guys sinners was sooooo good. remmick is fine i suggest everyone go watch it. also promise ill stop neglecting this account. 🥲🥲🥲 im much more active on insta @zoeilit same tiktok handle too
riding cowboy art while wearing his cowboy hat... need that!
art has tried so many times to teach you how to ride a horse, but you were so much better at riding his dick. so here you were bouncing up and down on his cock after another failed horse riding lesson.
“can’t believe you can ride my cock like you’re gonna die tomorrow, but you can barely stay on a horse.” he taunts, rough hands gripping hard at your hips. your head thrown back in pleasure, one hand coming up to fix the too big cowboy that was threatening to fall off.
“that’s totally different.” you slur out scratching at his chest your moans getting louder when art plants his feet on the bed and starts fucking up into your warm, wet cunt.
you fall forward when you feel art’s cock head starts ramming into that soft spot inside of you. “oh fuck! feels so good art.” “you look so fucking hot in my hat, kinda wanna cum on you face.” art groans fucking up into you hard.
“you can. want you to cum on my face. wanna cum first though please.” and how could he deny you such a thing when you were asking so nicely. what kind of boyfriend would he be?
“of course pretty, anything for you.” art said flipping you onto your back pounding into your sweet spot harder. fingers coming down to rub at your clit. the duel simulation has you crying out while arching your back, hands gripping hard at the sheets below you when the knot in your stomach loosens and you’re cumming all over your boyfriends dick.
art pulls his still harden cock from your gushing pussy lightly stroking your puffy lips with the back of his fingers. “art.” you whine closing your legs from the overstimulation.
your boyfriend climbs up your body, knees straddling your chest. art traces his fingers over your face starting at your eyebrows traveling down to your lips slipping two of his fingers into your mouth watching as you suck greedily on them.
“open up, tongue out.” you do so immediately. art reaches down between your legs gather up some of your wetness to use as lube before jerking his dick hard. “you’re so pretty. gonna be even prettier with my cum all over you.” his moans get louder and slightly higher pitched.
art never really knew how to keep quiet especially when on the verge of cumming, and you loved it. the way only you could get him to whine like a bitch as he starts fucking his hand at sloppy rhythm.
“fuck, so close baby. gonna cum.” his mouth falls open as little gasps slip from his lips while he cums all over your face. you catch most out it in your mouth. gathering with your fingers whatever fell on cheeks before sucking them clean.
after a few deep breaths art falls next to you on the bed pulling you into his side. “why do you still have this stupid hat on.” he laughs taking it off you throwing it into a corner of the room. “it’s not stupid, you said i look hot.” you say, cheek pressed against his chest listening to his heart beat.
“you do, just next time you wear it you better be while riding an actual horse.”
(this has been on my minds for awhile i’m glad i got it out 🙂↕️)
just thinking out loud here about one last night of passion with thomas hutter and how utterly sweet, how overwhelming it would be. there is no pretence in how he almost, no definitely, worships you. he is far from pious, but kneels like a man at the foot of god by your bed side. he is so impossibly pale, so warm and shivering slightly, whilst knelt between your legs. his hands dig into your sides, as if you were made to be held by him. he’d kiss your hip, a noticeable blush forming at his nape when he can see your body beneath the fabric. can see your plush thighs, the whiter edge of your undergarments, the way you glow in the flickering candlelight.
he’d apologise, though it was not his fault, for having to leave. some business about a count, and his estate, and how he hopes it’s not as harrowing as his boss has made him to believe it is. but he is distracted. by you. your presence. how can you blame him? he is besotted with you. when you cup his cheeks, reassure him, he turns his face so he can better kiss the inside of your palm. his kisses don’t stop there. they trail up to your wrist, almost sucking at the skin. he would leave a mark if he wasn’t mapping your entire body so fervently and in such little time. in seconds, he crawls to you with both hands and feet, caging you completely. his body is broad, broader than yours. and his face is twisted in agony, in need. he is so desperate that he should be ashamed, but he isn’t.
