at the airport, he suddenly needs clarification,

"baby daddy? doesn't that imply that... i'm the father of your children?"

"huh...?" you were occupied with your nails. you looked up at him, noting the slightly clouded expression on his face. "i mean, technically yeah. but it's just a cute pet name to me. why, do you not like it?"

"i like it," was all art said in reply, and you placed a big kiss on his cheek, snuggling into his neck.

later that night in the hotel room, you're pressed beneath art as he places practically all of his weight on top of you. his hips are rolling into yours, unforgivably deep and penetrating. you can feel the curvature of his body digging against you. he can feel the plush of your breasts and the sweat slicking between the two of you. you're moaning raucously into his ear, fingers combing through his hair, damp with sweat.

"i'm your baby daddy?" he questions, his mouth pressed against your ear. you whimper when you hear it from him, low and imploring, even though he knows you can't respond right now. he's fucking you too good and he knows it, knows when you've reached an unresponsive state while he fucks you into oblivion. "want me to pump you full of my fucking kids? feed your pussy my cum?"

you're pulsing around him like crazy the more he talks, and he pulls away just slightly so he can see your face. his eyes gazing into yours, he asks,

"hmm? you want that? you want me to get you pregnant?"

his thrusts grow sharper and quicker, and somehow deeper. you yelp at the pleasure, and nod vigorously as you throw your hand over your mouth.

"art," you can barely whisper. he nods, his jaw grit so hard it's visible through his cheeks.

"i know baby, i know. i wanna hear you say it. want you to cum around this cock while you say it."

your back arches off the bed as you squeal,

"fuck, daddy, yes! i want you to get me fucking pregnant, want you to fill this pussy up with your cum, please."

it's like that sends him into overdrive and he fucks you at a pace you didn't know was previously possible. you're shaking as he thrusts harshly into you, pulsating around his dick and squeezing him with a vice grip when you finally come.

art's head hangs when he feels you squeeze around him and his thrusts start to grow stuttered and sloppy as he whimpers your name,

"fuck, yn. make me come, yes."

as promised, he shoots ropes of cum inside of you. when you think he's done, there's still more, painting your insides and eventually oozing out of you. two slow, redeeming thrusts to keep it all inside of you, and he's finally slowly pulling out. the both of you watch as some of it drips out of you. art rushes to finger it back inside of your sensitive, sore pussy. but you have no complaints.

he collapses beside you and you immediately bury yourself into his side.

"so baby daddy does it for you, huh?" you giggle.

art sighs deeply, resting one hand on your shoulder and the other on his stomach. even he is in awe of himself. he takes a deep breath, trying to commit the memory of your pussy dripping with his cum to his mind,

"you could say that."

heyyy queen i js saw your workss & idk if u take requests but could you do a really REALLY obsessive eren with black readerrr?? 😭😭 your writing is really phenomenal too queen keep goinggg

You

Summary: You were his the moment he saw you. To you, it was fate that you met Eren, but to him? To him, everything was completely designed and manipulated by him. ۶ৎ Eren x black fem reader ۶ৎ

Context: Slight violence (Not to reader), reader is a single mother, stalking, obsessed Eren, emotional manipulation, unprotected sex, spying, missionary, doggy, cunnalings, oblivious reader, stripper, baby trapping

Babble; Hey girl, hope you like it x

Word count — 6.7k

The first time Eren saw you, he wasn’t even supposed to be there.

It was Connie’s birthday, a half-assed plan that led to a night full of neon lights, bass-heavy music, and the scent of liquor clinging to sweat-slicked skin. He wasn’t interested in the celebration, not really. But then, you walked onto the stage, and he lost the ability to focus on anything else.

You weren’t looking at him—you weren’t looking at anyone in particular—but that didn’t matter. Because from that moment on, you belonged to him.

He hadn’t planned on this. He wasn’t the kind of man to get distracted, let alone obsessed. But there you were, completely unaware that you had just changed the course of his life.

He came back the next night. And the next. And the next.

It’s pathetic—he knows that—but obsession is an ugly thing.

But Eren didn't mind being ugly for you.

At first, it was just about seeing you, memorising the way your body moved, watching the way other men watched you. But then, curiosity turned into something deeper, something darker.

Eren didn’t just want to watch you anymore. He wanted to know you.

So, he followed you home one night. Not too close, just enough to see where you lived. A small apartment on the outskirts of town, tucked between a laundromat and a corner store. He stayed outside for hours, wondering what you were doing inside. If you were alone. If you were thinking about him the way he thought about you.

Then he started digging.

He found out your real name, not just the stage one. Learned where you went to school, who your friends were. And then, one day, as he sat parked outside your apartment, he saw something that made his stomach twist.

A child.

A little girl, no older than three, holding your hand as you walked her up the steps.

Eren had never considered that you had something—someone—waiting for you. The thought made his blood run hot, his jaw tightening with something ugly and possessive.

But it didn’t change anything.

It just meant he had more to protect.

You huffed as you finally stepped off stage, rolling your shoulders to shake off the weight of another long shift. The night had been a successful one—money rained, hands reached, and men gawked. Same as always.

Sometimes, you hated yourself for it. Stripping for men who were married, engaged, or just too pathetic to go home to their girlfriends. Men who would rather throw money at you for a fleeting fantasy than put in the effort to love the women waiting for them.

But then, you remembered why you did it.

Your phone lit up the second you unlocked it, and the first thing you saw was a picture of your daughter grinning at the camera. A message from your sister followed right after.

She’s been out for hours; don’t worry, you can come get her in the morning.

You smiled, relief easing the tightness in your chest. You were a single mother, juggling work and school, and this was how you kept food on the table. Your friend Historia had been the one to convince you to try it, going on and on about the rich men who threw money at her just to watch her dance.

It was supposed to be temporary. A couple of nights, at most. But then nights turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and now you were one of the regulars' favorites.

Your gaze flickered down to the cash buried at your feet. You and the other girls were already counting your earnings for the night. Lately, you'd been raking in more than usual—not that you were complaining.

“And there you have it, folks—the best dancer out there,” Historia teased, nudging you with her shoulder.

You giggled, shoving her back. “Oh, come off it. There was a bachelor party tonight, and I did a lot of lap dances. It’s probably all from that.”

Historia hummed knowingly, looping her arm with yours as you both made your way out of the club. The bouncer nodded as you passed, and the two of you stepped into the cool night air, the scent of cigarette smoke and lingering cologne still clinging to your skin.

“I still don’t get why you park so far away,” you mused. “You do know we have parking, right?”

Historia scoffed. “Yeah, and if a guy sees what car I drive, he’ll be waiting for a ‘private lesson.’ I am not about to go to jail for killing some dude who can’t take no for an answer.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you walked her to her car. The streetlights flickered above you, casting shadows across the pavement.

By the time you started your own walk home, exhaustion clung to your bones, making every step heavier than the last. The streets were nearly empty, the silence stretching too thin. That was when you heard them.

Footsteps.

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t want to turn around, didn’t want to confirm what you already knew. But the panic creeping up your spine made your breath hitch, your fingers curling around the strap of your purse.

Before you could move, another set of footsteps cut through the silence.

A figure stepped between you and whoever had been following—a man, broad-shouldered, with long brown hair and piercing green eyes. He didn’t even look at you at first, just over his shoulder, gaze sharp and assessing.

Then, he turned, expression softening.

“You alright?” His voice was smooth, calm.

You swallowed, trying to steady your breathing. “I—I think that guy—”

“He’s gone now.” He offered you a reassuring smile. “You should be careful walking alone this late.”

Relief flooded through you, making your knees weak. “Yeah. Thank you.”

“Let me walk you home,” he said easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Just to be safe.”

You hesitated. You didn’t know him. But something about him felt… safe. Like you could trust him.

So, you let him.

Because the first time you met Eren Yeager, the alarm bells were silent.

He walked half a step behind you, just close enough that you could feel the quiet reassurance of his presence. Every now and then, your eyes flickered toward him, taking in the way the streetlights cast shadows across his sharp features. He was handsome—undeniably so—but there was something else about him, something that made your pulse stutter in a way you couldn’t quite place.

“I’m Eren, by the way.” He glanced at you, waiting for your name in return.

You hesitated for only a moment before offering it, watching as his lips curled into a slow, pleased smile. He already knew it, of course. Had whispered it to himself more times than he could count, tracing the syllables in his mind like a prayer.

“It suits you,” he murmured.

You laughed softly, tucking a loose curl behind your ear. “Yeah? What’s that supposed to mean?”

Eren shrugged, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Just… you seem like the type of person who makes a name their own.”

You huffed, shaking your head. “That’s oddly poetic for someone who just scared off a creep.”

A small chuckle left him, effortless and warm. “What can I say? I contain multitudes.”

The two of you walked in comfortable silence for a few blocks. He let you set the pace, let you feel like you had control of the situation—like this was just a chance encounter, a stroke of luck on an otherwise unsettling night.

And you believed it.

That was the best part.

“Here’s me.” You gestured toward your building, already fishing out your keys. “Thanks again for, y’know… all of that.”

Eren tilted his head, expression unreadable. “You don’t have to thank me. Just be safe, alright?”

There was something so genuine in the way he said it that you felt a pang of guilt for doubting him at all. You nodded, smiling as you stepped inside, giving him one last glance before the door shut behind you.

Eren didn’t move right away.

Instead, he watched as the light in your window flickered on, his fingers twitching at his sides. He could see the faint silhouette of you moving inside, hear the faint sound of your voice when you called your sister to check on your daughter.

It took everything in him not to stay there all night.

But he didn’t have to.

Because this was just the beginning.

And soon enough, you wouldn’t just see him as a stranger in the night.

You’d see him as exactly what he was—an irreplaceable part of your life.

Eren remembers when he saw you again by 'coincidence'. It was your local farmers market; the surprise was evident on your face, but he remembered the way your eyes shifted to him, the way he intrigued you.

"Fancy seeing you again." His voice was smooth, casual, but there was a flicker of something deeper in his expression—something unreadable.

You bit your lip to keep from smiling too wide. As pathetic as it sounded, you hadn’t stopped thinking about him. And how could you? Even now, dressed down in a grey tracksuit with his long hair tied back, he looked like he’d stepped out of a damn daydream.

"This is the closest farmers market to me, which I’m grateful for because of her." You gestured to your daughter, still knocked out in the shopping cart.

Eren’s gaze softened, something deep and unshakable tightening in his chest. She was so small, so peaceful—completely unaware of the man staring at her like she already belonged to him.

“She’s adorable,” he murmured, stepping closer. “Probably keeps you up all hours, huh?”

You huffed a tired laugh. “You have no idea.”

Eren hummed, but his mind was already somewhere else—picturing a morning where he’d wake up next to you, your daughter climbing into bed between you both, babbling about something only a toddler could make sense of. The thought was dangerous, intoxicating.

