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pedrosbisch · 2 months

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How Do You Do It?

Jack Daniels x fem!reader

Warnings: Mild language; words said in anger; stress-induced anxiety; mild angst; self-doubt; but lots of fluff, I swear.

Summary: Being a new mother and a homemaker are two difficult jobs to juggle at the same time, and even more of a challenge when your husband is constantly away. When Jack returns from his latest assignment to find you overtaxed and irritable, he decides to make it up to you by spending a day in your shoes.

A/N: What a busy summer/early fall. So much has changed in such a short time. Change is weird sometimes and brings a lot of stress. Had my first-ever panic attack. Zero stars; do not recommend. But even the stressful, scary parts of our lives can be inspiring. This fic is proof of that 😝

P.S. As you can see I began this fic in the fall of 2023 and look how late I’m posting it! I’m sorry for the long hiatus, folks, but believe me when I say it was necessary.

How is it that your husband is the secret agent, but the weight of the world always feels like it’s been thrust upon your shoulders?

The day you found out you were expecting was one of the happiest of your life. You and Jack had been over the moon and spent the entire adventure of pregnancy fantasizing about all the joys of parenthood that would arrive along with your bundle of joy. You weren’t kidding yourselves; you knew that a baby brought big changes and more than a few challenges. You just weren’t aware of just how high those hurdles would be until you were thrown into the race.

The roles of wife, homemaker, and now mother all seem to merge into one monstrous, never-ending task; and your duties seemed all the more daunting when you were left to fulfill them alone.

Jack is nothing short of attentive and dedicated when he’s at home. The problem is that “home” is usually the last place one will find him. As of late, his job with the Statesmen pulls and pushes him this way and that into parts unknown where he’s embroiled in espionage for some indeterminate period, leaving you with a house to maintain, meals to prepare, clothes to launder, and a colicky infant to soothe.

You’re trapped inside a pressure cooker and the temperature is nearing critical.

***

“Baby Shark” is on its 25th iteration, every “doo doo doo” is like a bat to the back of your head. You dance topless in the living room with your wailing son clutched to your naked chest. You’d tossed your t-shirt into the wash twenty minutes ago, covered—like the two before it—in your baby boy’s milky vomit.

Your sanity is a mere thread, frayed, delicate, and seconds away from completely unraveling. Your head is pounding and back aching, and you’re trying to convince yourself that the flush of heat you feel just beneath your skin is not a fever. You can’t afford to be sick now. Not when you are all your son has; when you are all you have.

“Daddy’s home, darlin’!”

The sound of his voice, the familiar clip-clop of his boots on the hardwood floor, should fill you with after hardly having heard it for a solid week. Instead, it has your already tepid body simmering with frustration.

“Hey there, Mama Mare.” The affectionate term oozes from between his grinning lips with all the smooth, sweet ease of honey. “Give this ol’ cowboy some sugar. He missed you.”

His lips are on yours and then detaching themselves before your mouth can even register it’d just been in contact with another; far quicker and more careless than the long overdue reunion kiss you’d been anticipating. The brief little smooch held about as much passion as a handshake.

“There’s my little cowpoke!”

Jack lifts his squalling son from your arms and little John’s cries instantly cease. Of course they do. Of freaking course.

“Well, now, you didn’t have to get all dressed up on my account, honeybee.”

You snap to attention after possibly having fallen asleep on your feet for a split second to see that Jack’s devilish gaze has zeroed in on your bared tits.

“You certainly know how to welcome a fella home.”

While he’s busy ogling your non-seductive nudity, your own eyes have locked onto the trail of muddy prints stretching from the front door, each filthy footfall a perfect imprint of the sole of Jack’s boots. Yet another mess you’ll have to clean up; another chore added to the already heavy burden you’re shouldering.

“How’s about after dinner we mosey on upstairs, put this little buckaroo to bed, then I show you just how much I missed you?”