“i do not know how long i can keep away from you,” he’ll mouth against your neck, trailing hot kisses against the thundering pulse there, “this trip will test me. i know it will.”
his hands will wander underneath your shift, broad, calloused and strong, spreading apart your thighs for room or massaging your hip, or sliding downward to grab your calf so he could better adjust between your legs. he’d be such a mess, not stuttering - not yet, atleast, there’d be more of that soon enough - but begging with his eyes alone. he would roll his hips into your own, chasing for friction, finding the restriction of clothing a blessing and a curse.
if you even begin to seduce him in the way that always sets him off like a habit, maybe a fluttering of your lashes or some begging or even the mere act of being so breathless, teary eyed and chasing his hips with your own, he would hold back no longer. he near pops the button off his dress shirt from yanking it off, revealing toned, pale muscle. his hands would feel up your sides, his lips too busy kissing your own till they bruised as his hands push up your shift, revealing your body to him. your tummy, your perky nipples, your undergarments barely clinging on - and when he gets them off, you’re so unbelievably warm down there, that he actually flushes. he says unintentionally teasing little things, like “it is so warm, and my fingers… they disappear completely…” that only spur you on.
and he’d make love to you. he is a lover, not a fighter. he’d give into you so easily that you could barely call it a fight. he’d push into you, warm and wet walls clinging onto his cock like a vice. he’d stutter - there it was - his head dropping pathetically against your collarbone, his hot lips dragging against the column of your neck. he’d try so, so hard to keep it together, to last a while longer. but the way you clench down on him is only short of torture, the rest being sweet, sweet pleasure.
if you’re thinking of giving, he wouldn’t be opposed. as your husband, and contrary to conventions of the time, your pleasure would be above anything else. his pleasure too, but he finds that in your sharp little gasps and the way your body writhes. his pleasure is yours. so he is a little surprised when you roll the both of you over, him pinned to the bed. a little disoriented, sure, and a bit conscious of what exactly you were getting at - but when he sees you almost hugging his hips, your cheek squished against his hip bone and so dangerously close to his hardened cock, his heart jumps.
maybe you let slip a “please – please, can i make you feel good too?” and he can barely breathe. his vision is swimmingly, and his cock twitches ever so slightly near your lips. his hand would come to tighten in your hair. not pulling nor pushing. just there. his voice would be so breathy, all guttural and raspy as he nods. he can’t hear the words but he is half sure that he responds with a yes, yes – please, my heart, please.
Thinking about gamer boyfriend who doesn’t know what he has before it’s gone…
You told him you were leaving, but it didn’t dawn on him that’s what you’d meant. He was deep in-game—he couldn't pay attention to your whining. He figured you went out to the store or something, but later, after midnight, he realized he was hungry, and you were nowhere. Not in the kitchen making dinner, not in his bed sleeping, and not in the bathroom either.
Did you go home? He wonders, standing alone in the dark, empty silence—feeling a little put off at the sight of his room—how even in the dim light, it’s a clear fucking mess. You usually tidy up a bit for him, but you hadn’t this time—no, there’s old underwear and socks everywhere, shirts and hoodies too, empty cans and pizza boxes. It’s a bit gross, actually, he admits while scratching his neck.
The drawer he’d dedicated to you in his dresser is open and empty. Did you take everything to get it cleaned? You are a bit of a neat freak—unlike him. Suppose that would be something you’d do. Weird of you not to take any of his laundry as well, though.
Oh, well. He shoots you a “gn bby” on his phone, then collapses on his bed and falls asleep—smiles a bit as he does so—it’s nice not having you here to tell him to undress and go shower first. Yeah, you can be such a nag sometimes.
He wakes up late in the day. You’re not there. Usually, you come over to wake him with some breakfast. He checks his phone—you didn’t reply last night. It isn't that weird—you were probably already asleep at that point. But why didn’t you answer when you woke up? There’s no way you’re still asleep, right?
Fuck, he’s hungry.
“gm,” he sends—contemplates asking you what’s up but doesn’t. You must be busy with something not to have checked your phone yet.
The entire day goes by, and you still don’t answer. He doesn’t take it too hard. But he won’t deny being a bit miffed.
It’s when three days go by that he’s well and truly confused. He’s sent you several texts at this point, even called you a few times, getting a little worried something had happened to you before he got the message that he’d been blocked.
What the fuck’s going on with you?
He thinks back to the last time he saw you. What did you even say? He can’t remember. Something about being tired—something, something—I’m leaving.
