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Masterlist | AO3 Link
I do post 18+ works so MDNI
Please do not copy, repost, and absolutely do NOT feed my work to AI
Likes and follows will come from my main blog @tristheobsessed
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Stole this from somewhere but i think it’s appropriate
and remember
Please also call them rude.
People don't care as much about being called Lazy. But calling them Rude? That gets to more folks. It's rude that they didn't bother to put effort into whatever it was they used chatgpt for. It's rude that they thought they could advertise to you with cheap slop, thinking that would get your attention. It's rude that they didn't care enough to actually write that email.
Tell them they're being rude. Not lazy. Rude.
Honestly it depends on the person and what they use it for tbh. I have a lot of people around me justifying it as a progressive advanced way of doing things, so pointing out that chatGPT actually just makes them dumber and less qualified as a person tends to be more effective - also because it's objectively true lmao
"But how am I supposed to be able to finish my PhD in 3 years without chatGPT premium?" Maybe if you can't do it without a chatbot you were never qualified for it to begin with, Karen
⊝ pairing: James Cook x fem!reader
⊝ summary: He said ass, gas, or cash. You didn’t have the cash and he didn’t need the gas. Now your dealer’s fucking you harder than your degree ever could.
⊝ wc: 7.2k
⊝ a/n: dedicated to the person who reblogged Part I of Slut Tax over 600 times across five accounts. I do not recommend doing that bc I’m not trying to get accused of bot farming, but I admired the dedication deeply. this is probably the most x-rated smut I’ve written, so be careful where you read it lol. planning to make this a series, so Part III will happen at some point. not beta read.
⊝ warnings: drug use (weed/adderall/coke mention), p in v, unprotected sex, oral (m!receiving), face-fucking, gagging, choking, spit kink, degradation kink, creampie, cum play/cum eating, breeding kink, masturbation, coercive dynamics, rough sex, cock slapping, messy/blowjob drool, reader gets called a slut (lovingly), size kink, begging kink, possessive behavior, overstimulation, fingering, dirty talk, reader pays for drugs with sex, dealer!james cook
⊝ likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, please enjoy!!
⊝ Part I / Main Masterlist
Part II: Open Tab
The problem with texting Cook first was that once you did it, you couldn’t stop checking your phone like a fucking idiot.
It sat face-up beside your notebook all through class, bright screen dark, dark screen bright every few minutes whenever you tapped it awake just to make sure you hadn’t somehow missed the vibration.
Around you, pens scratched, chairs squeaked, someone two rows over kept clearing their throat like they were doing it on purpose just to be irritating, and none of it stuck. Not one word from the lecture. Not one sentence from the slides on the board. Nothing.
Just the low, dull hum under your skin that had been there since you woke up.
It had been getting worse all week.
Every time you crossed your legs, every time you leaned back in your chair, every time your mind wandered for half a second too long and landed somewhere it absolutely should not have been landing in the middle of a classroom full of people with laptops and highlighters and watery iced coffees.
It was ridiculous. Embarrassing, honestly. The kind of thing that should’ve annoyed you enough to kill it on principle.
Instead it was making you meaner.
Shorter with people. Sharper. Easier to set off. Like all the energy in you had nowhere useful to go, so it kept pacing circles under your skin looking for a fight.
And the worst part was he hadn’t texted first.
Not once.
Not a single cocky little message. No smug follow-up. No you alive? or need more yet? or any of the other bullshit you’d told yourself he might send, even though you knew better.
Even though you knew James Cook was exactly the kind of arsehole who would let that silence sit there on purpose just to see if you broke first.
Apparently, he’d won.
You glanced down at your phone again. Still nothing.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath.
The girl beside you turned slightly. “What?”
“Nothing.”
You looked back at the board, lasted maybe twelve seconds, then unlocked your phone under the desk and opened your messages again. You stared at the thread for a second too long. Then typed:
You around?
You sent it before you could overthink it, then immediately wanted to throw your phone across the room.
There. Done. Humiliating.
You locked the screen and forced yourself to look up like a person who wasn’t waiting to see three stupid dots appear. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Long enough that irritation started replacing the nerves, which almost felt better. By the time your phone finally buzzed, you were already yanking it into your lap.
Cook: Thought you’d cave eventually.
You stared at the screen.
Then:
Cook: Door’ll be open.
And a second after that:
Cook: Don’t be late.
Your stomach dropped so hard it almost hurt.
Not because of the words. Because of how easily he’d done it. How quickly he’d gone from not saying anything at all to saying exactly the thing that would stick under your ribs all afternoon.
Don’t be late.
Like he’d been expecting you. Like he’d already decided you were coming. Like this was a standing arrangement now.
You shoved your phone face-down on the desk and sat through the rest of class in a fog so dense it might as well have been weather.
By the time you got back to your flat, you were moving on instinct more than thought. Bag dropped by the door. Keys on the counter. Hoodie shrugged back on. You stood in the kitchen for a second too long, staring at your wallet where it sat half-buried under a folded receipt and a pack of gum. You looked at it. Kept looking at it. Then left it exactly where it was.
Your pulse kicked harder as soon as you made the decision.
Not a flustered little jump, either. Something lower. Hotter. Heavier. Like your body had been waiting for your pride to finally get out of the way so it could get on with it.
“This is stupid,” you muttered to yourself.
You still grabbed your keys.
The walk over was worse than class had been.
Too much time to think. Too much time to replay every second of the last time you were in his flat, every filthy word out of his mouth, every look on his face, every humiliating little detail your brain had apparently decided to preserve in crystal-clear high definition forever.
By the time you reached his building, you were already wound tight enough to snap.
You took the stairs too fast, got to his floor a little breathless, and paused outside his door for half a beat.
It was cracked open. Not much. Just enough to tell you he’d left it that way on purpose. Your stomach twisted. You pushed it open.
Cook was already halfway across the room before you stepped inside fully, like he’d been listening for you.
The flat looked about the same as always—messy in that casual, lived-in way that only worked because he wore it like a second skin. Ashtray on the table, half-smoked joints snubbed out. Jacket thrown over a chair. Music low somewhere in the background.
But there were little differences too. Smaller details. Enough to make your nerves sharpen.
He’d cleared space on the coffee table. There was a small plastic bag sitting there already. Prepared. Set out. Just for you. Your eyes flicked to it before you could stop them. Cook caught that immediately and smirked.
“Took you long enough.”
You shut the door behind you. “Sorry I don’t spend all day hanging about waiting to service your customer base.”
He gave a short laugh and leaned back against the arm of the couch, watching you with that same lazy, maddening intensity that always felt like being pinned without him ever needing to touch you.
“Nah,” he said. “Just mine.”
You rolled your eyes, even as heat crawled up your neck. “Please. You say that to everyone?”
“Not everyone gets shit set aside.”
That made you pause. Only for a second. But he saw it. Of course he did.
Cook nodded toward the bag on the table. “Nearly sold it an hour ago.”
“Nearly?”
“Mm.” He looked you over slowly, like he had all the time in the world. “Then I figured you’d show.”
“You sound very sure of yourself.”
“I usually am.”
Your mouth twitched in spite of yourself.
You hated that. Hated that he could get you there so easily, like your body was betraying you from the inside out.
He straightened slightly, arms folding across his chest. “You’re late.”
You blinked. “What?”
He shrugged like it was nothing. “Usually here earlier on Fridays.”
There was something about the way he said it—offhand, almost careless—that made the words land harder. Usually. As if there was a pattern. As if he’d noticed. Before you could stop yourself, you said, “You keeping a schedule now?”
Cook grinned, sharp and immediate. “You’d be surprised what I clock.”
Something hot and mean and unsettled flipped low in your stomach. Your gaze dropped to the baggie of pills on the table again, then back to him. “So what, you just sit around waiting for me?”
“Nah.” He tilted his head. “Only on the days you show.”
“That’s obsessive.”
“Probably.”
He didn’t look remotely bothered by that assessment.
Your pulse was thudding stupidly hard now. The room felt warmer than it had a minute ago. Smaller too. Like him standing there was somehow taking up more space than one person should.
You crossed your arms, mostly so he wouldn’t see what your hands were doing. “How much?”
Cook didn’t answer straight away. Just looked at you. Then at your empty hands. Then back up again. “You bring your wallet this time?”
There it was.
Your face stayed blank through sheer force of will. “Forgot it.”
He laughed immediately.
Not politely. Not like he was trying to spare your dignity. Full, open amusement, head tipping back slightly, the sound low and rough and far too pleased with itself.
“Oh, that is such bollocks.”