You don’t even know how to respond to him right now, so you don’t. You simply turn your back and walk away, seething in a silent rage as you stomp your way upstairs to put on the thickest, ugliest sweatshirt you can find that leaves everything up to the imagination.

John starts to wail once again, but that’s Jack’s problem now. You have about a million other tasks to accomplish—make that a million and one, thanks to his filthy freaking boots.

You slip into the master bath and toss back a couple of Advil for your pounding headache and by the time you re-emerge, Jack is pacing around your bed, hands on his hips and a pensive scowl on his face.

You take a deep breath through your nose and the words tumble from your lips in a sigh. “I haven’t started dinner yet. Give me just a few minutes and I can—“

“Did I say somethin’ wrong?” he blurts. “‘Cause you gave me a look back there that reminded me of an angry steer about to trample a rodeo clown.”

“Just forget it,” you mutter, brushing past him toward the door. His hand wraps around your wrist before you can cross the threshold.

“I ain’t forgettin’ nothin’,” he drawls as he turns you to face him. “Sugar, what’s wrong? No use lyin’ because I can tell somethin’s stuck in your craw.”

Oh, it’s stuck alright. Like a bug in a windshield.

“Jesus, Jack,” you sigh. “Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve had a total of five non-consecutive hours of sleep this week. Or it could be the fact that the house is a mess or that I’m down to my last pair of clean underwear. All the chores have been put on hold so I could tend to our son while you’ve been off playing ‘secret agent man’ in God only knows where.”

His mustache twitches and his jaw ticks.

“Honeybee, why didn’t you tell me you’ve been strugglin’? I would have—“

“Because I shouldn’t have to tell you!” you snap. “You should know me well enough by now to tell when I’m not okay! You should already have some inkling of how hard it is to raise a child and that the process usually goes much smoother when both parents are involved. But I guess I’m just a fool for assuming. Getting shot at is far less hazardous to your health than changing a dirty diaper after all.”

When the red finally clears from your vision you see that Jack’s has become clouded with a look you’d only bore witness to once and concluded that you never wanted to see again. His mirthful brown eyes dulled by a deeply rooted pain planted long ago by a cruel twist of fate. He’d been robbed of his first chance to be a husband and father and you’d just accused him of squandering his second.

“Sugar, I’m….I’m sorry.”

Shit. It’s not fair. You have been miserable for an entire week and you can’t stand to see him miserable for even a millisecond.

“No, I’m sorry,” you insist, voice and legs quivering. You lower yourself to the bed before exhaustion and gravity get the better of you. “I’m just so tired. Tired and frustrated.”

He drops to the bed beside you and pulls you into one of his signature hugs you’ve missed so much. The tightest of embraces that only he can give.

“I know you’re working hard to provide for our family,” you sob. “I know that but still I….I feel so alone, Jack.”

Before even a single southern-drenched syllable can leave his mouth, a sharp wail blasts from the baby monitor and your body reacts instinctively and urgently. You shoot up and out of Jack’s arms like a rocket.

“Let me check on him and then I’ll start dinner,” you say with a sniffle.

“I’ll get him, darlin’,” Jack insists, gently grasping you by the wrist and halting your minimal progress toward the door.

“But he probably needs—“

“I will get him.”

His hands are on your shoulders now—firm yet gentle—and grounding, comforting.

“Please, let me take care of my boy so you can take care of you, honeybee. And then, later, I’d like to take care of you, too. If you’ll let me.”

You can only muster a nod before he’s striding out of the room. Taking advantage of the first minute you’ve had to yourself in a week, you slip into the shower and let the warm spray unclench every muscle coiled tight with stress.

By the time you emerge, John is sleeping peacefully and a pizza’s been ordered. Jack dotes on you the entire evening, giving your aching feet a rub down with his skillful hands and cuddling you close as you both zone out to some ridiculous reality TV. His mere presence is a balm to your weary soul.

Whenever the baby cries in the middle of the night and your body moves on instinct Jack stills you, urges you back to the mattress, and takes on the challenge himself. It’s the best night’s sleep you’ve had in you can’t remember how long.