You grabbed a carton of strawberries, setting them in the cart before glancing at him. “So, you cook?”

A small smirk tugged at his lips. “Yeah, I like to.”

"That's impressive. A man that looks like you and can cook? You're a rare breed.”

Eren chuckled, but his gaze darkened slightly. You had no idea just how rare he was. No idea that he wouldn’t let you find anyone else like him—because you were his, even if you didn’t know it yet.

"Well," he shrugged, "if you ever want a home-cooked meal, I’d be happy to make you something."

You hesitated, surprised by the offer. “Oh, that’s really sweet, but—”

“No pressure,” Eren cut in smoothly. “Just putting it out there.”

You chewed on your bottom lip before glancing at your sleeping daughter. The thought of a meal you didn’t have to cook yourself was tempting—almost too tempting. But you barely knew him.

Still, the idea of seeing him again made your stomach flutter.

"I'll think about it," you teased, throwing him a look.

His smirk widened slightly. "That’s all I ask."

It hadn't taken long for you to text Eren, agreeing to your date. Not that he was surprised. Now here he was, standing outside your apartment, gaze softening as he looked over you. His head slightly tilted, taking in the sight of you.

"You look beautiful." He watched as you bit your lip, trying to hide the smile on your face as you let him in.

His gaze swept across your apartment—not out of curiosity, but habit.

Eren hadn't waited that long before he was letting himself into your apartment.

Not that he would call it breaking and entering.

No, Eren simply needed to make sure you were safe, that you and your daughter had a good place to live.

That’s what he told himself as he moved through your home like it was his own.

He had touched everything. Gone through your drawers, flipped through your mail, opened your fridge just to see what you had stocked.

He’d smoothed his hands over the bedsheets you slept in, pressed his fingers against the lace underwear folded neatly in your dresser.

And as he went, he left little pieces of himself behind.

Tiny cameras, nestled so perfectly in the corners of your living room, your bedroom, your bathroom.

Little windows into your life, allowing him to watch you at any moment.

He snapped out of his memory as he watched you move across the room. His eyes caught sight of your daughter’s toys neatly stacked in a corner, the small pink blanket draped over the couch—her little world, nestled safely inside his.

He brought his attention back to you, holding up the bag of food.

“I cooked enough for all of us,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind.”

Your eyes widened slightly before they softened with something warm.

“You actually cooked? Thought we'd just order takeout.”

Eren smirked. “Of course. Have to keep up my first impressions.”

You laughed, shaking your head as you led him to the kitchen.

Dinner went smoothly—better than he had expected.

Your daughter adored him, just as he knew she would.

She clung to him quickly, her giggles filling the apartment as he played along with her little games, asking about her stuffed animals like they were old friends.

And you—

You watched him.

You watched the way he handled her with ease, the way he cut her food into tiny pieces without a second thought, the way he was patient, gentle, attentive.

Like he had always been meant to be here.

When bedtime rolled around, you kissed your daughter goodnight and tucked her in, leaving just the two of you in the dim glow of the living room.

The moment stretched.

Neither of you moved to fill it.

Eren leaned back into the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, his gaze locked on you.

Your lips parted slightly; his gaze darkened as he watched your tongue poke out and wet your lips. Fuck, it was taking everything in him but you surprised him, you kissed him first.

It was hesitant at first, uncertain, but Eren felt the moment your body melted into his, the moment hesitation turned into something deeper.

Something desperate.

He pulled you closer, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your top, brushing against your bare skin.

A sharp inhale left you, your hands fisting in his hoodie as his tongue flicked against yours, deepening the kiss.

You let out a soft, breathy moan—fuck.

He needed to hear it again.

He wanted to hear it on loop, playing through the hidden speakers of his mind while he watched you over and over and over—

But then, suddenly, you pulled back.

Your face flushed as your eyes darted anywhere but him.

Eren’s jaw clenched as he watched you force yourself to put space between you.

"I-I haven't had a date in a very long time and I don't wanna fuck it up.”

His voice was smooth, controlled. “You're not gonna fuck it up mama, promise.”

You swallowed still avoiding his gaze.

But he reached for you again, cupping your chin, tilting your face back toward him.

He kissed you—soft this time, slow and lingering, like he was sealing something in place.

“I’d love to take you out again.” He murmured against your lips

You let out a breathless laugh, odding. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And just like that, he had you.

Right where he wanted.

Eren had taken you out again, and each time, he could see how deep your affection for him had grown. It hadn’t even been a full month since you started dating, but he could already feel the way you leaned on him, the way you reached for him in subtle ways.

The goodnight texts. The way you never let too many hours pass without messaging him. How you let him drop you off and pick you up from work without protest now.

At first, you had hesitated when he offered to pick you up. He saw the uncertainty in your eyes, the way your lips parted as if you wanted to say something but weren’t sure how. You were scared—afraid to tell him what you actually did for a living.

As if he didn’t already know.

But when you finally admitted it, the relief on your face was instant. His answer had been simple, easy.

"I don’t care."

And from that night forward, the bouncers got used to his face.

Your daughter adored him too. It didn’t take long for her to start calling him “Daddy Eren,” and something primal settled deep inside of him the first time he heard it. He was already so intertwined in your life, but hearing it from her tiny mouth, seeing the way she clung to him when he dropped her off at daycare, the way she begged for bedtime stories whenever he was over—it solidified something in him.

He belonged here.

And you didn’t even realize just how permanent he had made himself.

The buzzing of his phone pulled him from his thoughts, and his eyes darkened when he saw the picture you’d sent him.

A short, tight purple dress clung to your body like a second skin, hugging every curve. Your blonde braids that matched your skin tone perfectly, framed your face, accentuating the pout on your full lips as you posed just right.

Can’t wait to see you.

Fuck.

Eren exhaled sharply through his nose, already hard beneath his jeans. You had been loosening up over the past few weeks, your touches lingering longer, your kisses more desperate. Heavy petting and long make-out sessions had left him on the verge of ruining himself more than once.

He palmed himself roughly, groaning lowly as he brought your panties to his nose.

He had been in your apartment for a while now—long enough that your scent surrounded him, sweet and intoxicating. It clung to your couch cushions, the blankets draped over the side of your bed. His fingers ghosted over your belongings like a lover’s touch, reverent and possessive.

He remembered the first time he found your underwear. Delicate lace. Soft cotton. Colors he knew contrasted beautifully against your warm, deep skin.

The first time he rubbed the fabric between his fingers, then against his cheek.

The first time he brought them to his nose, inhaling you—raw, intimate, intoxicating. It had sent a shiver down his spine, his body going taut with need.

Just like now.

He exhaled sharply, stuffing your panties into his pocket before pulling himself together. He had to pick you up soon.

The drive to the club was automatic, muscle memory. He was there before your shift had ended, already seated in his usual dark corner.

He nursed a drink he never touched, eyes locked onto you.

He loved watching you work—loved the slow, teasing roll of your hips, the way you commanded the stage. He loved watching men reach for you only to be swerved, their greedy hands left empty.

Until he showed up.

Older. Cocky. Entitled.

Eren saw it the second the man got too close. You were used to this, flashing a polite smile as you placed a gentle hand on his chest to keep your distance. But he didn’t get the hint. He leaned in too far, whispered something in your ear.

You tensed—just for a second—before stepping back with a laugh that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Eren knew that laugh.

It was the one you used when you were uncomfortable.

His vision went red.

By the time he realised he had moved, he was already following the man.

The alley was dark, secluded.

No one saw Eren slip in behind him.

No one heard the struggle, the way the man choked on his own screams as Eren’s fingers crushed his throat, stealing the breath from his lungs.

No one noticed when he left the alleyway alone.

And when he returned, you were just finishing up, completely unaware that the man who had made you uncomfortable would never be coming back.

You smiled when you saw him, instantly walking into his arms. His place. Where you belonged.

“Hey, baby,” you murmured, voice sweet and warm, completely oblivious to the blood still drying beneath his nails. “Ready to go?”

Eren pressed a kiss to the top of your head, inhaling deeply, his fingers flexing around your waist.

“Always.”

Eren watched as you entered your apartment, he hadn't seen you in a couple of days. You had to spend the weekend with your mum and it was driving him nuts that he didn't have a visual on you.

Well, you did FaceTime and text him many times but he missed watching you move naturally.

But now his skin came alive as you entered the apartment. He remembers you telling him that you were gonna drop your daughter off at daycare before coming home.

The camera feed followed your every step as you dropped your bag by the door and headed straight for the fridge. Probably thirsty from the drive back. You sighed when you pulled open a stack of mail—bills, most likely. His jaw clenched at the thought. He had more than enough to take care of you. It was only a matter of time before he convinced you to let him.

The cameras shifted as you made your way to your bedroom, you phone steady in your palm but the minute you opened your bedroom door you froze.

His brows furrowed as he watched the stillness of your body. Your hands begin to shake as you fumble with your phone and run back into the living room.

Eren felt the buzz of his phone, his eyes darting to the caller before he shifted back to his computer.

“Hey, baby,” he greeted smoothly, as if he wasn’t watching you.

“Eren.” Your voice was shaky, laced with fear. “I—I just got home, and my bedroom window was open.”

His grip tightened around his phone. He knew you closed your windows when you weren't home, and he forgot to close it last night after he left.

“Are you sure you didn’t just forget to close it?” He kept his tone even, already anticipating your response.

“No, I know I locked it, I always lock it when I'm not home.” You insisted. “I’m freaking out. What if someone was in here? What if—”

“Hey, hey,” he interrupted, his voice turning soothing. “It’s okay. I’m coming over right now.”

You exhaled, the sound of relief evident through the phone. “I just… I need you Ren."

He could feel the blood in his ears, the softness of your voice went straight to his cock. He continued to speak to you, his car keys rattling in his hands as he raced to his car.

He could hear the way your breathing elevated; he could now hear the busyness of your street, knowing you stepped outside rather than to wait inside with a possible 'intruder'.

The moment he pulled up outside your apartment, his eyes immediately found you. You stood just outside the entrance, arms wrapped around you, shifting anxiously on your feet. The sight made something dark and possessive coil in his chest.

He stepped out of the car, and the second your eyes met his, you hurried over. Without a word, you buried yourself in his arms, clutching at his hoodie like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

Eren exhaled slowly, wrapping himself around you, his hand smoothing over the curve of your back. “I’m here,” he murmured, kissing your hair. “You’re okay.”

You nodded against his chest, but your grip didn’t loosen. “I just… I couldn’t sit in there alone.”

His heart hammered, his lips twitching into the smallest smirk over your head.

“Let’s go inside,” he said, guiding you toward the door. “I’ll check everything.”

You didn’t let go of him as he unlocked the door, staying close behind as he stepped inside first. He moved through your apartment with careful ease, playing the part of the protective boyfriend while discreetly checking for his own mistakes.