He swallows thickly. No… No way, that’s what you meant, right? No, can’t be. You love him. You’re his pretty girlfriend. The one that comes with his food and later comes back for his bowl. The one that sucks his dick under his desk as he goes on a kill streak. The warm pillow he uses when he finally drags his bad posture to the bed and falls asleep.
No. Where the fuck are you? Are you sick or something? Yeah, must be, right? So delirious you’ve managed to block him somehow. You were probably only trying to call him back. You were never so tech-savvy—a fever must have worsened it. He should go to you. He can bring his pc. Or no, he can get you and bring you back here. Yeah, that would be easier.
He calls your roommate, tells her he’s coming, and asks her to let you know to get ready.
“What are you talking about?” she says through a piece of gum—her voice all dull as if bothered to have picked up the phone. Or, rather, she sounds a bit drunk. There’s music in the background. “Girl broke up with you, didn’t she?”
His blood runs cold at that. A lump forms in his throat—a thick, unmovable lump that makes him think he’s about to throw up. “N-no, she didn’t.”
“Hey!” she calls out, not to him, though—she’s covered the mic with her hand. He only hears the muted distortion of voices and bass through it before your roommate comes back to him.
“Sorry—she’s telling me a different story,” she relays, popping her gum in his ear before sneering—or, at least, that’s what he pictures. “Honestly, how long did you think she was gonna put up with cleaning up after you anyway? I know I wouldn’t last half as long as she has.” The lump in his throat grows thicker, swelling up until it's choking him. “Anyway, good luck.”
She hangs up, and he drops his phone. There’s a crack as it hits the floor. And then something wet on his face. Something hot. Something searing as it tracks down his cheeks and drops off like acid onto the floor.
What should he do? What do you want him to do? To tidy up? He can do that! He’s not some imbecile like your friend makes him out to be who can’t even do the basics of chores. Of course, he can! And so that’s what he does—hands shaking as he tidies.
It feels foreign, and he’s not even sure where to start. And it quickly proves to be a lot worse than what he’d thought. Beyond stinky clothes and dirty dishes, there’s trash, rotten food, sticky surfaces, and other things he can’t even put a name to. It’s gross, actually. Downright disgusting. How long’s it been like this?
Even after everything’s put in order, there’s a smell that lingers and no end to the dust he has to clean—cringing at the little insects that come crawling out of their hiding spots. Geez—has it really been this bad?
He falls asleep on the floor at some point—having completely forgotten to eat—then wakes up feeling awful the next day. The kitchen is barren, and so he orders take-out. Eats and then goes back to cleaning. There’s still a lot left.
It’s barely recognizable once he’s done. Nice and bright and tidy and clean. There’s a sum of a dozen large black trash bags in the hallway he needs to take out, but other than that, everything’s perfect—perfectly presentable to have you come over again.
Still, he gives it a couple of days. He knows you. You’re going to change your mind. You’re too sweet to be breaking up with him. Too nice. You wouldn’t just leave him, not like this. Yeah, you’re only trying to teach him a lesson—after a while, you’ll come back on your own. You’ll be ecstatic over what he’s done with the place—apologetic even as you tell him you were wrong about him—and then everything will go back to normal. Make-up sex and everything.
But you don’t. No. You’re nowhere to be seen or found—even after a week’s passed. You’re still gone. And he’s starting to believe you might just be gone for real.
No. He sees what this is. You’re waiting for the grand gesture, aren’t you? He never knew you could be so petty—but it’s actually kind of cute. Fine then. He’ll play along—come crawling to you on his hands and knees with the best apology you’ve ever heard. And then you can end this whole thing.
And so he finds himself at your place, pressing the buzzer, not knowing if he’s catching you at home—if not, he’ll just try again tomorrow, and so on until he does. He hears someone at the other side of the door—they must be looking at him through the peephole. It takes a while before the locks click and open.
“Hey…”
It’s you.
“Hi,” he smiles in return, happy to see you. He’s been so nervous, but somehow, your face and voice are enough to calm him down.
“What are you doing here?” you ask.
Oh, of course. You weren’t expecting him. Still, it feels weird of you not to gush happily over the surprise and rush him inside. It’s not every day he goes outside—you should be a little impressed.