***

And surprisingly enough, you don’t manage to sleep any later than 9 a.m. The smell of extra greasy bacon lures you from bed, a siren’s call to your stomach.

John bounces in his high chair, babbling around a mouthful of mashed banana, most of which appears to have ended up on his face, shirt, and chubby little fists. Jack is an even more astonishing sight than your messy son, strutting about the kitchen in your frilly apron topping his off-white Henley and faded Wranglers.

“Well, good mornin’, sugar,” he cries, grabbing your hips to tug you in for a kiss. “Though I wasn’t expectin’ to see you up so soon.”

“How did you expect me to stay asleep when something smells incredible?”

“That would be my famous chocolate chip, peanut butter, and banana flapjacks.”

In true Southern gentlemanly fashion, he pulls out a chair and eases you into it before setting a towering stack of syrup-soaked pancakes before you, coffee and bacon following suit.

“Better eat quick now, darlin’,” Jack urges as he takes a seat with his plate. “You’ve got a busy day ahead of you.”

As if you could forget. That laundry is begging for attention, the house hasn’t had a good dusting in you can’t recall how long, and Johnny already needs a bath—

“I made you an appointment for noon.”

Your train of thought instantly stalls on the tracks.

“Appointment?”

Jack grins over the brim of his steaming mug.

“Honey, you need a break. Figured you might enjoy yourself a little spa day.”

You can hardly believe your ears.

“Spa day?”

“Yes, ma’am. Massage, mud baths, whatever the heck they do with seaweed, the whole nine yards,” he explains proudly. “I even called up your buddy from work and asked if she’d like to join you. And it’s all on me.”

“But Jack, what about John? And the house, the laundry, the cooking?”

“Gimme some credit, sugar,” he chuckles. “I think I can keep the homestead standin’ and our baby boy breathin’ for a day. Besides, it’s high time I start puttin’ in my fair share of help around here, isn’t it?”

You’re not sure if you want to thank him or burst into tears. Maybe both.

“You do so much, honeybee,” he says warmly, voice as smooth, rich, and sweet as the syrup sluiced atop your pancakes. “You move mountains every day to make this house a home. How’s about lettin’ someone do somethin’ for you for a change?”

You scarf down the rest of your pancakes before kissing him with sticky lips and racing up the stairs to get ready for your big day out.

***

You feel rejuvenated and refreshed. Brand fucking new. A far cry from the husk of a woman who’d left the house this morning. Wrapped in seaweed and slathered with mud you’d been returned to the earth and reborn at full strength, like a phoenix risen from the ash.

You'd been reunited with an inner strength and power you'd all but forgotten. And thank God for that, because you're going to need every bit of it to face the chaos you come walking back into upon your return home.

You can hear John’s piercing wails before you’ve cut the engine and opened the driver’s side door. You can smell the smoke before you've even reached the front steps.

Inside all hell has broken loose. Gray tendrils of smoke slither through the air, teasing the detector into screaming its warning. Your baby boy is giving it some stiff competition with his own cries as Jack struggles to bounce him on one arm while he tries to fan away the smoke with the other. Both gestures prove futile.

“It’s okay, buckeroo. You’re okay. Don’t cry. Please, please don’t cry.”

Jack looks so frazzled. The situation is far from funny so the last thing you should do is laugh at his expense. But dammit if you don’t anyway.

“Do you need some help there, cowboy?”

His frantic eyes find you through the haze and pierce you with a desperate, wordless plea. You take the inconsolable infant from your husband’s arm and soothe him into silence as Jack does the same to the smoke alarm.

“There now, Johnny. See? Everything’s okay. Daddy made the bad sound stop.”

“He just stopped cryin’ for you. Just like that.”

Something in his eyes burns. Something in his voice cracks.

“I couldn't bring him any kind of comfort. He didn't….want nothin’ to do with me.”

Your weary cowpoke sags into one of the chairs at the kitchen table and buries his face in his hands with an exasperated sigh.