The cameras were still perfectly hidden. The small traces he’d left—your underwear he had pocketed, the slight shift in your blankets—none of it was noticeable. But the window. That was his only slip-up. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Eren double-checked every lock, every window, making a show of it just for you. He even peeked into your closet, your bathroom, anywhere an intruder might be hiding.

Finally, he turned to you, his expression soft, reassuring. “All clear, baby,” he murmured, brushing his fingers along your arm. “No one’s here.”

Your shoulders sagged with relief, your lips parting as you took a shaky breath. “Thank you.”

He could still see the uncertainty in your eyes; he didn't even have to say much, his hands steady against your waist as he eased you down. You were still trembling slightly, fingers toying with the hem of your shirt as you tried to steady your breathing

“I feel so stupid,” you murmured, as the movie continued “I probably overreacted. It was just a window, and nothing’s missing. I just—”

Eren turned to you, his hands palming the side of your face as he cut off your self-doubt with a firm look. “Don’t do that,” he said, voice low, unwavering. “You were scared. You did the right thing calling me.”

Your lips pressed together, eyes flickering with uncertainty. “Yeah, but—”

“No ‘but,’” he interrupted smoothly, his hands finding yours, thumbs brushing along your knuckles. “If you ever feel unsafe, you call me. Always. I don’t care what time it is, where I am—I’ll be here whenever you need me.”

Your breath hitched, your fingers tightening around his instinctively. He meant it. You could see it in the way he looked at you, the way he held you, the way he always showed up.

You leaned forward before you could second-guess yourself, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against his lips. Eren inhaled sharply, but he didn’t hesitate—his hands cupped your face instantly, deepening the kiss as his thumbs stroked your cheeks.

Your body relaxed against him, the fear from earlier melting away as warmth spread through you. Eren’s lips were slow, deliberate, savoring every second of your mouth against his.

But then you shifted, your legs parting slightly, and he felt the heat of your body through your shorts. A low, quiet groan rumbled from his throat, and his grip tightened, fingers sliding to the back of your neck.

The kiss grew heavier, needier, his tongue slipping past your lips as he guided you back against the couch. His body hovered over yours, one hand gripping the back of the couch while the other ghosted down your thigh.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against your lips, voice strained, heated.

But you didn’t. Instead, your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him back down, pressing your body flush against his.

Eren’s lips trailed down your jaw, hot and eager, teeth grazing your pulse as his hands found the hem of your shirt. His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, palms sliding against your soft skin as he pushed it higher—exposing more of you.

His breath was heavy against your neck, his body tensed with restraint. “You have no idea how much I missed you,” he murmured, voice thick with need.

His words sent a shiver down your spine, heat pooling between your thighs as his hands wandered higher, you bit your lip, arching into his touch.

“Then touch me,” you whispered.

Eren growled low in his throat, his patience snapping as his hands gripped your thighs, parting them effortlessly. His mouth found yours again, lips hungry, desperate, as he settled between your legs.

His hands slipped under your shirt fully, his rough palms skimming up the smooth skin of your stomach. He pushed the fabric higher, stopping just below your chest, his lips never leaving yours as he swallowed every soft sound you made.

You gasped when his fingers traced the underside of your breasts, his touch slow, teasing—driving you insane.

“Eren,” you breathed, impatience seeping into your voice.

He pulled back slightly, his green eyes dark with want as they flickered down to your parted lips, your heaving chest, the way your thighs instinctively clenched around his hips. His restraint was hanging by a thread.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he murmured, his voice rough as his hands squeezed your waist, thumbs stroking your skin like he was trying to memorize every inch of you.

You shivered, arching into his touch. “Then show me.”

He surged forward, lips claiming yours in a kiss that was all hunger, all need. His hands finally moved, pushing your shirt up and over your head, tossing it to the floor without a second thought.

His breath hitched when he took you in, eyes raking over your bare skin like he was committing the sight to memory. “Fuck,” he muttered, his hands finding your thighs again, parting them wider as he pressed his hips against yours.

You felt all of him. Hard, heavy, and straining against his jeans. The friction sent a spark of heat up your spine, and you let out a soft whimper that made Eren curse under his breath.

“Mama,” he growled, leaning down to press hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. He nipped at your skin, his tongue soothing over every mark, his hands gripping your waist like he was trying to ground himself.

His mouth traveled lower, over the curve of your breasts, his hands slipping beneath the band of your shorts. His fingers toyed with the fabric.

You squirmed beneath him. “Eren, please,” you whispered, your nails digging into his shoulders.

Eren let out a strained chuckle, his breath hot against your skin as he murmured, “So impatient.” But he was just as desperate. His hands yanked down your shorts in one swift motion, leaving you bare beneath him.

His eyes darkened, his tongue swiping over his lips as he took you in. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned, his fingers tracing the inside of your thigh. “You’re so beautiful.”

You whimpered, heat pooling in your stomach as he spread your legs wider, his body shifting lower.

“Let me taste you,” he rasped, his breath ghosting over your most sensitive spot. “I need to taste you.”

Before you could respond, his mouth was on you, and all coherent thoughts disappeared.

Eren groaned the moment his tongue made contact with you, his hands gripping your thighs as he pinned you down. His movements were slow at first—lazy, almost—like he had all the time in the world to savor you. He licked a long, teasing stripe before closing his lips around your clit, sucking softly.

Your back arched, a strangled moan slipping past your lips. “Eren—”

“Shh, baby,” he murmured against you, his voice thick with hunger. “Let me make you feel good.”

He dived back in, his tongue flicking and circling, alternating between soft licks and firm pressure. His fingers dug into your thighs, spreading you wider as he feasted on you like a man starved.

You were already trembling, your body reacting to him so quickly, so easily.

Eren moaned against you, the vibration sending a shock of pleasure up your spine. “So sweet,” he groaned, his tongue delving deeper. “So fucking perfect.”

Your hands found his hair, tugging at the strands as pleasure built inside you. “Eren—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” he urged, his voice breathless, desperate. “Cum for me, baby.”

With one last flick of his tongue, you shattered. Your body arched off the couch, pleasure ripping through you as he kept going, licking and sucking you through your orgasm.

Only when your thighs trembled and your breathing came out in shaky gasps did he finally pull away. His lips were slick, his chin wet, and the look in his eyes was pure, unfiltered lust.

“Fuck,” he breathed, running his hands up your thighs before gripping your waist. “I need to be inside you.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was on you again, pressing his lips to yours. You could taste yourself on his tongue, but you didn’t care—all you wanted was him.

Eren wasted no time, undoing his jeans with one hand while the other gripped your hip. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze dark, burning. “Tell me you want this,” he said, his voice low and rough. “Tell me you need me.”

Your heart pounded, heat pooling between your legs again as you whispered, “I need you, Eren.”

It felt like those were the words he had waited his whole life to hear.

In one swift motion, he was inside you, stretching you, filling you completely. A guttural groan left his lips as he buried himself to the hilt, his fingers tightening around your hips.

“Fuck,” he growled, his head dropping to your shoulder as he fought to keep himself together. “You feel so good.”

You whimpered, your nails digging into his back as you adjusted to the stretch. He was thick, heavy inside you, the perfect fit.

Eren pulled back just slightly before thrusting forward again, setting a slow but deep rhythm that had you gasping. His hands roamed your body, he could feel the ways your walls clenched around his cock.

Fuck. You pussy made the prettiest sounds.

He leaned down, pressing his lips to your ear. “You’re mine,” he whispered, his voice dripping with possession. “You belong to me.”

You could only moan in response, lost in the way he was making you feel.

Eren smirked, his pace picking up. “Say it,” he demanded, his thrusts becoming rougher, more desperate. “Say you’re mine.”

Your body was on fire, the pleasure overwhelming as you gasped, “I’m yours, Eren. I’m all yours.”

A dark, satisfied groan left his lips as he grabbed your thighs, pushing them up so he could fuck you deeper, harder.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his lips trailing down your neck, his thrusts relentless. “Now let’s see how many times I can make you cum tonight.”

Eren didn't slow down, not even when your legs started trembling around him, not even when you whimpered from overstimulation. If anything, it only spurred him on.

"You can take it," he murmured, his voice low and possessive. His hands tightened on your thighs, holding them up so he could fuck into you even deeper. "You're my good girl, aren't you?"

You nodded frantically, your nails clawing at his back as another wave of pleasure built inside you. He was relentless, thrusting into you with deep, precise strokes that made your head spin.

"Eren—fuck, I'm—"

"I know, baby," he groaned, his lips brushing against your ear. "Cum for me again. Let me feel it."

His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight, desperate circles that sent you over the edge instantly. Your whole body tensed, back arching as a loud, broken moan ripped from your throat. The pleasure was blinding, overwhelming, leaving you trembling beneath him.

Eren cursed under his breath, watching the way your body tightened around him, how your slick coated his length. "Fuck, you're squeezing me so tight," he gritted out, his rhythm faltering for just a second before he picked up the pace again.

You barely had time to come down from your high before he was flipping you over onto your stomach. A gasp left your lips as he pressed his body against yours, his breath hot against your neck.

One of his hands slid under your stomach, lifting your hips so you were on your knees, your cheek pressed against the couch. Then, without warning, he slid back inside you, dragging a long, needy moan from your lips.

"Fuck, you feel even better like this," he groaned, his fingers digging into your hips. He pulled back slowly before snapping his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you again.

Your hands scrambled against the cushions, your breath coming out in short, desperate pants. "Eren—oh my God—"

"Shh," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the back of your shoulder. "Just take it, baby. Let me make you feel good."

His pace was rougher now, more desperate. Your moans became louder as his cock kept hitting that spongy spot in your cervix. He was chasing his own release, groaning he looked down noticing how your ass bounced back against him.

He needed you to fall apart one more time before he let himself go. His hand slipped between your legs, his fingers finding your swollen clit again.

"You gonna give me one more?" he asked, his voice dark with lust. "I know you can."

You whimpered, to drunk on his cock to even remember nodding helplessly as his fingers worked you, his cock hitting deep, perfect spots inside you. The pleasure was too much—your body was shaking, your mind foggy, completely lost in him.

"That's it," Eren gritted out, feeling you tighten around him again. "Fuck, baby, you’re gonna make me cum—"

His hips faltered, and you felt him twitch inside you, his breath hot against your back. "Where do you want it?" he asked, voice strained. "Tell me where I can come, baby."

You barely had to think. "Inside," you gasped, your fingers tightening against the couch cushions. "I'm on birth control—just fill me up."

Eren’s movements stilled for half a second before he let out a dark, satisfied hum. His lips curled into a smirk against your shoulder.

Birth control? He let out a dark chuckle, finding it cute that you hadn't even realised the changes in your little white pills.

Something primal stirred inside him at the thought. You were his, and soon, you’d be swollen with his child, tied to him in the most permanent way possible. He had no intention of letting you go—not now, not ever.

