For Day 23 of Carry on Countdown 23, Bite. @carryon-countdown
On Simon Snow and Baz Pitch and their respective sets of teeth finding their way into each other's bodies.
Rated M for... this being what it is (the precursor to smut).
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Simon bites a lot.
Between the two of us, you’d expect the vampire to be the one that bites a lot, but no. That honor goes to the dragon winged boy with the prehensile and overly sensitive tail.
When we’re kissing, he tugs my lips between his teeth, nips at them till they’re sore. He’ll trail more nips and bites overy jaw and down my neck and over my shoulders until I’m so worked up and frustrated, I pin him beneath me, just to keep his teeth from digging in more. I mean, other things follow, but it starts with stopping Simon from assaulting me with his teeth.
When he’s been worked up into a bluster— my fault, almost with one hundred percent certainty, I know— he bites. He latches onto my forearm or pec and digs in for dear life until I give in and stop teasing him for some small thing or another. Even if I think he’s cute when he’s all red in the face and annoyed with me.
I do, by the way, always think he’s cute.
When he’s embarrassed, he steals my hand to hold, inevitably using me as a sort of shield from whatever thing’s embarrassing him. I’ll talk us out of the situation and walk us away and then somehow my hand will end up in his mouth and he’ll be chewing on my palm like some sort of stimtoy. I don’t bother to stop him. It’s silly, sure, and it feels odd, but I don’t mind if it helps calm him.
When he’s angry, he doesn’t quite bite. He’ll snap his jaw at whatever or whomever has him fuming, but he never actually finds purchase to bite. I can feel it in him though, the urge to snap back with something more instinctual than sharp words and mean looks. Sometimes it’s at me, though I like to think that I give Simon less cause to be angry than I once did, but even though I always let him, he never bites me when he’s fuming at me. He doesn’t want to actually hurt me, sweet thing that he is.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s because I don’t bite him. It is mostly in teasing and play and definitely intended to get a reaction out of me, so it could be that. I mentioned the thought to Bunce once and she kindly asked me to never mention it again, or else she’d evaporate out of existence.
I’ll stick with Shakespeare and familial magicks. At least that much is safe to talk about with Penny, as much as the psychology of Simon is also a shared interest of ours. Apparently the interest doesn’t extend to all facets of Simon, and his biting habits are just a boundary she won’t cross.
It’s fair enough, I suppose.
Maybe I need more friends so I can have more perspectives on what might be normal or not. Vampire friends, maybe, though I admit that I’ve had relatively bad luck with those.
I think a part of it might be the whole “well if you won’t bite me, I’ll have to bite you” attitude he’s got going on. A sort of petty revenge, or maybe it’s some kind of way to egg me into doing it. That’s not to say I haven’t thought about biting him. I’ve thought about it too much, honestly. Every time his heart skips a beat when we kiss, every time we’re nestled together in sleep and my nose is buried against his neck, every time his pulse is thrumming with effort when he’s wrapped around me, every time I bend to kiss his wrist…
I think about it too much.
He undoes me, my Simon. Takes every decision I’ve ever made and throws it out the window, makes an exception of himself in my life at every turn.
But not on this. At least, not yet.
I’m getting weaker in my resolve against it, and I think Simon knows, because he’s tripling down on the biting lately. Coffee’s gone cold? A bite. Remote’s gone missing? A bite. I changed the wifi password? Several bites. I had a good reason for it, but no, there was no forgiveness, only teeth.
He’s in my lap and he’s kissing me hard, shoved me back against the couch like he’s desperate for it, and he is. His tongue is everywhere, my lips are already sore from his teeth, his hands are hot under my shirt and I don’t even know what I did to get him worked up like this.
I’m not about to stop him though. “You make me come undone, Simon Snow,” I breath against his lips and he moans into our kiss, “You make me feel insane.”
“Show me,” He half-demands, half-begs as his kisses start wandering. His lips feel like fire against my collarbone and I can hear the thundering of his heart. “Show me how insane I make you…”
I’ve spoiled him, I know I have. I give him everything he wants, I give into his every demand, but there’s no going back on it now. I don’t regret doing it either. I love giving Simon everything I can, he’s so hungry for it, swallows it all down like he was made for me, asks me for more.
I’m kissing him still and he tugs at my lips, asking for a deeper kiss while he grinds over me, and I give it to him. I let my tongue trace the roof of his mouth and the heat of his tongue, and when I pull back I tug on his lips in turn. I give him just the barest taste of my teeth.
He nearly collapses on top of me.
“Simon?”
He leans up on his elbow, biting into his own lip over where my teeth had just been. He bites hard enough to make himself bleed. I don’t think he’d intended that, but he did it all the same. “You used teeth.”
I don’t think he can even taste his own blood he’s so caught up in the thought.
It’s a moral thing. I want to live my life with Simon Snow. If I drink human, I become more inhuman, I live forever, blah blah blah. I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about it too sodding much.
There is a drop of blood growing on Simon Snow’s lips.
I’m not thinking about it when my tongue darts out of it’s own accord and laps over the bite. I’m not thinking about it as that droplet runs over my tongue and back down my throat. I’m not thinking about it as I feel Simon start to run through my veins, as his taste fills my mouth.
The only thing I’m thinking about is that taste, that savory-sweet taste. It’s not like the blood I normally drink, but it is blood. It’s not like anything else I’ve ever tasted. I can’t find the words to describe it, and that would probably shock Simon more than the fact that I’d used teeth in the first place. I don’t stop to think about it.
I capture his split lip between mine and suck over it hard, tongue laving over it as I drink from him, letting myself linger in the flavour that is uniquely Simon Snow’s. I drink from that little wound until it’s given me all it can, and it’s not nearly enough, and in the same breath it’s entirely too much.
I didn’t even realize I’d flipped at some point in the process. My hands are poised on Simon’s shoulders, keeping him pinned down under me, my kisses turning tender over that small sore.
“You used teeth,” Simon says again as I lean off of him enough to regain myself.
I’m trying to think about my breathing, bring myself back to calm, but my veins are alight with Simon running through them. I’m thrumming with him. “I used teeth,” I manage to echo back.
“Do it again,” Simon asks, his hands finding their way back under my shirt, and I almost shake my head, denying us both.
But why not?
I’m already not thinking. I can’t think of a single reason why not.
I’m already pulling one of his hands away from my abdomen, letting the other linger there while I caress his palm against my cheek, against my lips, teasing the sharp edge of fang against it, lapping over the lines of his palm, tasting his sweat.
I am not thinking.
I am breathing Simon, tasting Simon, bleeding Simon.
And I want more.
I lay the tenderest of kisses against his wrist, feeling the pulse of it against my lips, thin, sensitive skin against thin, sensitive skin. “Do it again?” My voice comes out harsher than intended, giving me away entirely.
