Life Is Too Short For Bad Vibes @1-800-rainydays - Tumblr Blog

Horsin' Around ୨ৎ

Summary: It’s boring living in your small trailer park, and finding things to do isn’t easy. Lately, playing a game with your boyfriend is making it a bit less boring. ♡ warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, older!bf, cowboy!bf, light smut, thigh riding, guided thigh riding, one naked person + one fully clothed person, nipple/breast play, light slapping, teasing, condescending bf, pet names (baby, sweetheart), no mentions of y/n, reader-insert. wc: 1.4k | : this is a mix of two requests :) enjoy!

kissthigh

Best Friend's Dad ୨ৎ

Summary: Every summer you go to your best friend’s beach house. This year, her dad overhears a conversation, and it piques his interest more than it should. ♡ warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, smut, virgin!user, virginity loss, beach sex, public sex, unprotected sex, age-gap (user is 23), kissing practice, sexual tension, masturbation (m), panties stealing, sexual fantasies, teasing, flirting, light fauxcest petnames (dad, sweetheart, baby), dirty-talking, sneaking around, infidelity, lying, no mentions of y/n, reader-insert. wc: 6k | : this is like… 5 requests wrapped into one LMAOO ENJOY!!

jewellaces

𑣲 Keep your eyes on the road

Summary: Your on a road trip with your boyfriend, Beau Arlen, you get bored and put your feet in his lap, rubbing slow circles over the growing bulge in his jeans.

Warnings: MDNI, 18+, NSFW, footjob, public play, teasing, edgeplay, one shot

wc: 900

He’s been driving for three hours straight, one hand lazy on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh like it belongs there. The highway stretches empty in both directions, late afternoon sun cutting gold across the dashboard. The radio’s low, some soft country thing neither of you are really listening to. You’re in the passenger seat of his truck, bare legs curled under you, the short summer dress riding higher every time you shift.

You glance over at him. Beau Arlen doesn’t look tired. He looks steady. The muscle in his forearm flexes every time he adjusts the wheel. You’ve been watching that muscle for the last twenty minutes.

You stretch your legs out carefully, toes pointing, and settle both bare feet in his lap.

He doesn’t flinch. Just glances down once, then back at the road.

“Careful, baby.”

You don’t answer. You just press the sole of one foot against the soft front of his jeans. Feel the shape of him already half-hard underneath. Your other foot rests higher, toes brushing the waistband. You flex, slow, dragging the arch of your foot down the length of him.

You do it again. Firmer this time. Rubbing the ball of your foot up and down over the thickening ridge, feeling him grow under the denim. The friction is rough and perfect. You can feel the heat of him through the fabric, the way he thickens and starts to push against your sole.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice low. “You’re really gonna do this while I’m driving.”

You dig your toes in a little, rubbing circles right over the head of his cock through the jeans. He hisses through his teeth. One of his hands leaves the wheel and settles heavy over your ankle, not stopping you, just holding on. His thumb strokes the bone there once, then goes still.

You keep going.

Slow, steady pressure. Up and down. Side to side. The fabric of his jeans grows tighter, the outline of his cock clearer under your foot. You can feel every ridge of him now, the thick base, the way the head flares when you press harder. Precome must already be leaking; the denim feels a little damp under the ball of your foot.

His hips shift once in the seat, subtle, like he’s trying not to thrust up into the pressure you’re giving him. You reward him by curling your toes around the shaft as best you can through the jeans and dragging upward, slow and deliberate.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “That feels—goddamn, baby.”

You glance at his face. His eyes are still on the road, but his jaw is tight, a muscle ticking near his temple. Color sits high on his cheekbones. The hand on your ankle squeezes once, hard, then loosens again.

You switch feet. The other sole takes over, warmer now, already a little slick from the heat of him. You press harder this time, grinding the arch of your foot right along the full length of his cock, feeling it jump under the pressure. Your toes find the sensitive spot just under the head and rub there in small, mean circles.

Beau’s hips twitch again. A low sound rumbles in his chest. The truck keeps a perfect, steady speed. He’s still driving like nothing’s happening, but the front of his jeans is obscenely tented now, the fabric stretched tight around the thick shape of him. Your foot slides easier with every pass, the denim growing darker where precome has soaked through.

Long strokes from base to tip. Firm presses that make him grunt under his breath. The occasional wicked curl of your toes that makes his fingers flex hard against your ankle. You’re not in a rush. The road is empty. The sun is still high enough. You can feel how hard he is, how every slow drag of your foot makes him throb under the fabric.