"Good girl," he rasped, his grip on your hips tightening. "Gonna take all of it for me, huh?"

You moaned in response, pushing back against him, and that was all he needed.

The moment you came, Eren followed, a deep, guttural groan leaving his lips as he buried himself inside you one last time. He spilled inside you with a shudder, his hands gripping your waist so tight you were sure there’d be marks.

For a few moments, the only sound in the room was your heavy breathing, the soft hum of the city outside.

Eren pressed a lazy kiss to your shoulder, his arms wrapping around you as he slowly lowered both of you onto the couch. His body was heavy against yours, warm and solid, but you didn’t mind. You liked the weight of him, the way he held you like he never wanted to let go.

"You okay?" he murmured against your skin.

You let out a small, breathless laugh. "I think you broke me."

Eren smirked, nuzzling into your neck. "Good. That way, you'll always remember who you belong to."

You rolled your eyes, but the way your heart fluttered told you that maybe you liked hearing that a little too much.

Eren didn’t move for a while, keeping you wrapped in his arms, his fingers tracing lazy circles against your skin.

Then, after a long moment of comfortable silence, he murmured, “Move in with me.”

Your breath hitched, your body going still beneath him. "What?"

Eren lifted his head, his green eyes intense as they met yours. "Move in with me," he repeated, his voice soft but firm. "I don’t want you here alone. I don’t want you struggling with bills. I want you two with me."

Your lips parted, but no words came out. The intensity in his gaze sent a shiver down your spine.

Eren leaned in, brushing a kiss against your lips, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Say yes."

He didn't even need an actual response; he could see it in your eyes, feel the way your body softened into him. You would say yes, because you were his. Entirely.

𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘺 𝘮𝘦, 𝘳𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘬𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘢𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 ©

skincare sweetz! 🍰🎀

Everyman gets his wish

P1

Rafe Cameron x Pogue!reader

Synopsis: The king of figure eight hooks up with a sweet doe eyed stranger a party. Thing is, he doesn’t know that she is everything he isn’t; a hard working Pogue.

Content warnings: Use of fem pronouns, smut, loss of virginity, mentions of blood, mentions of class.

Word count: 6623

I've only read over this part once, there will be more. Let me know if I missed anything. xx

Tonight was the biggest night on the Kook calendar Midsummer, where the rich folks of Kildare congregated once a year to brag about their business and financial achievements and show off their wealth to one another.

Another year another midsummer but for you it was just another day working, serving drinks to the super rich.

To everyone here you were no one, nothing actually or at least that's what it felt like living on this island when you were around Kooks, they wouldn’t even look at you if you were on fire let alone when you poured their drinks and served them food. Most of them thought they were too good to even breathe the same air as you, especially the ones here.

Your whole life revolved around accommodating to kooks you were never on their side of the island unless you were  working even before you could work you could remember your time in figure eight with your mom as she cleaned the Cameron house. You had memories from as early as four years old following her around the house as she swept and folded their expensive clothes back then it ment nothing to you.

You got your work ethics from your mother. You worked your ass off serving drinks with a smile and a polite attitude despite the unlikeable personalities you had to endure, such as Ward Cameron. He behaved like he was committing an act of charity by just existing in your vicinity like you should be so greatful. Even when you were a kid and Sarah tried to befriend you, your mom told you to be careful not to upset Mr Cameron or his kids out of fear that she would lose her job if you did. It was bramatic but it was a very real possibility.

“I don’t know how much they pay you here but I'm sure it's enough to know how to make a proper Tom collins. Did you even put any Gin in this?” Ward snarked as his wife clung to his side with her obnoxiously big head piece threatening to poke out the eyes of her youngest step daughter.

“I'm so sorry sir. I can make you another one.” You offer with a tight lipped smile.

“Try to get it right this time, huh?”

“Dad, chill.” The blonde girl at his side snapped in your defence.

As you remade Ward’s tom collins your eyes flickered up to the group noticing the illustrious Rafe Cameron, not even looking fazed at the way his father was acting obviously used to it and absolutely fine with it. The family in front of you made you grateful that your family wasn’t anything like them, because despite their grand entrance and lavish clothing you could tell not a single one of them enjoyed the company.

“Here you go, sir.. Can I get you anything else?” You ask looking at the group for confirmation. 

“Macallan on the rocks.” Rafe requests from behind his family not even sparing you a single glance, of course.

“Good choice, it's a popular whiskey.” You say trying to brighten the bitter mood his father supplied only for Rafe to look you up and down with an even more bitter glare in response.

You’ve never had an issue with Rafe beyond his attitude which he’d had for as long as you could remember, the only time you could think of him not being like this was with his mom. She was always the only person he seemed to really like and she was the only person he would listen to, like the time Rafe joined in with you and Sarah playing tag and he tripped you if it hadn’t happened right in front of your eyes you wouldn’t have believed anyone could get him to apologise but his mom did.

You turn away from Rafe’s scrutiny to grab the bottle from the top self with the assistance of a small step ladder and as you reach for the bottle you hear Ward begin again. “Do you really think it's a good idea to drink today?”

“I’m 23, what's wrong with one drink?”

You pour Rafe’s drink despite Ward's words to his son and drop in two ice cubes, not forgetting to plaster your face with a smile before you turn around. Ward shoots you a disapproving look as you place the whiskey in front of Rafe.

“That will be all.” Ward confirms in a way that tells you he definitely won't be tipping your service.

“Thanks.” Sarah says before following her father into the crowd.

Only an hour in and Midsummer was in full swing, every kook in attendance eager to mingle and flaunt their wealth but none of them had the wealth the Cameron’s did. Everyone on Kildare knew them, not always for the best reasons but everyone knew them, especially Rafe. He was everything your parents raised you not to be but you couldn't blame him when he had a father like he did.

This was your third year working midsummer and your first time working at the bar, now that you were old enough. The conditions behind the bar were a lot better than when you served hors d'oeuvres to the rowdy teens dragged along by their parents. Behind the bar you didn't have to wear a shirt and tie and the tips definitely made you reconsider your choice to not come back next year.

“Hey sweetheart, lookin’ nice!” You hear a voice call from over your shoulder, deciding to ignore it as now that your shift was over you didn’t have any obligations to anyone here anymore so you kept walking to your car.

When a car pulled up beside you cruising as you avoided the gaze of the driver hanging halfway out the window until he called for you again this time with a whistle, you stopped abruptly to face them.

“I really liked your service back there.” When you continued to  walk beside the car not feeling a need to respond to that comment. “Don't say you don't remember me. I'm hurt.” Of course you remembered him, Topper Thornton, a mythic snob who seemed to be in a good enough mood to not insult you right now.

When you got a good look at the car you noticed Rafe in the passenger seat looking bored as ever, followed by Kelce in the back with a couple of other guys who you couldn't name but they were definitely also kooks.

Topper doesnt seem deterred by your lack of response. “How about you hop in and we take you to a real party?” 

“I would take you up on that offer but I'd literally rather be doing anything else with anyone else.” You reply as you reach your car quickly unlocking it and hopping in.

The drive back to the Cut seemed longer today probably because of the irritation from having to deal with so many kooks and all the unfilled potholes you had to endure once you crossed over into low income territory. When you got home you weren't surprised to see that no one else was there. There was a mess left in the living room that you knew wasn’t going anywhere if you didn’t do something about it but you resisted the urge to clean up after your brothers.

Instead you headed straight for the bathroom wanting to rid yourself of the tight little black dress you thought was a good choice for your first time behind the bar and despite all the tips it earned you, you were more than grateful to be out of it. If it weren't for the hot water turning cold you probably would have stayed in the shower for much longer but the moment the icy liquid hit your body you squealed and hopped out into the small bathroom switching off the water once you were wrapped in your towel safely.

Without the sound of running water you could hushed voices and movement coming from the otherside of the door assuming it was one of your brothers you walk into the living room wrapped up in a towel ready to chew out whoever was home for leaving the place in such a state but when you're met with a set of baby blue eyes belonging to a certain blonde you scream and clasp a hand to your chest protectively.

“Jj! What the hell?!” Just as you finish up your sentence you hear wrustling of plastic coming from behind him and see the other pogue boys behind him, John B waving from behind the fridge door and Pope sitting on the couch as if there isn't a pile of laundry nearly his size stacked next to him. “Guys have you ever heard of knocking?

“Hey.” Pope waves at you and you smile back at him still waiting on a reply.

“We did knock duh.. You just didn't answer.” Jj says as he takes a seat on the other side of the couch and laundry pile.

“We saw your car outside so we just came in, sorry.” John B says in between mouth fulls of cocktail sausages

“Okay so why are you here?” You ask, running out of patience with the boys.

“Kiara sent us to come get you. She said you looked miserable behind the bar earlier and thought maybe a party would cheer you up.” Pope says apparently the only one in the room who wants to be useful. “Oh and she will not take no for an answer.”

“And y’all really think a kook party will help?” You ask rhetorically.

“Sorry, we are just as powerless as you here.” John B raises his hands in defence.

“Now go get dressed before we drag you out in that towel.” Jj threatens.

You roll your eyes and walk away. The first thing you do when you reach your room is put on body lotion wanting to feel good at least knowing you were about to proceed to stress out over what to wear, Jj insisted on Knocking on the door every five minutes to hurry you despite your offers to stay home.

When you finally come out of your room Jj is pacing impatiently while John B rambles about some girl he’s nervous to see tonight and Pope seems too relaxed for someone who hates kooks as much as you.

“Why did it take you so long to put on a tank top and a skirt?” Jj asks, sounding exasperated.

“You wouldn’t understand but beauty takes time.” You state simply with a smile.

“You know Kie will kill us if we're late?” Pope asks as if it is some big revelation.

“Exactly, let's go.” John B says and before anyone else can respond he’s rushing to the door as he unwrapped a mini muffin and stuffed it in his mouth. As you lock the door behind him and the others you wonder where he found all that food since you didn’t buy groceries yet this week.

“John B what's up with you? I haven’t seen you this nervous since Jj stole that money from his dad for pizza when we were twelve.” You ask genuinely concerned that he was gonna have a nervous breakdown before you even got to Figure eight.

“He's fallen in love with the Kook Princess.” Pope says nonchalantly.

You crane your head to look over your shoulder at John B, his expression confirming Pope’s statement. “As in.. Sarah Cameron?” You laugh as you jiggle the door handle to confirm it's locked.

“Yep.” Jj confirms popping the P at the end of the word.

“You know Kiara hates her..” You say as you hop into the twinkie behind Jj and Pope.

“Y/N I think it's true love.”

“Hey, it could be worse. She could be a psycho like Rafe.” Pope firmly pats John B’s back.

“Oh god.. If Kiara doesn't get to me first, Rafe is gonna kill me!” John B’s head drops onto the steering wheel dramatically and he starts mumbling about his doomed romance.

“If you're gonna have a fit let someone else drive.” You say as you punch the back of his seat.