But no, of course, you’re playing the part of fed-up girlfriend—acting hard-to-get. He’s got you—he’ll play his part, so don’t worry.
“I wanted to apologize,” he announces. “I haven’t been a good boyfriend—I see that now. But I’ll be better from now on, I promise—come over, and I’ll prove it to you.”
As far as apologies and promises go, he thinks that sounded pretty smooth—not too desperate, not too demanding. Pretty slick, if he can say so himself.
And so, why aren’t you smiling? He can understand being nervous—so is he—but why do you look guilty?
“That’s really nice. And… I’m really happy you’re looking better. But…” you start, and his gut’s already wrenching. “I think you need more time for yourself to just… enjoy what it’s like to be independent, you know?”
No, he doesn’t know. What are you saying? And why are you holding onto the doorknob like that? Holding it steady as if you’re planning to shut it as soon as you can—why?
“Thanks for stopping by. It was nice seeing you—it really was. Take care of yourself, okay?”
It’s shutting—his plans—disappearing right before his face. He knows he isn’t owed a second shot, but this isn’t fair. You can’t be serious—are you?
“What? No, wait—” He stops you, weighing his own hand on the door, keeping it open. “Listen, I’m good now. I’ve pulled it together, you’ll see—I’ll come in, and we’ll talk about it.”
You resist, using both hands to almost push the door back on him. “I have company, so—”
“What’s up?” another voice announces himself—deep and presentful. He comes into view behind you—taller than you, taller than him—looking down his nose at him with a raised brow. “Who’s this?”
You look a bit panicked—no, embarrassed. “Oh, uhm—”
Why are you embarrassed? “Who’s that?” The bitterness in his voice surprises even himself—loaded with the same type of spite he seethes with when players use cheats to win.
“He’s an old friend, but he was just leaving,” you say, but you’re not speaking to him. No, you stroke a hand over the guy’s broad chest, looking up at him apologetically before turning back to him again, voice strict in a way he’s never heard, “Bye.”
“But—”
You shut the door. On him. In his face.
His skin crawls—goosefleshed and chilled. Was that a date? No, right? You have a brother, don’t you? Yes, must be. No way you’re dating. There’s no way, right? It’s only been a week… no way you’ve moved on in only a week, right?
You looked really nice—wearing that sweet blouse with all the little bows and that cute little skirt you’d always wear out on dates. Damn, when was the last time the two of you went on a date? Must be months ago, if he can’t even remember.
Come to think of it, the two of you would always have sex when you wore that skirt. Yeah, it’s your fuck-me-skirt. Are you going to fuck this guy too now? On the first date? Is it your first date? No, probably not—who has their first date at home? That’s more like a third or even fourth or fifth date, right? Were you dating him while the two of you were still together? Have you been cheating on him all this time? Laughing at him behind his back—talking shit with your bitch-roommate? About what a pathetic loser he is? About how he’s a slob who can’t take care of himself? How he needs you? Have you!?
He shouldn't be texting you all this from a random number. He knows that, but the full realization doesn’t dawn on him before it’s too late, and he’s sent you over a hundred messages, some small and others at such a length they take up more than what the screen allows. What the fuck’s he doing? He’d bought the new sim so that he could contact you in an emergency, not to spam you with accusations like some crazy ex.
He starts deleting them—in some desperate wishful thinking, with the hope you wouldn’t see them, but then the dotted line starts beating, jumping in taunt. His eyes are wide as he stares at it, holding his breath. Ten seconds pass before it disappears—no message sent.
You blocked him again. And he can’t blame you.
And yet, he can’t let you go, either.
He spends the first few weeks hauled up at home—his flat becoming as trashed as ever as he doomscrolls all your socials through a fake account. You’ve deleted all the pictures of him—even the ones of yourself when you’ve been with him. There’s no evidence the two of you were even dating.
How could you do this? How could you erase him like this?
He has questions, and he needs answers. You can’t just do this—the two of you haven’t even had the talk—he hasn’t even got to say his side yet!
He just wants to talk to you—why won’t you let him? He just wants you to hear him out. He deserves that much. But since you’re not giving him any option of contacting you, he’s had to resort to medieval methods—lurking outside your apartment like some creep, eyes peeled on your building’s entrance, waiting for you to show.
He’s there for hours, patiently—refusing to go home—thinking he’ll be there all night if he has to.