“Do it again,” Simon confirms. His eyes are fixed to mine, watching me lose myself in the sensations of him.
I don’t mind. I trust him. He trusts me. He wants it just as much as I do.
My fangs sink in against his wrist and he gasps like he’s forgotten how to breathe while I drink from him. Maybe he has. Maybe with both have.
I’m drinking from Simon Snow. I’m losing myself in Simon Snow. I’ve never felt more alive. I’ve never felt more dangerous. I could live on this, I think. He’d let me.
I might be addicted already.
He’s writhing under me when I pull off his wrist, and I must look some kind of way, but I can’t begin to imagine how. I keep kissing his wrist, licking up stray droplets, even as his nails dig into the soft underside of my jaw, begging my attention properly.
“Again,” He whines, and it is a proper whine.
I haven’t taken much for myself. I know I could.
I smirk down at him. “Later,” my words filter back in clearer, and I think I can see the details of him that much sharper, “I have other ways I want to eat you tonight, Simon Snow.”
Vaderkin ficlet inspired by this art 🔥❤️🔥🔥 by orientalld
The door opens and there he is. A tall black shadow in the doorway.
In the dim light, his silhouette vanishes from view when the door slides shut behind him, leaving Obi-Wan with only the hiss and click of his respirator and slowly approaching footsteps. The raised bumps on Obi-Wan’s arms, the shiver that runs through him, the hard nipples peeking through gold filigree—all of that is a result of just how cold Mustafar can be within the depths of Vader’s castle. No other reason.
If Obi-Wan is seated and waiting for Vader in the way that Vader likes him to, it is because his outfit is less revealing like this. Kneeling on the ground, hands folded neatly in his lap, Obi-Wan can disguise the shape of his cock beneath fine shimmersilk fabric. He can take some pride in keeping himself from flinching at Vader’s approach. If he loses himself in the routine of it, forgets his surroundings entirely, it’s almost like meditation.
Vader’s boots come to a halt at Obi-Wan’s knees and a gloved hand forces Obi-Wan’s chin up. His throat works against the leather but Obi-Wan raises his eyes to meet the impassive black mask.
“Did you miss me, Master?”
The mask’s vocoder turns the familiar voice alien. Too deep, too sonorous. Impassive and just barely concealing a warm, human richness.
Obi-Wan knows better than to speak. At one time, he was praised for his adamantine tongue, his way with words. But Obi-Wan has learned. His voice, his words—they betray too much. There is so little he can hide from Vader now, his entire being flayed open and laid bare. Vulnerable in every possible understanding of the word.
So he keeps his mouth shut and maintains his steady gaze as best he can.
“Look at you, ready and waiting. Were you good for me while I was away?”
Obi-Wan manages to suppress his shiver at the idea of being good but he loses the fight to keep his eyes on the pitiless black sockets of Vader’s mask. The weakness is fleeting, he rights himself in a second. But he cannot hide from Vader. He has never managed it.
There isn’t any use in playing reluctant now either but Obi-Wan clings to his part regardless. He knows the lines, the scene direction, even if his performance leaves something to be desired. Without them, he is a marionette without strings, cut loose, weightless. The prospect of giving in completely is terrifying.
Vader thumbs at his lower lip with a gloved hand. His mouth parts at the gentle pressure, such a small, careful move by a dark hulking figure, all brute strength and sheer might. It is impossible to read tenderness in the gesture, leaving it something more akin to disabling an explosive device. Vader is careful, methodical. The barest touch laced with the threat of more leaves Obi-Wan trembling with anticipation.
He lets his hand fall to Obi-Wan’s throat. His thick glove spans the length of it from collar bone to chin. The fingertips at the nape of Obi-Wan’s neck bear down with a hint of force, a claiming touch. It is almost a relief, something Obi-Wan cannot ignore, something he can lean his weight against physically alongside the pressure in his mind. With it, he can almost give himself permission to fall.
His head tilts back of its own accord, giving in to gravity and Vader’s hand on him. He bears his throat, as naked as the rest of him. His shoulders round forward. A lock of his hair falls back.
Obi-Wan watches as Vader lifts his other hand to the catch of his helmet. He releases the locking mechanism and the system depressurizes with a hiss. This time, there is no force in the galaxy that could tear Obi-Wan’s eyes away.
The black mask lifts to reveal sun-warmed skin gone pale. Full, mutable lips, once just as quick to smile as they were to sneer. Curls of dark, honey-blonde, cramped and damp from beneath the dark helmet.
The eyes take Obi-Wan’s breath away. Sharp gold, harsh and beautiful. They take Obi-Wan’s breath away even now, though it feels like a betrayal to admit the reason behind that fixation has changed over the years.
“Hello Master,” Vader purrs. The amount of pleasure he takes in calling him that is great but only at the right moment. He still has a tendency to let it slip accidentally, a mistake he berates himself and Obi-Wan for. But with Obi-Wan dressed like this, pliant and submissive and waiting for him. When Vader doesn’t mean it, the title is nothing but a pleasure.
Obi-Wan cannot fight it. He should but can’t. The teasing should taste sickly sweet at the back of his molars, turn sour in his gut. But it is warmth and sweetness that comes from Anakin and Obi-Wan has never been anything less than starved.
His eyes flick down to Vader’s lips, taking all of him in, in pieces. Whatever mission he was called away for has left him unharmed. He is whole and returned and still so much the man that Obi-Wan loves. When he meets Vader’s eyes again, he looks up at him through his lashes.
Though he knows the kiss is coming, he gasps into it. Anakin has one hand at Obi-Wan’s throat, the other raised to keep his mask out of the way. Thick leather makes them seem so big, commanding as it tips Obi-Wan’s head back, guides him into the proper angle.
Vader is good at this, taking what he wants and leaving marks in his wake. He wasn’t always this skilled but Obi-Wan has taken the time to teach him in increments. Steady pressure, a slower build. Vader breathes ferocity and passion. He lets his emotions get the better of him. But he has always been a quick learner, especially when it comes to getting what he wants. Learning to take Obi-Wan apart inch by inch, studying him one warm, slick kiss at a time—Anakin was always a good student.
The helmet hits the ground with a thud Obi-Wan can feel in the floor beneath his knees. With his eyes closed, Obi-Wan allows himself to sink deeper into Vader. He keeps the muscles in his face relaxed, wonders if Vader can feel the way his lips want to curve into a smile. Now that his hand is free, Vader threads gloved fingers through Obi-Wan’s hair, uses it to arch his head back and expose his neck.