“No, I'm okay.. I'm okay.” He sounds like he's trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

When you arrived at Tannyhill John B made sure to park on the street outside so as to not attract attention from any kooks, that's where Kiara met you waiting by the gate.

“Hey guys, you're late.” Kie says as you all hop out of the twinkie.

Everyone grumbles an apology which makes Kie roll her eyes.

“Sorry, John B was having a fit.” you say in mocking.

The party was in full swing, kooks and their fancy cars lined the obnoxiously large driveway and music blasted from inside the house.

“About what?” Kie asks.

“Don't blame me, Y/N took an hour to get ready.” John B defends.

As the group reached the front of the house you passed Rafe’s black truck a car anyone in the outer banks would be able to identify if it passed them and as the

“Y’all literally broke in while I was in the shower. Plus I just got home from the country club twenty minutes before you guys.” You argue back as your group squeezed past a group loitering in the foyer.

Kiara chuckles and stops in front of the kitchen island that held all of the drinks– a lot of drinks. “Honestly I don't even care anymore, let's drink!”

“That's what I'm talking about!” Jj yells as he grabs a large jug to mix up some toxic concoction. You grimace as you watch Jj empty out half a liter of Vodka into the mixture, mixing it swiftly with a spoon he found on the counter then pouring it into five separate solo cups.

“Jj are you sure this is safe to drink?” You ask as you take an attentive sip. “This could kill someone! Where's the cola?”

While the others were brave enough to choke down Jj’s attempt at a cocktail, you walk around the island to grab the bottle on the other side from there your eyes scan across the room noting the faces of the various Kooks you served that day and right in the middle of them all was Rafe Cameron you knew he would be here but you just thought you wouldn't spot him so soon.

“Don't water it down too much!” He whined as he watched you dilute the mixture with cola. Your eyes trail over to the adjoining lounge flicker between your drink and Rafe as he leaned down to the coffee table in front of him to snort a line of something. Jj’s eyes follow yours across the room. “What are you.. Oh.”

Once you finished pouring the cola it wasnt who you thought in your line of sight. No, it was Sarah Cameron in all her glory, really living up to the princess title. Perfect hair, perfect smile and all over perfect no wonder John B was in love.

“What is she doing here?” Kiara says pointing at Sarah and every one follows the point of her finger to the blonde girl.

“Oh no.” John B mumbles to himself and rubs his hands over his eyes in frustration.

“Dude, it's her house.” Pope sounded almost confused.

“Whatever, why is she coming over here?” She huffs.

“Hey, guys.” Sarah waves flashing her pearly white teeth at the group which Kie rolls her eyes at. Everyone watches apprehensive as she walks toward John B putting a hand on his arm before turning back to the group. “Glad you could all make it. You’re Y/N right? We met earlier.”

“Yeah, I make the worst tom collins in Kildare.” You wave from across the kitchen island and she laughs.

“Why is she talking to us?” Kiara asks with a serious crease in her brow. “Seriously, John B?”

 “Kie we have bigger problems. Rafe cameron at twelve o’clock.” Pope says, tilting his head forward. The whole group including Sarah perk up looking over at rafe seeing that he's walking over with Topper and Kelce on his tail.

“I'm out.” Pope says quickly leading the group out of the packed room. By the time you were able to get back around to the other side of the kitchen island Rafe, Topper and Kelce were cutting you off from the group with large strides following your friends out through the back door but never once even sparing you a glance, focused completely on their rivals.

You sigh at the realisation that you managed to get out of yet another scuffle with Rafe Cameron, remembering the last time you witnessed his wrath was last summer when Jj worked Midsummer with you as a server rafe was so brutal you feared Jj would have ended up in the hospital it wasn't until Ward stumbled in that Rafe even considered stopping. It's safe to say that Jj will never work at the country club again.

You waited it out in the kitchen sipping on your drink until Kiara texted you to say that they had lost Rafe and his goons and they were coming back to find you. Turns out Sarah was actually a big help in harbouring your fugitive friend, apparently she managed to hide everyone in the pool shed before Rafe got to them.

“He didn't say or do anything to you did he?” Sarah asks, eyeing you as if looking for any sign of injury or being shaken up.

“Didn’t even look at me.” You spread your arms out beside you as if to show her you’re completely fine.

“Who knew, not all Camerons are Bad?” Jj says, sounding genuinely surprised.

“I reluctantly have to say he might actually be– just a little bit– right about that.” Kiara adds looking at Sarah with a half contained smile.

“Good to know this is my redemption arc.” Sarah laughs Obviously over whatever beef she and Kiara had.

“I’m glad everyone is getting along now.” John B sighs as if the group dynamic being saved was a bigger feat than surviving Rafe.

The night went pretty smoothly until you split off from the group again to find a bathroom, after three more of Jj’s cocktails you finally felt the need to go and in your inebriated state you had no patience but it seemed every bathroom in the house was occupied or covered in vomit even with the excessive amount of them, they didn’t seem to be getting any less occupied as you stumbled from door to door.

Eventually you made your way upstairs only to be met with the same issue. Each door you attempted to open was either a bedroom, closet or occupied. After some careful consideration you decided to go into one of the empty bedrooms knowing that at least one of them had to have an en suite.

When you entered the room was empty, so you headed for the door on the right side of the room hoping it was a bathroom so you wouldn’t have to go outside in a bush. To your relief it was and you wasted no time locking the door behind you.

As you wash your hands in the sink you hear movement on the other side of the door and still your movements trying not to make too much noise. You wait a few minutes for the  noise to die down then make your way to the door slowly unlocking it and sadly that silence didn’t mean the room was empty no. The was Rafe laying on his bed legs dangling off the side. This must have been his bedroom. God what were you supposed to do now? Before you could close the door again and retreat back inside, Rafe sat up from his bed looking over at you.

Your stomach did that thing it always seemed to do when he looked at you, this time just a little more violently. If your friends knew about it they would either make fun of you for it or hate you but that exactly why they will never know.

“Hi, I’m so sorry. I just needed to use the bathroom.” You say as you step off of the tiled floor turning off the light as you move into his dimly lit bedroom. He just continues to look at you with a raised brow and stands towering over you. As you stare back you notice a small cut on his brow and a pink welt forming on the side of his face.

“Are you okay?” You ask as your hand reaches up to touch his face but his hand catches yours before you can make contact. “Sorry.” You step back unsure of when you even got close enough to touch him.

“I'm fine.” He says in a clipped tone.

“You’re bleeding..” As the words come out your eyes drop to his hand hanging by his side with a small first aid kit clutched in his fist. “Can I help you?”

You should have been trying to get out of there as fast as possible but your drunken reckless mind forgot all about Rafe’s messy history the moment he looked at you.

Your hand reaches for the kit and he begins to pull away but when your fingers make contact with his he stills allowing your delicate hands to take it from him without opposition. If anyone else were pushing him back to sit on his bed right now he might think they wanted him to fuck them but you just seem too pure to think like that.

He watched your small fingers tear open an alcohol wipe and when he glanced up, you were staring at him with those kind doe eyes that he only now noticed so he nervously averted his gaze before his mind could take note of how glazed over or round they were.

When the wipe made contact with his skin he hissed slightly and you whispered out an apology, your voice so gentle he relaxed despite the sting. He didn't even know what he was doing until his hand clasped the back of your thigh almost fully enveloping it and squeezing slightly as you pressed a small band aid to his brow and you didn’t question it thinking that he needed something to distract him.

There is a long silence and Rafe drops his hold on you. “You should put some ice on that.” You gesture to the side of his face.

Rafe just looked at you, something between suspicion and curiosity in his eyes. “Do I know you from somewhere?” The thought flashes through his mind that you might be his guardian angel because here you are dressed in all white looking more innocent than anyone at this party.

“I-”

“Nah, I would know if I’d seen you before.” He continues, not too bothered whether you had an answer to his previous question or not. It was funny to you that now that there were no clear signs as to what class you fell into he was willing to give you more than a few words.

You’d met Rafe many times before not that he ever fully acknowledged your presence which was a good thing considering, the closest you’d gotten to him in years other than serving him food and drinks was when he was tormenting your friends.

“So angel, who invited you to my party?” His gaze lingered a little too long on your body as he spoke to you only looking up when you didn't answer.

You were very careful with your next words knowing that if you said you came with your Pogue friends that wouldn’t end well and he’d be kicking you out on the street and marching off to fight them. “Kiara.. Carrera-.”

“Yeah I know her.. She brought those low life pogue friends of hers didn’t she?” His tone switched slightly deepening when he asked about the boys that were like brothers to you.

His words echoed in your head reminding you exactly why you should cut this conversation short with him– because he hated low life Pogues such as yourself.

“I wouldn’t know, umm.. I should get back to-” Once again you were cut off by Rafe.

“You’re not gonna leave me here alone are ya, Angel? I’m hurt.” He said in a tone that was so sickeningly sweet and if he hadn’t gently grasped your hand to stop your retreat you would have thought his words were aimed at someone else. “C’mon we can have our own fun up here.”

The hand that held yours moved to your side right above your hip, his touch was light and tickled as his fingers landed against your body tapping softly like they were pressing down on piano keys. He guided you to sit down with him on the bed in the center of the room.

“What's your name?” he asked, staring deeply into your eyes, almost actually looking interested.

“Y/N.”

“Y/N.” He repeats. “That's a pretty name, I'm Rafe.”

“I know.” You confirm as if you didn’t know whose party you were at or whose house you were in.

He nods in satisfaction. “So Y/N, do you like my party?”

“Parties aren’t really my thing..”

“That's why I haven't seen you before.” Rafe surmised wrongly. “Don’t worry I’ll show you a good time.” he adds and all of a sudden he's closer to you than you remember and his hand is on your upper thigh thumb caressing the exposed skin there.

You forced a smile and nodded at him, if it weren't for the fact that your brain was all hazy from the cocktails Jj had mixed up maybe you would have had the sense enough to say no to him when he asked you to stay or when he pulled you into his lap or even when he kissed you. The kiss turned into heavy breathing and grinding down on his lap but your body just drew you closer to him each time you thought about moving away from his touch.

You pulled back trying to calm yourself and come back to your senses but Rafe’s lips just latched on to your jaw, working their way down your throat. He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer with the other hand on your hip grinding you down against his hard on.

“Take this off.” He breathes between kisses as he tugs on the hem of your shirt and you’re momentarily taken aback by the sharpness of his command.

You lift your arms enough for him to lift your tank over your head, leaving you in a bralette that was too skimpy to really cover anything underneath. He throws your shirt aside then lifts you in his arms and turns to place you on the bed for him to climb on top of you between your legs.

He gripped the back of your neck, pulling you into another kiss, this one deeper and messier, his tongue swiping across yours. There’s the faint drone of the party going on outside and people passing  by but you couldn’t care less as he pulled his hips away from yours kneeling between your thighs to pull his shirt off over his head.