“You’re so soaked already,” you giggle. “Can feel it.”

Beau lets out a rough laugh that doesn’t sound amused at all. “Yeah. You’ve been playing with my cock for ten minutes. What did you think was gonna happen?”

You press down harder, grinding the ball of your foot right over the head, and he swears low and filthy. His free hand leaves your ankle only long enough to adjust himself once, yanking the jeans tighter so the outline of his cock is even clearer, then settles back on your leg, higher this time, fingers curling around your calf.

Beau’s voice is rough when he speaks again.

“When we stop,” he says, eyes still locked on the road, “I’m going to put you on your back in the back seat and fuck that pretty little foot until you can’t walk straight. You know that, right?”

You dig your toes in harder, rubbing right over the head in tight circles, and he groans, low, deep, the sound vibrating through the cab.

“Keep doing that,” he mutters. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”

jewellaces

₊˚ ᰔ Lake house

Summary: Your finally eighteen, freshly single, and stuck spending the last weekend of summer at your dad's best friends lakehouse. Beau has been always amazing to be around, but now things feel different.

⟢ Warnings: MDNI, 18+, NSFW, age gap, dad's best friends, praise kink, pet names, finger sucking, mild babying kink, risk of getting caught, creampie

wc: 4.3k

You hadn’t been to Beau’s lakehouse in years.

The invitation had come late in the summer, almost as an afterthought, your dad mentioning over dinner that Beau was opening the place up one last time before the season ended, and that the whole family should come. A weekend by the water. A few of his other friends. Their kids. The usual crowd.

You were eighteen now. High school was finished. College waited on the other side of a few short weeks. Everything felt temporary and too loud at the same time.

In the passenger seat you kept your headphones on, bare feet propped on the dashboard. You weren’t looking forward to any of it, the noise, the heat, the forced conversations. You just wanted to be left alone.

Your boyfriend had cheated. Everyone knew because your dad had made sure of it, telling the story to half the town. The looks that followed you around felt heavier than the breakup itself.

“Headphones off. We’re here.”

Your dad’s voice cut through the music a second before he reached over and pulled the headphones down around your neck. You rolled your eyes and unbuckled, the seatbelt sliding free with a soft click.

He always insisted on arriving early. Predictably, the long gravel driveway was empty when the truck rolled to a stop in front of the lakehouse. No other cars yet. Just the quiet stretch of water beyond the trees and the low wooden structure that still looked the same as it had when you were a kid.

You stepped out into the heat and stretched, arms overhead, the hem of your shirt lifting for a second. Then you tugged your jeans a little higher on your hips, smoothed them once, and looked toward the porch.

The place smelled like sun-warmed wood and lake water. Somewhere inside, a screen door was already propped open, waiting.

Your dad hauled the cooler out of the truck bed and headed for the open screen door. You followed a few steps behind, the heat of the day already settling against your skin.

“Hey, Beau.”

Your dad set the cooler down with a solid thud. Beau looked up from where he’d been wiping down the counter, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“Hey. You two are early.”

He crossed the room in a few long strides and pulled your dad into a quick, back-slapping hug. Then his eyes shifted to you.

“Hey, kiddo.”

The nickname landed differently now that you were standing there in an off-the-shoulder cover-up with the thin straps of your swimsuit visible underneath. You fidgeted with one of them, twisting the fabric between your fingers.

“Hi, Beau.”

Your voice came out quieter than you meant it to.

Your dad gestured at the cooler. “Where do you want this?”

“Out on the back deck. Ya’ need a hand?”

Beau raised an eyebrow, already half-reaching for it, but your dad shook his head and lifted the cooler again. “I got it.” He disappeared through the sliding door toward the water, leaving the two of you alone in the sudden quiet of the kitchen.

Beau exhaled, watching him go. Then he turned back to you. The easy smile faded into something softer, more careful.

“You okay, sweetie?”

He reached out and ruffled your hair the way he used to when you were younger, but his hand lingered a second longer than it needed to. You could feel the warmth of his palm against your scalp.

“Your dad told me—”

“He told the whole town,” you cut in, eyes dropping to where his hand still rested near your shoulder.

Beau’s mouth tightened. He let his hand fall away, then said quietly, “I’m sorry, baby. You deserve better than that.”