You lifted a shoulder. “Believe what you want.”
“I do.” He stepped forward once. “And I believe you left it on purpose. Again.”
“That would be a very arrogant thing to assume.”
“That would be a very obvious thing to assume.” Another step. “You’re shite at lying about it.”
You held your ground. Barely. Cook stopped in front of you, close enough that all the air in the room seemed to thin out around the edges.
“Lemme guess,” he said, voice quieter now. “You stood in your kitchen starin’ right at it.”
Your throat went dry. He saw that too.
“Thought about bringing it.” His mouth curved, slow and wicked. “Then thought better of it.”
“Cook—”
“You like that this works better, don’t you?”
The words hit hard because they were true.
Not just the filth of it. Not just what the arrangement had become. It was the anticipation. The way something in you had gone half-wild the second he made it clear last time that he knew exactly what you wanted before you admitted it to yourself.
The way being expected by him felt a little like walking into a trap you’d set together. You should have said something cutting. Something sharp enough to push him back a step. Instead you said, “Maybe I just didn’t feel like carrying it.”
Cook’s grin widened like you’d handed him a gift.
“Christ,” he murmured. “That mouth.”
You went to move around him. He caught your wrist. Not hard. Just fast. The suddenness of it made your breath catch. His fingers wrapped warm around your pulse, thumb settling there like he had every right to feel how fast it was going.
“You keep doin’ that,” he said.
“Doing what?”
“Actin’ like you’re still humouring me.”
Your eyes flicked to his hand on your wrist, then back up. Cook took another half-step in, backing you toward the couch without seeming to.
“You texted first,” he said. “You came over. You left your wallet behind. You think I’m meant to believe any of that’s accidental?”
“No.”
It came out quieter than you meant it to. His expression changed a little at that. Not softer. Just more focused. Like the joke of it had finally given way to the thing underneath.
“No,” he repeated.
You swallowed. The room went very still. His burner phone buzzed somewhere on the coffee table. Neither of you looked away. It buzzed again, then stopped.
Cook’s hand finally left your wrist only so he could reach past you, grab it without looking, and glance down at the screen.
You caught the briefest glimpse of a name you didn’t know and a message preview about product before he snorted and typed something one-handed.
Busy. Later.
He tossed the phone back down.
Your stomach did something ridiculous.
“You just ignore people now?” you asked.
“Depends who’s here.”
The answer came too fast to be casual.
You opened your mouth.
He cut you off with a look. “Don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t do that thing where you pretend you don’t like hearing it.”
Heat rose again, fast and merciless. “Oh my God.”
“See?” He smiled. “There you go.”
You hated him. You wanted him. At this point the distinction felt mostly academic. Your eyes dropped, just for a second, to the line of his mouth. His throat. The curve of one hand braced against the back of the couch.
He noticed immediately, because of course he did, and the satisfaction on his face was infuriating.
You stepped closer before you could talk yourself out of it. “You’re unbearable.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Still came over.”
There was no good response to that, so you did the only thing you could think of and kissed him. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t sweet. It was frustration and nerves and wanting too much all colliding at once, your mouth catching his hard enough that his startled noise turned into a laugh against your lips before he kissed you back properly.
And Christ, that was worse. So much worse. Because now you had confirmation. Now you knew exactly what he was like, the way he kissed like he did everything else—cocky right up until the second appetite took over, then all heat and teeth and intent.
His hands found you fast.
One at your waist, the other at the back of your neck, fingers spreading into your hair just enough to hold you there while he kissed you deeper, slower, more thorough than he had any right to, the slick sound of your tongues sliding together punctuating the air around you, tasting tobacco and toothpaste on his breath.
By the time you pulled back for air, your chest was heaving.
Cook looked down at you with pupils blown wide and said, very softly, “That’s more like it.”
You wanted to argue. Instead you kissed him again. This time he walked you backward until the backs of your knees hit the couch.
One hand slid under your hoodie, warm palm flattening against your side, thumb dragging over skin like he was reacquainting himself. The other moved down, deliberate, and when you instinctively shifted like you already knew where he was heading, he made a low sound against your mouth that went straight through you.
“See?” he murmured. “There she is.”
“Shut up.”
“No.”
His forehead bumped yours for a second as he smiled, breath warm across your mouth. “Thought you were just gonna drop to your knees again.”
The flash of embarrassment that hit you at that was immediate and sharp. He felt it in the way you stiffened, because his grin turned filthy. “Oh, you did.”
You shoved at his shoulder. He barely moved.
“Not this time,” he said.
Then he pushed you down onto the couch. Not rough. Just definite. Enough to make your pulse jump. He stood over you for a second, looking down like he was enjoying the familiar sight of you spread back against his cushions a little too much, then caught the hem of your hoodie in both hands.
“You wearing this because you thought you’d leave with it still on?”
You laughed once, breathless and disbelieving. “You are so fucking full of yourself.”
“Mm.” He peeled the hoodie up slowly, revealing more and more skin as it inched higher and higher, “and yet.”
By the time it hit the floor, your breathing was already uneven. He kissed you again, lower this time—mouth at your jaw, then your throat, then back up just long enough to bite at your lower lip and grin when you let out a breathy moan you absolutely did not mean to let out.
One of his hands slid over your waist, then lower, then lower still, and the second he felt how ready you were for him his head dropped forward against your shoulder.
“Jesus.”
You turned your face into his hair, eyes squeezing shut.
He laughed under his breath, but it sounded wrecked around the edges. “You came over like this?”
“Don’t start.”
“No, seriously.” His palm pressed in firmer, not enough to give you anything useful, just enough to make your hips twitch. “You all worked up already?”
You clamped your mouth shut.
Cook pulled back enough to look at you. “That a yes?”
“Maybe.”
He made a pleased little sound that hit harder than it should have. “Knew it.”
Another buzz from the phone on the table. Longer this time. Insistent. Cook didn’t even glance at it. That shouldn’t have felt as filthy as it did.
Instead his attention stayed exactly where it was—on you, on your mouth, on every little reaction you tried and failed to hide. Like whatever else existed outside this flat had been demoted beneath the problem of what to do with you now that you were here, warm and willing and pretending not to be either of those things.
He drew back just enough to tug you upright by the hips, repositioning you how he wanted, turning your attempt at grabbing for him into something he controlled before it even got started.
“Not like last time,” he said.
The words went through you like a spark catching.
You looked up at him.
Cook’s hand closed around your jaw, thumb brushing once over your lower lip. “You don’t get to show up here, act like this, and think I’m lettin’ you set the pace.”
That should have made you push back. Instead it made your stomach flip, hot and hard.
He saw that. Smiled.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Thought so.”
His mouth found yours again, and the next stretch of time blurred at the edges.
Kissing. His hands. The couch. Your breathing going thin and useless. The feel of him moving you where he wanted you, like he’d already been picturing this and was finally done waiting for reality to catch up.
Every time you thought you had half a second to collect yourself, he did something else—said something else—pressed closer, laughed low in his throat when you reacted, let you see exactly how much he liked having you like this.
By the time his mouth dragged to your ear and said, “You gonna let me sort this properly, then?” with a possessiveness that made your skin prickle and your pulse skip, you gasped "God, Cook—yes,"your voice fragementing as his touch ignited you.
He rewarded that with a grin against your skin, his fingers tracing the curve of your waist, then higher, cupping your bare tits with a firm grip. "Bloody hell, love, you're gagging for it," he groaned, his thumbs brushing over your nipples until they hardened.
"No more games," he murmured, his voice rough and textured like crushed velvet as he pushed you back against the couch cushions, his body pinning yours.
You tried to muster a smirk, but it died as soon as he ground his hips against you, his hard cock pressing against your thigh. "Feel that, yeah? That's what you've done to me, you teasing slag."
He chuckled, a breathy rasp of a sound before crushing his mouth back against yours, tongue delving deep, pulling back long enough to say, "look at you, proper fit," breath hot on your neck as he trailed his lips up to nip there, one hand sliding down to cup your pussy through your yoga pants.
"You're fucking soaked already, ain't ya?"
By the time he pulled his fingers out, slick with your juices, your leggings were stripped and you were begging for more. Your fingertips dug into the meat of his shoulders, red and flushed all the way down to his nipples.
The words sparked through you, and you arched into his touch, a moan slipping out as his fingers rubbed your clit through the fabric. He kept at it, drawing out the tease, before finally shedding his own clothes, his cock springing free—thick and demanding, head flushed angry red and weeping pre-cum all over your leggings.