If he couldn’t feel your wetness before he could definitely see it from his position with your skirt bunched around your waist exposing your cotton covered core. He gives you a warning look, when your hands begin tugging on the hem of your skirt trying to cover the evidence of your arousal.

“Don’t be shy, Angel.” He sounded rougher like he was straining himself.

For a moment, his gaze softens as he studies you, a flicker of admiration passing through his eyes. When his eyes trail down to your soaked panties again they darkened and filled with lust.

“Fuck..” Slowly, almost hesitantly, he leans in, his lips hovering just a breath away from yours. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”

You bit your lip softly not trusting your voice so you shook your head in reply. 

He kissed the corner of your lips softly then pulled back shaking his head. “I need you to say it. Out loud.”

“Please don’t stop.” You whined and that’s all the confirmation he needed to reach down to your skirt and panties pulling them down and completely off. Once the damp fabric was out of the way he began rubbing his fingers between your wet folds.

You cursed yourself for giving in, for getting so caught up in the moment but his touch was so intoxicating all you could do was whine and tug at the sheets around you as his fingers sank into your core and began pumping in and out of you.

The sound of your wetness mixed with your soft moans had Rafe groaning deep in his throat. 

Your back arched towards him as his thumb landed on your sensitive bud. He breathed out, his eyes twinkling as he took in your appearance completely overwhelmed by his touch.

He pumped in fingers and slowly scissored them inside of you stretching your walls. He quickened the pace of his thumb against your clit and you bite down on your lip as you approach your high.

He can tell you’re close and his eyes burn intensely as he watches your face contorted in pleasure. “Let go for me Angel.”

Even after you came around his fingers he didn't stop his hands movement until he saw tears begin to form in your eyes.

“You did so good for me, Angel.” He says as he pulls back and pulls his fingers out of your core bringing them up to his lips tasting your juices on his fingers. Your head rolls to the side, lip caught between the whiteness of your teeth as you tremble beneath him.

He wanted to go down on you so bad but at this point his dick was straining against his jeans painfully. 

Rafe’s hand cups your cheek tilting your face back to look at him slowly, almost hesitantly then he leans in, his lips hovering just a breath away from yours. “You’re doing so well, f’me.” He mumbled against your lips and closed the distance between you, the large hand on your face moving to tangle into your hair as your lips meet again.

What you were doing was so wrong knowing the history Rafe had with your friends, this was essentially a betrayal but at this point there was no going back. You'd already taken it too far and now he was between your legs pulling the zipper of his jeans down and tugging them off with his boxers and you had no qualms as he rested himself between your thighs again and began lining his hard cock up with your entrance.

His hands drop to your sides, reaching up to the straps of your bralette tugging them down to expose your breast. “Damn, you’re beautiful.” He attempts to unclasp the bralette from the back only to get impatient and pull on both sides until something gives and it comes undone and he throws it somewhere in the room along with the rest of your clothes.

You watched the corner of his mouth curve upwards as he gazed down at you. “You ready, Angel?”

“Yes, I want you inside me.. Please.” Rafe liked that you were so obedient and you wanted him as much as he did you right now.

“Stay still for me okay.” Rafe commanded, as he pushed his hips forward finally beginning to push past your warm folds, your wetness enveloping his length slowly. You felt a painful stretch as he pushed through your tightness.

Rafe's eyes lulled back as your warmth enveloped him. He swore he felt it suctioning him in and he knew he would’t be able to pull away if he wanted. It seemed like forever until Rafe bottomed out when he finally did your eyes were brimming with tears.

“You’re doing so good for me.” He whispered with a shaky voice.

You could only whine in response to his praise too caught up in the overwhelming pain and pleasure to form words coherently.

“Say my name.” Rafe commands as he thrusts just once to emphasize his words. “Say it!” he grunts as he continues not able to hold back his thrusts for longer.

“Rafe.. Rafe, Rafe.” You chant his name in time with his thrusts. 

He leans down on his forearms, caging you in to kiss down the column of your neck and gently nip at your collar bone moving further down between your breast before he wrapped his lips around your left nipple sucking it harshly into his mouth and releasing it from his lips with a pop before going back down to lick and suck on it more.

The sound of your wetness filled the room and Rafes breath was heavy as he latched onto your breast muffling his groans as a knot was forming deep in your gut making your core squeezed around his length. You were so overwhelmed by all the sensations and sounds.

“Fuck, I’m close angel.” He groaned against your chest, speeding up his thrusts sitting up on his knees and moving his hands to your hips to hold you down as he adjusts his angle making you take him deeper. “Let go, I can feel you holding back.. Just let go.”

And you did, your body convulsed beneath him still whimpering his name as you came undone around him, he wasn't far behind you and came only a moment after later spilling into you while still thrusting wanting to extend your shared pleasure.

As you came down from your high your gaze was focused on the ceiling and your mind went hazy as you focused back on the sounds and vibrations in the house around you. Only then did you remember you were at a party where you had maybe too much to drink and your friends were probably looking for you downstairs somewhere, completely unaware that you had public enemy No.1 between your legs right now. 

But before you could finish that thought Rafe hisses as he pulls out of you instantly missing your warmth when he does and all you could think about was how empty you felt now that he wasn't inside of you. You open your eyes as he falls to your side resting his arm across your abdomen gently hugging you against his body. 

You needed to leave it was the right next move but you felt yourself drifting in and out of unconsciousness maybe because of the weight and warmth of Rafe’s touch, the alcohol in your system or the long day of working at the country club but either way your need to leave was out weighed by your want to stay.

When you woke in the morning Rafe’s presence was no longer there, instead you were met with an empty bed still slightly warm on the left side. You took that as a sign that you should leave assuming Rafe left to avoid an awkward goodbye and would want you gone before he came back.

You stumbled slightly as you stood trying to locate each piece of clothing you had arrived in coming up short when it came to your phone, knowing you couldn't leave in your current state. When you finally located your phone too much time had passed and you feared Rafe would find you still in his space. The door to the bedroom opens up revealing Rafe standing shirtless with a glass of water.

He walks over leaving only a small distance between the two of you. “Good to see you’re awake.”

Try to step around him towards the door. Rafe puts the glass down on his desk quickly grabbing your wrist to pull you in, his hands cupping the sides of your face, pulling you towards him for a slow deep kiss.

You try not to show the shock that envelops you as he pulls back tugging your lip as he does. His eyes are missing their usual darkness and intensity, his face looks relaxed and almost happy, this wasn't the Rafe Cameron you learnt to avoid. Your eyes flicker across his face as if you’re trying to make sure that this is the real Rafe Cameron standing in front of you.

“You could stay.” He suggests and despite how tempting that offer felt, now you knew that your friends would be looking for you and maybe they had been already and gave up either way you needed to get home before anyone saw you here.

“I can’t.”

Rafe caught your hand just as your other one found the door knob to his bedroom. He crowded you against the door and kissed the side of your neck. “You’re gonna leave before I get your number?” His eyes gleamed as he turned you to face him and pulled your body against his. “C’mon, don’t just use me and abuse me.” He jests, feigning offence. “Phone?” He commands with his hand out.

He steps back allowing you to unlock and hand over the device so he can type in his number but not before deleting the two dozen texts you got from the pogues last night. “I Texted myself so if you don’t call I will.” He says, peering down at you through slightly squinted eyes as he hands back your phone that's when he notices your outfit, stepping back to eye your body more closely.

Rafe quickly turns away to grab the grey hoodie that was hanging from his desk chair handing it to you. “I could give you a ride..” He suggests as you take the sweater from him and he smiles a real toothy smile.

“No, I'm good.” You say, smiling up at him through your lashes before pulling the hoodie over your head. “I promise, I’ve got a ride.” You lied.

Rafe nods, looking satisfied before opening the door behind you so you can leave but not before he pecks you on the lips one last time.

Once Rafe’s bedroom door was closed behind you rushed down the stairs trying to rationalise what you had just done and nothing came up. How could you think sleeping with Rafe was a good idea? What would you do if your friends found out? Fuck where were your friends?

When you exit the house you check the most recent text on the P4L group chat assessing the vibe noting that everyone was freaking out over your disappearance. You pause at the gate at the end of the Cameron’s drive when you hear someone calling your name.

You turn back to the house seeing Sarah running towards you. “Y/N! Thank god! We’ve been looking for you all night.” She says trying to catch her breath. 

“We?” You ask.

She nodded, still trying to gain back her breath as she walked beside you. “The others are waiting in the twinkie.” she points across the street through the open gate. “Where did you go?”

Before you could answer her there was yelling from across the street. “She’s alive!” Jj exclaims opening the door to the back of John B’s camper.

“Did you guys sleep in here?” You ask, looking at them in disbelief as you climb into the back.

“Duh. As if we were gonna leave you here.” Pope chuckled.

“Sarah, where did you find her?” John b says looking genuinely surprised that she came back with you.

“I didn’t. She was leaving when I was.”

“What were you doing in there all night Y/N?” Pope asks with a raised brow?

“Yeah and whose hoodie is that? Did you meet a guy?” Kie asks excitedly.

“Better not be a Kook!” Jj adds, which earns him some nods and hums of agreement.

“Can we just go?” you snap.

“Oh my god! You did. Didn’t you?” Kiara says, sounding even more giddy. “Wait, You never talk to guys. Who was he?”

“I think I'm still drunk guys. Can we please go home?” You beg, starting to get anxious that you might actually admit to who you were with last night. Your body ached and your head was still a bit hazy as you had only woken up about half an hour ago.

“Agreed, my bed is calling.” Pope says no longer sounding interested in the conversation.

frou frou and fab ❤︎︎

Run All You Want

Summary: Bucky told you that you can’t escape him, but that doesn’t mean you wont try. Too bad for you Bucky enjoys a good chase. 

Pairing: Soft Dark mafia!Bucky x reader

Warnings: Slight dub con, allusions to forced marriage, smut, 18+, violence (not towards reader) mentions of death, edging, Buckys pain kink, power kink, breeding kink, reader kicking Steve’s ass

A/N: For @syntheticavenger who wanted to know what happened to the reader from Can’t Run, Can’t Hide. Unbeta’d if you catch an error let me know! Do not copy, repost, rewrite or translate my work, even if you credit it, I do not give my permission for my works to be posted on any other site. 

“Boss.” 

Bucky pauses, holding the glass to his mouth, the rich bourbon cresting over his lip as his piercing eyes follow your fleeing form on the security monitors.

You stumble across the expansive front yard, heading for the black iron wrought gates at the entrance of his estate. Taking a sip of the rich amber liquid, he swallows, a hint of a wry grin twisting across his face. He finishes his drink,, watching you run further and further from the mansion. 

Bucky places his glass on his desk and looks over at your trio of bodyguards. Any hints of amusement fading away, the sharp, knowing look in his eyes making the men cower, he gestures for them to explain why you’re currently halfway across the lawn.