“I missed you,” Vader says into the fragile skin there below Obi-Wan’s beard. It costs him nothing to say it, Vader has all of the power here, and yet it thrills something in Obi-Wan. This is a war of sweeping losses and imperceptible gains. Obi-Wan’s knees ache, his skin prickles from the cold. He could not be farther from the man he once was or the man he thought he would be but he can count this small admission as a win.
He has Anakin. The duality between the man his padawan once was and the monster he became breaks down when cold plastisteel and rigid armorweave give way to warm skin and soft lips. Whatever barriers Anakin-Vader wants to erect between his past and present begin to crack with his hands on Obi-Wan.
So Obi-Wan submits. To the costume and the masks. To the teasing games they play, avoiding the threat of saying anything real with every breath. To leaving his throat bare and vulnerable, for Anakin to tear out with sharp teeth if he chooses. All because it means that Anakin leaves himself vulnerable too.
“Welcome home, dear one,” Obi-Wan murmurs against Anakin’s parted mouth as they share the same damp breaths for the space of a few heartbeats.
Anakin pulls back enough for Obi-Wan to see the smallest of smiles grace Anakin’s lips. It reminds him of the looks Anakin might have given him years ago, before ducking his head to hide the tenderness in his eyes. He doesn’t hide himself now. There is nothing self-conscious in his want when he looks at Obi-Wan, all open and raw and exposed because Obi-Wan is Anakin’s for the taking.
With a hand at the crook of Obi-Wan’s elbow, Anakin helps him to his feet. A perfect gentleman, but the grip edges too tight for courtesy. Obi-Wan’s knees protest the change in position almost as much as they objected to kneeling in the first place. He sways a little as they walk, even with Anakin’s steady presence to keep him upright.
The bed is a relief when Anakin presses him down into it. The layers of his uniform pulled back, miles and miles of bare skin and muscle that Obi-Wan alone ever gets to see, until all that remains of Darth Vader is the yellow in his eyes, the fearsome desire in his gaze.
Obi-Wan will take that, for now. An inch, a moment, a glimmer of hope. Vader can bare his sharp fangs at him all he wants. Obi-Wan will claw him back minute by minute, kiss by all-consuming kiss.
It’s worth it for the way Vader presses into him, molds himself to Obi-Wan’s form. Giving and taking with abandon, like there is nothing else in all the world that belongs to him so much as the heat that passes between the two of them. One day, it will be Obi-Wan’s job to show him that even now, the galaxy has so much more to offer him than what he has settled for with Sidious. Even more than the precious moments he grasps at with Obi-Wan here in this room.
But not today. Perhaps that makes Obi-Wan selfish too. Covetous of the proof beneath his hands as he slides them along Anakin’s flanks, his narrow waist, fingernails digging in across his ribs. Obi-Wan arches his back against the bed. With arms wrapped around Anakin’s chest, he clings to the embrace with gasping kisses and a desperation he knows only in Anakin’s arms. Anakin’s weight blankets him completely until there are no physical means left for them to bring themselves closer together.
Of course Obi-Wan misses Anakin. Even in Vader’s teasing, that much was never in question. But there is some truth in the idea that Obi-Wan missed this too. He cannot have easy or gentle or kind but Obi-Wan is resourceful. He might manage it in time.
WARNINGS — hate fucking, cursing, jealousy, very sexual themes, smoker!reader, reader uses seduction/sex as a tactic of interrogation, mentions of masturbation, mentions of cunnilingus (reader!giving), torture, sadism, murder, gore, degradation, name-calling, pet-names, dom!anakin (kinda)switch!reader, choking, slapping, spanking, fingering (metallic hand used), rough p in v sex, clit stimulation, biting, breast/nipple play, unprotected sex, creampie.
reader’s sexuality is not labelled, but has been in intimate relationships with males and females.
the imagine is obviously anakin x reader, but there is very little oc!antagonist x reader, female oc!stripper x reader, and implied (only by jealous anakin, unless you’re into that) obi-wan x reader.
NOTES — Miralka - fictional strip club. Romer Rangil - OC target in this fiction. Norena Kwi'lek - OC stripper, has been in intimate encounters with reader. Y/L - Your Last Name.
hatefuck playlist.
It's been three months since you planned on arresting Romer Rangil, an informant for the Sith from within the Republic. Though he was a prominent member, he barely showed his face; the only place ever to see him "off-duty" was a strip club under the name 'Miralka'.
So, you find yourself getting ready to go there.
Deciding to shower before dressing up, you let the cold water cleanse the sins away. You had grown accustomed to doing things a little alternatively; a little less Jedi. You had been the Order's last resort ever since you became a Knight. Whenever Obi-Wan's constitutional methods would fail, they'd turn to you. You were a professional seductress — a sex symbol from the Order that no man, or woman was safe from, because no matter how great one was, even the mightiest fall for lust.
Even the chosen ones.
Your mind trailed off to Anakin Skywalker as you began washing your hair. You thought about all that he's been saying to you about the mission, and practise sessions where you'd have to pretend he's Rangil and seduce him. That was the highlight of your day— to watch the august Skywalker squirm beneath you.
You lost track of time reminiscing, but pulled yourself together and left the shower. Anakin has never, not once, shown interest in you. Even when you were hovering over him, begging him to share his secrets as Rangil.
Little did you know, Anakin Skywalker hated you.
He hated you for leaving him with blue-balls every time you'd enter the room, and he hated those fucking practise sessions, where the only thing separating your desperate holes from his cock were those stupid Jedi rags.
You sighed, trying not to let it get to you. You looked upon Anakin as a challenge, but you'd be lying if you said him not succumbing to your sex appeal made you lose confidence.
A knock startled you. "Y/L you ready, or what?"
"Or what, Skywalker." You hear him let out an agitated sigh and mutter "fuck's sake".
You cringed a little at how insignificant he had always managed to make you feel on missions.
"Calm your tits, I'm getting dressed." You retort; when you looked at your clothes for the evening, doubt washed over you. "Actually, Anakin, could you help me out." You called out. After a few moments of silence, you assumed he's left, when he said "Open up."
You did as asked, and let him in your apartment.
He looked at you. Your back towards him.
You wore the tightest latex pants and a cropped vest that was holding on to itself for dear life. He stared at your ass while you said something he couldn't even register. When you turned around, his eyes pierced through your buttoned vest. Your boobs were pushing out of the blouse like the buttons were to burst open and knock someone out in the eye.
Your low-waist pants were tight as if they were your skin; the hem of your thong was clearly visible. You had even worn a naval piercing, which Anakin had no clue when you got. Who knows what else you had pierced?
"Anakin?" You called, his eyes staring right into yours. He looked at you, but his mind was elsewhere. "Anakin." Again, no response. "Anakin Skywalker!" You yelled causing him to blink several times, "What was that?" He leaned closer and licked his lips.
An odd gesture, but not absurd.
