jack characters fucking you in a delicious headlock blurb
remmick loves the game of it all. he wants to see how much of those inky black dots he can get you to see before completely passing out, see how stupid he can get you. his arm is iron around your throat, a vice of muscle and possessive intent that locks you in place as he fucks you like heās trying to brand you from the inside out. your nails dig uselessly at the forearm caging you, at the slick heat of his skin, but it only makes him gruntālow, filthy, approving. each thrust is brutal, dragging you back against him, forcing out strangled sounds you canāt hold in. his lips ghost your ear, a rasping, dangerous purr, āfeel that?ā the words rough against your ear as his arm cinches tighter, forcing a gasp from your lips. āthatās me holdin' ya here. makin' sure you remember who you belong to. 'cause when I let goāif I ever let goāyou wonāt be walkin' away. youāll be beggin' for me to put you back where you fuckin' belong.ā
lion kaminski gets more whiny when he gets you like this. it's addictive and almost rewarding that his strength is being used to please you and the thought alone has his brain fogging up. his free hand is fisted in your hair, dragging your head back just enough for his mouth to hover over your ear, breath hot, unsteady. heās fucking into you like a man starvedādeep, rough, punishing in the way only he can be, like heās trying to bury himself somewhere no one else will ever reach. āmine,ā he rasps, voice breaking on the word, āyou hear me? nobody else gets this. nobody else gets you.ā his other hand brands your hip, holding you still as if the thought of you slipping from himāhere, nowāmight kill him outright.
roy goode adores how you take it in this position, so much so that a part of him gets sentimental. he makes it a point to make you aware of it, even in your fucked out state. his forearm cinches around your throat, hauling you back into the solid wall of his chest as he drives into you, each thrust rougher than the last. his breath is hot and uneven against your ear, words spilling out like he canāt hold them in anymore. ālook at that doll,ā he rasps, voice frayed. āthatās meāholdinā on for dear life. ācause if I lose youā¦ā his jaw tightens against your temple, the sound he makes raw and near broken, āā¦if I lose you, there aināt nothinā left worth stayinā alive for.ā his hips slam forward hard enough to rattle the boards around you, and his arm tightens until you canāt do anything but take him, trapped in his need. āso donāt you dare leave me. donāt you dare.ā
patrick sumner breaks with every thrust, not used to the closeness and trust of this position. he's talking through it all, desperate and devastatingly pathetic. his forearm braces tight under your jaw, hauling you back into the hard line of his chest, his hips driving up into you with a pace that feels like punishmentāon you, on him, on everything he canāt control. his breath is ragged against your ear, almost a snarl as he forces the words out, āyou think Iād survive without you?ā his voice cracks, guttural, as if the thought itself is poison. āi wouldnāt. iād rot. iād beg for death before iād watch you walk away.ā his grip tightens fractionally, a shiver running through him as if the confession cost him blood. āstay right here, with me. iāll never let you go.ā