Maximo clears his throat, stepping forward. “Sir if you would let us stop her before she-” He snaps his mouth shut when Bucky quirks a brow. Lowering his voice, he pleads, “Sir, I’m just saying we could prevent her from-” 

“Get Steve.” Bucky sharply interrupts. 

Maximo’s breath hitches, he opens his mouth but his half-formed protest shrivels on his tongue as Bucky slowly cants his head to the side. He drops his eyes to the floor, mumbling. “Yes, Sir.” 

Bucky dismisses them with a flick of his hand, turning back to the monitors, tracking your every movement. Maximo storms into the hallway, your other two guards close behind. He hits the wall with the side of his fist, hissing under his breath. “I told her to wait. If she would listen to me for once. Damn it.” 

What good is a bodyguard if you won’t let him protect you?

After the door swing shuts, Bucky loosens his tie and shrugs off his suit jacket. Settling in his leather chair, he watches you run past the hedges. He slowly unzips his pants as you scramble over a shrub, stopping when your gown catches on a branch. He takes his hardening cock out of his boxers while you rip the bottom of the expensive lace to set yourself free. 

Keep reading

TAKING WHATS NOT YOURS 4

ART X TASHI X PATRICK X F!READER

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4

it is here yall, no smut but a surprising amount of straight sexual tension, i’ll make it gayer in the next one dw

you can’t believe you’re here. fuck. fuck. you changed too, back into tennis gear. fuck. the stars twinkle above like little spectators, a clear night in new york city. like fate was watching. they had reserved a court before even asking you, cocky as ever. you had all driven there together. you sat in the back, like mommy and daddy were taking you to a dance recital. this whole thing was ridiculous, and positively beneath you. and yet here you are, separated by a net from the man you’d thought in your naivety you would marry one day. you each stretched, rackets on the ground a ways away. every time you saw them in the corner of your eye you tensed, thinking about what was to come.

when you beat art, you wouldn’t fuck him. that’s something you were certain of, because it would make it so much more embarrassing for them. pimping yourself, your husband out is one thing, trying to and failing is much more humiliating. you thought about it, briefly on the car ride. what it would feel like after all these years. how good it would feel to make tashi squirm. and she would squirm. so help you god she would squirm. and art too. while he was inside you and clinging to you and more vulnerable than he’s ever been, you would tell him all about tashi and patrick’s little raundevouz, their little secret excursion. you would hear his heart break beneath you, feel his world crumble. you smiled to yourself in the backseat. art gave you up, tossed you out like a used tissue the second he could wriggle his way into the amazing tashi duncan’s life. and where was he now? coming second place, being cheated on, being whored out. and where was tashi? still seething over college, still hating you. you couldn’t judge her so violently, you were uncomfortably similar. except you can play, and she has art for a husband. it seems you can have love or tennis, and never both. tashi seems to have neither. in a roundabout way you pity her. in a more direct way you think she got what was fucking coming to her.

but no. you couldn’t fuck him, because that would hurt infinitely more. if tashi had come to town and avoided you, that would have angered you five times more than whatever this is. no. you weren’t sleeping with him. no way no how. nuh uh. dick is dick and you can get dick from anywhere. if the night before told you anything, historical dick will always do you wrong. so there. not sleeping with art. or tashi. or whatever.

tashi watches you stretch. your muscle fibres flex and protrude, a threat. if you beat art, she thinks you’re going to try to refuse the reward. or you at least plan to. you’re so fucking proud. everything is beneath you, everything, you can’t be pleased by anything. art is perfect, in every way, and yet you sneer and turn your nose up at her perfectly fine man. she wants to see it. she wants art to fuck you so bad it makes her angry. she wants him to be rough, and mean, she wants him to hold you down and make you cry. she watches the body that dominates the court, the face that haunts her dreams. she wants you to fucking submit. she wants your tennis body to become a cocksleeve and nothing more, and she wants art to do it. art would like it too. she knows he would. he doesn’t speak about you. he avoids you like the plague. something is left. maybe because of how you ended, in one clean silent chop the day of tashi’s accident, that he feels there’s something unfinished. she thinks he wants you. and he’s gonna get you and destroy any dignity that might remain. he’s gonna pound you like he owns you, because really he does, and tashi is gonna watch and she’s gonna laugh.

if you lose, she’ll watch her husband destroy you at tennis. and that will be just as freeing.

your gaze shifts from man on court to woman in stands, woman to man. they both have this serene look on their faces. not a care in the world. art should be worried. you’re going to thrash him. presuming this was still somewhat about tennis and he had any pride left at all, he was in for a rude awakening. second in that open. hm. you were gonna hang his sorry pathetic cuck ass out to dry and then you were gonna leave him wanting.

art’s certain he can win. tashi gave him comprehensive coaching in your style, your weaknesses and your strengths. truth is, you’re impressive, but art is a man. he could over power you, smash you into the dirt with sheer brute force. he’s certain he could beat you. but will he? tashi was unclear. this was of course entirely for her benefit, so which would she prefer? art had a feeling that your prize wasn’t only there to make you want to play. the prize didn’t seem to entice you at all, which bruised whatever remained of his ego. so should he win, or lose? what would please tashi more, seeing you beaten, or seeing you beneath something she owned? maybe they were the same.

you were both fully stretched and watered, and had began the stroll to pick up your rackets in synchronicity. his eyes raked over your face, and for the first time in all of this he considered what he wanted. he would’ve wanted to leave you alone. to respect you. but that couldn’t have happened. tashi needs closure. sleeping with you would be strange. you weren’t the same person he left in college, he wasn’t naive enough to forget that. before it all fell apart, when he was your tentative boyfriend, there were nights he locked away, too tender to be thought of by a married man. nights at his lake house, nights in your dorm, mornings when he would wake up covered in you and it was so still and calm that he had thought maybe it was still night, and you forgot to turn the light off. those nights, bolted into the safe for lost things in his mind, now drifted free. your soft skin and its smell, the weight of your body on top of his, your strawberry balm kisses. when you would dash away before sex to ‘freshen up’, and he’d smell his dorm’s cheap fruity hand soap when his nose pressed into your clit, when you opened your arm pit. you’d stopped drinking because he wouldn’t sleep with you drunk. you’d cry sometimes when he held you, when you were on top of him or when he was curved over your body so tightly everything touched. you’d cry. because no one had ever been this nice to you. and he would kiss them away, right from your under eye, licking them as they drooped of the edge of your chin. you never said i love you. never got that far. but he felt it from you. he knew you did. you had. he could tell in the way you listened to him. any tiny thing, any tiny little thing you logged away and remembered about him. if he told you once that he liked your hair half up half down, that was your hair for the next year. if he told you he liked your hands, rings and bracelets would scatter all across your dorm to be thrown on at his arrival. superficial things like that, but you listened so hard. you tried so hard. in those nights, you were like putty in his hands. he could’ve moulded you into anything. so receptive, so soft and wet and gentle. when he was inside you, when he was milked by your suckling, loving heat, he felt more at peace than he had in his whole life. it felt like you were the only two people left in the world, by God’s perfect design. you would take anything he gave to you, and because of that he was sweet and perfect to you. he was a dream man because you deserved a dream man. he truly adored you. but he wasn’t yours. and when those loving nights and sleepy mornings ended, it was tashi that returned to his mind. tashi. and she was so different from you. she was dangerous and painful and she made him itch. it was like getting high from a wasp sting, like he was addicted to the hurt. he didn’t want what was easy, what was simple and good and hearty. he wanted her. and it all worked out how it was supposed to, because tashi was his wife and she loved him and needed him and you were a tennis star. but, taking everything into account, it could never be how it was with you ever again. because you didn’t trust him anymore. he watched as you scooped up your racket, doing the same. you looked so concentrated. so angry. he wondered if you always felt angry. it probably helped you play better.

did he want to sleep with you again? that was the real question. well, if you would let him, he would. he wanted to. he never stopped adoring you, he realises now you hate him. you never did anything to make him stop. never pullled the plug, just walked away. the passivity of it made you slip away into the back of his mind, and for so long he didn’t realise you never left. he wanted to know how you changed. he wants to know how you’re different, and selfishly, he wants you to forgive him. if he was close enough to you you would know how sorry he was. if he could touch your skin one final time, and know whatever hurt he had caused you hadn’t stopped it being soft, then he could let go of you for real.

“you two ready?” tashi called from where she lounged in the seating area.

you flipped the racket round in your hold a few times, and nodded. art nodded too.

“alright. first to

this was it. you were going to beat that man into the ground and you were going to laugh in tashi’s face and you were going to remain unfucked. partially unfucked. god, in this rush you had forgotten that just the night before patrick had smiled at you, and for a glorious hour you had lost your mind. it didn’t bear thinking about. you wondered what he was doing tonight. probably laid up with some sorry girl in that fucking motel room. what a simple life failures lead. you eat, you fuck, you shit, you die. when you’re actually worth something everything is struggle.

art was undecided. he held a little fluorescent ball in his hand, putting it into the neck of the racket. his eyes darted in the dark to his beautiful wife. he raised his eyebrowqa millimetre. tashi’s head flicked side to side, incrementally left to right, shaking no. throw the match. this wasn’t about tennis anymore. it had never been about tennis. he knew that now.

restless you leaned from knee to knee, crouched, flaunting your mobility, eyes never leaving tashi duncan. he looked back to you, and when he met your eye a shiver ran down his spine. he’s gonna touch you again tonight.

he paused a few more seconds. and then he served, a big sweeping motion, a thunk over his head. you were put into play.

what was it tashi had said? something really pretentious. you remembered hearing about it, something she had said to the threesome lackeys. it was passed down in bits like chinese whispers, but you’d heard the thesis of it. tennis was like fucking. like making love. like a beautiful dance where souls intertwine and total nirvana is reached and blah blah blah. at the time you’d thought that it was the biggest load of drivel you’d ever heard, and that if that was how she really felt then she’d never amount to shit, at least not in tennis.

but now, on this moonlit court, a dozen feet away from tennis star art donaldson, a dozen more away from star coach tashi duncan, you think maybe she was right all along. because you are fucking the shit out of art. he can’t seem to get a single fucking point. if this was a relationship, it’s fucking abusive. small grunts emanate from him, wimpy and down trodden sounds like a kicked dog. you get halfway through the match before realising what’s really going on.

the sound of the ball cracking from racket to racket is ear splitting, but the sound of your celebration every time you sink a point is louder to art. more distinctive and more memorable. you pump your fist at your side, and almost hiss, yes, and you walk around in a little circle, as if unable to contain your excitement. in all the match footage tashi had him watch, you never celebrated unless you won the match. he almost felt himself smile, but forced it away. he couldn’t let you know your joy was under his control, that he was allowing it.

but he wasn’t subtle. point after point after point, and art never withered. his spine was straight, not beaten wavy with defeat like it was supposed to be. once or twice the ball passed right by his racket, he didn’t even lift it. he got a few points, it wasn’t forty love. but he didn’t sweat. grunted before he even lost the point, before he even began to hit the ball. his arms were loose. they flung one way and another. was he even trying to hit the ball? you were grunting, you were sweating. you were fucking trying. you respected tashi and art enough, if not as people, then as competitors, to fucking try. all this bullshit about fucking, and you were still willing to try and win because despite everything, you still felt you had something to prove. didn’t they? what was this if not proving something? what more could it possibly be? art was smiling. beaten into the dirt and smiling. this was fucked. your turn to serve. you hold the ball in your hand, and seethe. you don’t move. your head tilts incrementally. you stare art down, half to determine the degree of fuckery, and half just to make him squirm. until his eyes flick to tashi. guidance please, master? his big loping puppy dog eyes scream.

fucking pathetic.

your racket clatters to the ground, ear splitting in the dark and quiet. tashi grinds her teeth, fingers drumming the seat, and almost calls out. almost barks at you to keep playing. but she doesn’t. because for some reason, you’re stalking towards the net. she can see the moonlight bounce off your closely shaven legs. the springing of your pony tail wafts towards her a paralysing chill, and she remains in her seat, silent.

your shoes grind as you stop on the astroturf, gripping the net with one hand, beckoning art with the other hand. he looks at you, up and down, eye brow quirked up. his lips pout involuntarily, and the bottomless well of tenderness you have for this silly, silly man pours fourth once again, doing nothing to stave off your anger.