He shoved his hand down the front of them, fingers finding your folds and sliding inside your wet cunt with a vulgar squelch. "That's it, take my fingers like the greedy bitch you are," he rasped, pumping them in and out, in and out, stretching you, making you writhe, his thumb circling your clit as he fingered you deeper, whispering, "You're gonna cum all over my hand first, yeah? Get you nice and sloppy for me."
"Ffffffuck," he groaned, eyelids fluttering in ecstasy, the same way they do after railing a fresh bump of coke, "missed this, been thinkin' about it since the last pickup."
He positioned himself between your legs, teasing your entrance with the head of his cock, the slick back and forth slide causing a shiver to ripple down your spine and across your skin. Cook's jaw set tight with barely-held restraint, "gonna take my payment now, love."
You didn't get the chance to respond, not before he's shoving his hips forward and bullying his cock into you, eyes transfixed on your entrance as it opened up and eagerly accepted him. All the way down til his pelvis rested flush against your ass, punching a moan out of you both.
Cook didn't rush, in fact he paused—buried his nose into your neck as he panted into it, "need a minute before I bust. You're squeezin' the life outta me princess."
Liquid heat spread through your veins, hips reflexively lifting off the couch and giving his cock a needy little grind. Your clit caught the coarse hair around the base of his shaft, feeling satification coil low through your belly at the friction. At the way Cook's nostrils flare in response.
He swore under his breath and grabbed the backs of both your thighs, shoving your legs up and back until you were folded in half and your knees were bumping into your shoulders. The change in angle caused him to sink even deeper, nipping at your throat as he told you to "hold on to somethin'" and began to move.
It started small. Shallow but forceful little thrusts that had you both moaning. Cook lifted his head so he could watch your reactions, pupils blown so wide his irises were just thin blue rings.
His face pinched into a snarl the moment he saw whatever cockdrunk little look crossed yours when he started picking up speed, what little control he had giving way to primal need.
You started meeting his thrusts. Desperate little rolls of your hips that had his grip going tense around your thighs. Hard enough to ache. Hard enough that finger shaped bruises would blossom there later. "Christ baby, yeah just like that—shit yeahhhh. My favorite little hole."
The steady bang, bang, bang of the couch's backrest smacking into the wall behind it was probably loud enough for the neighbors to hear. And yet—you didn't care. Couldn't. Not when your ridiculously hot dealer was fucking into you with a rough, greedy rhythm, hips snapping hard and mean, growling, "take it, you filthy tart, feel me fucking pounding this tight pussy," and, "you like that? Like being my pretty little cash machine with holes?"
The room blurred with the scent of sweat and sex, the obscene slap of skin on skin combined with the couch thumping and Cook's constant stream of filth building closer and closer, feeling that familiar tightening as your climax drew nearer.
"Fuck, you're gripping me so good, gonna make me cum inside you," he panted, slipping his hand between your bodies so he could thumb at your clit, your muscles going stiff as a lightning rod when electricity shoots through you.
And just like that you felt your orgasm slam into you like a Mack truck, tears pricking your eyes as your cunt spasmed from the overwhelming pleasure lighting up every nerve ending in your body.
Cook quickly followed suit, thrusting two, three more times before slamming home and finally letting gohis hips pressing flush against yours in one final, shuddering grind.
He eventually let go of your thighs in favor of wedging his arms under your back to pull you in close, cradling your spent body against his just before tucking his face back into the curve of your neck, hot breath fanning across your skin in uneven bursts.
"Bloody hell, that's it, love," he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction and a hint of vulnerability. You felt the weight of his exhaustion settle over you both, a tender intimacy blooming in the quiet aftermath. You threaded your fingers through his hair and held him back just as tight, savoring the way his heartbeat hammered against your chest.
As the final tremors of his release subsided, you felt his cock twitch inside you, still buried to the hilt, the thick heat of his cum seeping deeper into your throbbing pussy. He didn't pull out, not right away. Unsteady he ground his hips in slow, deliberate circles, his breath ragged against your neck as he went on, "That's it, you greedy little whore, milking every drop from me like you own it. Feel that mess I've made of you? Your cunt's all sloppy now, dripping with my cum."
His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, your body arching instinctively against his, the slick slide of his shaft stirring up a mix of pleasure and ache that left you gasping.
Cook withdrew soon enough with a low, satisfied groan, his cock slipping free with a lewd pop that made you clench around nothing, a trail of cum leaking down your thigh after him.
"Look at you, all fucked out and begging for more already," he teased, his voice a husky drawl, sliding a finger back inside your swollen, sensitive folds to scoop out some of the creamy mess. "Taste what we've done, yeah? Open wide princess."
A wet, whiny little hiccup leaves your lips just as you part them, letting Cook push his finger into your mouth, the salty-sweet tang of your combined arousal flooding your senses. It was intoxicating, the way he commanded you, his eyes locked on yours with a fierce, possessive hunger that made your heart race.
Emotionally, you were unraveling—vulnerable yet exhilarated, the raw chemistry between you igniting something deeper than just physical lust, a connection forged in the fire of his unyielding control.
Cook rolled off you not long after, still catching his breath, letting the room slowly settle again. It wasn't silent. Not quite. The music was still going somewhere in the background, too low to make out properly. Traffic outside. A muffled shout from the street below. The hum of the fridge from the kitchen. Ordinary sounds. They just felt very far away.
You were half-curled into the corner of the couch, still trying to remember how breathing worked like it was a skill you’d let lapse.
Cook sat up beside you, resting his elbows on his knees, rolling something between his fingers with the kind of lazy focus that would have looked casual if not for the way his hair was a mess and his mouth was still red and kiss-swollen.
He glanced over, caught you staring, and smirked.
“Still with me?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Cute.”
You rolled your eyes and immediately regretted it because everything in you felt a little too loose, a little too sensitised, a little too aware of him existing right there within reach.
He noticed that too. God, he noticed everything. Without saying anything, Cook leaned forward, grabbed the bottle of water off the table, cracked it open, and handed it to you.
You took it. Paused. Looked at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He snorted. “Drink it.”
You did.
The water was lukewarm and tasted faintly of stale plastic, and it still might as well have been holy.
Cook watched until you lowered it, then plucked it from your hand and set it back on the table. Like that, too, was nothing. Like handing you water after wrecking you across his couch was not somehow the most destabilising thing he’d done all day.
Your eyes narrowed. “You’re being weird.”
He lit a joint with one hand. “You’re in my flat arse-naked after ya forgot your wallet on purpose. Don’t start throwin’ around weird like you’re not contributin’.”
You accepted the joint when he offered it over, mostly because your hands needed something to do. The first drag helped. A little.
Cook leaned back, stretched one arm along the back of the couch behind you, and looked down at the coffee table. At the baggie. At his phone. At the time. Then back at you. “You got an exam comin’ up?”
You blinked. “What?”
“You’ve been buyin’ more on Tuesdays too.”
The joint stalled halfway to your mouth.
Cook shrugged one shoulder. “Means you’re either spirallin’ or revisin’.”
“How do you know I’m not just recreationally self-destructive?”
“Because you say words like recreationally.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. His grin went soft around the edges for one dangerous second. Not sweet. Never sweet. Just…less sharpened. Less like a blade being turned in the light and more like he was letting you see the handle.
“You really keep track?”
He took the joint back, exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. “I keep track of what matters.”
The answer landed heavy. You looked away first. Somewhere near the window, his phone buzzed again. He ignored it. Again.
“You’re popular today.”
“Not today.”
The simplicity of that made your stomach tighten all over again.
You picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion. “You say that to everyone?”
Cook turned his head slowly, fixing you with a look so direct it almost felt rude. “Nah.”
The room went hot. You could have left it there. Probably should have.
Instead you said, “So what, you just clear your whole afternoon in case I show up?”
A beat. Then: “Only if I think you will.”
Your breath caught quietly enough that maybe someone else wouldn’t have noticed it. Cook did. Of course he did. He leaned a little closer, elbow sliding off the back of the couch so his hand landed beside your thigh instead. Not touching. Yet. Just there.
“You askin’ because you’re curious,” he said, “or because you like it?”
You tried for a shrug and failed somewhere in the middle.
He laughed under his breath. “Right.”
“That’s such an unfair question.”
“Life’s hard.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re still here.”
That again. The line should have worn out by now. Instead it landed even harder each time, because each time it was more true in a different way. You were still here. Not just physically. Still here in the pattern of it. In the text thread. In the stupid little knot of anticipation that had started taking up residence in your week. In the way your eyes kept snagging on his mouth whenever he said something filthy, like your body had developed a reflex and no one had bothered to ask your permission first.