"How many buttons do I open?" You asked, to which he gave a perplexed look.
"How slutty is slutty?" You rephrased.
To your surprise, he walked closer— eyed fixated on your chest— making your heart jump. His hands rested on your breasts, fingers coming in contact with the buttons. He opened the first— eyes flicking back to your own— then the last, then the second, and finally the fourth, leaving you with only the third, the button in the middle, closed.
"Slutty enough." He whispered in your ear. His fingers lingered on your chest, down to your abdomen. He stroked your belly piercing with his index, causing you to let out a shiver, and left. "I'll see you outside." He said before leaving.
You smirked. It seems the mighty are beginning to crumble.
You did your hair and makeup; wet hair clinging to your frame perfectly, a mysterious smokey eye, and heeled boots with your latex pants. A small black necklace was your finishing touch.
Packing your menthols, you left, feeling sexier than ever. You met Anakin a few blocks away from Miralka. He stood by a streetlamp, head thrown back, staring at two fireflies flying together.
The sight was comforting to you. Maybe it was the way the insects played with each other in the horizons like it were theirs to claim that reminded you of Anakin and yourself, or maybe it was Anakin himself. You knew he was a handsome guy, but the dim yellow light of the lamp accentuating his most vulnerable attributes made you realise Anakin Skywalker might just be the most handsome guy.
"I can feel you staring." He spoke, still watching the fireflies. "Can you blame me?" You rhetorically asked with a sultry tone. "Yes, I can. Focus on the mission, Y/L."
'Ah, there he is', you thought when he replied coldly.
You roll your eyes and head for Miralka. You pull out your pack of cigarettes and light one outside the entrance. Anakin's eyes bore into yours.
───── ON A PREVIOUS MISSION ─────
"You shouldn't smoke these." Anakin grabbed the cigarette from your lips at threw it on the ground.
"Hey!" You smacked his arm. "What's it to you, Skywalker?" You questioned, agitated.
In all your years knowing him, you'd have only referred to Anakin by his last name when he pissed you off, and the tone in which you said it instead of cheekily calling him "Chosen One", or sweetly dragging the name "Ani" when you needed him to do something for you, made him hate his last name.
He looked over to the rogue commander you had been torturing for hours.
You lit another cigarette, inhaling three long puffs. Before Anakin could tackle it from you — being the poster child for healthy lungs — you took the cigarette and pressed the burning butt on the Commander's forehead. He shrieked in pain, emitting a chuckle from you, and another one of those looks from Anakin that you couldn't decipher yet.
You knew he was pissed at your bad habit, but you chose to save that conversation for later. You continued smoking as you made your way inside.
As anticipated, Miralka was packed with people. Friday nights are a sinner's delight here, and the dancers, too, are welcoming. Walking further in, you took notice of everyone present, and their various escorts, or designated strippers, some of which recognised you from when you went undercover here a few years ago. You gave them a brief nod, trying to act like your area of popularity wasn't this nightspot.
Toward the end of the joint sat your target, surrounded by three girls and scores of bottles of the finest liquor. His broad back was towards you, but they way heads turned to stare at you gave you the impression that Romer Rangil was aware the hottest girl in the club just walked in.
Out of the three girls sitting on and around him, you were familiar with the blonde one sitting on the bar. Her olive skin, long legs, slender frame, dyed blonde hair and pale green eyes is what made Norena Kwi'lek catch your attention when you worked a case here. She saw your face, recognising it even in the dimmest of lights— scanning your physique. Norena was a bright one. Judging by your outfit, and the look of sadistic pleasure in your eyes, revealed that you were here for business and not pleasure, which briefly bummed her out.
She raised an eyebrow, to which you raised two of your own. You weren't sure whether this was indicated at your clothes, going after a man possessing notoriety like Rangil, or the fact that you were smoking indoors when a sign directly behind you specifically said not to, but mimicking Norena's gesture gave her the hint that you needed her and the other two ladies out of there.
"Another bottle, baby?" Norena asked Rangil, stroking the left side of his face. "Make it three." He winked at her. "Alright, girls, come with me." She extended her arm for them to wrap themselves around as they walked towards you, "You babes go get yourselves some Cuvee, I'll meet you at the bar," she said to them before turning towards you. She looked around— eyes illuminating in the dark— before pausing in a particular direction.
"I see Chosen One's still obsessed with you." You follow her gaze, only to see Anakin staring intently at you. She chuckled, making you look at her. "He's such a tool," you snort at her remark. You look back at Anakin, clearly remembering how he's not a fan of Norena.
When you and Norena met four years ago, you and Anakin were Padawans, freshly turned Knights, yet your Maverick methods of prevailing justice were notorious even then. Your task was to arrest the previous owner of Miralka, who used the strip club as a front for forced prostitution and trafficking. Norena was new to the joint and immediately forced into prostitution. When you began investigating undercover, she was the first girl who caught your eye. Undeniably beautiful, with ginger hair then. You and her shared quite a few moments, and soon her shyness was replaced by the little promiscuous wildfire inside her, a trait you both shared.
Even after you arrested the son of a bitch, you still paid visits to make sure Norena was doing alright; sometimes dragging Anakin along, and he hated it.
He hated waiting pointlessly for you to finish wasting dawn after dawn. His agitation once got the best of him when he bust open the door of her room, and lo and behold— you were giving her cunnilingus while fingering yourself.
Norena, grabbing the collar of your vest tore you away from your daze, she pulled you closer, her tall frame towering over you by a few inches. "Good luck," she said, leaning in and kissing you.
You smirked obnoxiously, loving the affect your entirety had on her, Chosen One over there and pretty much half of Coruscant.
Feeling more confident than ever, you made your way towards Rangil; Anakin following closely, but still maintaining a believable distance. You sat next to him, waiting for him to succumb to your presence.
"Well, hello there." His tone smug and sultry, but it was what he said that made your eyes widen as you thought of the man who trained you.
"Hi, darling." You whisper, seductively. "I haven't seen you around." His body now faces yours completely; looking at you attentively. Playfully, you asked, "What makes you so sure," to which he replied, "I'd remember a face like that."
If it was another lowlife you were given the task to arrest, you'd have barfed in your mouth by now — but the small difference in that was that Romer Rangil was far more attractive than the photos.
And so, you blushed.
"What do you say we get outta here?" He said, looking back and forth between you and your cleavage. "You read my mind, handsome." Grabbing his hand, you run out of the club acting like a bunch of teenagers which made Romer chuckle deeply.
You felt a certain dark energy lure you towards itself, aching you to stay, but with the target so close to cracking, you decided to leave this unknown aura hanging.