“You were right, darlin’. I'm useless.”

You settle John into his high chair with a teething ring to distract him before turning your attention to your distressed husband.

“To be fair, I never said you were useless.”

“You may as well have,” he sighs. “And if you weren’t thinkin’ it before you’ll be thinkin’ it now.”

You smirk. “Rough day?”

“Oh darlin’, you don’t even know the half of it.”

He begins to recount the day’s challenges, his voice raising in pitch as goes from describing one hurdle to the next. He almost seems on the verge of tears.

“And I got so distracted while tryin’ to get our fussy boy to eat his dinner that I failed to hear the timer and let ours burn. Hence the fiasco you came home to. And when John started bellowing for his supper I was in the middle of the laundry and I forgot to separate the colorful items from the rest, so my new red jockeys turned our bathroom towels pink and….and I just failed so miserably today, sugar. I’m so sorry.”

You laugh, unable to help it. It’s all you can do at this point. “Welcome to my world, sweetheart.”

“How on Earth do you do it, sugar?”

If you’re being honest, you ask yourself that question at least once a day, and not always with the same emotional connotation behind it.

“There’s just something inside of me that encourages me to power through the difficulties. A force, a reminder.”

“An iron will for damn sure,” he scoffs.

“No, that’s not it,” you chuckle. “It’s love, Jack. For you and our boy. That’s what keeps me going.”

He looks at your have cradling his own, a gesture of both dominance and comfort. In this moment he believes that he is made of inferiority.

“I love you both to the moon and back, yet I can’t even do a load of laundry.”

“Jack you do enough. I have not, do not, and never will doubt your love for me and John,” you reassure him. “Acts of service just happen to be my particular love language, not yours.”

“Then what is mine?”

You lift his hands and kiss both sets of his knuckles. “Words of affirmation.”

His acts of service are for the world, but his words are just for you.

“But ain’t actions supposed to speak louder?”

“For others, maybe,” you shrug. “But that’s only because no one else speaks as loudly as you.”

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pedrosbisch · 4 months

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And wait, now won't you lay?

Pairing: TF Boys x F!Reader Wordcount: 2.87K Warnings: Violence. Drug Use. PTSD ish. Smut. a dash of daddy kink. Summary: The five times you and the boys have soft sex. A/N: i got a few requests about the tf boys making love to the reader since their sex is usually like chaotic and wild. title from Lykke Li's "I Know Places". Benny's section takes place after this situation for context.

Benny’s expression is somber when you finally find him outside of their house. His hair falling over his brow as he studies the dirt - a beer warming in his hand. He glances up at you and you’re struck by how gorgeous he is. You idly wonder how the fuck his high school survived both Miller brothers because he’s movie-star good looking and he shines like an open book.

Ben and his twilight eyes and his golden skin and the way his teeth take up half of his damn face when he really grins.

He’s not grinning now though. His lips quirk in the feign of a smile as if he’s trying to please you, but then his expression shutters back to something distant and troubled.

“Okay,” you say - crossing your arms over your chest. “What’s the matter?”

“That guy,” He rubs his thumb over the beer label - peeling at it. “The one from the bar last night - he was your old partner?”

Oh.

“I thought we dealt with this?”

They had. They’d fucked you within an inch of your life and you could barely walk straight this morning.

He nods, his jaw twitching as his nostrils flare. He looks incredibly upset. You drop down next to him, pressing yourself flush to his side. Your thighs grazing as he stares out at the backyard.

“I can’t read your mind, Ben.”

He gives you a humorless chuckle. “Sorry - I’m - I don’t know. That guy - that guy is like some superhero. I can’t compete with that.”

You frown. “Since when would you have to compete with him?”

He gives you a sidelong glance. “You looked happy with him, babe. I remember the stories you told me - before we were together. You told me all the crazy shit you did and he - he stared at you like you were - fuck i don’t know -”

“Like what?”

“Like you were his.”

You scoff. “I am very obviously not.”