“you tryna fuck me or something?”

art recoiled slightly. his eyes dashed to tashi.

“what do you mean?” his voice was thin. he wanted you to be quieter.

“play like you mean it or get off the court.”

you turn on your heel as soon as you spit the words, tearing at the dirt red asphalt. but then you stop. art never does anything you want him to. you know from experience. he needs an ulterior motive. you flick the sweat off your slick forehead with the slick back of your hand, and turn to art, savage smile pulling uncontrollably at your lips.

art remained where you left him by the net, stunned. what a violent, vulgar woman you had grown into. the creature he knew, that swallow, that doe, would never have spoken to him like that. jaded. vicious. you were changed. you were mangled. even that look on your heavenly face sent chills ricochetting up his spine, across his ribs. he visibly twitched as you returned to the netside.

“art, did tashi tell you about atlanta.”

you let the end of that word flick, like a feather in the wind. ta.

art blinked.

“atlanta? we were just there.”

you grasped the net and leaned forward. all was hush, even new york waited for you to continue. no car alarms, no distant drunken hollering. it was just you and art and festering contempt. and tashi, off the side, craning to hear a word and hearing her heart beat instead.

“you wanna know who else was there?”

you bit your lip, gleeful. art took a step closer to grip the net, to lean over.

“who? what are you talking about?”

“patrick.”

slowly, like a fall through quicksand, art realised. art screwed up his face, looked at his shoes, and then slowly, and right before your eyes, he found out who his wife really was. face fallen, eyes wide and focused on you, you only nodding. now that it was in front of him it seemed to obvious.

“what does that mean?”

but he knew what it meant.

“it means, i saw him yesterday. he said he saw you. well, not you. your other half. she didn’t tell you? he said it was a quite vigorous discussion.”

“stop it.”

that sickly satisfied smirk slipped off your face like leftovers into trash, leaving only the fire that never left.

“make me.”

neither of you looked away, rarely blinked, both fumed. art thought he could best you, thought you wouldn’t notice, thought you would just accept his bullshit and roll over. but art didn’t know his wife like you did. and now he would play you like he hated you, and you could beat him at his best. also, he most likely wouldn’t want to have sex regardless of the outcome, so it was win-win in truth.

arts thoughts were not so controlled, nor as proud or positive. the limpness of his arms, the rise and fall of his chest, it all spurred on a horrible sinking feeling, as if along with his world he too was crumbling. he had thought nothing when she left for a walk after the finale. nothing whatsoever. but it was then she had stolen away, like a criminal. a secret dirty rendezvous. forbidden, tantalising, stomach churning. art got second place that day. was that why? was she punishing him? why had you done this to him? patrick. patrick. of all people. patrick. each flash of his smiling face in the void of arts mind was like a gunshot, a flash breaking through the void. how could one person be this cruel? and why did it have to be you? why were you changed? why couldn’t you be the same, why couldn’t you love him still? he needed someone that loved him and you were right in front of him, dead. dead to love. dead to connection. you were a creature, but you were no doe. you were a wounded sulking beast. you would beat down or maul anything wilfully ignorant enough to cross your path. but he needed you to love him. if not tashi, you. despite tashi, you.

watching his crumble had a strange effect on you. he swayed, and looked all around like he was blind. you felt bad. the animal softness you kept for him in your soul churned inside you. you felt guilty. but he should know. he deserved to know. maybe not in that way. but in a way.

“is that true? swear to me you’re not lying.”

the night was cooling off, and the ice-lake blue of art’s eyes, the press of his lips, the sag of his shoulder made you shiver. only now did you realise how close his face was to you as he leant over the net. incrementally moving back, you swallowed.

“i swear.”

“ok. ok.”

he looked down, rocked, didn’t pull away.

“i’m sorry. i’m sorry.”

his cheeks filled with air, and you could hear him try to cough out the lump in his throat.

“hey, art. art.”

he wouldn’t look up.

“i never wanted to know that. i would’ve never known.”

you didn’t think about this, about how ugly this all was. that was an ugly, horrible, jaded thing to do. jaded. patrick was right.

“i’m sorry.”

hands on hips, he turned around, moving away from you, racket clutched in a white fist. he just walked. and walked. it looked like he was about to leave the court when he turned around.

“you serve.”

and you and him played. actually played for the first time all day. he was running for the god damn ball, he was slamming it so hard your wrist ached to receive it. his face was aged, he looked more wrinkled and wisened and sinister, and he played like that too, like he has a clue what was going on and what tennis was. on one hand, this pleased you. a real fucking game. someone of the tashi clan is finally speaking to you in a language you can understand, a field you can dominate. art, try as he might, still, still, still, using all his anger, wasn’t beating you. this pleased you immensely.

but on the other hand, art was so angry. so fucking furious, and he was directing it at you. of course he was, you’re right there, you’re the bitch that told him his wife cheated, you get the surface of it. but he was so fucking angry. the grunts he made, the force behind his strides, the festering resentment he looked at you with, that was all bullshit. art is so bullshit.

in times gone by, tashi was the big bad in your mind, a monolith for your hatred. but this hissy fit is alerting you to another fact. art left you for her. he married her. that was his choice. but now, it blows up in his face, and he has the gall to be angry at you? to glare at you, grunt at you, spit on the moon-shaded clay and snarl at you? he comes into your life for the second time, blows it up, while you have a competition, and now he’s pissed at you for biting back? with the truth no less.

art is angry at you, but the truth is, you’re angrier. and so you wipe the floor with him.

above, tashi surveys, quietly mystified. this is the best you’ve played, ever. your form is exquisite, and strong, violent but controlled. you’re not fucking around. not that you ever are, but she notes that as your tally climbs and climbs, you never get comfortable, you never let up. it’s the same measured looks, the same desire as you lick the sweat off your lips and eye-fuck her husband. whatever you spoke about got art playing good too. maybe you should come to all his tournaments. tashi is itching to know what was said, but moreover she’s itching for the match to end, for a forfeit to be exchanged. whatever that may be.

it doesn’t take long before her prayers are answered, and the verdict is art has lost. he miss your last mighty shot by a landslide, on the other side of the court when it crashes down and bounces away out of bounds, into the nothing. you have won. you won. art lets out a guttural throaty cry and throws his racket to the ground while little sweat droplets leap from him like glitter.

he laps the court angrily, and you just hold out your arms, let the cool air hug your skin. no victory cry, because your body is singing with exhaustion, hard earned exhaustion, as your chest fills with air you feel vilified, you feel your truth has been exacted. you beat tashi. tashi’s husband. you beat art. you beat tashi’s man servant into the ground. you fucking win.

“fuck. fuck. fuck. fuck,” he holds the back of his head, elbows swinging as he moves about.

“fuck is right. i win.”

“shut up.”

like the crack of a whip you turn to look at him. he is still so fucking angry. at you. you, of all people.

“what was that? shut up? did a loser just tell me to shut up?”

“you know what you fucking did. you told me so i would lose concentration and throw the match.”

you were both approaching the net, seething, panting. he pointed at the floor as he spoke, with passion, like he even had a leg to stand on. maybe it was his righteous outrage that pissed you off, his self important hurting. why was he so angry at you? you didn’t fuck patrick. well, not in atlanta anyway.

“i told you so you would give enough of a shit to play me for real. that was the best you’ve played in year, art,”

you poke his chest, and aggression blooms within him from your point of contact like blood in water. you’re gonna make him crazy, he’s so angry. you’re still poking him.

”and guess what? i still. fucking. beat you.”

“you shut up or ill make you shut up.”

“oh, that really got the testosterone pumping didn’t it donaldson? do you think your balls are gonna drop soon, you spineless shit?”

“you vicious little bitch. you’re this much of a cunt just because tashi was better than you in college? how pathetic can a person be?”

“she is not fucking better than me. and you of all people should know that.”

your voice cracks. so it comes out fu-cking. but your point remains. a breath filled quiet settles and for a brief moment all either of you can do is stare at each other and realise how close you’ve gotten and ache and burn and crave. his hand rests on the net, a centimetre away from yours. if you wiggled your pinky at all you’d be touching.

you watch him breath, watch his eyes trace the sweat from your chin that drips to your chest, watch him hate the fact he noticed. you watch his anger congeal. set into warm mush instead of hot liquid. you felt a heaviness in your chest as you felt yourself giving in, giving over to your anger. giving over to the hurt that fueled it.

and you kissed each other. because there was nothing else in the world to do. like opposite poles, against both of your conscious wills, you crashed into each other and kissed like biting vipers. it hurt. your fingers dug into his thinly covered shoulders, his back, dull though they were. he gripped the back of your neck, the base of your skull, pushing you forward into him, keeping you where he could have you. his other hand fisted the back of your tank, like he was holding the scruff of a bad cat’s neck. trapped in his hold, you had no choice but to love him. you clawed and kissed and little noises escaped you, and all of a sudden he was 19 again and he had you. All thoughts of tashi and patrick and coming second place were vanquished, and all he could feel was the softness of your nose pressed into his cheek, the pliable flesh of your tongue and the freedom with which you enjoyed things, how much noise and honesty you were willing to give. nothing had felt so raw, so real for a long time.

your lips mushed and deformed around the other, your tongues licked like fire, you held each other until you felt you couldn’t be closer. and then tashi existed again. and you pulled away.

“congrats. our room or yours?”