Beau’s hand dropped away, but he didn’t step back. The kitchen felt smaller with just the two of you in it. Outside, you could hear the cooler lid open and close, the distant splash of water against the dock, but in here it was quiet enough to hear the low hum of the refrigerator.

He studied your face for a second, like he was deciding how much to say.

“You want something to drink?” he asked, already turning toward the fridge. “I’ve got water, soda, beer if you’re–” He stopped himself, glancing at you over his shoulder. “Water?”

“Water’s fine.”

He pulled out a bottle, twisted the cap off, and handed it to you. When your fingers brushed his, neither of you pulled away right away. His eyes dropped for half a second to the thin strap of your swimsuit where it cut across your shoulder, then flicked back up like he’d caught himself.

“You’re quieter than usual,” he said.

You took a sip, mostly for something to do. “Just tired of people knowing everything about me.”

“I’m not everybody,” he said, voice lower. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But I’m here if you do.”

The sliding door opened before you could answer. Your dad stepped back inside, wiping his hands on his shorts.

“Cooler’s good,” he said, then looked between the two of you. “What’d I miss?”

Beau pushed off the counter like nothing had happened, the shift so smooth it almost looked practiced. “Just getting her a water. You want one?”

Your dad shook his head and clapped Beau on the shoulder. “Nah. I’m gonna go grab the rest of the bags. You two catch up.”

He headed back out toward the truck, leaving the door open behind him. The sound of his footsteps faded down the porch steps.

Beau’s gaze returned to you the second your dad was out of sight. He didn’t smile this time.

“You really okay?” he asked again, quieter now that there was no chance of being overheard.

You nodded once, but it didn’t feel convincing even to you.

Eventually the driveway filled with cars. Voices carried through the trees, kids shouting, cooler lids slamming, someone laughing too loud. One by one people made their way down to the lake. Your dad and Beau stood over the grill, smoke curling up into the late-afternoon light. A handful of younger kids cannonballed off the dock. A couple of teenagers tossed a football back and forth in the shallow water.

You stayed apart from it all, sitting at the edge of the dock with your feet dangling in the cool water, cover-up still on. The noise felt far away.

After a while Beau left the grill and walked over. He dropped down beside you with a quiet sigh, leaning back on his palms. The wood creaked under his weight. For a moment he just sat there, watching the water the same way you were.

Then he glanced over.

“Why don’t I make you a plate?” he offered, voice easy. His arm settled around your shoulders, warm and casual in a way that still made your pulse jump.

“I’m not very hungry.”

He shook his head, a low laugh under his breath. “Come on. I cut up a whole watermelon just for you.”

You looked at him. The corner of his mouth was tilted up, eyes soft in a way that felt private even with everyone around. A small smile pulled at your own lips before you could stop it.

You pushed yourself up from the dock.

You followed Beau up the slight slope toward the grill, the wooden planks of the dock warm under your bare feet. His hand stayed lightly at the small of your back for a few steps before he let it fall away, like he’d only just remembered other people could see.

Your dad glanced over from the grill, tongs in hand. “She finally hungry?”

“Working on it,” Beau answered, already reaching for a paper plate. He piled on a few slices of bright red watermelon, then added a small piece of grilled chicken without asking. “Sit,” he said, nodding toward the picnic table under the trees.

You sat. He set the plate in front of you and dropped onto the bench across from you instead of going back to the grill. Close enough that his knee brushed yours under the table.

“Eat the watermelon at least,” he said, voice low so it stayed between the two of you. “You look like you haven’t had anything all day.”

You picked up a slice. The juice ran sticky over your fingers the second you bit into it. Beau watched for a second longer than necessary, then looked away toward the water, jaw flexing once.

Your dad called something about needing more charcoal. Beau answered without getting up. “In the shed. I’ll grab it in a minute.”

He didn’t move. His eyes came back to you instead.

“You still thinking about him?” he asked quietly.

You wiped your fingers on a napkin, not meeting his gaze right away. “Trying not to.”

Beau nodded once, like he understood more than he was saying. Under the table his knee stayed pressed lightly against yours, steady and warm, while the rest of the party went on around you like neither of you were sitting in the middle of something that felt a little too quiet and a little too close.

“Thanks Beau,” You said with a smile, before one of the kids dragged you to the water.

You stood up from the picnic table, catching Beau’s eye for half a second before you reached for the hem of your oversized cover-up. You pulled it off in one smooth motion and dropped it on the bench, leaving you in just the thin swimsuit that clung to every curve.