Cook’s gaze dropped to your mouth. Then lower. Then back up. “Anyone else know where you are?”
The question came out light, almost lazy. That's what made it dangerous.
You frowned. “Why?”
“Just askin’.”
“Mm.” You tilted your head. “You gettin’ jealous?”
Cook actually laughed at that. Short and sharp and disbelieving in a way that did absolutely nothing to answer the question. “Of what?”
“You tell me.”
He looked at you for a second too long. “I’m tellin’ you to answer.”
There it was again—that undercurrent. Not enough to make the room cold. Enough to make it narrower. Enough to make your pulse tick harder with something that was no longer just nerves.
You held his gaze. “No.”
“No one?”
“No one.”
His shoulders loosened in a way he probably didn’t mean for you to see. And that—that did something. Because suddenly this wasn’t just you walking into his space and letting him act like he owned it. This was him asking questions he had no business asking and seeming a little too invested in the answers.
You stared at each other. Then Cook leaned in and kissed you like he was irritated by the existence of air between your mouths. It knocked the rest of your thoughts loose immediately.
The joint ended up crushed out in the tray without either of you properly deciding to do it. Your hand found the side of his neck. His found your waist. One second you were sitting angled toward him on the couch and the next he was dragging you across his lap, mouth still on yours, hand hot at the back of your thigh.
“Tell me to stop if you want me to,” he muttered against your mouth.
You kissed him harder.
He smiled into it. Mean thing. Then his hand tightened.
“You know,” he said, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the soft spot beneath your ear, “most people text first because they need product.”
“Maybe I did.”
“Bollocks.” His teeth grazed your skin just enough to make you jolt. “You texted first because you were thinkin’ about this all week.”
Your silence gave you away faster than any confession could have.
Cook made that same pleased, wrecked noise low in his throat and shifted beside you, turning the angle between your bodies into something that made your breath stutter.
“There she is,” he murmured. “Knew it.”
You tried to say something back. Something sarcastic. Something with dignity. It died the second his hand slid up your spine and settled between your shoulder blades, pressing you closer like there was no reason at all for space to exist.
The room kept shrinking around the two of you. Somewhere beyond the windows, the light outside had started changing, late afternoon bleeding toward evening in that slow, unnoticed way it always did until suddenly it had happened. The flat was darker now. Warmer. Hazy from smoke and heat and the weight of too much time spent paying attention to each other.
Cook’s mouth dragged over yours one more time before he pulled back just far enough to look at you. His eyes were darker than before. His voice still rough. “You leavin’ after this?”
The question caught you off guard. “I—”
He waited.
You didn’t know why that was harder to answer than it should have been. Maybe because you weren’t sure whether he meant after today or after the arrangement or after this second round or whatever this was turning into between one visit and the next. Maybe because in the last hour, leaving had started feeling a lot less like the natural end of the afternoon and a lot more like something he was already annoyed at on principle.
So instead of answering properly, you said, “You trying to get rid of me?”
Cook’s hand flattened harder between your shoulders. “Didn’t say that.”
No. He hadn’t. That was the problem. You looked at him. He looked back. Then he kissed you again, slower this time, like he’d made some decision internally and didn’t care to share it with the class.
The second big slide into heat happened easier than the first. No awkwardness left. No surprise. No moment of readjustment where one of you had to pretend this could still somehow go either way. At some point that choice had already been made. Probably before you left your hall. Maybe even before that.
Now it was just momentum. His hands. Yours. The couch. The drag of his mouth over yours and down your throat. The way he kept saying things under his breath like he was talking to himself and you happened to be there to hear them. The way every time you got bold enough to pull him where you wanted him, he let you do it for half a second before turning it back around and putting you exactly where he preferred.
He was more worked up this time. That was obvious. Still in control, still smug enough to make you want to bite him, but there were cracks in it now. A roughness around the edges. Moments where his breathing caught too sharply or his grip tightened without warning or something hot and possessive flashed across his face before he covered it with another grin.
It made you reckless. It made him worse. At one point there was another knock at the door—brief, dull, easy to ignore if you wanted to. Cook ignored it. Didn’t even look up. Just kept his mouth at your throat and muttered, “Not answerin’ that.”
You laughed, half breathless. “Because of me?”
“Because I’m busy.”
“With what?”
That earned you a look. Then a kiss mean enough to count as an answer. By the time he got you under him again, whatever remained of your dignity had stopped being relevant several minutes ago.
Your hair was a mess. The ashtray tipped over at some point, scattering ash over the carpet. The bag on the coffee table still sat there unopened like an afterthought.
That detail almost sent you over the edge by itself. You’d come here for something. Technically. Neither of you seemed all that interested in pretending that mattered now.
Cook caught you glancing at it and laughed softly, the sound rough and hot and a little ruined. “Forgot why you came?”
You looked back at him and said, honestly, “Maybe.”
That did it. His expression changed instantly. Possession. Satisfaction. Something darker—whatever it was, it flashed through him clean enough to make your whole body answer.
He kissed you hard enough to shut you up, his rapidly hardening cock nudging against your hip. Whispered"c'mere" into your mouth and climbed back over you, getting between your legs to fuck you all over again.
Afterward, the flat felt different.
Not quieter. Not cleaner. Just…settled in a new shape. Like the air had been knocked around so thoroughly there was no putting it back where it had been before.
The flora lampshade by the window was tilted. His burner phone had ended up on the floor next to the ashtray, right by the last hole he burnt into the carpet. The bag on the chipped table was still there, maddeningly neat amid the wreckage, and for a few seconds all you could do was stare at it and laugh under your breath at the ridiculousness of that.
Cook looked over from where he was tugging on his jeans. “What?”
“You’re still terrible at interior design.”
He followed your gaze and smirked. “Adds character.”
“You live like you’ve lost a bet.”
“And yet you keep comin’ over.”
You were going to kill him one day. Probably not today. He sat down beside you on the couch with a sigh that he clearly tried to disguise as something cooler, then reached over without asking and tugged your hoodie from where it had been abandoned by the table lamp.
He handed it to you. When you didn’t take it immediately, he raised his brows. “What?”
You took it slowly. “You’re doing the weird thing again.”
“What weird thing?”
“The almost nice thing.”
Cook snorted. “Don’t get carried away.”
You pulled the hoodie on anyway. It smelled faintly like him now. Which was deeply inconvenient.
He leaned forward, grabbed the bag from the table, and dropped it into your lap. The motion was so casual it might have passed for thoughtless if not for everything else about the afternoon that clearly wasn’t.
You looked down at it. Then at him.
“That’s for now,” he said.
Your brows drew together. “For now?”
He nodded toward the kitchen counter. There, half hidden behind a cereal box and a lighter, was another small bag.
You stared.
Cook watched you noticing it and looked entirely too pleased with himself. “That’s next week.”
You blinked. “You’re insane.”
“Mm.”
“You already set some aside?”
“You were gonna need it.”
You almost laughed. “You mean want it.”
His mouth curved. “That too.”
The room went warm all over again.
You looked from the second baggie back to him. “You just assumed there’d be a next time?”
Cook gave you a long, level look that somehow managed to be both smug and serious at once.
Then he said, “Was I wrong?”
There it was. Not a joke now. Not fully. A real question, buried under all the usual swagger. And the thing was, he probably knew the answer already. Still, he asked.
You shifted on the couch, pulse kicking again in a way that felt unfair after everything. “You’re very sure I’m becoming a regular.”
He leaned back, one arm spreading along the back of the couch. “You already were.”
“And what if I decide to branch out?”
That got his attention fast. Not explosively. Not enough for a scene. Just enough that the temperature in his expression changed by a degree or two.
“Don’t.”
You smiled before you meant to. “That wasn’t a joke?”
“No.”
The simplicity of it sat between you like a lit fuse.
Cook looked at you for another second, then nodded toward the bag in your lap. “Take that. And don’t buy off anyone else.”
There was something so casually territorial about the wording that it made your stomach twist.
“You can’t actually be serious.”
“Watch me.”
“Cook.”
He leaned in, one hand bracing beside your thigh. “You want somethin’, you text me.”
The breath you pulled in felt thin. “What, and you’ll just magically be available every time?”
His mouth brushed the corner of yours when he said, “Probably.”
That was the moment it locked in, really. Not the sex. Not the first time or the second time or the wallet or the text or the way he’d ignored everyone else in favour of waiting to hear your steps on the stairs.
This.
Him telling you, like it was obvious, that whatever this arrangement had become now had rules neither of you had spoken out loud until he decided to make one official.