But then there you are—coming out of the complex, stepping down the alley, dressed all nice for the night. You seem to be in a hurry—are you on your way to another date? Well, wherever you’re going and whoever you’re meeting, they can wait.
“I need to talk—” he doesn’t get the words out.
You’d noticed him following you and tried to out-pace him—make him lose interest. But the area your flat’s situated in is a sketchy one—at least for girls, and you’d made the decision long ago that you’d never walk outside unprepared. And so, as soon as feeling the stranger's hand on your arm, you whip around to maze him right in the face.
“Argh!” he screeches and stumbles back, hands covering his eyes. “Fuck—ow-fuckin’dammit, shit—what the fuck did you do that for? Fuck—”
You were going to make a run for it, but the familiar voice has you halt—wait a minute…
You call his name, and sure enough, it’s him who looks up at you through the teary redness of your pepper spray assault.
“Oh my god, shit—I’m so sorry—I thought you were a—” you stop yourself. “Fuck—never mind. Come—” You link his arm with yours and lead him back inside the apartment you just left. “I’ll help you rinse—I’m so sorry.”
You rush him to the bathroom, seating him atop the toilet lid as you wet a cloth and start soaking his face.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see it was you—” you apologize again. “Are your eyes okay?”
“Not really,” he hisses through clenched teeth, though steals himself soon after. “But they're getting better…”
His face unswells after a good thirty minutes, after which he’s able to keep his eyes open again—sore and no doubt bloodshot, yet fine, if not for that. You’ve moved him into the living room instead, having done what you could to rinse off your attack—having provided him with an apologetic glass of water. Now sitting with him, waiting for the effects to wear off.
It feels nice to be with you again despite the circumstances—but it’s awkward how you don’t speak.
“You look nice,” he says—trying to break the tension. It’s not as if the two of you are strangers, and so you shouldn’t act like it.
“Oh, I’m going to a party—roomie’s already there, so…” you say, sitting at the edge of your seat. “If you’re okay, I should probably head out… soon.”
A silence fills his head, as well as the room—a heavy stillness before a single word leaves him. “What?” His face sinks—part confusion, part offense, and something else—something that makes his voice come out accusatory and outraged, “You maze me in the face, and you’re just gonna fuck off to a party?”
Your eyes widen.“Well… it’s—”
“No—what the fuck?” He stands abruptly. His head’s so empty except for the blinding darkness slowly overtaking it—leaving him feeling boiling and all but nuclear. “That’s all I get? Are you fucking serious?” He’s shouting now—and then he’s on you, with one hand fisting your pretty dress and another around your throat. “First, you dump me without warning, assault me like some maniac, give me a lousy apology, and then tell me to fuck off? What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
You splutter his name and push, but it’s like fighting a wall.
“Where are you actually going dressed like that, huh? What’s so fucking important? Is it another date? What, with that same oaf I saw here last time? Or is it someone new already? I know how flighty you can be. I mean, fuck, I knew you were a little freaky, but I didn’t know I was dating a fucking slut!”
His strength comes as a complete and utter devastating shock. You’d think sitting in a chair all day would make any muscle obsolete—but the hands holding you don’t right now is more than anything you could hope to fight against.
“Stop! Get off me—” you cry, thrashing hopelessly as he lifts your dress and rips your lace panty down your thighs.
A growl in his voice and nothing but rage on his face.
“If anyone can get it—I might as well help myself.”
!SUMMARY! your brother's best friend teaches you how to play pool.
you lean against the doorway with your arms crossed your chest and observe him: bent over the table, long arm aligned with the cue stick, careful fingers angled just right. you bite your lip and follow the veins from his hand up his arm to where his thin pink shirt is rolled up.
the pink shirt.
the pink shirt that made you inexplicably weak every damn time.
the thin linen still allowed you to see his tan skin through the fabric. he never buttoned it all the way either, so you had an excellent view of his soft neck and collarbones. when it was warm outside he’d roll up the sleeves and you could just sit there and watch the small muscles in his forearm move.
he moves the cue back, bites his lip, and smoothly pushes it through his fingers with impressive precision. the wood end hits the white ball, which makes a satisfying click when it hits the red one. the red ball ricochets against another ball, both falling into opposing holes.