Beau’s gaze dragged over you before he could stop it, quick, dark, and not nearly as subtle as he probably thought. You felt the weight of it settle warm under your skin.

You grinned, a little breathless already, and took off running down the dock.

“Don’t even think about it–” your dad started, but you were already launching yourself off the edge with a bright, unrestrained giggle. The cold water swallowed you whole, shocking and perfect. You surfaced with a gasp, hair slicked back, and floated for a moment as the sky turned gold and soft pink above the trees.

Some of the younger kids immediately started splashing toward you. You laughed and kicked away, holding one hand up.

“Hey, no, not the hair! I just got it nice!”

From the shore you could feel Beau still watching. When you glanced back he was standing near the grill, arms crossed, plate forgotten in his hand. The corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile, but his eyes stayed on you a few beats longer than they should have, lingering on the way the water beaded across your shoulders and the line of your swimsuit as you floated there in the fading light.

You turned onto your back, letting the sunset paint everything warm, and pretended you didn’t notice. But the small, private smile on your face gave you away.

You floated a little longer, letting the last of the sunlight warm your face, then swam back toward the dock with slow, easy strokes. Beau was still there when you reached the ladder, standing at the edge like he’d been waiting.

You climbed up, water streaming down your legs and dripping onto the wood. He held out a hand without a word. You took it. His palm was warm and rough, and he didn’t let go right away, just steadied you as you stepped onto the dock, his fingers lingering against yours a second too long.

“You’re freezing,” he said, voice low.

You weren’t, not really, but the way he looked at you made your skin prickle anyway. He reached past you for the towel someone had left on the bench, then draped it over your shoulders himself. His hands stayed there, smoothing the fabric down your arms, thumbs brushing the bare skin just above your elbows.

“Thanks,” you said, a little quieter than before.

Beau’s eyes flicked to your mouth, then back up. The party noise felt distant, kids still splashing, your dad laughing at something by the grill, but right here it was just the two of you and the dripping water between your bodies.

He leaned in slightly, close enough that you caught the faint scent of smoke and sunscreen on him.

“You’ve got something…” His thumb came up and gently wiped a droplet from the corner of your jaw, lingering there. “Right there.”

The touch was soft. Deliberate. His hand didn’t drop immediately.

You tilted your head just a fraction, enough that his fingers rested more fully against your cheek. Beau’s breath left him in a quiet exhale. For a moment it looked like he might actually close the distance,

Then a loud splash and a kid’s shriek broke the air, and he stepped back half a pace, jaw tight, like he’d just remembered where he was.

As the night wore on, the last cars pulled away down the gravel drive. The lakehouse grew quieter, just the low murmur of voices and the occasional clink of bottles left behind.

You sat curled in one of the chairs, phone in hand, a towel wrapped tightly around your still-damp body. The air had turned cool once the sun disappeared. Goosebumps rose along your arms.

Your dad and Beau sat a few feet away, beers in hand, laughing about something that happened years ago. You shifted in the chair and frowned.

“Dad, I’m cold.”

He glanced over, took another swig, and sighed. “I know, hun.”

Beau looked at you instead, eyes soft in the porch light. “Stay the night. You’re too drunk to drive anyway,” he told your dad, though the smile he sent your way felt like it was meant for you. “Plenty of rooms.”

You managed a small, awkward grin.

“Go on in, sweetheart,” Beau said, tipping his chin toward the door. “I’ll get your dad settled in a minute.”

“Thanks.” You stood, tightening the towel, and headed inside. Your dad followed a short while later, still chuckling about whatever story they’d been telling.

The house was quiet and dim. You walked down the hall toward the bathroom, already thinking about hot water, when you noticed Beau’s bedroom door cracked open. Soft blue light from the TV spilled into the hallway. He was stretched out on the bed in a clean T-shirt and shorts, watching a game, one arm folded behind his head.

You hesitated, then knocked lightly on the frame.

He looked over, a slow smile pulling at his mouth. “Hey bunny,”

“Hi.” You shifted on your feet, still wrapped in the towel. “Do you have any extra towels? I was about to shower.”

Beau sat up with a quiet grunt, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Yeah. You heading in now?”

“Mhm.”

He stood and walked toward you, stopping close enough that you had to tilt your head back a little. “Need help?”

You raised a brow, a small laugh catching in your throat.

His mouth curved. “With the shower. It’s got one of those fancy handles. Takes a second to figure out.”

