Malcolm Wilkerson x fem! Reader (No Y/N)
Had Season 6 Malcolm in mind while writing this, very self indulgent smut
Warnings ! Smut, porn with a tiny bit plot?, PiV, unprotected sex, established relationship, arguing, name calling, dirty talk, reader being as annoying as Malcolm honestly...
The garage smelled like motor oil and burnt tires in the heat of a summer afternoon. Everything had been going well: Reese’s illegal horse racing and underage gambling operation, Stevie’s owl vomit study he’d roped him into for a stupid contest, and his own brand-new project — the severely roughed-up 1967 Plymouth Barracuda he’d picked up from the neighbourhood sidewalk.
Who knew? Maybe this time his brain had finally short-circuited and decided to focus on the stupidest thing he knew, deep down, wouldn’t work. It had been days since he started fixing up the Cuda—and there was some progress. I mean, the engine had run for fifteen minutes yesterday !
Was his family right this time? Had he gone absolutely insane?
“It’s so unfair! I mean—everyone is being totally unreasonable. This car is perfectly fine, and it will work—”
A timid hand brushed a loose strand of hair that was in front of his eyes as he was fixing the car’s completely shattered rear left half-shaft, trailing down to caress his temple and cheek, lightly, so lightly he thought the prickly feeling her touch left was going to make him go insane.
Distracted, he turned slightly into her comforting touch. He huffed. “Are you even listening to me?”
She shrieked, gripping her hair, “You are talking far too much ! That car is so beaten up it has trouble even holding together. The front bumper keeps falling off, it has no headlights, the turbo air intake makes a weird sound — hell, I don’t even think this thing has airbags. There’s a reason you bought it so cheap. They wanted to get rid of it !”
He furrowed his brows, an irate look on his face. As he was about to defend his choice again, she regained her composure as she looked at him, smiling bashfully. “Do you know how handsome you are when you get this worked up over something?”
He tensed, but the slight blush on his cheeks and neck betrayed his interest. He sulked, dropping his tools on the ground. “Don’t try to change the subject! No one respects my opinion in this house! I am sick and tired—”
Suddenly, he felt a soft hand on his cheek again, followed by a short but sweet peck on his lips. She leaned back slightly, her hands now resting against his torso. “I love you, Malcolm, but right now, you are talking way too much.”
She crashed her lips back onto his, fully pulling him into a kiss. He let out a soft whine against her. Now she totally caught him off guard.
"I mean, you keep focusing on this rust bucket while your girlfriend is bored out of her mind..."
She pushed him on his back and straddled him on the garage floor, slowly grinding against his growing erection through his grease-stained jeans. "See? Your body knows what it wants even if your brain is stuck on this piece of junk."
Malcolm's retort died in his throat, replaced by a choked gasp as she settled her weight fully onto his lap. The hard, concrete floor of the garage was unforgiving against his back, but the soft, insistent pressure of her body against his was a welcoming distraction. His hands, which had been gesturing wildly in the air a moment before, now hovered uselessly at his sides, unsure whether to push her away or pull her closer.
His hands flew to her hips as he kept trying to stifle his moans. The friction on his clothed dick felt absolutely maddening. He could feel the radiating heat coming from her clothed core through his disgusting jeans. Every time she rolled her hips, the rough seam of his own pants dragged against his sensitive length, a torturous pleasure that made his vision swim. He was so hard it was almost painful, trapped and confined, and the damp spot of pre cum soaking through the denim was driving him nuts.
She slowly started to strip her top, her movements deliberate. She tossed it aside to land on a greasy toolbox. Her bra followed, the clasp undone with a flick of her fingers. Her breasts were now bare, and her nipples pebbling because of the cool, oily air of the garage,
A low, guttural moan slipped out of him. The sight of her, half-naked and straddling him in this filth-filled garage, was an image so pornographic it short-circuited his brain. Her hand flew to his mouth, her fingers pressing firmly against his lips. The scent of her own sweaty skin filled his senses.
"Are you trying to make us get caught?", she hissed. Before he could respond, she wadded up her discarded bra and shoved it into his mouth, the soft fabric instantly soaking up his saliva and gagging him. The action was so unexpected, that his hips jerked upward involuntarily, a helpless thrust seeking more of that friction.
His eyes widened, a muffled vibrating in his chest. He could taste her faint floral and sweaty scent on the lace. He was completely at her mercy, his hands still gripping her hips. She smirked down at him and began to grind against him in earnest, using his body for her own pleasure. The pressure against his cock became more intense, more focused, and he could do nothing but take it, his moans now swallowed by the makeshift gag, his fingers digging so hard into her flesh he knew he'd leave bruises.
"Now... shut up about the car, Malcolm," she whispered against his mouth. "And show me what those genius hands can really do when they're not holding a wrench."