The streets outside Miralka were lone as a wolf, quite contradicting to it indoors, but even if the atmosphere around you was bustling with chaos, you'd still focus on Rangil, and that feeling in your gut that you'd fade into the night perfectly. You smiled to yourself at just the thought of Romer's pretty face all wound up and bleeding at the command of your blade. 'He'd look so pretty in a torture chair,' you fantasised.
The course of reaching his apartment was a wind of whiplash that only his kiss broke you out of. Romer acted quite the gentleman, carrying you to his room, but throwing you on his bed was a ravenous display of his lust which the heat between your legs ached to reciprocate. You looked up at him with eager eyes, calculating how much fun can you obtain before this pleasure became poisonous. You've had sex a few times with people involved— primarily Norena— but never during missions. 'First time for everything,' you smirked to yourself.
Romer tore your vest off and you threw your pants away. He was stripped to the bone, analysing your physique as you did his. Romer Rangil was a gorgeous man, much younger than other men of his notoriety. His bronze skin, amber eyes and dark, buzzed hair made him your most desirable prey yet, and you'd be lying if denied thinking against the Order's instructions and having your own fun with this little criminal.
His fingers trailed your thighs leisurely while he leaned closer. When his fingers hovered over your clit, you snapped, bucking your hips forwards to chase the contact you so desired. "Fuck." He moaned, when his fingers felt your wet slit.
He grabbed his cock and led it to your hole.
Barely had the tip eased in than something you could never fathom took place. Your back arched as you let the feeling of Romer Rangil be engulfed by your cunt; with half-open eyes you see the silhouette of satan growing larger and larger as he made his way towards you. The red lights of Romer's bedroom reminded you of a brothel the minute you were carried to it, but it complemented the shadow in a way only the lust exuding out of your body could justify. Your eyes shot open when the Devil stood behind the shoulder of the man you preyed on.
Anakin Skywalker's tanned skin always ignited a cat's curiosity inside you, wanting to find out how it feels against yours; his fawn hair that you've wanted to tangle your fingers in while you picture him assaulting your needy cunt with his mouth, and his scars. The fucking scars tainting his flawless beauty to the point where even the nastiest of them only add on to his perfection. Right now, all of the things you loved about Anakin Skywalker were amplified in the red light.
The battle between your eyes and his carries on eternally. His blue irises bore into yours, but this time was different. They appeared like two angry planets darkened by the corruption of lust and loathe. You see him raise something you couldn't make out, but you regretted your delay. "Anakin, NO!" By the time the words left your mouth, Anakin's light saber ignited, and a hole was burned into Romer Rangil's head.
Your mouth hung in air, bewildered as you saw Rangil's eyes roll back while blue light impaled his skull.
"Skywalker, you fucking bastard!" you screamed as Romer's insensate corpse collapsed on you. His blood now smeared all over you, making it look like his head exploded next to you.
You made an attempt to push his heavy body off of you, but noticing no avail, Anakin used the force before you could to swing his body off the bed, which thumped against the wall with mighty force and collapsed. "What is wrong with you, Skywalker?" Your tone was offensive, and manner of questioning made Anakin hate his methods for a minute, but no hate overpowered Anakin's for you. "Three months," you continued in anger, "Three months we planned this— we worked for this— I worked for this, Skywalker." Anger boiled inside you, not even your lustful needs could overpower the psychotic anger inside you, that the whole Order feared. "That's the thing with you, little Chosen piece of shit," Your tone changed to sultry, "Little Skywalker hasn't been the same since your bitch on Naboo—" An intense pressure squeezed your trachea, not even the softest moans or pathetic whimpers came out. You looked up to see Anakin stretching his hand out, choking you with his force like he was destined to kill you. You'd never admit it, but death danced over your head as Hangman himself got off on seeing you in all vulnerability.
You realised you're covered by nothing, now that Rangil's body is out of the way, and you needed to survive. You spread your legs with whatever strength you had left, causing Anakin's eyes to immediately penetrate your cunt. The longer he stared, the more his grip on your throat loosened, and more grew his ever-hard erection. You used his dazed state to your advantage and got away from his embrace.
Now was your time to torture.
So you thought when Anakin's grip tightened far more than before, causing you to gasp for dear life. His eyes still glued to your glistening cunt, he confessed, "I can hear your thoughts." "Your filthy, selfish, disgusting thoughts." "Fuck you," you thought, making sure he heard it loud and clear.
"Oh, you will." He smiled sickly.
In a split second, the noose of death loosened around your neck and you broke free, gasping for air with teary eyes. "Son of a bitch!" You said in between breaths. "Are you done?" He sneered.
You caught your breath a minute later and pestered him with questions again, "Why?"
He just looked at you.
"Because I despise you." He made his way to you. "I despise you in ways you can't fathom, Y/N," "You think you're high and mighty with galaxies of men wrapped around your little finger?" "You think I don't realise your desperation to have me?" He caught your attention here.
"That I don't hear your pathetic little moans when you finger yourself thinking about me? That I don't realise you specifically sit on my lap during practise so your ass can rub against my crotch?" "Don't think I don't count the number of people you've pity-fucked thinking I'd succumb to jealousy."
"You will never have, Y/N Y/L,"
"Because you are beneath me."
Lust, anger, blasphemous lust. You had never let anyone— no man or woman, no Knight or Mace— speak to you in a manner so derogatory, but Anakin Skywalker had a tendency to become an exception in every aspect. Your exception. Your felt your wetness leak out of you, and Anakin seemed to have noticed.
"Pathetic. You disgust me, Y/L." He sneered, but smirked to himself when he saw a pool of cum beneath you which wasn't there before.
He moved forward, now towering over you. You were forced to look up at him when he grabbed your chin. You batted and looked at him through your long lashes. Your lust-blown orbs challenged his to a deadly game ending with no losers, and he hated it.
He hated that even when he has you right where he needed, you still had that audacious look of arrogance on your face. You know your worth and your affect on mortals, and that's what turns Anakin Skywalker on the most.
You stared at each other for an eternity— one man cannot serve two masters but can two masters serve one another?
"Don't fucking look at me like that." His voice was laced with venom, "Like what, Master Skywalker?"
And you were the serpentine.
Anakin's metal hand wrapped around your throat, the sensation being much more excruciating and exciting— knowing he could kill you with a snap. He lifted you up with unexpected ease and brought you his level. "I hate you." He spat out.
"Show me how much." You challenged.
He accepted by clashing his lips with yours. This wasn't what you imagined your first kiss with Anakin to be like. You fantasised about wholesome tenderness where he disguised his undying love for you under his impassive demeanour, but no. His apparent hatred made you feel disgusted with every fibre of your being, but aroused you like nothing ever before. The kiss was crusade for dominance, more vehement than any you've shared before.