You ducked your bangs behind your ear, suddenly aware of how little the towel covered. “Probably, yeah.”

Beau grabbed a couple of clean towels from the shelf in his closet and handed them to you, his fingers brushing yours as he did. The contact lingered a beat longer than it needed to.

“C’mon,” he said, voice low. “I’ll show you.”

You followed him down the short hall to the bathroom. He pushed the door open and stepped inside first, flipping on the light. The space was nicer than you remembered, clean white tile, a big glass shower with a complicated-looking chrome handle.

Beau set the extra towel on the counter and reached for the handle, demonstrating. “You push in, then turn. Hot’s this way. It takes a second to catch.”

He glanced over his shoulder at you. You were still standing in the doorway, towel clutched tight around your body, hair damp and starting to dry in soft waves.

“You got it?” he asked.

You stepped closer, into the bathroom proper, until you were right beside him. “I think so.”

He didn’t move away. Instead he stayed there, one hand still on the handle, the other braced on the tile wall, effectively boxing you in just a little. The air between you felt warmer than the rest of the house.

“Here.” His voice dropped. He took your hand, gently, deliberately, and guided it to the handle, covering your fingers with his own. “Like this.”

His chest was almost against your back. You could feel the heat of him through the thin towel and his T-shirt. When he turned the handle for you, the water started up, steam already beginning to rise.

Neither of you pulled away right away.

Beau’s thumb brushed once over your knuckles. You felt him exhale, slow and controlled, right near your temple.

“You good?” he asked, quieter now.

You nodded, but you didn’t step out of the circle of his arms. For a second it felt like he might close that last bit of space, like he was thinking about it hard.

Then a floorboard creaked somewhere down the hall (your dad, probably), and Beau straightened, letting your hand go. The moment cracked open just enough for reality to slip back in.

He cleared his throat and stepped aside, giving you room.

“I’ll be right out here if you need anything,” he said, eyes still dark as they met yours. “Just... yell.”

You managed a small smile. “Okay.”

He paused in the doorway one last time, looking at you like he was still deciding something, then pulled the door most of the way closed behind him, leaving it cracked just enough that you could still hear him settle back onto his bed.

You stood under the hot water longer than you needed to, letting it beat against your shoulders while your mind kept replaying the feel of Beau’s chest against your back and the way his hand had covered yours on the handle. The bathroom filled with steam. Outside the cracked door you could hear the low murmur of the game still playing in his room.

When you finally shut the water off, the house felt even quieter. You dried off quickly, wrapped the fresh towel tight around yourself again, and stepped into the hallway. The floorboards were cool under your feet.

Beau’s door was still open a few inches. The blue light of the TV flickered across the wall. You hesitated, then knocked softly with your knuckles.

“Yeah?” His voice was rough, like he’d been half-asleep or just thinking too hard.

You pushed the door open a little wider. He was still on the bed, but sitting up now against the headboard, remote in one hand. His eyes moved over you once, towel, damp hair, bare legs, before he dragged them back up to your face.

“Everything work okay?” he asked.

“Yeah. Thanks for the help.”

The silence stretched, thick and warm. You should have said goodnight and gone to the guest room. Instead you stayed in the doorway, one hand still holding the towel closed at your chest.

Beau set the remote down. “You warm enough now?”

“Getting there.”

He studied you for another second, then shifted over on the bed, making space without quite saying why. “You can sit if you want. Game’s almost over. Or I can find you something to sleep in. You’re gonna freeze in that towel.”

You stepped inside and quietly pushed the door most of the way closed behind you. The click of the latch felt louder than it should have.

Beau watched you the whole time. He didn’t say anything at first, just shifted a little more, leaving clear space on the edge of the mattress. You sat down carefully, still clutching the towel, the bed dipping under your weight. The heat of his body was immediate even with a few inches between you.

The game murmured on the TV, some late-inning commentary neither of you were really listening to.

“You want a shirt hun?” he asked after a moment. His voice was quieter now that you were this close. “I’ve got clean ones in the drawer.”

You nodded. “Please.”

He got up, opened the top drawer, and pulled out a soft gray T-shirt that looked like it would swallow you. When he handed it over, his fingers brushed yours again. This time neither of you pretended it was an accident.

“I’ll turn around,” he said, but he only half-did, giving you his profile more than his back. You stood, kept the towel up with one hand, and pulled the shirt on over your head. It fell to mid-thigh. The towel dropped to the floor.

“Better?” he asked, voice lower.

“Yeah.”