He shrugs and it occurs to you that this is another projection of Benny’s insecurities. His years spent trying to live up to his brother - trying to separate himself from the star-bright sheen of William Theodore Miller. Another man threads into the mix and it’s a threat to him - a threat to his place here.

He’s such an idiot sometimes.

You twist toward him and grasp his face roughly. “I love you. I’m in love with you and no one can change that.” His eyes widen just enough to know that your point has hit home. “Stop being a dumb ass, Benny.”

He fucks you in the pool and it’s nice and sensual and like you’re more inside him than he is inside you. You wrap your legs around his waist as he pushes up into your cunt in one long thrust. It’s kind of dry - it almost hurts a bit - but it feels good when he starts to move. You nose at his shoulders - tasting the chlorine and the pool-damp skin. His hair is wet and hanging in his face and you smear the droplets of water over his brow and cheek. He dips his head to kiss you - crushing his mouth to yours and breathing against your tongue as each roll of his hips knocks you against the grainy side of the pool.

“You’re so pretty, baby,” he says as he cups your cheek - as he secures his grip on the concrete lip behind you. When you clench tight around him, his brow furrows in pleasure - pink lips parting on a whine. His cock feels like a deep-hard pressure inside your core as he pumps it back and forth and through you.

II.

Frankie questions himself every day of his life. He questions his choices and his reactions and the words that spring from his mouth like weeds. They tangle up and twist in the garden of his making and sometimes they overwhelm and ruin all the rest.

“You’re stupid to rely on me.”

“I’m a mess. I’m - I can’t even go a day without snorting a fucking line.”

“Meetings won’t work.”

“Just - just leave me alone, sweetheart. I can’t - I can’t be near anyone right now.”

You’ve learned how to deal with him. Sometimes you let him go and sometimes you fight it. Sometimes you’re so sick of him that you spread your hands and allow him to brood in his own ruin.

He gets better. He learns and the guys carve him out. You carve him out - whittle him down to something or someone closer to the man he’d like to be.

He has an off day. He goes somewhere else - his memories dark and slant and all wrong. Shadows and bullets and the spray of hot blood on his face. The taste of iron. The texture of sand granules on his tongue as he fell face first in the desert.

You know the signs - know that he’s revving up to lose it. His knuckles clenching white around the milk carton - the bill of his hat pulled low enough to hide his eyes. He grinds his teeth and snaps at Benny and finally, you stalk into his room and grab him brutally around the wrist.

“Come with me,” you order and he does because Frankie has never been good at refusing you and your expression is terrifying - brooking no room for argument.

He doesn’t ask questions - just slides into the shotgun seat when you tell him to get in the car. They drive and drive - long stretches of road and the blood-orange light of September. He exhales deep - staring out at the landscape that blurs and swirls into a mass of gold and green and brown.

You turn the volume up on the Eagles and Fleetwood Mac and Frankie forgets about the memories - the swollen nightmares that had torn at his head all damn morning. He loosens up and finally puts his hand on your thigh and you’re silent - lips quirking as you beat your fingers on the steering wheel to running down the road trying to loosen my load, got a world of trouble on my mind and Frankie thinks how fucking appropriate the song is and how he might just love you more than life itself.

They pull off to the side of the highway and there’s nothing, but tallgrass and the coin-copper sun and the leather of their seats rubbing humid beneath them. He drags you across the console and you ride him like that. Your knees wedged around his hips and his cock buried inside you - the crotch of your underwear tugged aside and digging into the sensitive skin of his length. It’s barely a fuck - more like he’s just warming his cock inside you. You settle on him and he cradles your jaw - his eyes searching yours for a secret or a give or anything because Frankie wants to own you in any way he can. He wants to strip you bare and see your parts and squeeze the meat of your heart and it’s all so macabre and violent, but that’s how he feels. He loves you like he’s dying - he loves you like the world might tumble apart and he’d stay unaware as long as you held his gaze. He plants his feet on the floor of the car so he can grind into you - hips barely jerking as each thrust spits a narrow inch. You’re slick and slippery and gushy really as he crams himself as far as he can. He stretches you open and you hook your fingers around the nape of his neck and gasp into his mouth as the head of his cock punches up against your womb or gut or who the fuck knows because it’s all so tight and hot and soaked.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against the slide of your tongue. It’s not very loud, but it’s sincere. He means it with everything in him. You saved him on a regular Tuesday morning. Just at home. Just with their family. You saved him from himself.