You looked at him, close enough to count the seconds in his breathing. Then you said, “You’re getting weirdly possessive for a man running a customer service operation out of a mouldy flat.”
Cook laughed, brief and real. “Customer service?” He kissed you once, quick and dirty. “That what this is?”
“Isn’t it?”
“Not anymore.”
The answer hit so hard you went quiet. For once, he didn’t fill the silence. Just watched you. Then reached past you, grabbed your phone off the arm of the couch where it had landed at some point, and put it in your hand.
“You should go,” he said.
You stared at him. “Wow. Romantic.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’ve got somewhere to be in the mornin’, and if you stay I’m not lettin’ you get any sleep.”
That was so matter-of-fact it almost made you laugh again. Almost. You stood slowly, gathering yourself in stages. Shoes. Keys. Bag. Hoodie sleeves yanked down over your hands. Every movement felt strangely loaded now, like leaving mattered in a different way than it had before.
Cook walked you to the door without pretending he wasn’t doing exactly that.
When you stepped into the hallway, he leaned one shoulder against the frame and looked at you like he was mentally setting something in place.
“Tuesday,” he said.
You paused on the landing. “That a question?”
“No.”
The nerve of him.
You should have told him not to push it. Should have laughed in his face. Should have said something cutting and clever and impossible to misread. Instead you said, “Maybe.”
Cook smiled slowly.
“Bring your wallet if you want,” he said. “Won’t help you.”
Then he shut the door.
You made it down one flight of stairs before your phone buzzed. You pulled it out.
Cook: And don’t be late this time.
You stared at the message.
Then, because apparently humiliation was a hobby now, typed back:
You: You keeping a schedule, dealer?
The reply came before you hit the bottom floor.
Cook: Only for what’s mine.
You stopped dead on the stairs, pulse punching hard enough to make you grip the railing. Somewhere above you, behind a battered flat door on the third floor, James Cook had already set aside next week’s order.
Like there had never been any doubt.
Like he knew you were coming back.
The worst part was, so did you.
is this gonna get me fired you think
That ‘comment on your a03 work’ email hits like a line of cocaine every time. unmatched dopamine increase. shoutout to everyone who leaves a comment on fics. you deserve the world
it is always narratively correct to make your characters sleep together before they sort through the hundreds of lies and misdirections between them. make things worse make things worse make things worse #i love betrayal #i love lying #i love people feeling bad about themselves
thanks guys
thinking of them. in these trying times
#artists
Edited for all my writer friends out there
I hope fifty good things happen to you within the next 30 seconds. I love you so much
Getting lost in a maze with Farmer!Remmick?
farmer!remmick x f!reader wc : 1.2k
prompt : finding a somewhat private area at a fancy party to fuck (coat closet, empty office, secluded corner on the big balcony, hedge maze if we wanna get dramatic, etc)
RAHH FARMER REMMICK yes yes yes. i did change it from a hedge maze to a corn maze to fit the scene !
ᰋ ˓ . contents. semi-public sex / risk of getting caught, oral sex / messy blowjob, throatfucking, gagging, spit, cum swallowing, size kink, shy!remmick, whiny!remmick, praise kink, light teasing. mdni 18+
“Darlin’—fuck, darlin’, your mouth,” Remmick whines, way past holding his tongue on curses, his big hand trembling against the side of your face as his cock slides heavy over your tongue, the broad head drooling a steady pulse of salty precum that coats your tastebuds.
Which, first of all, is rich coming from him.
This is the same man who had spent most of the afternoon standing around his folks’ backyard barbecue looking like he had never had a filthy thought in his life.
All shy smiles, pink ears, work-worn hands wrapped around a sweating glass of sweet tea while his mama told somebody from church that her boy was still “a little bashful around pretty girls.”
A little bashful.
Cute, really.
Especially considering that same bashful boy is currently tucked between two rows of tall corn with his jeans shoved open, belt hanging loose, shirt rucked up just enough to show the dark trail of sweat-damp hair under his belly button, and his cock forcing your mouth open so wide your lips feel stretched to their limit.
Very wholesome. Very family barbecue appropriate.
The corn maze was technically for the kids, but in your defense, the kids were busy throwing bean bags by the porch, and Remmick had been looking at your mouth across the yard like he wanted to climb out of his own skin.
You could only be expected to behave so much.
There were paper plates, folding chairs, somebody’s aunt fanning herself with a napkin, his daddy manning the smoker, and Remmick turning red every time your tongue slipped over your straw.
So, really, who could blame you?
Not you, that’s for damn sure.
Now you’re on your knees in the dirt, one hand wrapped tight around the thick base of his cock, the other curled around his tense thigh as spit slicks down your chin and makes a mess of your chest. You still can’t take all of him without your throat fighting it, and he keeps trying to apologize for it like that isn’t half the reason you dragged him out here in the first place.
“I’m sorry,” he pants, voice breaking as the head of his cock nudges the back of your throat. “Shit, baby, I’m sorry, you’re just—ohhh fuck, you’re takin’ me so good.”
The praise makes you hum around him, and Remmick nearly loses his knees.
The pride of somebody’s little southern town, reduced to gripping corn stalks because your lips are wrapped around his cock ten yards away from the potato salad. His hips twitch forward before he can stop himself, pushing in deeper, and you gag so prettily around him that his whole body jerks.
“Oh, Christ,” he chokes, looking down at you with wide eyes.
The second you blink up at him through watery lashes and deliberately relax your throat to take him deeper, Remmick makes a noise so desperate and broken it belongs in a confession booth.
His thumb strokes your cheek like he’s trying to be sweet about it, like there’s anything sweet about the wet, choking sounds your mouth is making or the way your throat keeps tightening every time he slips too far.
You pull off just enough to breathe, strings of spit clinging from your swollen lips to the flushed head of his cock, and his eyes drop to the mess with a look so stunned you almost laugh. His cock bobs in the air between you, heavy and angry-red, another bead of precum welling at the slit and sliding down the veined underside while you stroke him slow with your spit-slick hand.
“Look at you all shy,” you murmur, stroking him slow with your spit-slick hand.
Remmick’s face goes so red you’d think you’d slapped him. “Baby,” he whines, and there’s something so good about hearing that soft, embarrassed plea while his cock twitches in your hand.
“What?” you hum, batting your lashes like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. “You want me to stop?”
His answer comes too fast, too honest. “No.”
You smile, and take him back into your mouth before he can feel too embarrassed about admitting it.
His hand finally settles at the back of your head, resting there with his fingers shaking like he wants to guide you and is too polite to be honest about it.
So you make it easy for him.
You press forward until your throat works around the head of him, gagging softly as your nose nearly brushes the hair at his base. He smells like sun-warmed skin and barbecue smoke and pure, desperate arousal, and it makes your head spin. Remmick’s hips buck, rougher this time, and the sound of your throat catching around him goes straight to the heat between your thighs.
Somewhere beyond the corn, someone laughs loud enough to remind you both that his whole family is still eating barbecue in the yard.
That should probably slow you down, but it doesn’t. If anything, the risk makes it hotter, makes you hollow your cheeks and suck harder, bobbing your head in short, sloppy strokes that have spit bubbling at the corners of your stretched lips.
Remmick realizes it too, because his grip tightens in your hair and his gaze darts toward the open end of the row before snapping back down to you, flushed and panicked and so turned on he looks like he might cry.
“Gonna get us caught,” he breathes, even as his hips rock forward again.
You hum around him again, and that’s the last of his manners.
Remmick starts fucking your mouth in short, desperate little thrusts, messy enough that your throat keeps catching around him and your eyes keep watering.
Your hand works what you can’t fit, slicking him up with every stroke, and his cock feels impossibly heavy on your tongue, pulsing every time you gag. His balls are drawn up tight, tapping against your chin on the deeper pushes.
“Good girl,” he whimpers, and then seems personally embarrassed that he said it so loud. “Sh—I’m sorry, I just—your mouth feels so good. So good, darlin’, you’re perfect. You’re perfect.”
Remmick’s hand tightens on your nape, his stomach flexing hard under the bunched-up hem of his shirt, and his hips stutter like his body is trying to decide between pulling away and burying himself deeper.
He chooses wrong. Or right. Depends on who you ask.
You take him until you gag again, and his cock throbs hard against your tongue.
“I’m gonna come,” he gasps, voice cracking into something downright pathetic. “Baby, wait, I’m—oh God, don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
You hollow your cheeks, stroke him faster, and look up at him just in time to watch his face fall apart.