You sat back down. Closer this time. Your bare knee rested against the side of his leg. He didn’t move away.

For a few seconds the only sound was the TV and the distant creak of the house settling. Then Beau reached over and gently tugged the collar of the shirt straight where it had twisted, his knuckles grazing your collarbone.

His hand stayed there a second longer, thumb brushing lightly over the skin just above the neckline of his shirt. The touch was careful. Testing. When you didn’t pull away, he let out a slow breath and shifted so he was facing you more fully on the bed.

“Your dad’s out cold already,” he said, almost like he was reminding himself as much as you. “Passed out on the couch the second he finished that last beer.”

The information settled between you, heavy and deliberate.

Beau’s gaze dropped to your mouth. He leaned in just a fraction, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke again.

You didn’t say stop.

“Open your mouth for me, baby.”

His voice was soft but left no room for argument. He lifted his hand and pressed two fingers against your lower lip, waiting. The second your lips parted he slid them in, slow and deliberate, resting them on your tongue.

“That’s it, good girl. Suck.”

You did. The low, pleased sound he made went straight through you.

“Just like that, sweetheart. Nice and gentle.” His free hand stroked your hair, almost petting you. “Look at you. My sweet little thing, taking my fingers so well. You’re doing so good for me.”

He pushed them a little deeper, watching your face the whole time.

“Such a good baby,” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek. “Pretty mouth. You like being good for me, don’t you? Nod if you do.”

When you nodded around his fingers he smiled, soft and a little dark.

“That’s my girl. Keep sucking.” He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead while his fingers stayed in your mouth.

His other hand slipped under the hem of the oversized shirt, warm palm settling on your bare thigh, stroking lazily.

Beau slowly pulled his fingers from your mouth, trailing them wet across your bottom lip.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, tasting himself on your tongue. His hands slid under the oversized shirt and pushed it up, peeling it off you in one smooth motion. The cool air kissed your skin for only a second before his warm palms replaced it, cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples as he made a low, approving sound.

“Look at you, so pretty for me.” He laid you back against his pillows, hovering over you. “Gonna take care of you now, okay? Just relax. Let Daddy make you feel good.”

He kissed down your throat, your chest, lingering to suck softly at each nipple until your back arched. Then lower, settling between your thighs. He hooked your legs over his shoulders and dragged his tongue through your wetness in one long, slow stroke.

“Fuck, already so wet for me, baby.” He licked again, slower, savoring.

He worked you with his mouth, tongue circling your clit, two fingers sliding inside and curling just right, while his free hand pinned your hip down. Every time you whimpered he hummed praise against you.

“Feel how nicely you open up for me?”

He brought you right to the edge and held you there, then pulled back with a wet kiss to your inner thigh.

“Not yet. Want you cuming on my cock first.”

Beau shoved his shorts down, kicked them away, and settled between your legs. He rubbed the thick head of his cock through your folds, coating himself, teasing your clit with it until you were squirming.

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

You did. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, watching your face the whole time. A deep, guttural sound left him when he bottomed out.

“Taking all of me so well.” He stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust, brushing hair from your face. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. Feel how full you are?”

When you nodded he started moving, deep, steady thrusts that filled the quiet room with the soft, wet sound of him fucking you. One hand stayed laced with yours above your head; the other gripped your thigh and kept you open for him.

“Taking my cock so pretty.” “

“Gonna come for me soon, aren’t you?” he murmured against your mouth.

His hand slipped between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in tight, perfect rhythm with his thrusts. The dual pressure pushed you over fast. You clenched hard around him, gasping his name, and he groaned like it wrecked him.

“Fuck, yes,”

He kept thrusting through your orgasm, drawing it out, then buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, broken sound, spilling deep inside you. He stayed there, pulsing, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard.

After a long moment he kissed you soft and slow, still buried inside.

He carefully pulled out, gathered you against his chest, and tugged the blanket over both of you. One big hand stroked up and down your back while the other cradled the back of your head.

“Let’s keep this a secret, okay?”

jewellaces

𓏲ּ𝄢 That attitude of yours

Summary: Dean comes home late from a hunt, exhausted. You’re waiting on the couch with attitude. He doesn’t let it slide - he fucks the attitude out of you.

ᥫ᭡ Warnings: MDNI, 18+, NSFW, light scolding, creampie, rough sex, unprotected sex

wc: 1k

You hear the Impala pull into the driveway just after nine. The engine cuts off, the driver’s door shuts with a heavy thunk, and a few seconds later the front door opens.