He flipped her around, still holding her from her hips, pushing her on the greasy concrete. The air was knocked from her lungs in a sharp gasp, but he was already there, his body covering hers, his mouth crashing down onto hers. His tongue pushed past her lips, tasting her, devouring her, a desperate, hungry act that stole her breath. The contrast was dizzying, the hard, cold floor against her back, the gritty texture of dried oil and dust on her skin, and the overwhelming, solid heat of his body pressing her down, his chest a hard wall against her soft breasts.
Her fingers, which had been clutching his shoulders, now snaked down between their pressed bodies, slowly making a path to the source of his frustration. She fumbled with the heavy button of his grease-stained jeans, her knuckles brushing against the rigid length beneath the denim. With a sharp tug, she yanked the zipper down and hooked her fingers into his waistband, pulling both jeans and boxers down over his hips.
His cock finally sprang out of its confines, hot and heavy against her stomach. Her fingers weren't gentle, they wrapped around his shaft, her thumb smearing the bead of pre-come already leaking from the tip.
"Fuck," he moaned against her mouth. He broke the kiss, his breath coming in ragged pants. His hips jerked forward, fucking into her hand with a mindless rhythm. He looked down at her, his brows furrowed and his blue eyes dark and wild.
Her other slid down to her own shorts, pushing them and her panties down her legs with frantic urgency. She kicked them off, her bare legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer. The wet heat of her core was now open and waiting, slick against his shaft.
He snorted, "So, this is what you wanted?" he taunted, his voice a husky whisper. "You couldn't wait a fucking second while I was working?"
He didn't wait for an answer. With a sharp, decisive thrust of his hips, he breached her. The sudden, full invasion stole her breath, a sharp gasp tearing from her throat as he buried himself to the hilt in one smooth motion.
They moaned in unison, a raw, harmonious sound that was both surrender and conquest. The rhythm of his hips, once a steady, punishing beat, began to falter, becoming erratic, desperate. He was losing control, and the knowledge of it was a heady drug that coursed through her veins. He looked down at her, his expression a mixture of awe and accusation, his breath coming in ragged gusts that fanned across her sweat-slicked skin.
"Almost like you planned this to a T... didn't you?" The words were a low growl, torn from his throat. He didn't wait for an answer. He moved forward, burying his face in the valley between her breasts. The scent of her skin, salty and sweet, was a stark contrast to the industrial smell of the garage. The sight of her spread out beneath him, her body glistening with sweat and grease, her lips swollen from his kisses, her eyes dark with a matching desire—it was too much for him. Seeing her like this was a sensory overload.
His thrusts became irregular, chasing both of their releases. "I can see you being this much of a manipulative, conniving whore," he panted against her skin, his words muffled by her flesh. "Sneaking out of your house to come here—"
His tirade was cut short. Her hand, which had been clutching his shoulder, moved and she hooked her fingers under his chin and peeled his head away from her chest with a strong grip. Before he could react, she clamped her other hand over his mouth, her palm sealing his lips shut. His eyes widened, a muffled sound of protest vibrating against her skin.
"God, I thought you'd never shut up," she whispered. "You talk too much." She could feel his hot breath against her palm, his heart hammering against her chest. "Now, are you going to fuck me, or are you just going to keep talking?"
The question hung in the air. He yanked her hand from his face and slammed it down onto the concrete above her head, pinning it there. His other hand gripped her hip, and he resumed his thrusts, but this time a focused intensity which stole the air from her lungs.
The garage filled with the wet, rhythmic slaps of skin, their mingled cries and ragged gasps echoing off the concrete walls. He released her hand, only to hook his arms under her knees, pushing her legs back towards her chest. The new angle allowed him to reach even deeper, hitting a place so deep inside her that she saw stars.
The coil of pleasure in her belly tightened to an impossible degree, her release threatening to snap. She could feel his control fraying, his thrusts became faster, more erratic as he chased his own release. His fingers found her clit, rubbing tight, desperate circles that pushed her over the edge.
Her orgasm tore through her with force, a scream catching in her throat as her body convulsed beneath him. Her walls clamped down around him, a pulsing, rhythmic grip. With a final, guttural moan, he buried himself to the hilt and came, his body shuddering as he poured himself into her, in hot spurts.
For a long moment, they just lied there, tangled on the greasy floor, the only sounds their harsh, ragged breaths. He collapsed on top of her, his full weight a welcome, grounding pressure. The cold of the concrete seeped into her bones, but the heat of his body against hers was a intoxicating.
He didn't move, burying his face in the crook of her neck. Finally, he lifted his head, looked down at her, at the mess they had made of themselves and the garage floor. A slow, boyish grin spread across his face, he whispered, "Well, the car can wait till tomorrow."
tangentwithtanner
titsay
2087