He kissed along your jawline, eliciting a moan from you that satisfied him. Your began touching your self, slowly stimulating your clit. Immediately your self service was met with a harsh slap across your breast. His lips planted wet kisses along your neck to your ear, nibbling on the earlobe, he inquired, "Did I allow you to touch yourself, whore?"
You froze for a moment.
He made his way to your neck and sucked on your sweet spot harshly, before making his way to your plump lips again. "When I ask a question, baby," he spoke between kisses, "You fucking answer."
"Y-You didn't..." you manage to whisper. Pleased with your honesty, he pecks your lips sweetly before retorting, "Then how come I catch you playing with yourself?" The solemnity in his voice was threatening, his growling tone causing your hand to immediately retreat and fall to the bed. He smiled sinfully, "That's more like it," before wrapping his metallic hand around your throat and slamming you on the bed.
His vice-like grip continued to slowly rob you of air, again, it's sinister to think how a single snap of his robotic arm could be the end of you, what's sad is that you find it exceptionally erotic.
He placed kisses on your hips, kneading the curves; he placed another below your naval piercing, another above it. His eyes then flicked to your breasts, and he smirked knowingly; your pierced nipples were erect, aching to be stimulated, and his mouth looked just right for the task. He thought so, too, letting out a shameless moan as he put one in his mouth, while his free hand tugged at the other pierced one. You felt a jolt of pain when he bit the flesh above your breasts. The soft skin readily broke, drawing beads of blood. "Son of a—" Your exasperation was met with a smack on your face. The moan that followed was astounding; Anakin's eyes were nearly slits, his plump lips twitched. You, too, were caught off guard by just how brazen you were.
He used both his hands to open your legs, you were hesitant at first but his blood soaked eyes made you compliant. His metallic fingers grazed your soaked thighs, before fondling your folds. You gasped when two of his stone cold fingers glided into your pussy. "Ani, fuck," you groaned in ecstasy, eliciting a 'tsk' from him, "That name won't grant you mercy." He warned before setting a brutal pace of penetration.
"Anakin!" You shrieked, cunt displaying hostility towards the sudden, foreign attack. Ignoring your cries, he made his way towards you.
Darkness towering over you, the red lights accentuating the crimson hatred that exuded out of Anakin for you since the day he saw you. It was uncertain what triggered it, perhaps the fact that you laid it out for everyone, except him. You were even willing to give it to Obi-Wan, he thought, but not him, and for that he began hating himself.
You were at fault, he thought. "Too damn pretty for your own good," he whispered, more to himself than you, his flesh hand gently stroking your face, running through your messy hair. "You're gonna burn in hell for your lust," he ultimately concluded, not anticipating your smart mouth to retaliate once more. "And you're gonna burn with me." You smirked, causing him to bite his lip, brow contorted in pleasure.
You took his eyes, closed in bliss, as an opportunity to rub your clit, not a second later, you came. Tragically, you were unable to ride your high, as you've spent many a night fantasising, his metallic arm coaxing the most ungodly orgasms out of you— he was godlike, rather, for you almost saw Him when he turned you on all fours and slammed his cock inside you. You screamed, the spontaneity was agonising, your walls ached from sensitivity, yet the Chosen One showed no mercy, drilling into your cunt, tugging at your hair, biting your shoulder, spanking your ass that bounced on his cock.
"Anakin, please! S-slow down..." You beseeched, earning a rough pull of your hair. "Why should I? Hm? Why should I listen to you, baby?" His thrusts were threatening— deep, quick and rough— just when you thought this couldn't get any more overwhelming— it did.
It really was your fault— you finally laid it out for Anakin— a chance to avenge himself. The years of denying him, the pent up anger, frustration of Amidala, his nightmares. They left him a mere void vessel of anger, and you. You provoked him to pursue his infatuation with Padmé. How cruel was it, to her, too, that Anakin thought of you with every touch of their skin? How he only kissed her with passion when you were shoving your tongue up some girl at a strip club? Or when you purred the word, 'master' when addressing Kenobi. It was your fault he felt this way, and that the only cure, as preached by you, was to fuck away the pain. So, don't blame him for pummelling your pussy, drunk off of his enemy's cunt.
He kissed your spine, lips barely grazing your soft flesh, before pressing himself onto you, closing any humane space between you two. His cock hit you deeper, you felt your cervix being taunted by his conceited cock. To add to your torture, his flesh fingers made their way to your engorged clit and began rubbing it fervently. "Please..." Your voice almost gave out as you whispered to him, "Make me cum for you." Unseen by you, he frowned. "Why? Are you worthy of it? Why not let your punishment persist?" He questioned, but you felt his thrusts sloppier, unmatched to the rhythm of your hips. "Because..." You clenched around his cock, eliciting moans from the both of you.
When you looked back in disbelief to make sure it was still Anakin, your Ani, that made that angelic sound, you witnessed the sight of your life. Fawn curls clinging to his face— you've never seen his hair so messy, his was so contorted in bliss, his cheeks so rosy, and his lips almost bleeding from the way he bit them to prevent you hearing these sounds. You wondered why, but he'd tell you, you weren't worthy of them.
At last, the constellation of fate aligned, realisation exploded in your mind like your morals collapsing the second you lay eyes on Skywalker. Finally, it made sense. Why it was only him who made you doubt the Maker.
"Because, I love you." You screamed, tears staining your face. You were out of breath, fucked out still, from your first orgasm, yet the Chosen One coaxed another orgasm out of you. The most powerful Jedi, opening your mind, and your cunt.
His eyes widened at your revelation, and he abruptly moved away, almost stopping all movements, including breathing and blinking, but the sight of you pushing back, grinding your ass against his hips was enough for him to snap out of it and fuck—
—hatefuck you.
"Yes, yes! Give it to me, Skywalker. Show me how much you hate me." You moaned pornographically, causing Anakin to retreat to his previous position, pressed into you, before grabbing your chin with his metallic hand and kissing you. As his tongue slipped into your mouth, you felt him thrust one last time. The sheer velocity and force of it had you coming undone with a scream of his name.
"That's it, you beautiful girl. Cum for me, darling." He encouraged you to ride your high, still playing with your clit, still thrusting into your cunt, yet softer, more gently now. "Oh, fucking Maker, Anakin!" You grabbed him by the hair and kissed him, feeling him shoot into you.
Ecstasy was an understatement to describe this feeling. You were mocked, degraded and denied by this man, you took a fucking wrecking ball and smashed every wall of your demeanour, admitting feelings to HIM that you hadn't determined for yourself. You could curse yourself your entire life, but right now, all that mattered was this closeness, this vulnerability. How soft he looked with his eyes closed as he pulled out and collapsed beside you. How adorable he looked when he smiled to himself, and how disdainful he looked now when he replaced that grin with a grimace.