III.

Will thinks you’re like a centerfold. The colors of you painted distinct and gorgeous and he remembers the first time he met you. The way your hand squeezed his and the way your lips parted to reveal all those teeth and he’d thought holy shit you’re stunning and then there’s no way you can keep up with us. He doubted your skill and your strength and your talent.

He’d shut up pretty fast once he actually saw you shoot.

It’s the mission that really fucks them over. The mission where Will gets shot in the gut and you have to push your fingers into the hole to make sure he doesn’t bleed out. He simply watches you - choosing to focus on your face and the fringe of your lashes as you work your lower lip between the seam of your teeth.

“Stay with me,” you murmur - staring at the blood leaking around the wound. He bites back a grunt - the pain burning up his side and making him twitch. You finally peer up at him, eyes sparking like the strike of a match that leaves him breathless. You study him - checking out the grayness of his pallor and his unfocused pupils. “It’ll be okay, Ironhead.”

And then softer - sweeter.

It’ll be okay, Will.

He nods - dropping his head back on the cold ground and thinking that he wouldn’t really mind dying with your fingers embedded in his body. He wouldn’t mind dying with your face still blown up on the big screen of his memory.

He passes out as you call to him.

It’s two days later and he’s in another safe house. Another room far away with starched sheets and it could be morning or it could be the middle of the night, but there are no windows to check.

You slide quietly into his room and he’s already reaching for you. He’s already demanding and wanting and needing you, but he has to be careful because his insides are still torn up. He wants to show you - show you that he loves you and he’s thankful and he had dreamt of you as he rocked between unconsciousness and consciousness. You press yourself to his side and he turns - dragging his palm across your jaw and tilting your chin up so that he can claim your mouth. He kisses you frantically - tongue hot and thrusting deep as if he could fuck you by way of your lips.

You push him back - stroking his brow before you move to your hands and knees and present yourself to him as a gift. “It’ll be easier this way,” you explain as you lower yourself to your elbows.

He climbs up behind you and fiddles with his sweats - rucking them down his thighs until his cock springs free - leaking and red. He touches the seam of your sex - the juicy wet flesh and he teases you enough until you shiver before he takes himself in hand and begins to breach you.

When he’s balls-deep - the curve of your body knocking against his groin - he trails his hand down your spine - he combs at your hair. You’re panting and he draws himself back before pressing forward - one smooth stroke. You make a hard noise in the back of your throat - a groan as your fingers dig into the sheets. He wraps his arm around your tits and tugs you back against him. Your spine arched as he tilts his pelvis so he can fuck up into you. His pace syrup slow like the drift of lake water lapping at the shore. His hips smack against your ass - the undignified squelch of your too-wet cunt taking the thickest part of him. He traces your clit - sliding his fingers through your folds - feeling where you are stretched around him.

You turn your face to kiss him and it’s all very clumsy and his side is aching like a bitch, but he can’t care. He wants to make love to you and it’s not furious or desperate or over-stimulated.

It’s sweet - it’s near-romantic.

IV.

Pope isn’t great at intimacy. He isn’t great at wind-swept romance or touching you as if your bones were glass. He fucked hard and rough - brutal strokes that echoed slapping skin and slicked up cock.

Call me daddy.

Absolutely not.

C’mon baby. Please - I’ll make you squirt - I’ll make you feel so fucking good.

Fine, daddy.

Fuck.

You’re so easy. Jesus.

You had always been too good for him. Too far away and untouchable and he remembers when Frankie told him that the both of them had fucked in some empty safehouse in the thick of the jungle.