Remmick comes with a broken, keening whine, hips jerking forward in short, uncontrolled spasms as the first thick, hot spurt of cum hits the back of your throat. It’s a lot—pent up from hours of teasing and shy looks across the yard—and it floods your mouth in heavy, salty pulses.
You swallow around him greedily, throat working to milk every drop, sucking through every pulse, tongue pressed flat against the underside of his cock, until his thighs are shaking violently under your hands and his breathing has gone ragged and broken.
He tries to pull back out of some last-minute gentlemanly panic, but you don’t let him. For a man who was worried about being heard, he’s doing a terrible job of being quiet.
You keep your mouth sealed around him, sucking him through the oversensitive aftershocks until he’s whimpering softly, his cock twitching weakly against your tongue as you lick the last dribbles from the slit.
When you finally let him slip from your mouth, he stares down at you like you’ve ruined his life in the best possible way.
Your lips are swollen, your chin is wet, and there’s dirt on your knees while his cock gives one weak little twitch against your palm like it is just as stupid as the rest of him.
You wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, smiling up at him. “You good?”
Remmick swallows, glancing toward the barbecue like he only just remembered his mama exists.
“I’m gonna need a minute,” he rasps, voice hoarse and fucked-out.
You glance pointedly at his still-open jeans, then back up at his wrecked face. “A minute to tuck yourself away, or a minute because you’re gonna get hard again if I keep looking at you?”
His blush comes back immediately.
God bless him.
“Both,” he mutters, and somehow, that might be the filthiest thing he’s said all day.
© 2026 all rights reserved — flixpii.
Lemme get a ummm Lion fic...sex pollen or fucking in the bar bathroom and being too drunk to care about being quiet...with some subby Lion if you please.
(Hi Lyriccc how are youuu?)
lion kaminski x f!reader wc : 1k
prompt : fucking in the bar bathroom and being too drunk to care about being quiet
OOH YESSS also HII RIN 💗🤭
ᰋ ˓ . contents. drunk sex, semi-public sex (bathroom stall), risk of getting caught, reader and lion are having a moaning contest, subby!lion, nipple sucking, unprotected sex, creampie, public indecency, someone walks in on them. mdni 18+
Lion is fumbling with his zipper, fingers clumsy and urgent, while you’re already hooking your thumbs into the waistband of your panties and dragging the soaked scrap of fabric down your thighs in the tight stall.
Both of you are drunk enough to be giggling under your breath, reckless and flushed hot from whiskey, but nowhere near drunk enough to miss what it means when you kick the damp panties down around one ankle and leave yourself bare.
Which is, in hindsight, probably not what the owner of this bar intended for the women’s bathroom.
But alas.
The night had been doomed the second Lion started looking at you across that sticky little table, cheeks flushed from whiskey, hand tucked between your thighs like he still had any business pretending to behave. He’d barely touched you at first, just enough pressure to make you spread your legs wider while he nodded through conversation like he was listening and not thinking about fucking you before last call.
Sweet of him to try, really.
Now his jeans are shoved open, his cock thick and flushed in his fist, the head shiny and leaking a steady bead of precum that drips over his knuckles while he stares at you in the harsh light like you’ve personally ruined him just by lifting your skirt and letting him see how your cunt is glistening
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice already shaky. “Baby, you’re soaked.”
“And you’re leaking,” you hum, glancing down at the flushed head of his cock.
His face goes red, but his cock twitches like it has no respect for his embarrassment, and before he can say anything stupid or sweet, you pull him in by his shirt and kiss him hard enough to make his back hit the stall door.
The latch rattles but neither of you care.
His mouth is messy immediately, open and hot and tasting like whiskey. His hand slips up under your shirt with a needy little groan, cupping your breast through your bra before he gets impatient and tugs the cup down, sucking your nipple straight through the thin fabric of your shirt. The wet heat of his mouth makes your back arch, fabric clinging and darkening around his lips as he sucks harder, tongue dragging slow, filthy circles over the stiff peak until your cunt clenches around nothing.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, fingers tightening in his hair as his tongue drags wet circles over you.
Lion moans around your nipple like he’s the one being touched, sucking harder when your hips jerk against him. By the time he pulls back, the fabric is wet and clinging, his lips are shiny, and his eyes are so dazed you almost feel bad for him.
Almost.
“Lion,” you say, trying not to laugh even though your thighs are already trembling. “Are you gonna stare at me or fuck me?”
The sound he makes is pitiful.
In the best possible way.
“Y-Yeah” he says quickly, nodding like he needs to reassure both of you. “Yes.”
Adorable. Also deeply concerning, because the second he gets one hand under your thigh and lines himself up, all that sweetness burns off into him shoving inside you with a groan so loud you have to slap a hand over his mouth.
His cock stretches you open in one rough push, thick and hot, sliding into you with a wet sound that echoes in the cramped stall. Your head knocks back against the divider, your leg hooks higher around his hip, and Lion’s eyes roll like he’s fighting for his life not to finish on the spot.
“Ohhh fuck,” he groans against your palm, muffled and desperate. “You feel so good. Shit, baby, you feel so good.”
You pull your hand away just to kiss him again, swallowing the next moan as he starts fucking you standing up. HHis hips are too eager, his hands can’t decide where to hold you, and your bodies keep bumping the stall wall hard enough that anyone nearby could probably connect the dots with very little imagination.
Still, the man is putting in work.
Lion grips your thigh and lifts it higher, pressing you back while his cock drives into you at a mean angle that makes your toes curl inside your shoe. Your slick is everywhere—coating him thick and shiny, smearing between your thighs, dripping down to soak into the waistband of his boxers. The wet slap of his hips against yours, the squelch every time he bottoms out, the way your cunt grips and flutters around him like it’s trying to keep him buried deep.
“Right there,” you pant against his mouth. “Don’t stop.”
“I won’t,” Lion gasps, immediately sounding like he might not have a choice anyway. “I won’t, baby, I swear.”
The sweet little promise does not match the way he’s fucking you.
He’s loud, messy, panting into your mouth and groaning every time your cunt clenches around him. Then his next thrust slips wrong, his cock popping out of you with a lewd, wet sound that makes both of you freeze. Your pussy flutters around nothing, a thick string of your combined wetness stretching between your stretched hole and the shiny head of his cock before it breaks and drips down your thigh.
Then you both start laughing like idiots.
“Fuck, sorry,” he pants, forehead dropping to your shoulder while his cock slides slick against your inner thigh. “Sorry, baby, I—”
“Put it back in,” you whisper, still breathless.
Lion lifts his head, face flushed dark, and wraps a trembling hand around the base of his cock. He rubs the head against your entrance once, twice, dragging it through your soaked folds on purpose now, smearing your slick all over himself, nudging your clit with every pass until you’re squirming.
Either because he can’t aim or because he’s drunk enough to forget he’s supposed to be shy.
“Lion,” you warn.
“I know, I know,” he pants, then pushes back inside you with a rough thrust that wipes the laughter right out of your mouth.
After that, he fucks you harder, like the slip embarrassed him into proving a point. His hand grips your ass under your skirt, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he drags you onto every thrust, cock slamming into you with wet, filthy sounds that fill the stall.
He kisses you sloppily, all tongue and teeth and helpless little noises while your skirt stays rucked up around your waist and his jeans rub rough against your thighs.
When someone walks into the bathroom and turns on the sink, Lion’s whole body stutters, hips faltering for half a second.
You bite his lower lip and squeeze around him again.
“Baby,” he groans, hiding his face against your neck while still fucking into you. “They’re gonna hear.”
“They already hear,” you murmur, pulling his hair just enough to make him whimper. “So you might as well continue.”
Lion’s hips go sloppy immediately, thrusts losing rhythm as he chases it with no dignity left at all. He’s panting hard, groaning into your skin, one hand gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise while the other braces against the stall wall.
“Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna come,” he gasps, voice breaking. “I’m gonna come so hard, baby, please—”
He comes with a loud, wrecked groan that he barely manages to bury against your mouth, hips jerking hard as he spills inside you. His whole body shakes with it, cock pulsing deep while his hands cling to you like he’ll collapse if he lets go.
From the sinks, someone clears their throat.
Lion’s eyes go comically wide, still buried inside you, cock twitching with the last weak spurts of cum as embarrassment crashes over him.
You bite your lip to keep from laughing while he’s still inside you.
“Do you think they heard?” he whispers.
A hand dryer starts outside the stall, loud and merciful.
You pat his cheek, smiling sweetly. “Baby, people in the parking lot heard.”
Lion groans, drops his forehead to your shoulder, and somehow still gives one tiny little twitch inside you like embarrassment does absolutely nothing to help him behave.