"you're playing all by yourself?" you speak up. he jumps, visibly surprised by your presence.
"yeah, nothing wrong with it." he shrugs and tries to play it cool while his heart is racing.
you've known each other for years and you still make him nervous. he'll be nervous around you forever.
"you wanna join?" he smiles at you in the doorway and takes in your appearance.
"I've never played."
"I'll teach you, come on." he waves you over.
"you're too kind." you run your fingers along the wood edge of the table and approach him teasingly slow. his dark eyes follow you the whole time.
"I can't believe you don't know how to play pool." he shakes his head.
"not all of us grew up with a pool table in our basement." you joke.
"I invited you over thousands of times and you always said no." your mind flashes with all the memories of luigi in high school, teasing you, making fun of you, his best friend's little sister, for having a crush on him.
"maybe I just wasn't interested."
"maybe you were just scared." he raises his eyebrows in a suggestive manner you like a little too much. his eyes sparkle.
"scared of what?" you try and laugh but it comes out as a breathless sigh.
"you were scared of what I'd do to you when I finally got you alone." he brings you into him and leaves his hand around your waist, bare from your backless dress. your chest is flush against his. your breath catches in your throat.
you keep your eyes on the doorway, remembering where you are. anyone could walk in and catch you two.
"are you gonna teach me to play or what?" you push him back and challenge with a smirk on your face.
"of course princess."
"the cue stick," he hands you the stick. you take it from him and follow his instructions. "hold the end in your dominant hand."
"bend to meet the table, keep the stick just above your hip level."
you bend (what you think is enough) over the table with one hand on the stick and the other on the table. he places his hand on your bare lower back and pushes you down on the table a bit more.
"lower. and that's not hip level." his hand grips yours on the stick and brings it up higher. he leans over your body, basically putting his whole body onto yours. you stiffen when you feel his hips against your ass. warmth pools between your thighs. he lets out a quiet noise you don't hear.
"relax. don't grip the stick too tight." his voice comes out an octave deeper, almost rough. his abs rub against your skin through his thin shirt.
he runs his hand down your arm and manipulates your fingers around the thin end of the stick. his hand moves delicately on your own, his calloused skin harsh against your soft skin. his veins move with every movement. his hand is so big, so much bigger than yours...
you let him do as he pleases, observing him laying your pinkie, ring and middle finger flat on the table. he wraps your pointer and thumb around the stick.
"This one's called a closed bridge." he removes his hand from yours and leaves it spread on the edge of the table.
he presses against you more, his body so much bigger than yours. his breath warms your skin.
"you're ready to hit the ball now. let the stick go through your fingers." he brings the stick up and through your fingers a few times, aiming at the cue ball.
"hit the sweet spot." he practically dirty talks into your ear.
"and..."
he brings his arm back, his hand still over top yours.
he jerks it forward and through your fingers with seasoned skill.
"strike."
the cue ball hits another ball and it shatters the thick tension in the room.
he backs away from you reluctantly. you already miss his sweet touches and the warmth of his skin against your own.
"there ya go. not bad for your first hit ever." you burn under his hot gaze.
"I can teach you more about the math behind the game, it's really interesting actually." he starts rambling about mathematical nonsense you really don't care about. but you stand there and hang onto every word he says because its him.
"...hitting the cue ball right is really important. there's this thing called a tangent line, it's also super important. the tangent line is 90 degrees to the line that the first ball you hit will travel, but starts from the center of the cue ba-"
you cut him off by gripping onto his collar and pressing your lips against his. he responds instantly, tangling his hands in your hair and holding the back of your head.
he breaks the kiss first and stares at you. your chests move in unison. you can't help but smile up at him hesitantly.
"you want this?" he asks, a smile stretching across his face too.
"yes, lu," you get on your tippy-toes and kiss him again. he licks your bottom lip and wraps his arms around you again, practically begging you to open your mouth to him. if his arms weren't wrapped around you, you would have collapsed.
you open up to him and he moans into the kiss. you kiss each other feverishly, lost in the pent up desire you've both had for years. a carnal need for you washes over him. you whine into his lips when he kisses you harder and sloppier.
he explores your mouth and bucks his hard cock into your stomach.
bliss falls over you. he bites your lip and purrs.
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