Dean steps inside looking exhausted. Dust on his jeans, a smudge of something dark on the sleeve of his flannel, the faint smell of motor oil and gunpowder clinging to him. He drops his duffel by the wall and rolls his shoulders like they’ve been carrying the weight of the world for the last fourteen hours.

You’re on the couch, phone in your hand. You glance up, then back down at the screen.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.” You don’t get up. “You’re late.”

There’s a small pause. You can feel him looking at you.

“Yeah. Traffic, then Jody called with a last-minute thing. Took longer than I thought.”

You hum quietly and keep scrolling. It’s not sharp, just a little distant.

Dean’s boots cross the floor. He stops near the coffee table. “You eat?”

“Wasn’t really hungry.”

He waits a beat. “You’ve been home all day.”

You shrug one shoulder, still not looking at him fully. “Didn’t feel like cooking. Figured you’d be back sooner.”

Dean sets his keys down with deliberate care.

“C’mere.”

You glance up. “I’m right here.”

“I mean stand up.”

You sigh, soft, a little dramatic, and set your phone aside before standing. Arms loosely crossed, head tilted just enough to look unimpressed. Dean steps in close, close enough that you have to tip your chin up to meet his eyes.

“That tone,” he says quietly. “The one you’ve been using all week. Acting like I’m the problem every time I walk through the door.”

You open your mouth. He keeps going before you can.

“I know I’ve been gone a lot. I know it sucks. But you don’t get to greet me with that attitude every single time I finally make it home.”

You look away for half a second. He catches your chin gently and brings your eyes back to his.

“I’m not mad,” he says, voice lower now. “But I’m not letting it slide either.”

Dean’s hand slides from your chin down to the hem of the oversized shirt you’re wearing, one of his, and he tugs it up and over your head in one smooth motion. You’re left in just a soft bralette and a pair of shorts. He looks at you for a long second, then nods toward the couch.

“Hands on the back. Face the wall.”

You hesitate just long enough for him to raise an eyebrow. Then you turn and place your hands on the cushion. He steps in behind you, chest warm against your back, and you feel him already hard when he presses close.

“You’ve been giving me that little attitude all day,” he murmurs near your ear.

His fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts and underwear and drag them down your legs. You step out of them when he taps your ankle. The air feels cool for only a moment before his hands are on you, one spanning your hip, the other sliding up under the bralette to cup your breast, thumb brushing slowly over your nipple until it tightens.

“I’m gonna take care of it,” he says quietly. “And then you’re gonna stop looking at me like I disappointed you just by being late.”

He shifts behind you. You hear the clink of his belt, the sound of his zipper. Then the blunt, hot head of his cock presses against you. He doesn’t tease, he pushes in with one long, steady thrust that makes your arms flex against the cushion.

“Fuck–”

“Yeah.” He grips your hips and starts moving, deep and deliberate. “That’s better.”

Every thrust is firm enough that the couch creaks softly. He keeps one hand locked on your hip and lets the other slide up your spine, between your shoulder blades, pressing you down until your cheek rests against the cushion. The new angle makes him hit deeper and a quiet moan slips out of you.

“Listen to you,” he mutters. “All that little attitude earlier and now you’re soft for me.”

He reaches around and finds your clit, rubbing tight, careful circles while he keeps fucking you. The dual sensation builds fast. Your thighs start to tremble. You’re already close and he can tell.

“You can cum,” he says, voice rough near your ear. “But after you do, you’re gonna apologize for the attitude. Nicely.”

The permission is enough. You break around him with a muffled sound, clenching hard, legs shaking. He fucks you through it, steady and deep, until you’re oversensitive and breathing hard. Then he follows with a low groan, burying himself to the hilt and pulsing hot inside you.

He stays there for a long moment, forehead resting against the back of your shoulder, one arm wrapped around your waist to keep you upright. When he finally eases out, you feel the warm slip of him down your thigh. He doesn’t step away. Instead he turns you carefully, cups your face with both hands, and studies you.

You end up on the couch with him a minute later, him still half-dressed, you completely bare, tucked against his chest under the throw blanket he always keeps draped over the back. His fingers stroke slowly through your hair. Every so often he presses a quiet kiss to your temple.

“I hate when we get like that,” he admits after a while, voice low. “Even the little stuff. I know I’ve been gone too much. Doesn’t mean I don’t think about you the whole time I’m out there.”