© 2026 all rights reserved — flixpii.
Prompt list 2: 5) filming it, either for private purposes or because they’re amateur pornstars with Lion so he can have something to watch when he’s away from reader… PRESS RECORD UH UH UH
lion kaminski x f!reader blurb (-1k)
prompt : filming it, either for private purposes or because they’re amateur pornstars.
i’m a SUCKER for sex filming…
ᰋ ˓ . contents. established relationship, sex filming, doggystyle, messy sex, protected p in v, light size kink, teasing, dirty talk, very light overstimulation. mdni 18+
The wet sound of Lion fucking into you fills the room, loud enough that you almost forget the phone is propped up on the dresser, recording every slick thrust of his condom-covered cock stretching you open from behind.
Your face is turned toward the camera, cheek pressed into the mattress, eyes heavy and mouth parted around these breathy little sounds you can’t keep to yourself. One hand is tucked beneath your belly, fingers moving between your thighs, rubbing your clit in messy circles every time his hips snap forward and push you harder into the sheets.
Lion isn’t saying much, not at first.
He’s too busy trying not to look at the phone.
It had taken forever to convince him to do this, mostly because he kept getting awkward whenever you brought it up, laughing under his breath and acting like the thought of watching himself fuck you later didn’t make his cock twitch in his boxers.
He wanted it—you knew he wanted it.
He just didn’t know what to do with himself once the little red light was on and suddenly everything was being saved.
Unfortunately for him, he looks good like this.
A little flushed. A little overwhelmed. Hair falling into his eyes, chest rising too fast, hands gripping your hips because he needs somewhere to put them.
His movements aren’t shy at all, even if his face is. Every thrust is rough, his thick cock dragging in and out of you until your thighs start shaking and your fingers slip uselessly over your clit.
“Fuck,” he breathes, almost embarrassed by how loud it comes out. “You’re making this so hard.”
You laugh into the mattress, but it breaks into a moan when he thrusts deeper. “You’re the one fucking me like that.”
Lion gives a nervous little huff behind you, something caught between a laugh and a groan, and his fingers flex against your waist. “Yeah, well—shit, baby, you feel so good.”
It’s sweet, somehow. Sweet in the most obscene way possible, with him buried inside you and your slick making a mess of your fingers.
You keep your face angled toward the phone because you know he’ll look eventually, and when he does, you want him to see exactly what he’s doing to you.
His hips start to lose their rhythm after that, still rough, just not as controlled.
The bed creaks under you, the dresser gives a tiny rattle, and your eyes flutter when the head of his cock hits that spot that makes your whole body go loose.
You rub your clit faster, whining openly now, not caring that the camera is catching your ruined face and the drool at the corner of your mouth.
Lion looks, and you can tell the exact instant it happens because his thrust catches inside you.
His gaze flicks to the phone screen, and there you are in the little frame, fucked-out and trembling with your face pressed into the mattress. Your eyes are half-lidded, your lips shiny and parted, your hand working desperately beneath you while he pounds into you from behind.
“Oh, fuck,” he groans, voice cracking.
Lion shoves in deep, hips pressed flush to your ass as he spills into the condom with a rough, broken sound, his hands tightening on your waist while his cock pulses inside you.
He tries to keep quiet, tries to tuck his face down like the camera won’t catch how wrecked he is, but there’s no hiding the way his body shudders behind yours.
You’re still touching yourself, peering up at him from the corner of your eye, still fluttering around him, and the overstimulation makes him gasp.
“Baby,” he mutters, breathless and shy now that he’s finished too fast. “Don’t—don’t look at me like that.”
You smile against the mattress, dragging your fingers over your clit just to feel him twitch inside you again.
“Like what? Like I know you’re gonna watch this every night you’re gone?”
Lion glances back at the phone, then at you, cheeks pink and eyes dark. And the answer is clear as day on his face.
He’s definitely going to ask to make another sometime soon.
© 2026 all rights reserved — flixpii.
Can you please do these in one if you can but w roy goode
1) overwhelmed, but happy crying during sex
6) marathon session (they just fucking keep going, babyyyy)
6) accidental i love you’s during sex
.
roy goode x f!reader blurb (-1k)
prompt : marathon session (they just fucking keep going, babyyyy)
okay so i’ve already gotten requests from other characters with both 1 & 3, and i didn’t want to write the same for two characters so i did marathon sex for roy 👩🏾💻 i hope that’s fine and you can still enjoy !!
ᰋ ˓ . contents. unprotected sex, marathon sex / multiple rounds, messy sex, creampie, m!masturbation (brief jerk off), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, teasing. mdni 18+
Roy is underneath you, naked, sweaty, and already looking half-ruined by the time your hips start moving over his cock again.
Which is a little dramatic of him, if you’re being honest.
The man had been the one to pull you back into his lap after you both swore you needed to catch your breath, his hands sliding over your bare thighs like he had every intention of behaving until you settled over him and felt him hard against you all over again.
Now the room is hot enough to feel mean about it, the sheets are twisted beneath both of you, and Roy’s head is tipped back against the wall with his jaw tight as you ride him slow enough to make his restraint everybody’s problem.
California has the nerve to stay warm even after sundown, and Roy Goode has the nerve to look pretty with sweat sliding down his chest.
You’re naked in his lap, knees pressed into the thin mattress, body sore in ways that should probably make you quit but only make every roll of your hips feel filthier.
His cock fills you with that deep, aching stretch that keeps making your thighs tremble, and because you’re a terrible person, you keep grinding down just to feel the way his breath breaks when your cunt squeezes around him.
“Darlin’,” he warns, voice rough and low, one hand gripping your hip while the other spreads warm across your lower back.
You look down at him, mouth swollen from all the kissing, skin damp, pride absolutely undeserved considering your legs are seconds away from giving out. “What?”
Roy’s eyes drop between your bodies, watching himself disappear into you again, and whatever decent thought he had leaves his face immediately. “You keep doin’ that, I ain’t gonna last.”
Which is bold, really, considering he’s already come twice and still has the audacity to be buried inside you like neither of you have learned a single lesson all night.
You sink down slowly, taking him until your hips are flush with his, and Roy groans like you’ve finally managed to shoot him properly.
His fingers dig into your waist, his stomach flexing under your hands, and when you start bouncing on him with what little strength you have left, he tries to help you without making it obvious he’s losing his mind. His hips rise into you in short, rough thrusts, then harder than halfway, until the rhythm turns sloppy while he watches your tits bounce with each lift of your hips like it might fix something in him.
The whole thing is too much: his cock, the heat, the wet sound of you taking him, the way his eyes keep moving over your naked body like he can’t decide where to look first.
Apparently, Roy decides the safest option is nowhere at all, because he kisses you hard and slips out from under you before your cunt can finish milking him empty again.
You whine at the loss, embarrassingly loud, but the sound catches in your throat when his hand wraps around his cock.
Roy sits there between your spread thighs, flushed and breathing heavy, stroking himself with rough, lazy pulls while his gaze stays fixed on the mess between your legs.
His cock is slick from you, flushed and thick in his fist, and you would be more offended about being left empty if he didn’t look so good jerking himself off in front of you. His thumb drags over the tip, his jaw flexes, and you watch his self-control crumble by inches.
“Well,” you breathe, smiling even though your body feels wrung out, “don’t stop now.”
Roy gives you a look, dark and almost amused, hand still moving. “You tryin’ to kill me?”
“Maybe.”
Roy leans forward and kisses you hard enough to steal whatever smart thing you had waiting, his bare chest pressing to yours as he pushes you down with more hunger than grace.
The mattress gives beneath you, damp sheets sticking to your skin, and by the time your head hits the pillow, he’s already between your thighs again, guiding himself through the slick mess you’ve both made like his self-control died somewhere around the second round and nobody cared enough to bury it.
Roy hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, kisses the inside of your knee like he’s sorry in advance, and thrusts back into you so deep your mouth falls open with nothing useful coming out.
The angle is downright evil. His cock presses exactly where it shouldn’t, and you feel every inch of him because there’s nothing between you but sweat, skin, and the filthy stretch of him filling you again.
“Oh, there?” he breathes, quiet as ever, but there’s enough smugness in it to make you want to bite him.
You settle for clawing at his arm while he fucks you into the mattress, both of you messy, sticking together everywhere your bodies meet.
His chest brushes yours with each thrust. Sweat drips from him onto your skin. The room smells like heat and sex, and the bed creaks loud enough that you’re half sure the whole boarding house knows Roy Goode is not nearly as polite as he looks.