"Get up." He grabbed your arm and lifted you up with ease. You were like putty in his embrace, flush against his chest. He towered over you, scanning your face for answers you didn't know he had questions for. "Look at me," his soft tone urged you. You did, and his heart skipped a beat.
Anakin often wondered when you'd looked the prettiest. The first time you saw each other? On Obi-Wan's birthday when you ditched the robes for a little black dress? When he yelled out your name in Norena's room, and you looked up at him with doe eyes, your plump lips listening with her juices. Today that question was answered. Right now, right here.
Anakin swore you are the most beautiful of maker's creations, that He spent wise time making you,
and that you were made for him.
"Did you..." his eyes faltered, your weak hands, shivering, grabbed his chin, forcing him to eye you. He sighed, as if disappointed in himself. "Did you mean what you said?" You smirked, tongue grazing your teeth, playfully. "Gotta be specific, Skywalker." Your sultry voice teased him, yet again. His metallic arm landed on your throat. "Do not fuck with me right now, Y/L, or I swear to Maker, I'll fuck your brains out." You gulped, not doubting the threat for a second. "I do mean it." He looked relieved but not satisfied. "Need to hear it— need you to say it, Y/N, please." The urgency on his face, the love in his eyes; you felt your own watering. "I love you, Anakin Skywalker. Now, would you stop making me cry?" A tear ran down your cheek, voice breaking with overwhelm.
"Aw, but you look so pretty when you cry." He chuckled, sending shivers down your spine. "Fuck you, Skywa—" You were about to turn around and leave when two strong arms pulled your close and ravenous lips devoured yours, passionately, lovingly.
Breathless, he pulled away, a glimmer in his eyes you'd never seen before. "And I love you, Y/N Y/L, so, so fucking much, it's gonna be the death of me." He kissed your forehead. "Now, let's get out of here."
"Obi-Wan's gonna be pissed." You both said at the same time. Laughing, as you got dressed, you couldn't help but ask, "Did you really have to kill him? He could've been useful to us."
He only scoffed, before saying, "Nobody gets to touch what's mine from now own, and live to tell the tale." As you walked out of the grave apartment, you couldn't help but smile. "So, I'm yours now?" Your mischievous tone elicited a smirk from him. "Have been, for a while," he grabbed your hand. "And you?" You couldn't help but ask.
"I've been yours since the moment you came into my life, Y/L." You blushed, and he chuckled.
So, the Chosen one loves you, and you love him the way he deserves to be loved.
hatefuck. the maverick jedi knights are once again paired to put an end to crime, but for the first time, your mission goes south. who is to blame but the august anakin skywalker and his hatred for you?
trickster. when you decide to flex your tricks with a keg-stand on anakin, he decided to drink with you, but not the liquor— your pussy.
the other woman. the sadist and the masochist, the yin and the yang. anakin skywalker swears you mean nothing to him, and you swear you won’t be ‘the other woman’. which one of you lies?
drabbles.
indecision. anakin can’t decide where he wants to be buried deep inside of you.
SYNOPSIS. sam makes you try a different version of your favorite candy; bigger and bitter.
WARNINGS. NSFW themes (18+), pet-names, cursing, dirty-talk & too many puns (i swear this punk cannot shut up), name-calling (brat, dumb girl), brat-taming, degradation, slight dacryphilia, perv!sam, clueless!reader, oral sex (m! receiving), face-fucking, bondage, slight slapping (with a belt, with his cock), hair-pulling, sexualising food?
SMACK, SLURP, POP. the sounds filled sam’s humid room. his brow furrowed further, a look of disdain washing over his pale features at the noise. the videogame in front of him needed all his heed, but it seemed like his brat, bambi, demanded some of that attention, too.
“stop that,” he groaned, frustrated. the sound of his thumbs assaulting the buttons on his controller should’ve been all that was heard, had you not been deep-throating the candy sam made the mistake of getting you. “what— i’m just having my candy,” you whined before continuing, “—and besides, if you have a problem, why don’t you let me sit away from you—” he was quick to shut down that idea, gripping the flesh of your thighs. maybe sam was in the wrong for getting you the cherry ring-pop, your favourite, and maybe it wasn’t the best idea to have you perched on his lap, sitting comfortably (cluelessly) on his aching boner, but in his defence, he just wanted to feast his eyes on the sight of your plump lips wrapped around the toy candy, sucking and slurping, just as you are now like the good girl you are, but once he switched his playstation on, the competitive side came out.
you shift to your comfort in his lap, feeling the tent in his pants poke directly into your mound. you had an arm crossed over sam’s neck, bringing the ring-clad finger to your mouth and sucking. at the taste of the sweet cherry juices dripping into your mouth, you groan in sam’s ear.
the sounds traveled straight to his cock, his mind tuning out his reality— the game at hand— just to focus at your skilful tongue, stained red by the candy. “if you don’t quit it—” he sighed, his voice strained. the next thing you know, his character is being obliterated by the enemy. you stifled a giggle, your plan worked.
sam had left you so, so worked up. choosing to take out his frustration with his family on some stupid toy, rather than your willing pussy. ever since that day at the playground, you couldn’t go a day without sam pounding into your drooling cunt. even if it was always him starting it, he got you to finish, and you were forever grateful for it. but today? when you dolled up in all black— tank top and skirt— with red lingerie, he decided to pick up that gaming console and not let go.
“alright, bambi, i’ve had it with you,” he gets up abruptly, causing you to hit the ground and land on your knees. you gasped, offended.
his hands, full of real, crude metal were quick to move, undoing his belt, unlike your delicate hand that was motionless with the toy ring perched on it. the leather of his studded belt flicked across your cheek, causing you to look up at sam through wet lashes. he only smirked at the sight. your eyes flicked to the bulge revealed in his boxers, and now your mouth watered for a taste that wasn’t cherry ring-pop.
“‘like to suck your candy, huh, brat?” he squeezed your cheeks together. “since you’ve been practising in my goddamn ears all day,” he continued, pulling out his cock, “let’s see how good you’ve gotten.” his cock was slapped against the same spot at the belt. you only stared at him through your long lashes, unwilling to satiate when you’re unsatisfied yourself. “come on, bambi, open up,” he squeezed your cheeks again, causing your mouth to gape open. “i can’t guarantee it tastes like cherries, but you’re open to trying sweet-n-salty, aren’tcha?” he giggled, amused at his own snarky comments.
the fat tip of his cock pressed into your plump, gape lips, and instinctively, your tongue stuck out to lick it. “there we go,” sam sighed, ready to return to cloud 9.
you sheepishly swirled your tongue around the bulbous tip of his cock, relishing in the taste of his precum oozing into your tastebuds. oh, yeah, you’ve found yourself a new favourite flavour.