You shift closer, nose brushing the warm skin of his throat. “I know. I was just frustrated. And I let it show.”

He huffs a soft almost-laugh. “Yeah. You did. But I could’ve texted more. Called when I had a second. That’s on me too.”

His hand slides down your back in slow, soothing strokes. The other stays tangled in your hair. He doesn’t say anything else for a while. Just holds you, breathing steady, the solid weight of him grounding you completely.

miamaimania

"two whitetail fawns" (2016) ⍋ William Harper — color photograph

hailthegodsong

Biker Jake my love

streamingcolors-gvf

oh, OKAY

rottingradiotower

whatever’s wrong with me, i will take to bed

smalldepressedtownie

All they ever found was her camera in the wood

ives57

details

entrenoussir

Two Little Words - Gator Tillman x Reader - One Shot

Gator decides he needs to figure out what sort of nickname “gets you going” - so what happens when you turn the tables on him?

a/n don’t ask why or how this entered my brain . doesn’t matter.

TW/CW: pet names but no use of y/n, fingering, grinding, softer Gator (ish)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The television droned on in the background, some reality show you weren’t actually watching, but it was good noise to fill the apartment. Gator Tillman was sprawled on your couch, boots kicked up onto the coffee table despite the glare you’d shot him earlier. He was fidgeting, bouncing his leg, tossing your phone up and catching it repeatedly.

The two of you were still in that grey area - the "sort of dating" phase where you spent most nights together but hadn't truly had the "what are we" talk. He was decent company. When he wasn't being a pain in the ass.

"Would you quit that?" You didn’t bother to look up from the book you were trying to read on the opposite end of the couch. "You're gonna break my phone.”

"Can't help it," Gator drawled, tossing it onto a cushion. He turned his head, studying you with that intense, slightly manic stare. "I’m thinkin'."

"Awe, be careful. I’d hate to see you hurt yourself."

grizzlyhugs

18+ minors dni

summary ༺๑ˊ- steve wants you to claim your throne (on his face).

pairing(s) ༺๑ˊ- steve harrington x female!reader (general-neutral)

cws ༺๑ˊ- established relationship, face riding, steve is munch #1, bit of overstimulation

requested? ༺๑ˊ- yes/no

“c’mon, baby,” steve whined.

but he’s been whining for the past ten minutes.

“i don’t want to go to prison for manslaughter, steve.”

steve rolled his eyes, a dramatic groan following suit. he was petulant. you felt his hands tug at your hips again, trying to reel you in right where you belonged.

on his face.

“i need it. you don’t get it.” he accentuated his words with another impatient yank, wanting to draw you in. “you want me to die, baby? ‘cause i will without that pretty pu—“

you pressed your hand over his mouth. “you’re actually ridicul— steve!” a squeal tore from your throat as steve yanked you by your hips up his abdomen.

you sat on his chest, balancing yourself with your hands on his shoulders. steve just smiled up at you.

those big brown eyes were so hard to say no to sometimes.

eldesvandesheyenne

levanswrites

𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐬

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: the rumor going around the moms of the hawkins little league team is that coach steve harrington is single. it's a good thing you don’t partake in petty small-town gossip. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: coach!steve, singlemom!reader, established (secret) relationship, piv sex, overstimulation, pleasure-dom!steve, multiple orgasms, prone/headlock+light choking, rough sex, teasing banter, possessive dirty talk, light/pretend jealousy, light degradation, pet names, aftercare, angst abt being a single parent, fluff, brief child's pov, happy ending (6.4k) 𝐚/𝐧: started as dumb smut, somehow ended up with plot and angst. story of my life.

. *　✦　　.　 ˚　✦　 .

The resounding rumor in the Hawkins Little League baseball program—more specifically, among the women who occupy the third row of bleachers at Elm Street Ballpark every Tuesday and Thursday—is that Coach Steve Harrington is single.

Very single.

“There’s just no way,” Sharon McIntyre sighs for the third time this inning. She squints toward the field, shading her eyes with one hand like she might be able to spot a wedding ring from home plate. “I mean, look at him. Nobody looks like that coaching a little league team.”

“I’m telling you, Shar,” Kelly Dunlop chimes in, iced coffee rattling in her hand. “My sister works mornings at the diner. She says he comes in all the time. Always alone. No ring, no girlfriend, nothing. If he had someone, she’d know.”

franz-bauch-foto

Little one

stonebloodedwiccan

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