He’d been jealous. He’d gone out that night and gotten drunk and screwed some local chick at the town they were based in. Right in the alley. Right up against a brick wall with the air smelling like trash and rain.

Santi and you are currently stuck in The Maldives. The water is like a robin’s egg and sand like bleached bone. The sun won’t let up.

He watches you now - sticking to your back like a shadow - sewing himself to your feet. You hadn’t been sleeping very well. This mission had left you frightened - your skin cold and knuckles in some state of rigor mortis as you clung to your sheets due to yet another nightmare.

Everything had gone to shit and you’d been close to death. A breath between worlds. Their target’s security had knocked you out and then tried to bury you alive. You’d woken with dirt and sand in your mouth and you screamed and screamed and Santi had come running with his heart on his tongue -

You blink out at the water - the relaxed waves breaking against the wooden stilts that hold up the house. It seems precarious - seems like any tiny shift might knock the whole thing down.

He wishes Will was here. He knows Will would work his magic - gently hold you and tell you it’s alright.

He caresses your cheek - his knuckles running along the swell of it. Your throat is marked up and when you talk your voice is raspy and dry and sounds like it hurts.

“What do you need?” he asks.

It’s over. It’s done. We’re fine. We’re going home and no one will hurt you or touch you or take you from me.

You glance his way and your eyes startle him. Big and luminous and reflecting all that pale sea that drifts to the horizon. You reach for his wrist - thumb pushing into the vein of his pulse.

“I need you,” you murmur before you cough again - fuck it really does sound like it stings. “I just - please -”

Be gentle. Be gentle for her.

He hushes you before he pulls you to the bed. It’s a pretty room - better than anything they’ve gotten before. It’s just scorched in the events of the week - the memory of you drowning in dirt.

He spreads you out and climbs over you - bearing his weight carefully. He strokes your face and cups the hinges of your jaw before he parts his lips over yours and presses down. The soft skim of a kiss - the tentative dip of his tongue in your mouth.

He moves lower - sucking on your nipples - blowing cool air over the tender skin until you arch and whine and fist his overgrown curls.

“Santi,” you moan.

“I’ve got you, pretty baby,” he hums - nipping the smooth inside of your thigh. He tugs your wet panties to the side and latches to your clit. He slips his fingers inside you - scissoring them with the same even pace he applies with his tongue. Tiny blinks and pulses as you flutter around him.

He is careful when he eases his cock inside you. He breaches you inch by inch - savoring the way your pussy flowers around his length - swallowing him deeper. He doesn’t let up once he’s stuffed to the hilt. He grinds leisurely and careful - he keeps his lips on yours - enjoying the way you pant into his mouth with your huffs and your low intimate sounds of please please please -

He does it slow. He does it right.

“What do you need?”

It’s the four of them on you. The scrape of fingers and wet embrace of tongues - the flat of them against your pussy or coaxing over your clit. They pull you apart and put you back together. They gently fist your hair and beg you to open up - spread your knees baby - let us take care of you.

You’d been gone a while. A mission in South Africa where you got too much sun and ate street-market food and wished they were there with you.

The sex feels like it’s choked in wool - like you’re swimming through it and every new angle delivers another twist of pleasure.

We missed you, sweet girl.

Did you think of us?

Were you hurt?

They know all the answers already, but they love to ask - to repeat -

They kiss the bruises on your body - the bandage wrapped securely around your thigh. Your skin probably tasting like too much sweat and antiseptic and plane air. They cover you in them - bury you into the bed.

Santi moves between your legs - hips bunching up against your pelvis as he fucks you. Frankie’s fingers next to Pope’s cock as it slides through the channel of your sex.

Too much?

Not enough?

We have to be gentle.

Will’s lips on your throat and Benny’s tongue in your mouth and they are diligent and cautious when they pull you open - readying you to take two of them at once.

The warm slide of their spit mixed with the cool spurt of lube.

They break you open. They make it good.

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