“hands up for me, bambi,” he sighed, breathless already. you oblige, eyes widening when his belt snaked over your wrists, tying them in an unholy matrimony. your hands rested in your lap, preventing you from pleasuring yourself like you intended to. “now, open wide f’me.” you’re obedient, eager to please, for you know if sam’s satisfied he would overlook the ‘punishment’ and stick his cock into you. your pussy flutters at the thought of being full again.
as your throat relaxed around him, you started taking more and more of his length, looking up at him through your lashes to seek his validation, and the mere sight was rewarding. his brows furrowed, a pink flush crept into his pale skin, while his lips were plump and agape, marks of his teeth etched into the skin. “your mouth was made to suck cock, y’know that— my cock. you’re only gonna squeeze my cock with that fuckin’ throat, y’hear?” he nods, authoritative yet cooing, “is my girl understanding me?” so you bobble your head along with length. “fuck yeah, brat. going dumb on my cock,” he moans, and you were eager to illicit more of those sounds.
you relax your jaw, inhale deeply, and let him take charge. when sam realises this, the little devil smirks, running his fingers through your scalp to tug at your hair.
his cock pistons in and out of your throat, your eyes watering and your breath haggard. your pussy clenched around nothing but the flooded dampness of your cotton panties.
“oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fu—” incoherent grunts and groans filled the room along with the delirious smell of your arousals. “fuuuuck, bambi,” sam’s thrusts got sloppier.
“you know,” he spoke, breathless yet mischievously, “this candy comes with a creamy centre,” he chuckled, grunting as he came undone in your mouth. “sweet n’ salty, yeah?” he stroked his cock, relishing in the sight of his heavy load dripping down your plump lips. you were quick to swallow every drop, selfishly devouring your favourite candy. you wondered if this was gluttony or lust?
when satiated, sam pulled away, tucking his cock away. you, too, get up from the floor, wincing at the pain of kneeling down for too long.
you shimmy out of your clothes, making your way towards his bed. sam sees you in the corner of his eye, an eyebrow irking at your actions, “what do you think you’re doing,” he asked plainly, leaving you confused. “i- you’re fucking me, right?” you had a pitiful look on your face, so eager to chase your own release with his assistance. “like hell i will, dumb girl,” sam scoffed, “brats don’t get pleasure after punishment,” he shrugged coldly, grabbing his gaming console.
he pointed towards his thighs, “sit your ass back down,” you whine, “but i’ll be so boooored,” yet perch on his lap, still.
“—and i finished my ring-pop,” you sigh in frustration. sam chuckles, “don’t worry, i’ll have your new favourite out in a minute,”
“this flavour never finishes, just keeps on coming.”
THIS PUNK—
SEE ALSO. playground [PRELIMINARY FIC]. more of Sam Monroe [MEAN!SAM, BIMBO!READER AND OTHER TROPES].
Lazy Sundays with ANAKIN SKYWALKER were as productive as every normal person's weekend. It started with small kisses up your bare, mostly exposed back, up over your spine. It all tingled your sleepy senses, igniting a small, hoarse whimpers at the back of your throat. Especially when you felt his lips move over your neck.
And in all seriousness, Anakin was needy..to say the least. That man could be unstoppable after a long lasting mission. So it was just a matter of time when you felt a slow, steady push stretching you open—thick, deep, yet so unbearably gentle it made your breath hitch in your throat. Your body trembled under the sheer ache of it, as you were still half-asleep, still wrapped in the drowsy haze of morning.
He didn't even rush. Just kept pressing inside, inch by aching inch, letting you feel all of his ten inches.
You whined softly, squirming over his arm draped around your waist, toned bare chest flush against your back, lips grazing lazily over your shoulder.
"Ani..." your voice was a sleepy, slurred whimper, side of your face hiding in your pillow
A deep, pleased hum rumbled from his chest "Good-" his hips rolled forward just enough to make you whimper again "-morning" he emphasized the word with another thrust "just relax baby..gonna take you to the best damn place in the whole galaxy"
Relax? How were you supposed to relax when he was stretching you open like this? When his stupid, perfect cock was buried deep, pressing right up against that spot inside you that made you see exactly what he wanted you to see?
Your fingers fisted in the sheets, sleepy mind struggling to keep up with the way he moved—slow, too deep, all torturous.
"Ohhh…"
A slow smirk tugged at his lips as he nuzzled against your neck, nose brushing the sensitive skin there. "That’s it," he murmured, tone so smug it made your face burn. "Such a good girl for me in the morning…missed you a lot baby..so much"
You whined softly, overwhelmed, overstimulated, but he—the absolute bastard—just kept rocking into you in those steady, deliberate thrusts, big hand splayed over your stomach, holding you there, letting his pride rise over the fact how deep he was in you
"Feels so perfect, little one," he groaned against your ear, voice all low and gravelly "So soft. So warm around my cock."
Your body clenched around him in response, to which of course he felt it. You knew he did, because he let out the most obnoxious little, raspy chuckle, nipping playfully at your bare shoulder. "Oh? You like that, don’t you?*"
You wanted to slap the grin off his face..or kiss it. You were way too far gone to decide right now.
"Ani… please…" you whimpered, fingers grasping at his veiny arm, trying to pull him closer, even though he was already pressed as close as he could be.
His pace deepened, dragging against every sensitive spot inside you, slow and thorough in a way that made your stomach clench, your toes curl. You felt yourself spiraling, breath hitching, pleasure coiling so tightly inside you that it felt impossible to hold back.
"There we go" he purred against your neck, hips rolling forward in the most delicious way, hand gripping your thigh to pull you even closer. "Just feel it baby"
anakin’s reaction to tummy bulge. smut, f!reader, size kink. short little blurb.
requested by anon! ᝰ masterlist
anakin’s large hands pulled your ass against him, deepening his length in you. his cock hitting that spongy part that makes your eyes roll back in your head. your cunt sucking him in and squeezing the life out of him.
“fuck, princess, always take me so good.” he's drunk on you, on the felling of filling you up, and stretching you out. your cunt hugs him like it was made to take his cock. you could only whine, too dumb from how he fucked you.
his hand sweetly wrapped around your stomach, to help you arch some more. when he digits glaze over the slight bulge in your tummy from his cock.
“oh baby,” he sighs almost dreamily. grabbing one of your hands and guiding it to the imprint of his length in you. you're whining again, his name this time. your hole tightens around him, making him groan in your ear. the sound is almost heavenly.
“you feel that, doll? feel my cock inside you, so small I'm basically splitting you in half.” those words have you cumming on his cock, your juices pooling down at anakin’s trimmed hair.
he ruts into like an animal with no bounds, you can feel his seed shoot into you and the feeling has you grinding back into him.
gummygunk
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romaincrisis