When you come again, it’s not graceful.
Your hands grab at his shoulders, his wrist, the sheets, anything you can reach while your cunt pulses around him and your leg trembles against his shoulder.
Roy drops his forehead close to yours with a rough groan, his rhythm faltering as you clench down on him again and again, milking every ounce of restraint right out of his body.
The man never stood a chance.
He comes buried deep, hips pressing hard between your thighs as he spills into you with a shudder, one hand gripping your raised leg while the other braces beside your head. He stays there afterward, breathing heavy, cock still twitching inside your sore, messy cunt like he hasn’t learned a single lesson all night.
You turn your face against the pillow, smiling even though your body feels entirely wrung out. “You done?”
Roy lifts his head just enough to look at you, cheeks flushed, hair damp at his forehead, mouth swollen from kissing you, and there’s something almost innocent about him right up until his gaze drops between your naked bodies.
His hips give one slow, mean little roll that makes you gasp.
“Not if you ain’t,” he murmurs.
© 2026 all rights reserved — flixpii.
thinking about sex pollen with patrick.... he's a doctor..... of course he knows exactly what to do to make it better....👀👀👀👀👀👀👀
patrick sumner x f!reader wc : 1.2k
prompt / trope : sex pollen
patrick and sex pollen i’m hard asf…
ᰋ ˓ . contents. husband!patrick, sex pollen / aphrodisiac pollen, begging, multiple orgasms, vaginal fingering, unprotected p in v, overstimulation, praise kink, creampie, desperation. mdni 18+
By the time Patrick gets you upstairs, your knees have gone so unreliable that he has to half-carry you through the bedchamber door with one arm locked around your waist and the other hand pressed firm to your belly, as though he can hold all that awful heat inside you still by sheer medical authority.
Which, to his credit, he is attempting.
You had only meant to spend a harmless quarter hour in the conservatory before dinner, trailing your fingers over ferns and glass-warm leaves while Patrick spoke with the old gardener about some imported specimen with a Latin name you could not pronounce if a pistol were pressed to your temple.
There had been a pale yellow bloom tucked low beneath a curl of greenery, sweet-smelling and damp with pollen, and after that came the itching warmth beneath your stays, the clumsy pressure between your thighs, and the mortifying discovery that every brush of your husband’s hand against your back made you want to climb him like a fever-stricken animal.
“Breathe,” he says now, voice low and steady, though his own composure is suffering in small but satisfying ways.
His collar is undone, his dark hair mussed from where your fingers had caught in it on the stairs, and his eyes have sharpened in that physician’s way that would be very reassuring if you were not currently trying to rub yourself against his thigh like a woman without a shred of upbringing. “There now, my love. Let me see what this has done to you.”
“Patrick,” you gasp, because his hands are already at the buttons of your bodice, quick and practiced, and there’s something terribly indecent about being undressed like a patient when you are wet enough to ruin your stockings.
He glances up at you, mouth stern, eyes not stern at all. “Tell me plainly. Do you want my help?”
You nearly laugh at him, except the sound catches in your throat when his knuckles graze the swollen peak of your breast through your chemise. “If you ask me that again, I shall bite you.”
Patrick’s expression changes only slightly, but you know him well enough to see it.
The doctor has not gone. The husband has simply stepped forward beside him, hungry, fond, and very aware that whatever strange botanical curse has taken hold of you is no match for a man who knows your body better than he knows his own name.
“On the bed,” he says, soft enough to be kind and firm enough to make your stomach turn over.
You obey with embarrassing haste. Your skirts are pushed up before you can make any show of modesty, petticoats gathered high around your hips while Patrick kneels between your parted legs.
The cool air touches the damp heat of you, and you hear him inhale through his nose, quiet and rough, as he sees exactly how badly the pollen has undone you.
Your drawers are wet through, clinging obscenely, and when he hooks his fingers into the slit and pulls the fabric apart, the sound that leaves you is not fit for any respectable house in England.
“Oh,” he murmurs, and the single syllable has enough satisfaction in it to make you want to kick him. “Poor thing.”
“Do not poor thing me.”
“I shall poor thing you as much as I please,” Patrick says, thumb pressing just above your clit, not enough to help, just enough to make you jolt. “You are shaking.”
He lowers his head and kisses the inside of your thigh, bearded jaw scratching your skin while his fingers part you with clinical patience and marital indecency.
The sight of him there, broad shoulders between your legs, eyes fixed on your cunt like the answer to the whole affliction is written in the slick shine of you, nearly finishes you before he has properly begun.
Patrick slides one finger inside you, slow, and your back arches so sharply the bed ropes creak beneath you.
“There,” he breathes. “That eases it, does it not?”
You would like to answer with dignity. Truly, you would. Instead, you grab at the coverlet and whimper because his finger curls, pressing into that soft, wicked place inside you with such calm accuracy that you understand, quite suddenly, why people trust physicians with their lives.
The man could be insufferable, blunt, bad-tempered, and far too pleased with himself when he was right, but dear God, he knows exactly where to touch.
A second finger joins the first, stretching you open while his thumb begins to circle your bud.
The relief is immediate and not nearly enough.
Your hips chase his hand shamelessly, cunt clenching around his fingers, slick dripping down to his knuckles as the terrible heat rolls through you again.
“Please,” you gasp, and there goes the last of your pride.
Patrick looks up at you from beneath dark brows.
“Please make it better.”
His hand stills just enough to make you sob, and the sound seems to break something in him. He leans over you, fingers still buried deep, and kisses you with such tenderness that you taste your own desperation on his breath.
“I will,” he murmurs against your mouth. “I have you. You need not be brave with me.”
The first orgasm is dragged out of you on his fingers, hard and wet and loud, your thighs closing around his wrist while he talks you through it in that rough, steady voice.
You come so hard your vision blurs, but the relief lasts only long enough for you to draw one trembling breath before the heat surges back worse than before.
Patrick feels it happen around his fingers.
His jaw flexes. “Again, then.”
“Patrick, I need you inside me.”
He swears under his breath, restraint worn dangerously thin. His clothes come off with far less patience than yours. You see him hard and heavy between his thighs, flushed dark at the tip, and your whole body clenches around nothing.
“If I am to treat this properly, you will tell me if it pains you,” he says, taking himself in hand and stroking once as he settles over you.
“It already pains me,” you say, reaching for him. “Patrick, please.”
The head of his cock presses against you, and for one dreadful, heavenly instant he only holds there, letting your slick spread over him while you squirm beneath his weight. Then he pushes in, slow and thick, filling you until your mouth falls open and your nails bite into his shoulders.
Patrick groans against your throat when he bottoms out, his body hot and solid over yours, his composure finally cracking at the feel of your cunt gripping him like it intends to keep him there. “Christ,” he mutters, drawing back before thrusting in again hard enough to make you cry out.
The singular word makes you wetter.
Patrick thrusts into you like he’s curing you, which is to say with purpose, stamina, and a concentration so intense it would almost be funny if you were not coming apart beneath him.
Each thrust drives the breath from your lungs and draws a creak from the bed, his cock dragging through the mess of you while his hand slips between your bodies to rub your clit again.
He watches your face the whole time, noting every tremor, every gasp, every clench, using all his awful knowledge against you until you are begging without words.
The second orgasm breaks over you faster than the first. The third is worse. By then there is sweat at Patrick’s temples, your thighs are slick against his hips, and the room smells of crushed flowers, linen, and sex.
He keeps praising you through it, voice hoarse and affectionate, calling you his sweet girl, his poor love, his beautiful wife, until you are half convinced the pollen will kill you if his mouth ever stops.
When his rhythm finally falters, you feel the change in him: his thrusts grow rougher, less measured, his forehead lowering to yours as your cunt pulses around him yet again.
You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer.
Patrick comes buried deep inside you with a low, broken groan, his hips pressing tight to yours as he spills into the same aching heat he has spent the last hour trying to soothe.
The mess of it is immediate, filthy and warm, leaking around his cock as he gives you a few slow, involuntary thrusts that make both of you gasp.
Afterward, he doesn’t move away. He stays over you, breath heavy, one hand smoothing damp hair back from your face while the other rests over your racing heart.
You should feel cured, calm, any number of proper, ladylike things. Instead, your hips lift faintly against him.
Patrick’s eyes close as if he expected this and still hoped, foolishly, for a different result.
“Oh, my love,” he says, voice worn thin with fond exhaustion, “what a very troublesome flower.”
© 2026 all rights reserved — flixpii.
has anybody heard of writing / knows anything about how to do it
